Lust Potion #9

by LyraFyre

Summary:

Hermione Granger thought her Ministry posting as a Fixer would mean long nights of paperwork and the occasional cursed artefact. Instead, she’s handed a black-market love potion epidemic—and ordered to confirm the antidote with none other than Severus Snape, a decade into his reclusive career as Britain’s most infamous Master potioneer.

But Snape hasn’t been working alone. At his side is Draco Malfoy—still clawing his way through a late-in-life apprenticeship after Azkaban, still tethered to the man who saved him.

One lab accident is all it takes to turn theory into nightmare. Caught in the throes of Lust Potion #9, Snape is incapable of taking Hermione’s no for an answer. It has bewitched his mind and ensnared his senses, leaving him with only one goal: to enact every ounce of punishment he’s ever secretly wanted to take out on his swottiest student. And he is more than happy to force his repressed apprentice along for the ride.

What begins as a Ministry assignment spirals into something far darker: a tangle of power, obsession, and control—where consent is the first casualty.

Notes:

Note: This work contains explicit non-consensual elements. Non-consent is a very common fantasy, but it remains fantasy. Fictional scenarios are not endorsements of real-life behaviour, and what happens on the page should never be acted out without informed, enthusiastic consent from all parties.

Please read responsibly, protect your boundaries, and remember that fantasy ≠ reality.

Chapter 1: The Department of Mysteries

The Department of Mysteries

Hermione

The Department of Mysteries never pretended to be welcoming. Its corridors were long, sterile things, all polished stone and humming wards, each door unmarked and impenetrable unless you belonged there. Most of Hermione’s colleagues seemed to thrive in the little social circles of their specialist divisions. She, however, had chosen a post where she worked with almost no one, preferring the quiet that let her focus without interruption. No cheerful knock-ins. No office gossip. No one asking her to “pop out for lunch.”

Hermione Granger was a Fixer—a rare type of Unspeakable whose job was, essentially, everything. When a problem proved too complex, too volatile, or simply too strange for any of the specialist rooms to handle alone, it went to the Fixers. They were the department’s problem-solvers, generalists with razor-sharp minds, parachuted into whatever crisis needed them most. At present, there were only a handful in the entire Ministry.

That morning, her desk was buried in reports from various D.O.M. divisions, and the only tolerable colleague she had was coughing himself half to death across from her.

“You sound like a dying hippogriff,” she said without looking up.

Theo Nott gave a wheezy laugh that turned into another fit of hacking. His dark hair stuck up in sweaty clumps, and his normally lazy grin looked pale around the edges. “That’s because I’ve got the hippogriff flu. Tragic, really. Ministry ought to send me home on hazard pay.”

Hermione flicked her wand, setting a self-inking quill to take over her notes. “Then go. Before you infect half the department.”

“Can’t.” He shoved a folder across the table toward her with exaggerated care. “Because this landed in our lap last night, and apparently the higher-ups think it’s urgent.”

She eyed the folder. It was thick, stamped with a bright red URGENT, and radiated the sort of bureaucratic dread that meant more long nights in the lab.

“What is it?” she asked.

Theo coughed into his sleeve and smirked. “Black-market love potion. Street name: Lust Potion Number Nine. Maybe you’ve read about it in the Prophet—witches and Muggle women losing control at nightclubs, each instance ending in full-blown assaults. Dozens of confirmed cases in the last three months alone. They’re calling it an epidemic.”

Hermione opened the folder. Statements from Healers, blurred photographs of glass phials recovered from raids, notes scrawled in shorthand about victims brought into St Mungo’s. Her stomach tightened as she read.

“All women,” she said quietly.

“Every report,” Theo agreed. “It only works if it’s drunk. Firewhisky spiked at a pub, doctored cocktails, even a Butterbeer shipment to Hogsmeade last week. Women drink it, they go mindless. Insatiable. That’s the ceiling.”

“And no blokes,” she pressed.

Theo gave a careless shrug that looked more like exhaustion. “None reported. Which isn’t to say it couldn’t happen, but… you know how these cases go. Victims are mostly women. Same pattern here.”

Hermione closed the file, her jaw set. “So the Ministry assumes ingestion is the only pathway, because skin contact hasn’t been tested. That’s not the same as proof.”

“Tell that to the Director,” Theo said, leaning back in his chair. “The Love Division—the so-called Love Room—has been working with the best potioneer in Britain for weeks now. He’s just had a breakthrough, and someone needs to go confirm the recipe and collect samples.”

“Why us though? Why not the Love Room Unspeakables?” Hermione’s brow furrowed as she continued to glance through the file.

“The wimps were confident enough corresponding with him by owl, but none of them have the spine to go in person apparently. Which means someone else has to go to Spinner’s End and make sure the bat’s so-called antidote actually works.”

Her head snapped up. “Snape?”

Theo grinned, weak but wicked. “World-famous potioneer, Order of Merlin, and, depending on who you ask, either a hero or the greasy git who made at least two generations of the wizarding world’s school years hell. Apparently, he’s been brewing in seclusion for a decade and producing almost all the major potion breakthroughs in recent memory—new burn salves, a Wolfsbane Stabiliser, even a Blood-Replenishing Draught that St Mungo’s swears by.” He coughed again, winced, and added, “And I was supposed to be the liaison.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am, but unfortunately, I’m also contagious. So unless you’d like me to sneeze all over his precious vials, the job’s yours.”

She opened the folder again, skimming the details, willing her pulse to settle. The reports were clear: the potion was spreading faster than the Ministry could contain, and every day without a cure meant more victims.

“Snape won’t want me there,” she said at last.

Theo’s smile turned sly. “Then think of it as calling in a marker. You did save his life at the Battle of Hogwarts, didn’t you? A bezoar and some battlefield spellwork? He owes you.”

Hermione snapped the folder shut. “Well, fuck me then I guess, Nott.”

Theo’s eyes twinkled with his personal brand of mischief. “Oh, darling—if only I had the stamina to give it to you the way you deserve.” He coughed again, half a laugh, half a wheeze. “You’ll thank me later, Granger. Think of all the fun you’ll have sparring with him again. Just like old times.”

Hermione ignored him and headed for her office to gather her notes. Old times had nearly broken her more than once. And she had the sinking feeling that walking into Severus Snape’s house might prove no different.

Chapter 2: Spinner's End

Spinner’s End

Hermione

She Apparated to the edge of a narrow lane that ran along a sluggish river. Across the water, abandoned mill buildings crumbled against grey sky. The houses were cramped terraces with rusted railings and postage-stamp gardens that had given up pretending. It was exactly the sort of place Severus Snape would choose—unwelcoming, functional, and utterly without charm.

Hermione Granger was not a coward, per say...but she had not gone with her initial plan of informing Snape of the change of houseguest. Telling herself it was for the best, she checked the address against her file and started down the street. March wind cut through her cloak, but she left the warming charms alone. The cold kept her focused.

The wards announced themselves halfway down the street—a subtle pressure that grew more insistent with each step. By the time she reached the house itself, the air felt thick as treacle. The protections weren't just testing her identity; they were cataloguing her intent, her breathing pattern, even her emotional state. She'd seen Gringotts vaults with less security.

"Paranoid bastard," she muttered, though she couldn't help but be impressed.

She tapped the iron gate with her wand and signed her magical signature. The wards pressed back with intelligent resistance before yielding grudgingly. The latch clicked. The gate opened just wide enough to slip through sideways.

The front garden was hard-packed dirt and dead weeds. The path was cracked concrete leading to a brown door with peeling paint. Another ward stretched across the frame—faster, meaner than the first. The house didn't say welcome. It very clearly said go away.

She approved. After the war, everyone had wanted a piece of her—quotes, photos, favours, conversations she hadn't agreed to have. She'd learnt to build walls the way she'd learnt shield work: by necessity. Privacy wasn't rudeness; it was peace of mind.

Hermione tapped the doorframe and felt the ward array test her again before rolling back with obvious reluctance. The lock turned. The door opened.

Severus Snape filled the threshold.

For half a second, muscle memory tried to drag her back to cold classrooms and cutting remarks. She let it pass. She wasn't a trembling sixteen-year-old anymore.

He'd changed in surprising ways, and stayed familiar in others. The lank hair was neatly cut, showing threads of silver at the temples that only enhanced the sharp angles of his face. The sallow complexion was gone, replaced by the pallor of someone who simply didn't see much sun. He wasn't gaunt—there was wiry strength in his shoulders, visible through the rolled sleeves of a black shirt. At fifty-one, he was barely into middle age by wizarding standards, and it showed. The stress lines that had carved deep grooves during the war years had softened, and his face had filled into something striking—not conventionally handsome, but undeniably compelling—leaving him looking like a man in his prime.

The eyes were the same: dark, hard, watchful.

"Ms. Granger," he said, and the sound of his voice hit her like a physical thing—dark velvet wrapped around hardened steel, precise and low, causing a small shiver to work its way up her spine. It was exactly as she remembered, and somehow worse because it did things to her at thirty-one that she'd never felt as a child during lectures. It made something low tighten.

"I was not expecting... you."

"No," she said evenly, fighting to sound unbothered. "I imagine you weren't, Severus."

Something flickered around his mouth that might have been surprise at her use of his given name. She didn't give him time to process it.

"Nott is ill. The D.O.M. isn't interested in delays. I'm here to verify your notes, witness final brewing, and collect samples for the Love Room."

He studied her the way he used to watch cauldrons during critical stages—checking for the flaw that would ruin everything. It was a look that used to make her defensive. Now it made her squirm for a different reason.

"Come in," he said finally. "And close the door."

He turned and swept away from her down the narrow hallway, leaving her to follow. She stepped inside, and the wards settled with a thrum behind her as she took the opportunity to investigate her surroundings. Books lined the walls two deep, arranged by some internal logic. Dust clung to the baseboards but not the shelves. The air smelled of old parchment and scrubbed potion smoke—clean alcohols and something mineral. Nothing overtly dangerous.

To her right, a sitting room opened off the hall. Two armchairs faced a fireplace, and a low table sat scarred with ring marks from years of the same mug in the same spot. No photographs. No flowers. No effort to make anyone comfortable. It wasn't hostile, just indifferent.

"This way, Ms. Granger," he said from farther down the corridor.

The corridor led to a door with serious warding. The protections would recognise Snape's magical signature. Everyone else could expect a very unpleasant surprise.

Snape pressed his palm to the wood. The wards disengaged with a subtle shift in the air. He opened the door and stepped aside.

The lab was a long room arranged without any concession to aesthetics. Dark wood benches, polished by use and scarred by the same. Glassware hung in careful nests, not a chip among them. Mortars and pestles nested by size next to brass scales that gleamed like they were buffed nightly. Along one wall, a massive ingredients armoire stretched from floor to ceiling. Shelves carried labelled jars in the small, neat hand she recognised from potion margins she'd both admired and resented as a student.

Three cauldron stations sat beneath stasis charms that hummed just below hearing. The fourth one on the end was set within a complex ward, with a rune pattern she didn't recognise but could read—heat stabilisation, temperature regulation, automated stirring controls. Thoughtful work. Effective.

On the far wall, a slate showed process notes with times, temperatures, and lunar calculations. In red, corrections to a filed method she'd seen the Love Room reference with reluctant respect.

Hermione set her satchel down and pulled out the clipboard with pre-printed forms. Preparation was everything.

"Quick walk-through of events," she said, pulling on field gloves and twisting her thick curls into a high knot. She secured them with her wand, the polished wood sliding through easily. A few rebellious strands escaped to frame her face. "I witness final decanting, collect samples and notes in duplicate, run baseline diagnostics here. Live testing happens in Department containment."

"Good," he said. "Do try to keep your questions to a minimum."

"Dare I take this moment to remind you I am not your student anymore, Severus."

That earned the smallest shift in his posture—surprise, or maybe acknowledgement of her repartee.

He moved to a warded cabinet and removed a case. The one a florescent pink with flecks of mother of pearl and opals dancing amongst the swirling liquid. The other a deep forest green that looked, to borrow a Muggle term, carbonated.

"Please use Department glassware," she said, setting out three crystal bowls etched with official seals. "Chain of custody."

"You doubt mine," he said without heat.

"I doubt everyone's. You'll pour, I'll record. If either of us doesn't like something, we say so now."

He glanced at the bowls, at their careful placement. "Acceptable."

She positioned the first bowl. "Antidote first. Then a small quantity of LP-9 for inert diagnostics only."

He slipped on dragonhide gloves and waved imperiously for her to begin.

"Run me through your initial assessments of LP-9," she said before he could start. "Not from your letter. Your actual thoughts please."

He didn't sigh, but his eyebrow suggested he wanted to. "Whoever created this abomination has a thorough understanding of neurochemistry and absolutely no moral compass. The base is standard love potion theory—amplified libido, lowered inhibitions. But they've added something that targets the prefrontal cortex directly. Removes not just judgement, but the ability to refuse. It is essentially creating a compulsory desire to become nothing more than your basest sexual instincts."

He paused, studying the pink vial with obvious distaste. "The brewing is actually elegant, which makes it all the more disturbing. Quite a bit of trial and error went into creating this."

He set the LP-9 aside and reached for the deep green vial containing his antidote. "I call it Chasteté," he said simply.

Hermione lifted a corner of her mouth in acknowledgement of his flair for the dramatic in the naming of his creation. French for Chastity. Fitting.

Working with precision that would satisfy any Healer, the antidote decanted smoothly into the first bowl, its carbonated effervescence settling into steady surface activity. Her diagnostic lattice glowed blue, then sank. Stable. Clean.

He handed her a dragonhide glove and once she had it on passed her the vial of LP-9 for her inspection. Upon closer inspection she could see flecks of mother of pearl and opals dancing amongst the swirling pink liquid. She handed it back to him and he carefully decanted a measured portion into the second bowl. The potion rolled in smoothly, settling with deceptive sparkling beauty.

She ran her diagnostics and frowned at the readings. The lattice flickered between amber and red—multiple active compounds, volatile binding agents, something that made her detection spells recoil. This wasn't a simple potion; it truly was as masterful as Snape had suggested. She logged the results with careful notes about the compound instability and added her magical toxicity warnings.

"Now for the moment of truth," he said wryly, positioning the third bowl. He decanted a small measure of LP-9 into it, the pink liquid settling with its deceptive shimmer. Then, with deliberate precision, he added three drops of Chasteté.

The reaction was immediate and dramatic. The pink potion hissed and writhed, its pearlescent flecks dissolving as the green antidote spread through it like ink in water. The liquid turned muddy brown, then clear, then finally settled into perfectly still, colourless water. The magical signature went completely inert.

"Neutralised," Hermione breathed, running a quick diagnostic over the bowl. The lattice glowed steady blue—no toxicity, no active compounds, nothing but harmless base potion solution. "Complete molecular breakdown. That's... incredibly impressive work, Severus."

She turned her head back down to scribble something on her pad and missed the flash of satisfaction in his eyes at her words.

"Excellent," she said, vanishing her clipboard and notes back into her bag and windlessly sealing the sample bowls. "That covers what I need. I'll get these ready for transport."

He nodded, beginning to clear the bench. First the antidote vial, properly stoppered and returned to its case. Then he reached for the LP-9.

Hermione's hair chose that moment to rebel. The knot was sliding—she could feel her wand shifting. She reached up to secure it, but too late. Her wand slipped free and her thick curls tumbled down in a cascade of unruly waves. The wand clattered against the stone floor and rolled, of course, directly under the massive ingredients cabinet.

"Bollocks," she said, dropping to her hands and knees. "Just give me a second."

The armoire was built for storage, not access—its heavy base sat nearly flush with the floor. She had to lie flat and squeeze her arm into the narrow gap, shoulder pressed against the cold stone as she stretched for her wand. It had rolled deep under the cabinet, forcing her to push farther in, her hips lifting as she tried to reach it.

Lost in her task, she hadn’t noticed that her skirt had ridden up past professional levels, but she was nearly done. She stretched farther, fingertips finally brushing the polished wood of her wand handle.

Behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a deep groan.

"Fuck."

Hermione twisted her head, arm still under the armoire. From this angle, she could just see his hand held out in front of his face for his inspection—bare now, gloves discarded—gripping the LP-9 vial. A single bead of pink potion clung to his thumb resting on the rim.

"Severus—"

"Don't." His voice was already rougher. "Don't move."

Chapter 3: The Accident

The Accident

Severus

Severus had been expecting Theodore Nott. The young man was punctual, professionally minded, and possessed the rare quality of asking intelligent questions without feeling compelled to demonstrate their cleverness every thirty seconds. A pleasant change from most Ministry officials, who seemed to believe that volume and frequency of inquiry correlated directly with competence.

He was not expecting Hermione Granger.

The wards had announced a familiar magical signature—one that made him pause in his morning review of brewing notes. He'd felt that particular resonance before, years ago, when she'd been nothing more than an insufferable know-it-all with bushy hair and an addiction to raising her hand. The signature was stronger now, more controlled, layered with the kind of defensive complexity that spoke to both power and hard-won experience.

When he opened the door and found her standing on his threshold, his first coherent thought was that the thirteen years since the Battle had been remarkably kind to Hermione Granger.

His second was that this was going to complicate his carefully ordered day considerably.

She'd grown into herself in ways that were both striking and unsettling. The wild hair was still quite large and seemingly sentient—but instead of a frizzy mess it was a riot of perfectly defined ringlets. Her gangly frame had filled out into something that made his mouth go dry despite his better judgment. There was confidence in the way she stood, authority in the set of her shoulders. This wasn't the eager student who'd haunted his classroom with desperate need for approval. This was a woman who knew exactly what she was worth.

It was a profoundly inconvenient discovery, this attraction to someone twenty years his junior.

"Ms. Granger," he managed, pleased that his voice emerged steady. "I was not expecting... you."

Her response—calm, professional, laced with just enough challenge to remind him that she wasn't intimidated by him anymore—confirmed what the visual assessment had already suggested. Hermione Granger had become dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with her wandwork.

When she used his given name, something shifted in his chest. Not many people had that privilege. Fewer still wielded it with such casual authority, as if reminding him that whatever power dynamic had existed between them before was now null and void.

She explained Nott's absence with typical efficiency, outlining her purpose with the kind of crisp professionalism that spoke to extensive training. A Fixer, then. He should have known. The Department of Mysteries didn't send just anyone to handle experimental potions, and they certainly didn't send anyone incompetent to assess his work.

Still, having her here felt like inviting an element of chaos into his carefully controlled environment.

He led her through the house, acutely aware of her taking inventory of his surroundings. Let her look. The place was exactly what it appeared to be—functional, private, designed to discourage visitors. He'd spent ten years building a quiet life that required no one else's input or approval, and he wasn't about to apologise for it.

The lab, at least, would speak for itself. He'd designed every inch of it with purpose, from the ward configurations to the impressive quantity of rare and powerful ingredients. If she was half the professional she appeared to be, she'd recognise quality when she saw it.

Her reaction didn't disappoint. She moved through the space with the kind of awareness that came from understanding dangerous environments, cataloguing protections and protocols without asking unnecessary questions. When she commented on the rune work, her assessment was both accurate and respectful.

For the first time since opening his door, Severus felt something approaching satisfaction.

The formal procedures began smoothly enough. She was thorough without being obsessive, professional without being cold. When she pulled her hair up and secured it with her wand—a practical solution, if unorthodox—he found himself momentarily distracted by the elegant line of her neck.

He forced his attention back to the task at hand.

Her questions about LP-9 were intelligent, cutting straight to the heart of what made the potion so dangerous. When he explained the neurochemical implications, he watched her face for the reaction he'd gotten in correspondences from other Ministry officials—the slight withdrawal that came from realising they were dealing with something genuinely horrific.

Instead, she leaned forward slightly, engaged rather than repelled. It was the reaction of someone who understood that knowledge, however disturbing, was the first step toward solutions.

"Whoever created this abomination has a thorough understanding of neurochemistry and absolutely no moral compass," he said, letting his disgust show. "The base is standard love potion theory—amplified libido, lowered inhibitions. But they've added something that targets the prefrontal cortex directly. Removes not just judgement, but the ability to refuse. It is essentially creating a compulsory desire to become nothing more than your basest sexual instincts."

Her expression remained clinical, focused. No shock, no moral posturing. Just professional assessment of the problem at hand.

"The brewing is actually elegant," he continued, studying the pink vial with distaste. "Which makes it all the more disturbing. Quite a bit of trial and error went into creating this."

He set the LP-9 aside and reached for his antidote, feeling the familiar surge of pride that came with discussing his work. "I call it Chasteté."

The corner of her mouth lifted in what might have been approval, and something warm unfurled in his chest at the sight. When had her opinion begun to matter to him?

The demonstration proceeded flawlessly. His hands moved with the precision that came from decades of practice, and he was acutely aware of her attention tracking every movement. She asked for clarification on his techniques without questioning his methods—the mark of someone who understood the difference between learning and challenging.

When he handed her the dragonhide glove and she examined the LP-9 herself, he noticed the careful way she held the vial, the respect in her handling of something so dangerous. Professional competence was an attractive quality in anyone. In Hermione Granger, it was particularly... distracting.

Her diagnostic results confirmed what he already knew—LP-9 was a masterwork of malicious intent. The way her detection spells recoiled from the compound spoke to magical toxicity levels that would have sent lesser witches running for the exits.

The final neutralisation test was the moment he'd been working toward for weeks. Three drops of Chasteté into the LP-9 sample, and the reaction was everything he'd known it would be—immediate, dramatic, complete. The pink potion writhed and died, its magical signature guttering out like a snuffed candle.

"Neutralised," she breathed, and the wonder in her voice made something in his chest tighten with satisfaction. "Complete molecular breakdown. That's... incredibly impressive work, Severus."

He felt a flush of pride at her words, the kind of professional validation he'd been missing more than he cared to admit. When she bent her head to make notes, he allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The work was good. She knew it.

That mattered more than it should have.

She finished her documentation with efficient movements, sealing the samples with Department a wandless charm that would ensure their integrity during transport. "That covers what I need," she said, gathering her materials. "I'll get these ready for transport."

The formal business was concluded. In a few minutes, she'd be gone, and his laboratory would return to its usual quiet while his apprentice was out on his errands. The thought should have been comforting.

Instead, he found himself oddly reluctant to see her leave.

He began the cleanup routine automatically—antidote vial properly stoppered and returned to its case, workspace cleared and organised. Muscle memory guided his movements while his mind wandered to the way she'd smiled when his antidote worked, the professional competence she'd displayed, the disconcerting realisation that he'd enjoyed having someone in his laboratory who could appreciate the subtleties of his work.

As he was concluding their business, Hermione's carefully pinned hair chose to stage its rebellion.

The sound of her wand clattering to the floor drew his attention. When he looked up, she was dropping to her hands and knees, then sliding under the ingredients cabinet in a way that made his mouth go dry and his brain empty of everything except the elegant curve of her spine and the way her skirt rode up to reveal the most spectacular arse he'd seen in years.

He reached for the LP-9 vial, his attention split between the task and his wandering thoughts. The gloves felt cumbersome suddenly, and he stripped them off without thinking, setting them aside as he lifted the pink vial.

Thirty-one years old, his mind supplied helpfully. A former student. A young girl who'd saved his life and grown into a mature woman. Formidable and fascinating and entirely inappropriate for him to be staring at.

The thoughts should have been enough to snap his attention back to the task at hand. Instead, he found himself frozen, watching the play of rounded flesh beneath fabric as she stretched farther under the cabinet, her position becoming increasingly compromising as she reached for her wand. Just a bit more and he’d be able to see the forbidden valley between her thighs.

He was fifty-one years old. He was a master of his craft, a man of considerable self-control, someone who'd learnt long ago to compartmentalise desire and maintain professional boundaries. He should have looked away, focused on his work, given her the privacy to retrieve her wand without an audience.

He didn't.

The pink vial tilted in his suddenly nerveless fingers. A single drop of LP-9, perfectly formed and deceptively beautiful, welled up on the rim and transferred to his thumb before he realised what was happening.

The sensation was immediate—a tingling warmth that spread from the point of contact up his arm and into his bloodstream. He had a moment of perfect clarity in which he understood exactly what he'd accidentally done and what was about to happen.

He inhaled sharply and let out a groan that came from a deep and dark place inside his soul.

"Fuck," he said, the word torn from his throat as the first wave of the potion's effects hit his nervous system.

The tingling became heat. The heat became fire. And the fire was spreading through his veins with the inexorable efficiency of a well-brewed poison, targeting every nerve pathway between his brain and his groin with surgical precision.

He had theorised that touch instead of ingestion would produce an entirely different reaction, and he seemed to be correct. While his carefully maintained self-control was dissolving like sugar in water, he did not feel totally mindless or detached from the situation. Instead, it was as if he had no reservations, no hesitation, no goal but to become his truest sexual self. And that part of him was a well-guarded secret—not so much as a rumour had ever rippled through the collective consciousness of those who knew him.

She was still under the cabinet, vulnerable and unaware, her skirt riding high enough to reveal the pale curve of the bottom of her cheeks now and the edge of lace that made his newly compromised brain conjure images that were both vivid and hungry.

"Don't," he managed, his voice already rougher as the potion rewrote his control in real time. "Don't move."

It was the last truly coherent warning he would be able to give her.

The potion surged through his system like wildfire, burning away inhibitions and moral restraints with ruthless efficiency. His vision sharpened, his pulse accelerated, and every instinct that civilised behaviour had taught him to suppress roared to life with terrifying intensity.

He remembered her signature scent from the doorstep and wanted to get close enough again to take a deep whiff—jasmine and parchment and something uniquely her that made his newly altered brain want to catalogue her as prey, as target, as something to be claimed and taken and used until the compulsion burning through his veins was satisfied.

She was still reaching for her wand, still unaware of the danger, still trusting that the man she'd known almost half her life was capable of maintaining control.

That man was disappearing by degrees, replaced by something that understood only hunger and the driving need to possess what was displayed so temptingly before him.

Severus Snape, potioneer and professional spy, renowned for his ultimate control over his thoughts and actions, fought desperately to maintain enough awareness to warn her, to tell her to run, to do something—anything—that might save them both from what was about to happen.

But the creature that was rapidly taking his place had no interest in warnings or salvation.

It was interested only in the curve of her hip and the promise of soft skin beneath that rucked-up skirt, and it was growing stronger with every heartbeat that carried more of the potion through his bloodstream.

He had seconds, maybe less, before his transformation would be complete.

And Hermione Granger was still on her hands and knees in front of him, utterly defenceless and completely unaware that the man she'd trusted was about to become her worst nightmare.

Notes:

Unhinged Severus Snape is going to ruin me... I just know it. <3

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Lust Potion #9