2/7: Liquid Lust

A/N: These characters are the property of JK Rowling and Warner Bros. I make no money from this story and claim no rights. Nothing you recognise belongs to me.

Great thanks to Voxangelus, who graciously stepped in as a fresh pair of eyes, and took a lot of pressure off, just because she liked the story..

The second day after the Night of Screams was a haze of orders, chores, commands, and punishments. Snape was irritable, impatient, demanding, and picky, and each infraction was rewarded with a barrage of haranguing language, mental abuse, and contempt.

If she truly displeased him, he either slapped her or threw her over his knees and literally spanked her, his large hand hard and merciless. He would then heal the hurt flesh, telling her to "Shush". His calm, almost apologetic manner when healing her was in such direct contrast to his apoplectic rage he seemed like a different person entirely. He never healed in anger.

Hermione was terrified of offending him. She was terrified of him, full stop. Alone at night, flooded with sadness and loss, she wept almost continuously. In his presence, she was too afraid to show any emotion whatsoever. Any sign of weakness was so inflammatory as to be criminal. He had always been swift and cruel; now he was manic in his ferocious desire to punish her for the most minor of infractions. Cowering seemed to be the most punishable offense.

As the only one of the trio who could boil water, Hermione had learned to cook during the long months on the run with Harry and Ron, so she tried to appease Snape with good food. Snape ate anything she put on the table and consumed it with relish, but never commented on her cooking. He never spoke to her at all, for that matter, except to issue orders or maltreatment. Hermione had to eat her meals standing over the sink.

In between the abuse, the cooking and the palpable fear that permeated the very air, was the work. Manual, hard, magic-less, often pointless labour. She was tasked with cleaning Snape's home from the moment she awoke to when she fell asleep on the old sofa in the front room in the evening. Hermione had indeed become a house-elf.

It was a monumental task that would probably take weeks. The house was dilapidated and grubby and possessed all the decrepit charm of a dying flobberworm.

On the third day of his ownership, Hermione was on her knees, scrubbing a kitchen floor that had been aging when Chamberlain was Prime Minister; it was caked with years of embedded grime, and Hermione was already filthy from sloshing dirty water with the heavy brush he'd given her. Her knees, arms and even the tips of her breasts were black. He had still refused to give her clothes.

Out of the blue, apropos of nothing, Snape asked, "Are you still sore?"

Hermione looked up from the floor she was scrubbing. "Sir?"

He scowled, and rattled the newspaper he'd been reading. He spat, "Y-your - your cunt, stupid girl! Is it still sore?"

Withering beneath his coarse, cruel words, Hermione whispered, "Not as much, sir." When he did not reply, she returned uncertainly to her task.

She continued scrubbing, until she realised she was being watched. As she looked up, she met his basilisk gaze, and was unable to look away. After several seconds, he folded his newspaper with an impatient movement. Standing, he beckoned her. "Come. Come with me."

Hermione quickly jumped to her feet and followed him, rubbing her filthy hands on her bare flanks to dry them. He walked into the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. With an impatient gesture upward, he snapped, "Go on, up you get."

Hermione climbed the stairs, feeling the sick, cold realisation that Snape was several steps below her, watching her bare arse shift and move as she climbed. It gave her a feeling of helpless misery, wondering what he was thinking. He'd already called her body skinny, underdeveloped, boyish. He'd said those things with contempt in his voice. What must he be thinking now?

As if to answer, she received a sharp, painful slap on her backside. "Move, girl! Don't be so lazy!" Hermione scampered up the remaining stairs.

On the top landing he caught her arm and pulled her back into his bedroom. Hermione stood at the foot of his bed and thought, He's going to rape me. It's his privilege. She had known this moment would come; she had tried to steel herself for it for the last two days. She could only hope that he would be quick. That was something she could live with; just be quick.

"I will take all the time I require, Miss Granger," he said, smirking. He studied her surprised expression with his usual disdain. "You're so easy to read, girl. Like a child's book. How did you survive while the others did not?" He sighed irritably, as if to disagree with the fickle nature of fate.

"Sit." Once she had complied, he joined her on the side of the bed, and muttered a quick, rasping Scourgify to scrub the remnants of grime from her body.

Hermione kept silent as the cleansing spell rode over her like sandpaper. Even Snape's spells were tactile and abrasive. He leaned back, as if to inspect the results, then reached into the bedside cabinet and retrieved a small bottle. "Drink this."

Hermione took the bottle without hesitation. That was another hard-earned lesson. If she hesitated in drinking a potion, he grabbed the closest thing, usually her hair or her nose, and literally forced the liquid down her throat. The previous day she had choked so hard on her Pain Potion, spots had formed in front of her eyes. She stood, coughing and spluttering, while he berated her for her disobedience. "At this rate you'll be naked until you die," he'd snorted, his hands crossed in front of his chest, watching her struggle to breathe.

This potion was sky blue, and smelled of raspberries. She drank it down and immediately he chuckled. "I should think your tune is about to change, Miss Granger." He patted her thigh almost reassuringly.

Hermione looked at him, her expression puzzled. Suddenly her body felt as if it were electrically charged. She gasped as the bottle fell from her nerveless fingers. She felt a crippling sensation of need; it overwhelmed rational thought and consciousness. It was as intense as hunger, and as painful as menstrual cramps. She looked down at his hand, resting lightly on her leg, and felt that she would die if he moved it away. As if he heard her thoughts, he stroked her thigh softly, causing her to moan and shiver. Comprehension dawned immediately, and she looked up at him with shame-filled eyes that were drugged with desire.

"Lust... potion," she gasped, trying to rise, humiliation battling with an arousal so intense that she wavered toward him even as she tried to pull away.

"Yes, a rather powerful one, Miss Granger," he said smugly, and stroked her thigh again, causing her to writhe and whimper. "I've been experimenting with it. You're as good a guinea pig as any."

And then she was on him, her kisses and caresses clumsy and artless. She frantically tried to cover him with her body, tearing at buttons, making helpless, apologetic mewling noises in her throat that made him laugh again. He allowed her a few brief minutes in her fruitless attempt to remove his clothing before rising.

"Subtle as a hippogriff, you Gryffindors. No style," he sneered. "Is this what you want?" He purred, before magically removing his clothing.

Hermione had little time to contemplate his long, slender frame, his pale, scarred flesh, before she was covering him in kisses that were desperate and mortifying, and she felt tears slide from her eyes even as she sank to her knees, blindly questing down to the one part of his anatomy that set them apart; the one part that every Death Eater had demanded she pay tribute to before violating her. Every Death Eater had taken her that night, save the one before her now.

Even flaccid, his uncut cock was large, and although Hermione had not so much as touched a penis more than three nights before, she had been well instructed by her rapists, and the potion now driving her body steered her soft hands and softer mouth unerringly toward her goal.

Severus initially watched her inexperienced attempts to pleasure him with detached amusement. Now, looking down at her, seeing her glazed eyes roaming hungrily over his body, he felt no longer completely in charge of his own emotions.

She held his cock between her palms reverently, as if it were the most longed-for treasure. Suddenly, he was as hard as if he, too, had taken the potion, and his erection leapt in her hands. He was dismayed at his own reaction. He was supposed to spurn her; deride her too-thin body and leave her alone to writhe in torment and rejection.

And then her pink mouth enveloped him.

It felt so wondrous it stunned him; his knees buckled, and he fell back against the bed, holding onto her hair so that she would follow him. It was not the knowing, practiced hands and tongue of a professional. It was the clumsy, awkward fumbling of innocence, and it took him back to his own youth, and the first time a girl willingly bent her knees for him. It was sweet and naïve, and it undid him. A soft moan escaped his lips. She heard it, and it drove a spike of lust so deep into her brain she could barely breathe.

Severus knew he should taunt her; call her names like "cheap whore" and "trollop" and "Gryffindor tart", but he could not. He felt her warm, moist mouth cradle him and suck him and it felt real, unsolicited. He knew it was the potion, and that she would never have even dreamed of willingly sucking off her Potions professor, but she was moaning deliriously, deep in her throat, and the sound was reverberating up through his balls into his cock in a way that was both innocent and erotically pagan. His eyes rolled in the back of his head, and he cursed himself for his weakness even as he pulled her closer between his thighs and crooned softly.

Hermione felt his hand on the back of her head, urging her to take him deeper, and the sweet sound he made almost made her orgasm. Whatever he was, she was obviously giving him what he wanted. He smelled so good; she buried her face into his pubic hair, sniffing appreciatively, her hand winding around his waist. She touched him everywhere, unafraid, and his hands relaxed and slid against her shoulders.

She moaned again, causing him to buck, and without thought her hand drifted down to her crotch, sliding between her labia; touching herself as she tried to pleasure him.

His eyes slid open to watch her, licking him like a lolly, one hand stroking his balls, the other feverishly rubbing her swollen sex in time with her flickering tongue. Her innocent self-gratification intoxicated him, and he wanted to sit and watch her. He wanted to see her come...

Inexplicably, he found his anger rising again. Fury seared into his heart, and he grabbed her hair painfully and yanked her head away. She cried out in protest as he pulled her away from his cock and heaved her onto her feet. "Selfish little bitch! I didn't give you the potion to gratify yourself!"

He spun her around and pushed her face down onto the bed. Thrusting his fingers harshly into her slick and ready cunt, he growled, "Your first priority is my pleasure, girl! I don't give a fuck if you enjoy it!"

He drove himself into her, balls deep. He pounded into her, roaring with lust at her tight, wet heat, knowing he wouldn't last long, and not caring. He fucked her without regard for her pleasure, safety, or sanity. Brutal, hard thrusts tore away tender, healing tissue, and found places the potion helped Hermione to newly identify. She knew she was being used and it was an abomination, but in spite of this she could feel her body readying to fly apart beneath him, and what was more, Snape could feel it, too. He smacked her backside with all the force in his arm, shocking her out of her potion-induced desire.

"You will not come!" he shouted, and began to push the cheeks of her bottom apart. He spit twice, his cold spittle hitting the target of her puckered hole, causing her to yelp. His long, middle finger pushed hard into her anus, up to the knuckle, and twisted painfully. She began to howl.

"No! This is not your pleasure!" he cried, and then he was coming – unexpectedly, intensely, painfully hard, with deep punishing strokes, as his orgasm turned his cock inside out and drained his balls dry, tearing cry after cry from his throat, against his will.

He slumped over her, breathless, head spinning, his cock still jerking and quivering. He could feel her body shudder as he withdrew his finger from her rectum. For a long moment they stayed locked together, until their breathing quieted. He slid from her tight, enticing passage, spent and useless.

He leaned forward and planted a kiss between her sweaty shoulder blades, making her shudder. "You're here as a convenient hole, Miss Granger," he crooned, his voice tender, sensual. "You are a means to relieve stress. Your pleasure is of no import to me, nor is your comfort. The next time it will be my cock in your arse, not my finger. I don't want you to enjoy it, witch. I want you to remember it, because you will never be anything but a tool, and an imperfect one, at that."

He rose from her prone body and muttered a cleansing charm over his body. He quickly dressed and headed downstairs, calling over his shoulder, "Clean yourself up and get back to work. That floor isn't going to scrub itself."

Hermione heard the door close behind him, and she began to weep; great, braying sobs that threatened to make her physically sick. Shame and degradation washed over her; he had used her like the lowest Knockturn Alley whore and she had initially reveled in it. She knew it was the potion he'd forced her to take, but it felt real. It felt like how she'd always thought desire would feel; a bending, twisting emotion that drove everything from her mind but need and lust and want for her lover.

And it was as real as a glamour.

Gradually she rose, and wiping her eyes, walked into the loo. There was an old, spotted mirror on the front of the medicine cabinet, and Hermione looked at her woeful reflection. Her eyes were dead; her skin, flushed and splotchy, was also dead. The only part of her left alive was her cunt, still buzzing and throbbing, unrelieved from his unfulfilling consummation. For a mad moment she wished he'd beaten her; it would not have hurt as badly as this.

"You will not come," he had said. His word was law in this house, and although she was alone and knew it would take the briefest of time to bring herself off, Hermione knew Snape would know if she did. She did not want to know how he would punish her for that offense.

For a dark, hopeless moment, Hermione wanted to die. There was a drinking glass sitting on the chipped sink. Hermione studied it for a moment and thought, I could smash the glass and eat the pieces. By the time he realised what was happening, it would be over.

Oddly enough, she did not blame Snape. She blamed herself. If I had not been so stupid, she thought, I would be dead with Harry and Ron and the others.

No. She knew that wasn't true. She knew she wasn't stupid; merely unlucky. Snape certainly wasn't worth taking her own life. Hermione decided that when and if she was to die, it would be on her terms. But she'd have to be subtle about it. Snape set a great store on subtlety.