A/N: Hello, my lovely readers, and welcome back to another chapter of 'Accommodations'! This past week has been hard for me, but I've forced myself to function through this, so the emotional breakdown is yet to come. I haven't gotten any writing done, either. The chapter after this one is already written, but I don't know how many words I'll be able to put to paper in the next few weeks, so I won't promise you an update for next Monday just yet. Sorry for that, but in case I need to change anything, I want to be able to do that before publishing. Thanks for understanding.

On a lighter note, I've been publishing fanfiction for over a year now. This is pretty long for so intense a hobby to stay with me, and I'm just happy that I've got this huge project to stick to. I may be writing another song fic soonish. If you want to know which it might be, check out my Facebook page - there's a number of plunnies there that you may help me choose from. ;)

See you soon, hopefully.

Marcella xxx

Friday, January 17th, 1996

Hurrying back to the common room naked in January in Scotland was not a very good idea, Hermione found, as she was fleeing the prefects' bathroom. With her Disillusioning charm the only thing to shield her against the winter cold – so, essentially, with nothing to shield her –, she did all she could to reach Gryffindor tower, and fast.

Once she lay in her lush bed, the curtains drawn and warded and several Warming charms slowly defrosting her toes, Hermione waited for the tears to come. None did. The abject terror at this recent conversation with the professor was still too strong.

It wasn't the fact that he'd hinted at wishing to rape her that had her in fits, although that certainly hadn't helped. After all, she was aware that at some point he would be introducing force and pain into their sexual relations, was partly counting on it, even. Of course, being raped in a bathroom after just having been brought to a fantastic orgasm by one's would-be rapist wasn't what she had expected of such an encounter, if it ever was to happen, but then again, rape wasn't really a thing that girls like her – young, good familial background, and healthy friendships – ever expected.

No, it wasn't that. It wasn't even the distinct threat of gang rape if she were to ever leave the school grounds, what with ten Death Eaters roaming about the United Kingdom.

No.

It was the fact that he'd told her to go.

Granted, Hermione had asked to leave, to be let go, but now she couldn't be sure whether his command for her to go had been his acceptance of that wish, or if it had been more. Had he dismissed her from their contract – their lessons? Might he even have thought that that had been her wish – not to leave the bathroom, but to be released from their agreement? Had he granted her that wish, even if she had not wished it?

Hermione did not know the answers to those questions, and not knowing them scared her. She had been dead serious in telling the professor that she'd be continuing with self-studies in Occlumency if he refused to teach her, and she was still set on that path, but she desperately hoped that this path wasn't the only one open to her. She knew she wouldn't get even remotely as far as she would if the professor was to accompany her.

Hermione scoffed. Look how the tide has turned, she thought to herself. Here she was, hoping for the professor to accompany her, when the only reason for her to ever have approached the Potions Master in any way was that Professor Dumbledore had asked her to accompany him. She was supposed to be a companion to Professor Snape, to accommodate him in any way he might need, and she had – what? Failed?

There were few things Hermione Granger took worse than failure. In fact, she might fail (there it was again, that cursed word) to name even one.

That was until she remembered the date.

More terror filled her, and suddenly Hermione knew one thing that would hit her worse than failure.

She was late.

Thursday, January 23rd, 1996

Severus didn't know what their talk a week back had been supposed to mean. Had the girl quit? She wasn't one to quit. Had he thrown her out, ending their agreement?

To put it simply, Severus did not know. And yet, not knowing complicated things quite a bit.

He had not performed Legilimency on the girl all week. He had not nudged at her barriers, had not even reached out to her to see if she had even cared to erect her shields. He feared that if she were to feel him, she might think he meant to continue with their lessons, with their agreement, and Severus did not know if he wanted that.

Get a grip, man, he told himself. Of course you want that.

The girl was, after all, everything a man like him could hope to have. She would provide for him. Her young, nubile, soft, luscious, tight body would give him pleasure as he had rarely known before. And if everything went right, her body would provide him with a legacy, as well, a life to be lived long after Severus himself had died.

But what if she had stopped Occluding? What if all that she'd said about continuing with her studies, be it with or without his help, was nothing but empty words?

The girl wasn't one for empty words, though, he recalled. And even if she was, Severus did not need to be honourable. He could still hold her to their agreement, even if she did not want to study under him anymore. He could still demand the price that she had offered him, albeit unknowingly, for the lessons she had already received.

Yes, he could do that, Severus thought, a feeling of warmth spreading around his heart.

Reaching into the breast pocket of the frock coat beneath his robes, Severus withdrew the watch – now heated and warm to the touch from the message coming through – the girl had gifted him. Why he kept it there, of all places, was easy to answer: it was a pocket he rarely used as it was rather inconvenient and difficult to unsuspiciously pull things out of. Why he kept it on his person at all was a more difficult question that he had no desire to ponder at this moment.

His eyes perused the watch. Just in time, as well, as he could only just make out the runes before they shifted back into the numbers they usually were.

May I come?

Sweet Circe, Severus thought, his loud intake of breath surprising him almost as much as the girl's words had, what kinds of kinks is this girl into? Asking my permission for climax?

Still pondering that notion and wondering how to respond, the numbers shifted again.

Please, sir, the runes spelled before changing, this time into new runes, may I come down to your office?

His mood plummeted as if it had been soaring before, which it decidedly had not been, but it made no difference; Severus felt severe disappointment. His office, he scoffed. The girl surely wasn't one to get up to any shenanigans in as sacred a space as she perceived a teacher's office to be.

I need you.

Or wasn't she?

Concentrating, Severus answered without drawing his wand, although his other wand was more than ready to be drawn.

Smirking, he magically forced the numbers around the clock on her locket into runes, trying his damnedest not to have his concentration break by the realization that the pendant would be resting between her beautiful breasts.

Come, Miss Granger.

Hermione was in pain. During Potions earlier in the day, she had been beyond glad that she had not even felt the slightest nudging of the professor's mind against hers, for that would have brought her mental walls crumbling right down.

The last weekend had been spent worrying beyond any amount of worrying Hermione had ever done before. This was no Basilisk, petrifying students of less desirable blood left and right. This wasn't a presumed mass murderer, out for Harry's blood. This was no international competition that was likely to get her best friend killed.

This had been her period, late. She had never been particularly regular in her cycle, and fluctuations were a constant source of stress for her, as she spent a few days every month worrying about whether she might start bleeding in the middle of the day or not.

None of that could compare to the terror she had felt upon the realization that her period was late after having spent a large number of times with Sirius Black buried between her legs…

…and one time with the professor, as well.

All weekend, Hermione had been pondering whether to go to Madam Pomphrey or not, to ask whether the Contraceptive potion might have not worked somehow, but she just hadn't been able to bring herself to actually do it. Too afraid was she of what the matron's answer might be. Too afraid of the consequences that would follow.

And so she had fretted, and worried, and aged a hundred years from all the stress, all week. Until today. Today, she had almost doubled over in pain at the strength of her period setting in.

Of course, with the magnitude of pain the likes of which she had never experienced before, this might as well be a miscarriage, but Hermione would not allow herself to think like that. Far worse than carrying an unexpected child would certainly be losing it, and she did not want to travel down that road.

In all honesty, though, Hermione was so distracted by the pain that it was a wonder her potion had not exploded in the cauldron in front of her during the lesson. Pain coming from inside oneself, she had had the opportunity to discover, was far worse than anything the professor had bestowed upon her thus far. This must be what the Cruciatus curse felt like. No wonder Neville's parents had gone insane.

It was proof of how the pain meddled with her brain, that she didn't stop to think how callous, how heartless, how outright disrespectful, how horrid this thought was. Further proof came in Hermione reaching for her locket.

May I come? she had the runes on its counterpart spell. A minute passed, then another, and she became impatient. Please, sir, she insisted, may I come down to your office?

Another cramp wracked her body, and Hermione couldn't take it any longer. She needed help with the pain, and now.

I need you.

Dragging herself out of bed, she forced her trainers onto her feet, determined to reach the professor even if he did not wish to be reached. She would not go to Madam Pomphrey with this if she could help it. After all, Hermione had agreed to only imbibe medicine the Potions Master had approved of, had preferably handed her himself, and she intended to stick to that agreement as long as she couldn't be certain that he had called it off. This night would give her an answer, she supposed.

