It was not, however, the only reason he was deliberately killing more brain cells than any wizard had a right to at one sitting. The mantra that was currently circulating persistently through his mind was: Why in bloody hell did I do that? And the "that" referred to the totally pointless and disarmingly pleasant snog -- yes, snog, he grimly characterised it -- with the Hunter woman, less than two hours ago in the Quad.
There had been a reason, actually -- not a good one, but there. Bloody Hooch had had her nose pressed against her window, avidly watching him and Hunter, undoubtedly longing for gossip to trade in the staff room. And Snape had given in to his occasional desire for mischief -- particularly when an obnoxious busybody like Hooch was concerned -- and kissed the damned woman. Quite thoroughly, and, to his surprise, to her evident pleasure. (Not to mention his. He'd been quite uncomfortable until the cognac had deflated his rather adolescent reaction to embracing her.)
It was to be expected, he supposed. While he preferred to give the impression that he abstained -- that he was cold and untouchable sexually, as well as temperamentally -- the truth was quite the opposite. Without the unrestrained release of the more pleasureable Death Eater activities, he'd found it necessary to patronise a discreet woman near Hogsmeade. Or at least he had until a few years ago, when it became obvious that Voldemort had returned and that the Death Eaters would resume their activities. He'd stopped his excursions then -- partly because of time constraints, and partly to protect the woman from any retribution or interest on the part of the Death Eaters (she may have been a whore, but he didn't wish her ill). And he'd found as well -- with no little consternation -- that his libido had deserted him. He was able to function well enough to participate in Malfoy's sick little games (and that well enough stung, to a man who'd always prided himself on prowess and stamina), but he'd had no desire to relieve himself for his own sake.
So it was very disconcerting to find himself suppressing the urge to wank like a hormonally-overcharged Fifth Year over a woman he hadn't thought of in sexual terms, and didn't even particularly like. Respect, yes -- he was willing to concede that, he had begun to respect her last year, after watching her deal with her nephew and Malfoy -- but he most certainly didn't like her.
Don't be a fucking idiot -- it's simple biology. She's a female, that's all there is to it. And not a particularly attractive one either... well, she's not a Mountain Troll, certainly, but you've aspired to far better. You've had far better.
She was particularly unattractive now, with those ridiculous Muggle clothes hanging off her frame from weight loss, and her hair lifeless from inattention -- that rather mirrored her state of mind at the moment, he thought -- and even her eyes, which he would venture to say were her best feature, now that he thought of it, tense and dull. Thank the gods she wasn't a weeper, or had the decency to do so in private -- at least after that first time he'd seen her last term, in the infirmary. He hated weepy females. Though he had to admit she had a perfectly acceptable excuse. Albus had said she'd been close to a nervous breakdown, but she'd managed to keep her composure, for the most part.
"Nothing at all wrong with her breasts, though," the mischief-maker in his brain interjected. "Those felt rather glorious, with her pliant and submissive in your arms --"
He tried to interrupt the sniggering voice in his head by mentally reciting the ingredients for the Wolfsbane Potion, and stumbled badly when he got to 5 oz. shrivelfig, crushed, to suppress the libido and procreative urges of the beast; also used in treatment of true clinical Priapism and to counteract improperly-directed Engorgement charms --
He slopped another measure of cognac into his glass and switched to listing ingredients for the Draught of Living Death (which was pointless, really, because he could brew that in his sleep -- it hardly required any concentration at all).
"She didn't have to put her arms around you, you know. Granted, she's fairly good at dissembling, but she was more than a bit enthusiastic -- and gods, she smelled wonderful --"
He savagely interrupted the thought by hurling the glass across the room, where it shattered against the door. He hadn't done that in a long time: it felt rather satisfying, actually. Even if it had wasted a good measure of a fine Courvoisier.
Distraction wasn't going to work, so he Summoned another glass and decided to reason his way through this and beat the randy interloper in his head into submission. Into shutting up, rather. Submission raised some unbidden and intensely interesting images.
