Ensnared

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note: This story contains adult themes, including non-consensual sex, BDSM, violence. If this subject matter offends you, your government or your religion, please don't read it. All feedback will be gratefully received.

This story was written before Half-Blood Price, and therefore is AU from the end of OOP.

Snape/Pansy, Draco/Pansy; BDSM, NC. Not nice. NC-17/18.
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"Get up!"

I was half awake anyway, luxuriating in the warmth of Draco's bed, and his lithe, firm body beside me. His long legs were curled around mine, the Quidditch player's muscles relaxed now; not long since they had been taut and gripping me… The memory warmed me still further.

"I said, get up."

Suddenly, the bed warmth was driven away by a cold draught, as the blankets were snatched away from us by a long, elegant hand, belonging to:

"P-professor Snape!"

"Good morning, Miss Parkinson, Mr Malfoy. How very cosy you look. And yet… there seems to be something, mm, not quite right here. What could it be? Ah yes. Female students are not permitted to enter male dormitories. Or have the school rules been changed overnight and someone has neglected to inform me?"

"But, Professor, it's my room!"

I wasn't sure why Draco was bothering to argue. The fact that we were in a single room, not a communal dormitory, didn't exactly negate the fact that I shouldn't have been there. We were in for it now.

"Exactly, Malfoy. A male dormitory." The raised eyebrow, precursor of so many a deadly put-down over the last seven years. "So there seems to be no difficulty with you being in it, but as for your companion…." His voice trailed off dangerously. "My office, Miss Parkinson, if you please. And, oh, do put some robes on first."

Stunned, I obeyed, struggling as quickly as I could into the only robes I had handy, the slinky crimson ones I'd worn the previous night, which had been abandoned on Draco's floor. They'd looked amazing in the candlelight; I'd felt sexy and grown-up and gorgeous, and Draco had told me I looked "beautiful". By the morning's harsher light, I felt completely overdressed, a silly little girl wearing her mother's clothes.

Snape swept along the corridor behind me, his billowing robes throwing weird shadows ahead of me. What the hell could he be going to do? Strictly speaking, of course, I should not have been in Draco's room at all, but there was nothing he could do about it. I had already graduated from the school, and the three days that remained to me to stay in Hogwarts were traditionally party time for the seventh year while the lower years finished off their exams and until the end of year Feast. He couldn't be going to expel me now, surely?

Through the old potions classroom, we reached Snape's office. He sat down behind the desk, and surveyed me, fingers steepled together in front of him. The only other chair in the room was tucked back against the wall, and somehow, I didn't feel that I was meant to make myself comfortable.

"Well, Miss Parkinson. Exactly what do you think you were doing in Mr Malfoy's room?"

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. What could he possibly expect me to say? We were having a game of wizard chess, Professor. We were looking over job vacancies at the Ministry of Magic, Professor. Draco had eaten a really strange tasting Bott's Bean and I was just trying to help him decide what flavour it was…

"I'm waiting."

"Professor Snape, we were, um." I let the rest of the sentence fade into mumbling.

"You were?"

"Um. Professor, I don't, um."

"In the interests of not spending the rest of my days watching you examine your vocabulary, Miss Parkinson, let me assist you. You had been fucking Mr Malfoy, had you not?"

"Um. Yes, Professor." My mouth seemed to have gone awfully dry.

"And you are aware, of course, that you were in breach of school rules?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Well now. What should we do with you? In less than a week's time, you will have left Hogwarts. It barely seems worth bothering the Headmaster with the matter. Yet it cannot go unpunished. A detention would, I think, be the usual punishment?"

A detention! Here was I, eighteen years old, an adult, almost a free woman, and he was going to keep me sitting in a classroom like a snotty-nosed eleven year old!

Some of my disgust must have shown on my face, because the next thing he said was:

"Indeed. Though a detention would undoubtedly be a punishment for you, keeping you away from the party in your last week of school, it would serve very little purpose, I think. And I do so like my punishments to serve a purpose. It makes them so much more effective."

His black eyes glittered at me menacingly. For a second, I almost thought he was laughing.

"It seems as if I have little choice in the matter, then. Of course, the Headmaster does not approve of corporal punishment, but if that is the only course open…"

He reached up to a high shelf above the desk, and brought down a long, pale-coloured cane, flexed it once, twice, three times in his long fingers, and then motioned with the end of it to the edge of the desk.

"Bend over, please." I stood there, looking at him. My mouth must have been hanging open. He was going to hit me! "Miss Parkinson, don't make me tell you twice."

The cold threat in his voice was suddenly much more frightening than the thing he held in his hands. I placed my palms on the edge of the desk, and bent over.

A sigh of exasperation came from behind me. "Your skirts, girl." Of course. My skirts. Under which I wore nothing, because he'd made me get dressed so quickly. Which, of course, he knew. Slowly, I raised my skirts and bunched them up around my waist.

For a moment, there was silence. Then a strange whispering noise, like silk being cut. And then it slammed into me, with a force thaockeocked me flat against the desk, and left a white-hot line of pain across my buttocks. I think must have I screamed. Then I heard his voice in my ear.

"Come now, Miss Parkinson. The drama is not required. You have five more to go. Count them."

The stroke this time was a little lower, though, if it were possible, even more painful. I felt as though the tip of the cane had cut right into me.

"Count them," he hissed.

"T-two."

"Very good."

Somehow, three and four must have happened, because I found myself whispering "five" and thinking that there was only one more stroke to go. He had been working his way down, over my arse and the tops of my thighs, so that this last blow had much less flesh to cushion it than previously. It felt like branding. I collapsed, shaking, on the desk.

"Were you waiting for something?" The cold voice, again from behind me. "Perhaps you wanted some more?"

"N-no. No, Professor."

"Well then. Get out."

***

I fairly ran through the dungeon, back to the privacy of my own room, where I could run a bath, and find a salve to put on my injured skin. I ripped off the stupid red dress, and, throwing a handful of Healing Herbs into the water, turned to jump into my bath. And as I turned, I caught sight of my own ravaged backside in the mirror.

Six livid welts, outlined in scarlet, lay across my flesh. I'd been right about the second one, it had cut into me, I could see where a little blood had oozed from the end of it. My left buttock, which meant that Snape was left-handed, I thought, distractedly.

Without the Herbs, of course, they would bruise terribly. I'd be in pain for days. I imagined trying to sit still on the Great Hall bench through Dumbledore's interminable speech. I imagined Snape's eyes, glittering down at me from the High Table, him alone knowing why I kept shifting in my seat. Pressing my fingers against the welts to make them hurt more, imagining that voice close in my ear: it seems I have no option but to punish you again. Bend over, please, Miss Parkinson. And then my hand, moving between my legs, imagining what he could do to me after that. Bend over, please, Miss Parkinson. Gods, I was wet. And then he would touch me, here, like this, hold me down against the desk while he slid inside me, moving, faster, harder, holding me…

I caught sight of my own face in the mirror, and realised. I was fantasizing, about - him! Ridiculous. Horrible. I shuddered, and leapt into the scalding hot water.