Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2353028.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Hermione_Granger/Severus_Snape, Implied_Hermione_Granger/Ron_Weasley_-
      Relationship
  Additional Tags:
      Porn, Smut, Dark, Collaboration, Non-Consensual, Blackmail, Teacher-
      Student_Relationship, Cross-Generation_Relationship, Age_Difference,
      Dirty_Talk, Abuse_of_Authority, Underage_Sex, Sexual_Coercion, Voyeurism,
      Masturbation, Cunnilingus, Oral_Sex, Half-Blood_Prince_AU, Explicit
      Sexual_Content, NSFW_Art, Embedded_Images, Het, Hate_Sex, Evil_snape,
      Teasing, Edging, Begging, Twisted, Fucked_Up, Vaginal_Sex, Power
      Imbalance, Creepy, Bad_Touch, Emotional_Manipulation, Not_Canon
      Compliant, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon, Filthy, Depraved, Moral
      Bankruptcy, Internalized_Misogyny, Rape_Culture
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-08-16 Words: 6773
****** The Secret-Keeper ******
by Saucery, switchknife_(Saucery)
Summary
     Knowledge is power, but endurance is strength.
     (A collaboration with the wonderful artist, Lizard. All the art
     herein is hers!)
Notes
     Originally posted on Erotic_Elves, for the following Fantasy Fest
     prompt by buffyspazz: "Snape/Hermione - Snape blackmails Hermione
     into having sex with him to keep her grade high (or whatever); I'd
     love something dark and borderline non-con, NOT where they end up as
     a happy couple later on."
     Please note that while this story contains HBP spoilers, it is a
     sixth-year AU and is thus not canon compliant. Snape is still
     teaching Potions, and both Harry and Ron use the Prince's book to
     cheat. Anything to become Aurors, right? Oh, and I've made Hogwarts
     have a really strict policy on cheating. It had to be strict, to make
     this bunny work!
     Here are Lizard's artist notes: Five illustrations; approx. 12 hours
     in total; tablet on Open Canvas; 3 of the pictures are NOT worksafe;
     the pictures total 527kb in size.
===============================================================================
[http://lizardjunk.net/art/porn/pornsshgsketches1.jpg]
“Ah, Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice was sly and sinuous, far too satisfied for
Hermione’s comfort. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Hermione frowned as she closed the door behind her. She never liked visiting
Snape’s office, partly because of its dank, musty smell, and partly because of
the vague sense of danger she felt whenever she was here. Rows of bottles
glittered like eyes on the sturdy shelves, and smoky little cobwebs hid the
room’s shadowed corners.
“Well?” Snape gestured with a large, black-feathered quill. “Do sit down. You
have something to ask me, do you not?”
She took the offered chair in front of his desk. It felt distinctly odd that
Snape should be so civil; he did nothing but snarl and scowl during his
classes, and was barely polite to Hermione as a rule. “With all due respect,
sir, I don’t understand why you failed my potion today. It was the exact shade
of magenta you showed us, and—”
“Passed.” Snape flicked his quill, negligibly, as if to swat a fly.
“W-what?”
“Passed, Miss Granger. I’ve changed my mind; I believe your potion more than
fulfilled my requirements. You,” and here he smiled, strangely, “have more than
fulfilled them.”
Hermione stared at him. What, he was going to pass her just like that? Without
a quibble? Who was this man and what had he done with Severus Snape? “Sir...”
She hesitated, knowing that this was a dangerous question to ask, but she had
to know. No one took Hermione Granger’s marks without reason. “If I may ask,
why did you fail my potion in the first place?”
“Why?” Snape tapped his quill against the desk thoughtfully, as if pondering a
matter of great import. His eyes were black, flat, entirely expressionless.
“Why do you think, Miss Granger?”
God, she didn’t have time for Snape’s mind games. There were at least three
essays due this Friday. “I… don’t know, sir.”
“Oh, how it must hurt you to say that. To admit to something you don’t know.”
Snape leaned forward in his chair, face suddenly sharp and attentive. “But I
rather think that you do know the cause this time as well, loathe as I am to
say it. Tell me, have you ever seen an old, dog-eared copy of Advanced Potions
Making, one with detailed notes scribbled in the margins?”
She stiffened. Relaxed immediately, but not before she saw Snape’s eyes flash
in triumph. “No, sir,” she said anyway, wondering why she was bothering to
protest when it was obvious Snape didn’t believe her. “I haven’t.”
“Really.” Snape raised an eyebrow. “I find that fascinating, you see. Because I
could have sworn,” and here he made a show of rifling through the marking
sheets on his desk, “that three particular students scored extraordinarily high
marks on my last test. One of them was you, which wasn’t, alas, a surprise—but
the other two...” He waved his hand. “Let’s just say they weren’t expected to
do so well.”
Hermione swallowed, but Snape only smirked at her.
“Would you care to guess the names of the other two students?”
She stayed silent; she couldn’t turn in her friends, even if school regulations
demanded it.
“My, my. You’re not your usual precocious self today, Miss Granger. This is the
second question you’ve failed to answer; I hope you don’t make a habit of it.”
He looked at her closely, fingers stroking his quill. “The only logical reason
for under-performing students to suddenly start over-performing is cheating;
either they were consulting a text far more free with details than the text
prescribed to them, or they had assistance from another, normally over-
performing student.”
No. God, no. She hadn’t come this far to—to be dragged down because Harry and
Ron were stupid enough to cheat.
“Weasley and Potter—the two cheaters, as you’re quite aware—have achieved too
outstanding a grade on the last test for it to be entirely their work. That
would make you a cheater, too, Miss Granger, if you assisted them, or if you
knew of their using... a certain book... and didn’t report it to a professor.
Such as myself.”
“I—I didn’t! I’m not—”
“Not what? A cheater? You most assuredly are, if that red face of yours is
anything to go by.”
How did Snape know about Harry’s book, anyway? “You can’t prove that there’s
such a book, and I didn’t help them, I swear. I didn’t.”
“I can’t prove it, you say? Very well.” Snape stood up, stepping around the
desk and placing his hand on her shoulder. She flinched. “I might believe you
when you say that you didn’t help them, Miss Granger. But if there’s no such
book in Gryffindor, I’ll be happily proven wrong today—because you and I are
going there, now. Potter’s and Weasley’s schoolbags will be emptied, as will
your own.”
Hermione didn’t move. Her blood had gone cold, all of a sudden, at the thought
of what this meant: Snape would find that damn book in Harry’s bag, and both
Harry and Ron would fail because of it. It would ruin their academic records
and Hermione’s, because Hermione would fail as punishment. For not telling.
For—
“Not eager to return to Gryffindor? How strange.” Snape’s palm slid from her
shoulder to her neck, curling around it in something that was half-caress,
half-threat—and that was wrong enough to distract Hermione from the prospect of
failure, to make her jerk back from his touch. “Tsk. It appears that you are a
cheater, after all...”
This was... Hermione couldn’t believe it. She’d come down here to recover her
marks, not to lose them, and to make Ron and Harry lose theirs as well. They’d
only wanted to become Aurors, the idiots, and she’d told them not to cheat,
she’d warned them—
“There is one way, however, that you might escape, with both your marks and
your reputation intact.” Snape moved away from her then, leaning against his
desk. “I know very well that if I let you go now, you’ll return to your friends
and tell them, and then that book will disappear from Hogwarts, never to be
found again. I can only prove your guilt if I take you to Gryffindor
immediately, not giving you any time to... erase the evidence, as it were.”
Hermione looked up at him, recognizing instantly what Snape was doing; he was
negotiating with her, which was as Slytherin an approach as one might expect.
All that remained was for Snape to reveal what he wanted in exchange—and now,
with panicky sweat on her skin and a ruined future hanging over her like a
guillotine, Hermione felt more than willing to listen. “What… What do you
want?”
Snape’s mouth quirked briefly, pleased. “Ah, there’s your usual acuity. It’s
very much a part of what makes you so… appealing.” Hermione felt a strange
frisson of fear at that. No. Snape couldn’t mean—wouldn’t— “All you have to do
is entertain me, Miss Granger, for the period of a lengthy detention, except
you won’t be serving it in the standard manner.” Snape’s eyes grew even darker,
somehow, and suddenly—suddenly, Hermione knew. Was shaken, shocked, rocked to
the core—but she knew.
“No.” She was shaking her head and rising from her chair before she realized
it. “I can’t believe—No. I won’t.”
“Won’t what, Granger? I haven’t even stated my terms.” Oh, that wicked face, as
calm and sated as if Snape had already—
“You. I know what you want.”
Snape stepped forward once again. “And what is it that I want, Miss Granger?”
“Don’t come any closer.” Hermione tried to move back, but Snape’s hand shot out
and grabbed her, his fingers closing around her wrist like a vise. “Let go!”
            [http://lizardjunk.net/art/porn/pornsshgsketches2.jpg]
“You’re remarkably modest, Granger, for a girl who’s already parted her legs.”
Hermione started, and Snape smiled again. “That’s right. I know about Weasley,
and I know that you’re far from a virgin.” That hand of his shifted, his
fingers sliding under her sleeve. “I’m not asking for your maidenhood. All I
want is a few hours, a few mere hours in exchange for the careers of your
friends—and yours, which I know you hold most dear.”
Hermione reached for her wand, but her left hand wasn’t as quick as her right,
and that was the one Snape had captured. Snape’s other hand got there first,
striking fast as a snake, plucking Hermione’s wand free.
“How the mighty have fallen. The great Harry Potter’s comrade-in-arms, helpless
before a Death Eater...” He tossed her wand backwards, and Hermione heard it
clatter on the desk. “You’ll do what I say, or you’ll regret it; you haven’t a
choice, you realize. A secret holds power, and the only way to balance a secret
is with another one. I’m giving you a trump card, Granger; I’m giving you a
secret of my own. If you comply with my... desires, you shall leave here with
the knowledge of what I have done to you, but you won’t tell anyone, because if
you do, you’ll have to confess your own secret, as well. Similarly, I won’t
reveal my knowledge of your cheating, because to do so would put me at risk.”
He leaned closer, and she felt his lips brush her ear. “You do understand,
don’t you?”
Oh, Hermione understood, all right. She stood there, trembling, filled with a
rage that threatened to shatter her bones; her body wanted to fight, wanted to
struggle against the ever-closing circle of Snape’s arms, against the moving,
unwanted caress of his mouth. She wanted to claw his face, wanted to demand how
he could do this to her, how he could even ask—
But she knew what would happen, then. A trip up to Gryffindor, and humiliation
in front of everyone; Harry’s and Ron’s shocked, betrayed faces, thinking that
she’d confessed. The knowledge that, yes, she’d had a chance at saving their
careers, but had balked at it—a knowledge that would eat at her, year after
year, with the words just a few hours echoing through her mind.
So she stood still, drawing in a shaky breath as Snape pushed her robes off her
shoulders, as he ran two palms up her shirt-clad waist, briefly touching her
breasts.
“Yes.” Snape’s approving whisper slid against her neck in a hot shift of air,
making her shudder. “I knew you’d understand, bright student that you are; I
wouldn’t have bothered with any of the others.”
Hermione’s pulse skipped. Others? No. No...
“You’ll cooperate with me, Granger, because I happen to like my partners
willing; put up a struggle and our deal is off.” His fingers skimmed over her
clothed nipples.
She scarcely tolerated that, ignoring the warmth that rose unbidden in her
belly. But when he made to kiss her, she couldn’t help wrenching her head away.
“That’s enough! You can—you can do—what you have to, but don’t make me
participate in my own rape.”
“Your own—” Snape’s fingers were at her jaw, suddenly, digging into it
painfully. “You will cooperate, Granger. Or we go up to Gryffindor right now,
and you lose this particular game of cards.” His grip loosened, sliding down to
cup her breast. “I had planned to use you gently. Don’t make me reconsider.”
That’s when Hermione realized how foolish she was, thinking that she could even
resist—unarmed and defenseless, she was as capable of fighting Snape as any
Muggle woman was of fighting a much larger rapist. She should have hexed him
before he ever touched her, before—
“Don’t start panicking, now.” Snape was mouthing her neck again, unbuttoning
her shirt. “Clever little Granger. Assess the situation, as that no doubt sharp
mind of yours is wont to do. Admit that surrender is the best option; once
we’re done you may leave, no questions asked, and I won’t be able to ask this
of you again.”
He shifted away, then, observing her—and Hermione closed her eyes, not wanting
to see his expression, not wanting to see anything. She was suddenly acutely
aware of the straps of her now-exposed bra, its fabric against her skin—and
Snape’s fingers grazed it briefly, admiringly, before retreating altogether.
“You may undress, Miss Granger. Take your time.”
No, she did not want to take her time; she wanted this to be over as soon as
possible, preferably now. But she didn’t want him to—to touch her either—
“You can do it yourself, or I can spell your clothes away. It’s entirely your
choice.”
So Hermione undressed, forced to open her eyes for this—her fingers mechanical
and efficient as they reached behind her to unhook her bra, as they pushed her
skirt and her—her underwear—down her hips. Cool air brushed her thighs, making
her shiver.
            [http://lizardjunk.net/art/porn/pornsshgsketches3.jpg]
There was a long, heavy silence, and Hermione was forced to look up; Snape was
still standing against his desk, his eyes on her, the back of one hand pressed
against his mouth. He was still as if Immobilised.
Eventually he moved towards her again, his steps measured and purposeful;
Hermione nearly reached for her fallen clothes, then, and kept herself in place
by sheer force of will. Snape walked around her slowly, as if surveying
purchased goods; he finally stopped behind her, curving two arms around her
until he could cup her breasts.
A sudden contact of skin-on-skin—Hermione sucked in a quivering breath, trapped
between the cool, careful lift of Snape’s hands and the rough brush of his
robes at her back.
“Perfect,” he murmured, running a thumb across one nipple, watching over her
shoulder as it puckered. “You’re as soft as satin...”
Hermione didn’t want to hear that—didn’t want to know what Snape thought,
didn’t want to be this—this object on display. She hated being invaded like
this, being forced to stand and take it like this, Snape’s touch cold but far
too human. A horrid thought occurred to her: “How do I know you won’t just
Obliviate me?” And make me do this again, next week?
Snape sighed in irritation. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve seen the after-effects
of an Obliviate; I can’t have you wandering up to Gryffindor looking dazed and
confused, with odd spaces in your memory. That would incriminate me.” He seemed
almost amused at her expression. “No, Miss Granger. I’m afraid I need you
fully...” He ran the cool, wand-callused tip of his thumb over her nipple
again, flicking it until she gasped. “Cognisant.”
Finally, he rested a hand on her back and gave her a firm but gentle push. “My
quarters are through that door. As is my bedroom.”
He followed her there, and Hermione did her best not to focus on the details:
the sudden shock of warm, plush carpet under her bare feet instead of cold
stone, as well as the dark, luminous ebony of Snape’s furniture. Of the sofas.
Of the—the bed—
“Remember that you must cooperate fully with my demands, Granger, or this
little... tryst... is over.”
Tryst? Hermione dug her nails into her palms to keep from slapping him, to keep
from covering herself. She knew that both actions were futile.
“Get on the bed, on your back.”
Hermione complied slowly, reluctance making her movements stiff. Her swinging
breasts embarrassed her, precisely because they drew Snape’s gaze.
“That’s it.” Snape’s eyes gleamed when he saw her lying in the centre of his
bed, quiet and unwillingly quiescent. “Part your legs.”
God, no. Not...
“Part your legs, girl. Lift your knees. Open your thighs. It’s simple.”
It was impossible not to tremble. “I—”
“Do it.” Snape only tilted his head to one side, studying her. “Or I’ll do it
for you.”
No. Not his hands. Hermione knew he’d touch her eventually—she could see it in
his eyes, in the way his fingers curved into loose, grasping fists—but she
wouldn’t allow it any sooner than she had to. Taking a deep breath, she lifted
her thighs and parted them, planting her feet less than a feet apart.
Snape snorted. “Farther than that, Granger. You know what I want.”
Oh, yes, it was obvious what Snape wanted. Farther. Far enough to see...
Her heart clenching painfully, she shifted her feet further away from each
other, until she was bared completely to Snape—until she felt the nearly
nonexistent breeze of the dungeons move against her, absorbing her heat.
“Good.” Snape seemed transfixed, his eyes dark and still. His mouth was parted,
as if he could breathe her in. “Touch yourself.”
Hermione stared up at him, shocked. What did he just say?
When she remained unmoving for too long, Snape ran out of patience. “I said
touchyourself, Granger.” He twisted a sneer at her. “Masturbate. Surely you
have some inkling of what I speak? Or are Gryffindors so saintly as to not be
intimate with their own bodies?”
She flushed, trying not to think of the nights she spent under the covers,
fingers sliding under her panties—or of how Ron had done it for her, a few
times, with Hermione muffling quiet moans against his shoulder. But she didn’t
want to think of that now, didn’t want to dirty it; this was sick, what Snape
was doing to her, making her do. It was nothing like what she had with Ron.
Hermione brushed a palm over her pubic hair, taking a strange comfort in its
not-quite-softness, in its wild, curling warmth; she was determined to see this
through, even if she had to pretend that Snape wasn’t watching her, wasn’t
following her hand as it made its way between its legs.
“Yes...” Snape was slightly flushed now, and one of his arms moved, briefly, as
if reaching out towards her. He stopped himself. “Stretch yourself for me. Wide
and deep.”
Stretch herself... Oh, she really didn’t want to think about that, or what it
meant, or what would follow it—so she simply sank two fingers into herself,
biting her lip at the feeling of entry, at the sudden heat that reached up to
her knuckles. Absorbing her.
“Tell me how you feel.” Snape’s voice seemed a little rougher, and Hermione had
never heard it like that; it had always been smooth, impeccable, superior and
hateful in every way. “Tell me how you feel around your fingers.”
Hermione swallowed. Her mind was empty; she didn’t know what he meant, what he
wanted her to say. Couldn’t he just fuck her?
“Tell me.” That was a growl, and Hermione dared a quick glance at his face to
see those black eyes narrowed again, glittering as if with a fever.
What she felt. Around her fingers. “Hot,” she managed, hating how her voice
shook. “Wet.”
“Wet,” Snape echoed, stepping closer, gaze still fixed between her legs. “Of
course.” He licked his lips, and for some reason that Hermione didn’t want to
understand, it made her fingers curl inside her and her hips arch despite
themselves. “Hold yourself open so that I can see just how wet you are.”
She hated him for this, hated...
“Use both your hands.”
Both. God— She pulled her fingers out, refusing to feel ashamed at how slick
they were, and then she brought her other hand down, stretching the lips of her
inner labia out on either side, holding them open like twin, slippery doors
that bared her to him. Her clitoris. Her vagina. Her... her... cunt, her mind
whispered, and the word made her ears burn.
“Merlin.” Snape was unbuttoning his robes now, his hands almost meditatively
slow, and that was frightening enough to almost make Hermione forget how
humiliated she was, exposed and vulnerable like this. “Do you know how red you
are?” The robes fell to the floor in a rustle of cloth, and Snape stepped
forward yet again. “Little red riding hood, out for a walk...” His cruel mouth
smiled, almost too pleased to be a predator’s. “And you’re wet, too, like the
greedy Gryffindor slut you are. So wet I can see you gleam...”
Hermione’s jaw clenched in anger, but Snape only seemed to find that
entertaining. He was dressed in a form-fitting waistcoat and black slacks, even
more absurdly old-fashioned than anything Hermione could have imagined—but the
way Snape talked wasn’t old-fashioned, and Hermione knew she was foolish for
thinking it, but she was still shocked that a teacher could talk like this.
Think like this.
Act—
She tensed when he drew close enough to be standing right over the bed, looking
down at her. Only his face and his hands were visible from this angle, and his
hands in particular seemed unusually large, raw-boned and intimidating,
slightly yellowed against the white, starched cuffs of his shirt. It was
difficult to breathe, suddenly, as the reality of what was going to happen
crashed over her—and she stared up at those hands as if hypnotised, as if she
dared not look away, as if he’d claw her apart with them if she tried.
“Yes, keep looking at me,” he whispered, and Hermione didn’t have the time to
wonder when or if he’d taken off his shoes, because the mattress was sinking as
first one, then two black-clad knees settled on the bed in front of her.
Between her legs.
“No...” Hermione found herself shaking, and when one of those hands touched her
thigh, it startled her enough to make her jerk her leg away.
“Be still.” That hand caught her again, pulling her leg back into place—harsh
now, not as careful as the first touch had been. “Where’s that much-vaunted
courage of yours?” He leaned across to kiss her left knee, opening his mouth to
bite it. Gently. “If you don’t cooperate, Granger, I can always bind you—but
that will be more painful for you, I promise, and much more...” He slid down
further, biting her inner thigh instead. “Disappointing. For me.”
“I don’t think you’ll find it disappointing,” Hermione spat, before she could
stop herself—and froze immediately, fearing that he would hit her, hurt her, as
she was so sure he could. She let go of herself and brought her arms up
quickly, crossed to deflect any blow—but instead Snape only pulled back, teeth
bared, lips drawn in a smile that was more of a snarl.
His voice was a soft murmur when he spoke. “How very perceptive of you, Miss
Granger. Just what I’d expect of my star student.”
Then he was parting her thighs even further, applying a surprisingly light
pressure on them with the heels of both hands—and his head sank out of sight,
until Hermione would have to raise her own head to see him, not that she wanted
to.
God, is he going to...
She felt her muscles quiver when Snape’s hair brushed her lower stomach, when
his warm breath stirred the hair of her pubis. “Please...” Her throat seemed to
be closing over, but she managed to force the words out. “Please don’t.” Just
fuck me. Just get it over with. Don’t make me—don’t make me feel—
But Snape gave no sign that he’d heard her. His thumbs ran in slow, firm
circles on both sides of her cunt—concentric, deepening spirals so close to her
centre that she felt a strange buzz gathering there, building.
“Stop,” she gasped when Snape kissed her, not erring, right on the tender hood
of her clitoris—because her labia hadn’t closed completely yet, open as she’d
held it for so long. “Please...”
Of course, she had known that begging wouldn’t work; she’d known it the moment
Snape had demanded this of her, his fingers tighter around his quill than they
should have been. She’d known, but she couldn’t help herself now—couldn’t help
but beg for it to stop when a startlingly hot tongue licked her there, when a
surprisingly liquid mouth parted and sucked, so gentle and persistent that she
felt her clit swell despite itself, throbbing in time with her pulse, sending
deep, wracking tremors of heat up her abdomen. She felt silk at her fingertips
and realised that she was clutching his shoulders, his waistcoat. “God,
stop...”
Her hips were moving. She tried to stop them, she tried, but something was
giving way in the molten core of her—crumbling in the face of the near-painful
fire being stoked at the tip of Snape’s tongue, making her wetter, slicker,
making her clench hungrily inside. “Please...”
This time, when Snape pulled away, she couldn’t suppress a whine—and she was
horrified to hear it, horrified that her last please hadn’t been followed by
stop, that she had arched one more time, helplessly, as if for more.
Snape chuckled quietly, and Hermione didn’t think she’d ever despised a sound
more in her life.
“F—Damn you—can’t you just—”
“Hm?” Snape was brushing his mouth across her navel now, leaving a damp trail
of her own juices behind him.
“Just—finish it.” She hated the fact that she sounded like she needed it, but
she only needed it to be finished. It wasn’t like she wanted—wanted—
“Really? Flattering as I find your... eagerness,” he dipped his tongue into her
navel, making her hips lift and twist again, “I rather prefer enjoying my meals
at leisure. And a woman,” she felt him smile against her skin, “is a meal of
many courses.”
She could have hexed him. She would have. Wanted to. Damn all those rules about
professors and not—not—damn them all, because rules meant nothing, decency
meant nothing, and she was disgusted at herself for this, for responding like
this, for betraying Ron. Like. This—
“Oh...”
Snape made his meticulous way across her, slowly sucking and biting as if every
inch of her were succulent. Her skin was shivering as if licked raw, as if
licked away by the deliberate, thorough strokes of Snape’s cat-like tongue,
rough and hot and constantly moving— baring her nerves to the trembling air,
making them sing with sensation. It almost stung, this fever-flush against the
occasional, glancing touches of Snape’s cool waistcoat—and the wet, folded
pocket of heat between her legs was swollen and pulsing, the sheets soaking
quietly between her thighs. Her hands fisted on either side of her in a vain
attempt to keep her grounded, to keep her from touching him. Urging him. When
his hair brushed her nipples they hardened; she turned her head aside at that,
biting her tongue to stifle her moans.
            [http://lizardjunk.net/art/porn/pornsshgsketches4.jpg]
A meal of many courses, Snape had said, and she was a meal to him—he was eating
her, devouring her, and Hermione wasn’t sure if there would be anything left of
her. By the end of this.
“You’re wonderfully sensitive.” Snape breathed across one of those nipples, a
smirk in his voice as it stiffened even further. “It’s a pity I can only have
you once.”
“You wouldn’t even have me once,” Hermione gritted out, doing her best not to
say please again, “if I had a say in it.”
“Ah, but you do have a say in it. You said yes, didn’t you?” He sucked that
nipple into his mouth, not releasing it until Hermione felt a stray strand of
saliva escape and roll down the curve of her breast, leaving a tingling trail
behind it. “Lovely. Ripe as a berry, and just as sweet.” He slid his tongue
under her breast, lifting it, tasting the sweat gathered there—and Hermione
shuddered, breath escaping on something that was far too close to a whimper.
“Not that I’ll be satisfied with a yes. I’ll have you saying much more than
that, never fear.”
“I hate you,” Hermione whispered, when Snape was done tending to her other
breast, leaving both nipples feeling heavy, sore, inflamed. Their heat seemed
somehow connected to Hermione’s ache far below, her clitoris as hard and erect
as the rest of her cunt was soft. “I hate you...”
“I know,” Snape replied, moving up to touch his lips to her jaw, her mouth. “I
know.” And then he kissed her.
Hermione would have bitten him, if that had been an option—if she hadn’t known,
beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Snape wasn’t the sort of man who gave people
second chances. I had planned to use you gently. Don’t make me reconsider. So
she let him open her mouth, feeling repulsed at the taste of her own salt on
Snape’s tongue, her own... oh, god. She pulled away as soon as she thought was
reasonable, but the pulse jumped in her throat when she caught sight of his
eyes, growing cold in displeasure.
“Such a hypocritical whore,” he hissed, before his eyes warmed again—and the
swiftness of that change startled her, until she felt his fingers, unnervingly
familiar now, slip between her thighs to press lightly against her cunt.
Her eyes widened.
“So very wet. Dripping, even.” He pushed a long, bony finger into her, as
inexorable as it was gentle—and the pad of his thumb nestled against her clit,
as knowing as if he’d had her before. Or a dozen other girls just like her.
“Did you imagine I’d simply fuck you and let you go? A quick tumble in the
Potions master’s hay?” The thumb pressed, so cruel and so true that a flash of
searing heat shot through her. “But I think not, Miss Granger. I expect a far
greater return on my investments.”
Hermione’s mouth fell open, her hips bucking as Snape’s finger curved suddenly,
vicious as a claw, finding that spot within her. “Oh!”
“I won’t let you out of here,” he whispered, “until I fuck you. And I won’t
fuck you,” he sneered, “until you beg for it.”
Damn him. Damn him. Damn him— “Stop this,” she panted as he added a second
finger, using the nail of his thumb to lift her clit slightly. “Please.”
“Now why would I do that? You’re so very pleasing to watch.” He tilted his head
downwards, watching his fingers slide in and out of her. “Look at that. Shining
with need. You want this, you clever little Mudblood slut.”
She snarled at that, trying to force his arm away with both hands—but Snape
only laughed quietly, adding another finger to the others inside her, parting
them all until she felt stretched inside, pinned and fucked and pierced until
her sounds changed in timbre. It almost did hurt now, it felt so good and so—so
hateful—but Snape seemed to know just how to press his fingers in, just how to
angle them, bringing to mind unwanted images of Snape doing this to other
students, other schoolgirls, blackmailing them year after year.
“I could put my wand in here, you know. Cast such hexes... Make you feel the
most exquisite pain, until you came and came and came again.” His mouth was at
her ear, his voice dark as smoke. Soft. “You’d grow to love it, in time. You’d
cry for it. Pray for it.”
That nail of his slid over the hood of her clit, flicking it until tears came
to her eyes. “Stop...”
“You’d be so open and hungry for it, then... You wouldn’t be able to come until
I hurt you, until anyone hurt you. I’d have to tie you down to make sure you
wouldn’t hurt yourself.” Careful teeth skimmed along her throat. “Just another
Death Eater pet, good for nothing but fucking.”
Hermione was terrified by what he was saying, nearly nauseous at the thought of
it—but her body didn’t seem to be listening to her, grinding up to meet his
hand, her clit burning painfully at what he was doing to it. His fingers
weren’t wide enough inside her, weren’t— “Please. Please. Just—”
“Yes?” A gentling of those thrusts, as if in reward. His thumb relented.
“Do it,” Hermione said miserably, rocking upwards despite herself. She
deliberately didn’t think of Ron, of how he’d feel if he heard her saying this,
if he saw her writhing under Snape’s hands. “Please.”
“It?” The thumb returned, coaxing slowly this time. Making her gasp. “What on
earth is that?”
“Fuck—you know—”
“My, my, Miss Granger. I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you use foul
language. In front of anyone, let alone a professor.” Another kiss at her jaw,
sickeningly tender. “I’d take points, if I didn’t feel so generous today.”
Generous? Hermione would have laughed, if she hadn’t felt so close to an
outright breakdown—she wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if she started, or
maybe crying, and somewhere in the corner of her mind a cold little voice said
that she should just say what he wanted, because at least this would be over
then, and she’d go back to her dorm, and she’d… she’d…
“Fuck me,” she whispered, closing her eyes to deny the truth of what she was
saying, the fact that she needed it. “Fuck me, please...”
There was a moment of silence, in which all Hermione heard was Snape’s
breathing, suddenly heavier, tighter than it had been before. Then there was
the sound of fabric rustling, a murmured contraception charm—and two hands were
at her thighs, hard and cruel. Lifting them up and apart. “That’s good. That’s
my girl—”
Hermione wanted to pull away at that, because she wasn’t his girl, she wasn’t
his anything—but Snape was bearing down on her now, her legs folding back to
accommodate him, her ankles going around his waist. She opened her eyes then,
enveloped in a sudden panic—but his eyes were closed this time, his hair
swinging as his head hung forward, arms balancing on either side of her as he
rose above her and pushed in.
—In.
Oh.
A strange, choked sound tore through the air, and Hermione recognised it as her
own. She could feel Snape’s erection sliding into her, inch by thick, aching,
pulsing inch—and she stared up at Snape, watching his strangely tight,
strangely distant face, winding her fists at his arms, in his long-sleeved
shirt. Fuck me.
            [http://lizardjunk.net/art/porn/pornsshgsketches5.jpg]
As if he’d heard that, Snape blinked his eyes open to look down at her, and
Hermione found that she couldn’t breathe when she met his gaze. Black, blind,
blank: as if he were soulless, mindless, driven only by the slow, deepening
thrust of his cock, of his own flesh inside hers.
This wasn’t the way Ron did it to her—quick and trembling and eager,
apologising all the while. It wasn’t—no don’t think about Ron don’t think about
Ron don’t—
“Look at me,” Snape’s voice rasped, as if from very far away, and Hermione
looked at his thin, ugly mouth. Speaking. “Look at me...”
There’s nothing else to look at, she would have said, but then Snape pulled
back and suddenly pushed in again, hard, and Hermione heard herself make a
loud, startled moan.
“You wanted me to fuck you,” Snape said. “You wanted it...”
Before she could think of how ridiculous it was, his saying that, he thrust in
again, and again—harsh and even and deeper every time, making sure to tilt
upwards so that he struck that spot within her, making her twist her hands in
his sleeves, making her push back. “Yes...”
She wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying anymore, or even if she was
saying anything at all; she only felt the wet, clinging pull of her inner skin
against his cock when he pulled back, and the sudden, gasping give of it when
he thrust back in. The pace grew every time she tugged on Snape’s arms, so she
did it again and again until Snape was fucking her, riding her so that the bed
creaked in time with it and she felt the sheets grow hot with friction beneath
her back, scorching her, the sensation just an outer heat to match the one
building inside her, filling her. She was disintegrating in that heat, burning
to ashes as her passage grew slick and soaked—making her clench around Snape
until he groaned, until he pushed her legs out even further, collapsing onto
her and fucking her even harder, his mouth open against her throat, her nipples
brushing his waistcoat.
“Ah...” It was Snape’s turn to moan now, long and low, his hips pressed tight
against her as she felt him come—his hair damp and sticky against her ear, his
semen hot and startling inside of her. He didn’t stop thrusting, either—small,
brutal, shallow thrusts until he’d emptied himself completely—and it was in
those few, incandescent moments that Hermione suddenly felt her world spiral as
well, narrowing to a sharp, bright point in which she wasn’t aware of tossing
back her head and crying out, of finding his silk-clad back with her fingers,
of digging her nails in and scratching futilely as he gasped one final time and
rocked to a gradual halt.
Finally, the flood of light that had risen inside her peaked and ebbed away—and
there was another period of silence, this one much longer, as Hermione lay
there with the ceiling coming back into focus, blurred with tears. Her cunt was
still tingling, in the way that meant she could come again if she touched
herself—and she felt herself twitching around Snape’s cock, feeling it soften
inside her, as Snape shifted only slightly to pull it out. The feeling was
utterly filthy and wet, utterly—
“Well.” That was Snape’s voice, much closer to normal now. A little... odd,
somehow, but with enough of that familiar haughtiness. “That was... most
pleasant, Miss Granger. You have my thanks.” A surprisingly gentle hand brushed
her hip, and Snape’s trousers grazed the backs of her thighs as he drew away.
“I trust you enjoyed yourself?”
Hermione pushed him off, and watched his mouth curl in amusement when she
deliberately didn’t look at his uncovered crotch.
“Oh, no need to play coy. What would Weasley say, I wonder, if he saw you come
the way you did? Does he make you come at all, or does he finish too quickly to
manage it?”
She pulled a sheet around herself and stood up, not looking Snape in the eye.
Comparing himself to a boy, oh, that was fair of Snape, wasn’t it? “I need
to... clean myself,” Hermione said, refusing to answer any of his stupid
questions, to play any of his sickening games. “I’m taking my wand. And
leaving.”
Nothing for a moment, in which Hermione felt the atmosphere tense
inexplicably—but then Snape spoke again. Much colder, as if it no longer amused
him to have her here. “Of course you may leave. Our deal’s over, as you recall;
you may use your wand to cast a few hygiene spells.”
It occurred to Hermione to turn around and hex him the moment she got her wand,
perhaps to use Sectumsempra, that spell she’d seen scrawled in the margins of
Harry’s book—but when she glanced backwards Snape was sitting up slowly, a
strange, guarded stillness on his face, an expression so unlike him that
Hermione almost didn’t recognise him for a moment.
Yes, that’s a clever idea, Hermione. As though hexing a teacher wouldn’t get
you expelled, after you’ve gone through all this trouble tonotget expelled.
Snape didn’t taunt her, oddly enough, when she blushed and stumbled over her
sheet; in fact, he said nothing at all, and Hermione left his bedroom for his
office, where her clothes were. The only thought in her mind after she cleaned
herself was that she’d burn that damn book as soon as she found it—incinerate
it, because doing that wasn’t a crime. It was good sense. Snape wouldn’t be
able to use it against her again, or threaten her with Harry’s academic
performance. Or Ron’s. They’d survive without it if they had to, and they would
have to once she told them of Snape’s suspicions.
She refused to feel ashamed for achieving orgasm at Snape’s hands, because he’d
forced her into it—and she wouldn’t let this affect what she had with Ron,
because Ron was worlds away from this. Purer than Snape. Sweeter than him.
Everything she wanted, and everything she cared about.
“I hate you,” Hermione murmured to the walls one last time, closing the office
door behind her.
She never flinched from Snape’s eyes in the months that followed—and it didn’t
escape her notice that, the longer she failed to look ashamed, the longer Snape
took to look at her at all.
 
 
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                                     fin.
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