Chapter Text

The Department of Mysteries

Hermione

The Department of Mysteries never pretended to be welcoming. Its corridors were long, sterile things, all polished stone and humming wards, each door unmarked and impenetrable unless you belonged there. Most of Hermione’s colleagues seemed to thrive in the little social circles of their specialist divisions. She, however, had chosen a post where she worked with almost no one, preferring the quiet that let her focus without interruption. No cheerful knock-ins. No office gossip. No one asking her to “pop out for lunch.”

Hermione Granger was a Fixer—a rare type of Unspeakable whose job was, essentially, everything. When a problem proved too complex, too volatile, or simply too strange for any of the specialist rooms to handle alone, it went to the Fixers. They were the department’s problem-solvers, generalists with razor-sharp minds, parachuted into whatever crisis needed them most. At present, there were only a handful in the entire Ministry.

That morning, her desk was buried in reports from various D.O.M. divisions, and the only tolerable colleague she had was coughing himself half to death across from her.

“You sound like a dying hippogriff,” she said without looking up.

Theo Nott gave a wheezy laugh that turned into another fit of hacking. His dark hair stuck up in sweaty clumps, and his normally lazy grin looked pale around the edges. “That’s because I’ve got the hippogriff flu. Tragic, really. Ministry ought to send me home on hazard pay.”

Hermione flicked her wand, setting a self-inking quill to take over her notes. “Then go. Before you infect half the department.”

“Can’t.” He shoved a folder across the table toward her with exaggerated care. “Because this landed in our lap last night, and apparently the higher-ups think it’s urgent.”

She eyed the folder. It was thick, stamped with a bright red URGENT, and radiated the sort of bureaucratic dread that meant more long nights in the lab.

“What is it?” she asked.

Theo coughed into his sleeve and smirked. “Black-market love potion. Street name: Lust Potion Number Nine. Maybe you’ve read about it in the Prophet—witches and Muggle women losing control at nightclubs, each instance ending in full-blown assaults. Dozens of confirmed cases in the last three months alone. They’re calling it an epidemic.”

Hermione opened the folder. Statements from Healers, blurred photographs of glass phials recovered from raids, notes scrawled in shorthand about victims brought into St Mungo’s. Her stomach tightened as she read.

“All women,” she said quietly.

“Every report,” Theo agreed. “It only works if it’s drunk. Firewhisky spiked at a pub, doctored cocktails, even a Butterbeer shipment to Hogsmeade last week. Women drink it, they go mindless. Insatiable. That’s the ceiling.”

“And no blokes,” she pressed.

Theo gave a careless shrug that looked more like exhaustion. “None reported. Which isn’t to say it couldn’t happen, but… you know how these cases go. Victims are mostly women. Same pattern here.”

Hermione closed the file, her jaw set. “So the Ministry assumes ingestion is the only pathway, because skin contact hasn’t been tested. That’s not the same as proof.”

“Tell that to the Director,” Theo said, leaning back in his chair. “The Love Division—the so-called Love Room—has been working with the best potioneer in Britain for weeks now. He’s just had a breakthrough, and someone needs to go confirm the recipe and collect samples.”

“Why us though? Why not the Love Room Unspeakables?” Hermione’s brow furrowed as she continued to glance through the file.

“The wimps were confident enough corresponding with him by owl, but none of them have the spine to go in person apparently. Which means someone else has to go to Spinner’s End and make sure the bat’s so-called antidote actually works.”

Her head snapped up. “Snape?”

Theo grinned, weak but wicked. “World-famous potioneer, Order of Merlin, and, depending on who you ask, either a hero or the greasy git who made at least two generations of the wizarding world’s school years hell. Apparently, he’s been brewing in seclusion for a decade and producing almost all the major potion breakthroughs in recent memory—new burn salves, a Wolfsbane Stabiliser, even a Blood-Replenishing Draught that St Mungo’s swears by.” He coughed again, winced, and added, “And I was supposed to be the liaison.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am, but unfortunately, I’m also contagious. So unless you’d like me to sneeze all over his precious vials, the job’s yours.”

She opened the folder again, skimming the details, willing her pulse to settle. The reports were clear: the potion was spreading faster than the Ministry could contain, and every day without a cure meant more victims.

“Snape won’t want me there,” she said at last.

Theo’s smile turned sly. “Then think of it as calling in a marker. You did save his life at the Battle of Hogwarts, didn’t you? A bezoar and some battlefield spellwork? He owes you.”

Hermione snapped the folder shut. “Well, fuck me then I guess, Nott.”

Theo’s eyes twinkled with his personal brand of mischief. “Oh, darling—if only I had the stamina right now to give it to you the way you deserve.” He coughed again, half a laugh, half a wheeze. “You’ll thank me later, Granger. Think of all the fun you’ll have sparring with him again. Just like old times.”

Hermione ignored him and headed for her office to gather her notes. Old times had nearly broken her more than once. And she had the sinking feeling that walking into Severus Snape’s house might prove no different.

Chapter Text

Spinner’s End

Hermione

She Apparated to the edge of a narrow lane that ran along a sluggish river. Across the water, abandoned mill buildings crumbled against grey sky. The houses were cramped terraces with rusted railings and postage-stamp gardens that had given up pretending. It was exactly the sort of place Severus Snape would choose—unwelcoming, functional, and utterly without charm.

Hermione Granger was not a coward, per say...but she had not gone with her initial plan of informing Snape of the change of houseguest. Telling herself it was for the best, she checked the address against her file and started down the street. March wind cut through her cloak, but she left the warming charms alone. The cold kept her focused.

The wards announced themselves halfway down the street—a subtle pressure that grew more insistent with each step. By the time she reached the house itself, the air felt thick as treacle. The protections weren't just testing her identity; they were cataloguing her intent, her breathing pattern, even her emotional state. She'd seen Gringotts vaults with less security.

"Paranoid bastard," she muttered, though she couldn't help but be impressed.

She tapped the iron gate with her wand and signed her magical signature. The wards pressed back with intelligent resistance before yielding grudgingly. The latch clicked. The gate opened just wide enough to slip through sideways.

The front garden was hard-packed dirt and dead weeds. The path was cracked concrete leading to a brown door with peeling paint. Another ward stretched across the frame—faster, meaner than the first. The house didn't say welcome. It very clearly said go away.

She approved. After the war, everyone had wanted a piece of her—quotes, photos, favours, conversations she hadn't agreed to have. She'd learnt to build walls the way she'd learnt shield work: by necessity. Privacy wasn't rudeness; it was peace of mind.

Hermione tapped the doorframe and felt the ward array test her again before rolling back with obvious reluctance. The lock turned. The door opened.

Severus Snape filled the threshold.

For half a second, muscle memory tried to drag her back to cold classrooms and cutting remarks. She let it pass. She wasn't a trembling sixteen-year-old anymore.

He'd changed in surprising ways, and stayed familiar in others. The lank hair was neatly cut, showing threads of silver at the temples that only enhanced the sharp angles of his face. The sallow complexion was gone, replaced by the pallor of someone who simply didn't see much sun. He wasn't gaunt—there was wiry strength in his arms, visible through the rolled sleeves of a black shirt. At fifty-one, he was barely into middle age by wizarding standards, and it showed. The stress lines that had carved deep grooves during the war years had softened, and his face had filled into something striking—not conventionally handsome, but undeniably compelling—leaving him looking like a man in his prime.

The eyes were the same: dark, hard, watchful.

"Ms. Granger," he said, and the sound of his voice hit her like a physical thing—dark velvet wrapped around hardened steel, precise and low, causing a small shiver to work its way up her spine. It was exactly as she remembered, and somehow worse because it did things to her at thirty-one that she'd never felt as a child during lectures. It made something low tighten.

"I was not expecting... you."

"No," she said evenly, fighting to sound unbothered. "I imagine you weren't, Severus."

Something flickered around his mouth that might have been surprise at her use of his given name. She didn't give him time to process it.

"Nott is ill. The D.O.M. isn't interested in delays. I'm here to verify your notes, witness final brewing, and collect samples for the Love Room."

He studied her the way he used to watch cauldrons during critical stages—checking for the flaw that would ruin everything. It was a look that used to make her defensive. Now it made her squirm for a different reason.

"Come in," he said finally. "And close the door."

He turned and swept away from her down the narrow hallway, leaving her to follow. She stepped inside, and the wards settled with a thrum behind her as she took the opportunity to investigate her surroundings. Books lined the walls two deep, arranged by some internal logic. Dust clung to the baseboards but not the shelves. The air smelled of old parchment and scrubbed potion smoke—clean alcohols and something mineral. Nothing overtly dangerous.

To her right, a sitting room opened off the hall. Two armchairs faced a fireplace, and a low table sat scarred with ring marks from years of the same mug in the same spot. No photographs. No flowers. No effort to make anyone comfortable. It wasn't hostile, just indifferent.

"This way, Ms. Granger," he said from farther down the corridor.

The corridor led to a door with serious warding. The protections would recognise Snape's magical signature. Everyone else could expect a very unpleasant surprise.

Snape pressed his palm to the wood. The wards disengaged with a subtle shift in the air. He opened the door and stepped aside.

The lab was a long room arranged without any concession to aesthetics. Dark wood benches, polished by use and scarred by the same. Glassware hung in careful nests, not a chip among them. Mortars and pestles nested by size next to brass scales that gleamed like they were buffed nightly. Along one wall, a massive ingredients armoire stretched from floor to ceiling. Shelves carried labelled jars in the small, neat hand she recognised from potion margins she'd both admired and resented as a student.

Three cauldron stations sat beneath stasis charms that hummed just below hearing. The fourth one on the end was set within a complex ward, with a rune pattern she didn't recognise but could read—heat stabilisation, temperature regulation, automated stirring controls. Thoughtful work. Effective.

On the far wall, a slate showed process notes with times, temperatures, and lunar calculations. In red, corrections to a filed method she'd seen the Love Room reference with reluctant respect.

Hermione set her satchel down and pulled out the clipboard with pre-printed forms. Preparation was everything.

"Quick walk-through of events," she said, pulling on field gloves and twisting her thick curls into a high knot. She secured them with her wand, the polished wood sliding through easily. A few rebellious strands escaped to frame her face. "I witness final decanting, collect samples and notes in duplicate, run baseline diagnostics here. Live testing happens in Department containment."

"Good," he said. "Do try to keep your questions to a minimum."

"Dare I take this moment to remind you I am not your student anymore, Severus."

That earned the smallest shift in his posture—surprise, or maybe acknowledgement of her repartee.

He moved to a warded cabinet and removed a case. The one a florescent pink with flecks of mother of pearl and opals dancing amongst the swirling liquid. The other a deep forest green that looked, to borrow a Muggle term, carbonated.

"Please use Department glassware," she said, setting out three crystal bowls etched with official seals. "Chain of custody."

"You doubt mine," he said without heat.

"I doubt everyone's. You'll pour, I'll record. If either of us doesn't like something, we say so now."

He glanced at the bowls, at their careful placement. "Acceptable."

She positioned the first bowl. "Antidote first. Then a small quantity of LP-9 for inert diagnostics only."

He slipped on dragonhide gloves and waved imperiously for her to begin.

"Run me through your initial assessments of LP-9," she said before he could start. "Not from your letter. Your actual thoughts please."

He didn't sigh, but his eyebrow suggested he wanted to. "Whoever created this abomination has a thorough understanding of neurochemistry and absolutely no moral compass. The base is standard love potion theory—amplified libido, lowered inhibitions. But they've added something that targets the prefrontal cortex directly. Removes not just judgement, but the ability to refuse. It is essentially creating a compulsory desire to become nothing more than your basest sexual instincts."

He paused, studying the pink vial with obvious distaste. "The brewing is actually quite elegant, which makes it all the more disturbing. A fair amount of trial and error went into creating this."

He set the LP-9 aside and reached for the deep green vial containing his antidote. "I call it Chasteté," he said simply.

Hermione lifted a corner of her mouth in acknowledgement of his flair for the dramatic in the naming of his creation. French for Chastity. Fitting.

Working with precision that would satisfy any Healer, the antidote decanted smoothly into the first bowl, its carbonated effervescence settling into steady surface activity. Her diagnostic lattice glowed blue, then sank. Stable. Clean.

He handed her a dragonhide glove and once she had it on passed her the vial of LP-9 for her inspection. Upon closer look she could see flecks of mother of pearl and opals dancing amongst the swirling pink liquid. She handed it back to him and he carefully decanted a measured portion into the second bowl. The potion rolled in smoothly, settling with deceptive sparkling beauty.

She ran her diagnostics and frowned at the readings. The lattice flickered between amber and red—multiple active compounds, volatile binding agents, something that made her detection spells recoil. This wasn't a simple potion; it truly was as masterful as Snape had suggested. She logged the results with careful notes about the compound instability and added her magical toxicity warnings.

"Now for the moment of truth," he said wryly, positioning the third bowl. He decanted a small measure of LP-9 into it, the pink liquid settling with its deceptive shimmer. Then, with deliberate precision, he added three drops of Chasteté.

The reaction was immediate and dramatic. The pink potion hissed and writhed, its pearlescent flecks dissolving as the green antidote spread through it like ink in water. The liquid turned muddy brown, then clear, then finally settled into perfectly still, colourless water. The magical signature went completely inert.

"Neutralised," Hermione breathed, running a quick diagnostic over the bowl. The lattice glowed steady blue—no toxicity, no active compounds, nothing but harmless base potion solution. "Complete molecular breakdown. That's... incredibly impressive work, Severus."

She turned her head back down to scribble something on her pad and missed the flash of satisfaction in his eyes at her words.

"Excellent," she said, vanishing her clipboard and notes back into her bag and windlessly sealing the sample bowls. "That covers what I need. I'll get these ready for transport."

He nodded, beginning to clear the bench. First the antidote vial, properly stoppered and returned to its case. Then he reached for the LP-9.

Hermione's hair chose that moment to rebel. The knot was sliding—she could feel her wand shifting. She reached up to secure it, but too late. Her wand slipped free and her thick curls tumbled down in a cascade of unruly waves. The wand clattered against the stone floor and rolled, of course, directly under the massive ingredients cabinet.

"Bollocks," she said, dropping to her hands and knees. "Just give me a second."

The armoire was built for storage, not access—its heavy base sat nearly flush with the floor. She had to lie flat and squeeze her arm into the narrow gap, shoulder pressed against the cold stone as she stretched for her wand. It had rolled deep under the cabinet, forcing her to push farther in, her hips lifting as she tried to reach it.

Lost in her task, she hadn’t noticed that her skirt had ridden up past professional levels, but she was nearly done. She stretched farther, fingertips finally brushing the polished wood of her wand handle.

Behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath followed by a deep groan.

"Fuck."

Hermione twisted her head, arm still under the armoire. From this angle, she could just see his hand held out in front of his face for his inspection—bare now, gloves discarded—gripping the LP-9 vial. A single bead of pink potion clung to his thumb resting on the rim.

"Severus—"

"Don't." His voice was already rougher. "Don't move."

Chapter Text

The Accident

Severus

Severus had been expecting Theodore Nott. The young man was punctual, professionally minded, and possessed the rare quality of asking intelligent questions without feeling compelled to demonstrate their cleverness every thirty seconds. A pleasant change from most Ministry officials, who seemed to believe that volume and frequency of inquiry correlated directly with competence.

He was not expecting Hermione Granger.

The wards had announced a familiar magical signature—one that made him pause in his morning review of brewing notes. He'd felt that particular resonance before, years ago, when she'd been nothing more than an insufferable know-it-all with bushy hair and an addiction to raising her hand. The signature was stronger now, more controlled, layered with the kind of defensive complexity that spoke to both power and hard-won experience.

When he opened the door and found her standing on his threshold, his first coherent thought was that the thirteen years since the Battle had been remarkably kind to Hermione Granger.

His second was that this was going to complicate his carefully ordered day considerably.

She'd grown into herself in ways that were both striking and unsettling. The wild hair was still quite large and seemingly sentient—but instead of a frizzy mess it was a riot of perfectly defined ringlets. Her gangly frame had filled out into something that made his mouth go dry despite his better judgment. There was confidence in the way she stood, authority in the set of her shoulders. This wasn't the eager student who'd haunted his classroom with desperate need for approval. This was a woman who knew exactly what she was worth.

It was a profoundly inconvenient discovery, this attraction to someone twenty years his junior.

"Ms. Granger," he managed, pleased that his voice emerged steady. "I was not expecting... you."

Her response—calm, professional, laced with just enough challenge to remind him that she wasn't intimidated by him anymore—confirmed what the visual assessment had already suggested. Hermione Granger had become dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with her wandwork.

When she used his given name, something shifted in his chest. Not many people had that privilege. Fewer still wielded it with such casual authority, as if reminding him that whatever power dynamic had existed between them before was now null and void.

She explained Nott's absence with typical efficiency, outlining her purpose with the kind of crisp professionalism that spoke to extensive training. A Fixer, then. He should have known. The Department of Mysteries didn't send just anyone to handle experimental potions, and they certainly didn't send anyone incompetent to assess his work.

Still, having her here felt like inviting an element of chaos into his carefully controlled environment.

He led her through the house, acutely aware of her taking inventory of his surroundings. Let her look. The place was exactly what it appeared to be—functional, private, designed to discourage visitors. He'd spent ten years building a quiet life that required no one else's input or approval, and he wasn't about to apologise for it.

The lab, at least, would speak for itself. He'd designed every inch of it with purpose, from the ward configurations to the impressive quantity of rare and powerful ingredients. If she was half the professional she appeared to be, she'd recognise quality when she saw it.

Her reaction didn't disappoint. She moved through the space with the kind of awareness that came from understanding dangerous environments, cataloguing protections and protocols without asking unnecessary questions. When she commented on the rune work, her assessment was both accurate and respectful.

For the first time since opening his door, Severus felt something approaching satisfaction.

The formal procedures began smoothly enough. She was thorough without being obsessive, professional without being cold. When she pulled her hair up and secured it with her wand—a practical solution, if unorthodox—he found himself momentarily distracted by the elegant line of her neck.

He forced his attention back to the task at hand.

Her questions about LP-9 were intelligent, cutting straight to the heart of what made the potion so dangerous. When he explained the neurochemical implications, he watched her face for the reaction he'd gotten in correspondences from other Ministry officials—the slight withdrawal that came from realising they were dealing with something genuinely horrific.

Instead, she leaned forward slightly, engaged rather than repelled. It was the reaction of someone who understood that knowledge, however disturbing, was the first step toward solutions.

"Whoever created this abomination has a thorough understanding of neurochemistry and absolutely no moral compass," he said, letting his disgust show. "The base is standard love potion theory—amplified libido, lowered inhibitions. But they've added something that targets the prefrontal cortex directly. Removes not just judgement, but the ability to refuse. It is essentially creating a compulsory desire to become nothing more than your basest sexual instincts."

Her expression remained clinical, focused. No shock, no moral posturing. Just professional assessment of the problem at hand.

"The brewing is actually elegant," he continued, studying the pink vial with distaste. "Which makes it all the more disturbing. Quite a bit of trial and error went into creating this."

He set the LP-9 aside and reached for his antidote, feeling the familiar surge of pride that came with discussing his work. "I call it Chasteté."

The corner of her mouth lifted in what might have been approval, and something warm unfurled in his chest at the sight. When had her opinion begun to matter to him?

The demonstration proceeded flawlessly. His hands moved with the precision that came from decades of practice, and he was acutely aware of her attention tracking every movement. She asked for clarification on his techniques without questioning his methods—the mark of someone who understood the difference between learning and challenging.

When he handed her the dragonhide glove and she examined the LP-9 herself, he noticed the careful way she held the vial, the respect in her handling of something so dangerous. Professional competence was an attractive quality in anyone. In Hermione Granger, it was particularly... distracting.

Her diagnostic results confirmed what he already knew—LP-9 was a masterwork of malicious intent. The way her detection spells recoiled from the compound spoke to magical toxicity levels that would have sent lesser witches running for the exits.

The final neutralisation test was the moment he'd been working toward for weeks. Three drops of Chasteté into the LP-9 sample, and the reaction was everything he'd known it would be—immediate, dramatic, complete. The pink potion writhed and died, its magical signature guttering out like a snuffed candle.

"Neutralised," she breathed, and the wonder in her voice made something in his chest tighten with satisfaction. "Complete molecular breakdown. That's... incredibly impressive work, Severus."

He felt a flush of pride at her words, the kind of professional validation he'd been missing more than he cared to admit. When she bent her head to make notes, he allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The work was good. She knew it.

That mattered more than it should have.

She finished her documentation with efficient movements, sealing the samples with Department a wandless charm that would ensure their integrity during transport. "That covers what I need," she said, gathering her materials. "I'll get these ready for transport."

The formal business was concluded. In a few minutes, she'd be gone, and his laboratory would return to its usual quiet while his apprentice was out on his errands. The thought should have been comforting.

Instead, he found himself oddly reluctant to see her leave.

He began the cleanup routine automatically—antidote vial properly stoppered and returned to its case, workspace cleared and organised. Muscle memory guided his movements while his mind wandered to the way she'd smiled when his antidote worked, the professional competence she'd displayed, the disconcerting realisation that he'd enjoyed having someone in his laboratory who could appreciate the subtleties of his work.

As he was concluding their business, Hermione's carefully pinned hair chose to stage its rebellion.

The sound of her wand clattering to the floor drew his attention. When he looked up, she was dropping to her hands and knees, then sliding under the ingredients cabinet in a way that made his mouth go dry and his brain empty of everything except the elegant curve of her spine and the way her skirt rode up to reveal the most spectacular arse he'd seen in years.

He reached for the LP-9 vial, his attention split between the task and his wandering thoughts. The gloves felt cumbersome suddenly, and he stripped them off without thinking, setting them aside as he lifted the pink vial.

Thirty-one years old, his mind supplied helpfully. A former student. A young girl who'd saved his life and grown into a mature woman. Formidable and fascinating and entirely inappropriate for him to be staring at.

The thoughts should have been enough to snap his attention back to the task at hand. Instead, he found himself frozen, watching the play of rounded flesh beneath fabric as she stretched farther under the cabinet, her position becoming increasingly compromising as she reached for her wand. Just a bit more and he’d be able to see the forbidden valley between her thighs.

He was fifty-one years old. He was a master of his craft, a man of considerable self-control, someone who'd learnt long ago to compartmentalise desire and maintain professional boundaries. He should have looked away, focused on his work, given her the privacy to retrieve her wand without an audience.

He didn't.

The pink vial tilted in his suddenly nerveless fingers. A single drop of LP-9, perfectly formed and deceptively beautiful, welled up on the rim and transferred to his thumb before he realised what was happening.

The sensation was immediate—a tingling warmth that spread from the point of contact up his arm and into his bloodstream. He had a moment of perfect clarity in which he understood exactly what he'd accidentally done and what was about to happen.

He inhaled sharply and let out a groan that came from a deep and dark place inside his soul.

"Fuck," he said, the word torn from his throat as the first wave of the potion's effects hit his nervous system.

The tingling became heat. The heat became fire. And the fire was spreading through his veins with the inexorable efficiency of a well-brewed poison, targeting every nerve pathway between his brain and his groin with surgical precision.

He had theorised that touch instead of ingestion would produce an entirely different reaction, and he seemed to be correct. While his carefully maintained self-control was dissolving like sugar in water, he did not feel totally mindless or detached from the situation. Instead, it was as if he had no reservations, no hesitation, no goal but to become his truest sexual self. And that part of him was a well-guarded secret—not so much as a rumour had ever rippled through the collective consciousness of those who knew him.

She was still under the cabinet, vulnerable and unaware, her skirt riding high enough to reveal the pale curve of the bottom of her cheeks now and the edge of lace that made his newly compromised brain conjure images that were both vivid and hungry.

"Don't," he managed, his voice already rougher as the potion rewrote his control in real time. "Don't move."

It was the last truly coherent warning he would be able to give her.

The potion surged through his system like wildfire, burning away inhibitions and moral restraints with ruthless efficiency. His vision sharpened, his pulse accelerated, and every instinct that civilised behaviour had taught him to suppress roared to life with terrifying intensity.

He remembered her signature scent from the doorstep and wanted to get close enough again to take a deep whiff—jasmine and parchment and something uniquely her that made his newly altered brain want to catalogue her as prey, as target, as something to be claimed and taken and used until the compulsion burning through his veins was satisfied.

She was still reaching for her wand, still unaware of the danger, still trusting that the man she'd known almost half her life was capable of maintaining control.

That man was disappearing by degrees, replaced by something that understood only hunger and the driving need to possess what was displayed so temptingly before him.

Severus Snape, potioneer and professional spy, renowned for his ultimate control over his thoughts and actions, fought desperately to maintain enough awareness to warn her, to tell her to run, to do something—anything—that might save them both from what was about to happen.

But the creature that was rapidly taking his place had no interest in warnings or salvation.

It was interested only in the curve of her hip and the promise of soft skin beneath that rucked-up skirt, and it was growing stronger with every heartbeat that carried more of the potion through his bloodstream.

He had seconds, maybe less, before his transformation would be complete.

And Hermione Granger was still on her hands and knees in front of him, utterly defenceless and completely unaware that the man she'd trusted was about to become her worst nightmare.

Chapter Text

The Point of No Return

Hermione

The demonstration had gone perfectly. Better than perfectly, actually—watching Severus work had been like observing a master artist, and the neutralisation test had exceeded even her professional expectations. For a brief moment, Hermione had allowed herself to feel something approaching satisfaction with how the day had unfolded.

She should have known better.

Professional embarrassment warred with practical necessity. She was acutely aware that her position was less than dignified, her skirt riding up past appropriate levels, but the alternative was asking Severus Snape for help retrieving her wand like some incompetent first-year. Her fingertips brushed polished wood—almost there.

Behind her, she heard a sharp intake of breath.

Then a sound that made her freeze—a deep, involuntary groan that spoke of pain or shock or something worse.

“Fuck.”

The word was torn from his throat, raw and urgent in a way that made every instinct she’d developed in the field scream danger. In all her years—seven as his student, thirteen since the war—she had never heard him swear. She’d heard that tone before, though—the sound of something going catastrophically wrong, a sound in her field work when trained professionals realised they were looking at a situation spiralling beyond control.

“Severus—” She started to twist around, arm still trapped under the cabinet.

“Don’t.” His voice was already different—rougher, strained. “Don’t move.”

The command froze her. Not from obedience, but because something fundamental had shifted in the room. This wasn’t the controlled, professional man who’d been demonstrating his antidote moments before. This was someone fighting something, and losing.

Lab accident. Her mind immediately started cataloguing possibilities—chemical exposure, magical backlash, ward malfunction. She managed to twist her head enough to see him, and her stomach dropped.

He was standing frozen behind the worktable, one hand held out in front of his face. The LP-9 vial was in his other hand, tilted at an angle that made her feel sick. On his thumb, clearly visible even from her awkward position, was a single bead of pink liquid.

“Oh, Merlin.” The words escaped as barely a whisper. “Severus, you need to—”

“I know what I need to do,” he said, but his voice was already changing, taking on an edge that made her want to crawl under the cabinet and disappear. “The question is whether I have enough time to do it.”

She could see the moment the potion hit his bloodstream. His pupils went wide, his breathing quickened, and something predatory flickered across his features—there and gone so quickly she almost convinced herself she’d imagined it.

Almost...

But this wasn’t like the cases she’d read. Those victims had ingested the potion—they’d become mindless, reduced to pure instinct within minutes. Skin contact was different, uncharted territory. He was still talking, still thinking. Which somehow made it worse. He was aware of what was happening to him, aware of what he wanted to do, and the potion was just stripping away his reasons not to do it.

“The antidote,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The Chasteté is right there. Three drops, you said. You can—”

“Yes.” His voice was strained, like he was fighting something internal. “Yes, I should—”

She watched him reach for the green vial with shaking hands and managed to uncork it. For a moment, hope flared in her chest. He raised it toward his lips, tilting his head back.

Then his other hand shot up and clamped around his wrist. She could see the muscles in his arms straining against each other—one hand trying to bring the antidote to his mouth, the other pulling it away. His face contorted with effort, veins standing out on his neck as he fought himself.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth, though she couldn’t tell which part of him was speaking. “Can’t... won’t...”

The struggle lasted only seconds before his left hand won, yanking the right so violently that the vial flew. It shattered against the far wall in an explosion of green liquid and glass.

He stared at the wreckage, breathing hard. When he looked up, his eyes met hers—and for a moment, she saw pure terror there. Not the predatory hunger that had been growing, but the fear of a man who’d just realised he was no longer in control of his own body. “It won’t let me,” he said, and his voice was different now—fear. “It won’t let me stop this.”

The moment his eyes changed again—terror replaced by something darker—Hermione forced herself to move slowly. Like she was dealing with a wounded animal that might bolt or attack. She carefully pulled her arm free from under the cabinet and shifted her weight, moving inch by inch until she could sit up with her back pressed against the heavy wood.

She drew her knees up slowly, keeping her movements deliberate and non-threatening. The cabinet stretched along most of the wall behind her—she was sitting directly in front of it, with nowhere to hide. Her wand was still somewhere underneath—unreachable without turning her back on him.

His gaze fixed on her with predatory focus, tracking every small movement she made. She held perfectly still, afraid that even breathing too quickly might set him off. “Get out, Hermione.”

His voice had changed again—rougher now, edged with something that made her begin to tremble. “You need to get out right now, or I won’t be able to stop myself.”

She tried to get to her feet slowly, carefully, the way she’d been moving. But her hands were shaking now, making it hard to brace herself properly against the cabinet. Her legs felt unsteady as she rose, and she had to press her palms flat against the wood behind her to keep from swaying.

Even as her body trembled with fear, her mind was still working, still trying to find the logical solution. There had to be something—a spell, a negotiation, some piece of knowledge that could fix this.

But she could see it in his face—the last traces of the man she’d known disappearing behind something darker. The potion was winning, and all her clever reasoning wasn’t going to save her.

“Severus, listen to me.” She slowly backed toward the lab door, hands raised. “You’re under the influence of a controlled substance. You’re not responsible for what you’re thinking right now. But you can fight this. I know you can.”

He laughed, and it sounded nothing like him. “Fight it? Do you have any idea what this potion does with contact, Ms. Granger? Because now I do. It doesn’t create desires out of nothing. It removes the restraints that keep them buried.”

She reached for the door handle behind her, never taking her eyes off him. Locked. Of course it was locked. The ward system that had impressed her earlier was now a trap.

“The wards,” she said, and she could hear her voice shaking. “I need you to lower the wards, Severus.”

“No.” He was moving now, coming around the table with predatory grace. “I don’t think I will.”

Her hand moved instinctively to where her wand should have been in her holster, finding nothing of course. Wandless magic then—she was capable of it, had shown off earlier. But with adrenaline flooding her system, the precision she needed for anything was impossible.

Wandless magic was a wonderful thing when you were in the right controlled frame of mind for it.

Wait. Think. He was one of the most powerful wizards alive. This was the man who could fly without a broom, who’d invented deadly curses as a teenager. She’d seen him block Harry’s spells with casual flicks of his wand, make advanced magic look effortless. Even if she had her wand, what exactly did she think she was going to do? Her best stunner?

The realisation hit her like a punch to the gut. She wasn’t going to fight her way out of this. She wasn’t going to outsmart him or overpower him. She was trapped in a locked room with a man who could probably take on three Aurors at once, wandless, on a normal day—and this wasn’t a normal day.

“Please.” She pressed her back against the door, trying to sound calm even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “I saved your life. At the Battle. You owe me, Snape.”

“Do I?” He was close enough now that she could see how the potion had changed him—pupils blown wide, skin flushed, every line of his body speaking to barely restrained hunger. “Perhaps it’s time to discuss what you owe me. Tell me, Ms. Granger, what do you think I’ve been thinking about since you dropped to your hands and knees in front of me?”

What could she possibly owe him? Her mind raced through their history—seven years of his classroom, the war—that was the extent of their interactions. She’d saved his life, helped end the war he’d fought longer than any of them, and then never bothered him again. What debt could he possibly think she had?

“Enlighten me, Severus,” she tried to keep him talking, “because I can’t think of a single thing.”

His smile was cold and predatory. “Seven years of your insufferable Gryffindor courage. Seven years of watching you stand up to bullies, fight for the underdog, save everyone.”

“No one ever bothered to save me. Lily tried—Merlin, she tried. She defended me from bullies, from my own mistakes. And I spat in her face for it. After that, no one cared whether I lived or rotted. And I told myself I deserved it—she never would have chosen me anyway.”

His eyes blazed. “But then you. You dragged me back from death. And when I thought you were gone for good, you returned—to stand before the Wizengamot, to tell them Severus Snape deserved to not only live, but to be treated as a hero. The first person in decades to fight for me, to make me believe I mattered.”

His hand twitched, potion-slick shine still drying on his thumb. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. His voice wavered—rage, gratitude, despair tangled together, the potion driving him in unstable bursts, as though his body couldn’t decide which emotion to obey.

“And then you vanished again. You saved me, defended me—and still left me alone. You stole the end I had chosen, and when I might have found some reason to go on, you refused to be it.”

He gave a jagged chuckle that cracked into something almost like a sob. For half a heartbeat his face softened, shoulders dropping, breath hitching—as though he might collapse beneath the weight of it—then the potion surged, his pulse hammering in his throat, and the madness returned.

“To bastardise one of my Muggle father’s favourite phrases: it isn’t the first time a lioness giveth her care, then taketh it away...” His lips twisted. “So yes, Ms. Granger—for being one of the only two people to show me compassion, only to rip it away—I’d say you bloody well owe me.”

For a moment his face twisted, almost human again. His pupils were blown wide, sweat beading on his upper lip. “But I know I don’t deserve it. I never deserve it... not after the things I’ve seen. The things I’ve done. I am not a good man, Hermione.”

The words hung there, nearly breaking him—his chest heaving, jaw clenched as though he was fighting himself. Then the switch flipped. His shoulders squared, his breathing steadied, and when he spoke his voice was horribly casual, like they were discussing potion ingredients.

“Do you know what I told the Wizengamot about the Dark Revels? That I had no choice. That my cover required... participation.”

He closed the last distance, caging her against the doorframe, knuckles white where his hands gripped the wood. His breath came too fast, heat radiating from his body. He leaned down; she could smell potion smoke on his skin, sharp and acrid under the sweat. His nose skimmed the line of her neck, cheek, then hovered at her ear.

“What I never told them—what I never told even Albus—was how much I enjoyed breaking people. They deserved it, every one of them. I hated them for being free when I was not. I enjoyed their pain. And I hate you most of all—for giving me a taste of what they had, what you have, and then taking it away. So tell me, Hermione—how much do you think I will enjoy breaking you? How sweet will it be to watch the righteous golden girl learn her place, to strip every ounce of care from her until there is nothing left?”

“That’s not you talking,” she said desperately. “That’s the potion. You’re stronger than this.” His mouth still lingering on her ear sent a chill through her and she jerked her head away—only to regret it instantly. Not because the movement hurt, but because of the way he was looking at her now: possessive, claiming, as though she already belonged to him.

“The Department will notice if I don’t report back,” she said, throwing out the first excuse that came to mind, hoping to reach whatever rational part of him was left.

“Eventually.” His hand moved to her throat, fingers resting lightly against her pulse. “But not for hours. Plenty of time to explore exactly what you’re capable of taking.”

Her stomach turned. He wasn’t listening. Logic, threats, appeals to reason were useless against the potion’s grip. And the way his words lingered, deliberate and cruel, hit her like a slap. This wasn’t going to be quick. Whatever he had planned—whatever the potion was driving him to—he intended to savour it.

She tried to duck under his arm, the instinct to run overwhelming even though she had nowhere to go. But he was faster, stronger, and the potion had sharpened his reflexes. His hand fisted in her hair and yanked her back against his chest, his arms locking tight around her waist.

“Please don’t run,” he said, nuzzling the side of her exposed neck. There was something almost reasonable in his tone—something that was somehow worse than outright aggression. “It will only make this more difficult for both of us.”

She pulled against his grip, knowing it was pointless but unable to stop herself. “Let me go. Severus, please, just let me go.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” His grip tightened in her hair, forcing her face up and to the side so he could study her with clinical detachment, as if her fear were a specimen to be examined. “You see, the potion has made certain things very clear to me. Things I’ve ignored for far too long.”

“What things?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, breathless, betraying more than she meant to.

He bent to trail slow, deliberate kisses along her upturned throat. She felt his smile curve against her skin. “How very much I’ve wanted to punish you. How many nights I’ve wondered what you’d look like begging for forgiveness. How satisfying it would be to strip away that insufferable confidence and make you understand the consequences of what you’ve done.”

Each word cut like a blade. This wasn’t simple lust—it was personal, targeted. The potion hadn’t created the cruelty; it had only stripped away the barriers that kept it buried.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered.

“Didn’t you?” he murmured against her skin, the words a low vibration on her throat. “Part of you wanted to see me broken. Wanted to know what it looked like when the monster bled. Admit it, Hermione—you’ve always wanted to hurt me, haven’t you? A little payback?”

The words struck like a physical blow. He wasn’t talking about now—he was talking about then. When she’d been a child in his classroom, desperate to prove herself and always coming up short against his cruelty. The man she had admired so much, who had tormented her at every turn.

“I was just trying to learn,” she whispered.

“You were showing off.” His grip tightened in her hair. “And now you’re going to learn what happens to little girls who think they know best.”

Something cracked inside her chest at the casual cruelty in his voice. This didn’t feel like lust—it was about power, about control, about taking something he believed she owed him.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Her brilliant mind—the thing that had carried her through war, through Hogwarts, through thirteen years of building a career as one of the most capable witches in the world—was useless now. Worse than useless. It was showing her exactly how trapped she was, cataloguing all the things he could do to her with hours of uninterrupted time.

“Severus,” she tried one more time, putting everything she had into his name. “Please. This isn’t who you are.”

For just a moment, something flickered in his eyes—a flash of the man she’d known, the one who’d dedicated himself to protecting people even when it could have cost him everything.

Then it was gone, swallowed by hunger and darkness and chemical compulsion.

“Perhaps not,” he said softly. “But it’s who I’m going to be tonight.”

All her training, all her education, all her carefully constructed confidence—crumbled beneath that simple statement. She wasn’t Hermione Granger, war hero and Unspeakable Fixer. She wasn’t the brightest witch of her age, the person who solved impossible problems.

She was only a woman, trapped in a room with a predator, more terrified than she had ever been in her life.

And it was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

What Lies Beneath

Severus

“Do you know what I told the Wizengamot about the Dark Revels? That I had no choice. That my cover required… participation.”

The words left his mouth smoothly, yet he hadn’t chosen them.

Inside, his mind was still his own. Sober. Clear. Every thought he possessed was trapped in his mind—the potion demanded that he let go and become a passenger who could just enjoy. LP-9 had stripped away choice. His mouth moved without his consent, spitting out truths he had buried so deep he hadn’t realised they were even there.

It reminded him—absurdly—of a battered book from his father’s shelf: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. A man split in two, one half watching in horror while the other acted out everything repressed. At the time it had seemed fanciful, a distraction to pass the hours hiding from his family. Now it felt uncomfortably accurate.

His body obeyed the potion more than him. Sometimes he could break through—an instant of control briefly wrestled back—but those moments were becoming rare. He closed the distance in two strides and braced his hands on the doorframe. The potion wanted him to trap her. He fought still, knuckles white with the effort not to touch. Heat radiated from his skin. His breath came too fast, catching on her scent—jasmine, parchment, ink. He leaned down, close enough that her scent filled his lungs, close enough to feel her pulse hammering beneath the fragile skin of her throat.

He wanted to step back. Every rational part of him screamed for space, for distance. But his nose skimmed the line of her cheek and settled at her ear, and what came out next was worse than silence.

“What I never told them—what I never told even Albus—was how much I enjoyed breaking people.”

The sober man inside recoiled. But the potion didn’t lie. It hadn’t conjured words from nothing. It dragged out what had always lurked beneath, forcing him to hear himself confess it.

“They deserved it, every one of them. I hated them for being free when I was not. I enjoyed their pain. And I hate you most of all—for giving me a taste of what they had, what you have, and then taking it away. So tell me, Hermione—how much do you think I will enjoy breaking you? How sweet will it be to watch the righteous golden girl learn her place, to strip every ounce of care from her until there is nothing left?”

Christ.

He didn’t know why his mouth kept reaching for relics of his youth—old Muggle expressions he’d stamped out long ago—but it seemed his entire subconscious had been forced loose. If he was already damning himself, what was one more curse in the grand scheme?

“That’s not you talking,” her voice was shaking. “That’s the potion. You’re stronger than this.”

He wanted to tell her she was right. That he was fighting. That he was still in here, clawing for control. But nothing came out of his mouth that was still brushing her ear. Her sudden flinch made him ache—not because she had pulled away, but because Hyde, the part of him LP-9 had ripped free, liked the fear in her eyes.

She was wrong, though. It was him talking. The potion hadn’t invented anything—only stripped away what thirty-five years of thoughts that Occlumency had bricked up and hidden away in his mind.

“The Department will notice if I don’t report back.”

He loved the desperation in her tone. Or did he? It was getting harder to know what was the potion and what was simply some darker level of himself he’d never admitted.

He almost begged her to keep talking. Reason, threats, anything; maybe words would anchor him. But what came out of his mouth was calm, cruel:

“Eventually. But not for hours. Plenty of time to explore exactly what you’re capable of taking.”

Inside, his stomach turned. He had meant it as a warning, a plea for her to understand the danger. But the way his voice wrapped around the words, deliberate and cold, and the way her eyes widened made it clear it had sounded like a promise. And Merlin help him—if he had said it, some part of him had meant it.

His fingers moved, settling lightly against the flutter of her pulse. He hadn’t told them to. He wanted to pull back, to give her space, to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. To Obliviate her and pretend none of this had been dredged up from the blackest parts of his soul. Instead his hand lingered, measuring her heartbeat, feeding on it.

He despised the part of him that savoured the power—the same part that once lingered at the Dark Revels not for the screams, but for the sighs.

This wasn’t going to be quick. He knew it even before the words formed. LP-9 didn’t want quick. It wanted indulgence. It wanted him to take the darkness he had hidden for decades and draw it out inch by inch, until there was nothing left inside him but blessed emptiness.

She managed to duck under his arm in a sudden movement. She was trying to run—silly witch. There was nowhere to go.

He didn’t get any warning. One moment he was arguing with himself, clawing for control, and the next his body had already acted. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her back, pressing her body flush against his chest, arms banded around her waist in a perversion of affection.

Inside, he recoiled. He wanted to loosen his grip, to whisper go, run while you can—even though he knew the wards would stop her. Instead, his mouth brushed her skin as he nuzzled the side of her neck and said in a calm, almost kind voice:

“Please don’t run. It will only make this more difficult for both of us.”

Salazar, the soft whispered words to her horrified him more than shouting would have. It was a manipulation. And Merlin, he was losing the fight. Her scent filled his head, and pressed tight against her, he could feel himself harden against her curves.

“Let me go. Severus, please, just let me go.”

Her plea cut into him, yet his arms only locked tighter. His grip in her hair angled her face up, baring the line of her throat. The terror in her eyes should have stopped him cold, but that look on her face was delicious.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” His voice came out soft, almost sorry, as though he were merely giving her a spot of bad news. He despised how steady it sounded when inside he was chaos. Worse still, knowing he didn’t ever want to let her go left him aching with need.

“The potion has made certain things very clear to me,” he heard himself say, low and conversational. “Things I’ve ignored for far too long.”

“What things?” she asked, a delightful breathlessness in her voice.

His mouth answered for him, bending to her throat, lips pressing deliberate, slow kisses up the line of her neck. He could feel the smile curve against her skin even before he realised he was doing it.

“How very much I’ve wanted to punish you. How many nights I’ve wondered what you’d look like begging for forgiveness. How satisfying it would be to strip away that insufferable confidence and make you understand the consequences of what you’ve done.”

The words gutted him. He had thought them, once or twice, in darker moments. Never spoken into consciousness. He had never allowed himself to admit, even to himself, that she had hurt him. He had buried those feelings so deep he never thought he would have to face them.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered.

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to say I know. Instead his voice came out low, vibrating against her skin:

“Didn’t you? Part of you wanted to see me broken. Wanted to know what it looked like when the monster bled. Admit it, Hermione—you’ve always wanted to hurt me, haven’t you? A little payback?”

Her words about learning struck him like an echo of their past. “I was just trying to learn.” And his grip tightened reflexively, dragging her chin up. She had been trying to learn, but she never actually listened.

The lying little bitch.

“You were showing off. And now you’re going to learn what happens to little girls who think they know best.”

The cruelty in his own tone hit him straight in the cock. He was going to look forward to this.

Her voice cracked on his name. “Severus. Please. This isn’t who you are.”

For a fraction of a second, he felt it. Recognition. Her tone cut through the fog, straight into the sober man still trapped inside. She believed he was better than this. Once, he had been—hadn’t he? It was getting so hard to remember...

And for that heartbeat, he thought he almost believed her. He almost dropped his hold, almost let his knees buckle and collapse at her feet.

But the potion surged again, ripping it away. The flicker died. Hunger drowned it, dark and insistent, whispering that he had always wanted this. That she had been wrong about him from the beginning. That she owed him for how she had hurt him. Now he would hurt her. Fair is fair, after all.

His voice came out soft, steady, cruel in its certainty:

“Perhaps not. But it’s who I’m going to be tonight.”

Inside, the words gutted him. They were what he feared most—that when everything else was stripped away, this was all that remained. He had lived his life as a man in two halves. The Snape he showed to the world, and the Severus he kept buried behind his Occlumency walls.

And he knew what lived behind those walls, because he’d seen it before. The Dark Revels. Nights when others sought screams, and he… lingered on something worse.

Chapter Text

A Revel for Two

Severus

He had never expected to survive his assignment. Albus had planned his death well, and he had been ready for it—ready to lay down a burden he had carried for nearly twenty years. Ready for the darkness that would follow.

It should have ended there in the shack. His part played. His soul damned, but his ledger balanced: the Dark Lord destroyed, and Lily’s son alive.

Too much had been asked of him—more than anyone should have borne. And yet he had done it. He had hidden himself, his motives, from two masters at once: the most powerful wizards of their age. Voldemort and Dumbledore. Each convinced they held his loyalty, each certain they knew him. Neither ever truly did.

That had been the great pride of his life, that he had bested them both in his own secret way. He had put all of himself into playing the role until the end, and he was satisfied the end would be soon. Death would spare him the reckoning. Death would bury what he had done at the Revels with him.

But he hadn’t died.

And now he was holding the woman responsible for years of suffering. The reason he had been forced to live with the man he had become.

His grip tightened in her hair until she gasped.

“You should have left me to die, stupid girl,” he snarled, dragging her forward. “You should have let me bleed out, let Nagini finish the job. But no—you had to save me. You had to drag me back, force me to keep breathing, force me to live with what I had become.”

She cried out as he yanked her across the lab, her feet stumbling to keep up, her hands clawing at his arm for balance. She wasn’t walking; he was hauling her, every step powered by fury that had been apparently festering for thirteen long years.

The heavy wooden chair by the workbench screeched against the flagstones as he shoved her down into it. Before she could rise, ropes whipped into being, conjured with a thought. They snapped tight around her wrists and ankles, binding her in neat, merciless coils.

The ropes were flawless, and the fact that he could still perform wandless magic was a glaring reminder that the potion had left him with a startling amount of control.

Was it him in control, though? Well—it was him, technically, wasn’t it? He felt the distinction between his halves fraying, threads of thought unravelling. He wasn’t mindless. Not yet. These choices—binding her, holding her, keeping her—were his. Almost.

And Salazar help him, both halves of him savoured the vision before him: the crying witch, hair dishevelled, pleading for freedom.

If this was going to happen regardless of his resistance, why not enjoy it? Like his missions, this would be written off as an accident, another casualty of war. The universe had given him another chance to Revel, just the two of them.

Shouldn’t he just let go? Didn’t he deserve it? Didn’t she owe it?

He studied her, inspecting his work. She strained against the bonds, testing for weaknesses he knew weren’t there. Flawless of course. She wasn’t getting free.

But in his estimation, she still wasn’t frightened enough.

He began to circle her, deliberately slow steps. Fear grew best in silence, and tension was its own weapon. He could feel the excitement building in his chest as he prowled around her.

When he stopped behind her, he bent low, fisting her hair once more and jerking her head back until her face tilted up to him.

“Shall I tell you about the Dark Revels, Hermione?” His voice was low, intimate, as tears rolled from the corners of her eyes into her hair. He leaned closer, lips almost brushing her ear. “Would you like to know what I’ve done in service to the Order? Do you want to know what made me a hero in your eyes?”

He released her hair and circled forward again, watching the way she strained against the ropes, breath coming fast, eyes wide with the effort not to sob. It stirred something ugly in him, something that wanted her to understand the breadth of her crimes.

“Of course you do,” he said softly, his tone shifting into the familiar cadence of lecture. “Always desperate to learn, aren’t you, Ms Granger? Always so eager for knowledge. Consider this your final lesson from your favourite Professor.”

Her mouth opened, trembling, beginning to form words he didn’t care to hear. A flicker of thought and a strip of black fabric shimmered into being, binding itself across her lips. The gag bit into the corners of her mouth, silencing her with an efficiency that made his chest tighten in dark satisfaction.

“Finally,” he murmured, tilting his head as he admired his work. “Quiet during class. How long I’ve waited for that.”

He began to pace again, hands clasped loosely behind his back, the consummate teacher. “The Revels,” he began, voice smooth, precise, “were the Dark Lord’s entertainments. Ritualised gatherings of his loyal few. Masks, firelight, blood spilled as freely as wine. Torture as spectacle, cruelty as communion. They were not meetings, Ms Granger. They were celebrations. Bonding through shared depravity. A way for guaranteed mutual destruction in the case of defection.”

Her muffled protest rattled uselessly against the gag, and his lips curved.

“Yes. I know you think you understand. You’ve read about them, perhaps, in Ministry files or Order reports. But you don’t. You’ve never been there, smelling the smoke and iron, listening to the screams until they became a kind of music.”

He paused in front of her, crouching low until he was at her eye level. His hands slid from her knees upward, slow strokes along her thighs, building her terror with soft caresses.

His voice dropped into that patient, professorial cadence. “And perhaps, if you listen very closely, you may learn…” He leaned in, lips brushing against hers over the gag as he whispered, “…how this is all. your. fault.”

He straightened slowly, letting his hands trail away from her thighs, forcing her to feel the absence of touch as keenly as the threat of its return. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace before her.

“The Revels were not optional,” he said, tone even, instructional. “Attendance was expected. Participation was demanded. To refuse was to invite suspicion. To falter was to risk exposure. I stood at the Dark Lord’s right hand, Hermione—do you understand what that meant? Every eye on me, every night. I could not afford to hesitate.”

He turned on his heel, robes whispering across the stone, and stalked back toward her chair. “I was his trusted servant, his confidant. When he demanded a demonstration, it was I who provided it. When he called for loyalty, I gave it—convincingly. The Order’s entire survival depended on it.”

He bent close again, voice dropping, intimate and low. “So I did what was required. I played my part. I played it so well that neither master ever saw through me. Dumbledore believed I endured it for the cause. Voldemort believed I relished it for the cause. And perhaps…” His gaze swept over her, pausing on the gag, “…perhaps they were both right.”

“There were parts of it I did not enjoy,” he said evenly, pacing again. “Murder was never my vice. When I was called upon for such, I made it quick. Clean. I had no desire to savour the continuous fracturing of my soul.”

He paused, turning back toward her. “Torture…” His mouth curved faintly. “That was more dependent on my mood. How far I had been pushed that week. How much rage demanded release. It was easy enough to convince myself those sessions were part of the assignment. That they proved my cover. And if—on occasion—I enjoyed the screaming?” He shrugged, casual, dismissive. “Then so be it. At least someone was carrying the same pain and fury I did.”

He stopped in front of her chair, crouching low again, her eyes tracking his movements. He lifted a hand to push an errant curl behind her ear and lightly dragged his fingertips across her cheek, stroking his thumb across her plump lower lip.

“But the rest…” His voice lowered, silk over stone. “Oh, the rest I enjoyed very much. My proclivities were… specific. No other Death Eater did what I did. No one entertained the Dark Lord quite as well as I did. And again—” he tilted his head, black eyes glittering, “—it was only what I had to do. If I found… pleasure in it, that was merely a biological side effect. Wasn’t it?”

He watched as she tried to puzzle out his meaning.

Oh. Here was something he hadn’t considered.

Just how innocent was Ms Granger? Surely a woman in her thirties wouldn’t struggle so much to parse the meaning of his words? Had the swot focused on everything but living life? Was her knowledge nearly all theoretical, tucked neatly into that big brain she thought made her prepared for anything?

The thought was… too intriguing to let go.

He leaned back, tilting his head, watching her with quizzical eyes. “Tell me, Ms Granger,” he purred, voice soft, almost indulgent, “you aren’t entirely sure what I mean, are you?” She looked at him with frustration and puzzlement. Dare he say… confused.

Oh… she didn’t know. This was too good.

He started to laugh, and her muffled sound was half protest, half plea. He smiled. “Something the brightest witch of her age doesn’t quite understand? Well, that will never do. I am nothing if not a thorough teacher, and you are a fastidious student. I would hate to leave a… gap… in your education.”

He stood and leaned back against the edge of the worktable behind him. A casual pose that belied his delight in the situation. The delivery of this material was important. It shouldn’t be rushed. It should be savoured.

“Let me explain it to you in a way even you would understand.” He smirked at the indignant look on her face. “The Dark Lord liked to… watch.” He crossed his legs at the ankle and tipped his head back, smiling at the memory. “Exhibition was one of his favourite pastimes. In the first war, he was able to… participate himself.”

He looked back down, her head tilted in a way he knew too well. She was processing, but hadn’t yet reached her moment of realisation.

“He made us watch him. Delighted in it, really. And we obliged. But the second war… his body had not returned as that of a man. He was missing the necessary pieces of anatomy that would have allowed him to continue his antics.”

He could see her mind working. It was fascinating to watch.

“Since he could no longer be the spectacle himself, he resorted to his second favourite activity… voyeurism.” He chuckled. Surely she had clued in by now.

But no—no lumos yet behind those eyes.

He strode back to her chair, running his hand up her arm as he passed behind her, dragging it over her shoulder. As he bent down, his hand slid past her collarbone and stopped on her breast, cupping it as he whispered in her ear, “Sex, Ms Granger. Do keep up. You’re embarrassingly slow tonight.”

He gave a low, tsking sound and squeezed firmly, listening to her squeak behind the gag.

What a sweet little sound. He simply had to hear it again.

His other hand made the identical journey up her other side until he was cupping both, lifting and squeezing, savouring her muffled noises of outrage and the way she writhed against the bonds, desperate to escape his wondering hands.

The clothing annoyed him, a barrier to sensation, but the build-up was exquisite—and her chest, perfection. It would be worth the wait.

He kneaded her slowly as he resumed his story. “While I am no fan of a large audience, I did share the Dark Lord’s preferences… well, all but one. You see, he liked inflicting pain and terror for its own sake. Not me. Not with helpless witches… and the occasional wizard.” He chuckled low in his throat, dark amusement vibrating against her ear. “I showed him there was so much more suffering—so much more anguish—if you make them enjoy it.”

He had to see her face. He hated to let go, but he needed to see her face…

There it was.

The realisation. The wide-eyed horror.

He groaned.

Perfection.

Chapter Text

A Gap in her Education

Hermione

“…how this is all. your. fault.”

She could still feel the ghost of his lips on hers as he spoke the words like a caress. Felt the weight of his hands slide away from her thighs. The bastard.

Yes, she knew it wasn’t his fault. She knew this was a man under the influence of the strongest lust potion ever brewed. But it didn’t change how she felt in that moment. Utter, bloody bastard.

What she couldn’t understand was how he thought it was her fault. The way he wove it into talk of the Dark Revels. Did he mean only that he wanted death, so he wouldn’t have to remember those nights? To not relive such horrors in his dreams? Well tough shite—they all had bad dreams. It made no sense at all. She was just trying to help!

He had gone back to pacing, monologuing like a villain in a Muggle children’s film. She tested her bonds again. Damn him. He still had incredible control over his magic. How was that possible? What did it mean?

She tuned out most of his little speech while her mind raced for answers, potential solutions, ways out of this before it got worse. Think… think… maybe if—

She jerked when he stopped in front of her chair, a hand lifting to push a lock of her hair behind her ear. His fingertips trailed across her cheek, thumb stroking across her lower lip. She shivered.

“But the rest…” His voice was deceptively smooth. It was doing something to her she didn’t care to categorise at the moment. “Oh, the rest I enjoyed very much. My proclivities were… specific. No other Death Eater did what I did. No one entertained the Dark Lord quite as well as I did. And again—” he tilted his head, black eyes glittering, “—it was only what I had to do. If I found… pleasure in it, that was merely a biological side effect. Wasn’t it?”

Biological side effect? Pleasure? From torture?

“Tell me, Ms Granger,” he said with an intensity that unsettled her, “you aren’t entirely sure what I mean, are you?”

No. She bloody well wasn’t sure. And it was starting to drive her up the wall. And now he was laughing at her. How dare he!

“Something the brightest witch of her age doesn’t quite understand? Well, that will never do. I am nothing if not a thorough teacher, and you are a fastidious student. I would hate to leave a… gap… in your education.”

There were no gaps in her education, thank you very much. She had made sure of it. She hadn’t had a time-turner for recreational purposes after all.

“Let me explain it to you in a way even you would understand.” She wanted to scoff, but settled for glaring indignantly at him.

“The Dark Lord liked to… watch.” He crossed his legs at the ankle and tipped his head back, smiling at the memory. “Exhibition was one of his favourite pastimes. In the first war, he was able to… participate himself.”

Well of course he liked to watch. And treating it as some sporting exhibition made sense. He would have liked the theatre of it all. And he would have absolutely enjoyed participating. He was the literal Dark Lord. Honestly, how did he figure she wasn’t following this?

“He made us watch him. Delighted in it, really. And we obliged. But the second war… his body had not returned as that of a man. He was missing the necessary pieces of anatomy that would have allowed him to continue his antics.”

Again. No surprise there. Was he going barmy with potion effects? Voldemort had come back in so many forms before his final one. He wouldn’t have always had the ability to wave his own wand.

“Since he could no longer be the spectacle himself, he resorted to his second favourite activity… voyeurism.”

She continued to puzzle at his strange little story. Quite literally none of this was news. He must be officially off the rails then. I wonder if that will make it easier to get away. Maybe even affect the wards? Hmm. Now that was a thought.

He was walking back toward her. His hand slid up her left arm as he came around to stand behind her again. It moved to her shoulder and she braced, afraid he would yank her hair again. It had hurt. What is he—oh, Circe.

She froze. He squeezed her left breast, and she let out a surprised squeak.

“Sex, Ms Granger. Do keep up. You’re embarrassingly slow tonight.”

Her mind tore itself in two: trying to puzzle out what in bloody hell sex had to do with it, and trying not to panic as he—oh gods—brought his other hand around to grab her other breast. She was mortified. Screaming into her gag, hurling every vile thought she had at him.

He kept playing with them. Grabbing and squeezing. Lifting and kneading.

She could feel his hot breath on her ear and trembled.

“While I am no fan of a large audience, I did share many of the Dark Lord’s preferences… well, not one. You see, he liked inflicting pain and terror for its own sake. Not me. Not with helpless witches… and the occasional wizard.” He chuckled low in his throat, dark amusement vibrating against her ear. “I showed him there was so much more suffering—so much more anguish—if you make them… enjoy it.”

What.

Wait.

Inflicting pain… he meant sexual pain.

Wait.

He liked the same things?

Witches… and wizards?

What?

No…

He let go of her and moved to kneel in front of her. Searching her eyes while she knew hers were wide with the beginnings of understanding.

And then he closed his eyes, with a little smile on his face, and groaned. Like he’d just had the world’s most satisfying dessert.

“There it is.” He looked positively giddy—a look that didn’t belong on his face. “Fifty points to Gryffindor for finally using your brain, Ms Granger.”

She tried to process everything as fast as possible. But in that moment she was distracted by the sudden absence of the gag. Her lips felt cracked, her mouth parched from the fabric pressing against her tongue.

He rested his head against her knee, then dragged his nose slowly up the inside of her thigh, pushing the fabric of her skirt higher, as far as the chair would allow. A shiver tore through her before she could stop it.

He pulled back down again, this time using his teeth, scraping a sharp stripe along her skin as he returned to her knee.

He looked up at her, eyes gleaming. “Now. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

Her chest heaved. She thought she might hyperventilate.

Then he bit down. Hard. On the soft inside of her thigh. She yelped and tried to jerk away, but the ropes gave her no escape.

Not far enough.

He nipped her again, softer this time, lips lingering before pulling back. “I asked you a question, Hermione… What have you learned?”

It was so hard to think.

“I… that… Revels…”

“Oh, Ms Granger… I’ll have to take all your points away for your stupidity if you don’t try a little harder. Come now, you silly chit. Tell me—what have you learned.” He punctuated each phrase with little sucking kisses up her thighs.

She was trying. Merlin, she was trying. But she couldn’t think when he kept doing… that… whatever it was. She had never been touched like this before. It was a terrible, squirmy sensation.

“I… I’m not sure.” She was breathing faster the closer he moved toward the apex of her thighs. “Severus… please… I can’t… I don’t.”

He reached as far up as he could, pressing his nose under her skirt and practically shoving his face between her thighs. She shrieked.

She could feel him laughing against her skin, the vibrations making her feel… odd.

He inhaled deeply then. Circe! Was he… smelling her… there? Why!

She renewed her thrashing, bucking against the bonds. “Get away from me!” she yelled down at him, doing her best to dislodge him.

His head snapped up. Both hands came crashing down on her bare thighs with a resounding smack.

Hissing between her teeth, she glared at him. “I’m trying!”

“No. I don’t believe you are…” He smirked, smacking her thighs again before rubbing them where faint handprints were already visible.

“He—” she gulped a steadying breath. “He liked to… perform sexual acts in front of an audience.”

“Go on.” This time he didn’t strike, just rubbed soothing circles with his thumbs.

“When he was resurrected, he lacked the capability to perform said acts…”

“Yes. What else, Ms Granger?” The rubbing continued, his hands spreading wider, thumbs pressing deeper.

“When he was no longer able to engage personally, he resorted to getting… um… pleasure… from watching others.”

“Mmm.” That smirk again, as his hands slipped higher, under her skirt.

“You…” Her breath caught as his thumbs traced the crease where her thighs met her pelvis. She tried to wiggle away but he pushed her hips hard against the chair. “You would be one of the ones called to perform for him.”

“Almost there, Hermione… you want that perfect grade, don’t you?” He chuckled at his own cruel joke.

“You showed him… it was…” She lost her train of thought when his thumbs pressed together over the gusset of her knickers, rubbing lightly up and down.

“Ah, ah, Ms Granger. My star pupil shouldn’t embarrass herself. Surely you can finish your assignment.”

He rubbed harder. She hated that he was touching her.

She hated even more that it felt good.

“You would bring your victims”—she winced at the word—“pleasure, as a form of psychological torture.” She glared at him, spitting the last piece. “And you found your own pleasure in that.”

“Very good, Hermione. Very good.”

She clenched—down there—when he praised her.

What the fuck, Hermione.

He pressed firmly against her clitoris, and she bucked again. Not away from him this time, but toward him.

Fuck.

Why did it feel good… it shouldn’t feel good.

Chapter Text

The Pleasure in Damnation

Severus

“Very good, Hermione. Very good.”

She clenched when he praised her. He felt it—that involuntary spasm was unmistakable.

Salazar, it was exquisite.

Her glare said she wanted to spit in his face, but her body betrayed her with a little buck up into his hands. That was what undid him. That was what had always undone him. Not mindless savagery, but the anguish of a victim discovering that pleasure could be forced upon them.

The mind was a fascinating thing. As a natural Legilimens and Occlumens, he had mastered his own by the time he was twenty. His skills hadn’t been appreciated in his youth, and it had made him a sad boy who had grown into a bitter man.

Voldemort had appreciated him, though. Had praised his natural talent and affinity for both Potions and the Dark Arts. It had been so easy to become a Death Eater. To feel like he finally had camaraderie, to feel like he finally belonged. He had been angry at the world. Hurting it back was a gift the Dark Lord had given him—and he had relished it.

But he had quickly grown bored. Honestly, while he had always been the type to skulk and lurk, standing around while his Lord fucked screaming Muggles until they went silent was… distasteful.

He had started to poke into the minds of the victims, initially out of curiosity, but eventually to study what gave them true fear—and when they ultimately blocked everything out.

The mind will eventually protect itself from unchanging, relentless terror.

It had seemed pointless. If the goal was to hurt them—truly hurt them for their inferiority—this method was wholly ineffective.

So he had set out to impress his Master. Wouldn’t it be all the sweeter to find a way to keep them from hiding in the recesses of their minds? He watched every session, pleasing the Dark Lord by being his most avid audience, all the while breaking into mind after mind.

When he was encouraged to participate for the first time, he had forgotten to pay attention. Nobody had touched him before, willing or unwilling. Once he had done it enough to gain control over his body and its reactions, he was able to perform the act while looking into their stupid Muggle minds.

That had been an incredible experience. The layers of pain, of fear. He could hear their screams verbally, and experience their panicked thoughts simultaneously.

But after a while he had stopped listening altogether. He was ashamed to admit that he was a self-conscious man in his youth. Greasy, lankey, gangly… apt descriptions. He had known since he was a child that he was unworthy of attention in so many ways. Bullied relentlessly about his looks, he had grown tired of hearing how revolting he was in the inner thoughts of his victims. There had been a small pleasure in that at first, but there was only so much one man’s ego could take.

Then fate had intervened in the form of a Muggle-born wizard.

The man had been stoically taking his fucking—locked into a set of stocks, bent over at the waist. No reactions verbally from him other than a grunt as Severus rammed his cock into him initially. The Mudblood’s mind was equally boring. It was as if he knew that the greatest revenge he could have before his death was to provide no entertainment at all for his tormentors.

It had infuriated him.

He had resolved to finish in the man and then leave him for the others. He shifted his pelvis to find a more comfortable position and then suddenly, the man let out a deep groan. Severus had been startled and paused his thrusts. The wizard went silent again. He shook his head and went back to moving and—there it was again!

He jumped into his captive’s mind and had been more shocked than he had ever been in his life. The wizard was aroused, and it terrified him.

Thrust. Groan. Mindless screaming, internal anguish. Repeat.

Oh God, no… no. No. No. Fuck. No. Not gay. Not gay. Not gay. Why. Oh Circe, this can’t be happening. Why… oh God, why… I can’t… I won’t… NOOOOO—

Severus had laid himself along the man’s back and reached around, finding his cock rock hard. He figured it was only fair to help him finish. He was a gentleman, after all.

As the man started to pant in rhythm with him, his mind devolved into incoherent babbling while he sobbed, huge tears rolling down his face—as he came all over the ground at their feet.

The man was still screaming in his mind when Lucius had taken a turn, and then Yaxley.

He was a shell by the time he had been fed to the snake.

Severus had fucking loved it.

So had his Master.

After that, he had found his true calling—breaking filth with pleasure.

Every moment of conflict in Hermione’s wide, horrified eyes fed his darkest desires. Every twitch against his hand was better than any moan wrung willingly. This was what set him apart at the Revels. This was why Voldemort had smiled at him across the fire. Anyone could make a plaything scream. But Snape had perfected the darker art, as he was wont to do—making them whimper, sigh, and inevitably cum against their will.

He wanted to see more of it. Needed to. He ached with it.

The potion demanded it, but more than that—he demanded it. This was the part he had buried for decades, telling himself it was just biology, just survival. He’d done what he had to and nothing more. It had been abhorrent to him.

Lies. All lies.

He hadn’t hated it. He had savoured it. And now, with Hermione bound and trembling before him, he could savour it again.

Without consequence.

Her hips pressed against his thumbs, the slightly damp fabric of her knickers yielding under his touch. He reached for her mind, certain he would find the cracks where fear and shame bled through.

He came up against a wall.

Of course. Occlumency. She wasn’t an ordinary witch. She was Hermione Granger.

The resistance was infuriating. And the most exhilarating challenge he’d had in decades.

Very well. If her mind wouldn’t yield, he would break her body until the fissures appeared.

And he would enjoy every. fucking. second.

Chapter Text

Unwelcome Revelations

Hermione

Hermione was confused. She couldn’t understand why she was reacting like this. She knew his intentions — Merlin, he had all but walked her step by step through exactly what he planned to do. She should be so far past disinterested that not an ounce of moisture would be… down there. And yet her body had already started to betray her — obscene in its treachery — responding when every rational thought was shouting no.

She clenched her jaw, furious at herself, trying to smother the sensation. She knew his darkest desires now. Knew that he wanted her to break with the shame of it.

He would not win. She would not — could not — allow it. For the sake of herself and the man still trapped inside the monster.

“Ah,” he murmured, his voice a silk-threaded knife. “You like that.” His thumbs pressed firmer against her sensitive bundle of nerves — a deliberate distraction. Then, ever so slowly, his other fingers slid beneath the elastic of her knickers, dragging knuckles over the soft mound beneath.

She inhaled sharply at the skin-on-skin contact. Heat shot through her lower belly and her thighs clenched instinctively, tugging against the ropes that bound her to the chair. She hated that he would feel the twitch, hated even more that her body gave him anything resembling a response.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her focus anywhere else — the cold of the chair against the backs of her thighs, the bite of coarse rope at her wrists, the humiliating dampness she could already feel gathering between her legs... No, not that. Anything else but his hands and her body’s reaction.

And then she felt it. Not his touch, but something thinner, winding. A subtle pressure that wasn’t physical at all. Like smoke curling along the edges of her thoughts, seeking purchase.

Her eyes flew open.

He was trying to slip into her mind.

Hermione’s Occlumency training snapped into place on instinct. She summoned the image she had used since her first lessons: the doors of the Hogwarts library, towering and vast, their heavy oak planks reinforced with black iron bands.

The smoke pressed against them immediately, probing the edges. Tendrils slithered into the gaps between the hinges, along the cracks of the threshold, prying for any weakness.

She gritted her teeth, drawing the bar across in her mind’s eye — a solid timber beam, the kind she’d seen barring medieval castle gates. It fell into place with a heavy thud, bracing the doors.

His presence jolted against it, stopped short.

She could feel him there, lingering like breath on glass, testing the weight of her defences.

For the first time since the accident, she felt a flicker of control.

It was fragile, tenuous, but it was hers.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice low and approving. “Holding the wall. Keeping me out.” His thumb pressed deliberately against her clit through the thin, damp fabric, rubbing once, slow and firm.

The jolt ripped through her body before she could stop it. Her hips twitched, bound thighs straining against the chair. Heat flared low in her belly, obscene in its suddenness. Shame crawled up her throat, burning hotter than the ropes biting her wrists. But her walls held. He hadn’t breached her mind.

He smirked down at her. “See how much better praise feels when you earn it? Actually doing something meaningful, instead of just waving your hand in the air.”

Her teeth ground together as she forced herself to glare back at him, her face schooled into stubborn neutrality. She could not let him see what his words did to her.

“Sod off, Severus.”

His eyes darkened, the faint curve of his mouth sharpening into something crueller. “A lack of creativity. That was always your problem. Memorising every line, every rule, but never content to sit down and keep quiet long enough to transform it into anything worth showing off.”

Her lip curled, but before she could snap back, he returned the magical gag to her mouth, leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I don’t think you ever actually learned a thing from me. Now that I think about it, Potter learned more from me by reading one of my old books than you did in six years of lessons.”

The words hit harder than she expected. His breath stirred the curls around her ear as he added, quieter still, “You were truly a bad student, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione gasped, indignant fury rising sharp in her chest. A bad student? She had been top of his class, top of every class. She was the brightest witch of her age. How dare he—

The air shifted. He got to his feet and flicked his hand at her. The bindings at her wrists loosened from the chair. For a moment, she thought she might be free — but the cords slithered up, wrapping tight, forcing her arms behind her back until her shoulders strained and her elbows nearly touched. She cried out, leaning forward, trying and failing to release the pressure.

Her ankles were next. She barely had time to kick a leg before the cords stretched rigid towards one another, transforming into a solid bar that forced her legs apart.

She was trapped, seemingly even more helpless, her body open and bound in ways she couldn’t fathom.

He fisted his hand in her hair and hauled her upright, dragging her from the chair with humiliating ease. She tried to dig in her heels, but her forced-apart legs ruined her balance; she half-stumbled, half-was-pulled across the room.

The worktable loomed in front of her, broad and scarred from years of use. Before she could brace herself, he shoved her down against it. Her hips slammed into the edge with bruising force, her chest and cheek collapsing down flat onto the cold wood. The rough grain scraped her skin.

She sucked in a breath and caught the scent of it — scorched oak, lingering potions, something acrid burned deep into the surface. The table was solid, unyielding. She could feel every ridge, every scar pressed into her cheek. Her arms strained painfully behind her back, her thighs trembling with the effort to keep upright as the bar bit into her ankles.

“Now,” he said, his tone patient, instructional, and cruel all at once. “We’ll address your insolence the way every disobedient student should be corrected.”

He stepped back, letting the silence stretch until her own breathing filled the room. Then his hands settled on her calves. She jerked at the contact, but he only chuckled low in his throat.

His palms glided upward over the backs of her legs, still balanced in her sensible heels. They slid over her calves, higher to the tender skin behind her knees, and up the backs of her thighs. She wriggled, trying to twist away, but his other hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest to the table. She had nowhere to go.

“You were always so eager to escape consequences,” he murmured. “Talking back. Storming out. Shoving your hand in the air.” His fingers climbed steadily, unhurried, tracing the curve of her thighs beneath her skirt. “But there is no escape here.”

She sucked in a sharp breath through the gag as his hand smoothed over the swell of her arse. A firm squeeze — then, with a whispered word, her blouse vanished. Cool air rushed over her bare stomach, and she gasped at the sudden exposure. Her bra remained, a thin barrier that did nothing to stop her nipples from hardening, grinding against the rough wood with every shift of her chest.

Another word, and her skirt was gone, leaving only her knickers.

Now she was bent over the worktable, ropes biting into her wrists and ankles, her body barely covered, wriggling in heels that gave her no balance. She tried to arch up, engaging her core to lift her chest from the table, desperate to relieve the raw ache in her nipples from the friction.

Her cheeks burned hot with humiliation. She tried to roll sideways, legs coiling to kick — but his hand came down flat across her arse in a warning smack. Not hard, but sharp enough to freeze her in place.

“Stand still,” he ordered, his tone calm. Instructional.

A shiver ran the whole way up her spine at that professorial cadence. She hated herself for it.

He rubbed the spot he’d struck, slow circles through the thin cotton of her knickers. “Much better. You see? Even now you can learn.”

Another sharp smack. The sound cracked through the room, sharper than the sting itself.

She hissed through her teeth.

“These,” he said, his palm flattening over her knickers, “have been your warm-up. We wouldn’t want you too distracted, too quickly. Now it’s time to pay attention to your lesson.”

The next smack landed harder, heat spreading across both cheeks. She flinched, ropes straining, rocking against the spreader bar in a futile attempt to dodge the blow.

“Still wiggling.” His hand stroked down the back of her thigh, dragging the waistband of her knickers down, pulling them taut between her spread knees. “Always fidgeting. Always restless. But you’ll stay still. You’ll take every correction. You will stay silent. And you will listen.”

His hand travelled back up, leaving her underwear stretched obscenely about her thighs, to rub her arse gently.

“Now we can begin.”

The first true smack landed square across both cheeks, loud and stinging. Hermione lurched forward, her breasts dragging painfully against the rough wood as the ropes bit deeper into her wrists.

“Lesson one,” he said smoothly, his hand lingering on the heated skin. “Correction is not cruelty. It is clarity.”

She tried to glare over her shoulder, but the angle was useless. “You’re deranged,” she tried to scream, but it came out garbled around the gag.

The second blow came down harder, angled to catch the top of her thigh as well as her arse. Fire spread under her skin. She bit back a cry, nails digging into her palms where the ropes bound them.

“Wrong answer,” he said simply. His palm soothed the sting with maddening gentleness, a slow rub that only deepened her humiliation. “Lesson two: the brightest witch of her age should know that discipline teaches what books cannot.”

Her shields trembled as she forced the image of the library doors back into place: iron bands, wooden bar, hold.

The third blow cracked across the opposite cheek, sharp and fast. She couldn’t stop the muffled yelp that escaped her.

And with that cry, her focus wavered.

For a moment she wasn’t safe behind her walls. She was sixteen, lips mashed against Viktor Krum’s, his hands heavy on her waist, his teeth clumsy against hers.

Her eyes flew wide. No. No—

“Ah,” Severus breathed, satisfaction curling through his words. His hand stroked gently across her heated skin as though rewarding her. “Our first glimpse. Viktor Krum, was it? How charming. All that intellect, and yet so easily distracted by a pair of broad shoulders and a famous name.”

She shook her head violently, slamming the doors shut again, forcing the bar back into place. Her humiliation burned hotter than the smacks.

“Lesson three,” he murmured, raising his hand again. “Defences crack when the mind resists correction. The wise student learns to accept it.”

The next blow landed, and she cried out against the gag, her knees buckling and heels coming off the floor, weight resting entirely on the table now.

And with the cry, the doors wavered again.

A different memory bled through: Ron Weasley, his mouth hot and clumsy against hers, the scent of butterbeer heavy on his breath. Hands fumbling, awkward, desperate. A hurried coupling in a dark corridor that never quite happened — because he’d finished before he’d even touched her.

Her stomach twisted with shame as the image slid out of her control.

Severus chuckled, low and pleased. His hand smoothed over the heated skin of her arse, caressing where the blow had landed. “Very good,” he said softly. “That’s it. Show me.” His hand slid down between her legs to cup her pussy, thumb stroking gently through her folds, coaxing pleasure from her. “You see? Praise and pleasure when you give me what I want.”

Her eyes stung, humiliation burning hotter than the sting of the smack. She shook her head violently, forcing the doors back into place again, slamming the bar down with everything she had.

“Poor, clumsy boy,” he murmured, leaning close to her ear. “Is that what you thought intimacy was meant to be? A minute of fumbling and a stain on your pantleg?” His fingers dragged up and down, up and down — never quite touching the one place that was throbbing for attention. “No wonder you buried yourself in books. No wonder you never let another try.”

She tried to scream behind the gag, tried to tell him he was wrong, but the sound came out broken, garbled.

His hand vanished from her folds, and with a whoosh, landed again — this time directly onto her cunt with a wet clap. She screamed into the gag, her chest scraping raw against the table as she jerked forward trying to get away.

“Better,” he purred. “You’re learning. Each answer brings you closer to the truth.”

The next smack landed low on the cusp of her rear, the sting sharp. She whimpered into the gag, the sound high and pitiful, and her focus faltered again.

This time it wasn’t Viktor or Ron. It was quieter. Darkened corners of her mind where she remembered shaking her head, offering polite refusals, telling herself she was too busy. Too many late nights in the library. Too many reasons to say no.

Severus hummed, a note of satisfaction. “Ah. There it is. You did try to get quiet eventually, didn’t you. Did you start to see how others found you insufferable? Safer in theory, wasn’t it? Easier to hide behind books than to risk being touched again.” His palm rubbed across the fresh welt, slow and soothing. “Very wise of you, Hermione. Very disciplined. What a good girl you were, making such sound decisions.”

Her eyes squeezed shut as heat climbed into her face. She tried to slam the doors again, to bar him out, but his praise wormed inside her like poison, and her body betrayed her with another twitch against the ropes and a gush of hot moisture.

Another blow cracked down, and this time the doors didn’t close fast enough.

Images spilled through — her bedroom, late at night. A book left half-open on the quilt, words blurred by the fog of her reading glasses sliding down her nose. Her hand disappearing beneath the sheets. Breathing faster. Quiet and efficient.

Severus froze, then laughed low and dark, the sound vibrating against her ear. He cupped her again, pressing firmly with his whole hand. “Oh, Hermione. You clever, secret little witch. Studying romance like Arithmancy, are we? Reading your smut while your fingers worked between your thighs.” One long finger finally found her swollen clit and stroked it lazily, almost tender, and her entire body shuddered.

She moaned into the gag, horrified, shaking her head desperately.

“Very good,” he purred, rubbing harder, coaxing her hips to move against his hand. “Showing me what you did alone. How thorough you were in your private lessons. You see? You can be taught.”

She wanted to scream at him, to deny it all, but the gag garbled the sound into pathetic whimpers.

“Brightest witch of her age,” he whispered, praising her as his finger pressed cruelly in slow circles. “And still, this was all you managed — fumbling in the dark with a book for company.”

Her body clenched helplessly, her shame burning so deep she thought she’d choke on it.

Chapter Text

A Lesson Interrupted

Severus

“Brightest witch of her age,” he whispered, his finger grinding in precise circles. “And still, this was all you managed — fumbling in the dark with a book for company.”

She jolted at the words, the tremor running straight through her body into his hand. He chuckled, low and satisfied, keeping the pressure steady. Gods, it was exquisite — that involuntary spasm, proof of her treachery against herself.

He didn’t hurry. His finger worked her with deliberate pressure, each stroke measured, the silence stretching until only her ragged breaths and the faint squeak of rope against wood filled the lab. And still, beneath the potion’s horrific compulsion, something else stirred in him: the sheer wonder of freedom. He had spent decades hiding these urges, Occluding, pretending. Now every vile thought was permitted, each one translating into action.

It made him feel filthy, monstrous — and Merlin, that was half the pleasure.

“How often?” he asked at last, voice calm, clinical. “Was it between chapters? After a day of nothing but scrolls for company? Always rushed, or did you make an evening of it? Did you still have ink on your fingers when you touched yourself?”

She shook her head violently, muffled noises spilling past the gag.

“Tsk, tsk — that was not an answer, Ms Granger.” His palm cracked against her mound again with a wet smack. She jolted, a strangled squeal muffled in the gag as her chest scraped the table’s rough surface.

Salazar, that sound… The way her whole body jerked against his hand at a single blow to her sloppy little cunt. He hated that it thrilled him. Hated that he was a man locked inside. He wanted to recoil, he wanted to hate it — but that only sharpened the edge of the thrill. Yes — he was evil. He had always known it. Now he was, for just this brief moment in the vast stretch of his miserable life, allowed to live in his truth once more, and it was glorious.

He resumed circling her clit — slower now, intentionally cruel. “Every sound you make proves me right. You’re not resisting me — you’re practically gagging for it.”

Her face flushed crimson, tears catching in the corners of her eyes. He saw the telltale flicker — the moment her concentration wavered — and slipped into her mind once more.

The memory unfolded easily: Hermione curled under her blankets with her hand moving clumsily between her thighs, her expression twisted in frustrated concentration.

Severus’ eyes lit. “Oh, yes. There you are,” he murmured, voice sharp with delight at the glimpse inside her mind. “Did you struggle, Ms Granger? Did you fail to use even your own fingers correctly?”

She bit down hard on the gag, jaw flexing with effort, eyes wet and furious.

“Poor sweet girl,” he breathed against her ear, sliding up another finger to roll her clit between his long digits. Her hips shuddered helplessly against his hand, the involuntary movement betraying her shame more perfectly than words ever could. “Have you disappointed yourself night after night, like you so often disappointed me?”

She moaned so prettily for him, and all the while he revelled in his control over her pleasure. He should have been begging forgiveness, begging her to forget what he had dredged up. Instead, every sob and flinch made him harder. The man buried inside wept, and the beast exulted — and somehow the grief of it made the pleasure sharper still.

He nipped the shell of her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you how your pretty pussy needs to be played with.”

Yes, he would teach her. The monster would. And the man inside would feel the filth of it, loathe himself for loving every fucking second.

His fingers moved with purpose now — rubbing, pinching, and twisting until her thighs trembled. Every twist of her hips, every strangled sound in the gag, he drank them all.

“Good girl,” he murmured, rubbing a little harder, a little faster. “That’s it. Take it. Let me see you learn your first practical lesson.”

The increase of slick heat under his fingers, the way her breath hitched, the flush blooming across her chest — every sign screamed that she was close to unravelling. He hated how proud it made him. Hated how natural it felt to drive her there. But how could he resist? He was just a man. A man with a beautiful, terrified witch spread across his worktable. Who could resist such a gift? Who would want to?

“You do want to get an Outstanding from me, don’t you, Hermione?” he whispered, leaning close, lips grazing her ear. “You know what you need to do: admit your body wants what I give it. Admit it craves me. Say it.”

She thrashed her head, gag muffling her cries, but her hips bucked into his hand all the same. He laid three fingers flat on top of her clit and started to rub fast back and forth. He knew it wouldn’t be long now.

“That’s it. My clever girl. So bright, so hot for me. Don’t you want to be my good girl, baby?” He slipped his thumb just inside her cunt and barked out a single command: “Come.”

Her scream tore through the gag as release shattered her. Her body convulsed, trying to clamp down on the tip of his thumb. He kept rubbing her through it, dragging every aftershock out of her until she sagged forward, limp and trembling, cheek pressed to the scarred wood.

And gods, he loved it. Loved her tears, loved her humiliation, loved the raw proof that the potion had freed him to become exactly what he had always feared would return. But agony and ecstasy together — what finer indulgence could there be?

He slowed at last, fingers retreating, wet with her humiliation. He brought them up to her face and wiped the juices over her lips, then pressed them against the gag until she whimpered. His lips brushed her ear one final time.

“Very good, Hermione. You learn beautifully when you are quiet. We should keep reinforcing the lesson. You have exceeded expectations. Not quite Outstanding yet, but we have many more lessons to cover tonight, don’t we? I’m sure you will make me proud.”

Her tears spilled hot and unchecked down her cheeks, soaking into the table beneath her face. She sobbed helplessly, her body betraying her even in the aftermath as she unconsciously continued to buck up into his hand.

Delightful little witch. And all the more delightful because the man inside knew it made him damned — and he was running out of the ability to care. So why not just enjoy this gift?

Yes. He didn’t want to deny himself any longer. He would make this count and let the aftermath set him free. Until then, it was time to give himself some relief.

His hand trailed down her spine, stroking soothingly between her shoulder blades as she lay boneless and sated against the scarred wood. With how she looked with the ropes biting at her wrists and the spreader bar forcing her heeled legs wide, it was an obscene invitation he could no longer resist.

He bent close, lips dragging along the curve of her jaw. “Such a clever girl,” he whispered. “Always hungering to learn more, even if you’ll never admit it.” His voice dropped lower, edged with command. “I know you’ve kept yourself untouched. Waiting for someone worthy to ruin you. Waiting for me.”

Her whole body trembled at the words, a sob shuddering through her chest. Not denial this time. Not fury. Just trembling and tears.

He smiled, dark and terrible, while he unbuttoned his trousers and took his cock in his hand — squeezing it a little in anticipation. “I’m going to carve myself into every future thought you have of sex, every memory you’ll ever cling to. You will never touch yourself again without remembering this night. My hands. My voice. My cock.”

He pressed hard against her entrance, the blunt head poised, her body trembling against the ropes. He bent close, lips brushing her temple, and the words he spoke were soft, almost tender.

“Deep breath now, Hermione.”

And then he drove forward.

The force of it slammed her into the table, wood groaning under the impact. Her cry tore into the gag, sharp and raw — and he gloried in it, because she had given him this sound, because she wanted him to take it. His hands clamped tight around her hips, dragging her back onto him until he was buried to the hilt.

Merlin, the feel of it. Hot, tight, resisting and yielding all at once. It was perfection. He decided, in that precise moment, he wouldn’t waste another thought on shame. He was hers and she was his, and here in this moment he was free to be everything he had denied himself.

He pulled back and slammed into her again, harder. Again. Each thrust bruising, merciless, his pace punishing from the start. And still his voice was low, gentle in her ear.

“Such a brave girl,” he murmured, even as his hips snapped hard against her. “You can take it. You were made to take me.”

The contradiction thrilled him. His words soothing, his body brutal. He relished the cruelty; he drank in the fat tears streaming from her eyes. It sharpened the ecstasy until he could hardly focus.

Her sobs rattled the gag, her body convulsing around him with every relentless thrust. He could feel her clenching, resisting, betraying herself. He leaned closer, put his hand on the crown of her head to press her cheek harder into the scarred wood, his voice a silken whisper against her ear.

“That’s it, Hermione. Let me in. Let me mark you so deeply you’ll never forget whose cock claimed you.”

His other hand waved with a casual flick of wandless magic. A soft yet sturdy ridge of ribbed material conjured itself along the edge of the table, jutting out against the apex of her thighs. Now, with every thrust, her clit rubbed against the textured rise, dragging more unwilling moans from her throat.

She groaned so loudly she startled herself, a hiccup breaking through her sobs.

Salazar, the sound of it — shame and pleasure braided together. It brought him closer and closer to the edge.

Her body writhed against the ropes, torn between sobs and the helpless grind of her hips against the conjured ridge. He could feel her tightening around him, the telltale quiver in her thighs, the frantic pitch of her muffled cries.

She was there. Seconds from breaking again.

He leaned over and bit down against the curve of her neck, hips pounding, every thrust meant to carve into her memory forever — when the wards shivered.

A ripple of magic across the back door. The unmistakable sensation of someone crossing.

His head snapped up at the exact moment the latch clicked open.

Draco.

The boy — no, the man — stepped into the lab, arms laden with bundles of wrapped parchment, stoppered jars, and a heavy satchel that sagged against his hip. For one frozen instant, Severus watched his apprentice take in the scene: Hermione bound and spread, her cheeks flushed crimson, her body clenching around him as she screamed and her orgasm tore through her anyway.

Severus pulled free with a sharp curse, and the loss made her sob into the gag as her climax shook her. His own release followed instantly, hot and heavy, striping the smooth skin of her back in violent spurts.

The supplies crashed to the floor. Glass shattered. Draco stood frozen, wide-eyed, and then—

“Mother Morgana—”

The words tore from him, raw and disbelieving, ending in slack-jawed silence.

Hermione’s sobs filled the silence, her body trembling against the table. Severus drew one steadying breath, his hand still clamped white-knuckled on her hip.

“Just in time, Draco. You remember Hermione Granger, I presume…”

Chapter Text

A Captive Audience

Hermione

She could barely think. She was still shaking and sobbing from the aftermath of the orgasm he had forced from her.

“Deep breath now, Hermione.”

What? But before she could process what he had said she was thrust forward, her hips slamming into the edge of the worktable—filled to the brim with him—and she screamed into the gag. Pain, the likes of which she hadn’t experienced in a long time, ripped through her. Everything stretched and burned, his fingers digging painfully into her hips as he whispered filthy praise into her ear.

“Such a brave girl,” he said, even as he thrust harder. “You can take it. You were made to take me.”

All she could do was cry at the overwhelming sensations. As the stretch and burn began to ease slowly, she began to feel her walls mould and flutter around him.

“That’s it, Hermione. Let me in. Let me mark you so deeply you’ll never forget whose cock claimed you.”

She knew he meant every word. He had pushed so deep inside her, stretched her so completely, that she would always feel him there.

Then something new appeared from the table, right between her hips. It slid through her folds, quickly soaking itself with her juices, and as he thrust it rubbed ridges straight along her clit.

Circe. She groaned at the mix of pleasure and pain.

She tried to wriggle away from it—it was too much sensation at once. The pleasure building from his claiming could have been ignored, but not with this addition. This was the worst kind of cruelty, and he played her body with an ease that was infuriating. Within moments she was dragged to the point of no return and began to shake as her climax roared and crashed down on her.

Through the haze of her pleasure she vaguely felt something hot and wet splash across her back, and heard the crashing of something in the distance. She lay there sobbing, not understanding how her body could still be feeling the aftershocks, or how it allowed her to feel any pleasure at all. She felt adrift.

“Just in time, Draco. You remember Hermione Granger, I presume…”

Wait, what? Her thoughts felt thick but cleared rapidly when a hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head off the table. Looking forward, she froze at the sight of a horrified Draco Malfoy. Oh, Merlin.

She screamed into her gag, hoping he would comprehend that she desperately needed help—but before the git even blinked, Severus had cast a sticking charm, adhering him to the door he had just closed.

“What the fuck is going on here, Severus?” His expression was dumbfounded. His eyes darted between her bound, prone figure and the man standing stark naked beside her, cock still glistening with her fluids. She closed her eyes and screamed her fury.

“Hush now, Ms Granger.” He released her hair and cracked his hand down on her rear. She squeaked. “It is rather rude to interrupt when others are speaking. We will still have to work further on your manners, it seems.”

Draco Malfoy’s stupid face had an even stupider look on it, was all she could think in that moment. Some rescue this was turning out to be.

“Snape, why in Salazar’s name do you have Hermione fucking Granger tied up in your lab? How long has this been going on, how did I not know, and why… Merlin, Granger. Has she been crying? What the bloody hell is going on?”

Severus chuckled. “Honestly, Draco, have you never seen a witch reduced to tears from pleasure? That doesn’t bode well for whatever woman you eventually drag to your bed, now does it?”

“Pleasure?! That—Uncle, that does not look like pleasure! So again, why is Granger trussed up like a holiday turkey on the table?” Draco was practically shouting by the end. She was so tired, and he was going to be no help. Hermione lay in her shame, silent tears drenching the fabric tied around her mouth.

“Hmm. She does rather look like a feast, does she not, Draco?” His hand slid down her arse and slipped two fingers inside her cunt, swirling them as she moaned from the soreness. He pulled them free, lifted them into the air in front of his face, and scissored them apart—watching the moisture stretch between them. “If this isn’t proof of pleasure, boy, I don’t know what is.” Then he put both fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean, giving a satisfied little moan while Draco’s eyes nearly bugged from his head.

“If you must know, Draco, we’ve had a bit of a lab accident. Nothing to concern yourself with really. I’m merely investigating how that Ministry lust potion we were working to cure reacts to dermal contact. Turns out, I’m rather fond of the results. And by the end of tonight, Ms Granger will be as well. For now, she’s my unwilling test subject—but I will be very diligent in my efforts to change her mind. She’s already come multiple times, and that is just the beginning of our plans, isn’t it, young lady?” He leaned over and licked a track of her tears. “Mmm. Devine…”

All she could do was stare at Malfoy in wide-eyed horror. He, however, was taking in the scene: the unstopped bottle of LP-9, the shattered vial of Chastêté with its contents pooled on the floor. When his eyes came back to hers, she noticed he finally seemed to understand. He tried to jerk free of the charm, but it was futile. He was as trapped as she was.

“As you can see, Draco, Ms Granger and I are having a revel for two, so to speak.” He stroked her hair like a pet as he spoke. “You never got to experience a Revel—Mummy always hid you away. My boy, you do not know what you have been missing. What do you think, Hermione? Should I help educate yet another student?”

“Now hold on—you are clearly not yourself. Why don’t you just let me down and we can work this out?” Draco tried to keep the shake from his voice, unsuccessfully.

“No, I don’t believe I will, Draco. But what I will do is go back to enjoying this feast.” He reached down to the rope that had been spreading her legs apart, pulled it up so her legs were straight out behind her, and twisted the bar so she was forced onto her back—arms painfully trapped beneath her.

Hermione grunted into the gag at the pain in her shoulders. Severus glanced down at her like an artist not yet pleased with the composition of his work.

He hummed as he considered his canvas. He snapped his fingers and her wrists were unbound from behind her, pulled out to each side. Tapping a forefinger against his nose, he considered a moment more and snapped again. The long wrist ropes pulled her arms down along her sides, twining themselves above and below her knees. The effect was her legs tied snugly to her wrists, parted naturally by the position. She was completely on display. All she could do was close her eyes and shudder.

When Draco recovered from the shock of the view to her left, he tried reasoning with Snape again. She was getting sick of hearing it. Mortified, exhausted, she didn’t want to even begin to comprehend what was happening—let alone that Malfoy could see through her sheer bra to her hardened nipples, or the clear view down her front to the top of her mound. She definitely did not want to contemplate the ravenous look on Severus’s face as he ignored his pleading apprentice, conjured a chair at the foot of the table, and waved away the earlier protrusion.

Sitting down between her spread legs, he looked over at Draco, smiled, then back at her, holding her gaze. “I’m starving.”

And with that he leaned in and licked a broad stroke from her arsehole to her clit, groaning.

She screamed into the gag, shaking her head, frustrated beyond measure that she couldn’t move—couldn’t speak. Her eyes caught Draco staring between her legs with horror, mouth agape. When he began pleading with Severus to stop and fetch the antidote, Hermione closed her eyes and tried to block it out.

Unfortunately, that plan failed the moment Snape began drawing tight circles around her swollen button. Her eyes flew open and she couldn’t stop the moan that tore from her.

Draco’s gaze snapped to her face and locked with hers. He had turned a furious shade of pink, and she let a single tear slip down her cheek. They had been here before, in another lifetime: her tortured, him helpless, wide-eyed. The only difference now was that this felt more damaging than anything that had come before.

His mouth was relentless—hot and wet, tongue sliding over her folds like he never wanted to surface. She tried to twist away, ropes biting into wrists and legs, but his hands clamped her hips in place. The table scraped her backside with every useless wriggle.

“Hmm, now where were we before we were so rudely interrupted, Ms Granger? Ah yes, lesson four,” he murmured against her, his breath hot on her flesh. “The body is more honest than the mind. Watch closely, Draco. You’ll see what she cannot admit.”

Her stomach dropped. No. Not with Malfoy watching. Her muffled cry rattled as his tongue undulated in ever-tightening circles. It built too fast, too much—her hips betrayed her, lifting into his mouth before she could stop them.

“There it is, the reaction I was looking for,” he crooned. She felt the stretch as his fingers pushed inside. “Tight. Quivering. Already soaked for me.”

Her body clenched, traitorous, and then she was breaking—shaking violently as the orgasm tore through her. She sobbed against the gag, mortified at the noises spilling out as her muscles convulsed around his fingers.

He didn’t stop.

While she was still trembling, he kept thrusting, relentless against a spot she hadn’t even known existed that wa causing the most intense pleasure she had ever felt in her life. His mouth closed over her clit again, this time sucking hard, punishing her oversensitised flesh. She screamed into the gag, head slamming back as another orgasm crashed through her, hotter and sharper than the first.

She sagged, exhausted, chest heaving against the table. Surely he would stop—he had to stop—

“Again,” he ordered, as if assigning homework. “You’ll come again for me, and Draco will watch as you learn how obedient your body truly is.”

Her sobs turned desperate, begging though no words could form. His fingers drove harder, tongue flicking mercilessly until she thought she might shatter. And then—Circe—she felt it. Another slicked finger trailing lower, pressing somewhere no one had ever touched.

Her muffled cry was panicked, high and desperate, but it made no difference. His smallest finger breached her tightest ring, slow and deliberate.

“Come on, Hermione,” he coaxed, maddeningly calm. “Don’t you want to be a good girl and cum for me?”

The words detonated inside her. Her back arched off the table as the orgasm slammed through her, harder and more unbearable than the last. She screamed into the gag, the sound raw and strangled, her whole body convulsing as if her very nerves were unravelling.

She collapsed, trembling violently, afraid she had no more tears left inside her. She couldn’t understand how it was possible, how her body could betray her so completely.

When he finally drew back, his breath was hot against her, her arousal smeared shamelessly across her skin as he kissed along her thigh. His voice followed, smooth and lazy with satisfaction.

“Three times, and you’re still ready for another, aren’t you. My clever girl—your body knows exactly who it belongs to, who it is desperate for.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. She hated him. She hated her body. And most of all, she hated that somewhere, deep down, a traitorous part of her feared he was right.

Chapter Text

Master and Apprentice

Draco

Draco strained against the sticking charm, muscles burning as he tried to break free, to do something—anything—to stop what was happening three feet away from him. But the magic held fast, and all he could do was watch in horror as Severus—his mentor, his saviour, the closest thing to a father he'd ever known—methodically destroyed Hermione Granger.

The helplessness was a familiar weight in his chest. A crushing certainty that no matter how much he struggled, no matter how desperately he wanted to act, he would remain frozen. Useless.

He'd seen that look in her eyes before—the same wide-eyed terror, the same desperate plea for help that couldn't come. The drawing room at Malfoy Manor flashed through his mind: Bellatrix's blade carving into Hermione's arm while he stood paralysed, watching her scream. Then, as now, he could do nothing but witness her destruction.

Always watching. Always helpless. That was the story of his life, it seemed.

He had been given two years in Azkaban. A kinder sentence than he probably deserved.

The Ministry had called it reformed after the war. No more Dementors, they'd promised. As if removing the soul-sucking wraiths would somehow make the place less of a hell.

Seven hundred and thirty days. Nine steps from wall to wall in a cell that wept saltwater no matter how many times he'd tried to vanish it. The silence had been worse than screaming—a crushing weight that made him count his own heartbeats just to prove he was still alive. Twenty years old when they'd released him, and already hollow inside.

House arrest at the Manor had been the Ministry's next idea of mercy. Two years behind those familiar walls, except now they felt like a mausoleum. His mother had been waiting for him—or what was left of her.

The woman in the entrance hall had worn Narcissa Malfoy's face, but her eyes were empty rooms. She'd always been marble-perfect before the war, every hair in place, every word measured like a blade. The woman in wrinkled silk couldn't even meet his gaze.

"Draco?" she'd whispered, and for a moment he'd thought she might remember him.

Then she'd turned away, disappeared back into the house.

Lucius had died six months after his sentencing — ‘collapsed in his cell’, according to the Prophet. Nobody believed the official story, but nobody cared enough to investigate it either.

He sat with his mother through silent dinners, reading her news from a world that had moved on without them. But she wasn't really there anymore. Some nights he'd find her wandering the halls in her nightgown, whispering apologies to portraits that no longer answered.

The isolation had crept in slowly, then all at once. No visitors. No letters. Just two ghosts haunting rooms that grew colder each day.

Without his wand, magic felt like a phantom limb—always reaching for something that wasn't there. But he could still brew. The Ministry had missed that loophole, too focused on his capacity for violence to consider his talent for potions.

So brew he did. Every potion he could remember from school, from books, from half-forgotten conversations. Dreamless Sleep to silence the nightmares. Calming Draughts when his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Thought-Sharpening Potions when the fog in his head grew too thick to think.

And when those weren't enough, he invented new ones. Combinations that dulled the edges of memory, experimental brews that let him sleep for fourteen hours straight, anything to escape the crushing weight of consciousness. His potions lab became his sanctuary and his prison, filled with failed experiments.

Two years of that. Two years of watching his mother fade while he dissolved himself one carefully measured dose at a time.

When the Ministry restrictions finally lifted, he was twenty-two and already half-addicted to his own creations. In the third year—his first taste of real freedom—he escaped to Muggle London.

The clubs that catered to his particular needs were easy enough to find if one had money. And he had still had obscene wealth even after the reparations. These were places where control wasn't just encouraged—it was its own form of currency. Where he could push willing partners against bathroom stalls and silk-sheeted private rooms, taking what he needed while they begged for more.

Always on top. Always in command. He would never submit again.

The Muggle drugs were a revelation—cocaine that burned clean and bright, ecstasy that made his skin electric, pills that erased everything but the immediate moment. Combined with his own experimental brews, he could disappear completely. Float above his life like it belonged to someone else.

For one year he lived like that. Club to club, high to high, fucking his way through a city that didn't know his name or his shame. Telling himself it was freedom when really it was just another kind of prison—one filled with toxic levels of excess.

He'd come home that night planning to shower off the smell of cheap perfume and expensive whores. The house had been too quiet, even for the Manor's usual tomb-like silence.

He'd found her in her bedroom, pale as the pearls at her throat, the empty phial of Dreamless Sleep still clutched in her fingers. Too much, or maybe just enough. He'd never know which.

He hadn't screamed. Hadn't cried. Just stood there, twenty-three years old, staring at the only person who'd ever loved him unconditionally.

Snape had appeared the next morning at his request. He hadn't offered condolences or empty comfort. He just looked at Draco as if he were weighing a broken cauldron, deciding whether it could be salvaged or should be discarded.

"You're wasting yourself," he'd said, voice as flat as winter stone. "And I won't allow it."

Draco had almost laughed. Who was Severus Snape to forbid him anything? But then his godfather had kept talking, each word precise: "I swore to protect you. That didn't end when the war did. You have two choices—continue this pathetic spiral until you're as dead as she is, or come study with me. But I won't stay to watch you waste away."

The choice had been that simple.

Draco had chosen the apprenticeship.

Six years later, and he was still here. Still choosing the lab over oblivion, choosing structure over chaos. Snape had become the father Lucius never was—steady and present, building him up instead of wielding disappointment as a weapon. The man who'd pulled him back from the edge when no one else cared whether he lived or died.

And now that same man was—

Draco's eyes snapped back to the present, to the woman bound and sobbing on the table, to Severus moving with calm precision as if this were just another brewing lesson. The man who'd saved him was gone, replaced by something wearing his face. Something that spoke in his voice but moved with a stranger's cruelty.

The potion. It had to be the potion.

But knowing didn't make it easier to watch. Didn't make the helplessness any less crushing. All the worst moments of his life had felt exactly like this—seventeen during the war, watching people tortured in his own home; eighteen in Azkaban, counting steps because it was the only thing he could control; twenty-one, drowning in his own experimental brews just to sleep through another day; twenty-three, standing over his mother's corpse.

Always watching. Never able to stop it.

He pulled against the charm again, desperate now, but the magic held. And Severus continued his methodical lesson in breaking Hermione Granger, as if Draco's presence was nothing more than an educational opportunity.

"Watch closely, Draco. You'll see what she cannot admit."

Draco's attention snapped back. Hermione's face was flushed, her body responding despite the terror in her eyes.

He should look away. Every decent part of him screamed to close his eyes, give her some privacy. But the sticking charm held him, and something else kept his gaze fixed on what was happening.

When her hips lifted involuntarily, Draco's stomach lurched—not just with horror, but with something darker that made him want to crawl out of his own skin. This was Hermione Granger being torn apart, and some twisted part of him was responding to it.

His body was reacting even as his mind recoiled. Heat pooled low in his stomach while his thoughts screamed in protest. The contradiction was nauseating—watching someone he respected being broken down, and feeling arousal creep through him despite everything.

Years of apprenticeship had taught him to recognise mastery when he saw it. Severus was dismantling her with the same methodical precision he brought to complex brews. The potion had to be affecting him, but that knowledge didn't stop Draco's own confused reactions.

"Again. You'll come again for me, and Draco will watch as you learn how obedient your body truly is."

The words hit him like a slap. Severus wasn't just tormenting Hermione—he was using Draco's presence as part of it. Making him complicit. Every time she glanced at him in mortification, every broken sob when she remembered he was watching—Severus had calculated all of it.

He was using me. The realisation churned alongside the shameful heat building in his body. He wanted to scream that this wasn't his choice, that he didn't want to be part of this. But he was trapped—physically by the charm, psychologically by his own treacherous responses.

"Come on, Hermione. Don't you want to be a good girl and cum for me?"

Those words. Draco knew that tone, that careful gentleness hiding absolute control. He'd used similar approaches himself, but always with willing partners. Always with trust and boundaries and safety.

This was violation dressed up in familiar language.

When she screamed and convulsed anyway, something cold settled in Draco's chest alongside the unwanted heat. Her body had responded despite everything—to the tone, the words, the calculated pressure. Even through her terror, Severus had found exactly the right combination to break through her resistance.

The skill was undeniable. And hating himself for it, Draco couldn't stop noticing how completely Severus commanded her responses. Couldn't stop his own body from reacting to the display of control, even as his mind recoiled from what he was witnessing.

"Three times, and you're still ready for another, aren't you. My clever girl—your body knows exactly who it belongs to, who it is desperate for."

Draco watched Hermione's face crumple, saw her squeeze her eyes shut. But Severus wasn't wrong, was he? Her body had responded. Three times, despite everything.

How was that even possible?

He'd always prided himself on reading his partners, on finding what made them come apart in his hands. But those had been games—carefully negotiated scenes where someone chose to submit, chose to let him take control. They could safeword out. They wanted to be there.

This was different. Hermione wasn't playing at being helpless—she actually was. And her body was responding anyway.

The realisation unsettled him in ways he didn't want to examine. All those nights in expensive clubs, all those willing partners who'd begged so prettily—had any of it been as real as this? When someone truly couldn't say no, when they were actually trapped, their body reacted differently. More honestly, maybe.

The thought made him sick. It also made him harder.

Draco had always assumed he understood submission, but watching Hermione's genuine terror mixed with involuntary pleasure was nothing like the practiced performances he was used to. This was raw. Unfiltered. Her body betraying her completely because she had no choice, no control, no way to stop what was happening to her.

And some twisted part of him found that difference fascinating.

He hated himself for thinking it. Hated that he was comparing this violation to his own experiences. But he couldn't stop noticing how much more intense her reactions were when she truly couldn't resist.

What kind of monster does that make me?

But the evidence was right there in front of him. And despite every moral instinct screaming that this was wrong, his body was responding to what it recognised as absolute, genuine submission.

"Oh Draco... what do we have here?" He hadn't seen how close his godfather had gotten to him. Severus was right there looking at the evidence of his shame. His hot and flushed cheeks, his tightly clenched fists, and his rather inappropriate erection.

"Look at you, hard as a rock from watching her. How terribly... naughty." His eyes almost bugged out of his head as Severus's hand reached in between them and squeezed Draco's cock as he spoke. He was so shocked he didn't know if he should scream or spit in his face—what he actually did was far worse though. He groaned.

What's wrong with me? This is sick. This is—

"All these years in your expensive Muggle clubs, playing at dominance." His eyes widened—he hadn't realised his godfather knew about his continued adventures into London. "But this is what you really want, isn't it? Real helplessness. Real control." He slid his hand up and down Draco's painfully hard dick.

Stop responding. Stop. This isn't me. I don't want this. But his treacherous body kept reacting anyway. His mind was a haze from everything that had happened—was happening—to him, to her.

He came back to himself all at once. His potion-addled godfather had started to unbutton Draco's trousers. What the fuck was happening? He couldn't let this happen somehow. Severus would never forgive himself. Draco didn't want to see the man broken after this was over for what he had done to Hermione, but to do it to his—for all intents and purposes—son would be too much for the man. He needed to get Severus to unstick him. If he could play along enough to get to the antidote he could make this stop. But how?

Severus reached his hand down inside the now-unbuttoned trousers, rubbing him over his pants. "Hm. We do need to work on your manners though. It wasn't polite to just watch, Draco. Tell her how beautiful she looked when she broke. She deserves to know. She was such a good girl to put on quite the show for us, was she not?"

His body was betraying him completely—getting harder despite every rational thought screaming that this was wrong, that he should be disgusted, that this wasn't who he was. Fuck... no. Ugh, stop it. He needed to figure out how to get his plan across to Hermione without giving up the plot. But how? And why did this feel amazing when everything in his mind was screaming? Fuck, think. Play along? Get him to unstick me somehow. But Granger—she can't think I actually want this. The antidote's in the cabinet, if I can just... Christ, how do I signal her without giving it away? Get unstuck first. Then the antidote. Then figure out the rest.

Oh, Gods. He'd played with countless witches with Daddy issues. He had to choke back the manic laugh at the thought that he himself might have Daddy issues. How fucked is that? No. No, don't think about that. Not now. Not—fuck. Right now Severus was still under that bloody potion, and Granger was falling apart on that table. He had to move. Had to do something before this got any worse.

"Granger. Please look at me." He tried to get her to look at him, putting every ounce of pleading he could into his voice. When her eyes snapped open to stare at him, and Severus was busy nuzzling against his neck as he continued to stroke, he mouthed Trust me at Hermione. Merlin, he hoped she understood what he was trying to tell her. "You looked stunning, even... especially like that. I've never seen anyone continue to fight so beautifully." She closed her eyes for a moment, took what looked like a shuddering breath, and when she looked at him again, she nodded in understanding. He almost sighed in relief.

The moment of connection with Hermione gave him the courage for what he needed to do next. He turned his attention back to Severus, letting his voice drop lower, more intimate.

"Teach me, Master. You said this is what I really want; show me the difference."

Severus's eyes gleamed. "About time. Finally ready to learn what real power feels like? All those little games in your clubs are child's play compared to this. You have no idea what true control looks like, how it feels wrapped around your cock. It's indescribable." He flicked his wand and the sticking charm released. Draco stumbled forward as the magic let go.

For a moment Draco felt hope surge through him. He was free. He could move toward the cabinet, toward Hermione, toward ending this. His mind calculated the distance to the antidote as he took a step.

"Not so fast." Severus's voice stopped him cold. Another gesture and rope appeared around Draco's wrists, pulling his hands behind his back. The binding was secure but allowed movement; he could walk, but his hands were useless.

Severus walked around him, inspecting his work. "Your body's responding well enough, but you've only ever taken, never given. How can you truly understand control when you've never experienced surrender? To be a complete master, you must first learn what it means to submit."

Draco tested the restraints briefly. Tight, but not painful. He could move but couldn't use his hands. When he looked up, his eyes met Hermione's across the lab. In that brief moment, he saw understanding and determination. She gave the slightest nod. They were still in this together.

"Now then, time to expand your apprenticeship."

Chapter Text

Betrayal of the Flesh

Hermione

The cold, unyielding table bit into Hermione's back, a stark contrast to the warmth of the potion-scented room and the magical lights illuminating the lab.

"Hm. We do need to work on your manners though. It wasn't polite to just watch, Draco. Tell her how beautiful she looked when she broke. She deserves to know. She was such a good girl to put on quite the show for us, was she not?"

Her body still trembled from the aftermath, and she couldn't reconcile what had happened with who she thought she was. Three times. Her body had betrayed her three times, responding to a man who was not Severus—while also still being a version of Severus, succumbing to his violations.

What did that make her? A traitor to her own body, a willing participant?

She could hear them talking about her as if she weren't there, reducing her to an object in their twisted game, a pawn in their sickening discussion. Part of her wanted to retreat so far into her mind that she couldn't hear them anymore, couldn't feel the shame burning through her chest.

Her mind wouldn't stop cataloguing details though, analysing and filing observations whether she wanted to or not. And what she noticed most of all was the absolute discomfort radiating from Malfoy. He looked pale—well, paler than usual, she supposed, his face a mask of horror and conflict, his body responding despite his clear distress. She wanted to be disgusted by his arousal, but how could she judge when she could feel her own body betraying her, the evidence still dripping onto the table beneath her. And he'd tried to reason with Severus earlier, tried to get him to stop. That had to mean something.

What could either of them do, trapped in this nightmare with a monster created by the potion? They were helpless, at the mercy of Severus's twisted desires. Maybe this was just what happened now. Maybe there was no way to reach the antidote, no way to turn back the damage that had been done, no further rescue coming. She could see the cabinet from here, the antidote metres away though it might as well have been on the moon. Maybe she should stop hoping and just try to survive until the potion ran its course.

The thought settled over her like a heavy, suffocating blanket, extinguishing the last embers of her will to fight.

"Granger. Look at me. Please."

The voice cut through her retreat, startling her back to the present. Draco Malfoy had never said please a day in his life. Well, the version she knew of him at least. But here he was, speaking directly to her, his voice carrying something she couldn't quite identify. Her eyes snapped open to stare at him. She saw his lips move silently. Trust me. The words were clear even without sound.

Trust you? Her mind reeled at the thought, a whirlwind of confusion and desperation.

Then he spoke aloud, his voice carrying genuine admiration she'd rarely heard directed at her. “You looked stunning, even... especially like that. I've never seen anyone continue to fight so beautifully."

The words hit her like a physical blow, a surge of warmth and validation in the midst of her shame and confusion. Fight so beautifully—that’s what he’d said. He'd praised her continued resistance. That she was beautiful for it, for her refusal to surrender.

Heat bloomed in her chest, completely separate from the shame and confusion. When had anyone ever praised her like that? With such sincerity? People appreciated her mind—and how they could use it to their advantage—but this felt different.

Stop it. You’re responding to praise from Draco fucking Malfoy, tied to a table. What's wrong with you?

Still, she couldn't deny how it made her feel strong, or how much she wanted to hear more words like that. Even now. Especially now.

Gods, what was wrong with her? This was all messing with her mind.

When she met his eyes again, she saw a depth of understanding, a genuine care that cut through the strategy, a silent promise of alliance. Because of that, she decided she had no choice but to trust him—this bully turned unlikely ally.

She gave the slightest nod. Whatever he was planning, whatever trust me meant—she would try.

Hermione watched, the pieces of their plan clicking into place like a solved puzzle. When Draco said, "Teach me, Master," she understood. He was buying them time.

Severus's response about power made her stomach churn with revulsion, but she forced herself to listen, to find a way to use his words against him. When the charm released and Draco stepped forward, she held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. For a second, she thought he might actually make it to the cabinet. Then the ropes snapped tight around his wrists and her stomach dropped.

Bollocks. Her heart sank.

When Draco caught her eye, something passed between them. A silent understanding, a pact of dependence and strategy. He nodded slightly, and she understood. They would need to play this carefully.

Severus kept talking, explaining his reasoning like he always did. Even poisoned by that bloody potion, he remained the same obsessive teacher, breaking down every step of his process. Which meant he could still be predicted, at least. They may not have known all of Snape’s deepest secrets, but they did know him in many other regards.

"To be a complete master, you must first learn what it means to submit."

The words made her skin crawl, though she forced herself past the fear. This was the potion speaking—and there had to be a way to work with that. And if what he just said to Draco was any indication of what he was in for, they were about to be in the same boat. He'd need her strength as much as she needed his. That mutual dependence felt oddly comforting.

Draco tested his bonds and found her eyes again. She nodded back. Whatever came next, they'd face it together.

She drew a shaky breath, steeling herself, determined to see this through. If Severus planned to teach Draco about submission, she'd likely be part of that lesson. The thought made her stomach hurt, but she forced herself to focus. He would need her to be strong, to play whatever part kept their deception alive.

You can do this. You've faced worse and come out stronger. Follow his lead, keep thinking, and find a way out of this.

She just had to trust he knew what he was doing. And that she could handle whatever role his plan required.

"Well then," Severus said, his tone carrying that familiar professorial authority. "Let's begin with the fundamentals."

Hermione debated turning away, but the morbid curiosity and the need to understand kept her eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before her.

"Kneel."

The dilemma was solved, apparently. Because her eyes had never locked onto anything so fast as they did to the terrified eyes of Draco Malfoy as he knelt in front of his godfather.

"Very good, Draco."

Gods, a pink flush spread across his pale neck and crept up his face. His eyes closed as if he didn't dare show her how he also reacted to praise from the man they had both aimed to please at one time or another in their lives.

She looked up at Severus and saw that the blush, and its implications, did not go unnoticed by him either. He looked at her then with a truly devious smile that made her shiver. He lifted one large hand and placed it on top of that shock of white blond hair and he—Merlin—started petting Draco... all while looking directly at her.

A small whimpering noise came out of Malfoy, which brought Severus’s attention back to him. “My boy. Are you going to be good for me? Will you let me teach you? I could make a Master of you in this as well—you the only student I’ve ever truly been impressed by.” At those words, a little breathy gasp escaped him as he bobbed his head up and down, all while keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Good boy. Open up for me, Draco."

Circe. She couldn't look away, morbid fascination and desperate need keeping her eyes fixed on the scene. She didn't know why, but the sight of him on his knees, affected by Severus's words the same way she was—it did something to her. Something that made her heart race and her thighs wish they could clench. It also made her shudder. How could Snape still be getting in her head when he wasn't even touching her? How could he conjure these feelings in them both?

Severus reached down and squeezed the base of his shaft. “Stick out your tongue. There’s a good lad.” After Malfoy did just that, Severus slapped his cock down on the waiting tongue. Once, twice, and on the third time, rubbed the head back and forth ever so slightly on the slick surface. It was obscene, the knowledge that he still had a layer of her own juices on that thick hard shaft. A layer that was being rubbed off on the very stiff tongue of one Draco Malfoy.

Gods.

Hermione watched, her heart pounding in her ears, as Draco hesitated for a moment, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Then, with a shuddering exhale, he leaned forward, his tongue snaking out to lick the length of Severus's shaft.

Severus hissed, his hips jerking forward, and he threaded his fingers through Draco's hair, holding him in place. "That's it, my boy," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Just like that. Show me how much you want this."

There was a choking sound as he took the head of the cock into his mouth. Severus groaned, his eyes fluttering closed, and he began to move his hips, fucking Draco's mouth with slow, measured thrusts. “Close your lips. Ah... good, yes... mmm. Now suck, boy.”

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat as she watched the explicit scene unfold before her. The sight of Draco on his knees, his head bobbing as he awkwardly tried to please Severus, was both repulsive and strangely fascinating. She could see the way Draco's hands had balled into fists as they were restrained behind him, the way his own cock leaked and throbbed, betraying his body's response to the praise despite the clear discomfort and humiliation he felt.

Severus's grip on Draco's hair tightened, and he pulled him off, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to the large dick bobbing in front of him. "Look at me, Draco," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Look at me while you suck my cock."

Draco's eyes snapped open, and he met Severus's gaze, his own wide and glassy with a mix of fear, resignation, and something else—despair. Severus smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his lips, and he pushed Draco's head back down, forcing him to take him deeper.

Hermione could hear the wet, obscene sounds of Draco's mouth working Severus's cock, the occasional gag and choke as Severus fucked his throat without mercy. She could see the way Draco's body responded, his hips jerking, his own cock leaking onto the floor beneath him, but his face was a canvas of conflicted emotions.

"Fuck, you're good at that, my boy," Severus panted, his voice ragged with pleasure. "So fucking good. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to serve, to submit, to worship at the altar of my cock."

Draco made a choked sound, a mix of a moan and a sob, and Severus mistook it for pleasure, chuckling darkly. "You didn’t know this about yourself, did you, you little bitch.” Draco’s eyes widened at the insult. “It’s ok. You can dominate all those pretty little witches, but deep—" He punctuated his words with a particularly deep thrust “—deep down you know you were meant to be on your knees for me.”

Draco's eyes flicked to Hermione, a silent plea for understanding. She could see the turmoil in his gaze, the internal struggle between his dominant nature and the submissive role he was forced to play. She knew the feeling.

With a final, brutal thrust, Severus pushed in as far as he could, forcing tears to stream down Draco’s face as he gagged and choked around it—came, his cock pulsing as he spilled his seed down Draco's throat. Draco swallowed convulsively, his throat working as he took every last drop, his eyes never leaving Hermione's.

Severus held him there for a moment longer, savouring the sensation, before pulling out and releasing his grip on Draco's hair. Draco collapsed back onto his heels, his chest heaving, his face flushed and slick with sweat, saliva, and tears.

"Good boy," Severus murmured, his thumb brushing against Draco's cheek. "So very good for a first try, and good boys do get rewarded.”

Severus chuckled, low and satisfied, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker, predatory. "Hermione, my dear," he said, his voice a low purr, a chilling promise of what was to come. "I think it's time you joined us, don't you?"

All she could do was glare at him. He vanished her gag. Gods, her mouth was so dry, and her throat felt raw from all the screaming. Severus chuckled at her look of loathing, a sound that sent shivers down her spine.

"Come now, Ms Granger,” he began, his voice a low mockery. “Is that any way to act towards the gift I have in store for you? I have shown you more pleasure in the last hour than you have experienced in your entire pathetic life. And now I will allow Mr Malfoy here to help me give you even more? Tsk. Such ingratitude for all my hard work.”

Hermione's glare deepened, her eyes flashing with anger and defiance, a silent promise of resistance and rebellion. She couldn't do more than croak hoarsely—no words able to leave her mouth, but her expression said volumes. Severus's smile widened, clearly enjoying her struggle.

Draco, still kneeling with his hands tied behind his back, spoke up, his voice a little unsteady. “Master, doesn’t a good dominant take care of his witches? Perhaps she needs some water?”

Severus raised an eyebrow, a cruel smile playing on his lips, seemingly amused by Draco's attempt to intervene. "Very well, Draco. I suppose we can be gentlemen,” Severus said, turning to grab his wand. Draco leaned down quickly, his voice low in Hermione's ear, a desperate plea for understanding and forgiveness. I'm so, so sorry. Hold on. Please.

Seeing Severus turning back, Draco covered up their suspicious conversation by kissing her. She squeaked a bit in surprise. Severus chuckled, a low, amused sound. “Patience, Draco. All in good time.”

Why Malfoy kissing her threw her into a larger mental spiral than everything up to that moment was a mystery to her. Severus came over and lifted her shoulders up off the table, tilting her to drink without choking, his hands rough and demanding, a stark reminder of their helplessness.

“There you go, my dear. Drink up.”

After she took a few sips, he laid her back down and walked around the table to help the bound Draco to his feet—offering him the glass which he drank thirstily. With a wave of his wand he vanished the glass. He glanced down at her, pointed and twirled his wand at her a bit and rotated Hermione so that her head hung back off the thin width of the table, her hair cascading down to the floor.

Blood rushed to her head, and the view of two hard, weeping cocks in front of her made her stomach turn. This was not going to be good.

“Now Ms Granger, I promised Draco a reward. He was ever so kind enough to make sure you were taken care of. I trust you will offer him the same courtesy...”

“Fuck you. Fuck you both.” It was a bit hard to snarl convincingly at him like this. But she hoped she got her point across.

“Oh my dear... you will. Now. Open up. Don’t make me force it open. It would be supremely uncomfortable for you. But... hmm... rather enticing I should think...”

She glared harder at his cock, willing to burn a hole into it with her mind. She let her head slump and closed her eyes. "Don't you ever shut up Snape? Just hurry up and get this over with, Malfoy,” she snarled.

She could hear Draco shuffle forward a bit hesitantly.

“Go on now, boy, you’ve earned it. She will be willing enough in a moment.” She had no idea what made Severus think that. The only reason she wasn’t going to bite Draco’s cock clean off was the fact that they had basically agreed to do what was necessary to find a way to get to the antidote. No matter what they had to do.

She had been too distracted by the impending connection of Draco’s rather too large cock to her too small mouth when she felt hands on her thighs. She opened her mouth to protest when a cock pushed between her lips, tentative and shallow. Draco's hips moved in a slow, hesitant rhythm, his cock barely sliding in and out of her mouth. He was still attempting to be kind. She could feel the conflict in his movements, the way his body responded with throbbing she could just feel on her tongue despite his clear discomfort. He was trying, so hard, for her.

Severus, meanwhile, had moved down to her pussy, his fingers deftly stroking and teasing her clit and one slipping inside her. The sensation was overwhelming, a sharp contrast to the tentative humping she was enduring.

“That's it, my dear,” Severus murmured, his voice a low purr as he found that soft spot inside of her that made her body feel like it was on fire. “Draco. You can do better than that. Do not disappoint me.” With that prodding Malfoy started to go a little deeper. In contrast she could feel Severus push another finger inside to crook against that special place. “Let go. Give in to it. Be a good girl for us.”

Hermione moaned, quite against her will, her mouth full of Draco's cock. His hips stuttered, his movements becoming more urgent, more insistent. She could feel him growing harder, his cock trying to gain entrance to her throat.

Severus chuckled, a dark, dangerous sound. “Looks like someone's enjoying himself. Isn't that right, Draco?”

Severus, sensing her growing arousal, removed the two fingers inside of her and let them travel lower. With a whispered spell she could feel cold lubrication in her rear. A long finger breaching her arse. Hermione gasped around Draco's cock, the sensation and surprise of being filled there almost too much to bear. Unfortunately the gasp only allowed the cock to finally slip into her throat and she started to choke.

Hermione’s body became unbearably hot, responding to the dual stimulation, her hips bucking against Severus's hand. She could feel the orgasm building, a coiled spring ready to snap. Severus, sensing her impending climax, increased the pressure on her clit, his fingers moving faster, and adding a second finger into her tight back channel.

Why. Why was this happening. And why did she like it. It was wrong. So very wrong.

“Come for me, my dear,” Severus commanded, his voice a low growl. “Let me feel that tight little arse squeeze my fingers.”

Hermione screamed around Draco's cock, the sound morphing into a gag, as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her body convulsed, her muscles clenching and unclenching, drawing out the orgasm to almost painful lengths. Draco, spurred on by her reactions, began to fuck her throat in earnest, his hips moving with a desperate, almost frantic rhythm. She felt so lightheaded, it was getting so hard to breathe. And that seemed to only make the orgasm stronger.

“That's it, my boy,” Severus murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Fuck that pretty little mouth. Make her take every inch of you.”

Draco's movements became more urgent, more insistent, his cock sliding in and out of her mouth with wet, obscene sounds. Hermione could feel the tension building in him, the way his body responded, his hips jerking, his cock leaking onto her tongue when he pulled back far enough.

“One more Hermione. You can give us one more.” Severus then leaned down and sucked her still throbbing clit straight into his mouth. She bucked trying to get away from the overstimulation. The hand that had been rubbing her clit had moved to her abdomen though and pushed it down to prevent her escape. And as he sucked in increasingly strong waves a third finger breached her arsehole.

She detonated.

As she tried to suck in enough air, Draco took just that moment to plunge deep into her throat and stay there. His cock swelling, and within several pulses of his thick member, came straight down her throat.

Too much… it was all… too much.

And then, she knew nothing but darkness.

Chapter Text

Somnus Disciplina

Severus

Severus could scarcely credit how flawlessly this unfolded. Scarcely—because he was a master of his craft, after all.

Hermione had blacked out, choked unconscious on his godson's thick cock.

"Impressive display, Draco," Severus drawled, a sly twist of amusement curling his lips. "How does it feel?"

The lustful fog evaporated from the boy's features in a heartbeat, replaced by raw horror.

"Granger! Granger—Merlin’s sake, Severus, do something!" Draco's voice splintered as he jerked forward, straining against his bonds.

Tsk. He truly needed to drill patience into the boy; panic served no purpose. She was unharmed—better than that, she was utterly pliant, her body a canvas for his desires.

"Honestly, Draco, the girl’s perfectly fine. Doesn’t she look exquisite like this?" He circled to the far side of the table, where her head lolled limply over the edge, wild curls tumbling to the cold flagstones below.

"She’s not fine! Look at her!" Draco paled further, his skin ghostly white—a rare sight, even for him. Clearly, the boy cared more than Severus had anticipated. That could prove useful. He shoved Draco back with a firm hand; trussed as he was, the fool was worthless in his hysteria. Severus loomed over the unconscious witch, her head now cradled between his spread thighs.

Gripping his rigid cock, he slapped it against her cheek—once, twice, three times. The sharp thwack echoed, sending a thrill humming through his balls. A soft groan escaped her lips, her eyelids fluttering faintly.

"See? She’s very much alive, Draco."

He released his pulsing shaft and cradled her head, easing her back lengthwise along the table. Her legs parted wide under the ropes, exposing her slick, swollen cunt at the edge—ripe for whatever depravity his shadowed soul craved.

"These moments demand focus, Draco, not your tiresome hysterics." His voice cracked like a whip, the tone of the unyielding professor. "Kneel at the table’s end."

Draco stiffened, defiance flickering in his eyes.

Severus exhaled sharply, seized the boy’s nearest shoulder and hauled him into position. With a casual flick of his wand, a stinging hex lashed across Draco’s groin, the invisible whip biting into tender skin. Draco buckled, a choked yelp tearing from his throat as he crumpled to his knees on the unyielding stone.

Better.

Severus wasn’t wholly merciless; pointless pain muddled the mind. Another flick conjured a cushioning charm beneath the boy, softening the impact. Draco barely registered it, his gaze locked on the glistening folds of Hermione’s cunt, still slick from earlier torment.

"You will rouse her."

Draco gulped, his shoulders jerking as he tugged futilely at the invisible cords binding his wrists behind his back, the strain pulling his muscles taut.

"My hands—"

"Are irrelevant." Severus tightened the charms with a precise wand motion, the bindings digging into Draco’s flesh just enough to wrench a flinch from him. "Use only your mouth."

He clamped his free hand on the nape of Draco’s neck, fingers like iron, and shoved him forward—guiding, demanding. "Begin."

Hermione lay slack, her chest rising shallowly, legs splayed as far as the ropes allowed. Draco leaned in, his lips grazing her mound in a feather-light kiss—hesitant, almost reverent—before he recoiled, breath ragged.

Pathetic.

A whisper of doubt ghosted through Severus’s mind, protesting the label for his charge. But it withered swiftly as the potion roared back, a molten surge in his veins, stoking his insatiable hunger—demanding he focus on this exquisite violation.

Draco was too careful, too hesitant, and that would just not do.

Severus positioned himself on his knees beside his trembling apprentice, his long fingers snagging a fistful of that silken platinum hair. With a merciless yank, he shoved Draco’s head downward, grinding his face into the heat of Hermione’s exposed core until her swollen lips brushed his mouth and nose.

Severus bent forward, lips grazing the shell of the boy’s ear, breath hot and laced with dark promise. "Either you do it with purpose, or I’ll take you myself with no preparation. Consider wisely."

He loosened his hold on the pale strands, letting them slip through his fingers like fine silk, only to trail that same hand down the rigid line of Draco’s spine. The touch was deceptively light at first, mapping the knobs of vertebrae beneath sweat-damp skin, until it paused at the small of his back, pressing just enough to savour the violent shudder that rippled through the young man’s frame.

Finally, Draco’s tongue pushed out, flattening wide against the wet folds of Hermione’s pussy in one slow, unsure lick. Severus watched the boy’s mouth work, seeing the way Draco’s face twisted slightly as he tasted her—the slick mix of her old cum and fresh wetness coating his lips and chin. Draco licked again, more steadily this time, his mouth covering her folds, sucking lightly on the swollen lips with wet, slurping noises that filled the dim chamber. The boy moved like he hated it but couldn’t stop, his tongue sliding up and down her slit.

Severus’s own cock hardened fully now, jutting out stiff and heavy between his legs, throbbing at the view of Draco’s head buried between Hermione’s thighs, lapping at her like an obedient pet. Without pause, Severus reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the base of Draco’s bare cock, already stiff and leaking pre-cum from the tip. He squeezed hard, making Draco jerk and gasp into Hermione’s pussy, the sound muffled against her skin. Then Severus slid his hand up the length, gripping tight to the head and twisting to smear the pre-cum down the shaft.

Draco bucked his hips forward into Severus’s fist, a low whine coming from his throat as his tongue pushed inside Hermione’s entrance—short, shallow thrusts that made her inner walls twitch faintly around him.

"Deeper," Severus ordered, his voice rough and commanding. He pumped Draco’s cock slow and firm, no rush to let him finish, his thumb rubbing hard over the sensitive spot under the head until more pre-cum leaked out. Draco’s hips thrust again, desperate for more, his bound hands pulling at the restraints behind his back. Severus moved closer, his naked body pressing against Draco’s side, and grabbed a handful of the boy’s hair with his other hand. He shoved Draco’s face down harder, forcing his nose into the damp hair above her pussy and his mouth fully onto her core. Draco’s tongue went in deeper, thrusting faster now, fucking into her wetness as her body started to shift slightly under him. "That’s right, Draco. Lick her deep. Feel her pussy tighten on your tongue. Wake her up for us."

Draco’s mouth closed around her clit, sucking firmly while his tongue flicked back and forth over it. Severus saw Hermione’s body react right away, even though she was still out cold—a quiet moan escaped her lips, her thighs pulling tight against the ropes holding them spread. Severus sped up his strokes on Draco’s cock, sliding his fist from the base to the head, the slick slap of skin filling the chamber. He let go of Draco’s hair and ran his hand down the boy’s bare back, following the tense muscles lower and lower. After muttering a quick lubrication spell for his fingers, Severus pressed one against Draco’s hole, rubbing the tight muscle.

Draco stiffened at the touch, his body jerking forward into Hermione’s pussy as if to escape, a low whine escaping around her folds. He tried to twist his hips away, bound hands flexing uselessly behind him, but Severus clamped his hand painfully down on Draco’s cock, holding him steady. "None of that," Severus growled, shoving the finger past the resistance and in up to the knuckle. The intrusion burned hot and tight, Draco’s arse clenching hard around it like a vice, his rhythm on Hermione faltering into a stuttered lick.

Draco shook his head slightly, pulling back from her just enough to mutter, "No—Severus, not there," his voice ragged and pleading, but Severus twisted his wrist, forcing the finger deeper. The boy gasped, mouth hovering over her clit before he plunged back in, sucking harder as if to drown out the invasion. He licked and thrust his tongue into her pussy with frantic energy while his body trembled, arse spasming around Severus’s digit in protest.

Severus pushed in a second finger anyway, ignoring the boy’s muffled curse vibrating against Hermione’s skin. He spread them apart inside Draco, feeling the reluctant give as the muscles fought then loosened just enough. Draco’s cock still jumped in his other hand, veins bulging under the rough jerks, pre-cum slicking the way despite the tension. Severus twisted over the head, pulling more out, and Draco bucked—not entirely from pleasure, his breaths coming in sharp hitches.

"That’s it," Severus said low, his breath warm on Draco’s ear. "Fight all you want, but you’ll take it. Wake her up with your mouth. Show me how badly you need her with you for this." He bent his fingers inside Draco, grazing a spot deliberately, and the boy arched with a choked cry, the sound humming straight into Hermione’s clit. Her hips jerked up a fraction, colour blooming across her skin, breaths turning faster and more uneven.

Draco kept at it without mercy now, his initial pushback crumbling under the dual grip—tongue switching from broad licks to sharp jabs, sucking and grazing her lips with his teeth even as his arse clenched anew around the invading fingers. Severus could feel Draco’s cock thicken in his fist regardless, balls drawing up tight; the resistance only made the throb more insistent. Severus didn’t ease off, pumping rougher on the shaft, his fingers driving into Draco’s arse with steady, hard thrusts that brooked no escape. The double push and pull had Draco groaning despite himself, the noises lost in Hermione’s pussy as he ate her out, body yielding inch by reluctant inch.

Hermione’s eyelids fluttered first, a low groan slipping from her lips as awareness trickled in. Her body jerked against the ropes, legs straining wide but locked in place, while Draco pressed on—mouth sealed to her pussy, tongue swirling her clit before sucking with frantic pull. She gasped, head lifting off the table, curls tumbling wild across her face. "Draco... what—oh gods!"

Her voice cracked into a cry as his tongue circled again, latching on to draw her in deep. Severus smirked, eyes fixed on her awakening, the way her pussy clenched and flushed under the boy’s relentless work, arousal flooding her despite—and maybe because of—the shock that was widening her eyes. He twisted his wrist around Draco’s cock, pumping hard and fast, fingers plunging deeper into the boy’s arse—three now, stretching him with each rough shove.

Draco broke first, body convulsing as cum shot from his cock in thick ropes, coating Severus’s hand and splattering the flagstones below. He cried out into her folds, the raw buzz vibrating through her clit, shoving her over the brink. Her back arched sharp off the slab, a piercing scream escaping as her pussy spasmed, juices soaking Draco’s chin and tongue in a hot rush. Severus gripped tighter, milking the boy’s shaft dry while Draco’s arse gripped his fingers in fluttering defeat.

Severus’s own cock throbbed heavily against his thigh, rigid with the dark rush of their unravelling—their ragged cries, the tang of release hanging in the air. He pulled his fingers free with a slick pop, smearing the mess across Draco’s quaking thigh before dropping the spent cock to hang limp. Draco sagged forward, breaths ragged, face still mashed into her pulsing pussy, tongue slack as exhaustion pinned him there.

She fell back, gaze locked on the dim ceiling, chest heaving in jagged pulls. Confusion etched her features, tangled with unwilling sparks of pleasure, nipples tight and skin prickled in the damp cold.

Severus rose straight, wand clenched in his fist, voice slashing the thick air. "Welcome back, Ms Granger."

Chapter Text

Push & Pull

Draco

Draco's chest heaved, his face still smeared with the cooling slickness from Hermione's thighs, the salty tang lingering on his lips. The lab’s chill seeped into his knees as he pressed against the uneven stone floor. He wanted to move away, but exhaustion pinned him, limbs trembling from the ordeal Severus had just forced on him. His wrists ached behind his back, bound tight with rope that bit deeper every time he pulled at them. He could hear Hermione's ragged breaths from the slab above, her body still splayed and exposed.

He couldn’t look at her. He’d been forced to do things to the witch he had only ever dreamed of doing with her. She had always been a pretty girl, but now, as a woman, she was stunning. It wasn’t fair that this was how their first meeting since his trial had unfolded. He’d thought many times about begging her forgiveness and confessing his long-standing feelings. Bloody hell. Now he’d never get the chance. He’d been a coward again—and now, after all of this, there was no way she’d ever want him.

The most he could hope for was to get her out of this alive and in one piece.

Severus's shadow fell over him, blocking the dim light that flickered along the walls and hung from above. Draco's godfather stood naked before his eyes, pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle, cock jutting, hard and insistent, from the dark thatch at its base. No shame in him—just that cold, predatory gleam in his black eyes as he loomed closer. Maybe when his arse didn’t feel like it was on fire, he’d feel bad for the man again. It wasn’t his fault after all; it was the potion—but Draco felt less and less charitable as events unfolded.

His head felt like it weighed several stones, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, but that didn’t stop Severus’s fingers. They gained purchase amongst the slick strands and yanked hard enough to make stars burst behind his eyelids. Pain lanced through his scalp, forcing a gasp from his throat. He tried to pull away, knees scuffing on the grit-strewn floor, but with the ropes holding his arms pinned, he was utterly helpless.

“Snape—please,” he croaked, voice hoarse from the earlier cries. “I can't… it's too much. No more—”

“Silence.” Severus's free hand clamped around Draco's jaw, nails digging into the soft flesh under his chin. Draco's heart hammered, panic rising like bile. What now?

He wasn’t like this. He didn’t want this. Not to be forced to pleasure a man who was, for all intents and purposes, his father. And not her—at least not under duress, not with Severus watching, directing every degrading act.

But Severus wasn’t watching idly now. In his other hand, he held a small vial, the glass catching the light with a sickly yellow sheen. The liquid inside swirled rapidly, thick and ominous. Draco's eyes widened, recognition hitting him. Stamina potion. Merlin, no—not that. It would strip away the fatigue, force his body to endure, to perform, when all he wanted was to collapse and forget. But he had to stay with her. He had to find a way out of this mess for them both.

“Open,” Severus ordered, tilting the vial. Draco clamped his lips shut, shaking his head as much as the grip allowed.

The release of his hair and the subsequent slap were swift—Severus's palm cracking across his cheek, the sting blooming hot and immediate. Draco's mouth flew open on a yelp, and with alarming speed, fingers entered his mouth to keep it pried open. The potion poured in—bitter, viscous, coating his tongue like molten tar. It burned down his throat as he gagged. He tried to spit, to twist away, but Severus's hand sealed his lips, the other forcing his head back. “Swallow it.”

Tears pricked Draco's eyes, the liquid sliding down in a thick gulp. Heat ignited instantly in his belly, a slow uncoiling that spread through his limbs like liquid fire. His muscles twitched, the bone-deep weariness evaporating, replaced by a buzzing energy that made his skin prickle. Worse—far worse—his cock stirred, twitching against his thigh, blood rushing south despite the horror churning in his gut. He bucked, trying to move away, but Severus had him turned towards Hermione and caged in against the table.

“Good boy,” Severus murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction. He released Draco's jaw, wiping the residue from his lower lip with his thumb and bringing it to his own mouth, tongue darting out to not waste the drop.

Draco's gaze flicked down to Hermione, still bound spread-eagle on the cold table, her wrists and ankles secured by those unyielding ropes. Her skin glistened with sweat, breasts heaving with each shallow breath, darkened nipples hardened from the chill or the lingering aftershocks—he couldn't tell, didn’t want to think about it. Her pussy, exposed and swollen from his earlier attention, still wept slickness onto the wood beneath her. She looked scared and sad, her gaze filled with pity for him. How could she, even now, even after what he had done to her, still look at him as if they were truly in this together?

Severus chuckled as he felt Draco trembling. The man's strength was unyielding, fingers bruising as he positioned him just so between Hermione's spread thighs. The heat radiating from her body hit Draco like a wave, her scent filling his nostrils. His bound hands flexed uselessly behind him, the rope chafing fresh welts. “Please, Sev,” he begged again, voice breaking. “Not this. I'm not… I don't want—not like this.”

“Come now. Isn’t she everything you’ve ever wanted, Draco? And now that you have her you don’t want her?” Severus smiled, his voice a low drawl laced with faux contempt. Draco’s eyes widened in shock at the pronouncement of his biggest secret. How had he known? He chanced a quick peek at the beautiful witch from under his lashes. Her eyes were bouncing between him and Snape, getting wider and wider as Draco failed to refute the claim.

Severus flicked his wand with deliberate slowness, the tip glowing with malevolent intent. The first hex uncoiled like a serpent, a crackling lash of dark energy that snapped across Draco's pale back. The impact didn't break skin, but it burned—a searing stripe that made Draco's shoulders bunch and his spine arch sharply. He bit down on a grunt, jaw clenched so tight the muscles stood out like cords, his grey eyes fixed on the wall ahead, refusing to meet Severus's gaze.

“Not in the mood for confessions today, are we? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; you’ve always been gutless, boy.” Severus continued, circling them slowly, his own naked form casting a long shadow in the dim light. Another flick, and the lash struck Draco's arse, the thwack echoing off the stone walls. Draco's hips jerked involuntarily, the tip of his cock sliding along Hermione's folds, smearing her wetness along his length, but he locked his knees and held back, breath hissing through his teeth. Sweat trickled down his temple, but he didn't cry out—stoic, enduring, even as the fire spread across his buttocks, forcing his muscles to clench and release in futile resistance.

Severus stepped closer, trailing a mocking finger down Draco's spine, feeling the tremor he tried to suppress at the sensation. “Look at you, hard as a rock for a tight little Muggle-born cunt, yet too spineless to claim it. Disgraceful.” The degradation hung in the air, sharp as the magic. Snape raised his wand again, and this time the lash curled around to the front, striking a stinging line across Draco's chest and abdomen. The boy flinched, his nipples tightening from the shock, cock twitching dangerously close to Hermione's entrance, but he swallowed the pain, turning it inward. A low, muffled groan escaped him as he tilted his face towards the ceiling, not daring to see the loathing in her eyes.

The lashes continued in measured rhythm—back, making him bow; arse, seizing his thighs; front, forcing his breath to stutter. Each one built the coercion, Draco's body betraying him with every involuntary buck, his cock grinding against her slickness without penetrating. Severus's own arousal rubbed at his hip. “Beg for mercy if you must, Draco. Or better yet, fuck her and end this charade.”

Draco's response was silence, broken only by ragged breaths, his bound form quivering but unyielding. A gasp tore from Hermione’s throat as another lash bit into Draco's side, this one drawing a stifled hiss that finally cracked his stoicism.

“Stop!” Hermione's voice cracked through the chamber, raw and desperate, her body straining against the rope. “Please, Severus—stop hurting him! I'll… I'll do whatever you want, just stop!”

Severus paused in his torment. Draco's head snapped towards her, eyes wide with a mix of shock and shame—his cock still poised at her entrance, the tension a taut string between them. “Malfoy—Draco look at me.” He’d looked off to the side rather than see her plead for him. He didn’t deserve her kindness. He never had. “I swear to Salazar, Draco. Look. At. Me.” He couldn’t deny her. With aching slowness he dragged his eyes to hers once more. Gods, was she a Legilimens? It felt like she could see straight into him.

“Do it.”

“Granger. I can’t. I can’t. I’ve never—I’ve never done it when it wasn’t wanted.”

“Draco. I’m telling you to do it.”

“It’s not right. I can’t.”

“Draco Malfoy. Please—please fuck me.”

He groaned at that. He had dreamt, it felt like time immemorial, to hear those words. And now they were tainted. Because she didn’t mean them. This was a game of survival. Nothing more. And while his brain knew that, his cock apparently did not. He noticed he had been making shallow little thrusts between her slick lips, the weight of his cock rubbing infinitesimally against her clit.

“Bloody fucking hell, Granger.”

Severus grabbed his cock and notched it at her entrance for him. Inch by torturous inch, Draco sank into her. Her walls clenched, hot and unyielding at first, resisting the intrusion. Hermione hissed, back arching off the slab. “It’s ok—ah!” The sound tore from her, pain and something else threading through it. Draco froze halfway in, but then pushed forward, burying to the hilt in her warmth, her pussy fluttering around his length. So hot, so tight—Merlin, it was too much. His mind reeled, denial crashing against the sensation. This wasn't him. He wasn't some brute rutting into a bound girl. He couldn’t bring himself to do more than hold his position there.

“Fuck her,” Severus growled, his voice right at Draco's ear, breath hot and commanding. It made his cock twitch, but he didn’t move.

“Must I do everything for you, Draco?” Severus moved behind him, placing large hands on his hips. Gods. “Please—” He didn’t even know what exactly he was begging for anymore. But all thoughts died as Severus moved forward, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Draco's entrance.

Panic spiked anew, cold and sharp. “No—wait, not there. I'm not… I can't take you. Please, I'm not—” He cried out, body locking rigid, the burn ripping through him like fire. It hurt—Merlin, it burned—fuck. Severus sank deeper, inch by thick inch, until he was fully sheathed, hips pressed tight against his own.

The fullness overwhelmed Draco, pleasure and pain splitting him in two directions. Hermione's pussy gripped his cock from the front, wet and clenching, while Severus's shaft filled his arse from behind, grinding against nerves that made his vision blur. He panted, chin falling to his chest, a grimace at the dual sensations on his face. “Stop—please,” he gasped, even as his dick twitched.

Severus's hands clamped on Draco's hips hard enough to bruise, nails digging in as he pulled himself back while pushing him forward, only to slam forward again by pulling Draco out of her. The motion chained them all—Draco's cock plunging deeper into Hermione with each thrust, stretching her walls, the slick slide echoing in the chamber. Her body jolted, ropes creaking, a gasp escaping her lips timed with his deep moan as the thick head of Severus’s cock rubbed against his prostate.

The rhythm built mercilessly, Severus setting a punishing pace, his cock dragging sparks from Draco's insides with every withdraw and plunge. The slap of skin on skin filled the air—Draco's thighs pushing Hermione's hips wider, Severus's hips against Draco's arse—obscene and unrelenting. Sweat beaded on Draco's back, trickling down to where Severus fucked him, the friction building heat that amplified into frenzied denial and inevitability.

Draco's mind threatened to fracture under the assault. Shame burned in his chest, hot and sickly. This wasn't right—fucking Granger while his godfather fucked him, like some twisted puppet. He wasn't gay, wasn't into this violation, and most assuredly did not want to deal with the aftermath of this night. But his body betrayed him, cock throbbing deep in her heat, pre-cum leaking to ease the way. Each thrust into her sent jolts through him, her pussy clenching in response, milking him.

“Draco—it’s ok! Do you hear me? It’s ok. We will be ok—” Hermione's voice cracked, her head thrashing, curls sticking to her sweat-slicked face.

Severus leaned closer, his chest pressing to Draco's back, one hand sliding up to pinch Draco's nipple hard enough to draw a yelp. “Feel that, boy?” he murmured, teeth grazing Draco's earlobe. “Her cunt squeezing you, begging for it. And you—taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hips snapped forward, harder, the angle hitting that spot inside Draco that made his toes curl, pleasure spiking unwanted through the pain. He could feel a large hand push between his shoulder blades, laying him flat atop Hermione. His head nestled next to her ear, chin on her shoulder.

Draco sobbed, the sound muffled into her curls. “No—I'm not—stop—stop saying that!” But the lie crumbled as his own hips bucked, driving into her with more force. Her breasts bounced with the impact, nipples brushing his chest, the friction sending shivers through him. The chamber reeked of them: sweat, fear, and the sharp tang of arousal. Sounds layered over it: the wet squelch of his cock in her, the grunt of Severus's thrusts, Hermione's bitten-off moans by his own ear that she tried to stifle.

He fought it, every fibre screaming resistance. He tried so hard. Hermione's body responded against her will, her hips twitching up to meet his, pussy fluttering wildly. “Oh—oh Gods” she whimpered, but her climax built, walls clamping down on him making his resistance even more futile.

Severus's pace quickened, breaths ragged now, his cock swelling thicker inside Draco. “Come for me, Draco. Fill her perfect little pussy up for us.” The command broke something—Draco's resistance shattered, release crashing through him. He spilled into her, hot jets of cum flooding her pussy, hips stuttering as he rode it out. Hermione followed with a keening cry, her body convulsing, milking every last drop from him.

Severus groaned, burying deep one last time, his own orgasm pulsing hot into Draco's arse, the warmth spilling out as he held still. Draco lay on Hermione’s chest, spent and shaking, still lodged inside her, Severus's weight pinning him down. The stamina potion's buzz lingered, but it couldn’t do much for his fanding mental clarity. There was a deep ache—the sticky mess between his legs, the burn in his arse, the weight of what he had done.

Minutes stretched, breaths syncing in the aftermath. He didn’t realise right away that he was talking. “I’m sorry...I’m sorry...please. Oh Gods...I’m so sorry.”

Hermione's chest rose and fell under him, her voice a whisper against his ear. “It’s ok, shhh… Draco. It’s ok. You’re ok… we… we are ok…” Draco could only whimper, tears tracking down his cheeks to dampen her locks, as Severus finally pulled out, a wet slide that left him empty and raw.

Draco's eyes squeezed shut, the soft sounds of his hiccupping cries as they landed against her. Resistance flickered, weak but there. Next time, he'd fight harder. But deep down he had. It had felt… fuck. No, he couldn’t even voice those thoughts, not even in his own mind.

But Severus wasn't done—he was never done, it seemed. His hand stroked Draco's back, almost gentle. “Rest now my good boy. You'll need it for what's next.”

Chapter Text

Unexpected Surrender

Hermione

The first thing she felt was the weight leaving her chest, a sudden relief that made her lungs expand with a ragged breath. Severus’s command, low and smooth, cut through the haze.

“Up you go, boy.”

Rope scraped against wood, a chair creaked somewhere close, and Draco’s body was lifted from hers, his warmth pulling away like a retreating tide and the mixture of their releases running out of her. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him lowered onto a plain, armless chair near the foot of the work table. His wrists remained bound behind him, head drooping between trembling shoulders, and he winced sharply as his sore arse touched the seat—still tender from his buggering. Poor Draco. The thought drifted through her mind, her heart twisting with pity for her would-be saviour, even as shame burned in her gut at how her body still hummed from their forced union, pussy slick and aching, remnants of their release still leaking onto the floor.

Severus turned away, crossing to the tall cabinet along the far wall. Glass clinked softly; a stopper hissed as he pulled it free and shot it back in one loud gulp—another stamina potion, she presumed, from the hiss. She couldn’t see him from where she lay sprawled on the table, only hear the clinking as he searched through the vials, muttering low and impatient under his breath. He selected something, then moved back toward her. He pulled another cork free, and the air thickened with the scent of something sharp and herbal. Gods, what now? Hermione’s muscles screamed for rest, every inch of her marked—rope burns on her wrists, sticky trails of seed drying on her skin, the deep throb in her core from the relentless activity of the last several hours. Had it truly been hours? She wasn’t sure; it felt like it.

Then she noticed the silence.

No extensive lecturing, no constant muttering, no detailed analysis of his step-by-step deconstruction of her body against her ear. Just a restrained hush. It crawled over her skin, wrong in its own way. Too quiet. In his lack of commentary, he managed something she hadn’t thought possible—he’d amplified everything else. Her panting, Draco’s uneven breaths, the deliberate rhythm of Severus’s movements. It might have been silence, of a sort, but it felt deafening in its effect on them.

Then he was touching her again. Hermione didn’t bother to protest; he was so far lost to LP-9 that she knew her words would slide off him like water over stone. She was too tired to muster indignation, her body heavy, as if she could sleep for a week—hidden away from this nightmare. Cool hands, steady as always, slid beneath her shoulders and hip, lifting her partially, to roll her fully onto her stomach. The rough wood of the table scraped against her too-tender breasts, nipples hardening, traitorous from the friction, while her cheek pressed full-force into the unyielding surface. Her bound arms pulled awkwardly beside her, sending fresh pain lancing through shoulders that couldn’t rest flat enough to ease the strain.

She grunted at the rough scrape against her face and the pull in her joints, biting back a whimper. As if reading her mind—and at this point, with her defences drained, he might have been—Severus murmured, “Patience, pet.” His voice dripped with promise, and she shuddered. He untied her bound wrists from her legs, but before she could even roll her stiff shoulders in relief, he retied the knots, binding her wrists together once more. With another flick of his hand, her bound wrists stretched towards the other end of the table above her head. The position arched her back, thrusting her arse upward, her knees sliding apart on the table’s edge to expose her fully—pussy swollen, the tight ring of her arsehole still tender from his earlier ministrations. She tugged experimentally, the ropes holding firm, leaving her splayed and vulnerable, heart pounding as he ran a hand along her spine.

She was too tired to hold herself in this position, and let her rear move down towards the table, trying to rest. Before she had a single moment’s peace, though, Severus delivered a resounding smack on her arse. Hermione yelped and lifted her up again. A low groan echoed from behind her. She did her best to pull her gaze sideways as much as the restraints allowed. Draco was staring at what she presumed was the red mark of Severus’s handprint on her skin. The sight of him—broken and used, his eyes shining with guilt—twisted something deep in her chest. He’d been forced to fuck her, his body controlled by the stamina potion Severus had forced down his throat, while the man himself had claimed Draco from behind, turning the act into a chain of violation that bound them all. Hermione’s throat tightened at the memory of Draco’s cries, the way he’d begged for it to stop even as his hips jerked forward into her.

She couldn’t think about him, though. There was no time for comfort, no space for tenderness while she waited for her next ordeal. Severus brought his hand down on her again as she found herself sinking once more. Her heart slammed against her ribs, dread coiling like a serpent in her belly. She forced her sore muscles back up to present herself to the wizards yet again. He’d drugged Draco, used him as a tool to break her, and now, with the boy’s energy restored against his will, Severus would escalate. She could sense it in the way the air thickened, in the predatory patience radiating from the shadow looming over her. Her body, still humming with the aftershocks of unwanted climax, tensed in anticipation. What fresh hell would he unleash this time? Draco’s ragged breath was the only sound now—a fragile thread in the suffocating silence—reminding her they were in this together, trapped in Severus’s web.

The vulnerability of her position gnawed at her—legs splayed, pussy and arse on display, no way to close herself off. Soreness radiated from her core, a deep ache that made her wince, but exposure itself terrified her most. She was open, accessible, her most intimate parts laid bare for whatever depravity he had planned. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to disassociate, to float away from the pain, but the ropes bit deeper, grounding her in the filth of it all. Draco’s presence, felt only through his laboured breath, amplified her fear; he was witnessing this, forced to see her reduced to this state, and the shame of it burned hotter than any physical torment.

His touch lingered this time, sliding down the curve of her rear, igniting nerves already frayed. She heard Draco’s breath catch, a mirror of her own panic, fuelling the dread pooling in her stomach. Hermione was determined to stay silent, not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. The light caresses morphed into something more insistent, Severus’s palms gliding over the swell of her hips with a possessiveness that made her skin prickle. She bit down on her lip as his fingers dipped lower, brushing the sensitive inner thighs. The touch was feather-light at first, almost teasing. He was mapping her, claiming her, and she hated how her body responded—a subtle shiver she prayed he didn’t notice.

“Relax, Miss Granger,” he murmured, his voice a silken thread laced with venom, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. Cool air kissed her exposed folds and the tight pucker of her arse, making her clench involuntarily. Her pussy was horribly sticky, lips puffy and sensitive, but his fingers avoided it, tracing the cleft of her buttocks with deliberate slowness instead. He spread her cheeks, holding her open, vulnerability crashing over her in waves.

No, not there again. The thought repeated like a mantra, her mind recoiling from the implication. He’d taken her virginity and had already breached and violated her there as well. Surely he didn’t mean to claim yet another first from her. Yet his thumbs pressed gently at the edges, pulling her apart for his gaze; she felt the heat of his scrutiny like a brand. Draco’s breath rattled out of him, a testament to his helpless observation, and Hermione’s cheeks burned with the knowledge that he was watching everything.

Severus’s touch remained non-penetrative, a calculated tease that built her panic. He stroked the soft skin around her hole, circling without entering, each pass sending conflicting signals—discomfort mingling with an unwelcome spark of sensation. Her body trembled under the exposure, muscles tensing as she tried to deny the inevitable. She wanted to scream, to beg, but the words lodged in her throat, choked by fear. Severus’s hands kneaded her hips, pulling her back slightly, aligning her for whatever came next. Draco’s soft whimper from behind only heightened the dread; he was there, feeling this with her, his shame—and unwilling pleasure—a silent echo of her own.

The lab’s dim light flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls, mirroring the turmoil in her mind. Severus’s fingers continued their exploration, light presses that hinted at more, always pulling back just as her breath hitched. It was mental torture in its purest form—making her wait, making her anticipate the invasion, her body strung tight like a bow. Hermione’s thoughts fractured—resistance warring with the physical reality of her position, the soreness in her pussy, a constant reminder of how far they’d already gone. She didn’t want him to take this from her too.

The touches intensified, Severus’s fingers growing bolder, targeting the sensitive rim of her arsehole with pinpoint accuracy. He traced the puckered entrance, pressing just enough to make her gasp, the muscle fluttering in protest. His other hand separated her buttocks fully, holding her splayed open, the air cooling the slickness that had begun to gather despite her horror.

Humiliation flooded her, a scalding wave that made her eyes sting with unshed tears. This—all of this—was violation, pure and simple, but the way her nerves lit up under his touch sowed seeds of doubt. Draco’s presence amplified it all—his breathing had quickened, ragged and uneven, and she could imagine his face: pale, drawn with shame, eyes locked on the scene despite his desire to look away. A flicker of arousal in him would only deepen his self-loathing, and the thought pierced her heart.

Severus leaned in closer, his chest brushing her back, the heat of his naked body a stark contrast to the chill of the table. “Draco is watching so intently,” he continued, the words startlingly loud in the quiet. “He sees me readying this tight little hole for my cock. Does it excite you, knowing his gaze is burning into you? Knowing he’s fighting his own hardness at the sight?”

Her arsehole clenched hard at the verbal assault, the instinctive reaction drawing a dark chuckle from Severus. His fingertip nudged against the tightened ring, not entering but tempting, the pressure a promise of what was to come. “So tight,” he observed, voice laced with cruel satisfaction. “Imagine how you’ll feel, stretched around me, while he watches every inch disappear inside.”

Draco’s gasp cut through the air, sharp and pained, his body shifting against his restraints. Hermione could picture it: his cock twitching traitorously, shame flushing his cheeks as fear and unwanted desire warred within him. The pressure of the situation ramped higher, Severus’s words weaving a net of promises that trapped her thoughts. She tried to focus on anger, on the injustice, but her body betrayed her—a subtle warmth building low in her belly, her pussy lips swelling anew. No, Hermione thought fiercely, but the denial rang hollow against the reality of her reactions to him.

The teasing gave way to purpose. Severus’s oiled finger circled her arsehole once more, the herbal slickness warming against her skin. Hermione tried to tense, the touch stirring unwelcome memories from before—but her fatigued muscles were more forgiving after everything, and his finger pressed forward, the tip breaching her tight ring with a slow, unyielding push that forced the muscle to part around it.

A low whimper left her lips. It wasn’t entirely new, this invading pressure, but the fullness hit harder in her bound position, her arse thrust up and exposed, every nerve alight with the oil’s subtle heat and her body already primed for pleasure. Her ring found renewed strength at the intrusion and clamped down instinctively, trying to push him out, but he held steady, the digit sinking deeper inch by inch until his knuckle pressed against her.

“Breathe,” Severus commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. His free hand stroked her flank in a mockery of comfort, fingers trailing over the curve of her hip before gripping to hold her still.

She obeyed out of necessity—ragged inhales that did little to ease the pressure as he slid deeper, the digit buried to the knuckle. The burn eased slightly with the lubrication, turning friction into a slippery glide. But the emotional whirlwind raged: Merlin… please, no more, her mind pleaded, even as her body adjusted, inner walls fluttering around the invader. Why did the slow in-and-out motion send tingles radiating outward, coiling tension in her core? Confusion crashed over her, hot on the heels of resistance, her cunt clenching in response.

Draco’s whimpers grew louder, a soundtrack to her torment, his voice cracking with unspoken apologies. Severus worked the finger methodically, twisting gently to widen her, each rotation pulling gasps from her lips. “That’s it,” he murmured; his voice an anchor pulling her back from her thoughts. “Your arse is greedy now, Miss Granger—sucking me in. You can take another.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking the slab, as he withdrew and added a second finger. The stretch was immediate, intense, her hole protesting with a sharp ache that made her arch against the ropes. He scissored them slowly, opening her further, the slickness allowing the intrusion. Hermione’s breaths hitched into sobs—the feelings cycling relentlessly—her resistance crumbling under the sensations, her hips twitching involuntarily as pleasure sparked amid the pain. Why did it feel like that?

His fingers pressed against unseen spots, sending unwelcome heat flooding her veins, her clit throbbing untouched. It would seem he couldn’t help himself; his desire to torment her with words overrode his other plans. But Hermione supposed he had achieved his initial goal. She was so attuned now to every little noise; his words were just another layer of his assault on her body and mind.

Severus’s instructions continued, his tone firm. “Push back against it. Let your body learn. Draco sees how well you’re taking this—his eyes on your opening hole, his cock is so hard for you.” The words twisted the knife in her and her ally, the shared shame binding them. She could hear Draco’s laboured panting, arousal and fear twisting him up inside as much as it did her. The preparation dragged on, minutes feeling like hours, each pump of his fingers building her toward something she dreaded—a readiness she didn’t want. Her mind reeled, the confusion deepening: her arse clenched around the digits, pulling them deeper—yielding.

The oil’s slickness dripped down, mingling with her pussy’s renewed wetness, the scents blending in the air. Severus’s body heat enveloped her, his free hand pinning her down beneath her shoulder blades to still her squirms. “Good girl,” he praised. “Almost ready for more.”

Circe—fuck. He added a third finger; the stretch burned deeper now, and try as she might to hold back, she gave what could only be described as part groan, part squeal. Severus’s oiled fingers were scissoring inside her arse, pulling her ring wide, leaving her no escape. After everything tonight—the raw ache in her pussy from her stolen virginity, the soreness in her jaw from its own earlier plundering, the sticky trails down both thighs—how could her body ignite even once, let alone again for the umpteenth time? No. Gods, no. Not this invasion, carving out her last untouched hole.

But the slick drag of his long fingers hit nerves, sending hated sparks up her spine, her clit pulsing, her cunt aching, empty and wet. Upset twisted in her gut. Pleasure, again? It was too much. And worse, knowing Draco watched from his chair, his breaths ragged, cock straining hard against his alabaster skin—his thick length pressed against his defined abs… that alone made her walls flutter tighter around the intrusion, heat flooding her core like a curse she couldn’t lift. What the fucking fuck is wrong with me? Tears blurred the table’s grain under her cheek; the pain should have repelled her, the humiliation of being splayed and prepped under their gazes should have broken her, yet her hips jerked back a fraction, chasing the dark thrill, guilt slamming home for craving it.

Draco’s voice broke through, hoarse and cracking. “Severus, please—enough. She’s… Gods, just don’t—don’t take that from her, too.” His plea hung, thick with his own guilt, that protective edge a balm on her fracturing mind. Severus ignored him, a low hiss dismissing the interruption as his fingers thrust harder, twisting to graze deeper, forcing her sobs into gasps that arched her further. Pinned under his weight, the oil’s warmth seeped in, mingling with her pussy’s drip, her toes curling as the ache built toward something forbidden, loathed, craved—inevitable.

The fingers slipped free with a lewd, wet sound, leaving her arsehole clenching on emptiness, the ring slightly gaped and throbbing from the abuse. Hermione’s relief was short-lived; the blunt, heated pressure of Severus’s cock head replaced them almost immediately, nestling against her entrance like a threat. It was thick, the reality of it pressing forward without mercy, demanding what her body had been primed for—a terrifying prospect. Her stomach lurched, panic surging as the stretch began anew, just the tip attempting to breach her, burning with insistence.

“Tell me,” Severus growled, holding still at that shallow depth, his hands gripping her hips like vices. “Tell me what’s about to happen.”

“Don’t. Please don’t make me say it, Snape.”

“Say it, Hermione. Say it, or I’ll do it to him instead.”

Tremors shook her, words bubbling up in a desperate rush. “You’re… you’re going to fuck my arse,” she whispered, voice breaking as she heard Draco’s soft sobs behind them. “Please, Severus, don’t— I can’t—”

“You can, and you will.” His tone brooked no argument, the head pushing a fraction deeper, stretching her rim to its limit. She gasped and choked another back, turning her head to look as Draco’s horrified moan filled the room, his eyes—wide with lust and shame—locked on the juncture where Severus invaded her. She could feel his gaze like a touch, amplifying the exposure, his own body taut with the conflict of forbidden want.

Severus’s narration wove through the tension, his voice steady and commanding. “You’ll take every inch of my cock in this tight arse, Granger. Deep, until you’re impaled and begging. Whether that is begging for more or for it to end, I don’t particularly care—just that you beg. And then Draco will take you again—his cock sliding into your dripping cunt while I’m still deep in your arse. You’ll be ours completely, filled in both holes, no part of you untouched.”

The words painted a vivid horror that she attempted to block. She tried to speak again but only pleas tumbled out—“No, stop, fuck… no more, please…”—but they dissolved into whimpers as the pressure built, the head fully seated now, waiting for the thrust that would seal her fate. She couldn’t stop herself watching Draco watch her, his face a canvas of torment, cock dripping against his will, the emotional turns ripping through them both. Hermione’s mind screamed denial, but her body hovered on the edge, slick and trembling, the threshold moment stretching into eternity.

Severus’s grip tightened, fingers digging into her flesh, a reminder of his control. She met Draco’s eyes, a look of shared desperation as he mouthed, ‘I’m so sorry, Granger.’ This was it—the point of no return, Severus’s threats about to become her reality. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he drove forward, the penetration one continuous, agonisingly slow entry that split her arse open. Hermione’s scream tore from her throat, raw and guttural, as his cock forced its way past her clenching ring, inch after thick inch burying deep until his hips slapped against her buttocks. The fullness was excruciating, a deep, burning stretch that filled her completely, pressing against her insides in ways that blurred pain and something darker. He bottomed out, balls resting heavy against her pussy, and held there, letting her body adjust to the invasion.

Tears streamed freely now, her face pressed to the rough wood as sobs wracked her. But even in the agony, her muscles spasmed around him, gripping the intruding length, and unwelcome sparks ignited—nerves firing in response to the pressure. Severus draped his body over hers, chest to back, his weight pinning her down, breath hot against her ear. “Feel me deep inside you,” he whispered, lips brushing her skin. “All of me, claiming your last virgin hole. You will always remember me. You will always think of me. Me, Hermione. Always.”

She tried to fight it, to focus on the wrongness, but her hips shifted minutely, pushing back in a reflexive search for ease. The motion dragged him slightly, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through her. No, this couldn’t be—her arse clenching around his cock, pleasure coiling low despite the tears. “Gods, witch, you love this, don’t you? You perfect little slut.”

Severus began minimal movements then, shallow rocks that pulled his cock out an inch before sliding back in, controlled and precise. Each drag ignited her, the burn fading into a throbbing heat that made her moan against her will. Hermione’s body betrayed her fully now, pussy dripping fat, slick rivulets down her thighs, clit screaming to be touched. She accidentally met Draco’s eyes again, the connection electric—a raw vulnerability that shifted everything. In that gaze, she saw his pain mirroring hers, but also a spark of something deeper, a bond forged in shared ruin. Her lips twitched into what could almost be a smile as she mouthed, ‘I’m okay, Draco.’ He looked at her with something in his gaze she couldn’t quite define—care, empathy, devotion? All she knew in that moment was that something was there, and she felt it too.

She couldn’t look away from him as her pleasure built unbidden. Then Severus snapped his hips into her with a force he had yet to use. “Draco,” she gasped unconsciously, the name escaping like a confession, binding them amid the depravity. Her hips pushed back more insistently, meeting Severus’s next thrust, the reflexive action drawing a groan from him. Shame flooded her, but so did the rising tide of sensation—his cock filling her arse, the fullness pushing her toward ecstasy she despised. Draco’s whimper joined hers, his arousal winning out completely as he watched her unravel with his name still lingering in the air between them.

The motions continued, a few more controlled thrusts that had her walls milking him, involuntary spasms pulling him deeper. Severus’s hands roamed her body, pinching nipples, stroking her clit to heighten the torment. Hermione’s mind reeled, the triad overwhelming: resistance drowned in reaction. Why did it feel so good?

Abruptly, Severus stilled, his cock buried to the hilt in her arse, throbbing with restrained need but making no further moves. “I see you watching him,” Severus ordered, voice a low rumble that vibrated through their joined bodies. “Do you recognise the hunger in his eyes, Granger? He wants you—wants to bury himself in your sweet little pussy while I fuck this tight arse. You can take us. You were made for this—our perfect little cocksleeve.”

Hermione froze; the taunts trapped her in a vice of humiliation and want. Draco’s gaze locked on hers, desire flickering there, a mirror of her own for him—arse filled, pussy glistening, body arched in submission that, while engineered for Snape, felt like it was meant for Draco. Trapped between the dual sensations—Severus’s cock a constant pressure in her arse and the pull of her emotions toward Draco—Hermione’s breath stuttered. She was so tired of fighting this. So tired of fighting what her body wanted.

And what it wanted was Draco Malfoy.