Augury & Ardor

A/N: This chapter contains graphic imagery of non-consensual sex which may be disturbing to some. Please don't continue to read if that sort of situation upsets you. If you expected the non-con to be a one-shot in a violent situation outside Hermione's relationship with Snape, that is not the case.

Thank you to those readers who have left reviews; reading your feedback on the story makes my day! :)

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Hermione wandered from the fireplace to the bureau and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. As was the norm lately, her hair was in disarray. Faint red marks marred the white column of her throat, where Snape’s morning beard had scraped her skin. The same pattern was repeated along her breasts. She sighed at the warm tingle the sight of the marks elicited. In the past week and a half, she’d lost all semblance of modesty or shame; her sexuality had been awakened and showed no sign of slumbering again.


The days were beginning to melt into one another. They consisted of mind-numbing boredom punctuated by moments of wild passion. He would appear out of the blue, drive her mad with his mouth and hands, then leave her, exhausted and trembling, to go Merlin knew where. While her body was getting plenty of use, her brain felt like it was leaking out her ear.


At least he’d put her mind to rest about her parents. They were both all right, both safe. While they were surely worried about her, they hadn’t been hurt the day she’d been abducted. For that, at least, she was grateful.


With a sigh, Hermione walked back to the table and poked at the remains of her breakfast. He’d hardly eaten anything that morning before a telltale tightness had settled around his mouth – that same tightness that warned her he’d soon Disapparate. She hadn’t even brought up an ‘unmentionable’ topic, either.


It was hard to say what would set him off on any given day. Granted, she’d learned quickly that to speak of Hogwarts or Dumbledore was absolutely verboten. It had been a moment of weakness, early on, that had caused her to ask him why he’d done what he’d done.


She’d been homesick and he, her one tie to the outside world, had been particularly gentle as he’d taken her. For a few moments, caught in that post-coital cocoon of warmth, she’d hoped he would tell her it was all a mistake. It hadn’t been he; it had been Draco after all. It had been anyone but he who’d killed Dumbledore that night.


“I’m going to go mad in this room,” Hermione snapped, coming out of her reverie to realize she’d been making a pyramid out of toast. With a cry of anger, she picked up her empty teacup and threw it into the fire. Its crash as it shattered against the brick was so satisfying, she picked up Snape’s abandoned cup and hurled it, too. The plates followed, then the teapot until nothing remained on the table but crumbs.


The noise brought Purl and Bitsy scurrying into the room. As they retrieved a few pieces of cutlery that had bounced back onto the hearth, Purl cast a worried glance at Hermione. “Mistress didn’t like her breakfast?”


“No, Purl,” Hermione sighed, “breakfast was fine.”


“Mistress doesn’t like the dishes?” Bitsy asked in confusion.


“The dishes are – were lovely,” Hermione replied. “And please stop calling me Mistress. My name is Hermione.”


“But you is Master Snape’s wife so you is our mistress,” Purl explained.


Rather than address the sham that was her marriage, Hermione focused on the honorific. “Yes, but you’re not slaves; you can call me by my first name just as I call you by your first names.”


Purl and Bitsy exchanged a glance before Bitsy replied, slowly, “We knows we is not slaves. We is house-elves for Master Snape.”


“What I mean is, you don’t have to worry about him punishing you for it; I’d explain that I told you to call me by name.”


“Master Snape is not punishing Purl and Bitsy!” Purl laughed, “Master Snape is a kind master.”


“Oh, yes.” Bitsy shook her head enthusiastically. “He is the best of masters!”


Hermione looked between the two elves, her expression incredulous. “He’s not here, you know.” Without waiting for a reply and with her lip curling in a very Snape-like fashion, she continued, “But, of course, he’s never here, is he?”


Having spent her anger and unwilling to continue to be eyed warily by the two elves, Hermione went into the bathroom and ran the tub. Other than pacing the room and watching the sunlight on the walls, bathing and napping were her only activities.


“Does Mistress want more breakfast?” Purl called from the other room.


“No,” Hermione replied, trying to quash the vicious inclination to her mood. She hadn’t felt quite so nasty since studying and stressing over her O.W.L.s.


“Can Purl get you anything, Mistress?”


“Master’s head on a plate?” It slipped out before she could catch herself. Rather than apologize, however, Hermione merely settled for adding more kindly, “No, nothing, Purl. Thank you.”


The water was piping hot when she stepped in. She’d learned to run it this way for maximum soak time. It took patience to acclimate herself to it, cautiously submerging herself in sections. Finally, however, she floated in the depths with nothing but her face breaking the surface.


Concentrating on the task of entering the hot bath had cooled her temper somewhat but, lying there, recalling her O.W.L.s led her to calculate what classes she was missing precisely at that moment. Whenever she considered how long she’d been absent, she couldn’t help but become frustrated. This was her last year at Hogwarts, and it wouldn’t be long before she was completely unable to catch up!


Five minutes later, she caught a slight movement out of the corner of her eye that drew her gaze to the doorway. Standing there, his glittering black eyes studying her, was her gaoler. As usual, on his return, he was imposingly and formally dressed in black.


Using her hands to lift herself into a sitting position, she met his eyes and waited to hear what he wanted. Water streamed in a torrent from her hair down her back and arms.


“I understand you were unhappy with breakfast.” His tone was dry with a hint of amusement.


Smug, arrogant bastard! “For starters,” she returned, disdain dripping from her voice.


Instead of angering him, her terse statement apparently amused him even more. “Purl seemed to think you dislike my absences.” He appeared captured, for a moment, by the water sluicing over her breasts. Amusement still swam in his eyes, but they’d also taken on that depthless quality she’d come to recognize. “Have you been missing my…company?”


Some angry, reckless part of her needed to snap his cool, controlled façade. She stood and pushed her hair back from her face before stepping out of the tub. “Purl thought I missed my loving husband, did she?” The corners of her mouth curled as she watched his eyes roam over her body. While she’d learned not to cover herself in front of him or risk his displeasure, she’d never blatantly invited his gaze either. There was a power in knowing how it affected him and, at the moment, she needed to feel powerful.


Water continued to run from her hair in rivulets, hugging the curves of her body before pooling to the floor. She padded to the doorway, paused by his side with their bodies a hair’s breadth from touching, and glanced up at him through her eyelashes. “I hate to disabuse you of her romantic notions, Darling, but I’m merely bored. Anyone’s company would do at this point.” With that, she moved past him, leaving puddles for footprints as she crossed to the fireplace.


“How unfortunate for you, then, that it is my company you must suffer exclusively.”


She circled her hair in one hand, then pulled it over her shoulder to squeeze the length of it. A stream of water hit and hissed on the hearth, mirroring the mood in the room. Although his expression didn’t reveal it, she’d heard a sharpening in his voice. It was nearly imperceptible but with only his conversation – only his words to hang on – for the past ten days, she’d learned every nuance to his tone.


She combed her fingers through the tangled mass, studying him. There was no doubt her barbed innuendo had found its mark. In the grips of her reckless mood, she decided to push it in deeper. “You underestimate the power of my imagination.”


“Get in bed.” His words were the soft warning rattle of a snake about to strike.


Despite the small thrill of fear that seized her at his implacable expression, she whipped her hair back over her shoulder and glared at him. “If you want me in bed, you’ll have to put me there. I’m done playing student to your professor.”


“You are not done, however, playing obedient wife. Get in bed.”


“It was the Imperius Curse that coerced my consent during that sham of a ceremony and -”


“Nevertheless,” he interrupted smoothly, “you are my wife. My property. My chattel.”


Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “If you want my obedience, you’ll have to gain it the same way you gained my hand.”


“I think not.” He removed his wand from a pocket and deliberately set it aside, then slowly unbuttoned his frock coat and folded it over one of the chairs. His gaze never left hers. “I will, however, give you one last opportunity to obey me. Get into bed.”


“No.” She had hoped for more heat behind the word, but the cold calculation of his gaze had sapped it. At least her voice hadn’t trembled; she could be thankful for that.


He drew a deep breath, as if approaching a distasteful task. “You’re resolved, then, to be forced.”


“Just go back to wherever you were and leave me alone. I didn’t ask your elves to fetch you!” she yelled, backing away as he headed toward her.


“It was you and your behavior that brought me here, and your behavior which will determine what happens next.”


“This is my fault?” Her cry was incredulous as she pulled a chair away from the table to block his progress.


Just as quickly, he grasped the chair and sent it skidding away. “Yes, Hermione. You have orchestrated this moment and you’ll choose its outcome.”


She backed away on the balls of her feet, one arm outstretched. Somehow, his use of her first name was more alarming than the look on his face. “I don’t want you to touch me!”


“You know as well as I, the prophecy demands otherwise,” he sneered dismissively. “I’m talking about now. This moment.”


Behind her and to the left was the bathroom. There was no safety there; she’d just be caging herself if she chose that route. Directly behind her was the bed. She could go to it and get in as he’d commanded but, even if her pride allowed that decision, she’d waited too long to obey him. Her only retreat option was circling the table again and again in a futile attempt to keep away from him.


She stopped at the foot of the bed and raised her chin, waiting for him to reach her. A flicker of what might have been surprise crossed his face before he did. Then, his expression was once more inscrutable as he stepped in to grasp her jaw. “Neither obeying nor defying. Interesting choice.”


Rather than fight the pressure of his fingers, she kept her head tilted back and her eyes locked with his. For a few moments, he merely gauged her mood by searching her eyes. Then, his gaze moved down to her mouth and she sucked in her breath at the flash of heat that blazed in his eyes.


In all their time together and all the intimacies they’d shared, he had yet to kiss her. Somehow, that simple act had taken on far more intimate connotations than any of the carnality they’d shared. She felt if she allowed him to kiss her now, she’d have given him everything – completely surrendered.


There were times, however, when he was deep inside her and looking down at her with that same hunger that she had to fight the urge to pull his head down to hers. To feel the brush of his lips on hers. The warm pressure of his mouth. But he’d never attempted to kiss her again, since the night he’d taken her virginity. Even though there were times she was sure he wanted to, he didn’t.


“This afternoon,” he murmured, his mouth lowering to her ear, “marks a transformation in our relationship. You no longer wish to play the student to my professor, and I am happy to leave that behind us as well.” Using the pressure of his fingers on her jaw, he tilted her head back further, exposing the column of her throat to his exploration. As if redirecting his hunger, his mouth closed over her fluttering pulse. His teeth scraped her skin as his mouth drew on the spot, and she shuddered, her hands coming up to grasp his arms for support.


“Desired or not, I’m your husband.” His voice was smooth as silk as it flowed over her. His mouth was searing heat along her neck and jaw, weakening her knees and unfurling warmth in her abdomen. His free hand conspired to make her cling to him tighter as it smoothed over her bottom and pulled her up against the rigid evidence of his arousal. “Coerced or not, you’re my wife.”


It took mere moments before her head was swimming and her whole body was flushed from his attentions. It was as if he instinctively knew where to touch her to make her mindless with desire. She was clinging to him, melting, as his mouth alternately scraped, laved and suckled at her skin and his hands stroked, teased and explored every available inch of her body.


“You’re wet and ready for me,” he whispered minutes later, the velvet quality of his voice like a caress against her ear. “Do you want me inside you?”


“Yes,” she breathed out on a moan as his fingers moved inside her. They were a teasing, inadequate substitute for his body and the pleasure she knew it would bring her.


“Undress me.”


She actually swayed when he released her; she’d been relying on his strength to keep her upright during the onslaught he’d directed to her senses. Blinking at him as she regained her balance, she registered what he’d said. He was standing there, arms at his sides. “U-undress you?”


“Yes,” he replied, his dark eyes watchful. “Don’t you want to feel my skin on yours?”


He knew she did but, up until this moment, he’d always undressed himself and come to her. Rather than merely accept his attentions, he was making her willingly participate. For a moment, she just stood there. Then, pride once again bowed to desire and she stepped in to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers.


As she pushed the material off his shoulders, she lifted her eyes to his, expecting to meet a mocking, triumphant smile. A punch of heat took her breath away, however, when his expression was anything but gloating. His eyes were smoldering as they caught and held hers.


Reaching down between them, she undid his trousers. As her fingers fumbled over the buttons, he let out a series of hissing intakes of breath. She could feel his erection against the backs of her fingers whenever she worked a button loose. It was the closest she’d ever come to touching him and, to her mortification, she had the urge to explore - to trace his length and map his contours.


You are not without power even in your position, but it’s a power that also ensnares the one who wields it. To use it is to succumb to it as well. His words came back to her with sudden clarity. He wanted her and that was powerful, but using that power was only making her sacrifice more of herself each time. At that moment, she couldn’t care.


With her fingers curled in the waistband, she pushed his trousers down his hips. Then, she bent to pull them down his legs and was, suddenly, face-to-face with the evidence of his desire. Her position was not lost on either of them. When her head fell back to look up at him, he muttered a ragged expletive and dragged her to her feet by her forearms.


In one fluid motion, he shifted her in his arms and, lifting her leg to wrap around his hip, slid into her. The sensation was so exquisite, she melted into him, her head falling forward to rest against his shoulder.


“Hermione.” He was filling her to the hilt, but besides the pulsing of his erection inside her, he didn’t move. Fighting the liquid feeling in her limbs, she lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were as fathomless as the night sky as he studied her face. “Tell me what you want.”


“I – I want…” she stammered in confusion and embarrassment. “I want you to move.”


“All you need do is ask, and I’ll give you what you want.”


Hermione hadn’t thought she could blush any deeper, but the idea of asking him to make love to her sent another rush of blood to her face. He was holding most of her weight; she had no leverage to move and take what she wanted. “Move inside me.” Her voice was throatier than she’d intended or expected.


“That was more a command,” he said, humor melding with desire in his voice, “under the circumstances, I can’t say as I mind.” Still, he didn’t move. “Although, I’d be more likely to comply like an obedient husband if you addressed me by name.” When she merely gazed up at him, dumbfounded, he bent his head to her ear. “You do know my name…?”


He had learned, over the period of time they’d been together, how she reacted to his voice and used it with as much skill and dexterity as his hands and mouth. She shivered as his breath broke against her ear and the words swirled, like smoke, along the curve. “Sev-Severus,” she breathed out.


“Yes.” He rocked his hips into hers, but it was as much the silken satisfaction in that one word that caused her to shudder as it was his movement. “Again, Hermione.”


Her name on his tongue changed it into something exotic and sensual, making her feel both warm and weak. When she complied with his request, the desire in her voice mirrored his. “Severus.”


He rewarded her with another slow circle of his hips. “Again.”


With each breathless utterance of his name, he circled his hips until her nails were biting into his back. She was helpless to participate yet frantic with need. “F-faster.”


He lowered her to the bed but stilled her hips with his hands when she tried to arch up against him. When she finally looked to him for explanation, he said softly, “Do you really think an unfledged boy could satisfy you? Do you think one of those fumbling fools back at school could appreciate your rich sensuality? Your body is like a finely crafted instrument, and you’d imagine it in the damp, grasping hands of a callow child – a child more concerned with his own pleasure than learning yours.”


He pulled back from her without withdrawing completely. “To whom do you belong?”


With a whimper of need, she wriggled beneath him. “You!”


He thrust hard into her. “Whose hands have made you burn and cry out for more?”


“Yours!” she sobbed, needing just that. Needing more.


He thrust into her again. “Who will give you the release you crave?”


“You will!” When he gave another solitary thrust, she reached down to grasp his hips. “Severus! Please!”


He released her hips and let her strain up against his next thrust, his lips curving at the sharp bite of her nails into his skin as she pulled him even closer.