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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
- 17
- 18
- 19
A/N: Lovely to hear from you. These chapters are tricky but I’m getting them up as quickly as I can. I hope you enjoy them. Xx
Kvarta – ‘I still have trouble focusing on sex though’ – that is exactly as it should be :) ‘Her growth from self-centered to the actual person who takes into her surrounding and respect wishes and needs of others’ – yes, she’s certainly moving out of her chronic introspection. ‘Great addressing to the paradox of gaining control by relinquishing it completely’ – I enjoy this conundrum too. ‘Motulomens - ok, I'm not familiar with the term, is this akin to empath?’ – sort of, you’ll get a better understanding in this chapter. ‘take care of yourself’ – you too xx
OO – I hope you finally have that bug on the run :(. ‘The word-gasms were plentiful’ – thank you - without the agendas, this one ended up being very liberating to write. ‘Because he's the master facilitator’- ooh I could use that! ‘The acceptance (in all it's incarnations in this story) takes center stage’ – I loved this interpretation . . . that’s exactly where they are. ‘At the edge of oblivion we find peace’ – ahhhh, delicious! ‘Hmmmm. I wonder what's going to happen to make her see past that limitation’ – good question! Coming up soon. xx

Chapter 18 – Master Player
His side was empty. Her hand kept checking, crawling over the cold sheets to see if she’d somehow missed him. He’d only been there a short time . . . or perhaps longer—she couldn’t really say. All she knew was that he was now gone—and she felt the absence so keenly that she didn’t know where to touch herself for comfort . . . her snog-raw lips, her bereft breasts and the aching hollow beneath, or between her legs where she refused to Scourgify the glaze of their combined essences from her inner thighs.
They had fit together as though perfectly cast—as naturally in naked repose as they had in the deliciously hot throes of sex. Her mane had been a hairy nest under his arm, her face nestled into the soft skin there, breathing in his warmth. Cocooned in his embrace, one large hand grasping her hip firmly enough to make her safe, sleep had approached like a train barrelling into a tunnel. But before she’d succumbed, her own hand had slithered down in the darkness, resting upon the downy curve of his pelvis like a codpiece . . . protecting, claiming . . . and finally . . . sleeping.
But her sleep had been far less blissful, disturbed by vivid dreams—oddly contrived, like some sort of eerie stage show. Black and white. Light and shadow. She was herself, but also a character . . . a detective . . . or perhaps a spy . . . probing the dark in long, laboured sequences. Someone was hiding—close to her—but always beyond her reach. She pursued them along empty corridors, jagging around blind corners, following echoing footsteps down stairwells and stepping through ominously dark holes, some turning into suffocating tunnels that she could barely fit through. Needless to say she never caught him . . . for she sensed that much. It had been futile . . . she’d known it all along and yet she’d been compelled to—
Her eyes flew open. The cover shone dully, muted in the grey dawn that peeped under her curtains. It was as it had always been—perfectly, patently unassuming. Groaning quietly with the effort, she rolled over onto ‘his side’ before reaching for the book, dragging it up beside her. Despite the early hour, she knew that it was time. She would read it—all the rest. Right. Now.
***
Her fingers trembled. They fluttered faintly against the closed cover as she stared at the image—the back of a head. Her head. Somebody. Nobody. A girl with a story—one she knew . . . not from reading it—but from living it. This was too close.
Slowly opening the cover again, she blinked, too numb to be surprised. No name. In the place that she’d carefully scribed her own, there was nothing. It had been removed . . . or had never been. She traced her thumb back and forth over the absence, wispy thoughts gradually coalescing into an image, shadowy and indistinct but one she had come to know very well.
Retrieving her wand from the bedside table, she summoned her jacket from where she had dumped it, still stiff, crusted with soup. Digging into the pocket, she pulled out the small felt bag and slipped the drawstring. The brass was cool to her fingertips, the snake head raised with an air of lethal elegance, bringing a creeping sense of foreboding. Carefully, she placed it inside the book.