Point One: you have been living like a monk for nearly four years, and she is the first moderately attractive female you've had congress -- you've had contact -- with, on a regular basis. It's a simple matter of propinquity.
"And your point is...?" The Voice jeered in return.
-- and the point is, were I finding release elsewhere, I shouldn't be in the least interested in her sexually.
"Debatable, but I'll concede it would make you more resistant. Proceed."
Point Two: while she is intelligent enough, I find her argumentative and naive, not to mention disobedient --
"You mean she doesn't let you push her around. Since when do you feel threatened by a woman's assertiveness? And where would you be if she hadn't disobeyed you last month? Dead from blood loss and shock, perhaps? You have to admit she kept her head."
I grant you that -- but that doesn't mean I have to like it. Or her.
"Idiot. She wounded your pride, that's all. We'll call that one a stalemate, then. Go ahead."
Point Three: she is...
"Yes?"
... Do shut up, I'm thinking. Point Three: she couldn't possibly have the slightest interest in me; I've given her no reason.
"That's her problem, not yours -- you can't speculate on her feelings. And if tonight was anything to judge by, you're wrong. Invalid argument. Try again."
Point Three: she's... she's Muggle.
There was a long mental silence while Snape's inner devil processed the implication of that.
"Meaning?"
Meaning, she has no reason to stay here -- not without her nephew. She as much as admitted she only came back because of her contract. She'll probably be on her way at the end of next term.
"Are you quite certain," the Voice said carefully, "that that isn't simply the old excuse? The old muck, dredged up all over again? I thought you were over that."
Snape took a long draught of cognac and searched his soul -- for he did have one, contrary to everyone's belief, including his own -- and finally, truthfully admitted,
No. It's not that. I no longer believe they are inferior; merely different.
"Very well. We'll ignore the poor choice of word, then, and concentrate on the reason itself. Rebuttal to Point Three, Part A: just this evening you got her to admit that she stayed for the students, not her contract. For her wizarding students, by-the-by, so don't try to muddy this by saying she shouldn't be involved in Wizarding affairs; she already is, of her own choice. And Part B, you can't predict whether she'll chose to stay or not -- again, that is her problem and decision. Point Three is therefore conclusively invalidated."
Fine. Point Three: I have no business becoming involved with anyone. It's far too dangerous, for her and me.
The Voice mulled this one over for a while.
"There is some truth to this," it finally conceded. "But have you considered that you have used that excuse for nearly twenty years? It's been quite convenient."
But true and valid, Snape thought grimly, hearing the first faint, victorious trumpet sound in the battle of the debate.
"Don't mistake valid for wise. Dumbledore would be the first to tell you that while a given course may be a valid option -- may even seem the safest -- it isn't necessarily the wisest."
What in bloody hell is that supposed to mean?
"It means, you blithering saphead, that you are ignoring the root cause of this. You're treating the symptom, not the disease. You have assumed that your lust is due to purely physiological reasons, and totally ignored that it might be due to desire. Emotional desire, to be precise. It's never wise to ignore that, no matter how hard you try to deny it."
Snape was, frankly, speechless, and the Voice took advantage of it.
"Don't try to put me off with that rot about not liking her; you're forgetting to whom you're speaking. You do like as well as respect her. You're intrigued with the way her mind works, with the way she deals with difficulties -- Merlin's balls, man, you like it when she argues with you: no easy victories there, they're earned."
That's a far cry from --
"From what? From taking her as your lover? Stop sneering, I'll concede you may use the word as a noun for the time being, without emotional connotation. Don't you wonder about all the passion that reticence and control is hiding? What it might be like to have it focussed solely on you? Gods know she has it in abundance -- you saw it with the boy, how she protected him and fought for him -- Sweet Merlin, she was ready to scratch out McGonagall's eyes, at one point --"
The victory was fast slipping away, and Snape grasped desperately for an argument to regain ground.
I have never wanted that. From anyone. And passion only on an hourly basis, for cash.
