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Hermione Granger sets the wards for the month at Gryffindor Tower. It still feels strange not to have Minerva by her side this month, but she’s a grown-up Head of House now and Minerva is probably putting her feet up in her cozy cottage in the Scottish countryside relaxing with a glass of brandy.
That’s neither here nor there, Hermione, she thinks to herself. After that disastrous night with Ronald, and subsequent period from Hell, never again!
It’s a sad fact that she and drink simply didn’t mix well. She consistently makes terrible decisions once her inhibitions loosen, and for someone as uptight and rules-obsessed as Hermione Granger, inhibitions are her bread and butter.
Ahh, speaking of butter….
Hermione feels smooth, light, and bubbly as the power flows through her fingers into her wand. The password is changed (Kneasel Fluff), much like the ginger threads stuck to her sweater (Crookshanks is her only angry ginger boy now that she and Ron have been officially broken up for nearly a year, and she aims to keep it that way), and she rubs her thighs together with irritation as she watches a straggling firstie (probably back from detention with Filch) try to reach the portrait.
It’s way past Hermione-pleasures-herself o’clock and this little moron can’t pick up the pace to save his life. Can’t a witch get a break?
She lets out a fuming sigh, and the kid jerks his head up, eyes like a deer caught in headlights. Hermione frowns and squints (her eyes aren’t what they used to be, but she’s too proud to wear her glasses because she only needs them for distance). In the dark and shadowy stairwell, a larger shadow materializes behind the boy.
“Professor Granger,” comes an achingly familiar drawl as Headmaster Severus Snape appears in the flickering light of the torch on the landing, “I believe this belongs to you.”
Hermione makes a small eep noise, her panic fluttering between excitement and self-consciousness (and more than a little bit of arousal), and points her wand at the Fat Lady’s portrait, pushing it open so quickly that the Fat Lady herself careens to the side of her frame with an expletive.
“In you get, MacConnell,” she growls, doing her best Stern Professor voice with a hint of Now You’ve Stepped In It.
The tiny Gryffindor (Hermione thinks, was I ever that small? ) rockets up the last few stairs as though afraid of being eaten by the tall, dark Headmaster behind him and flies through the door.
Severus Snape’s lips twitch up on one side as he fixes her with a look that is as indecipherable as it is alluring.
Hermione bites her lip and thinks of an entirely different sort of eating
“Walk with me, Professor ,” Snape says, turning abruptly. Hermione closes the portrait and bids the Fat Lady a hasty apology before she scrambles after him.
As they walk, Hermione notices things. How the portraits fall into a deep slumber as they pass. So it’s true that the Headmaster has made it so he walks the halls unobserved. Then there is the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his shoulders from the corner of her eye. A distinctive scent on his robes so intoxicating that she has to fight with herself not to inhale deeply and tip him off. The way he glides as though he is floating on air.
She tries not to imagine how graceful he would be in bed with his tongue.
She fails spectacularly.
He clears his throat and she blanches. Did he hear my thoughts? Oh shit, oh shit ohshitohshitoh-
“You seem tense, Hermione,” he says, and her heart gallops in her chest at the sound of her name on his lips. “Trouble with the wards tonight?”
“N-no,” she replies, catching herself and forcing her voice to come out more evenly. Just talk business, Hermione! You can drone on for hours when it’s anyone else but him! “I was just thinking that MInerva must be having a cuppa and enjoying her night at home.”
He snorts softly and she turns her head to look at him, then blushes, loses her nerve, and looks away again.
“I practically had to unhook her little paws from the castle gates,” he replies, painting a humorous mental image that starts Hermione giggling. “She kept insisting that dealing with these little hellions keeps her young . Utter bollocks, is what that is.”
Hermione looks at the few streaks of gray that run down his temples in a distinguished looking manner and smirks. “You’re one to talk. For all your grumbling about the students, you always make sure they’re safe.”
“It would simply tarnish my record if one of the little beasties were to perish on my watch, no more no less,” he replies, crossing his arms.
Hermione is pretty sure that it’s impossible to feel her ovaries tingle, and yet, she feels it anyway. Her thoughts are drawn back to that disastrous night with Ron, and how she’d washed down her doubts with alcohol. Well, now she is as sober as a judge, and her body is aching with lewdness for the Headmaster...who is also her boss.
It is so wrong, she thinks.
That just makes it hotter.
She tries to still her turbulent thoughts and will the wet spot that’s beginning to spread in her knickers to recede. “Well, regardless of your motivations, we all appreciate how protective you are of us.”
He turns his head and gives her a strange look, catching her eye, then she turns away again and casts her eyes over a painting of a lake with a snoring reptilian beast in the middle. But...is that a hint of colour in his sallow cheeks?
They walk in silence for a time, and Hermione focuses on the sound of Severus breathing, the beat of her foolish heart as she puts one foot in front of the other. Something about the darkened hallways and the quiet in the castle due to the late hour gives everything an almost dreamlike quality. They stop abruptly and Hermione realizes that they have somehow reached the Headmaster’s office without her noticing it. Has he Apparated them somehow? She blinks and looks around, somewhat confused.
“Hermione...would you join me for a drink?” he says, gesturing to the door. It opens silently, and she steps inside, letting him follow her like a shadow. She knows it’s impossible, but still somehow she can feel waves of heat and power radiating off of him and pulsing against her back like a dark sun. She is seized by an almost hysterical urge to turn and rip his coat open, sending buttons flying everywhere—
No, Hermione. You must keep your cool!
Severus gestures for her to sit on a plush couch that had not been there back when Dumbledore was Headmaster. A small coffee table held a large teapot and some chocolate dipped shortbread biscuits.
Hermione lets out a sigh of relief.
“Something wrong?” he asks, turning to her with an expression she hasn’t seen on his face before. Concern.
“I...I wasn’t sure if by a drink , you meant something...alcoholic.” She trails off, feeling stupid.
His gaze intensifies and she feels like a deer in headlights. “Would you prefer something of that nature instead?”
“Oh...oh! No, no!” She puts up her hands and shakes them to indicate that she meant nothing of the sort. “I was...and you’re going to think I’m ridiculous, but I was actually hoping it wouldn’t be...er...alcoholic….and ooh, I’m blathering aren’t I? Is it hot in here?”
She goes silent and stares at the steam curling from the spout of the teapot, trying very hard not to look at the expression that must now be on the Headmaster’s face. Here she is, alone with him for the first time in ages, and all she can do is act like a hysterical idiot.
“I am glad to hear you say that, Hermione,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. A pleasurable sensation almost like an electric shock travels through her body when she realizes that one of his hands is resting on her knee.
“Y-you are?” She tries and fails to make sense of why he would say such a thing.
“Yes. You see, I had to be certain,” he says, as though his reasoning is as clear to her as it is to him.
“That I like biscuits and tea?” she blurts out before she can stop herself.
He chuckles at that, and she feels the deep vibration of his voice pulsing through her chest...among other things.
“You are amusing when you are sober, Hermione, despite what you seem to believe.” He is searching her face, now, his eyes drawing her in.
She is leaning forward unconsciously, her body drawn to him like a magnet.
How strange , she thinks as she registers that her hand is pressed against his chest. How did that get there?
He makes no move to remove her hand, either, and she allows herself the pleasure of the tactile sensation of the fine threads of his robes and the heat of his body underneath it.
The tea and treats lie forgotten on the table as they stare at one another in silence for long minutes.
“I knew it,” he breathes at last, and she can feel something unseen brushing up against her mind.
“Please, tell me,” she begs, not caring if he disrespects her for asking. The tension is gnawing at her, and she feels her core pulsing with the stress of not knowing the full extent of the situation.
His face is so, so close to hers, now. His lips barely move as he whispers to her, his breath hot upon her face as she breathes him in. “You...do you really wish to know?”
“Yes!” she breathes back, the urgency hissing through her teeth.
“It is only fair,” he replies, his cheeks scarlet as his hands rise to cup her cheeks and without breaking eye contacts, he presses his lips against hers.
A light blasts through Hermione’s head and she is flooded with all manner of mental images—daydreams and fantasies that she’s imagined for months including him in all matter of unspeakably naughty acts...only...these are...they are from…
“...your point of view,” she whispers, and she realizes that the fire in his eyes has only intensified as he kisses her again and again, the dam of their repressed feelings for one another breaking in the face of the truth.
There is a singular truth and that truth is this:
They have both been fantasizing of this moment for months, maybe years...and in a single moment it breaks free, flooding them both with a need beyond any sense of control.
Her fingers tear at his buttons, some go flying, others hold tight against her onslaught. His breaths are fast, feverish, as she undoes them and he helps her, both growling in frustration until he is finally free of the confining garment. He peels her robes off of her his hands instantly going to her hot, naked flesh, running them up and down as though memorizing her form with touch alone.
They leave a trail of garments as they snog their way to the desk, and Hermione comes back to herself momentarily when she hops up on the cold polished wood and her bare arse prickles with gooseflesh.
“Allow me,” he pants into her mouth, his thin lips scarlet with arousal as he wandlessly levitates his robes and spreads them across the surface. With sure, graceful fingers, he lifts her, warmth against warmth, and settles her onto the fabric, which is as luxurious as it is dark.
She wraps her legs around him, feeling his cock straining against her thigh, and he shivers and bites his lip when she trails kisses down his neck and sucks deeply on the hollow between his collar bone enough to leave a small rosy mark.
She is oh, so wet, and she realizes with a clear mind and pounding heart, that they will soon be joined.
Her thoughts flutter in time with her core. If he wanted to get a witch pregnant...
It is as inevitable as the coming sun.
He trails down, his cock still rosy and stiff, his lips and tongue tasting her nipples, kissing her breasts with methodical slowness.
She lets out a moan of frustration and need, and pulls back, letting her nipple slip from between his lips with a wet sound that would have been embarrassing if it had been anyone other than Severus looming over her, the intent in his body language louder than words.
She feels his body press over hers, drawing down until they are lip to lip, her hot breath beginning where his ends.
He slips into her, then, filling her deliciously full, and she arches her back, feeling a ring of pleasure as he slides in and out at a steady, determined rhythm. His eyes are black with desire, all pupil as he stares into her eyes.
“Y-you-ahh-are perfection,” he whispers, and his hands are at it again, sliding across her body, memorizing every bit of her.
“A-ah-and—-ah!-- Yes! There! Deeper, hnghhh!” She angles her hips slightly and he somehow slips deeper inside of her, bottoming out in the depth of her core.
Her eyes roll back into her head as he rubs her nipples with one hand, then massages her clit gently in a circle until she’s begging him to let her come.
“If you do,” he pants, “I— I will h-have no choice…”
She pulses deeply, knowing the meaning of those words, and relishes him shuddering against her, his moan long and low.
“You have no choice,” she whispers into his ear, stroking his head and trailing down to rest her fingers protectively on his hip. “I want you to come inside of me.”
“Ah….no….Hermione!” His breathing grows ragged and she can feel him shuddering. His cock twitches inside of her and she can feel him stiffening, wanting nothing more than to do what she has asked of him.
And yet, still, he holds himself back. He rubs her clit more quickly, urgently, now. She can feel her own orgasm building as he tries to hold himself still with his bare cock deep inside of her.
“ Please ,” he begs, and he’s asking for release, relief, mercy, something to tell him that he isn’t forcing this upon her.
“Fill me up, Severus,” she moans, and she knows that she could never say this to anyone else, “Oh god, please….pour your cum deep into my womb!”
“Are you sure?” His whisper is more growl than words, as possessive as it is wary. “This...connection...ah….it is deep and ancient magic. Fertility magic.”
Instead of slowing her down, somehow this drives Hermione more wild with need.
“Oh god,” she moans, “Make a baby with me…”
She can’t hold out any more, and neither can he, he thrusts back slowly and drives his cock to the hilt, and she can feel him filling her womb with his semen as she pulses uncontrollably around him, her mind weightless with pleasure as she comes and comes and comes.
They lie together entangled in sweat and the afterglow of pleasure, Severus kissing her neck softly and Hermione searching out his fingers to intertwine in hers. They pull his robes over themselves, cuddling and sated until the need rises again and they give in once again to their urges. By morning, the mirrors in the office are steamed up and the entire room smells of sex.
Hermione lies with a belly that pouches out slightly with the amount of cum swimming about inside of her. She pats it softly as Severus snuggles closer to her under their makeshift duvet.
Pregnant, she thinks, her insides twitching with pleasure and rightness. I am pregnant. I am.
Logically, she should be thinking of the ramifications of this development, and not of the hours she wishes to dedicate to taking him and being taken until they are truly spent and can move no more.
But this is not a time for logic. No, as Hermione feels her heart beating soundly in her chest, she realizes perhaps it is time to be thinking with something other than her know-it-all mind for a change.
Hermione’s heart knows what it wants, and as she shifts, pressing chest-to-chest with a dozing, smiling Severus Snape, she can feel his heart beating perfectly in time with hers.
Knock Knock.
Neither of them register the sound until—
“Severus? Hermione?!” The sound of Minerva McGonagall’s voice freezes them both. She clucks and clears her throat. “Well, I just needed to pop in for a moment. Forgot my knitting bag, you see. Er...well...I’ve got it, so I’ll just see myself out.”
Hermione buries her face into Severus’ chest under the robes as though she can become invisible if she just avoids looking at the previous headmistress. Severus lets out something like a hysterical giggle that is mercifully dampened by her hair.
“Oh, and by the way, if you’re planning a series of these little rendezvouses, may I suggest turning off your Floo before you begin?” Neither of them have to look to hear the smirk on Minerva’s face.
With that, they both cringe as her footsteps fade (Hermione catches Minerva saying something to the effect of “owes me ten galleons!”) into the other room and then there is the sound of the fire roaring loudly as she Floos away.
Severus groans reluctantly as he extricates himself from her arms and stomps over to the fireplace, taking out his embarrassment on the poor mantle.
“It could be worse,” Hermione says before she can stop herself. “Could have been Umbridge.”
He strides back to her, a wicked look on his face. “Does getting caught turn you on, Hermione?”
She bites her lip. “And if it does?”
He laughs low and kisses her deeply, their bodies already humming with need for another round. She wants him in every way she can have him and he is only too eager to oblige.
Mine, all mine.
Hermione grins.