Chapter Text
Severus Snape moved in front of his seventh-years with the measured pace of a man who had done this too many times to count, his voice carrying its usual flat cadence as he lectured on and on to the collection of gaping-mouthed students who didn't want to be sitting in his classroom anymore than he wanted to be teaching in it.
The lectures hadn't changed in years. He'd delivered them so often that the words came without effort, surfacing from memory the way breathing did. It was nearly automatic, requiring little of his actual attention. It left his mind free to drift. He thought, as he frequently did, about which neglected line of research he might resurrect next. He considered the upcoming Quidditch season. He wondered, not for the first time, what in the bloody hell he had been thinking when he'd agreed to come back to Hogwarts.
He still wasn't entirely sure he was glad to be alive.
His survival of the Second Wizarding War had been unexpected by everyone, himself most of all, and he remained unconvinced it was something he deserved. For the better part of his adult life, his existence had been structured entirely around a singular purpose: espionage, reparations, the slow and grinding work of trying to tip the scales against the darkness he'd once helped usher in. He had known, from the very moment the Dark Lord returned and the Mark began to burn against his forearm again, that it would kill him in the end. He had planned accordingly. Which was to say, he hadn't planned at all for a life that existed beyond the Dark Lord's demise.
And then, somehow, it was over.
And he was still there.
Freedom had arrived like a door opened onto an empty room. He hadn't known what to do with it. He still didn't.
When Minerva had appeared at his door late that summer, before the school reopened, she had asked him to return. More accurately, she had very nearly pleaded, in that particular way of hers that managed to be simultaneously dignified and devastating. She hadn't been able to find a replacement. He had said yes, partly because he genuinely owed her that much after the years of grief he'd caused her, and partly because he had no better answer to the question of what else he might do instead.
Now, months into the school year, the question had simply changed shape. Not only what do I do with my life, but is this it? Is this truly what remains of it?
He hadn't found a satisfying answer yet.
This particular class was his most advanced - seventh-years alongside the handful of older students who had returned to sit the NEWTs they'd been cheated out of the year prior. By all measures, it should have been his best. Instead, it was his least favourite.
They had returned from the summer holiday with the intention of being completely insufferable, evidently. The war had gilded them, in their own estimation, and they seemed to feel that having survived it entitled them to some exemption from the ordinary obligations of academic life. As though narrowly avoiding a grisly demise was a substitute for knowing how to correctly brew a Wiggenweld Potion.
Arrogant little shites.
The one consolation was that Potter and the boy Weasley had elected to go straight to the Auror Academy rather than return for their NEWTs - not that they would have made it into his class, regardless. Still, the absence of the more insufferable two-thirds of the Golden Trio was not nothing. He occasionally wondered what sort of spectacular chaos they were visiting upon the Ministry, and whether anyone there had the spine to hold them accountable for it. Given Potter's status as the Wizarding World's beloved savior, he thought it extremely unlikely.
Still. A man could dream.
When the students had first returned to the castle in September, he had noticed the shift immediately; a new ease in the way they carried themselves around him, now that they believed they understood who he really was. Some had even looked at him with something approaching warmth. He had disabused them of that notion within the first twenty minutes of term, through a brisk and thorough campaign of point deductions and detentions.
It hadn't worked. Not on this group. They were past caring about the House Cup, which was, objectively, a sign of maturity. It infuriated him nonetheless.
Denied his usual instruments of torment, he had adapted. Lectures so dry they could rival Professor Binns. Potions so rudimentary they bordered on insulting. The implicit message was clear, or so he hoped: I do not consider you capable of anything more demanding than this. The lot of them could fail their NEWTs for all he cared.
The unfortunate side effect was that he was boring himself to near-madness in the process. But he had endured considerably worse, and so he carried on.
But then, one unremarkable afternoon, something had snagged his attention.
It had come from the front row - a flicker at the edge of his awareness, there and gone before he could properly catch it. Less a thought, more like the shadow of one; a ripple of feeling rather than anything formed or intelligible. He was well-practised at filtering out the constant low hum of other people's inner lives, but occasionally something broke through regardless, when a mind was particularly loud, or particularly unguarded, and this had been one of those moments.
He had been a natural legilimens for as long as he could remember. The ability hadn't arrived with a name, initially - only confusion. He had been a young boy the first time it happened, responding to something his father had never actually said aloud. His father's anger had been swift and bewildering. His mother, however, had understood at once.
She had sat him down and explained it carefully: the talent ran through her family line, though it had skipped her entirely. And she had made one thing very clear: he was not to let people know. The awareness that someone could move through your thoughts uninvited tended to provoke reactions ranging from discomfort to fury, and his muggle father, who regarded magic as something aberrant and deeply threatening, would have found it intolerable. 'Unnatural deviants, you are', he so loved to remind him and his mother.
So, Severus had learned to keep it to himself. Through years of quiet, largely solitary practice -and no small amount of trial and error - he had built walls sturdy enough to hold the noise at bay. Most of the time. Naturally, the inverse skill had followed easily. the ability to slip into the peripheral edges of someone's mind without their knowledge, reading the shape of their emotions and the broad current of their thoughts without ever touching anything they might notice. He was very subtle. Virtually undetectable.
As it happened, it was an extraordinarily useful thing to be able to do when one was a spy.
What struck him most, however, that day, was the nature of the thought itself.
He was accustomed, of course, to the hormone-addled noise that cluttered the minds of the teenagers he had been grudgingly tasked with educating. Petty jealousies, fleeting infatuations, the tedious drama of adolescence. This was something else entirely. It had arrived with an eagerness that unsettled him, almost deliberate in its clarity, as though whoever had produced it had meant for him to hear it.
Which was, naturally, impossible.
And yet.
For no reason he cared to examine too closely - call it professional curiosity, call it the simple desire to be entertained on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon - he cut his lecture short and set them to work on a straightforward task. He settled into his chair, steepled his fingers, and carefully dismantled the barriers he kept around his mind.
