BE WARNED! DARK! This is not my best writing, but it's just a little Oneshot I had in my head and needed to get out. I've been keeping it to myself because it's not particularly polished, but then I figured I might as well share it. BUT it's NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. That is… it's a DUBCON, as many of my Oneshots are… And it's QUITE GRAPHIC. But, that being said, I hope you enjoy!
Hermione stares down at the lines in the woodgrain of the Headmaster's desk. She cannot quite bring herself to meet his eye.
"You do understand, do you not, Miss Granger?" She can only nod, eliciting a world-weary sigh from the old wizard sitting across from her. "Professor Snape's behaviour was not only logical, given the circumstances, but it was humane. You were spared a great deal of pain." More nodding. More tears. "I am sure you would prefer not to think about it now, but you must consider the alternatives. Had you not been Imperiused, the… event… would have been far worse. I can assure you that Severus…" he pauses, seeming to decide that the thought is best left unsaid. But Hermione understands. Dumbledore wants her to know that her professor would have leapt at the opportunity to avoid the experience altogether; that he took no enjoyment from it at all. He must have realized that she would recognize the lie. She may have been out of her fucking mind during, but she has perfect recollection after-the-fact. She can't easily forget the expression Snape wore… the way his mouth fell open, his eyes scrunching closed, his hands weaving themselves in her hair of their own volition. She shudders. She can still remember what it felt like to desire that response in her professor.
"Perhaps," Dumbledore's voice startles her out of her reverie, "it would be best for you to rest, Miss Granger. We must be grateful that you were returned to us, relatively unharmed. But I am afraid the matter calls for secrecy. I must ask that you refrain from discussing it with your friends. Harry, especially, has a lot on his mind."
Hermione nods as she stands, too tired to give any verbal response. She accepts a proffered vial of Dreamless Sleep, allows the Headmaster to escort her from his office. From there, her mind is blank until she reaches Gryffindor Tower.
And then the memories begin to filter through.
She ought to down the Dreamless Sleep and go to bed. She ought to shut out thoughts of the incident and let them dissolve into hazy memory. She ought to pretend nothing happened at all.
But she can't.
The last thing she remembers doing of her own free will is struggling against the iron grasp of two hulking Death Eaters. She remembers the way Lord Voldemort laughed, remembers the spike in fear as they Vanished her robes. Remembers her stomach sinking when she was presented to Professor Snape.
His hands were just as rough on her wrists as her captors' had been. His snarl was filled with every hateful thing he'd ever said to her. His eyes showed nothing but hate and a greedy, unfamiliar emotion that she identified as lust. And his breath had been hot on her neck when he had yanked her to him and leaned down to whisper menacingly in her ear. But his words had only brought confusion. "This is for the best."
"My Lord," he purred, "I only wish to please you. But this brat would please me far better if she were truly at my command."
"Severussss," came the icy voice of the Dark Lord, "she is yours to do with as you please."
She had only felt fear for a swift moment, as her professor raised his wand, and then: "Imperio!" Suddenly, she wanted nothing better than to please him. And she understood exactly how.
Her body came into contact with his own, her arms reaching up around his neck, her bare breasts pressing against his chest. He growled, eyes wide with desire and alarm. Her mouth brushed his jaw with heady need as his hands settled on her waist. And then she was meeting his mouth, brushing her lips against his before opening her mouth to him. And he responded.
Hermione shudders to remember the way she had kissed her professor with wanton abandon. And he had devoured her in return, thrusting his tongue down her throat and twisting his fingers in her hair as his body grew hard with desire. She had felt him pressing against her pelvis. And she had rubbed herself against him.
She remembers his hands kneading the flesh of her waist and slowly, almost hesitantly, slipping upward. When they covered her breasts, both of them moaned in pleasure. His pleasure was her own. And she found herself slipping a slender hand beneath his many layers, fighting to find his skin. It never would have occurred to Hermione Granger to be so bold. But she took him in hand and he threw his head back in a moan, his mouth falling open as his fingers softly kneaded her breast.
And then he was leading her somewhere. And then he was seated before her, undoing his trousers with hurried fingers, and spreading his legs in a lazy gesture that was somehow eager. And she was crouching at his feet. When she took the swollen tip of his cock into her mouth, it didn't occur to her to be curious about its salty flavour. She simply relished the way he leaned back-tense, gripping the arms of the chair-and moaned.
With an instinct that must have come from his internal commands, she began to pleasure him, sucking softly on the tip before running her tongue up and down his length. She teased him thus until neither could stand it a moment longer, and then she took him bit by bit into her mouth. He groaned in agony, straining against the instinct to find his release any way he could. But she knew without him having to say that this torture was his favorite part. She could feel how much he liked the way she felt. He was almost pulling away from her in agonized she teased him, taking him farther and farther into her mouth and moaning around him.
That was when he lost control. His fingers twisted in her hair and then he was using that leverage to hold her in place as he bucked against her hot, wet mouth. She was taking him all the way down her throat, now, heedless of any pain she might have felt under different circumstances.
And then he was coming, crying out, his face a study in agony as hot seed poured down her throat in pulsing bursts. It was as if she herself had come. She moaned in pleasure more intense than she had ever felt in her life, meeting eyes with her professor to show how much she was enjoying this.
And she remembers seeing a twinge of guilt, like a shadow passing across his face. It is enough to know that the rest is an act, or as much of one as it can be. In her logical mind, she knows that he did what he had to do. But he enjoyed it, too. Oh, yes. He enjoyed it, too.
She swallowed around him, squeezing him in just the right way and gently suckling the tip once more before climbing onto his lap. And then she had met his mouth with her own to let him taste himself on her tongue. That aroused him to no end. She made her mouth soft, probing him gently with her tongue in a manner so sensual and vulgar that just remembering made her cheeks flame. But he growled with renewed arousal, running his hands down the length of her back, squeezing her waist, kneading the firm flesh of her arse.
"I want you so bad, Professor," she had said. "I'm so wet. See?" And she had reached down between her legs, taking his hand and pulling those long, pale fingers to her core. She is embarrassed just thinking about it, her face growing warm at the thought. How brazen. How bold. She would never…
His eyes had clouded over in a way he certainly couldn't have faked, and his jaw had grown slack as she pushed first one finger, then two inside of herself. "Oh Merlin," he had said, almost to himself, almost involuntarily. And she began to writhe against his hand, watching his cock grow hard once more.
Bucking against her professor's hand, Hermione had thrown her head back, bringing one hand up to toy with her own breast as the other slipped down to pleasure herself.
She can still remember the way his eyes traced her flesh, watching her bring herself off.
"Oh fuck, Professor!" she cried out, "I can't stand it anymore! Please! I want you inside of me." And she had taken him in hand again, as his fingers withdrew, and rubbed herself against his cock, relishing the way he collapsed back against the chair and grunted.
She teased the head of his cock against her entrance, rubbing hard against him, rough in her enthusiasm. And then, with a cry, she pushed him past her virginity. The pain of it fell away like an unnoticed detail and she bucked against him, completely out of control. His eyes had squeezed shut and his mouth had fallen open in an expression of anguish. And she had cursed and cried out as pleasure wracked her in waves like nothing she had ever known, sending pulses of electric ecstasy to the very tips of her toes. Then her professor threw them to the floor, bucking hard against her, his mind lost in the depths of agonizing lust. And when he came a second time, growling like a primal beast, she wrapped her fingers in his hair and kissed his forehead, whispering soft assurances that it had been so good, so very very good. And distantly she had known that he hated himself for all of it.
But he enjoyed it. And nothing he or the Headmaster told her would ever convince her otherwise. He had definitely, absolutely relished every second of it.
And the scary thing was, so had she.