Food P0rn Quiz
Food ! Porn
We love food! We love romance! We love smut!
So naturally when any or all of the above show up in the same story, we are very happy campers. There are no red herring titles in the quiz today. We don't play with our food.
Thanks to a_bees_buzz and tudorpot for this wonderful suggestion and to bluestocking79 for choosing it.
The first fangirl who posts a perfect score will get to choose the next quiz. Stop drooling and get to work!
Match the quote to the story title:
Sex and Sustenance by ubiquirk
One Perfect Valentine by dickgloucester
Third's the Charm by duniazade
Becoming by snarkypants (WIP)
In Budapest by bloodcult_of_freud a/k/a bloodcult
A Pinch of This, A Dash of That by iamstarmom
Teacher, Teacher by mmyrtle
Phantom of Hogwarts by Good Witch aka pern_dragon (WIP)
Hermione Pulls It Off by shiv5468
The List by LeoGryffin
Tidings of Comfort and Joy by stormyskize
The French Connection by bluestocking79
1. It’s a beautiful thing, to coax a smile from him. His smiles always look a trifle stiff, as though he is unused to them; Hermione’s goal is to make them a more regular occurrence.
The main course is as delicious as everything before it: turbot, lightly smoked and saffron-roasted, accompanied by fava beans and clever little chips made of celery root. It is only as Hermione savours the last sip of the divine white wine that accompanies it that she realises the theme of the meal: oysters, caviar, scallops, saffron…
It is a feast of aphrodisiacs, and this meal is nothing less than Severus’ attempt at a grand seduction.
Hermione could have told him that he hardly needed to try so hard, but who is she to argue with his methods when the result is an experience like this? When it comes to personal matters, Severus is far more eloquent with actions than with words.
“Are you pleased?” he asks her. He sounds supremely unconcerned, but she knows him well enough by now to hear the uncertainty beneath the question.
She looks into his eyes, which are warm and worshipful, and allows her smile to speak for her.
By the time they’ve completed the last course-an earthy, roasted truffle paired with a wine that tastes like the love child of red wine and dark chocolate-Hermione feels as though she’s floating, pleasantly sated with good wine and good food, and impressed beyond belief by the man who’s arranged it all for her.
She thinks she might love him, more than just a bit. If she had any doubts about the depth of his feelings for her, they are more than answered by the look in his eyes. Severus Snape does nothing by half-measures, and when he chooses to give his heart, he gives it fully.
Hermione will guard it much better than Lily Evans ever did.
2. Hermione stepped before the table, facing him. The setting sun was behind her, creating a golden aura around her body, her curves made visible beneath the silken fabric of her gown. The goddess spoke.
“The light broth is a parmesan pepper egg-drop soup. And the other is a strawberry ginger soup. As you might have guessed, the first is hot, the second is chilled. Please enjoy them, sir.”
And he did. The competing sensations of savoury and sweet, of hot and cold ricocheted in his mouth, and he found that he was able to not just taste the food, but experience them in a way that triggered memories, feelings. A rollercoaster of a sensory experience that sated only when he put down his spoons and sipped the wine.
Before he could think about what had happened, the soup dishes vanished and a new plate appeared in its place. Freshly made linguine with shavings of precious white truffles and extra virgin olive oil. The verbal description for the dish was unnecessary.
The pasta was cooked to perfection. The truffles made his eyes roll to the back of his head as they practically melted in his mouth. The extraordinary sensations, as before, built up into another heady rush until, as he put his fork down, he felt like bursting into tears.
Hermione watched and waited, not moving, aside from the slow small smile of relief moved across her face. He was as delicious as the food he was eating-no-experiencing.
One after another, the courses appeared, accompanied by a different variety of wine. Each one creating a more potent effect than the one before it: A serving of basil-mint pesto covered halibut, sautéed in rice paper with a citrus sauce; a perfect roast pork tenderloin with an Asian marinade; side dishes of lemongrass and bok choy risotto and a dish of slow-cooked eggplant with onions in olive oil.
“The eggplant dish is a recipe called ‘Iman Bayeldi,’ sir. It means, ‘The Priest Faints.’
Severus knew how the priest felt. He was bewitched. He knew it. No normally prepared food, no matter how brilliant, could create this type of sensory experience. He stood suddenly, his fork clattering on the plate, looking daggers at the woman. Hermione took a few steps back, alarmed.
3. The scent of the Beef Wellington was like nothing she’d ever known. She could identify individual aspects of it - the butter in the pastry, the sweet tenderloin, even the rich goose liver - each bringing a unique note to the perfume of the dish. Underneath all these fragrances, however, was something elemental; an earthy, powerful grace note that appealed to some unevolved part of her. The combination of all these smells was synergistic and compelling. If she’d been a cat, she would have rolled in the dish.
With a start, Hermione realized that the entire meal had passed without a single word between them. While they’d had their share of uncomfortably quiet moments over the past weeks, they’d never gone on for a particularly long time. Tonight was different.
Tonight had been silent but it had never been awkward. The attention that Hermione might have otherwise paid to trying to force a stilted conversation or dealing with her discomfiture had been focused on the food - and it had been nothing less than soul-stirringly exquisite. She’d had no idea that eating could be so … sensual. It was nearly sinful.
By the time he served dessert - a chocolate mousse with a contrasting white crème swirled on top - Hermione was little more than a pulsing bundle of nerves; a tinderbox ready to burst into flame at the slightest spark. The delicate apricot flavored wine, a moscato d’asti, should have cooled her but served only to increase the heat in her veins.
Severus had said nothing all through the meal. No explanation of what she’d been eating, no questions about her guesses as to the ingredients or even queries about the wines he’d selected.
Between his silence, the menu and her long-repressed but now burgeoning desire for him, it was all she could do to sit still.
She finished her mousse, licking the last tiny bit of crème from the corner of her mouth.
If she hadn’t seen it herself, she probably would never have believed it; as her tongue completed its reconnaissance for any bereft chocolate, she watched as Severus’ eyes tracked the path her tongue made over her lips. His pupils widened as she tested her theory and re-licked her upper lip.
Her hair could have burst into snakes with flaming tongues and she doubted he would have noticed, so intent was he on her mouth.
Oh.
Oh my.
The oysters, the claddagh, the wines….. they were all - it was - he -
He was seducing her.
4. "Dobby, I never thanked you for saving me," Hermione said, perched on a stool in the kitchens a few days after the War had ended. She'd had to endure endless rounds of questioning and congratulations and heartfelt thanks, but had caught no more than a fleeting glimpse of Snape. True to his word, he had made it possible for her to graduate early and prepare for N.E.W.T.s full-time, but Dumbledore and McGonagall were tight-lipped on the specifics of her benefactor's whereabouts and his role in her transition from student to graduate.
"'Twas nothing, Miss Hermione. Harry Potter saved Dobby. Miss Hermione is Harry Potter's best friend. And you loves house elves and tries to help us."
"I thank you all the same, Dobby. Can I ask you to do me one more favor, even though I'm in your debt?"
"You has no debts, Miss Hermione. Dobby can never repay Miss Hermione and Harry Potter for all you have done. You is great wizards, you is." Dobby hopped around happily. "What can Dobby do for miss?"
"This pie I'm baking. Can you give it to Professor Snape?"
If Dobby found the request strange, he had learned through years of servitude that a shut mouth invited no flies. "Leave it with Dobby, Miss."
She pulled it out of the oven. "It needs to cool a few more minutes, then please deliver it. If he asks, you can tell him I'm in the prefect's bath."
5. Severus crunched a firm bit of walnut between his teeth and allowed himself a somewhat predatory grin as the nutty flavor provided a nice contrast to the lingering hint of fruit. He pushed forwards into the counter, teasing himself with pressure on cock as his fingers removed the last of the savory flesh from the cracked shells.
Finally, he began on the mayonnaise, careful to add the oil to the spice-laden egg-yolk mixture only one drop at a time before whisking it briskly with his other hand. Such work reminded him of Potions brewing, which in turn made him think of the woman with whom he now worked.
Then there is this woman. This woman - neither trembling virgin nor world-weary socialite. This woman who delights my mind with her quickness. This woman whose beauty lies in energy and spark and the first ripeness of physical form.
Long, careful months he’d been cultivating her attention, flattering her insights, touching her professionally yet purposefully, engaging her intellect - all an effort he hoped would bear fruit today. His cock twitched at the thought.
With a few final turns of the wrist, he mixed in the vinegar that would give the mayonnaise a pleasant tang. He then turned his attention to the final assembly, gathering together the remaining ingredients and combining them methodically. First the firmer items, such as celery, tart-apple slices, and walnuts were tossed with the mayonnaise.
How delightfully firm her breasts and buttocks will be as I stroke and squeeze them.
Then he spiced the salad simply with salt, pepper, the juice of a lemon - enough to accent the flavors of the combined ingredients without overwhelming any of them in their balance.
6. The best table in the room was undisputedly the round one in the right corner, which was reserved for the most honoured patrons. As every afternoon of the week, Lucius Malfoy sat regally in a mahogany armchair, his blond hair fanned against the dark green velvet. At his left, Miss Granger curled on the sofa. At his right, Severus Snape could see both the door to the Apparition Room and the disused door to the Muggle street. Some habits never die.
As every afternoon of the week, a double-tiered plate of éclairs sat between Miss Granger and Mr. Snape. Mr. Malfoy had always preferred croquembouches, which he was assured were a more aristocratic fare.
Now you must understand that Arabella’s specialities were truly wonderful. Her éclairs were small and delicate, about the length of Miss Granger’s fingers and about the girth of Mr. Snape’s. They came in a variety of flavours, and when you had ventured beyond the enticing, sweet, tangy promise of the upper side icing and took your first bite, the marvelous crust offered, like a sleazy virgin, only the barest resistance before letting you dive into the unctuous, perfumed, complacent cream. It was the moment when Miss Granger’s eyes would always close, and when they opened again, they had a slightly lost expression. Snape loved that look on her face, though he wouldn’t have confessed it under the direst torture.
But he also loved his éclairs.
And there was only one of them left on the plate.
A chocolate éclair.
7. The moment Severus entered, his wand was in his hand: even the Hogwarts Diet ™ could not dull the man's reactions.
"Put it away," said Hermione. "There's nothing wrong."
He shut the door, taking in the candle-light, the soft music, and the good fire crackling in the hearth.
"Come here," she said.
Cautiously, he rounded the sofa and beheld the scene she had so meticulously constructed. She smiled, hearing his breath catch.
It was an artful arrangement: pride of place was taken by Hermione herself, reclining on the sofa in nothing but a few scraps of black lace, a book in her hands. On the low table between sofa and fire stood a bottle of the finest St Emilion Grand Cru she had been able to find, opened and breathing, with two glasses. Next to it, on a plain china platter, was the enormous chocolate fudge cake over which she had slaved all day in her mother's kitchen. Two slices were already cut, waiting to be eaten.
Severus licked his lips nervously.
"What…?" he managed to croak.
Hermione rose sinuously from the sofa and took a step towards him.
8. “What are we having for dinner, or is it a surprise?” Hermione asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “We’ll begin with Mousse au Roquefort et Avocat. Next we will have a Velouté de Potiron et de cèpes. That will be followed by a Salade de Betterave et de Mâche. The main course is Veau à la Normande served with Pommes Tapées au Beurre Noisette and a Confit d’Oignons. L’entremets is a Clafouti aux Pommes avec Crème glacée. There is also some brioche, which I purchased at the same bakery where I bought the sponge cake.”
He paused to take a sip of his Lillet, and then he spoke again. “Do you need a translation?”
“Well, I understand some of it,” Hermione said with a smile. “The first course is a mousse or pudding of a blue cheese and avocados. I know velouté is some kind of soup.”
“Pumpkin and mushroom,” Snape supplied.
“Salade is obviously a salad, but I’m not sure of the ingredients.”
“Beet and mâche, which is also known as lamb’s lettuce.”
“The main course is veal, prepared in the style of the Normandy region, though I’m not sure what that is.”
“Veal medallions and mushrooms in a cream sauce.”
“It sounds delicious,” she said.
“What else?” Snape prompted.
“The side dishes are potatoes with butter and something with onions.”
“Flattened new potatoes with brown butter and onions in a wine sauce,” Snape said.
“L’entremets, what the English call pudding and the French call dessert, is something with apples and ice cream,” Hermione finished.
“I’m quite impressed, Miss Granger,” Snape said with a smile.
“So am I, actually. I haven’t been to France in years. I’m surprised I recognised as much as I did. Of course, it helped that you spoke impeccable French without a trace of an accent.”
9. "Under the circumstances I believe we are allowed to strain custom."
"I agree," she said, up ending a small paper sack onto the delft platter bearing a rather baroque looking chocolate cake. Fat black cherries rolled out of the bag, some piling up against the cut edge of the cake, others bouncing onto the divan, one practically onto his lap. "I quite forgot I picked these up at the market."
Severus popped the nearest cherry into his mouth. The flesh was firm but wet and the flavour exploded, sublimely tart, on his tongue. He reached for half a dozen more only to realise he had a mouth full of stones.
Granger, who had apparently gone to the kitchen area and returned again, offered him a fork and a cone of folded newspaper. "For the cake," she said, brandishing first two tarnished silver utensils and then what carried a marked resemblance to a paper dunce cap, "and for the stones."
He was relieved to have something to do with the stones.
"Thank you," he managed between bites of what was at once the most delicious and most peculiar chocolate cake he'd eaten in conscious memory. "It's quite good."
Granger nodded, her own mouth half-full. "It's call mazurek; my Polish barmaid, Wenia, made it."
Each mouthful was firm but creamy, with what he ascertained were plump chewy raisins and crunchy smoky walnut bits. The chocolate icing was a textural marvel. It had a flavour not unlike a fine truffle but the consistency of firmly whipped cream between layers of fairly common but well made sponge cake; an underlying piquant note lingered on his tongue require some effort on his part to name.
Plum.
A swallow of good beer was the perfect counterpoint to the symphony of flavours and textures.
The cake and cherries were both gone, reduced to stones in a bundle of newsprint and a smear of chocolate and yellow crumbs on a blue porcelain plate, before he thought of anything else. His powers of concentration got the better of him at times.
