Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Story of H	By : AnyaToile Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 62388 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 11
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters associated with it; I am not making any sort of money or compensation for this work.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
AN: Did you hate the last chapter? Did you? I wouldn’t know because I haven’t gotten any reviews, though I got a couple hundred hits. I have a feeling though that may be only a select few of you refreshing the page constantly.   : )

This story will do one of two things before it’s all done. It will either move completely to “moresomes” later (though it will nearly always focus on a certain dungeon bat and bookworm); or it will end at a particular point and a sequel placed in the moresomes category will pick up right at the point where it will switch from a sole Snape/Hermione ship. What are your thoughts on this?

Hermione sucked in breath as the potions master slid the length of black leather from the loops around his waist. His face never wavered, never gave any indication of his intentions or the idea that this may be out of the ordinary. Hermione was certain this was a dream, a hallucination brought on by the potion the twins had managed to slip to the entire student body.

Snape, with belt in hand walked back to his former position behind Hermione where her naked bottom cheeks, red and stinging from the blows of the paddle, were spread. She was exposed and so petrified that it never occurred to her to ask what the professor thought he was doing exactly, taking off garments as he was.

And if she were honest with herself, she would realize that the prospect of a slightly less clothed Severus Snape excited her. It caused her quim, swollen and throbbing with need, to begin dripping down her thighs and onto the stone floor.

“Resume from where we left off,” came the baritone at the same time that sharp slap of leather met her bottom.

Hermione immediately understood why he had instructed her to spread her cheeks in such a manner: the skin that normally wasn’t exposed (as exposed as her bottom ever was) was far more sensitive. She was sure that she that he’d cut her.

Hermione wailed but managed to scream, “Eleven, thank you.”

She quickly added a “sir,” though she was unsure about how Snape wanted her express her gratitude.

He landed a blow directly to her arse hole which caused her to arch up and dance in place. The tears were flowing freely as she sobbed out, “Twelve. Thank you, sir.”

The belt was much more adapt at curving with the flesh; he landed several blows to the top of her inner thighs, the belt wrapping around her leg.

Hermione realized between sobs that she desperately wanted…no, needed for the belt to hit her in that most tender of places; however, Snape seemed determined not to let a single stroke fall on her quim. This only increased Hermione’s sobbing, snot flowing as freely as the tears. By the time he got to blow number nineteen, Hermione was screaming.

“Oh, please! Thank you! Thank you so much. Gods! Please!”

Her hips moved in time with her words and she sent every ounce of will she had into making the belt contact her throbbing bundle of nerves.

Finally, at blow number twenty (of those that were counted), he strode back around the desk to face Hermione and looped his belt back into place. She couldn’t tell if it was because of the water droplets on her eyelashes, but it certainly looked as if Snape had a slight, almost invisible, sheen of sweat across his forehead. Hermione held his gaze, still sniffling like a child, until he moved back out of her sight.

She laid her head upon the cool wood of the desk and tried to steady her breathing. Snape’s hands gently but firmly gasped her wrists and laid them on the desk on either side of her head. She realized now how hard she’d been digging into her own flesh and was certain that she’d left bruises.

Hermione sensed that Snape had knelt down behind and instinctively knew he was examining the damange.

“Is there much blood?” She whimpered.

Snape drawled, “Why ever would you think there would be blood?”

Hermione didn’t say anything. Instead, she blushed.

Snape straightened up, obviously satisfied with the results. He grabbed her by the shoulders and stood her up, simultaneously spinning her around to face him.

His voice was deathly quiet as he said, “You dunderhead. Do you really think I would injure you?”

Hermione couldn’t say anything. Did she think that? Well, of course she did. He just demonstrated how easily he could injure her.

Snape gave her a slight shake and hissed, “Of course not, you fool. Even though it would give me no greater pleasure than to see you humbled by something, anything, I would never injure a student.”

He let go of her and added, “I enjoy the benefits, though they be few, of my job too much,” least she think for a moment that he actually cared.

Because this was Severus Snape after all. He didn’t care about anyone or anything. Though he’d been brought back from death and granted a reprieve for all the wrong doings of his life, his heart was still three times too small.

“Get dressed.”

Hermione scrambled to put on her clothing. She slid her skirt on and was looking around for her panties when she heard him say, “You will not wash or use any charm to clean yourself until tomorrow morning. You will not use any charm or potion to soothe your arse. Am I clear?”

Hermione stopped her search and looked up at him, her eyes narrowed.

“I can’t go parading through the castle looking like this!”

“Does the state of your appearance impede your feet, Miss Granger? Because, really, I don’t see much difference,” he taunted.

Before she knew what she was doing, Hermione’s wand was at the ready, pointing at Snape’s sneering mouth.

“Don’t,” she whispered icily before shouting it with every force of her lungs.

“Don’t you dare insult me like that ever again,” she ground out, “You might have been able to intimidate me as a child with such a pathetic excuse for a slight, but you won’t ever do it again. I am not some fourth year, here to be tormented for your pleasure.”

Fresh tears threaten to spill out of her eyes as she continued, “I’m well aware that I’m not an attractive girl. Yes, I’ll never be a natural beauty like Ginny or Lavender, but even you can see what is wrong with my appearance at the moment. I look like some tart who’s just gotten bonked in a broom closet.”

Snape raised a single eyebrow, regarded the wand for a solitary minute and then reverted his eyes to Hermione. There wasn’t an ounce of fear on his face.

“Miss Granger, though I wouldn’t have used that phrase, you are supposed to appear that way,” he said as he strode forward and plucked Hermione’s wand from her hand.

“This is an exercise in humility,” he murmured as he walked back to his desk, “an opportunity to shake from you the need to guard your outward image like a pruning hippogriff.”

He sat down gracefully in one movement and motioned for her to do the same. After a moment, Hermione did. As her bottom made contact with the hard chair, she let out a gasp which turned into a hiss.

Snape smirked at her discomfort. He leaned forward with a greedy burning in his eyes which peered at her from over his perfectly sculpted fingers steepled together. The silence hung thick until his commanding baritone shattered it.

“I will not punish you for that childish outburst here tonight. In fact, I want you to remember every time you sit down tomorrow and let the shame of it be its own punishment.”

Snape leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he said, “This is the same technique that I’ve used to get you to admit your theft of my stores these many years – a seeming failure; however, I think the burning reminder of your bottom will suffice to make this lesson successful.”

Hermione glowered, staring down at her hands and nearly willing them to burst into flame or disappear altogether. What was she thinking, leveling her wand at a teacher?

“You will return to your rooms. Do not wash until morning. Do not use anything to help the comfort of your bottom. Am I clear, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, the venom in her voice directed at both him and herself.

“Any questions?”

She shook her head quickly.

“Then you may go,” He said as he handed back her wand. Hermione snatched it from his palm and shot up from the chair to flee like a mouse before a…before a snake.

But Hermione paused at the door and turned back around to ask the question that had been burning within her for two nights: “Am I normal, sir?”

“To like these things being done to me, I mean,” she added quickly.

The professor had already risen and was headed back into his chambers so she was met only with straight, unflinching back. He barely turned his head in her direction. Most of his face remained shielded by his curtain of black hair, but Hermione could make out the crook of his nose.

She watched as he walked to a locked cabinet and removed a glass jar of something pink.

“Rub this onto the places of discomfort. There is a bathroom down the hall which you can make yourself appropriate,” he said in a classroom tone.

“But wait, I thought you said…”

Hermione wasn’t able to finish as the potions master left in a flourish of billowing robes and grace.

She strode towards the desk and grabbed the jar, gave one last glance at the bookcase door, and then stomped out.

How dare he dismiss her question and THEN dismiss her as well? That greasy, insufferable man had no end to the lengths of his audacity. Her question was more than reasonable. She needed to know. And his behavior only confirmed her worst fears: that she was some kind of freak.

She paused in thought as she came to the doorway that she knew was the bathroom. She stood fidgeting from one foot to the other for five minutes, then ten, then fifteen before she decided to walk right past it and head straight for the dorms.
- 15
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- 17
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The Story of H