Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Hermione shivered, the cool, damp air of the dungeons hardening her nipples. She crossed her arms over her chest, careful not to rub against her deformity. Severus pushed himself up from the ground, his knee joints popping. Without a word, he strode over to his dais, picked up his discarded robe, and tossed it to her. She caught it deftly and slid it on. It dwarfed her as she wrapped herself in the black, woolen fabric and buried her nose in the collar, inhaling his masculine scent.

“Thank you.” She smiled.

“You’re most welcome,” he purred.

He looked at her, his nose detecting the faint musk of her menstrual flow as he took in a breath. He released it slowly, her femininity was tangy, bitter, and he wanted to savor her essence, taste it on his tongue, coppery, red, thick.

His desire was roused, the evidence tenting his black trousers as he stood before her.

Her cheeks flushed, eyes drawn to the bulge straining to be set free. A shudder of wantonness swept through her body. Hermione clamped her thighs together, desperate to ease the ache that welled within.

“Please,” she moaned, tongue darting out to moisten dry lips, teeth worrying her bottom lip, plumping it.

He reached out his hand; centimeters from her face it hovered, drawing against her warmth. Her head lolled to the side, eyes closed. “Ughh,” she groaned. “Professor…” She rubbed her thighs together, the friction wonderful, worth the pain.

Snape internalized her features, the furrow of her brow, the way her lips parted just so, white teeth plucking chapped lips, breasts rising and falling in rhythm with each heaving gasp for air. He knew he was on the precipice; his hand snaked down his lithe form to stroke his clothes-hampered erection.

Harder, faster, his palm itching with every burning stroke against the coarse wool. A cry of pain stilled his movements; the haze of lust that had engulfed him began to ebb away. Hermione was hunched over, hands on knees. She had orgasmed, turned on by the sight of him masturbating.

“Fine. I’m fine,” she panted, not looking up, the cauterized flesh unstitching, blood flowing anew. Taking a moment to regain her composure, she knew the flow would stop momentarily; the bleeding never lasted long when she came without physically arousing herself.

“You’re still on your menstrual cycle,” Snape stated, a note of disapproval in his dulcet tone. Hermione nodded in the affirmative.

“Tell me, Miss Granger, what do you know of the Fidelitous Fealty?” he asked, eyebrow quirked. “Or better yet, of Delores Umbridge?” He uttered the name with such malice, the very thought of the toad-like woman repugnant to his sensibilities.

She gasped, taken aback. “What I know I can’t say, sir.” The words rolled off her tongue with forced ease.

His eyes widened slightly, the only crack on his expressionless face. A chink in his impassive armor. Like a rubber band wound too tight, he snapped.

“Fucking oath!” he spat, spittle flying from his mouth. He picked up a half empty jar of dittany from his essay-covered desk and flung it against the wall, shattering it into innumerable shards.

She didn’t move, transfixed by his display of controlled rage. Hermione had only ever witnessed this level of anger and unrestraint once before, three years ago in the Shrieking Shack with Sirius.

Sev—no—Snape, he was Snape now, pacing, one measured step after another, a sharp pivot, step, step, stride, pivot. Softly he expelled grumbles of profanity, uttered with every rotation. He was magnificent to behold: grace, stealth, an economy of motion, never wasted; he was purpose personified with any and everything he undertook.

If he had been wearing his robe, it would billow behind him. She bit down hard on her lip to tamp down giggles that were sure to erupt; she would not wound him with silly schoolgirl emotions.

“For is not lust the burden of innocence

Love fleeting, a notion, carnal and sordid.”

He was gone, no longer with her, but she dared not to interrupt him.

“O! Temptress be thy meek

Indulge in the fantasies of mortals."

Her heart fluttered a cadence, his voice rising timbre with each stanza.

“Be now sullied and wounded,

Be thine whore.”

Snape’s movements ceased; black pools ablaze with emotion, he looked up at her.

“O! Temptress be thy faithful… Eyes closed, he was a broken man.

Hermione sniffed and swallowed back a sob. “Faithful shall she perish, never to know original sin,” she finished for him.

“I didn’t know you read Muggle poetry.”

“I am a half-blood, Miss Granger.”

“I know but—”

“Besides, is it not apropos?” He sneered and turned sharply from her, muttering, “A chúisle mo chroí,” as he stepped in between the work stations, weaving a path to the small book case nestled between the wall and his desk.

“I didn’t mean…” Hermione fidgeted, abashed by his harsh tone.

Fingers glided over aged tomes before settling on a dusty, worn, leather-bound, Dark Arts volume. Hermione’s inquisitiveness got the better of her as she edged closer to Severus.

“Curiosity killed the lioness,” he drawled.

Snape cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. Hermione knew this pose she had seen everyday for the past six years; he was in lecture mode.

“The Fidelitous Fealty or Curse of the Virgin Blood's earliest use was recorded in 918 A.D. and had been created and first cast by Humperdink Nunry (859–989 A.D.) as a preventative measure to ensure his daughter’s virtue remained intact. Nunry believed when his daughter, Isabella, befell of the curse of woman, she would turn to the sins of the flesh.

Nunry, destitute, sold his daughter into an arranged marriage by providing an untouched, child bride. The Fidelitous Fealty removes the pleasure aspect of sexual congress and replaces it with unbounded pain and the mark of the Whore, a “W” magically carved into the breast should those cursed with the Fideliltous Fealty seek to engage in carnality outside the marital bed or in fornication.”

Severus let his voice trail off as he slipped the marker in place and handed the book to Hermione.

“Miss Granger, I want you to read the tome and prepare two feet on the curse.”

She nodded, eager to have an assignment, something to preoccupy her mind. A smirk flitted, upturning Severus’ lips.

“Ever the little know-it-all, I see.” Hermione grinned outright.

“Yes, sir… Thank you, Severus.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, thoughts turning black, turning to death, to Umbridge.

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A/N: Shout out to my beta,, SeverusLovesUs. The poem Snape recites is my original work. The Fideltious Fealty as well as anything unrecognizable to JKR are my creations and original works, and last but not least the Irish quote Severus says, "A chúisle mo chroí," translates roughly to "O, pulse of my heart."