As she began to come down, she felt him softly pressing kisses to her inner thighs before pressing forward again with his tongue, sliding between her sodden folds and penetrating her with the warm muscle. She chastised herself for ever considering the man sharp-tongued. His tongue was a delight, a marvel, an absolute bloody miracle, but it was most certainly  not  sharp. Hermione trembled again, the after-shocks of her orgasm mixing with the continued sensations of his devious mouth on her body and then he was moving up, his lips murmuring something against the swell of her arse and she felt the tingle of a wandless cleaning spell seconds before his tongue was tracing heated circles across her arse. She shuddered; she was unspeakably sensitive and it felt so  wrong, and yet she was clearly perfectly clean thanks to the spell and oh holy merciful mother of Morgana he was pressing his tongue against her sphincter and her mind went blank. Her eyes rolled so far back that she saw white. She might have been concerned about muscle damage (was it even possible to pull an extraocular muscle? She vaguely recalled that the muscle in question would be the  inferior rectus), but given the rather superior job Snape was doing at tonguing her rectum, she could hardly give a care. 