It's her attitude that seals her fate.
Most students quiver. Others stare dumbly, mouth slightly ajar, hardly able to comprehend his words. He's seen a few know-it-alls with that smug little smile--though they often join the preceding group, once the lessons progressed in earnest.
Young Miss Granger's mouth is set in a thin, hard line as he removes points from the Gryffindor. Even if she weren't friends with the Potter brat, he would scarcely be able to resist the challenge of that mouth, to soften it, turn it to the round 'O' of surprise… or a sob.
She'd been her intolerable self all year, but late in the term her insolence and her outbursts had increased steadily until he'd at last seen her strike the young Malfoy heir. He, of course, knew her secret; concealed so poorly by her impossible timetable and the deep, black circles under her eyes. Her secret should have been plainly obvious to anyone with two eyes and even the smallest ability to reason… small wonder, then, that her "friends" hadn't deduced the cause of her distress. He marveled once again at how Minerva could possibly believe this foolish girl able to handle the responsibility of time travel, and he bristled with the memory of the Gryffindor Head's consistent repudiations of his complaints over Granger's repeated bad behavior. Not this time; as the Head of House of the injured student, he'd be well within his rights to push for her expulsion, and he somehow doubted that Albus would be quite so willing to go to the mat against Lucius for the muggleborn as he had been for the Potter spawn.
He sneered at her. Idiot girl, still naïve enough to believe that the universe had some innate sense of fair play—still foolish, idealistic, and headstrong enough not to recognize a losing situation when she encountered one. She'd learn. "One month of detention, with me. Beginning tonight."
~~
At the moment her scowl is directed at the table and not at him, though he understands that her ire is not directed at the contents of the table. It is no difficult task to separate a dead flobberworm from it's insides--unlovely work, perhaps, but that was rather the *point*.
No, that scowl is for him alone. For Snape. For the professor who has dared to not fall under the spell of her ability to disrupt lessons by spouting useless trivia, who dared to teach her that life is not glided through by ostentation or slavish conformity—not when there are hard, unyielding obstacles in the road like Severus Snape. There was no sidesteppinghim.
Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. The pile of disemboweled flobberworms diminishes, bit by bit, as the new piles of discarded carcasses and hoarded viscera increase. Not quickly enough for Snape. "You're deliberately stalling, Miss Granger. Surely a know-it-all such as yourself can make faster work of this meager task."
She doesn't answer. Her mouth gets harder. And her pace increases.
Marginally.
Snape has so far kept the sneer off his face--now he allows it to bloom. "And so you prove yourself fitting of the label. Your detention is not over until your tasks are completed—I would have believed you'd work all the faster, and not permit your resentment to prolong this chore."
"I'm doing what you told me to."
Now leave me alonegoes unspoken, too insolent to be voiced and risk earning yet more detentions, or loss of further points from the golden-bloody-Gryffindor. Snape knows that he could, with just a bit more prodding, force such a mouthing-off from the girl—but provoking a rash outburst will not serve his purpose tonight.
"Then I must assume you lack the skill to complete this task with greater speed. You fail to meet even the humble expectations I had set for you." Snape leaves his desk, moves deliberately to stand behind her. "Unable even to disembowel a flobberworm." Granger pauses, but then, when it becomes apparent that Snape does not intend to move, resumes her task. Squelch. Squelch. Slightly faster even than before. Slightly surer. Granger isn't going to crack under this small pressure, not in the direction Snape wants.
"Don't tug at them so. Stand up."
Another pause. But then she obeys. It's an interruption she didn't expect; Snape thinks her scowl might have relaxed just that much. Yes. That's what he needs.
Snape moves in, setting one hand on the girl's shoulder to push her forward, just far enough that Snape can step in between her and the chair. He feels her tense as his robes brush the back of her body.
"This," and here his arms reach out to trap Granger within, as he picks up a single flobberworm from the table, holds it before her eyes, and sets thumb and index finger to the septum, "is the technique." He twists, and the worm separates cleanly, the insides falling out with less of a squelch than Granger's clumsy efforts produced. He holds it up to show, the last of the insides falling into the pile. "Show me." He flicks the useless flobberworm away, lets his hands drop to the tabletop. Still encircling Granger.
The girl reaches out a hand. Not so sure now. She grasps a worm, does a twist. It's a passable imitation.
"It would seem that you need monitoring at everything, Miss Granger." Snape hooks the chair with one foot, draws it under him so that he can keep his hands on the table and sit down. "Again."
The girl's shoulders twitch--evidence of a spine-shiver. Another flobberworm, another twist.
"Again." This time, when Granger picks up the flobberworm, Snape's hands come to cover hers. She almost drops it. "Clumsy child. You haven't the slightest respect for your materials."
"You made me--"
"Be quiet. Not another word." He guides Granger's hands, forces her to extract the insides. It creates no improvement of skill beyond her already acceptable performance, but Snape doesn't let her know that.
He sets his hands on Granger's hips and pulls the girl down onto his lap. Instantly her hands fly down to the sides of the chair seat, bracing herself to launch from his position. But Snape does not release his hands. "Sit."
"I--"
"Sit and be silent. Continue with your task. When I think you no longer need monitoring, I will release you."
Snape can't see her mouth, but he'd wager her scowl is gone now.
He can hear Granger's breathing: rapid, trying to calm. Her hands take an age to leave the edges of that chair, but at last they do, and her weight shifts forward on his lap as she reaches for the table. Just that shift, and Snape is submitting to the inevitable hardening beneath his robes, a few mere cloth layers, a handful of worthless molecules, between his prick and the girl's skin.
Granger does not seem to be aware of what she has caused, though she is tense as a quill as she reaches for another flobberworm, twist-softer-squelch-discard. Such a long hesitation as she considers whether to reach for the next, as though aware of the commitment she makes--the agreement to continue in this manner, sitting on Snape's lap, until Snape agrees she can get up.
She reaches for the next, and consents. Only to that, but oh, what that alone implies. Snape lets her proceed uninterrupted for a few more.
Then his hands move from Granger's hips and creep under the hem of the girl's robes. Granger doesn't notice this at first--might just think that Snape's shifting in his seat. But then Snape's hands reach Granger's waist, where the girl can feel that even fewer cloth layers separate them, making her jump like a startled bowtruckle. Snape holds her. "I told you to continue."
Slower, this time, to return to her task--but she does, all nervous twitches and a bit of lip-biting that Snape can just see from the side. Snape waits an even shorter time before raising the hem of Granger's shirt and going after the zip on the side of her skirt.
Granger does not startle, not this time. She merely freezes, hands on the table. Snape can hear her shaky inhale, louder even than the sound of the zipper descending. Then: "I--Professor--"
"If you attempt to leave," Snape says, his voice brimstone and wrath, "you will forfeit this detention, and with it your last opportunity to remain as a student at this institution." He tugs at the waist of Hermione's skirt and her plain cotton underpants, tugging them all the way down to the point where her round buttocks rest on Snape's lap. "How dreadful would that be, I wonder? The Ministry would have no choice but to snap your wand. They might even be forced to remove your memories. What would you do then? Return in shame to live as a muggle? Or perhaps Mr. Filch has need of an assistant… but make no mistake: walk out that door and you will be expelled before the end of this night."
Predictible as it may seem to end on the "e" word, it has the desired effect. Granger freezes again. It's no difficulty to shift the girl's slight weight and push the clothing down below her buttocks.
Granger sucks in her breath again. It's not a whimper; but it's equally sweet to Snape's ears.
"You are hesitating. Why?" Snape says. "Get on with your task. Show me that you have the wherewithal to act despite a little distraction, Miss Granger." Even as he speaks, his hands are moving to cup the girl's soft buttocks, to squeeze and part them slightly. "Or I fear I shall have to tell the headmaster of your pathetic performance."
He hears another inhale. In a less stubborn child, Snape would know it for tears. But there is only a tiny choke as Granger lifts her hands to pick up another flobberworm.
Snape gives Granger's buttocks another squeeze. Under other circumstances, he'd prefer to be birching those nether cheeks. But he'll make up for it, oh, yes. His fingers press in, separating them fully, laying bare their cleft for his fingers to explore. Granger doesn't even get as far as one flobberworm before having to drop the dead creature and grab at the tabletop again.
"No," she says, and it does catch in her throat, isn't a plea but is not a threat either--it's denial, laid at Snape's door plainfaced. Snape knows the girl has gone beyond any other method of resistance.
His fingers do dip into the cleft of the girl's arse, hairless, pristine, without even sweat to mar it. Oh, how he would love to have his tongue follow, tasting that barely-flavored crinkle of skin, laying the girl open, seeing if he can provoke a moan from her.
Instead, he spreads his knees--leaving Granger on a less steady perch, but one she does not dare to spring from--to give his hand more room, and his fingers quest forward, until he is at the the girl's opening, tender, nestled into the crevice between her thighs as if to tempt Snape's explorations into finding it. By lifting Granger up again, he can move her this way and that, forcing her to spread farther under his hands. He reaches his other hand around to the front of her, fingers passing through sparse, soft hairs and coming to rest between the lips of her sex. He moves his hand, seeking until he finds the place he seeks and pushes, gently, rolling her tiny bud between his calloused fingers. At this Granger does moan, a sound all shock and dismay and guilt in one, and does not even try to continue as instructed, but clings to the tabletop for dear life.
She is not yet wet, but Snape does not imagine that will take long. No, not long at all. He caresses along her opening, teasing her clit, not penetrating but only allowing the tips of his fingers to touch and run across her cunt, probing at its hidden opening, until, as predicted, it moistens and his fingers begin gliding smoothly, wet with her juices. It's enough like tears to satisfy Snape.
His victim says, "No," again, and this time the "oh" of it is drawn out so long Snape does not even think to place at least one of his hands on a shoulder or around Granger's waist, so the girl cannot flee. His hands stay where they are, learning and conquering the pubescent furrow between Granger's legs, its warmth, its particulars, its responses.
Granger face nearly touches the table, angled a little, her gasps directing their humid air at the backs of his hands. Snape can see the fringe of her lashes, outlining her tightly-shut eyelids, and he can also see that the mouth is nothing like a scowl. Snape thinks about thrusting his tongue in there, as well, widening the separation of lips into the proper O he craves.
But he doesn't need his tongue to accomplish that.
One of his hands continues to rub her snatch; the other opens the buttons over his own groin. It takes only a moment for his cock to be freed, rigid and impatient, and it settles into the snug cleft between Granger's buttocks. This time Snape does place his hands at the girl's waist, and it's an appropriate precaution, for Granger shoves herself upright, her hands flying to cover Snape's as though he will yank them away. But Snape tightens his hold, arching his hips to press his prick against the girl's bum-cleft, as if to say--what? That she cannot escape… that it is not so unpleasant a feeling… that it will not be as dreadful as she fears. That it will be every bit as dreadful as she fears. Yes, all of those things.
And Granger trembles, and hitches in her breath again, still no closer to crying, and returns her hands to the table.
Snape uses his hands to part the girl's buttocks once more, allowing his cock the full length of the cleft within which to slide. The head slides against Granger's wetness, the ridge of his cock flesh gliding along her, lingering there and rubbing, separating her and resting between the lips of her girlhood. He gets a sound out of Granger that way, more refined than a grunt, not quite so delicate as a moan.
She's not sufficiently lubricated, but Snape's prick is leaking a needy seepage that should serve well enough for this purpose. He has nothing else on hand except flobberworm guts--definitely unsuitable--and will not interrupt this quiet violation with the obtrusiveness of a summoning charm.
But he decides to have just a bit of pity on Granger and lifts a hand to his own mouth, slobbering spit into his palm, and then returning that hand to his cock, anointing it with the spittle. He does not anticipate getting much penetration, but then, he did not expect to in the first place. Not unless he wants to risk physical damage, and he does not. No, Granger's memories of this will be quite damaging enough.
Her fingers dig into the table--Snape can hear the skritch as the table slides along the stone floor--as the tip of his cock lodges against her opening, pressing only a little, and then a little more, tearing her, opening her far enough to enfold the head of his prick, her muscles grasping at it involuntarily, trying to expel him and settle back into their closed state. Granger is shaking on his lap, against his hands--which Snape has about her waist again, now that his cock is where it wants to be. Though Snape does not simply restrain her; his hands wander up, beneath the girl's shirt, to stroke the peach-bloom skin, find and fondle the little buds of her breasts and tease her nipples, caress into the hollows of the armpits. There he finds dampness, and imagines what that immature musk will smell like on his fingers later.
The sound from Granger's mouth might have been a whimper but for her bitten lips, squeezed tightly together.
In the end, Snape comes not so much by thrusting, but by clenching the muscles about his cock in rhythm to heighten the arousal, allowing this to rock him against Granger's tightness, until the sensation on his cockhead reaches a blissful, quivering peak. He comes, clutching Granger's ribs not quite hard enough to bruise, fervent and rapturous as he sullies the perfection of the girl's maidenhood with his semen.
When he can breathe, he assesses the state of the trembling creature in his hands, on his lap, as Snape's prick softens and slips free of its exquisite confines. He would like nothing better than to throw the girl onto the table, face up, and engulf her sweet little cunt with his mouth, suck her to helplessness and to orgasm and to that O of a mouth that has continued to elude Snape, just barely. Or to have her choke on his cock, the tears leaking from her eyes as he bumps again and again against the back of her throat. Or soon enough, to wrap her legs around his waist as he buries himself in her. Soon… for now, this will do.
And then Granger's hand moves with the swiftness of a snake, and strikes him in the thigh. No, not just a strike, a stab--Snape feels the pierce into his bare thigh. Granger's jabbed him with a quill tip, discarded on the table by an earlier class. Oh, he will enjoy breaking Granger, bit by bit. It is too delightful a challenge to be gained all in one day.
Granger is fighting his hands, which still have her about the ribs. Snape chuckles aloud, and the sound seems to stop the girl's struggles temporarily.
"And for the moment," Snape says, and his hands release the girl, "we would appear to be even." He puts a hand to Granger's back, gives a small push so that his intent is affirmed. "Go. Return again tomorrow evening."
Granger does not wait for further instruction. She is down off Snape's lap, yanking skirt up before her shoes have even touched the floor, and has barely touched the floor before the tail of her school robes are flitting through the door behind hers running form.
Snape--who has not had a smile that is not a sneer in so long, he doubts he can produce one--twists his lips into a sneer, and picks the nib from his leg with his thumbnail, flicking it onto the floor. Arranging his clothing, he rises, and goes to make a notation in his planner, next to the wordsGranger, 3rd yr.: Detention.
Served, he writes.