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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
- 16
- 17
- 18
A/N: And here’s a big, juicy chapter for you. Warnings: Bondage and other stuff. DSxx
Thank you very much to those kind folks who have left reviews for my oneshot 'The Room of Reconciliation' - I greatly appreciate it xx
LissaDream – I’m so glad you can see that everyone is suffering here x
Chester258 – It was pretty harsh. She clearly has issues of her own. ‘Not sure what resolution you plan to bring this to, but please don't let Ginny win.’ – I do have a plan but I’m not sure if it will be what everyone wants. Let me know :) xx
Kvarta – ‘Now I'm intrigued to know what book did you had in mind (if it is something from the Muggle literature)’ – well then, have you seen anything that resembles the cover description? ‘I love the parallel between them, so subtle, they both don't have another home.’ – this is why I love this pairing, they are so similar in so many ways. ‘I love how you captured Ginny, I know many people like her but she is just as you described her - insecure and mean, jealous.’ – she is all of those things, but perhaps with some reason? ‘maybe the shredding of that newly purchased undervear?’ – hahaha, she might not even need it ;) x
SickPuppy – I’m glad you enjoyed this image of Snape. ‘had JKR not killed him (cow), that is how he would have gone on - ever watchful, allowing the young to feel safe’ – LOL, that’s how I would prefer to think of him continuing too :) x
OO – ‘I take it Snape found it fairly interesting.’ – hmmm, maybe! ;). ‘Don't get me wrong, I found it totally believable; Ginny obviously has some deep seated issues.’ – you’re right there, there is obviously going to be widespread trauma after an event like this. ‘Maybe she needs some spanking therapy to soothe her soul’ – good point. But who to administer? ‘She needs her Snape medicine. Come to think of it, so do I. More please :)’ – that’s what we’re all here for . . . open wide! :)

Chapter 17 – Master Class
There was a strange comfort to falling apart. Doing so against the cosily warm but steadfastly secure contours of his chest, with one of his strong arms braced around her shoulders, the other gently cupping the back of her head, it felt like a safe detonation, a controlled explosion . . . protecting her from herself and what she might otherwise do.
And after all that had happened between them, she no longer feared his judgement. She could release without expecting repercussions. And he was allowing her to do just that, assisting her . . . as he had done every other time.
But on this occasion, when she finally tipped her sopping face up to gaze at him, his stern nose and soft lips swimming before her, she was relieved to note that he didn’t recoil. In fact, he allowed her hand to carefully snake up, fingers caressing the nape of his neck before curling into his locks and drawing him down to her, to gratify her waiting lips.
And his mouth was as supple and tender as it looked. Against her lips he was the flesh of a peach, a ripe bud that she needed to open, her tongue tipping tentatively out to taste his sweet juncture, slipping along the seam, searching for an opening. She moved lightly against him, coaxing with tiny nips of her lips, gentle prods of her tongue, and she could hear him fast coming to a decision, the susurration of air through his nose building until he let go. And when he finally opened up she was completely consumed.
She moaned, the muted whimper from her open mouth draining into his, trying to communicate her deepest need, and his answering growl hummed through her lips, completing the cycle of desire. He took her in increasingly fierce mouthfuls and she did her best to keep up, rolling with him, opening herself up to the demanding thrusts of his tongue, capturing every opportunity to suck at each deliciously succulent intrusion. Then she slipped inside him as they fused, merged and parted, riding one another’s undulations time and again until she was gasping, as though somehow able to inhale him further.
His hand was on her breast, heel moulding the soft flesh, fingers already masterfully plying her helplessly aroused nipple. Her moans had turned into high-pitched whines and she realised then that her hips were already thrusting, grinding her need into his thigh.
Then his knee slipped up between her legs and she squirmed, trying to gain some sort of purchase to relieve the desperate ache that flowed like liquid fire from her core. The pressure there increased until she could do little more than plead her case, bobbing her head a little as she serviced his tongue, hoping that her appeal would reach further, down to his cock, in the same way as he was masterfully commandeering her pussy with each flexion of his muscular thigh.
Finally breaking away with a cry of utter desperation, she looked into his eyes which were ablaze. A mirror of her own.
“Severus,” she murmured urgently, her fingers trickling over the plane of his jaw. “Please help me . . . help me to stop it. I need it to let me go.”
“It will let go . . . only when you allow it,” he replied, hand slipping up under her chin, grasping her firmly to steady her gaze which was wandering as her nether regions slowly, comprehensively melted.
