Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Hermione was ensconced in her favorite nook of the library, the sill of a picture window between the aisle shelving books on Care of Magical Creatures and the Restricted Section. She had been poring over her essay since her confrontation with Professor Snape; the ferocity of his wrath excited her even as he had grabbed her, invading her personal space. His grip had been bruising; the pain of the curse coupled with his physical roughness kindled her sexual yearning for him. Afterward, Severus had been gentle. He always was in private, and the thought of him brought a small smile to her lips. She lifted her gauze-covered hand and gingerly caressed the imprints of fingers, black and purple, through the thickness of her spare school robe and jumper.

With a heavy sigh, she turned back to her essay, four feet already completed. She skimmed through, proof-reading her work, making sure all key points were touched upon:

"Mind over matter, pain versus pleasure, a Pavlovian response to condition virgins, children, barely weaned from their mother's breast, to associate the act of sexual intercourse as a dirty, foul activity and be forced into passivity and fidelity by domineering husbands for the sake of producing progeny.

The curse when properly cast would lie dormant in the victim until she reached the age of puberty or experienced sexual arousal by another who had not cast the curse or for whom she was promised through an unbreakable betrothal. Self-gratification, or the act of masturbation, induces physical manifestations of the curse. Tell-tale signs include:

1. Stigmatic blood flow from the hands

2. Unbearable pain, second only to the Crucio

3. The Mark of the Whore, a "W" carved into the breast of the offender, etching deeper in flesh with each assignation

During the period of ovulation and menstruation when the chance of conception and impregnation is highest, and when it is believed that a woman's sexual appetite is at a frenzied point, the curse fully active and can only be assuaged through sexual congress with the accursed's spouse. If the woman is not yet married or denies her body, she will bear the effects of the Fidelitious Fealty without relief until the end of her cycle. The pain women undertook was so excruciating that they took their own lives; such was the case of Isabella Fitzgerber, nee Nunry. Thus, women were subjugated to the desires of their lecherous husbands, becoming nothing more than sexual slaves and vessels for offspring.

Hermione rubbed her tired eyes, calling to mind how this all started. It was halfway through her fifth year, and an Order meeting was being held at number twelve, Grimmauld Place to discuss the disarray of Hogwarts under Professor Umbridge's tenure and the prophetic visions Harry had been having about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Bored with the game of Exploding Snap Ginny and Ron were playing, Hermione made her way to the study; it was always a comfort to curl in front of the fire with a good book. The door was cracked; a muffled voice could be heard on the other side; she inched forward.

"... kissed the bastard's robes." It was Mad-Eye Moody. Hermione moved closer to the ajar door, attempting to discern the topic of discussion. The old hinges creaked; she flinched. "Sorry," she began, pushing the door open to reveal herself as she tentatively stepped into the study.

"I didn't think anyone would still be up at this hour."

Mad-Eye was leaning against the mantle, his roving eye focused on her. "Never you mind, Granger." His voice gruff like sandpaper on wood, "Constant vigilance," the old Auror harrumphed as he brushed past, leaving the room and her alone, or so she thought.

Out of the corner of her eye, hidden amongst the shadows, Hermione registered the slightest movement.

"Ah, Miss Granger, never one for subtlety, I see." The velvet richness of his voice washed over her like a warm embrace.

"Professor Snape," she acknowledged with a blush from being caught eavesdropping. He pushed himself away from the wall and slithered towards her. It was easy to see how this man was a spy: he exuded cunning, confidence, and if she scratched enough to get below the façade he constructed, she was sure he would bleed raw, intangible power. He was control, and something was bound to give.

Silence engulfed the room; it was stifling, and the roaring fire did nothing to quell the heat rising off her body. His calculating eyes hadn't moved from her face. It was like he was waiting, expecting something; he unnerved her.

"Are you going to stare at me all night like a codfish, Miss Granger, or is there something you wanted, girl?" Exasperation colored his words.

Hermione hadn't even realized she was staring and closed her mouth, her gaze turning to the fire in front of her.

"He shouldn't..." she breathed softly, words lost in the crackle of the flames.

"Speak up, Miss Granger. I cannot hear you!" Snape barked, with each word drawing closer to his prey.

She took an involuntary step back towards the door. "You...you..." she stammered,

frightened, "deserve respect."

"What we deserve and what we are afforded are two entirely different things, Miss Granger." Without another word, he excused himself from the study.

Later that night, alone in her room, she played over the events of the incident in the study with Professor Snape. He had frightened her, but fear was the farthest emotion from what she felt. Her center throbbed, dull at first, a mild hum, but with each thought of sallow man, the feeling intensified. With a shaky hand, Hermione timidly touched herself, fingers sneaking below her nightshirt and under the elastic of her knickers to rest on the dark thatch of curly, coarse hair. Her hand was stationary for minutes, unsure of her next move. Her fingers crept lower, making contact with her labia. The skin warm, she gasped at the sensation. A gentle stroke, her breathing quickened; she tingled. Experimentally, she pinched herself. Her hips jerked upward, lip worried between her teeth. She did it again. Dampness touched her fingers. Hermione stilled, swallowing against the lump that had formed in her throat.

Breath held and heart racing, she eased her index finger in, slowly, carefully, back arching, trying to accommodate the unfamiliar feel of her internal muscles clamping down on her digit. Nervousness warred with exhilaration; her body felt tight. The awareness of her body all-consuming, tentatively, she wriggled her finger, groaning loudly as every nerve ending seemed to awaken. Hermione wriggled her finger again, harder this time, pushing upward, deeper into herself; she cringed at the stab of pain. Seemingly at an impasse, she gradually began to remove her finger; the tingle came back.

"Oh." Her eyes widened, surprised as her legs parted, knees bending up, tucking close to her body. She pushed in again and withdrew, in and out, in and out... a constant erratic rhythm.

"Gods!" Her eyes shut tight, she felt oxygen leaving her, gasping, drawing in lungful after lungful. She was quivering, desperate to quell an undeniable need that was evading her grasp with every pump of her hand. She stroked faster, her skin clammy from sweat, prickly with gooseflesh. A pounding of blood surged within her, guttural cries tore from her throat, her body tensed, and her free hand wrapped itself in her bushy mane, tugging in tandem. So close, so close. Jerking hard, hair was pulled out by the roots, strands clumped in the clenched fist. The pain pushing her over the edge, she released warmth...gushing out, seeping, dripping in thick rivets down her thighs.

Her body limp, weighted down, heavy, the only sounds in the darkened room were the inhalation of breath and pounding of her heart. Hermione was sticky; the thin, cotton shirt clung to her wet form. She was hot, unbearably so; she nudged the down quilt off her body. Gingerly, she eased her finger from within; it too was sticky, coated in white, viscous come. She brought the hand to her face and sniffed; the scent was damp and musky, not at all unpleasant. Her tongue darted out, licking the tepid remnants of her arousal. There was no taste, in her opinion, more texture than anything else.

She wasn't sure how long her mind had wandered, but she knew it must have been a bit of time as a kink had developed in her back. She shifted, standing up, working out the sore. That had been the first time she had ever fantasized about anyone in a sexual nature, let alone the most reviled professor at Hogwarts. The second time had been in the prefects' bathroom after hours, when Umbridge, on rounds, had caught her post-coital. Hermione had put up a Silencing Charm so as not to be heard, but in her haste to pleasure herself to images of the surly Potions master, she forgot to ward the door. The harridan deducted forty points from Gryffindor for behavior unbecoming a prefect and assigned her a detention. Lines with that bloody quill.

With a heavy sigh, Hermione turned her focus back toward her assignment:

"Though, the Fidelitious Fealty is considered a curse unto which only the most skilled of wizards would dare to undertake as it inhibits the magic of the witch for whom it is cast upon by preventing her magical signature from safeguarding against the threat immersed in her veins. The curse, like a Muggle virus, acts as a repellant to all magicks used for the purposes of health and healing.

Witches have been known to cast the Fidelitious Fealty, but do so at great risk to their own magical signature as the curse is feminine in nature. That being said, a conduit must be used if a witch is to properly cast the spell without depleting her own essence.

With a yawn, Hermione scanned the rest of her essay and the conclusion.

"... In 1883 A.D. the Fidelitious Fealty was informally banned by the wizarding world at large, seen as a weapon for internment. Still the archaic practice of marital servitude and bondage can still be found in remote wizarding villages in Southeast Asia, the Republic of Congo, and rural parts of the United States of America."

"Finished, are we?"

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin. When had he entered the library?

"Only just, Professor." One hand clutched her parchment, the other her chest.

"Good." He nodded.

"Professor Snape."

"Yes, Miss Granger?" He watched as she gathered her belongings, each placed with care in her rucksack.

"What are you going to do?" The question had been on her mind since yesterday afternoon.

"You needn't worry about such trivial matters, Miss Granger. Off to the Great Hall with you." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, but there was coldness that permeated from every pore of his body.

She reached out her hand, longing to touch him. "May I see you after dinner?"

"You may." He acquiesced.

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A/N: The Fidelitious Fealty and anything else not belonging to JKR are of my own imagination and creation. Big thanks to my beta SLU for her tireless effort.