Chapter 15
Hermione lay in the centre of the headmaster's huge bed, naked, with an equally nude wizard, the headmaster himself, wrapped around her like a curling vine, and worrying about what he had asked of her.
Snape had begged her to pretend that they were lovers, that their interactions were real and consensual. What was he trying to tell her, that he wished she was his lover? Did he fancy her, beyond the reaches of the compulsion? That seemed rather far-fetched, especially since the stern professor had made it very clear that he was nota celibate - having contraceptives within arm's reach of his bed was testament to that. With his skill as a lover, she was sure that not many witches left his bed unsatisfied, despite his less-than-attractive looks and spiky disposition.
It was unlikely that a powerful, intelligent, sexually confident wizard would be interested in, or satisfied by, an eighteen-year-old virgin, and his student to boot.
She satisfied him in terms of the compulsion, certainly, but then he had been cursed to reach completion by her touch alone, forced to desire only her. It certainly wasn't anything personal.
Oh blimey – Snape didn't have a regular lady friend, did he? To Hermione's shame, she realised she'd never actually asked him. It would explain why he was keen to spread the times they were compelled to be together as widely as possible, but would also preclude her theory that he fancied her.
The other reason he might have asked her to pretend, she mused, could be that Snape didn't like being forced to be intimate with her, and that it would be easier to 'play a role', to become characters that were in a relationship so that the demands of their compulsion curse seemed more natural, rather than a physical state they had no control over. That would make more sense, to pretend that it wasn't such a terrible thing as it actually was – repeated, forced copulation and the sheer pain of unrequited physical need.
When Snape was compelled, all manner of things would spill forth from his mouth; compliments and encouragement and plain old dirty talk that sent her head into a whirl, made her vagina wet, and forced her compulsion to thrum loudly for attention.
However, Hermione was beginning to love it; hearing the filth flow in lustful torrents into her ear, against which he often spoke so closely, the puff of his hot breath adding an extra sensuality to his already wicked words.
But now, right this moment?
They were both satisfied, their compulsion quieted by powerful orgasms, her thighs slick with their mingled fluids that neither of them had seen fit to spell away. There was no sane reason to be in the position they were now, naked together in his bed, as any normal couple would do after making love. He was her professor – the headmaster – and she was his student. Their actions now were inappropriate and untenable.
But … but.
Quite inexplicably, there was nowhere else on earth she wanted to be. His reassuringly large frame was wrapped around her, laying on his side as she gazed up at the green canopy above, strung from the heavy dark-wood posts of the bed. His eyes were closed, but from his unsteady breathing and stock-still movements, she doubted that he was asleep yet. He was holding himself rigid, and his forearms that she could feel under her hands were knotted with tension.
Severus Snape was not an attractive wizard, by any stretch of the imagination. His face was pale and sallow, his nose overlong and his hair striking in its blackness, but greasy and uncared for. He was unpleasant and surly, a bully and a shockingly demanding educator.
But … but.
His body was slim, but held together with sinewy ropes of tight muscle. His bare skin was pale, but luminous in the moonlight that shone through his chamber windows. His dark features were striking, like a bird of prey, and his raw magical power shuddered palpably through his veins.
Over the last few weeks, he had shown her a side of himself that she suspected few people were privileged enough to see. He was caring, thoughtful, considerate and gut-wrenchingly brave. He also appeared to have low self-esteem, and a sense of guilt that seemed to pervade everything he did. He had made himself vulnerable, laying here next to her, claiming her completely with his arms, and even his feet were entwined with hers. It seemed so uncharacteristically needy, and un-Snape-like.
And then there was the way he touched her …
He kissed like a man, so different from the surprising tentativeness of Viktor Krum, or the reverent searching of Ron Weasley. When he kissed her, it was dominant, forceful, and, she helplessly admitted, thoroughly erotic. Professor Snape kissed as if he was making love to her mouth, taking a little more of her breath away with each grind of his lips, with every lash of his tongue. No matter how long they kissed for, he would always break away and leave her wanting more.
When he touched her body and pleasured her, he would make her feel like the only witch on earth; building her confidence, stoking her arousal and whispering such affirmations of her sexuality that she could honestly weep.
When he came inside her, all hard, bony hips battering their way through his climax, his loss of control was a sight to behold. She had never before seen anything quite like the contorted visage of the headmaster, teeth bared as he poured himself inside her, that aroused her more, knowing that she was the sole cause of it.
Apart from the compulsion curse, you stupid idiot, she berated herself.
Her heart sank down to the pit of her stomach, for she had just received the answer to a question she didn't know she was asking.
For, however real and however erotic and sensual it might be, Snape was simply acting within the confines of the curse placed upon him. His was stronger than hers, for he had received a second dose from Voldemort, and hence he was more often the one to approach her for relief of his curse-related symptoms. Outside of the compulsion, he did not treat her as anything but a student.
When he was not compelled, he was not lurid or suggestive, he had not taken advantage of her in any way, he was not informal with her, other than when he'd been forced to address her as 'Hermione' tonight, and he certainly didn't look at her with the lust he did when his compulsion was troubling him.
And she, like a classic fool, had misinterpreted his meaning. In her naivety, and in the newness of having sexual contact for the first time, she had allowed herself to confuse his behaviour during his episodes of compulsion, with his behaviour at all other times.
Oh, Merlin, she fancied him.
She fancied her bloody professor.
He made her heart race, even when she was not compelled. When she thought of him, her knickers would soon be damp, and her eyes followed him wherever he went.
She wanted him.
Without the curse.
Hermione sat bolt upright in bed, toppling Snape from his position and making his eyes spring open. She had been correct, he hadn't been asleep, not yet. Hugging her knees to her chest, she rested her forehead upon them, embarrassed by the discovery of her feelings, and needing to be out of these chambers immediately, as well as not wanting to leave.
"Hermione," he asked, quietly. "What is the matter?"
She looked up, pushing her legs down to cross them, and saw the raw concern in his dark eyes, that astonishing raven black that she had never noticed properly before now. She could not answer him.
"Are you compelled?" he questioned further.
Hermione shook her head.
"Severus," she started, tentatively, "may I call you Severus?"
"You may," he replied, those endless eyes never leaving her face. "But only within the confines of my chambers or office."
"Severus," she continued, before a long pause where she gathered her nerve. "Are you compelled?"
"I am not," he answered.
"So, neither of us are compelled, right at this moment?"
"It would appear not."
"Then how come we are here, naked in bed together?"
His eyes widened, not in fear but in what appeared to be rapidly advancing comprehension. He did and said absolutely nothing, as if unsure whether she was questioning or accusing.
Hermione suddenly knew exactly what she needed to know.
She leaned towards him, flipping on to her knees and kneeling in front of him before placing a finger on his bottom lip, pulling it down slightly, and he allowed it. Seeing him concede, she could not help dropping her lips upon his, lightly bumping against his mouth with her own slightly open, and then drawing back.
"Again," he whispered, his voice no more than a hoarse rasp.
Lowering her head a second time, she placed her mouth over his and nudged his lips upwards, and he lifted his chin to follow her path and prolong the soft brush of the kiss.
"What are you doing, Hermione?" he asked, with a wary expression.
Fuck. He was confused by her actions. She had been laying there in a stupidly romantic little haze wondering if there could be something more between them beyond the compulsion, and he was clearly horrified.
She had no idea why he'd asked if they could pretend to be lovers, but it obviously wasn't because he secretly desired her. It must be the other reason, the playing of a role – a bit like the one he played out before Voldemort and before the school – was easier than the horror of what he was being forced to do.
She sat back on her heels.
"I'm pretending," she lied. "Isn't that what you asked of me?"
There was the most curious look in his eyes, like resignation, mixed with the most potent disappointment, but with a flame of desire. She must be reading him completely wrong.
Get a grip, Hermione.
"Then," he began, curling his mouth around the words as if he had chosen it very carefully, "let us pretend."
He slipped an arm around the small of her back, guiding her towards him, still on her knees, and bowed his dark head to her breasts, taking one into his mouth and enclosing his lips around her areola whilst flickering his tongue around her nipple, which she could feel hardening under his touch.
"Oh …" she breathed, arching her back in his direction, and he moved his hand to her free breast, stroking his full palm around it, as if assessing the size and weight, before beginning to gently roll her nipple between his fingers.
Looking down at the dark head of this grown wizard suckling at her breast, Hermione felt a thrum of excitement between her legs, and involuntarily pushed her hips nearer to where he sat. He released her breast from his mouth, but continue to circle her other nipple with a solitary fingertip.
"Are you compelled?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," she replied. "Are you?"
"I am … not."
His chest was rising and falling as deeply as her own, and those endless, severe eyes were fixed immobile upon hers. The sound of her own breathing was echoing in her ears like the roar of a waterfall as he slowly slid his hand from the curve of her spine, around her hip and trailed his fingertips down the front of her mons, watching her intently as if to gauge her reaction.
"Open your legs," he requested, in a quiet, measured voice.
Hermione allowed her knees to slide to the sides from her position kneeling in front of him on the mattress. He was now cross-legged opposite her, still toying with her nipple, and as she opened herself, he walked his fingers down to her spread labia, burrowing inside the soft lips to seek her clitoris and began to circle it, encouraging the little bud down from its concealing hood.
"If for tonight, you are to play the role of my lover, then I should like to make you come, here in front of me, so that I may watch you shake with pleasure."
Oh, my god.
She swore that his already deep voice had dropped an octave and was now dripping pure seduction. Was this the tongue that he used to encourage witches into his bed?
"Open your eyes."
Hermione wasn't aware that she had allowed them to close. His searching fingers were doing all manner of stroking and fluttering between her legs, and to her embarrassment, her hips were undulating wantonly with his movements. She tried to still herself.
"Do not hold yourself back. Any movements or sounds of pleasure you make will only enhance your experience … and mine."
Every nerve in body was now focusing its attention on Snape's talented fingers, firmly and persistently exciting her clitoris. He did not touch her anywhere else down there, and with his spare hand he was alternating between nipples to roll and thumb them.
"Do I excite you, Hermione? Tell me," he urged, speeding up the motion of his hand as if he knew just what pressure and speed she needed.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, you do."
"Whom are you addressing?"
"Oh … Severus. That's so … oh, nice … so weird to call you that, Sir."
"Nonetheless that is my name, for the purposes of this activity."
"Severus …" she gasped, as he appeared to take a hold of her whole clitoris and begin to wiggle it around, tugging it gently away from her body as he masturbated her.
"Look at me," he commanded. "And tell me."
She placed her hand on his lean, strong shoulder for support, and forced herself to look into those eyes, that were doing as much for her arousal as his fingers were.
"I want more," she panted, very aware that her hips were now thrusting rather obscenely into the palm of his hand.
"I will give you more. But how much will you let me take?"
His middle finger felt like a blur of movement on her clit as he frigged her ever closer to climax, and she couldn't help but draw in little gasps of frantically aroused breath.
"You can take it all, Severus," she said, quickly, digging her fingertips into his shoulder.
"If you offer everything, be assured I will take it, my lover. I am not a stupid wizard."
Hermione was so close to the edge, she felt like all good sense and reasoning had deserted her.
"I'm going to … I want to …"
"Tell me," he growled, not ceasing his assault on her rock-hard clit that felt distended from the rest of her.
"I want to come, Severus."
"And you will, my Hermione, you will indeed come right here in my hand. Keep going, little one. You are almost there."
Just as she thought she would wet herself from the pressure, his frenzied tickling of her most sensitive part reached its peak, and she went rigid as her orgasm hit her, lurched over the peak, and then her hips began to thrust like a witch possessed as she rode out wave after wave of the most delicious climax.
"Holy shit, Severus, shit, shit … ohhhh … shit."
She heard him chuckle, and distantly, from her cloud of bliss, thought was a lovely sound it was.
"Good girl," he soothed, in that low, sexy drawl he was using that was making her head spin. "My good girl. You are coming beautifully. Keep writhing your leaking cunt against my hand, because it turns me on as much as it does you. Move against me, sweetheart."
Hermione lifted her head to find him looking straight at her, and he wasted not a single moment before capturing her mouth in a rough kiss, snogging her with a passion that suggested he was just as aroused as she.
He pulled her towards him so that he was laying on his back with her partway above him. She took the opportunity to stretch out her legs from the knees where they had been folded beneath her for so long, and he immediately pounced once he felt her move, toppling her flat on her back, climbing between her legs and pushing her thighs apart with his own. Hermione felt his hand down there, positioning his erection at her entrance and cramming himself inside her so fully that she cried out.
"You feel that?" he snarled. "That is what you do to me, witch, with no fucking sign of the godforsaken compulsion."
Snape slid his hard cock in and out of her at a breath-taking pace as he talked, pulling it almost all the way out, before sinking it back in, fast and deep.
"What a shame this is just pretend, Hermione Granger, for if this were real, I would take great delight in fucking your sublimely tight, wet cunt every day for the rest of my life."
Hermione grabbed hold of his hips as held himself firmly above her, her hands following the deep thrusting and rotating movements he was making.
"Hold me," he begged, and he groaned long and loud as she gripped his bum cheeks and forced him harder and faster. "That's it. I need your hands on me, do you hear? I need your eyes tied to mine. No more of this facing away rubbish. I want to fuck you like this … always like this."
His face was contorted with effort and full of intense passion, but also seemed full of pain, as if he was trying to stop himself from saying any more. She moved one hand to his flank and caressed the skin there, which was surprisingly soft, although she could feel some ropey scarring under her fingers. His nostrils began to flare like a racehorse, and he had a dangerous look in his eye as he redoubled his efforts, and with a huge grunt, forced the finals few thrusts into her.
"Uhhhhh! Fuck! Take it …" he gasped, his hips going rigid against her. "Take it all … take everything, please … take me, Hermione."
She felt him spurt inside her, three or four times, groaning and thrusting hard with each eruption. To avoid falling on top of her, he rolled to one side, flat on his back and lying next to her. They were both breathing hard, attempting to force air back into their restricted lungs. Snape's gradually become more regular, until it had slowed to steady, deep breaths, that turned to light snores which were rumbling out of his expansive nose.
"I would take you, Severus," she whispered, feeling a little sad and a little relieved, knowing that he was asleep and could not hear her.
-xxx-
There were also others that were awake in the small hours, that night, within the walls of Hogwarts castle. Orla was stealing along the corridors in the shadows, praying that she would not run into any Death Eaters on a night patrol in the hallways.
She had not seen Draco for days now, not since he had left with Professor Snape and the other cretins the morning that the news had broken of Umbridge's appointment to Minister. She'd heard a rumour that he was being secreted in a corner of the infirmary, and she couldn't go another day without finding out exactly what had happened to him.
He was clearly troubled, enough to attempt to form an alliance with a Muggle-born Hufflepuff that he'd never spoken to before, all because he thought she might have the nous to keep him alive in the Muggle world.
She managed to reach Hospital Corridor undetected, and tiptoed down the long passageway towards the double infirmary doors. Pushing the door open enough to poke her head through, and hoping fervently that it didn't creak, she looked down the long ward, flanked either side with rows of metal-framed beds, mostly empty, but the odd one had a sleeping student recumbent in it. There was no sign of Madam Pomfrey, and Orla wondered where she was.
Pomfrey couldn't be on duty twenty-four hours a day, and yet always seemed to be there for any student who required her assistance, day or night. It was most curious.
Chancing that she would be able to talk herself out of trouble with the medi-witch if she did run into her, Orla slipped through the smallest gap possible and hung on to the door in order to close it behind her as quietly as possible.
She tiptoed down the ward in her slippers, for she was wearing her pyjamas and dressing gown, visually checking each bed for an improbably-blond head, much like her own. Nothing.
As she passed the glass-windowed office, she saw Madam Pomfrey asleep on a single bed, metal-framed like the others in the infirmary. These were her chambers? Surely not.
At the end of the ward, there were a set of curtains pulled around the last bed. Bingo.
Since Pomfrey was sleeping, Orla walked faster to the end of the room, opening the curtain a fraction and peeping inside, only to cover her mouth in shock at the state of Draco Malfoy. His nose, forehead and around his eyes were covered in vicious-looking bruises, in various purpling states of healing. His hospital pyjama top was open and she could see more bruising to his upper chest, and his sternum was completely wrapped in pristine, white hospital bandages.
Orla slipped inside the cubicle and pulled the curtain fully closed behind her, casting a silencing charm around it and approached the bed, taking up the pale hand that was nearest to her. She didn't much care if she woke him up, he was lying in bed all day long anyway, so he could make up his sleep. His eyes flickered, and then opened wide, his blue eyes filled with alarm, but then replaced with relief as he saw whom was visiting him in the middle of the night.
"What are you doing here?" he whispered, as quietly as he could.
"I've cast a silencing charm around us," she explained, "you don't have to whisper."
"That wasn't my question," he smirked.
"I thought you might want visitors, Malfoy," she shrugged in reply.
"Most visitors tend to come during daylight hours."
"You're telling me you've had visitors?"
The smirk fell from his face, and Orla pulled up the chair next to him and sat down, still holding his hand.
"What happened, Draco?"
"Good news travels fast. Macnair wasted no time in spilling the beans about what he perceives to be our 'illicit affair' under the nose of Yaxley. The Dark Lord was quick to demonstrate his … displeasure with me."
"Like this?"
"Like this. This is the world we are living in, Orla. This is what I've been trying to tell you. It isn't just you, and what Yaxley is doing to you, although Merlin knows, that is fucked-up enough. Even those of us who are his privileged few …"
Draco paused, and his eyes flickered down to the Dark Mark, burning black on his pale forearm.
"Even those, do not escape his wrath or his punishment. And since I should never have been Marked in the first place, I am Undesirable Number One among the Death Eaters. They know I don't belong, and they know I'm terrified. It is simply a matter of who will kill me first, and when."
"What about your parents?"
"My father is off his fucking head on magical opiates most of the time, dulling the pain I suppose. My mother attempts to care for him, but she is so angry with him for the mess he has made of our lives, that their quarrels are a sight to behold."
"So, what's your plan, Slytherin King?"
"What?"
"Don't be a bloody eejit. You know."
Orla rolled her eyes and started absently plaiting her long white-blond hair over one shoulder, waiting for Draco's brain to catch up with his mouth.
"You weren't interested in running," Draco accused, narrowing his eyes at her.
"I wasn't then. Maybe I am now," she replied, trying to hold his gaze but feeling tears prick her eyes and a lump form in her throat.
"He's hurt you even worse, hasn't he?"
She nodded, not trusting herself to reply with the truth, that Yaxley had rent his own revenge for Draco's outburst to Macnair by repeatedly fucking her up the arse and forcing her to submit to a sexual whipping, which he'd leered was erotic, but had felt exquisitely torturous to her. Her back had many sore welts all over, under her school uniform shirts.
Draco forced himself to sit up, although it clearly pained him.
"Would you run?"
"I'm terrified … but yes. It can't be worse than what Yaxley is doing to me. But I worry about Hermione."
"Granger? Why?"
"She's receiving the same treatment from Snape. We need to get her out, too."
"Three would be so much riskier than two. And Granger … she wouldn't come quietly."
"I'll try and get her alone to talk while you're recovering. Did Madam Pomfrey say how long?"
"A week, maybe longer," he replied dismissively.
An awkward silence stretched out between them, and he reached for her hand again.
"I can get us out of Hogwarts. I know a failsafe way. I used it to let Death Eaters in last year. We won't need to go out of the gates, and we won't have to worry about Apparating out."
"I'm intrigued."
"You should be," he replied, giving her a slightly arrogant smile. "But what about when we get out? Do you have a place we can go?"
"The rent on my flat is paid until the end of the month, so that will still be available to me. My job is more of problem, though, since I haven't shown up to work since the beginning of May."
"Is it quite easy to get jobs in the Muggle world?"
Orla laughed at his naivety and lack of knowledge. No wonder he'd needed the help of a Muggle-born.
"Basic employment, such as in shops, restaurants, pubs and the suchlike, is easy. We'd just need to conjure you some paperwork; identification, National Insurance number, references, that kind of thing."
He looked baffled, and she couldn't help but laugh.
"We'll help each other, Malfoy. You need to get us both out of his castle, first."
"Give me a week to mend my ribs and I'll be right on it," he retorted, smiling weakly.
"I do have one question," she asked.
"Go ahead."
"I can see why you needed a Muggle-born. But why not Hermione? She's cleverer and braver than I am, and you have far more in common with her than me, and you must know her better, since you've been taking classes together for seven years."
"Honestly? Granger doesn't need me. She's strong, and self-sufficient. Plus, that irritating fucking lion would drive me insane within a week."
Orla laughed.
"So, you think I need you, do you?"
"I didn't say that."
She stood up, knowing that she had already been here too long.
"Get better, Malfoy. Mend those ribs. Now you've put this idea in my head, I want to put it into practice. I am going to talk to Hermione though. If she's being treated like I am, we can't leave her here."
"Fine. Sound her out."
"Speak to you soon."
Draco raised his hand in farewell.
Orla snuck quietly back down the centre aisle of the infirmary, checking that Madam Pomfrey was still fast asleep in her office, and that all the occupants of the hospital beds had remained sleeping too. Belatedly, she realised that she had forgotten to lift the silencing charm around his cubicle, and hoped that he would remember to do so. Oops.
She opened one of the main doors a short way, just enough for her slip through, and held on to the door as she closed it behind her, lest it bang against the frame and expose her at the final hurdle.
Orla hadn't even turned from the door to walk away when a rough hand clamped around her mouth from behind, dragging her down the corridor, backwards and away from the infirmary doors.