“Can you show me how?” she whispered, her voice lost to a faint shudder, one induced by nothing more than the prickling intensity of him.
He continued to gaze at her, searchingly, reaching into one of her eyes and then the next.
“Of course.” It was the gentlest of assurances, but delivered with such conviction that it caused fresh tears to well.
Suddenly she was swept up in his arms. He carried her with ease to the bed, as though she were no heavier than a child, before placing her across the short span of it. And as he sank down, dark form enveloping her like a gathering storm, his hungry lips took her again and she found herself arching wildly into him, a strident moan surging forth as though they had already been apart too long.
Her fingers fumbled blindly for his buttons—so many. But despite her desperation to touch him, the opportunity to finally kiss him properly was sublime, and so she allowed herself to grope and fiddle until his coat eventually parted and she could start an equally unskilled battle with his shirt.
Meanwhile he was feasting, tasting her, leaving a trail of hot destruction across her jaw and neck until she was writhing uncontrollably and had to give up on his buttons altogether. Instead she relocated to his face, cradling it in her trembling palms.
The scar across his cheek wasn’t visible but she felt it, her thumb sitting in the warm valley as she held him, kissing him with a passion that she hardly knew—or at least had never before directed at another human being. Books perhaps. Ideas. Noble causes. But not like this—a knot of such intense need that it could only be expressed with her most visceral exposure—with everything on the inside wanting to come out, to smother him, claiming him as her own, or even pulling him in to be part of her.
And he seemed to share her need, or at least her intensity, as though they were both desperately attempting to redress something—lost time? Missed opportunities? Or perhaps it didn’t yet deserve to be considered with such optimism . . . maybe they were simply staving off ghosts, or capturing a moment before it was irretrievably lost.
Regardless, she had never felt so close to anyone in her life. Even Harry. And in a strange way . . . even her parents. This was different . . . so impossibly physical, on top of the stark emotionality, that she couldn’t equate it to anything she had ever known.
Finally he released her and rocked back onto his knees. Her lips pulsed as she looked imploringly up at him, as though her heart were sitting right there, exposed for him to see. But he didn’t make her wait long, slipping off his coat before Wandlessly flicking open the remaining buttons of his shirt and discarding both.
Hermione’s lips curled into a tentative smile as she reached for him, coveting the delicious heat of his torso, skimming her fingertips over the chipped porcelain of his skin. And then a seam-splitting spell caused his trousers to practically melt off, before his boots were flicked away and he was finally naked, straddling her thighs, erect cock hovering tantalisingly over her, taunting her, until she had no choice but to touch it.
But he stopped her, easily snatching up her wrists in one large hand before pinning them above her head. And when he’d fixed them in place with another spell, he proceeded to rake his glittering eyes over her, the raw hunger in them causing a fresh shot of arousal to steep her pussy.
And so she should have been ready—or at least harbouring some degree of mental and physical preparation for what was to come. But she wasn’t. It was so different to anything that had come before . . . so much more extreme because it felt real, like the proper consummation of a relationship. But it also felt dangerous—like the antidote to her acute isolation, the fulfilment of her impossible need, was irretrievably binding her—and now there was no going back, no way to undo it. But if she were honest, she was probably too far gone even before all this—already helplessly ensnared, beyond the desire or even the capacity to untangle herself from the enduring enigma that was Severus Snape.
And so it started with her breast. And his mouth. She watched the action play out through the curtain of dark hair that trailed in a silky sash across her skin, like a peep show, tantalising snippets of lips and tongue toying with the stark profile of her nipple. And of course it went far beyond the visual—layer upon layer of sensation daubed like an artist painting in liquid heat across what were relatively insubstantial breasts, but what he made feel monumental, as though they were the most important objects in the world, a Portkey directly to the core of her being.
And, of course, he was right. He was inside her—each lick and suck, each twist and pinch, tugging at the very foundations of her womanhood, such that she was compelled to marvel both internally, and in raw, wordless exclamations at how exquisite the juncture was between the increasingly similar worlds of pleasure and pain.
Then he slithered down further, kneeling beside the bed, his torso now cradled between her thighs. And in the absence of being able to grasp him with her hands, she clamped her legs around his middle, thrusting her pussy against him to show exactly what he was doing to her.
