Chapter 5
Hermione had missed most of the lunch break whilst talking to Professor Snape in the Headmasters' office, so she headed straight for the library since her afternoon lesson was timetabled to be Transfiguration, so her class would be spending the double period in there, anyway.
She had eaten such a large breakfast that she wasn't too upset at missing lunch, those long months on the run where whole days had gone by without anything to eat hung potently in her memory – skipping one meal where there was promise of a hearty Hogwarts dinner in a few short hours was no great hardship for her.
Bidding the librarian, Madam Pince, a good afternoon, she ensconced herself in her favourite corner of the enormous library – a cosy nook that had a comfortable chair, a good-sized table upon which to spread out her reference materials, and easy access to some of her favourite sections. Easing herself into the familiar chair, she breathed in her surroundings with pleasure. How many times had she sat in this exact spot, over the years?
The sameness of it comforted her, providing her with a sheltered cocoon from the world that now lay in tattered chaos.
She pulled out the Transfiguration textbooks and notes that had belonged to Lavender Brown, which were bound to be far from extensive, but they were a good place to start her attempt to catch up with the rest of the class. She had soon summoned an additional two tomes from the Transfiguration section to the left of her, and inking her quill, began to annotate Lavender's classwork.
Absorbed in her work, she did not hear the footsteps approaching behind her until he leaned over her, his lips close to her ear.
"Well, well, if it isn't the little Mudblood, here nice and early for my lesson."
It was Walden Macnair, the Death Eater who had been assigned to shadow Professor McGonagall for Transfiguration lessons, and he was far too close for comfort.
"It's not your lesson," she retorted, a little unwisely, "it's Professor McGonagall's. And we are undertaking private study here in the library until she has recovered from her injury and is well enough to teach again."
He grabbed the back of her neck, along with a large chunk of her hair that was tied back in a low ponytail.
"Don't fuck with me, little girl," he hissed, so close that she could smell what he'd eaten for lunch on the rasp of his breath. "I'm not sure you want two visits to Snape's office in one day, eh? Carrow's told me he's already had to send you once. Unless Mudbloods enjoy the feel of a rapist's cock in their filthy cunts?"
Hermione privately thought that Severus Snape's office was by far the safest place in Hogwarts for her at the current time, but after their conversation earlier she had no choice but to play along, and forced herself to look distressed at his words.
"No, Sir. I apologise, Professor Macnair, I forgot myself. I am merely concerned for the health of Professor McGonagall. Please allow me to remain here."
His ugly mouth curled into an odious smile that made her want to slap it right off his pig-like face. Being obliged to address someone as unworthy as Macnair, as 'Professor' was particularly galling.
"Good girl," he whispered, his clutching hand on her neck beginning to loosen, "I see the Mudblood knows her place. I'll let your rudeness slide, this time."
He leaned in closer and his hand began a lascivious caress upon the nape of her neck.
"What a shame that you are promised to Snape. There is so much I want to do to you, so very many of us that would take our fill of you. And you would enjoy it, Mudblood. I'd make sure of that."
He let out a mock-sigh and stepped away from her as other seventh-year students from her Transfiguration class began to enter the library. Her flesh was creeping with disgust. Seamus headed straight for her, dumping his bookbag on the table with a thump and grabbing her hand, his face etched with concern.
"Are you ok, Hermione? You weren't at lunch. Me and Parv were worried."
"I'm ok," she replied. "I had to see Snape in his office and he kept me waiting."
"Have you had something to eat?"
"No, but it's alright. I got used to eating next to nothing last year."
"But now you don't have to. Here, have this, just don't let Pince or Macnair see you."
He pushed a wrapped package towards her, under the table, and opening it in her lap she saw a slightly squashed piece of sponge cake.
"You're a star, Finnigan," she told him, breaking off a piece and putting it in her mouth after checking there was no one watching.
"I aim to please," he replied, with a wink, before pulling open his bag, ready to study, or at least pretend to.
-xxx-
After dinner that evening, Hermione took herself up the narrow stone stairs to her dormitory alone, rather than sit in the common room, for she had letters to write and did not want to waste a moment. Where on earth to start? So many of the Order had fallen, and she wracked her brains to think who she had seen alive in the courtyard before they had Apparated away.
Lupin was definitely one, and she thought that Kingsley might be another. Oh, and Fleur! Hermione remembered the Frenchwoman screaming as her husband Bill had been slaughtered, but she had not thrown herself into the fray. Had Fleur made it away from Hogwarts alive, too?
