A Rock and a Hard Place

*Tip of the hat* in acknowledgement to Subversa for this unequaled premise for PWmuchP.

*

“What’s that?” Snape said contemptuously.

His eye was on a short witch coming into the Great Hall for dinner. She was giggling self-consciously among a crowd of Gryffindor girls. The giggling ill-became her, as she looked to be well past the first flush of youth and had a young girl at her side. On second glance, he saw that her clothes and lack of robes pointed more to her being a Muggle than a witch. What was a Muggle doing at Hogwarts?

“That will be all, Severus,” Dumbledore said benignly. “She’s a Muggle. There’s her daughter. A Parselmouth.”

Oh. Snape took a closer look. This put a new spin on things. The child was about 7, of no particular great looks, big-eyed and solemn. And the mother—-Snape put her at, at least 30, eyes huge and shadowed behind a too-wide smile.

“Where’s her husband?”

“I’m afraid he’s left them,” Dumbledore said lightly. “He was a Squib. Keep an eye on her, will you, Severus? Her daughter is of great interest to the Dark Lord, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

“Yes, Headmaster,” he ground out. Brilliant. Babysitter for the Muggles. Privately, Snape felt nothing but contempt for the over-aged, giggly woman who married a Squib and knew nothing of magic.

*

She had been giggling for the first time in years, feeling rusty and delirious and silly. She knew it looked bad for a woman her age to giggle with teenagers, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

Then she saw the dark-haired teacher at the Head Table. “He’s like me,” she thought, and tried to catch his eye. At that moment, he threw a look dripping with contempt her way and whispered something to the Headmaster.

She felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. She pasted on a smile, knowing it looked false, and heard herself laugh, a high-pitched titter. She turned her heard away and put her hand on her daughter’s head.

*
Some nights later, Snape was awakened from a fitful sleep by a pounding at his door. He threw a robe over his nightshirt and opened the door to find Dumbledore, his wand aloft, guiding a floating form.

“Open the door, Severus,” he commanded.

Snape swung the door open, and Dumbledore waved in his floating bundle. Another wave of his wand, and a mattress appeared in front of the front room fireplace, onto which Dumbledore lowered his bundle. It was the silly woman from several days before.

“What is it?” Snape said, starting to feel alarmed.

“The Dark Lord has taken the girl Parselmouth, as I predicted,” Dumbledore said heavily. “He used Nagini to entice her away from her friends in Hogsmeade. He also has laid a Dark Curse on the mother.”

“Which one?”

“Eternus Esurius.”

“Eternal Desire?” Snape said. “Odd.”

Eternus Esurius had not, to his knowledge, been used for hundreds of years. It was old, strong, crude Dark Magic. As soon as the cursed one recovered from the immediate effects of the hex, he or she became sexually fixated on the first person of the opposite sex in view. The cursed one would need sexual release almost constantly for the first three days, and at less frequent intervals thereafter. Sexual release on one’s own was impossible. Deprivation of sexual release from the chosen person would lead rapidly to tremors, then convulsions, and finally, death.

“It gets more so,” Dumbledore said neutrally. “I am meant to be its object.”

Comprehension, never slow with Snape, was dawning.

“It can’t be me,” Dumbledore continued pleasantly. “Aside from the vast age difference, the lack of propriety, the impossibility of secrecy, and my own...personal preferences, there is the matter of her current state, which as you’ve noticed, is not good.”

Snape said nothing.

“She needs—" Dumbledore began.

“No.”

Dumbledore looked at him sharply. “It cannot be me, Severus. Whom do you propose? Some student?”

“Why not?”

“She’s 32 years old. If she’s caught with a student, it’s Azkeban.”

“There are students of age.”

“They live in dormitories, Severus. Nothing is secret.”

“Then some other wizard. I don’t care! I don’t even like the woman. Tittering, foolish, not a brain in her head—"

“You see what you want to see.”

“So enlighten me.”

Dumbledore regarded him severely. “You’ll have to ask her about herself.”

“How? Between shags?”

“Don’t be crude.”

“Then give me something to go on. This isn’t your usual delegated task. Even for me.”

Dumbledore leaned back so that his face was partly in shadow. “I don’t give away confidences, Severus, but things are seldom what they seem. You should know that.”

The words, spoken gently, shook Snape.

“All right, Dumbledore. My body is at your disposal.”

“I’m afraid, Severus, it will have to be more than that. As you know, if the cursed one’s emotional needs are not met, she may seek satisfaction elsewhere, with disastrous results for her, the school, and her child.” Snape’s eyes narrowed, and Dumbledore sighed. “Try not to hold it against her.”

“Easy to say,” Snape remarked bitterly.

Dumbledore patted his arm. “I’ll be going now. She needs to see just one man when she awakens. We don’t want any mistakes. I’ll get Flitwick to take your classes for the next three days.”

After Dumbledore’s exit, Snape stoked the fire moodily and made tea. The bundle looked smaller than he remembered the new woman being. He could see her hair straggling over the blanket. Soon, though, the compulsion would force her to wake up. And then, all that would matter to her would be satisfaction, as soon and as often as possible. Snape steeled himself. He didn’t think he could bring himself to have full intercourse with her. Fingers wouldn’t last as long nor give as much relief, but they would have to do.

The bundle stirred, and the woman sat up, blinking enormous dark-ringed eyes and looking anxious. She held the blanket tight around her, but Snape could see to his relief that she was wearing what looked to be a dress and some ugly, low-heeled shoes. He handed her a cup of tea, which she took gratefully.

“You’ve been put under a curse,” he began in his most pedantic tones. “It’s called Eternus Esurius.”

“What’s that mean?” she said in a frightened voice. He couldn’t place her accent, but it almost certainly wasn’t English.

“It means eternal desire. You have already imprinted on me. I’ll be seeing to your needs—" here his lip curled—“until the curse is lifted. You can read more about it here.” He shoved a musty volume in front of her. She began to read, her eyes darting over the page. Snape watched her hands and noticed the worsening tremors. At last, she pushed the book away.

“Having trouble concentrating is one of the symptoms,” he said, sounding clinical even to his own ears.

“Who put this curse on me?” she said in a panicky voice.

“The Dark Lord.”

“Where’s Elizabeth?”

“Your daughter? He has her. She’s a Parselmouth, very interesting to the Dark Lord. No doubt he’ll try to bend her to his purpose.”

Her frightened eyes slid away. He was slightly surprised that she wasn’t hounding him for relief already. The books were unanimous in their descriptions of unbearable need.

“You’re the Potions Master, the one all the kids are afraid of.”

He didn’t answer, but his lip lifted in a sarcastic sneer.

She swallowed. Then she got shakily to her feet. “I’ll have to start looking for Elizabeth. Thank you for your…um, hospitality.”

Snape watched with detached interest as she set the teacup down on a side table. Soon the curse would be kicking in, and he doubted she’d be thinking of leaving after that. She started toward the door, then stood still.

“Having trouble?” he said. “I told you: unending desire. It’s worst for the first three days.” He didn’t add that he was surprised she hadn’t started begging for relief by this point.

She looked at him with wide, watery eyes, wringing waxy hands in front of her, which effectively hid any tremors. “It’s all right, Mr., uh, Snape—"

“Professor!” he barked, and she jumped.

“P-professor, I mean,” she amended, her voice going a bit quavery. “Anyway, it’s all right. You don’t have to do anything. This must be the worst assignment possible anyway.” Too true, Snape agreed savagely. “So please, let’s not talk about it any more. I’ll be going now. I’ll have to ask Dumbledore what’s the best thing to do. I don’t know much about...about...magic, and all.” Snape squelched the desire to roll his eyes. “Magic and all.” Really! But her fortitude was starting to puzzle him. She should be starting to hit desperation by now. Certainly, she would want to be taking off those tights.

She took two slow steps toward the door and paused. He could hear her breaths. Snape sighed inwardly. He stood up and loomed over her. “You’re going to need some relief, whether you want it or not,” he said. “If you read what I showed you, you’ll remember tremors, then convulsions, then death. So, if you don’t mind, the bedroom.” He could tell he sounded bored, but his impatience was getting the better of him.

The woman wrung her hands again. When she spoke, it seemed to be with effort. “The books might be wrong,” she said finally.

Snape didn’t bother suppressing his sigh this time. “They’re not,” he snapped. He walked up behind her and touched her shoulder. She was shaking hard. He swore under his breath, curled one arm around her thin waist to hold her in place, and efficiently pushed his other hand under her skirt and under the waistbands of both her tights and her knickers.

She gave a small sound and lurched toward the door, but he had her fast. Anchoring her in place ruthlessly, he probed between her legs, found her soaked center, and pushed inside. At once, she gave a small cry of pain and tried to shrink from him. He held her firmly, but stilled his finger, letting her get used to the feeling. She was very wet, but seemed tighter inside than he had expected, and she now was shaking hard.

He moved his finger slowly, trying to find a spot that pleasured her. When he did, he could just barely hear her soft inhalation. Encouraged, he fucked her mercilessly with his finger until he felt her tense and go limp. Then he removed his digit and headed for the bathroom.

When he emerged, she was sitting on the floor where he had left her, her face to the wall.

“You understand the situation now,” he said, feeling angrier now that he felt he had been made to play the bully.

“Yes.” Her voice was muffled.

“We’ll have to see to this urge probably every 15 to 30 minutes, or risk the consequences.”

“Yes,” she repeated dully.

Snape cursed inwardly. This was going worse than he’d feared. He decided to try conversation.

“You might try looking at me,” he began irritably. She shuffled around till she was facing him, eyes still downcast. “I can’t place your accent,” he continued. Since she wasn’t British, she wouldn’t mind being asked where she was from.

“I’m from the North of England,” she answered, glancing quickly up at him.

What a liar! Snape smiled at her, showing his teeth. “I’m from the North of England,” he said, letting his carefully acquired standard accent fall away. “You don’t sound much like me.”

She bit her lip. “Oh,” she said lamely.

Worse and worse. Snape sighed and retrieved her mug of tea. He brought it to his potion cabinet and added a drop of Veritaserum. Then he added three drops of a sedative, one that had the happy side effect of suggestibility, like a light Imperius. She would likely do what he suggested, if it didn’t go against strongly held beliefs, but she would remember nothing afterward.

“Here,” he said, bringing her the mug. “Why don’t you finish your tea?”

She drank the whole mug, taking small, steady sips. Then she set it absently on the floor. Snape watched her closely. He had used as much of the sedative as he dared, which, now that he was getting a better look at her thin frame, he realized might have been too much. He crouched on the floor near her.

“I’m your good friend,” he said, frowning slightly with concentration.

“My good friend,” she repeated, her eyes slightly unfocused.

“You can trust me.”

“I feel I can trust you,” she said a little more firmly.

Snape sat back, feeling a little self-satisfied. “What’s your name?”

She shifted nervously. “Lisa Mills.” Silly, American name, he thought. “I use my middle name,” she continued. “It’s better than my real one.”

“What’s your real one?”

“Gertrude.” She shifted again. “And I used my husband’s last name when I was married.” The evolution of her name did not interest Snape.

“And how long have you been divorced?”

She looked away. “He left two years ago. The papers just came through, though.”

“And where are you from?”

“I moved a lot. Gaithersburg, Maryland, I guess you’d say.”

Oh. The States. Snape didn’t know or care much about the place.

“And where are your people?”

“My parents, you mean? My mother’s dead. They say I look a lot like her. My father’s in Reston, I think. That’s where he was last time I checked.”

“What about brothers? Sisters?”

“There’s just me.” She sighed. “You’re my good friend?” she asked earnestly, looking him in the eyes.

“Yes,” he assured her, wondering what was coming next.

“Well,” she hesitated. “I’ve kind of come to the end of the line. ... Things haven’t been going well.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “I guess my dad never really forgave me for looking like my mother. He never...anyway, he sort of stopped talking to me after I left for college.” She let out a harsh laugh. “And then I met Dan. Things seemed to be looking up. We got married, and I had Elizabeth. Dan’s English, so he moved us here for his job. But one day he found Elizabeth hissing at this snake in the garden, and he went ballistic.” The hands twisted again. “Dan hadn’t been happy with me since the baby. I wasn’t as...pretty as I’d been before. I looked tired. And my body...” She seemed to realize suddenly that she was talking to a man. “Anyway, he left us.

“So one day Dumbledore came to our house and told me Elizabeth was a witch and about Hogwarts, and he offered to let us live here. Said I could find something useful to do. I’d just been a secretary for the last couple years. Couldn’t get a job in my major.”

“Which was?”

“Chemistry. I was a grad student when I met Dan and kind of...dropped out. Anyway...” she said, looking at her hands, which Snape noticed she was clutching together whitely, “well, I’ve failed as a wife.” Her voice was thready, and she was taking a lot of breaths between words. “I couldn’t protect my daughter, so I’ve failed as a mother. I’ve been cursed, and the man I’ve been given to, I can’t blame him…he resents me.” Snape felt an unexpected jolt of shame. “So...” she went on, looking past him. She must be feeling lust, he thought. She must. But she only quivered near him, squeezing her hands together.

“Yes?”

“You are my good friend?” she pleaded.

“Yes, I’m your good friend,” he assured her, feeling a pall of foreboding come over him.

“I don’t know how much longer I can...you know,” she said, her voice going hoarser, as if it took more effort to force the sound out. “I just—-They say there’s this Forbidden Forest.”

“Yes?” Snape said threateningly.

“Well, I’m beginning to think...it’s comforting to think...Maybe they’re wrong about this curse. Might wear off. And if not... Maybe I can get some of one of his potions first, take the edge off. Maybe,” her voice dropped further, and he had to lean in to hear her. At this proximity, he could tell how hard she was shaking. “...maybe I’ll succeed in one thing.”

“No deaths on my watch,” Snape said grimly.

“What?” He could tell the sedative was starting to wear off, and dim suspicion of his identity was coming to her.

“You must be in discomfort.”

“Yes,” she admitted, ducking her head. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m your good friend, though, right?”

“Yes,” she said earnestly. “Best friend I’ve ever had.”

Snape felt another unpleasant jolt of shame. “Maybe a friend can help you.”

“Maybe. Please don’t tell Dr. Snape, though.”

Snape pressed his lips together in a thin line and leaned toward her. “You tell me if I’m doing this right.” Given her current state, he thought he had better move quickly. He slipped his hand into her tights and knickers, as before. As soon as he touched her, she melted toward him, sliding her arms around his neck.

“So sorry, friend,” she said, “to put you in this spot.”

The words made him wince inwardly. He pulled her closer until she was nearly in his lap, then cautiously stroked around her entrance.

“Oh. Oh, please,” she said very softly in his ear.

He carefully pushed his middle fingertip into her, and she arched. “Oh, more. Please! Oh, I can’t...can’t...I have such a hard time when it's just fingers ... .”

Now she told him!

He slowly pushed his long finger inside her passage, crooking the fingertip so it applied pressure where it was most needed. She opened her thighs, kneeling in front of him, her arms still around his neck. “Please..!” she breathed in his ear. He tried to get a second finger in her, but she gave a gasp of pain and surprise and tried to retreat. At once, he stopped the movement, laying his other hand lightly on her waist. When she calmed, he set his thumb on her clitoris and began a slight rubbing. Within moments, she was writhing atop his fingers, begging for more, deeper, harder, oh, please!...and then she arched with a long gasp and slowly seemed to deflate onto his lap, half asleep.

Snape noticed ruefully that his own body has responded involuntarily to her breathy gasps. He looked around. They could sleep on the mattress by the fire, but his bed was more comfortable. He stood up, pulling her with him.

“Walk,” he said.

She stumbled alongside him the few steps to the bedroom and to the bed.

“You’re tired,” he said matter-of-factly. “Go to bed.”

The light was poor, but Snape could see her sit on the bed, pull off her shoes, and curl up on one side of the bed. He stripped off most of his clothes. After a brief hesitation, he pulled on a nightshirt and climbed into bed himself.

*