Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1521554.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Hermione_Granger/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Hermione_Granger, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Dark, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Memory_Alteration, Oral_Sex,
      Rough_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-25 Updated: 2018-02-05 Chapters: 6/7 Words: 8381
****** Glory & Calamity ******
by Ms_Minty
Summary
     Snape finds an appropriate vessel for ultimate victory and eventual
     destruction. Time, forgetting, magic, power, and eventual redemption,
     in this little, sinister tale. This is a prequel to The Jade Snake,
     though it could stand alone.
***** Prologue *****
He stood in the garden, a shadow against the twilight snow. Unsettled by an
earlier conversation, annoyed by the children finding dark corners for their
fumbling intimacies, but now alone, in the dark, as he liked it. The falling
snowflakes showed no respect for gravity; they twirled and launched themselves
into the air, filling his eyelashes, his boots, his cloak with tiny diamonds.
He was silent, he was the abyss. A great sigh scattered the snowflakes in front
of his face.
Across the garden, near the entrance gate, a matching sigh and the hiss of an
almost-silent spell broke his reverie. He didn’t move. Another amorous couple,
another discreet conversation? Wearisome. He slowly shifted his stance to blend
into the outline of a shrub.
The noise had come from a small, blue glow at the garden gate. A slender will-
o’-wisp in a girlish ball gown, expertly curled hair now falling over her
shoulders, all made an ethereal blue by small, flickering flames held in her
hands. She also seemed tired, but that was not surprising, as dawn was creeping
toward the horizon. For now, it was still inky dark, lit only by a haze of snow
and a small unworldly sylph, come to mourn her disastrous evening.
Snape stood still, waiting to see which of the idiots would join her—Weasley
the fathead, or the Durmstrang dolt. Hermione stood alone, caressing her blue
flames for warmth. A shiver ran through her and Snape then knew she was alone.
He was bemused by their shared presence, in the garden, in the snow.
And then she turned toward him, snow still billowing around her. She cocked her
head to one side and then cast a shield, air vibrating with magic. Snape rolled
his eyes and stepped out of the shadows, wand down, but ready.
Hermione hesitated, then dropped the shield. Snape let one side of his mouth
drag upward into the closest thing he had to a smile. He stepped forward, into
the blue light, intending to send her on her way. As he drew closer, he
hesitated. The flickering, cerulean glow infused her eyes, her sculpted
collarbone and fine, slender arms. Unwillingly, he found his hand raised to one
of the lazy curls on her shoulder.
He gathered it into his hand, stroked the lock of hair between his thumb and
forefinger. She was silent, still, something else in her eyes.
“Beautiful.” It was as if someone else had said it. Someone behind him, someone
that hadn’t been touched by the immense sorrow of his life. Hermione, eyes dark
and liquid, made him new again. And yet…yes. There was the task that needed to
be done. And now it was obvious how to do it. She stood in the snow as if made
out of ivory, almost as if she didn’t need to breathe. He gently let the curl
fall back onto her shoulder, moving his hand to clasp her cheek.
“Beautiful, and yet we must wait.” Her eyes ignited. His thumb moved to her
lower lip and he pressed lightly, as if leaving an stamped impression, a seal
of possession. Her lips pursed to meet his thumb, light, tenuous—a promise.
Then she turned on her heel and fled back into the safety of the school, back
where she was Hermione the swot and everything made sense.
Snape tipped his head back and smiled his half-smile into the oncoming snow, a
moment of glory. Then the consequences rippled across his face and he hunched
forward into his cloak, a ragged shadow once again.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
She had ran that night, back past the glowing lights of the party, all the way
back up to her shared room. Her breath was loud in her ears, her heels rang in
the empty halls. The room was dark, silent—the other girls were still at the
ball. Hermione sat heavily on the edge of her bed and began to remove the pins
from her hair. Each pin clattered on the floor, surrounding her discarded
shoes. So much for being an adult. So much for a lovely evening. She stood,
unzipped her dress and let it pool at her feet.
Hermione knew that the dark man in the whirling blizzard had been Professor
Snape, that snide, impossible man who deigned to teach Potions. But for a
moment he had seemed something else, something other out in the snow. He was
quiet, almost tender, and he had touched her hair, her lips. Her hand rose to
the same spot, unbidden, and something caught her eye, a flash of blue.
The mirror across the room was mostly covered by Lavender’s stockings and other
remnants of girlish party preparation, but there was something flickering blue,
next to a smudged lipstick kiss on the glass. Hermione moved closer, brushed
aside the limp nylons, and the blue light grew, shined. She realized that it
was coming from her, from underneath her slip. She lifted the slip over her
head and looked again.
Small blue flames licked over her body, following her small breasts and stomach
like lay lines. She traced the lines with her hands, and the flames caressed
her fingers, diminished, then sprang back into life after she moved her hands
away. She slowly turned, and they were on her back, flickering down her hair to
play over her back. A line trailed between her legs, into her panties and she
could feel the warmth there especially.
In her rush to get away, she had forgotten to extinguish the bluebell flames,
but they should have just winked out when she stopped paying attention. Instead
they had infused her skin, sparking across her naked body. She touched the
lines at her breasts and followed the warmth down her stomach, to the glow
between her legs. She hooked a finger into her panties and slid them off. The
blue blazed as she touched herself, and she saw her face change in the mirror,
from curiosity to…something else. Her eyelids lowered, she bit her lip, and
touched herself again, more insistent this time, and her knees almost buckled.
Hermione moved back to her bed, closed the curtains, and became engulfed in her
own, otherworldly blue glow. She experimentally pinched her nipples, then moved
both hands to play with herself. She closed her eyes and could feel Snape’s
finger on her lips, gasped, and arched into her hand. While Hermione had
thoroughly explored her body before, she had never sustained her attention long
enough to feel like this.
The blue light flared behind her eyelids and she opened her eyes once again.
The light was like a beacon, great gouts of flame coming off her body, but she
didn’t care, she plunged her fingers into her sex, again, and again. Her hair
went wild as she thrashed her head side to side. A small, keening wail escaped
her lips and she collapsed in the agony of her first orgasm. Unnoticed, the
bluebell flames diminished into embers, then vanished back into her skin.
In the morning, a sunbeam slipped into the room arced between a small crack in
her bed curtains and lit Hermione’s sleeping face. A small speck of soot landed
on her nose and she sneezed, waking herself up. She rubbed her nose and opened
her eyes. There was a large, blackened, sooty hole on her bed canopy. Her eyes
flew wide and she reached for her wand, still in the heaped ball gown next to
her bed. A whispered spell, and the bed was repaired.
Later, after her bath, Hermione discovered bright red blood between her thighs.
She was startled, then a wry smile crossed her lips. Merry Christmas indeed. It
was a day of firsts.
Chapter End Notes
     This is more like prologue-part-2. We'll get on with the story in the
     next chapter.
***** Chapter 3 *****
She watched him, then.
He would catch her. Sometimes he would look up from the mass of papers on his
desk to find her thickly lashed eyes fixed on him, lips slightly parted, head
tilted to one side. He did not sneer or comment, but would let the world fall
away around their connection. In his eyes, he knew, he held a question.
Her reply would come: a quick startle from her reverie, a doe suddenly aware of
her fate, and she’d look away. He would look back down at his papers. Not yet.
This dance continued, and he felt his desire gutter, the lowest fires licking
and jumping at his maw, his black heart crushing each spark until he was sure
that it had been a mistake. And then he saw her, haloed in a window frame, the
ancient leaded glass distorting the greens and greys of the Scottish springtime
into impressionist smudges. She looked defeated, at odds with the idiot boys,
no doubt. Her shoulders slumped and she raised a single finger to the misty
windowpane. She scrawled a drippy star, then a heart, then a question mark.
He made a small noise, and Hermione slashed through the designs, then whirled
around, eyes wide. He closed the distance between them with a single step, eyes
narrowed, his cloak sweeping forward, anticipating him. She said nothing, but
her lips opened with a gleam of teeth. Her breasts, small, yet graceful swells
beneath her uniform, betrayed the hitch in her breath. Snape reached toward her
lips, then stopped short. His hand glided over her cheek, so close she could
feel the small breeze left by his fingers, and toward her hair. The barest
touch of one of her curls, then his hand hovered over her chest, a whisper-
glide over the fabric. He held her gaze, and saw her pupils widen into black
pools. Down, down, over her belly and around her slim waist.
Snape’s eyes narrowed and his mouth curled into a sneer. He grabbed Hermione’s
ass and ground her into him, and she could feel his heat pressed against her
stomach. She gasped and he thrust toward her again, his other hand winding into
her hair, tilting her head back. His hands had full possession of her, his
fingers leaving bruises. She was panting now, her eyes half-closed, and she was
writhing against his hardness. He dove toward her mouth, stopping just short of
her lips. Their breaths mingled, he was mountainously tall, and his black hair
hung over them both like a veil.
They stood like that, together, their desire burning white hot. Hermione’s
eyelids fluttered and a small, animal noise escaped her throat. Snape’s eyes
flew open, then narrowed again. He brought his lips down to hers, feather-
light, a saintly, pure touch. Just as she moved to deepen the kiss, he
whispered:
“Obliviate.”
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
His towering anger was out of place in the white, quiet serenity of the
infirmary. He paced in front of the iron cot, grinding his back teeth. Potter,
that ass, that inane boy-child was responsible. If only he would just fucking
listen.
Hermione’s hair was spread out on her pillow, the weak sunshine through the
leaded glass window criss-crossing her face, her small body beneath the sheets.
Snape thought of the condensation on a similar glass window, the drippy heart,
and felt his lips on hers, their shared heat. He thought he was being gallant,
waiting, being kind to the girl by biding his time.
And now this. Dolohov’s curse ripping through her body. The dark purple winding
around her guts, only blunted by Dolohov’s non-verbal casting. Snape’s lips
pulled into a sneer, hating Harry for his impulsive idiocy, hating Dolohov and
the ridiculous mess of Death Eaters, and himself. His hands tightened into
fists inside the sleeves of his robes. The plan was almost ruined before it
began. He looked up into the arcing stonework above the bed, proud white
limestone held up by slender columns. He had spent hours in these hospital
beds, studying that same ceiling. Sometimes angry, sometimes sorrowful, but
always planning.
There would be no more waiting. The war was upon them, and there was no more
time for tender mercy. The dark slash of the whipcord-tight black figure stood
in defiance of the chaste sunlight, the crisp, white sheets, and the chestnut
curls surrounding her sleeping face. He would devour her whole, make her
stronger, and she would win the war. His pleasure in consuming Hermione and his
subsequent death would be of no consequence.
When he turned and stalked out of the hospital wing, Hermione’s eyes snapped
open.
***
Snape did wait though, a little while, watching Hermione gingerly walking down
stairs, excusing herself to take a barrage of potions. She would be leaving for
home soon, and out of his reach. The timing must be perfect.
Snape habitually sought out her profile, gazing down from the high table at
breakfast. Hermione showed no hint that she remembered their encounter, but she
still looked at him from time to time. Less nervous now, after a great battle
and a great wound, she did not tear her eyes away but fixed him with an even
curiosity. Much of her attention was taken up by the miserable Harry and her
own injury, but she still sought out his dark figure. Perhaps she sensed that
something had changed, and the waiting was nearly finished.
It was one of these mornings that he finally saw her smile, laugh at something
Ginny said. And he knew it had to be that night. He folded his napkin and put
it on the table.
***
Her summons came in the form of a single word, scrawled at the top of an essay.
tonight. Hermione’s flicked up from the scroll, but Snape had already moved on,
eyes hidden behind a veil of hair as he tossed another scroll into the lap of a
student. When her eyes returned to the scroll, all but one letter of the word
had faded. The “o” remained. She tucked the scroll into the sleeve of her robe.
***
The low drone of Lavender’s snore drifted from between the curtains. Hermione
took a deep breath then drew her coverlet back, already fully dressed.
Something had grown quiet inside of her after her injury and the death of
Sirius. This magical war was real, not a game, not something that would go away
with a few swishes of a wand. She would not wake up in her muggle bed and
remember it all as a dream.
Still, the figure of Snape remained murky in her mind. She was cautious of his
summons. Yet she still burned when she remembered his thumb on her lip. There
was something else that teased at the edges of her mind but slipped from her
grasp when she got too close. Hermione knew the telltale signs of a memory
charm and she chewed her lip in frustration at the omission.
She slipped out of the common room and crept down the hall, small bluebell
flame in her palm casting underwater shadows on the portraits. The blue light
pooled around a pair of black dragonskin boots. He stood still, in the middle
of the hall, waiting for her to approach him. Snape’s eyes looked big and dark
in the shadows, and his arms were folded across his chest. Hermione’s heart
thrummed in her chest as she drew close.
Snape unfolded his arms, and reached out, clasping the underneath of her
outstretched hand, beneath the blue spark. His long fingers curled around the
back of her hand, and he drew it up. He examined the flame, blue lighting his
features, glinting off his jet black hair. A breath escaped his lungs and he
suddenly drew the flame into his mouth, inhaling the light, and Hermione felt a
strange reverberation through her body. She realized that he was kissing her
palm, and the flame was warm and tingling through his lips.
His hand clenched tight then, and he yanked her into his arms, lips crashing
down on hers. Hermione inhaled in alarm and felt the flame pass back to her,
reheated, charged, made more intense by the brief time within Snape’s mouth.
The heat licked her insides and Snape’s tongue chased it into her mouth, and
they were kissing through the flame. Snape bent her almost backwards, and she
could feel her hair hanging behind her like a chestnut flag. He withdrew and
the bond was suddenly broken again, and she breathed in great gasps that shook
the dark air around them. Snape kept his hand wound tightly around her own, and
tugged.
“Come.”
***
Snape’s synapses were still firing blue sparks behind his eyes as he dragged
Hermione up, up the stairs. His cock was tight against his trousers and he
could not drag her quickly enough up the tower. In another time this could have
been done slowly, seductively, the drowsy flirtation of two magical creatures
falling in love over books, coffee, and wine. Snape watched this happen to
colleagues, to Lily and James, even occasionally between Death Eaters, though
that was generally punctuated by at least a few episodes of torture and murder.
It was never for him.
A small keening noise called him back to the present and he realized he had
been dragging Hermione too fast, too viciously up, upwards. She was still
injured. But they were there, and he threw open the wooden door to the flat,
exposed rooftop on top of the tower. There was a steady rain; the night
punctuated by bursts of lightning that Hermione hid her eyes in his cape. Snape
kept his grip on her and threw the other hand up in the air. Lightning flashed
and he felt his broom was snap into his hand.
Hermione jerked away from him when she saw the broom and shook her head
furiously. Snape straddled the broom and roughly gathered her into his chest.
The rain streaked down their robes, turned her hair into streaming rivulets. At
his command the broom rocketed them over the edge and into the night.
Hermione’s cries of fear and dismay were muffled by his chest and annihilated
by the crashing thunder.
The broom flew like an arrow, dancing out of reach of the Whomping Willow, over
Hagrid’s hut and into the Forbidden Forest, where the trees stood like black
sentinels around them. Hermione’s face stayed hidden against his chest, but she
had stopped wailing and was only slightly shaking. Snape cast a warming charm
around them both, and the cold rain became the temperature of blood, dripping
down between the leaves.
A small, dense copse of trees stood around a clearing, and Snape slowed his
broom. In the middle of the clearing was a stump, top sheared away long ago by
lightning, with the remains of the trunk standing jagged agains the night like
a throne made of broken glass. Snape let his broom drift to the ground, and set
Hermione on her feet. She looked up at him through her lank hair and she looked
much younger than she was. His jaw tightened. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Then opened them again.
Steam rose off the shimmering warming charm around them, and Snape shrugged off
his robe. He clasped her hands in his, gently this time, and kissed her palms.
The questions in her eyes held, but she did not speak. Snape sighed again.
“Nothing I can say to you will make sense, or make this right, Hermione.” The
rain dripped from his hair to land on her face. “I cannot say this will work or
is even necessary. Everything is uncertain. Everything is at stake. But I must
try, as you would be the most important, the best kept secret.”
He clasped her hands to his cheeks. Part of him was disgusted, he was pleading
with her, even though she would not remember it. “You will be a secret kept
even from yourself. And I cannot even deny that I want it, want to do this
thing to you, though it will almost certainly lead to my eternal damnation.”
Hermione bit her lip, the raindrops falling like tears on her face. Her dark
brown eyes gazed at him and he realized the copse was lit with her flames,
dancing around their ankles. He slipped into her mind unintentionally, her eyes
inviting him in, and he saw Sirius die, the purple pain of Dolohov’s curse, and
a glint of understanding how serious and deadly a war between magic users could
be. She did not know nearly enough. But he could keep it from her, keep it from
twisting her insides to mirror his own.
Her palms were warm on his cheeks and he leaned forward, gently kissing her.
Her hands moved from his cheeks into his wet hair and she drew him closer to
her. The little bluebell flames were larger, small fires that swirled and
licked licked up their legs. Snape pushed Hermione’s robes off her shoulders
and felt her small breasts beneath her woolen jumper. He groaned into her mouth
and felt his cock come alive once again. He pressed its length against her and
he felt her respond, pushing herself against the hardness. Their kisses grew
savage and she bit his lip, small canine finding blood.
Suddenly the blue light was all around them, and he picked Hermione up,
wrapping her legs around his waist. Her woolen skirt bunched between them and
he felt her heat close against him. He carried her to the ragged stump, and set
her down in the center of the jagged black halo. Clothing askew, eyes dilated
and swollen lips—she looked like an offering. She was an offering.
He pulled the jumper off, buttons flew as he ripped open her chaste white shirt
and he lathed her nipples with his tongue, sucking and devouring her breasts.
She arched off the stump into his mouth, gasping and struggling to somehow draw
him even closer to her. He hooked his fingers into the top of her skirt and
pulled down, dragging down her panties with it. She was naked then, naked
except for her shiny black mary janes and knee socks. Naked and writhing under
his ranging lips.
He tasted the soft divot of her navel, then moved beneath the wispy brown hair
between her legs. She nearly sat up when his tongue touched her folds, then
crashed down again, moaning and shuddering. He gloried in the taste of her, in
the cries from her lips, her thighs pressing tight against him, urging him on.
The entire copse was now lit, almost daylight, but an eerie blue, only
punctuated by the bright white bursts of lightning above.
The small heels of her shiny black mary janes drove into his back and her hands
wove tightly into his hair. But he stopped, stopped though he wanted to keep
going forever. Because it was time.
Snape ripped open the front of his own shirt and drew out a small blade. He cut
a long, shallow slash across his bare chest, red line bisecting many other old
scars. He swiped a line across Hermione’s chest and she cried out, though her
cry of pain was so similar to her cries of pleasure that he could hardly
distinguish it.
He chanted low in his throat, words rounded and ancient, not heard aloud in
hundreds of years. The lightning crashed almost constantly, and the copse
flashed blue and white. He opened his trousers and pulled out his cock. Snape
touched his hand to his chest, feeling the blood and rain mix, then touched the
shallow graze on Hermione’s chest. The blood mingled in his palm and he smeared
it on his cock.
Bellowing the last few words of the incantation into the night, he thrust his
cock into her, and she arched into him. He bent until their chests were pressed
together and kept thrusting, driving Hermione into the blackened stump. She
whimpered into his ear. He reached down until his thumb was on her nub and she
became electric beneath him, biting his shoulder and clawing his arms. Hermione
wailed again panting and crying and then was still for a single moment. Snape
reached his rhythm and roared as he came in great gouts between her legs.
The blue light that had suffused the copse banked into smoke, and withdrew into
a fog around Hermione. The rain had stopped and she glowed lightly in the mist.
Snape withdrew his cock and slowly slumped to the ground, feeling drained, yet
exquisite. He rubbed his temples and could feel the sharp sting of the slice
across his chest. A hand lightly stroked his hair and he realized that Hermione
had sat up on the stump. She looked regal, naked on her jagged throne, and he
was cast between her legs, on the ground, nothing before her fairy majesty. Not
even the small pool of semen and blood between her legs ruined the effect. She
was still glowing slightly, but did not seem to notice it. He kissed her knee,
and stood up, pushing himself back into his trousers.
He drew his wand lightly across his chest, then hers, sealing in the leaking
blood. Snape kissed her again, could not resist it, and she smiled at him. His
heart felt drained and raw. Much more than it should have, even after that most
ancient of spells. He felt much older than his age, a ragged old man, a faded
shadow of his former self. Still, the spell had worked and Hermione fairly
hummed with magic. Not too much and not all at once.
But over time she would become the most beloved of weapons against his master.
He matched her smile then, and whispered:
“Obliviate.”
Chapter End Notes
     Well, that took a while. I didn't edit it, will do that over the next
     couple of days. Sorry for mistakes.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
He saw blue and white lightning tracers behind his eyes for weeks. And he
didn’t mind. Blue flames danced and licked the edges of his vision, and he
imagined her beneath him once again. He almost smiled. He had to be careful not
to smile.
Snape didn’t miss the bit of his power that he gave to her. He didn’t miss it
much. Oh, one of his potions would be waxy instead of shiny. His curses lost
their ragged bite. But not so you’d notice, if you weren’t looking. In the
meantime he gloried in looking at her, sparking with life and power, always
outshining the other idiot students. His heart would still catch at the memory
of kissing her soft, white thigh, pressed against the ragged stump. He would
occasionally visit the clearing, and run a hand down his chest, down over his
hard cock. The memory of her, the taste, the scent of her was fresh in his mind
and it was all he could do to veil it from prying minds. Dumbledore and
Voldemort. Neither were his masters now; there was only her. Hermione.
But how to have her again? It was critical that he possess her, that he give
himself to her. Slowly, take his time—it wouldn’t do to become over-eager. But
she was a fresh, raw addiction. And she was oblivious. Obliviated.
That night he had gently deposited her in her bed, cleaned, fresh, asleep and
yet glowing, even then. The next morning Snape cast a bored gaze over the
students at breakfast, and there she was, book in one hand, toast in the other
hand, completely absorbed. So absorbed that she’d slowly stop chewing the toast
and then remember that she was eating again when she’d turn the page. Weasley
got her poached egg, and a rasher of her bacon and she only managed a withering
look. Snape felt a sudden panic when he realized he had been staring for far
too long. He forced his face into a sneer, and focused on his coffee.
She was safe in her oblivion. He pushed away from the table and stalked away.
Hermione watched him leave over the top of her book.
XXXX
Tigger and Paddington Bear stared at her accusingly. It was a show-down, played
out across a pastel blue duvet. She was determined to pack them up, to put away
childish things. Hermione sat cross-legged on her bed, surveying her room.
After Hogwarts, summers at home were a bit drab. Thankfully so, honestly, but
she did miss Harry and Ron, and…other things that she couldn’t quite think of
at the moment. She leaned back against the photo collage over her bed and
picked out a bit of flimsy paper with florid purple font.
It was her old ticket to the Yule Ball. It seemed like ages had passed since,
the Triwizard tournament, Dolores Umbridge and her blood quill, the battle that
had cost the life of Sirius. The thin scar that stretched across her torso. It
all seemed unreal in this little girl’s room. She leaned forward, snatched
Tigger and Paddington and threw them under the bed.
Almost without thinking she stretched a hand in front of her, and a small blue
flame flickered into life. Casting her bluebell flame comforted her, while at
the same time made her feel like a witch again. A true witch, from the
fairytale books, clever and a bit sinister, controlling old magick over a
cauldron. The spark grew into a fiery mandala, circling in front of her. She
caressed it, shaped the edges into waves, into the shape of scales on a
dragon’s neck. Wouldn’t Ron and Harry be surprised, with her official birthday
not until September, doing magic outside of Hogwarts.
She smiled and let the flame flicker out.
XXXX
He stood over her, disgusted at himself. Disgusted, but needing her, even so.
Snape rattled around Hogwarts after the students left, summoned by Dumbledore,
then summoned by Voldemort, tired of their machinations. Wanting only her. Her
light coral lips, her corkscrew curls, deep honey-brown eyes. So, this.
Moonlight in a girls’ bedroom in a London suburb.
She was breathing lightly, light blue duvet only half-covering her, a worn
“Tigger” doll clutched under one arm. He hated this. He was hard.
He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Hermione.” Every syllable a
caress. She gave a low moan and turned over, eyelids fluttering, opening, eyes
fixing on his figure, and his hand was over her mouth before she could scream.
Once she recognized him, he slowly removed his hand from her mouth.
“Professor Snape, is…is something wrong, is Harry….?” he replaced his hand over
her mouth.
“Shhhhhhh. Nothing is wrong.” Her eyes held sleepy questions, then cleared. He
did not move his hand. She lay very still, her only movement her small breasts,
raising, falling, filling her chest with air, exhaling through her nose. Then,
the smallest of movements, her lips pursed against his hand in a soft kiss. He
raised his hand, clutching the faint impression, then crashed his lips into
hers. He kissed her deeply, probingly, hands in her hair, hands flowing down
her chest, over her flimsy nightgown and she reached up to him, hungrily,
drawing him down into the bed. His hand bumped against something
furry—Tigger—and he threw it over the side of the bed.
He had her nightgown up, and was lathing her breasts, like he’d imagined so
many times as he watched her scratch words onto parchment, stirring a cauldron,
waving her wand over a book. He took one of her nipples into his mouth and she
made a small keening noise in her throat. Without thinking, he started to cast
a quick Muffliato, but stopped. No, no new magic.
Instead, he pressed a finger against her lips again. Her lips parted, and her
tongue darted out to caress his thumb. He was entranced, then pushed it farther
in her mouth. She met his gaze, shadows in moonlight, and sucked gently. Snape
snarled and drew back, freeing his straining cock from his trousers. She half-
crawled out from under the duvet, and he pulled her toward him, down, and
pressed his cock against her lips.
They were still for a moment, his cockhead pressing, demanding to be taken by
her lips. And then she opened her lips and drew him in, and his fingers tangled
in her hair. He drove himself into her mouth, luxuriating in her tongue, in her
warm wetness. He hadn’t noticed that he closed his eyes, but when he opened
them, blue flames were roiling around the bed, fire wheels turning into sacred
geometry around them.
How could she know, what could she be thinking? He had shown up in the middle
of the night, and was taking her in the house of her parents, taking her hard,
without quarter. He didn’t care. He thrust into her mouth.
Two or three more thrusts and he pulled her away from him by her hair,
glistening strands of saliva and precum linking her mouth with his cock. He
forcefully turned her over and spread her legs. Nothing could keep him away
from her. He drove his cock into her from behind, and she grabbed the thin
rails of her headboard, gasping, shuddering, blue flames sliding off her
glistening back.
He clenched his teeth and rode her hard, driving her into the headboard, not
caring about her stupid Muggle parents hearing their daughter’s moans, needing
her beyond all reason. Snape reached around her and plucked at her clit in time
with his deep thrusts, provoking Hermione into a keen of pleasure. The bed was
being driven against the wall, and he was certain that at any moment her
parents would come in, the Order of the Phoenix would fly through the window,
hell, sodding Voldemort could rise out of the floor. It didn’t matter.
The blue flames engulfed him, forcing themselves down his throat, burning at
his fingers as they wrapped around Hermione’s hips, his heart was going like
mad, and she came, shuddering, white-knuckled grip on the headboard, and he
roared after her, emptying himself between her thighs.
When he opened his eyes, he realized he had half-collapsed on Hermione, both
flattened. A high-pitched hum rang in his ears, like he had just heard a crash
or an explosion. He was still inside of her, a slight movement slipping him
out, messy. Weak. So very weak. Hermione stirred beneath him, and he rolled
off, afraid of her eyes.
She pushed the hair out of his eyes and stroked his cheek. Blue sparks glinted
in her hair. He marveled at her.
“You are doing this to me, aren’t you?” Hermione rolled onto her side and waved
a lock of hair at him.
Snape was silent, a shadow of regret. After a long moment, he found the
strength to speak, “Yes. But how did you know?”
“My Bluebell flame has gotten brighter, high, and sometimes wild.” A large
whirling pool of fire wooshed into existence over their bodies, bathing them in
a blue glow. Just as suddenly it winked out again. Snape stroked her face, her
breasts, traced the lines of her body. But he couldn’t tarry.
He sat up, straightened his clothes, and turned back to her. She was watching
him, eyes wide. He leaned forward, but she broke his gaze and looked down.
“Why won’t you let me remember? We have done this before, I could feel it. ”
He sighed. “It’s for the best. It’s for your protection.”
She still wouldn’t look at him. He cruelly grabbed her chin and forced her head
up.
“Obliviate.”
Chapter End Notes
     Dirty. Sorry. I'll come back and check for errors and awkwardness
     later.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     This is the parallel chapter to The Jade Snake, so there is some
     overlap, but it shouldn't be too bad.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
This appointment, this thing he would have welcomed, delighted in, just a few
years ago now became a source of dread. Finally, Snape achieved his most
beloved and desired goal, to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had worked
over the curriculum in his mind so many times, it was like a well-worn Knut.
But now, he couldn’t be bothered to change the teaching, did not care to
interweave the shades of light and dark into the deep grey tapestry that the
subject deserved. There was only her.
His heart still quickened to think back to fucking her in her bedroom in her
parents’ house, so sure they would be caught, but completely without care. He
longed to stay with her, curled up on that ridiculous, girlish bed, wrapped
around her like a wolf or a dragon, possessive and fierce. The killing curse
for any who would bother them.
If he could muster it, that is. That was his other worry about leading DADA,
his magic was decidedly lackluster these days. Damped, diminished—he could hide
it for a while, but could he demonstrate a truly vicious dueling technique?
Could he intervene if the classroom drills became too intense, too serious?
He…wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure for the first time in his career, because he had
given so much to her. He couldn’t regret it though, as her eyes sparked new
trails across the night sky. Everything was hers to have. He hoped she’d shove
it down Tom Riddle’s fucking throat.
Yes, that was still the endgame. His secret weapon. Harry was the chosen one,
Harry must die, but Hermione must live, and Snape would do everything he could
to ensure her survival. Especially if it meant fucking her blind every chance
he could. He licked his lips and downed the rest of the Ogden’s he’d kept back
for lonely nights. Still, he must be cautious. They must suspect nothing,
neither side. Nothing.
XXXX
Hermione shook off McLaggen as best as she could. His attention should have
thrilled her—what better revenge after Ron was such an unmitigated ass than to
get a snog or two off an older handsome lad, but he was uninteresting and
ultimately vile. She found evading him quite easy—most things were easy, and
Hermione was a little off tempo as a result. Things just seemed to happen in
the correct order and fashion, for instance her schoolwork but most of all her
magic. Where she once transfigured with an adept efficiency, she now was able
to perfect the most minute detail; the end result fell more real, more true
than the original. It was spooky, but she had kept it to herself, well-versed
in these small measures of self-defense that the bookish learn to hide from the
mundane world.
There was her magic, and there was the black bat of the dungeons flapping
around her belfry. Hermione never truly thought of Snape that way, but the way
his figure persisted around the edges of her consciousness was driving her to
distraction. She was hyper aware of his presence, could swear she felt his
hands on her, his fingers in her hair, but when she tried to trace the thought
it vanished into the ether. Her lower lip became torn and ragged from her
chewing on it in his presence. That he was teaching DADA did not help, it was
always her worst subject.
Hermione idly spun her hand and a blue mandala sparked into life at her
fingertips. She caught its points, sent it spinning up from her hiding place
behind Slughorn’s heavy brocade curtains, and it burst against his plaster
ceiling. Nobody seemed to notice, but Snape’s face was brought into relief in
the fragmented blue glow.
The subject of her consideration was attending the party though was keeping
close to Draco and out of her reach. Something drew her to him, and she studied
the harsh angles of his face from behind the curtain, and shifted from one leg
to the other. Unease. Unease and a certain warmth in her knickers. She was
determined to catch Snape’s attention, but saw him disappear with Draco. Damn.
Hermione turned and fled the party.
XXXX
Snape had felt the fine filaments of Hermione’s magic filter through the air to
rain down on his cheeks and shoulders. He gritted his teeth and hoped that
nobody had noticed the indoor incendiary. Perhaps only he could see them. And
he was seeing them more frequently, in his dreams but also in the classroom,
whirring around Hermione’s desk as she furiously penned her latest dull
treatise on the utility of yew trees on the battlefield. She’d gotten gist of
the entire essay in the first line—that one could hardly pick their
battlefield—but still insisted on wittering away about ley lines, medieval
churches and golems anyway.
While he usually pitied the boy, he detested Draco in that moment for taking
him away from Hermione. She was with the dullard McLaggen and he knew nothing
would come of it as the geas would violently reject any who trespassed on their
bond. He desired her so deeply he could feel it in his teeth, not to mention
his cock, but he had to clean up this Draco mess before it got worse and had to
be circumspect about his transfer of power into her. He couldn’t be certain
when Voldemort would strike, but it would still be some time and he had to
remain undetected.
Still. He hoped he might find her in a dark corner and pin her against the
wall, holding his hand across her mouth so her mewling would not disturb the
party. That hope vanished when Draco, the child, the idiot, showed up at the
party. These obligations were becoming intolerable. He needed her.
XXXX
She’d managed to duck Cormac and Ron the next day, and Harry was waxing on
about Snape and Draco’s nefarious plan, so Hermione hid herself in a book.
Amazing that one could hold a book up and everyone would ignore you and expect
to be ignored. What glorious power, with a perfect reward of immersion in a
topic that was not the inane ranting of teenaged boys. She kept her nose close
to the page over dinner, fully intending on remaining within her literary
bubble into the night and into bed.
The book had other ideas though, and as she was just about to find out the
exact chisel that was used to incise words of power into the foundation at
Hogwarts, the script swam before her eyes. The inky black squiggled across the
page and finally formed into a word:
Come.
She slowly lowered the book and found the keen black eyes of the DADA professor
glowering into her own.
XXXX
There was a tremulous knock at the door, then Hermione let herself in. Smart
girl, not lingering in the hallway to be seen by passersby. There was a slight
breeze as she entered the door, but Snape wrote it off as her increased magic
and therefore her increased presence as a witch. He sat in his desk chair as
she advanced to him. She was still in her school robes, with shiny black mary
janes sticking out from beneath the drab fabric.. The darkness roiled in his
veins as his desire for Hermione in this raw form overtook him.
Hermione asked why he’d brought her to the office, was there something wrong?
Perhaps with her schoolwork? Or something else?
Snape felt the edges of his lips turn up. “Something else,” he reassured her.
“Something entirely different. Come closer and take off your robe.”
As if compelled, Hermione’s hands reached up to the clasp and undid it. She
seemed surprised as the robe pooled around her feet. Snape leaned forward,
emboldened by their bond. His hand reached between Hermione’s knees and she
trembled at his touch. He moved slowly, so slowly, upwards until his hand was
firmly against her pants.
Snape’s mouth curled further upwards. “Wet? Disgraceful girl.” He grabbed her
inner thighs possessively, dragging her closer to him. He twined his other hand
into her hair and pulled her into his lips.
XXXX
Hermione’s thoughts were scattered, Professor Snape was touching her, touching
her, and now his tongue was inside of her mouth. It felt sudden, but also
familiar, rehearsed. Snape gently nipped her lower lip and dragged his lips
across her face to lathe her ear and neck. She moaned and the sound was foreign
to hear ears, but she could tell that such an utterance had come from her lips
before. When? And how?
But her speculation was annihilated in the next moment as Snape’s hands were
everywhere, on her breasts, in her hair, between her legs. With a flick of his
wand he removed her jumper, tie, and shirt. Hermione was naked from the waist
up, and Snape kissed and sucked at her like a man dying. It was infinitely,
intimately right, while also completely new. Hermione recognized the sensation
from her time turner, that not-quite-rightness of a memory charm. At the moment
it was irrelevant as Snape worked his hand under her panties and against her
cunt. His fingers brushed against her clit and she leaned into him with a moan.
He knew her, knew her body, she thought, just as one long finger penetrated her
folds. He hooked his finger forward and new sensations thrilled through her.
Hermione thrashed against his hand, into Snape’s mouth, moaning her wanting,
needing him. He withdrew his hand from her panties and thrust her away from
himself. She was startled, wanted to rebel, then found herself lifted onto the
edge of his desk. Snape pulled her panties down viciously, and dove between her
legs. Snape’s tongue and mouth brought Hermione to the edge immediately and she
found herself writhing against him, so close to her climax, she could almost
taste it.
In that instant, Snape stepped away. Without haste, but with great efficiency,
Snape unbuttoned his trousers. His cock was huge to Hermione’s eyes, standing
proud and demanding everything of her. Still perched on the desk, Hermione felt
her fingers tighten around the edge, and wondered if he was going to hurt her.
He slid the head of his cock against her wet folds once, nudging her clit and
oh, but then down again, twice, and found her entrance. Hermione braced
herself, but Snape’s hand moved to her clit and he kissed her fully. Jolted out
of her fear, Hermione responded to the kiss, only to have Snape fully lodge
himself deep within her. It took her breath away and she gasped and clutched
the front of his shirt. She felt no pain, only an immense fullness and again
the strange deja vu of having done this before, some other time, some other
place.
Snape was not gentle, fucking her fully and pressing her against the desk until
she knew she would be bruised. His hand continued working at her clit and her
elusive orgasm was nearing once again. The desk was shifting and rocking
beneath her and she distractedly saw papers falling off the edges, and a
curious green statue of a snake in the corner, shaking in time with their
lovemaking. She screwed her eyes closed and concentrated on the fields of
sparking blue behind her eyelids. Snape was fucking her into oblivion and she
had no idea why.
Tears streaked down Hermione’s face as her hips jerked up into Snape’s, and her
head fell back as she came with complete abandon. Snape came at that moment
with a deep moan, spending himself deep inside of her.
Somewhere in the hazy aftermath, Hermione heard a loud creak from the direction
of the door. She went for her wand, but Snape was faster, and he cast a stunner
toward the door. Toward…nothing. Hermione shivered and grabbed her jumper to
cover herself while Snape stalked to the door. He muttered something and
Hermione called after him, “Who is it?”
Snape knelt as if to inspect something, then shrugged. “Nobody, Hermione.”
She finished pulling on her jumper, and tugged it low, but it was not quite low
enough. It slipped off one of her shoulders. Snape straightened and turned
toward her once again
XXXX
Hermione was the very image of perfection, perched on the edge of his desk,
freshly fucked, hair and jumper in disarray. She hadn’t had time to take off
her shoes and they only added to the image of debauchery, school-issue black
patent Mary Janes. He wanted her again, he wanted her always, he wanted to
disappear into her, give her everything until nothing remained of his tired old
husk.
He would take care of that small matter of the intruder later. For now, he
moved back between her legs and caressed her cheek. The air around Hermione
buzzed with his magic, and though he felt the drain, her incandescent beauty
more than made up for his loss. He wondered how many more times he had with her
until his magic was wholly hers. Looking into her dark brown eyes, he suddenly,
fiercely and for the first time, wanted to somehow survive the war. The thought
was laughable, impossible…but he would think about that later.
Snape caught Hermione’s lips between his own and kissed her fully, savoring the
familiarity even through Hermione’s confusion. She kissed him, but then pushed
him gently back.
“What is this? My body knows you, but my mind…?” Snape could see the confusion,
the half-forgotten flashes of memory that his repeated Obliviations were
causing. The temptation to leave her memory intact was strong, but it was too
risky.
“My darling, darling girl. You are everything to me, but you cannot know it.”
Hermione frowned. “Why not?”
“You must remain unaware of your power until it is time. He must never know,
until it is too late, and you help Harry destroy him.”
“You…you’ve been giving me your magic, while we….” she looked down,
embarrassed. “Is this the only way?”
“Are you not enjoying this?” He asked, though he knew the answer from her
pained cries, the repeated pattering of her heels on his back.
“No…yes…it is just difficult not to remember.” He drew her into his arms.
“It must be this way.” It was a half-truth, there were other ways of
transferring magic, but they were violent, tragic, and Snape enjoyed fucking
Miss Granger so thoroughly that he would not disabuse her of her misconception.
But he had already kept her too long, told her too much.
“Now, it is time.” He smoothed her hair, picked up her clothing. Hermione
choked back a sob, allowed him to help her into her skirt, to button her shirt.
After a last, lingering kiss, he pulled back and whispered:
“Obliviate.”
As Hermione mechanically turned and walked out the door, Snape sighed. This
venture would lead to his death—there was no other way out. But perhaps, as he
looked at the redhead on the floor, he could stopper death in the most
unexpected way.
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry, unedited, will come back and edit it later.
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