Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/93851.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Hermione_Granger, Severus_Snape, Harry_Potter
  Series:
      Part 2 of The_Passion_of_Lovers_series
  Collections:
      The_Quidditch_Pitch
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-06-11 Words: 4439
****** Double Dare ******
by Cluegirl
Summary
     Hermione thinks she knows something, but confronting Professor Snape
     about it yields a very different result to what she'd expected.
His hair is soft. Very soft and very fine. Perhaps this is why it never lays
down properly, but starts and spikes like drifts of black featherdown around
his face. Black hair is rarely anything but coarse -- thick-stranded, tending
to oily, hanging heavily to whatever length it is allowed.
Of course his hair must be different.
This singularity is the only reason I touch his hair while he kneels between my
thighs. His head knows well enough what to do without my guidance and his
throat is so welcoming I hardly need to push him. If I wind my hands around his
skull, thread my fingers deep into the downy, wild, silken mess, it is to feel
him, the difference of him. Because a mouth -- even his sulking, pouting, self-
righteous-indignation spitting mouth is only a mouth when it is wrapped around
my cock and sucking for all it is worth.
And his mouth is warm, yes, and deep, yes, and hot, very hot. And the tongue
slithers around me, toys with my foreskin, and strives to lave my bollocks even
as he's stretching himself to almost-swallow me. His mouth is soft and hungry
and not quite silent as he slurps and grunts his arousal around my erection.
But it is only a mouth, and I clench my fingers in that silken, feathery hair
when I fill his mouth with my spend.
He sits back on his heels when I push him, throat still working as he licks his
lips, clearing the taste of me from his tongue and teeth. His lips are blood-
full and puffy, slick with my come and his saliva, but drying quickly as he
steals panting breaths and tries to hide his unconcealable green eyes beneath
his lashes -- tries to seem as if he isn't staring at me hungrily even now.
He is hard.
Again.
I give the youthful erection, lurching hopefully up from the thin tangle of
shadows between his legs, barely a glance, then I jerk my chin at the chair.
He's come once already tonight, and will undoubtedly have it off in the hallway
just as soon as his detention is over. I've no more sympathy for his
adolescence than he for my middle age.
"Name three things you might've done with that," I say, buttoning my trousers,
"had you not swallowed it."
He swallows one last time, then stands and draws his trousers up, hiding his
cock, his strap-reddened thighs, his glowing arse. He wears no underpants.
After the third time I thrashed him, Potter no longer appeared to his 'special'
detentions with any underclothes at all -- disliking, I presume, the post-
release pain of having such constricting garments up against his inflamed skin.
I cannot say I blame him, as I myself have foregone any underwear after the
second time I allowed the brat to suck me off afterward.
He sits with a wince, still threading his belt through the loops. "I, er, could
have used it to focus a locating charm on you, or I could have used it in an
Inflamata potion, to make you want-"
"Not if it had been in your mouth," I correct him, and the glint of mischief
retreats from his eyes.
"No, Sir," he admits, "because… Because then it would affect me as well?"
As if he required any help in that regard! Still, I nod, then wait expectantly.
He bites his lip and shifts in the chair, wincing as the action rubs his sore
arse -- or perhaps his needy cock -- on the desk. "Or I could have…" his brow
furrows, wrinkling the famous scar askew, "I could have used it in summoning a
Succubus, if I mixed it with dog's blood and white arsenic."
I scowl. "I am no virgin, Potter."
"Wouldn't it be the same since you hadn't been with a woman though, Sir?" He
asks, and only then realizes his rudeness. He looks down, contrite even before
the scowl fully settles on my face.
"No, it would not be the same, Potter. And you haven't the restraint required
to pass up seconds at pudding, let alone the attraction of a seducer-spirit,
even with the correct safeguards."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Didn't say it would work," he makes an
attempt at his old, mulish tone, but I can hear laughter underneath it. "Just
that I could've used it."
I roll my eyes and tell him to get out. It is either that or laugh at his joke,
and there are some liberties I do not allow anyone -- no matter how hungry his
eyes or mouth. Joking with me is one of those. But first I assign him an essay
on proper summoning of Infernals. He does not roll his eyes, but he does manage
to get his smile under control by the time he's finished packing his book bag.
