The Exposure

Chapter Eight

           "What were you doing in there, anyway?" Georgia queries. "Serving detention. Double detention, I suppose..." your mind wanders to the previous night, the image of his neck and the feeling of his strong arms carrying you filling your mind in an instant. "Y/n, you've got to stop mucking about–it could literally get you killed," Angel laughs. "As if avoiding being alone with Snape isn't motivation enough," Georgia says. "You know, I've heard he can read minds." "You mean legilimency?" Angel asks. "Yes, but I've heard he doesn't even need a wand or to speak the incantation." "That's ridiculous," Amy interjects. "Only Dumbledore could do that."

          "Well, at least the scar will be healed in time for the dance thanks to Professor Snape's potion," Angel adds, changing the subject. Your cheeks flush at the memory of what Madam Pomfrey had said, "he was a might worried..."

           "Aw, someone's excited for the dance!" Georgia eyes your red face, "Have you and Peter spent any time together since he asked you?" Georgia presses. "Oh," you smile and try to jerk your thoughts away from Snape. "Peter. No, we haven't had much time to talk really. He's been busy with Quidditch." You turn the topic away from you, "What about you, Amy? Has Tom asked?" Her cheeks glow bright red and she leans in and whispers, "He asked me last night! He said he was waiting for the right moment to ask..." she says softly, her doe eyes finding him in the great hall.

           Your mind wanders to the essay you have to write, "to be turned in by Friday," Professor Snape had decided.

           "I think I'm going to go work on my essay," you say to the girls, and you head up to the Ravenclaw Tower. It doesn't take you long thanks to the notes you made in the library. You quickly finish your essay, now having plenty of experience with Venemous Tentacula. You look it over and feel satisfied with it. There'll be no scolding from Snape for this one, you think, having mixed feelings about that.

           On Friday after class, you set your essay on Snape's desk and turn to leave. "One moment, Miss Y/n..." Snape drawls. You stop in your tracks, "Yes, Professor?" "I want to read this over before you go to make sure you won't be needing anymore...guidance," his dark eyes flitting up at you.

           You wait patiently for Snape to finish reading, the distant sound of classmates climbing the stairs out of the dungeon. He finishes the essay, slowly setting it down, looking up at you with a dubious look. He scrawls on the top of the page, stands, coming round his desk, stepping in front you.

           You got an A.

           "Miss Y/n, enlighten me–how did you manage this? Did your near-death experience sober up your silly mind?" "I...I'm not sure, Professor, I think–" "You know, it's a strange thing," he steps closer to you, his musky scent encasing you. "All the other professors in this school have reported nothing but good behavior and good grades from you." He eyes you with a suspicious face then squints, "No matter. This was very good work indeed." He hands you the parchment, but when reach out to take hold of the paper he doesn't release it immediately, causing you to look up at his gaze. "Good girl," he says languidly. Your heart flutters as he releases the parchment, whirling around back to his desk and you try to get your bearings as you leave the classroom, dizzied by the interaction.

           At once you realize that his scolding and his praise both elicit jolts of pleasure to your center, quickening your breath and pulse and making your insides tremble with delight, and you wonder how to get more of both.

           The exchange with Snape has you heated and you can't focus on the announcements at dinner, nor the conversations in the common room. You wander the corridors, your mind repeating the interaction from potions class. You make your way to the top of the Observation Tower, overlooking the beautiful moonlit hills and the glistening lake. It's quiet and you're finally alone, the other students preparing for the Harvest Ball, so you settle down, leaning your back agains the cold stone wall. You pull out your journal and begin writing the details of what transpired.

           I intentionally handed in shoddy work just to hear him scold me again...and when he did my whole body struggled to stay still. Merlin, I hope he didn't notice...that look of disapproval gave me chills. Yet I realized that it doesn't matter if he praises me or scolds me–it's all so exciting that I lose myself in him. Today I heard a rumor that he can read minds without wand or incantation. I wonder if it's true...there's something about him that makes me want to be bare, exposed to him. I want him to slip me veritaserum so I can just reveal all my feelings and fantasies...what a relief it would be to share this ache with him.

           Your middle throbs in arousal. The image of his enraged expression at your poorly-written essay, and his smirk of satisfaction at your corrected one flash through your mind. "Do not. Disappoint me...again." His dark eyes boring into yours. "Good girl..." His deep voice making you melt. You grow wet with ache at the recollection. You gently slip your fingers under your skirt, the cool night air sweeping across your warm center. The images of the past few weeks, the words written in your journal...you catch a touch of his scent in the air. "Severus..." you whisper to yourself as you imagine the ways you want to please him, all the things you want to do...and the ways you want to enrage him, the ways he could punish you...you gasp out quietly in pleasure as you build–up, up, up, until finally your hips buckle in release against your fingers. A new idea crosses your mind.