He cast his awareness outward across the room of dunder-headed youth, searching. The thought had been brief, almost too fleeting to grasp, but there had been something recognizable in it, a particular flavour he couldn't quite place. He observed each student in turn as they gathered ingredients and set their cauldrons to heat.
The thought had been unmistakably feminine in quality. The Weasley girl, perhaps?
No. She was absorbed in her potion, her mind skating idly between brew times and Quidditch practice schedules. He moved on, narrowing his focus from one student to the next, until…
Miss Granger?
He had not expected that. She stood at her station with her characteristic focus, each movement measured and deliberate, and yet her mind was somewhere else altogether.
Fantasies fit for a filthy novel flitted swiftly across her mind in a montage of debauchery. Little cut scenes that frequently switched location and context, but almost all of which featured him as the male protagonist. In one scene, daydream-Severus stood behind Granger as she frantically tried to brew a proper potion. She was topless, and his hands snaked around her body from behind and he twisted and pulled at her perky pink nipples, murmuring inaudible words into her ear. In another, she was bent over the desk in his office with her school skirt flipped up, crying out as he alternated between spanking her bare bum and fingering her dripping cunt.
‘You do know what happens to naughty girls in my classroom, don't you, Miss Granger?' imaginary-Severus said in yet another fantasy, in a tone of voice that was much more sensual and silky than reality, surely.
'A nice hard paddling on your bare arse… Get over my knee, now.’
The fantasy version of herself looked up at him with giant brown eyes and deeply flushed cheeks and she breathed out, ‘yes, sir.’
Severus nearly choked on his own tongue as he slammed his mental shields back down. Bloody buggering bollocks! He should not have seen that.
He was completely taken aback. Granger was one of the few students he had never caught wrapped up with a boy in some secret alcove, or doodling silly little hearts with some bloke's name in them instead of taking notes during class. She was Minerva's most precious Gryffindor cub. Always helping other students study and turning in essays that far exceeded the minimum requirements. She was the last student he would've expected to be harbouring such feelings towards him.
The most disconcerting part was that it was almost as if she had plucked some of the private fantasies straight out of his own mind - though his had certainly never featured her or any of his actual students. That was a very slippery slope. One he had never given more than a fleeting consideration to.
But now, here he was in the middle of his classroom, sitting behind his desk with a rapidly growing hard-on.
Get a hold of yourself, you lecherous old man.
For the better part of a week, Severus waged a quiet and largely unsuccessful war against his own thoughts.
Every time he caught sight of Hermione Granger - in the corridor, across the Great Hall, bent over a text in the library - the memory of what he'd glimpsed came back with an immediacy that was deeply inconvenient. Against every instinct that had served him reliably for decades, he began to seek it out. In the spaces where her guard was down and her mind was open: the library, mealtimes, and most dangerously, his own classroom, he found himself slipping into the periphery of her thoughts with a lack of discipline that he found genuinely alarming.
What he found there was not entirely surprising, given what he'd already seen. The more charged thoughts reappeared with some regularity, woven between the ordinary fabric of her days - revision schedules, concern for her friends, the particular anxiety of someone who had spent years at war and was still learning figuring out how to simply exist again without the ever-looming fear for her life.
He was not the only man who appeared in the less mundane regions of her imagination. But he appeared more than any other. During his class especially, which was, he told himself, entirely logical given the context.
He knew it was wrong to continually dip into the girl's mind, uninvited, and yet he found himself returning anyway. Which was perhaps the most unsettling part of all. He had not lost control of himself like this in a very long time.
She was waking something up inside of him that he had set aside years ago.
There had been a period of his life during his earlier teaching years, before the world had caved back in, when he had moved through certain exclusive spaces and circles with confidence and a clear sense of what he wanted. He had sought out sexual partners who matched a particular dynamic. He had found, in those encounters, something that settled him in a way that little else did. For a time it had been a regular part of his life, something he had made deliberate room for.
To say that he had taken a particular pleasure in playing with submissive little witches would be giant understatement.
When the Dark Lord returned, however, all of it had stopped. There had been no room left for anything in his life that wasn't survival, and attempting to ensure the safety of the children he had been tasked to protect. And afterwards… well, afterwards he hadn't felt the pull of it at all.
Until, apparently, now.
Well, the urge had returned. With vehemence. About a week after his first deluge into Granger's mind, he dreamt of her kneeling at his feet, half dressed in her scarlet and gold adorned uniform and crooning up him, ‘I've been a very bad girl, Professor…’
He'd woken up drenched in sweat, hard as a rock, and more aroused than he had felt in years.
He'd made up his mind, then. He needed to get the Granger girl out of his mind, one way or another…
Stir counterclockwise three times before adding the…
Hermione lost her well-intended focus again.
She picked it back up, stirred dutifully, and lost it once more within seconds. Her mind had been doing this for weeks now - drifting off at the slightest provocation, following its own agenda with complete disregard for whatever she was supposed to be concentrating on.
She supposed it was inevitable, in retrospect. The war had consumed everything. Not just her time and safety, but the ordinary inner life of a young woman, the slow and unremarkable business of growing up. There hadn't been space for any of it. And now that the danger had receded and something resembling a normal life had taken its place, all of that deferred experience seemed to be arriving all at once, with considerable urgency.
It had started with Ron. Over the summer she had finally, tentatively, acted on the feelings she'd long assumed were significant, and had discovered, fairly quickly, that they weren't. Not in the way that mattered. He had been sweet and well-meaning and entirely without instinct, and the experience had left her feeling rather… uninspired, to say the least. She had ended things gently. Ron, for his part, had been briefly wounded and then thoroughly distracted by the considerable attentions of his admirers, which made her feel rather less guilty about the whole affair.
But the more important revelation hadn't been about Ron specifically. It was what the experience had clarified.
She didn't want someone fumbling and uncertain, looking to her to be their sexual guide, as though she had the faintest idea what she was doing, either. The irony was not lost on her. For years she had been the one with the plan, the one who knew what to do next, the one the others turned to when things went wrong. She was exhausted by it. And the idea of carrying that same role into her private life, of being competent even there, was deeply unappealing. For once, she wanted to hand the reins to someone else entirely. To let her mind, for once, go quiet.
She had done her research, naturally, acquiring a small collection of books - muggle and magical both - with the same methodical energy she brought to everything she did. This had been, in hindsight, something of a miscalculation. Her imagination, always hyperactive and rather difficult to switch off, had taken the material and run. What began as abstract and safely fictional, anonymous figures - the rakish heroes of romance novels - had gradually become rather more specific. Charlie Weasley. Oliver Wood. People she actually knew, faces she could actually picture.
And then, as her mind apparently had no interest in maintaining reasonable boundaries, people she probably shouldn't be thinking about at all.
Sirius Black appeared sometimes, uninvited and startling, and she felt a hefty helping of guilt whenever he did. It seemed a particular sort of wrong to think that way about Harry's godfather, especially now. But guilt, she had discovered, had a peculiar way of making certain things more arousing rather than less. The taboo of it all was supremely thrilling.
She had come back to Hogwarts in September with the full intention of channelling all of her restless energy into her studies.
But then Professor Snape had opened his first class with that voice - low and unhurried, deep and silky smooth, a deadly combination of both arrogance and sharp wit - and she had, without any conscious decision on her part, added him to the list.
The way he demanded the respect of those around him was simply intoxicating. Soon, she had found herself barely paying attention in his classes at all, and instead squirming around in her seat, entranced by his rich baritone. At times she felt so ashamed… Lusting after a Professor who was twice her age. But, she had come to find that the humiliation was exhilarating, in a way. She loved watching him on the rare occasions that he would demonstrate particularly tricky ingredient preparations. The way his long fingers moved and gripped his tools, slicing and squeezing and stirring. It was pure magic, in its own way, watching a master at his craft. It was clear that he took it seriously, working with a quiet reverence and rapt attention to his task. Oh, to be the subject of his complete focus… the very idea sent shivers down her spine.
She hardly recognized herself anymore. One thing was certain - the dirty novels she had found in a muggle bookstore in London and her own fingers beneath her bedsheets at night weren't cutting it any longer. She couldn't wait to graduate and find someone with proper experience to let off some steam with. Perhaps then she would have a clearer mind once again.
Hermione glanced back down at her potion. For some ridiculous, unknown reason, they were brewing a first year potion. One that she could easily brew with her eyes taped shut. Snape seemed to be under the impression that Slughorn had failed them all in his instruction, and they weren't capable of appropriately levelled brews. It was maddening.
However, she was far from bored. She was playing out one of her current favourite fantasies in her mind: detention with Professor Snape. It involved a very inappropriate spanking and then a vigorous shagging upon the potion master’s desk.
“Miss Granger...”
Professor Snape’s velvety drawl interrupted her daydream. The real Professor Snape. She startled in her seat, nearly dropping her stirring rod into her cauldron. Clear your mind you pervert, she silently berated herself. How hadn't she noticed him walking towards her? He had the uncanny ability to move unnervingly silently around a room.
Snape loomed over Hermione’s work station, hands clasped tightly in front of the neat row of shiny black buttons that ran in a long line down the front of his frock coat. She lifted her head and met his dark eyes, attempting to quell the nervous pangs that swam around in her belly.
“Yes, sir?”
Detention.
Good Lord, did he have any brain cells left?
After he had caught Granger's attention in class, he had used a discreet wordless spell to knock one of the bottled ingredients off of her worktop, where it had proceeded to fall to the floor and shatter loudly against the unforgiving stone. Then he'd growled at her for being too distracted, and assigned her a detention for that night.
He knew that the right thing to do would be to put some distance between himself and the girl, and allow time to work its magic in allowing him to forget about her absurd infatuation with him, but he hadn't been able to stop that small, impulsive part of him that desperately wanted to poke the bear and find out just how serious she was about her little fantasies. His lack of impulse control had become more and more of an issue since the end of the war. C'est la vie and all that.
God, the last thing he should be doing is purposefully getting himself alone with the girl.
However, the idea of giving the Golden Girl a good helping of humiliation had become very intriguing to him. It would be fun to toy with her a bit... Scare her out of her foolishness. She needed to be reminded of who he really was. Surely, she would abandon her ridiculous fantasies about him, then. She was nothing more than a naive teenage girl who had no idea what it was she thought she wanted from him.
That being said, when the time came that she was due to arrive at his classroom at any moment, Severus began to feel some reservations. The man he had been a year ago would've never even entertained the idea. His life had changed drastically since then, though, and as much as the general public would like to think it of him, he was not the paragon of morality and light that Potter had made him out to be.
If he were honest with himself, it wasn't the morality of it that would've stopped him in the past… No, it would have boiled down to the threat to his position within the Order, and within Hogwarts. Now, he found himself hard-pressed to care about his teaching career. He'd been through enough turmoil, stress, and pain for one lifetime. He had repaid his debts. Now, he was free. Free of megalomaniac madmen and dotty old meddlers. Even if he didn't deserve it.
For the first time in his life he was ready to say fuck it to the world and do what he damn well pleased. Not to mention... The girl had officially turned nineteen several months ago, and was more than likely closer to twenty after all of her Time-Turner abuse in the past. If that made him a pervy old lecher, well, so be it. He had held several much worse titles. Besides, Severus was almost certain she would be terrified out of her mind, flee from his classroom, and that would be the end of it. On the very small chance that she didn't... Well, he wouldn't feel bad about enjoying it. It was about bloody time that he had something good in his life.
If nothing else, Severus truly was a master at justifying his questionable choices to himself.
A soft knock on his classroom door pulled him out of his reverie. She was a few minutes early. Typical.
He strode over to the door and swung it open with a bang, staring down at the girl with an impatient glare. She stood primly in the threshold with a small satchel in her hands, her chestnut hair falling in its usual wild tumble of curls over her shoulders.
"Eager, are we? I believe your detention was scheduled for seven o' clock…" Severus told her with a sneer.
"Yes, sir," she shrugged in response, "I guess the staircases were being more agreeable than usual."
Severus took a step backward into the classroom, gesturing towards her with an irritable flick of his hand. "Well, are you going to stand out there all night, or shall we get this over with? Don't waste my time, girl."
Hermione huffed softly and followed him into the potions classroom. Hadn't he just been complaining that she was early? And now she was wasting his time? He was certainly not an easy man to please…
Professor Snape led her over to the sinks at the back of the room. The counter top next to them was piled high with dirty cauldrons, teetering precariously close to the edge and dripping an awful, fragrantly brown sludge. She groaned inwardly. It was going to be a long night.
"As you can see, the First Years have done a number on their cauldrons today... You can imagine their delight when they found out someone else would be remedying the mess for them tonight… Get to work. I'm sure I don't need to remind you not to use magic,” he instructed with a curt little sweep of his hand before stalking away towards his desk.
Hermione sighed to herself before pulling off her jumper and then rolling up the sleeves of her blouse. She got to work on scrubbing the cauldrons, grateful that she would at least get to face the wall and focus on her task. Potions had been difficult lately with the dark man always lingering in her peripheral vision, either stalking around the room or sitting at his desk in front of her. It was becoming nearly impossible to concentrate when he was around.
His commanding, disdainful drawl did something liquifying to her insides. It was driving her completely mad.
She only had a few months left at Hogwarts, though, and she knew once she was no longer forced to be in his presence on a regular basis, she would be able to move on, and find a new focus for her fantasies. For now, she just had to get through it, and try to distract herself.
Several cauldrons in, Hermione was sinking into the mental zone of repetitive labour. Scrub, rinse, dry, scrub. She had almost forgotten where she was. Until she heard soft footsteps clicking against the stone floor from behind her. Snape was pacing the back of the classroom. Why couldn't he just sit at his desk in the other corner and let her get through detention with her sanity still intact?
Hermione kept on scrubbing, all the while aware that Snape’s footsteps were growing closer and closer. She didn't dare turn around, certain as she was that he would reprimand her for losing focus. She could not afford another detention with him. It was driving her mad already, just knowing that he was watching her movements as she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
Hermione hadn't even noticed that she had stopped scrubbing altogether and was simply standing there dumbly with her hands beneath the running taps when suddenly, Professor Snape spoke, only inches away from her ear.
"Tell me, Miss Granger, is this the detention you were hoping for?..."
She nearly leapt out of her own skin. Snape's deep baritone ghosted across her skin just as bodily as if he had touched her with his fingertips, leaving pimpled gooseflesh in its wake. How had he sneaked up on her once again? He was standing so close now that she was beginning to feel the heat of his body bleeding through the thin material of her blouse.
"I'm - I'm not sure what you mean, sir?" she replied uncertainly, drawing in a deep, measured breath.
She hoped he would mistake her obvious reaction for fear, not arousal. Though, she wasn't all that uncertain that she wasn't feeling some unholy combination of both. Her body and brain were once again betraying her. Get it together Hermione. He's your professor!
Her mind was whirling, the words he'd spoken playing on repeat in her head. 'The detention you were hoping for.' What on earth was he trying to suggest?
Snape put his hand down flat on the counter to her left, caging her in. His long, pale fingers stretched out beside her much smaller, nervously curled up hand upon the cold marble. Her entire body began to tremble and she desperately hoped he wouldn't notice. He'd never been so achingly close to touching her before, in any capacity. Save for, perhaps, the time he'd leapt in front of her in the face of a transforming Lupin.
"You would be wise to keep your mind a bit more closed off, you know…" he told her quietly.
Hermione didn't need to see his face to know that he was sneering at her - she could practically hear it.
"...Sir?" she questioned hesitantly.
"I know what kind of 'detention' you've been imagining, Miss Granger… Tell me, do your little friends know what sort of sordid images you've been conjuring up in that brain of yours?"
An icy jolt shivered down her spine. No. No. He couldn't possibly know…
Could he?
Her heart rate quickened and her chest heaved with strangled breaths. The cauldron she'd been holding onto with one weak hand dropped into the sink with a deafening clang. Professor Snape chuckled softly, just behind her ear. He was leaning over her now, so, so close. She could smell his sharp masculine scent; wood smoke with a hint of something spicy and herbal.
"I…. I'm…" she stuttered out, lost for words.
She was terrified, that was for sure, and beyond turned on at the same time. There was no doubt he was just trying to humiliate her…
Right?
Scare her?
She was just a silly school girl. A plain looking witch. There was no way he was actually interested in her. He was being unforgivably cruel, having a laugh at her expense. Her cheeks flamed.
"Now, if you're as intelligent as I think you are... You'll finish cleaning these cauldrons and then leave my presence..."
Had he just paid her a compliment? Her head was spinning.
"Alternatively… If you're naive enough to think you know what you're really getting yourself into... You'll go lean over my desk… flip up your skirt…just like your little fantasy."
Oh Gods.
Was she dreaming? Had she finally cracked and lost all grip on reality?
Severus took a step back to allow her the space to move, if she so chose. With a sweep of his wand, his desk cleared of papers and all other accoutrements, leaving a clear open space. An unmistakable invitation.
That ought to be enough to scare her off, he thought smugly. Go on, flee to Gryffindor tower in three… two … one…
Granger suddenly stood up straighter, turning away from the sink, just as he expected her to. To his great surprise, however, she fled not to the classroom door, but to his desk. Throwing herself down over the smooth walnut surface, she intentionally avoided his gaze, pressing her soft pink cheek to the shiny desktop as she reached back and pulled her skirt up, draping it over her lower back to reveal her pert, round little arse in small cotton knickers.
Snape's eyebrows rose up to his hairline.
What am I doing?
She must have gone mad. It was seriously humiliating … Was she really bent over her potion professors desk, presenting her bum to him like some pathetic, sex starved tart? There's no way he was serious… He would surely throw her out of his classroom, laughing all the way. Ugh. She buried her head in the crook of her elbows atop the desk.
Her heart was beating so hard against her sternum she thought she might vomit.
How daft could she possibly be? She would never live this down.
Yet… How could she pass up even the slightest chance that he wasn't toying with her? She had been beyond frustrated for months on end. As humiliating and embarrassing as it was to display herself to him, she had never been more turned on in her entire life. He could probably just talk her to orgasm, as keyed up as she was.
Severus had expected her to flee. Or yell in his face. Or report him to the Headmistress. Or merely finish her cauldron cleaning task and leave. He really hadn't expected her to actually throw herself over his desk and wait, panting like she'd just run a marathon. His cock twitched to life in his trousers. It had been a very long time since any witch had presented herself to him in such a way. Much less a young witch with a beautiful, supple arse such as hers. Yes, he would be a right fool not to try and see it through…
He approached his desk, walking slowly up behind the quivering girl.
"My, my, Miss Granger...I am surprised at you… What would your friends say if they saw you like this?... Splayed out so eagerly for your most hated professor… Their prissy little goody-two-shoes… Their Gryffindor Princess - a dirty girl, submitting herself to the Head of Slytherin..."
"Oh my God," Granger groaned, her face still hidden in her arms. She was on her tiptoes, and her bum danced in anxious circles on top of his desk. Severus adjusted himself in his trousers. Fuck, he could watch that jiggle for the rest of his life. He wanted to rip off her sweet white knickers and shove his cock inside of her right then and there. But no, that wasn't what she needed.
He would have to show a little more restraint than that if he wanted her to stick around.
Hermione heard a rustling behind her and then she saw Snape's robes fly through the air to hang themselves on the coat rack by the door. Oh merlin, he was taking his clothes off? She sneaked a quick peek over her shoulder. He stood coolly behind her, sans robes and frock coat, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. She swallowed thickly. This was truly happening. Oh my God, Oh my God.
It was quite unnerving to witness. Even when he had been slumped against the ground in the Shrieking Shack, barely clinging to life, he had been dressed in his signature uniform. Always buttoned up and severe. Without it he looked... distinctly more human. But he was still as intimidating as ever - he stood at least a full head taller than Hermione, and though he was rather trim, his shoulders were broad, pulling his dress shirt taut against his wiry biceps.
He was watching her with quiet contemplation, his glittering black eyes shining behind his curtain of lank hair. Hermione could admit that he wasn't a conventionally handsome man, but she found his looks rather distinguished.
Like some kind of Roman statue.
She turned her face back into her arms and waited with baited breath, unable to look at him any longer, least her anxious stomach somersault straight out of her abdomen.
Snape reached out and placed a hand softly on her lower back, inching haltingly down towards her arse, giving her ample time to stop him. She pressed her bum closer in silent invitation. He smoothed his hand softly over her left cheek, then the right. His hands felt warm and calloused against her skin. She felt a shiver run through her.
"You don't know what it is you are asking for, Miss Granger…. I am no simpering school boy…"
She whimpered softly, rolling her hips more frantically beneath his touch.
"Please, sir… I…" she trailed off uncertainly, her voice muffled greatly by her resolute burying of her face against her arms.
His hand suddenly left her arse but quickly returned, coming down on her left cheek with a sharp smack! She gasped sharply, reaching a startled hand back to cover the hot spot he'd slapped into her flesh.
"Isn't that what you wanted, Miss Granger?" he drawled, "It's not too late to back out… Leave now and I'll never mention this again… Your reputation will remain intact… The choice is entirely yours."
Hermione panted hard for a moment, mulling over her options. Who was she kidding, though? There was no debate to be had within her mind. Every cell in her body was singing with glorious rapture.
With a steadying breath, she brought her hand back up towards her face and she arched her back again, making her wish for him to proceed as clear as possible without using her words. She was far too overwhelmed to form coherent speech.
She heard Snape's barely audible sigh huffing out into the space above her head and then he reached out a hand again and caressed her antsy bum atop the waistband of her knickers.
"Spread your legs," he commanded quietly.
Hermione only hesitated for a second before opening her legs slightly. Snape gave her a quick smack.
"Wider, girl."
She huffed and spread her legs wide. The cool dungeon air felt especially brisk between her thighs, where the gusset of her knickers had dampened with her arousal. She shifted around uncomfortably, attempting to unstick them where they'd clung to her centre.
"Keep still, witch," Snape instructed her waspishly, "and try not to leave a puddle on my desk..."
Hermione groaned, curling her hands into fists and willing her restless hips to cooperate and stop their tight, frantic circling against the hard edge of the desk.
When she had finally stilled in preparation, Snape began to spank her arse in earnest, slowly dialling up the intensity as he went along.
Smack!
Smack!
Smack!
His palms bit into her skin like hot licks of fire and Hermione gasped and groaned, her fingers gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. The spanking felt like it had been going on for ages, and her arse was smouldering, the heat he was generating swiftly building up into an inferno beneath her skin. As his smacks began to change directory and slowly made their way down from the curve of her rump and towards her centre instead, she reflexively closed her legs to protect herself from the impending pain.
Snape tsked, then, taking hold of her thighs, he gripped them firmly and spread them crudely back apart. He caught her knickers in his fingers and pulled them up eye-wateringly tight, forcing them up snugly between her wet folds.
"Can't you follow directions?" he groused, "I told you to keep still… Don't waste my time, girl. You are free to leave if that is what you desire…"
He gave her cotton-covered quim a few hard smacks for good measure, then stopped to caress her bright red bum.
"I will warn you right now, Miss Granger… I am not a nice man."
Hermione moaned as he rubbed her arse, her hips twitching in a frantic dance. She was so close to losing it. Her knickers were putting so much pressure on her clitoris, and the soft rubbing of her bum was driving her mad. The spanking had hurt a lot at first, but the pain had quickly faded into a warm buzz that seemed to travel straight to her core, flooding her knickers with liquid desire.
"I will take my pleasure from you…and I will give you the release you desire… But it will be on my terms… Do you understand?"
He gripped her hip while he spoke, and ground his pelvis into her bum. She could feel the stiff lump of his arousal and it sent an enticing frisson of heat zipping up her spine. What was it that was turning him on, she wondered. Was it the sight of her bum, bent over his desk? Was it the fact that he had caused her pain? The fact that she was his student? She was burning with curiosity just as brightly as she burned with lust.
The wool of his trousers felt like sandpaper on her sensitive cheeks. She whimpered. The fresh deluge of pain it caused only deepened her arousal.
"Yes! Sir - I understand," she agreed, her voice coming out far more shaky and quiet than intended.
Snape let out a barely audible grunt as he pressed himself harder against her for a brief second, then pulled away.
He ran a finger lightly down the centre of her arse, just barely grazing her pussy through her knickers as he went. She moaned again, pushing herself against his questing finger, trying to force some more friction. His hands crept up towards the elastic waistband of her knickers and he tentatively began to peel them down, dragging them inch by inch with exaggerated sluggishness, as if he expected her to leap up and flee at any moment. She could feel the resistance as the cotton gusset clung to her folds with her juices. Her face was on fire.
"Is this what you want, Miss Granger?" he asked, sliding her knickers down to rest just above her knees.
"Yes!" she exclaimed breathlessly, rolling her bum in tight little circles, over and over in a positively lewd display. Severus had to smother a groan. She was breathtaking. Her cunt was perfect; pink and glistening, peeking out at him from her furrow, simply begging to be filled. He could just barely spot the soft thatch of dark hair that covered her mound. Her arse had been warmed up to a nice, warm, rosy colour.
She was the very picture of debauchery. Temptation incarnate. Smooth, supple, milky skin and a terribly endearing sort of eagerness mixed with a healthy dose of fear. He'd rarely felt so wretched in his life. His other wrongdoings could mostly be explained - if not excused - by circumstance. This, on the other hand, was born of pure selfishness and lust. He was straining hard against his zipper, longing to free his heavy cock from the confines of his trousers and cease the awful friction of metal against his sensitive, engorged flesh.
He could hardly think straight.
"Tell me what you want, girl," he insisted, hands on her gyrating hips, "Ask me to touch you, or get up and go back to your dorm. Now."
"Please sir… Please touch me..." Hermione gasped, so quietly he could barely make out the words.
He surged forward and took hold of a handful of the pretty brown curls at the nape of her neck and tilted her head to the side so he could see her face. She was lovely; panting hard against the smooth wood of his desktop, her freckled cheeks flushed and her dark eyelashes fluttering wildly. Her petite, rounded nose scrunched up in her distress.
Severus leaned over her body, pressing against her back, and he spoke in her ear, "Not good enough.. Say, 'please finger my desperate pussy, Professor.'"
Hermione's face was positively boiling. She'd never been more mortified in her entire life. He could not be serious, could he?
She was too far gone now to quit, however. She needed to be filled so badly she thought she might actually burst into flames. She would say anything he wanted her to if he would just give her some relief.
"Please finger my desperate pussy, Professor," she huffed out in one quick breath. A quiet chuckle escaped Snape's lips, deep and rich and melodic in her ear.
"Good girl … I'm impressed."
Hermione shivered. Who knew two simple words could turn her legs to mush? His laugh was electrifying. She couldn't recall ever hearing it before. Idly, she thought that was rather sad, and she hoped to hear it again.
He let go of her hair and leaned back, trailing his hands down her back and over her arse. With one finger, he lightly traced down over her divide, just barely grazing her skin as headed south, all the way to her clit. She twitched beneath him, moaning out her approval when he finally circled her swollen nub.
"Gods, yes!"
He slipped back up to her entrance and spread her juices around, slicking up his finger before returning to her clitoris, rubbing at it in slow, small circles. He kept up the dizzying rhythm while his other hand found her entrance and he sank one digit inside of her with ease. Then, quickly adding in a second, he slid them in all the way to the hilt. His fingers were rather large, and it was a tight fit, creating the exact stimulation and fullness that she had been craving.
He began to rub against the front wall of her pussy with the pads of his fingers, firm but gentle, and Hermione saw stars.
She was so focused on the tight heat building up in her core that she barely even registered the high keening noise that was coming out of her own mouth. She felt like she were skating the edge of a cliff, preparing to take flight.
"Has anyone ever made you feel like this before, Miss Granger?" Snape asked. His fingers grew more and more vigorous within her, stroking over her sweet spot and calling forth an achingly intense bliss. An obscene squelching noise filled the air between them.
"No, sir," she moaned, almost sobbing in her pleasure. She slammed her hips backwards against him over and over again, fucking herself on his fingers. He kept up a steady pace on her little nub.
"Remember that, girl. I'm the only one who has done this to you…"
She was gripping the edge of the desk so hard she thought her nails might crack. Her hips would surely be covered with bruises the following day from slamming repeatedly against the unforgiving wood.
"Fuck!" she keened, desperately close to her peak.
"Yes," he hissed, "come for me, Miss Granger. Now."
He increased his speed over her clit, easing the pressure until he was gliding quickly over it with a feather light touch and then she was off, wailing with her release.
"Uuuuuhhh… Yes! Please! Gods - Professor -"
Her juices flooded his hand as her inner muscles spasmed, clamping down tightly around the girth of his fingers as she rode out her ecstasy, milking the sensation for all it was worth.
Soon, as she came down from her orgasm, her hips gradually slowed in their frantic gyrations and then eventually stopping altogether, and she slumped forward onto the desk, exhausted and panting and utterly boneless. Snape gave her one last caress, spreading her own shiny fluids over the tortured skin of her bum. Then he pulled away, settling down into his desk chair with a sigh.
Hermione awkwardly stood up from the desk, wincing at the stiffness in her hips and back. She let her knickers slip down her legs and fall to the floor and she stepped out of them as she turned to face the professor.
He was slouched lazily in his seat, legs spread wide and trousers very obviously tented. His dark eyes burned into her. She bit her lip and looked down, feeling very self-conscious and strange now that she wasn't in the throes of impending release.
Her gaze zeroed in on his placket, and the obvious bulge within. It would be rude to leave without helping him out… Wouldn't it?
Oh god.
Hermione sank to her knees on the floor in the space between his spread legs, and looked back up at his face. Snape stared down his hooked nose at her, expression blank and unreadable. Then he raised an eyebrow in challenge, gesturing over his lap with a sweeping hand.
"Well?..." he said, not unkindly. The heavy tone of expectation that had previously punctuated his words had gone, leaving only a mild lilt of curiosity.
Hermione swallowed thickly, her tongue darting out to wet her lips which suddenly felt intensely dry. While she was very eager to please him, she was quite nervous to attempt such a thing. Her fumblings with Ron had been such a stark difference… Most of the time she had barely been able to touch him for more than a minute before he'd lose control and spill himself all over her hands. It was shocking that they ever made it to the main event at all. This would be different. Snape was a grown man.
He'd made that abundantly clear.
"Sir - may I - may I touch you?" she whispered finally, her eyes glued to his crotch.
He reached down and grabbed her chin gently, tilting her face upward and forcing her to look him in the eye.
"Yes… you may," he said softly, letting go of her chin and leaning back in his chair once again. He slid down slightly, opening his legs wider and placing his hands on the arm rests, waiting.
Hermione took a fortifying breath and then hesitantly ran her hands up his legs from his knees to his belt buckle, groping the firm, warm muscle of his thighs. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped him, then spread his placket wide and reached inside. He had no pants on underneath. Interesting.
He grunted softly when she freed him from his trousers, and gripped his length firmly in her hand.
Sweet Circe!
Hermione gasped softly at the sight of him. She didn't have much to compare him to, but from what limited knowledge she did have, she concluded that he was definitely larger than the average man. Who knew Professor Snape had been hiding that in his trousers this whole time? She had to suppress the giggle that threatened to bubble up her throat. Inexperienced as she was, she at least knew enough to be sure that it wouldn't go over well to laugh at the first sight of a man's penis.
His cock was impressively stiff, and it looked angry and red at the tip. It felt like marble encased in warm satin beneath her fingertips. She did one experimental pump of her hand, gently pulling back his foreskin and he let a sharp puff of breath out of his nose. So far so good.
But she wanted more room to get her hands on him properly. She reached for the waistband of his trousers and gently tugged on them. He lifted his hips to allow her to pull them all the way down; his belt made a clink when it hit the stone floor. Much better.
His bollocks hung low and warm. She cradled them gently, rolling each one softly in her hand. His cock jumped at her ministrations and she smiled shyly.
Right, time to get down to it. He just gave her the best orgasm she had ever had, it was time to do her best to return the favour...
Hermione knew she wasn't experienced enough to make it amazing like he had done for her, but she was eager to try and please him. Plus, she was a quick study. Slowly, she began to pump her hand up and down over his cock, gripping him firmly - but taking care not to squeeze too hard, like she'd done to Ron the first time - and twisted her hand gently each time she reached the tip. She'd read that particular trick in a book, and it seemed to be paying off.
Every so often she'd tug gently on his sack while keeping up her pace on his cock. She was mesmerized by what she was doing to him. He was stoic, but his hips gently snapped up to meet her hands, and his breathing was no longer steady. Soon, a small bead of fluid leaked from his tip, she spread it around with her thumb and then narrowed her focus to the head of his cock, pulling his foreskin back and forth over his tip quickly, while her other hand worked the base.
Snape grunted out a quiet, "Fuck, just like that," throwing his head back, though his eyes still avidly tracked her movements.
It was surreal. She was giving her Professor a hand-job... a two-handed hand-job. Hermione had the urge to start laughing hysterically. She was making her most stern and stoic Professor fall apart. How many other people had seen him like this? She felt a fresh trickle of fluid leaking from her pussy. Gods, she wanted to come again just from watching him.
"Open your shirt, girl. I want to come on your tits,” he bit out through clenched teeth, thrusting his hips up to meet her on every downward stroke.
Hermione groaned softly and took one hand away from him to clumsily unbutton her blouse, keeping up her rhythm with her other hand. Snape made an impatient sound and flicked his hand at her, and her blouse and bra split down the middle and hung open to reveal her bare breasts. He had left her Gryffindor tie to hang there between them.
Her nipples quickly hardened into small peaks at the rush of cold dungeon air. She got up onto her knees and arched her back to line up with his cock.
"Exquisite," he drawled out on a lingering breath.
She thought she might burst into flames at the way he was staring at her. Her arm was getting tired, but she knew he was close, and she wasn’t ready to give up yet. She pulled down on his balls firmly and kept up a fast pace on his cock. Yes, Professor, fuck!
Her thighs were slippery with her own arousal. She rubbed them together, trying to create some friction, to no avail.
"Yes," Snape hissed, "look at you, Miss Granger…. So eager to let your Professor come all over those pretty tits of yours."
Hermione was practically creaming herself at his words. Pretty? Snape simply didn't give compliments, and her mind was reeling. She wanted to kneel at his feet all day and all night and soak up his praise.
"Yes, sir," she agreed breathlessly.
She used one hand to cup her breasts and present them to him, and pumped his cock faster with her other, aiming his tip at the centre of her chest. Within seconds he was spilling himself, nostrils flared and cursing under his breath. He covered her breasts in pearly white ropes, soiling the brilliant crimson of her Gryffindor tie. She pumped his cock softly as his orgasm dwindled, only coming to a stop when he placed his hand atop hers.
She leaned back, chest heaving, decorated in his release. Her cheeks were bright red, curls wild around her head and she squirmed restlessly, the very picture of innocence corrupted. She was beautiful. It was an image he wouldn't soon forget.
Severus tucked himself away into his trousers and examined at her with a critical eye. She seemed about ready to climb atop his leg and hump him like a feral little crup.
"Again, Miss Granger?" he asked, unable to resist himself, "You insatiable girl..."
He flicked a lazy hand towards her chest and his semen disappeared. She peered down at her breasts, looking slightly disappointed. Bloody hell.
"Well, come up here then,” he told her, indicating his lap with a small pat of his thigh.
She stood up slowly and moved to climb into his lap when he interrupted her.
"No, face away from me. Yes, that's right."
He guided her to settle down on his lap, her back to his chest, legs spread wide on either side of his. Severus tucked her hair over to one side so he could whisper into her ear. She could feel his large nose pressed against her cheek.
"Have you had many lovers, Miss Granger?" he snaked his hands around to her chest and began to softly knead her breasts. They fit perfectly in the hollow of his palms.
Hermione moaned and wiggled her arse against his lap. Her bum still stung a bit from the spanking, but she found that the heat was only adding to her arousal.
"No, sir…"
"Well, you could have fooled me, with that performance.."
He twiddled her nipples, rolling them between his forefingers and thumbs, sending tiny shock-waves straight to her clit. Hermione beamed widely at his praise. Before tonight, she was fairly certain that he had never complimented her once in all of the years that she'd known him. Now, the praise flowed freely from his lips. She felt high on the power of her own feminine wiles.
Snape slid a hand down her stomach and flipped her skirt up, tucking the hem up into the waistband. His fingers slipped between her folds and sought out her little bundle of nerves. His other hand stayed behind on her chest to pluck at a nipple.
"So wet for me," he murmured into her ear.
Gods, he could make her come with his velvety voice alone.
"Mmhmm," she moaned, grinding her hips against him. She was so close again already. She could hear the slick, clicking sound of her pussy as his fingers danced over it.
"Do you hear that, little witch? You're positively drenched," he whispered in her ear.
Hermione cringed and covered her face with her hands. She found the sound more awkward and embarrassing than anything else. He hummed in disapproval and paused his circling of her clit.
"Don't hide your face from me, girl. Hands on the chair,” he demanded.
Hermione sighed and slowly moved her hands down to grip the armrests. Her face was flaming. Snape resumed stimulating her swollen nub with his thumb, and sunk two fingers easily inside of her.
"Good girl,” he crooned into her ear, "Now, ride my fingers… come for me… and I want to hear that pussy,"
"Uhhhh, yes!"
Hermione began to ride his hand in earnest.
"Yes, what?" he prompted impatiently.
" Sir! Yes, sir! Please - oh fuck -"
She gasped as he put pressure on her front wall, turning her moans into mindless babbling.
"Such language, Miss Granger," he chided, "What would everyone think if they knew?... If they saw you writhing around on your Professor's lap with his fingers buried deep in your twat? … You're just gagging for it, aren't you, little girl?… I know you're imagining I'm stretching your tight pussy with my cock instead… that's what you really want, isn't it?"
She was going to go spare with him muttering in her ear like that. Fuck. Hermione had never felt so dirty and so incredible before in her life.
She rode his hand as hard as she could, like a woman possessed. Snape could surely feel her hot panting breaths as she leaned her head back against him. His face was lost in the wild cloud of her hair.
Suddenly, his fingers began to flick her clitoris just right and she was there, tensing up, taut as a bow string, and she came with a sob. A small trickle of fluid trickled down through her folds and over Snape's knuckles as she throbbed and squeezed around his hand, gripping the armrests of the chair for dear life as bliss tore through her body in relentless waves.
Eventually, her gyrations slowed to a stop and Snape pulled his fingers free from her gingerly, then proceeded to offer them up to her mouth, glistening in the firelight with her own juices. She tentatively opened her mouth and he slid them inside without hesitation. Hermione pulled in a sharply audible breath through her nose and she sucked his musky fingers clean, tasting her own flavour for the first time. What sort of witch was she, to enjoy such a thing? He'd likely just been taunting her and she'd readily - eagerly - taken the bait and humiliated herself once again. Releasing his fingers with a pop, she turned her face away with chagrin, biting down hard on her lower lip.
Snape chuckled softly in her ear and then he leaned back with a sigh.
"As much as I've enjoyed your little display, it's getting late Miss Granger… Your friends will think I've done you bodily harm."
Hermione snorted softly, and reluctantly slid away from the comfort - and humiliation - of his sturdy lap and onto her feet.
"But sir, the cauldrons…." she said with a hint of mirth, turning to face him with an impish half-smile. Snape rolled his eyes and fished out his wand, flicking the long, ebony length at the sink to set the cauldrons to washing themselves.
"Forget the cauldrons, cheeky witch. I think you've proven yourself redeemed…"
Hermione smiled shyly as she retrieved her clothing and attempted to put herself back together. Several buttons were missing from her blouse, and her bra was split in two. She didn't bother trying to repair them, instead summoning her jumper from the other side of the room and pulling it over her head. She untucked her skirt and smoothed it down. When she reached for her knickers on the floor though, Snape beat her to it and promptly tucked them into his trouser pocket without a word.
She grinned to herself.
Trying to pat down her wild hair into something resembling order was all but hopeless, and she quickly gave it up as a lost cause. Snape eyed her with amusement.
"Now get back to your dorm and leave me in peace," he drawled, watching her from his lazy position in his chair, "I think it goes without saying that the events of this evening don't leave this room..."
Hermione nodded. "Of course, sir."
Her cheeks felt flushed and hot. She could only imagine what she looked like… Grabbing her satchel, she headed for the door.
"Oh, and Miss Granger..." he called out.
She turned around obediently to face him again.
"If you should feel that your detention was…incomplete… You may return Friday night at seven. We can resume your tutelage then," he told her, drawing out each syllable of his words with a familiar, dramatic flare. His eyes seemed to be peering straight into her soul.
"Thank you, Professor," she replied quietly, fidgeting restlessly with the strap of her satchel, "Perhaps I will. Goodnight, sir."
With one last look behind her, she opened the door and exited the classroom. As the door clicked shut behind her, she could have sworn she heard a quietly murmured, 'Good girl.’