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I want to Snape you like an animal complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 16931 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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
- 3
- 4
- 5
A/C: Hey, I know I’m slow these days but here’s a longer chapter to make up for it. Hope you are still with me. DSxx
P.S. Thanks to the gorgeous SouthernBelle50++ for the chapter title.
OO – Well I think the fact that my bad titling drives you crazy is the reason why I should keep it :D Consider it therapy ;) ;) x ‘I love how Hermione’s starting to get a little insane now’ – hahah, she is rather enamoured with him for some reason. But no more than a normal crazy person :) ‘I’m dying to know if Snape has already “seen” what she’s been up to with his doppelgänger’ – hmmm, a few more hints in this chapter! x

Chapter 4 - Snape me!
Hermione lay where she had fallen—across the short span of her bed, head propped against the wall, gazing at the pearlescent puddles that had pooled in the valleys of her knuckles. Waggling her fingers gently, she watched as the creamy fluid caught the light over and over again, glimmering faintly. Could it be poisonous? Or magical? Was it different from human semen—even if the Boggart had assumed a human form?
She brought her hand to her nose and inhaled deeply. It certainly smelled like semen. She started to extend her tongue and realised what a stupid idea it was.
Sighing, she finally withdrew her wand and Scourgified the remaining ejaculate away.
Boggarts weren’t sentient beings. They weren’t even mortal.
So what was going on with this one?
Hermione allowed her wand to roll back in her fingertips until the smooth wood was resting lightly against her lips.
Either wanking off Snape had been one of Neville’s worst fears—which was always possible. Or this Boggart was operating with an unusually high level of autonomy. The way he had grabbed her hands in his own, encouraging her to handle his cock in way he wanted, forcing her to—although it wasn’t as though she wouldn’t have done it on her own—there was something quite unsettlingly deliberate and self-serving about its actions.
Boggarts weren’t known for their independence. In fact, their entire existence was dependent upon that of others, upon their emotions. Boggarts used fear to generate form. But could there be more to it than that? Certainly laughter was powerful enough to dismiss them. But were they capable of responding to something more subtle? Attraction? Need? Could this Boggart, in fact, be feeding off her desires, even though he hadn’t initially manifested as her own?
Hermione screwed her eyes closed and shifted her wand up to rest against her furrowed brow. She was tired. Her brain hurt. But her skin also happened to be buzzing. She could still feel the residual sensation of his strong fingers guiding her back and forth along the solid length of his shaft, his other hand pressing her palm against his chest. All of his naked warmth writhing and flexing against her.
She clenched her jaw at the memory.
But it finally overcame her.
“Shit.” The word hissed between her teeth as she tossed her wand aside.
Without even bothering to undress, she delved a hand under her skirt and quickly slid her fingers down the front of her knickers. Everything was wet—as it had been since that morning . . . since the classroom . . . and Snape.
Quite clearly her sustained period of sexual inactivity since the war had finally caught up with her. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that, without the threat of imminent death, Ron wasn’t nearly as desirable as she’d thought he was. They’d parted as friends. Nothing more.
But now her libido had returned, hot and vengeful after what it had clearly deemed an unreasonable period of neglect. The object that it had decided to latch onto was somewhat surprising, but perhaps was the very reason she had fallen. In recent months, she had found herself desperate for something new, something surprising, challenging or intriguing. In the post-war slump she had craved anything to break the monotony. The Boggart had certainly done that for her . . . but Snape had somehow, after only one lesson, done it to her even more.
And when her fingers began to gently massage her clitoris, her thoughts immediately went, not to the Boggart’s incredibly alluring cock, but to Snape, his face hovering so tantalisingly close to hers, his tongue and lips slipping past one another as his mouth rolled around each delicious syllable. Her own mouth strained upward, lips parting, as though she could somehow capture each word as it dripped from his tongue but, in her fertile imagination, he simply smiled enigmatically in response, as he had that morning, and began to descend.
She whimpered—a tremulous burst, loud against the silence. Eyes closed, her free hand slithered down over her breasts, tracing the journey of his body against hers until he was there, settled between her parted thighs. Moments later she felt him touch down, taking over where her fingers had left off. It was now his tongue, his sensuous lips, licking, sucking, twining around her clitoris with breathtaking assurance.
In response, her hand drifted down to rest against where she imagined the back of his head to be. Her fingers curled, grasping his hair, encouraging him, as the Snape-Boggart had encouraged her, pressing him firmly into her pussy as she spread her knees wider.
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s good . . . Professor. So . . . good. Uhhh . . .” Her neck arched back against the hard wall but she wasn’t about to change a thing. She had him right where she wanted him. “Ohhh Gods, yes . . . down there. Put that . . . inside me.” The last part was a rising moan as she began rocking her hips against the bed, imagining his tongue thrusting into her, filling her.
It was probably a little ambitious to visualise his tongue fucking her as comprehensively as it currently was, her muscles clinging on to its delicious contours as though it were something far more substantial, but she wasn’t about to question what was proving to be one of the most erotic encounters she’d ever had, real or otherwise.
The fingers against his head curled into a fist as she drove him into her with even more force. The flurry of activity around her clitoris hadn’t let up and her tunnel was beginning to constrict, drawing his laving muscle even further inside her.
“Fuck,” she breathed as the tension mounted.
“Miss Granger.” His voice in her head was so real that she almost stopped. She bit her own tongue to temper her response.
“Miss Granger . . .” She rocked her head from side to side, trying to block him out, to sustain her vision, but the deep resonance was like a drum reverberating in both her ears and her chest. “It is your time to come . . .”
She groaned, the words finally spilling out, “Yes . . . Yes Professor . . . I know.”
Immediately the forceful feel of plunging into her pussy intensified.
“It’s your time to come . . . for me.”
Something broke inside her. She cried out. “I am, Professor . . . I’m coming.”
Chin curling into her chest, she stroked herself until her pelvis suddenly seized upward. Grunting as her backside jerked and stuttered uncontrollably against the bed, she rode her hand through the powerful contractions, her nether regions convulsing with a force that had her biting her lip hard in an effort not to wail. She held on, breathless, eyes screwed closed as her thighs continued to shudder. Then, with a final moan of relief, she felt a warm pulse of liquid surge from her spent pussy, trickling down between her buttocks to saturate her underwear even further.
It was as she jerked faintly with the aftershocks, breaths rasping hot and dry, ceiling moving in blurry waves above her, that she finally wondered at her own words.
Why had she responded to his voice in her head with the declaration that, ‘she knew’?
Could she really know more? More than she was even aware?
***
“Do you reckon he knows?” Neville hissed in her ear.
Hermione didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. Reluctantly, she lifted her gaze to the teacher’s table. Snape’s eyes flickered away.
“He keeps looking over here. Do you think he suspects something? About the Boggart?” Neville spoke out of the side of his mouth which, to Hermione, looked even more suspicious than if he’d just spoken normally. Hermione shook her head at the suggestion. How could he know? The classroom had been locked and warded on both occasions. She’d made sure of it. “Well he certainly seems interested in something over this way,” Neville persisted.
“Or maybe you’re simply being paranoid again,” Hermione said dismissively, reaching for her pumpkin juice. “Which is probably not the wisest thing to do considering we have a double class with him this afternoon.”
Neville snorted and shovelled scrambled egg into his mouth, his eyes still fixed on Snape. “I just can’t seem to get that image out of my head,” he muttered thickly, nodding in Snape’s direction. “You didn’t have to see it from your side, the exact moment he—”
“I felt it,” Hermione interrupted, returning her glass to the table with a loud clang before grabbing her bag and rising from her seat.
“Yes, but it didn’t give you nightmares,” Neville responded, craning his neck to look up at her. “Or did it?”
Hermione clenched her jaw, determined to give nothing away about the vivid dreams she’d had. “Neville, just think, there are no more surprises. You’ve seen him stripped bare in every sense. It can’t get any more shocking . . . right?”
Neville searched her face, a dubious frown creasing his own, before he finally relented and returned to shovelling his eggs. “I s’pose so.”
“Good,” Hermione replied crisply. “I’ll see you in class.”
Neville lifted his head to respond but stopped when he saw that Hermione wasn’t addressing him at all. She was now looking directly at Snape. And he was looking just as intently at her.
***
Despite her dismissal of Neville’s Snape fixation, Hermione found, as the morning progressed, that she wasn’t doing significantly better. She’d had considerable trouble concentrating in her Runes and Divination classes, as the thought of sitting through a double lesson in his presence made her feel hot, and like there was something slippery slithering about inside her pelvis, trying to tunnel out. She was forced to skip lunch, spending it in the library completing an assignment that she’d fallen behind on due to Boggarting and masturbating the night before. So when the time for Potions finally came, she was already feeling a little giddy.
Descending the steps to the dungeons, her heart thudded restlessly with a mixture of trepidation and an oddly thrilling sense of the unknown—did this new Snape have more to reveal?
She opened the door to the classroom. And stopped.
She wasn’t the first one there. In fact, it seemed that most of the class had chosen to arrive early. And all of them seemed to be intently focussed upon the dark wizard before them.
Unlike the day before, Snape was seated. Writing. But while his right hand was busily scribing long, fluid strokes with a black quill, his other hand sat relaxed, open, with something resting upon his index finger. It was blue. And it was a butterfly.
Hermione frowned. The image didn’t gel at all. And yet . . .
Snape glanced up.
“Would you care to take a seat, Miss Granger?” He nodded toward her usual desk.
She paused a moment, disconcerted anew by his smooth politeness. His words, again, completely unbarbed. And yet . . .
“Yes, Professor,” she muttered hastily as she crossed the room, head down, to take her place.
He continued writing for a minute or two further before placing the quill gently in its holder and standing. The butterfly lifted, fluttering for a moment, before coming to rest on his forearm, like a pretty blue charm against his black sleeve.
“Today you will be brewing a potion that utilises a range of botanicals.” He gestured to his left and, with a brief flick of his fingers, ignited several torches in the far corner of the room, revealing a cluster of large hanging baskets full of plants. “The preparation techniques for these are quite specific and will require considerable effort on your part to master.” Suddenly two objects alighted from the baskets and flew across the room, more butterflies; a large orange one landing on Snape’s shoulder and the other, white, near the pocket of his frock coat. If he noticed, it was impossible to tell. “This particular potion, Carnem Manducans, you will find on page fifty seven of your potion books. Apprise yourself of the requirements and make a start.”
“Pardonne moi, Professeur?”
All eyes swivelled to the raised hand of a new Ravenclaw student, Adalene Clement, who had transferred from Beauxbatons at the beginning of the year. “If it pleases you, sir. May you tell me,” she gushed enthusiastically. “Do zese butterflies feed upon ze plants?”
Snape turned to her. “No.”
“No?” She opened her blue eyes wide and gave an exaggerated shrug.
“These plants feed upon the butterflies.”
The smile on her pretty face faltered. “Oh, I see.”
His lip curled almost imperceptibly before he turned with a flourish, setting the butterflies in motion as he stepped up to the blackboard.
Hermione watched as the girl gazed at his back, looking slightly crestfallen. Clearly her image of a sweet Butterfly-Snape had been shattered. She didn’t know him very well.
Hermione smirked with a sense of satisfaction before flicking her book open to the correct page. ‘Carnem Manducans—the flesh eating potion’. She frowned—another unusual choice. Although, as she read, she realised that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. The digestive part was only plant-based, so it would have a gradual effect, perhaps for milder conditions, such as treating calluses . . . or perhaps scars.
She spent some time acquainting herself with the recipe, before looking up to the board to see that Snape had drawn what was actually a rather beautiful three dimensional image of a pitcher plant. An arrow on the drawing indicated that the digestive glands were located deep within the throat of the plant. She had originally assumed that she could simply slice it up and remove the glands that way, but the image suggested otherwise. In fact, it seemed they weren’t supposed to remove the glands at all but rather stimulate them to release their digestive secretions.
Making her way over to the hanging baskets in the corner, she used her scalpel to cleanly remove a large pitcher before returning to her desk. She peered into its depths. What was she supposed to use? A spatula? A stirring rod?
Searching through her equipment, she decided that her glass stirring rod was probably best and proceeded to insert it inside the plant, rubbing blindly along the inside walls, hoping that she was hitting the right spot.
“Miss Granger.” Snape’s voice rang out, managing to fill the room without him having to even raise it. “Please explain your reason for relentlessly poking your pitcher in that manner.”
Hermione’s head jerked up, embarrassment immediately shooting flames into her cheeks. “I . . . I wasn’t sure what else to use.”
“How long did you spend thinking about the problem?” he asked, getting to his feet.
Hermione glanced around at her classmates and noticed Adelene crossing her arms and smirking in a manner not dissimilar to the way she had earlier.
“I . . . um . . . I would gather . . . not long enough?” she responded weakly.
“Not . . . long . . . enough,” Snape repeated, his boots reinforcing each word with a jarring echo against the stone flags as he approached.
Then he was before her. Within touching distance. Black eyes consuming her.
“Miss Granger, tell me the name of this plant.” It was a command, not a question. He clearly expected her to know.
And thankfully she did. “It’s the Nepenthes Pitcher Plant,” she replied without hesitation.
“More commonly known as . . . ?” His tone now softened a shade, coaxing her with a hint of velvet as he tilted his head in that way that made her feel that he was drawing her into something precarious.
This time she did hesitate. “It’s the . . .” She swallowed. “It’s known as the Sweet Water Seductress.”
“Indeed.” His head eased back, nostrils flaring faintly as though physically absorbing her response. “And with what does she . . . seduce?”
Hermione had to tear her eyes away then, quite unable to cope with the aftermath of that word on his lips.
“She . . . uh . . . it . . . it entices its prey with its . . . its honeyed secretions,” she muttered, her eyes blindly fixed upon the open pages of her book.
“Honeyed secretions.” Just the sound of his own rich, honeyed secretions caressing each word set something simmering deep inside her. “Enough to lure, and drown, an unwitting prey.” She had to squeeze her thighs together as he continued. “A live . . . organic prey.”
She looked up then, his emphasis on ‘live’ and ‘organic’ the clear give-aways.
“It needs to be something . . . something alive . . . to encourage the plant to secrete,” she stated, with a sense of relief.
His head inclined in acknowledgement.
She scrutinised the pitcher then, wishing that she hadn’t chosen such a long one. “I’m . . . I’m not sure that I can reach.”
He leaned forward, peering at the fleshy tunnel gripped in her fist.
“I thought that you enjoyed a challenge,” he murmured softly, eyes still fixed downward. It felt so ridiculously intimate, almost conspiratorial, despite their surroundings.
“I . . . I do Professor but . . .”
His eyes lifted to hers, searching, delving, prodding every element of her features before he finally spoke. “Are you intimating that you would wish me to . . . assist?” He lifted one dark eyebrow and she found that she was suddenly struck dumb. There was a warning there. A hint that she may be biting off more than she could chew. And he did have a significant amount to bite—she was only too aware of that after the previous evening.
But in the end, she gave herself no time for deliberation. She nodded immediately, her stupidly eager body making the decision before her mind could catch up.
He straightened, eyes shuttering slightly in a way that she was beginning to find both enigmatic and alluring before proceeding to lift his hands to his throat. She caught her breath. What was he going to do?
With a deft ripple of fingers, he began rapidly undoing the buttons of his frock coat.
Fucking hell!
This isn’t happening! This isn’t happening! Hermione’s mind took up the chant as it struggled to reconcile what her eyes were telling her. But it was happening. Even though she had never seen it happen before.
Snape did not remove his coat. For anyone.
Briskly tugging at the sleeves, one at a time, he shrugged the iconic garment off before turning and dismissing it casually to his desk. Then he flicked the buttons of his white shirt sleeves, an upward lift of his finger causing each to roll up exposing the lean musculature of his forearms. Hermione’s head wasn’t swimming, she was drowning in what had become a confusing flood of images and sensations. The Boggart and Snape were merging into one, and it was all she could do to stop herself from reaching out to touch his luminous skin, to see if he was as soft and warm as she remembered.
“It will require a firm hand,” he informed her as he leaned over her desk.
“Mine or . . . or yours?” Hermione practically whimpered.
His eyes locked with hers. “Both.”
Oh, fuck!
This definitely wasn’t the Snape of old. He was infinitely more hands-on that she had ever remembered him to be. Or ‘hands-in’ as it turned out, as he suddenly reached for her, dragging her current fist down to the base of the pitcher and placing her other hand around the top part so that she was spanning the plant’s entire length, before he delved two long fingers inside.
Her mouth had been parchment dry. But now it started to water. And it wasn’t the only part of her that was succumbing to an acute attack of over-lubrication. She was forced to clench every orifice in the hope that she wouldn’t start dribbling as his digits slithered down between her damp fists, the fine membrane of the plant the only barrier between them.
“Now grip me firmly on the downstroke,” he instructed, thrusting deeply.
Gods! Hermione’s shoulders sagged but she inhaled deeply in an attempt to keep herself from collapsing into a pile of boneless mush. Squeezing rhythmically with her bottom fist, she seized his fingers each time they plunged in, over and over again, until the muscles of her pussy began mimicking the action. And when he curled against her palm, easing out the words, ‘That’s good’, it was all she could do to stop herself from moaning out loud.
Biting her bottom lip hard, Hermione dropped her gaze to focus upon the items on her desk. She couldn’t look at his face and she certainly couldn’t look at his hands. Feeling his firm digits plunging inside her own was difficult enough. And then there was the sound, the rhythmic squelch that was growing louder as the lubricious result of his efforts was being realised. Clearly the technique was working.
Unfortunately it was working too well. Hermione could feel herself building to a dangerous level of arousal. She knew that, at this point it would take very little to push her completely over the edge and so she stood, practically paralysed, afraid of moving anything at all.
Finally, thankfully, he stopped. And withdrew.
“I believe that should be sufficient.”
With a deep sense of trepidation, Hermione ventured her gaze back up to his to see a spark glinting in his black eyes, slick fingers extended towards her.
“Why don’t you collect this?” he suggested, with a casualness that made the current riot inside her body feel like complete mania. “Then you can squeeze the remainder from the pitcher.”
She nodded shakily. Aware that her voice would be a few octaves higher than it should be—if she managed to find any words at all.
In the absence of any obvious method of collection, she grasped him by the wrist, just above his Dark Mark, finding it to be as warm and smooth as the skin she’d pressed herself against the previous evening. Directing his fingers down to her mortar, she slicked her hands along his own, her small fist grasping each long digit in turn, pooling the thick secretions as she progressed until it glistened in the webbing between her fingers, sticky and warm. Too familiar.
Her pussy was so close.
A breathy sigh shuddered from her.
Then he gently slipped from her grasp.
“I believe that you should now have sufficient knowledge to perform your own extractions,” Snape announced, turning to face the class.
Hermione’s sudden return to reality felt physical, like an actual jolt. At some point in the proceedings, the others must have melted away. In fact, by the end, it had felt as though the world had shrunk down to include just the two of them. But looking up to see the shock on so many wide-eyed faces, she realised that the other students must have been with them the entire way. Adam’s apples were bobbing furiously, one girl surreptitiously fanned herself as she bent down to collect something from her bag, even Adalene was staring, glossy pink lips hanging apart, dumbfounded.
Hermione didn’t have a smirk left in her. She didn’t have anything.
“You appeared to be watching particularly closely, Mr Longbottom,” Snape commented as he rolled down his sleeves with quick, efficient movements. Neville looked like he wanted to run. “I expect you to be able to produce at least an equivalent amount.” Neville made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
Snape looked him up and down, his lip curling faintly before he finally swept away, summoning his coat and magically reinstating it as he returned to his desk. Hermione watched from under her eyelashes as the dark wizard calmly sat, took up his quill and continued to write. She felt somehow heavy and light all at once, as though he’d lifted something from her but also left something behind. And, despite his apparent nonchalance, she knew that the entire thing had been quite deliberate. He had known exactly what he was doing. And she was now quite sure that Neville had been correct. Snape must know about the Boggart. He must. But how?
Hermione worked in silence for the remainder of the lesson, glancing at him occasionally as she tried to fathom what his intention might be. And, despite her focus on completing the potion successfully, she remained very much aroused throughout. He’d done it to her, deliberately. But he had warned her; he’d given her the choice. Had he known that she would take up the offer? Was he aware of how hard she’d come the night before imagining his tongue inside her? She squirmed as her eyes trailed over the dark curtain of hair draped across his pale cheek. She’d imagined herself grasping him by the roots, forcing him between her spread legs, grinding him into her pussy until she—
“Can I help you, Miss Granger?”
He hadn’t even looked up.
“Oh yes, I’ve . . . I’ve finished,” Hermione stammered. “Would you like me to dispose of this?” She held up her potion bottle.
“No, leave it with me. Please.” Only then did he look up from his parchment.
Slinging her bag onto her shoulder, Hermione made her way up to his desk. She went to place the bottle on the corner but he extended his hand instead, so she slipped the smooth glass into the cup of his palm.
“Thank you.”
She nodded, avoiding eye contact. But just as she began to turn away, he spoke again, quietly. “It seems that I owe you an apology, Miss Granger.”
An apology? Since when did Snape apologise for anything?
“D . . . do you?” she stammered weakly. “How so?”
“You were correct.” He leaned back in his chair, settling his thighs slightly further apart. “The addition of peppermint oil did render the Buccovenene considerably more palatable.”
Hermione’s mouth opened, trying to form an ‘Oh’ but nothing came out.
Had he simply tasted it, or had he consumed the whole thing? Why would he need it now . . . after all this time?
He must have seen the tangle of questions playing out on her face because he provided an answer.
“Magical venom happens to be particularly intractable.”
Her gaze immediately flickered down, crotchward, before she managed to drag it back up. “Are there . . . side effects?”
“There were . . . But not so many now . . .” His own black gaze drifted down, taking in the laboured rise and fall of her chest and the knot of her fists, as his fingertips, the ones he’d thrust inside the pitcher plant rubbed slowly, thoughtfully against one another.
What was he implying? Something? Nothing?
Suddenly, he flicked his fingers forward and a new butterfly, azure, appeared on the curve of his knuckles before giving a few delicate test flaps and fluttering away.
“Dinner time?” she asked, with an awkward grimace at the plants in the corner.
“Hardly,” he responded with a faint smirk. “The butterflies consume the nectar of the smaller plants; they are rarely consumed themselves.”
“But you said . . . ?”
He raised an eyebrow and managed to look . . . younger . . . sort of innocent . . . and charming. It sent a shiver through her as she now knew him to be quite the opposite. He had been deviously naughty earlier on—practically finger fucking her to orgasm in front of the entire class. But could he also be the man before her, creating beautiful butterflies with a flick of his fingers?
Worried that she might be showing too much, Hermione delivered a brief, faltering smile before she suddenly turned and strode for the door.
Gods, that Boggart was going to be in trouble tonight.
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I want to Snape you like an animal *complete*

I want to Snape you like an animal complete