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At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 80085 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 10
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
A/N: This chapter took a bit to write so apologies for the delay. And a smut warning also - object insertion . . . the clue is in the chapter title. DSx
Oh . . . and don't try this at home, it is very dangerous unless you have a Wizard on hand who can deal with the suction issues ;) (thanks M1988).

Mistress – ‘As much as I love Severus in all forms, I was waiting for the moment she's going to make him show some emotions’ – ooh, yes :) . . . and more of that to come! x
OO – ‘I told you. She's cruisin for a bruisin’ – I haven’t heard that expression for waaay too long! ‘it looks like she found a weak spot’ – indeed, who would have thought our dark, debauched old pervy pants might have a heart? ‘Redemption might be a steeper mountain than she's prepared to climb if she keeps biting the hand that spanks her’ – bahaha, that should be a parable (if it’s not already ;)). ‘“Closer.”--Your anagrams are showing, Dr. Lecter’ – LOL. I totally wrote that one for you. Glad you got it! x
Remarkable – ‘She's really touched a nerve now’ – I suspect you’re right! ‘This does not bode well. On the bright side, balls are good for furthering the plot device!!’ – hahah, you know me too well ;) x
Kvarta – ‘this is going to be loooong summer, I'm counting on you and OO to get me through it’ – well it’s winter here and I’m slowly freezing up so don’t count on it! ;) ‘I adore these after effects of Snape' sextherapy’ – I like that terminology, it seems very appropriate. And you’re right, it does linger long after the act. ‘psychodrama therapy’ – I found that really interesting. I’ve never trained either but know quite a bit about it. ‘How she's going to justify to herself her why is she returning for more?’ – good question . . . some answers in this chapter. ‘Either liking or hating, she has to justify his behavior somehow, if not, she can't justify her own reactions’ – I loved this insight – excellent! ‘he is still acting like a doctor, keeping the patient at the distance, preventing it to form a bond’ – another lovely bit of insight (I think you’re going to enjoy this chapter). ‘You failed miserably in the "dark Snape" department, in all your stories...this one is fluffiest of them all’ – hahaha, I wonder if you might be right! xx
Nightstar – ‘Bring on the hardcore punishment for the next meeting’ – here it comes . . . ;)
JadedFate – ‘This just got real in the feels department real fast!’ – don’t you worry, more feels on the way! ‘I just got another HP fan onboard with this ship starting with your, doing it for the order story!’ – that is so awesome :) Thank you so much for spruiking my fics. I really appreciate it x

Chapter 7 – Cellarmaster
Hermione arrived late to her Runes class but could do little apart from watch anyway. Most teachers had modified the requirements in class to accommodate her lack of wand but it mostly involved her not being particularly involved. However, this time she happened to be grateful to be on the outer, as the knot in her stomach hadn’t abated since being unceremoniously ejected from Snape’s office.
The opportunity to finally tell him exactly what she thought of his actions had been all too liberating, and his smirking derision had driven her to want to hurt him. He had said and done some awful things to her but she didn’t expect to be able to wound him in return. She’d thought him impenetrable, untouchable. Apparently not.
In some ways she was annoyed at herself for caring. He had perpetrated some absolutely unconscionable acts against her as his student but she couldn’t seem to shake the sense that she had gone too far. It was mean of her to suggest that no one would want him but he’d basically said exactly the same thing to her only moments earlier. Still, she didn’t feel good about it.
And that tiresome lump of guilt didn’t let up for the entire day. By the time evening came around, she was almost delirious with fatigue but knew she wouldn’t sleep with so much to validate her relentless self-flagellation.
She needed a drink. Or many.
And so she ended up in the Gryffindor common room with a half bottle of Firewhisky of her own, a little later than everyone else but nevertheless warmly welcomed.
They were nice to her—lovely really. All of them. Fun and funny. But they were also couples. Luna was sitting comfortably on Neville’s lap in one of the armchairs. Seamus and Romilda Vane were together by the fire. They had been seeing each other since the beginning of the year—even though she was a bit younger and had snubbed him for Harry a couple of years earlier. Then there was Ginny. She was alone but, of course, had Harry who would be accompanying her to the ball the following weekend. The redhead was clearly excited, modelling her elegant black dress with a twirl, and Hermione felt genuinely happy for her.
But being in the presence of so many couples brought with it further challenging emotions—memories of her last night at the Book Group—and yet another pang of longing.
She remained on the fringe throughout the evening. Talking little. Drinking a lot. More than the rest. They didn’t seem to notice, or if they did, they didn’t mention it. It was pretty typical of her life now—watching the world pass by as a somewhat distant spectator, rather than experiencing it. And when their laughter hit her—tinny, echoing, like that from a television . . . she drowned it out . . . with another drink.
***
She left the common room last, feeling hot and light-headed. Standing had been the catalyst. Whilst sitting, she could almost convince herself that she was only tipsy. But standing she was drunk—undoubtedly. It felt surprisingly good. Despite being without her wand she felt powerful, recklessly so, aggressive even, like she could easily punch someone in the face. If Draco was about she might do it again. Pity he wasn’t. She suddenly found herself missing him, and not simply to put him on his arse again . . . strange.
As she ambled up the corridor toward her bedroom door, she glanced both ways, hoping to see someone. She had too much energy—too much volatile blood was pumping through her. An odd excitement was also pulsing within her chest, infusing her muscles. As she entered her room, she realised she didn’t want to be there at all, and despite her massive sleep deficit, she knew she couldn’t possibly go to bed.
There was only one person she wanted to see in that mood. And it was the one person who least wanted to see her. But that aversion also happened to be the chief attraction . . . Danger. What could he do to her when he was angry? What was he capable of? The thought made her so horny she found herself grasping her pussy and wincing. She didn’t want to think about how wrong it was. It was such a mundane Hermione Granger thing to do . . . she could hear her own voice admonishing herself and it pissed her off. Gryffindor’s Golden Girl . . . get fucked!
Even sloshing about in her drunken haze she wondered again at what she had become. Had he done this to her—made her like this? Or had she done it to herself? She had been so adamant only that morning that he was wrong, but now the wrongness was all she wanted . . . to be taken out onto that ledge again, held breathless over the swirling abyss . . . and set free—if only for a moment.
But how could that even be? How could his actions both oppress and liberate her? It was difficult enough to fathom in the best of circumstances. These weren’t the best of circumstances.
She would focus, instead, upon the points. Her friends had assured her that they didn’t care about them but she would never let them go—she couldn’t. Mainly because she wanted to balance the ledger . . . with him. She wanted nothing owing—no evidence that she had been found lacking. Lacking in what exactly, she couldn’t really tell anymore . . . she was no longer the best judge of what mattered.
Feeling increasingly morose, Hermione knew that if she kept at it she would start crying again. She still felt bad . . . like a bad person. Perhaps she could just go, make her apology, and return. Maybe that would be enough for her—and for him. There were warning bells going off all over the place but she was drunk and gave herself permission to ignore them.
Clumsily peeling off her clothes, she dressed in her nightie, her lust-and-alcohol addled brain considering it the best attire for apologising in, before pulling her thickest robe from her wardrobe and wrapping it around herself. Slipping into some equally inappropriate flimsy flats, she left.
As she traversed the freezing corridors, she came to the conclusion that this was likely to be one of the stupidest things she’d ever attempted in her life—on a par with confronting a troll, or fluffy the three headed dog. In fact, this felt far worse. His potential for damage went far deeper.
She made good time—or lost track of time. Whichever it was, she eventually found herself passing the Potions classroom door, dark and silent, realising then that she had no idea how late it was. Would he even be awake? Or would he still be on his rounds?
Rounding the corner, her steps slowed as she approached the shadowed door to his chambers, recessed into a shallow alcove. Her earlier bold conviction seemed to evaporate exponentially with each step until she felt unnervingly sober by the time she stopped. Just the thought of Snape had the capacity to suck the innocent pleasure out of just about anything.
Drawing a deep breath, she raised her fist and delivered a tentative knock.
After a long moment of silence a voice came from within,
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Hermione shivered, but she managed to stop herself from turning and running.
“Why have you come?” His tone was infused with an odd heaviness.
