Floo Network

Many, many hugs and kisses go to notsosaintly. She knows why.

2: Floo Network

Pale-faced and worried, Hermione ran downstairs to the dungeons where Professor Snape's private rooms were located at the end of a dark and spooky corridor. She held her bag with the Prince's book tightly in her arms – she would need to show the potion's recipe to the Potions master so he could take the right antidote as quickly as possible. Being violently sick wasn't a pleasure.

And maybe this wasn't a sickening potion at all.

Maybe. But maybe not. Most likely not. She had studied the brewing instructions carefully; although it had looked like a potion that would cause severe stomach cramps, she just didn't believe it was.

Because there was that one ingredient that didn't fit. Ashwinder Eggs weren't used in harmless throw-up potions. If at all, they were used... in another sort of potion. But of course, the boys didn't know that and didn't get suspicious. They would have needed to read a book or two that didn't contain Quidditch tactics to know about the eggs. They thought they had made Snape just sick. Hermione believed he wasn't.

Maybe those special projects I'm working on will pay out now, she thought grimly whilst her feet carried her closer to the dungeons. Maybe it was a good idea after all to accept Snape's offer.

She thought back to the day shortly after the beginning of term when Snape, for reasons only known to himself, had talked her into working with him on a private project. "Nothing too advanced," he had said, sounding bored. "Just something I could need some help with. And you are at least slightly brighter than the rest of those imbeciles."

Truly believing that he was mocking her, she had declined at first only to remember that the Potions master never joked. He certainly had raised a disapproving eyebrow at her refusal. "If you think you can't find the time," he had sneered and turned his back on her, and that had been what was necessary for her to make up her mind. She couldn't miss an opportunity like this, and she had accepted in order to improve her knowledge. And she had learned a lot.

Only recently, she had found that she – quite unexpectedly – enjoyed his company as much as the knowledge he provided. And she had become aware of the fact that he had begun to make an effort of not being overly unfriendly towards her. Sometimes he even made her grin with his snarky remarks.

Sometime after Christmas, she had had to admit to herself that she liked him. Which was the reason why she had given him a Valentine's rose and why she now hurried along to... well, to find out what was really wrong with him.

Was it or was it not a harmless potion?

The recipe's ingredients flashed through her mind. "His symptoms just don't tie in with a sickening potion," she muttered under her breath and turned another corner. "His restlessness, his foul temper, that he was so nervous... and if he had felt merely sick he would have simply gone to the infirmary, which he didn't. I checked that."

She could leave it as it was, of course. The alternative to seeking out Snape would be to turn round and go back to the common room, pretending she wasn't suspicious. It would mean allowing an innocent victim to suffer from her two best friends' attempt of poisoning.

Damn Prince, damn book, damn boys, pushing me into such an impossible situation, Hermione thought viciously, and nearly knocked over Neville, who was on his way to Gryffindor tower. If I'm right and don't at least try to tell him what I know, I won't be able to face myself in a mirror ever again. And if he lets me in, I'm as good as expelled – he will never allow me to stay at Hogwarts with me knowing what exactly prevented him from finishing classes today.

Bugger.

There she was, finally, right in front of Snape's door. Panting, she raised a fist and banged at it without allowing herself to have second thoughts – she simply had to make sure that the professor was all right.

She hammered on the wood repeatedly, and after a few moments she started shouting Snape's name.

Useless. He didn't open, and that led to only one conclusion: Hermione was right concerning the potion. He would open to no one, under whatever circumstances, even if she stood here all night long.

"Damn," Hermione swore under her breath, then called, "Professor! Listen, open up, I might know what's wrong with you!" But she had to admit that – if she would have been suffering from the potion's presumed effects – she wouldn't open the door either, especially not if she were a teacher and knew that on the other side of said door was a screaming student. A female, screaming student.

Gasping and sweating, Hermione considered her other options.

There were none. If Snape didn't open the door voluntarily, she had no hope whatsoever to break his wards. But maybe...

Hermione hesitated; then a determined grin crossed her face. There was another option. She just needed to ask Dumbledore politely, and then she needed to explain to him why she and only she...

Well, let's go, girl, she thought and headed upstairs again towards the Headmaster's office. Luckily, Harry had just found out Dumbledore's new password, so at least seeing the Headmaster and asking him if she could use his Floo wouldn't be a problem.

**************

A few minutes later, Hermione gently knocked at the Headmaster's door and heard his friendly, mild voice call her in.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he greeted her, sitting in his armchair and sipping his good-night-cocoa from a huge cup. Although it was only seven o'clock, his eyes were a bit sleepy. But then, she wouldn't disturb him for long.

"Professor Dumbledore," she started, suddenly unsure how to begin and how to explain. "I... that is Professor Snape... what I mean is... it is..."

"You might like to sit down, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said and gestured at a chair. "Would you like a cup of hot chocolate? Tea?"

"No! No tea! I mean, thank you very much, but I don't have time, really," Hermione blurted out. "I need to use your Floo, please!" Ouf – she had said it, it was out.

Dumbledore looked slightly confused. "My Floo? What's wrong with the Floo in the common room?"

Hermione sighed, then sat down. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I need your Floo because I need to see Professor Snape, and he won't open his door. It is very, very important that I see him tonight. Now, actually. That's why I need your Floo – only yours is connected to his; only from here I can enter his rooms." Expectantly, she looked at the Headmaster only to see him frown.

"Is something wrong with Severus?" Dumbledore asked, clear concern in his voice. "I will check on him myself, just wait here..."

"NO!" Hermione screamed.

Dumbledore stared at her, bewildered. "Maybe something is wrong with you, Miss Granger?" he suggested gently. "I will contact Madame Pomfrey. A night in the infirmary..."

If she was right, it would be highly embarrassing for the Potions master if his employer saw the state he was in. Hermione jumped up. "Professor Dumbledore! Nothing is wrong with me; a lot might be wrong with Professor Snape. Nothing dangerous, though, just a bit... delicate. I can't tell you why I have to see him, but it must be me and not you or anyone else. Please, can't you trust me for a change, the same way you usually trust Harry?" She was pleading, and she heard the begging tone in her voice, but silently, she was swearing. Dumbledore was wasting her time, and she was pretty certain that Snape would be grateful for every second she arrived earlier. She couldn't even imagine how unpleasant it must be to suffer from... what she thought he was suffering from.

The Headmaster still didn't give in. "Tell me what is wrong with Severus. You should know that I will always help him whatever his problem is."

Hermione considered her options. "Someone played a nasty trick on him," she said hesitantly. "I don't think he is in danger, otherwise I would tell you. I guess it's a potion that makes him severely sick, and I happen to know that he wouldn't want to see you or anyone else, but I think I know how to... how to reverse the effects, I guess, and so... please, Professor, let me use your Floo!"

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully and peeked at her over his half-moon glasses. "I really need to know exactly which potion we are talking about," he said sternly, and Hermione exploded.

"You DON'T want to know that, believe me! You definitely do NOT want to know what potion it was – trust me, you really, really don't!"

Maybe Dumbledore had seen something in her face or in her huge eyes or maybe it was her words – suddenly his eyes widened, and he closed his mouth with a small plop. After a stunned moment of silence, he said, "Ah," in a dubious sort of way and stepped away from his fireplace. "Floo powder is on the mantelpiece," he offered and watched as the young woman took a bit of the dusty substance and threw it into the flames, saying, "Professor Snape's quarters," loud and clear. A moment later, she and her big bag were gone.

"Hmmmm," said Dumbledore and settled down to finish his cocoa.

**************

Hermione had never before entered someone's rooms without permission. She had travelled to and from The Burrow, she had travelled to the houses of friends, and she had once travelled inside Hogwarts.

To enter the Potions master's private rooms without him opening the door and asking her inside would have caused her nightmares had she ever considered doing so before tonight. Once, in her second year, she had stolen from his private stores in order to brew Polyjuice Potion – she still woke up sometimes, usually in the small hours of the morning, and felt his long, cold fingers on her neck, crushing her to pieces, because in her dreams he always caught her.

She expected nothing less than getting stunned instantly when she stepped out of Snape's fireplace. She figured that he would be sitting in front of it, waiting for her – after all, this was the only way into his rooms, and wouldn't he have worked out that she would be determined enough to get in after she had banged on his door for ten minutes?

Apparently not. He was nowhere to be seen. The room was empty.

Absentmindedly, Hermione warded the fireplace against further usage of the Floo and had a quick look round. Maybe he was hiding in one of the corners, searching for a book, maybe he sat on his desk, marking essays...

The sight of the fully blossomed rose that stood in a crystal vase on the desk, half hidden by a big volume, took her breath away. It was of a deep, rich orange streaked with yellow, the leaves dark green, the stalk bent and thorny. The vase sparkled in the candlelight; the rose itself seemed to glow in the darkish room.

The flower was certainly as beautiful as it had been the day Hermione had cut it from her father's rose bush as a Valentine for her Potions professor, but despite the joy he had shown at the sight of it, she would have never expected Snape to keep it, to preserve it with a spell even, to treasure it enough for keeping it at the place where he must spend his days when he wasn't teaching. It was a secret, totally unexpected sign of affection, and it touched Hermione deep enough to make her blush.

Belatedly, distracted by the rose, she became aware of the fact that the room was still empty. Oh gods, Hermione thought, what if I was wrong and he is having a quiet evening out? That would mean I broke into a teacher's...

A small sound from the door at the back of the living room caused her to turn her head around quickly. Wide-eyed, she stared at the door, saw that it opened, and realised that Snape must have been in the bathroom or the bedroom. Her mind raced; for a moment she didn't know what to do, but luckily, her body took over and decided that it was time to become afraid. Therefore, her hand dug into her bag, rummaged around for a second and found the book. Eyes fixed on the opening door, Hermione pulled it out, held it in her sweaty hands like a shield, hoping dearly her teacher wouldn't rip her to pieces for standing uninvited in his living room.

The door opened fully and Snape stepped out, yet unaware that he had a visitor. His head was lowered, his hair dripping wet, as was his naked chest. He wore wide, soft, dark grey trousers and nothing else.

Merlin! Hermione panicked. I got everything completely wrong! He just had a shower and... and he'll kill me!

Then Snape raised his head, and his sharp intake of breath made clear that he was not only surprised but truly not happy to see her. He was shaking slightly; his skin was the same faint blue colour as his lips. Water was dripping from his hair and skin to the ground, soaking the hem of his trousers and leaving small pools on the carpet.

Hermione saw that his hands were clenched into tight fists; she saw his pallid face and his haunted eyes; her gaze involuntarily dropped lower, below his waistline, and she knew with absolute certainty that she had been right. Not a sickening potion. Not at all.

"Out!" Snape breathed, his voice barely audible. "Get out, immediately, or I myself will... I... Don't hold me responsible for anything I do to you if you don't leave right now!"

Hermione held up the book. "I know what your problem is; I know which potion caused it," she whispered.

Snape took a staggering step towards her. "What?" he croaked, staring at the book in her hand. "Where... where did you get that from?"

As quickly as possible, Hermione opened the book at the last page and placed it on the huge workbench that dominated one side of the room. "This potion here – it was put in your tea today, this morning. I... I found out only recently, and I realised that the combination of the ingredients might... The Ashwinder Eggs... might cause..." She swallowed hard. "It's an aphrodisiac, isn't it? A strong one?"

Snape made it to the table, but barely, using one hand to steady himself. He picked up the book, and Hermione couldn't help but notice that his hands were still trembling. His naked feet were restless as well, which caused her to frown – the Potions master was well known for being a master of self-control. That he couldn't hinder his own body from shaking and shifting and shivering and shuffling was a scary sight indeed.

He took the book and stared at the page she had opened. Then he flipped through it until he had found the handwritten note saying that this book was the property of the Half-Blood Prince. Blinking several times, he faced the girl standing so boldly in his living room. "This book – where did you find it?" he asked, his voice flat. "This book is mine; this potion is mine. Where. Did. You. Get. It. From!"

Hermione turned pale and her breath quickened. His book? His potion? "You are the Prince?" she asked in disbelief. "But – Professor Slughorn gave Harry that book nearly three years ago! Remember, Harry hadn't expected to take Potions with only an E in his O.W.L.s... you were insisting on an O! Then you took up Defence Against the Dark Arts instead, Professor Slughorn taught Potions, and that's why Harry didn't have a book back then. He worked with this textbook during our sixth year, although I told him it might be dangerous. He... Harry's potion skills have reached unthinkable heights since he has followed the instructions in this book!"

"Guess why," Snape sneered, then groaned and moved away from the table, turning his back to her. His shoulder muscles stood out as if he were lifting a heavy weight. Then he laughed, a dry, deep laugh, horrible in its humourless way.

"What an irony," he rasped. "My book, my potion, my own work... will quite possibly drive me mad before the sun is up again. Brilliant – the Dark Lord would have laughed his head off if he weren't too bloody dead and could hear about my... misfortune." Then he hissed with pain and reached out once more, putting one hand on the table. Hermione saw that his nails were blue as well.

"How long have you been in the shower?" she asked, and as he was taken off-guard by the question, he answered her.

"Since late afternoon. Didn't help, though." Another step to get away from her; she saw his back muscles stiffen again.

"Go," he said once more.

Hermione simply accepted the somewhat incredulous fact that her Potions professor had once been a boy and had once owned this book. That he had scribbled in it, that he had left it behind, and that Harry, coincidentally, had stumbled over it. Snape was the Prince – no surprise since the corrections to the various recipes were so brilliantly done.

Only this potion seemed to be a really dreadful thing. "Certainly, as this is your potion, you would know the antidote for it?" she asked hesitantly.

"Never bothered to make one," he snapped, his head bent low. "Can't make one now, either – too complicated, and I can't think clearly anyway."

"Oh," she said. She hadn't considered this possibility. But then...

"Then... then surely you could... yourself...?" This was a solution Hermione didn't really want to spell out.

"Self-induced release is not an option." Snape's voice became more forced with every minute. "I will manage. Get. OUT!"

Hermione took a hesitant step towards her teacher. She had planned to come here, tell him what she knew so he could help himself only to find out that things weren't as simple as she had thought.

"Listen, sir, there must be something I can do," she offered, not sure what this something might be. "I mean, how long can one phial of this potion last..."

He spun round, sheer terror in his face. His eyes were wide with shock, and he staggered back, nearly tripping over the chair.

"What?" he managed, clearly in pain, clearly not himself, clearly hoping that he had misheard. "A... a whole phial? Someone was cruel enough to... to put a whole... one whole phial in my tea?"

"I... yes." What else could she have told him but the truth, although it shook her to the bones to see her professor so terrified by this information.

Snape's legs just gave way. He fell against the wall and slowly sunk to the floor, unaware of the fact that his back was becoming bruised by the rough stones of the dungeon walls. Both arms flew round his midst as he grabbed hold of himself; pulling his legs up, he lowered his head to his knees.

His voice was muffled when he spoke. "Five drops at the most. Five! I knew something was wrong; I knew it was bad, but that..." Terrified, he shuddered and then stared without comprehension at Hermione. "That is madness. A phial. A whole... phial! I cannot stand that. Never. Not on my own. Impossible." His arms tightened round his legs, drew them closer to his chest. Again he groaned, painful and deep.

Hermione was nothing less than scared to death. Madness because of sexual arousal? Was that possible? She had merely thought that the result of the potion might be unpleasant, maybe even very unpleasant, but... real pain?

But then, what did she know of the male body? Nothing, apart from some theories and details from a few well-drawn pictures. And he was in pain, no way of denying that.

The man – as this was not her professor anymore, but a man she had never seen in her life before – was clearly too far gone for reasoning. He slowly rocked himself, trying to keep control and was losing it nevertheless.

The few things he had told her, though, pointed to a clear path of action. In her mind, Hermione ticked off the points:

1. He was suffering from the effects of a potion.

2. He had taken far too much of said potion.

3. The potion was an aphrodisiac, and there was no antidote.

4. He was aroused – well, very much aroused, obviously, and it was bad enough to cause pain.

5. He couldn't find release by either cold water or his own hand.

6. If he didn't find release, the potion would drive him crazy.

7. He had said that he couldn't stand that on his own, which implied that someone else could be of help.

8. She was here.

Conclusion: She would have to take matters in her own hands.

At that last thought a nervous giggle erupted from Hermione's throat. Maybe the wording had been a bit unfortunate... no. The wording was perfect, she realised. Oh dear, Hermione thought, shot one last glance at the rose and approached Snape, who was still staring into nothing, eyes wide open, his head against the wall.

His pupils were huge. If his eyes hadn't been black, Hermione was certain that one of his colleagues would have seen that something was wrong long before he had fled to his rooms. He was so very clearly drugged; she couldn't hold him responsible for either his words or anything he had done or said or might do or say soon.

Well, maybe it was up to her to do something. Slowly, she stepped closer and went down, kneeling only a few inches next to him. Hoping a touch might calm him, she reached out and gently put her hand on his skin, expecting it – him – to be cool considering his earlier ice-cold shower. But she was wrong. "Gods, you are burning," she exclaimed, which earned her a faint but bitter laugh.

"That's the whole intention of this potion," Snape bit out through gritted teeth. "Makes you hot – unfortunately, it's meant to be taken only when you have a greedy girlfriend who is complaining about your performance. Or lack thereof, to be precise." But despite his harsh words he leaned against her, searching for body contact, searching for help, unable to hinder himself.

Hermione looked down at him, feeling the heat of his skin through her clothes and wondered if she could do what was necessary. If she was really able and willing to help him. As it was help he needed, and soon.

But she liked him. She liked him a lot. Certainly she liked him enough to help him?

Tentatively, she slipped her arm round his trembling shoulders, wondering if he would push her away.

Instead, he not only allowed her to pull him close, but leaned into her touch, welcomed her hand, hungered for it most obviously. His breath came fast and laboured; his eyelids dropped closed. Hermione realised with a pang that he didn't even know anymore what he was doing – getting close to her, urging her on, allowing her to take the lead.

So she just pulled him to her chest and placed his head on her shoulder, stroking his wet hair out of his face and brushing his cheek whilst doing so.

Instantly, he relaxed; his legs went down, stretching out before him. Both his fists moved between his legs as if trying to beat down his erection.

Carefully, Hermione placed her other hand on his chest, feeling his galloping heartbeat. Free to watch him as his lids were shut, her eyes wandered over his body. He's so pale, she thought in wonder. So pale and so lean, and he was trembling so very badly, and all of this was such a completely surreal situation, and he was so very un-Snape-ish in his weakness and vulnerability that all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a tiny butterfly started to beat its wings in Hermione's stomach.

It felt good.

Her hand wandered across his chest, not knowing what to do or what not, and she found that she enjoyed the texture of his skin and the feeling of his long, still wet hair brushing against her throat and chin.

But he was now literally shaking with need, and so he encouraged her hand to dance lower, exploring his pale flesh, and she expected him to jump up and away from her any second.

He didn't jump; he definitely didn't get away from her. Instead, he slipped another inch closer, his weight pinning her to the wall. His hips moved, shifted slightly, and he bit his lip as if to hinder a moan from escaping them.

Is he really that desperate? she wondered when she felt his head pushing harder against her shoulder whilst his body became rigid. With need? With pain? Or both, perhaps?

Lower her hand went. Her eyes were drawn to his mouth, nothing but a thin line in his ashen face; with her fingertips she circled his belly button. His lips parted, just a little bit, and quavered.

Now he moaned, deep and longingly. His fists opened, his hands moved as if on strings. Unceremoniously, he started to unbutton the fly of his trousers.

Hermione could only stare, mouth ajar, at his actions, watched as one button after the other opened, revealing that he didn't wear anything underneath.

He was so obviously desperate for release she was certain that he didn't know where he was anymore, who was with him or what he was actually doing. He acted like his potion-driven body demanded, and Hermione, having made her decision, just gulped once and let her right hand wander deeper whilst her left grabbed his shoulder hard for reassurance. Her eyes, though, flew back from his hands to his face.

But her fingertips... they first touched the waistband of his trousers, halted, then went on, tracing each opened button of his fly. She felt his hands clamped hard onto the fabric of his trousers, nearly ripping them apart as if he was trying to keep control over them so they wouldn't do anything inappropriate. Like grabbing her hand, forcing it on, forcing it elsewhere.

Tracing across his hand, she could feel his knuckles standing out, but she still didn't dare to look at what she was doing or where her innocent hand was heading to. Her gaze was set on his face, roaming over his clenched jaw, his eyes, which were squeezed shut in a mixture of pain and desire, the pulse hammering in his throat. She could even see his heartbeat, she...

Her fingers danced another little bit lower, and suddenly, unexpectedly – Am I there already? – they touched moist velvet. Good gods! she thought. That's... that's his cock!

He groaned again, but it was she who nearly jumped at the contact. Bracing herself, she told her scared fingers to wrap round his erection before she could think this through again, and her fingers obeyed and his hips bucked, once, twice. Then both his hands suddenly clutched hers.

Merlin, he's hard! And she was thunderstruck at the fact that mere flesh could feel like that at all – strong, hot, powerful and frightening all at once. But... but... no. Or... Yes? Yes. Definitely yes. It felt good, this part of his body, although it was a strange feeling to have this alien male attribute forced against her sweaty palm by its master's strong fingers wrapped around hers.

She was wondering what to do now that his hands began to move, taking hers along in an entrancing rhythm. Obviously, with her hand underneath his, he considered it now not only possible to find the release he was craving for but mandatory to finally start the process to get there as well.

And then it became utterly impossible not to look, not to watch what she was doing – she was giving Professor Snape a hand-job, and it didn't matter that he was dictating how it should be done. Her eyes fastened on his groin, and with a surprised smile she looked at her own hand, for a change not holding a book but being wrapped round the very erect penis of her Potions professor. She felt the steel covered in velvet, saw his foreskin revealing his glans every time their hands moved up and down, slowly, carefully.

Not good enough; not fast enough. His fingers squeezed her hand harder round his cock, and his fist sped up her movements. He threw his head back against her shoulder, pushed his whole body against hers; she felt the wall behind her, painfully pressing into her back.

Still he didn't slow down, and his grip became even harder. His face was a mask made of sweat and pain.

Hermione, taken off-guard by all of this, could do nothing but watch in horror; she was even very close to snatching her hand away.

That's too hard – I will hurt him; he will hurt himself! The thought sprang into her mind as he held her hand in an iron grip, forcing her to wank him mercilessly, brutally, but before she could slow him down or free her hand, he came. His back arched, thrusting his cock once more into her hand, his whole body shook convulsively, and then he spilled over their entwined hands and his lower abdomen. His breathing was so fast as if he had just won a marathon, and Hermione knew that her fingers would be blue and bruised in the morning, so hard was his fist wrapped around hers.