Arms looped around his shoulders, cradled against his chest and in quite a good mood, Hermione dared to tease him as he carried her into the bathroom. Curling one of his silky-soft, slightly oily locks around her finger, she inquired lightly, “Does this mean I finally get to satisfy six years’ worth of urges to scrub, set and style your hair? .Maybe I could even give it a little trim… W hat do you think?”
The look he gave her while setting her on her feet in the shower was a quelling one. [Don’t hold
your breath.]
“Oh, give it a rest!” she snorted out loud as he released her. Turning away from him, she reached for the shower taps, twiddling the handles. “Do you really think I’d let you walk out of here looking or acting any differently than you normally do? Sour, greasy-haired, ill-tempered, bitter, nasty, sneering, domineering, terrorizing…”
As the warm water came spraying down out of the broad, flat shower head, drenching them, he caught her hands with his, lifting and flattening them against the tiled wall, pressing his body against hers from knees to cheekbones as water dripped off their hair. The dominant stance send a pang of arousal through her, a thrill that he could also feel. […You cannot hide your sub-thoughts
from me, Hermione. You like it when I sneer; admit it! You love it when I dominate the classroom, terrorizing the students with just a few well-chosen words.] A brief, soft laugh escaped
his throat as he nuzzled the side of her face with his nose. [For a Gryffindor, you are a most
perverse woman, revelling in all the qualities that make me such a successful Slytherin…]
{Opposites do attract,} she dared to remind him as the water poured down around them, slowly steaming up the room. {You’re sour, I’m sweet. You’re Slytherin, I’m Gryffindor. You’re dark-
haired, I’m…well, light brown-haired. You’re tall, I’m short. You’re a man, I’m a woman…}
[So I’ve noticed.] Sliding his right hand up the length of her arm, he caught and cupped one breast, kneading it gently. [You’re soft.] His groin rubbed against her backside, letting her know without a doubt that he was aroused. [I’m hard…]
{You certainly are,} she sighed as he stooped a little, gliding his shaft along her crevasse. She whimpered when he stopped moving after only a few, teasing thrusts.
[…Merlin, I’m as randy as a teenager, today,] Severus muttered, before withdrawing the warmth of his frame from her backside. Turning her around by the shoulders, he studied her, curves glistening with water as the spray from the shower continued to drench them both. [Then again, I
have good reason to be, with a sight like this before me…]
{Ditto,} Hermione returned breathlessly, surveying the planes of his pale, dark-haired chest with equal appreciation. Sub-thoughts in accord with his, she wrapped her arms around his waist even as he returned embrace, their lips meeting and mating, water splattering unheeded around them. They broke apart a little while later. Water spiked the black lashes framing Severus’ dark eyes as he looked down at her, sub-thoughts chasing themselves through his mind. [Now that I’ve had
another kiss,] he murmured, settling on one of the things he wanted to do with her while in his
shower, […I think I shall bathe you from head to toe.]
Stepping back, he reached for a bar of soap sitting in a niche in the wall. Hermione, spotting it as she wiped water from her eyes, wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you have anything other than that plain soap?”
A black brow arched her way. She shrugged defensively.
“It’s a bit harsh on my skin. And it does nothing for my hair. Last time we showered together, it took me almost half an hour to get all the knots and tangles brushed free. You don’t even have any hair-conditioner, do you?”
“My entire physical persona as the ‘greasy, black bat of Hogwarts’ is predicated on my seeming lack of hygienic refinement, Hermione,” he reminded her dryly, lathering his hands around the bar before setting it back. Beckoning her out of the spray, he slid his hands up her arm, soaping her skin. His fingers slowed, a frown pinching his brow as he caught the sub-thought underlying her distaste for his soap. […You use Muggle cleansers? Whyever would you stoop to such things,
when I know you are perfectly capable of mixing up a much more suitable brew from the ingredients here at the school?]