"Potter." I send his name to stop him at the door for the last element of this
twisted little ritual we carry on between us. He doesn't look up as I swivel my
chair to regard him. "Learn your lesson from this," I tell him, though we both
know better, "cease provoking me, or I can promise you I will not stay my hand
in the future."
"Yes, Professor." The same words he always says, but I know I do not imagine
that each repetition of them is a trifle less cowed, a sliver less contrite,
and just a tiny bit hopeful. The Boy who Lived is on his way to a well-
entrenched perversion. But then again, aren't we all?
He opens the door, and the room floods with a sudden tension. His shoulders go
rigid with shock and my wand slaps into my hand at once.
"Hermione," he says, blinking, "What are you do-"
The girl dithers. "Oh, er, sorry Harry, I didn't know you'd be... Did you have
detention? I didn't recall your having-"
"I did, what are you-"
"Far be it from me to interrupt your courtship dance," I call, "however, I
should like to know what business the Gryffindor Prefect has on my doorstep
after curfew."
Potter steps out of the doorway, and she edges inside. "I, er, think I left my
homework here," her eyes flicker to the left, and I need no legillimency to
know she is lying, though Potter, I imagine, is wholly taken in. "I came to
check if anyone had turned it in after class. I'll just take a moment, Sir, and
Harry, there's no need to wait for me. I'll see you back in the dorm."
He hesitates, as surprised as I am that his toady has effectively sent him
away, but after a second, he goes.
"I know what you're doing to him!" The words burst out of her the instant the
door clicks shut.
I raise my eyebrow. "Do you?"
"I do!" She advances on my desk, and the flush across her plump cheeks says
she's working herself up to a towering indignation. This promises to be quite
entertaining. "You're abusing him, and it has to stop. He can't take it -- it
isn't fair with everything else he has to bear up to. You have no right to
be... to be..."
"To be doing what, exactly, Miss Granger? Let us have this accusation plainly
spoken instead of danced around like a maypole." I lean my chair back, grinning
as her blush deepens. "Come now, if you cannot elucidate what you imagine my
crime to be, you can hardly expect me to take your accusation seriously."
"You're making him have s-sex with you." Her face rivals her tie for redness
and I cannot help smirking. I haven't, actually. Not beyond allowing him to
frot himself against my leg while I redden his arse with his belt and then
letting him suck me afterward, but I can just imagine the lurid scene her
repressed little imagination must be painting for her. "It's wrong, Sir!
Harry's only sixteen, and he's your student, and it's... it's..."
"Illegal?" I supply mildly, enjoying the girl's huff. "Come now, Miss Granger.
In such situations as this, laws are chiefly for the comfort of those too
simple or too lazy to sort out for themselves what they ought to do."
She straightens up, smoothing her robes and her temper, "it's unethical,
Professor Snape. It's unethical, and you have to stop."
There is a difference between laughing with a student and laughing at one. Her
face goes a shade of maroon just shy of her house colours and just as
unflattering. I find that an even better reason to laugh.
"You are a self-righteous and naive little fool, Miss Granger," I manage at
last, "I have far more important ethical considerations clamouring for my
attention than whether it might be wrong to give release to a hormonal,
teenaged celebrity who clearly craves the attention." I take up my quill and
reach for a stack of essays which I'd brushed to the corner of the desk
earlier. "Your friend Mr. Potter wants it. I am not above giving it to him. The
rest is no concern of yours, Miss Granger."
"How far has it gone then?" No, of course the wretch couldn't let it go at
that. She is a damned Gryffindor, after all.
"It matters?" I challenge her, "Is your muggleborn sensitivity inclined to
delineate between polluting the boy's hands or mouth versus, say, bending him
across my desk and buggering him until he's cross-eyed and howling?" Merlin,
but the colours this chit can achieve. It's amazing, really.
"That's sick!"
"Ah yes. Muggles do have trouble with same-gender relations, don't they?"
"No, I mean it's not healthy! I've nothing against homosexuality," though she
does still stammer to say the word, I note with smugness, "but Harry's too
young, and so much has happened to him! His parents, those awful Dursleys, and
Cedric and now Sirius! He's confused -- he can't possibly judge for himself
what he needs, and-"
"I rather wonder, Miss Granger, if you've the nerve to say that to his face."
