She climbed onto his desk without a word, sitting on the edge and looking terrified and alluring at the same time. "Um, Professor?"
Her voice sounded stiff and the air of false confidence was an almost pathetic attempt; she wasn't even pretty. Not remarkably anyway, she was the kind of girl who would be forgotten in a crowd, without even a whisper of a memory. You'd have to know her, let her get under your skin before you could recall Hermione Granger. Brown eyes, and slightly horrendous posture (due to her self-inflicted workload) her hair refused to make sense and was constantly a messy tangle, framing her plain face. Strands of the lackluster curls fell in her eyes, but she didn't move; he could feel her watching him, waiting.
"Ms.Granger, kindly get off my desk before you undoubtedly make a fool of yourself." His voice was scathingly passive, didn't look up from the papers he was grading-Gryffindors', so he automatically marked lower than necessary- and listened with a kind of sadistic pleasure as she scrambled to get her books together and walk to the door, which was unfairly far away for her at this moment. It was everything that he wanted, listening to her feet hit the floor rapidly, it was so good to feel someone else's shame for once. Here they go again.
"Ms.Granger, I don't believe I granted you permission to leave."
She didn't stop immediately, must've thought he was joking, or she heard wrong. She still wasn't used to this, hadn't let it sink in. He didn't look up yet, he wanted to enjoy this more, wanted to just let her stand there feeling confused and raw. It never got old, playing with Hermione Granger, he liked it too much and it was a divine kick that didn't deliver from much else. It was a different kind of feeling to go with the different kind of taunting.. It was vicious and her pleading, her angry eyes triggered the most incredulously fantastic feeling he had felt in such a long time. This was becoming a strange, recurring event; Thursday nights had been different lately.
He came towards her slowly, making sure every footstep against the stone floor echoed, making sure to lock her gaze in an unforgiving way, making sure the doors were locked. She wouldn't run, she wouldn't want to run; he needed to keep people out. Two was a tragedy, three would be a disaster. They both wanted this; they both knew it was wrong, and horrible, and damaging, and they wanted it just the same. Her tie would come off quickly; he always threw it off her neck carelessly. It would've made all the difference if it were green and silver. Every button undone made her breathe in sharply; she was waiting and scolding herself at the same time. Clothes could never seem to come off quickly enough, or slowly enough. He didn't bother to make sense of it, just cupped her chin with his ink stained hand and kissed her fiercely, letting her know how it was going to be, how it was always to be. And the way her tongue snaked into his mouth awkwardly let him know she was all right with that.
She kissed him mortified; she kissed him sadly.
The way she slumped into his arms, slack, bittersweet, it wasn't a 'Take me, take me!' kind of embrace, with every quick breath out of her sounding like a sigh. Her lips contorted lazily, and her heart beat at a slow, even pace, her hands stayed in the same places too long; seemingly rooted to him, a makeshift support. She was so green, and scared, her hands firmly against his chest, clearly trying to hold herself together. But there was also a desperate look in her eyes, every time he stopped, ask if they were asking why; how he could possibly stop?
Of course she was scared, he was a good twenty years older than her, and temperamental at that. His abrupt stopping couldn't be a good thing, ever. Seeing that face, seeing that power he had over her, he always lunged at her again, making sure that he sets his mouth against every inch of her neck, creeping down and leaving traces everywhere. She'd emit sharp little gasps, so used to it all being so slow and leisurely, the Weasley boy lacked the confidence to be aggressive, but she wasn't opposed to the chance. And he'd pull her away and look in her eyes, knowing she was uncomfortable and uneasy, and her eyes would be different. There was something in the way she looked back at him that asked him why he stopped, how he could possibly take away such feelings like that? It was soft and disbelieving, and made him smirk as he felt a burst of assurance ripple through him. He never got the pretty girl, but he could get the other, plain girl and make her want him. He could make her need him; he could make her beautiful.
It was such a false confidence: he was sallow and hook-nosed, and the typical outcast. He was never generally well liked, as a teacher or as a student, even the Death Eaters didn't accept him completely, and that took its toll. He was numb, fantastically and bitterly numb except when he found this power that would allow him to feel something strongly. She wanted him, didn't need him-yet, being a very prominent keyword-but the look in her eyes at the moment told him she was for once, oblivious to logic. Unruly hair in her eyes and such a pleading, begging look, at that moment Hermione Granger was sadistically irresistible. It was sick, and horrible, but he was feeling and didn't particularly care if bedding the Granger girl wasn't the right thing to do. He didn't need this girl, or even want her, but the power over her was something else entirely.
They were both pale, but he had a yellow, sickly coloring to his skin, while she was rosy, and glowed, especially in the heat on the moment. Her body was adequate, breasts full enough, and hips that still seemed unsure of whether they wanted to be there, but it was good. It all fit together, a naked puzzle with the pieces connecting into a whole that was barely worth it. Nothing spectacular, but when she stood there rigid and unnerved, she was some kind of pitiful beauty.
She was the smartest girl of her age, even in this area, it somehow showed. It was slightly shocking how easy and assured she was, grasping his cock, and pumping away slowly, the other hand tracing disordered circles in the crook of his arm. She didn't look him in the eye, but pressed her face into his chest, and Severus could feel her shaking, no matter how warm she was. He didn't expect her to know what to do; it was a pleasant surprise, one that he wanted to test. He could see into her mind, see all, but chose not to for the sake of the shock.
She always started slow, into her gently and letting his stringy black hair drape his face, fall over her as his mouth assailed her neck, every little escaping cry telling him to go faster, harder, make her scream. Her hips would trust forward involuntarily, her body was so much more aware of what she wanted than her conscience, and he could only oblige. He touched her mercilessly, owning her and she was almost completely submissive, unable to think straight and too in awe of what she was learning. He was teaching her everything he knew, and she was always, always willing to learn.
Sometimes, he'd stop. Just for a split second, because he couldn't stop for more than that, couldn't possibly. He didn't always remember to, but when he did, he'd look at her eyes, bright and begging, and he'd be overwhelmed by the power, every time. With a final, raw trust into her, they'd let out the last of their incoherent chorus; sweat shining of their bodies and catching weak dungeon light.
"Miss Granger, I suggest you find yourself back in your dormitory immediately, I doubt you want to be caught in the corridors at this time of night."
He broke the lull indifferently, before their heart rates even returned to normal, staring at the ceiling as she unwrapped her arms from him. It wasn't advice, it was petty and cruel, clearly telling her that she was on her own, and he wasn't saving her if she was found. She mumbled something incoherently before finding her discarded uniform, and awkwardly buttoning her shirt, shaking the messy curls out of her eyes. It was confusing, and it hurt both of them, but Severus knew they both wanted more, one probably more than the other. She looked back at him, manners automatically causing a "Good night" to creep out of her mouth, and he made the mistake of eye contact. Such a stupid mistake, because she looked temporarily fulfilled, and somehow content, and he didn't want that, and he didn't feel that. He didn't feel okay, and she should've mirrored that. Because if she was the one making him feel, if he wasn't in complete control, there would be a problem.
He couldn't be the one that needed.
I suppose this takes place AU, in Hermione's sixth year where she's seventeen so it's all legal-ish. Never mind that Snape was kind of busy in that book. It's gotta be time consuming, the whole double spy thing. And just because he's all vindicated in the end doesn't mean he was fucked up like woah. He was. He was so beautifully flawed.3
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