A/N: Thanks for following, favoriting and reviewing – and for motivating me to write more on this!
Warning: Strong dubcon, bordering on noncon.
She woke early, nestled into the hot, hard body of her husband. Almost flushing with embarrassment, she removed her leg from his hips to escape his silky, smooth, rock-hard cock, throbbing slightly against her leg. She wasn't stupid, she was aware that this was a perfectly normal thing for a man. Still, it made her uneasy, wondering if he would make good on his promise to have sex with her every night. Untangling herself as gently as possible from his long limbs, she tried to avoid waking the still sleeping wizard.
Making it into the bathroom silent and successfully, she stepped into the shower, turning on the water. His bathroom was nice, really, though a bit on the small side. The floor was the same, grey slate as the rest of the rooms, and the walls were a lighter shade of grey tiles. Gently glowing orbs floated near the high ceiling, casting a soft, warm light down on the warm, honeyed oak of the furniture. Everything was immaculately clean, with a blindingly white porcelain sink and toilet, and the glass doors of the shower were a squeaky clean see-through. The cleanliness was obviously thanks to the House-elves, she thought wryly, before deciding she could allow herself to enjoy it, even though she still couldn't condone House Elf enslavement.
But it was small. Especially when they were both in it. The flush came back tenfold with the thought of showering with him. Gods, last night had left her mortified. Professor Snape, touching her so intimately, making her body react with pleasure like that, it was virtually unbelieveable. She would never be able to look him in the eyes. Sighing, she finished her shower, toweling herself dry, before starting on her morning routine.
Sneaking out into the bedroom, she managed to dress herself quietly, wondering if he would teach her that nifty dressing spell of his anytime soon. She could see his black hair spread on the pillow, and he was now sleeping on his side, giving her a full view of his profile. Gods, that nose was large. She hoped fervently that any child between them would inherit her nose. It felt ridiculous, to think of "Snape" and "their child" in the same sentence.
As she put on her boots, she speculated how many times they would have to do it before she got pregnant. Brows furrowing, she suddenly wondered if the Ministry requirement of sex once a week applied during pregnancy too. Logically, it shouldn't, but then again, she supposed that this law was conceived by old, horny wizards, drooling for sex with young fertile witches. Somehow, she was sure that they would find themselves having sex every week, pregnancy notwithstanding. Letting herself out from his rooms – she supposed, they were hers too, now – she winced, again thinking of his statement from their first that that he wanted to do it every night. It made her shudder, but she wasn't sure if it was with pleasure or disgust.
Walking briskly through the empty corridors and stairs of the dungeon towards the Great Hall, she shivered in the cold of the early morning. Even though it was barely six a.m., she longed for a cup of scalding hot tea and something warm to eat. She knew breakfast would be ready, because Hogwarts: A History clearly stated that breakfast service was not determined by the time, it was determined by need, and she definitively felt the need. Entering through the great doors silently, she noted the Hall was almost empty, only a few Ravenclaws with their noses buried in books were present.
Sinking down on the Gryffindor bench, she decided to have porridge with her morning tea. The ceiling was cloudy today, big, puffy, grey clouds that spoke of snow to come. The Head table was still empty, and she felt thankful that her husband – the word still felt strange and unfamiliar – had allowed her to sit with her friends yesterday.
She giggled softly to herself, remembering the gleeful look on Harry's face when they realized that she was Draco sodding Malfoy's Godmother. They had all laughed at that, hiding their uneasiness and worry beneath laughter.
Her smile faltered, as she remembered finding out later in the day that she was blocked from the Gryffindor Common room:
"I'm sorry," the Fat Lady said, "only inhabitants of the Tower and faculty are allowed to enter." The Fat Lady had given her an apologetic smile, but there was nothing the portrait could do.
"This will cause problems," Harry said with a bewildered look. "Where can we meet, or are we unable to see you after dinner?" Slowly, they started walking aimlessly through the corridors.
Deep in thoughts, she said: "I can't just invite you to his quarters, not without telling him, at least. I imagine he'll be pissed off."
Ron rolled his eyes, but Harry said, reasonably: "You live there too, he can't just up and decide everything for himself. You have the right to have visitors in your home."
She nodded in agreement, while Ron looked at them both with something akin to pity in his eyes.
"Eerrm, Hermione," he began slowly, blue eyes both sad and fearful. "Actually, you don't, not if he doesn't say so."
She stared at him in disbelief. "What do you mean?"
"I know Dad told you, but the wedding vows gives him the right to decide a lot for you, especially things about your home." Seeing both hers and Harry's shock, he rushed to explain: "Sometimes, I forget the two of you grew up among Muggles. It goes like this: He can't randomly decide things like what you should wear or eat, but he has the right to decide where you'll live, who is welcome in your home, what you should vote if you are on the Wizengamot and things like that. And oh, what to do with your money."
She spluttered, feeling like she was trapped in a stupid book from the nineteenth century, where women were totally dependent on a man for anything and everything. Slowly, a mix of despair and anger simmered in her.
Harry sighed: "Sometimes, I wonder what century the Wizarding world belong in." Shaking his head, he said: "At least, when this stupid law is repealed, you can get a divorce."
Ron winced, saying: "Well, no. The thing is, you can't get a divorce." Turning to Hermione, he said anxiously: "You knew that already, right?"
Harry looked astounded, but Hermione said darkly: "I knew it was so, but I'm not about to accept it. This is so old-fashioned, it's unbelievable. It has to change."
Still uneasy, Ron said: "This is very old magic, Hermione. While I think you can change into new vows if you made a new marriage ceremony, I wouldn't be so sure about changing those who already are in effect. They are supposed to be indestructible, you know, at least, that's what everyone says."
They walked in silence for a while, their feet slowly taking them towards the Library. Stopping just outside the heavy, carved oaken doors, Harry tried to lighten the mood, saying: "Oh well, then it'll be Friday night at the Snape's for the rest of our lives. I hope he's a good cook." Ron looked incredulously at Harry, and Hermione started giggling. They all laughed, but somehow, their desperation shone through the merriment.
Spooning up the rest of her breakfast porridge, wishing there were more raisins in the mix, Hermione realized she had no idea if Snape – Severus – had a house outside Hogwarts. Did he live here full-time? Sighing dolefully, she wished she hadn't been so hasty in selling her parents' house. The Weasleys had advised her to sell it, because it would be sensible to save the money to buy a house in a wizarding village or city enclave later. She had quickly agreed, because at that time, even thinking of her parents hurt so much. It still did, and she willed herself not to cry. Oh, how she regretted that sale! It would have been such a comfort to be back in her childhood home, safe, in a place reminding her of them. Well, she couldn't really blame the Weasleys, they had only tried to help her as best they could.
Her bowl disappeared as soon as her porridge was eaten, and she was nursing her second cup of strong, black tea, when her husband entered. He stalked up to her, black robes billowing behind him, and whispered in her ear, long black hair tickling her cheek: "Good morning, Madam Snape."
"Good morning, sir", she said, not meeting his eyes, fighting a blush. Luckily, he moved on, not calling her out on her wanton behavior from the night before, though she supposed he'd never do something like that in public. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him taking his tea black, helping himself to three rashers of bacon, two eggs and a toast, liberally slathered in butter. Like an afterthought, he added slivers of fried tomatoes, but wrinkled his nose in distaste as Professor McGonagall passed him a tray of black pudding, passing it quickly on to Professor Sprout.
Flapping noises made her look up, and the first owls were soaring into the Great Hall to deliver the post, a flurry of brown, white and black feathers churning the air. The Daily Prophet dumped down on her plate, and the owl nipped the knut she held ready in her hand in-flight, before flapping its great wings towards the ceiling.
She heard him before she had time to process the headline. "FUCK!" he roared, slamming his fist into the table, making the few early risers in the Hall jump in shock.
"WHO TRICKED WHO – OR DO THEY DESERVE ONE ANOTHER?"
Underneath, it was pictures of them. She supposed, there wasn't a picture in existence with the two of them in it – yet. In his picture, Snape was scowling as usual, arms crossed over his broad chest. She, on the other hand, was looking shifty-eyed, nibbling at her lip nervously. Frowning, she read on:
The notorious glory-seeker of Gryffindor, the Muggle-born Hermione Granger (17), has set her sights far above her years. Not satisfied with her portfolio of lovers, including the Boy Who Lived and Quidditch star Victor Krum, she's taken a darker turn with her surprising marriage to her Hogwarts Professor, none other than the second most feared man in Britain, the man who single-handedly has made students wet themselves in bed for years and makes adults freeze when they hear the word "Potions", namely Severus Snape (36).
One can only speculate that Granger, being one of Harry Potter's closest friends, has seen fit to attach herself to the wizard rumoured to be on good terms with You-Know-Who to ensure her own survival. Maybe the devious girl knows something about the chances for Potter to win – or lose – that the rest of us are not aware of? Still, she is barely seventeen years old. The young girl may have bitten off more than she can chew by marrying the formidable, dark wizard.
Snape was openly a supporter of You-Know-Who before his fall, and whispers tells us that he once again dabbles in darkness. He is rumoured to be the third, strongest wizard in Britain, barring only You-Know-Who and Albus Dumbledore himself. After all those years at Hogwarts, staring at adolescent, pretty schoolgirls, one can almost understand his desire for finally taking a student into his bed. The Marriage Law may be a blessing for a man suppressing his needs through all those lonely detentions with sweet, young, innocent girls in his cold, soundproof, desolate dungeon rooms. But is Hermione Granger prepared to fulfill all the dark desires of her husband, senior to her by a staggering twenty years?
One can only wonder, if these two, the power-hungry Granger and the dark, dreadful bat of the dungeons, does deserve one another.
Hermione let out a big breath, and lifted her head to meet Snape's – no, her husband's eyes. He looked livid, while McGonagall was talking rapidly to him, obviously trying to cool him down.
Well, she shrugged to herself, I'll write Skeeter to remind her of what I know about her. And if not… Hermione found herself smiling grimly.
Xxxx
Before the Defense class, the seventh years that exited the classroom cautioned the sixth year class waiting in the corridor: "He's crazy. We've never seen him so angry. No matter what you do, don't offer up anything voluntarily. He'll snap your head off and dock points like never before," Katie Bell whispered to them as she passed.
All the sixth years were standing still, and Hermione realized that everyone, Gryffindors and Slytherins alike, were staring at her with expectation. Sighing, she rolled her eyes, like she could fix this? She supposed, at least they thought he wouldn't kill her on sight. She wished she had been as sure of that as they were. Walking up to the door, she entered, feigning indifference.
The classroom was empty, like she had known it would be – seriously, did no one pay attention? Snape always entered after the class had arrived!
Harry and Ron followed her staunchly, both casting worried looks towards the door to Snape's office, and the rest filed in slowly behind them.
Her husband entered by crashing the door open like always, and Hermione smiled ruefully at herself, remembering him doing that for their breakfast entrance yesterday. Somehow, she had always believed him to kick the door open, but of course, he had used magic. Schooling her face into an interested, studious expression, she sat at the ready with her quill and parchment, prepared to keep their deal to not say a word.
The lesson was horrible. He eviscerated everyone, calling people names, told people they should look to live as Muggles after school, as there was no way they'd ever do anything useful with magic. Girls were crying, and boys were gritting their teeth together, fighting tears of humiliation.
"Ah, Potter," her husband drawled at last, and she shuddered, realizing he must have saved up a truly vicious comment for Harry's attempt to explain how to fight an Inferi.