“I wish to speak with you, Headmaster.” Her lips brushed the door as she leaned in.
“Then speak.”
Hermione pulled the robe around her. It was bitterly cold.
“Would . . . would you permit me to enter?”
There was another long silence.
“These are my personal chambers. What happens in here is a matter of privacy. Not to be disclosed to anyone . . . for any reason.”
It was a warning.
Hermione knew that she should leave. But there was something holding her there. Some need, deeper even than self-preservation.
“I understand, Headmaster.”
The silence grew heavy. She could feel him contemplating.
Suddenly there was a scrape of metal and the door jolted open, swinging inward a fraction to reveal a thin sliver of amber light. Pressing her palm against the smooth wood, Hermione opened it to reveal a smallish room, lit only by an open fire and two low lamps. Snape was seated in an armchair angled toward the hearth, his features rendered shadowy and indistinct by the firelight. The fingers of one hand balanced a wine glass; draped from the other was what looked like a long cigarette, a thread of smoke meandering upwards and dissipating in a bluish haze above his head.
His eyes didn’t shift from the fire. It was the greeting she had become accustomed to. None.
Slipping into the room, Hermione closed the door behind her. And waited.
Snape took a long swallow of burgundy liquid then drew deeply from the cigarette. The aroma was odd—woody and mildly herbaceous. Not like anything she had smelled before.
Remaining by the door, she took the opportunity to rake her eyes over the dusky room. Books. So many of them. Everywhere. The shelves were crammed and sagging under the weight but there were even more stacked on tables, on a desk at the back of the room, and even piled on the floor. There was little else to speak of apart from a small square table with two chairs, one chair stacked with books, and a second armchair nearer the fire but propped against the wall in a way that suggested that it was rarely used. Clearly he didn’t entertain much.
Her gaze trailed down to the base of his own chair where she could see one empty wine bottle and another only a third full. Like her, she suspected he’d had quite a lot to drink.
She was increasingly realising what a bad idea this actually was.
Dragging from the cigarette again, he flicked the ash at the fire before finally turning his head to appraise her.
“Did I fail to make it clear to you this morning . . . that your presence is neither required nor welcome?” Small drifts of smoke curled ethereally from his lips with each word.
“That is . . . actually that’s the whole . . . the . . . um. . . main reason I’m here,” Hermione faltered, trying her best to sound eloquent and failing dismally. She couldn’t tell if she was slurring or not. “I . . . um . . . I just . . . really wanted to apologise.”
“Did you, now?” he muttered sarcastically before taking another gulp of wine. “Realised what a pickle you’d be in did you?” It was such an odd word to come from his mouth but the way he disdainfully spat it at her was most effective. “Realised your plans to bravely resurrect yourself—from the ashes like some fraudulent phoenix—rekindling the hopes of the gormless Gryffindor initiates . . . that it might all come to nothing?”
Hermione’s stomach clenched at his bitterness. Clearly she had struck a blow earlier.
“I . . . I am simply seeking to restore what was lost. Nothing more.”
“Really? That is all you seek?” His black eyes skimmed unnervingly over her.
Hermione could feel sobriety bringing with it an unpleasant vulnerability that she had enjoyed shedding, if only for a short while. She wanted that brash courage back, the one that had come so naturally, so easily, when she was younger—invoked by the constant barrage of dangers they had faced, and driven by their shared sense of purpose, but that now could only be generated through artificial means it seemed . . . and only under circumstances in which she sought to deliberately incite it.
“That . . . And perhaps a drink?” she suggested.
Hermione felt a surge of fear at her own blatancy, her blunt audacity. She desperately wanted to slide back down into that haze, into the mindless oblivion that alcohol could provide. But she was also an adult. Their interactions to date had been so one-sided that part of the balance she sought involved re-establishing herself as a woman in her own right. And maybe, just maybe . . . she sought to provoke him.
Brows drawing together, he glared at her as he pursed his lips around the cigarette and drew another expansive lungful. Then he proceeded to rest the wine glass on one arm of his chair and lay the cigarette on the other before standing. He was dressed all in black, trousers and shirt. Bending to pick up the partially full bottle, he allowed the smoke to seep from his lips before sauntering toward her. A panther. She was suitably intimidated, the gooseflesh rolling over her as though she’d just been dunked in iced water.
“Take off your robe.”
Hermione hadn’t moved from her place against the door. The way he approached suggested he wasn’t asking her to make herself comfortable, so she simply obliged by slipping the robe from her shoulders and allowing it to slither down, pooling at her feet. Her sheer nightie clung to her; she didn’t even need to look to know that her nipples were straining against the fabric, projecting traitorously toward him.
He closed the distance between them until he was looming over her, propping one hand disconcertingly close to her head and lifting the other to hover the neck of the wine bottle between her breasts.
“And I see you’ve brought with you your fervid feminist principles?” he remarked snidely, dipping the bottle down to trail the open mouth over one jutting nipple and then the other.
Hermione’s hands felt for the door behind her—something solid to cling on to. She swallowed, feeling every bit the fraud he claimed her to be.
“How honourable . . . to extol your righteous principles when convenient and silently discard them when not . . . when it suits your . . . needs.” He hooked the lip of the bottle under one nipple and rolled it upwards making her eyes flare open.
“I’m afraid I—”
“Why don’t you just admit that you haven’t the faintest idea what you want anymore?” His baritone was heavy as he continued to grind the rim around her nipple. “You no longer know what you stand for . . . or even who you are.”
She opened her mouth to respond but only a whimper emerged—as much a result of his words as the mounting sensations.
“You don’t have all the answers, Miss Granger.” He leaned closer. “You never did. I attempted to make that clear to you despite your desire to prove otherwise.”
He slid the neck of the bottle up her own neck, gliding the smooth glass over her chin to rest the lip against her own. He began to tip the bottle.
She opened her mouth.
“Do you really consider it appropriate for a Headmaster to ply his students with alcohol?” He slid the mouth of the bottle sideways to rest upon her cheek. She tried to follow with her lips but he continued to drag it away from her. “Surely that would be deemed . . . improper?”
It was clear that his intention wasn’t for her to drink so she stopped searching and simply waited as he continued to tip the bottle up until the liquid began trickling over her jaw. It streamed down her neck and chest before soaking into her nightie, blossoming like blood over one breast. Thin runnels continued over her ribcage, down her stomach to further soak her knickers.
“Now, if you had come here with the intention of offering me wine from your breast I might have been more pleased to see you,” he murmured. “As it is, I will have to make do.”
Suddenly he pushed the bottle against her face, forcing her to look away from him, her other cheek thrust against the wood of the door. Then she felt the sensation of his warm mouth over the soaked material covering her breast. He began to suck, tongue creating a tight seal that enabled him to draw the wine from her nipple so forcefully that it almost hurt.
She inhaled sharply, her fingernails curling against the door.
Then his mouth was gone. The bottle was gone. Strong fingers locked around her jaw, twisting her back around. His nose was so close to hers, she could barely focus. All she could see were the black pits of his eyes.
“Why are you really here?” The words rolled out, dark and disturbingly restrained.
“To apologise,” she blurted desperately against his lips.
She felt his boot slip between her feet, forcing her legs apart. Then his hand followed, reaching under her nighie. Wandlessly, he removed her knickers, tossing them aside before his hand returned, fingers gliding over her mons before delving between her lips. In no time he was inside her. His eyes were still locked on hers, penetrating her in equal measure from above.
“Is this your apology?” His lip curled as he slithered two long fingers through her copious arousal, making it slosh crudely.
She tried a feeble shake of her head but he was gripping her jaw too tightly.
Withdrawing with a soft sucking sound, he brought his glistening digits to her mouth. “Taste yourself . . . then dare to tell me again.”
Both fingers were simultaneously pushed between her lips. She moaned at the intrusion before allowing her tongue to slide hesitantly between his fingers. The combination of her sweet, silken arousal, together with the smoky oak suffusing his skin was overwhelmingly arousing in its own right. She sucked more vigorously, drawing their essences together before finally swallowing.
Fingers stroking her tongue in a manner that was both sensuous and strangely erotic, he murmured. “Tell me.”
She could barely speak.
“For redemption, sir,” she responded thickly.
“Indeed.”
Her breaths came in shallow burst around his fingers.
“Now suck me,” he ordered. “Make me believe you.”
She did. Using her tongue, she proceeded to clamp his fingers against her palate and suck, rocking her jaw as she did so. Watching his face closely, she attempted to gauge his response but he suddenly turned her away again, positioning his mouth against her ear. She could feel his breath tickling into the canal.
“It begins as nourishment, comfort—the compulsion to suckle a mere reflex,” he murmured, the fingertips of his other hand lightly caressing her jaw. “But it evolves. Over time it becomes more. You discover that your mouth holds power. Power beyond mere words. Power to give, to draw from another. And whilst a cock, and the vestigial object to which it is attached, a man, may be enamoured by the draw of a hot, tight cunt—its deeply carnal cavorting, its liquid desires—the mouth can give more, take more.” Hermione found his words strangely hypnotic, her mouth responding to his tone and pace with more forceful servicing of his digits. “The tongue, incomparably agile, soft and muscular, can both caress and penetrate, with the capacity to cajole and plunder in equal measure.”
She was so focused upon her own efforts and the rhythm of his words that she cried out in shock when his own tongue suddenly thrust into the canal of her ear. It twisted sinuously, probing with sharp, wet crackles into her intimate tunnel as though he was attempting to burrow into her brain. The problem was that he was already there, already boring into her, through her, taking root inside her.
When he finally withdrew, her eyes were screwed closed, she’d stopped breathing. But he simply continued his silky utterances as though nothing has happened, his breath now threading coolly into the moist cavern of her ear.
“But the most powerful draw is not from the mouth at all . . . but from the eyes.”
With a swift jerk, he twisted her back around to face him, his fingers now so deeply embedded in her mouth that she was struggling not to gag. Blinking furiously with the effort, she was nevertheless drawn in by his impossibly intense gaze, dark tunnels that stretched on forever.
“Windows to the soul . . . or simply a reflection of what one wishes to see,” he murmured. “When you show a man genuine desire, a need for him, and him alone, a desire to taste him, swallow him, satisfy yourself, even nourish yourself with him, you have returned, once again, to the beginning . . . to that base need . . . and that, alone, can be everything. Enough to come back for again and again . . . for that look.” He stared searchingly into her eyes. She stared back. What was he hoping to see? Anything? Nothing?
Pulling his fingers from her mouth, he gave her a long, complex look before dipping downward and returning with the bottle.
“Lubricate it,” he ordered, holding the bottle to her mouth.
She did as instructed, trailing her tongue around the neck and sucking on the rim despite her jaw and tongue aching from her previous efforts.
He watched her closely.
“You’ve never been with a woman before,” he stated with cool assurance. “There are two opportunities here and yet your proclivity is phallic. Your tongue is yet to delve inside. You haven’t sought to taste its depths. Her depths. You should. The experience is rather . . . intoxicating.”
Hermione tentatively dipped her tongue inside the slick tunnel of the bottle.
“Imagine her squirming with desire as you penetrate her—her sweet warmth just like yours, like tasting yourself.”
He rocked the bottle gently into her mouth, forcing her tongue rhythmically into the neck as though she was slipping into someone’s pussy. And she simultaneously sensed how it would feel within herself, prodding into her core. It was so bewildering and yet so hot that she was forced to close her eyes again, unable to stand the way he appraised her efforts, the way he absorbed the erotic imaginings playing out on her face.
“And now I believe you’re ready . . . to feel,” he breathed.
Her eyes flew open as he lifted the hem of her nightie, raising it up to her neckline before tucking it in place so that her entire lower half was bare and exposed.
Cupping a hand behind one of her knees, he lifted her leg sideways, opening her wide before pinning it in place with his own knee, propped against the door. Hermione’s shoulders began to rise and fall with the effort of breathing—she wasn’t used to having so much of his dark, rigid body pressed so close to hers.
Then the bottle reappeared—trailing a moist path down her abdomen, riding the curve of her mons before slipping between her lips, the smooth rim settling over her swollen clitoris.
She didn’t even need to ask to know what he was going to do.
“How many points?” she rasped breathlessly, hands fisted against the door.
“None,” he responded, threading the firm ridge back and forth over her electrified bundle. “This will be your apology.”
He relocated the bottle mouth to her entrance. There was a brief pause as Hermione wondered if she could possibly get away . . . or if she even wanted to. Then it was too late. She gasped, her head pitching backwards and her knees buckling as he suddenly thrust the bottle inside her.
Her hand automatically clamped around his wrist, an attempt to limit the incursions of the long neck which felt incredibly bold and unyielding, reaming along the walls of her soft passage.
“Tell me why you want me to push this inside you.” His mouth was by her ear again, his breath ghosting across her cheek.
Did she? Is that really what she wanted?
His wrist flexed inside her grasp, twisting the bottle a little at the end of each thrust, stimulating her further as the flared shoulder stretched her opening. It was so raw, so forceful, so shocking that Hermione found herself torn between passively succumbing and actively receiving. But when she realised that her body was definitely responding in the latter, her hips naturally thrusting to meet him, her legs widening to accept him, she knew that he spoke the truth.
“I want you to . . . challenge me.” She was definitely slurring now. No longer alcohol-induced but a reflection of her mounting arousal. “To push me. To stretch my . . . limits.”
“Tell me how hard you want me to do it.”
Her response was immediate, “Hard.”
He plunged the bottle into her so solidly that the remnants of wine sloshed up the sides, spilling into her. She groaned and clutched his wrist harder.
“You would enjoy having your cup filled,” he murmured, his voice fluctuating with his efforts. “A skinful inside your skin, full body within your body, rich juices melding at the perfect temperature . . . blending masterfully, each heady aroma ripening . . . breathing. And then the eager mouths would seek you out . . . connoisseurs . . . burrowing into your cellar, tapping your barrel, drinking deeply from you.”
Hermione was being sucked into a sensorial whirlpool. The low growl of his voice and his carnal provocations had completely commandeered her mind, his bold thrusts were stretching her pussy to its exquisite limits, and now his other hand was attending to her clitoris, thrumming it so expertly, so perfectly, she wondered if he could actually feel her, whether he could somehow occupy her skin.
“I accept,” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek. “I accept your apology.”
She lost all control of her vocalisations, her hoarse sobs rending the air as he drove her to the brink before suddenly slowing down, stretching out the ecstatic agony, holding her breathless, shuddering, on the verge of implosion, before finally teasing her over the edge.
He had told her it was time for her to feel. And so she did—deeper even than the solid insertion that her body attempted to crush as it came with such force that she screamed. Convulsing uncontrollably, she clutched his wrist in desperation, burying her nails into it like it was her lifeline, the only stable object in a chaotic tempest that was threatening to tear her away . . . like a not-so-innocent Dorothy . . . a Dorothy pleading to the Wizard for courage, a heart . . . for home. She rode the bottle for so long and so violently that her thighs were drenched—with what she couldn’t say. And her face was the same. The tears had come again without her realising. Everything had been wrung from her that could be. She had nothing more to give—nothing more to take . . . or so she thought.
Then she cracked her eyes open to see him looking at her with such naked concern that it choked her anew. Gradually withdrawing the bottle from her exhausted pussy, he brought it up to her parched lips and gently tipped it up. She drank. The wine was rich and warm as he’d said it would be, infused with her body, with her most intimate essence.
And somehow he’d managed to remain separate from it all once again, orchestrating every part but participating from a distance, making it all about her. But it wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t.
Flinging her arms up, she hooked them around his neck, pulling him down with all of her strength so that his mouth was crushed against hers. She pushed her tongue inside him, forcing the wine into his mouth and feeling it running in fresh rivulets down her chin.
Finally she broke away, gasping with exhilaration. He stared at her, lips dripping with red—his expression so uncharacteristically confounded, that she was both pleased and disappointed. She was clearly not the only one who didn’t know what they wanted. Giving him a shove, she snatched up her robe and yanked open the door, squeezing through the gap and breaking into a run.
From behind her came the explosive sound of shattering glass.
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete