Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Cantata for Three Voices in G Major	By : wire-fish Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 2798 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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3 Sept 98, Potions Classroom
“Miss Granger, explain the process that permits us to use dragon bones successfully in this potion.” Snape loomed over her, arms crossed, his eyes expressionless.

First day back in class, and the first class after lunch was double Potions. The class was huge, doubled from the crop of newly risen Seventh Years to include those returning from war to obtain their NEWTs in response to the urgency for qualified wizards to fill the voids left by the war. In all courses, the requirements for admission to N.E.W.T. courses for war veterans had been reduced to a passing grade. This fact evidently added fuel to Snape’s frustration at being pressed back into his old role as Potions instructor. His mood worsened noticeably through the class and they were all making an effort to avoid further antagonizing him.

“In my own words, sir?” she asked, sitting as upright as possible without actually leaning away from him.

“As opposed to what I can read in the text, yes, Miss Granger. You did actually do the project I assigned as preparation to return for your N.E.W.T.s, did you not?”

“I did, sir. I turned in my scroll recording my observations and conclusions when you requested our work at the beginning of class.”

Snape’s lip twisted. “Would you like your scroll back to read for reference?”

“No sir,” she replied, forcing herself to calm down and continue facing him. “I completed the project, but I felt that there was a better way of demonstrating what you wished us to learn.”

The class went quiet, then she heard a titter from Draco’s table.

“Enlighten me.” If possible, he loomed broader and taller than he had before.

“Sir, it came to me when I was cooking dinner. Bones contain collagen, which is a connective substance. As collagen is heated, it breaks down into gelatin and into smaller particles. The smaller particles lose a lot of their adhesive nature while they are hot. As the particles cool, they re-adhere to each other, which is why you stop heating and stirring gravy just before it’s the consistency you want. So when we use dragon bones, we have to heat them to break down the collagen. I deduce that dragon collagen requires more heat than bovine collagen. The end result is the same, and we have to be able to judge when to remove the heat so when the potion cools it has the desired consistency.” Hermione took a slow breath.

He tilted his head and looked at her. “And you felt making gravy demonstrated this principle better how?”

“Because it’s more easily repeatable, in a shorter amount of time. I made a dozen gravies by altering the time, temperature, and preparation, and recorded my observations in the appendix of my scroll. I was able to validate my discoveries by sampling. I tried them, and my parents tried them too, and I charted our observations on graphs, also in the appendix.”

His mouth twitched, but whether it was a smile or a sneer, she was not certain.

“Fascinating,” he intoned. “But also accurate, thorough, and well defended both written and orally—I read your paper during the exercise. Ten points to Gryffindor. Miss Granger, since you have obviously learned the principle, you are excused from the following assignment. The rest of you, three feet describing in detail the process, without resorting to Muggle terminology or examples, due next Thursday.”

Ginny ducked her head and winked at Hermione, mouthing, “Good job.” Hermione raised her brows and started copying down the assignment.

“Miss Granger.”

She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him again, his expression and mood unreadable.

“Sir?”

“What are you doing, Miss Granger?”

She looked at the assignment on the board, back to his face, down to her quill, back to the board, and returned her gaze to his face. She felt an uncontrollable, unreasonable swelling of silly joy bursting upwards, another fit of elation that had struck her randomly since she’d seen Voldemort finally disintegrate into powder. Her inward voice started chanting No, no, no, not now, not here, not Snape! but she felt her face lighting up into a broad insane grin.

“I have no idea, Professor.”

Around her, quills stopped scratching on parchment. He didn’t move or change his gaze. She couldn’t seem to avert her eyes either, and for some reason, this made her smile more. Hermione felt a titter bubbling up too, and she pinched her leg hard.

“No idea?”

“I could...assemble ingredients for the First Years?”

His brows contracted and he said smoothly, “That sounds wise, Miss Granger.”

She stuffed everything in her rucksack and scurried into the Potions closet, her face burning. She pushed the door closed, made her way to the back of the closet, and cast a silencing spell around her before collapsing in hopeless giggles.

