Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 80085 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 10
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.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
A/N: For all you dark alcove lovers . . . this one’s for you. DSxx
Thanks to PhoenixRising87 for the chapter title.
MumOfTrips – ‘I'm shouting at my laptop like someone demented’ – LOL. I must apologise but I do enjoy the odd cliffy. I hope the wait wasn’t too agonising :)
OO – ‘Such an action-packed chapter with surprisingly little action’ – indeed, just a bit of waltzy groping (or gropey waltzing) in the end :) ‘I did not foresee the mid-dance tumescence test coming’ – that is, of course, one of the keys to executing a successful tumescence test, the element of surprise ;) ‘More Luna please’ – okay, I’ll see what I can do! ‘:P*** (<---Me drooling for more.)’ – Ooh, I like that one a lot . . . I may have to steal it xx
AnnaPompoir – Bahahaha, I loved the review cliffy . . . touche! ;)
Marionne25 – ‘why are you doing this to me? what have i ever done to you?’ – you have written me some lovely reviews and therefore, in return, I’ll give you another chapter :) xx
Cheichei87 – ‘It just shows what a girl boss Hermione is becoming, leaving the lost girl behind’ – yes, she does seem desperate to be ‘better’ but perhaps she has been a little too optimistic this time?. ‘girl knows she's going to get it, her shoes are off, she's running’ – ooh, yes, there’s no doubt about that! :) x
LissaDream – ‘No one wants to see murderous fury in Snape's eyes.’ – Totally, but so easy to imagine in those eyes. Cliffy averted . . . sort of xx
SickPuppy – ‘Yeah, Snape will respond REALLY well to being forced into the limelight and groped in public.’ – True, she’s likely to get a response, but it might be a little . . . unpredictable. ‘grumbles somemore about stupid Gryffindors’ – hahaha, I love those with short tempers for Gryffindor antics. :)
Kvarta – ‘And I discovered how dangerous can be reading your and OO stories in the intercity bus while colleague (I don't know well at all) sitting next to you XD’ – ooh, you are brave. I always make sure no one can see my phone from just about a 360 degree radius when I’m reading. ‘"sexual deviation" in scientific circles can be quite liberating and therapeutic’ – hmmm, I might have to look into this. Perhaps just writing about sexual deviation can be enough? ‘Funny thing is, the better she is, he is the one that is off balance.’ – yessss, exactly right! ‘injured animals usually are dangerous if they are not used to trust people’ – yes, trust is so key to all of this. ‘a great metaphor to summarise his life...alone, distant, secluded, detached from people and feelings alike to avoid getting hurt.’ – now you’re making me feel sad for this Snape :*** ‘talking about juggling the phials with nitroglycerine’ – hahaha, certainly not for the faint hearted :) ‘fury or passion, one can easily mistake one for the other’ – hmmm, excellent question, and very relevant for this next chapter! Here’s another chapter to save those poor knuckles of yours xx

Chapter 11 – Master Bait
At least he wasn’t running away from her anymore.
The sarcastic quip entered her mind, but disappeared just as quickly as she tripped over the top step and went down on one knee before quickly righting herself. She wanted to look back but she couldn’t. The image of his eyes, both forbiddingly black and devastatingly incendiary, had burned so deeply that they had already left a scar . . . she didn’t need to see them again.
Her jolting footfalls on the cold stone felt decidedly precarious with the slip of her stockings but she didn’t slow down. She hadn’t exactly expected him to be happy with her antics but there was something about his expression that seemed to transcend and nullify whatever tacit agreement they might have had.
She’d made the mistake of assuming that she knew him, that she understood him. But, in reality, there was nothing warmly familiar about him whatsoever. Each time they interacted, he took it to a new level, infused with further unpredictability, which meant that she could never get a solid handle on him. It was just his constant presence in her mind that had softened the edges, that had caused her to infuse more humanity into him than actually existed.
He was capable of doing literally anything to her. But was she capable of taking it?
She had begun to think that she was—that she could cope with anything. She even considered him responsible for it, for forcing her re-emergence. And yet it was, ironically, that confidence that had given her the courage to do what she had done to him.
But now? Now her heart was ready to explode out of her chest which, in turn, had almost exploded out of her ill-advised dress. She needed to get back to the safety of her room—to crawl under her blankets and attempt to wrap herself in a more comfortable delusion . . . one where the entire evening was reduced to nothing more than another errant, but mercifully safe, fantasy.
Awkwardly reaching under her dress, she pulled her wand from her stockings—the only place that would take it. Gripping the vinewood tightly, she ran with it like a baton. If she needed to use it, she would.
Trying to listen for pursuing footsteps above the roar of blood surging through her ears, the grating rasp of her breaths, the urgent thud of her feet, was impossible. She would just have to gather every ounce of her Gryffindor courage . . . and look back.
Whimpering with fear, she twisted her head as she ran, glancing down the corridor behind her. It was empty.
The relief was palpable, in fact it was audible, a strange hissing groan lurched, hot and raw, from her chest . . . almost a laugh. It was almost funny. In fact, it would have been funny . . . except that she was suddenly hit by a train.
The impact stole her breath away, hurtling her deep into the recesses of a pitch black alcove.
She landed, face first against a wall of frigid bricks, sucking in mouthfuls of damp air, laced with the stale fetor of ancient mortar. A hand was on her throat, forcing her head back.
It was his hand, trying to suffocate her . . . or perhaps trying to help her breathe. She couldn’t tell. She had never been able to tell . . . whether his ultimate intention was to restore her . . . or to tear her apart.
“Wasn’t it enough the last time?” His voice was breathy with exertion, broken with something else . . . anger? . . . betrayal?
Hermione attempted to swallow, her larynx catching on the firm sheaf of his fingers.
“To be captured? Trapped? Brutalised?” Each word slapped against her cheek.
She moaned breathlessly. Is that what he was going to do to her? Is that what he had planned?
“Stupid witch,” he spat viciously. “Weren’t the scars enough?”
Suddenly she felt his thumb grinding over the twisted letters on the inside of her forearm. She’d Glamoured them, but even in the dark he knew where they were.
Then it started. The claustrophobic press of his body against her back, the wall sucking the heat from her bare skin like a Dementor, the pressure of his thumbnail scoring back and forth over her shame . . . her mind started to melt. He knew her triggers . . . how to instantly dismantle her defences . . . how to thoroughly deconstruct her . . . he knew her . . . too well.
His lips alighted against her temple, insinuating a slick stream of utterances directly into her ear.
“You need it . . . the helplessness . . . the degradation. You might paint your provocations with a bold veneer but it is no more than another duplicitous stunt, a supplication for punishment dressed up as more bluff Gryffindor courage. You beg me to force your submission. You incite me to make you suffer . . . so you don’t have to do it yourself. You seek to make me responsible for what you want for yourself . . . for what you want to do to yourself. It’s far easier to play the victim than the perpetrator . . . isn’t it?”
Hermione shook her head in mute denial.
“These scars didn’t happen a year ago, or even months.” He gripped her arm harder. “And they didn’t happen once. How many times have you carved over them, scored that dirty sentiment into yourself?”
She swallowed down a sob, unable to answer. She’d lost count.
The pain, the repeat of it, did something to her, woke something inside her. But it was so nebulous, so fleeting, swamped instantly by disgust that she had never been able to characterise it.
“I’ll give you one chance to admit to your intentions—to tell me what you want from me?”
She closed her eyes.
How could she say it? How could she admit what she didn’t even know herself? His claims about her might have been delivered with the usual self-assurance but were they true? Was that really why she was compelled to return to him, to pursue him . . . to provoke him? He might see a lot, but did he really know her? Did he know her heart?
“The book,” she suddenly responded. “I want you to return my book.”
A low hiss of displeasure slithered down the back of her neck.
Then something cracked—his jaw perhaps.
“Maybe you could admit what your intentions are for me . . . why you have pursued me here,” she ventured boldly, her voice quiet but determined.
He suddenly whirled her around, slamming her back against the wall.
“Don’t try to insinuate that I’m some willing partaker of your pathetic manipulations,” he snarled. “This is entirely of your doing, the manifestation of your puerile, reckless ego. Your antics this evening have demonstrated just how self-indulgent you really are—your desperate need for attention, admiration . . . regardless of the outcome.”
“But I wasn’t . . . I’m not like that.” She heard the note of pleading in her voice. “I just wanted you to stop avoiding me. I only wanted yours . . . your attention.”
“Haven’t I given you enough?” His voice was tight with accusation. She could just make out the brittle sheen of his eyes.
Clearly he considered that she was manipulating him, using him. A spark of indignant fury suddenly flared inside her.
“Just what have you given me? Forced redemption? Maddeningly cryptic instruction? Cold, passionless exchanges?”
“Passionless?” he spat in her face. “What the fuck would you know about passion? When did you last harbour a mote of it? When were you anything more than a passive recipient?
He spoke the truth. She had lost much of her passion—but it was still there. Unfortunately the most memorable examples of late were when she masturbated. But prior to that . . . it was the book group. Somehow she didn’t consider that worth mentioning.
“Is this your attempt to incite passion?” he scoffed.
He suddenly tore open the low neckline of her dress, causing her breasts to burst free, the lifting charm still doggedly lifting. He roughly dragged his hand across both mounds, pulling at one nipple before discarding it in what felt like disgust.
She lowered her head. The dress had been a mistake . . . another mistake.
“No, I just . . . I . . . don’t know,” she admitted lamely, her anger ebbing away.
“And here we come to the root of the problem.” She could hear the derision in his voice. “You know nothing of yourself. And yet you presume to know me. You haven’t the remotest idea. Not the faintest clue. You suppose that this is as bad as it gets?” He snatched up her arm again, pushing her scarred forearm against her breasts.
“I want to know you,” she whimpered.
“No you don’t!” he growled, forcing her arm between her breasts, against her breastbone, the scar lying over her shambling heart. What was he trying to tell her?
“You don’t,” he grunted, with a final emphatic shove. It was infused with danger, a warning to back off.
He simultaneously stepped back from her. Although he stood perfectly still in the darkness, she could still hear him breathing. There was a decisiveness to the distance. It seemed that he was preparing to leave her. Again.
She couldn’t bear the thought of it.
“Aren’t you going to give me what I deserve, Headmaster?” she asked, allowing a note of gentle cajoling to suffuse her words. “My punishment for attempting to humiliate you? I clearly need to be taught a lesson . . . about respect.”
“Why don’t you run back to Potter?” There was a distinct sneer to his tone. “I expect he has something he wishes to give you.”
She stepped forward tentatively, unsure of how far away he was.
“But I don’t want him.” Her words hung in the air between them. “I want you.”
Then, reaching forward, she found his crotch, surprised to discover his weighty erection still present.
A breath shuddered from him.
Then he snapped.
She was bulldozed into the wall, her body slamming against it with a fleshy slap. Her dress lasted a second, torn completely in two despite its screeching protests; her knickers stood even less chance, shredded by his clawing fingers.
Without warning, she was lifted by a hand wedged between her bare buttocks, and pinned in place by the broad plane of his chest before she heard the sound of a zipper and immediately felt the firm, smooth head of his cock roving demandingly through her folds.
She could already tell that it was going to be a tight fit. And he wasn’t going to be holding back. She braced herself, digging her fingers into his shoulders.
Pressing his forearms against the insides of her thighs, he forced her legs apart before suddenly lunging forward with his full weight, sinking as far into her shocked pussy as it would allow.
Her head smacked against the wall, but she was barely aware of it.
His cock might have been substantial, far bigger than the few she’d sampled to date, but there was something else. As he pulled back and thrust into her again, she sensed a certain . . . roughness . . . to it . . . an unusual ridging down the shaft that should have been disconcerting but with the pussy-straining size of him, and the cervix-pounding depth of his incursions, it only served to stimulate her further, her husky, desperate moans rending the air.
Suddenly he shifted position. One arm slipped around behind her shoulders and the other braced her hips. He was effectively crushing her entire body into his, but mercifully also insulating her against the bitter chill and bone-jarring hardness of the wall. Enveloped within his arms, with his substantial height and strength behind every plunge, she felt herself being fucked more emphatically and more completely than she ever thought possible.
His hips drove upwards at the same time as he forced her down onto his cock, resulting in a rhythmic, fleshy pounding that was echoed by his own grunts of exertion, and her higher pitched keening. One of her hands still clung to his shoulder but the other had found its way to his neck, knotting into the hair at the nape, pulling it as he rammed into her with mounting force.
‘Passionless’ had certainly been a misnomer. His rasping moans through the damp lips ghosting against her cheek were infused with so much feeling—anguish, desire . . . fear, that she clung to him more tightly—a likely futile but genuine attempt to reassure him.
But she soon lost sense of him altogether as her pussy was pounded into another plane. Her labia and clitoris pulsated as one, beaten into submission by the hammering of his pubic bone; her tunnel was burning from the mounting friction, straining under the massive load, the tension, the need to come.
At that moment, she felt so much a part of him . . . every breath she took was his, every sensation, every movement, a reaction to his . . . she simply had to make him understand their connection.
“I can feel it. You want me as much as I want you,” she murmured breathlessly.
He responded by turning his head away from her.
“You marked me on purpose. You want me to be yours. But you’re afraid.”
His breathing turned more ragged but he continued to thrust.
She fisted his hair, dragging him to her so her lips were against the rigid line of his jaw.
“You’re holding back so much.” Her voice had begun to rise as he drove her closer to the edge. “No one makes me come like you. No one. Now I want you to give it to me, to show me what you’ve been holding onto.”
He growled, a final frenzy of pounding sending her head pitching back against the wall as she released a guttural wail, her body starting to buck about in the rigid cage of his limbs like a bug in a jar. As the contractions captured her, she revelled in the sensation of her seething muscles dragging and drawing from him, his firm member still boldly embedded inside her, still reaming against her shuddering walls.
And just when the seizing began to abate, when she was struck by the depressing sense that she was alone in this again, he cried out. It was a sob of such bitter despair, of such obvious pain that she embraced him, pulling him tightly to her as he came, his cock straining inside her, its jerky undulations driving his seed deep into her.
She was gasping with him, with the sense of release that they shared, that she felt both directly and vicariously. But it was short-lived. He immediately withdrew from her and allowed her to drop to the ground without a word. Then she watched as his shadowy form moved away. He didn’t so much walk as stagger, his silhouette receding with an obvious limp.
She suspected, right then, that the scars had remained with him too.
- 10
- 11
- 12
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete