This is Chapter 1 of what will be a three-chapter story. It goes hand-in-hand with my other story, Power Play, which was written from Hermione's point of view. Though you don't have to read both, this story may make more sense if you've read Power Play first. Please let me know what you think!
Severus Snape was, by all accounts, a disciplined man. His rigorous adherence to order and structure with regard to his students was surpassed only by the expectations he placed upon himself. His days were marked by a rigid schedule, to which he clung single-mindedly. Disruptions to his set agenda were borne with notable displeasure on his part and very few wished to be the cause of such disruption.
Snape's strict routine was not an absolute necessity, but was more an ingrained habit. There had been a time when cataloguing his life had been vital to his survival. To work for light and dark simultaneously, to appear to serve the Dark Lord, even while fighting to bring about his demise, was an immense undertaking. Such work demanded that he walk a fine line, precariously balancing all aspects of his life. A single error, a slight miscalculation in his judgment, could have meant not only his own death, but also the destruction of all the Order had worked to build. Snape did not take such responsibility lightly.
He spent nearly half his life in this balancing act until the unthinkable occurred – the Dark Lord was defeated, by none other than the insufferable Harry Potter. And what's more, Snape had survived. How such a remarkable turn of events had come to pass was beyond his comprehension. His death as a result of his role in the war had seemed all but a foregone conclusion. So certain of his destruction was he, in fact, that he failed to contemplate how he would exist once the war ended.
And so, with the remainder of his life spread before him, Snape found himself wondering what to do with all his newfound time. The easiest solution was simply to continue in the same fastidious fashion. Though the balancing act was no longer required, he found that the framework of his previous life suited him. If anything, it allowed him to ignore for a while longer the lack of purpose and direction in his life. After fifteen years, his sole mission was complete.
Without examining too closely the particulars of his existence, Snape allowed himself to be subsumed by the routine of his days. Truly, such stringent standards were beneficial to his occupation. Potion-making necessitated exactitude, which he supplied in abundance. The subject appealed to his sense of organization and order. Though he would likely never admit it to anyone, in some ways, he favored Potions to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Whereas the latter held the power to dredge up old memories, the former permitted him to lose himself in the composition of his creations. He could focus solely on his ingredients, on the scientific aspects of blending, the artful attributes of brewing.
Of course, the staid ways of the Potions Master were not limited solely to the academic. Snape conducted his personal life in much the same way as he practiced within his chosen field: with restraint and forbearance. His dark, foreboding personality did not lend itself to the formation of close friendships, and he preferred his solitude. The time not spent teaching students or grading essays and potions was dedicated to further research and reading in the Potions field.
Every once in a great while, he was persuaded by one professor or another to join some of the Hogwarts staff at the Three Broomsticks, but such an occurrence was rare. Never a great drinker, he would visit with his fellow staff members perfunctorily, as though the outing was an odious chore, and return to the quiet of his chambers once again.
As for the fulfillment of physical desires, Snape preferred to remain alone, not having sought the company of another in all his time as a professor at Hogwarts. His state of near-celibacy was self-imposed. True, it was not as though women were beating down his door to have their way with him, but he was not unaware of the places a man in need could go to satisfy his libidinous hunger. But such places, and the women who inhabited those places, held no appeal for him.
Though he generally chose not to dwell on such memories, he could recall clearly the first and only woman to whom he had felt a true attraction and after whom he had both lusted and pined. Lily had been like no other and while in school, he knew his body could respond only to her. His nights were spent behind his green silk bed hangings, imagining her body next to his. Though he had never seen her in any state of undress, he could imagine with perfect clarity the way in which her small breasts sat high on her chest, and could feel her nipples harden beneath his probing fingers. Her delicious scent, that he knew so well, would be that much stronger with no clothing to diffuse it, and her creamy pale skin would feel like the softest velvet on his lips. Her blazing red hair would be found a shade darker between her legs, inviting his hands, his mouth, his penetration.
Night after night, he burned for her in the dark, awaiting the day that she would recognize his passion and return it. But she chose another, turning her back on their friendship and ending for him the possibility that he could ever have her. Though he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the blame for the termination of their relationship lay entirely with him, it was not something he chose to contemplate, let alone accept.
Snape's years under Voldemort presented countless opportunities to engage in wanton lechery, and Snape took full advantage of the circumstances. More than one woman desired him, recognizing the power of the young man in whom Voldemort placed more and more trust. And few women within the ever-growing dark circle were unaware of his prodigious skill in satisfying his partner. They were fascinated by his intense nature and the vigorous way in which he slaked their thirst for fulfillment.
But he was not fulfilled. Snape felt no affection for the women with whom he lay, and in most cases, no attraction. His union with each woman was no more than fucking, merely a way to briefly assuage the growing anxiety that pressed upon him. It was a physical release but provided no mental relief. With each encounter, his treatment became rougher, his need to abuse and defile his momentary partner greater. Each woman was punished for the unfortunate crime of not being Lily.
Had life continued in the same vein, Snape may have eventually self-destructed over what he perceived to be his loss of the woman he loved. But it wasn't until her death that he understood truly what loss was. Her violent end at the hands of Voldemort tore him apart, affecting him much more forcibly than the upheaval caused by Voldemort's disappearance.
After returning to Hogwarts, his sexual fervor all but disappeared. While he fell into his new life and developed what would eventually become his entrenched routine, he felt not even the smallest twinge of lust for any woman. In fact, it was more than two years before he recognized even a hint of arousal. As time passed, his libido did return, but never again did he seek out another to quell his stimulation. Instead, he handled the matter himself, dispatching his regular erections with the same precision and economy that accompanied his every action. And never did he fantasize about a woman, not even Lily, while gratifying himself.
Never, that is, until Hermione Granger grew up.
He was not particularly fond of Hermione. She talked. A lot. Snape was not one to give voice to his every thought and opinion, a restraint that Hermione seemed not to possess. And to make matters worse, she was friends with Potter and Weasley. Her poor choice in companions notwithstanding, he had to admit that she was a talented witch, possessing acute skill with regard to potion-making. But even this cleverness on her part was eclipsed by her overbearing manner and near-constant need for appreciation. For her first few years at Hogwarts, Snape simply couldn't stand her.
Eventually, however, he found that he paid her little mind. The quality of her work never faltered, something he grudgingly admired, and she appeared to outgrow her approval-seeking ways, or at least hide them better. And as the Dark Lord ascended, and Snape's duties to both he and the Order became more fixed, he had little time to dwell upon the personality quirks of his students, including Hermione.
It wasn't until near the end of the war, during the summer before her sixth year, that he first realized the extent of her maturity. The work of Dumbledore's Army came to light, along with her hand in its formation. As Voldemort's last days drew near, she was one of the few students who participated fully in the raging battles that occurred regularly with the Death Eaters. Though still working covertly for the Order and inundated with the precariousness of his position, Snape still managed to catch glimpses of her during those last days and was, at every turn, impressed by her intensity and the vehemence of her belief in the cause. Coming across her in battle, she was a force to be reckoned with, her vast magical knowledge and prodigious skill supplanted only by her will to be victorious.
Of course, Hermione was not the only thing on his mind as the final stand against Voldemort raged around him, and she was forgotten, if temporarily. The time following Voldemort's demise was confusing and disorienting, as Snape's true allegiances came to light and his actions and bravery were honored. He was not fond of the limelight and sought refuge in what he knew, the familiarity of his catalogued life. Eventually, to his great relief, the world calmed down and settled into its old routine as well.
Snape's indulgence of his physical needs remained, at first, yet another unchanging facet of his life. Each time his erection presented him with the evidence of his arousal, he dealt with his desire in an almost-business-like manner, as though trying to derive the least amount of pleasure as possible. Quickly, with determination, and emitting not a sound, he would stroke the length of his cock, neither slowing nor stopping until his release, thus fulfilling what he viewed to be something of a physical obligation.
His manner of servicing himself, and the attention he paid to it, had not changed in nearly fifteen years. Nevertheless, one day, several months after the fall of Voldemort, his routine was altered irrevocably. He had begun to stroke himself as always, with concentrated disregard. But as he neared his climax, quite unexpectedly, the face of Hermione Granger appeared before him.
He saw nothing more of her body, not even with clothing, let alone naked, but simply her face. And as her visage came unbidden to his mind, his groin contracted convulsively and his orgasm arrived full-force, spewing his come haphazardly before him. A hoarse groan escaped his throat as he bent over, gripping his cock tightly in one hand and reaching for a nearby table for support with the other.
Snape felt weak and sat dazedly upon the bed. He was nothing short of stunned by what had just occurred. In fifteen years he had not imagined another woman. Why had she come to his mind? The power of his orgasm was too great to ignore; it was the most pleasure he had allowed himself to feel in some time.
After taking a few stabilizing breaths, he suddenly felt disgusted with himself. She was only a child; how could he allow himself to imagine her in such a way?
But she wasn't a child, not really. She was seventeen years old, eighteen in the fall, and already of legal age in the wizarding world. And while he may have considered some other girls in their sixth year of school to be children, Hermione certainly did not fit into that category. As he reflected upon her, he recognized that she was one of the youngest to fight against Voldemort, but also one of the most effective. She had a purposefulness, a resoluteness of spirit that few fully-grown women possessed. She was no child.
Still, whether she was of age or not was a matter of semantics, really. Hermione Granger was a student and Severus Snape was a professor. Her professor. In every possible way imaginable, it was inappropriate for him to think of her outside the realm of the student-teacher relationship. He vowed to put her from his mind and return to his routine ways.
And he carefully honored the vow…for three days. Employing tremendous focus, each time he became aroused, he quickly stimulated himself, keeping his mind as blank as possible. His concentration was effective, until the next time he had to face Hermione in the Potions classroom.
Snape sat at his desk as students meandered into the classroom, convincing himself that he was not watching for her arrival. But as she stepped across the threshold and headed for her desk, he knew his vision of her several days prior would not be a one-time occurrence.
Snape watched surreptitiously as Hermione pulled her textbook from her bag and began sorting through ingredients on her desk. As he studied her, he attempted to discern exactly what was causing his sudden interest in her. She wasn't the prettiest of the girls at Hogwarts, nor even in the classroom. She didn't wear makeup, and her hair was a nightmare. She didn't flirt with or tease any of the boys, at least not that he had ever seen. She certainly had never flirted with him. In fact, he was fairly certain she despised him, based on his limited interaction with her to that point. Until that moment, it had never occurred to him to care.
As he ruminated on what he had always supposed to be her shortcomings, he wondered if those qualities weren't what attracted him to her. He had already recognized her obvious talent and skill. If Hermione cared more about employing her abilities in a useful way than she did about taming her hair or batting her eyes at boys, who was he to find fault with that? It wasn't so different from his own outlook on life, after all.
Hermione Granger was on his mind for the rest of the day, and remained there as he pleasured himself that evening. Thereafter, her image became a fixture in his mind's eye, burrowing into his daily gratification routine.
Despite the alteration to his mental habits, Snape did not allow Hermione's new presence in his mind to occupy the same space in his actual life. He treated her no differently than he had before, and allowed no deviation from his daily schedule. The sole difference in his life was the satisfying pleasure he now derived from his arousal, a pleasure he had lost years before.
As a result of his determination not to acknowledge Hermione in any way outside his fantasies, it was with little regret that he found her sixth school year drawing to a close. In fact, during the day, his attention was so much on his educational duties in readying his students for exams, not to mention doling out punishments, that he rarely had time to think of her. And so it was on a Wednesday afternoon, several weeks before the end of term that Snape was thinking only of his work as he strode purposefully through the halls of Hogwarts toward the library.
His intention was stop in the library quickly in order to review the ingredients for a particularly tricky potion he planned to assign to his N.E.W.T. students. But before he could even pull open the door, it burst open and a slight girl laden with books barreled into him. In a whirl of confusion, a dozen books flew through the air and he instinctively reached out to catch the girl before she hit the floor. As his arms circled her waist, a lock of unruly hair whipped by his face and he knew it was her.
He stood up straight, but his arms, no longer seeming to work, did not release their hold on Hermione. It was the closest he had ever stood to her, the first time he could recall ever touching her. The experience was intoxicating. Her mouth was moving, as she apparently offered apologies for colliding with him, but he could not understand what she was saying. He was mesmerized by the fact that his hand was still on her waist and his body was still pressed against the gentle curves that were her right side. After his many nights of fantasizing, the reality of actually holding her was more intense that he could have imagined.
After several more seconds of contact with her, he vaguely realized that she was looking at him. She was no longer speaking, and appeared to be in a state of shock. As he looked into her eyes, he was visited with an intense surge of desire. Recognizing that an erection was imminent, he realized that he should release his hold on her, lest she become aware of his desire as well. With great reluctance, he took a step back. The chilly hall air that swept between them as they separated was most unwelcome. But if he was successful in his battle to hide his growing hardness, he lost the war when it came to disguising his desire for her. For he could not wrench his eyes from her and she seemed to know it. Her soft brown eyes were wide with confusion and her lips were parted, mid-sentence, in surprise.
It was imperative that he regain control of himself and break the spell holding their eyes together. Thinking wildly of something authoritative, yet mundane, to say to the young woman before him, he finally managed, "Perhaps you should look where you are going, Miss Granger."
His words, however, did not seem to have the intended effect. Not only was he as enthralled with her visage as ever, but her eyes had yet to leave his face as well. He told himself to get hold of himself and detached his gaze from her face. As he lowered his eyes, however, he caught sight of something even more beguiling – her throat. After what was undoubtedly hours of intense study in the library, she had left her robe unfastened and had loosened the knot of her tie. As a result, the slightest patch of extra skin peeked out of her collar. Snape was fascinated. It was a piece of her body, a pale, smooth expanse of flesh that he had never seen before. Though he knew the rest of her body to be quite covered by her uniform and robe, he could not help but sweep his eyes lingeringly down her body and back up once again, drinking in her figure with his eyes.
The hollow of her throat, virgin to him, begged for his touch. He yearned to reach out his fingers and stroke the dimpled, soft skin. His hand, still burning from its contact with her waist, twitched at his side as he continued to stare. But, thankfully, before he lost his senses completely and accosted her in the middle of the hallway, she spoke.
"Yes, Professor," came her throaty, breathless response to his reprimand.
Hermione's words had the dual effect of igniting a fire within his gut, while simultaneously dousing him with icy water. His eyes skipped instantly back to hers and what he found there was most peculiar. Though she still seemed utterly confused by their interaction, there was no denying the desire that emanated from her eyes. Heat had crept up her throat and into her cheeks and he could see her breathing accelerate. Coupled with the whispered quality of her voice, he could not mistake her arousal.
But with her apparent reciprocation of his need came her severe, though likely unintentional, reminder of the situation. The title "Professor" reverberated through his being like the crack of a whip and brought him back to reality. He had to get away from her. Immediately.
Without another word, he turned resolutely around and began to walk away, forgetting about his plans to visit the library. Part of him ached to turn back and take her in his arms, while another had to be restrained from running from her as fast as he could. With all of his might, he willed himself to walk steadily, adopting his usual, purposeful stride.
As he turned the corner, however, he broke his gait, and by the time he had made it down two floors, he could go no farther. His arousal washed over him full force, and he became so hot, he thought his blood must have been boiling. His hands were sweaty and he felt feverish, a clammy dampness spreading over his face. His erection, which had just begun presenting itself in Hermione's presence, was in full bloom, straining to break through the multiple layers of fabric disguising it from the world. His head was swimming as his senses competed for dominance – the feel of her body against him, her clean, uncomplicated scent, the sight of her exposed throat…
Feeling dizzy, he stumbled through the closest doorway into an empty classroom. The late afternoon sun directed warm, spring sunlight through the tall windows, creating stripes of dazzling rays across the desks, interspersed with narrow alleys of darkness. With just enough presence of mind to lock the door behind him with a charm, Snape tripped towards a darkened corner of the room, ripping his robe open as he went. His shaking fingers fumbled with his fly, and it was with great frustration that he finally tore his pants open, closing his hand over his throbbing cock with a mingled groan of satisfaction and longing.
With no power to stop himself, he began to stroke the length of his cock with long, punishing strokes, all the while seeing her image before him. Her inquisitive eyes wide with curiosity and surprise. Her cheeks pink and flush, the color spreading up from her open collar. Her mouth, open slightly in anticipation…
His mind seized on the image of her mouth and he moaned as he imagined sinking his teeth into the fleshy fullness of her bottom lip. His hand alternated between stroking his cock and massaging his balls as her swollen, parted lips swam before him. He bit into his own lip as her succulent mouth moved closer to his erection and she wrapped her cherry lips around his head. As her head slid down his shaft, wetting him with the velvet pad of her tongue, he let out a strangled sigh. Within moments, his stroking was synchronized with the vision of her bobbing head. Furiously, he caressed himself as her tongue swirled around him and she swallowed him, taking his length.
The intensity of his orgasm brought him to his knees, and his vision, including of her, was obliterated. After a moment of stillness on the cold floor of the classroom, he regained a modicum of clarity, and remorse and anger replaced the heated lust of only moments before. Rising to his feet, his fury at his lack of control grew by the second as he strode around the room in agitation, pulling at his hair. Finally, overwhelmed by his self-disgust, he lashed out at the nearest object.
"Goddamnit!" he bellowed as his fist swung viciously into the surface of the ancient blackboard next to him. The slate emitted a loud crack as it splintered into dozens of pieces and fell around him on the floor. Though he had caused it, the sound of the board disintegrating startled him, and he dropped into the desk next to it, his head in his hands.
He felt vile and disgusting, and utterly out of control. How could he have lost his senses so? To pleasure himself in a classroom, where anyone could have seen him, could have discovered him…
But even worse…she knew. She had to know how he felt. He could not have made his attraction to her any plainer than if he had taken her right there, in the hall in front of the library. It was insanity. He rose miserably to his feet and rearranged his clothing. Pulling out his wand, he cleaned the up the evidence of his impetuous self-gratification, and repaired the crumbling blackboard.
On his way back to the dungeons, he momentarily entertained a thought that was playing at the back of his mind. He knew full well that the reason he was unable to contain himself even until he reached his room was not because of his attraction to Hermione. Or, at least, not only because of it. It was because of what he perceived, for the first time, to be her attraction to him.
During the few moments it took for him to travel to his office, he remembered her reaction to his intense scrutiny…she seemed surprised of course, but intrigued as well. And aroused. He could still hear her breathless whisper, could almost feel her words slide across his skin.
But as he pulled open the door to his office and stepped inside the dismal room, the glass bubble floating over his head, holding the possibility of her attraction for him within it, shattered on the floor before his feet. He looked around and saw himself for what he truly was: an old, miserable Potions Master who held no allure for a seventeen-year-old young woman. He had exposed himself to her, a fact he tried desperately, if unsuccessfully, to shove to the back of his mind. Perhaps she didn't realize. He clung to the possibility.
Over the next few days, his belief that Hermione felt nothing for him was confirmed by her absolute indifference toward him. Though their lives continued circling in their adjoining orbits, she paid him no mind. She never spared a glance for him, let alone stared at him hungrily. It wasn't long before he accepted the fact that he had let his imagination run away with itself. The realization was, in some ways, liberating, allowing him to feel as though he had escaped narrowly from the jaws of some vicious monster. But at night, as her image haunted him, he was gripped by crushing disappointment.
Despite the letdown, and the long nights spent alone, Snape pressed on determinedly, shoving himself back to his former routine. He would not allow some silly fantasy to disrupt his life. He returned his attention to teaching and pretended to himself that he had never come across Hermione in front of the library.
This time, his resolution not to think of her was much more effective than the first. It lasted nearly two weeks. But it wasn't long before the school year drew to an end and he was forced to confront the reality that she would be leaving for the summer. Two entire months. As much as he had wanted to believe he had relieved himself of his obsession, he knew that he only got through his days by watching her stealthily, the images fueling his lusty desires at night. Two months was an eternity.
The last day of Sixth-Year Potions dawned sultry and hazy. Though summer had yet to arrive officially, it was making its upcoming presence felt quite clearly. Snape had never been particularly fond of the summer months and was relieved to enter the hushed coolness of the dungeons as he prepared for class. The stillness was interrupted, however, by the arrival of his students for class. As usual, the moment she stepped through the door, though he focused his attention on the work in front of him, he allowed himself the pleasure of following her movements out of the corner of his eye.
She never dressed as sloppily as some other students, but on this sticky day, even she had taken some liberties with her uniform, leaving her collar unbuttoned and her tie loose. As she worked, she removed her robe and rolled up her shirtsleeves, exposing her slender wrists and forearms. Her hair, though not exactly tamed, was pulled into a jumbled knot on the top of her head, giving her neck access to the chilled dungeon air.
The difference in her appearance caught his attention, and without realizing it, his surreptitious peeks at her evolved into a penetrating gaze. It wasn't until she made eye contact that he even realized he was watching her openly.
His first instinct as she caught his eye was to turn away. The last thing he wanted was to give her another hint as to his lust for her. But before he made up his mind to avert his eyes, he realized that she had yet to look away either. And, what's more, she wasn't watching him with disgust or laughter. She was turned on.
He watched in fascinated disbelief as her reaction to his stare mimicked the effect she had demonstrated in front of the library. He had convinced himself that her reaction had been all in his head; he saw now that nothing could be further from the truth. The knowledge that he caused such a reaction in her had a dizzying effect on him. He was aroused, to be sure, but he also felt another sensation. A tingle ran down his spine and his chest swelled. After a moment of confusion, he identified the feeling: power.
Of course, he was no stranger to control; there was no doubt as to who was in charge when it came to his classroom. He was well-accustomed to exerting what he knew was a terrifying influence over students. And he knew that his demeanor produced results in that regard. But with women, it was a different story. It had been years since he had had any contact with a woman to whom he was attracted. As Hermione's manner became visibly ruffled, it brought to mind his days as a Death Eater and the authority he had commanded.
Not that he wanted to return to such times. No, there wasn't a day that passed that he wasn't ashamed of his actions. At random, unpredictable times, he would feel the weight of his past press down upon him, and he would have to fight just to remain standing under the pressure. There was no glory in what he had been.
But it wasn't his actions in following the Dark Lord that he recalled in that moment as his eyes rested on Hermione. Instead, it was the fringe activities he had enjoyed while not busy trying to bring about a new regime. It was sex. A lot of sex. Snape had been with more women during that time than he could count, and in each union, he had continually sought to dominate, however harshly, his partner. The rush of power he had received with each act had produced a heady excitement, leading him on successively to each new act.
The experiences never fully satisfied him, however. Though he wouldn't admit it to himself at the time, it was only Lily he had wanted, not any of the dozens of women who threw themselves at his feet. She was the only one for whom he felt a true attraction, not to mention other, deeper, unmentionable feelings, but her love for him was in friendship only. And later, of course, not at all.
All of this came to mind instantly as his eyes bore into Hermione's. For the first time in his life, it was as though the two sides of his sexual experience had come together: his dark, twisted need for control meeting the hungry, longing attraction for an individual. It was as though Lily had turned to him suddenly with her striking green eyes and said, "I want you."
Not that there was any confusion over who was sitting before him now. He was fully aware that it was Hermione, not Lily, watching him with mingled fear and desire. As their eyes held, the classroom around them fell away, and it was only the two of them. He was doing everything possible to control the display of his growing arousal. Though he wanted her to know his attraction, he didn't want the rest of the class clued in to that particular fact. And so he prayed silently that he was doing a better job than she of keeping his lack of oxygen from manifesting itself in a heaving chest, or from his pale skin coloring to a deep crimson.
The seconds passed and the tension between them became palpable. He could see no way to end this silent interaction without some action and the only action he cared to take was to rip her clothes from her body and sink into her waiting flesh. But it was with an immense mastery of his will that he recognized the inappropriateness of such an act.
Finally, as the tension grew to an unbearable level, and he thought that he would go mad if he could not touch her, a loud explosion from the opposite side of the room shattered the moment between them and their connection was lost. For a moment, he was unable to comprehend what had caused the disruption to their private moment and he turned his eyes to a simmering mess of orange potion covering two twitching Slytherins, the skin of whom was gradually stretching and drooping away from their bodies. Other students surrounding them were covering their noses and swiping at watering eyes as yellow smoke enveloped the corner of the room. In an instant, Snape was on his feet and sorting out the chaos. By the time he had returned the last student's body to its normal shape, class had ended and Hermione had left the room.
Despite his dread of the upcoming summer, it passed more quickly than he had anticipated. There was always plenty of work to do, readying the classroom for the new school year, updating old and drafting new lesson plans, ordering potion ingredients, avoiding Hagrid during his drunken free evenings, during which he attempted to toast everyone and everything in the school…there was plenty to occupy his time. Still, it was with barely-stifled anticipation that he counted down the days to September.
Finally, the evening of the 1st arrived, and Snape entered the Great Hall for the Welcome Feast, doing his best to keep his usual mask of perturbed condescension in place. Eventually, the students began to wander into the Hall, exuberant at the start of the school year, greeting old friends and finding their places at the long house tables. When he caught sight of her unruly mass of hair, he almost gave a start, but managed to stifle his reaction, lest one of his colleagues notice his state of excitement.
However, as the evening wore on, though he stared at her quite diligently, she did not glance his way even one time. Though two months has passed since last he saw her, he was quite certain he had not imagined her reaction to him during her last class. What had happened over the summer to turn her from him? Perhaps she had lost interest? At the thought, a lead weight dropped into his stomach and he felt ill. Pushing his food away, he sat in sullen silence for the rest of the evening, doggedly ignoring the polite inquiries of his fellow professors.
Dawn brought about the first morning of classes, and Snape dragged himself to the Great Hall to greet the new term. Still feeling the affects of Hermione's rejection from the night before, he again sat quietly at the head table as he forced himself to drink some coffee. For the majority of breakfast, he was careful not to allow his gaze to wander in her direction, not wanting to reinforce his feelings of inadequacy and dismissal. However, without meaning to, he found himself absently watching as Professor McGonagall stood before Hermione, rifling through her stack of parchment schedules as the new term got underway.
It was several moments before his lackadaisical brain recognized that her course selection with McGonagall was not going smoothly. Though he could not hear their conversation, he got the impression that Hermione was flustered and McGonagall, impatient. And when her eyes darted fleetingly in his direction before she provided some unknown response to the professor standing before her, his interest was piqued.
What had she said to McGonagall? Would she continue with Potions? Until that moment, he had never considered the possibility that she would not be in his class that fall. Though he was fully cognizant of the fact that anything more than caressing her with his eyes was out of the question, the thought of being able to watch her clandestinely was what had allowed him to get through the long summer months. Now, the prospect of the school year, her last, passing with only glimpses of her in the Great Hall, brought to mind a very bleak year.
Unsettled and shaken by this turn of events, he rose abruptly from the staff table and exited the Hall via the side chamber, not wishing to pass through the student body before him. He passed the time between breakfast and the first Seventh-Year Potions lesson in a state of great agitation. His worry, however, turned out to be needless, and he sighed almost audibly with relief as she entered the classroom later that morning, trailed by her two moronic sidekicks. Why Potter and Weasley were taking N.E.W.T.-level Potions was beyond him. But even the satisfaction he usually derived at mentally berating the pair was negligible in comparison to the thrill he felt at Hermione's presence in his classroom.
Clearly, she had had some doubts over taking his class, but in the end, she had returned. His conviction at her attraction to him reinforced, the feeling of power from the previous spring returned full force. With her presence in his classroom an almost daily reminder, his evening fantasies became more elaborate, and his gratification more satisfying.
At first, he was careful not to allow his sly gazes at her to be noticed. He recalled the intensity of their moment during her last day of class the year before, and just as clearly recalled his overwhelming desire at that time to ravish her before an entire classroom full of her fellow classmates. He didn't trust himself not to lose control, and so he was scrupulous in keeping all of his non-fantasy dealings with her above-board. Despite his intentions however, there were several occasions on which she caught his eye as he pinned her with his gaze. And her reaction each time was not lost on him.
Finally, there came a day late in the fall when he allowed his defenses to drop for a brief moment, initiating their first non-educational verbal exchange since the day by the library. Class had ended, but Hermione's desk was still littered with potion ingredients and her books and notes were scattered about. By the time she managed to clear her space and stow her books in her bag, the room had emptied of the other students. With no one there to catch him but her, he could not help but stare as she efficiently and meticulously cleaned her desk. Without turning toward him, she headed for the door, and he felt a twinge of disappointment. Just before her hand reached for the door, however, her eyes flickered in his direction at the front of the room and she slowed momentarily. It was all the invitation he needed, and unable to hold himself back, he addressed her.
"I trust you'll have a…pleasant…evening, Miss Granger," he said, not thinking of the veiled vulgarity of his comment until he had made it, but knowing full well that he meant what he said. Over the previous few weeks, she had caught him with watching her with increasing frequency, and her arousal at each discovery was noticeable. During the last couple of classes, in fact, he had just about allowed her to catch his eye, just for the thrill of viewing her reaction.
Though he couldn't exactly call himself an expert on women, he was fairly certain that Hermione did not leave her attraction to him behind when she exited the classroom each day. He was perfectly aware of how much their mute, but heated interactions fueled his own self-gratification. He didn't need to employ Legilimency to know that an eighteen-year-old woman probably pleasured herself at night as she lay alone in her four-poster bed. But if he was gambling in his suggestive flirting with Hermione during class, the statement that had so thoughtlessly left his mouth moments before had surely raised the stakes.
Despite its impropriety, he was secretly happy with himself for having made the comment when he saw her shocked reaction. She had obviously understood his meaning. That thrill of control that came upon him almost daily of late returned once more. He was in no way prepared, however, for her response. Her shocked expression quickly smoothed into one of coy amusement, as a small smile curled her lips sensuously and she arched one eyebrow suggestively.
"Oh, no doubt, Professor Snape, it will be a very pleasurable evening."
He had no response. Where had that come from? Never had he anticipated that she would acknowledge the game progressing between them. He watched silently as she left the classroom, and for the second time, he was visited with a descending desire so absolute, he was unable to control himself until he reached a more suitable location. With the sound of the closing door still echoing through the dungeon chamber, he sank into his chair, pulled out his painfully throbbing erection, and he brought himself to climax within moments. All the while, the image of her arched eyebrow and sultry pout lingered before him.
That evening, Snape sat pensively in an armchair in his room, his elbows resting on his knees and his head supported by his clasped hands. Though to an outsider, he may have appeared to be sitting still for hours, in truth, his muscles were taut and his mind was racing. Rather than accepting his growing inability to control his libido around Hermione Granger, he had become even more disgusted with himself than on the previous occasion when desire had held him in its unassailable grip.
Though he could not recall ever having been in such a position, he realized now that he was out of control, and to be so was simply unforgivable. Had the lingering glances remained at the silent, distant level of the previous months, who knows how long they might have continued. And while he knew it was wrong to indulge in such behavior, if no true action came of it, what was the harm? But that afternoon, he had guided the matter into a whole new territory, in which he was unsure of the terrain. He had gone too far.
But it wasn't just his own lack of restraint that troubled him as he finally rose from his chair to begin his rounds on hall duty for the night. He had lobbed an impromptu pass at Hermione that afternoon, and she had unexpectedly run with the ball. A growing uneasiness accompanied him around the castle, as well as a tiny flicker of annoyance. What exactly did she think she was doing? If she fancied herself to be a match for him, she had another thing coming. Without realizing it, that day at the library, he had extended a challenge, and now she apparently felt equal to the test.
He stormed through the halls with long, angry strides, furious at her presumptive gall. If she had been trying to provoke him, she had been successful. So worked up over her taunt was he, in fact, that he did not recognize for quite some time that he was equally turned on by her parry. But when yet another erection threatened to force him into yet another darkened classroom, the madness of the situation dawned on him.
He was teetering on the brink of a disastrous obsession, and it was high time he pulled himself back to safety. When he returned to his chambers at the completion of his hall duty, he felt tired, but satisfied in his decision to walk away from his infatuation with his student. He felt no concern that the decision would be difficult to enforce: when he put his mind to something, he was successful, and thus, successful in this endeavor he would be. Whether or not Hermione cooperated.
When Snape awoke the next morning, after only a few hours of sleep, his certainty in his decision of the previous night seemed to have slipped slightly. However, he did not fail at tasks, and he looked at this decision as no different than brewing a potion. Nevertheless, he was grateful that Seventh-Year Potions was not scheduled that day; it allowed him more time to steel his reserve before seeing her in class again.
The day passed slowly, and on more than one occasion, he found that he had to tear himself away from a prohibited daydream. His resolution was more difficult than he had imagined it would be, but he would not be defeated. Wearily, he progressed through his classes, doing everything possible to ensure that she was the furthest thing from his mind.
It was with great trepidation that he approached the descending evening. The night opened before him like a great carpet, inviting free time and fantasy. Determined to avoid the invitation, he decided it was best to remain in his classroom for as long as possible, grading papers and otherwise immersing himself in work. The prospect of idle hands and an unoccupied mind invited trouble.
The hours passed as Snape graded essay after essay on the uses of dragon's blood in potion-making and the effects of the Draught of Living Death on non-humans. Though the quality of the students' writing was abysmal, as usual, the work had a soothing, repetitive quality that allowed him to escape his own thoughts for a while.
However engrossed he may have been in the essays, his training as a Death Eater and his quick reflexes developed over a childhood as the target of bullies would not allow him to be oblivious to the quiet opening and closing of the classroom door. Without sparing a second for thought, he jumped to his feet, his essays forgotten. His hand steady, despite the late hour and his lack of sleep, he aimed his wand at the doorway.
"Show yourself," he ordered, his voice sharp and fierce. For a moment, there was no response, and his brain quickly ran through the various spells at his disposal that would be most effective at this moment. But before he attempted to confront with his wand the invisible perpetrator, Hermione appeared in front of the door, as though out of thin air, Potter's Invisibility Cloak falling to her side.
Snape felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. Truly, this moment was as much the stuff of his worst nightmare as it was his deepest fantasy, both rolled into one diminutive package, and placed right in front of his eyes. Just the night before, he had resolved to walk away from her and her naïve allure and here she was, thrusting her presence before him, demanding his attention.
Though his resolve may have wavered, he did his best not to allow his countenance to belie such feelings. Lowering his wand and sitting before his desk once more, he feigned boredom and ordered her to return to bed. First and foremost, he was supremely aware of the impropriety of having a female student in his classroom after curfew. But even as he reminded himself of that fact, a devilish voice from the back of his brain urged him to take advantage of her sudden appearance.
Despite the temptation, he decided to return to his work, determined to ignore her extremely distracting presence. There was no ignoring her response, however, as she asked, "Are you going to punish me?"
Snape's hand froze in midair over his parchment. He could not move. Indecision tore at him. Though he had not looked up at her, when he sensed her sauntering approach to his desk, he forced himself to take action.
"Miss Granger, you should not be here. It is highly inappropriate. I suggest that you return to your dormitory at once." It was as though the words have never left his lips, for all the effect they had on her. She continued her progress across the room, shedding items of clothing as she advanced. It was impossible not to watch her fingers slide across her chest and unbutton her robe.
By the time she reached his chair, he sprang into action once again, moving to pick up her robe and direct her out of the room. But he had hardly moved an inch from his seat when he found himself bound to the chair with magical ropes. It took a few seconds for him to process the reality of the situation. Foolishly, he had tossed his wand upon the desktop when he retook his seat, in hindsight a glaringly obvious error in judgment.
He struggled briefly against his bonds, but they were much too tight for him to even attempt to escape. Despite his predicament, he couldn't help but admire her spellwork. He knew she had not said the incantation aloud and he barely noticed the flick of her wand. She was a very good witch.
Though later he would recognize his continued attempts at averting the coming disaster to be foolish, at that moment, he had not yet abandoned his intentions to be good. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, knowing full well the consequences of looking her in the eye. His will held out until she demanded that he turn his eyes to her face. It was as though the Imperius curse had descended upon him; without thinking, he lifted his gaze.
As their eyes met, he attempted to convey to her his disgust and fury at being held captive against his will. But he knew that he was not wholly successful in disguising from her the fire she was igniting within him. And not helping matters was the obvious fact that she was distinctly aroused as well. Though for the first time, it had not been his intention, their locked gaze was becoming yet another moment between them, of growing intensity and burgeoning possibility. For a brief period of time, he forgot exactly why he was struggling against her.
Hermione's chest was heaving up and down as she reached up to remove her tie. The action stirred something within him and he made a last ditch effort to stop her, knowing his protests would be fruitless.
"Miss Granger! Let me go at once. This is wrong." Despite his protestations, his eyes followed her every movement as she unbuttoned her shirt and demanded his discipline for her bad actions.
"Oh, I know it's wrong, Professor. I know I'm being bad. That's why I need your discipline." He watched her luscious mouth form the words, trying to make sense of everything. But then her skirt was sliding down her thighs and any attempt to understand what was being said was abandoned.
She was walking closer to him once again, now clad only in her bra and panties, shoes and socks. The image was breathtaking. Standing before him, she dug her fingers into his clothed chest and electric sparks shot through his skin, straight to his groin. It was ecstasy and it was torture.
With a graceful movement, she mounted his lap, coming face to face with him. She was still looking him straight in the eye and he was finding it difficult to resist her in any way, shape, or form. He wasn't entirely certain she wasn't using some sort of unknown magic upon him. As she lowered her hips slightly to brush the crotch of her panties against his strained fly, however, all thoughts of magic flew out the window and his attention refocused solely on the agony taking place below his waist. Slowly, painfully, she ground herself against his bulging hardness and he threw his head back and groaned.
She was speaking again, and he opened his eyes to focus on her mouth once more. He noticed that her lips, the subject of so many fantasies, were slightly chapped. The imperfection appealed to him and he longed to feel her lips pressed against his. Just as he considered moving forward to kiss her, she licked those sultry lips and leaned forward slightly. "Professor," she murmured, just a hair away from his mouth, "I want to fuck you."
He could feel her words vibrate through his body, and a bolt of electricity, a hundred times larger than the little shocks he had been experiencing, shot through him to his engorged cock. His body tightened at the pleasure and at the same moment, her parted lips met his. Without hesitation, he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, seeking hers. As their tongues met, she pressed her body a little closer to him, and her hips began to pulse rhythmically against his.
Her hands had begun to explore his body, and he felt an undeniable urge to do the same. Without his hands at his disposal however, his only available tool was his tongue. Thus, he employed it thoroughly, investigating the hills and valleys of her neck, the gentle slope behind her ear. Her earlobe was particularly interesting, as its probing produced a quite voracious response from its owner.
Snape was lost as he was subsumed by the sensation that was her. It was as though every molecule of his body existed just to be touched by her in this way. He wanted more, and yet he didn't want this perfect feeling to disappear. The perfection of the moment was destroyed, however, by a smart knocking on the classroom door.
He felt Hermione tighten against him and stared into her face as she withdrew, terrified. The sound of the knock continued to echo long after the knock itself ceased, but whether that was a result of the cavernous dungeon chamber or it was only in his own head, he was unsure. He was stricken with a blind sense of panic and indecision, a state completely unknown to him. Of course, until that point in time, he had never found himself in such circumstances before.
He was saved from having to make a decision by Hermione's quick departure from his lap to under his desk. She summoned her strewn-about clothing to her outstretched hand and retreated under the desktop, making no move to free him from his bonds. He was outraged by her seeming plan to abandon him in such a state to the incoming visitor, but recognized that, once again, he had little recourse. To his chagrin, she seemed very much satisfied with this turn of events as her head ducked out of view.
At the very least, she was out of sight as the door to the classroom swung open and Draco Malfoy stepped inside. Until that moment, Snape had completely forgotten about him. He had received a detention for threatening a second-year Hufflepuff in the hall several days before. Normally, Snape would not have assigned a detention to a student of his own house, at least when he could help it, but was forced to in this instance because McGonagall had been standing nearby at the time of the incident.
Snape checked to ensure that his bound hands were far enough under the desk to be out of view and then addressed Malfoy, "What do you want?" Though he knew he had completed his detention, his only thought was to get him out of the classroom as quickly as possible.
Malfoy launched into a detailed explanation on the results of his research in the library on the unpredictable effects of moonstones on potions containing lionfish spine. Snape attempted to focus his attention on the information being relayed by Malfoy and not on the girl beneath his desk. His focus was severely tested, however, when he felt a pair of hands slide up his legs and gently pull his tumescent member from his pants.
She was breathing lightly on his cock and he squirmed anxiously in anticipation of her mouth making contact with the sensitive head. When, at least, her warm, slippery mouth surrounded his cock, he was unable to stifle the groan that emitted from his throat.
Malfoy stopped talking mid-sentence and looked questioningly at Snape. "Are you alright, sir?"
"Yes, fine, not feeling well," Snape responded vaguely, his mind entirely on the tongue curling around his swollen head. Gradually, she began to take his length into her mouth, probing further with each dip of her head. Unable even to look at Malfoy, he barked at him to write up his research in an essay and hand it in the next day. To his dismay, Malfoy responded, "Oh, but I have, here you go. But I wanted to point out to you this odd passage here…."
Snape was no longer listening. The only thing in the world that existed was Hermione's mouth on his cock. Malfoy continued to babble, until Snape snapped at him, "Enough, fine, go!"
Malfoy, no longer respectful of his professor since the fall of Voldemort and the discovery of Snape's role in the war, did not cower the way most other students would have at his harsh words. Instead, he directed yet another odd look at his professor. Finally, he headed towards the door and exited the classroom.
A moment after Malfoy's departure, Hermione released Snape from her enthralling mouth and climbed out from under the desk. Despite his acute disappointment at the removal of her oral attention, he was overwhelmed with an intense anger at her that momentarily outstripped his appreciation of her efforts.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Did you want to get caught?" he practically shouted at her. As the words left his mouth, it occurred to him that she did. Or maybe she didn't want to get caught, exactly, but wanted the excitement of knowing it was possible. Comprehending her actions, he asked, "You did want to get caught, didn't you?"
Hermione didn't answer him immediately and he took that to answer his question in the affirmative. After a moment of what appeared to be indecision on her part, she swiftly removed her bra and panties and approached him once again. A tornado of emotions swirled through him as he tried to process the image before him. Her naked body seemed to emanate a glow in the gloomy torchlight of the classroom and he ached to touch her.
As she began to remove his pants, she unfastened his bindings, and did not bother to re-secure him once his pants were gone. She employed the same process with his robe and shirt, and he soon found himself sitting naked before her, with no restraints holding him back.
In that moment, he recognized his choice. With his bonds removed, it was his first and last opportunity to put a stop to everything, before it truly passed the point of no return. Competing with his first option was the recognition of what Hermione intended. And despite the fact that he knew it was a colossally bad decision, his desire to give in to Hermione's intentions far outweighed his conscience in this regard. Thus, as she reclaimed her position atop his lap once more, though he voiced a feeble protest, he did nothing physically to keep her from touching him.
Once in position, she commanded him in a husky voice, "Touch me, Professor." The use of his title again hit home, as a final reminder of the impropriety of his actions. Despite its wince-inducing effect, however, it did not stop him from immediately reaching for her supple breasts. With the first touch, a longing of months and months was fulfilled. It was apparent that Hermione desired his touch just as much as he longed to touch her, and she moaned as his nimble fingers slid across her hardened nipples.
Her mouth descended upon his once more, and the kiss quickly deepened into a hot, searching embrace, accompanied by hands greedily demanding access to more and more flesh. His mouth traveled down her throat and she threw her head back at the pleasure of his tongue.
When she raised her head once more, their eyes connected. As her hand slid between them, he caught a gleam in her eye, a triumphant twinkle, while a smug smile of satisfaction graced her mouth. The look was reminiscent of the smile she had given him the day before in the classroom, as she taunted him with her allusions to her nighttime fantasies. In an instant, it occurred to him that she believed she was winning.
Immediately, he was infuriated. He felt manipulated. She had come to him that night demanding satisfaction from him, and she would extract it in the way she chose. She had bound him to a chair and tortured him in the most offensive manner. Never mind that he had actually derived pleasure from any of it; he was the decision-maker, he was the operator. He could not allow her to take the upper hand. He would not.
Her hand was on his cock, ready to be guided into her awaiting body. She still held her gaze, and he knew she was eager to watch his face as she took him within her. Little did she know that he would not allow her such satisfaction.
Just as the head of his cock met the lips of her pussy, he tightened his hold around her waist. In the moment it took for him to stand, he watched with pleasure as her face registered the change in his countenance. Standing swiftly, he flipped her around with one arm as he shoved her body into the desk in front of her. He slid his left hand onto her hip and tangled his long fingers into her surprisingly soft hair. Within a matter of seconds from standing up, he kicked her legs apart, aimed carefully, and thrust his cock deep into her waiting pussy.
Though his initial entry had taken but seconds, it seemed to Snape as though the moment had happened in slow motion. The combined feelings of her tight, lush pussy surrounding his hard cock and his dominating hold over her body nearly overwhelmed him. He was almost hesitant to withdraw from her, so intense was the pleasure he was feeling, but did withdraw only because of the promise of increased pleasure in thrusting into her once more.
Snape was so lost in his own enjoyment of his ravishment of Hermione that he had begun stroking into her in an established rhythm before he heard her moans of satisfaction. For a moment, he was surprised, and the sounds of her obvious stimulation both excited and angered him. Without losing the momentum of his thrusting, he tightened his hold on her hair and yanked her head back towards him forcefully. His left hand snaked around her side and gripped possessively at her breast. Despite the almost violent nature of his movements, however, she seemed to respond with greater satisfaction.
The pressure in his balls was beginning to build and the sight of her so subjugated before him only served to stimulate him. He pulled her head closer to his own and lowered his lips to her ear.
"Do not question my authority, Miss Granger," he whispered into her eager ear. "You have been a bad girl and I will punish you." With her face pulled towards his own, he could see her close her eyes at his words and let out a shivering sigh. He released his tight grip on her head and placed his hands on her hips, the better to direct his long, deep strokes into her body. For a time, each became lost to the rhythm and heat of each other's bodies.
Though he never could have predicted it, it appeared that the rougher he treated her and the more humiliation he heaped upon her, the more stimulation she displayed. Based on her obvious play for domination only minutes before, he had not expected such utter capitulation to his will. Nevertheless, her arousal at his force could not be ignored.
Snape's release built closer and closer. He was determined, however, to bring about her orgasm first. He could not allow her, at such a crucial moment, to defeat him in that manner. He stemmed the rising tide and encouraged her release. Without warning, he smacked his hand firmly on her ass, calling her a bad girl as he did so. Though she was clearly surprised by the attack, she was just as clearly receptive to it, as she moaned with pleasure and thrust her pelvis backwards in an attempt to draw more of his cock within her.
He could tell that she was nearing her release, and he was grateful because he knew would not be able to hold out much longer. As it was, he was unable to stroke into her without grunting with each pulse. In an effort to spur her on, he continued his barrage of slaps in time with his strokes as he groaned, "You're a bad girl, Miss Granger."
Her responses were becoming nigh hysterical, and at the very least were unintelligible. Finally, with a great, shuddering cry, she came, her body collapsing onto the desk as she rode wave after wave of her orgasm. The walls of her pussy had tightened into a pulsing vice around his cock, which had hardened slightly. His thrusts slowed as he felt his own orgasm nearing. Just before he could withdraw and enter one last time, however, Hermione's hand slid between her legs to the juncture of the base of his cock and her soaking, quivering pussy. Her fingers slid sensually around his balls and she massaged them lightly.
He had not expected her touch, and the feeling overwhelmed him. Instantly, all went dark before his eyes and his groin convulsed almost painfully. His orgasm crashed over him and he felt his come burst forth in hot jets, deep into Hermione. All the while, he bent over her, emitting a guttural groan. When the spasms ceased and he the last drop of come had been spewed into her awaiting body, he withdrew and stumbled backward into his desk chair, his knees unable to support his weight any longer. His hands trembled and he lacked the ability to focus on any one thought for more than a second.
Looking up, he found Hermione watching him with a curious expression on her face. Her thighs glistened with their combined come and he groaned as she retrieved some with her fingers and licked them clean. Even after his thunderous orgasm, the action triggered a flicker of arousal.
She approached him in his desk chair and straddled him once more. She was still looking into his eyes. She lowered her mouth to his and he could taste their mingled come on her lips and tongue. Still dazed by their encounter, he could not find it within himself to respond to her actions. Finally, she rose from him, donning various parts of her uniform and gathering the remainder of her clothing to her body. Still, he could not escape the fog surrounding his head. She turned towards the classroom door as she threw the Invisibility Cloak over her head.
Before the door opened however, some of the fog cleared, and the realization of what had just occurred descended upon him. He needed to stop her. It was imperative that he not let her leave the room without saying something. Impulsively, he called out to her, "Miss Granger."
After a moment, her head appeared near the doorway as she turned to face him questioningly. But as her face was revealed, he found himself to be at a loss for words. What could he possibly say after what had just happened? As his head became increasingly fog-free, a feeling of trepidation settled in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't a feeling he could quite identify, but he felt the urge to apologize to her. However, when he said nothing for several long moments, she filled the silence for him.
"Goodnight, Professor." Her head disappeared and the classroom door opened and closed. She was gone.