"You would be dead, if you followed that line of reasoning, Potter. Or maybe you, with your remarkable powers, would become the Boy Who Survived an Inferi Attack by Shouting Expelliarmus? If so, rest assured, you'll be sought after from all Universities and independent Masters alike to explain this extraordinary feat. It would indeed be another miracle." The Slytherins snickered obediently, while Harry fumed in silence. Eyes glittering maliciously, Snape said: "No, Potter, you will need fire, not disarming reanimated, wandless corpses. That is, of course, assuming you would know the difference between Lumos and Fiendfyre, or even the difference between an Accio or a Reductor."
Shutting out her friend's humiliation at the hands of her husband – there was absolutely nothing she could do anyway – Hermione nibbled her lip. He sure had a temper, being so easy to anger, and he was a vindictive bastard. Everyone knew that. Ron had told her he apparently held quite an amount of power over her, what if he ever turned that temper on herself? She'd be in deep shit, and she swore to herself to start researching wizarding laws more thoroughly.
Suddenly, she became aware that he was asking, eyes slitted in fury, if anyone, absolutely anyone, knew the answer to his question. Spooling backwards, she recalled him asking why Fiendfyre was so difficult to control. At last, she raised her hand, thinking that his comment of anyone would have to include her.
Looking almost insane with rage, he nevertheless said in a low, dangerous voice: "Madam Snape, would you please be so kind as to enlighten your useless, helpless friends?"
Her head snapped up, and she glared at him, but she answered politely, making sure he could see her eyes burn too.
When she had delivered her answer, he spat: "Potter, you should listen to my wife. She might just save your sorry life."
After class, Pansy Parkinson bumped into her, clinging to her arm. Giving her a nasty, simpering smile, the girl said, throwing her long, brown hair back: "You have something to look forward to for tonight, haven't you? I bet you get off on him punishing you in bed. Isn't that right, Granger? Tell me, are you in for a spanking for having so stupid friends?"
Hermione shook herself free, but before she could say anything, Draco – Draco Malfoy of all people – stepped up to them, saying: "Shut it, Pansy. This is no way to talk to my Godmother." She felt herself gape stupidly at him, but the only consolation was that Pansy looked equally dumb with her jaw almost on her chest.
Draco raised an eyebrow to Pansy, and he said haughtily, before walking off to join his cronies: "Remember, Pansy, an insult to my Godmother or Godfather, is an insult to the Malfoy family."
Hermione shook her head in astonishment. She had never thought Malfoy would take his promise to Snape so seriously, but clearly, he was. It was funny, really, and she couldn't help laughing out loud at the shock and disgust on the faces of Harry, Ron and Pansy.
Xxxx
During lunch, she was surprised when the boys shuffled away to sit with Dean and Neville, and Ginny joined her instead. Their see-through ploy was rather obvious, as the boys were nodding encouragingly to Ginny, giving thumbs up.
Smiling with exasperation, she turned to the younger girl. "So, you're here to talk to me about things they see as girl stuff, right?"
Ginny nodded, saying sagely: "We believe you might need it." She flicked her wand, and put up a Silencing spell around them. "So, spill it. How's life with Snape so far? More importantly, does he treat you right in bed?"
Hermione blushed, and answered: "Would you mind joining me someplace else for lunch? He's looking at us." Ginny looked up, seeing their Professor glare at them, black eyes boring into them like he wanted to break the Silencing spell.
Grinning broadly, the red-head giggled: "Oh, he knows. With that death stare, he knows this is about him."
The two girls took their lunch to an empty classroom, sitting on top of the desks, swinging their legs as they ate their sandwiches, swilling the food down with tea from a shared thermos.
Sighing, Hermione said: "I don't know how much I should tell, or maybe I shouldn't say anything at all. But you're right, I really need a sounding board or something. It'll be good to confide to someone." She gave the younger girl an embarrassed grimace.