His gut felt a bit uncomfortable; there was a reason his mother never let him have his pudding first, much less half a cake in lieu of supper. Or perhaps that wasn't it at all. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Granger had set the platter and forks on the floor and was now lounging perilously close to him.
10. Dobby eagerly took the present and stood ramrod straight. “Dobby will take Miss’s package! Dobby will deliver it to Professor Snape tonight! Thank you for letting Dobby be of service!” He bobbed and bowed as he backed away deferentially, carefully holding the gift. Hermione nodded in relief and waved pleasantly before turning to her recipe.
Then, face set in intense concentration, she set about brewing the chocolate mousse with all the seriousness that she approached any potion Snape ever set them. ”Whew! Thank Merlin that’s done. Now, for the mousse… It has to be perfect!”
Perspiration was beaded on her upper lip by the time she finished. Full of pent-up excitement, she dipped a spoon into the mixture and tasted it. Her eyes closed and she exhaled a long sigh of contentment. ”Oh, it’s good…” Smiling in satisfaction, she cleaned up the area and prepared the mousse for transport to her room, where it would remain until the cast party. As she turned to go, she was struck with a thought. ”I wonder if they have any cherries…” Searching for Dobby in the organized chaos that surrounded her, she despaired of ever finding him. Catching the eye of another house elf, she asked, “Do you know where Dobby is?”
The other elf nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with Dobby. Once he had presented Dobby to Hermione, he scampered off again before Hermione could even finish thanking him properly. Dobby gazed up at Hermione again.
“What can Dobby do for Miss?”
Hermione smiled gently at him and whispered, “I’ve finished my recipe, but I was wondering if you had any maraschino cherries, you know, the bright red ones with the long stems?”
Dobby snapped his fingers and grinned widely. Snapping his fingers again, a jar appeared in his hand, which he proffered to Hermione. Hermione uttered a little cry of delight and took the jar, impulsively hugging Dobby.
“Perfect! Thank you, Dobby! You just made my Christmas even better!” She beamed down at the elf.
11. It was hard to think of Professor Snape without his clothes; his swirling robes were as much a part of him as his sneer. But it was increasingly easy to think of Severus without his clothes.
She just hoped he was a good cook. He was attempting some roast chicken thing with lemons out of Delia - watching him insert the lemon had been a sight she hadn’t wanted to dwell on too much. She’d headed outside when she found herself watching him rub herbs and oil into the skin of the chicken with a wholly unseemly interest. Watching his fingers massaging and probing the chicken had definitely turned her mind to where those fingers would be better placed.
The sounds coming from the kitchen had died down to a muted clatter and the sound of running water. It was probably safe to return.
She headed back inside. Severus had his back to her, and was washing his hands in the sink. He turned at the sound of her soft greeting, and gestured ruefully at himself. “I lost the battle with the tap.” The front of his shirt was soaked and was plastered to his skin. She could see the tracery of his ribs, the sharp points of his nipples, and the faint suggestion of chest hair. Suddenly she could see the attractions of wet tee shirt competitions.
“Severus?” she asked, her voice suddenly very husky. “When will dinner be ready?”
“In about an hour. Why, are you hungry?” He was aware of her intense observation of his chest - he had to be, she was practically drooling - but the only sign was a faint flush on his cheeks.
She nodded. “Oh, yes.” She paused a moment to let the implications sink in; she didn’t mean chicken, even lemon roasted chicken as per Delia’s strict instructions.
12. “What is all this?” he asked.
“I brought dinner back from the Kismet; I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why would you do that?” He scowled at the steaming plates.
She shrugged. “I was going to bring some for my own dinner and thought you might enjoy it as well.”
He made a guttural noise of disbelief.
“Oh, well, if you don’t like Indian food…”
“What are you trying to achieve? Getting a rise out of the deputy headmaster? Acquiring an ally?”
She refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. “With all due respect, Professor, it’s only dinner. I don’t want to possess your immortal soul for the price of few pieces of Naan.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything from you.” She thought. “Oh, on second thought maybe I do want something.”
He sneered. “And that would be…?”
“I want you to stop assuming that I want something from you. It’s Indian takeaway, for goodness’ sake. They don’t deliver; I do, but just this once. You might think about shutting up and enjoying it.”
She didn’t pay him any further attention and instead concentrated on serving herself dinner. The house-elves had brought a few bottles of cold lager and she removed the cap from one with a flick of her wand.
He was still standing just behind her, immobile.
She tore off a piece of Naan and used the flatbread to chase a chunk of lamb around her plate before raising it to her mouth. “Oh, that’s good,” she said.
After a few minutes of watching her eat and listening to her running commentary, he finally sat down with a sigh and dished himself a plate.
She popped the cap from another bottle of lager and handed it to him. “I’m glad you could join me,” she said.
He grumbled.
She hid a smile.
We love food! We love romance! We love smut!
So naturally when any or all of the above show up in the same story, we are very happy campers. There are no red herring titles in the quiz today. We don't play with our food.
Thanks to a_bees_buzz and tudorpot for this wonderful suggestion and to bluestocking79 for choosing it.
The first fangirl who posts a perfect score will get to choose the next quiz. Stop drooling and get to work!
Match the quote to the story title:
Sex and Sustenance by ubiquirk
One Perfect Valentine by dickgloucester
Third's the Charm by duniazade
Becoming by snarkypants (WIP)
In Budapest by bloodcult_of_freud a/k/a bloodcult
A Pinch of This, A Dash of That by iamstarmom
Teacher, Teacher by mmyrtle
Phantom of Hogwarts by Good Witch aka pern_dragon (WIP)
Hermione Pulls It Off by shiv5468
The List by LeoGryffin
Tidings of Comfort and Joy by stormyskize
The French Connection by bluestocking79
1. It’s a beautiful thing, to coax a smile from him. His smiles always look a trifle stiff, as though he is unused to them; Hermione’s goal is to make them a more regular occurrence.
The main course is as delicious as everything before it: turbot, lightly smoked and saffron-roasted, accompanied by fava beans and clever little chips made of celery root. It is only as Hermione savours the last sip of the divine white wine that accompanies it that she realises the theme of the meal: oysters, caviar, scallops, saffron…
It is a feast of aphrodisiacs, and this meal is nothing less than Severus’ attempt at a grand seduction.
Hermione could have told him that he hardly needed to try so hard, but who is she to argue with his methods when the result is an experience like this? When it comes to personal matters, Severus is far more eloquent with actions than with words.
“Are you pleased?” he asks her. He sounds supremely unconcerned, but she knows him well enough by now to hear the uncertainty beneath the question.
She looks into his eyes, which are warm and worshipful, and allows her smile to speak for her.
By the time they’ve completed the last course-an earthy, roasted truffle paired with a wine that tastes like the love child of red wine and dark chocolate-Hermione feels as though she’s floating, pleasantly sated with good wine and good food, and impressed beyond belief by the man who’s arranged it all for her.
She thinks she might love him, more than just a bit. If she had any doubts about the depth of his feelings for her, they are more than answered by the look in his eyes. Severus Snape does nothing by half-measures, and when he chooses to give his heart, he gives it fully.
Hermione will guard it much better than Lily Evans ever did.
2. Hermione stepped before the table, facing him. The setting sun was behind her, creating a golden aura around her body, her curves made visible beneath the silken fabric of her gown. The goddess spoke.
“The light broth is a parmesan pepper egg-drop soup. And the other is a strawberry ginger soup. As you might have guessed, the first is hot, the second is chilled. Please enjoy them, sir.”
And he did. The competing sensations of savoury and sweet, of hot and cold ricocheted in his mouth, and he found that he was able to not just taste the food, but experience them in a way that triggered memories, feelings. A rollercoaster of a sensory experience that sated only when he put down his spoons and sipped the wine.
Before he could think about what had happened, the soup dishes vanished and a new plate appeared in its place. Freshly made linguine with shavings of precious white truffles and extra virgin olive oil. The verbal description for the dish was unnecessary.
The pasta was cooked to perfection. The truffles made his eyes roll to the back of his head as they practically melted in his mouth. The extraordinary sensations, as before, built up into another heady rush until, as he put his fork down, he felt like bursting into tears.
Hermione watched and waited, not moving, aside from the slow small smile of relief moved across her face. He was as delicious as the food he was eating-no-experiencing.
One after another, the courses appeared, accompanied by a different variety of wine. Each one creating a more potent effect than the one before it: A serving of basil-mint pesto covered halibut, sautéed in rice paper with a citrus sauce; a perfect roast pork tenderloin with an Asian marinade; side dishes of lemongrass and bok choy risotto and a dish of slow-cooked eggplant with onions in olive oil.
“The eggplant dish is a recipe called ‘Iman Bayeldi,’ sir. It means, ‘The Priest Faints.’
Severus knew how the priest felt. He was bewitched. He knew it. No normally prepared food, no matter how brilliant, could create this type of sensory experience. He stood suddenly, his fork clattering on the plate, looking daggers at the woman. Hermione took a few steps back, alarmed.
3. The scent of the Beef Wellington was like nothing she’d ever known. She could identify individual aspects of it - the butter in the pastry, the sweet tenderloin, even the rich goose liver - each bringing a unique note to the perfume of the dish. Underneath all these fragrances, however, was something elemental; an earthy, powerful grace note that appealed to some unevolved part of her. The combination of all these smells was synergistic and compelling. If she’d been a cat, she would have rolled in the dish.
With a start, Hermione realized that the entire meal had passed without a single word between them. While they’d had their share of uncomfortably quiet moments over the past weeks, they’d never gone on for a particularly long time. Tonight was different.