She was just summoning her strength to head for the door and down the many, many stairs into the dungeons, when the locket warmed against her breasts.

Come, Miss Granger.

Yes, she thought, almost triumphant in the relief that coursed through her at his acceptance, yes, professor, I'm coming.

The door to his office fell open right after two and a half knocks against the wood. It swung into his office, the girl hanging off the knocker, holding on as if her life depended on it. For a second, she held herself there. Then she let go, falling down to the floor and landing with a soft thud. Other than that, she made no sound.

Severus was cautious, keeping his distance for a moment before he could determine what was wrong with the girl. This was not what he'd been expecting when she had asked to see him in his office. Anything but this, really.

An inhuman moan swelled in the air in the general direction of the girl, leaving no doubt as to whether it stemmed from her. Severus was at her side in a heartbeat.

"Hurts," the girl breathed. "Bleeding… hurts…"

Severus had dealt with his fair share of melodramatic girls, a chore that came naturally with his position as Head of House. Although most Slytherins handled their monthly cycles with a graceful air of classy distaste and with greatest discretion, there were always some who sought to exploit their menses by begging pain potions off of him. Those potions, they would sell in time to whoever needed them, fellow students who didn't wish to go to the infirmary for some reason or other. There was always some reason why a Slytherin wanted to avoid drawing attention to their pain, be it the fact that they were in pain at all, or be it the manner in which they had acquired that pain in the first place.

This, Severus quickly assessed, was no mere melodramatic display. He had seen the girl experience pain, and she had always taken it with gritted teeth, a straight spine, and with a stubborn determination to maintain the barriers around her mind. He had never seen her break down like this before, and that was saying something.

Severus thought quickly and came to a decision. She would need to see his private quarters at some point, so why not now?

Levitating her over to the couch in his personal sitting room, he gently set her body down onto the soft stuffing. She seemed to sink right into the furniture, her small, pain-wrecked form disappearing between the large cushions that Severus allowed himself. A vial of the more potent pain potion from his private stores came flying when he Summoned it, and the girl drank deeply and gratefully, swallowing everything he gave her. Severus did not allow himself to think about what else she might swallow down dutifully, maybe even passionately. This was not an appropriate time to entertain such thoughts. The girl needed him.

Whimpering, the girl's firm grip on her lower abdomen became slack, but her arms remained rested against the location of her pain, and her body did not relax into a more comfortable position, instead remaining curled into itself as it was.

Severus sighed.

This called for a stronger method of remedy.

Hermione felt as if she was flying. Perhaps she was. The potion she had received from the professor had probably been strong enough to make her believe that she was, she supposed. She did not know, nor did she care. All that mattered was the sensation of flying, and the knowledge that the pain had receded a bit.

There was a rush of cold, then warmth suddenly enveloped her, and she was sinking into a cushion that held her in a marvellous position in the warm water. Opening her eyes, Hermione realized that she was reclining in a bathtub. Naked. The professor was standing above her, his wand in hand. So she had been flying.

Leaning her head back against the soft porcelain of the tub – he must have cast a Cushioning charm, some abstract train of thought informed her in the back of her mind – she looked up to her professor.

"Thank you," she said softly, sincerity colouring her voice with gratitude.

The professor mustered her.

"Are you feeling better, Miss Granger?"

"Some," Hermione replied. "I can manage with the pain now. This is what I usually go through."

"The other pain," the Potions Master asked, "those cramps from earlier, those are not usual for you?"

"No," she agreed, "those are not at all normal for me. I've never experienced anything like those. If that is what women are supposed to go through, and worse, for hours on end, then I don't think I'll ever want children."

The girl uttered the thought so casually, so carelessly, that it took a second or two to register with Severus. Once she realized what she had said, he paled. With his natural pallor, fortunately, it wasn't obvious – not that the girl would have noticed in her current state of mind, anyway.

That she didn't want children was of no consequence to Severus. He was not beyond taking what he wanted, or giving, in this case, and exploiting her agreement to what he wanted, even if she had not really understood that at that point in time.

What worried him was the thought that she might have been pregnant. Was the girl miscarrying in his bathtub just now? Going through everything he knew on the topic, Severus came to the result that no, she wasn't.

