Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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.

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A/N: I'm so sorry this chapter took so long. But it had several re-writes and I'm still not sure I'm entirely happy with it. This one involves some violence, folks, and possibly a whip, so if it's not your thing or you turn easy at the sight of blood, best skip down to the end. Cheers.

The ship swayed beneath his feet as he was prodded down the corridor below decks of the ship. Cold silver seemed to pierce his shirt as the first mate poked her hook between his shoulder blades. Torches flickered casting eerie shadows as they passed. A giant door loomed at the end of the corridor illuminated by the dancing flame of a single torch which was welded to the left of the frame. He stopped and waited.

            She pushed herself in front of him, tapping her hook against the wooden planks of the door. Silence. Again she knocked her hook, a bit harder than the first time and called out quietly. “Cap’n, I’ve brought him as you requested,” she said. Again there was silence but only for a moment. The door flew inward almost of its own accord. Severus trembled. The first mate pressed her hook once more against his back. “Go on…” she hissed.

            The room before him was shrouded in darkness the glow from the wall torch not bright enough to light the interior. In the far corner of the room a faint glimmer of yellow flickered. It was nearly extinguished as the door to the Captain’s Quarters was slammed shut behind him. He could only just make out her figure as she rose from the desk.

            Donned in a deep scarlet waist coat and polished black leather boots with silver buckles, the captain stepped forward. Her beige sailor’s shirt crested from beneath the double breasted lapel of the waistcoat; around her neck a medallion of pirate’s gold. An unruly tangle of curls was bound at the base of her neck in a knot, a sword sheathed in her belt the shiny silver hilt glittering from the candle’s light in the darkness.

            He stood still daring not to move. Unfriendly waters were dangerous at the best of times and to wash aboard a phantom ship did not bode well for any bargaining he might have hoped to do. Severus squinted in the shadows trying to make out her features, trying to see her better. Light flooded his eyes and he tilted his head back slightly. She had lit a torch but it wasn’t a simple torch rather an elaborate candelabra with arms spindling out of the center in all directions. She thrust the handle of the candelabra into a torch holder illuminating the room with an orange glow.

            Captain Hermione Granger took a step toward him assessing him. She gazed his figure over from head to toe. His pale skin did not portray that of a sailor but she knew better than to be fooled by the pallor of the flesh. He was thin but muscled, the mark of a man at sea. Her fingers were quick as they gripped the hilt of her sword and drew it, pointing the tip just under his chin. He did not flinch and she withheld her smirk. He’d been held at sword point before. Hardly a pirate was the man before her, but a sailor of a ship of note.

            “Men do not board this ship.” She said.

            Severus said nothing. It was difficult not to show his fear. But she was the pirate legend who stalked the seas in storms at night searching for the souls of men adrift at sea. No man who had ever boarded the Crimson Wraith had ever lived to tell the tale, which raised many a question to the origin of the tales regarding the fearsome ship and its dreaded captain, but he was in no position to ponder on those questions at present.

            “I know your face…” she said, voice crisp, words sharp.

            A wave of nauseating fear swept over him. But still he stood his ground and said nothing. He could not bring himself to meet her gaze, keeping his eyes focused on the wooden floorboards of her quarters as she pressed the tip of her sword harder against his flesh. The sting of steel threatened to puncture his flesh and Severus braced himself for the blood that would come.

            The image flashed behind her eyes. She’d led the raid onto the ship. It had been docked in port the darkness their guide as no moon was in sight. Just one man on deck, but her first mate had slit his throat. The shadows had hid the other well. There was shouting and then the thundering of boots on the deck ladders. Clanging of steel, and cries of the wounded; the enemy and her comrades, it had all happened so fast. And she had danced the gallows’ jig at sunrise a fortnight after; his face smirking back from the high court seat.

            A moment passed before she withdrew her sword point. The captain kept her eyes trained on his face as she slowly sheathed her sword into the belt at her waist but then she thought better of it and placed the sword on a rack that hung on the wall near where she had shelved the candelabra. It would be a quick lung away if she needed it, though she was quite skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Hermione once again took a step toward him, but this time she paced around him, walking a slow circle.

            He did not flinch when her lips appeared hovering just by his ear from behind. “How did you come to be upon my ship?”

            His voice caught in his throat. Paralyzed with fear, Severus found himself incapable of speech. It wasn’t likely that she would believe him anyhow, though as she was a living sea legend perhaps his tale was not so unlikely to her ears. But his tongue seemed thick and his mouth felt dry. Words were lost in his throat.

            She narrowed her eyes when he did not respond. She knew his face and found amusement that he did not recognize hers. “Perhaps your tongue needs loosening?” she asked. “The lick of my whip should remind you of its purpose…”

            Hermione strode across her quarters to the far side. A tall armoire made of solid English oak leaned against the wall next to the bed. She pulled open the doors and smirked. A single hook held a large red baize bag. As she took the bag from its hook and closed the armoire, she turned to face him. Her smirk grew as she saw him flinch. He was a sailor of mark if he responded with fear to the bag she held.

            It was a prized possession; looted once on a raid from the Admiral of a Royal Fleet ship. It along with all her other plunder still in place aboard her ship when she’d rose from the dead. Never before had she bore reason to use it, finding it too fancy a treasure with which to punish trespassers. And her crew could not feel pain nor would she inflict more than eternal damnation already had upon them. But as he stood before her, eyes still trained to the floor she felt a surge of pleasure sweep through her body.

            The handle was wooden, exotic bamboo twined with carefully blackened leather. Each of the nine whipping cords smooth with a hardened knot at the end. It appeared to be more for show than practical use, the leather edges of each cord sharp and fresh. A twinkle sparked in her eyes; whipping him would draw blood.

            He trembled visibly as she approached. “Blood stains are a bitch…” she said. “Take off your shirt, sailor.”

            His fingers felt like lead as he tried to move them up his side. He’d felt the cruel sting of a cat o’ nine before but he’d never seen one crafted with such harsh intent. The whip she held in her hand would cleave flesh from bone of that he was certain.

            “You shall taste a lash of this whip for every second longer you make me wait.” She snapped and cracked the whip against the air.

            It only took him a moment to free the garment from his skin, exposing his back to her. Hermione’s grin was nearly feral. A glint of moonlight cast from above trickled down through the tiny porthole in the cabin’s wall, and for the briefest of moment’s he swore he could see the very bone of her skull through her eerie grin. With his back bared, Severus braced himself.

            A loud crack echoed through the cabin as he nearly doubled over. Nine bright red marks slashed across his skin, three of the marks drawing blood. She held the whip steady and approached him from behind. “How did you come to board my ship, sailor?” she asked again.

            He hesitated a moment too long. Two steps back and again Hermione lashed the whip against his flesh. Blood spurted forth as the knotted cords fell away from his skin, the marks crossing diagonally over the previous set. Severus bit his tongue to keep from crying out. She struck with a master’s strength, far worse than anything he’d ever felt at the hand of the bosun aboard his own ship.

            His lips trembled as he parted them to speak. “My ship was run aground. I was thrown from the masts in the maelstrom and set adrift at sea. I awoke aboard your ship.”

            “Your ship was run aground?” she whispered, pacing around him once more. “This far out at sea?” She knew all too well what had run his ship aground but allowed her lips to twist into a smirk. “Liar,” she hissed. Again Hermione raised her arm, the cords of the cat ‘o nine’ dangling high above her head. Her blow was forceful, the sound like wooden beams split in twain.

            His eyes rolled back in his head and he nearly buckled over. Rivulets of blood poured down his back, his torn flesh stinging worse than a salted wind upon a fresh wound. His legs trembled, threatening to give away beneath him, but Severus dug his nails into the fleshy palms of his hand, trying to withstand the pain. A cold chill tore through his body and he gasped, unable to control himself.

            Hermione had lowered the whip to her side and stood behind him. Her cheek was pressed against the back of his shoulder and she allowed her tiny pink tongue to snake from between her lips and lave against the bloody slash marks. There was no tasting for the soul of the damned, but his blood, fresh and red, sparked something within her. The sensation was almost too much. For a moment she felt as if she had become separated from her body, as if she were watching herself lick the man’s blood from his skin while still feeling it happen. Copper, she could taste copper for the briefest of moments and it stunned her, almost frightening.

            The captain stepped back quickly. And her body was tingling with sensation. She hadn’t felt anything since before she could remember. There were only glimpses of what she could remember before being the tortured soul who could neither feel, nor taste nor smell. But suddenly she could taste the coppery syrup in her mouth and against her lips. She drew the cat o’ nine high and held her hand back, ready to strike once more, driven by fear. “Who are you?” she shouted.

            “Commodore Severus Snape,” he said closing his eyes tight against the pending blow. But it did not come. Her arm was still raised, as if frozen there, as he turned to gaze upon her. Her eyes burned with fire, flames dancing where black pupils should have been. And for a moment he was paralyzed by fear. She lowered her arm slowly and narrowed her eyes.

            “You,” she hissed.

            The memory washed over her like a wave crashing against the shore. He had crept from the shadows aboard the ship that night. He had raised the alarm and it had been him whom she’d fought with, parrying his every thrust, dodging his every lung. She had back-stepped her way down the coachman’s corridor, him in pursuit as they dueled, until she’d pinned him in the admiral’s cabin. She’d lunged left when she should have dodged to the right, never before having made such a fatal mistake. It had cost her the advantage and he’d spun the sword from her grip.

            “You stabbed me,” she spat. The image was clear in her mind. She’d held her hands up calmly, never one to surrender but knowing without her sword it would not have ended in her favour. But as he had made to lower his sword he lunged forward and thrust the blade into her side. She had collapsed back against wall of the cabin.

            Severus stood before the captain, eyes wide with fear as if the same memory had played in his mind. She’d sunk to her knees but he had not been satisfied with his attempt to run her through. But as a noble man of the royal navy if he did not present her for a hanging, there would be no promotion. So he had settled for the more carnal of soul stealing acts and forced himself upon her. A decision which he was quickly growing to regret.

            Hermione drew back the whip once more and brought it down hard across his chest. Blood gushed forth from his pale skin and it made her smile. The bamboo pole clattered to the floor of the cabin as she advanced on him. “You shall obey me, lest you die about this ship…” she hissed and gripped both of his shoulders.

            Pain seared through his chest; the wind gone from his lungs. “Yes,” was all he could manage before she pushed him back, legs tripping over their backward steps until she’d knocked him onto the mattress and wooden frame that served as her bed. Sea folk legend said that a soul stolen could only be regained by the carnal act that had cleaved the soul in twain. Her eyes were once again aflame as she pushed her boot onto his bleeding chest. “Remove my boot, sailor…”

            His fingers were trembling, his body weak, the pressure on his exposed and bleeding flesh too much for him to bear. Severus closed his eyes for a moment, pain washing over him, and white lights danced behind his eyelids. But he struggled forward, daring not to disobey her further. The laces on her boots were caked thick with dry rot and salt and it took him several moments to undo them before he was able to pull the tight leather from her foot.

            Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, awaiting him to remove the other boot as she placed her bare foot against the floor. The wooden planks were coarse against her feet and for a moment she almost smiled, once again able to feel the texture of her ship. She was quick to mount him, straddling his chest, being sure to press down hard against his wounds. He gasped for breath. “Undo my trousers…” her voice was a whisper, almost sultry. The notion of being able to feel again; the wind against her face, the sun warming her cheek, of being able to smell again; fresh salty sea air and the scent of dirt when they neared land; the idea of being able to once more taste the bitter sting of rum and the sweet juice of fruit; Hermione nearly growled. “Undo my trousers…” she repeated but smacked his hand sharply. “With your mouth.”

            He obeyed. Fearfully, he obeyed; parting his lips and grapping the zip with his teeth. The sound of the zipper being tugged down filled the cabin and he shuddered. Both of her hands crossed over her chest, removing her waistcoat and then her shirt. Myth or undead she may have been unattractive she was not. Her breasts were full; rosy nipples, firm setting and perky. His eyes shifted back and forth as if unsure of what they were seeing for a moment.

            She caught his gaze and raised her hand to smack him but instead grabbed a handful of his long black hair and tugged his head up from the mattress. “Make me feel…” she hissed tossing her head back. How long had it been since she’d felt the touch of another or even of her own hand. She felt nothing, sensed nothing as a damned soul. Her body twitched, alive with sensation as he laid one palm against the side of her breast. The pain in his back and chest seemed to ebb; a dull ache as he found his hands all too eagerly squeezing at her breasts. It was a spell, and surely it would be the death of him, but at least it would be a pleasurable death.

            Once again moonlight filtered into the cabin, but he quickly closed his eyes. If she were going to appear as a skeleton atop him, he preferred not to see it. Her hips gyrated against his chest. She could feel again. The tingling between her thighs, the sensation of his hands against her flesh. It was real and all at once overwhelming. Hermione cried out, longing for more of the sensations of which she’d been deprived for too long.

            “More…” she hissed. “Lest you feel the sting of the whip against your thighs…”

            It was her intoxicating words floating to his ear, she could have promised to rip every limb from his body but it would have sounded just like honey. His trousers were tight, his erection pressing harshly against them. The sea demon atop him would steal away his soul to replace hers and he was powerless against it. “More…” she hissed again, louder and more urgent.

            He felt fingers against his trousers, her body shifting atop his, and he was exposed, the air of the cabin making him stand completely erect. She mounted him before he could protest, but her warmth sheathed him so completely that all he could utter was a moan. Hermione squealed, feeling for the first time the sensations of penetration. His rigid erection filled her and she gyrated, bouncing her hips up and down his length. Pleasure shot through her veins, her body was alive and crawling with sensations. She whimpered, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down her face.

            “Please…” he whimpered. She was ice cold and burning up at the same time, the pain in his back renewed, dueling for control of his feelings as the pleasure in groin shot up through his body. It was too much and he tried to pull back, having no place to escape to but further into the mattress.

            “More…” she whimpered her throat almost raw with her screams and moans of pleasure. She moved faster, riding him harder, her whole body on fire. She could feel pleasure shooting through each nerve, ending in each fingertip and Hermione cried out, feeling a burst of feelings shoot through her body.

            He groaned, the most painfully pleasurable intense feeling tearing through his body as she forced him to come, his erection spilling up into her. Severus trembled, dying for it to end, needing it to continue. He was practically torn apart by the sensational overload. Her gyrations slowed and she felt breath in her lungs. Hermione began to choke; the sensation was new, feeling air once more in her lungs. The fire had died in her eyes, soft brown orbs replacing them. Her flesh tingled and she could hardly stand on her own two feet as she climbed off him and off the mattress.

            It took her a moment before she was able to cross to the porthole in the cabin wall. She held her hand in front of it, moonlight twinkling over her skin, revealing nothing but a silver glow against her flesh. She smiled, and bit her tongue for good measure, cursing herself as she felt the sting and then tasted the trickle of her own blood. Her wide eyes turned back to her mattress, but the sailor had vanished.

            Hermione whimpered in the bath water, having given in to her own urges, one hand buried between her thighs, the other wrapped around his chest. She moaned, eyes rolling back in her head and she felt herself come beneath the water. Her breath came in gasps but after a few moments returned to normal.

            “Well that was pleasant,” a voice mocked.

            Hermione shot upright, splashing water over the edge of the tub. Her eyes searched frantically around the room until they settled on the mirror just opposite the vanity. She frowned and then rolled her eyes at her mirror image. “Sod off,” she muttered.

            “Don’t chastise me, you’re the one doing the nasty with the naked professor,” her mirror self chided.

            Hermione could not help the blush that crept into her cheeks. “I’m trying to help him,” she said. It hardly seemed a good excuse but she was not about to be embarrassed by her mirror image.

            “Well if you’re helping him, best to do something about that.” The mirror girl pointed to the bathtub.

            Hermione was still holding him against her chest. She followed her mirror self’s indicating finger. She nearly slipped and fell beneath the water upon seeing what she saw. Despite his lack of consciousness. Severus Snape was sporting a raging erection.

            She’d quickly levitated him from the tub, drained the water and wrapped herself in a towel and he in the robe she’d found in his chambers. It did little to hide his burgeoning manhood. Hermione had levitated him back to the bed, threatening to hex her mirror image into oblivion if she ever repeated what she had witnessed. Perhaps the book had worked a little too well in ways she’d not intended. It had been a much darker fantasy than most. She didn’t often fantasize about hurting him; though the notion of drawing a little blood from him did send shivers up her spine.

            She was afraid to sit in the bed, not sure that she trusted herself. The notion to simple take his member in her hand was very tempting. She closed her eyes. It was what she had always wanted, to see him hard with her naked beside him, though she’d never imagined it would happen the way it was currently occurring. A part of her was embarrassed; ashamed even that the thought had crossed her mind. To touch him without his knowing, without his permission, it was a violation of his person. But it was so very tempting.

            With a heavy sigh, Hermione resolved herself to a solution. “Maybe one more will bring you round…” she whispered and sat on the edge of the bed. She summoned the book to her and flipped it open. “Here goes nothing…"

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The Fantasy Book