When she finally got herself under control and started poking around, looking for the phial. She located it, finally, at a top shelf, locked inside a glass fronted cabinet. It wouldn’t budge. She growled to herself and started muttering incantations, but nothing worked.

“Right, I’m competing with Snape here,” she told herself. “That’s almost impossible. He’s an excellent wizard, and I have no idea if he used dark magic to secure this. Why didn’t I think of that? I really must have lost my mind after a whole two months with Muggles....”

Stymied, she went to the front of the closet and assembled the ingredients for the first years into individual baskets in a frenzy of motion. As she set the collections of bottles in order, she thought about the cabinet. She’d attacked it from the front and from the bottom and sides. What about the top? She thought the top was flush with the bottom of the shelf above it and that the cabinet was attached to the wall at the back. Was that true?

She hurried to the back, cast Lumos and looked around the back and bottom of the cabinet. She felt along the top, and realized there was enough space between the top of the cabinet and the bottom of the next shelf to....what? Wait, there were screws holding the cabinet together.

She cast a retracting spell and concentrated on the screws at the top of the cabinet. Slowly, the screws worked loose, one after the other. She lifted the top off, holding her breath. Nothing happened, and if he had some kind of silent alarm, then she was up the creek anyway.

She used the retracting spell to lift the phial out and rearranged some of the other bottles and jars to disguise what she had taken. She was closing the cabinet when she heard shuffling outside. Hermione paused, straining her ears, then checked her watch. Holy Merlin -- her class was long over and the next class was filtering in. She cast a disillusionment spell on herself, tugged her stuff out of the way, and retreated into the gloom of the closet.

The door banged open and Snape entered, his silhouette crisp against the relatively bright light of the classroom. She cringed backward, thinking small and invisible. She saw him pause and peer into the darkness, then he levitated the baskets from the closet and closed the door behind him.

She parked her hip on a ladder. Blast. If she left now, she would interrupt his class. Would he demand to know why she had taken far longer than expected? She wasn’t sure. She checked her watch again. This was the last class of the day and she was willing to wait and slip out once the other class left. Keeping a close ear out for any noises at the door, she settled into the back of the closet with her alchemy book to read in as dim a light she could stand.

3 Sept 98, Potions Closet
Hermione peeked through the open gap of the closet door. Blast the dim light, she couldn’t tell if the room was empty. The last class had noisily vacated what felt like ages ago and her right leg was cramping. She’d heard no movement for several minutes. Not for the first time, she cursed herself silently that she hadn’t worn the self-illuminated watch her parents had given her as an early 19th birthday present and she didn’t dare cast Lumos with the closet door gapped open. Everyone should be heading to their dorms. It should be safe to leave.

She’d set her hand on the door and prepared to push it open when the classroom door creaked. She held still. The door was shut and locked and quiet steps crossed before her to the front of the room. She had just a moment to catch a glimpse of the Potion master’s beaky profile before he moved out of sight. Letting her breath out slowly, she strained to hear where he might have gone.

Damn. She couldn’t possibly slip out if Snape was around, especially since he had locked them in. If he didn’t nab her the moment she stepped out of the closet, then he would certainly hear her as she made her escape. She squeezed the phial in her robe pocket, annoyed that she had thought stealing from Snape’s private store would be a simple process just because she’d done it before. No potion-gone-awry this time for cover. He’d catch her, he’d make her empty her pockets, and that would be that.

She moved her head, trying to see where he was. Her heart lurched when he appeared, carrying a smallish black bag. He pushed the backs of two chairs against his desk, set the bag on one chair, and relocated his speaking lectern closer to his desk. He apparently inspected the arrangement, then slipped off his teaching robes and draped them carefully over the lectern. He unbuttoned first the right then the left sleeve of his coat, then opened the long row of buttons at the front of his coat. He shrugged the coat off and arranged it also over the lectern. Hermione realized her mouth was dangling slack and she wetted her lips nervously. What on earth was he up to?

Snape sat in the unoccupied chair and opened the bag. He removed several dark items and laid them carefully on the chair before he turned and set the bag itself on his desk. He sat for a moment looking at the objects. Since they were on the far side of him, Hermione couldn’t see what they were. She heard him sigh slowly, then he removed his cravat and opened the front of his white shirt, exposing his bare chest, worked the sleeves open so the cloth fell away from his wrists, and sat still again. He pushed a hand slowly through his limp hair and leaned back in the chair, his legs relaxing and splaying outwards.

Hermione watched in amazement as he stroked his hand over his hair, down his neck, and lazily circled his nipples, then slid both hands down his thighs. She bit her lower lip, regretting more than ever volunteering to raid the ingredient store. Very possibly she had found the one thing worse than being caught by Snape -- catching Snape jerking off. She wanted desperately to not watch, but the bizarre scene kept her transfixed.

He unbuckled his belt with one hand and loosened his trousers. He slipped his right hand inside, pushing his hips to the edge of the chair seat so he could have easier access. He sighed deeply, then picked up one of the objects from the chair. She watched as he pulled a black glove onto his left hand, then continued stroking his chest and neck with the gloved hand as he lazily rubbed at his crotch. Snape let his head tilt backwards onto the chair’s backrest, and he groaned softly, his eyes closed. Hermione could see his mouth moving slowly, but she heard no words.

He reached to the other chair again and picked up a... wand? A stick? She squinted, peering in the gloom, trying to make out what he had in his hand. Whatever it was, he raised it to his lips and grazed the tip across his face and down his body, inhaling in a slow hiss as he brought it parallel to his his right leg, lifted his hand, and brought it down in a sharp thwack against his thigh.

It was a riding crop.

Hermione pressed her hand against her mouth and forced herself to breathe as silently as she could. Images of the pornography she had found in the Room of Requirement flooded her mind and she recalled one of the stories that seemed to have been heavily read and referenced, the worn pages dog-eared. There was a riding crop in the story, as well as a multi-bladed flog, and the main character was worked to distraction by a disdainful dominatrix -- Hermione had imagined a saner Bellatrix. Come to think, it made sense that Snape might prefer a submissive role, since all the Death Eaters obeyed their Dark Lord and Master.

Snape groaned again and rubbed his crotch with his right hand, the riding crop resting across his chest, as he stroked his cheeks and neck with his gloved left hand. His mouth was open, now relaxed and soft, now tensed and baring his teeth. She wondered how long he would continue to touch himself and if he would actually bring himself to climax.

She was certain she would betray herself if that happened. What was the standard punishment for watching a professor masturbate? She giggled inwardly, correcting herself. What was the punishment for watching Snape masturbate? Was it covered in the student handbook? Her face burned with a flash of heat. She was actually turned on. Not wildly, not as if Ron had been kissing her neck, but definitely turned on. She thought back to the pornography, about how reading it had made her breath quicken. At the time, she’d blamed it on the smut, which was of course supposed to be titillating, and the taboo of finding someone’s (Snape’s!) private stash, having a glimpse into someone’s (Snape’s!) mind. For a moment, she had an idea of why wizards practiced legilimency. Pants, why hadn’t she considered how erotic diving into someone’s mind might be? She inhaled a little sharper than expected with the sudden insight.

Snape snapped his head to the right, looking in her direction, and was still.

Hermione froze too, and for a long moment she felt they were staring into each other’s eyes. Impossible, she realized, comforting herself as his gaze slowly moved away from the closet. He didn’t know she was there.

But he knew something was amiss.

“Is someone there?” he asked softly.

A perverse plan popped into her head, scripted and organized as if she had been thinking about it for weeks. Steeling herself, she slammed the closet door open and, keeping her face immobile, stepped into the classroom.

They stared at each other, neither moving. His chest lifting from quick breaths that slowed and deepened. He must have been unnerved by her appearance, which meant she must be careful to not display any nervousness herself. She recommitted to her course of action.

“Why are you in my closet, Miss Granger?” Snape asked smoothly.

“Why are you playing with yourself in the Potions classroom, Professor?” she countered, keeping her voice low and controlled. His eyebrow lifted slightly.

“It’s hardly your concern what I do in my own time, Miss Granger.” He lowered his hands to the seat’s edges and prepared to push himself into a more upright position.

“Don’t move, s-Severus,” Hermione said taking a single step forward and kicking herself mentally for the stutter. He stopped though, watched her carefully. “I was enjoying the show,” she added. I’m confident, I’m sincere, I’m in charge.

“Indeed.”

“Yes. Continue.”

He blinked slowly and a slow smirk twisted the corners of his mouth. She realized part of his appeal centered on how his lips moved and shaped around words, like he was eating them. “Just why should I continue, Miss Granger?”

“Because I said so,” she started, watching his lips thin into a sneer. “Because I found your smut pile in the Room of Requirements,” his face hardened, “and because I’ve read a particular story with a riding crop and a flog, both of which you seem to have here.”

No response. His lips had straightened into a line she was well familiar with. They looked at each other, waiting. She kept her expression neutral and her breathing regular.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “And what of this story, Miss Granger?”

Hermione lifted her hand and caught the loose glove as she called it silently to her. Not breaking eye contact, she slipped it on her right hand, realized it was way too large for her, and silently transformed it to fit her hand. She noticed his eyes widen slightly, and she focused on the glove on his left hand, calling it to her too. She’d done that a hundred times with Ron’s Quidditch gear, magically stripping him with the simple wandless spell, and it worked on Snape’s glove as well, evoking a gasp from him when the glove ripped itself from his hand. She pulled it on, still warm from his body heat, and fitted it.

“Well done, Miss Granger. Ten poi--“

Hermione closed the space between them in a step before he could finish, grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of his head, and loomed over him, recalling the way he swooped over his own students, intimidating them into silence. She scowled. He gazed up at her, his eyes wide and breath quick. “Quiet, Severus,” she hissed, drawing out the sibilance. She slowly stroked the side of his face and pulled at his lower lip with her thumb. “Relax your mouth. I liked that better.”

He relaxed his jaw. His tongue flicked out and wetted his lips as they parted. She felt his breath stir the loose hair around her face as she looked down at him. Warmth spread across her skin and a tingling grew between her legs. She’d never been so close to him, not by her own choice, and she felt his body heat and smelled his odor, masculine and exciting, with a vague woody scent that she had always associated with the Potions storeroom.

“What do you propose to do?” he whispered. She wondered if her proximity was affecting him as much as it seemed his was affecting her. He had not moved at all, not since she’d ordered him not to.

She reached down his arm, dragging her fingers over him, and closed her hand over his, with her forefinger and thumb wrapped around the handle of the crop. He didn’t resist when she took the whip from his hand. He pulled in a deep breath with a light shudder, almost imperceptible, and closed his eyes.

She reviewed the story they were enacting, making sure she knew what came next. “You may call me Mistress, Severus.” He regarded her from lowered lids, let his head turn towards her. “Do you require a safe word?”

Immediately she knew she’d made a mistake. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, but Hermione thought quickly and brought the crop against his thighs as hard as she could. He sucked in air and shot a startled expression at her.

“Do you require a safe word?” she repeated quietly.

His mouth worked wordlessly for a moment. Truly shaken and struggling for balance. He closed his eyes and replied evenly, “Does Mistress wish me to have a safe word?”

She paused and considered. Was it possible that she would push him to his limits, considering she had never done this and he presumably had, probably many many times? Doubtful. But the prospect of pushing him to the point of breaking, of asking for release..... She felt her panties grow damp, thinking of him begging for her to....what? It didn’t matter, she realized. She wanted Severus beneath her, begging. With a safe word, he might be willing to let her explore.

“’Thestral’ is your safe word, Severus.”

“Thestral,” he echoed, his eyes still closed, and she noticed the pulse fluttering at his neck. She was seized by a desire to bite him there, and she did, gratified at his gasp. His skin was cool against the hotness of her mouth. She pulled back and regarded him again. She kissed him then, pressing her mouth on his, and felt him open to her, their tongues touching. She suspected he was restraining himself for her benefit, deliberately allowing her to be the aggressor for the moment, but she didn’t care. Expected him to taste of sour milk or something rotten—instead, he tasted vaguely of almonds and honey, evidently something he’d eaten while she was hiding and that overlaid his own masculine oaky flavor. The unevenness of his teeth fascinated her; she stroked her tongue over them repeatedly, wanting to lock the memory in her mind—what? Why? She withdrew, dragging his lower lip between hers, and he moaned softly before opening his eyes a sliver to look at her.

“Give me the flog and position yourself,” she said, straightening away from him. He held the handle to her but he didn’t release it when she grasped it.

“Mistress,” he whispered, his voice rising slightly in a query. She nodded, and he continued, “Has Mistress used a flog before? There’s a certain skill to flogging...for the best results.... It’s also possible for an unskilled flogger to hurt herself with strain.”

She didn’t release the flog handle while she considered. Just as with the safe word, he was pushing her to think. Perhaps his greater experience urged caution. “Would you prefer the crop, Severus?”

He nodded once. A glaze of sweat spread across his forehead. Perhaps he was apprehensive of her wielding the crop as well, especially since he had already felt her strike him with it.

“Say it, Severus.”

Another slow, deep breath. “Please use the crop on me, Mistress.” He tightly closed his eyes and a dark flush crept across his bare chest. He released the flog and she laid it on the desk at his head.

“Then position yourself, Severus. I’m losing patience and won’t ask again.” She felt the last words tumble out automatically, hearing the echo of Snape’s voice in her head saying the exact same words during innumerable classes.

If the irony of having his own phrase thrown at him amused him, Snape didn’t show it. He stood obediently, face expressionless, loosened his trousers so they slid past his hips, and removed his shirt. He laid the shirt on the desk and knelt on the chair. His boxers were distorted with his erection before he lowered his underwear to mid-thigh. He was pale everywhere with lines of scars crisscrossing his skin. His hair swung forward as he braced his forearms on the desk, hiding his face from her view, and his pants slid the rest of the way to his knees. The white bow of his back and his bare buttocks gleamed in the dim room. Vulnerable.

She studied him. When he had turned, she saw the red line where she had struck him across his thighs, had missed his genitals by only inches. For a moment, she regretted being in a position where she might add to the marks on him. Could just toss the whip and scarper. Then she recalled the role she had chosen to play, and she flexed the crop in her hands and lifted it. How had the witches in the stories done this?

Hermione brought the first strike across his buttocks, as hard as she could, the thin rod hissing through the air. He cried out hoarsely, then whimpered. Hermione leaned forward to look at the mark and saw that it was rising already, red and dark against his pallor. She blew softly at it—he gasped and shifted away. Instinctively she smacked his hip back into position and he grunted. She striped his backside and thighs with a dozen strokes, stopping when she felt an ache through her elbow and wrist. He sagged onto the desk, his breathing labored.

She moved to the desk and pushed the drape of hair off his face. He looked at her, his feverish expression betraying his excitement. She leaned in and kissed him again; his mouth was cooled dry from panting. He rose with her when she parted, sucking at her lips. Hermione caressed his torso and ranged downward, where she found his hand stroking his swollen cock.

“How long have you been pleasuring yourself, Severus?” she asked, reaching beneath to cup his soft balls.

He growled and leaned against her. She pushed him back and squeezed his scrotum slightly.

“Since about the sixth stroke, Mistress,” he husked. His fisting tempo increased. How close he was!

“Did I give you permission to do that?”

He paused mid-stroke and met her eyes. “No, Mistress,” he said so softly she almost mistook his words as a sigh.

“Put your hands out, palms up.”

A quizzical expression flickered across his face. This was not part of the script, but he did as told and held his hands out parallel to to the desk. Before she could lose nerve, she cut the crop viciously across his palms. Snape cried out, caught the whip and held it, glaring at her.

“I have to teach tomorrow, silly girl,” he hissed at her.

“Then you should learn to obey,” Hermione responded, darting her hand forward to seize his member. It twitched and she started stroking him, trying to mirror his own technique. He thrusted into her fist. He leaned against the desk with the butts of his palms, sparing the weal marks, and his breath grew raspy as he neared climax.

“Finish me,” he groaned, “please.”

She dropped her hands from him. He humped the air in frustration. “Finish yourself,” she spat, remembering the dialog from the story. He glared at her again; wincing, he made himself come, thick spurts puddling on the desk.

She waited until he seemed to recover then handed him his shirt. “Clean up your mess, Severus,” she said. “Manually, no magic. Then get dressed.”

He sighed heavily and complied, pulling the semen-stained shirt on and doing up his trousers. He faced her and rose to his full height.

Whatever had happened, it was over. She shrank into smallness, peeled the gloves off, and offered them to him. He took them and dropped them back into the bag, then turned back to her, appraising her quietly.

“Professor—“ she started.

“Oh, back to formalities?” he asked coolly. “I think we’ve moved past that, haven’t we?”

She shrugged. “I can’t call you Severus in public.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Are...are you okay?”

He barked a laugh, and held out his hands. “Miss Granger, why this touch?”

“My dad used to tell me the nuns would ruler their students’ hands in school.”

He raised his brows in understanding. “Effective. As well as you striped me, I can deal with that pain, but this,” he shook his hands, “This went too far.”

“Then you should have used your safe word,” she retorted.

He inclined his head toward her. “In future, I will not touch myself without Mistress’s permission. For now, I need assistance healing this.”

“Of course,” she said. Halfway to the first aid cabinet beside the store closet door she stopped and turned to him. “What do you mean, in future?”

“You have talent, Miss Granger. Or would you prefer not...?”

She studied the floor at her feet. “I don’t know.”

“This was a whim?”

“It was an opportunity.”

He remained silent as she retrieved a jar from the cabinet and returned to daub a healing ointment across his palms. “Would you like me to put this on the others?” she asked, glancing toward his hips.

Snape pursed his lips. “That would defeat the point, wouldn’t it? Besides, I can access those marks myself.”

In future. Talent. Three compliments in one day from Snape. Her head spun. “It seems so one sided.”

“Meaning?”

“It was all about your needs.” She gestured towards the desk. “You got release, after all. I just got to, well, beat you.”

“That’s your inexperience showing,” Snape replied, tipping his head back to look at her under lowered lids.

“I didn’t want to appear foolish,” Hermione snapped and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Are you a virgin?”

She jerked upright and glared at him. “That’s none of your business. Look, I felt like you only obeyed me when I impressed you.”

His lips compressed. “I admit that.”

“And I scared you.”

“Yes.”

“With the flog....”

“Yes -- if your technique is bad, you can cause damage.”

“To you, not to me, though,” she argued.

“Does your arm hurt?” Snape asked, his head canting in query.

She flexed. “Yes, and my back and shoulder.”

“The flog requires more finesse to control the tongues. Any idiot can hit a stationary target with a single, short stick.”

“Oh.” Hermione pivoted away from him, cheeks flaming. This hadn’t seemed so difficult in the stories she’d read, just a matter of flailing away at someone. Her embarrassment gave way to anger that yet again he’d pointed out a shortcoming, something else that she couldn’t do right, another area where his superiority was obvious --

“I could teach you,” he offered mildly, breaking into her thoughts.

Startled by his tone as much as by his words. “I don’t think I want to be the recipient.”

Snape shook his head. “You misunderstand. I could teach you to...” His fingers lifted, gesturing towards the bag.

“Flog you? Safely?”

His eyes glistened in the dim light and he crossed his arms. “If you want.”

She returned the medicine to the cabinet then returned to stand close to him. She craned her neck to look up at him, realizing how much taller he was than her and how imposing, even in his current state of dishevel. He stared placidly back. She felt vaguely taken advantage of, confused at her own excitement and at the thrill of his submission to her—the turmoil boiled. “Why teach me, Mister Snape? Given my inexperience and your obvious extensive experience, surely you have more qualified candidates.”

He snorted. “Of course there are better candidates than a rough virgin, and virgin you are, compared to me. Use your brain, Miss Granger.” He angrily pulled up his left sleeve, exposing the faded Dark Mark. “Given the times, where would I find someone who would overlook this, someone I could trust to not kill or mutilate me, even someone who would offer a current or former Death Eater a safe word, and mean it? Even if I sought out release in the Muggle world, my comings and goings would be noted and exploited. I have many enemies amongst the remaining Death Eaters.”

He was trembling by the time he ended. He yanked the sleeve down, started automatically buttoning it, then crossed his arms again. “Might I point out you barged in on me?”

She clenched her fists. Control. Breathe. “I guess that makes me the best offer, other that just fantasizing and self-flagellation.” Hermione shrugged. “That even sounds pathetic.”

Snape grew rigid and growled.

Hermione waved a hand at him and edged backward, “I didn’t mean—“

“Of course you did,” he shot back. His shoulders sagged as he added listlessly, “And you’re right. Top marks, Miss Granger.”

She reached out and squeezed his arm. He covered her hand with his, the palm hot against the back of her hand, the healing stripe afire.

They stood together for a few minutes before he stepped from her. He pulled his wand from his coat pocket, removed his shirt, and used a cleaning spell across both the shirt and the desk. Wordlessly, Hermione relocated the chairs and watched as he methodically replaced his clothing. He was moving more stiffly than usual, responding to the stripes she’d left on him. At last he stood still again, severe in the enclosing fabric. Hermione drew near and tentatively reached out to free his hair from the high collar. He let her do so, then captured her wrist against his chest, firmly trapping her. With his free hand, he reached to her robe pocket and pressed the phial against her hip.

“What did you steal, Miss Granger?”

Caught.

Immediately, she was a student again, transgressing against the unapproachable Potions master. She trembled and he smirked, turned her slightly so he could slip his hand in the pocket, removed the phial, and peered at the label. “This is from my personal store,” he murmured, barely moving his mouth, squeezing her wrist harder. She forced herself to not wince, not respond, and met his seething glare blankly. He stopped squeezing and loosened his grip without releasing her.

“Miss Granger, are you aware that men pay for services from dominatrices?”

She nodded. The magazines had been festooned with garish adverts with disdainful women and there’d been dozens of pages of classifieds in blobby, tiny print. Smudgy pages.

“Consider this payment.” He pressed the phial into her hand against his chest. She closed her hand on the object as her stomach flipped. He reached for her other hand and pressed her palm against his crotch. He was still hard, hardening even as her hand remained there. Snape released her wrist, lifted her hair from her neck and lightly kissed her high on her neck. He moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Mistress mine.” Immediately she felt a wash of heat and her knees weakened; he sniffed slightly as his penis twitched under her grasp. “Think on that,” he added, and released her. “Now go, before I reconsider.”

She staggered backward, the loss of contact stunning her as solidly as a punch, and pocketed the phial before she could drop it. She felt him watching her as she crabbed away, colliding with stools and tables until she gathered her senses and turned towards the door. As she neared it, the door boomed open and she fled.

3 Sept 98, Gryffindor Common Room
She burst into the Gryffindor common room, and leaned against a wall, panting. The room was vacant except for Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Neville, and they gapingly stared at her.

Ginny was the first to collect herself. “Hermione, what happened? What took you so long?”

“S-Snape happened,” Hermione stammered. “He caught me.”

Ron rushed to her and wrapped his arms around her. “That damned bat.”

“Did you get the phial?” Neville asked, receiving glares from both Ron and Ginny.

“I did, he didn’t get it,” she replied, and took it out of her pocket. Her hand shook so badly that Ron took the bottle from her and led her to the sofa. Harry summoned a cup of tea, which she gulped at, the tea sloshing with every breath.

“So what happened?” Ginny repeated, rubbing Hermione’s back. Hermione set the cup and saucer on the coffee table with a clatter and rubbed her face with both hands.

She regretted the action immediately, as his scent lingered on her hands and sleeves, and her butterflies returned in force.

Ginny eeped and Ron grabbed her hand. Her robe sleeves had fallen back when she had covered her face, exposing her wrist with the blooming bruise of Snape’s handprint. Each place his fingers had pressed stood clearly against her skin with the thumbprint an angry mottle just below the base of her thumb.

“I told you, he caught me,” she stammered, staring at the marks.

“What else? Detention?” Harry asked.

She shook her head and rubbed her wrist, which was starting to ache. “N-no. He lectured me. And shook me.”

“Maybe he was afraid of being reported,” Neville offered. “I can’t see McGonagall being very happy that Snape had physically harmed a student.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed grudgingly. “It still sounds wrong.”

“But at least you got the ingredient,” Ron said. He handed the phial to Harry, who studied the label, then pushed his glasses out of the way to examine it closely.

“Hm, that’s odd. Hermione, did you look at this label?”

“Don’t tell me I got the wrong one!”

“No, that’s not it. It’s the right one. But, the label has a note on it. It looks like,” he squinted at the marking, “like ‘paid: SS to HG’.”

“R-really,” Hermione asked, reaching for the bottle. Harry handed it to her, and she stared at it. The note had not been there before, not when she retrieved it from the storeroom. It was unmistakably in Snape’s handwriting, in purple ink. Her hands started to shake again, and Ron took the bottle from her. “Ooh, that hateful, hateful man,” she muttered, hugging herself as a flush of heat spread from her core and her cheeks burned.

“Ironic, isn’t it,” Neville said, “that he would have bought it from someone with your initials, Hermione. That must be what that means.”

“Yeah,” she replied and rubbed her palms on her upper arms. “His loss, then. It was from his personal store, did you know that? It wasn’t just special Hogwarts stock.”

Ginny giggled. “You stole from the bat himself? Wow. When he finds out, he’ll be furious.”

Hermione nodded, smiling and shivering. She couldn’t stop shaking and it was starting to worry her.

“I hope he doesn’t connect you to that,” Ron said. “Remember how he was when he thought Harry was stealing from the school store to make polyjuice potion. He didn’t have any proof of that.”

“I know,” Harry said. He still had a puzzled expression on his face. “It doesn’t really add up though. He must have suspected something, he certainly left a mark on you. Snape does a lot of things, but I’ve never heard of him physically harming a student.”

Hermione shook her head. “I know, me neither. Maybe the war with Voldemort last year rattled something loose.” Inside, she felt a twist and the image of Snape’s face swam before her, his mouth opened in a groan, his eyes closed. She swilled down the rest of her tea, pushing the thought from her mind, and smelled his woody fragrance from her hand as she drank. She carefully set the cup down.

“I need a shower,” she said.

“Do you want me to find some healing ointment for your wrist?” Ginny asked. “I’m sure the stuff we use after Quidditch would work. It works on bludger bruises, so it should work on that.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s okay, really. But I’m not hungry. You go on to dinner without me.”

###

The next morning, they crowded into the boys’ dorm room when it was still dark and carefully made the brew. Hermione’s bruise had spread overnight, the mark full of angry reds, emerging blacks and purples, and some blooming yellows. Ron pointed out that the note’s ink color almost exactly matched the purples in her bruise, causing her hands to tremble so badly Ginny took over.

“Maybe he did know,” Neville said in a hushed voice.

“No, he would have done something else to me, I feel certain. At the least, he would have taken it from me.” She hugged herself. “I don’t think I can bear to see him at breakfast and I left my school bag in the Potions storeroom!”

Ron rubbed her back and promised to bring toast and juice to her if she’d wait in the courtyard. They finished working and watch the completed potions swirling weirdly in the collection of small bottles. “The greasy git would sure be shocked if he realized we were voluntarily making potions outside of class, especially with stuff we’ve stolen right from under his huge nose.”

Hermione gasped. “I forgot. We have Potions as last class today.”

They looked glumly at each other. Harry gingerly picked up the box with the bottles, set it into his trunk, and cast both locking and alarm spells on the trunk.

“I guess we’ll find out if there are repercussions,” Harry said as they trooped down the hallway to the portal.

They found Hermione’s school bag propped against the outside wall beside the portrait of the Fat Lady.
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Cantata for Three Voices in G Major