Caged Bird Sings

Chapter Eight

Day 54

I feel like I’ve been sleeping so long that days could have passed without me knowing it. Snape could have knocked me out for a week with all those potions and I wouldn’t know the difference.

All I am is what he tells me.

It’s strange to be forced to define myself by the parameters of another person’s existence. If Snape doesn’t exist, neither do I. If Snape ceases to exists, so will I. It’s inevitable, unavoidable, and yet somehow comforting. There are no expectations, no judgements made on me. There are only me and these bars and without these bars there is no me.

I haven’t decided how I feel about my pathetic escape attempt. I am, apparently, a willing victim. Even though I hadn’t though of escape in so many words in quite some time, there was always that underlying idea that I would, of course, get out, be free. But if I can’t even make it past the fucking door to the room, how can I ever expect to go home?

I even asked Snape if there’s some sort of compulsion spell on the bars that would make me feel weak and panicked if I tried to pass through. He almost looked sad when he told me there was nothing like that.

I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t know if I can think. Who am I? Where am I? Besides the obvious, Snape’s dungeon, where am I in conjunction to everyone else in the universe? Am I less of a person because I exist to only one man? Are people more real according to the amount of people who know them?

I am Schrödinger’s cat. I am neither dead nor alive. I am both. I am nothing. I am in a box. I don’t exist outside the box because there is no outside the box. There is only the box.

There is no box.

When Snape came in and began to read, Hermione didn’t try to pretend, try to hide what she was doing. She threw the coverlet off herself and plunged her hand into her panties. Her other hand went to tease her nipple, snaking under the tank top she was wearing. Her clothes weren’t meant to be seductive; the room was just ridiculously hot.

Snape started at her with undisguised incredulity. Hermione stared back, challenging him. She quirked an eyebrow in the same way she’d seen him do a thousand times.

He looked torn between raging at her and letting his eyes slide down the length of her body to where her fingers were very, very slowly moving over her clit.

Apparently not one to be predictable, Snape began to read out loud.

Hermione sighed in relief, thankful that she would have this pleasure amid all the turmoil that was roiling her thoughts. She closed her eyes and let the melodic tones take her away. Rather than going into subspace on his voice, Hermione focused on each and every word, making sure she heard the story. She’d never be able to read it again without getting wet—just another facet of her conditioning. Snape probably didn’t even realise how much he was training her to be an obedient reading and wanking machine.

But then again, judging by the way his mouth seemed to be fucking the words rather than simply forming them, maybe he did have an idea. He was speaking even lower than usual, so soft that it was like an actual caress.

It had become harder and harder to get off without him at least watching her. She almost couldn’t do it by herself any longer. She’d get closer and closer to that point, but it would remain elusive, and it took more and more stimulation, mental and physical, to get that desperately needed release.

But now, with his voice like hands on her body, and the knowledge that whenever he stopped reading for a moment, it was because he was watching her, Hermione felt that peak approach her more quickly than it usually did. It wouldn’t take much more, she knew, just another few minutes of him talking, reading to her, another few minutes of her hands dancing so knowledgeably around her body, and she would be free, soaring so high for a few blissful moments, never wanting to come down.

But Snape had capitulated so easily this time, it was true. Maybe he wanted to help her. Maybe he wanted to make her feel good.

Maybe he wished it were his hands instead of his words pressing into her flesh.

Hermione watched him avidly, his mouth taking shape and forming around words that before had had no meaning other than that which they represented. But with him speaking, the words were so much more. They were sex.

Hermione moaned as Snape’s voice dropped another decibel, forcing her to strain just to hear, to bring him into herself. If she could bear to move, she’d stand against the bars and rub herself all over them as he watched, letting the cold metal stain her heated flesh, rubbing her clit all over the steel, his eyes heavy on her body, until she fell. Maybe he would come up to the bars and touch her, her cheek, her throat, her waist, her pussy. She knew his hands would make her scream.

Her heels digging into the bed, her fingers pumping fiercely, Hermione reached for the memory, the time he’d told her to come. She shaped the words in her head, creating the tone and texture from what he was saying now. Her toes curled, and she tossed her head back to let out a primal scream of climax—

Snape stopped reading.

Hermione shrieked with frustration, her orgasm dying as quickly as it had risen. She launched herself out of the bed and at the bars, gripping them high above her head as she pleaded.

“Please, Professor Snape, why did you stop? Just one more word… or you can tell me to come like last time! That wasn’t so bad, was it? It’s not like you’re touching me, though if you wanted to, I’d like that.”

Snape was staring at her, his face almost frighteningly blank. She slid to her knees and reached her hands through the bars in supplication. She’d have kissed his robes if they’d been near enough.

“Why are you doing this, Miss Granger?”

Hermione moaned. Her body was still throbbing with denied orgasm, her head dizzy, her fingertips twitching. She could smell herself on the hand she was reaching out to him.

“Because you wouldn’t finish!” she cried, lips parted and air straggled in past her parched tongue.

“I meant, why are you acting so wantonly? I’ve never known you to be so reckless.”

Hermione couldn’t bear it any longer. He dared to call her reckless, when she couldn’t even leave the damned cell? He’d made her this way! He’d done this to her!

“Can you see me?” she demanded, mind racing with connections that didn’t quite make sense.

“I can see you, Miss Granger,” Snape confirmed, looking puzzled.

“Can you touch me?”

“I don’t think that would be wise—”

“That’s not what I asked! I didn’t ask you to touch me! Can you touch me?”

Snape looked at her, considering his words. “I am physically able to touch you, yes. Are you doubting your tangibility?”

Hermione snorted. “Who wouldn’t? If no one knows I’m here, I’m not really here, am I?”

“I know you’re here.”

“But who are you? Nothing. Nobody. I only exist because of you, and when you’re dead, I’ll be dead whether I’ve actually died or not!”

Snape sighed and stood, pacing a little, just beyond her reach. “Now is hardly the time for an existential crisis, Miss Granger.”

Hermione laughed mirthlessly. “No? When is the time? Can you schedule it in between feedings and readings?”

Snape didn’t pause in his pacing. “And what would you have me do?”

“Touch me!” Hermione screamed, slapping a bar and not even cringing at the sharp pain that followed. “Make me real!”

“Even if I do touch you, you still only exist for me,” Snape reasoned, though she could see he was thinking very deeply.

“So I’ll exist for you, at least that’s something. At least I’ll exist at all, Professor Snape. This is nothing but an unending dream, I’m sure of it. Maybe I’m in a coma somewhere, or maybe I’m dead. But I’m not real. I’m not here.”

Hermione could feel tears slicking her cheeks, and she angrily rubbed them away. Pressing her cheek against the bars, she watched Snape walked back and forth, seven paces, spin, seven paces, spin.

“I cannot help you,” Snape said, and he even sounded a little disturbed at that.

“You don’t want to,” she corrected.

And now it was Snape who laughed without joy. “You have no idea—”

“Tell me,” she demanded. “If I have no idea, if I’m so clueless, tell me. Show me how wrong I am, how silly, how foolish. But just… come in here and say it to me.”

Snape’s steps slowed, and he glanced at her. “I can open the cell door.”

“No!” Hermione gasped, jumping to her feet. Anything but that. The cell door being open was a lie.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s like… a picture of a pipe is not a pipe, you know? An open door is not freedom. I’d rather have the door be closed and not have to face my own cowardice.”

Snape paused. “You are not a coward.”

“I could have run. I might have escaped.”

“You wouldn’t have escaped. The Death Eaters who’d stopped in would have killed you without a second thought. I might have been forced to kill you. You never would have escaped.”

“But I wouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be trapped.”

“Miss Granger,” Snape said, and it sounded like pleading. “I don’t know what you expect—”

“Nothing.” She shook her head sadly. “I miss it. Being touched. You never think about how many people a day touch you, in greeting, in excitement, carelessly, casually. To never have that again… it means I’m not real. We are who we are based on other people. If they don’t hear you, see you, touch you, you aren’t there.” Hermione swallowed. “I’m not really here. That’s why you won’t do it. Because you know it’s true.”

“It isn’t true!” Snape snapped, stepping closer to the cell. “I can see and hear you.”

“Illusions,” she said. “Like the open door. I could pass right through these bars if I were brave enough, I’m sure of it.”

“No,” Snape denied. “You couldn’t. You are not an apparition, you are real, alive.”

“How do you know?” she demanded.

“Because I—” Snape broke off with a snarl. “Because you’re right there! For Merlin’s sake, you’re right there.”

“You’re a wizard, Professor Snape. Tell me you’ve never conjured something that wasn’t there before. Tell me you’ve never glamoured something or transfigured something. Maybe I’m nothing but a matchstick, or a thimble.”

“You are trying my patience, girl!” Snape said, voice rising.

“Good!” she laughed. “Some reaction is better than none at all!” And then she was laughing harder, not finding it the least bit strange than her lips tasted of salt and wetness was smeared all over her cheeks. She dashed the tears away, but they were replaced, and Hermione laughed harder, clutching her stomach and she doubled over. Then all of a sudden it wasn’t funny anymore, and great, wracking sobs tore through her body, making the laugher seem like a tickle in comparison to the sting of what she was feeling now.

“Enough,” Snape said, taking a half-step forward before hesitating.

And then Hermione was screaming at the top of her lungs, and it felt good to make such a racket, it felt good to be heard, even if she wasn’t saying anything.

“That’s enough!” Snape shouted, his features twisting when Hermione turned to look at him. But she couldn’t spare a second’s thought for his discomfort at her hysteria, because she was much too happy letting herself go.

Another strident scream echoed off the stone walls in the room, and Hermione wondered if it were possible to rupture a Silencing Spell.

Then Snape was at her cell door, thrusting the key into the lock, and Hermione’s pussy really shouldn’t have contracted at that sight, but she was helpless, and it did.

She watched his lips form the spell to the door, and she sat motionlessly as he opened the door.

Seeing it open made her stomach clench, but he wasn’t expecting her to leave, so maybe it wasn’t so bad. Snape stepped into the room, and Hermione stopped making any noise at all.

Snape inside her cell made the room seem much smaller. His tall, imposing presence made her feel two feet tall in his Potions class again, trying her hardest and getting nowhere.

“Please,” she whispered, but even she didn’t know exactly for what she was asking.

Snape did, though.

He stalked toward and grabbed her upper arm in an impossible grip. She only noticed how cold she was when the heat of his hand spread over her arm like a fire. It felt like he was branding her.

“See?” he hissed, shaking her. “I can touch you. You are real. Now, I have had enough—”

Hermione threw herself against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips against his. His entire being was frozen, unyielding, but Hermione kissed him anyway, uncaring. He wanted it, she knew; why else would he always watch her, and even verbally participate, when she got herself off?

Snape’s lips were thin, his mouth wide, and there was absolutely no way, even under pressure of her tongue, that she could make him open to her. So she just pressed her body against his, hips rolling, trying to get that beautiful friction. He was hard. Maybe he didn’t like her kisses, but he certainly seemed to be enjoying the contact.

She broke the kiss for a split second to inhale, and Snape went into action. Using his grip on her arm, her tossed her against the bars of the cell, the metal jarring her body, sure to leave bruises. Snape followed her and pinned her there, his entire body holding her in place. Hermione panted as shockwaves of pain and desire flitted through her, making her feel twitchy, eager to escape and yet wanting to stay in place.

“Does this feel real?” Snape demanded before his mouth crashed onto hers. Hermione gasped, stealing his breath as he punished her, for there could be no other word for it. His body was as unforgiving as the bars behind her; her back was icy cold from being exposed and pressed against the bars, but her front was on fire, the heat of Snape scorching her even through his multiple layers of clothing.

Now that he was ruling the kiss, Hermione let herself become lost in it. All of Hermione’s other kisses had been soft lips and silky tongues, but Snape was all teeth and anger and retribution. One hand bruised her arm while the other held her jaw in place, as if she’d wanted to escape.

Her mouth opened to him, Snape took advantage, and that was more like the man she knew. His tongue slid in beside hers, taking from her, but giving back more than he’d probably appreciate. He tasted every inch of her mouth, exploring her carefully and leaving nothing untouched. Hermione could only tilt her head back and accept the ravishment, her body flowing with renewed desire as it remembered that it was this man who’d caused her orgasm to get away.

When Hermione lifted her hand to touch Snape softly, softly, on the side of his neck, the instant her fingers made contact, his kiss gentled. Suddenly, his mouth was coaxing a reaction instead of demanding one. Hermione responded just as eagerly, accepting whatever touch he deigned to give her. She hadn’t felt so alive in all the time she’d been here, and the horrible tenseness that had settled in her stomach after she’d tried to escape and found herself unable shifted into something more manageable.

Pressing herself against his hardness, Hermione wanted more. She took that hand that was cutting off the circulation to her arm, encouraging it to let her go. Snape snarled a little into the kiss, and Hermione had the impression of dealing with some sort of wild animal, a lion, and she was merely the prey, expendable but still desirable.

However, his fingers did loosen. Hermione took his hand and placed it between her thighs. His hand was cool and soothed her fiery flesh, but Snape froze all over, pulling back from the kiss.

“Please,” she said, aware that she begged him a lot more than she liked. “What’s the difference if it’s your voice or your touch? It’s you, it’s always you.”

Snape looked torn, staring down at his hand, touching her skin but only just. Neither moved as Snape exhaled harshly, his eyebrows drawn together. Hermione could feel her pussy throbbing in reaction to having his hand so close, and her hips twitched a little, beyond her accord, to entice him.

After an eternity seemed to have passed, Snape’s fingers touched her panties, stroking lightly, barely more than a tickle. Hermione watched his face, but he gave nothing away. After a moment, her eyes fell closed as he began to touch her more firmly. She spread her legs a little, arching into the touch. He already thought her completely wanton, so why not meet his expectations?

“Feels so good,” she whispered, pulling his face down for another kiss. She was almost surprised that he let her, but then his mouth was moving on hers and she no longer cared about his motivations.

She wanted his fingers inside her knickers, inside her, but he was only pressing them into her folds, running the slick fabric over her clit. The stimulation was almost too much, but his fingers were gentle and sure, sliding between her lips and rubbing.

Moaning into his mouth and deepening the kiss, Hermione’s hips circled and rolled, wishing there was something inside her to fill her. But she didn’t dare ask, in case he stopped this as he had done with his reading not long ago.

Snape’s mouth moved to her shoulder, mouthing the skin and nipping it. He was worrying it with his teeth, but instead of distracting her, the additional touch made her desperate for more.

And then he was biting her in earnest, and Hermione thrust into his hand, bracing it with her own and forcing him harder against herself. She came with a shout, right beside his ear, but he didn’t reprimand her.

Her body wanted to slump to the floor with the excess of emotion and sensation flooding her, but Snape kept her pinned against the bars with his body. He was breathing evenly, but his entire body was stiff.
All at once he pulled away, and Hermione staggered forward, having lost her grounding agent. He stared at her for a long moment, and Hermione did nothing but stare back, wanting him to say something to make her think he wasn’t going to pretend this hadn’t happened. Even if she knew that was too much to ask, it wasn’t too much to hope for.

“That was a mistake,” he spat, turning to leave her cell. Hermione reached out to grab his sleeve, but it slid through his fingers as he left through the open door, locking it once, twice, and turning to face her again. “You have to control yourself better, Miss Granger. I am not made of stone. Your behaviour puts us both in danger. I doubt Mr. Potter would be pleased to learn his efforts were for naught because his friend couldn’t keep her hormones in control.”

And with a swirl of robes that, at any other time, would have made Hermione flush with desire, he left the room, the heavy wooden door resounding as it hit the doorjamb.

Hermione slumped to her bed and fell face first onto the covers. She cried, less hysterically than before, but with tears for what she had become, what she had lost, and the damage she might have done them all with her weakness.