Fic: From Beyond The Grave (HG/SS)
For machshefa:
SS/HG, romance, smut, and something that they have to work out between the two of them

4000 words, NC-17
unbeta’ed
All my thanks to apisa_b for the html tutorial.
Note to readers: this is probably best viewed under IJ’s default setting or with another light background colour (I would personally recommend the “worksafe” setting). Copying and pasting into a word document should also work.




From Beyond The Grave


She knew she shouldn’t have taken that notebook. It was neatly hidden in the nightstand in Snape’s house at Spinner’s End. She was there to empty the house – it reverted to the Ministry since the Headmaster didn’t have any heirs, and they wanted to sell it. Its price, added to those of the various ingredients in his private brewing supplies, was meant to finance the rebuilding of the Severus Snape classroom at Hogwarts.

But that notebook was blank, it didn’t have any value, and it couldn’t be left in a house shortly to be sold to a Muggle family, so she just took it. It wasn’t theft – just thriftiness. She stored it on the top of her shelf, and forgot about it for the next twenty-five years.

Then came the divorce, and the splitting all their possessions. The notebook resurfaced, and she plopped the small, blank, leather-bound volume in her enlarged handbag without giving it a second thought.

One day, as she was looking for a piece of paper to write her grocery list on, her hand fell on it. Its soft leathery spine and used looked seemed to beckon her to use it, so she opened it.

Private Property of Severus Snape stood in a neat, round print on the first page. Probably the result of a Dictaquill… Some people really had it for alliterations, she thought. Still, it didn’t seem respectful to write right under him. So she turned a page, settled her quill on top of the new sheet, and wrote in her own regular handwriting:

Dental floss
Asparagus
Olive oil
Toilet paper

Her hand hovered over the page for an instant as she made her decision. Oh, what the hell.

Wine
Strawberries

There wouldn’t be anyone to share it with, but that in itself was reason enough to drink.

She set the quill neatly back down and was about to close the notebook when a line shimmered up on the page.

Have a nice evening!

She started back. Her previous history with notebooks that answered back were all but positive, and her first impulse was to throw the book away, preferably after sticking a Basilisk’s tooth through its covers. The words of Arthur Weasley seemed to resound in her ears - “never trust something if you can’t see its brain”.

But her curiosity overcame her. After all, it wasn’t like she’d ever known where a computer’s brain was.

Who are you?

The answer appeared almost instantly.

Someone who’d appreciate the wine and strawberries more than your paramour!

Don’t play games with me. I have the power to destroy you.

Oh, kinky! Should I call you Mistress while someone else licks the strawberries off your boots?

Hermione bit back a chuckle. This interlocutor certainly didn’t behave like Horcruxi were supposed to. But then it probably was trying to lead her to believe it wasn’t in fact Dark, so…

I’m giving you one last chance. Tell me your name.

It took a while for the answer to appear.

Who could I be but your most humble servant, Mistress?

She snapped the notebook shut with a sharp snap. There would be tests, and possibly the odd analysis, and then it would be snake feed. No one played buffoon with Madam Granger, Senior Undersecretary to the Department of Interior Magic, also referred to as “that bitter old divorcée” or “the hag that spots a comma mistake from fifteen paces, blindfolded” by the lesser minions under her direct orders. Not that she’d ever wear a blindfold at the office, of course. All and any kinkiness resided solely in the imagination of that Dark... thing. Obviously.

She went home, did the shopping and the cooking, ate her solitary asparagus dinner whilst proofreading the final draft of the end-of-month report (taking savage glee at every single spelling mistake she corrected with harsh stroked of her green-inked quill) and faced dessert – the rest of the wine, drunk directly from the bottle in-between strawberries – in a romantic tête-à-tête with the administrative requests for more office supplies in the coming fiscal year. She’d be damned if she got caught without a piece of paper to write her grocery list on again.

After that was done, she truly was alone.

Usually, that was the point where she’d start feeling sorry for herself. With her husband gone to another man and her children in possession of careers and families of their own, all she had was her job – not nearly challenging enough – and a slow but steady trickle of one-night-stands that equally failed to arouse her higher brain functions. A lesser woman would turn to alcohol in these conditions, she thought as she licked the last droplet from the neck of the wine bottle.

But tonight was different: tonight she had a Purpose.

She took the notebook from her handbag and performed a quick succession of detection spells on it. On first, second and third glance, it looked inoffensive. Meaning that it was either inoffensive or so powerfully Dark it had concealed its own dark nature. Both possibilities were equally intriguing.

She turned it over, contemplative.

Who would’ve had access to Snape’s stuff? The voice obviously wasn’t Snape’s, and neither was the handwriting. She’d seen that all too often, splashing unnecessary red ink on her carefully crafted Potions essays, to forget it. But the notebook did come from Snape’s nightstand – who on earth had had access to that place?

That was it. She never could resist a good challenge.

How long have you known Snape?

The answer shimmered into appearance almost right away.

Correct me if I’m wrong – I don’t get much of a sense of time in my present location – but isn’t it still the evening? Did you run away from your lover to get to me?

There was a pause.

How flattering!

Hermione didn’t quite know how to respond to that.

Tell me.

Yes, Mistress?

Why do you think I’m female?

Something about your handwriting… and you didn’t correct me when I assumed you were female. A man would have…

Damn him. Him? Or her?

And I take it you are male?

That would be correct.

This is the first straight answer you have given me. Should I beware of something?

No, Mistress of all things stationery, you need not: I am indeed straight.

Hermione burst into laughter. Merlin, dark or not, that notebook was worth a lot on the entertainment scales.

Well, my sweet little notebook, she wrote, you have amused me. But I still feel like destroying you. Unless of course you answer my questions…

I am slightly concerned about that. How did you find me?

It was her turn to answer in riddles, she thought with an inner chuckle.

Can’t you guess?

Severus Snape disappeared. Despite being unrelated to him and utterly unconnected to his person, you took it upon yourself to go through his possessions. You must be clever, or you wouldn’t have survived the booby-traps in his house. Am I right?

Truth be told, she was a bit taken aback by the notebook’s perspicacity.

You are. And what is your connection to the Headmaster?

Headmaster? He made it to HEADMASTER?

He did, but not for long.

How did he go?

Hermione wanted to tell the annoying thing she was the one in charge of the questioning, but something in the script – a tenseness in the handwriting, a suddenness in the response –prompted her to indulge him once again.

He got bitten by a snake.

The reply was quick, and cutting.

Liar!

She clapped the notebook shut, annoyed. No one told her off, and certainly not an inanimate object. Plus, the wine she’d consumed had taken effect, and she felt tired. With more irritation that the situation would have warranted, she levitated the offending booklet onto her bookshelf, where she locked it in several warding charms, just for protection.

Her night was anything but restful, and the following day at work consisted in an uninterrupted series of minor annoyances that, stretched out over the twelve hours she spent at the office, culminated the fuming rage she usually associated to the presence of her former husband.

She needed an outlet, she knew that, something complicated enough that she would have to think instead of mulling over the same old bores. The notebook was probably dangerous, and its pull could be addictive, but it was right what she needed.

To prove to herself that she could resist temptation, she started the evening with a hot bubble bath, a naughty novel and the firm intention to stay there until the heroine and hero got it going among the haystacks, as advertised by the book’s lurid cover. But the water felt tepid, the heroine turned out to be a little sap with the backbone of a wet sock, and Hermione found herself facing the notebook once again less than half an hour after she came home.

She opened it carefully and stared at it without quite knowing what to do. What did one write on possibly dark artefacts that had just insulted you?

As a matter of fact, it took the initiative.

Are you here?

I am, she replied.

I’m sorry for what I said yesterday. I was reacting to your news, and should never have implied you weren’t telling the truth.

That piqued her curiosity.

And what exactly were you reacting to?

Your saying Severus was dead. I apologise for what I said yesterday, but, with all due respect, I think you may have been deceived.

There was some consolation to be derived from the fact that, despite its knowing her gender and even part of her character, the notebook hadn’t guessed she had actually witnessed Snape’s demise.

Why would that be?

Well, first of all, I know for a fact that he wouldn’t have died of a snakebite. He’s been accustoming himself to poisons for years and wouldn’t have felt the effect of the venom. Not to mention that he always carries a bezoar in his front pocket.

The notebook seemed to have a rather good acquaintance with the potions master; she almost hated having to disillusion it.

It was a big snake. He got bitten in the neck and bled to death.

There was a silence, and then-

Nagini? So the Dark Lord finally turned onto him? Was he believed to be a spy?

Hermione felt her own curiosity swell up. Who was this mysterious voice, and how come it was so close to Snape?

Yes, yes, and no – but his allegiance to the Light became clear to everyone, posthumously.

You are very knowledgeable indeed for a notebook. I hate repeating myself, but – who are you?

This time, the long-awaited answer appeared in a dejected handwriting.

If what you say really is true, I’m more of a what than a who.

Getting more curious by the minute, she quilled in-

I’m more stubborn than a stableful of donkeys and I will get an answer out of you. What are you?

I’m part of Severus Snape’s spirit. When he -we-, well, when I decided to join Voldemort I knew I wouldn’t survive it in as I was. So he – the Severus you know – let me in this notebook. I’m everything that could cause him to falter in his spying duties – his cheerfulness, his sex drive, most of his sense of humour,… He- we talked to each other a lot, we thought it would be easy to reunite when all of this was over.

Hermione couldn’t believe her eyes. Snape, her dreaded Potions Professor, the sullen figure at the Head table, Harry’s nemesis, the late war hero, had a cheerful side? Could flirt and banter? And had chosen to give it all up for the sake of duty?

The notebook remained silent for a moment and then went on.

This is why I was disinclined to believe you. If he were truly dead, so would I be! I mean, I knew something was amiss, he hasn’t spoken to me in years…

Decades, Hermione corrected him, calculating how it long it had been in her head. If the notebook hadn’t known Snape had been named Headmaster, they wouldn’t have been in contact since the summer before she, Ron and Harry went camping, so that would be… Thirty-one years, to be precise.

There was a long silence between them. Each of them was still reeling under the revelations. Then the thought that had been lurking at the periphery of Hermione’s consciousness all the while came to the forefront. This notebook contained a part of a dead man’s spirit. It bore all the hallmarks of a genuine Horcrux. But then she had seen Horcruxi from up close – she was, in fact, one the world’s three greatest living experts in the matter. And she could feel none of the seeping evilness that had radiated from Voldemort’s tokens. Could that mean that this was not in fact a malevolent artefact, that she needn’t destroy it at the earliest opportunity? Or was it just a consequence of Snape’s spirit being lighter that Voldemort’s had been? She had to know.

How were you made?

A series of potions – to put my earthly body in transe, to separate the different strands of my spirit, to couch some of them in the notebook. I could describe it further, but (no offence meant) unless you’re an experienced Potions Mistress you don’t have much chance of replicating the experiment. And why would you need to?

Nothing else than potions?

Well, we needed the notebook, obviously.

I mean, nothing alive? Or dead, for that matter?

Well there were no dead animal parts in the potions as far as I can recall if that’s what you mean? This notebook’s leather-bound, but I don’t think that played any kind of part in the process.

Not a Horcrux, then? But then if it was indeed a Dark object it would of course do its best to lead her into believing that it wasn’t. She should be very wary indeed. Then another thought crossed her mind.

You mentioned describing potions. Could you by any chance tell me how to brew Wolfsbane?

I don’t know what Wolfsbane is.

Professor Snape invented it. It helps werewolves retain their human consciousness while they’re transformed.

I have his- our- memories up until the moment I was put in the notebook, but not those he made on his own. He must’ve developed it afterwards. Come to think of it, he probably used something akin to the potion he used to separate his- -our- consciousness. The aim of the potion you’re describing is meant to separate the wolf spirit from the human one, is it not? Is the potion asphodel-based?

As a matter of fact it is!

Well, since I’m dead I have eternity to do what I please. If you’re ever in the mood, what about your taking to a bit of light brewing in the company of a lone little notebook? That potion sounds like a nice challenge. I guess he didn’t leave any notes behind?

None, Hermione replied tersely.

Well, if he were any less paranoid I guess I wouldn’t be here with you…

There was a pause.

Please don’t leave me alone just quite yet. Tell me about yourself…

I’m ageing, divorced and bitter that my being the brightest witch of my generation didn’t translate into a better life for me than for my fellow wizard. Divorce and spirit-splitting apart, I’m not that different from Snape!

You knew him well, then?

I used to be one of his students.

Fuck me! Was he nice to you?

Not really, no.

Harsh love, then – I’m sure you learned a lot from his stern and disciplined guidance?

That you could say I suppose…

Do you want to do some brewing now? I’m not as experienced as him, but I can guarantee I’m good. I’m the youngest British Potions Master ever, you know?

Hermione thought. She was still half-naked after her aborted bath, and her hair was a mass of greying frizziness. Definitely not the best of times to mull over a steaming cauldron. But his – its – offer deserved some attention. If she could recreate Wolfsbane, it would be a huge relief to the hundred-odd registered werewolves, would incite a lot more to register with the Ministry too. Not to mention the security implications… all in all, she was reconsidering her first, knee-jerk decision to destroy the notebook right away.

I’m not really in the mood for it right now, she wrote.

Are you in the mood for something else, then, ô Mistress?

She started. He couldn’t possibly mean….

What do you have in mind, my sweet slave?

I am at your feet. I seek permission to touch them…

She chuckled and decided to play along. In for a penny (or Wolfsbane), in for a pound (of hot manflesh).

Granted, but only if I can see you naked.

I disrobe slowly in front of you. I undo the collar and the cuffs first, and the fabric slides from my body. I am naked underneath…

Do I like what I see?

I’m swaying my hips and I’m half-erect, of course you do!

At half-mast only, heh?

I know better than to get too excited, too soon… May I touch you, Mistress?

I have already given you permission…

I bend forward and kiss your feet… your ankles… the back of your knees… I have a hand on each of your calves, and I’m slowly prising your legs apart…

Almost despite herself, Hermione reached for her wand and muttered her trusted vibrating charm before applying it to the places Snape had mentioned. She was almost shivering from the anticipation.

I’m trailing kisses on the insides of your thighs, travelling upwards. I’m heading straight for your belly… It is soft and I bury my head in you, burrowing my entire body between your thighs… then, very slowly, I look up to your breasts. I see your face.

There he stopped. Hermione switched her wand to her left hand and grabbed the quill with her right one.

Go on!

You are breathing hard, but you smile at me. I kneel up – my face is right in front of your breasts. I am caressing them both and I kiss them, softly at first, then more forcefully. You let out little moans each time I suckle on a nipple…

Hermione’s wand had travelled down to her triangle and was now getting better acquainted with her labia. Still sitting on the couch, she brought her knees together and apart a few times in quick succession. She couldn’t resist and brought her left hand to her clitoris, stroking gently without interrupting the wand action further below. She felt close to climax, but something was missing… With a grunt of frustration, she picked up the quill again.

Don’t stop!

Your breathing is getting harder and harder. I kiss your mouth lightly, but you grab my hair and drag me down south. My mouth meets your folds. You are wet and ready: I feel you hand crisped so tight my scalp hurts a bit. I don’t mind: I like knowing you are aching for my touch. I need to satisfy you… I take one large lick at your entire labia, starting inside your cunt and moving all the way up to your clitoris. It is engorged and hard, I suck on it like I sucked on your nipples. Your grasp grows less tense, and I manage to get my right hand on you. I go all the way in, and with two fingers I feel up inside you. I am not gentle, I explore and I soon find that spot…

Hermione had somehow fallen off the couch during the proceedings. She grabbed the notebook and brought it back before her eyes, and, without bothering to get back on the couch or in more dignified a position, she resumed the combined wand and hand action. She could feel herself getting carried away in wave after wave of coiled pleasure; it wouldn’t be long now.

Your entire body jerks jerks each time I press on it. I know you are close, so I keep on moving, and sucking, harder and harder, until I hear you scream in pleasure…

“Ngh!” said the real Hermione, reeling from the sudden, hard orgasm. She lay still on the floor, panting, her eyes closed for a little while.

Are you still there?

With her remaining strength, she summoned her quill.

No, I’ve gone to heaven. Thank you, sweet little notebook. Can I leave you alone now?

I’m that good, aren’t I? Good night, Mistress. Sweet dreams.

Hermione reluctantly closed the notebook, dragged herself to bed, and fell asleep like a log.

*
* *

When Hermione woke up, she had a plan. It was ill-thought through, and the rashest thing she’d ever done in her life, and she was determined to see it through.

If the notebook was indeed a Horcrux, or a fake for that matter, then Snape would be dead, rotting, decaying in his grave. Horcruxi required a new body to have their creators rise from the dead. On the other hand, if it had been saying the truth all along, Snape’s spirit had not been entirely ripped in two, just artificially, and momentarily, separated. So he wasn’t dead. So his body couldn’t be rotting. Wasn’t the logic in that irrefutable?

Consequently, the only thing a not-so-reasonable witch could do to ascertain the credibility of her newest sex-toy was to desecrate the former Headmaster’s grave. Simple as that!

She spent her day (skived off work. There were times when one ought to pull rank and have the minions do all the actual work) gathering medical supplies. If Snape hadn’t turned into maggot-feed, it wouldn’t serve anything or anyone to let him die all over again, now would it?

Shortly before dusk, the notebook safely tucked up in her pocket, a shrunk-up spade in her handbag, she visited the Hogwarts cemetery.

Grave-digging wasn’t as glamorous an activity as was portrayed in popular culture, she decided a good two hours later, covered in mud and grime from head to toe. But her spade hit wood at last, and soon she had access to the entire coffin.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and yanked it open, using the spade’s handle as a lever on the rusty coffin hinges.

Snape’s body appeared, looking exactly as it had when she had last seen it.

She took her wand out at long last. Using magic would have been ill-advised before, but now she had no choice. She had to stitch his gaping wound, replenish his blood, administer a series of antidotes… and of course reunite the strands of his spirit contained in the notebook to those who laid dormant in his body. The result would either be a young, rejuvenated, more cheerful Potions Master with a libido, or a golem-like monster. There was only one way to tell which one it would be…

She lifted her wand with confidence and started on the enchantments.