An Hour of Snape

BY : Desert_Sea
Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione
Dragon prints: 11808
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

A/N: So after my first oneshot turned into a fiveshot, I’ve finally managed to pull one together. Please let me know if you enjoy it and I might try another. DSx

Thank you to the lovely Macaiah for this story idea. I hope you like how it turned out.


An Hour of Snape

Hermione had absolutely no interest in fucking Draco. There wasn’t even a cobwebbed corner in the dirty basement of her mind that could entertain the possibility of having his lecherous hands exploring her naked body as his ridiculously pale face loomed over her like a particularly bad moon rising.

Snape, however, was an entirely different matter. He may be more abstruse than an Advanced Arithmancy text, with a countenance that placed him squarely on the moon’s dark side but, for her, the deep and abiding mystery of him was all part of the attraction. Of course she couldn’t actually fuck him. The very thought made her insides want to evacuate at high speed—it was utterly terrifying. But the opportunity to experience him, to explore him safely, to enact her fantasies with him fully and, most importantly, risk-free was just too good to pass up. 

The unfortunate part was that she would have to fuck Draco—or at least a Polyjuiced version of him. It turned out that he was the only one with the brewing skills to produce a potion that was consistently reliable. For the past six months he’d been selling opportunities for students and, rumour had it, certain staff to request their ultimate fantasy fuck. For a price, he’d obtain the ingredients, brew the potion and then allow them have their way with him or, more precisely, the Polyjuiced target of their fantasy, for one hot and heavy hour. He was basically whoring himself out but it served a multitude of needs and had made him extraordinarily popular and, reportedly, quite wealthy in a short space of time.

He also happened to have perfected the voice transition component of the potion which had been the final selling point for Hermione. If she was going to fuck Snape, and pay good money to do so, she absolutely had to have the voice . . . that clit-tinglingly, rich, sexy voice. Fucking mute Snape would be delicious; fucking speaking Snape would be utterly divine.

Determined to ensure, however, that Draco didn’t ruin the moment with his usual dumb shit, she’d written out a few choice phrases on a scrap of parchment. Unfortunately that bit of fantasy preparation had already turned into a soggy rag in her palm as she strode breathlessly along the corridor. Not a good start. And that wasn’t the only issue with rising damp that had befallen her. Her knickers were already soaked with arousal and she hadn’t even reached the Potions classroom door.

Glancing around, she delved a hand under her skirt and tugged at the damp fabric, trying to dissuade it from vacuum-packing her pussy. Ditching her knickers altogether had been a serious consideration, but with Peeves’ new past-time of rocketing through the corridors in an effort to drive up the girls’ skirts, and the risk that inadvertently flashing her lily-white arse to the wrong person may thwart plans that had been months in the making, she’d decided to persist with her pussy-packing panties. 

Her pace quickened. One hour. One hour was all she had. And there was so much she wanted to do with him. It had started off as a relatively innocent fascination—a tendency to catch herself admiring certain idiosyncrasies—the elegant slope of his wrist as he gripped his wand, the delicate unfurling of his fingers as he sprinkled ingredients into the cauldron, the way words lingered delectably on his lips. But it had grown into a rather sordid obsession. She could barely drag her eyes from him in class, instead imagining what he looked like under all those dark, brooding layers.

She’d masturbated over him more times that she could count. And the frequency had been escalating. There was always a frantic flurry of self-stimulation immediately following his classes—ambitious attempts to exorcise him from her mind and diminish his hold on her body. But her pussy seemed to have developed a serious case of orgasmic amnesia where it no longer recalled the last time it had come, expecting to be indulged whenever he surfaced in her mind—which was unfortunately all the time.

Was Polyjuiced Draco the solution? Probably not. But Snape was so distant and inaccessible, she felt she had as much chance of seducing and conquering him as she did the Rock of Gibraltar. In fact, the Rock of Gibraltar was far more likely to respond to her advances. Draco was a lewd little ferret but he was up for anything; she’d also paid extra to ensure that he would do exactly as he was told. This would be her only chance to turn her fantasies into anything resembling reality and she was determined to make every precious minute with Polyjuiced Snape count.

Less like butterflies and more like randy hornets dive-bombing her uterus, the sense of anxiety and anticipation that captured her as soon as she stepped up to the classroom door only added to the steady flow of arousal seeking to breach her gusset. She was panting. But that was the fear. Despite the fact that she’d come to look forward to his classes more than any other, he still petrified her, the threshold to his domain always managing to spontaneously relocate her heart to her throat. But this time she actually had nothing to fear. Snape was away. An announcement had been made months earlier about his absence this week and the changes to his classes as a result.

So she’d taken advantage of this rare, Snape-free occasion, timing her Polyjuice rendezvous with Draco for absolute authenticity. They’d use Snape’s classroom, his desk, his quill, his . . . whatever she could find that his supple and sensuous fingers had touched. Even the chair that his patently proper buttocks tastefully graced. It was borderline creepy. Actually, it was positively creepy—she’d well and truly crossed the line. Her actions were little more than those of a stalky pervert—but she comforted herself somewhat with the thought that it wasn’t without purpose. She genuinely hoped that this interlude would be sufficient to expunge Snape from her system as he had become, frankly, debilitating.

She had N.E.W.Ts to prepare for, a life away from Hogwarts to look forward to, and yet her mind was overridden with sexy Snape fantasies. Fucking him out of her consciousness might seem a little counter-intuitive but, then again, she wasn’t immune to a good delusion if it suited her needs. She’d previously managed to convince herself that Ron was sexy after all.


Snape was pissed off. It was supposed to have been a holiday but it had been a veritable disaster. His mother’s relatives, painful at the best of times, had insisted upon trying to set him up with some hideous witch friend. They’d decided that now that he was ‘getting on’, he could no longer afford to be 'picky.' Picky? Was it picky to desire someone with their own teeth? To insist upon them having less facial hair than himself? To seek an intelligence that surpassed that of a troll, or to crave a level of sexual attraction that didn’t shrivel his gonads to the size of knuts?

He’d had enough. He’d returned home. Or as close to home as he ever got. It was really work though wasn’t it? Hogwarts was his place of work. And even though he was still officially on holidays, he found himself sitting at his desk, marking essays by students who could barely craft an intelligible sentence. He sighed. Was he too picky? Perhaps. And could he really afford to be? There was certainly no one with his wish list of desirable traits knocking down his door.

“Knock, knock.”

He was away. Everyone knew he was away. So why, then, was there someone banging on his door? He sighed again. He was constantly at the beck and call of both staff and students. And it was always something mundane . . . or unpleasant. Why couldn’t they just leave him the fuck alone?

The knock came again—more insistently.

“Come in,” he growled.

Good start. That voice. It was perfect. It couldn’t be more perfect. Chewing the smile from her lips, Hermione pushed the door open and stopped short. A fuse of excitement flared in her core. He was sitting there. At his desk. Pretending to mark papers. Exactly as she’d instructed.

It was so surreal. The likeness was absolutely uncanny. Perhaps the scowl was a little deeper than usual, the skin a little more pallid but it was extremely good, amazing in fact. Hermione squeezed the damp parchment in her hand as she felt a fresh shot of arousal seep from her lips. Right, you sexy bastard. You’re . . . mine.

“Miss Granger,” he drawled, crossing his arms as she approached. “What is it this time? Not enough homework set? Discovered an error in one of the seminal texts?”

Hermione smirked. Not bad. She was somewhat surprised that Draco knew a word like ‘seminal’ but it’s resemblance to ‘semen’ was probably what had plunged it to the depths of his vocabulary.

“Nothing like that, Professor,” she replied, not bothering to temper her tone. If he was going to play Snarky Snape, she would be playing Haughty Hermione. And if he could sustain this level of quality banter it might even be fun. “I happen to have a proposal for you.”

Unusual. Snape’s eyes flickered over her as she stopped in front of him, one hand propped defiantly on her hip. Then he noted with rising alarm that the top three buttons of her shirt were undone, that her skirt was hitched up so high he could practically see the curve of her arse, and she seemed to be . . . smiling. Something was definitely wrong. A curse?

“In fact, I have an offer that I challenge you to . . . refuse,” she purred, gazing directly, disconcertingly, into his eyes.

She approached further—deliberate, sultry steps bringing her so close she was suddenly hovering over him. He tilted his head back, taking in her shining brown eyes and devious smirk . . . What was it? Drugs? The Imperius?

He was about to demand to know what she was up to—what had happened to her—when she suddenly leaned forward, resting both hands on his shoulders. Lifting a long, bare leg she straddled his lap before sinking down with a sigh, rocking her hips as though settling into the sweet spot of her favourite chair. What the fuck was going on?

He looked completely taken aback. Brilliant. He must have been practising in the mirror because it was very authentic. But she wouldn’t tell him that—he was being paid a small fortune after all. Pulling her wand from her sleeve, she flicked it at the door, sliding the bolt into place. And seeing his even more convincing expression of disbelief, she placed a finger against his parted lips, shaking her head.

“I’m yet to put my offer . . . on the table.” Her voice was low and breathy, just how she’d practised. But it wasn’t all acting, being this close to his firm, unyielding body, having his warm crotch nestled against her backside was stealing a good deal of the air from her lungs. “But before I do, I want you to tell me how much you want me.”

He balked. “How much? . . . “

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. Surely you’ve worked out how to drive him by now?”

His deepening frown might be extremely authentic, but it was also annoying.

“For fuck’s sake,” she huffed.

He must be glitching. That sometimes happened with Polyjuice—the target interface sometimes lagged, causing this type of stilted behaviour. She’d put up with it for now but it better not interfere with her plans—or she’d be demanding her money back.

He stared at her, his luminous features seemingly frozen, clutching the arms of his chair with white-knuckled fists.

Definitely glitching. Fuck it—there were plenty of other things she could explore.

“Let’s see what we have here.” Reaching up, she scooped his long raven hair with both hands before allowing it to trickle between her fingers.

“It’s actually not that greasy,” she muttered, peering a little closer at his scalp as she repeated the process. “I think it’s just really fine.”

Is that what she was here for? A trichology lesson?

Her fingernails crawled across his scalp as though she was searching for nits. It was exceedingly improper but, rather than catapulting her off his lap as he should have, he found himself succumbing to an involuntary shiver. No one had ever touched his hair like that, and even though her movements were detached and rather clinical, it made him feel inexplicably tingly.

After combing thoroughly through his locks, she bundled the whole lot up and cinched it into a knot above his head.

She tilted her head to the side, appraising him. “What do you think? A man bun?”

A man what??

She pulled a face as she twisted his hair around her fist, angling her head one way and then the other before grasping his chin and turning his head to the side. “I don’t mind that.”

As his frown returned, she snorted, letting his hair fall back to his shoulders.

“That fucking frown.” She trailed her index finger down the deep furrow slicing through his brow. “Do you think that patch of skin has ever seen the light of day?”

His eyebrows jiggled furiously but she kept her fingertip there, drilling directly between his eyes.

“Like a bum crack.”

Now that was quite enou—!

She licked him. Without warning, she leaned forward and dragged the tip of her tongue from the bridge of his nose, up through the crevice bisecting his eyebrows.

Sitting back with a satisfied smirk, she wiped her saliva away with her thumb. “Doesn’t taste like one.”

He was stunned. This was, without a doubt, one of the most bizarre experiences of his life. It was so strange, in fact, he found himself unable to react, staring at her in mute shock.

With an exasperated toss of her locks, she suddenly clamped her hands roughly around each side of his jaw and pulled him to her, pressing her lips against his.

Glad she’d finally made her move, Hermione moaned loudly. Draco already knew how hot she was for Snape so she didn’t care if she sounded like a wanton harlot—she intended to enjoy herself as much as possible. They’d also signed a contract. Whatever happened in the realm of her PFF (Polyjuice Fantasy Fuck), stayed in PFF.  

But he didn’t move a muscle, not so much as a twitch. It was quite off-putting to be snogging what was basically a tepid corpse but she was determined not to be thrown. She’d been admiring the elegant contours of his mouth for so long that the chance to finally feel his soft, silky petals against hers was still quite delicious. Prodding the tip of her tongue at the tight seam between his lips, she finally managed to get him to open up—just a tiny bit, a hairline fracture, but she made the most of it, dipping into him and tasting a little of his moist heat.

What the fuck was she doing? Was she mad? Possessed? As her insistent tongue tried to worm its way between his lips, hands locked around his jaw, she ground her pelvis into him, stroking her pubic bone against the clothed surface of his unsuspecting cock. Unfortunately, despite being as bemused as he was, his member seemed to be less concerned about explanations and more concerned about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. A few slow drags of her smouldering undercarriage over his crotch and suddenly he felt himself swelling. This couldn’t happen! There was clearly something seriously amiss. He needed to get to the bottom

She suddenly pulled back, a broad grin spreading across her lips as she raised an eyebrow, continuing to grind her pussy in gratuitous waves against him.

“Now, that’s a little more like it.” She slipped her bottom lip between her teeth in a look that she knew made her look both naughty and seductive. She’d been practising that one too. There wasn’t any particular need to seduce Draco but she was determined to behave as though this was Snape. Frankly, she’d imagined Draco would have been better, far more responsive, but perhaps Snape was difficult to embody. It would be no particular surprise, he was a recalcitrant bastard after all.

But, she reassured herself, checking her watch to make sure, it was still early. And she had what she was after—a beautifully firm erection to work with.

He had to stop her. Immediately. Before anything else happened. Before she discovered

“Fuck!” He sucked the expletive in as she traced her fingers over the contours of his member, lip sliding between her teeth again in that sultry look that made his cock leap with a fresh surge of blood. 

Leaning into him, she squeezed her breasts together, her cleavage emerging like the curves of a ripe peach from the shadowy crevice of her shirt. “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” she murmured before kissing him again. This time she caught him off guard. Her tongue was inside him; her fist tugging at his cock through his trousers.

Get her off your lap! Send her the fuck away before it’s too late!

But it was already too late. She had his raging hard-on clutched in her surprisingly deft grip. No matter what happened from this point onward, he couldn’t deny his response to her.

She’d done it to him though—he could claim that he was simply an unwilling victim in all this. But as these thoughts tumbled around inside his brain, he realised that he had no such intention. He wouldn’t be crying foul to anyone.

He should really be questioning her—discovering the reason for her bizarre behaviour. And yet he couldn’t. She may be cursed; she may be hallucinating. But this was the best offer he’d had in a very long time.

It was wrong. But as she writhed against him with increasing vigour, he felt something break away inside him. It was his sense of propriety, a shattering of the student-teacher boundary—and whatever had been keeping his voice in check. A low growl emerged from deep in his throat and she responded with a noisy snort as she continued to plunge her tongue into him. 

Oh Gods, finally! Hermione was worried that he’d lost the voice altogether. But the moans and sighs that were now seeping from him as she continued to explore and stimulate his cock and mouth gave her heart. Perhaps it was time to really get him to open up.

Flushed and panting, she released him, pleased to see a little colour now staining his cheeks, his lips swollen from her amorous crushing and his black eyes no longer dead, instead infused with smouldering bronze highlights that danced in the flickering lamplight of the classroom.

Draco didn’t want her. She knew that. But she had turned him on sufficiently for him to perform as she needed him to. This next part was all for Snape. She had to put Draco completely out of her mind to do it, but she also needed to get a few things straight first.

“I want you to read these to me,” she said, pulling the parchment from her sleeve where she’d shoved it. “Slowly.”

Prising his hand off the arm of the chair, she curled his fingers around the sodden parchment.

“And don’t you dare even hint to anyone how good I am at this. I’ve read and watched a lot. Okay?”

He nodded numbly. Oh fuck. What had he just agreed to?

Slithering off his lap, she knelt between his knees and reached for his fly, having to negotiate the impressive tenting in his trousers in order to release the first button. Her hands were sweating with excitement. She could hardly believe that she was finally going to get to see it . . . and touch it . . . and . . . taste it.

He could stop her. Right now. Right at this moment. He could knock those nimble, searching fingers away. Order her to desist. To leave him. Alone. In his dungeon. He could demand that she take her sultry lips and bright eyes and thrusting hips and go. He could seize her wrists, finally stopping her slithering hands from delving enthusiastically into his trousers and . . . and grabbing his

“Oh my God! It’s huge! Did you know that?”

Hermione held his emancipated member in both hands, an expression of awe lighting up her features as though she’d just found a lost treasure.

His eyebrows shot up. Did he know the dimensions of his own cock?

“If I had a cock like this, I wouldn’t be keeping it a secret,” she murmured.

His eyebrows remained up. Did she have a cock?

Leaning forward, she ran the tip of her nose down his length before it was joined by the tip of her tongue, trickling a moist trail down the contours of one of his prominent veins.

“Mmmm,” she moaned, dipping closer to apply a wet kiss. And another.

His vision blurred, he could barely focus on her. His eyes wanted to roll back, immersing him in pure sensation. Those hands, those lips, that tongue, that

“Why aren’t you reading?”

He blinked back to reality before snatching up the parchment and unfurling it.

She watched him. Clearly not intending to continue until he did.

“Um.” His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. Clearing his throat, he tried again.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Granger.”

“Slower.” She frowned.


“And lower.”


His eyes flickered between her expectant face and the parchment. Lower.

“Thank you for coming . . . Miss . . . Granger.” His baritone was so deep it was practically being siphoned up from the soles of his boots.

Her frown was replaced by a relieved smile. “Better.”

He watched as she dipped back toward his cock, extending her tongue to lick around his swollen head. Her eyes returned to his.

“Continue,” she encouraged thickly around her protruding tongue.

He took a deep breath.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for calling you an—“

Had he called her that?

“—an insufferable know-it-all.”

Her tongue continued its languorous journey around and around his corona.

“I only . . . I only said it because I—“

He inhaled rapidly through his nose as her tongue dipped into his slit, wiggling around before swiping away.

“Because I secretly . . . desired you and I have difficulty expressing my . . . feelings.” The last word was a rising groan as she took his entire head in her mouth and sucked on it.

She rocked her jaw from side to side, pulling at his glans until he was forced to release the chair with his free hand and cup the back of her head. Merlin’s bollocks she was good.

But she stopped again, eyebrow raised in anticipation, cock still buried in her mouth.

“Ah . . . yes,” he rasped.

Opening the fist that had clenched reflexively with her efforts, he continued to read.  

“I also wish to apologise for making fun of your . . . your teeth?”

He couldn’t remember doing that either.

She nodded briefly before pulling her lips back to reveal her perfectly straight, white teeth that were currently set around his cock in a manner that could be considered menacing.

Is that what this was all about? Punishing him for his bastardly ways by arousing him and then removing a chunk of his cock?

But it turned out to be only a brief dental interlude. She resumed pumping her fist vigorously up and down his length as she dipped her head, forcing him deeper into her throat.

He whimpered, his fingers curling into her mane as her unbridled cavorting tugged mercilessly at his resolve. It was a ridiculous notion really. There was no resolve whatsoever to tug at. It had been rapidly whittled away very early in the cock sucking process. All she was tugging at now was the thread of tension that had wound so tightly around his balls that there was currently no more than a few pumps and fervid sucks between the moans of pleasure that had commandeered his voice box and a particularly violent ejaculation.

“Stop,” he grunted, grabbing her desperately by the hair.

He hadn’t really considered how she’d respond to him saving her from a throatful of come, but the flashing fury in her eyes certainly caught him by surprise.

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she propped her elbows on his knees, engorged lips hanging apart as she sucked in deep breaths.

“Now listen to me.” She held up a finger. “If I want to make you come, I will. This is on my galleon and I’ll decide what happens.”

Her galleon? Was that something else that had slipped his memory?

“Now,” she admonished him with a disapproving glare. “You need to make it up to me.”

Standing, she turned aggressively and swept an arm across his desk, sending ink and parchment flying. Then she grasped the collar of her shirt and tore it open, buttons pinging like missiles in all directions. The sudden reveal of a long swathe of perfect, creamy skin, the sumptuous swell of her breasts as they spilled over a skimpy black bra, the palms that skated over the flat plane of her abdomen, all under the cyclopean gaze of his glistening cock still jutting perkily from his fly—made him wonder, again, what kind of dark magic must be at play.  

Why the fuck was she here? Was it a curse? A joke? A trick? A dare? She certainly seemed genuinely miffed by his attempt to control proceedings. And why had he simply sat there and taken it? Was it the shock of such an aggressive seduction? Would he have been so passive if some other person, student or staff, had waltzed in here and proceeded to suck him off? The answer, he knew, was ‘No.’

He wasn’t blind. Or made of stone. He’d noticed her. Particularly over the past year, he’d noticed her growing, developing, transforming into a striking young woman. But he’d never seen this side of her, or even imagined that it existed—passionate, horny, and so fucking hot he found himself practically hyperventilating as she tossed her skirt aside and proceeded to dig her even skimpier black panties from her sodden slot, a single digit rimming crudely, but somehow erotically, around the inside her gusset.

Her fingers lingered down there, tickling over the soft curves of what he was relieved to note were definitely labia, not a cock, before rubbing over her clitoris. She regarded him intently, hunger infusing her bold and penetrating gaze. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was just as hot for him. But it was impossible. He was the greasy, sallow bat who haunted the dungeons with imperious rancour—and that was only the opinion of the Hogwarts staff. Although she had commented that his hair wasn’t as greasy as it looked, whatever that meant.

Eyes never leaving his, she suddenly reached back and grasped his desk with both hands, lifting her backside onto the edge before rocking her cheeks to spread her thighs apart.

“I want you to lick me . . . through my underwear.” She raised her chin as if daring him to disobey her.

Then she leaned back, propping herself on her elbows as she lifted her knees and placed her heels on the desk. She still hadn’t broken eye contact, and was now peering at him through the Vee of her legs, her pussy lined up with his face like a target.

His eyes flickered uneasily between her recumbent form and his throbbing cock. Should he at least attempt to put his dick away? No, it was unlikely to cooperate anyway—like a sleeping bag that refused to be crammed back into its cover—it was of reasonable proportions as she’d pointed out, and even more voluminous now that it was standing to rigid attention. He would just have to leave it to its own devices, bobbing about in targeted pursuit of something hot and warm, still eager for an opportunity to spray its load.   

In that moment, he realised that not only should he be concerned about the intentions of his audacious cock, but mortified by the fact that he was seriously considering making the active and conscious decision to pleasure her, one of his students, by ‘licking her through her underwear’. Now that he was standing over her—this most unusual and impetuous Granger-shaped desk ornament—he felt again that he was teetering on a precipice. But, he reminded himself, he did still have the option of turning and walking away—leaving her there, spreadeagled on his desk, moist and panting and wanting him. He swallowed thickly.

Again, it was a physical impossibility. His body wouldn’t let him. In fact, he had a feeling it would kill him if he tried, his cock tasked with the job of strangling him in his sleep.

She was so impatient—tapping her fingers irritably, brown eyes drilling into him. But that only turned him on more. And when he finally made up his mind, he didn’t hesitate. In one swift movement he leaned between her spread legs, placing a hand on the either side of her torso, eyes fixed on hers as he lowered himself down.

Halle-fucking-lujah! Hermione had been on the verge of asking for her money back. This was definitely a case of false advertising, a faulty product. Draco was controlling Snape like a fucking robot. Everything was so laboured and mechanical. Everything apart from his cock of course—that luscious cock. In fact, it had been the only thing keeping her there.

Until now. Now she was relieved to feel his weight gradually sinking down onto her, his black eyes looming closer, reflecting the light like polished marbles, his warm breath flooding her cleavage. Or was it Draco’s breath? Could breath even be owned? It was just the movement of air molecules after all. And air didn’t belong to—holy fuck!

His mouth suddenly closed over one lacy nipple and she found herself clenching her fists and shuddering with ecstasy. It was the intense heat against the dungeon chill, the moisture as it soaked through to her sensitised skin, the soft pressure as he sucked, his cheeks hollowing deliciously, those lips curling in a firm and serious execution of her demands.

And then his tongue emerged—in long, languorous strokes, sliding out to knead and prod the nub of her nipple until it puckered and throbbed, abrading delectably against the lace. Then he started on the other one, nudging and teasing and sucking . . . but not slopping or slurping . . . not even a little bit . . . just long easy breaths through his nose as he worked away, almost studiously. She might have imagined such an approach if it were the real Snape. He would treat even nipple sucking as a skill to be mastered. But Draco? Perhaps she’d underestimated him. It was unhurried, sensuous and made the bones in her neck dissolve, her head pitching and yawing with each moan that he drew from her.

Through heavy lids she watched him—his impossibly long eyelashes hovering against milky cheeks as he seemed to be lost in his intense feasting. An inexplicable sadness suddenly squeezed her chest—as though the illusion, the façade of what she’d been trying to create had finally dissolved. She’d foolishly allowed herself to imagine—just for an instant, to consider what it would be like if Snape really had enjoyed her like this. She realised then that it was what she’d wanted all along. Not this imposter.

But, of course, it was of no use. This was all she had. And she couldn’t deny that she was supremely aroused. She just needed to cling onto the illusion, to draw absolutely everything from it that she could. And her renewed sense of resolve was fortunately aided by the fact that his kisses had started to migrate . . . downward.

Sucking her nipples through lace wasn’t at all bad. The open weave meant that he could taste her, just tiny titbits, literally—sweet windows of warm flesh—and a little texture, the firm ridge of one puckered bud, the pliant softness of her breast. It was tantalising and surprisingly erotic and made him look forward to what was on offer at his next destination. Sliding his cheek down her smooth stomach, he occasionally dipped his lips to place moist kisses against her quivering skin. Then he caught himself, nuzzling, nestling his nose into the shallow bed of her bellybutton. He couldn’t explain it beyond being drawn to the intimacy of it, and the admission suddenly worried him.

Here was a girl who was likely taking mental notes to relate back to the exponents of some feeble dare. That’s probably where the ‘on my galleon’ line stemmed from—she was making money out of this, out of seducing the most hideous wizard imaginable to share with the rest of the Gryffindor dunderheads. She was probably laughing at him right now, at the fact that he’d let himself enjoy this moment, unguarded.

He stopped. And sighed into her skin. The truth hurt—more than he might have expected. He had been the butt of whispered jokes, muttered derision and less-than-subtle innuendos his entire adult life but he’d stopped letting it get to him. Until now. And it was her fault.

He lifted his head, glaring at her with hard black eyes. Hers were dazed, unfocused. But only for a second.

They narrowed.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Her words caught him off guard. He certainly wasn’t used to being spoken to like that.

“Don’t you think you’ve forgotten something?” she snapped.

“I don’t believe so,” he muttered drily before straightening to stand over her.

Eyes widening in disbelief, she sat up and grabbed his hand before yanking it back down and rubbing it between her legs, spreading herself even wider so he could feel how saturated the fabric over her pussy was.

“I hope you weren’t thinking of leaving me like that?” She looked incredulous.

“I believe you can . . . attend . . . to that yourself.” He replied, disconcerted by the fact that his face was now almost level with hers as she continued to grind his fingers into her pussy.

“Oh no you fucking don’t.” She gave an angry shake of her head before pulling the elastic of her knickers forward and thrusting his fingers down, pushing them through the silky pool of arousal at her opening before forcing him inside her. Holding him there, she began to rock her hips, allowing his digits to slide in and out of her pussy. “I have another . . .” She glanced quickly at her watch, “twenty five minutes with you. I’m not leaving until you make me come.”

He’d managed to stifle the groan that had attempted to escape as she’d forced his fingers into the most deliciously sodden snatch he’d ever encountered. But when her resolute gaze suddenly wavered and her determined jaw dropped, a small gasp sliding between her lips as his fingers obviously hit a spot, he realised that she wasn’t holding back whatsoever. Everything was hanging out, literally, for him to see, and feel—she was hardly trying to set him up. But why, then, was she here?

The pale column of her throat arched back as she whimpered and closed her eyes, continuing to thrust into his palm. “I imagined you eating my pussy,” she murmured. “Or fucking me. Or doing something with that nose.”


Her eyelids suddenly fluttered open. She no longer seemed angry. Instead she gave a small resigned smile and reached up to stroke his face. Trailing her fingertips up and down the bold ridgeline of his nose in what felt like a distinctly masturbatory gesture, she finished by gently squeezing the tip. “I wanted this . . . But I’ll put up with these.” She squeezed her pussy around his fingers. “How could a girl complain about having the most divine hands in the world inside her?”

And then he did groan. He couldn’t help it. She was complimenting him—and it seemed genuine. She actually seemed to like him. And the tone of her voice—so bloody wistful—as though this was some sort of regretful goodbye. She would be leaving soon. They all would. As they did every year. Year after year. He never missed them. Any of them.

But he would miss this. This bizarre exchange. Barely half an hour had elapsed but it’d been long enough to have him wondering and questioning what he’d been doing with his life.

She was still holding him firmly inside her, doing all the work to get herself off despite still sitting spreadeagled on his desk. She’d propped one arm behind herself and was using it to lift her buttocks, giving her greater leverage to thrust.

He, on the other hand, was doing absolutely nothing. Only watching her, the steady rise and fall of her breasts, her head pitching about as she responded to each fresh surge of sensation. She was just so fucking unaware—it was utterly . . . spectacular.

He curled his fingers and her eyes sprang open, her mouth forming a soft pink oval. Then he began moving his hand in time with her thrusts and her lids sank slowly as she gave in to the sensation, a moan, low and needy rolling from her throat. Moments later, he pulled his hand from her knickers and the moan turned into a howl of frustration.

Before she could berate him again, he grasped the elastic of her knickers in both hands and yanked them down. Her eyes widened with surprise as he pushed her legs apart, slipping a foot back and hooking it around the leg of his chair to drag it closer. If she wanted his nose, she would have it, and a few other parts of him as well.

Sinking down, he buried his face in her pussy to the euphoric strains of, “Oh Gods! Yesssss!”

She’d desperately hoped he would come around. She’d been rude and demanding and didn’t blame him for drawing the line. And she would, honestly, have put up with just using those delicious fingers to get herself off.

But now she had those lips, that tongue, that fucking nose, plunging, sucking and reaming her so completely that she was on the verge of tears. She’d been worried that she would leave here, after months of anticipation and planning, without any sense of satisfaction. Now she was worried that she would leave wanting him more. But it didn’t matter. This person didn’t really exist anyway. He was a Frankenstein—an amalgam of traits that amounted to little more than a magical deception.

But, fuck, she was willing to be deceived. Right then he could deceive her brains out. His nose nuzzled her clitoris as his tongue delved into her pussy. Grasping handfuls of his fine hair, she pressed him into her as she twisted and writhed, not wishing to dislodge him. She could feel the tension mounting so she took the opportunity to lift her head and watch. His face was shiny with her juices, his eyelids closed, lips puckered around her clitoris as he sucked it, long fingers now delving into her, stretching her tunnel walls as she squeezed him in return.

This was the best idea she’d ever had. She’d thank Draco for it later—after she’d finally allowed herself to let him—her decadent delusion—go.

“Gods. That is so . . . fucking . . . good,” she groaned hoarsely but wasn’t sure that he even heard.

Then she dropped her head back onto the desk and her vocalisations dissolved into unintelligible grunts as he rubbed at her front wall, flicking the head of her clitoris with his tongue.

“Unnnhhhh,” she warbled as she climbed the precipice. “. . . Uuuuhhh.” Higher pitched this time. Rapid breaths, head arching forward. And finally the explosion.  

Her hips shuddered and jerked as she came, mouth gaping in shocked ecstasy, the air lurching from her lungs in fits and starts with each spasmodic quake of her body.  

Her muscles had wound so tight around his fingers, he’d been forced to dig forcefully into her tunnel for the final thrusts but the sensation of her shattering, feeling her pussy pulsing and sucking at his fingers as she squirted her release across his wrist was a stunning reward for his efforts.

The sight of her firm, ripe body convulsing against his desk was yet another visual that he would be taking to his grave.

When he stood, she prised her eyes open to look at him.

“How long do you have left?” he asked.  

He should know. He took the potion. She flicked her watch around to look. “Ten minutes,” she panted.

“I don’t believe I’ll need that long.”

The ghost of a smirk flickered across his lips as he dragged her buttocks to the edge of the desk. Grasping his weeping cock in his fist, he pushed the head just inside her glistening entrance. And stopped.

“Tell me how much you want me,” he purred, mimicking her earlier line with a sexy twitch of his upper lip.

She didn’t care how much Draco knew about her Snape fantasies. It was already pretty fucking obvious. And she’d always intended to use this as a proxy to enact, and hopefully resolve, some of her intense and complicated feelings about him.

“I want you so much, Professor, that it physically hurts.”

Merlin! He hadn’t expected that at all. Had he hurt her?

“I want you so much that I have trouble sleeping. I forget to eat. I struggle to concentrate in class and often go through an entire day thinking of nothing and no one but you. I’m afraid that I might be infatuated. And whilst I’d hoped this would do something to quell that obsession, I’m afraid that it may have simply escalated it. You are as delectable as I’d imagined. And that cock is . . . well, I’ll just say that if you don’t shove it inside me soon, my pussy will simply suck it in and devour it of its own accord. Is that enough?”

She gazed up at him with a stark honesty that twisted his stomach.

It was more than sufficient. It was too much. But could it be true? Could she really be infatuated with him? It seemed unlikely, she had so many other options after all. But here she was, with him, imploring him to impale her. And while he hadn’t suffered from the same past infatuation with her, he was confident that, from this moment onward, he would. The experience already felt like a small but brilliant jewel in an essentially bland seam of existence. This diversion was exactly what he needed—a reminder that life still held elements that were worth living for—and he was grateful to her for that.

But when he finally decided upon his course of action, it became clear that he’d waited too long. The fire in her eyes had returned.

“Fuck me, Snape,” she growled. “Now.”

And he did.

“Oh . . . that is one . . . serious . . . cock,” she groaned breathlessly as he worked his way into the depths of her swollen pussy.

Her mouth fell open and she clawed helplessly at the desk, her hips automatically surging to meet his thrusts. Then his thumb was on her clitoris, kneading and rubbing, already urging her closer. When she finally managed to focus, she whimpered at the sight—it was just as she would always want to remember him. He was slamming into her with that deliciously flushed, glistening cock; his supple thumb was thrumming away on her clitoris like a maestro; tendrils of fine hair clung to his lips as he shuddered with each incursion to the hilt. But it was his face that captured her—gloriously enraptured and completely abandoned. She didn’t care where it came from. It was beautiful and vulnerable and utterly divine. Whatever happened, that would always be her Snape.

So it turned out that he didn’t need to settle for some hideous troll. There was someone like this. Someone soft and moist, sensuous but blisteringly passionate, someone strikingly beautiful but endearingly unaware, willing to let him have her. And as her pussy squeezed him desperately, he found himself digging deeper to give her everything he had.

“Gods!” she gasped, flailing around before finding the edge of the desk to grip onto.

He loved that look—the shock and disbelief that captured her features as he drove into her. She was close. As was he. Speeding up further, he clamped his hands around her thighs and focussed on ramming as hard as he could into her impossibly tight pussy.

“Oh, fuck,” he ground out as his balls tensed. This was going to be a monumental release in so many ways.

Her head arched back, eyebrows lifting, searching, then freezing as her pussy let go. She cried out—a shriek of ecstasy as her pussy shattered around the rigid column which continued to plunge forcefully into her. And moments later he joined her, his deep groan reverberating around the stone walls.

He was right. It was a monumental release—epic. Jets of ejaculate spurted over and over again from his shuddering balls, drawn out by the desperate milking action of her pussy. He’d never wondered if males could have multiple orgasms before but, on this occasion, it seemed to go on forever, his seed surging time and again, as though it was his last opportunity to leave his mark on this earth.

Hermione was still whimpering as she came down. Every time her pussy twitched, she felt his delicious dimensions embedded solidly inside her and it delighted her all over again.

Finally, she managed to gather herself sufficiently to speak,

“All I can say is, that was absolutely . . . fucking . . . amazing . . .”

Snape sighed in acknowledgement, inwardly congratulating himself.

“. . . Draco.”

He stopped.

And stared.

And died.

Everything suddenly crashed into place.

Draco. He’d seen him skulking around in the dungeon corridor earlier and sent him packing despite his urgent protests. Now he knew why the boy had been so reluctant to go. He had a date. And, if his current assumptions were correct, he also had a Polyjuice potion—which explained the missing ingredients from his store room.

Ashen, Snape withdrew his cock and turned away from her.

“What is it? Are you changing back?” Hermione sat up abruptly.

Snape remained quiet as he secured his buttons with shaking fingers.


Hermione reached out to touch his shoulder.

Snape whirled around to face her, his face quivering with barely-contained fury.

“Sorry . . . to disappoint,” he growled.

She frowned. “Disappoint? Didn’t you hear me? That was amazing . . . incredible. Exactly what I wanted.”

Snape straightened his frock coat with a firm tug. “Except not exactly . . . what . . . you . . . wanted,” he sneered. “Now get out of my classroom.”

Her frown deepened. What was this? More role play? He needn’t keep it up. She was more than satisfied. If she had the money, she’d pay for the same again.

She sighed. But if this was how he wanted to end it, she wouldn’t complain.


Snatching up her wand, she cast rapid incantations to cleanse and dress herself before turning to him for the final time. He hadn’t moved. And he still seemed to be upset about something.

“Look, I really enjoyed this. I’m sorry if you didn’t.” She hesitated. “But if I can’t have the real thing, then I’d like to go again in the future . . . If you’re up for it, that is.”

He continued to stare at her, crossing his arms defensively.

When he didn’t respond, she turned and headed for the door, flicking her wand to slide back the bolt.


She halted.

And slowly turned.

“Why what?”

His black eyes glittered as he slowly tapped one long finger against his bottom lip; he seemed to be searching for something.

“Why can’t you have the real thing?”

She didn’t respond immediately. Could she tell him the truth? He already knew too much anyway.

She shrugged.

“I might be infatuated with him but he . . . he still terrifies me.” She threw up a half-hearted hand. “He’s just so . . . huge. Monumental.”  

Snape remained silent.

“And he finds me frivolous. And annoying. He’s so powerful and serious . . . A man . . . and I’m . . . barely a woman . . . his student. It just wouldn’t work. I could never be myself. I’d constantly worry about saying and doing the right thing. He’s so critical. I could never ask him to do anything . . . not like we did today. I’d be mortified. And I can just imagine his disparaging sneer . . . he would find me . . . disgusting.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor under the weight of her final admission.

Then she heard it. A low scrape as the lock slid back into place. Looking up, she saw the finger that had wandlessly flicked it closed, still hovering over his crossed arms.

Could Draco do that?

“How long do you have left?” he asked, his chin lifting almost imperceptibly.

Hermione glanced at her watch. Then grabbed it with her other hand, holding it still as it had suddenly begun to shudder. Her limp hand then drifted up to cover her mouth.

She was falling. Except that she was frozen. The room was shrinking, closing in on her, stealing her air. She gasped. Choked. Then melted—sinking like a deflating balloon before collapsing in a pathetic pile on the cold stone floor, wrapping both arms around her head.

She began to sob.

If only she had a time turner she would go back and undo everything. She’d repeat all her classes, re-do all her assignments, listen to all of Ron’s bad jokes again but never, ever entertain the idea of a Polyjuice Fantasy Fuck. It had ruined her—

Strong arms suddenly grabbed her, lifting her off the ground. She felt herself carried a short distance before being sat down. On his lap. And he continued to hold her. And she continued to cry.

She cried until she ran out of tears, out of sobs, out of unladylike snorts, and only then did she feel ready to finally look at him. Prising open her waterlogged eyes she was surprised to find his face soft and his black eyes looking at her with . . . desire. And then he kissed her. Her horribly puffy lips, he scooped into the gentlest of unions—like a kiss from a rose, or a cloud. And she almost started to cry again. 

And then she felt his delicious fingers combing into her hair, grazing her scalp, massaging gently before he finally spoke, “It’s actually not that horribly bushy . . . I think it’s just really thick.”

She snorted before she could stop herself, her lips curling into a watery smile. His mouth ticked up in response, a small but definite smile.

“I guess now we’re even?” she croaked hopefully.

“Not . . . even . . . close.” His dark voice made her shiver. “You’re going to be making this up to me for a very . . . long . . . time.”

“Oh, thank fuck for that,” she sighed before capturing his lips with her own—less like a cloud; more like a gathering thunderstorm.

And this time he responded immediately.

No glitches.


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