McGonagall and Hagrid were here at the castle, whilst Tonks, Dedalus Diggle, Emmeline Vance, Sturgis Podmore, Dumbledore and Sirius were all dead. As were all the Weasleys.
Except one.
Her heart leapt. Charlie!
The second-eldest Weasley son, resident at the dragon sanctuary in Romania where he worked, would be her first point of contact, no doubt. She grabbed a quill and parchment, trying to break the news of the death of his entire family in as gentle a way as she could, but really, there was no easy way to do it, so she just said it. She then explained that because of 'circumstances' (she didn't want to be too explicit, just in case the post did get intercepted) Charlie should not return to England just yet, but that she would contact him with more news just as soon as she could. She asked him to write back, so that she knew her owl had been received safely, and signed off, sending her love.
Hermione then wrote short notes to Remus Lupin, Kingsley and Fleur, asking them to make contact with her if they could, not knowing where they were hiding, but the owls would find them, if they were alive. Sealing each of them with a charmed wax seal, she secreted the little scrolls at the bottom of her bookbag, intending to take them to the Owlery before breakfast the next day.
It was still well before curfew, but she did not want to chance running into any more Death Eaters today, and they were more likely to be prowling the corridors in the evening. No, she would go in the early morning, instead.
-xxx-
Morning brought its own surprises, once she was seated at breakfast after delivering her important missives to the Owlery and watching with satisfaction as four school post owls headed off from the tall tower in different directions.
She was halfway through her bowl of hot porridge when a flurry of flapping wings indicated the morning post delivery, including an official-looking one for her, sealed with a Ministry wax.
Opening it quickly, she found a formal letter from the Magical Probate Department informing her that she was now the legal owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
The letter went on to say that Harry James Potter had, in 1994, filed an official Last Will and Testament at the Ministry bequeathing all his worldly goods, money and property equally to Hermione Jean Granger and Ronald Bilius Weasley. Since Mr Weasley was also now deceased; every last Galleon, every last brick of the Grimmauld Place house, now belonged to Hermione.
Her heart flooded with emotion at the realisation that Harry had done this so many years before, and never told them. This would have been the summer after the Tri-Wizard tournament. In lieu of family he'd had herself and Ron, and this Will proved it, not that she'd needed proof. In one fell swoop, her friend had secured her position from beyond the grave.
Oh, Harry! I miss you. I wish you were here now, more than anything.
Before she got too excited at having a place to live outside of school, she needed to clarify her legal position, for surely there was no way that the Ministry, under Voldemort's control, would allow a Muggle-born to inherit money and property?
However, this letter had come from the Ministry, so maybe it was indeed a legitimate bequest? Hermione was rather confused and tucked it away in her pocket, thinking that she would ask McGonagall to help her once she was fully recovered, or maybe she could even ask Professor Snape?
Never in seven years had she sought the counsel of her most feared, unpleasant teacher, but a lot had changed in three days. He was now the person she trusted most within the castle walls. How very odd.
-xxx-
That afternoon, Hermione arrived with Seamus and Parvati for her first Potions lesson, only to find not Slughorn waiting there to teach them, but Snape. There were audible gasps of shock as students entered the room nonchalantly, knowing that Professor Slughorn was an indulgent teacher who rarely reprimanded them, and then visibly straightening up as they came face to face with the stern, unyielding Headmaster.
Once they were all seated, he addressed the class, in a bored tone that suggested being in this room was a huge imposition upon his valuable time.
"Professor Slughorn finds himself incapable of teaching at the present time. I am led to believe this is only temporary, and therefore I shall be taking this class today. Now then. Your attention to the board, immediately."
And with that, he launched into his lesson at a breathtakingly fast pace, as if daring the students to keep up with him. His Potions tutelage had always been far superior to Slughorn's, and whilst it wasn't a pleasant or enjoyable teaching style, it was certainly effective. She wondered if he missed being in the classroom, now he was headmaster.
Not asking them to take out their textbooks, he explained the uses of the potion he had written on the board himself, before sending them off to collect their ingredients and begin preparation for brewing.
Hermione joined the queue for the storeroom, noticing a strange churning sensation in her stomach as she neared his desk. Was this the compulsion making itself known as she moved nearer to Professor Snape? He looked up as if she had spoken aloud, and met her eyes directly, giving her an imperceptible nod before returning his attention to the parchments in front of him.
He had felt it, too.
She gathered her ingredients quickly, keen to put a greater distance between them, and returned to her workbench at the back of the classroom.
What had he said to her? Desire begets desire. That the compulsion will worsen the more time the two victims spend together; if they touch, the more they will want to touch, or with sexual contact – the more they … do it, the more they will want it. Well, she couldn't even think about that.
Somehow, Hermione was finding it harder to be in this cold dungeon classroom with Professor Snape than to be alone with him in his office. She wanted them all to go away, so she could …
So you could what, Hermione? What is it that you want to do?
She didn't know. Her stomach was bubbling, and the hairs on the back of her neck were beginning to prickle. The steam from her cauldron was making her brow sweat, at least, she hoped it was because of the steam. What in Merlin's name was the matter with her? Her hand that was stirring her cauldron so precisely began to shake, just a little.
She chanced a look back up the classroom at Professor Snape. He was looking directly at her. Fuck. He must feel it too.
Quickly turning her attention back to her brew, she began to fumble for the ingredients that she'd chopped and had spread in careful piles around her work station, dropping them into the cauldron with the hand that wasn't stirring.
"Stop."
Hermione hadn't even heard him rise from the desk and stalk down the classroom towards her, but Snape was now standing mere inches away, his hand gripped around her wrist that was holding a palmful of porcupine quills.
"Tell me, Miss Granger, what will happen if you add those quills at your current stage of brewing?"
He did not let go of her wrist. She could feel his palm, warm and dry against her bare skin, holding her steady. She looked down at her cauldron, and up at the brewing instructions that were clearly written in chalk on the board. Oh, shit.
"The porcupine quills should not be added until the cauldron has been taken off the heat and left to congeal for seven minutes," she answered.
"Exactly."
He looked pointedly at her cauldron, bubbling merrily over the hot flame.
"I should be grateful, Granger, if you would refrain from burning Professor Slughorn's classroom to the ground during his absence."
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"Such an elementary mistake from a formerly promising student," he goaded, and she felt his fingers tighten further around her wrist.
Could he not let go? She wasn't sure she wanted him to.
Hold me, hold me, hold me.
Severus could hear her thoughts screaming at him, not even needing Legilimency.
Oh, I will hold you, little witch – I will hold you as close as you will let me.
Their skin-to-skin contact was causing the compulsion curse to thrum through both their bodies, and if he did not do something quickly, he was at risk of taking her right there over the Potions classroom workbench.
With as much self-control as he could muster, he slowly unfurled his fingers one by one from her wrist, seeing the white marks he had made against her skin with the tightness of his grip. She yanked her hand away once it was released, rubbing the life back into her discoloured skin.
"Can I entrust you to complete the potion as per the instructions?" he sneered.
"Yes, Sir."
I want you on your knees, calling me Sir, with your little pink mouth around my cock.
Severus forced himself to turn around, and walked to the furthest desk away from Miss Granger, beginning to appraise each student's work, hoping fervently that Horace Slughorn heaved his enormous, malingering arse out of bed tomorrow and taught his own lessons.
Thirty minutes left. He could do this.
-xxx-
He opted not to take his dinner in the Great Hall that evening, very aware that he needed to allow the compulsion to dissipate a little before placing himself in the proximity of Miss Granger so soon. He had ordered a light supper from his personal house-elf, and had eaten, showered, and was now lolling on his bed in his black satin dressing gown, just enjoying a few hours of peace and quiet, needing the silence to order his own thoughts and regain his control.
Even across the huge hall, their conjoined curse would weave its wicked way between them, and he did not want to risk it, after his mental aberration in the Potions laboratory that afternoon.
What the bloody hell had he been thinking, grabbing hold of the girl like that?
True, she was about to cause a gargantuan explosion by adding porcupine quills to a boiling cauldron, no doubt her loss of concentration was due to her own effects of the curse, and he supposed he'd had no choice but to halt her movements, but really, would a shouted warning not have been just as effective?
Unbidden, he began to wonder what thoughts the girl had been having to cause her to be so distracted. They would have been thoughts … of him. Hermione Granger would have been fantasising about him. The knowledge that such fantasies were entirely curse-induced did not stop his traitorous prick from filling with blood at the thought of a young witch trembling at the thought of having sex with him.
Fuck you, he thought, as he slid his hand between the opening of his robe and began to toy with his hardening cock, enjoying the feel of the soft skin over his erection, which stood stiff and proud after only a few seconds.
Hmmm.
He had only presumed that the curse would not allow them sexual pleasure independent of one another, perhaps he was wrong? After all, how would he know exactly what whim the Dark Lord had cast upon them?
Severus began to wank in earnest, unable to keep visions of Miss Granger out of his mind as he masturbated, but found himself hard-pressed to care. He closed his eyes and lay back on the pile of pillows, his black, slightly-damp hair splayed around him, and his teeth clenched as he vigorously pumped his hand up and down his own shaft in short bursts, building up a rhythm.
He began to sweat, wanking harder, his face contorted with the effort as he chased down his climax.
Oh, come on!
He needed this – he needed to come, he needed to expel the spunk that was weighing heavy in his hard balls.
It was only when he had rubbed himself sore that he accepted an orgasm was not going to happen.
You fucking, fucking bastard arsehole, son of a whore, Tom Riddle.
He had been correct the first time – the curse would not allow them sexual pleasure alone, but it would permit them to get close to climax, but not spend, just to add an extra little dose of torment. His orgasms were now tied to one of his bloody students. A student he had a compulsion to jump upon every time he saw her.
There were almost three months until the end of term. His conviction that he could do this was shrinking as fast as his disappointed, unsatisfied cock.
-xxx-
It was Friday afternoon before Hermione found herself alone with Orla. The final lesson of the week had just finished, and since the weather was a fine May afternoon she decided to get outside in the fresh air and clear her head. She wandered through the grounds, not too far, just enough to feel the grass under her feet, and sank down on a small bank where she had a pleasant view down the hill and over the Black Lake.
She had not been there long when she heard footsteps behind her, and her name being called. She turned, and seeing it was Orla, waved the girl nearer and beckoned her to sit down.
"Hi."
"Hi."
Both girls looked down at the view, a vista that neither of them thought they would ever see again, warm spring-almost-summer sunshine beating down on their heads.
"Where did all the bodies go, Hermione?"
She looked over to see Orla gazing wistfully at the surrounding school grounds – vast expanses of grass that only a few days before had been covered in the dead and dying bodies of students, forest dwellers, Death Eaters and Snatchers alike. There had been slain giants, spider corpses, felled Hogwarts statues and suits of armour. Where had it all gone?
"I have no idea," Hermione replied, honestly. "Voldemort and the Death Eaters got rid of it all. I did wonder if they might have burned everything, but there is no sign of fire – no scorch marks, no cinders, no … ashes."
"How are you holding up? You know, with your Death Eater? I don't know who you were given to, since Yaxley and I left before, but I presume you are suffering the same way as me?"
She fingered the yellowing bruises on her neck, and it made Hermione wince.
"I was given to Professor Snape," she answered, watching Orla's eyes widen in shock.
"Snape? Oh, Hermione! He's here all the time! How have you been coping?"
Hermione wasn't sure how she wanted to answer. There was a need to provide Orla with some solidarity, but it would not do to tell her that Snape had not forced himself upon her, and that she was doing fine. She also did not wish to tell Orla about the compulsion curse, nor the strange feelings that it gave her.
"Even Snape is not stupid enough to think he can have me at all times. It has been … bearable, I suppose."
"Yaxley is coming back tonight," Orla said, quietly. "I'm his Friday night treat, apparently."
"I'm so sorry, Orla," she replied, not knowing whether she should offer a consoling hug, or take her hand and squeeze it – she'd never been particularly tactile with other girls. "Did he, er, were you a …?"
"He raped me, yes. Twice. But no, thankfully I wasn't a virgin, so it wasn't as painful as it might have been. I learned very quickly not to struggle, that's how I split my lip. I know what to do now. Eyes closed, it will all be over quickly."
"How can you bear it?"
"Because I'm not being kept prisoner at Ministry, awaiting a prejudiced excuse of a criminal trial purely because my parents happened to be Muggles, and sent to Azkaban. Most of the time I'm here at school, my friends are here, I'm learning, I'm fed and I'm relatively safe. When I was working in the shop I lived in fear of the next time the door would open, and the nights – the nights were the worst. Here, I'm not alone."
"I'll remember that. It's good advice."
"You're welcome. Oh shit, he's here already."
Hermione turned to see Corban Yaxley striding down the hill towards them, a most unsavoury look upon his face, his Death Eater robes billowing in his wake. Neither of them stood up.
"It's Friday, pet," he sneered as he approached them.
"I know that. I didn't expect you until after dinner," Orla replied.
"Pet, you are the dinner. Now get up, I can't stay past midnight, my wife is expecting me home."
"Thank fuck for that," Hermione heard Orla mutter as she gathered her things and stood up.
Yaxley took a tight grip on Orla's arm, leaning in to obscenely suck on her neck.
"Oh, Granger," he drawled, breaking his assault on Orla to face Hermione. "You need to get your little arse off to Snape's office. He tells me he's got something very special for you."
Orla looked at her sympathetically as Hermione got to her feet.
"Move it, Mudblood, now. I'm pretty sure you won't be able to walk by the morning, Snape looked … rather hungry," he leered.
-xxx-
Professor Snape had apologised for sending Yaxley with the summons as soon as he had locked and warded his office door.
"Do not worry," she assured him, "it looks credible."
"Indeed, it does," Snape agreed. "He will no doubt be keen to spread tales of both his and my debauchery amongst the other Death Eaters, and with a bit of luck, it will also reach the Dark Lord's ears that I am appreciating and making use of his gift."
He sneered at his own words before reaching into his desk and pulling out a wad of parchments.
"Yaxley was right about one thing, however. I do indeed have something very special for you."
He raised an eyebrow at Hermione as if he wished her to guess. For the darkly severe wizard, it was an almost playful gesture.
"Tell me."
"These documents, Miss Granger, confirm that you are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place."
"You know about that?"
"Naturally. And I also know that the Ministry are seeking to take it from you, but the Will is absolute and magically watertight. There is nothing any one can do to prevent you inheriting. Especially since the property has now been placed under a new Fidelius charm preventing anyone from even finding it."
"It has? I thought Harry, Ron and I ruined that?"
"You did. But another has been set."
"By who?"
"Do you need to ask that question?"
"Oh … oh Merlin. You went to Grimmauld and cast a replacement Fidelius?"
"I did, indeed."
Her hands flew to her mouth in shock and gratitude, and her warm feeling towards him quickly translated into a thrum of the compulsion, this time right in the seat of her knickers. Oh, crap.
"Thank you. I mean, just, thank you. So only you and I know where the house can be found?"
"There is one other."
"There is?"
"When I visited Grimmauld Place this week, to ensure that it was truly empty of all sentient life before I laid the new Fidelius, I found it contained a mutual acquaintance of ours."
"Who?" she practically shouted.
"A former enemy turned comrade of mine by the name of Remus Lupin."
"Lupin! He's alive!"
"He is, and sought refuge at Grimmauld Place. Despite knowing that it was insecure, it was the safest place for him rather than out in the open. He has no Wolfsbane, and so has set up a secure room in the cellar where he will lock himself before he transforms. His infant son is being cared for by Andromeda Tonks. I have allowed Lupin to stay at Grimmauld, and I presume you have no objections?"
"Of course not!"
"Despite initially trying to hex my head from its shoulders when I first arrived, he was eventually persuaded to sit and talk rationally. He received your letter, and I have its reply here."
Snape stood up, bringing the pile of parchments to her side of the desk and setting them in front of her.
"Once we have spent the requisite amount of time alone together in here, and I warn you it will probably be some hours, since we need to be convincing, you may take your letter and the parchments pertaining to your ownership of Grimmauld Place back to your dormitory, for they are entirely yours and cannot be taken from you, regardless of your blood status."
Unable to stop herself, she leapt to her feet and threw her arms around his neck.
"Thank you, Sir. Thank you so much for everything you are doing for me."
A split-second later she realised what an error she had just made, as her heart began to beat faster and the pulse that was beating in her underwear quickened. He slipped his arms around her in return, clearly unable to stop himself due to his own compulsion, and she could feel the heavy beat of his heart against her own chest.
"Hermione."
It had been softer than the tiniest whisper, but she had heard it. She heard him murmur her name into her mane of curly hair.
She had never felt so desired, so protected, as she did at that moment, held safe in the Headmaster's strong embrace. If she pulled her head back, just a little, she could kiss him, she could.
"Enough," he growled, removing his arms from around her and extricating himself from hers. "We cannot. Not if we are to keep this damn curse under control."
"But …"
"You do not desire me, Granger, however much you might think you do. You are magically compelled, as you well know. Use your brain," he snapped.
He stood, up and walked towards the fire.
"I am going to order some supper, shall I order for you, too? You will be missing dinner in the Great Hall tonight."
Hermione nodded, and thought guiltily of Orla, and what humiliations Yaxley was currently renting upon her. There would be no food or mercy for her. It was enough to douse any self-pity, since the other girl's suffering was so much greater than her own.
