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Debaucery Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 26266 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: OO – yes this one has turned out rather dramatic hasn’t it? I think this is the most fucked up Snape I’ve written so far and yet he’s still difficult to hate, even though he probably deserves it. ‘He'll only be a better stud for whoever helps him’ – and who will that be? ;) ‘8P <-- This is my Debaucery face.’ – Bahahaha! I’m going to have to come up with a face now!
Ali – ‘A delightful shiver of the Hans Grubers in the scene in his office’ – haha – I love that. ‘Was her body glamoured or just her face?’ – just her face I think and, yes, there is a wee bit of reflection but probably not enough (deliberately obscure ;). ‘I'm almost beginning to feel sorry for him but not just yet’ – I’ll be interested to know how sorry (or not) you feel for him after this chappie. DSx
Chapter 8 – Gluttawdry
Hermione studied the dusky purple marks in her bedroom mirror. It’d been three days and her throat still had the appearance of being freshly squeezed. She stretched it painfully from side to side. Every reminder of that horrific evening set the fury in the pit of her stomach bubbling. And the rage was only partly directed at the poor excuse for a man who had perpetrated the damage. The vast majority was for herself. He’d warned her off in no uncertain terms and she’d still insisted on interfering. She’d also done something she knew full well he would respond badly to.
Despite trying to convince herself that her only motivation had been compassion, she now admitted it wasn’t the case. She had wanted to be needed—to be the person that Snape thought she was when he’d grasped her hand in his bloody ones before slipping into unconsciousness. He’d desperately wanted her then. And for some reason she imagined that it might happen again.
It hadn’t. He’d nearly killed her. And if she hadn’t smelled the spike that the smarmy bartender had attempted to slip her, Snape may have done plenty more besides. As it was, she’d come extremely close to becoming his next conquest. And whenever she thought of that—the moment he’d thrust her against the door and plundered her mouth with his tongue, the bubbling fury in her stomach transformed, reluctantly, sluggishly and inexplicably into a slithering coil of lust. The betrayal from her own body frustrated her no end. She wasn’t depraved. But she hadn’t had sex in an unreasonably long time. It could have been anyone—Snape just happened to be the one looking to break a long drought. Although, admittedly, things had turned pretty fucking unsexy after that.
Part of her churning discontent came from the fact that there’d been no resolution. He’d called in ‘ill’ since that day, so she’d been unable to gauge the fallout. Would he be repentant? He’d certainly seemed upset when she left but it was impossible to tell if it was induced by self-pity or self-loathing. At the very least she deserved an apology from him. She deserved to be furious—she might even have grounds to lay some sort of charges against him. But deep down she’d known she was courting danger when she entered the Tiger’s den. She knew his state of mind and had witnessed his shaking fury at her interference only that morning. And yet she’d pushed it—pushed him to breaking point. She couldn’t deny that she was worried—worried and guilt-ridden that she might have made things worse by trying to play the heroine—Hermione the brave warrior, out to save all creatures great and small.
Sighing, she glamoured the neck bruises, followed by the grazes on her knees where the glass shards had scoured and shredded them. She would unfortunately have to also forego her morning coffee. She had absolutely no desire to encounter him in the neutral space of the café; part of her was still concerned that he might be holding onto his bloodlust, looking to do her in for trying to ‘fuck up his life.’ Then there was the possibility that he’d gone off the rails completely and she’d never see him again—a prospect that filled her with relief and dread in equal measure.
And so when she saw that his office door was open as she approached, her heart lifted a little. At least he wasn’t dead. But when her eyes flickered to the dark form hunched over his desk, she flinched in astonishment. He looked like hell.
Face sallow and drawn, eyes bloodshot and hair even more greasy than she ever remembered, he had the appearance of someone who had been on the bender of a lifetime. And no doubt he had. Hermione found that she’d actually stopped walking with the shock, and although she stood there, eyes fixed upon him for several moments, he didn’t look up. Either he was deliberately ignoring her or in another world.
She wanted to say something but there was nothing that seemed appropriate, nothing that would encompass the depth of what had transpired between them. And so she kept walking, dumping her coat and bag on the ground in her office before sinking into her chair. This was such an unfamiliar experience for her—feeling at a loss. She was a decisive person. She loathed procrastination and feeble fence-sitting and yet here she was, paralyzed by indecision.
She knew that if she didn’t at least say something, the tension of sharing this space with him would overwhelm her. She needed to know exactly where they stood with one another. Would they need to make alternative work arrangements? Would one of them have to quit? Heart thundering in anticipation, she rose. And then fell.
Katie Bell was standing in his doorway.
“Did you need me?” She heard Katie ask.
There was a long pause.
“Come in. Shut the door.” Snape issued the firm commands.
Katie did as instructed, disappearing into his office and closing the door. And Hermione’s fury returned. With a vengeance.
***
“Where have you been?” Katie approached him uncertainly.
Where haven’t I been? Snape snorted before pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t slept in three days. The world no longer made sense to him. He couldn’t even remember why he’d decided to come here and yet here he was, borderline delirious, hungover and exhausted.
“Professor?”
“Sit on my lap,” he ordered.
Swiveling his chair around, he waited for her to hitch up her tight skirt and straddle him. Running his hands over her buttocks, he closed his eyes. He’d felt the soft curves of so many tits and arses over the past three days that he was no longer sure what was what. But the warmth of her skin and the weight of her on his groin gave him comfort.
“I was worried about you,” she murmured in his ear.
He snorted again. Worried? His main worry now was how he was going to pay for the bender that he hadn’t intended to survive. Fucking iron constitution. He’d downed enough poison to kill most people twice over. But then again, he wasn’t a Snape for nothing. His father would be proud . . . His . . . fucking . . . father . . .
Severus grimaced as he curled his fingers into her flesh. Hadn’t he had enough? Hadn’t he indulged in enough for one lifetime? It seemed not. His head pitched forward and his lips met with the apex of her cleavage. Flicking out his tongue, he tasted her—fresh, clean. Not like the sweaty, musky bodies he’d devoured for hour upon hour until his jaw and tongue ached.
They’d blended, every single one, into a seething amorphous being, a beast with multiple backs that he’d ridden in every way possible. His memory was a blur of skin and holes and thrusts and moans—all mashed together except one—the very first. The one that had started this whole fucking suicide mission. And he’d barely even touched her—little more than a snog against the door. But he’d been trying to excise her like some purulent boil ever since—unsuccessfully. She was still there, he felt her now—present, watching, waiting, fucking him up.
They expected more. They always had. He had never been enough. Every single one of them wanted him to be more, to give more. But he had no fucking more to give. And just when he thought he’d managed to cast aside the shackles of expectation, to escape the suffocating weight of responsibility, someone was applying the screws once again, rescinding his freedom, trying to drag him back, make him care again. He couldn’t fucking care again! Didn’t they understand that? Caring was what had dragged him into the depths of damnation in the first place. That’s why he’d made the decision when he’d rejected his past life that he’d rather die on top of the world than drown in its sewers—trying to atone for a multitude of evils that were not of his doing and that were immune to all the care a man could give.
He’d thrown it back in their faces—the judgement, the disapproval—given them a fucking good reason to be disgusted until they collapsed under its weight. She was out there, hating him. He felt her. But if he gave her enough reason she’d go beyond hating—she’d give up on him altogether. That’s what he needed.
Katie Bell was writhing on his groin, rubbing herself against his swelling cock. She was obviously keen for a little relief after days of his absence. But he had other plans.
“Suck me,” he ordered.
Without skipping a beat, she slipped back and reached down to undo his fly. So obedient. As she fumbled in her haste to extract his cock, he slowly pushed his chair out from behind his desk. It was such a gradual withdrawal and she was so consumed in her efforts that she didn’t notice. When she finally held him in her eager hands, stroking him feverishly, he was in place.
“Take it slowly,” he murmured softly, relaxing his legs apart. “That’s a good girl.”
She gave him a hopeful smile before slithering down to kneel between his thighs. She was always so eager to please him. It was endearing enough to make him come but nothing more. Now he watched as she opened her mouth, her lusty gaze upon him as she licked his swollen head. His unhelpful mind instantly reflected upon how many orifices his member had occupied over the past three days. A quick cleansing spell or two ensured that it wasn’t physically unclean, and he had enough sense to down a few potions to keep away the rot, but even he was almost sick of the sight of himself disappearing inside yet another indiscriminate opening. The sensation, however, was pleasing enough. And certainly, the intention was sure to make the outcome wholly satisfying.
As she began to bob, her lips thinning to accommodate his girth, he raised a hand and unfurled his fingers, his silent incantation slipping open the blinds.
Hermione didn’t notice at first. She was working through the latest batch of field data, trying her best to focus despite the knowledge of what was likely transpiring only metres away. But the rhythmic flickering in the periphery of her vision finally caught her attention and her head snapped up to behold a sight that made her breath catch in her throat.
Imagining it was one thing but seeing it happening in the flesh was something else entirely. Katie’s hand was wrapped around his cock, holding it in place so her mouth could take him. She was very animated and Hermione wished she wasn’t. It wasn’t an image she wanted to have of her, relishing Snape’s cock so gratuitously. And he was reclining in his chair, hands resting on the arms, simply watching. Was it an accident? Hermione wondered if they were even aware that she could see them. But then he reached down and raked his fingers into her long dark hair before twisting it around one fist, exposing Katie’s thrusting face and his greasy cock to her even further. Was it deliberate? Absolutely. With cool insouciance, he turned his head to glare at her.
His bloodshot eyes, black and hooded, were almost demonic as they blazed out of his ghostly face. Nostrils flaring, his head eased back and lips parted in a demonstration of obvious enjoyment at Katie’s efforts. Despite her astonishment, Hermione knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to fuck her up. No doubt it was payback—a childish act of defiance.
He used Katie’s knotted hair to pull her down more forcefully onto him and Hermione could see her desperately trying to rise to the challenge. It was sick. He was sick.
Hermione was positive that he wanted to intimidate her—shock her into some sort of seismic capitulation no doubt. She may be rather proper sometimes but, in reality, she wasn’t easily shocked. She’d seen enough it her lifetime. Just because she wasn’t a debaucherous asshole didn’t mean she was totally naïve. Fuck him. He wasn’t the only one who’d survived a war.
Pushing her chair back, she stood and approached the window. The ecstasy on his face dissolved as he watched her slow advance. His eyes narrowed like those of a wary animal. Hermione continued to approach until she was only inches from the glass, her eyes locked upon his. Katie, obviously unaware, kept sucking and tugging for all she was worth. Then, as he attempted to undo her with a final sneer, Hermione sliced her fingers across her neck to remove the glamour, revealing the deep purple evidence of long, strong fingers, wrapped around her throat.
His face collapsed as he pulled Katie away. The last thing Hermione saw were the daggers of pain in his eyes as he threw an incantation at the blinds, slamming them shut so that they were left rattling against the glass.
- 7
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- 9
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Debaucery *Complete*

Debaucery Complete