CLOSER – NE-YO
-[Hermione]-
And I just can't bring myself no way
But I don't want to escape
I just can't stop, I just can't stop
It's nearing midnight when I finally pull the covers off my body, and swing my feet to the cold floor of the hospital wing. Hannah Abbot has been sobbing quietly beside me in her bed for the last two hours, and though I sympathise with her, I don't feel that I should have to put up with her misery as well as my own. We all lost someone, after all, and I lost several someones.
I cross my arms over my chest, feeling the bite of cool air awaken my skin. Everyone in the hospital wing gets infirmary robes, thankfully closed over the back unlike the gowns of Muggle hospitals. I had to wear one of those, once, when I had my appendix out as a child. But that was before I got my letter to Hogwarts, and long before any of this happened. I walk up and down the rows of beds around me, trying not to look too hard at the injuries before me. Rather, I look at the faces of the men and women who bear them, and console myself with the knowledge: they might be hurt, but these people, at least, are alive. I couldn't say the same for hundreds of witches and wizards, all of whom fought for their freedom. Some of them fought in this very castle, only days ago.
At the very end of the long room, one bed stands apart from the many others, curtained off in a corner. I know who it is in that bed, and I know what he's in for. Not for the first time, I thanked God and Merlin and whoever else was listening that in fifth year I read a particularly curious book: Pugglethwort's Guide to Apprentice and Novice Healing. I hadn't learned much more than how to avert the immediate effects of poison, how to conjure the correct bandage and how to dress like a healer. But no matter how useless I thought the book was at the time, it had been enough to save Snape, and keep him hanging on to life for a few more hours. Precious hours that were spent trying desperately to find Madam Pomfrey, McGonnagal, anyone who I thought could help. It was enough. Thank you God, thank you, Merlin... it was enough.
My feet move of their own accord and I suddenly find myself standing beside his bed, looking down at his peacefully sleeping face. The neck of his nightgown – which I see has been charmed to a dark shade of green – sits low enough so that I can see the ugly scar already forming on his neck. Nagini's deadly venom wasn't her only weapon, it seemed. Her fangs had managed to tear at half of his throat, leaving a thick, ropey wound where most people would expect a simple puncture wound. I can't help but stare at it, wondering if it hurts. Wondering if he knew I saved him.
The longer I watch him, the calmer I feel. Amidst the death and horror of the last few months, here is proof that my existence in this war mattered. Here is a life Voldemort failed to take, and it is because of me. Harry is the hero of the war – of that there is no doubt – but Snape was my victory, even if all I did was give him a few more hours, and a greater chance of survival. I worry for him, and it distracts me from the bone-crushing sorrow that threatens to overtake me at any moment. Fred's death and the death of Lupin and Tonks don't weigh as heavily on me in this moment, while I continue to watch my former potions master sleep.
I don't feel at all in control of myself as I inch closer to him, eventually lowering myself to sit beside him on the bed. My eyes roam his face fearfully, hoping to God that he won't wake up and see me here. But then I spot an empty vial on the bedside table, and I pick it up to smell it tentatively. Sleeping potion; he'll be out for hours. My secret is safe.
As slowly and carefully as I can, I lay down beside him, close to the edge of the bed as I can get. My arm rests on his, but the cover between us stops our skin from touching. I find myself wishing it wasn't there, so I could compare his colour to mine. I almost snort at that, and lay my hands on my stomach, clasping them above my belly button. Then I feel my breathing begin to slow into a nice, easy rhythm and sleep takes over.
When I wake, my foggy mind tries to figure out where I am, because it's certainly not my bed. I stare at the curtains around me and my memory comes back in a rush. But now I'm on my side, back to him, and I don't want to roll over to look at him. I'm not sure how long I've been here with him, and if the Sleeping Potion is starting to wear off, my slightest movement could wake him.
Something warm is on my waist, moving up toward my ribs slowly. I tense but make no movement, painfully aware that Snape is behind me. I glance down at my body and see that the warm thing on my side is a hand, pale and ghostly in the dim light of the hospital wing.
Immediately I begin to tremble, completely at a loss as to what I should do. Is he still asleep? Does he know what he's doing? God, this is ridiculous. I have to get off this bed before he wakes up. I can't even begin to imagine how awkward the conversation would be.
But before I can move so much as a muscle, Snape's hand slides back down past my waist and to my hip, where he comes dangerously close to petting my ass. His hand pauses there for a second, and then moves back up my body, my nightgown bunching under his fingers as he goes. This toing-and-froing up and down my side continues for a few more minutes, during which time I realise that I can't move. It's not the same feeling as a Body-Bind curse, or even the petrificus totalus spell. This is something entirely different, and it seems to stem from a desire to let him keep going, to see how far he'll go.
God, I think fearfully, what's wrong with me?
And still, despite the clear and obvious reasons to stop that are sounding in my mind like a warning bell, I can't bring myself to move away from him. If anything, I never want him to stop. It's so soothing, this feeling of being petted. Against the lurking depression in my heart, which will rear its head inevitably – honestly, I know I can't make it out of this war without some kind of psychological repercussion – there's a warmth blossoming through my body that I can't seem to control. It takes a moment to register that I'm happy.
But then his fingers find my skin, and I realise that my nightgown had bunched up around my waist. Snape's hand is now delicately exploring the flesh above my panties, even going so far as to dip his hand over my stomach. I shudder violently. I want him to stop. I don't want him to stop. This is so incredibly wrong. And it feels so incredibly good. I have to escape his hands. I don't want to escape.
A tiny whimper escapes my lips when his fingers draw nearer and nearer to my rib cage, coming to stop just beneath my breasts. He has to be awake. He has to know what he's doing. And that means he knows that I haven't stopped him. God, why haven't I stopped him? And why won't I stop enjoying it? It's wrong. It's wrong, and not something I want.
Then a thought hits me like a sledgehammer, momentarily driving all other thought from my overworked mind:
I can't stop.
I actually can't stop.
With a sound like a dying animal, I turn my head and moan into the pillow. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks. My head is torn between wanting this and desperately not this. But regardless of what I want, my body isn't listening to my mind anymore. When I open my mouth to protest, I find that the words don't come out as they should have.
"Come closer."
-[Snape]—
And I just can't pull myself away
Under her spell, I can't break
I just can't stop, I just can't stop
I hear her hoarse whisper as though she shouted it in my ear.
Surely she didn't mean it. I wish with all my might that she didn't mean it. I pray that she did.
My hand moves of its own volition, slowly caressing the soft skin of her stomach. My gut clenches painfully, guilty as hell and just as aroused when she whimpers again. It shocks me that only minutes before the two of us had been sleeping peacefully, though I have no idea when or how she got into my bed. And then I had raised my hand to her waist, where it ran up and down her curves with a reverence that terrified me. Touching a student, this student, no matter her age or what she had done for me, was something I thought I'd never do. It wasn't even something I'd ever contemplated, so waking to find myself overcome with the desire – not to force her from my quiet corner of this damned infirmary – but to touch her skin, was nothing short of an impossibility. And yet here I am, stroking and touching her wherever I can. I can't understand it. I don't know what I'm doing, or why. All I know is that I can't stop, no matter how much I tell myself to do so. And oh, how my mind is screaming at me to stop. The inherent wrongness of it should be enough to make me sick. But I am not. Instead, I am desperate to make her sigh, make her moan and groan with need.
Dear God, I can't stop.
Why can't I stop?
And then it comes again, the soft whisper that nearly undoes me here and now.
"Come closer."
My body is out of control with arousal. What is this, the Imperius curse? Is she doing this to me? Why in Merlin's name would she want this? I know how she feels about me – I have seen it in her head, many times. It has always been the same fear and intimidation, accompanied by intense respect and what I understand to be trust. Although it's not really trust, but more of a belief that I can be trusted. But never, in all my years of teaching her, have I seen anything akin to the lust or desire to be touched that she is showing me now. It's something my body seems to be responding to.
I inch forward under my covers to press my chest against her back, biting back a groan of frustration as I find that, once again, I have no control over myself. Absolutely no control. My erection is resting against the curve of her backside. Surely she must feel it. It's causing me such pain that I know she has to feel it. I silently curse myself. What is happening to me?
Suddenly the girl gasps and presses herself against my hand, which I notice is cupping her breast gently under her gown. With growing horror I feel myself caress the underside of her breast, the skin unbelievably soft and warm to the touch. It's been a long time since I touched a woman like this. I forgot how perfect female anatomy can be.
The tips of my fingers graze her nipple, which has hardened to a nub. Is it me or the cold air that has made them tighten? As if to test my theory, I pinch her nipple experimentally, and am rewarded with a throaty moan.
Fuck. The things that sound do to me.
I am getting harder and harder beneath my gown, and I can't help but groan against the nape of her neck. She feels so good. So unbelievably goddamned good. And the way she's whimpering so quietly, like she's trying to hide her pleasure…
And then it's not enough for me to just feel her breasts, perfect though they feel. Part of me wants to flip her on to her back so I can push the nightgown up to her neck and suckle her hard peaks, but again, I am not in control. Whichever side of me is doing this, and from whatever deep, dark crevice it has come from, it prefers to touch but not look, to feel but not taste. I am disgusted with myself. But still, it's not enough. And still, I can't stop.
My fingers linger down her stomach to the top of her panties, toying with the elastic long enough to make her moan again. She pushes her hips against my hand, demanding that I continue. I stare at the back of her head, dumbfounded at her enthusiasm. Surely, she can't want this.
Just the sound of her soft panting has me in raptures. This loss of control has gone so far beyond the Imperius curse. I learned to overthrow that particular spell a long time ago, even before my service to the Dark Lord. There is no magic could entrap me so completely as her reactions do. This is one spell I cannot break.
I dip my into her panties to discover that they are soaking wet. I groan into her hair, barely able to think. What is happening to the two of us?
She parts her legs so that I can run a finger along her wet folds. The air is filled with the scent of her arousal, and she shudders against my hand.
It's too much. It is too fucking much.
One of my fingers slips inside her and she arches her back against me, drawing a long, shaky breath. Her head is now sitting slightly beneath mine so that my mouth hovers over her ear. She must be able to hear my laboured breathing, the unstoppable moans that continually erupt from my chest as she writhes against me. I should say something. I should tell her how sorry I am. I should beg for her forgiveness. I should…
"I … can't stop."
The words spring from my lips before I have a chance to stop them. Fuck, that wasn't what I was meant to say. Now she must think me a pervert, determined to get what I want from her body.
I squeeze my eyes shut just as another of my fingers decides to push inside her. Hermione lets out a broken cry, loud enough that I'm sure many of the other patients in the hospital will be awake. I hope to God that they only think these are cries of pain from an injured witch. An alarming thought occurs to me. Is she in pain? Am I hurting her?
"Don't," she says, and the sound comes out as an almost sob.
I must be hurting her. She's begging me to stop. But I can't. I can't stop myself any more than I can stop breathing. Touching her has somehow become imperative to my survival. There's no way I can let her go. No matter how much I wish I could.
Nevertheless, it seems some of my inner anguish has finally cracked the spell over me, since my fingers have stilled inside her. I take a moment to let the knowledge wash over me: I am fingering Hermione Granger. The bookworm. The insufferable know-it-all. The incredibly annoying Gryffindor who set my robes on fire in her first year. She is so warm and wet against my fingers, though, that I forget all that in an instant.
"Don't stop," she whispers.
My body begins to tremble. I press my forehead against her shoulder, breathing hard, eyes closed. What is she doing to me?
"Please."
Dear God, she can't be... Is she begging for more?
My fingers start sliding in and out of her, a gentle pace that is enough to make the both of us breathe harder. I wish I could kiss her mouth. I wish I could taste her.
God damn it. I wish I could stop.
For the first time in my life, I feel like crying. This frustration, this humiliation, it's unbearable. I cannot believe I'm doing this. To her.
Hermione moans again, and grinds herself against my head, trying to get more friction from my fingers. A wave of heat and wetness drips from my fingers.
Sweet Merlin. Has anything ever felt so damned good?
-[Hermione]-
(It's) the sweetest taste of sin
The more I get, the more I want
Another wave of heat rolls through my body when Snape begins to move his fingers inside me. I feel the tell-tale signs of impending orgasm stirring in my belly, but I don't want to come. My potions master is fingering me, and I can hardly control my breathing let alone the way my body responds. From which strange hell did this torture come from? I don't want it, but I've never wanted anything more than for him to keep touching me. His fingers, his hands, which I have watched for years as they delicately brew potions and cast powerful spells, are gentler than I could have thought possible.
More.
He twists his hand so that his thumb can tease my clit, drifting back and forth over the sensitive spot, drawing a moan from me each time. When I open my eyes, the room spins in a faint red haze.
God, no. I don't want this. I don't want him to make me come.
Need more.
His erection is pressing against my ass, teasing me further. Through the torrent of sensations rushing through me, I wonder if he will fuck me properly once he's done fingering me.
I hope so. Dear Merlin how I hope he will.
So good. Oh, Professor, so good…
A choked sob escapes me just before he plunges a third finger into my. I nearly scream with pleasure. He rams his fingers into me with renewed vigour, going faster and faster with each second. My eyes roll back into my head. My body stiffens.
No, damn it. I don't want him to make me come.
His thumb flits across the bundle of nerves in this apex of my thighs. My eyes squeeze shut and I bite my lip to hold back another cry. I can stop the orgasm. I can. Willpower. That's all it takes. I can do it.
My stomach clenches.
No, I can do it.
His fingers keep moving, incessant in their goal.
I won't do it. I won't come.
I turn my head into the pillow and bite down – hard.
His breath tickles my ear. The sound of his heavy panting draws a new wave of wetness to my crotch.
"Hermione," he moans.
Oh God, it's too much.
I can't stop.
My orgasm hits me like the Hogwarts Express. There's a roaring in my ears, fire in my veins. I arch my back against him again, completely out of control. With my teeth still firmly planted in the pillow, I let out the scream I've been holding back all along.
And then it's done.
I collapse limply back onto the bed, my chest heaving. My eyes are closed; I refuse to open them on the off chance that he is looking at me, for I am no longer laying on my side. Instead, I seem to be half on my back and half on my side. My nightgown remains scrunched up just below my breasts, and I'm grateful for the cover. The fabric of my panties is completely soaked through. My mind is screaming at me to move, to get off the bed, to get as far away from this experience as I can. And for the first time, my legs seem to be obeying.
One foot drops to the floor. The other soon follows. I sit up shakily, drawing strength from some hidden reserve in my being. Without knowing why, I shake my head and stare at the floor, as though disbelieving. I don't want to turn around to see what he's doing. I'm afraid to meet his gaze. More than anything, I'm petrified of seeing if he's still aroused. Just knowing that he got a kick from feeling my body makes me sick to my bones, even as it sends a thrill of joy down my spine.
I try stand on trembling legs, and almost collapse to the ground. What the hell is wrong with me? I've had orgasms before. They never stopped me from getting up and leaving afterwards. Why was this so different?
I force myself to stand again and this time I'm able to stay upright, even if I feel less than sturdy. The room is spinning around me, and stars seem to be dancing behind my eyelids every time I blink. I'm still breathing erratically, and my heartbeat is pulsing in my ears like a war drum.
My feet find the will to move forward to the curtain, which I clutch in my hands life a lifeline. It's only now that I remember all the others in this hospital wing. Bloody hell. What must they be thinking? Shame colours my face as I remember the way I screamed and moaned against my professor's hand. God, I'm a whore.
Something stops me before I leave him, and as if spurred on by some sick desire to torture myself, I turn back to look at him. Thankfully, he's not watching me but is staring at his fingers, still slick with my juices. I almost gasp in horror, but manage to keep myself in check. Then I watch as he lifts those fingers to his mouth and proceeds to suck on them, his expression pained.
It's too much. I've got to get out of here.
And with that I yank the curtains apart and stagger back to my bed, not even bothering to see if anyone's watching my walk of shame. I collapse on to my bed with a horrifying thought.
I wouldn't have stopped it even if I had the choice.
A/N: I used to be a little obsessed with this song. So sexy, and so funky at the same time. And this song can be applied to both Hermione and Snape in this situation, which is why I switched perspectives. Plus, I just love showing their effect on each other.
I love the way that this song implies the feeling of being unable to tear yourself away from someone; of being so wrapped up in their closeness that you literally can't control yourself. It's a beautiful thing, no?
(Also, I may have altered the lyrics a little so Hermione's verse is applicable to what she's feeling)