Firewhisky in the Jar

"Yes, Miss Granger, I would love a bit of company. Do sit down," he said coldly, marking his place in the book and setting it down on the table with a touch more force than necessary. She didn't seem to notice the sarcasm and rested her arms on the table, leaning forward to stare at him.

"Your reshponsibility," she repeated, after taking another gulp of her drink and using the near-empty glass to gesture at him. A drop of firewhisky flew from the glass and landed on his hand; growing more irritated by the second, he brushed it away and glared at her.

"Kindly explain to me how your date's crassness is my doing," he snapped.

Her bushy hair waved as she shook her head. "Not how he acted," she answered. "But you tol' me to go and get lead... lean... go an' fuck someone, and so I ..." She trailed off for a moment, staring at him, and then continued. "You told me, Snape."

"Miss Granger, did it not occur to you that I was not entirely serious when I said that?"

From the way her brown eyes went wide, it had not occurred to her. "But... you said... were giving me a vice... advice."

Of course. How could he have expected Hermione Granger not to take a teacher, albeit a former one, seriously? He remembered her at school; if a teacher had told her to jump off the Astronomy Tower to better understand a concept, she would have asked what the best time for it was. Good little Hermione Granger, who always did what her teachers told her to do. The know-it-all Gryffindor princess who would take what any competent teacher said as sagacious wisdom. Naturally, she had decided he was being serious and that having sex as soon as possible would be the first step to solving her emotional issues. She had probably consulted a book as to how to proceed, found the first man to come across her path and focused her not-inconsiderable mind on the task. It simply had not worked out the way she had intended, and now it appeared that Severus was to pay for his error.

"I expected you to use your usual good judgment in regards to what I said," he replied coolly. "Clearly, that was beyond you."

The insufferable woman was now staring disconsolately into her glass, twirling it between her hands; its base scraped the table in a way that set his teeth on edge.

"I wasn't completely stupid about it, y' know" she murmured, more to the glass than to Severus, and there was a slight thickness in her voice that made him clench his teeth. The very last thing he needed was a bawling Granger.

"I mean," she continued, now looking up at him with what he prayed were not tears in her eyes, "I didn't really eccep--espe--think that he would sleep with me. But he seemed nice. I didn't think he'd do this. Why's it always the ones that seem nice that aren't?"

Deciding that the question was rhetorical, Severus opted to remain silent, though he certainly had some opinions on the matter, none of them flattering to her. Answering would no doubt produce more emotional questions that he was not particularly qualified to answer. Unfortunately, his silence had not dissuaded her; she, however, made an attempt to compose herself before continuing.

"But, sir, I had a thought. It's logical. It works." Although she clearly meant the words to be reassuring, Severus grew more uneasy with her statements. Logic did not mix well with alcohol, in his experience, and tended to lead to "sensible" ideas that caused enormous amounts of trouble come morning. Severus, as a rule, did not drink to excess; he had spent a good portion of his life as a spy, and an inebriated spy had the life expectancy of a mewling kitten amongst a pack of werewolves. However, he was well acquainted with the actions of others who did indulge themselves, and as many of them had been Death Eaters, the resulting memories occasionally had him waking in a cold sweat.

"I am breathless with anticipation," he said in a tone so dry that it put the Sahara Desert to shame.

Her chest heaved in an interesting way as she took an exaggeratedly deep breath before she spoke. "You should shleep--sleep--with me."

"What?"

"But it works, Prossefor. See," she said, adopting a tone of explanation, "you're a greasy git, right? But, I already know you're a git. It's not a surprise; I don't have to worry about you turning out to be a git when you don't sheem like one. And it was your idea, so you should be prepared to test your idea. And I don't mind the thought of sleeping with you, really." She was staring at him rather intensely now, with more than a hint of lust in her eyes. Was it the alcohol, the sex withdrawal, or genuine attraction that was making her look like that--lips a little parted and eyes hot? Severus decided that, while it was probably the alcohol, the option that it might be something else was certainly an interesting one. Just how desperate was Miss Granger?

"Miss Granger, did it ever occur to you that I wouldn't want to sleep with you? Of course not," he hissed, sneering at her shocked face. "How could the greasy dungeons bat resist the lure of any piece of female flesh when freely offered? Clearly, any man who looks like I do must be desperate for sex."

"That is not what I meant--,"

"It's what you implied, Miss Granger!"

Whatever reaction she had expected, it clearly wasn't this. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed, "It was still your idea!"

"As I said, Miss Granger, I was not serious when I told you to go and have sex," he snapped, now feeling very irritated, but not quite enough to warrant leaving. The idea of having any kind of leverage to use against her was too tempting to pass up. And what she said next made a small part of him crow victoriously.

"Fine. I unner--I get it, sir." She leaned across the table a bit, looking at him with all the earnestness of someone who is not in complete control of their faculties, and continued. "But I meant it when I shaid I wouldn't mind having sex with you. Not at all. Wouldn't mind a bit, really."

Oh, Merlin. This was beyond the alcohol--this was real attraction. He wasn't sure why, or how, or when, but Severus was as good at reading people as he was at reading books, and he knew what attraction looked like. No doubt three firewhiskies were crucial in buoying her feelings up to the surface and out of her mouth, but they were no less honest for all that.

Now, of course, the question was whether to take advantage of the situation. Despite his belittling of Granger's love life, Severus had not been incredibly busy in that area himself, at least recently. It was rather hard to look at this young woman practically panting at his feet and refuse a night of meaningless sex (the only kind Severus had). But he also had something of a taboo about sleeping with drunken women; such liaisons never ended well. Either the woman vomited at some point, fell asleep, or awoke in the morning with no recollection of the night before to find herself in bed with a rather ugly man. Defending himself from an irate, hung-over witch was not the way he preferred to spend his mornings. If, and that was a considerable if, he did decide to take her, he wanted her in full control of her senses; otherwise, he reasoned, she would not be able to fully appreciate the experience, which would be an insult to his talents.

"I am not in the habit of taking bushy-haired know-it-alls to my bed simply because of a drunken idea of theirs," he said sharply, standing up and gathering his belongings. It struck him, right before he started for the door, that perhaps she might require a touch more encouragement. As he moved around the table, he stopped next to Granger and leaned down to murmur in her ear.

"As a matter of fact, Miss Granger, I don't sleep with women as drunk as yourself. It is so irritating when they slur as they are screaming my name." He watched with interest as her cheeks flushed a pretty pink color and her lips parted just a little more before he took his leave of her.

* * *

Something had clearly gone wrong at some point. Snape was supposed to have left with her on his arm. Or in his arms. But that hadn't happened.

Hermione tried to wrap her mind around what had happened during that brief conversation. She had joined him, informed him that everything was his fault, and suggested her perfectly logical solution to her problems. That was the plan, as she had planned it while she had a few drinks. What had gone wrong?

Oh, right. He fused... defused... said no. And then he had gone and said something incredibly sexy about women screaming his name that made Hermione wet her knickers. And then he had left.

It really should have worked. He was a logical man; surely he could see the sense in what she was saying? It made sense. Men who seemed nice at first either dumped you at the altar or told you to shut down your business and take a position at their newer, bigger bookshop. Thus, men who were always mean would at least not let you down quite as badly. She knew for a fact that Snape was mean, and she didn't have to go through the whole introduction process with him, so asking him to sleep with her was perfectly reasonable. And somewhere around firewhisky number three, Snape had become very attractive.

Apparently, he did not reciprocate her feelings. And who could blame him? Who would want a bushy-haired know-it-all in their bed? Hermione felt tears start to sting her eyes, and she decided it was time to leave before she turned into the most pathetic drunk the Three Broomsticks had ever seem.

Carefully, she stood up and made her way uneasily outside, only tripping over one chair in the process. It was a warm summer night, and she breathed in the fresh air gratefully. Focusing hard on her apartment, she spun around and Disapparated, praying that all of her would arrive at her flat.

Upon arrival, she spent a minute collecting herself and fighting the nausea that accompanied intoxicated Apparition; fortunately, all her limbs seemed to be present. She managed to make it to the couch before her legs gave out on her completely. Hermione decided to remain there for the time being, or at least until walking seemed like a safe option.

Option... that was what Flourish had called the ultimatum he'd given her, carefully couched (Ha! Couch-ed! she thought) in polite language and smiles. His new and improved version of Flourish and Blotts would open in approximately two weeks, and he would appreciate it very much if she were to close her shop and take a position in his administration. "After all," he'd said, "we would both benefit. You would get a more secure and better-paying position, and neither of us would have to deal with competition." He'd carefully insinuated that, if she did not agree with his idea, business for her in Diagon Alley would get extremely difficult, due of course to the fact that anyone looking for a book would go first to his store and she would simply be overlooked. The new Flourish and Blotts wouldn't dream of doing anything to discourage people from going to her store, of course. Life would simply be easier if she saw the wisdom in his offer and went along with it.

Her response had been a resounding "no." Flourish had slunk out, but she was certain that he would be returning, either to restate his offer or deliver more direct threats.

And now here she was, flopped on her couch, brooding. Alone.

It really should have worked! she thought fiercely. Men were supposed to be constantly looking for free, willing pussy, and someone who looked like Snape couldn't get that much of it. Mind, Snape had looked very appealing back in the Three Broomsticks, and subsequent images of him in her mind's eye had continued to be so. She remembered being trapped between him and the bookcase earlier that day: that lean, hard body pressed against her own, those black eyes looking down at her, his long fingers wrapped around her wrist... That silky voice whispering, "It is so irritating when they slur as they are screaming my name," into her ear, the breath from his words making her skin tingle and sending jolts straight to her groin.

Her currently wet, hot and throbbing groin.

Well, if she couldn't have the real thing...

Quickly, she moved her hand up to the buttons on her robes and began fumbling at them with fingers made unsteady by alcohol and arousal. She gasped when her arms brushed against her hardened nipples; the resulting sensations prompted her to undo the remaining buttons at top speed. Her robes flew across the room once that was done, landing in a heap somewhere by the door. After a moment's thought, she decided she wasn't up to undoing the hook-and-eye fastener on her bra, so she simply tugged the straps down her arms and peeled the lace off her breasts. Once her breasts were free, she raised her hands to them, kneading and rubbing until she moaned. Her eyes drifted shut, and she pictured Snape kneeling in front of her, smirking smugly as she writhed beneath his hands.

Normally, Hermione took her time with this activity, but right then she was in desperate need of a satisfying climax, and so she slid one hand down her stomach and into her soaking knickers. As she spread her legs, a whiff of her own musky scent drifted up to her nose, the scent of her own arousal heightening her need. Another moan escaped her when her fingers found her nub and she began to circle it, her hips bucking in response. In her mind it was Snape's long fingers that were expertly pleasuring her, rubbing and circling in her wet folds. She slid two fingers inside of herself and began to thrust them back and forth while her thumb continued to rub her clit and her other hand toyed with her nipple with ever-increasing fervor.

"Professor!" she half-moaned, half-shouted as her inner walls convulsed around her fingers and her back arched in orgasm, waves of pleasure flowing through her. As she slumped back on the couch, panting and sated, covered in sweat, Hermione allowed her self to wonder if Snape had meant what he said about bushy-haired know-it-alls, or if that only applied when said know-it-alls were drunk. She hoped it was the latter.