Tonight had been silent but it had never been awkward. The attention that Hermione might have otherwise paid to trying to force a stilted conversation or dealing with her discomfiture had been focused on the food - and it had been nothing less than soul-stirringly exquisite. She’d had no idea that eating could be so … sensual. It was nearly sinful.
By the time he served dessert - a chocolate mousse with a contrasting white crème swirled on top - Hermione was little more than a pulsing bundle of nerves; a tinderbox ready to burst into flame at the slightest spark. The delicate apricot flavored wine, a moscato d’asti, should have cooled her but served only to increase the heat in her veins.
Severus had said nothing all through the meal. No explanation of what she’d been eating, no questions about her guesses as to the ingredients or even queries about the wines he’d selected.
Between his silence, the menu and her long-repressed but now burgeoning desire for him, it was all she could do to sit still.
She finished her mousse, licking the last tiny bit of crème from the corner of her mouth.
If she hadn’t seen it herself, she probably would never have believed it; as her tongue completed its reconnaissance for any bereft chocolate, she watched as Severus’ eyes tracked the path her tongue made over her lips. His pupils widened as she tested her theory and re-licked her upper lip.
Her hair could have burst into snakes with flaming tongues and she doubted he would have noticed, so intent was he on her mouth.
Oh.
Oh my.
The oysters, the claddagh, the wines….. they were all - it was - he -
He was seducing her.
4. "Dobby, I never thanked you for saving me," Hermione said, perched on a stool in the kitchens a few days after the War had ended. She'd had to endure endless rounds of questioning and congratulations and heartfelt thanks, but had caught no more than a fleeting glimpse of Snape. True to his word, he had made it possible for her to graduate early and prepare for N.E.W.T.s full-time, but Dumbledore and McGonagall were tight-lipped on the specifics of her benefactor's whereabouts and his role in her transition from student to graduate.
"'Twas nothing, Miss Hermione. Harry Potter saved Dobby. Miss Hermione is Harry Potter's best friend. And you loves house elves and tries to help us."
"I thank you all the same, Dobby. Can I ask you to do me one more favor, even though I'm in your debt?"
"You has no debts, Miss Hermione. Dobby can never repay Miss Hermione and Harry Potter for all you have done. You is great wizards, you is." Dobby hopped around happily. "What can Dobby do for miss?"
"This pie I'm baking. Can you give it to Professor Snape?"
If Dobby found the request strange, he had learned through years of servitude that a shut mouth invited no flies. "Leave it with Dobby, Miss."
She pulled it out of the oven. "It needs to cool a few more minutes, then please deliver it. If he asks, you can tell him I'm in the prefect's bath."
5. Severus crunched a firm bit of walnut between his teeth and allowed himself a somewhat predatory grin as the nutty flavor provided a nice contrast to the lingering hint of fruit. He pushed forwards into the counter, teasing himself with pressure on cock as his fingers removed the last of the savory flesh from the cracked shells.
Finally, he began on the mayonnaise, careful to add the oil to the spice-laden egg-yolk mixture only one drop at a time before whisking it briskly with his other hand. Such work reminded him of Potions brewing, which in turn made him think of the woman with whom he now worked.
Then there is this woman. This woman - neither trembling virgin nor world-weary socialite. This woman who delights my mind with her quickness. This woman whose beauty lies in energy and spark and the first ripeness of physical form.
Long, careful months he’d been cultivating her attention, flattering her insights, touching her professionally yet purposefully, engaging her intellect - all an effort he hoped would bear fruit today. His cock twitched at the thought.
With a few final turns of the wrist, he mixed in the vinegar that would give the mayonnaise a pleasant tang. He then turned his attention to the final assembly, gathering together the remaining ingredients and combining them methodically. First the firmer items, such as celery, tart-apple slices, and walnuts were tossed with the mayonnaise.
How delightfully firm her breasts and buttocks will be as I stroke and squeeze them.
Then he spiced the salad simply with salt, pepper, the juice of a lemon - enough to accent the flavors of the combined ingredients without overwhelming any of them in their balance.
6. The best table in the room was undisputedly the round one in the right corner, which was reserved for the most honoured patrons. As every afternoon of the week, Lucius Malfoy sat regally in a mahogany armchair, his blond hair fanned against the dark green velvet. At his left, Miss Granger curled on the sofa. At his right, Severus Snape could see both the door to the Apparition Room and the disused door to the Muggle street. Some habits never die.
As every afternoon of the week, a double-tiered plate of éclairs sat between Miss Granger and Mr. Snape. Mr. Malfoy had always preferred croquembouches, which he was assured were a more aristocratic fare.
Now you must understand that Arabella’s specialities were truly wonderful. Her éclairs were small and delicate, about the length of Miss Granger’s fingers and about the girth of Mr. Snape’s. They came in a variety of flavours, and when you had ventured beyond the enticing, sweet, tangy promise of the upper side icing and took your first bite, the marvelous crust offered, like a sleazy virgin, only the barest resistance before letting you dive into the unctuous, perfumed, complacent cream. It was the moment when Miss Granger’s eyes would always close, and when they opened again, they had a slightly lost expression. Snape loved that look on her face, though he wouldn’t have confessed it under the direst torture.
But he also loved his éclairs.
And there was only one of them left on the plate.
A chocolate éclair.
7. The moment Severus entered, his wand was in his hand: even the Hogwarts Diet ™ could not dull the man's reactions.
"Put it away," said Hermione. "There's nothing wrong."
He shut the door, taking in the candle-light, the soft music, and the good fire crackling in the hearth.
"Come here," she said.
Cautiously, he rounded the sofa and beheld the scene she had so meticulously constructed. She smiled, hearing his breath catch.
It was an artful arrangement: pride of place was taken by Hermione herself, reclining on the sofa in nothing but a few scraps of black lace, a book in her hands. On the low table between sofa and fire stood a bottle of the finest St Emilion Grand Cru she had been able to find, opened and breathing, with two glasses. Next to it, on a plain china platter, was the enormous chocolate fudge cake over which she had slaved all day in her mother's kitchen. Two slices were already cut, waiting to be eaten.
Severus licked his lips nervously.
"What…?" he managed to croak.
Hermione rose sinuously from the sofa and took a step towards him.
8. “What are we having for dinner, or is it a surprise?” Hermione asked.
“Not at all,” he said. “We’ll begin with Mousse au Roquefort et Avocat. Next we will have a Velouté de Potiron et de cèpes. That will be followed by a Salade de Betterave et de Mâche. The main course is Veau à la Normande served with Pommes Tapées au Beurre Noisette and a Confit d’Oignons. L’entremets is a Clafouti aux Pommes avec Crème glacée. There is also some brioche, which I purchased at the same bakery where I bought the sponge cake.”
He paused to take a sip of his Lillet, and then he spoke again. “Do you need a translation?”
“Well, I understand some of it,” Hermione said with a smile. “The first course is a mousse or pudding of a blue cheese and avocados. I know velouté is some kind of soup.”
“Pumpkin and mushroom,” Snape supplied.
“Salade is obviously a salad, but I’m not sure of the ingredients.”
“Beet and mâche, which is also known as lamb’s lettuce.”
“The main course is veal, prepared in the style of the Normandy region, though I’m not sure what that is.”
“Veal medallions and mushrooms in a cream sauce.”
“It sounds delicious,” she said.
“What else?” Snape prompted.
“The side dishes are potatoes with butter and something with onions.”
“Flattened new potatoes with brown butter and onions in a wine sauce,” Snape said.
“L’entremets, what the English call pudding and the French call dessert, is something with apples and ice cream,” Hermione finished.
“I’m quite impressed, Miss Granger,” Snape said with a smile.
“So am I, actually. I haven’t been to France in years. I’m surprised I recognised as much as I did. Of course, it helped that you spoke impeccable French without a trace of an accent.”
9. "Under the circumstances I believe we are allowed to strain custom."
"I agree," she said, up ending a small paper sack onto the delft platter bearing a rather baroque looking chocolate cake. Fat black cherries rolled out of the bag, some piling up against the cut edge of the cake, others bouncing onto the divan, one practically onto his lap. "I quite forgot I picked these up at the market."
Severus popped the nearest cherry into his mouth. The flesh was firm but wet and the flavour exploded, sublimely tart, on his tongue. He reached for half a dozen more only to realise he had a mouth full of stones.
Granger, who had apparently gone to the kitchen area and returned again, offered him a fork and a cone of folded newspaper. "For the cake," she said, brandishing first two tarnished silver utensils and then what carried a marked resemblance to a paper dunce cap, "and for the stones."
He was relieved to have something to do with the stones.
"Thank you," he managed between bites of what was at once the most delicious and most peculiar chocolate cake he'd eaten in conscious memory. "It's quite good."
Granger nodded, her own mouth half-full. "It's call mazurek; my Polish barmaid, Wenia, made it."
Each mouthful was firm but creamy, with what he ascertained were plump chewy raisins and crunchy smoky walnut bits. The chocolate icing was a textural marvel. It had a flavour not unlike a fine truffle but the consistency of firmly whipped cream between layers of fairly common but well made sponge cake; an underlying piquant note lingered on his tongue require some effort on his part to name.
Plum.
A swallow of good beer was the perfect counterpoint to the symphony of flavours and textures.
The cake and cherries were both gone, reduced to stones in a bundle of newsprint and a smear of chocolate and yellow crumbs on a blue porcelain plate, before he thought of anything else. His powers of concentration got the better of him at times.
