Title: A Divinatory Interlude
Word Count: 800 words
Summary: Lavender can see Snape's immediate future.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Written for iamthemoon after taking "laundry drabbles" prompts. Prompts: "flexible," "buttons," and "vile."
"I can see your future, Miss Brown," Snape says severely, striding toward the squealing girl asshe hops away from her cauldron, "and the letter dee features prominently."
"Oh, Professor!" Lavender exclaims, her voice breathy and pleading, "I can't make it stop!"
Snape casually flicks his wand in the direction of Lavender's failed potion, causing it to cease its vile yellow bubbling, and ignores the way the other students are laughing while the girl's, "Oh, Professor!" echoes in his mind. He is suddenly harder than he has been in some time, and, as he smartly turns on the ball of his left foot and proceeds back to his desk, his cock pulses with each step.
"Dismissed," he growls, listening in irritation as the Sixth Years rapidly clean up their messes and begin to tumble out the door. "Miss Brown!"
"The 'dee' in your future is for 'detention'. You will remain behind."
The door slams shut and locks itself as the rest of the brats leave, and only then does Snape turn to gaze upon the apparently shame-faced and apprehensive Lavender. "Well?" he demands, running the fingers of his right hand slowly up and down the buttons of his frock coat, which is visible through his partially open robes, "what do you have to say for yourself? You've ruined three potions in as many days."
Lavender's lovely brown eyes widen.
She's staring at my fingers, he thinks, pleased to note it. She's been watching me for weeks now. I want to know why. "Don't make me ask you again, girl."
"I . . . I'm sorry, sir, but—"
"Your mind is clearly not focused on your work of late. What," Snape says, lowering his voice and slowing the progress of his hand as it caresses his torso, "has been distracting you?"
Blushing, Lavender casts her eyes down and mumbles something unintelligible.
"What was that?" Snape demands, stalking down the row of worktables until he is standing before the girl—just a tad too closely—and raising Lavender's chin not ungently.
"I . . . I said you, sir."
"Oh? And why," Snape almost purrs, brushing his thumb over Lavender's jaw to remove a trace of yellowish liquid—the result of her cauldron's earlier explosion—"is that?" Give me an answer I can use.
Snape can smell the intoxicating scent of Lavandula angustifolia rising from the Gryffindor's skin and finds it intoxicating. He is not surprised that she is perfuming herself with her namesake, and he knows that Lavender has been wearing this particular scent ever since she first began to cast lingering glances in his direction.
And sixteen is old enough to know what one is looking at—and for.
Lavender leans into his fingers and sighs before saying, "I've been bending over backward for ages trying to please you, sir, but you never seem to notice."
"You know that I have, Miss Brown," Snape murmurs, moving his fingers into Lavender's soft hair and caressing it away from her face—only to tighten his grip on her silky locks and hiss, "but if you're trying to flirt your way into passing this class, you are sorely mistaken in my attentions."
Lavender is not cowed and boldly presses her body into Snape's, providing the welcome and unexpected friction of her belly against his straining erection. "This isn't about my marks, sir—I'll pass on my own merit. But what I want," she continues, standing up on tiptoe to whisper into his mouth, "is to show you how flexible I can be in other contexts."
Then she is kissing him, her tongue deftly sliding against his own. There is nothing hesitant about her now, but Snape needs to be certain of her intentions, of her understanding, so he pulls out of their embrace.
"What would Mr. Weasley have to say if he were to see you writhing against your greasy old Potions master?"
"Nothing I'd care to hear, sir," Lavender tells him, grinning impishly up at him and rubbing her breasts against his chest. "Ron's only pretending to like me—"
Oh, I doubt that.
"—to make Hermione jealous. All he'll do is kiss me."
The way she speaks the words, they sound like a plea, and the pout of her full lips is beguiling.
"What makes you think that I'll do anyth—oh!"
"Because," Lavender says, the laughter thick in her voice as she begins moving her clever little fingers, "I've already got your cock in my hand."
Sir, Snape adds silently, promising himself that—after—he will insist Miss Brown refrain from engineering any further classroom accidents in order to gain his attention in future.
"And I foresee that, soon," Lavender promises, kneeling, "I'll have it in my mouth."
When her lips wrap around his head and she sucks his prick to the root, Snape blesses all fortune-tellers everywhere and finds reason to praise Gryffindor courage.