Chapter Text
Despite the dozens of portraits listening in (long-dead Headmasters according to the placards), the no doubt priceless artifacts scattered about the office, and the honest-to-Merlin phoenix perched by the door, Dumbledore seems more akin to a kindly grandfather having you over for a cuppa than one of the most powerful wizards of your age recruiting you for his staff.
He offers you some lemon candy and you wonder just how many students have been subject to this disarming tactic. Some might call you paranoid but your career has long-since proven that gestures, no matter how small or kind, come from a place of want. Sometimes those wants benefit your own interests. Sometimes they don't. In Professional Dueling, underestimating your opponent can come at a great cost.
You take the drop and pop it into your mouth. How many times have you fallen for a sweet trap?
“If I may say so,” Dumbledore begins, “you're looking very well, Miss (L/N). Refreshed. I trust that you’ve been properly taken care of this last week?”
You nearly choke.
He means this innocently, of course. You know he's not alluding to the fact that his Potion Master has been warming your bed. At least, you hope so - that twinkle in his eye makes him so very hard to read.
“Everyone has been very accommodating. The castle and grounds are really quite lovely,” you say, clearing your throat. Acting calm and grateful is always a good defense. “Your hospitality is much appreciated, Headmaster.”
“It's a delight to see you well situated. Many people see Hogwarts as a home, you know.”
“And you hope that I might be one of those people,” you observe pointedly.
“I see no point in hiding it. From what I’ve seen, the students are already quite taken with you.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Headmaster, but they haven't yet experienced my charms in the classroom. I’m afraid I’m just a novelty at this time."
“They respect you, and they have good reason to. I’ve said as much, when I first extended this offer.” He peers at you over his half-moon spectacles and you feel very on the spot. “What is holding you back from accepting, Miss (L/N)?”
You roll the sweet to your other cheek, the taste of lemon coating your mouth.
“Hogwarts is a lovely place… but there’s a difference between a home and an escape,” you say. “It would be unfair of me to come to Hogwarts for the latter. An educator owes their pupils proper attention.”
“Oh? Must a professor be so single-minded?” Dumbledore asks.
“Sir?”
“The position does, indeed, require time and effort aplenty, but you would not be required to give yourself over completely. Trust me when I tell you that the staff find time for their own pursuits, outside of the classroom.”
You ponder Dumbledore’s rebuttal.
“I have no doubt you are up to the challenge, Miss (L/N),” he continues. “I have seen your work ethic, your skill, and your peers speak well of you. The reason I'm offering you this position, instead of interviewing you for it, is because I know you can succeed.”
You can't help but smile at Dumbandore's matter-of-fact faith.
“Now, what is the real reason for your refusal?”
A thousand reasons to hesitate buzz in your brain like a swarm of golden snitches: leaving your family, immersing yourself into a culture so different from your own, the students’ inexperience, your dueling career.
You’re getting older. And every year there are younger and more brilliant athletes entering the professional dueling league. Can you recover if you take an extended break? Not to mention this would mean cutting ties with Nikolai completely. The chasm between you yawns large. You lost him as a lover, and no doubt you'd lose him as a coach too. Could you stand that?
“Igor is worried about you,” Dumbledore remarks after a long period of silence. “He thinks it would do you well to get out of Russia, for a time.”
You smile placidly and shrug, “Godfather’s always worried about me. It surprised me how… encouraging he’s been. He has terrible memories of his time in the UK.”
“You are not Igor,” Dumbledore says plainly. “And the war is long behind us. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Miss (L/N). There is no reason Hogwarts cannot be both home and an escape.”
You crunch the candy, contemplating.
“If you need more time to reflect, you need only ask,” he says.
It feels something like pity and you frown. You don’t want Dumbledore extending his grace to become a habit; it's happened before, years ago, during Bulgaria’s Challenge of Champions. He’d been there at your Godfather’s invitation, only to witness your humiliating defeat in the semifinals; your knee had been aching from a previous injury and you’d stubbornly pushed through only to lose twenty seconds into the bout.
At the Gala, you had put on a mask of pure professionalism, not wanting Dumbledore, the sponsors, or your fellow athletes to see you as anything other than unruffled and gracious. He’d seen through your act and consoled you. He’d even promised to send over a tincture of Alihotsy and Dittany oil for your knee - Dumbledore had not shown half as much attention to the winner, and it was hard not to be flattered.
It’s even harder now to deny his request.
“May I give you my answer in April?” you ask. “I’m qualified for the Kempen Cup and I need to focus on that for now. It's my first competition since- well...”
It’s a long way off still but Dumbledore smiles like he’s already won.
“Of course, my dear. That will give you plenty of time to solidify the curriculum by September.”
You do not ask if he has a backup instructor in mind - you think you know the answer. You excuse yourself and head to the Great Hall, the taste of lemon overwhelming your mouth.
Lunch is taken at the high table with the few remaining adults.
Snape isn’t there.
During your time at Hogwarts, he’s always made himself scarce after a light breakfast taken in your quarters. Despite all your allusions to over-breakfast debate, you two never spoke much in the early hours, both content to either take in the quiet or take your pleasure.
You would usually make conversation after dinner, when he’d escort you back to your room - at least, before you'd busy your mouths with something infinitely more entertaining than words.
A shame it's coming to an end, you think.
And so, you dine with McGonagall and Poppy instead. Your exchanges with McGonagall over the last week have been polite, if a bit stilted. It seems her wariness over your character hasn’t faded. You doubt you could surmount her distaste due to the fundamental differences in your ideology, but you smile and joke, and act like a lady.
Poppy, however, is nothing but warm. Her only failing, in your eyes, concerns the pointed remarks she makes regarding the new Dueling Course; she feels the class would doubtlessly affect her own workload and has asked you to please minimize the students you’ll be sending her way, speaking as though you’ve already accepted the post. You do not make any promises and instead take a second helping of turkey.
A few brave students come up between bites to say hello and ask more questions. Tracey Davis, a Slytherin half-blood, has some very astute observations. You can see the gears turning in her head as you recount one of your Exhibition Duels, and you hope she doesn’t try recreating any of the spellsets.
After pudding, Ron Weasley (sans Harry Potter) invites you to a game of Wizard’s Chest. He's very good (or you're very poor) and you will deny to your dying day that you were nearly bested by an eleven-year-old.
It's bitterly cold outside so instead of exploring the grounds you spend the rest of the afternoon in the library, reading and acquainting yourself with the restricted section. To your dismay, a number of books you’d mark as standard readings are stashed away, locked in a glass armoire. It fills you with distaste, and you head back to your quarters to waste time until dinner.
The scent of Pepper-Up fills the air of the lower levels. Your mouth waters and you're drawn to its source like a hummingbird to nectar. You take a left instead of the right that would lead you back to your rooms, wind through several hallways, and find yourself in the Potions Lab for the first time.
Snape is there, alternating between stirring several cauldrons and grinding bicorn horn in a giant pestle. He manages the work with the ease of a true professional.
“And to what do I owe this... pleasure?”
Despite the seeming formality, there is a small amount of irritation in his voice. Snape, you’ve learned, is a prickly man outside of bed. You doubt any number of shared orgasms would soften his day-to-day demeanor. A more clever witch might’ve left just then, but you’re bored and decide to risk his ire, even if he seems rather busy.
“Followed my nose,” you say airily, leaving the door open behind you as you approach the bench of ingredients. A pot of sparkly red flecks catches your attention. Crushed fireseed, you vaguely recognize.
“Hm. That we all have so much free time- don’t touch that!”
“Well,” you laugh, pulling back your finger, “aren’t you in a delightful mood!”
“Poppy’s stores need replenishing before the children get back. I’ve been brewing all week.” He lifts a ladle to check the potion’s consistency. “There’s always an influx of sickness over the holidays, what with everyone traveling.”
You place an exaggerated hand to your heart.
“What a hardworking professor! So dedicated to his students! I have no doubt you hold a deep and true concern for their weak constitutions!”
He snorts, peering down at you past his impressive beak.
“Have you nothing better to do with your time, right now?”
“Why? Am I bothering you?” you ask.
“Yes.”
You grin. “You'd think after last night you'd be happy to see me. I certainly woke up cheerful, if a bit sore. You’re very bitey, Professor.”
“I haven’t heard you complain.”
“Who said I was complaining?”
You head to his desk and hop up to sit on the ledge. You're wearing a skirt that goes down to your knees, and you shimmy so it doesn't ride up entirely. From your perch, you watch as Snape flits between prepping ingredients, stirs half a dozen cauldrons, and adjusts the flames with a practiced wave of his hand. His face has gone a little sweaty from the fumes but you find you don’t mind.
“I’ve never seen anyone brew such a large batch at once,” you remark. “I’d offer to help but it’s been a decade since I’ve touched a cauldron.”
“I prefer brewing alone,” says Snape, adding a pinch of fireseed to each pot. “It’s more work to supervise, or to rectify any mistakes.”
He goes to shred Jewelweed and grate Mandrake root. Your memory of this recipe is hazy, but you think he’s nearing the stage where he can let the potion boil for a while. He washes his hands in a stone basin by the corner, taking care to scrub between those lovely long fingers of his. A familiar want pulls at you.
“Have you ever fucked in a classroom?” you ask. A crude suggestion perhaps, but you’d invited Snape into your bed hours after meeting him, and you'll be leaving tomorrow anyways. Might as well make the most of the time you have left.
As if he was used to the nonsense coming out of your mouth, Snape takes the conversation shift completely in stride.
“I can’t say I have.”
“Interesting. Neither have I.”
Snape folds the cloth he’d been using to dry his hands and comes to stand by the desk. You spread your legs, the skirt riding up, and he moves between them.
“What a scandal it would be to learn otherwise,” he murmurs.
His hands find your thighs and they edge underneath the hem of your skirt, pushing them up slightly. You're wearing stockings still but the weight of his caress is enticing enough.
“Scandalous?” you ask. “Or exciting?”
His eyes darken.
“Are you propositioning me, Miss (L/N)?”
His hands wander further.
“Just thinking of ways to pass the time,” you say idly. “If memory serves me right, you have about twenty-five minutes until you need to take care of those cauldrons.”
“Eighteen, actually. The addition of crushed fire seed speeds up the brewing time.”
“Then we should be quick.”
You kiss him and it doesn’t take long for the kisses to deepen, for him to untuck your blouse from your skirt. He palms your breast through your brassiere and while it's lovely, you really would prefer the feeling of skin on skin. You tell him as much, and divests you of said clothing.
He’s sucking at your neck as he palms your bare tits when you realize-
“Shit, wait!” You throw your hand to the door which promptly shuts and clicks audibly.
He looks over his shoulder and smirks.
“I was leaving that open to ventilate the room.”
“I’d rather not get fired before even taking a teaching position,” you snort.
Snape hums, pulling out his wand. He aims the tip towards the cauldrons and a faint whirl of air appears near the ceiling to cycle the room.
“Now we won’t suffocate.”
“Peachy. I can only imagine the scandal should they find our corpses in flagrante.”
He smirks and kisses you hard. Not to be outdone, you nip his bottom lip, soothe it with your tongue, and dip back into his mouth. He meets your ministrations with equal fervor.
“Enough,” he growls, breaking for air.
He maneuvers you to stand and lean over the desk. You hear the sounds of him taking off his belt, his trousers being pulled down.
“No one will be down here in a while anyways,” Snape says with leisure, rucking up your skirt. He pulls down your knickers and stockings to your knees, and nudges your ankles to spread further. You obey. “It’s dinner time. Hardly any students come down here during the break.”
Because they’re terrified of you, you thought in amusement - only to think no more once Snape sinks a finger into you.
You’re quite wet. Maybe it’s the classroom. Maybe it’s the scent of Pepper-Up. Maybe it’s just Snape. You push back against him with a whine and he rewards you with another finger. He thrusts them in and out and you feel your slick spreading obscenely. Without warning he crooks his fingers, rubs deep, and you see stars. He goes on like that for a good long while, until you're shivering and your need has surpassed the pleasure.
“That… is very, very good,” you pant, “but how ‘bout something bigger?”
“You’re very demanding, Miss (L/N).”
“Mm…”
He pulls out his fingers with a squelch and you soon feel his cockhead tracing your lips, dipping in and out shallowly. You try to push back but he holds you down to lay flat against the desk.
“Patience.”
You buck back anyways but his hand stays solid. When you realize you’re not getting anymore until he changes his mind, you bury your head in your arms to wait. Even if you’re surrendering to his mercies, it doesn't mean you don’t complain. You let out a petulant whine and whisper something nasty between moans.
“Be good,” he hisses.
You groan and hold yourself still, despite the torturous need to push yourself back to meet his thrusts. Your muscles ache but you don't dare move, hoping it'll get him to change his mind and move faster.
“So she can learn,” Snape says, once you’ve stopped struggling. He pushes into you just a tiny bit deeper. He continues on like that, fucking you shallowly. It’s maddening - it’s nowhere near enough.
“We’re on a time crunch, Professor,” you say, your nails digging into your arms in frustration. “Wouldn’t want the cauldrons to boil over.”
“Hm. What a kind consideration… You’re right, I suppose.”
He suddenly drags you back by the hips and your tits drag painfully against the wood.
“A-ah!”
You have half a mind to complain but he begins pounding into you so violently that you decide to let it go. The desk groans under your weight and the legs squeak against the stone floor with each thrust; you're half-afraid it’ll break beneath you.
The ventilation charm and bubbling cauldrons do little to drown out the sounds of your ever-increasing cries. You really do hope everyone was in the Great Hall. You hadn’t thought to cast a silencing spell.
Your worries abscond as soon as you feel a hand snaking into your hair, pulling you up. Snape’s grasp is tight but not painful, and it sends a delicious ache through your scalp.
His tongue laps your ear and traces the outer shell. He nips and pulls your ear lobe between his lips; it’s surprisingly good. That spot had never done much for you before, but you find the sensation of Snape’s hot breath steaming against your ear monumentally arousing.
“Good girl,” he says, “taking what I give to you. Let me give you a reward.”
He sneaks a hand down to your clit and circles the sensitive nub. His thrusts never falter - considering how well he managed those cauldrons, you aren’t surprised he’s rather good at multitasking in bed. Or desk, as it were.
On one particularly hard thrust, he pulls back your head and pinches your clit at the same time. You scream as your entire body convulses and twitches madly against his solid weight; your orgasm came out of nowhere.
You’re still whining by the time he releases your hair and you just slump forward, letting the desk catch you. When he pulls out, you can feel his seed sliding down your leg - you hadn’t even noticed he’d reached his own pleasure.
He wastes no time and slides your panties up, then your stockings. Your skirt is smoothed down and he gives your rump a small pat, as if saying “well done” and that makes you more embarrassed than anything else you’ve done together. Your face is still red when you straighten up and face him. He’s already at his cauldrons, stirring perfect circles. It’s as if he never stepped away.
“Arse,” you grumble.
You grab your wand and charm your hair to lay properly. You put on your brassiere and button up your blouse, tucking it neatly into your skirt.
You could cast a spell that would clean up your knickers, but you quite like the feeling of being full and wet.
“Pass me that jar of dried fluxweed,” Snape says unexpectedly. He waves his hand to the general direction of a shelf laden with clay pots.
“Say please,” you say.
He scoffs.
“Please hurry before you ruin this batch.”
You stick your tongue out at him and go to grab the appropriately labeled jar. When you walk across the room, your steps falter. Each step reminds you of how wet you are beneath your stockings, that Snape’s seed is still thick within you.
He’s smirking as he watches. He doesn’t need your help, you realize. Snape just wants you walking around, knowing that each time you take a step you're squelching about with his spend.
“You’re sick,” you say in faux-anger as you pass him the jar.
You don’t mind, really. In fact, you kind of like it. You’re even half-tempted to ask if he’s ever been sucked off from underneath his desk, but you hold yourself back. You need to clean up and make yourself presentable for your last dinner here - no doubt your presence has been missed.
“I’m sick?” Snape scoffs. “You’re the one who wanted a romp in the classroom. I was happy enough with your bed.”
"Nothing wrong with a little variety," you hum.
He doesn't pay you anymore attention as he tips out a handful of fluxweed sprigs and drops one into each cauldron.
“That’ll extend the shelf-life by about two months,” he remarks.
You watch the cauldrons bubble and steam.
“Are you not coming to dinner?” you ask.
“I still need to decant and label these. I doubt they’ll still be serving food by the time I'm done… I’ll head to the kitchens after.”
“Alright. I’ll go ahead then.”
Making sure your steps are steady, you head to the door. You’ve just opened the door when you remember... you look at Snape over your shoulder.
“I’m leaving in the morning, by the way. I don’t think I’ve told you that.”
“You haven't.”
“Well, I’m telling you now. Come by later. I’ll leave my door unlocked.”
“You're insatiable,” he says snidely, though there’s something amused in his eyes.
“Yep.”
Snape extinguishes all six cauldrons at one. His magic really is quite impressive.
“The Headmaster had been hoping you’d stay over Christmas…” Snape begins. You wonder where he's going with this line of thought. Is he asking you to stay? You hope not.
“The Kempen Cup is in March,” you say primly. “I need to get back - I’ve let my training slide for too long.”
“Aren’t you on sabbatical?” he asks.
“I was.”
Snape's eyes are on you, laser focused, “You’re uninjured, and from I've heard from Dumbledore you're in the prime of your career. Why take the time off, at all?”
His question is blunt and it takes you by surprise. This is the first time Snape has ever come close to asking you about your personal life. You might’ve shared ideas, knowledge, thoughts on the school - but this is something different altogether. You turn away from his attention, looking down the empty hall.
You like Snape well enough. He’s intelligent, and there's humor under that cutting tongue. You certainly like his cock, his mouth, his fingers, his attention. But he’s not your lover, nor is he your friend.
“I’ll leave my door open tonight,” you repeat, ignoring him. “I’ll put on something pretty. Don't make me wait too long.”
You smile placidly and walk away.
Snape doesn’t call for you, nor does he insist on an answer. He knows better. Such explanations are not part of this arrangement.