"So, how's the sex?"
"Well… Last night, it was almost good, but…" she replied, red-faced. In her embarrassment, it rushed out of her: "It takes such a long time for me to come by myself. I don't think he would be that patient, as he really doesn't want me either. It just felt wrong to make him keep on doing that, knowing it would take ages. Better to just get it over and done with. The sex is just something we must do. And," she shrugged apologetically, "he is Professor Snape. It's a bit scary to think about him making me come. Who knows, maybe he'd hold it against me sometime? Sneer at me, telling me I act like a whore or something. He's my teacher, for Merlin's sake."
Ginny furrowed her brow, and said slowly "I can relate to why you would feel like that, Hermione. But still, sex is supposed to be good for both. Don't you think Professor Snape knows that it's perfectly normal for a girl to need more time getting there, than for a man? He is a grown man, he's bound to have some experience."
Hermione shuddered. "I don't want to think about what he has done or not, or what he knows."
"Still, you shouldn't put your own needs behind his, just because you're scared it might take a while," Ginny said, sounding for all the world like the writer of a relationship column.
Hermione laughed a little, hiding her flaming cheeks in her hand, before she shook her head. "No, maybe later, I'm just… not ready for that yet. The whole thing, I mean the marriage as a whole, not just the sex, is so freaking awkward."
Ginny sighed, obviously casting around for another approach. Hermione became a little irritated, like her friend was pressuring her to make an effort to orgasm with her Professor. Didn't she see the wild indecency in that?
The girl brightened, she obviously had an idea. Pleased with herself, she said: "Did he come, Hermione?"
"Ummm, well, yes, he had to, hadn't he? To fulfill the stupid Law?" She shot Ginny a glance, wondering what she was angling at.
"Why do you think he would hold you to a double standard? You'll be married for the rest of your life! Even Professor Snape can't be such an arse as to deny you orgasms. Not that I want to be very understanding of his situation, but don't you think it can be a little strange and lonely to be the only one who comes?"
"How did you become such a relationship expert, Ginny? Was it Dean or mooning about Harry for all those years that brought it all out?" Hermione said sarcastically, aiming to put an end to the conversation.
Ginny snorted, not taking offense. "Maybe I've learned something from having six stupid brothers. They make a lot of mistakes."
xxxx
Late at night, she was finishing her letter to Rita Skeeter at his desk in the living room. Sitting comfortably in her pajamas, she enjoyed the warmth still spreading into the room as the fire in the large fireplace slowly died. Suddenly, the fireplace sparked, the flames turned green, and the tall frame of her husband entered the room, Banishing specks of soot from his clothes.
"I thought you'd be in bed this late," he said, voice deep and somehow soft. As he walked towards her, she caught a whiff of woodsmoke and Firewhisky, and she guessed he had been somewhere outside, probably at a pub.
Peeking over her shoulder, he exclaimed: "Why are your writing that bint? It'll only fuel her stories! Besides, you don't have to take action, I did promise to protect you." His voice was strangely hesitant, and she turned to look at him.
Giving him an innocent look, she said calmly: "You see, Skeeter and I had a one year deal. Though she held her part, I'm now writing to inform her that I revoke all promises, and she'll have to suffer the consequences if she doesn't do as I say."
"A deal?" he said, looking both horrified and intrigued, though she couldn't miss his quick glance down at her chest. And why did her nipples perk at his attention? "Why would you make a deal with someone like her?"
For a few seconds, she debated if she should tell him. Well, he was a Slytherin, he might enjoy it.
Stretching a little on her chair – and definitively not pushing out her chest just to tease him – she almost crooned with pleasure: "You see, our dear Rita is an unregistered Animagus. I've threatened to tell the Ministry if she writes any more lies about me, Harry or Ron – or you. And," her smile deepened into a wicked curl, "The first time, I made my point by keeping her in her beetle form into a jar over the summer between fourth and fifth grade. In this letter, I tell her I would like to do so again."
She had never seen Severus Snape looking impressed, but now, he clearly was. "That's…" he said, voice a little gruff, "that's… just … so very Slytherin of you, Hermione."
"Is that a compliment?" she said, raising an eyebrow to him with a small smile.
"Of course, the best I can give," he said, giving her an amused quirk of his lips.
This was almost a bit flirty, she thought to herself, lowering her head so he wouldn't see her blush. Pursing her lips, she thought about what Ginny had said. But still, she was unsure. I can't just expect him to bother with giving me an orgasm, she thought, a little despondently. I would like to, but there's no way I can ask him to do that. He'll grow bored, and then he'll taunt me for not coming, or something like that.
She almost froze, when he suddenly pushed her hair away and stroked her neck with his fingertips, the touch tentative and careful. Looking up to him, she saw an odd expression on his face. A mix of apprehension and desire, she thought. It felt good though, like a proper caress. But she had one more task for tonight.
Giving him an unsure smile, oscillating on a scale between mild panic and pleasure, she said: "I'm almost done. I just wanted to write a letter to Victor to tell him what happened." She pulled out a fresh parchment, dipping her quill, and started writing: Dearest Victor. I know you'll be surprised, shocked and sad to hear my news.
The hand on her neck stilled, and she could hear a harsh intake of his breath. Later, she berated herself for not realizing how the mood in the room shifted. Maybe she could have explained, somehow stopping it from happening.
His voice was suddenly an octave lower, almost ominously deep and silky: "Victor? And who is that?"
"Victor Krum, of course," she said absentmindedly, chewing on her quill as she wondered how to break the news to Victor. Her Bulgarian friend would be shocked to learn of the Marriage Law, she knew, and he'd be sad for her sake. Victor was not one to take news of a forced marriage lightly.
"The Quidditch player? What's he to you?"
"He was my boyfriend." She smiled down at her parchment, oblivious to the signs of danger in his voice, remembering how relieved they both were when they agreed to be just friends. "We've visited each other every summer since my fourth year. It has been nice." Laughing a little, she continued: "I even think you caught us snogging at the Yule Ball, though I wouldn't expect you to remember that, thinking of how many students you must have caught during your years."
He spat: "Of course I remember! That's the only time I caught the goody-two-shoes Princess of Gryffindor in the bushes. You can imagine my surprise."
She looked up at him, shocked by the venom in his voice, seeing his face dark with anger.
He said, voice unnaturally calm, conflicting with the fire in his eyes: "And just how far did you go with this boyfriend of yours?"
It felt like her heart stopped, and suddenly, she was afraid. There was something about his face, something dangerous, like he was angry with her for some obscure reason. He stood, looming threateningly like a dark shadow in the light of the dying embers from the fireplace, his face in shadows. The room seemed to grow colder, like the bitter, early winter cold from outside had crept in as the fire died out. She supposed the frost actually did seep in – but at the same time, it also felt like the chill came from him.
His fist suddenly clenched in her hair, and he bellowed: "Answer me!"
She almost jumped in fright. What was this? Why was he so angry?
At the same time, her own temper was stoking a fire inside her. He had no right to ask!
Back stiffly erect, trying to ignore the slightly painful grip he had on her hair, she said haughtily: "That's none of your business, sir."
He leaned down, whispering silkily in her ear, his breath hot on her skin: "Oh, but it is. I want to know whose hands have been pawing my wife's tits and cunt. Did he grope you? Did he touch your pussy, making you come for him? Did you give him a handjob, or did your pretty, little mouth service him with a blowjob?"
Eyes blazing, she turned to him fully, saying bitingly: "Please refrain from talking to me like that! I was a virgin until two nights ago, and you know that very well."
"I know," he said angrily, "oh, I know." His eyes darkened, as he took in her flushed face. "We have to do it tonight too, to maximize the chances of you conceiving. That is, if you can tear yourself away from writing to your … boyfriend."
Swallowing, her heart thumping much too fast in her chest, she nodded, and rose from her chair to go to the bedroom. He gripped her arm, harshly, and he said with a sneer: "We'll do it right here. Bend over my desk."
She stood still, not understanding why this was happening. He seemed so different. Before, he hadn't been caring, exactly, but she had felt somewhat safe, trusting his word when he told her he wouldn't hurt her. This time, he seemed like someone else. A chill went through her as she thought: He's like a Death Eater.
Being caught by his glare, like deer in the headlights of a Muggle car, she didn't even manage to open her mouth to ask what was wrong, to protest that she hadn't done anything wrong. His eyes narrowed, and he yanked her arm, almost shoving her down on the desk, putting pressure on her shoulders, making her lay face-forward over the polished, wooden surface of the desk, her letter to Victor crushed beneath her chest.
He pushed up her skirt and pulled down her knickers, and she heard him whisper: "Lubricatem," again.
No efforts to arouse me this time, she thought, surprised at her own faint disappointment buried beneath her fear, and she shuddered as she heard the rustle of his clothes. Suddenly he was there, gripping her hip with one hand, grabbing hold of her hair with another, and he shoved himself into her, roughly.
Her breath was forced out of her, wincing at the feeling of his cock entering her unprepared, though her sex was wet from the spell. He grunted, setting a fast tempo, his hips slapping into her bum with resounding smacks in the stone room. She leaned her face down on the cold wood of his desk, feeling tears pool in her eyes. This was what she had feared the first night. This was like a rape – the only thing differing was her small nod of consent to let him fuck her. But not like this! Not like she was a whore being paid to indulge his rape fantasy. Now, she was submitting to his desires, his dominance and power, her body at his mercy, and there was no place for her desires in this act, it was all for him. A tiny, unwelcome streak of desire shot through her by that thought, but she shook it quickly off as a random, freak reaction. Sobbing quietly, she hoped he'd finish soon. After a while, she heard him mumble something:
"Gods, yes, you're so wet, I've wanted you for so long, your tits, Merlin, I swear I've wanted to cream on them for years," he panted, voice very low.
Shock went through her – he had wanted to have sex with her before this? That was preposterous, she was his student, and only recently of age! No, something was off, his words didn't seem to belong to her. Was he fantasizing about someone else?
She strained to hear him, as he continued:
"That lovely hair of yours," and he pulled her hair, making her back arch almost painfully, "your arse so firm and round, it feels so good to fuck you hard. You like that, don't you, my sweet? You like your Sev all hard and ready for you, my cock pounding your wet cunt like you're begging me to do. You need me, don't you, to fill up your empty hole, your tight little quim. I'm going to flood your pussy with my come…" He groaned, as thrusts became even harder, and then he shouted, almost illegible: "Lil..!", the words strangled by his grunt and the frenetic slapping of his hips.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Clearly, he had thought of someone else. Someone he wanted. And now, they were stuck with each other. He was going to take her like this, thinking of someone else. Forever.
As he pulled back, she bounced off the desk, running into the bathroom, slamming the door after her. Warding it, she let out a scream of sorrow, of rage, of frustration, and it just wouldn't stop.
A/N: Sorry! *hides* This really went from awkward to awful. I know you wanted something lighter, moving towards romance, but rest assured, it'll be there in time. Currently, I am writing more on Awkward, but I'm still not sure how much/ how long it'll end up. There's at least another chapter to this (about half done), and I promise, I'll end this on a happier note than this chapter, though there are a lot of issues to work through. Let's just say, the awkwardness doesn't just go away.
Question: Does anyone want to see Hermione being brought before Voldemort? Not sure if I want to include that (even without bowing to "my inner" Dark Lord's perverted wishes), but still, meeting with him makes for a much more creepy and darker storyline.