Claimed

If only these characters and this world were mine, but alas, they are not.

As always, kudos to my fabulous beta, Leigh-Anne, who dubbed my Sev & Hermione "the dysfunctional duo" for good reason!

13. CLAIMED

She didn't need Draco Malfoy to tell her she wasn't the professor's type.

The expression on his face when she'd undressed for him – when he'd even gone so far as to transfigure her bra and knickers twice before giving it up as a lost cause – still stabbed her like a pike.

Logically, she knew he didn't like her white knickers because he had changed them, after all.

Neither black lace nor pastel silk had been improvements, from the expression on his face.

She snorted in disgust at herself.

She knew it wasn't the knickers and bra; it was what was in them. (Or wasn't.) It took more than sexy knickers to make a body sexy.

And his last effort – her nude body – had clearly been a futile last resort or a giving up on the cause.

Not that she had been in any way surprised. But none of it helped her plan for tonight.

She couldn't imagine herself in any sort of lacy peignoir or sleeping robe.

The white shirt would have to continue to do the job.

She climbed out of bed and padded into the bathroom to the mirror. She Accioed the shirt, which she'd already freshened. (She really did need to get a magical housekeeping book.)

She slipped it on and tugged off her jeans and examined herself critically.

Her legs were... okay, she supposed. But didn't the shirttail hit her just at the spot that made her knees look knobby? She shortened it. Lengthened it a bit. Went shorter again. She turned around and looked from all sides, even bending over to check out the rearview. Somehow she thought perhaps it was best when it still covered her bum – barely – when she bent over.

Finally she was as satisfied as she was going to get with the length.

The neck was an entirely different matter. There was very little in the way of cleavage to expose, so a deep plunge looked rather sad. On the other hand, if she didn't wear a bra and if it was unbuttoned just so.... It hinted a little. A slight swell peeked out when she moved, without actually revealing anything. Maybe tonight she should just leave that one extra button unbuttoned.

Again, from all angles.

This time, she called it a loss. She buttoned the button. He knew what was there, and no "slight swell" was going to fool him. Best not to emphasize her deficiencies.

Which brought her to her hair.

It was more of a mare's nest than ever. She seemed to be too distracted and busy to even bother lately.

It's not as if he had room to talk.

Of course, he must like it a little. He had saved her from losing it all, hadn't he?

She couldn't do anything about the frizz, but the color... She loved Ron's hair. It was so glossy and shiny and rich. She angled her head and wondered how she'd look ginger.

And while she was contemplating glamours, she had the most ordinary eyes. Why couldn't she at least have blue? Or green – like Harry's. Harry had the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen.

Ron's hair and Harry's eyes.

If she could only come up with a satisfactory body...

Oh, and learn to do glamours while she was at it!

This sex thing would be a piece of cake.

Well, she didn't have time to learn any glamours today so Professor Snape – Severus? She shook her head quickly. She couldn't imagine saying that name, and until he insisted, she wouldn't even try. After all, he'd never once even suggested it, which had to mean something.

She started the water running in the deep tub. She'd at least wash and condition her hair. Plus, she needed another good hot soak in the tub.

X

Thunder cracked in the distance, and the dark grey haze of rain approached.

He'd hoped a brisk hike into the Forbidden Forest would take the edge off his anger, but such was not to be.

He was the one who made one sacrifice after another to save the lives, perhaps even the souls, of ungrateful children. Spoiled brats, all of them.

Draco and Potter at the top of the list.

He'd spent his adult life sacrificing, certainly never having the time or opportunity to fret over sex and friendships and petty betrayals, but the four brats could whinge about nothing but.

Another crack of thunder.

Rain pelted down from overhead.

He took the front steps of Hogwarts two at a time.

He was weary. So fucking weary.

X

Hermione rubbed herself dry and pulled on the shirt and a pair of knickers. She had clean denims in her trunk.

She finally gave up on her hair. It was clean. It was dry. That was the best she could do on a night that crackled with electricity and heavy moist air.

She hung the damp towel over the edge of the tub and emerged from the bathroom.

Professor Snape sprawled in his leather chair, one foot propped on the footstool and the other leg stretched straight.

He seemed to be asleep.

Her pulse pounded at her throat and she felt sick rising in her throat. This morning, she'd been so happy, so sure. Now...

Could she? Could she really?

She closed her eyes, remembered the list, the careful notes she'd made, and the research she'd read.

If she startled him, he'd hex her into next week before he even knew whom he was hexing.

Once he realized it was she, of course, he'd keep hexing.

That made her smile.

She crossed the floor softly and rested on her knees before him.

She considered using her wand, but decided against it.

She studied the face under the strands of heavy black hair. The sharp contours of his cheekbones, the elegant black eyebrows, his strong (she'd decided she liked that word better than the others she'd heard used to describe it) nose and surprisingly supple lips. What was it about his lips that made her tingle and burn and long for things?

He'd never given her a truly proper kiss, but the merest brush of his lips set off a tantalizing and dark reaction in her that nobody else had ever managed in the few long snogging sessions she'd shared before giving up on the activity as not worth the effort.

She forgot to be afraid.

Of hexing.

Or anything else.

She cocked her head and nibbled her lower lip and reached for the top button of his frock coat.

There.

She'd unbuttoned it, and nothing had happened.

She reached for the next.

And the next.

And somehow, she managed to open one after another, until his coat was hanging loose, and yet his breathing was unchanged.

Her own breath quickened.

She licked her lips.

She began to love his buttons. Each time she released one, she released a bit of her own apprehension. Each time the fabric loosened, she felt her own tension loosen. Her mouth flooded with moisture as she began exposing his chest beneath the softly wrinkled white linen.

She hadn't seen it like this since he'd been recovering from the Cruciatus. She'd cared for him, rubbed unguents and massaged potions and even bathed him when she realized the very idea of pointing a wand at his most sensitive parts terrified her.

She longed to stroke his skin again, to touch the sleek, soft black hair that dusted from his sternum down to disappear beneath his waistband and beyond, but dared not... did she?

She glanced up at his face again and saw nothing change again.

She started on the buttons of his trousers and felt her breath catch in her throat. Where before they'd been snug across the crotch, now they... strained.

And still, his breath came in measured, even rhythm.

His lashes rested long and lush on his cheekbones.

She no longer believed he was asleep.

She watched his eyes as she released another button, and another.

He wasn't asleep.

He wasn't hexing her.

And finally there were no more buttons to unfasten, only soft, gaping fabric that hinted without exposing, and a sleek Slytherin snake hypnotizing her with his pretense of sleeping.

And she felt a charge of tantalizing power.

She had yet to touch, to tease, to pleasure.

Yet already, he bulged.

She remained frozen, her fingers still trailing on the last released button, as she watched his eyes. And waited.

The tension mounted.

And then, glittering slits as he let them open to spy, and then they opened slowly until they were fixed upon her when he realized she was staring at him, wanting him to watch. And when she knew he was watching...

She moistened her lips.

He swallowed.

She slid her fingers beneath the edge of the black wool, over hard, hot flesh. She dragged her fingertips down the length of him.

He gripped the arms of the chair.

Her heart thudded in her chest, and her pulse raced as she released him from the bonds of his clothing and, still staring at his face, felt the length and girth and heat of him spring free and throb against the palms of her hands.

She no longer relied on the careful list, the project, but instead simply leaned forward and brushed the mushroom head with her lips, surprised at how soft it was. She couldn't resist tasting its salty surface and found she loved the salt, the softness against her tongue. She stroked, first around the circumference, then found herself tracing runes across him –

And found herself dumped – hard – on the stone floor. Sitting, gasping, and gaping up at him as he towered over her, his penis glistening near her face.

"Miss – Miss Granger," he ground out, enraged. "What in fucking hell are you doing?"

"It's the seventh day," she said hoarsely. "We have to..."

"You don't have to do this."

"But I want to."

He leaned over, grabbed her arms, and jerked her to her feet. He drew her face close to his, and she thought for one wild and wonderful moment that he was going to kiss her. She strained forward, her eyes drifting closed, but instead –

He sniffed her breath.

"What have you been drinking? Did you get into my potions cabinet?" he snarled.

"Why? Don't you believe I can be a wife without a potion?" She closed her hand around his penis and stroked it and thrilled at his response. Her smile was triumphant.

And before he could push her away, she dropped to her knees and took him into her mouth as far as she was able and reveled in the power as his angry words stopped in a choking groan and his hands dug deep into her tangled hair.

"Please," she said, releasing him, and then blowing down the length of his wet flesh. "Let me please you."

She let the tip of her tongue dance the ridged circumference of his head, then washed him from nested base to the moisture gathered at its tip with the flat of her tongue.

She daintily, oh so daintily ... nibbled.

And gloried when that rapier-sharp intellect, that dark chocolate voice could only express itself in a harsh groan.

His fingertips rubbed trembling circles on her scalp. Had he pulled her tighter she might have broken loose, would have had to, because already she had taken him as far into her mouth as she could without choking, but he must know that, mustn't he? His fingers trembled and massaged, and his gasping groans filled her senses, and then she remembered something she'd read –

She opened her mouth, and he released her head, thinking she would pull away.

Instead, her mouth still full of him, she forced her throat to stretch into a yawn and when it opened, took him in to the hilt.

His gasp drove him even deeper.

She didn't, couldn't, move ... at first.

Neither did he.

But her tongue could move, she was astonished to realize, and she wasn't gagging or choking, and she wanted to laugh, to exult, as she gifted this man with the deepest pleasure in her power and knew that it was good.

And suddenly, he was groaning and thrusting, and she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, clutching his arse like it was an anchor, and it was, it was, she would fall, would collapse if she didn't have him to cling to, with hands, with mouth –

And he yanked away –

She cried out in protest –

He flung her across the bed –

She strained up to capture him again –

He pressed her head back into the mattress with one hand fisted in her hair as he groped at her knickers with the other – between her legs – forcing her legs open, moving the elastic edge aside –

And plunged into her.

It hurt.

He thrust.

It hurt.

He stiffened.

It hurt.

And filled her with hot semen.

And she didn't care that it hurt because she could only watch the sensations play across his face, his beautiful face as he hovered over her, braced on his arms. She tentatively moved, squeezed him with all her might – watched his mouth open and his neck tense in a gasp beneath the fall of black hair.

And again, her power surged.

She could bring him pleasure.

She clenched herself around him, angled up to meet his thrust, unable to tear her eyes away from his face, his mouth, his chest, his arms tightly wrapped with lean muscle – cataloguing each reaction that tremored through his body.

And when she could stand it no longer, she reached and took his raspy jaws in her hands and cupped them, and pulled his face down to hers, and strained up to kiss him.

Their lips touched – like lightning touches – and his eyes flew open, and he pulled away, leaving her cold and draining on the bed as he dragged his fingers through his hair and stared at her, his eyes drugged and confused.

"You...you've got to let me..." he gasped. "I had to finish inside of you, but you didn't – you didn't give me a chance to – to prepare you."

She reached again for his face. All she wanted was to feel his lips on hers, to feel his skin against hers. That was all; it was enough, but she needed it, like she needed air to breathe....

But he pulled away. He fell onto the bed beside her, his chest heaving, his penis still swollen though no longer stiff. He stared at her, his black eyes furrowed with confusion. "Where on earth did you... "

She fought a tremor of unease and rolled over to smile down at him. She felt so damned needy having to actually say the words, but say them she did, because she did need. She needed to hear him say that she had pleased him, that she wasn't a ruddy failure at everything but had found at least some way to make him happy. So despite a cold fluttering in her stomach she forced a smile. "It ... it was good?"

He frowned in disbelief. "Miss Granger, your modesty seems a bit disingenuous," he drawled as he winced and tucked himself back into his trousers, began the long process of buttoning. "I had no idea you had such hidden talents."

He rolled his head sideways and stared at her through hooded eyes. "Although ... although now that I think of it, it explains so much."

Her smile made her cheeks ache. He was paying her a compliment, in his own way. But still...

"I presume I'm not the first to have told you so."

What...what had he said?

Her blood froze in her veins.

Not the first to...?

She rubbed her hand across her mouth, and when he'd rolled away from her –

She grabbed her cloak and ran for the door.

She would not let him see her cry.

She slipped through the wards and ran blindly for safety.

She would not let him see her cry.

And when she heard him try to follow her into the corridor she flung a breathless "Stupefy!" over her shoulder, saw the bolt of red hit him in the chest, and kept running.

She would not let him see her cry again.