His gut felt a bit uncomfortable; there was a reason his mother never let him have his pudding first, much less half a cake in lieu of supper. Or perhaps that wasn't it at all. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Granger had set the platter and forks on the floor and was now lounging perilously close to him.
10. Dobby eagerly took the present and stood ramrod straight. “Dobby will take Miss’s package! Dobby will deliver it to Professor Snape tonight! Thank you for letting Dobby be of service!” He bobbed and bowed as he backed away deferentially, carefully holding the gift. Hermione nodded in relief and waved pleasantly before turning to her recipe.
Then, face set in intense concentration, she set about brewing the chocolate mousse with all the seriousness that she approached any potion Snape ever set them. ”Whew! Thank Merlin that’s done. Now, for the mousse… It has to be perfect!”
Perspiration was beaded on her upper lip by the time she finished. Full of pent-up excitement, she dipped a spoon into the mixture and tasted it. Her eyes closed and she exhaled a long sigh of contentment. ”Oh, it’s good…” Smiling in satisfaction, she cleaned up the area and prepared the mousse for transport to her room, where it would remain until the cast party. As she turned to go, she was struck with a thought. ”I wonder if they have any cherries…” Searching for Dobby in the organized chaos that surrounded her, she despaired of ever finding him. Catching the eye of another house elf, she asked, “Do you know where Dobby is?”
The other elf nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with Dobby. Once he had presented Dobby to Hermione, he scampered off again before Hermione could even finish thanking him properly. Dobby gazed up at Hermione again.
“What can Dobby do for Miss?”
Hermione smiled gently at him and whispered, “I’ve finished my recipe, but I was wondering if you had any maraschino cherries, you know, the bright red ones with the long stems?”
Dobby snapped his fingers and grinned widely. Snapping his fingers again, a jar appeared in his hand, which he proffered to Hermione. Hermione uttered a little cry of delight and took the jar, impulsively hugging Dobby.
“Perfect! Thank you, Dobby! You just made my Christmas even better!” She beamed down at the elf.
11. It was hard to think of Professor Snape without his clothes; his swirling robes were as much a part of him as his sneer. But it was increasingly easy to think of Severus without his clothes.
She just hoped he was a good cook. He was attempting some roast chicken thing with lemons out of Delia - watching him insert the lemon had been a sight she hadn’t wanted to dwell on too much. She’d headed outside when she found herself watching him rub herbs and oil into the skin of the chicken with a wholly unseemly interest. Watching his fingers massaging and probing the chicken had definitely turned her mind to where those fingers would be better placed.
The sounds coming from the kitchen had died down to a muted clatter and the sound of running water. It was probably safe to return.
She headed back inside. Severus had his back to her, and was washing his hands in the sink. He turned at the sound of her soft greeting, and gestured ruefully at himself. “I lost the battle with the tap.” The front of his shirt was soaked and was plastered to his skin. She could see the tracery of his ribs, the sharp points of his nipples, and the faint suggestion of chest hair. Suddenly she could see the attractions of wet tee shirt competitions.
“Severus?” she asked, her voice suddenly very husky. “When will dinner be ready?”
“In about an hour. Why, are you hungry?” He was aware of her intense observation of his chest - he had to be, she was practically drooling - but the only sign was a faint flush on his cheeks.
She nodded. “Oh, yes.” She paused a moment to let the implications sink in; she didn’t mean chicken, even lemon roasted chicken as per Delia’s strict instructions.
12. “What is all this?” he asked.
“I brought dinner back from the Kismet; I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why would you do that?” He scowled at the steaming plates.
She shrugged. “I was going to bring some for my own dinner and thought you might enjoy it as well.”
He made a guttural noise of disbelief.
“Oh, well, if you don’t like Indian food…”
“What are you trying to achieve? Getting a rise out of the deputy headmaster? Acquiring an ally?”
She refrained from rolling her eyes, but only just. “With all due respect, Professor, it’s only dinner. I don’t want to possess your immortal soul for the price of few pieces of Naan.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything from you.” She thought. “Oh, on second thought maybe I do want something.”
He sneered. “And that would be…?”
“I want you to stop assuming that I want something from you. It’s Indian takeaway, for goodness’ sake. They don’t deliver; I do, but just this once. You might think about shutting up and enjoying it.”
She didn’t pay him any further attention and instead concentrated on serving herself dinner. The house-elves had brought a few bottles of cold lager and she removed the cap from one with a flick of her wand.
He was still standing just behind her, immobile.
She tore off a piece of Naan and used the flatbread to chase a chunk of lamb around her plate before raising it to her mouth. “Oh, that’s good,” she said.
After a few minutes of watching her eat and listening to her running commentary, he finally sat down with a sigh and dished himself a plate.
She popped the cap from another bottle of lager and handed it to him. “I’m glad you could join me,” she said.
He grumbled.
She hid a smile.