After a very long delay, this is Chapter 2 of what will be a three-part story. Please let me know what you think!
Snape continued to stare at the dungeon door long after the echoing thud of its closing had ceased reverberating through the room. For several moments, though his mind contained a jumble of images, he did not produce one coherent thought. It was not as though he was unable to do so, however, he merely refused to allow himself to contemplate what had just occurred.
As he sat in his desk chair, the trembling that had begun in his hands began to spread up his arms and through the rest of his body until he was shaking uncontrollably. Swaying as he stood, he reached for his robe to cover his naked form. To his dismay, however, he found that his tremors prevented him from grasping the fabric; it took three attempts before he had the robe securely in his grip.
Snape proceeded slowly toward the classroom door, unsure of his step. Not bothering to extinguish the torches in the classroom, he retreated to the empty hallway and made his way through the serpentine halls toward his bedchamber. As he entered the room, he circumvented the glow of the fireplace, in a cautious attempt to avoid shedding any light on the thoughts playing at the corners of his mind. But it was no use. No amount of darkness could disguise the memories of his recent acts. As he stood huddled in a darkened corner, one by one, images flew through his mind, images that burnt a shameful, lingering haze into his brain.
Suddenly, he turned on his heel and strode across the room, hoping his decisive movement would trick his mind, leaving his unpleasant thoughts behind. He was mistaken. With each determined step, the images became clearer, brighter. There she was, sprawled face-down across his desk. He could feel her skin as it yielded to his demanding touch, flesh that would certainly bruise later. As he entered his bathroom, the sound of his own blood pulsing in his ears kept time with the echo of her rhythmic cries.
What had he done? In a fit of delirium, he had taken leave of his senses, acting on his basest desires. It was true that over the past few months, he had committed several acts of indiscretion, pleasuring himself outside the privacy of his room. But never did he imagine he could lose control of himself so absolutely. She was his pupil, his trusting student, and he had violated irrevocably the sanctity of their relationship. He was disgusted with himself.
The memories of his actions continued to claw at his brain. He felt her on his lap, felt her throat and breasts beneath his lips. And then he was picking her up, throwing her on the desk…he was entering her. At the time, he had thought of nothing but his own escape, his own pleasure, his own strength and domination of her. But as he relived the moment a second time, he could see more clearly the fear on her face as the power shifted out of her hands and into his own. He could hear her body slam against the wooden desk, hear her cry as thrust into her.
Had she been a virgin? It was a question he hadn't bothered to ask himself earlier that evening, and he certainly hadn't given any consideration to any pain she might have experienced. In fact, in the moment, he had welcomed any pain she suffered, punishing her for her challenge to his authority. There she was again, standing naked before him, telling him to punish her. She wanted it.
Almost in spite of himself, even as he mentally condemned his actions of the hours prior, he suddenly found himself becoming, unbelievably, aroused.
It was maddening how she could tempt him, tease him, torture him. He felt himself pounding into her without mercy and he was simultaneously turned on and disgusted. As his erection grew under his unfastened robes, he let out a cry of frustration and pulled wildly at his hair. Though the appeal of relieving himself of his arousal was huge, even bigger was his self-loathing at his inability to master such feelings.
His body continued to shake and his heart was pounding as he entered his bathroom. In an effort to calm himself, he braced his body above the sink with his arms and took a few deep breaths. As he lifted his gaze to the mirror before him, however, his stomach lurched. His eyes met their reflection in the glass and, for a moment, he saw himself plainly. As he viewed himself, the conflicting sensations and emotions of the evening finally came to deafening climax. Unable to stop himself, he retched into the sink before him, heaving and choking.
For a few moments, he was still, clinging to the basin. But the sights and sounds continued to swirl in his brain, and his desperation and desire continued to assault him in equal measure. Finally, with no other solutions at his disposal to remedy his despairing condition, he reached for his strongest sleeping draught, swallowed three times the normal dosage and collapsed on his bed.
He awoke several hours later, having slept only fitfully, despite his heavy drugging. His sleep had been fevered and restless, and he had tossed and turned discontentedly, woozy nightmares flitting through his brain. When he finally rose from his rumpled bed, his goal became singularly clear: to avoid Hermione at all costs.
He was in no way ready to face her. The shame and humiliation he felt at having treated her in such an abominable manner crept stealthily through his body and settled in his stomach, refusing to budge. His only small source of comfort was the fact that it was Friday; she would not be in his classroom that day.
As he bathed, his thoughts were scattered and incoherent; he had no idea how he would manage to teach a class. He dressed haphazardly, feeling a vague sense of gratitude that his all-black wardrobe required no thought. His lack of sleep, combined with his lustful self-loathing formed a cloak of shame that settled heavily upon his shoulders. When he finally departed the dungeons for the Great Hall, it took steady concentration to walk at his normal brisk pace. No matter what he had done, he would not give others the satisfaction of viewing publicly his private despair.
As he strode through the entrance hall, however, his step faltered. Cheerful voices and the clattering of silverware on plates announced to him that breakfast was in full swing. Could he enter, knowing she was likely inside? He stood at the entrance to the Great Hall for what seemed an eternity, indecision tearing at him. He wanted nothing more than to return to his chambers, never having to face her again. As his resolve crumbled, his inability to enter the Great Hall solidified. Finally, there was nothing for it but to walk away.
As he turned to beat a hasty retreat to the dungeon, however, the door of the Hall swung open and a familiar tousle of brown hair came into view. Snape held his breath, his heart beating madly, for where Harry Potter went, Hermione Granger usually followed. It took a moment for him to recognize, however, that Potter was trailed only by Ron Weasley. The boys passed by him without a second glance and within seconds, were up the staircase.
Snape let out his breath slowly, willing his heartbeat to return to normal. She was not there. He was safe. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he would run into her. At the very least, Potions was on Monday. But he was surprised to find that, along with the massive reprieve he felt at her nonappearance in the entrance hall, there was a tinge of disappointment. He had spent months looking forward to each opportunity to catch a glimpse of her, of each hour spent in the same classroom. He had reveled in their game of stolen glances and escalating arousal. In his inability to control himself, he had destroyed something he desperately treasured – their private, unspoken relationship. The possibility that he might feel only dread and fear at the thought of her presence saddened him. What had he done?
With a heavy heart, Snape entered the Great hall, no longer fearing her presence. At the staff table, he took only coffee, casting glowering looks across the room. The staff appeared to appreciate his mood and did not attempt to relieve him of whatever was burdening him by forcing conversation.
Snape's mood continued throughout the day and carried into the weekend. His mind replayed the events of Thursday night repeatedly, and he alternately found himself despairing and aroused. When he did finally give into the pressure of his pounding erection, he came with an explosive force that gave way to another bout of irrepressible trembling. As the weekend wore on and Monday's Potions class loomed larger and larger, his fear at seeing her and his absolute physical need to be with her spiraled wildly until he thought he might go mad. By Monday morning, he was existing in a state of pure nervous exhaustion.
He struggled through his first class, barking orders at his Third-Years until two students dissolved into tears. Though such a sight usually gave him some satisfaction, today it only served to agitate him further. N.E.W.T.-level Potions was approaching quickly and he had no idea how to even begin to prepare. Time marched forward without his consent and, all too soon, morning break had ended and students were filing into the classroom.
Sitting at his desk, he set his face as an implacable mask, determined not to demonstrate any reaction to her presence when she entered the room. He had not seen her since Thursday night. One by one, the students entered the dungeon, talking amongst themselves, opening bookbags onto desks. And then the door closed behind the last student and a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly, awaiting the start of class. She was not there.
Without warning, rage rose inside him like a gust of wind. She was never late for class. Potter and Weasley were at their normal table, which seemed a big, black void without her presence. No, she was not simply late, this was deliberate. She was punishing him.
Despite his fear only moments before at being in the same room with her, all rational thought disappeared and he felt only anger and resentment at her presumption that she could choose not to attend his class. With a fury that, moments before, would have seemed impossible, he commenced the lesson by berating a student for coughing too loudly and proceeded to eviscerate as many students as possible throughout the course of the morning.
That evening, Snape's wrath burned within in him as he huddled in his bed, prompting, as was becoming routine, a burning desire to dominate her, to force her submission and subjugation. As his hand fervidly stroked his rigid member, he imagined her kneeling before him, his hands buried in her wild mass of curls. He groaned aloud as he vividly felt his strong fingers dig into her scalp and thrust her bobbing head farther down his throbbing cock. He pulled faster and faster as he felt the pad of her tongue slide sensually down his shaft and his sensitive head grazed the back of her throat. His stroke lengthened and quickened as he imagined his hands forcing her hot mouth deeper and deeper onto him. And then, suddenly, though his fantasy was only just getting started, he was coming, hard, all over himself, the shock of the agonizing pleasure waking him from his all-to-realistic reverie.
Slowly, he recovered from the intensity of his pleasure. The orgasm appeared to have had the effect of diminishing to a great extent the rage that had coursed through his veins since her failure to attend his class that morning. But he had failed to appreciate that this anger had served as a useful buffer to his overwhelming guilt at his actions. Moreover, his most recent fantasy only served to create additional guilt for his allowance of such an extreme and degrading fantasy. His disgust in himself returned.
Tuesday morning found Snape dining morosely at the staff table in the Great Hall. His fluctuations in temperament, from anger to lust to guilt and then back to anger, wore on his patience with himself. He was losing control.
Brooding over his predicament, Snape reached for his coffee cup. As his fingers touched the handle, however, his eyes were drawn up over the table to a familiar head of bushy hair. She was there. How had he missed her entrance? His hand frozen over his cup, he was unable to look away from her and he was certain that his eyes must have been boring actual holes into her head. He was sorely tempted to use Legilimency at that moment, but refrained. It was a point of pride that he did not resort to such low tricks when not necessary.
Despite his constant staring, however, Hermione failed to turn her eyes in his direction. If anything, it seemed she was deliberately focusing her gaze in every direction but his. He was careful not to let on that anything – or anyone – had captured his attention, but kept a watchful eye on her through the entire meal. And throughout, she kept her eyes firmly averted.
Snape's sense of frustration and anger expanded and sharpened with each meal, during which Hermione avoided him resolutely. When she failed to appear in class on Wednesday, his agitation reached the near-boiling point. Finally, when her seat again remained empty at the start of class on Thursday, he had had enough.
"Potter! Weasley! Where, exactly, is Miss Granger?" he barked across the classroom. The boys looked sideways at one another and hesitated before answering.
"I don't think she's feeling well, sir," answered Harry finally, but not without an air of shiftiness in his reply. Snape trained his narrowed eyes on the pair, determined to wrench the truth from them. The rest of the class watched on, silently.
"She's not feeling well…is that so?" asked Snape, staring at Ron, who had turned a deep shade of red and could not meet Snape's eyes.
Harry, who seemed to have recognized that Ron would crack before long, replied in a firm tone, "Yes, sir. That's so." Snape slid his sharp eyes back to Harry, who returned his gaze defiantly. Intolerable though Potter was, Snape chose not to pursue the matter. He would go directly to the source.
That evening, he watched as she entered the Great Hall, avoiding eye contact once more. He viewed carefully her exchanges with Harry and Ron, noticed every smile and laugh. She was animated and more carefree than she had seemed in the previous days. Though he couldn't hear what was being said, he could tell that Harry was teasing Ron about something, causing Hermione to laugh. Ron reddened, as he had in the classroom, and mumbled something, as Hermione threw her head back and laughed, exposing her pale throat. Snape's eyes lingered on the white skin, and it didn't escape his attention that Ron's eyes remained there as well. As she continued her conversation with Harry and Ron, his gut clenched. Was he honestly jealous? Of Potter and Weasley, no less?
At that moment, Professor Flitwick attempted to draw Snape into a conversation about the rapidly cooling autumn weather, and Snape turned his gaze away from Hermione for a moment. But even as he turned his head, he felt a tingling begin in his cheeks and he was certain she was looking at him. Turning his head quickly, his eyes caught hers, just as she turned away from him.
Her reaction was clear and his sense of victory was immediate. For, it was only a matter of seconds before her cheeks flushed a deep crimson and she turned her eyes to her fingers, twisting in her lap. She repeatedly picked up her silverware and glass, returning them to the table quickly. Her discomfiture, caused by merely meeting his eyes for a split second, was obvious and provided Snape with a deep sense of satisfaction. She had done nothing but cause him agitation all week. It felt liberating to do the same to her.
After several moments, however, it appeared that she had had enough; she rose from the table and walked with great deliberation toward the entrance hall. Harry and Ron, though clearly surprised by her sudden departure, did not follow her. Snape excused himself from the staff table and wove his way through the Great Hall, determined to catch her alone in the entrance hall, before she made her way back to the Gryffindor Common Room.
As he reached the door of the Great Hall, he scanned the entrance hall quickly, locating her retreating figure near the stairwell that led to, as he expected, the Gryffindor Tower. As he watched her head towards the steps, for a moment, he was unable to raise his voice to stop her. A terror at having to speak to her paralyzed him, and he felt his opportunity to speak to her on her own slip through his fingers. Finally, however, he pulled himself together and took a deep breath. He was the professor and she was the student. She was to do what she was told. And would be the one to tell her.
"Miss Granger." He forced himself to leave the safety of the Great Hall doorway and made his way toward her. Though she had stopped walking, she continued to stare at the stairwell ahead of her, as though hoping she could still make a break for it.
He came upon her, standing only feet away, and still she did not turn to face him. His heart was pounding and he felt out of breath. He hadn't spoken to her in a week. The feelings of shame he had been trying to repress for days were raging and a part of him wanted to throw himself upon her feet and beg for her forgiveness. But the fact that she had yet to turn to face him irked him and stopped him from doing anything foolish.
"Miss Granger, I am speaking to you," he commanded, and she turned slowly, keeping her eyes on his feet. As she stood there, he swept his eyes up and down her body, and without warning, though she was in full uniform, with her robe firmly fastened, he saw nothing but her naked body in all its glory. A pang of longing pulled at his groin and he felt an almost irrepressible desire to throw her against the wall and take her, with all of the school present only yards away.
Forcing his eyes to her face, her head snapped up a moment later and their gazes locked. Steeling himself, he remembered that he was her professor and his job was to teach her.
"Miss Granger, you have missed two Potions lessons this week. This is a very serious offense and warrants detention. Explain yourself," he ordered, in as authoritative a tone as he could summon. She said nothing.
Anger began to creep into his words as he stated, "You will attend Potions lessons from now on, or I shall be forced to notify your Head of House, as well as the Headmaster, of your actions."
Finally, at his words, she reacted, though not in the way he had anticipated. Fire shot out of her eyes and she seemed to grow several inches as her anger increased to match his. Her reaction caught him unawares; he had expected her to cower before him.
"Yes, Professor," she hissed at him, "Perhaps you should involve Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore in this situation. I would welcome their opinion as to your behavior, as well." She was glaring at him with contempt and the rage that Snape had attempted to contain until that point was let loose.
For a week, he had berated himself for his atrocious behavior and he wallowed in needless anxiety. He had felt nothing but disgust and shame for his actions, and wanted nothing more than to apologize for what he had done, to take it all back. But it wasn't until that moment that he realized her part in what had occurred.
His rage was incensed as he recalled her binding him to this chair. Imprisoning him. How could he possibly be blamed for this? She had begged him for punishment while she punished him herself. She had hid beneath his desk and tortured him as another student was present. She had gone out of her way to humiliate him. She not only asked for his treatment, but demanded it.
And now, to act as though everything was his fault, as though he were entirely to blame, when all he wanted was to return to normal? He wanted nothing more than to be her teacher and for her to be his student, while she appeared to want to punish him unnecessarily. He was furious. She may have challenged his authority as a partner, but she would challenge his authority as a teacher.
The guilt he had felt was pressed deep within him as his wrath surfaced. His eyes still focused on hers, he took a step forward, closing the small distance between them. Her breathing was heavy, and he could feel her breath on his cheek as she refused to avert her gaze. But as he continued to stare her down, saying nothing, he felt her break, and she cowed to him, ever so slightly. Though she didn't look away, he knew she would say nothing. She was angry and defeated and his victory was sweet. The urge to press himself against her and crush his lips to hers overtook him, but he fought the urge. Finally, she broke their gaze and headed toward the stairway.
Before she began to ascend the steps, he took one last opportunity to relish in his victory. "You will report to lessons on Monday, Miss Granger. Or else." She paused with her foot on the bottom step but did not turn around. After a second, she continued up the steps, not looking back.
Flush with his dominating success, he returned to him chambers for the evening. But he felt an odd sense of energy and buoyancy to which he was unaccustomed, and he found it difficult to contain himself. He attempted to work but found it nearly impossible to focus on the essays and potions. Finally, he found respite in sitting before his fire and gazing into the flames. As he reclined before the glowing hearth, fantasy after fantasy floated before his eyes, each more degrading than the last. Each time, Hermione came to him, eyes blazing, stance defiant. And each time, he broke her, claiming triumph in their war of wills. Fervently, he stroked his rock-hard dick and imagined fucking her in any number of ways – bent over his desk, against the blackboard, in a closet…. His fantasies rapidly grew more absurd and elaborate, as he stroked within her upon a library table, in the stands at the Quidditch pitch, against a tree by the lake. And in each and every fantasy, his domination and control was absolute as she begged him for release. Finally, after what seemed like the creation of hundreds of new fantasies, he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.
Several hours passed as he slept in his dark, cavernous bedchamber. The fantasies of hours before wound their way through his dreams and he became strongly aroused as he felt a hand slide into his underwear and gently slip around his semi-hard cock. It was a long moment before he came to the realization that he was not dreaming this feeling. Straining his eyes in the darkened chamber, he could just make out her silhouette, framed against the last glowing embers of the hearth. She sat up beside him in only a thin nightgown, her hand slowly and probingly massaging him.
He quickly tried to sit up, ready to throw her upon the bed and drive into her, but she placed a palm upon his chest and pressed him softly against the pillow. Strangely, his desire to plunder her dissipated and he allowed her to remove his underwear and then slide a leg across his torso and straddle him. He could feel between her legs that she was not wearing panties and her hot wetness seeped against his stomach. She slid both hands up over his chest and leaned down until her face hovered just above his. So close, he could just make out her features. She inclined her head another inch and their lips met. Before long, her lips parted and he slid his tongue in to join hers. He slid his hands up her legs, massaging her thighs as he went. In one swift motion, he pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it to the floor.
She leaned down once more and he felt her nipples, hard from arousal and the cold dungeon air, rest upon his naked chest. Little by little, as his tongue continued to probe her soft mouth, she slid down his stomach, pushing his erection lower and lower. Finally, she slipped her hand down and guided the head of his cock to the entrance of her pussy. Nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck, she lowered her hips slowly, sighing as she took him within her. When he was finally securely within her, she settled herself upon his hips and whispered into his ear, "Severus."
The sound of his name on her lips was novel and thrilling. He moaned and sought her mouth once more as she raised her pelvis and sank upon him. Lifting her head from his, she braced her hands on his shoulders and they worked themselves into a regular rhythm as she rode him. As each minute passed, the tempo increased, and she rode him harder and harder, as though trying to take him even deeper within herself. Her moans escalated with each thrust and he began to grunt each time she sank upon him. He could feel his release building but felt certain that there was no need to restrain himself; she would come in time.
And he was right. Crying out and screwing her eyes closed, she threw her head back in ecstasy, riding the waves of her orgasm while he thrust his pelvis against hers. His own orgasm was imminent. Only a few more thrusts and he would be there, pumping into her….Wanting her close, he reached up to pull her close to him. He was at the precipice, blackness spreading around the edges of his vision. He fingers reached for her shoulders but they weren't there. His groin convulsed and he desperately sought in the dark for her face but there was nothing but air before him. Suddenly confused and a bit frightened, his orgasm arrived, spewing his come into the air and the blackness obliterated his sight completely.
He remained immobile for several moments as his heartbeat became regular and his breathing slowed. Sitting up, he saw he was alone. A desolate, lonely feeling of emptiness crept into his chest and he lay back down to his pillow. Fighting a surprisingly strong urge to cry, he buried his face in his pillow and fell back to sleep, the sound of his name on her lips repeating in his head.
The following morning, Snape was tired and disoriented by his dream. It had felt so real. But even more discomfiting was the nature of the dream itself, for it so diametrically opposed his fantasies. He did his best to shelve the dream and not think of it as the day progressed.
For the next several days, his path rarely crossed that of Hermione. In the Great Hall, he was careful to keep his eyes on his plate while she seemed content to stare at hers. Nevertheless, Monday was approaching quickly.
When classtime finally arrived on Monday morning, Snape sat pensively at his desk, wondering if she would appear. Students began to file through the door and he viewed them anxiously. As each student crossed the threshold, his heart thudded harder, until the door closed behind the last student. Her seat was still empty. Before he had a chance to become angry, however, the door swung open once more and she strode across the room to take her seat. Her face was set with determination and each movement was purposeful and deliberate. She did not look at him.
Snape took a calming breath and began class. But though he knew he should treat her as a student and put everything behind him, he was having trouble concentrating. She was, amazingly, working as though nothing had happened. He did his best to act normal and supervise the work of the students.
The class was progressing and Snape had calmed significantly. He began to feel a bit more assertive, and realized that it would be possible to return to normal and resume his authoritative position as professor. He had made a mistake but he could control himself. He would. As he ruminated on these thoughts, his attention was drawn to Hermione's table, where she was diligently working on her potion. Even as she worked, however, her eyes slid sideways along to the table to where Harry Potter was mixing ingredients.
Both Snape and Hermione could see plainly that Harry was making a hopeless mess of his ingredients, and if he didn't correct his course now, his potion would be a disaster. But even as Snape felt a small amount of satisfaction in the knowledge that he'd be able to give Harry a failing grade for his assignment, he noticed Hermione whispering to Harry, no doubt correcting his mistake. Indeed, Harry immediately changed his technique, likely salvaging his potion. He murmured something back to Hermione, causing her to blush and laugh quietly under her breath. The two returned to their work, but Hermione continued to look somewhat pleased with herself.
Had the exchange occurred between any two other students, Snape would have immediately blasted them for cheating and doled out failing grades, detentions, or both. But viewing such an exchange between students had never triggered such pain and jealousy before. What exactly was there between Hermione and Potter? Or Hermione and Weasley, for that matter? He hadn't missed the way Ron looked at her in the Great Hall the week before. It had never occurred to him before, but what if she dating one of them?
Unwelcome thoughts flitted into his mind; images of Hermione alternately holding Harry's hand, stroking Ron's hair, kissing Harry. Had she ever done that? It wasn't an unreasonable thought. She spent all her time with them. And she was eighteen years old…not exactly young for most girls to start exploring. In fact, many had done a great deal more by the age of eighteen…
An anvil dropped into his stomach as he imagined the possibility that she had slept with either of them. It wasn't just possible, it was probable. Of course, it made perfect sense. And now, she wanted nothing to do with him because she wanted someone else. Against his will, he recalled the first day he saw Lily walk down the hallway holding Potter's hand. How could this happen again? How could he lose someone else to a Potter? He felt dizzy and ill. Swallowing hard, he forced himself not to become sick before the entire classroom.
In his shocked state, he hardly realized that the class had ended. Students filed up before him to hand in their flacons of potion. By the time she reached him, he was utterly unprepared to see her.
She reached out her hand and placed the stoppered bottle on his palm. As their fingers touched, he felt electricity run up his arm and he wasn't able to look away from her. Her eyes met his and he felt as though his mind and heart exploded with emotion. The jealousy of just moments before softened slightly, tempered by the despair and guilt of the previous weeks. Mixed with everything was, surprisingly, a tenderness that he didn't know he felt for her. As for Hermione, though she had seemed flustered and nervous when she first presented herself before him, she now seemed confused and sad. Seeing the look on her face, which resembled pity, brought him to his senses and he closed himself off. He removed the flacon from her hand and turned away, mentally berating himself for letting his guard down.
Hermione turned from him and packed up her bag. He busied himself at his desk, noting that she dawdled but not giving her any opportunity to speak with him. Finally, she followed the last students out of the room and he breathed a sigh of relief.
What had just happened? The feelings that had been stirred up were wholly unexpected. But even as he thought of how unprepared he had been for this encounter, his mind returned to the dream of the week before. Maybe this wasn't entirely a surprise. Perhaps….perhaps there was something more? Maybe he wanted more than simply to dominate her. Maybe he needed more than to show he was more powerful than she. Laughing to himself derisively, he realized that, even if he did feel something more, she would have to feel the same way for it to mean anything. And that couldn't possibly be true.
He sat at his desk for another moment, his mind wandering over his history with her. Was it possible? Could their relationship mean something more to her? He had to know. He grabbed a bit of parchment and a quill, holding the nib above the paper for a full minute. What did he want to write? He couldn't even begin to think of something that wasn't laughable. Finally, he came to the decision to make a simple request. It wasn't possible to write what he needed to say on paper; he needed her before him. And so he scrawled quickly, Midnight.
Stepping into the hallway of the dungeon, he walked briskly along the corridor until he came upon a group of chattering third-years. Pulling one aside roughly, he handed the note to the terrified student and demanded that he deliver it to Hermione in the Great Hall. The student nodded, speechless, and took off to complete his task.
Snape spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous distress. It struck him that until recently, he had not been accustomed to the feeling of nervousness. He wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Still, he tried not to be optimistic as he thought about the coming evening. He was well aware that optimism only led to disappointment. To pass the time, he, once again, graded papers and read.
At 11:30, his heart began to race and he had trouble sitting still. At 11:45, he was pacing the classroom, wondering if she wouldn't come early. By 11:55, he was sitting at his desk, his eyes trained on the door. He did not move from that position as the clock passed 12:00 and crept toward 12:30. Finally, at 1:00, when he was certain she would not come, he rose from his desk, his face stony, to pace the room once more.
He couldn't believe she did not come to him. Even if she did not feel anything for him, at the very least, she could come and tell him. As he paced, his disappointment and sadness gave way to anger, which quickly escalated to fury. How dare she disobey him? The gall, the presumption, to think that she didn't have to take instruction from him. Arriving back at his desk, he swept everything from it in anger, watching as the bottles and jars shattered upon the stone floor. Turning from the mess, he slammed his fist into the blackboard twice. His anger continued to get the better of him as he lifted his chair and threw it across the room, smashing it against a bookcase. His chest heaved as he stood in the midst of his destruction. Looking at the mess, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving it behind him.
When he returned to his classroom on Tuesday morning, the destruction had been magically restored, likely by the house elves. Snape felt a small amount of shame at letting his rage take control, but his anger at Hermione had not dissipated.
Later that day, as he graded the potions submitted by the N.E.W.T. students the day before, he came across Hermione's flacon and he felt a fresh surge of fury. Without even unstoppering it, he knew that it was perfect. Despite her perfect work, however, he could not bring himself to give her the grade she deserved. Feeling a vicious satisfaction, he scrawled a "P" across her grade parchment. The satisfaction only magnified by the crestfallen look on her face when she received the grade the following morning.
Knowing her as he did, he should not have been surprised at her renewed determination after she received her failing grade. She worked diligently throughout the period and he was sure, without even looking, that her potion would, again, be perfect. At the end of the period, she jammed the bottle into his hand without a word or a glance, and flounced from the room.
As the door closed behind the last student, he once more scribbled a note to her, reading, Midnight. Do not disobey me. He pressed the note into the hand of another terrified student and waited for midnight. Though he had not truly expected her to appear this time, he felt he had to give it one last try. When she did not show, however, he told himself it was time to let go of the fantasy and return to sanity. With a last surge of pleasure, however, he inscribed a bright red "D" on her grade sheet.
When Hermione arrived at the next class to her second failing grade in a row, he did not fail to note her displeasure. However, even with his unhappiness at the turn their relationship had taken, he knew it was time to reassert himself as a professor, and a professor only. To do so, it would be necessary to reassert his authority, not in any physical way, but simply in the teacher-student sense. A detention was in order.
By the end of the lesson, Hermione was obviously fuming. However, Snape was determined to put things right and return their interactions to a more acceptable level. As she shoved her belongings into her bag, he worked up the resolve to address her normally and move towards the status quo.
"Miss Granger, you have now failed two assignments in a row. Between your shoddy classwork and your previous absences, I am forced to conclude that you are not making a sincere effort in this class. Perhaps a detention will help to set you in the right direction." He kept his eyes on his work, not looking her in the eye. She said nothing in response.
He continued, "You will report here at eight o'clock this evening to serve your detention." Though, again, she did not respond, he was certain she heard him, and he was even more certain that she understood his intentions. Thus, he was unsurprised when she appeared in the potions classroom doorway at precisely 8:00 that evening.
"Ah, Miss Granger, I am glad to see you have made the sensible decision not to ignore your detention. Follow me," he said, in a short snipped tone, making every effort to sound as a professor should when speaking to a student. He led her to the ingredient storeroom across from the classroom door and opened it.
"Though I usually assign students research projects in the library for detention, I do not believe I am incorrect in my assumption that you would rather enjoy such a punishment." He winced slightly at his unintentional use of the word "punishment" and pressed on.
"Therefore, you are to clean the storeroom from top to bottom. I shall be checking your progress both for order and cleanliness. When you have completed the task, you may return to your dormitory."
Hermione looked from the cupboard to him several times, seemingly uncomprehendingly. Eventually, however, her face registered mute indignation and she stamped into the room and slammed the heavy door behind her.
Snape returned to his desk, somewhat amused. Yes, her sullen reaction was precisely what he would expect from a student to whom he had just assigned an odious detention. He was quite pleased with himself. Though it had been difficult, more difficult than he had imagined, he had conquered his inability to control himself when around Hermione Granger. He had disciplined himself, and put her in her place in the process. He had put his monstrous appetite to rest and he was wholly satisfied.
At his desk, buried in sheaves of parchment and flacons of potion, the time passed quickly, and he almost forgot that she was in the storeroom. The heavy door muffled most sounds from inside and he had no idea what she might be up to. The though briefly crossed his mind that she could, perhaps, sabotage his potion ingredients or create even more disorder than was there to begin with, but he dismissed the possibility. She was not an irresponsible or reckless girl. At worst, she would simply fail at the assignment.
He had to admit that he had assigned her quite a job. The storeroom was in despicable condition, and absolutely filthy. He had put off cleaning and organizing it for quite some time. He couldn't imagine how she'd be able to make sense of the mess in there, but it amused him to think of her trying.
Hours passed before he remembered to check his watch. He jumped from his chair with a start, realizing that Hermione had been in the storeroom for nearly five hours. Striding over to the cupboard, he pulled the heavy door open and she turned in surprise, blinking at light. He entered the storeroom, gazing around at the shelves in wonder.
She had not blown off the assignment, as he might have anticipated. No, she clearly had taken it seriously and the reorganization was nearly complete. The jars and pots of ingredients were lined neatly on the many dozens of shelves and each one sparkled in the torchlight. He walked slowly from shelf to shelf, discovering the new homes of his beloved ingredients and admiring the skill and knowledge exhibited in the placement of each and every ingredient. She quite obviously knew the specific uses and commonality of each ingredient and had placed them on the shelves accordingly, creating a subtle system. He was captivated by the absolute order and scheme.
Finally, remembering that Hermione was still present, he exited the storeroom and returned to his desk to continue with his work. Though he tried to be nonchalant, he was aware that he had just displayed quite obviously to her how impressed he was with her work. Trying to return to his state of detached boredom, he dismissed her, saying, "That will be all, Miss Granger."
Though he had hoped she would leave the classroom, instead, she approached his desk, asking, "Well?"
"Well, what?" he responded, not looking up from his papers. "Oh, yes, the storeroom is acceptable," he said flatly, trying his best to pretend she was no longer there.
She had reached his desk and was standing close enough to him that he could smell her scent. Still, he continued to ignore her.
"My work is always better than acceptable, Professor," she said, taking another step closer to him. His eyes skipped from his papers to her and returned quickly to his desk. His brief stop, however, was enough for him to take in her state. She was disheveled, her hair curling wildly from her face, which bore smudges of grime and dirt. She looked hot and damp and utterly attractive. He felt the familiar stirrings of desire for her but suppressed them.
"I didn't deserve to fail those assignments and you know it," she challenged him, and he felt her eyes upon him. At this, Snape finally turned from his work, anger finally supplanting the weary peace he had felt when he believed he had conquered his demons just hours before.
"I have warned you before, Miss Granger, not to defy me. You must learn that your actions have consequences." Though he could feel his blood pulsing in his veins, he still clung to the shred of hope that she would give in and drop her argument. If she would simply walk away, he felt certain he could do the same.
Instead, she said, "And what about your actions, Professor?" resentment evident in her voice. Snape stood up quickly, standing only inches from her, but she continued, undeterred, "I do not have to answer to you."
It was as though a switch had been flipped inside him. All thought and reason flew out the window and every irrational fear and desire that had ever visited him in his obsession over Hermione returned. Of course she answered to him. There would be no one else, he would make certain of it. She belonged to him and no other.
And to prove his unspoken point, he lunged forward violently, catching her on each arm above the elbow. For a long moment, he felt so much anger directed toward her that he could think of no course of action to resolve it. Finally, however, his desire for her took control and he pulled her roughly to him, crashing his lips upon hers.
Despite his coarse manner, he could feel her body respond to his almost instantly, her mouth opening to accommodate his demanding tongue, her body pressing more firmly against his. Their kiss was hot and insistent, and he felt as though he could devour her. He would possess her completely.
But he didn't want only to possess her – he wanted her to want to be possessed. And so, seeing an opportunity to take the upper hand and bring her solidly under his dominion, he pulled away.
She looked up at him in surprise and dismay and he answered her quizzical look by unfastening her robe and shirt and sliding his long, tapered fingers into her bra and over the globes of her breasts. Rubbing his thumbs over her nipples, he kissed her once again, this time slowly and less punishingly.
Snape continued to remove her clothing, dropping her robe, shirt, and bra into a pile on the floor beside them. Her tie he removed from around her neck and looped around his wrist. As he did so, she eyed the tie cautiously, but said nothing. Resuming their kiss, he pulled on her wrists until they were both on the floor beside his desk. With a smooth motion, he pressed his body on top of hers until he head rested on the floor and she was lying prone beneath him. She made a move to unfasten his robe, but Snape did not release his grip on her wrists.
Instead, as his tongue continued its exploration of her mouth, he lifted both of her wrists until her arms were stretched above her head. Sliding the tie off his wrist, he bound her wrists together with the red-and-gold striped fabric and secured the ends to the leg of the massive desk behind them. He returned his gaze to her face and felt a thrill of satisfaction at the mixed look of fear and desire that crossed her features as she realized that she was trapped. Her wand was yards away on a desk.
Goosebumps had appeared on her skin and he deliberately took a moment to drink in her naked torso with his eyes, causing her to shudder slightly in anticipation. Relishing her helplessness, he slid his hands down her arms, grazing under her arms and alongside her breasts as he went. Finally, his fingers found her skirt, which he removed with excruciating slowness, savoring each inch of thigh as it came into view. When her skirt passed her ankles, he removed each of her shoes, then each sock. Finally, he slipped his fingers into her panties and drew them off, fixing his eyes on hers as he did so.
Once she was completely naked, he took another moment to explore her body with his eyes. She had yet to make a sound, but was squirming slightly under his gaze and he knew she was becoming frustrated in her arousal.
Snape lifted himself above Hermione, bracing his arms on either side of her. With as much restraint as he could muster, he slowly lowered his still-clothed body, inch by inch, towards her, until his form rested upon her. The pressure of her body upon his fully-erect cock was immense, but he did his best to block out the sensations, focusing on her alone. It was difficult, however, as she wriggled beneath him, sending spasms of pleasure into his groin and up his body.
Returning his mouth to hers, he ran his tongue along her cheek until he reached her ear, and inserted it gently. His hands continued to explore her torso, as his tongue cut a meandering path down her throat. As he enjoyed the salty taste of her skin, biting the delicate flesh and causing her to sigh, he recalled the day in the Great Hall, when he had caught Weasley looking longingly at her as she laughed. The though spurred him on; he would make her forget all others.
His lips met her nipples and sucked on each lightly as she began to moan with pleasure at his attentions. His hands remained one step ahead of his mouth, as they trailed down her stomach and reached her hips. As his head moved lower and lower down her stomach, and his tongue slid into her navel, she cried aloud and spread her legs wide for him.
At the sight of her opened thighs, he felt a driving urge whip out his cock and plunge into her immediately. But he ignored his instincts, and continued his cautious progress down her body. Reaching her thighs, he pushed her legs down to the ground and held them in place with his elbows. Gently, almost tentatively, he placed his fingertips on her swollen lips and carefully pulled them apart, revealing her engorged clit.
Hermione had begun to cry and he smiled to himself at her state. Ever-so-slowly, his tongue snaked out of his mouth and allowed the tip to rest on the top of her clit. Hermione let loose a groan as his tongue made contact and the bottom half of her body convulsed violently. Her arms twisted in their fabric binding. Pleased at her reaction, he continued his journey, lapping at her clit and then plunging his tongue deep into her.
Her head rocked side to side as he worked, and she moaned incoherently. Eventually, her thrashing and bucking of her hips became too violent and he placed his elbows on the insides of her thighs and pinned her to the stone floor. When she was still, he lowered his head once more and redoubled his effort, swirling his tongue continually and bringing her closer and closer to climax.
It was evident that Hermione had lost all sense of comprehension and coherent thought and she writhed on the floor. Her orgasm was building, he knew. Just as he sensed she was about to come to a powerful, shuddering climax, he pulled his head away and stood up.
Her eyes flew open in a panic, but she was speechless. Without removing his gaze from hers, he began, deliberately, to undress. Carefully, he stripped off his robe and placed it neatly across the back of a chair. One by one, he then unbuttoned his shirt, untucking it and removing it as carefully as he had his robe. With cautious progress, he removed each article of clothing and placed it neatly aside, folding when necessary. Hermione's eyes did not leave his for an instant and he had to keep himself from smiling in amusement.
As he removed his underwear, he felt the cool dungeon air surround his cock and he shivered a little at the feeling. He was rock-hard, rising straight up from his groin and curving back to touch his stomach. Before lowering himself to the floor, he allowed himself another opportunity to gaze upon her naked form, stretched before him on the floor, her legs still open, her pussy dark and glistening. How he wanted her.
Finally, he lowered himself to the floor, once again bracing his arms and balancing his weight above her, the underside of his cock just brushing the small of her stomach. Their eyes still locked, he paused. At yet another delay, Hermione began to cry once more, arching her back to try and draw him within her. Snape remained still, however, his gaze never wavering. He had her where he wanted her and he would not lose in the final round.
"Tell me you want me."
She gasped at his words, but did not hesitate in responding, "I want you."
Again, her hips bucked towards him, but he was not finished.
"Tell me to fuck you," he commanded.
Instantly, she replied, "Fuck me," in a whisper, her eyes still on his.
A small smile played at the corner of his mouth as he ordered, "Beg me."
She had nearly no voice, but she immediately replied, "Oh, God, please, Professor, please do it now."
The effect of her words shot through him like a dart; he felt powerful. And so he gave into her request, lowering himself the final inch and thrusting within her fully. Hermione's mouth opened in surprise but she did not cry out. He gave no thought to slowing, but instead began an immediate, insistent rhythm of strokes into her waiting body.
She had been so close to coming before that he knew it would not be long before she actually reached her orgasm. And he was glad of it, because he would not be far behind. The control he felt was incomparable, and gave him a heady, dizzy sensation. His strokes became faster as he pumped in unison to her grinding hips. Hermione was moaning loudly and incoherently. With each thrust, he knew her body was forced roughly across the stone floor, and he pushed a little harder.
Finally, she was his, he knew she was his. She would want no other, it wasn't possible. But he needed to hear it from her. And so, as his cock drove repeatedly within her, he murmured into her ear, "You answer to me. You answer only to me. Do not forget that." Hermione groaned loudly, wrapping her legs tighter about him, and whispered, "Only you."
And with that, all was lost. Snape was aware of nothing but her body and the fact that she was his. He barely even noticed when she began to groan, her eyes slipping back in her head, as she was taken by her orgasm. At nearly the same moment, the agony of his own orgasm took hold of him and he thrust into her one last time. His come exploded from him forcefully and was buried deep in her belly as he jerked spasmodically over her body. As he regained his senses, he saw that she was lolling about on the floor, in a state of incomprehension and bliss.
His jerking body stilled, but only momentarily, as his hands began to shake uncontrollably. Once again, as with their first encounter, he suddenly viewed his actions with the harsh light of reality, without the film of lust. He had done it again. He was a monster.
As he climbed off her body, he released her from her bonds, and winced when he saw that her wrists were rubbed raw. He pulled his robe on with shaking fingers and turned to face the wall so that she could not see him. The anguish and guilt of the previous days descended upon him with force and he thought he might be ill once more. But as upset as he was over what he had done to her, he couldn't bear the shame in allowing her to see him in this state. And so he did the only thing he could think to do. He ordered her to leave.