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The Fantasy Book	By : CryingCinderella Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 44517 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: Finally got the mojo back into this one! Smutty smutty smutness. Mmmm. In the words of Tom Lehrer. Smut. :-)

Hermione had kept the cloak hood drawn up over her head until the door behind her had closed. There was no bell to signal her entrance into Gladrags Wizardwear. She slowly pulled her hood back, revealing a silk scarf tied around her freshly cut hair; she was still adjusting to the look but did not regret the experience in the least. The memory of it made her shiver. She moved into the shop between the large racks of clothing and nodded to the witch behind the counter.

            “Good day,” the shop keeper smiled. “What can I do you for?” she asked.

            She had practiced the whole walk down from the castle; repeating it over and over but as she was presented with the question she felt the stinging red embarrassment flood her cheeks. She couldn’t bring herself to say it; at least not without blushing. But he had so willingly obliged her strange fantasy and it had been thrilling. So she owed him the small favor of fulfilling one of his more obscure fantasies even if it frightened her a fair bit. It was more embarrassing than anything else as she leaned over the counter slightly and whispered, “I’d like to see your costumes, please.”

            The woman stared at her for a moment and then her eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh— oh,” she said and then shook her shoulders slightly. “We keep…that sort of thing…upstairs,” she gestured to a small winding wooden staircase at the back of the shop. “Marni should be able to assist you, she’s up there,” she said and flushed as brightly as Hermione.

            “Thank you,” she muttered and dashed quickly away from the counter, making her way to the back of the shop. The staircase was an intricate wooden carving as it spiraled upward to the attic of the shop. Hermione had seldom made patronage of Gladrags and she had certainly never been upstairs. She hadn’t even known that they would carry such a thing but as they had sat on the couch after her haircut; him gently running his hands through her much shorter hair, he had whispered the notion of his fantasy in her ear. He had instantly retracted it when her eyes had gone so wide she was certain they had almost fallen out of her head. But after expressing her slight concern over having no idea how to prepare for such a fantasy it was shared with her that Gladrags would have everything she would need.

            And there she was slowly entering the attic of the shop with her heart racing and her fingers trembling. The landing was small; beaded curtains obscuring everything beyond. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. It’s just a costume, it’s just a costume, you can do this. You want to fulfill his fantasy. It’s just a costume. Her mind kept repeating, like a mantra that would somehow give her strength as she stepped forward through the beaded curtains.

            “Oi!” a voice shouted from somewhere within the depths of the attic. She made herself known very quickly as she slid down a ladder that led to a high shelf of boxes. The woman was unlike any witch Hermione had ever seen. She had short cropped black hair with longer strands that were electric yellow and bright blue. She wore a tight black leather skirt and was naked from the waist up. Hermione did a double take; the woman’s torso was covered in a sheer flesh colored mesh with two large sparkling flowers over her nipples; otherwise generally exposing her breasts. She turned her head to the side and flushed.

            “Oi, prudish one, you are,” the woman smirked and shook her head, the longer blue and yellow streaks seeming to dance in her black hair. “So who sent you here to pick up something that you clearly don’t want to be here for?” Her voice was gruff as she hopped up onto the counter, perching on the edge; providing Hermione with a view of her long purple fishnet stockings. Hermione was certain that if she was shorter and standing directly in front of the girl she would have seen clear up her skirt. This only caused her to blush further.

            Hermione cleared her throat, fighting the blush that kept creeping through her face. Just ask her and get it over with. “I need a costume,” she whispered.

            The girl chuckled. “Well I gathered that, lovey, or she wouldn’t have sent you up here,” the witch hopped down from the counter and moved toward the side of the attic which had dozens and dozens of mannequin models wearing incredibly slutty outfits. “Let’s see…anything in mind or should we just start trying them on and see what you fancy?”

            “Trying them on?” Hermione’s face flushed fully, her eyes wide.

            The witch laughed. “You’ve obviously never done this before. Come on, love, let’s get you a cuppa and I’ll talk you through it,” she said and wrapped her arm around Hermione’s back ushering her to a table and squishy couch that she had not noticed upon entering the attic. The witch placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Hermione and guided her down into the seat cushions before slipping her legs beneath her body and sitting down beside her. “I have some books you can look through for ideas if you’re not sure, or if you’re feeling particularly uninspired,” she smiled and began to pick up a catalog from the table.

            Hermione took the cup of tea in her hands and brought it to her lips. It was a sweet hot blend of chamomile and lavender, calming agents and she was grateful to feel the soothing flavors slip over her tongue. After a few sips she nodded to the woman. “I know what I’m looking for,” and again she blushed. “I’m trying to fulfill a fantasy for my—” she lowered her eyes to the books on the table. “Well for someone, anyway.”

            “Ah, secret lover,” the witch chortled. “Right, we get heaps of those.” She placed the books back on the table. “So, what’s it to be?”

            Hermione took another long quaff from her tea and then set the cup down on the table. “I need something that will make me…demure…innocent…ready to confess sin,” she said and then turned her questioning eyes to the witch. “Do you—”

            The witch hopped up and had sprinted halfway across the attic before Hermione could finish her question. She came bounding back, a mannequin floating by her side. “I think this is what you’re looking for, and I’m certain we have one that will fit you in all the right places,” she smirked. The witch spun the mannequin around allowing Hermione to see the front and back of the costume. “Not terribly bright in way of colors, but if it’s that sort of fantasy he’s into…that won’t matter,” she chortled. “Now can I have a look at your hair?” she asked. “To see if we can manage it in the headpiece.”

            Hermione drew trembling fingers to the silk scarf she had tied about her head. She carefully undid the knot and let the silk slip away through her fingers. She gazed at the mannequin, trying not to blush, trying to imagine how it would look on her. But her thoughts were interrupted as the other witch squealed in delight.

            “That’s bloody perfect!” she was bouncing back and forth on her heels as she reached up and tugged gently at Hermione’s short hair. “The head piece will fit bloody perfect with this stylish short look,” she was practically bubbling as she waved her wand and sent a box flying down from one of the higher shelves. “Let’s see…” she said reaching into a virtually invisible pocket on her tight leather skirt and withdrawing a tape measure. “Take off your shirt please,” she said.

            Hermione shuddered. “Can’t I just tell you my size?”

            “Not if you want it to fit right,” the witch said. “Here,” she gripped the edges of Hermione’s shirt and yanked it up over her head, tangling for a moment with her arms. Hermione shrieked and drew her arms around her chest, even though she was wearing a bra. “Oh calm down, I just need to get your measurements, you silly sod,” she flicked the floating tape measure around Hermione’s waist. “Your pants please,” he said but did not give Hermione a chance to protest as she pulled them down, letting them fall around her ankles.

            She was mortified; the strange witch moving about her body with the floating tape measure, making notes on a clipboard that had appeared from nowhere. She instantly regretted coming to find a costume. Hermione had thought it would simply be a matter of picking a packaged one from a hook a shelf and making sure she grabbed a medium sized one to ensure it would fit. “Are you done?” she asked, noting that the witch had stopped.

            “Nearly,” the witch said. “Just need to measure one more thing.” The witch was standing behind Hermione and with a deft flick of her wrist she unhooked Hermione’s bra. Again Hermione shrieked and grasped both her arms to her chest. “No, no, hold still, I need to get a full measurement,” she said tugging Hermione’s bra from her trembling body.

            “This is terribly invasive!” Hermione whimpered struggling to keep her bra pressed close to her body.

            But the witch, with practiced movements, slipped the bra easily from Hermione’s body and pulled the floating tape measure around her bust, and then individually around each breast before coming to stand behind her once more. “I have everything, you can put your clothes back on while I make some adjustments,” she said and turned her wand to the costume that was fitted on the mannequin. After a few moments she turned back to Hermione, who had dressed frantically and was once again covered by her clothes. “You’ll want to try it on before you go,” she said.

            Hermione shook her head. “Absolutely not, I’ll take my chances,” she stammered.

            The witch shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she opened the box she had summoned from the shelf and with a flick of her wand the now adjusted costume floated into it along with a complicated headpiece. “Here you are anything else?”

            “No.” Hermione said and snatched the box from the witch. She moved quickly to the steps and descended them even quicker, but not before hearing the witch shout ‘you’re welcome’ behind her. She handed the packaged box to the woman at the counter, who didn’t say much other than asking her for the total. Hermione was surprised that he’d given her enough in the pouch she pulled from her pocket. She hadn’t counted it, but he’d said it would be enough and it was with a bit left over. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her that he had known how much something like this would cost; perhaps he had just assumed they would be expensive. That assumption kept her mind slightly at ease as she left the shop and tugged the cloak over her head; taking the long and winding path back up to Hogwarts.

~*~

            The Room of Requirement had not taken long to find. When she’d returned from Hogsmeade and slipped unnoticed back into his chambers in the dungeons there had been a note that read he would be waiting for her in the Room of Requirement and that if she had changed her mind simply use the floo connection to find him. She was trembling, standing in his bathroom, with the door securely locked. She had even tossed a towel over the mirror, much to her reflection’s complaint, as she stripped out of her clothing and slid into the costume. It was snug; the scooped neck of the dress lifting her breasts up so that they practically spilled out of the top; and the back of the dress hugged her ass so snugly that she was afraid kneeling would split the fabric. The sleeves were long and cuffed firmly around her wrists and the white piece that fitted over her shoulders did not come down far enough to hide her now amply displayed cleavage. Fixing the headpiece had been easy and it fitted her face, draping down over her shoulders. She would have believed herself to be the real thing had it not been for her exposed breasts, spilling so fully out of the top.

            She stood outside of the door; worrying her lower lip between her teeth to the point where she tasted the metallic sting of blood. With a shuddering breath, Hermione slipped inside the room. Immediately the door disappeared behind her. The sight before her was both stunning and frightening. The walls seemed to stretch upward forever into a high vaulted cavernous ceiling, stained glass images glaring into the center of the room from all sides. Large wooden pews lined the path up to a white marble altar and it made her shiver. Her shoes clacked loudly on the flagstone, echoing even louder around the empty room that was lit only by the dozens and dozens of candles glowing near the statue of the Virgin Mary at the head of the space.

            As she had been instructed she knelt in the first pew on the left, bowing her head. The room was eerie and quiet; no sound now that her footfalls had been silenced. Not even the flicker of the candles made a noise; there was nothing in the cavernous room and the stillness sent her heart racing. She could hear it thundering in her chest, the hairs on the back of her neck, though covered by the wimple and habit, were standing straight on end and she could feel the prickle of the air against her skin despite the length of the robes. Her entire body stiffened and she bit her lower lip to keep from vocalizing her surprise as a heavy hand landed upon her shoulder.

            “Deep in prayer?” his silky voice floated to her from behind.

            She did not lift her head, her whole body now fighting against the urge to tremble. There was something terrifying about this fantasy and yet so exhilarating; and despite the tight wound tension that surged through her entire being in that moment she could feel a warmth drawing between her thighs. Hermione kept her eyes toward the ground, unable to close them and unwilling to lift her head and look into his eyes. “Yes, Father,” she whispered.

            There was silence, though his hand remained upon her shoulder. “How long since your last confession?” again his silky voice floated to her ear as if the words were being spoken right against the side of her head; each word a forbidden caress.

            “I—” her voice caught in her throat. “I do not remember, Father,” her whisper landed against the flagstone floor and nearly died there; her voice wound tightly by the fear coursing through her body coupled with the naughty notion of how delicious his voice sounded.

            “Then perhaps you should seek to absolve your sins,” he muttered. The pressure of his hand lifted from her shoulder and she felt her body protest at the loss of contact. It had only been the slightest of touches; guarded from her bare skin by her robes, but the heat of his flesh had radiated through her and caused her great confusing feelings within. His long black figure swooped by, robes billowing behind him, but only slightly, as he walked toward the large wooden booth to the far side of the altar. A confessional. He had disappeared within the first door panel and Hermione watched in exciting terror as the other door slowly swung open; as if inviting her to her doom.

            Her whole body was trembling as she stepped timidly toward the confessional. She had never been inside of one before; not certain as to how being cooped inside a tiny box and telling your inner most dark and naughty secrets to an invisible man on the other side was somehow going to absolve you of them. As she approached she felt a wave of nerves travel through her body; fright and arousal and so many other things that she could not describe, mingling together inside of her setting her whole body on edge. She stepped in, noting that there was only a small bench to kneel upon and so she did, placing her hands on the ledge intended for her elbows. The tiny confessional was practically black; except for the candle hanging in a glass container above her head.

            The wall that she faced had a slatted wooden screen and although she could not see through it she could hear him there; breathing quietly on the other side. Confession was never a concept Hermione had really understood, not because the fundamentals or the logistics didn’t make sense but because it seemed very impractical. To confess one’s sins to a mortal man who had no true divinities with which to forgive but was responsible for the punishments doled out to the sinner— the notion made her head spin. But she could hardly deny him after he’d been so hesitant to cut her hair when she’d asked the fantasy of him. So there she knelt, pulling the little door of the confessional shut, heart racing unnaturally.

            “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,” she breathed, her voice a fluttering whisper. “It has been many weeks since my last confession.” There was silence from the other side of the box. Hermione felt the nerves fluttering in her stomach and closed her eyes. This was an entirely new experience for her even if it was being forged under the pretenses of fulfilling his fantasy.

            “Speak what sins you bare upon your soul,” he whispered through the slatted window.

            Hermione swallowed hard. “I have had impure thoughts, father.”

            “What impure thoughts plague your mind, my child?”

            She hesitated, drawing in a deep breath. “I am not married, father, I am a woman of the cloth, a nun. But in my mind I imagine a man— not our Lord and father to whom my heart and soul belong; but a mortal man, who touches me and gives me great pleasures of my flesh. ”

            “It is unholy to have thoughts of an impure nature, my child,” he said, his voice low but calm.

            Again Hermione swallowed. “It is why I seek forgiveness. I turn my mind to pure thoughts only to have these impurities twist what I see. I see them often.”

            “And this man?” he whispered “Have you acted upon these impure thoughts toward him?”

            Silence. And then after a long moment she spoke, bowing her head. “No, father. But I have touched myself in gratification of these thoughts.”

            “Touched yourself how?” he asked.

            Hermione could feel her whole body shaking, trembling with nerves as she parted her lips to speak once more. “I have laid my fingers between my legs and allowed myself pleasure,” she confessed.

            There was a slight shift in the box from the other side, the creaking of the wood filling the otherwise silent space. Hermione held her breath, uncertain of what would come next. Nervously she bit her lower lip, knuckles now gripping the tiny ledge so tightly that they were turning white. “Father?” she asked after another long moment of silence.

            “Your impure thoughts of this man are unholy,” he said again. “You should distance yourself from this man who causes such thoughts, my child.”

            Her trembling voice was barely a whisper as she spoke. “I cannot, father.”

            “Why not?” he asked, never raising his voice, never raising his tone.

            She hesitated for only a moment. “Because the man of whom I have impure thoughts…is you, father.” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut tight, feeling her stomach flip-flopping wildly as if threatening to leap up through her throat and out of her mouth.

            The long silence hung deeply in the air and she could hear her heart racing; faster and faster inside her chest with every moment she waited. And then his voice was whispering through the slats in the wall to her. “You must kneel before the altar and prepare for the Eucharist,” he said. “And then you shall seek absolution for these impurities that plague your mind and your body.” And then again he fell silent.

            With trembling steps Hermione left the vestibule and moved to the large marble altar at the front of the room. Every fiber in her being was strung tightly on end as she moved and knelt down before the altar, her body quaking. She closed her eyes and drew in a sharp breath as she heard the door to the confession box open, his footfalls against the flagstone sending shivers up her spine. And within a moment he was standing before her over the altar.

            She lifted her head slightly, having bowed it when she knelt before the altar, finding him to be towering over her, gazing down upon her with glittering black eyes. This sent a mingling barb of terror and exhilaration shooting through her body. When his voice filled the silence of the room her breath hitched in her throat.

            “The body of Christ given up to cleanse thy soul of thy sins,” he whispered and drew the symbol of the cross over her head before pressing a paper thin wafer against her lips. Hermione carefully parted her lips and let it slip into her mouth. It dissolved slowly on her tongue and she bowed her head once more. His finger tilted her chin up to gaze at him, this time in his hand he held a chalice. “The blood of Christ given up to cleanse thy soul of thy sins,” he whispered and then pressed the edge of the chalice to her lips, letting her sip the slight bittersweet flavor of the sacred wine. Again he drew the symbol of the cross over her head.

            Hermione was trembling as she gazed up at him. Her mind was far from any prospect of reality in the moment; all she could see before her was his enormous figure draped in black with the white collar of his priesthood standing out in stark contrast. “Rise up, my child,” his voice was low, something dark slipping into it that she had not heard before. But she was obedient as she rose to her feet, keeping her head bowed forward awaiting further instruction.

            “Your soul must be absolved of these sins, my child,” his hand gently touched her chin tipping her head up to meet his gaze. “Sins of the flesh can only be purged from the body through rituals of the flesh…”

            His words caused her to whimper slightly. And then she was moving; his hands firm on her hips hoisting her up onto the altar, pushing her shoulders back until she was laid flat with her legs dangling off the edge, her rear on the rough edge of the marble. “Only by rituals of the flesh can you be cleansed…” and he pressed one hand over the center of her chest, holding her down as if trying to meld her into the surface of the table.

            “F-forgive me, father,” she whispered, her body quaking with fear and anticipation; Hermione getting into this fantasy for more than she thought she would. “P-please…my bridegroom Jesus waits for me,” she whispered, trying to push up against his hand but he was stronger and kept her down.

            Severus drew the cross over her body. “Blessed be the Virgin Mother Mary,” he whispered. “And cleanse this wayward child of her sins.” As he spoke one hand pushed apart his robes, revealing a raging erection unclad and unrestrained between his thighs, jutting up firmly with a clear glistening drop of precum leaking down from his tip. “You must be cleansed, my child.”

            “N-no,” she whimpered, closing her eyes, despite the dampness in her knickers. She felt his hand hiking up the long skirts of her nun’s outfit and her legs quaked as he stepped forward between them. “N-no, father, please…” she whispered but her voice was a husky moan; the fantasy indeed very arousing.

            “To save your immortal soul, my child, let your sins not bathe you in the fires of Sodom and Gomorrah,” he whispered and then yanked her knickers down. They were soaked and she could already feel the hot stickiness between her thighs, desperate to feel his cock pulsing between them. It was then that she cried out, his hands roughly ripping down the top of her costume, revealing her erect nipples and heaving breasts. “Possessed by a demon of lust you must be…saved…” he hissed and then slammed himself forward into her soaking wet cunt.

            Severus groaned, her tight slickness enveloping him so fully that he nearly lost control of himself then and there. There was something formidable and arousing about being guised as a priest, laying her out as he had with his cock now buried in her most sacred entrance. He held one hand down against on her chest, only this time he gripped her breast, tweaking and pinching her nipple as he slammed in and out of her, grunting and growling softly a strange prayer in a tongue she did not quite understand.

            Hermione was keening, whimpering and desperately trying to wrap her legs around his waist, trying to pull him deeper into her as he drove himself in and out of her. Her thighs were quickly becoming drenched in her arousal the slick squelching sound of him slamming into her again and again overpowering his mutterings by far. “Oooh….ooh god,” she cried feeling herself close to release. And then both hands were gripping her breasts twisting her nipples as he slammed into her faster than before, making her ass slide hard against the marble table.

            She felt him shudder, heard him cry out, his head pitching backward as he did. And it was enough; seeming caught so blissfully in the throes of ecstasy triggered her own orgasm and she came hard around him, quaking and trembling as they rode out their climax together. It was several moments before either of them realized that the altar was in fact no longer an altar but a bed and the great cavernous church was once again a simple room. And while they boy still donned their costumes, there was little left to remind them of the wicked fantasy they’d just played out.

            Severus pushed the habit back from her head revealing her still short cut hair and he smiled a bit sheepishly. “That was truly a fantasy,” he whispered and then ran his hands over her short hair. “And I should like to thank you for indulging it,” he added.

            Hermione beamed, a blush feeling her cheeks anyhow. “I— well I can’t believe how hot it was,” she admitted. “I think when you told me I was just nervous I was going to screw it up somehow.”

            Severus nodded his head. “The only way you could have screwed that up was by declining it,” he said.

            Hermione shook her head, tugging the torn costume up a bit to cover her breasts. “I’m…” she blushed again. “This has been incredible, Severus,” she said. “But I’m wondering…if maybe we ought to talk about it?” she asked hesitantly.

            “Ah,” he said and then slowly sat up from the makeshift bed of the room of requirement. “With clothes on…over tea?” he suggested with a rather sly grin.

            “Yes, something like that…though I’ve no objections to further erm…” she blushed.

            “Right,” he said and then plucked the white collar from his robes, breathing a slight sigh of relief. “But you are right, we should talk.”





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The Fantasy Book