{Gee, could it be because my Potions Professor keeps all of the spare ingredients for such things
under lock-and-key?} she quipped back just as dryly as he had spoken. {And just maybe because I don’t usually bother to read the sort of witch-oriented magazines that contain the sort of useful ‘hair-creme’ potions one would need. I’m usually too busy doing my homework. You also haven’t exactly been teaching those sorts of potions in your classes in the last seven years, for that matter.}
[Ah, so it’s my fault. Clearly, the curriculum needs to be changed; apparently your N.E.W.T.
exams should be on how to brew up an anti-wrinkling creme, or sixteen different ways to hide unsightly grey hair,] he mock-argued sardonically as he massaged the fingers of her hand,
lathering every inch of her arm. His next thought was flat, uncompromising, as he stroked up towards her shoulder. [Not until Dumbledore himself says that Voldemort is one hundred percent
dead, is proven to be unresurrectable, and I’ve personally performed a flamenco-dance on his ashes.]
{You can flamenco-dance?} Hermione enquired, distracted as much by the thought of him dancing something passionately Latin as by the ticklish sensation of him manipulating her arm around so that he could lather her armpit.
He shot her an unreadable look. Unfortunately, the Veritamoria between them ruined any attempt he might’ve made under more normal circumstances to hide his thoughts. He gave up when she arched her brow, sensing his sub-thoughts. [No, though I’d like to learn how, one of these years. I
like classical Spanish guitar music, among other kinds.]
{Well, I know you like other kinds of classical, too. What other kinds of music do you like?} she enquired, curious.
He broke away to relather his hands. “All sorts. Opera, string quartets, accoustic guitar, arias, symphonic pieces—”
“—Classical music, in other words,” she interjected.
“Not just classical. Other genres as well, though not all kinds. I find most jazz-styles to be the equivalent of fingernails scraped down a chalkboard, with the exception of one particular type. I believe the Muggles call them ‘torch’ songs…though they’re almost inevitably more about unfulfilled romantic needs than burning down villages.”
She winced, laughing. “They’re only called ‘torch’ songs because the singer is ‘carrying a torch’ for someone, in sort of a chivalric-era, Court of Love style attitude of longing and desire from afar.”
[I know that, Hermione,] he smiled wryly, soaping her other arm with slow, sure strokes of his palms. [I was attempting to be humorous.]
{Well, okay; you did make me laugh,} she agreed, enjoying the massage he was giving her arm. {Mmm…you really do have nice hands. Very strong, and yet delicate and sure in their
touch…mm, deft. That’s the word I’d use for them. You have very deft hands.}
[Thank you. It pays to have steady hands when dealing with potion ingredients. As for the rest of
my musical tastes…I also despise rap. It is nothing more than badly written poetry. Very badly written poetry, for the most part,] he amended. [Though I will admit that much of the rhythm of rap is often well-constructed. And country-and-western music, modern or classical, should be banned from all venues but Azkaban Prison. Oh, and that horrid Muggle torture-device, muzak. I was in an elevator, once. Thought I’d been accidentally sent to Hell. Other than that, I like most everything I hear, but I suppose I especially like classical music. It can be very soothing to listen to at the end of a particularly trying day… Ah, and now I get the joy of soaping your lovely, plump breasts, as soon as I relather my fingers…]
{…Our, um, musical tastes are very similar, then,} Hermione observed when he came back with more lather, circling and cupping and gently kneading his fingers over the soft globes defining her chest. {I can’t stand country, I don’t like rap, I’m too impatient with all the odd chords to enjoy
jazz, and I find classical quite relaxing, though it’s not the only thing I like. And I firmly believe the creators and musicians of muzak should spend time in Azkaban. Actually, I think that would torment the dementors, instead of the other way ‘round.} She laughed softly as a memory
surfaced. {I remember, I was at my parents’ dentistry practice, one afternoon this last summer,
whiling away the time before we were due to head off to my judo class, when I heard this KISS song being played over the radio speakers as a muzak piece. It was horrid! Erm, KISS is one of the older modern rock bands, out of—}
[—Out of America, yes, I know who and what they are,] Severus murmured. [I confiscated an
album of theirs from a student, once, and after charming it to play to know what it was about, I discovered I actually liked ‘heavy metal’. On the rare occasion that I’m in the mood for it, that is… I didn’t realize how ticklish your ribs were,] he observed as she squirmed under the fingers
lathering her sides.
{I, ah, think it’s overstimulation from all that fondling you’re doing,} she hedged.
He smiled. [Your sub-thoughts give you away, Miss Granger. There are no secrets,
unfortunately, between a Veritamoria-bound couple. A little more lather, I think, before tackling your luscious legs…]
“Is this all you want to do?” Hermione enquired, watching him in curiosity as he soaped his hands and came back to her. {Lather me up and let the shower wash it all away again?}
[I want to take you on the floor of the shower, enjoying the way you slip and slide under my body
as I fuck you across the floor-tiles,] he returned, not entirely detatched from that dryly-recited
surface thought. [Is that clear enough?]
The erotic imagery accompanying his words made her moan softly. {Er…yeah. Quite. Would
you like me to lather your body, too?}
[It wouldn’t be absolutely necessary to ensure my enjoyment of the moment, but you may, if you
wish,] he allowed generously.
{Oh, it just became absolutely necessary,} she countered with a firm, quick nod. {How long will
the heating-spell last on the water down here?}
[I believe they’re the same pipes that feed the rest of the school, so I’d imagine for quite a long
while, given the size of the boiler-tanks.]
{Good.} Shifting away, she picked up the soap and lathered her palms. She answered his arched- brow inquiry when she touched her white-foamed hands to his chest. {I don’t want to freeze to
death while you’re fucking me across the floor-tiles.}
[Ah, a practical woman. I like that.} He resumed his careful, teasing cleansing of her chest. Soap-slicked fingers slid across wet skin, as they carefully lathered each other, caressing ribs, stroking thighs, soaping backs, scrubbing bellies, tickling knees—Severus had ticklish calves and knees, it turned out. A fair trade for her squirm-inducing ribs. They tussled wordlessly for a few moments as she skimmed her fingers along his calves and he wriggled his fingers along her sides, laughing and panting, until a mental truce was declared, and sealed with a kiss and a slippery embrace.
He turned to let her massage his back with more lather. In the steamy heat of the shower, the sunlight coming through the concealed windows over the lavatory off to the side made his scars stand out a little more. Hermione couldn’t help wondering what they were from, and not just at the sub-thought level. {Are you ever going to tell me where these came from?}
He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was tracing the angled, uneven stripes with her fingertips. It helped that she was simply curious, not morbidly so, but still… Sighing, Severus gave in and told her. He wouldn’t have been able to keep it a secret for very much longer, anyway. [My father. He used to beat me with his wand. And a belt, and a switch, and a spell,
whatever he could get his hands on when he was angry with me.]
{Oh.} Her fingertips stilled on the scars.
[Spare me your sympathy.] It was a tight admonition, but his sub-thoughts gave away his agitation.
Hermione flattened his palms on his back, stroking and lathering, covering over the marks. {Alright, then. No sympathy. How about some outrage, instead? Is your father dead, or do I get
the pleasure of ensuring that particular task?}
[He’s dead.]
The flat statement came with a sub-thought that was too emotionally wrought to entirely suppress. Hermione frowned thoughtfully. {…Something to do with the Death Eaters?}
[Voldemort wanted him to join. My father sneered at him and told him he wouldn’t join ‘a purity-
club run by a half-blooded nobody’. Lucius and I were both there, at the time. Voldemort…he didn’t take it well. I don’t want to talk about this, anymore. It’s ruining the mood.]
There was more to his memories than what he was thinking consciously. Some of the sub- thoughts came through, mingling with the previous memories she had sensed from him on the subject of his father and his family life. {Sorry—and yes, I’m thinking sympathetic thoughts. As
much of a hateful bastard as he probably was, he was still your father,} she commiserated
[No; it wasn’t why I turned. But it was one more straw on the burdened back of my thinking about
why I’d joined them. And my mood is now utterly ruined.]
He started to turn away, tense and stiff, but Hermione wrapped her arms around him. {So what if
it’s ruined? It can be regained.} Her arms, slick with soap, slid down his ribs. Crouching a little,
she started lathering his loins, gently massaging his flaccid penis and toying with the masculine spheres hidden inside his scrotum as she slid her frothy breasts along his equally slippery back {That’s in the past, and this is the present. It’s simply a part of what’s made you the man you are
today. And I do like the man you are today. Most bits of you.}
[Most bits?] he inquired, relaxing into her gentle, stimulating grip. Enough to actually quip, [What, there are parts you don’t like? Am I not perfect in every way?]
She giggled, stroking his slowly engorging shaft. [I’d say there’s a little more room for
improvement, yet.}
[Witch!] A chuckle escaped him as he linked her sub-thought to her actions. As she’d intended him to do. Without much warning, he turned in the circle of her arms, sliding his hands over her lathered skin. [Do your parents know you’ve such a dirty mind? Perhaps I should scrub it clean,
as I scrub the rest of you!]
{No—no—not the ribs! You bastard!} Twisting, she slipped. He caught her, but she slid down through his fingers, dropping onto the tiles in a semi-controlled fall. “—Oh!”
Severus eyed her with renewed interest. [Well… I do believe you are now slippery enough for my
intent.]
Eyes nearly shut to guard against the spray from the still-flowing shower, Hermione lay back on the tiles, reclining on the broad, wet floor. She slid her hands up her lathered front, interrupting the little crater-marks in the lather, each one formed by the splattering water. Lowering himself over her, Severus adjusted their position so that his longer frame wasn’t too awkwardly wedged on the floor, though their legs stuck out past both the spray-curtain and the little ledge preventing water from puddling out onto the floor. Their torsos slid over each other, making her giggle and squirm from the ticklish, slippery sensation. He laughed and nudged her thighs apart with his knees, enjoying the feeling, too.
The moment the head of his shaft slid through the soap-slick folds of her body, the humor faded away, leaving behind a sober intensity magnified by the sensuality of the position. Those dark eyes of his stared down into her lighter brown depths. […I am going to fuck you across the floor
now, Hermione.]
Nodding, her breathing shallow with anticipation, Hermione lifted and hooked her legs around his waist. He slid his right hand over her breasts, scooping up some of the fading lather. Reaching down between them, he slicked his manhood even further, then repositioned himself. The first thrust was almost botched; their bodies were almost too slippery for traction. Wincing from the near-bending of his masculinity, Severus prodded her more carefully, gently seating himself inside her velvety depths. Bracing hands and feet, he thrust. She slid an inch along the tiles with the effort, and he smirked, dark eyes burning with a heady mixture of humor and passion.
[You might want to watch your head, since in about thirty or so thrusts, we’ll be at the far wall…] was all the warning he gave her, before driving into her with pistoning force. Hermione gasped as he literally thrust her an inch at a time further into the shower. It was pleasurable—it always was
when he coupled with her—but she winced as that brought her head into the range of the spray…and then right under the falling water.
{Urgh!—What are you trying to do, drown me?} she demanded, turning her head to the side as she spluttered for breath. Enough of the soap had been rinsed off her backside from the puddles on the tiled floor that she no longer slid. Which left her caught almost centered under the pounding spray from the perforated plate overhead.
[Fulfilling a fantasy.] Catching her chin with a hand, he tipped her face up again. His head blocked out the shower for a moment, giving her a chance to breathe, but rivulets of water quickly began pouring off his locks, his forehead and cheeks. His mouth captured hers before she could protest again. It was like being in the middle of a warm downpour. His body undulated over hers, surging into her, while his lips stole most of what little breath the water streaming down around them left in its wake. Every time he pulled back just enough for her to gasp for air, more water trickled over her tongue. He lapped at the liquid, drinking it even as he devoured her.
It was a peculiar fantasy, for Severus was having a hard time breathing without inhaling any water, himself; it dripped off his nose and streamed past his mouth in rivulets that ran down both sides of his face as he kissed her. But for a few minutes, he could pretend the water cascading