Good, he thought. Good. Even if whatever child she would have been carrying might not have been his, he would have hated to have more blood on his hands. After all, if he had looked into her mind or had paid more notice to her body, he should have known if the girl had been pregnant.

But she hadn't been, so thank Merlin for that little mercy.

Still, there was a pretty young woman lying naked in his bathtub. Surely there would be some way to gain some pleasure from that situation?

Severus took off his robes, folding them carefully and placing them on the floor, as far from the tub as the floor reached in his tiny bathroom. Unbuttoning his frock coat, he took that off, as well, exchanging it for the towel on the latter's hook. Folding the towel, Severus knelt on it, next to the tub. The girl stared at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing, professor?" she asked.

Severus did not know if she was addressing him by his academic title out of shock, or if it was done deliberately, after he had told her not to call him 'professor' when they were together, so as to deter him. Either way, he wasn't easily deterred. He would not seduce the girl into his bed, would not press her in any way to sleep with him this night. If she offered, that was good and well, but it wasn't his goal just now.

Just now, he wanted to take his pleasure by granting hers. There was nothing just as good to alleviate pain as a little death, as the French called it.

"You're in pain, Miss Granger," Severus stated. "I'm tending to you. Will you let me?"

Folding his right shirt sleeve upwards until his arm was naked to above his elbow, he fixed the girl with a stare as smouldering as he could manage. He seemed to do well, if the girl's melting deeper into the bathtub was any indication.

"But it's gross down there," she said.

Maybe he wasn't doing too well after all.

"In case you haven't noticed yet, Miss Granger," Severus intoned, "sexual interactions are gross in general. Exchanging bodily fluids, becoming all covered in sweat, there's nothing in there that could not be aptly described as 'gross'. Do you think a little blood deters me?"

"No," the girl whispered. "Not you."

"Then explain to me, Miss Granger," Severus carried on, his voice unusually soft and almost caring, "why you should allow it to deter you."

The girl sniffed.

"I can't," she said.

Whether she meant to say that she was unable to explain herself, or whether she was once more objecting to Severus pleasuring her during her period, he did not know. It was of no consequence, either. He wanted to pleasure the girl, so pleasure her he would.

"Please, Miss Granger," Severus implored, and the girl's eyes went wide at the rarely-heard word, "won't you let me tend to you?"

He saw the change of mind in the girl's expression before she could even manage to open her mouth.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, sir, please."

Her legs fell open.

Well, Severus thought to himself as his right hand delved into the warm water, between the girl's naked thighs, if this is no proper invitation, then I don't know what is.

He set to work.

Monday, January 27th, 1996

After that late Thursday night in the professor's private quarters, Hermione had sworn to herself never to return there, at least not under conditions such as that night. The professor had been the perfect gentleman, coaxing her core to a gentle orgasm, allowing her time to calm down and finish her bath (alright: his bath) in peace, dress, and leave the bathroom in a dignified manner. He had escorted her back to his office, offered her another vial of his private pain potion for any more pains that might occur in the night, and told her to contact him in the usual way if she needed anything else.

The way he had said 'the usual way' had Hermione's skin crawl all over, though not in a completely unpleasant manner. It may be that their way of communication was rather unusual, and neither of them had made any use of it – at least not between these two people, Hermione amended in her case, ignoring her secret interactions with the DA – before that Thursday night, but the professor's choice of words indicated that he had every intention of making further use of it.

Hermione had been very determined in her vow to herself not to return to the professor's private quarters out of the same need as that late Thursday night. Naturally, Friday night had her in Professor Snape's bathtub again, and his fingers inside her core.

Much as she hoped for the pain to recede over the next few days, it did nothing of the sort, and Hermione worried if this was her life now: days suckling at the vial the professor would hand her in the middle of the night, evenings spent soaking in the warm water in his tub, climbing to and resting from the orgasm he would bestow upon her, and more of the same the following day, and the one after that, and the one after that.

It wasn't until Monday's Potions lesson that Hermione realized that perhaps a secret climax every night in the privacy of the professor's quarters wasn't the worst way of reaching an orgasm. There were certainly worse settings, as Professor Snape was about to demonstrate.

Doubled over in pain, Hermione stood bowed over her worktable, chopping and slicing the ingredients for whatever potion they were supposed to brew. She was only following instructions at this point, her brain unable to process more than one line at a time, and thus the name of this lesson's project had escaped her mind, as had the name of the ingredient she was processing at this moment. She was going through the motions, but there was no intent behind them other than making it to the end of the lesson, to the end of the day, to the end of the pain, somehow or other.

"Are you already out of today's vial, Miss Granger?" Professor Snape quietly asked her.

Hermione had not even noticed that the Potions Master had come to stand behind her. Now that he was, it took her a moment to realize that perhaps he might expect an answer to his question. Another few seconds passed until she could remember his question, then process what he was asking to know, and forming the words to answer him.

"No," she replied eventually, "still more than half left. Don't want to become dependent."

"Good girl," the professor praised her, but Hermione was too far gone to preen at the rare compliment. It was all she could do to remain standing and force her body through the mechanics of chopping.

Her knife nicked the tip of her left middle finger. Cursing, Hermione looked down to see the blood welling from the digit. Perusing her desk, she saw that she's only been cutting livers of a toad. Purified as they were before being handed to students, she had nothing to fear from that. The wound would knit together soonish, and no blood had spilled onto the chopped ingredients yet. Good. Next on the list was –

Before Hermione could squint her eyes to make out what was written on the blackboard, she felt her left hand being drawn away from her body. Turning her head, she found the Potions Master himself inspecting her wound.

"It isn't deep," he stated, "but maybe someone should just…"

He trailed off, so unlike himself, as he cast a Healing, then a Cleansing charm in quick succession. Breathing a kiss against her fingertip, he released Hermione's hand again. It remained hovering in the air, too fazed was she by that last action to remember to allow her appendage to obey gravity.

"You are right, Miss Granger, that too much of this draught will make you dependent upon it," the professor said. His voice was soft, so as not to attract attention or to allow others to make out what he was saying, and yet it seemed to pierce Hermione to the very core of her being.

"There is some other remedy, however, that has seemed to work well on you in the past. Be very quiet, now, while I treat your pain."

With that, the professor disappeared from Hermione's sight, if only because he came to stand so closely behind her that there was no way for her to twist her neck in order to see him. Resigning, she checked the temperature of the cauldron, tossed in the chopped livers, and began stirring; once clockwise, four times counter-clockwise, twice clockwise, breathe; once clockwise, four times counter-clockwise, twice –

The professor's hand found the hem of her skirt in so self-assured a way that Hermione wildly wondered for a moment how often his hand had crept up the skirts of unsuspecting school girls. That was unfair to Professor Snape, of course, and she knew it, but she forgot that knowledge as soon as his knowing fingers teased the skin just above the lace tops of her stockings.

"Lace," the professor approvingly growled into her ear, "a wise choice, Miss Granger."

And upwards his fingers wandered, tracing an idle, yet certain path along the back of her thighs, until they brushed against the roundness of her bottom cheeks.

"Open up, Miss Granger," Professor Snape whispered, his breath tangibly stirring the curls that had escaped her messy bun to rest around her ears. Hermione shivered, but not of coldness, and complied with the professor's demand. Bent as she was over her workstation, widening her stance a bit spread her thighs nicely, and allowed the Potions Master generous access to her goods.

A miniscule, but distinct lessening of pressure in her core told Hermione that the professor had Vanished her soaked tampon. A brush of air had her know that he'd yanked her knickers to the side. His fingers traced her outer lips, stroking the sturdy curls that framed them, before parting her and seeking out the little nub that provided her pleasure. With a certainty that stemmed from many successive nights spent exploring her folds, Professor Snape went for that little nub and began to stroke and caress it as if there was no tomorrow. Only when he felt that she was wet enough, the tampon having soaked up all her bodily juices and leaving her inner walls rather dry earlier, did he ease one long digit into her core.

Hermione sighed, the beauty of the moment providing her with momentary relief from the pain. Professor Snape took that sigh as his cue to add another finger. He settled into a gentle thrusting motion, his fingers stoking her fire in a soothing rhythm. Hermione felt herself climbing the well-treaded road to climax, but knew deep inside that this wasn't enough.

Just at that moment, the professor took a step closer to her. Hermione felt his robes fall around her bum, stretched out towards her teacher as it was, and the substantial bulge that his manhood caused in his trousers brushed against her. While his right hand was still busily moving inside her core, his left snaked its way around her belly to the apex of her thighs. It sought out and found her clit almost instantly and set to work rubbing circles in the same rhythm at which its partner was thrusting into her.

The combination was enough to drive anybody wild, but these past few days had primed Hermione for the professor's attentions. Her body knew by now that whatever Professor Snape was doing to her would soothe her pains, and it trusted him to know what he was doing. It made falling into the climactic abyss so much easier.

And fall she did. No sound escaped her lips, as Hermione was still weakened by living in constant pain for the past ninety-six hours, but her walls tightened around the professor's delicious fingers as she came to a silent, but infinitely satisfying orgasm.

The professor stood for a while, waiting for her spasms to recede. When they had, he gently, cautiously withdrew his fingers, cleansing them with a quick charm. Merlin knew a Potions Master had enough of those charms at his disposal, needing to efficiently clean organic waste every other minute, it seemed. Next he readjusted her knickers, then – nothing.

"Thank you," Hermione breathed gratefully once her brain was capable of coherent thought again. First pain, then pleasure, had taken a lot out of her.

"Miss Granger," the professor acknowledged.

"Is there anything I can –"

"No," he cut her off. "You are too weakened at the moment to do anything. I will simply stand here for a short while, Miss Granger, and we can talk once you are better."

He stepped even further into her, until his bulge rested directly against her bum. Reaching behind her and nestling for a bit, Hermione removed the heavy fabric of her school skirt from between their bodies. Now, the professor fit even better into the crevice of her behind.

The Potions Master emitted a tiny sigh, ever so soft and barely audible, but Hermione knew what to listen for. For a while, they stood in contented silence.

Then –

"Simple white cotton, Miss Granger?"

Hermione had not known that she still had enough energy left for a little chuckle to escape her lips.

"Oh, shut it, sir," she uttered, no malice in her words, but laughter, and just enough of it to assure the professor that she meant no disrespect. "With how addled my mind has been lately, I would most certainly have set them on fire if I tried to transfigure them, and I couldn't very well ask Lavender or Parvati to do it for me."

Another minute passed while the professor was stroking the plain fabric of her underwear. For them, it was a strangely domestic moment, Hermione assessed. A part of her mind idly wondered how it came that no one had interrupted them yet by blowing up a cauldron or something of the like, but she found that she couldn't be arsed to care. All that mattered was her steady chopping and the contentedness that she found in the man pressing his raging hardness into her bum.

"If you like, I'll let you choose your favourite fabric and colour, sir," Hermione offered after a while. Hearing a dark chuckle behind her, she amended, "Just don't make it something like unicorn-blood-coloured Acromantula silk, will you?"

"Tsk tsk tsk," the professor chided her quietly, "always thinking the worst of me, Miss Granger."

"I seem to know you too well, sir," Hermione replied. "You'll always make me strive for the best results, no matter how far they seem out of my reach. But I'm being honest here – please make it your actual favourite colour and fabric, will you, sir?"

A moment of silence followed that grew ever so heavier with anticipation with every second that passed.

"I liked your first attempt, Miss Granger," the professor eventually said. "Just make sure you don't ask Miss Patil for her help, nor for her opinion, this time. I'd prefer to see your own work, and to be the only one to see it. Can you do that?"

He knew very well that she could, and Hermione pressed her behind further into his middle to answer in the positive. A groan escaped from his lips, then a resigned sigh followed, and Professor Snape withdrew from the warm crevice Hermione's body provided for him. Smoothing her skirt back down over her bum, Hermione distinctly felt a sense of loss at having the professor gone. Only her resolve to perform the transfiguration after the Potions Master's wishes helped her out of that negativity.

Black satin and cloth-covered buttons it is, sir, Hermione thought, smiling to herself as she set to counting Newt eyes.

Coming up: Chapter thirty-four, wherein expectations are exceeded and Minerva might be commended.