She has the grace to look shamefaced at her own thoughtlessness, so I press
onward while she is still taken aback. "However, since we're weighing the
relative merits of young Potter's activities, let us consider the whole. Do you
imagine that being forced to face the Dark Lord in one way or another, from the
age of fifteen months has had a positive effect upon Potter's development as a
well-balanced and healthy young man?" Yes, it will have been the first time
she's heard me acknowledge the boy's excessive burdens. It annoys me, having
been manipulated into uttering it, so I sneer at her horrified expression. "If
you're bound to eradicate threats to Potter's health, I suggest you begin with
the Dark Lord, and move from there to the Headmaster. I assure you that both
warrant far more concern than I."
Her eyes narrow. Damn. "Dumbledore will do nothing about this," I cut her off
even as her prim lips open, "he relies far too much on what I do for him to let
a little squeamishness on your part influence him. Far too much hangs in the
balance."
"Squeamish!" Any more shrill, and my glassware would be in danger. "So he knows
you're doing this? He's allowing you to molest-"
"No, the Headmaster hasn't needed to ask that I take his pet weapon in hand,
Miss Granger -- that arrangement is between Mr. Potter and myself. However,
don't imagine that I require the Headmaster's approval -- Albus Dumbledore is
the walking embodiment of the phrase 'Needs must, when the Devil drives', and
as we both know, the Devil has been at the reins since the end of the Tri-
Wizarding tournament. And spare me," I raise a hand to her impending outburst,
"your outraged Gryffindor rhetoric if you please, for I am in no mood to
indulge your sheltered sense of propriety."
"So you won't stop, then?" she demands, mouth clamped as prim and small as her
House Mistress' on a bad day. "You'll keep on using Harry to satisfy your
perversions?" I can't help rolling my eyes, but beyond that, see no reason to
answer what was hardly a question to begin with. "What if I told? What if I
told the whole school what you're doing?"
"Then I rather imagine your young friend would become the laughingstock of
Hogwarts, Miss Granger," I reply, lining out an entire passage for the sake of
one dangling participle and a trite conclusion. "I should think after last year
you'd have a better understanding of the kind of damage such gossip can do to a
young Hero like Our Mr. Potter."
"The Board of Governors then," she shrills, "What will they have to say about
one of their Professors molesting a student right under their noses!" Desperate
now, her eyes are bright with outrage and tears. And finally she is approaching
a threat worth my consideration. I lay my quill aside.
"Is your own personal moral triumph really worth losing the war, Miss Granger?"
She makes a rude noise, but then gulps, her eyes flickering rapidly as she adds
it all together; my service to the Order of the Phoenix, my usefulness to the
Dark Lord, how much Dumbledore vitally needs the information only I can hope to
supply him. "Bear in mind, please," I add as she goes chalky, "that should the
tide turn to the Dark Lord's favor, your young friend will almost certainly
suffer far more than you currently imagine he is doing."
Her shoulders slump. She looks away and does not glance back. "But... I don't
understand why," she murmurs, both hands fisted in her robes, "you've always
been horrible to us in classes, but I thought under it all, you were still-"
"Sweet Salazar, girl, imagine what you will about your young Mr. Potter, but
kindly keep me out of your romantic fantasies! You are hardly fit to tell a
'good' man from a foul one at your age, you ignorant chit."
"Then tell me why!" She's forgotten herself enough to shout at me. No doubt
she'll recall that with some horror once she's finally sent upstairs with her
tail pinned down. "You don't even LIKE Harry -- you never have! So why would
you be- be-"
"Fucking him?" I twirl my quill, amused as she blanches, but she does not look
aside. "Because he rather needs it."
She snorts derision. "You don't care what he needs -- not even for a pity-f-
" she swallows, tries again, "for a pity-f-!" she really can't bring herself to
say it. How droll! She clenches her fists and takes a deep breath. "Why are you
doing it?" In a moment, she will cry, I'm certain. I've never made Granger cry
before. What a day this is turning out to be!
"Very well, Miss Granger, since you insist, I shall allow you a glimpse into
the occluded depths of your horrid old Potions Master." I wave a hand at the
chair, and wait until she huffs over to take it.
"I am, it will surprise you to learn, quite an uncomplicated man. Oh yes, you
needn't make that face, it's true. Many entertain themselves by assigning
labyrinthine motivations to my every word and glance, and it amuses me to
foster the misapprehension. However the truth is this: When I eat, it is
because I am hungry. When I sleep, it is because I am weary, when I take points
from Gryffindor, because Gryffindor has aggravated me beyond my temper's
limit." Which is no more than the truth, though I do not see fit to add that
the pastime is entertainment in its own right.
"Now," I continue, pinning her with my glare and twirling the quill back and
forth between my hands, "taking this new information into account, I invite you
to apply your," I am unable to suppress a snort here, "celebrated cleverness to
the question of why I might be fucking the Boy Who Lived, why I might allow him
to suck my cock when he begs for permission to do so, and why I might, in the
not-infrequent event he may require it, administer the occasional sound
thrashing to his taut little Quidditch-hooligan's arse." Her eyes have closed,
and she is trembling. Oh yes. Her cheek is glimmering just there beneath the
fluff of her mousy hair. Perfect.
"Have you deduced the answer yet, Miss Granger?" My light tone, the mockery of
easy cheer, cuts, coming as it has on the heels of a growl. She jumps a little,
then again when she realizes I've left my chair and circled around to loom over
her. "It is because I want to, Miss Granger," I do not bother to hide my
satisfaction as she scrambles out of the chair, breathing hard and fumbling for
her wand.
"You can't- you don't-" she fetches up against the door, swallowing hard as she
realizes that I have made no move to either follow, or counter her impending
attack. For her sake, I am glad the brat takes herself in hand before casting
anything though -- the wards I have in these rooms are not kind to those who
try and attack me. "Have you no shame?" She whispers at last.
Shame? This lily-handed little cat slinks down here mewing to me about shame?
It takes me a moment to turn the impulse surging through me from violence to
laughter, though the sound of it is no less furious than a shout. Her wand hand
tightens as she shrinks a little against the door.
"Oh, I've shame in plenty, Miss Granger," I manage at last, whirling away to
the shelter of my desk, "I simply reserve it for my significant trespasses. And
upon that note, our interview is at an end. Go back to your ivory tower, Miss
Granger, for you clearly have neither stomach nor nerve to plumb the depths to
which you've swum."
I return to my marking, but I can hear the breath whistling through her
nostrils, shallow, furious, defeated and loathing it, as any good Gryffindor
does when a Slytherin bests. She's sorting out her final volley even now -- ah.
"Very well, I will go," she says and I hear the latch click open, "But I'll
find a way to stop you, I swear I-"
"Obliviate!"
My head snaps up in surprise at Potter's voice. I see him catch the girl's
shoulder through the swinging door, to stop her stumbling into him. Well, well,
well. So perhaps he was not as taken in as he pretended to be. A point to
Gryffindor for that, I suppose.
"Harry?" Her voice is muzzy and dazed, "What have- I don't-"
"Are you all right, Hermione?" He brushes her hair back to examine her
forehead, "I didn't mean to hit you with the door. Does it hurt much?"
Her fingers follow his, and I bite back a smirk. The wretched boy needs no
encouragement from me. "I... no, no it's fine," she says, smiling at him, "you
just startled me is all."
"Good. Listen, I talked to Parvati, and she's found your homework."
Granger blinks, a line forming between her brows. Oh dear, Potter seems to have
fumbled his ploy after all. "My homework?"
"That you lost?" he prompts her ingenuously, "It was under the sofa in the
common room, along with one of Crookshanks' hair-wads." He pulls a face just a
little too comic, and I wince, but she is still too dazed to notice it. Granger
allows him to lead her out into the corridor and send her off. No, he'll be
right along, he's something to ask Professor Snape first, yes, he'll be sure to
get a permission note, no he won't be long.
The boy's eyes are hot when he closes the door, and his wand is in his hand. I
find I can summon rather less sangfroid now than I could when the Granger girl
thought to threaten me. Because this is Harry Potter, and he has bested the
Dark Lord on more than one occasion. Who knows what he could-
But he only casts a silencing spell on the door, then leans against it, still
staring as though he can bore through me with those remarkable eyes. For a
moment I am mesmerized by what I see, but cannot define in them. Anger, heat,
green reflections and firelight, trepidation, eagerness (for a fight, or
something else?) outrage or maybe challenge, and gravity... a gravity so
terrible it feels as if it will crush the breath from me, swallow my whole star
intact. I can no more tease out the elements of his stare than I could analyze
a strange potion by sight, but I see enough to wonder, in this breathless,
silent moment, if I have not just made a grievous error.
"Was it true?" The words come so softly, "What you said?"
Those lips never give utterance so quietly as that -- they trumpet, they hiss,
they proclaim, snarl and shout -- but this is low, level and smooth as a
candle's gleam in a draughtless room. It takes me a moment of staring at his
lips to realize that he has spoken at all.
True? I think to myself, Was it? But there is no room for self-examination
under the crushing mass of those green eyes. Ghosts wait there along with him
for my answer, barely seen in the whorl of the ancient door's grain, but
unmistakable in this dark place I haunt. He is a child, I tell myself, and do
not let my face change, He has never been a child. He will do as he will -
- always has done, and you never could stop him.
I give him one slow, definite nod, and answer gravely. "Complete falsehood."
His brows draw down and he steps away from the door, green eyes still fixed on
mine. I hold his gaze as a pretext of keeping an eye on his wand hand. I will
look away in a moment though; I know better than to let myself be trapped by so
green and heavy a gaze. His lips are pressed, but it seems as if one corner
flexes, just the tiniest bit as he comes to my desk, then around the side, as
though to loom over me -- as though he imagines he could possibly intimidate.
His fingers flex, restless at his sides. His cock, I notice, is still hard
under the tented fly of his school trousers. A wet smudge darkens the wool just
below his belt.
"Then I guess," he says, still in his eerily sure, quiet voice, "you don't want
to touch me, do you?" And I can see his erection twitch, just at his words; can
almost hear the whisper of the flushed, turgid head against the fabric. For a
moment I imagine it -- how that young, eager flesh would feel under my palm
instead of grinding into my leg. Petal soft, hot, slick where the tip pokes
through his foreskin as it does when he is this desperate for friction. For
touch. I imagine him spending in strings of sticky white over my fingers, over
my face.
My lips are too dry.
"You don't want to rub your c-cock against mine," he goes on, leaning closer,
"and make me come all over your belly?" And I think of him, writhing against
me, sweat-slick and gasping, those reedy limbs wound around me like a climbing
vine, his arse clenched tight in my hands, still glowing from the strap as my
fingers sink into the gripping heat of him.
"I guess you don't," he is so very close. His breath gusts across my ear, still
smelling of my spend. I can hear his pink tongue slithering out to wet his
still-swollen lips. "...necessarily want to bend me across your desk and..."
his fingers brush my collar, then seek upward, along the line of my throat,
undeterred by the convulsive swallow I can't suppress. "oh, say... bugger me
until I'm cross-eyed and howling?" The pads of his fingers rasp against my
beard as he reaches the point of my chin and tips my face up to his, and
suddenly the potion of his eyes is clear to me; it is no blend making up that
roiling green weight, but rather a pure distillation of want.
Am I his rebellion? Am I his lashing out at the inescapable prophecy, and the
madman who's obsession will see it true? At the world that will let it all
happen to him? I recognize this hunger for freedom, for dissolution, for
autonomy and release -- I have seen it before. I have lived before this desire
to dance on the coals as the world burns down, and I thicken and grow hard at
the memory of that reckless thirst, and of how good it felt to slake it.
My lips are far too dry.
And the wretched brat is smirking!
This has, it occurs to me, gone far enough. I catch Potter's wrist, twist it
away from my chin, and then surge to my feet. He startles flat against the
desk, knocking essays, quills and ink to the floor in his quest for balance.
His hungry eyes are wide, but his cheeks glow with nerve and desire. He is
afraid, but he is not too afraid, even if his world burns down in the feel of
my cock splitting him wide and the sound of my tongue deriding him for loving
it. Exploitation indeed!
"Bend you across my desk and bugger you?" I snarl, filling my hands with his
robes and pulling the brat to his tip-toes, the end of his up-turned nose just
brushing mine, "I want nothing of the kind!"
He grips my hands, and his fingers tremble. For just a second, I am convinced
that the brat-king will erupt from those narrowed eyes. I am prepared; his arse
can be far more red before I sink into it, and he will still writhe and beg me
for it. But instead of shouting, he catches his lower lip between his white,
even teeth and looks away. "I'm sorry, Sir," he murmurs, not smirking at all.
"You should be," I assure the brat with a shake. His hair drifts soft across my
face as I haul him across the office and sling him full out along the sofa
beside the fireplace. He lands with a grunt and a sprawl -- all knees and
elbows and startled eyes and straining, wool-covered prick -- a look of which I
imagine I could grow quite fond, really. "Merlin knows what's been spilled
across that wretched desk!"
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