He looked back then, his gaze meeting hers over the growing divide of flesh between them and she saw it—the faintest of smiles. Just a brief deflection, less of his mouth than the corners of his eyes. He’d sneered plenty of times at her, but never smiled. And the tension in her features faded as she responded with a smile of her own.
But then his lips dropped to her belly, eyes still locked upon hers, and the tension returned—an automatic cinching of her brow, the agony of watching just how sensuous he could be—aquiline nose grazing a sinuous path behind his lips, like a particularly unhurried bloodhound following the scent of her arousal to its source. And when he found it, he didn’t stop at nestling between her folds. Without hesitation, his tongue slipped out to sample her well of desire, tasting the pool of liquid lust that he’d drawn from her. And while she had been slightly mortified at the intensity of her aroma, as though her pussy had thoroughly atomised and dispersed it for maximum impact, he seemed mercifully unfazed, in fact he appeared to be rather taken with it, lapping her silken essence up in hungry mouthfuls, as though it were nectar from the Gods themselves.
Moaning in appreciation, she spread her legs wider. She would make more for him. So much more. She would feed him from her body forever, if she could watch him as he was right now, milky eyelids fallen closed, dark lashes fluttering gently as he consumed her with abandon.
He was . . . beautiful.
And he made her feel beautiful—wanted—when others had made her a pariah.
One of his large hands still spanned her breasts, fingers long and deft enough to work both nipples at once. Now the other slid up to her belly, little finger touching the heel of his other hand, while his thumb rested on her clitoris. It was as though he was deliberately connecting all of her most sensitive bundles, his hands emulating the internal network of sensations firing throughout her body like dozens of simultaneous pinballs. However, it also felt like possession. He was claiming all three at once, the triangle of her womanhood, her uterus in the centre of his palm.
Did he really want her? Did he want her like that?
It turned out that she had little time to consider as his thumb suddenly pressed down, pulling back the hood of her clitoris, exposing it fully before he proceeded to show her exactly why he was down there.
Again, Snape’s intention was to reveal something. And, as was inevitably the case for her, it was so profound that Hermione couldn’t help but learn.
His approach amounted to little more than licking—each journey from her pussy to her clitoris a slow, methodical incursion, his tongue firm and flat, covering a broad strip to the base of her clitoris, before the tip was directed gently upwards. The last part, despite the care taken, was what jolted her most deeply. Due to the presence of his thumb, her clitoris was now protracted so that the sensitive shaft and head were being directly stimulated.
Flexing against her magical binds, Hermione whimpered helplessly. She usually avoided stimulating herself in that way due to the extreme sensitivity but he was doing it now, the slick pressure of his tongue creating a confusing blend of biting intensity and lingering pleasure.
But the languid pace, and the fact that he kept altering his approach when it became too overwhelming—thrusting in deeper to her pussy or even venturing down to prod against the tight constriction of her sphincter, meant that rather than being distracted by the conflict, she continued to gradually build.
There was virtually no friction—or at least not the type of frantic thrusting, stroking and rubbing she associated with sex—just a firm caress, delivered with precision and infinite patience until she began to feel the familiar, but still frightening, canting of her vision, as though her mind was starting to melt. He was working with such focused intensity but leaving her so bereft between, that she planted her feet on the bed and began to desperately thrust her hips, trying to relieve the agony. But he moved his hand down from her breasts to trap one thigh against the mattress, using his elbow to thwart the other, preventing her from creating any more sensation than was his intention.
“Oh, Gods,” she moaned, head rocking from side to side in lieu of what she wanted for her pelvis.
It was torture.
“Severus . . . I can’t—”
But then the pressure of his fingers on her inner thigh increased and she distractedly lifted her head to see. He was watching her as he continued his measured deconstruction, his profoundly dark eyes reassuring her that his desire was not to torture her but to bring her pleasure. But it was clear from his failure to let up that it was her responsibility to let it happen, to let the sensations gather without needing to force them, without succumbing to the desperation that was attempting to drive her.
As she continued to watch his reverential and humbling display, she allowed herself to be taken, consumed by each sensation without wishing for it to be anything more or less than it was . . . acceptance . . . acceptance . . . and it began to feel glorious, transcendental, like every molecule of her body was being recruited, slowly brought into alignment with the centre of her being.
Her mouth fell open but she could no longer speak. A few shuddering breaths and jerky dips of her jaw were all she could manage . . . to convey his profound effect upon her. But then he pulled away, and she stopped breathing altogether. Her insides screamed, pleading with him to come back. But he had done what he had set out to do. She was already there.
She came. With nothing inside her . . . nothing even touching her but his eyes. It was a freefall of herself within herself—as though spontaneously erupting from nothing—and yet so extreme, she must have appeared possessed. Shaking, gasping, hyperextending, eyes rolling back and head arching into the bed as though in the throes of death. And yet it was the opposite. She was in the throes of life . . . living again . . . because of him.
And when she finally came down, blinking back to a hazy consciousness, she found that she could move, and did so blissfully, soaking up the profound relief from having experienced such a monumental release, in the knowledge that her acceptance had enabled it. And she was simultaneously swept up in a powerful tide of warmth from finally being allowed to just ‘be’ . . . and despite still being on her own, she was left feeling far from alone.
He was beside her now, stroking her hair, looking deeply into her eyes, his lips swollen from his incredible service to her.
She kissed him . . . gently, concerned that he might be tender.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He dipped his nose fractionally in acknowledgement.
She smiled, curling into him with a contented sigh before reaching down to trail a finger along his erection.
“Now will you please just tie me up and fuck me?”
He snorted then.
“Must I point out—?”
“No.”
She was a hypocrite. She knew it. She didn’t need to be told. But she was learning—slowly but surely she was beginning to understand. There were some things that one just needed . . . and it didn’t require analysis or explanation. She’d come to realise that about herself . . . and about him too. It was the main reason she would never deny him in that way again.
“Do you have a preference?” His deliciously dark voice was yet another treat—melting in her mouth—as though she deserved anything more.
“Yes.”
One of his expressive eyebrows arched upwards in inquiry.
“My preference is for you to show me what my preference is.” Her fingers stopped their teasing trail and wrapped around his girth—at least as far as she could reach.
That smile again. Just his eyes.
“If you are certain?”
By way of response, she leaned up to kiss him again, tasting herself and feeling inexplicably aroused by the prospect of having more of him.
Pushing himself to a sitting position, he reached out a hand.
“Accio.”
Suddenly a length of red cord snapped into his palm.
Had he brought it with him?
“On your knees. At the end of the bed.”
His commands sent a fresh shiver down her spine. She had definitely missed this man—this authoritative Snape.
Despite the residual heaviness in her limbs, she crawled as quickly as she could down to the foot of the bed before positioning herself on her knees, back to him.
He came up behind her, close, the warm, silken head of his cock brushing against her buttocks as he pulled her arms back and tied her wrists together.
Her heart was already thudding in anticipation.
“Now lean forward.”
What?
“Spread your knees wider.”
Hesitantly, she did as instructed, shuffling her knees outwards until she had opened herself up, broadening her base.
“Now lean forward,” he repeated.
And break my face?
She felt him tighten his grip on the rope, tugging a little on her shoulders.
Her breathing rate doubled in seconds. It wasn’t a long way to fall but she would certainly do some damage.
Trust. This was about trust . . . giving over control. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. He had told her not to trust him in the past, but she had. And he hadn’t let her down . . . yet.
Then she did it. She leaned out over the edge of the bed, face first, with nothing to stop her from falling, apart from the rope around her wrists, held within his firm grasp.
“Fear heightens the senses.” His baritone immediately slipped inside her, penetrating her as she hovered over the abyss.
“You gauge each sensation for risk . . . threat or safety . . . but you can never actually know.”
Then his cock returned, firm head pressing into the entrance to her engorged pussy. He was absolutely right about her heightened senses, his cock felt like a massive iron rod stretching its way inside her, pushing her even further toward the brink.
She whimpered, curling her chin into her chest as she took him deeper.
“And any difference is entirely your own.” The pitch of his voice had risen somewhat, as though his vocal cords were being constricted as much as his cock. “Your body is bearing down—trying to minimise the intrusion, and yet it makes any entry all the more . . . gratifying.”
His muted hiss told her he was trying to hold back . . . likely for the sake of instruction.
She had no such control, crying out as he thrust back into her, thumping into her cervix and forcing her further forward.
“It is only by giving your body over to another that you can combat the fear, and hope to discover true freedom—the freedom that comes from trusting yourself.”
Her eyes were barely open, the visual of the hard floor shuddering below her with each powerful thrust, too much for her to cope with.
But as he set up a steady rhythm, pulling back on her wrists as he slapped into her, riding her, she began to feel just that—at one with him—he controlling, her responding, her hips naturally moving to accommodate his.
Despite this, each thumping return of his cock continued to draw a guttural groan from her. He still felt enormous, stretching her in every dimension, making it difficult for her to relax, even slightly.
And then something else was added to the sensorial whirlpool—his finger, cool and slick with some sort of lubrication, now skirting around the tight perimeter of her sphincter.
In her mind, she was already close to capacity, particularly considering the swelling caused by her previous protracted orgasm, and the fact that she was employing all of her core muscles in an attempt to hold herself in position. Anything more may send her completely over the edge . . . and perhaps that was the intention. But she would never plead for anything less, she wanted as much of him inside her as possible and knew that the memory of this—his delicious cock riding her into oblivion—was going to be prime fodder of her masturbatory fantasies for years, if not decades, to come.
So even as the tip of his finger slipped past her constriction, instantly kindling a fire in her rectum, she found herself encouraging him, bending forward to present herself further. And he didn’t disappoint, continuing to ream the impossibly tight sheath of her pussy with his cock as he simultaneously massaged the front wall of her rectum.
“Unnnhhhh,” she moaned, her eyes screwing closed and her head pitching forward, making her instantly feel like she was falling.
He jerked the rope back, pulling her up until she had managed to steady herself, before pushing a second finger into her back passage. Her eyes flared open then, and so did her mouth. But the sensation was so incredible that she instantly attempted to thrust backwards into him, using her wrists and shoulders as leverage. The result was a series of deeply resonant growls and a tangible flexing of his cock inside her, indicating his obvious approval.
Gradually building in intensity, he rode her now as though coming to the frantic conclusion of a race, her shoulders almost popping under the strain of his jolting intrusions. And as his long fingers began to jiggle and curl deep inside her, simultaneous with the record depth he seemed to be achieving with his cock, she began to howl like a wild animal. Her core was setting like concrete, the tension of her rock-hard muscles clamping him inside both passages until she could no longer hold on.
She screamed.
Muscles detonating in ways she’d never thought possible, she let go with an intensity that belied the fact that she’d already experienced an earth-shattering orgasm only a matter of fifteen minutes earlier. Convulsing, she felt her thighs and bedding growing damp with waves of release that could no longer be contained within the pressure cooker of her pelvis. And the sensations didn’t stop there. As she pushed forward, straining into the abyss—she felt the freedom that he’d spoken of—the floating sensation of being held up, of being lifted above it all, of relinquishing herself and trusting that she would be accepted and respected—and that she could, in turn, accept and respect herself.
It was a realisation that drained the last of her reserves. She collapsed, shattered.
But he didn’t allow her to melt away.
Instead, she felt him lift her limp body, cock still inside her, until her back was against his chest. One strong arm supported her under the ribs, taking the weight from her trembling knees, his other arm wrapped around her shoulders, fingers tipping her face around to him so that he could capture her lips as he continued pumping into her.
She responded as though in a trance, lips moving with a dream-like listlessness, eyes cracking open in an unsuccessful attempt to focus on him.
“Hermione, look at me.” His words were tight and laboured.
She tried again. His features gradually swimming into focus.
“You don’t need anything . . . or anyone. There is nothing that can be given to you that doesn’t already exist within yourself.”
Anyone? Anyone else? Was he talking about her friends? Ginny?
The problem was that she did need someone. She needed one person very much—the one inside her right now. She needed the person who wanted to do what he was doing to her. The person who cared to make her strong when everyone else seemed to want her to crumble away.
There was something about him . . . something about all of it that struck her then . . . a realisation that suddenly seemed so obvious but one that had somehow skirted the fringes of her consciousness . . . until now.
Snape was a well-known Legilimens, and an extremely powerful one at that. But she hadn’t sensed any obvious intrusions into her own mind—unless he’d kept it for moments when she was most distracted, which was entirely possible. But he still seemed to understand so much about her . . . and she had felt . . . other things.
“Severus?” she murmured. “Are you a Motulomens? Can you feel people’s sensations . . . their emotions?”
His eyes darkened. He looked troubled.
But instead of responding, he reached between her legs and touched her in a way that left her in no doubt as to the answer.
And as she felt herself careening toward her third orgasm, his frantic breaths turning into harrowing moans against her cheek, she had the terrible sense that his pain might not derive from what had been done to him . . . but what he had done to others.
Reaching blindly for his hands, she held them as tightly as she could while he came. Whatever he had done, she would forgive him. She was positive that she could forgive him . . . anything.
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete