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Doing it for the Order Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 72673 -:- Recommendations : 6 -:- Currently Reading : 4
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
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A/N: Just a quick little chappie to keep things rolling along :)
Kvarta – Yes this one was a bit gloomy. The situation is obviously complex and quite extreme. I think both are operating as best they can under the circumstances, all things considered. And, yes, your muse is bugging me. But she helps at the end of a long day :)
OO – Hey OO, I feel your sadness, tiredness and pain. And this chapter was on the slightly depressing side. Hope you are feeling better. x
Fox – I agree that both are struggling in very difficult circumstances. ‘To agree and to go ahead with it are two different things.’ – true she is only 17 after all. ‘I hope you won't let it happen’ – I will try my best not to :) ‘I am truly amazed at how different this story is from your one shot’ – yes, I tend to like to intersperse more serious fics with humourous ones, for my own sanity as much as anything. Great to hear from you again.
Anon – I said a diversion, not comfort! :)
Missus G – ‘Hopefully Hermione uses that brilliant mind and comes to that conclusion, herself’ – we can only hope. A bit more reflection in this chapter :)
Olivia – More delivered!

Chapter 4 – The Wrong Order

Hermione couldn’t get out of bed. Her mind was churning so heavily through her thoughts, drawing so much from her meagre energy reserves, that there was nothing left for her body from which she felt absolutely disconnected.
She’d slept. Despite the events of the evening, after a long, searingly hot shower she’d managed to let go and allow herself to drift off.
Now she was just a mind—wrapped in a quilt. Ticking away furiously. Trying to understand. She’d realised as she’d flickered back and forth between memories, catching on certain images like an old film reel, that her unease wasn’t entirely due to what had transpired in the Potions classroom. It had started with the meeting in Dumbledore’s office. Something had been niggling at her, tugging like a trapped insect at the back of her mind, but it was only just now that she’d figured out what it was.
This wasn’t the first week. Dumbledore had mentioned that one of Voldemort’s supporters had been killed the week before for not ‘complying’. That meant that the Muggle decree must have been in place for at least two weeks, if not longer. How had Snape managed before now? He must have found someone else—another option. So the suggestion that she was the ‘only solution’ was clearly false.
That realisation—the sense that she hadn’t been told the entire story, or that she may have even been deliberately misled—only intensified her anger at the Order. For an organisation that claimed to unite and protect its members, they consistently managed to pursue an agenda that ended up ensuring that people were used. The ‘choice’ that she’d been presented with was really nothing of the sort. No one had ever gone against the Order’s wishes. That was the whole point—being a member signified that you were willing to sacrifice yourself for the greater good—and she certainly wasn’t the only one who had become a martyr for the cause. Snape, himself, risked his life on a daily basis.
Indeed, she wasn’t angry at Snape for that—for the unenviably difficult position that he was in. She understood. But she was angry at him for not standing up to Dumbledore. She didn’t pretend to know the complexities of their relationship, but for a man who seemed to take great pleasure in belittling and denigrating students—children—he seemed quite incapable of asserting himself sufficiently to remove himself from Dumbledore’s service, and from the unreasonable expectations of the Order.
She was also angry at Snape for trying to make her come. This decree and the enchantment that enforced it were akin to the medieval Droit du Seigneur—the right of men with title to have sex with subordinate women. And that’s how Muggles were treated by many in the Wizarding community—as inferior, even subhuman. The decree mandated rape. And she was expected to be all joyfully orgasmic about it? To dignify its abominable intent with pleasure? How could he have expected her to mark such an occasion with a fucking guilt-free orgasm?
Rolling over, she buried her face in her pillow. She still felt sick, nauseated by the sense of having engaged in something sordid and improper.
Snape. She knew virtually nothing about him. And yet she’d seen him practically every day for the past 6 years—observed his inscrutable features more often than she had her own father’s. But he’d been a perpetually cold and detached figure, hovering at the fringes of her consciousness—an awareness born primarily from self-preservation as he was, more often than not, likely to lash out, abusing or demeaning them for some perceived misdemeanour.
And suddenly the healthy distance between them had disappeared, the buffer was gone—unceremoniously yanked away, causing them to collapse together with an intensity that she would never have wanted. They were student and teacher, practically two strangers, but she’d been forced, with virtually no preparation, to allow him to press his body against hers, into hers, to allow the type of invasion she wouldn’t allow anyone else, even the people she was closest to.
And the truth was that she didn’t even like him. She might respect him as a teacher but that was entirely intellectual, a student’s appreciation of her Professor—of his superior knowledge and skilled tuition. But she wouldn’t describe him as a ‘nice’ person. He’d never said anything kind to her. Or even smiled in the six years she had known him—ever. Having someone like that, old enough to be her father, taking her virginity with no opportunity for even a civil pre-fuck chat was gut-wrenching. And even though he didn’t hurt her, what she felt with his hands on her was somehow worse, it felt so wrong to have her body responding as it did, to someone she had absolutely no emotional connection with.
And he’d come inside her and she’d had to feel it oozing out of her as she tried to hurry back to her room. A warm discharge. Like it was her own—something from her own body. But it wasn’t. Just a foreign deposit for her to deal with—to attempt to remove all evidence of.
And this was what she had to look forward to. Week after week for Merlin knew how long. A receptacle for his ejaculate. How couldn’t she feel used? Disgusted?
“Tap, tap.”
She jerked up. There was an owl at the window, tapping insistently, waiting to get inside.
Rolling out of bed, she pulled her nightie down, smoothing it carefully over her body before moving across the room and opening the window.
The owl flapped inside, landing on her desk so that she could untie the small basket from its leg. Inside was a small bottle—the contraceptive potion. And a note—
Miss Granger,
Please accept my apology.
Her throat was suddenly tight. That was the other troubling part. He’d hardly been predatory. He’d actually been gentle, almost tender, not at all what she’d expected. It had confused her more than if he’d been rough and callous. And it certainly didn’t fit with the cold rigidity that typified every other interaction she’d had with him.
Perhaps he was switching on the charm because he needed her. Or maybe he genuinely felt remorseful. Certainly she’d never heard him apologise before.
Sighing, she closed the window before the owl could leave, then reached into her desk drawer, pulling out a scrap of parchment and quill.
***
Snape had been up for hours, but he was still agitated.
She’d been the wrong choice. And it was just as wrong of her to have agreed to do it. She utterly loathed him and was clearly unable to move past that.
It had been his concern from the start—her fiery disposition wasn’t born of superficiality, it came from feeling deeply, and from a certain compulsive indignance that she’d always possessed. Not an optimal blend for a transaction that required the level of detachment that this one did.
He’d thought that if he could make the first time pleasurable for her, it would take the sting out—reduce her obvious abhorrence. But, upon reflection, he’d realised his mistake. Opening oneself up to pleasure required trust and she absolutely didn’t trust him. And she didn’t trust the Order—perhaps with good reason.
He would request an urgent meeting with Dumbledore. They had considered his predicament for weeks now and come up with very few options—at least none that didn’t involve considerably greater risk for all involved. But from that moment onward she was no longer an option.
A flutter and scrape signified the return of his owl, now perched on the open windowsill, fluffing its feathers, a roll of parchment clutched in its claws.
He strode over and claimed the note, quickly unfurling it.
Professor.
Thank you for the potion.
I’d like an opportunity to speak with you.
I’ll be in Madam Puddifoot’s at 2pm today.
Hermione.
He read the words over twice more before folding the parchment in half and sliding it into his pocket.
And that’s when he found them. Dragging his hand out, he discovered that he was still in possession of her knickers—soft pink in colour, smooth and satiny between his fingers. But the problem was the scent. He had impeccable olfaction and they smelled of her, even from this distance. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed the previous evening—her hair smelled of vanilla and peach, her skin of bergamot and infusing both now was the sweet, musky smell of her arousal. It was inexplicable under the circumstances but he instantly felt himself stir. He quickly screwed up his fist to stifle the wafting assault—all of this was a hiding to nothing—in so many ways.
He considered returning her knickers via owl but realised that it would come across as further evidence of impropriety. Sighing, he tossed them into the top drawer of his bureau. He’d cancel his plans for the afternoon. Although their previous exchanges hadn’t progressed particularly well, he did at least owe her the opportunity to discuss what had happened.
But it wasn’t without risk. They couldn’t afford to be seen merely ‘chatting’ together so he would take a text and meet her under the guise of tuition. At least that was something they both knew how to do well.
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Doing it for the Order *Complete*

Doing it for the Order Complete