Professor Snape Is A Dirty, Old Man

As stated in the summary, this a Snape centric story with various pairings, including Hermione. If you don't like reading Snape shipped with anyone else, then do not read.

--My "Bound To Happen" Series has been fun and enjoyable, but a bit too light-hearted for my tastes. This unapologetic tale has been much needed therapy.

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Severus Snape had long convinced himself that he wasn’t responsible for--this.

He wasn’t the one who had initiated that first encounter, nor the many that had followed.

It wasn’t his idea to begin with.

The end.

Professor Snape repeated such cut and dry statements of fact at the exact same moments every day. He’d mentally say them once, right before he answered the hesitant knocks upon his office door. Snape would then repeat them all over again as he seated himself beside Headmaster Dumbledore at dinner. All of this was quickly followed by a silent prayer, begging the heavens above that all evidence of bodily fluids and perfumes had been sufficiently Scourgified from his robes and hands.

There had been a few horrific instances where Snape would second guess the efficiency of such charms adequately removing said residue from his face.

“Good evening, Severus.” The old man always gave Snape the same welcoming. He’d end his greeting with a smile, that blasted twinkle, and a slow nod of the chin.

Professor Snape grunted in approval and acceptance. All the while, his insides released their uneasy coil, momentarily finding comfort for a measly few hours before the sun rose and this dance began anew.

Such was the intimacy between old friends, where one implicitly trusted the other.

It wasn’t my idea to begin with…

Snape would then eat sparingly and with haste. He wanted to be one of the first to leave the Great Hall to return to his office. He’d stopped using the side door reserved for teachers, making sure every student was aware of his departure—in case they needed to find him.

Habitually recalling that first--meeting, where the young woman had solicited him in his office, Snape leaned back into his chair with satiated coolness. Entering this moment of preparation wasn’t a matter of deflecting blame or aspiring for self-denial. And he certainly did not need a boost of courage before each--interaction.

But as the valued spy for the Order, whose members habitually referred to him as ‘Dumbledore’s Man,’ Snape had become obsessed with mentally reasoning that his honor remained intact.

When all of this reasoning was said and done, Snape somehow managed to overlook the fact that he was a willing participant, the one who continued secretly meeting with the girls--young women. He was an accredited Potions master at one of the most prestigious wizarding schools in the world. He was an Order of Merlin, First Class recipient. Snape possessed so much power and influence among his students--the wizarding world even--that the very idea of him abusing said power was incomprehensible. Certainly an offense worthy of Azkaban.

But none of that mattered now. It was not as if he raped his students. Sitting behind his desk, Snape shuttered in disgust at the very idea.

Cursing loudly, he sneered at the mess of spattered ink at the top corner an essay. With a wave of his wand, the stain vanished. Releasing an irritated growl, Snape resumed his never-ending grading while he waited silently in his office, filling the necessary two hours of uselessness that Minerva demanded of him. Every professor in the school was required to make themselves available outside the classroom, in case a student needed extra help.

Snape had always disregarded these requirements in years past, believing himself to be the exception to such a ridiculous rule. Unfortunately, a few years ago a student had somehow cornered Snape before he’d been able to flee to his rooms for the night.

It had all started with Miss Penelope Clearwater. She’d always been irritatingly obsessed with school work. The ideal student. The typical illustration of prissiness and rule-abiding righteousness, if he ever saw one.

So Snape wasn’t surprised that she had fainted when she had received her first ‘T’ for an uncompleted potion.

Snape supposed that he should have roused Penelope from her unexpected slumber in his classroom. Her fellow students had warily glanced at him while Penelope snored loudly, her face pressed flat against the work-table. Severus’ temper had in fact flared at the Ravenclaw’s impertinence, but he then thought that allowing her to miss the entire lesson was an even richer punishment.

What happened next, Snape would never forget.

Not that he wanted too…

He had been sitting quietly in his office, grading infinite essays filled with mindless drivel not worthy of his time, when a loud knock pounded against his door.

“Go away!” It was the customary response used to wheedle out trivialities.

Glaring menacingly, he scratched a spiky ‘D’ on the corner of the parchment.

After a few seconds of silence, a fist dared to pound against the door again. The specimen jars on the selves lining the stone walls rattled with each vibration.

Snarling, Snape pointed his wand at the door, forcing it to fling open and bang against the adjacent wall.

“What do you want?” he roared, looking up callously through strands of greasy hair.

“Ah… Miss Clearwater… What. A. Surprise.”

Penelope flew through the door, crossing his office in seconds and had practically flung herself upon his desk.

“Professor… please don’t throw me out! I need to talk to you!” Face red, her blood shot eyes stared at Snape. Penelope was the archetypal picture of an over-zealous student traumatized at receiving a failing grade. “I am soo very, very sorry for falling asleep in your class. I stayed up late last night finishing my N.E.W.T project for--”

Snape raised his hand to halt her explanation. “I don’t want to hear it. Out.”

Penelope must have been extremely distressed or she would not have dared to sit down in one of the student chairs without asking for permission. “Oh, no… Professor, please let me complete the potion! I can’t get a ‘T’…”

“Of course you can. You underestimate your own abilities at failure, Miss Clearwater.”

“Er… yes, sir. What I mean is I can’t keep my ‘T’. I need to make it up.”

Snape expelled an exaggerated laugh, heavy with sarcasm. “Please, do not tell me you are under the impression that I might give you extra credit?” He spit out those last two words like they were the bane of the teaching profession.

“Please, professor! Anything but a ‘T’… I’ll take a ‘D’ even! With a ‘T’, my average drops and I’ll no longer be at the top of my class. I cannot have lower scores than a Weasley!”

Snape smirked at the disgust she issued towards her very own boyfriend’s surname. But he still didn’t sympathize for her plight. “Then perhaps, you should learn to sleep during appropriate hours and not in my classroom…”

“Anything! I can scrub your cauldrons for the rest of the year. I’ll--I’ll write a 100 foot essay! I’ll make all the healing potions for Miss Pomphrey!”

“No,” Snape said in a monotone voice. Face expressionless, he resumed his grading, making it a point to ignore the sniveling girl, still sitting in his office with pathetic tears streaming down her face.

He truly did assume it would be the end of this. History had proven his methods valuable.

Before he was able to comprehend the student’s audacity, his quill was yanked out of his hand and a seventeen-year-old body rounded Snape’s desk to capture a horribly impropriate stance next to his chair.

Snape pushed his feet against the floor, scrambling to force his chair as far back as it could go. He was so shocked, he had no witty barge prepared, and all probable reprimands dried on his tongue.

Either Penelope intentionally ignored her professor’s dismayed reactions or she was totally unaware of them. “Perhaps, there is something else… I coul--could do…”

Snape growled, thrusting himself out of the chair and into his traditional looming stance. He leaned over the girl and barked, “GET OUT!”

But she didn’t.

Swallowing thickly, more tears rolled down Penelope’s face as she raised her shaky hands to her chest. When her fingers had closed around the clasp of her robe, Snape crushed her writs to still her movements.

“Have you gone mad?”

She gazed at him, her eyes filled with the focus and determination he had seen time and time again in the classroom. Feeling warmth beneath his fingers, Snape realized he was touching her. He hissed, yanking his hands away. He took an awkward step back but was prevented from moving more than a foot by the heavy wooden chair.

Penelope quickly took advantage of the opportunity to slip her robe off her shoulders. She certainly wasn’t naked underneath but one couldn’t ignore the sensuality insinuated by such an action. The dark and gloomily dungeons were now gone. A new and entirely unseemly atmosphere suffocated the room and both Penelope and Snape were drowning from it.

Snape was dazed, disgusted, and appalled.

He had also never been so aroused.

Penelope slowly lowered herself to the floor, placing her discarded robe under her knees.

Severus focused, stilling his breathing to ease his heart rate, and eyed the girl with an arched brow. He believed he now fully recognized the game she was playing at.

That’s all this was. A stupid game.

“Very well,” Snape drawled.

With an air of indifference, Snape smoothly plucked his wand from his pocket, sending a series of Silencing charms and wards against the door.

He then kicked his chair closer to the desk and sat down. Eyeing the girl challengingly, Snape turned toward her and drawled, “If I feel teeth, I’m giving you another ‘T’.”

And Snape said this, fully expecting the stupid girl to comprehend what she was doing and snap out of this sick ridiculousness. He waited—and hoped—for her to run out of his office, crying. If Dumbledore were ever to ask questions, Snape would have been able to show this memory to him; the old man would clearly see his intentions.

The demented girl was intentionally propositioning something so outrageous that she thought Snape would change her grade just to get out of the situation.

To Snape’s shock, horror--and perversity--Penelope visibly breathed a sigh of relief. She readjusted her bunched up robes on the stone floor between Snape’s boots and shakily attempted to unfasten his belt.

Despite how much Snape tried to convince himself of his disgust, the moment her forearms braced her weight against his thighs, his traitorous erection raged against his inner thigh.

Humiliated, he completely froze in his seat. He thought of grabbing her to still her movements--again. Snape’s stomach ached from how hard he was clenching his muscles. Still, he couldn’t comprehend why everything below his navel was on fire.

It had not taken him very long to come. Snape never had the time to travel to Knockturn Alley to pay for a whore, never mind an opportunity for meeting women or dating. Yet, here he was, being sucked off by young women who wasn’t hideous enough to drive him flaccid and who was adequately getting the task done.

His ears burned. Severus was aware that she was still crying, but he couldn’t fathom why. She was the one who had chosen to do this, so this couldn’t be her first attempt. He also vaguely noted that she gagged quite a bit more than he would have liked, especially since she never fully took him into her mouth.

Professor Snape did not need to fight against an urge to touch Penelope while her face bobbed up and down on his cock. He didn’t need to because he had no urge to touch her. Not until the first spurts of his orgasm issued into her mouth and she attempted to pull away.

He panicked at the idea of issuing on her or anywhere on himself or the floor. The very idea of a student seeing… that… So Snape leaned forward and roughly pushed her head back down on his groin, forcing her to swallow it.

He had gone to bed that night with a heavy weight pressed in his gut and a horrible tension headache. What he had done was criminal. He should have never allowed the girl to do… it.

The next morning, Snape had searched the Great Hall for the excuse and justification he craved so desperately. When his owl landed on Penelope’s plate, Snape eyed the girl’s every move.

First, she paled at recognizing his writing upon the parchment. Shakily opening the letter, Penelope than read his brief, professional note, informing the girl that her grade had been changed. She read it over again and again before she squashed the letter to her chest and wept with an odd smile on her face.

Such a scene could have been interpreted in a dozen different ways. But all Snape had seen--all Snape chose to have seen--was her gratitude.

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Author's Notes: Chapter beta'ed by SiriuslySnogged.