"Liar." The Voice had him in a chokehold, and knew it. "You realised it wouldn't have worked before, that's all -- because it wasn't her. It wasn't worth it before, not for anyone who didn't appeal to you in as many ways as this woman does. And now here she is in reach, for the taking if she'll have you, and you'd rather sit here and pity yourself than risk it."
Severus Snape was quite adept at self-preservation, and a firm believer in the adage that discretion is the better part of valour. He'd tried both to reason logically with the bloody voice, and to ignore it; and as neither tactic was successful and Dreamless Sleep shouldn't be taken on top of three-quarters of a bottle of cognac, he took the only other option available. He deliberately swallowed the remaining cognac in his glass, poured the rest of the bottle into it, and downed it too, making no attempt to savour it. He then staggered into his bedchamber, barely managed to strip off his clothes, and crawled, naked, into the bed and slipped into a drunken stupor.
The alcohol had suppressed the nightmares, that was true enough. But he still dreamed that night -- with a particularly Dionysian, sensual element: of his lips brushing along the column of a fragrant, supple neck, and against a soft mouth that parted and welcomed his; of his hands exploring curves and angles with which he was only vaguely and recently acquainted, his nerve-ends tingling with the imagined texture of skin as yet untouched in reality; of his deft fingers dipping into hollows and more secret, intimate places made moist by desire -- for him. That seemed to be the most important point, above and beyond the actual pleasure: his dream-partner not only desired, she desired him.
For the first time in twenty years Snape's subconscious welcomed the arms of Morpheus, and hoped (for the right reason) that he wouldn't wake.
An entire bottle of cognac had not, perhaps, been the best idea. He had all the classic symptoms, and then some: it was a wonder he hadn't spewed in his sleep.
But at least it had finally shut up the annoying voice in his head.
Snape gingerly stretched, and wondered if he'd had the sense to leave out some willow bark, at least -- it would take the edge off without curing the hangover totally. He didn't fancy keeling over in the middle of whatever was going to happen today. He took a few deep breaths to steady his stomach, and then carefully rolled onto his side toward the edge of the mattress --
-- and froze when he hit a suspiciously damp spot. Damp and sticky, and smelling distinctly, to his far too sensitive nose, of the many mornings in the Slytherin boys' dorm when he was by no means the only student afflicted with this particular incontinence.
Bloody fucking hell.
Forty years old, and he was having nocturnal emissions. Rutting away at the mattress just as any number of his dunderhead charges had undoubtedly done this morning, and with rather less excuse. He was a mature male, damn it: he was supposed to have more control than this. The usual morning stiffness was one thing, but this? And all because --
Vivid details of the dream came back to him; he winced at the thought, and groaned, and buried his aching head in his hands.
Because... of her. Or rather, of a dream of her -- well, not of her, even, he thought muzzily -- he didn't even have that benefit -- but just from imagining. Exactly as most of the incompetent, inexperienced and randy little wankers in all the male dorms, never mind Slytherin alone.
He didn't deny that he had enjoyed the dream; he wasn't enough of an ascetic to pull out scourge and hair shirt and flail himself into penitence. It was rather heartening, in a way: that his body, which had for the last few years only responded fully to extreme duress, would suddenly... develop an uncoerced interest.
That thought, and the lingering memories of the dream and her in the dream, prompted his cock to swell and stir traitorously against his leg, and he glared at it.
Not now. I have an appointment with Voldemort in two hours.
That took care of that problem nicely. Instant deflation. He'd have to remember that tactic for future reference.
He took in several deep breaths to centre his thoughts and formulate a plan. He obviously needed some kind of plan to get through the day.
Step One: bathe.
Step Two: get through whatever idiocy Voldemort and Malfoy have planned, preferably alive and intact.
Step Three: think about the woman later. Much later.
After all, the problem might go away by then. With any luck this was only an aberration, and he could tell the bloody voice in his head to sod off once and for all.
Snape awkwardly got to his feet and stumbled into the bath, intent on expunging all the evidence from both body and mind.