She would return it . . . both of them . . . to him.
***
How did it feel?
Hermione’s journey, echoing down empty corridors, fingers trickling along the cold banisters of staircase after staircase, bore enough resemblance to her dream that she found her bottom lip already mauled, self-inflicted, by the time she entered the familiar walkway to his office.
Could he always tell the difference? Could he definitively separate his own feelings from those of others? How did he protect himself? Did he do it often? How often had he done it to her?
The discovery that he was a Motulomens wasn’t as surprising as it should have been. It fit too well. It explained too much. But as she’d lain thinking about him, the book laying heavily beside her, she’d come to the realisation that such a trait wasn’t as un-Slytherin as it might initially seem. After all, how better to manipulate than by gaining access to the most intimate recesses of someone’s inner world, with the capacity to circumvent their delusions, feel their bodily betrayals, interpret them, not necessarily with the compassion of an empath, but with the cold detachment of a master player . . . with the power to push and pull, whittle and wheedle, until he had them exactly where he wanted them.
No doubt it had saved him. He had likely survived because he knew more than anyone. Indeed, his skills probably ensured that he knew Voldemort’s cold, black heart better than the vile wizard himself.
It was, therefore, not only the ultimate defence . . . but the ultimate weapon.
And he had it.
That . . . and sex.
Fingers skimming down the front of her shirt, Hermione’s felt her breasts, clad in skimpy satin under her school shirt, surging with each fearful breath.
Sex.
She wasn’t beyond using it . . . as he had with her. But her intention—and perhaps even his if she could possibly hope for as much—went beyond manipulation. She wished to demonstrate a deeper purpose. And hopefully he would see it . . . or perhaps even feel it from her.
Still, the compulsion to run sent twitches popping through her muscles. She continued to stare at the door but there was no possibility of leaving. She absolutely had to know.
And the reason she had to know was both simple and complicated—she was in love with him. It was far from a comfortable admission, particularly considering recent revelations. But it was the truth.
She could no longer be completely certain of what or whom she loved. All she knew was that the fear pounding through her heart and mind was that of rejection . . . far more so than from what she might discover about his true nature.
And so she would give herself to him as she never had before. And hope that he understood why.
She knocked.
And entered.
The contrast was startling. Her presence in the austere surroundings of the Headmaster’s domain was no longer met with an equally grim scowl or sneer . . . or—as she had become even more accustomed to—nothing at all. Now there was warmth. The hint of a smile. He was clearly pleased to see her.
“Miss Granger.” He returned the quill to its holder, his fingers almost certainly deliberately stroking the ebony underside as he withdrew.
“Headmaster.”
Despite her trepidation, the relief of seeing him, and her instant desire that seemed to coat everything about him with a seductive lustre, brought a smile to her own lips as she clasped her hands behind her back, retracting her shoulders so that the shadowy outline of Slytherin green could be seen through her shirt.
Such a flagrant display, however, turned out to be unnecessary. The spark glinting in his onyx eyes told her that he had already seen everything—all of her, instantly.
“Tell me what you need.”
There it was again. She could so easily slip back into that warm, tranquil pool of sultry sibilance, allowing the smooth timbre of his voice to gather protectively around her. She could allow his confidence and power to melt her again, rendering her little more than putty, some blissfully pliant creature that his hands and mouth and cock could mould into something new, something more—smoothing over the cracks until she seemed . . . whole.
Despite the extreme temptation, she wouldn’t . . . this time it was she who had something for him.
She lifted her chin slightly. “I do not wish to disturb you.”
He eased back in his chair. She wondered if he was already hard.
“Remove your Glamours,” he instructed.
Unclasping her hands, she slipped her fingers into her shirt sleeve and withdrew her wand. Sweeping the tip over her body, she nullified them all . . . and there were many . . . revealing the deep bruises from being slammed against the wall of the alcove, multiple scratches and abrasions from her time against the log, and now the rope burns—raw bracelets of crimson around her wrists.
“I can provide you with a quality healing salve.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she interjected quickly.
He gazed at her for a long moment, examining her various wounds with a practised eye, before inclining his head in acknowledgement.
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes . . . there is something that I wish to give you.” Her eyes flickered downwards, taking in the curve of her breasts and lump in her skirt pocket before returning to him. “May I approach?”
He inclined his head again, eyes never leaving hers.
Hermione’s hands went to her throat. Approaching slowly, her fingers twisted each of her shirt buttons in turn, allowing the fabric to fall open, revealing inch upon inch of satin and lace. His hands slid forward to grasp the arms of his chair and she felt a surge of something—power . . . he had been right, she did enjoy feeling powerful.
Then she undid her skirt buttons at the hip and allowed it to slither down to puddle at her feet before stepping out and continuing in her low-cut and extremely brief knickers. His eyebrow strained upward as a fierce heat flared in his eyes. Despite everything, such moments reminded her that he was still very much a man.
Moving up to settle beside his chair, she placed her hand on top of his. This was so important. And she was scared—perhaps he could feel it. Her scattered thoughts were pulling her in every direction, so she had no choice but to let her body take over. It was already tuned in to every part of him anyway, flushed and responding to little more than his presence.
Lifting a leg over his, she straddled his lap before sinking down to feel his erection well and truly established. She wondered, not for the first time, whether he had responded just as enthusiastically in the past but had taken precautions to hide it from her. Regardless, it was there now, pressing firmly against her scantily clad mons as she combed her hands into his hair, pulling him forward for an open-mouthed kiss.
It was effortless—the way they continued on seamlessly from where they had left off the previous evening . . . exploring, teasing, tasting and when his hands slid in opposite directions, simultaneously cupping her buttock and breast, long fingers slipping under the fabric to curl into her flesh, she moaned, feeling the need to grind herself into him, him into her.
She rubbed herself damp against the rigid contours of his cock until his laboured breathing, scorching nips down the already-tender flesh of her neck, and the desperation in his iron grip made it clear that he needed more.
But would he be ready for what she was about to give?
Unable to look at him, she rolled her cheek over his jaw until her lips hovered by his ear.
They opened and closed a few times before she managed any sound. “I want you to fuck me . . . in my . . .” She took a deep breath. “In my back passage . . . my arse.”
He grabbed her by the upper arms and held her away from him, frowning as he searched her face.
“You aren’t ready for that.”
Ignoring the self-conscious burn in her cheeks, she forged on.
“I am ready. I . . . prepared. I want this.”
He drew his own deep breaths through barely parted lips, studying her closely. Despite the intensity, she didn’t turn away.
Was he inside her now? If so, he would only feel how much she wanted it.
Finally his grip relaxed.
“I can use a spell to relax—”
“No,” she interrupted.
He sighed but she saw something in his expression—the subtle flexion of his brow, the dip of his nose—respect?
Whatever it was, he seemed to accept her position, and the simmering tension that permeated the rest of his body left her in little doubt—he wanted it too.
“You will be sure to inform me if it becomes too much?”
She nodded her assurance, reinforcing it with a final soft kiss to his lips, before lifting herself off his lap. Turning away to avoid the scrutiny of his dark, probing gaze, she busied herself with removing the rest of her clothing, before using her wand to clear his desk. It was only then that she realised she wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing. When she looked over, she saw that he had removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. A small jar glinted in one of his hands.
As he approached, she retreated a half-step, resting her bare buttocks against the edge of the desk, fingers curling around it, holding on with a blend of apprehension and anticipation. With an elegant wave of his hand, he cast what turned out to be a cushioning charm, causing the desk surface to sink beneath her. Clearly he was reluctant to add anything further to the diverse array of blemishes that currently marred her body.
Positioning himself directly in front of her, he placed his hands on her thighs, gently forcing them apart until he was able to insinuate himself between them. Then he grasped her shoulders, guiding her backwards, supporting her until she was lying on the desk, looking up at him with every ounce of trust that she could muster . . . after all, that’s what this was about. Balling her fists, she pressed them under the small of her back, hoping that it would provide some degree of support and relief.
The furrow troubling his brow deepened. Clearly, he was still unsure. But Hermione lifted her legs, walking her heels up his white shirt, from his abdomen to his chest, before wriggling herself closer until her buttocks were nestled against his groin and she could feel the bold heat of his cock pressing into her cleft. She hoped it was enough to demonstrate that she had no intention of backing out. This was too important.
Setting the small jar on the desk beside her hip, he leaned forward, placing one hand on the ankle near his shoulder and the other over one of her breasts. His eyes were filled with something indefinable. The cautious part of her was tempted to call it fondness . . . but it clearly went deeper than that—the events of the previous evening alone were enough for her to know that he had feelings for her. But the way that he caressed her now, using those devastatingly instinctual hands to both reassure her and turn her on in the most deliciously sensual way, was enough to have the layers of distrust and bitter resentment she’d packed around her heart unfurling, she felt herself shuddering from the vulnerability of it, as more and more of her was exposed to the wonder of the darkest and brightest eyes she’d ever encountered.
The book. That thought suddenly ripped through her reverie, jerking her back to a harsh reality. Grasping desperately at his perfect hands, she whimpered helplessly, “Please.”
He understood . . . or at least knew what it was that she needed.
Finally releasing her, he picked up the jar, unscrewing the lid before dipping his finger inside and removing a generous coating of clear gel.
“Hold yourself open,” he instructed.
Sliding her hands down the backs of her thighs, she cupped her buttocks with her fingers before pulling them apart, feeling her back passage instantly tighten with the exposure. However, the arrival of his finger brought a surprising level of relief, not only because of the familiarity—he had been inside her numerous times before—but the gel had been warmed to reduce the shock as his finger was gradually introduced.
He worked one digit into her, twisting it a little as he progressed, priming her walls for what was to come. And when he introduced a second finger, she saw that he was watching her carefully, adjusting his position and angle based upon her response. The result was that her sphincter relaxed a little as he continued to stroke slowly into her, allowing his other hand to join in, slipping two fingers inside her pussy at the same time as driving a third into her anus. At that point the moan that had been threading around her throat since he first entered, tore free and she was in vocal free-fall.
Both sets of fingers stroked the thin wall between her passages and soon it began to feel like there was only one—as though he was tugging at a single outlet, ready to uncork her, allowing everything to spill free . . . all that she had been holding inside for so long. But she couldn’t. She didn’t even want to come . . . she wasn’t there for that. She was there for him to claim her . . . to make her his.
“Severus,” she gasped, her legs already beginning to quake.
He halted.
She shook her head faintly, her lips parting as she tried to explain, but nothing intelligible emerged.
Withdrawing both hands, he placed them on either side of her and leaned forward, bringing her legs with him as his lips touched hers, kissing away her hopelessness. Finally, he rose and, with a brief flick across his groin, released his long-suffering and impressively-patient cock, his trousers peeling away to reveal the solid column of flesh that she was somehow planning to accommodate.
Scooping up another two fingers of gel, he coated the sloping helmet of his glans as though polishing a door knob before dragging his fist down the shaft. Despite the inevitable discomfort, she found herself looking forward to having him inside her—partly for herself . . . but mostly for him. His scars stood out, sharp ridges of white against the remaining soft flush and she wanted to accept them into her—welcome what had been dishonoured and defiled into her most intimate recesses.
Her hands automatically returned to her buttocks, pulling them apart to assist his entry. But despite all of the preparation, the stretch that she felt when he pressed into her was enough to elicit a sound that she hadn’t imagined herself capable of. It was low and so deeply primal, she wondered if it might be the sort of wail she would expect to produce in child birth. As it was, her otherworldly groans continued as she felt him paying out his length, millimetre by millimetre into the clamping tightness of her sphincter.
“Use your fingers to relieve the tension.” His voice cut through the haze of her thoughts and she pressed her fingers down harder, kneading her buttocks in an effort to quell the spasms.
Eyes falling closed, her face contorted as she felt each scarred ridge being forced inside her, causing her sphincter to trip and constrict over and over in response. She also became aware of his increasingly laboured breathing as he patiently manoeuvred, slipping inside her in tiny increments, his head edging aside the virginal limits of her tunnel.
Legs stiffening, her heels pushed against his shoulders as she cried out, arching back into the pliant surface of the desk as the flared base of his shaft made the last increments even more unbearably intense. Growling as her sudden movement drove him in to the hilt, she felt him stop still, cock completely motionless but throbbing inside her like a nuclear warhead. Then she felt his thumb slip down between her lips, and begin gently stroking her clitoris.
She had stopped breathing. But now she resumed . . . just . . . it was as though his cock was even taking up the space of her lungs. Her sphincter was straining wildly against him, working its best to expel the massive intrusion but simply managing to hold him as rigidly inside her as possible. She was a morsel on a skewer. An insect pinned.
But he continued to deftly oscillate her clitoris, gradually mixing pleasure into her pain until she felt herself wanting to rock, to have him moving inside her. And he seemed to instinctively take the cue, keeping his thrusts short and deep to sustain the fire simmering in her passage but never becoming acute enough for her to require him to stop.
As he sped up the rhythmic strokes on her clitoris, she responded by curling her hips, encouraging him deeper before sensing a shift in him, his vocalisations turning coarse and guttural. Finally, she took the opportunity to open her eyes and was enthralled by what she saw. His own eyes were closed and his head tilted back in the throes of ecstasy. A sheen of perspiration gilt his features making him even more striking as his flushed cock sank into her arse over and over again. They’d only been fucking for a few minutes but she could already feel that he was close to coming. And so was she.
“Severus,” she gasped. “I want you to come on me . . . on my stomach.”
He nodded faintly, his face contorting with the effort of pumping into her.
And then the thrumming on her clitoris, the burning heat of her sphincter and the impossible shifting fullness inside her rectum exploded into a cascading storm of sensations that sent her pelvis into meltdown. Her shrieks might have sounded like pain, but they were cries of shock, torn free as her orgasm surged powerfully around his deeply embedded cock, rippling through parts of her body that had never before experienced such a release.
She was still shuddering around him when he suddenly pulled out and began furiously pumping his cock with his fist. A stroke or two later, his substantial balls clenched and his shaft reared in his grip, driving a powerful stream of ejaculate in a long, glistening trail across her abdomen. He groaned as he continued to jerk, further lashings of warm seed painting her breasts, trickling down her ribs and drizzling into her navel.
By the time his cock was fully drained, the last drips trailing down his knuckles, she was coated in enough of his creamy lust to make his claim to her clear. But to drive home her point, she took his hand and placed it against her skin, locking her fingers into his before slowly rubbing his essence into her, smearing it over her entire torso until she finished with his palm between her breasts, resting against her galloping heart.
Only then, after she’d given him her trust, her body . . . and her heart . . . could she ask.
“Severus . . . ?”
His contented gaze shifted to her face, one cheek lifting into that almost-shy smile and she nearly lost her nerve. But she couldn’t.
“Severus . . . were you at the book group?”
His smile dropped away.
“Please tell me,” she persisted. “Were you there?”
He stared at her before his eyes slipped away from hers.
“Yes.”
She tightened her grip on him.
“Who are they, Severus? Who are you spying for?”
The hand on her chest curled into a fist but she didn’t let go.
“Tell me. I deserve to know.” Her voice rose.
And then she saw it. As plainly as two security shutters slamming closed, the shine in his beautiful eyes died. He had locked himself away.
“Is this how you intended to buy my compliance?” he snarled bitterly. “Was this supposed to open me up? By allowing me to open you?”
She shook her head sadly.
“Who are you spying for now, Severus?” she whispered.
He jerked his hand out of hers before stepping back.
“If you’re asking,” he said coldly, “. . . then you must already know.”
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete