Chapter Text
Severus Snape stood alone in the cluttered living room long after the door had closed behind Harriet. The echo of her footsteps on the stairs outside still seemed to linger in the air, or perhaps that was only the echo inside his own skull. His balls ached with a dull, insistent throb, and a thicker, tighter knot had lodged itself at the back of his throat, something between grief and fury and a dark, unwanted hunger he refused to name.
Daughter.
The word felt wrong on his tongue where the taste of her cunt still lingered, her smell musky and sweet on his fingers.
Potter… no. Harriet. Not Potter’s. She had never been Potter’s, not truly. The revelation burned through him like poorly brewed Veritaserum, stripping away every careful lie he had told himself for two decades. Dumbledore’s lies. His own.
The memory called to him unbidden.
He did not need the Pensieve this time; the images were already there, seared behind his eyes. He sank onto the edge of the sagging sofa, robes parting, and let the recollection flood him. Lily in that dingy bedroom after his parents death. Red hair spilled across the pillow like blood, eyes wide and glassy as he drove into her. The wet, obscene sounds of their coupling. The way her body had betrayed her, hips rising to meet his brutal thrusts even as tears streaked her face. Rape, he’d raped Lily. Another sin against the only person he’d ever loved. Another poisonous truth. Still, in the technical sense… but not completely unwilling. Even Potter had been willing to admit that, at least.
His hand moved of its own accord, long fingers wrapping around his cock, still half hard, now thickening fully as he stroked in time with the remembered rhythm. He relived it in vivid, merciless detail: Lily’s cunt clenching around him, hot and slick and unwillingly eager. The filthy words he had hissed into her ear. The way she had come on his cock despite herself, sobbing his name.
And then, fuck, the daughter. The willing, aching daughter who had stood in this very room not an hour ago, flushed and trembling, her tight little virgin cunt still fluttering from his fingers. How she’d responded to his words… words he’d uttered unaware of the truth. Fuck, she’d liked that, liked her daddy’s fingers inside her. Practically admitted it. My fingers the first things inside of her by the feel of it.
She’d as much as admitted it. I could have tried harder to stop you… In his minds eye, he recalled that cocky little Potter smirk from another time. Not Potters at all. His smirk, all along. His arrogance. His fire. The same insolent tilt of the head he had seen in mirrors as a boy. The feeling of Harriet’s cunt, his daughter’s cunt, had been seared into his palm, calling to the blood in his cock like it wanted to find home.
What in Merlin’s name was he doing? Pretending he could be a father to her? Pretending they could build anything approaching normal out of this monstrosity? Yet, she hadn’t asked for normal. She had asked only for presence. For… something. The thought made his strokes falter for a moment, guilt and longing twisting together like poisoned vines.
With a low curse he tucked himself away, still painfully hard, and rose. The house felt too small, too full of ghosts. He found himself climbing the narrow stairs to the attic, the dust thick in his lungs, the boards creaking under his boots like old accusations. There, shoved into the furthest corner behind crates of forgotten potion ingredients, were the photo albums his mother had once kept, those few slices of their lives she had deemed savory enough to glue and laminate between cracked leather covers.
He pulled one free, the binding stiff with age. Most of the photographs were the usual sparse collection: his mother looking tired but resolute, a few stiff images of his father scowling at the camera. But one struck him like a well aimed curse.
A boy of five or six, himself, sitting stiffly on a kitchen chair while Eileen Snape attempted to comb through his thick, unruly black hair. The boy in the photograph glared at the camera with open insolence, mouth set in a stubborn line, eyes dark and defiant even then. Severus remembered the scene with sudden, visceral clarity: the fights, his father’s snarls from the other room, “Manage the boy’s hair, woman, or I’ll cut it off myself”, and his mother’s quiet, weary persistence. She had eventually settled on keeping it oiled and combed until the heavy locks grew long enough to hang straight and obedient. He had hated every minute of it.
Harriet’s messy dark hair was exactly the same. The same wild, untamed texture he had once carried. He had always assumed it came from James Potter. The same cocky, insolent look the boy in the photograph betrayed to the camera. And beneath it, Harriet’s smouldering fire, visible even through different eyes. Her eyes. Lily’s eyes.
A headier, more depraved satisfaction settled over him, thick and sweet after so many years of denial. He had cuckolded James Potter. He had filled Lily Evans’ cunt once, once, and his seed had taken root like the weed of his obsession made manifest. Harriet was his. His blood. His daughter. Sirius and Remus and Dumbledore’s precious chosen one… his. The realisation coiled hot and vicious in his gut, warring with the dull, persistent pain beneath it.
Dumbledore had taken her from him.
She could have grown up in this house, however grim it was. She could have had a father, however broken. He would have loved her. Not this… this perverse mockery of connection they were now attempting to cobble together in the wreckage. The thought of what might have been clawed at him with fresh agony. He’d seen her life with the Dursely’s through those hateful Occulmancy lessons, they hadn’t stirred pity then, they’d stirred faint satisfaction that Potter’s daughter had paid the price for her fathers Arrogance. Instead she suffered for his ignorance and Albus’s cavalier lies.
Severus closed the album with a sharp snap, the sound loud in the dusty attic. His cock still throbbed insistently against his thigh, a shameful reminder of everything he had just allowed himself to feel. He pressed the heel of his hand against it once, hard, then forced himself to stillness.
The weeks that followed were a fragile, halting attempt at something approaching normalcy. Dinners in quiet muggle establishments, never the same place twice, always tucked in shadowed corners where curious eyes wouldn’t linger. Father and daughter, they tried to call it. Stilted conversations about the war’s aftermath, the slow rebuilding of Hogwarts and Diagon ally. Snape was terse but present, his dark gaze flicking to her face with a mixture of guarded resentment and something deeper, more conflicted. Harriet nodded along, smiled faintly when appropriate, but she couldn’t exorcise the ghosts. The feeling of his mouth crashing down on hers, the wicked stroke of his tongue, the heavy press of his thick cock against her belly through damp fabric, it haunted her every waking moment. Wrong. So wrong. He was her father. The man whose seed had sparked her existence in a violent, tear-streaked union with her mother. Yet her body remembered the stretch of his fingers, the filthy promises in his voice, and it ached with treacherous need.
Three dinners in, the wine flowed too freely. Harriet drank more than she should, the rich red loosening the knots in her chest and warming her limbs to a pleasant haze. Snape did not stop her. He merely watched over the rim of his own glass, expression unreadable, and when the evening ended, he tersely informed her, “You are in no condition to Apparate, Potter.”
Unsteady on her feet, Harriet let him apparate her to Spinner’s end and take her back to the derelict house. The narrow hallway felt smaller in her drunken state, the air heavier with memory. He half-carried her up the creaking stairs to the master bedroom, the same room from the Pensieve, though the sagging bed had been replaced by something sturdier, the linens clean but still redolent of old potions and ink, dust and books.
“Daddy’s putting me to bed,” she slurred jokingly as he eased her onto the mattress, her messy black hair sticking up everywhere like a dark thorny halo. A drunken laugh escaped her. “Help me get undressed daddy?”
Snape snarled, low and dangerous, his hands pausing at the hem of her cloak. “Behave yourself, girl. You are drunk.”
But Harriet’s inhibitions had dissolved in the wine. She reached for him, fingers clumsy on his robes. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she confessed in a rush, voice thick and earnest. “The kiss. Your hand in my panties. Your cock, Merlin, it was so hard against me. I know it’s bad. Technically you’re my dad, but I can’t stop. Every night… remembering how wet you made me. How much I wished you never stopped… ”
Something shifted in Snape’s face. The stern mask cracked, revealing the pent-up storm beneath, years of denial, of buried hunger for Lily now twisted and redirected onto the daughter who bore her eyes and his sharp features. His breath hitched, dark eyes blazing with a hunger that mirrored the memory she had shown him.
“I can’t either,” he said, voice low and rough, the admission dragged from him like a secret pried loose under veritaserum. “Damn you, Harriet. Damn Albus and every one of his machinations. Damn the lot of it.”
They did not fall on each other in a single frantic rush. Instead, the moment stretched, slower, heavier, the air between them thick with wine and years of unsaid things. Snape’s hand came up first, cupping her jaw with surprising care for all the tension coiled in his frame. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, testing. Harriet leaned into the touch with a soft, eager sound, her own hands clumsy but determined as they found the front of his shirt.
She knew it was wrong. The knowledge sat heavy in her chest even as her body thrummed with want. “I know it’s wrong,” she muttered against his mouth, the words slurred but clear enough. “I know… but don’t stop. Please. I want you inside me again.”
Snape’s breath caught. She wants it. She wants me. She wants Daddy’s fingers stretching her open again. Daddy’s cock. The thought was depraved and darkly satisfying. He had made this. He and Lily. This beautiful, aching, perverse girl.
His mouth claimed hers then, slower than before, deep and deliberate, tasting the wine on her tongue. Harriet moaned into the kiss, eager and pliant, her fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt with drunken clumsiness. She tugged the fabric aside, palms sliding over the scarred plane of his chest, and he let her, watching her face.
He needed to be sure.
Snape drew back just enough to look at her, his hooked nose brushing hers. “Harriet.” His voice was clipped, steady despite the heat in his eyes. “You are drunk. I will not have you regret this in the morning. Do you want this? Truly? Do you want me to be the first to fuck you?”
Harriet’s answer came without hesitation, wanton and immediate, her green eyes glassy but focused on him. “Yes. I want you. I want you to be the first. Don’t stop.”
Something in him eased even as the hunger sharpened. He searched her face a moment longer, warring with himself over whether the wine had stolen her clarity, but the eager way she pressed closer, the way her hands kept pulling at his clothes, convinced him. He would not take what she did not truly offer.
His long fingers moved to her own clothes, simple Muggle things, a soft jumper and well-worn jeans she had changed into after dinner. He stripped her with deliberate care rather than haste, peeling the jumper up and over her head. Beneath it she wore only a thin camisole that did little to hide the lean lines of her seeker’s body. She was small boned, like him, flush with wine and arousal. When the last layers came away, her body was revealed in the low light of the bedroom: slender and athletic from years on a broom, small firm breasts tipped with peaked nipples the same soft pink as her mother’s, hips gently curved, the faint scattering of dark hair between her thighs already damp. She looked like something he and Lily had made together—beautiful, aching, and utterly depraved.
Harriet shivered under his gaze but did not cover herself. Instead she reached for him again, fingers fumbling with his buttons again. Her hands were eager and clumsy, tracing the old scars across his chest as though she had every right.
Snape’s palms moved over her newly bared skin, admiring the contrast of her flush against the pale sheets. He cupped one small breast, thumb circling the nipple until she whimpered, then slid lower, parting her thighs with gentle but insistent pressure. His fingers found her slick and ready, and he stroked her slowly, deliberately, letting her feel every inch of the touch.
“Tell me again,” he murmured against her throat, voice low and rough. “Do you want Daddy’s fingers? Do you want my cock inside you?”
Harriet arched into his hand, eyes fluttering. “Yes. I want it. I want you. Don’t stop… Professor please…”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand still working between her legs while the other braced above her. The last of his restraint frayed as she moaned for him. Titles tangled together, and pulled him closer with surprising strength for someone so small.
They fell on each other then, her all drunken, eager tongue and fumbling hands, him all pent-up arousal finally spilling over like a cauldron boiling over. His mouth claimed hers with bruising force, tongue plunging deep, tasting of sour and bitter alchohol and repressed desperation. Harriet moaned into the kiss, arching up as his long fingers stroked her small breasts, nipples already peaked and begging. Snape’s hands were everywhere, palming her tits, pinching the sensitive buds until she whimpered, then sliding down to shove her trousers and soaked panties off in one rough motion.
“Such a filthy little girl,” he muttered against her throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, his cock, thick and leaking, the shaft slapping heavily against her bare thigh. “Begging Daddy to put you to bed properly. Is this what you wanted? Your father’s cock filling that cunt?”
Harriet nodded frantically, legs parting wantonly despite the hazy shame swirling in her mind. “Yes, please, Daddy, ” The word slipped out, both horrifying and electrifying on her tongue. Snape groaned, a broken, unhinged sound, and notched the fat head of his prick against her slick entrance. She was dripping, virgin walls fluttering in anticipation as he pushed in, slow at first, stretching her with burning fullness that made her cry out. Inch after thick inch sank home, her juices squelching obscenely around his girth until he bottomed out, heavy balls pressed against her arse.
“Fuck,” he hissed, hips jerking as he fought for control. “So tight. So wet for your father’s cock…. Taking me like a whore just like your mother.” He began to move, deep, punishing thrusts that rocked the bed, his scarred, pale body looming over her. Muggle clothing discarded, as they re-played the live reenactment of her conception on the very same bed. One hand pinned her wrists above her head; the other rubbed her clit in tight circles, drawing more slick gushes from her spasming pussy.
Harriet’s head spun with wine and overwhelming sensation, the drag of his huge cock against her inner walls, the slap of skin, the wet sounds of their joining filling the dingy bedroom. Tears of confused pleasure leaked from her eyes as she met his thrusts, hips gyrating despite everything. The wrongness only heightened the dark thrill, her mother’s ghost watching from the shadows of memory.
Snape’s dirty talk poured out in a torrent, vitriolic, possessive, unhinged. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? Daddy filling you up. Breeding my baby girl’s sloppy cunt.” His pace quickened, balls slapping rhythmically, the bed creaking in protest. He bent to suck hard on her breasts, leaving bruises as he fucked her through wave after wave of shuddering release.
Harriet completely gave herself over to it, the wine and the overwhelming rush of forbidden sensation drowning out the last fragments of resistance. The wrongness of it, the knowledge that this was her father’s thick cock stretching her open, the same man who had created her in a haze of rage and lust years ago, only sharpened the dark ecstasy coursing through her veins. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks as she sobbed, hips bucking up desperately to meet his punishing thrusts.
“Yes, fuck your baby girl, Daddy,” she cried out, voice breaking on the words, raw and needy. “I’ve wanted your cock so bad… nnngh… so fucking bad for so long…”
Snape’s dark eyes blazed with possessive triumph, his sallow face twisted in unhinged pleasure as he drove into her harder, the wet schlick-schlick-schlick of his massive cock plunging into her sopping cunt filling the dim bedroom. His heavy balls slapped rhythmically against her arse, the obscene sound mingling with the creak of the bed and their shared, ragged breathing. “That’s right,” he snarled, voice a guttural hiss against her sweat-damp skin. “There’s no other cock for my baby girl. None. Say it. Tell Daddy who this tight little cunt belongs to.”
Harriet’s head thrashed on the pillow, black hair messily splayed, just as her mother’s had been. “Only, uhhhh, only Daddy’s cock!” she moaned, the words choking out between noisy, broken cries. “Ahhh, just Daddy’s… oooh fuck, please, ”
He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he ground his hips in slow, devastating circles, letting her feel every thick inch, every vein dragging along her fluttering walls. “Good girl. Such a good, filthy baby girl creaming so prettily on her papa’s cock.” His praise was laced with that familiar vitriol, possessive and dark. One hand left her pinned wrists to grip her hip bruisingly, angling her so he could sink even deeper, the fat head of his prick battering against her cervix with every thrust. “Look at you, soaking me. Your juices are dripping down my balls, girl. So wet for the man who made you.”
Harriet sobbed louder, the pleasure bordering on pain as he filled her completely, her virgin walls stretched obscenely around his girth. She could feel herself clenching rhythmically, fresh floods of slick arousal gushing out around his shaft with every plunge, coating his pelvis and the sheets beneath them. The musky scent of sex hung thick in the air, overpowering the faint potions residue and old books that clung to the house.
“I’m just for Daddy’s cock,” she repeated breathlessly, the filthy confession spilling from her like a prayer. “Nnnngh, only yours… ahhh, Daddy, please, don’t stop, uhhhh! Fuck you’re so good Daddy!”
Snape bent lower, his crooked teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her breast as he sucked hard, leaving fresh purple marks that would linger for weeks. His tongue flicked over a peaked nipple before he pulled back, eyes locked on hers, Lily’s eyes in her face, now glazed with lust for him. “No other cock will ever touch you,” he vowed, hips snapping faster, the bed slamming against the wall in time with his rhythm. “This sloppy, cunt was made for me. Made by me. Made to take your Daddy’s seed.” His free hand slid between them, calloused fingers finding her clit and rubbing tight, merciless circles that made stars explode behind her eyelids.
She came again with a shattering cry, her pussy spasming wildly around his invading length, walls milking him in powerful contractions. “Daddy, oooh fuck, It’s—it’s, ahhhh!” Fresh tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as her release squirted around him, soaking his cock and thighs, the wet sounds growing even lewder. Her whole body trembled, hips gyrating frantically even as the overstimulation made her whimper.
Snape didn’t slow. He fucked her through it, growling filthy encouragements into her ear. “Yes, cream on Daddy’s cock just like that. So pretty, baby girl. So perfect. You’re going to take every drop when I fill you up.” His pace grew erratic, savage, the long lean strength of his body pressing her deep into the mattress. Sweat slicked his pale, scarred skin, the old burns and marks from his past standing out starkly as he loomed over her.
Harriet clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders, lost completely in the torrent of sensation and taboo desire. The horror lingered at the edges of her mind, this is my father, inside me, this is wrong, but it only fueled the fire, twisting into something darker, more addictive. She wanted to be owned by him. Wanted him to claim every inch of her, just as he had claimed her mother in this very room.
“Again,” he demanded hoarsely, thumb never ceasing its assault on her clit. “Come for Daddy again. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock.”
She obeyed with a broken wail, another orgasm crashing through her, her pussy gushing and fluttering as he continued to pound into her sopping heat. Snape’s own release built, his thrusts growing deeper, more possessive, his balls drawing up tight as he chased his peak.
Harriet was lost to it now, her body arching beneath Snape’s relentless rhythm as he fucked her senseless into the sagging mattress. The bed creaked and slammed against the wall with every savage thrust, the wet, obscene sounds of his thick cock plunging into her dripping cunt filling the dim, book-cluttered bedroom. Her thighs were slick with her own release, the sheets beneath them soaked through, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex and sweat.
Snape’s dark eyes burned down at her, that hooked nose flaring as he watched her face twist in pleasure and shame. “Look at you, Potter,” he hissed, the name laced with old venom and new hunger, “Not James’s fucking smirk, my smirk, all these years. My own blood and Lilys’, making my cock this hard.” He drove in deeper, grinding his hips to force every inch inside her fluttering walls. “I’m going to stretch that smirk open on Daddy’s cock. Stretch your throat until you choke on it. Fill you from both ends for being such a fucking brat. Such a teasing little Potter brat who made Daddy hard every time you walked into a room.”
Harriet mewled, the sound high and broken, her hands clutching at his scarred shoulders. “Professor, nnngh, Daddy, please, ” The titles tangled on her tongue, switching desperately as another wave of pleasure crested. Her virgin cunt clenched greedily around his girth, milking him even as overstimulation made her whimper. “Fill me… fill me like you filled Mum, ahhh, ”
The words did something to him. Snape snarled, a raw, unhinged sound torn from deep in his chest. His thrusts turned brutal, hips snapping with punishing force, balls slapping wetly against her arse. “That’s it, you filthy little thing. Beg Daddy like your mother did. Take it. Take every inch of the cock that made you.” One hand wrapped around her throat, not crushing, but firm, while the other pinned her hip, holding her exactly where he wanted as he railed her. His cock throbbed inside her, stretching her open obscenely, her slick gushing out around the base with every deep plunge.
Harriet sobbed, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, her body shaking. “Daddy, Professor, yes, uhhhh, I’m yours, oooh fuck!” Her walls spasmed wildly, another flood of arousal squirting around his cock as she came hard, vision whiting out.
Snape followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed thickly as he spent himself inside her, hot ropes of cum flooding her cunt, filling her until it leaked out around his shaft in pearly rivulets. “Daddy’s girl now,” he rasped, voice hoarse with release. “Mine. My Potter. My daughter. My filthy little fuck.” He collapsed on top of her, fever-hot and panting, his weight pinning her down, cock still twitching inside her as the last spasms wrung the last drops from him. His scarred chest pressed against her bruised breasts, breath hot against her neck.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant creak of the old house settling around them.
Harriet woke to the dull throb of her head and a deeper, more insistent ache between her thighs. The sheets were tangled around her bare legs, the air in the master bedroom of Spinner’s End still carrying the faint, musky ghost of last night’s sex. Memories crashed over her in vivid, unsparing detail: Snape’s hooked nose pressed against her cheek, his scarred hands pinning her wrists, the thick stretch of his cock claiming her virgin cunt, the way she had sobbed and begged, switching between “Professor” and “Daddy” until the words blurred into one desperate plea. Her face burned even now, alone in the rumpled bed.
The space beside her was empty. No Severus. Just two small glass vials on the bedside table and a folded scrap of parchment in his sharp, spidery hand: Take these.
She uncorked the first and drank without thinking. The pounding in her skull receded almost at once, clarity returning like a cold wind through fog. A blessing. And a curse, because with the hangover gone, the full weight of what they had done settled heavier on her chest. The second vial she eyed warily before swallowing it too. Whatever it was, contraceptive, healing draught, something darker, she couldn’t tell if it did anything at all. Her body still felt marked, used, claimed.
Every step down the narrow stairs was an aching reminder. Her thighs brushed together with each movement, the tender flesh between her legs swollen and slick with the evidence of his release. The house smelled of damp stone, old books, and now the unexpected scent of frying eggs and toast drifting up from below.
She found him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black shirt open at the throat. Severus Snape stood at the ancient stove like any ordinary wizard making breakfast, spatula in hand, the sizzle of eggs loud in the quiet morning. The domesticity of it was jarring after the filth they had shared upstairs.
He glanced over his shoulder as she hovered in the doorway, dark eyes sweeping over her once, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the way she shifted her weight, before returning to the pan. His voice was idle, almost casual.
“Sleep well?”
Harriet’s throat felt tight. “Well enough.” The words came out smaller than she intended, her face heating further. She couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
Snape plated the food with precise movements and set a plate in front of one of the cleared chairs at the cluttered table. “Breakfast, Potter?”
“Yeah. Alright.” She sat, the wooden chair creaking faintly beneath her. Her cunt throbbed as she settled, a fresh reminder that made her bite the inside of her cheek. She picked up her fork but didn’t lift it. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid.
Before she could take a single bite, the words burst out of her. “Are we going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”
Snape set his own fork down slowly. He regarded her across the table, his expression unreadable at first. Then his mouth curved in a thin, mirthless line that bore no resemblance to a smile.
“What,” he said, voice low and precise, each syllable honed like a scalpel, “the matter of me fucking your sweet little virgin cunt raw?”
He let the crude words settle before continuing, the sarcasm in his tone as sharp and cold as winter wind off the Black Lake. “I have no intention of retreating to a time before it occurred. Are you so eager to tread in your mother’s footsteps, Potter? Hoping for a quick Obliviate to scrub the whole distasteful business from your conscience?”
Harriet’s ears burned. She stuttered, fingers tightening around her fork. “N-no. I’m not, I don’t want that.”
He studied her, dark eyes sharpening. “Did you like it?”
The question hung between them, heavy and intimate. Harriet’s pulse hammered in her throat. She couldn’t lie. Not after everything she had confessed in the dark. “Yes,” she whispered.
Snape’s gaze intensified, the air between them shifting, charged. His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Would you do it again?”
She could barely speak. The admission lodged somewhere behind her ribs, tangled with shame and the persistent throb between her legs. Finally, the word slipped out, small but clear.
“Yes.”
Snape’s eyes glinted. “Yes, Daddy,” he corrected, indicating her with a slight tilt of his head.
Her ears went pink, heat flooding all the way down her neck. She managed a quiet, shaky, “Yes, Daddy.”
He smiled. It was unnerving on his severe face, a rare flash of something almost predatory and satisfied. “Good girl, To think all those years of lip, all you needed was a little bit of Daddy’s cock to bring you to heel” he purred. The words sent a fresh pulse of heat through her core. “Now eat up while it’s hot.”
Snape sat in his own chair, nursing a cup of black coffee, the steam curling between them. For a moment he let her take a few bites, crisp bacon, buttered toast, before speaking again.
“What have you told your little friends?”
Harriet paused over a bite of bacon, chewing slowly to buy time. “Nothing,” she admitted at last. “I couldn’t really manage to get it out. I practically repressed it after I found out… and since then…” She shook her head. “They assume I’ve been out on dates with someone.”
“Good,” Snape said simply. “You may maintain that illusion. I presume you know of no one else who is aware of the truth.”
She nodded, and swallowed, throat dry. “So you’re saying we just… date? Publicly? And pretend That we aren’t related?”
“That is exactly what I am proposing.” He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes never leaving hers. “We are both adults, after all. Unless you desire it be publicly acknowledged.”
Harriet nearly choked on her toast. She shook her head rapidly, eyes wide. But she cleared her throat, forcing the words out. “But we are related. You’re actually my dad. Isn’t it… wrong?”
He was silent for a long time, the only sound the faint tick of some unseen clock and the distant drip of a leaky tap. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, almost contemplative. “Had I raised you… perhaps it would have done.” A flicker of that old, expressive rage passed behind his eyes, quick, but unmistakable. Strange, Harriet thought, to realise that some of her own tenacity might come from him, not from the man whose name she carried, the man who shaped her patronus. The father that had died to protect her, protecting instead the seed that had bloomed from her mothers betrayal...
Snape continued, tone shifting back to something cooler. “As it is, clearly Dumbledore did not deign to inform either of us. Tell me, Potter, had you never looked at that memory, would you have, at any point, arrived on my doorstep?”
Harriet blinked, genuinely thinking about it. He would still have been the man who risked everything to protect her for years. The man whose eyes had held hers in the Shrieking Shack with something raw and unguarded. There had always been something in the fights between them, something she had never wanted to examine too closely when hating him had been simpler. She honestly couldn’t think of anywhere else she would have ended up. Wouldn’t she have come here anyway, just to thank him properly?
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. Think I would have done.”
Her throat felt dry. Snape’s gaze lingered on her, dark and knowing. “Well then,” he said, voice dropping into something silkier, “beyond adding a certain flavour to our lovemaking…”
Harriet flushed again at the casual reference, at the way he said “our” like it was already established fact.
“Keep doing that, Potter,” he murmured, eyes flicking to her pink cheeks, “and you’ll make Daddy hard again.”
Her flush deepened, spreading down her chest. Something coy and reckless stirred in her despite the lingering ache and the weight of everything they had just discussed. “That’s fine with me,” she answered, voice quieter but steady.
Harriet’s breath caught as Snape rose from the table, the unmistakable whisper of his belt sliding free sending another hot rush of slick between her thighs. She was learning to get wet from that sound alone. He palmed the growing bulge in his trousers, dark eyes fixed on her flushed face with predatory intent.
“On your knees, Potter,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Daddy’s going to teach you how to use that smart little mouth properly.”
Harriet’s heart hammered, but she slid from the chair without hesitation, the hard kitchen floor cool against her bare knees. The domestic smell of bacon and coffee still lingered in the air, clashing deliciously with the filthy tension crackling between them. She looked up at him, tall, severe, hooked nose and sallow face flushed with arousal, and felt a dark thrill twist low in her belly. Even the vulgarity of it thrilled her: her own father’s cock, the man she had hated and fought for years, now thick and heavy as he freed it from his trousers.
Snape’s cock sprang out, intimidating and flushed dark. Veins stood out along the thick shaft, the heavy length curving slightly upward. He wrapped one long-fingered hand around the base, stroking once, slowly, as he regarded her.
“All that lip you gave me over the years,” he murmured, voice laced with dark satisfaction. “The cheek, the defiance, the way you always had to have the last word. Daddy’s going to have to play catch-up on his discipline of his little girl.” His free hand tangled in her short dark hair, gripping firmly, not painfully, but possessively. “I can tell you’ve never done this before.” The realisation pleased him immensely; his eyes glittered with it. “Good. No one else gets this. Only Daddy.”
Harriet’s cheeks burned hotter, but she nodded, lips parting instinctively. “Teach me, Sir.”
The honorative made something feral flicker across his face. He guided the thick head of his cock to her mouth, rubbing the hot, slick tip across her lips, painting them with precum. “Open. Tongue out. That’s it, good baby girl.”
She obeyed, and he pressed forward slowly, feeding the fat head past her lips. The taste of him, salty, musky, purely him, flooded her senses. Harriet moaned softly around the intrusion, the vibration making Snape hiss. He was too thick for comfort at first; her jaw stretched, the corners of her mouth pulling tight. She gagged lightly when he pushed deeper, but the sound only seemed to spur him on.
“Breathe through your nose,” he instructed, voice strained with pleasure. “Relax your throat. Daddy’s cock is going to train this smart little mouth of yours.” He rocked forward in shallow thrusts, letting her adjust, one hand stroking her cheek while the other kept her head steady. “Look at you. Taking Daddy’s cock like you were made for it. All those years of backchat… and now you’re on your knees in my kitchen with your mouth full.”
Harriet’s eyes watered, but she loved it, the stretch, the helplessness, the way his control made her cunt clench emptily. She reached down between her own thighs, fingers finding her swollen, slick folds. She stroked herself in time with his thrusts, circling her clit as he fed more of his length into her mouth. The vulgarity of it only heightened everything: her own father using her throat, teaching her to suck cock like a good baby girl.
Snape groaned, low and appreciative. “That’s it. Touch yourself while you suck Daddy. Cum with my cock in your mouth, Potter. I want to feel you moan around me when you fall apart.”
He began to fuck her face in earnest then, short, controlled thrusts at first, then deeper, using her throat with growing intensity. Spit slicked her chin, dripping down onto her breasts as she gagged and swallowed around him. The wet, obscene sounds of her sucking filled the kitchen, gluck, gluck, gluck, mingled with her muffled moans and the steady rasp of his breathing. Harriet’s fingers worked faster between her legs, two digits sliding into her own dripping cunt while her thumb rubbed her clit. Pleasure coiled tight and hot in her belly.
“Fuck, yes,” Snape hissed, hips snapping harder. “Take it deeper. Good girl. Choke on Daddy’s cock like the filthy little thing you are.” He held her head still and thrust fully in, burying himself to the root in her throat for a long, breathless moment before pulling back just enough for her to gasp air. Tears streaked her cheeks, but her eyes were glassy with lust. She loved every vulgar second of it.
When she came, it hit her hard, her pussy clenching around her own fingers, a fresh gush of slick coating her hand as she moaned brokenly around his cock. The vibrations made Snape curse, his grip tightening in her hair.
“Perfect,” he growled. “Cum for Daddy just like that.”
He didn’t let her recover. With a rough tug, he pulled her off his cock, strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to the glistening shaft. Harriet panted, dazed and needy, but he was already hauling her up and spinning her around. He bent her over the kitchen counter in one fluid motion, the cool wood pressing against her heated skin and sensitive nipples. Her short dark crop of hair was fisted tightly in his hand as he kicked her legs apart.
“My cunt,” Snape snarled, lining the fat head of his cock against her entrance and driving in with one brutal thrust. Harriet cried out, walls stretching around his thick length as he buried himself to the hilt. “My hair,” he added, yanking her head back by the short strands so he could growl against her ear. “My smart little mouth.” He punctuated each claim with a hard snap of his hips, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the kitchen.
Harriet was feisty even now, pushing back against him, meeting every thrust with a roll of her hips. “Yes, fuck, yours, Daddy,” she gasped, voice hoarse from his cock. “Take my pussy Daddy.”
Snape pistoned into her from behind, the angle deep and punishing, his cock dragging over that sensitive spot inside her with every stroke. One hand stayed fisted in her hair; the other gripped her hip bruisingly, holding her in place as he fucked her over the counter. The dishes rattled. The smell of sex overpowered the breakfast scents. Her juices coated his shaft, dripping down her thighs with every savage thrust.
“Take it,” he hissed, voice ragged. “Take Daddy’s cock like the good little girl you are. All those years of fighting me… and now you’re finally exactly where you should be, home; bent over begging for it.” He reached around to rub her clit roughly, never slowing his pace. “Come again. Come on Daddy’s cock while I fill you up.”
Harriet moaned, feisty and encouraging even as pleasure overwhelmed her. “Yes, Professor—Daddy, fill me… Like mum.. It’s yours, ahhh, all yours!” She came hard around him, walls fluttering and milking his length, fresh slick gushing out around his pistoning cock.
Snape followed with a guttural groan, burying himself deep as he burst inside her again. Hot, thick ropes of cum flooded her cunt, pulsing with each twitch of his cock until it overflowed, leaking down her thighs in messy rivulets. He stayed buried in her, chest pressed to her back, breath hot against her neck, still gripping her short hair possessively.
“Mine,” he rasped one last time, the word both claim and promise.
The kitchen was quiet except for their ragged breathing and the faint drip of something spilled on the floor. Harriet’s legs trembled, but she didn’t want him to pull out. Not yet. The ache, the fullness, the filthy rightness of it all lingered between them like another secret they would have to decide what to do with.
Snape remained buried inside her, his chest pressed to her back, one hand still fisted in her short dark hair. The weight of him anchored her, even as the reality of what they had done, of what they were, settled like ash in her chest.
Unexpected tears pricked at her eyes and spilled over before she could stop them. Silent at first, then shaking her shoulders in quiet, helpless waves. The crash of emotion hit her all at once: the raw stretch of him still inside her, the cum leaking down her thighs in warm rivulets, the memory of his cock in her throat and the filthy words he’d poured over her, and beneath it all the terrible, wonderful truth that this man, her father, wanted her… that she wanted him.
Snape stiffened behind her. His body went rigid, the hand in her hair tightening for a fraction of a second before he pulled away with a sharp, wet sound that made her flinch. He withdrew completely, the sudden absence of him leaving her feeling exposed and cold. His voice came low, cold, and clipped, edged with the first sharp bite of regret he was already refusing to name.
“Why the bloody hell are you crying Potter?”
He turned her roughly, spinning her to face him. Harriet’s legs trembled; she had to grip the edge of the counter for balance. Her glasses had slipped during the frenzy and now fell to the worn floorboards with a soft clatter as she rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. She was shocked at herself, at the sudden, overwhelming tide of feeling that had nothing to do with the physical ache between her legs and everything to do with the man standing before her, half-dressed, cock still glistening with their combined fluids, dark eyes narrowed and guarded.
She looked up at him through blurry vision, voice breaking on the words. “If you’d known… would you have taken me? Would you have loved me?”
The question hung between them, raw and devastating. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks, tracing paths that mingled with the sweat on her skin and, lower, with the evidence of his release still dripping from her.
Snape’s nostrils flared. For a moment Harriet thought she had made him angry, that old, familiar rage she had seen so many times in the classroom, on the battlefield, in the Shrieking Shack. His grip was iron as he caught her wrists, pulling her hands away from her face and forcing her eyes to meet his. The feverish intensity in his gaze pinned her in place, dark and unyielding, the same eyes that had watched her mother in that long-ago memory, the same eyes that had saved her life more times than she could count.
When he finally spoke, his voice cracked, raw, fractured, the careful control he wore like armour splintering at the edges.
“Yes, Harriet.” The name sounded strange and intimate on his tongue, stripped of its usual bite. “I would have. I would have loved you with every ounce of my being. If I had known… you would never have gone a day without knowing it.” His thumbs pressed against the fragile bones of her wrists, not hurting, but holding. “He took that from us. Albus, played his games, with Lily, myself, you. Because the father I would have been would never have sent his daughter to die. Never. And what remains…” His voice dropped lower, bitter and aching. “What remains is a man who will take what he can.”
The words landed like blows and benedictions all at once. Harriet’s breath hitched, fresh tears spilling. She had spent so long seeing him as the enemy, the spy, the man who had killed Dumbledore and then saved her anyway… the man who had loved his mother. There was a pain in knowing what was lost forever, the man who might have loved her the way a daughter should be loved, not this, but something clean. Whole. But that was not the man before her, and she was not that girl. He was this: the father she had never known, the lover who had just ruined her in the most intimate way possible, the man who looked at her with something so fierce and broken it terrified her and fulfilled her and made her ache beyond measure.
Snape’s eyes bored into hers, searching, demanding, offering. The kitchen around them felt too small, too ordinary for the weight of what they were. The counter pressed against the small of her back. His cock, still half-hard, brushed her thigh. Cum cooled on her skin. Her glasses lay forgotten on the floor.
Then he kissed her.
It was not gentle. Snape’s mouth claimed hers with the same desperate intensity he had used when fucking her, hungry, possessive, almost punishing. One hand released her wrist to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her short hair as he pulled her closer. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting of her own tears and the lingering salt of their sex. Harriet made a broken sound into the kiss and surged up to meet him, her free hand fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him down as if she could crawl inside his chest and hide from everything the truth had revealed.
The kiss was anguish and passion tangled together. It tasted of years of silence, of what was stolen which could never be. Snape kissed her like a man drowning, like someone who had spent decades denying himself anything good and was now taking it with both hands before it could be ripped away again. Wrong, but his. His teeth caught her lower lip, not quite biting, and she moaned, pressing her body against his, heedless of the mess between them.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against hers. His eyes were still closed, lashes dark against sallow skin, the lines around his mouth deeper than she had ever seen them.
“Harriet,” he murmured, the name rough and uncertain, as though testing the shape of it. “If this is too much, if I am too much, tell me now. Before this goes any further.”
She shook her head, tears still slipping free, but her hands stayed fisted in his shirt. “It’s already too much,” she whispered. “But I don’t want to stop.”
The admission hung in the quiet kitchen. Snape’s eyes opened, dark and fathomless, carrying the weight of every secret they now shared. Outside, the grey light of Spinner’s End pressed against the grimy windows. Inside, the air still smelled of breakfast and sex and something new, something fragile and dangerous that neither of them had words for yet.
His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek with surprising gentleness.
“Then we don’t stop,” he said simply.
And he kissed her again, slower this time, but no less desperate, as though he could seal every unspoken promise between their mouths before the world outside could find a new way to betray them.