Needfire

Author\'s Note: Welcome to Needfire by Bicycle Built For Two, a collaboration of authors Areola and Melisande88. The point of view of Hermione Granger -- the odd-numbered chapters -- is written by Areola. The point of view of Severus Snape -- the even-numbered chapters -- is written by Melisande88. You can reach both authors by email at the following address: bicycle_built_42@yahoo.com. Areola can be reached at sea_lilis@yahoo.com, and Melisande88 at melisande88@yahoo.com.

This is a completed work.
A word of caution before you proceed, gentle readers. This story is rated NC-17 for a number of reasons, among them adult themes, explicit sexual content and descriptions of abuse. For the bulk of the relationship between Snape and Hermione, Hermione is sixteen years of age (according to calculations using canon dates supplied by JKR). If these topics squick you, please do not proceed. You have been warned.

And now, without further ado, we proudly and happily bring you... Needfire.

--Areola and Melisande88

Disclaimer: We own nothing you recognize. It all belongs to JKR.

Chapter 01 -- First Act


\"I am the biggest hypocrite
I\'ve been undeniably jealous.
I have been loud and pretentious
I have been utterly threatened.

I have abused my power forgive me.
You mean we actually are all one…?

…Always looked good on paper,
sounded good in theory.\"

-- One. Alanis Morisette.


He was rather ugly. No- ugly was not the word, she decided now as she watched the Potions Master move through the classroom. Though his harsh, aquiline features could not, under the best circumstances, be described as handsome, Hermione thought there was indeed something appealing about the man. Perhaps compelling was more to the point. That pale face seemed to palm your stare and hold it until you were left breathless. No, ugly was definitely not the word. He was…unclean. Greasy. Conceited. Corrupt in some way that made it legitimate to think of him corrupting her.

A vision of her Potions Master had wavered on the underside of her eyelids while Ron had been kneading her left breast. Snape had been gazing at her, or so it seemed to be, with a look of contempt. She\'d blinked, frowning, trying to focus her senses on the exact spot where Ron\'s fingers were stroking her flesh. Regrettably, her breasts had never been very sensitive and while Ron did enjoy playing with them, she could only stare at the ceiling, gathering lost thoughts like scattered butterfly-shaped pins.

Perhaps that was the thing with Snape. He seemed to be so fucked up himself that he probably wouldn\'t dare to suggest something was wrong with her own workings. Hermione imagined he would make some nasty comments, but not as to hint her body wasn\'t functioning properly. Donna, she supposed, would be secretly overjoyed to discover such insecurities in her daughter. The petite, never-to-be-caught-without-her-make-up Donna, seemed to take Hermione\'s confidence in her sexuality – as well as her daughter\'s disinterest in her appearance – as a personal insult to herself.

She did wonder what Donna would have to say if she saw her daughter brooding over a teacher that was twice her age. Mummy- as Donna insisted she would be called, would probably be appalled.

What would Donna say if she could see into Hermione\'s mind, see her daughter\'s strange obsessive dreams? Hermione imagined a rose-coloured lipstick-smile, dropping from her mother\'s perfectly made-up face when she saw Hermione sprawled naked on the sturdy desk of the Potions classroom. Hermione would have had her robe tossed aside previously; the folds of her school-uniform skirt pooling around her naked, spread thighs. Her knickers would be twisted around one shin; simple, lollypop coloured satin against the cream white of her skin. A perfect composition leading the observer\'s eye straight into her soft, moistened center.

Then there was Snape. She wasn\'t exactly sure where she\'d put him: unsure whether she wanted him to touch her, yet. Whether she was ready to be soiled. Maybe to have him looking at her was the worst of all – to have him contemplating her as a piece of meat, pursing his lips in his fastidious sneer, his quill brushing his cheek; his jaw-line; caressing his thin, cruel mouth. That quill- maybe it would be trailing down her body, along her spread, milky thighs, making its way towards her pulsing clitoris with sharp, accurate strokes. Later, standing in front of the mirror in the prefects bathroom, she\'d be able to see the words \'I\'m a silly Gryffindor Know-It-All\' blemishing her pure, white skin.

\"Miss Granger!\"

Snape\'s scathing, deep baritone stirred her out of her short reverie and yanked her back into the advanced Potions class.

Hermione blinked.

\"You are not paying attention!\"

Composing her face into an expressionless mask of bourgeois kindness, Hermione shot her apologies. The poor bastard really didn\'t have a clue. Perhaps she should introduce him to Donna: \"Mummy, please meet Professor Snape, an ex-Death Eater, master of the Hogwarts\' dungeons and an avid fan of kinky toys.\" But in an afterthought- no, Snape didn\'t seem to be the kind to use whips or handcuffs in his bed: no foolish wand waving indeed. Only hands, blue-white, graceful, competent hands – so pale you could almost see the veins interlacing, in bluish, mysterious roses under his skin. Like the skin of a baby\'s forearms.

It had been in July, during the summer of her sixth year in Hogwarts, that she woke up in the middle of the night, after having an erotic dream. Her dream, she remembered, had involved the greasy bastard of a Potions Master and herself in some compromising position. A light, summery breeze had entered Hermione\'s room, carrying the sickeningly sweet scent of jasmine from the garden. Between her legs, she’d been wet and dripping.

Strange, detailed, uncomfortable dreams. Not unlike the ones she had been experiencing at seven and ten years old, where her younger self was recumbent on the nylon-blue dentist\'s chair in her parent\'s clinic, tweed skirt lifted to expose her gelatinous, pink-purple vulva.

Donna, with her cellophane smugness, said masturbation was all right. It didn\'t feel all right to the girl on the dentist\'s chair. It felt twisted and wrong, Hermione remembered, and she didn\'t know why it should make her crave this way. Nevertheless, it did, and she was fascinated by the dichotomy of cool, monochromic vinyl against her own small sobs of pleasure.

She remembered lying in her bed, at eight or so, contemplating whether the monster that had lived in the closet when she was younger might still sneak out if she let her guard slip. A couple of hours later, when she still couldn\'t fall asleep after already going to the loo once, she had found herself caught in the intricate web of strange noises echoing about the house. Her mother\'s voice was drifting, moving down the hall like fluid, shadowy fingers and pouring into Hermione\'s room. Donna – mummy – had been angry. The realization had made Hermione listen attentively as her mother was hardly ever angry. \"It\'s always you she\'s looking up to,\" Donna accused, failing to keep her emotions locked behind her beautifully painted mask of cosmetics preparations.

Her mother, or so it seemed, had blamed her father for taking Hermione away from her. Privately, though, the child had presumed that it was hardly a wonder that she preferred Lester. That is, with Donna always trying to stuff her into some smart dress which would rearrange her insides: to make her into something she was not. Donna\'s own Barbie doll to dress up and play with.

Hermione supposed it was one of the reasons she had never been very fond of girls. That and what she viewed as Donna\'s selfish, treacherous nature – Donna, who perceived her own daughter as a rival. Girls, Hermione thought, were cold-blooded and manipulative, always striving towards their own ends out of some petty motive: their shiny, silvery fish-scales, hidden behind lipstick, high-pitched giggles and sweet perfumes. A demeanor designed to ensnare the senses and prevent a clear view of their true nature. Men, however – for the most part – were simple and uncomplicated. Being a female, Hermione had never aspired to understand them completely, but she’d been satisfied knowing that with men she felt much more comfortable. Hence, she preferred the company of boys to that of girls.

Hermione\'s father, as opposed to her mother, aspired for perfection – it had been his daughter\'s academic achievements of which he was most proud. While other fathers showed off pictures of their children, Lester Granger preferred to tell about his infant child\'s latest intellectual endeavor. He was a pedantic, rather fastidious man, who enjoyed good wine, a well-argued research paper as much a well-written suspense novel; he was a keen yet critical follower of mechanical innovation made for dentistry and his opinion was highly regarded amongst his colleagues. Tall and trim at forty-eight, with some grey hair accenting his deep hazelnut mane, Lester Granger was a handsome man. At the age of four, Hermione had wanted to marry him.

Frowning, she shook away the memory. It seemed pointless and insipid, stretching backward as the passing minutes slipped away.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Ron and Harry had a Quidditch practice, which meant several hours of undisturbed reading. Luckily, with the title of Head Girl – gained fair and square in her seventh year – Hermione was also bestowed with her own room. Always being a relatively introverted person, she had indulged in her new privacy. Now, lounging on her bed, the pillows settled to support her back, she carefully sweetened her tea (which she brewed exactly to the temperature she preferred), then retrieved Kant\'s \'Doctrine of the Faculties\'. Gathering her knees to her body, she spread it against her thighs, and careful not to wrinkle the paper, opened the book to the page where she\'d left it last night.

Kant was clear and thematic. In a sense, reading him helped Hermione put some order in her scattered thoughts. When her tea was finally consumed, leaving a thin coat of sugar at the base of her mug, she bookmarked the page she was currently reading and set the book aside. Careful as ever, she adjusted it until its angle on the low table was pleasingly precise.

Unfolding the training mattress, she began with a sequence of Yoga positions. Twenty minutes later, she was twisting and looping her body to its full flexibility, each time arranging her body in the \'baby\' position before she sleekly slid into the next position.

Ron, his red hair wet and a drenched towel hanging from his shoulder, found Hermione lying on her abdomen. Her hands were stretched backwards, fingers wrapped around her ankles, swaying a little backward and forward.

\"Hello, Hermione! That\'s really… impressive!\"

She let go slowly, moving into the baby position before rising to meet him. \"Hi Ron, what\'s up?\"

\"Practice is finished,\" he informed her, smiling boyishly. \"And since I was done with my charms homework earlier than I thought, and there\'s no DA this evening…\"

She replied with a forced smile. This week was busy for both of them, with two DA meetings; the trio\'s own private training sessions; extra homework assignments and Ron’s intensive Quidditch practices for the upcoming Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match. Having her own homework to complete, Hermione knew it would be a stressed, annoying encounter for her; she\'d be too busy thinking of her duties, unable to concentrate and enjoy the sex. Nevertheless, after she had refused Ron over the weekend, Hermione also knew that if she wanted to maintain her status with her boyfriend, she had to compromise a little.

Smiling at Ron, she leaned to kiss him, allowing his tongue into her mouth. Ron always tasted like Sugarquills; she really liked kissing him. But then there was this nasty assignment Snape gave them today. Snape, running his dark quill along his thinly pursed lips when he graded those papers that always seemed to pile on his desk. In her dreams, the desk\'s oaken surface smelled of semen and bertholine: the way the devil summons his crowd.

Amm-mm… sloppy, slobbery, wet noises of a kiss… Ron was cupping her breasts. All too gently, as if asking for her permission. She wanted to scream. They were analyzing the alchemical qualities of dragon blood in class – Snape wanted the damned essay by Friday. Inhaling, Hermione pushed Ron to the bed, kneeling between his parted legs. He only made a small noise of protest when she reached for his zipper, saying something about wanting to spend time with her.

Closing her lips around Ron\'s cock, Hermione found herself reciting the twelve uses of dragon blood. She had found it helped her ignore her gag reflex; \'you should allow your larynx to massage it\' Ginny explained to her once. Massage it, Hermione thought, or simply attempt to swallow the organ you\'ve so carelessly sucked in.

* * *

Calculated as ever, Hermione ushered the still wrapped-up-in-orgasmic-bliss Ron out of her room; the salty taste of his cum lingering in her mouth. Brewing herself another tea, she washed away the bitter remnants and then headed to the library, where she\'d write her essay for Potions class.

That night, turning and rolling under her quilt, Hermione dreamed of Donna. Her mother was standing in the middle of the Potions classroom, dressed in a nylon-blue designer suit. Her face had been carefully made up to look younger and more attractive. Her lips, this time with Clinique\'s deep bourdeaux-wine, were turned up in a weak, unsure smile – as if she was waiting to be ordered around. She looked foolish and pathetic, and in some disturbing way, erotic, as her impersonation of self-assurance was slowly cracking to reveal the easy prey she was.

With that realization fertilizing the rich, dense setting of the scene, Professor Snape swept into the classroom, his black robes billowing around him. A predator. He circled Donna once, measuring her with his dark, cat-like eyes, then, without uttering a single word, approached her. They were standing face-to-face now; the relatively tall Donna on her elegant, stiletto heels, and the yet-much-taller Severus Snape. He put his hand on her shoulders; brutally and emotionlessly pushing her down on her knees.

Donna\'s big, brown eyes were wide with both fear and arousal. Her hands shaking, she fumbled with the mass of Snape\'s robes – pure, lucid white, against opaque, superstitious black. Several seconds passed before Donna finally pulled Snape\'s thick, already dripping cock out of its restrictions. She had stopped for a moment to drink in the sight of the beautifully sculpted male organ. Snape was less patient. With one, crude motion he shoved his pulsing cock in between Donna\'s partly opened lips. He smirked as she choked in reaction, her eyes brimming with tears. Some of Donna\'s bourdeaux-coloured lipstick was smeared on the veiny, reddened skin of his cock. The colour had been diluted by Donna\'s saliva as Snape withdrew a little, only to thrust back inside, burying himself to the hilt.

Lying in her bed in her Head Girl\'s room, Hermione was sound asleep. A thin film of sweat was covering her face; her fingers digging into the linens in search of some lost orgasm. A few minutes later, dream Snape spilt his seed into dream Donna\'s mouth, and on her lips, sleeping Hermione could taste a man\'s seminal fluid.