5

Trouble is, he's a Slytherin and it's not Slytherin nature to get caught. But she's alone with a stack of books, and he knows the Library's his best chance. Empty, yes, she's the only one who'd come here on a Saturday, but there's always Pince, and besides, this is the Restricted Section. There are books here that scream if you breathe wrong, wail at the touch of an un-gloved hand, burst into flame if you mispronounce their titles. Someone will come. And, failing that, he can make her mad. Make her run crying to Minerva; he knows her reputation as a temper and a tell-tale. He approaches silently. She doesn't look up from Magick Moste Evile. It's not the first time she's read it, he knows, it's the ninth at the very least. His first act as Defense master was to charm the darker texts to alert him if a student so much as touched their spines. Hermione seems to be making a list. From the looks of it she's writing down every title referenced by the tome in front of her. As if that's the kind of thing that will help Potter--

Help, Potter. Not the blue bottle, too late for that now. But listen to me, see me. See this, the two of us. Too late for blue bottles. But it's not too late to tell her, so please, Potter, help, Potter, look, please, look here. Before you go to Him and death and to your mother, look at us. You have to see. I need you to tell her, need your help, Potter. Harry. Help--

As if that's the kind of thing that will help Potter with this war, Potter who is pudging up for the slaughter. He was almost willing to do as Albus asked, dispatch him then and there, hearing that. Lily's son. And how it will hurt this girl when the boy dies. This girl who he has to hurt now, hurt to save Albus, save himself, save her too. Expulsion is nothing, shame is nothing, not if it means she'll be sent off miles away and safe from all of this.

"Anyone who tells you, Miss Granger, that it's worthwhile to fight fire with fire is either a fool or a pyromaniac. Tell me, what are you looking for in that particular book?"

"I would prefer not to discuss it, Professor."

"We all have our preferences. I, for instance, would much prefer you naked at the moment."

Her eyes snap to him. The other times it simply happened, no discussion before or after. Simpering goody-girl. Surely crassness will embarrass her. Surely there will be tears. With luck she'll run to Minerva to confess and not the Headmaster. The more people who hear, the better, though either way he'll be out on his arse by sundown. She stands. Her eyes dart towards the door. She crosses to it. Perfect, she's going to leave him. He ignores the sudden twinge. It has to happen this way.

But no, she closes the door firmly and turns to him. There it is again. The last thing he expected. His smile.

Clearly he knows her not at all. The amount of trouble she gets into. Something about it draws her; he should have seen it sooner. All her prissing around can't hide it. Their little army was her idea, he knows, and the Polyjuice too. Astounding how she has the whole staff fooled. Hermione, the reasonable tagalong, trying and failing to keep those foolish boys in line.

A quick flick of her wand and she is naked before him.

Extraordinary. Exquisite.

He knows her not at all.

They won't be safe unless she's wounded and wild.

Without a word he frees his prick. It's hard as anything. She stares at him, at it; it feels harder still under her eyes. His blood thrums. He needs her almost as much as he needs to hurt her. "Tits to the table, Miss Granger. I am going to fuck you full of splinters."

She complies without hesitation, eager legs parted to make things easier for him.

The girl must be mad.

He's lived a spy for years. Survived. It's a simple question of playing a role. Of thinking a thing to say and saying it. "Nimue fucked her teacher too," he says. "Whored herself to Merlin for a bit of knowledge. Do you want it like that, then? Do you think you're ready for what I could teach you?"

She moans a little and wriggles towards him. And they say Slytherins are perverse. It's horrible how he wants her. He hasn't yet touched her today, and he doesn't, not until he plunges into her, no warning. He expected some resistance, but she's wet for him, slick as she's ever been. Astounding. "You like it this way?" The incredulous words come before he can stop them.

"It's a little different," she says, breathless but calm, reassuring, like they were having an ordinary conversation, "but it's quite nice, actually." She pushes back against him and clenches as if to prove it.

He groans and trusts. So be it. "I'm going to make you come, Hermione, and when you do I want you loud. A wizard likes to know he's appreciated."

The heat of this girl...there's nothing like it. She quivers around him, divine. She rocks back against him and he drives into her roughly. He'd like nothing better than to fuck her to pieces, and he tells her so. In no time at all he has her howling. No one appears to stop them. The table beneath her creaks. Her breasts slap against its surface and she grunts and no pair of sounds has ever been so pleasing. He pistons in, out, in, out, and when, with a throaty cry, she comes tight on his cock once more, he realizes: this is far from the first crime he's committed on school grounds. Since his mark burned black again, nothing, no ward or ghost or painting or colleague, has ever stood in his way. Albus knows his spy must edge right up against the darkness. Albus knows a spy with no way to slip around the rules is no good to the Order. The Headmaster must have the castle itself charmed to cloak his every wrongdoing.

What a terrible thing it is to be trusted.

Hermione will be hoarse this afternoon from the way she's screaming beneath him, but on the shelves the books stay still as stones. He expects he could bugger her at breakfast in the Great Hall and somehow get away with it. No one will see him, no one will stop him, no one will save him. Only the girl beneath him can do that now. There are many magics that can force the truth to light, but not one that can permanently suppress it. Not when a strong mind's determined to speak it clear. Severus has got to hurt her enough to make her tell. But he's been watching her. It will take a lot. She's nearly outgrown running to the authorities. She's the kind to keep a secret close. All too late he remembers the way she marked that Edgecomb tattler. Still, Severus knows he has a gift, a curse, a weapon: ever since that day with Lily at the lake he has an instinct for knowing the cruelest thing a person could possibly say.

You, girl, are no Nimue.

Nimue came to her teacher intact.

You're nothing but a convenience.

You like this world, don't you? So much you'd do anything to belong, open those legs wide for anyone who asks.

Desperate little thing like you I'd barely call a witch.

More like a hole that needs filling.

He knows to cast an Unforgivable you have to mean it. Speaking something unforgivable though, that can be all too easy. Since the lake he hasn't let it be. Oh, he insults people, but the stinging words are calculated. Nothing ever just slips out.

You, girl, are no Nimue.

You don't belong here; you know it. That's why you're so quick to spread yourself for those who do.

Squirm for me. Feel my prick inside. You like it deep like this, rough like this, hard enough to split you in half. This is the most real magic you will ever get. Common chit like you won't ever belong here, but I'll let you pretend if you come for me now, and come hard.

Even in the first war he never felt as powerful as this. Her hips are going to bruise from his grip. Good. Evidence for when she runs...limps!...sniffling to someone kinder. Astounding she's still tight, wet, and willing, given the unrelenting way he's driving. So young, so lovely, so absurdly full of trust. Severus has to speak. He knows the terrible words that will save them both. Hermione will hate him, but she'll stop his mad pact with Albus. All he has to do is say it: you, girl, are no Nimue.

When the Dementors come for him they won't find much left worth kissing. To cast an Unforgivable you have to mean it. To speak one, it's best to mean it too. It's easy enough. Just think of your target at her most loathsome. Miss Granger's broad and begging smile.

You, girl, are no Nimue.

That smile in his classroom. That smile in the front row.

Nimue came to her teacher intact.

Like-me-like-me-oh-please-like-me.

He knows her not at all. He knows her all too well.

Eros and Eris, he feels so right inside her. Eris and Eros, he's in loco parentis. In a better world he'd never have been either.

He fucks like mad. He fucks like he could fuck whatever drew her to him in the first place right out of her.

You, girl, are no Nimue.

He hears his own voice, a rasping, broken thing. "Put me in a tree. Please, put me in a tree."

Which is what Nimue did, having learned all there was to learn of Merlin. Everyone knows the story. Young girl like that, his student. The bastard deserved it.

"Put me in a tree." He deserves it too, like Merlin, cursed with centuries of toxic, troubled sleep.

"Put me in a tree." It's the only way left to keep him from the darkness he must do.

He's begging now. "Put me in a tree."

He gentles his pace. "Put me in a tree."

He's weeping. "Put me in a tree."

He kisses the words into her shoulder blades. "Put me in a tree."

Her spine could be a tree trunk. He traces it and begs again. The tree he's thinking of is Mrs. Evans' plum tree, stark in winter. Hermione, tight around him, is all the warmth that remains in the world. He's close now, and getting closer. Any minute now, any second. The plum tree starts to bud, then flower...

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