Chapter Three

A New Day

The following days passed in tense silence.

Snape had locked and isolated himself in Hermione's former bedroom, leaving her to take up residence in her parents' master suite, in a pile of forgotten pillows and sheets on the floor that she had pulled from the dark corners of the emptied closet. It was haunting to be in the room her parents' had lived in and slept in for her known life, in the house that she remembered being warm and inviting, instead of the present cruel, oppressive cold that pressed in on her from every corner. There was no soft buzz of the morning news on the telly, no smell of sausages and eggs cooking in the kitchen, no melodic humming of her mother as she made breakfast tea, or the indignant scoffing of her father as he disagreed with everything that Prime Minister did, said, or would possibly do in the future.

The quiet was depressing.

It was nice to be able to ward herself into a safe space to ride out her first heat, with access to the better bathroom. It was larger, stocked with decades old towels left forgotten, with a spacious tub and corner shower. Since the arousal and fever had grown gradually worse, with no end in sight, Hermione had only needed a few swishes of her wand to gain unlimited freezing showers to distract her from the intense, increasing need to mate. It was something she was not comfortable with, the idea of asking Snape to alleviate her discomfort, considering how volatile he had been only mere days before. There were still moments in the silence that she could hear him breaking things, most likely punching walls in her childhood bedroom, roaring in frustration. She could vaguely sense brief periods when he unleashed his magic in a burst of rage, and it spread through the second floor like a windstorm.

Secretly, part of her craved to feel that power again, surging around them both as he moved against her, in her, taking her with the full force of his passion and -

She needed to take another shower.

Yes, a frigid, bone-chilling shower to numb the workings of her overactive imagination. She could not keep up with the detailed fantasies, and she refused to let biological imperatives, or hormones, dictate what she did with her own body. She could not go to Snape, and she would not let her own hormone driven desires control her actions and drive her insane with need.

She was Hermione bloody Granger.

If she could ignore the sudden desires of her pubescent body during a war, she could survive the Maiden's Heat.

She hoped.

Two more days passed in decreasing determination, dozens of cold showers, and reality bending desire. Hermione was continuously sweating through the nest of pillows and sheets down into the carpet, and she was vaguely aware that her thighs were constantly slick with a rampaging need that refused to be ignored. Common sense had disappeared hours ago. Sleep deprivation had started affecting her ability to rationalize her actions going forward, and the delusions were already setting in.

In the expanse of her parents' empty bedroom, stuck in a vivid hallucination as she threw herself at the warded door, Hermione's wild magic had erupted out in a violent storm in an attempt to break free, call Snape to her - anything to abate the virgin heat.

Touching herself had only fueled the fire, instead of relieving the desperate ache between her legs. Her pussy was clenching periodically, begging for a knot, and her fingers, as adept as they were, and as pleasant as it was to experiment with herself to find new ways to potentially get off, were simply not enough. Again, it only amplified her need, instead of quelching it.

The worst part was the scent of alpha that continued to fill the house, slipping in from cracks in the walls and under the door, that had sent Hermione's omega biology into overdrive. Growing stronger as the hours passed, she had begun to detect arousal mingling in the alpha aroma, and the omega parts of her understood what it meant. If Hermione had been lucid, she would have recognized the distinct note in the air.

Rut.

As the scents became more intense throughout the day, Hermione had started to sink more deeply into subspace, losing herself completely in desire and agonizing need for an alpha, the alpha - HER ALPHA.

Magic other than her own had been ripping through the house, raw chaotic power calling to wild inhibition, and vice versa. Alpha called to Omega, and Omega called to Alpha. Natural balance threatened to destroy them both.

It came as a relief when she was thrown back into her nest, Snape's uncontained, electric power bursting through and exploding the door. It mingled with her own, and their combined scents blended in the air to create a mindblowing perfume of them both. For Hermione, her sweet arousal was hardly discernible through Snape's overwhelming force of simmering potions, fresh parchment, Indian spices, and musk of pure masculinity. It was a heavy brew, intoxicating even. Hermione's mind swam with the implications, eyes rolling up as her back arched off the floor.

"You did this to me," growled Snape, stalking into the room like a predator stalking its prey. He was still naked, muscles flexing and rippling with so much strength, and his erection was huge, standing out proudly, bobbing with the weight of it with each calculated step. "I'm 25 fucking years old again, Granger. The Dark Mark has been burning through my arm day and night...And you… You...have invaded my senses for days. You and your fucking heat. Your gods-damned smell has me in rut, and I can't fucking take it anymore."

"Oh, gods," Hermione cried in a high pitched, guttural groan. Deep in her subconscious, she was appalled at how pathetic she sounded, but biology controlled her at the moment, and there was nothing she could do to stop herself from fully submitting to Snape. She was literally begging him. "Please…"

At some point, she had gotten on all fours, presenting for him like a bitch in heat, moaning and whimpering as she watched Snape advance through her own thick lashes. She wanted in, what he was offering - wanted him - and she would commit atrocious sins to please him, just to have him inside her, soothing her overwrought nerves with his scent, his touch, his cock.

Knot. I need his knot...

Snape was standing right in front of her, glaring down as she whimpered and begged in incoherent mewls and whines that should have left her feeling ashamed in that moment, but no. She wasn't, at all. Her mewling was placating him, despite how angry his reaction made him. Every submissive sound from her lips had a distinct effect on his body, whether it be a wave of pleasure rolling down his back, or a jolt of anticipation that flexed through is enormous cock, or a tightening of his jaw in correlation to his pupils widening. His reaction to her was making him increasingly more angry, and that only made her want to please him more.

"Alpha, please," she pleaded, stressing it through the uncontrollable moan. "Please…"

Snape's youthful visage contorted into the haunting echo of his familiar malicious sneer, but his body betrayed him, rippling and tensing with waves of pleasure at the way her back bowed, her arse high in the air, the pleading look in her eyes, and the sounds his mere presence was pulling from her over and over again. She could only imagine what it would be like to have him moving against her, rutting her into the floor until her skin burned from the friction.

"If you're so willing to be a subservient little bitch, a pain in my side," he paused, the sneer turning into a vicious growl. "Show me."

It wasn't a command, but Hermione took it as a challenge. She had never taken a man in her mouth, let alone such a well endowed man, but she did not hesitate to rise up on her knees and make an attempt. She was too far gone, and no amount of reasoning could bring her back from the abyss. She had fallen too deep into subspace, the omega mindset of pleasure and submission - anything for her mate.

Hermione took him in both hands, marvelling at the weight of him, the softness of his flesh. He was so hard underneath the surface, but the skin encasing him was almost velvet. Running her small hands over him in a lax grip, her fingertips traced every bulging vein and the subtle curve up to the bulbous head. The tip was already leaking, and against her better judgement, Hermione tilted her head up, looked Snape in the eye, and ran the flat of her tongue over the bead poised to drip. His fleshed smelled of sweat, and he tasted like a sort of herbal tea, or something natural and earthy, seasoned with salt. And she wondered, if only briefly, if this is what all alphas taste like, or if it was uniquely Snape.

Lapping at his head, Hermione watched his reaction, and was startled by the burning desire flickering in his dark eyes, like flames licking through pools of ink. The growl vibrating through his chest was one of approval, and she continued to take care in exploring this one part of him. The soft, plumpness of her lips trailed the underside of his cock, while the tip of her tongue flitted out every so often to taste him again, and again. She preened at the sight of his eyes fluttering shut, the snarling groans she manipulated out of him, and the way his fists clenched at his sides in restraint. It was awe-inspiring, looking up at a hook nosed Adonis of light and dark, so sculpted and strung tight, begging for permission to unleash his might.

In this moment, her mind considered him a god, and she only ever wanted to please him.

When she had finished peppering his cock with kisses, moving her hands over him reverently, and had licked every long inch of him, she finally took him into her mouth, ever so gently, and hummed in wonder that he tasted even better this way. Drawing breath through her nose, she set to work inching him into her mouth, adapting as her lips stretched to accommodate his size, and not once did she worry about his cocking pushing into her virgin pussy. Somewhere in her mind, she was prepared for it, and she sunk him deep into her mouth, swallowing around him to force him down her throat, choking on him, but refusing to relent. Her tongue lapped at the underside of his cock, massaging the flesh and manipulating it further inside, easing the way until she was stopped by his fingers in her hair.

Looking up at him, it was a sight to behold.

Snape's fingers gripped her by the roots of her hair, and she could see him fighting with himself, wanting so badly to hurt her, to prove her wrong, and also melt into the pleasure, allow her to please him, and be pleased by her willingness to submit to him - only him. There was a great conflict in him, buried so deep that not even he understood it completely. She saw it, though. She saw the pain he was trying to hide, the fear that she would reject him when all was said and done. Part of her, the true essence of Hermione that was locked in omega instincts, knew that. She had felt it, too. She feared the same, trembled at the thought that he would turn away from her, hate her, and never forgive her.

You understand that the incantation could never have been successful if we weren't destined mates, don't you, Granger?

If they continued, there would be no going back.

Phoenix song and tears had been the missing component, and then Fawkes had shown up. His small addition had completed the ritual, and reversed so much, linking them together for the rest of their lives if they sealed it. Going forward, they would forever be bound and mated. True mates. Alpha and Omega. Light and Dark. The balance of nature, itself. They would be marked, blood to blood, soul to soul, sealed with a kiss.

Once they were themselves again, they would hate each other, and hate themselves.

Yet, biology had a way of burying doubts deep, and magic had a way of fueling passion.

Snape thrusted forward, surging all the way down into Hermione's throat, and set a brutal pace. His grip in her hair guided her quickly, always aware to stop her mouth a few inches before the base of his cock. She was learning his preferences, letting him show her what he liked, and how he liked it. Her tongue continued to massage his cock from underneath, pressing here and there into the veins as she continued to take him over and over again. He seemed to enjoy it immensely, so she never stopped.

It wasn't as if it weren't enjoyable for her, as well. In contrast, it seemed to embolden her further. The taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of him. It caused such a reaction, Hermione never wanted it to end. The experience was addictive, and his scent was intoxicating. She wanted to take all of him, anywhere else he pleased - arse, pussy - It didn't matter. If it was anything like taking him in her mouth, she would revel in it.

Just touching him in any way was enough to calm the nauseating spiraling of reality, as if it were all about to fall into place and make sense.

"Fuck," growled Snape, pulling her away from him with a jerk of his wrist. Staring down at her in thinly veiled awe, not quite hidden under an attempt at disdain, he considered her for a long while. "Why does it feel as if the world is spinning out of my control?"

It is a rhetorical question, in a sense. He doesn't actually require an answer, or preferably desire one, and her omega caught on, remained obedient and poised to please. There is something in her, wound tight and waiting to spring into action, again. She is waiting for permission to ravage him, and be worshipped in return. She would prefer them both to be happy, alpha and omega, for the world to right itself, show him life could better that what he had already lived.

Anything is possible…

Anything.

A wave of magic washed over her, tingling in places that Hermione had been unaware existed in the female anatomy. It was his magic, the embodiment of Chaos. There were so many conflicting emotions in the air, but it all mattered very little. Her eyes rolled, and she was falling backwards into her nest.

Snape was hovering over her, spontaneously - suddenly - fingers gripping her jaw brutally, as he studied her further. Hermione could feel the weight of his erection against her stomach, caught between them. His hips rested between her legs, and there was a subtle brush of his heavy balls against her clit that had her mewling. She wanted more, so much more, and yet he was perfectly fine to keep her waiting, as if he were punishing her for thrusting this upon him.

Yet, she could see it in his eyes, through the thick curtain of her lashes, how much he wanted to continue. His face was raw and red with desire, and his arousal was thick in the air, mingling with her own in the most extraordinary way. Their magic caressed, which was strange, but it felt right, safe - finally belonging.

"I am a cruel man, Granger," he hissed, low and rough, like gravel. How had she not recognized the difference in his baritone? "If we're to be bonded and mated for the rest of our miserable lives, you should understand this one truth: I have no predisposition to romance, nor will I contemplate any notions of love - it doesn't exist - but I am possessive of what I view as mine. There will be no going back. You will be mine until death, and only mine. Do I make myself clear?"

It was writ upon her membrane, as if he had entered her mind and branded it there permanently. Subconsciously, Hermione understood better than most, because she had always straddled the line on romance, love, marriage and children. It all seemed a waste of valuable time, and if she was to be his until death, which could be mere days or weeks, then she would prefer to be indoctrinated into his preferences from the start. It didn't come as a surprise that he was a cruel man, everyone knew that, and she had somehow known he would be unapologetically brutal in bed. She was not naive. She was a virgin, in the Maiden's Heat, with a soon-to-be mated alpha with sadistic preferences, possibly masochistic if her years of assumptions were correct, and her omega had spent days preparing her for what was to come.

Snape's brows furrowed, and she realized he was in her mind, glimpsing into the of incoherent abyss of subspace, "How long have you been watching me?"

Another rhetorical question.

"It doesn't matter," he growled, letting go of her jaw to cut the connection between their eyes. "Virgin… I should have known."

Head dipping down, he brushed his large nose over Hermione's sensitive glands at the juncture of her neck, while his fingers ghosted along the plains of her body to the apex of her thighs. He inhaled deeply, growling into her skin as he pressed two fingers in her dripping cunt. The way his head was angled offered her close proximity to Snape's glands, and the undiluted essence rolling off of him. It was impossible to restrain herself, writhing against his fingers, arching into him when he growled after every inhale, and breathing deeply of his own unique scent.

"Indian summer," breathed Hermione, unaware that she had said it out loud, but content to rake her nails through Snape's hair, over his scalp, in an attempt to keep him from pulling away. "Alpha… My alpha…"

He tensed above her, against her. Then he snarled into her neck, nipping at her flesh and digging his own nails into her angular hips. They were both extremely malnourished and far too thin, but where Snape's emaciation due to stress and torture still managed to display his musculature and strength, while Hermione's exaggerated the ill guantness of her sunken cheeks and pronounced ribcage. On her left forearm were the carved letters of M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D, angry, raw and red against her ashen complexion. It glared in the dim light filtering through the sheer blue curtains obscuring the window, a hideous reminder of what she alone had endured during the war, and yet nothing compared to the web of scars that covered Snape's own pale form.

Of course, there was no focus or time spent lingering on the superficial.

Snape's sharp teeth bit and scraped over the gland between her neck and shoulder, balancing on the line between pain and pleasure, while his lips and tongue massaged the intensity to a dull throb, keeping her trapped in a heightened sense of arousal, but refusing to allow her any relief. His mouth moved over her body, from her neck to her jutting clavicle, to her small breasts and rosy pebbled nipples, to the ridged slope of her ribs inward to her stomach, and even lower. He impressed his teeth and massaged the pain away everywhere, except the apex of her thighs, where she desperately attempted to grind upwards against him to create even a fraction of friction to alleviate the agonizing need that stabbed between her legs. It was futile, given that Snape was stronger than her, driven by his own desire - rut - and fully capable of pinning her hips down against the thin sheets covering their spot on the carpeted floor.

Try as she might, Hermione was unable to win against his grip.

She did, however, take enjoyment in the ability to run her own hands over his body - the parts of which she would reach. Her fingertips traced the overlapping scars across the backs of his shoulders, played with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, glided through his raven locks - not at all greasy, despite what everyone had claimed. Hermione mewled like a kitten when his hot breath floated over her sensitive sex, and she tightened her grip on his hair.

One lick, and she would shatter instantly.

Snape pulled away, waving his hand over one of the pillows until it had expanded to the size of a king mattress, yet still an overly plush pillow. It took Hermione by surprise when he immediately buried his face between her legs, lifting her with ease and letting them both fall back into the center of the enormous pillow. In all the jostling and movement, his mouth never lost contact with her pussy, nose rubbing expertly against her clit, and his breathing ragged, rough, almost panting as he worked her sex with practiced ease.

It was unlike anything she had experienced before, the skill of his mouth, teeth, tongue rocketing her through to unimaginable heights of pleasure. She had merely fumbled around those cold nights in the tent with Ronald, barely feeling anything at his uneducated fingers, and suspecting she may possibly be gay, or at least asexual, in the absence of enjoyment - unable to rationalize taking the step further to sex. Nothing in that battered tent could ever compare to what Snape was unleashing on her at that moment. He sent her to the precipice in mere seconds, only to bring her down again, over and over. He growled against her, murmured into her the most vulgar words, and yet they titillated her more than anything else.

Sweet little cunt…

Taste like fucking honey…

Small cuny...smells fucking delicious… stretch it with my cock…

Knot you 'til you scream…

Then she came. Leaps and bounds harder than she had ever managed by her own hand. It was as if she had been thrown out of her own body by the force of it, screaming his name as if she were being murdered, body fighting against his hold as he lapped at her still. He snarled against her, sucking on her clit and then moving below to lick as much of her taste as he could. He continued on about how amazing she smelled, how sweet she tasted, how tight she was going to be, and it was like torture at a point, when she desperately needed him inside her.

It was Hermione's turn to start snapping and snarling, managing to buck him off of her overly sensitive sex and lung at him.

"Stop fucking talking," she panted, gasping for air, not even wincing at the raw pain of her throat from screaming in her euphoria. "Just fuck me already."

Hermione never asked permission, most likely due to the fact that they were beyond simple courtesies. He wanted it, she wanted it, and neither were of an opinion to prolong the inevitable any longer. She had already been in prime position to take him, straddling his hips, and she simply tilted back and let his thick head rub against her cunt, working it into her entrance. Snape didn't move as she moved experimentally, gathering her courage, until she finally thrust down, forcing him half inside of her, too tight, too sensitive, and far too driven by omega instinct. He groaned, arching up with his hips, as Hermione squealed at the sharp uncomfortableness. Yet, she continued, rocking after a moment, until her pelvic bone was grinding against his own. Despite the initial pain of intrusion, she soldiered on, dragged beyond her limit by biology.

There was something in the way the world stopped spinning as much once they were fully connected. Their magic flowed like a river between them, Hermione's surging forth to mingle and swirl through his veins, his very being, before entering her again, an endless cycle of their souls fusing together for the binding, something so profound in its intensity that the ancient texts could never accurately describe it. The sensation of being half of one whole, of discovering the true meaning of home, the coming together of true mates - equals.

It stole the breath from them both, the completeness. It was as if their universe had laser focused, combining into one experience as they rocked together in unison. Everything sped up around them, twisting and spinning. Hermione's nails cut deep into Snape's chest as she rode him fast and hard, while his own fingers bruised the taut flesh of her waist in an attempt to keep up, match her thrust for thrust. They were both building to something phenomenal, together, as one soul, and neither relented to catch their breath.

Then Hermione's world tilted.

Snape pushed up, leaning back against the wall and slamming up into Hermione as he latched onto the juncture of her neck. She did the same. Instinct.

The base of his cock began inflating inside of her, as well, which was a revelation. It didn't matter that it was stretching her to the breaking point, because it felt fucking amazing the larger it became. His knot touched places she had no idea existed in her, and the feel of it completely locking them together catapulted them both into orgasm. They bit into each other, blood welling in their mouths, roaring their release into flesh. Their movements gradually slowed as they both came down from the high, endorphins thrumming through their veins in post-coital bliss.

They simply stayed there, unable to move away from each other, laving at the wounds they had inflicted without paying notice to the sentiment, or significance, of what they had just sealed. They were bound together, mated for life, and too far gone in biology and instinct to stop and ponder the ramifications. They were simply one soul from that moment on, basking in the afterglow, attempting to find a spare breath before their combined hormones started the cycle again.

They slumped together, Snape sliding down the wall to rest comfortably on the enchanted pillow, the pseudo-bed he had charmed, and Hermione followed with small whimpers as his knot shifted inside of her, unable to slip out. It created little aftershock orgasms, small sparks that had her shivering against his chest as they both slipped into a dreamless sleep.