PREFACE: The characterisation of Antonin Dolohov as a Russian, and the characterisation portraying Alecto Carrow and Antonin Dolohov as an unhealthily obsessed with each other is the intellectual property of Canimal, author of "The Dark Mage's Captive." I write them this way with her full knowledge and permission.

A/N: *stumbles in, blushing.*

*Drops notes, half-written stories and positively pornographic pictures and one-shots all over the floor.*

*Stammers incoherently*

*Scrapes up most of the incriminating evidence, save one*

*scampers away with a squeak*


Darkness and Silence

By Kittenshift17

Chapter One

Hermione looked up, startled when the door to the Potions classroom was flung wide, banging off the wall and scaring her half to death. She froze in terror, knowing she wasn't supposed to still be in the dungeons so late. It was well after hours and she should've gone to bed long ago but she'd been intrigued by the potion she'd been working on and had lost track of time.

Despite her fear at being caught out of bed, Hermione's heart raced with terror over something more when the volatile wizard stepped through the door clad in the robes and mask of a Death Eater. She held perfectly still as Professor Snape stalked across the room, the door slamming closed behind him so loudly that it echoed all the way down the corridor and hurt Hermione's ears.

He was trailing blood as he went, she noticed, her eyes fixed on him as she stood stiff beside her cauldron. He looked in her direction when she belatedly jumped and tried to hide the evidence of her presence. Hermione felt a chill run down her spine at the sight. His robes were torn open and he was bleeding profusely, but that wasn't what caused her distress.

No, Hermione's heart hammered out an uneven and erratic beat because when he looked at her the eyes glittering behind that terrible mask showed no glimmer of humanity. She knew he wasn't entirely himself when, despite her presence, he didn't scold her or scream at her to get out. He didn't speak at all, in fact, and Hermione watched with growing concern as he stalked to one of the cupboards behind his desk, which were heavily warded to keep students from raiding them.

He paid no mind to the trail of blood he was leaving in his wake and Hermione's eyes widened when he opened the cupboard, withdrew a bottle of expensive looking fire-whiskey, twisted the lid off and lifted it to his lips. He paused halfway there, his mask still in place and Hermione frowned when he reached with one bloodied hand to pry it from his face before flinging it carelessly on the desk.

She wondered if his lack of care at her presence was born of unawareness in his current mental state, or if it was merely because it was her and he knew she already knew he was a Death Eater and didn't care if she saw some of the effects of the perilous job he did for the Order.

"Professor, you're bleeding," Hermione said lamely, her feet carrying her, unbidden, to his side.

He didn't acknowledge her. He merely threw himself down into his office chair and continued to skol the contents of the whiskey bottle. Hermione hesitated as she drew closer, her teeth beginning to chatter and her body trembling with the cold fury and power he was radiating. She knew what that meant. He probably had no idea he was bleeding. He was too deeply entrenched in his own Occlumency shields to feel things like pain.

"Professor, we need to get you to the Hospital Wing," Hermione tried again, moving closer. Her stomach clenched when she saw the extent of his injuries. It looked like he'd been set upon by Greyback, five long gouges dripping blood down his chest. She spied another slash in the fabric and flesh covering his right thigh – the reason for the blood trail – and Hermione knew he was in real danger. If she didn't heal him immediately, he could bleed out right there in his chair long before she could talk him back to humanity enough to feel the pain of his injuries.

"Bugger," Hermione muttered, flicking her wand and summoning a cauldron to herself. She scoured it clean quickly before filling it with warm water and conjuring a cloth. Invading his personal space, Hermione didn't bother asking permission to touch him or heal him. He'd never have given it, no matter the danger to his own life, were he aware enough to know what she wanted.

His dark eyes fixed upon her when Hermione invaded his personal space but when she reached a shaking hand out to touch him and peel back his robes and his shirt – having to use her wand to get the many buttons undone – he didn't protest. He simply stared. Hermione hated when he did it to her in his classes, knowing that he was judging her every move, just waiting for her to make mistake.

When his chest and stomach were bare, his robes hanging open about his shoulders, Hermione wrung out the cloth in the hot water and began trying to bathe off some of the blood. He flinched ever so slightly at the first brush of warmth against his skin but Hermione met his gaze, offering him a reassuring smile.

"Professor?" she asked quietly as she worked quickly, trying to clean him up enough to figure out if regular healing charms would seal the gashes or not.

He made no response, but when she moved and snapped her fingers in front of his face to ensure he was still in there, he tracked her movements with his eyes. He drank deeply from his bottle when she pressed the cloth directly to the cuts, bathing as much of the blood off as she could manage from his chest and his stomach.

Hermione's cheeks were crimson as she worked, discovering that though they seemed to have been inflicted by werewolf claws, the gashes responded normally to a healing charm. When the wounds were sealed, she bathed the skin some more, leaving no traces of blood behind. She couldn't un-see the pale expanse of his form, nor could she ignore the wiry span of sinew and muscle that shifted restlessly under his skin. He was scarred and bony, she noticed, his body showing the evidence of a life lived hard.

"Professor, I um… I need to heal this one, too," she told him, pointing to the gash on his thigh. He made no response, though his eyes tracked her finger when she pointed to the wound. When she met his gaze, wondering what he might suggest since she couldn't really heal it without stripping him out of his trousers, there was a dark and wicked gleam in his obsidian eyes. He knew on some level that she would have to strip him to heal him, and he seemed to know she was brave enough to do it, no matter the way her hands shook.

Hermione blushed brightly again as she reached for the fastening on his trousers, wondering if he would stop her. He didn't. He just took another swig from his bottle and Hermione narrowed her eyes on him when he offered it to her, a wicked little smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. He must surely be caught deep in the persona of his Death Eater side to be offering liquor to a student, no matter that she was of age.

Snatching it from him, Hermione lifted it to her lips and gulped down a few mouthfuls, steeling her nerves to the task ahead no matter the thrill of wrong-doing that rushed through her to be drinking alcohol inside the school and in the company of a teacher. It wasn't that she was embarrassed by the human form or that she feared the sight of the wound. It was nerves at the idea of seeing her Potions Professor in even less that he wore now.

He didn't speak when she handed the bottle back to him, coughing a little at the strength of the concoction. He didn't wipe the lid before drinking deeply again, tipping his head back as he skolled some more of it and Hermione took that as all the permission she needed. Despite her shaking hands, she unzipped his fly and tugged on the fabric of his trousers, jerking them down. He slid down a little in the chair and he growled in his throat when the fabric grated over the wound.

Ah, so he was in there after all.

"Sorry, sir," Hermione said, yanking on the pants again until they slid to his knees. She tugged them again until they bunched at his ankles and Hermione hissed in annoyance when she had to pause to get his boots off, needing to completely remove the blood-stained fabric to clean all the blood from his skin.

He made no protest as she tugged his boots off his feet, first the left and then the right. She shoved them aside and pulled his pants free of his ankles, her cheeks on fire at the sight of his socks and the black hair dusting his legs. She was kneeling as she reached for the cauldron of hot water and Hermione squeaked in shock and slammed he eyes closed when she turned her attention back to what she was meant to be doing and found him naked.

He'd been commando under his trousers and Hermione whimpered when she caught sight of him in all his glory.

"You're going to kill me when you resurface," Hermione muttered, knowing he still needed healing. Tugging on the long Death Eater cloak he wore, Hermione laid a portion of the fabric over his crotch and she would swear she could hear him chuckling as she set to work on his thigh though she didn't dare lift her eyes to his face, lest he see her mortification. Or worse, her curiosity and desire.

She bathed the blood off quickly and muttered the charms to heal him. Hermione froze as she healed the last gouge when he bumped her cheek with the bottle. Blinking and looking up at him, she found his dark eyes fixed on her face intently in a way she'd never seen before and Hermione gulped audibly.

"Professor?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

"Professor Snape?" she tried again and a faint flicker of recognition was her reward. Hermione bit her lip for a moment, butterflies beginning to riot in her stomach.

"Severus?" she asked quietly, testing his given name for the very first time. He jerked slightly, and Hermione flinched.

The cold fury and power still emanated from him, but the slow indrawn breath he took and the way his gaze seemed to sharpen made her think he was coming back to himself.

"You shouldn't be here," he told her, his voice low and husky in a way she'd never heard any man speak before and Hermione gulped again.

"I needed to heal you," she whispered, trying to offer explanation.

She didn't realise as she said so, scrambling and trying to make sure he wasn't going to shout at her, that she'd put her hands on his thighs. His gaze fell to them and Hermione froze when she realised she'd been smoothing her palms over his bare skin. Her eyes darted to his bare chest when he took another slow breath in.

"I am healed," he murmured, and Hermione nodded, watching him slowly reach forward to set the bottle upon his desk behind his bloodied mask.

Frowning, Hermione reached for his hands when she noted they were still bloody and he froze at the touch when she held onto him gently, reaching for the cloth to clean him off once more. Slowly, methodically, Hermione worked the cloth over his skin, reaching for more and more of him when she realised how much of him was still bloodstained.

He didn't speak again throughout the entire process and Hermione froze as she was using one hand to tilt his chin to one side, the other wiping at a smear of blood on his neck, still on her knees and leaning over him. He'd tangled one hand into her loose curls and Hermione blinked, realising she was practically lying in his lap.

Indeed, the feel of his cool fingers gliding against her scalp made her tingle and Hermione blinked, almost dropping the cloth when she realised that pressing insistently against her stomach was something hot and hard and apparently just begging for some of the attention she'd been paying to the rest of him.

Blinking, Hermione slowly reached to set aside the cloth she held before meeting his gaze and finding his eyes glittering with heat.

"You should go," he told her, his voice husky and sinful in a way that made her tremble.

Hermione knew he was right, but bugger if she didn't want to. She'd been lying to herself for months about the growing intrigue and attraction she felt for Professor Snape and when he looked at her like that, the very last thing she wanted to do was remove herself from his presence.

"And if I don't want to?" Hermione dared to ask, breathless.

His lips curled into a sinister and wicked smile, and Hermione felt the way his cock twitched under her. An answering smirk crawled across her face, unbidden, and Hermione couldn't resist the urge to lower her mouth to his skin. He tangled his free hand into her hair as she trailed a soft line of kisses across his chest, kissing across the scars that littered his torso, slowly moving south.

He made no protest and Hermione nipped him very gently when he snaked a hand between them enough to move the portion of his cloak before he gripped his throbbing cock tightly. Hermione traced her hands over his thighs slowly, converging on the appendage he tormented and she heard his breath hitch as she kissed her way across his taut stomach while one of her hands carefully smoothed over him, replacing his own hand upon his length. Her heart was racing inside her chest, and her knickers were dampening rapidly.

She could barely believe that she dared touch him in such a way – at all – or that he permitted it. Merlin, from the way his breath hitched ever so slightly, Hermione felt like he was even encouraging her. She curled her hand around him carefully, and he stilled, holding his breath as though afraid move and break whatever spell weaved between them. Hermione could barely believe what she was planning, no matter the number of times she fantasized about doing such. Trailing little nips and kisses down his abs, Hermione reached the base of his cock and she paused momentarily, daring to lift her eyes to his face.

He watched her intently, his eyes glittering with what she suspected was lust, and Hermione wondered if he would stop her.

"You will regret this," he murmured when she trailed butterfly kisses toward the tip of his cock.

"Perhaps," Hermione agreed softly, smoothing her hand toward his base as she kissed to the end of his cock. She smirked just a little before she licked at the weeping head, tasting him for the first time.

He didn't react like any of the other boys had when she'd done this to them. Not that she'd done it to many, but both Ron and Viktor had hissed in surprise and approval when she licked them. Not Snape. He was too controlled for that. The only indication she had of his enjoyment was the slightest tightening on his hand in her hair.

"I will regret this," he muttered.

"Most assuredly," Hermione agreed before engulfing the head of his cock in her eager mouth.

His hands tightened in her hair even more as she slowly worked her mouth over him, inches of him disappearing inside her. He never made a sound, silent in the darkness, but Hermione had expected nothing less. He wasn't the type to mutter a string of profanities like Ron, or to murmur sweet nothings and words of praise in a foreign tongue like Viktor.

No, all Severus Snape offered as a form of approval was a tightly controlled sigh of contentment and the faintest relaxation of taut muscle. Some of the cold radiating from him dimmed and Hermione was sure she might die of the combined desire, mortification, and terror she felt right then. Desire to bring him to completion and to exchange her mouth upon his body for the feel of impaling herself on his silken steel length. Mortification borne of the logical side of her brain that was indignantly pointing out all the reasons that this was wrong, ranging from the fact that he was her teacher, her elder, and a Death Eater, right through to wretched thoughts that if anyone ever found out, she'd never live it down. And worst of all, terror. Terror that he would tell her to stop. Terror that he might push her away and unleash that impossibly dirked tongue of his, spitting venom and fury at her when he regained his full range of emotions and rationalities.

Unwilling to risk it, Hermione bobbed her head, hollowing her cheeks on each upward stroke, swallowing as much of him as she could on each return. When she dared another glance at him, his eyes were closed, his head tipped back against his chair, his brow ever so slightly furrowed. Hermione swirled her tongue over him and he drew in a sharp breath, his eyes snapping open to meet her own.

They glittered with heat and Hermione's pussy throbbed. Merlin, she wanted to stand and straddle him. She wanted to feel each glorious inch of his cock sliding inside her until he was so firmly lodged, he might never be free. Belatedly, she realised he was probably using Legilimency on her and listening to her every thought, but he showed no sign of it. He never did. She knew he used it in class, filtering out the wretched thoughts most students entertained about him in favour of plucking ways to embarrass them from their own minds.

She knew that on more than one occasion, had he been listening, he'd have heard her traitorously lustful thoughts as they pertained to him. She'd become intrigued without really noticing, if she was honest. It had begun simply by listening to his voice as he explained the method for correctly preparing ingredients for potion making. It had grown a little keener when she'd paid attention to the way his long, dexterous fingers so carefully and skilfully handled ingredients. She'd begun to watch him without meaning to, admiring the sinuous grace of his form as he stalked – looking beyond the flaring of his ever-present cloak that billowed so. She'd paid more attention to him not as her teacher, but merely as a man. A man with thoughts and feelings and wants and needs and too often she'd wondered who – if anyone – saw to his wants and needs.

Before she'd known it, she'd begun wishing that she could be the one seeing to his needs, and now here she knelt, pleasuring him. And despite his silence, she could tell he was pleased – or at the very least, enjoying the physical sensation she offered.

Hermione squeaked when his hands slipped from her hair to cup her jaw gently. The faint pressure of his hands on her made her moan in protest, realising he was trying to pry her off him. Hermione lifted her eyes to his and she frowned, not wanting to be pulled off. She released him in surprise when he chuckled very softly, amused by her protest.

"Come up here," he murmured, smoothing his fingers down the length of her neck and to her collarbones. Hermione rose slowly, standing when he urged her to her feet.

She held her breath, her heart pounding against her ribs so hard it hurt as he held her gaze while his nimble fingers deftly unbuttoned her shirt until it hung open, revealing her modest white brassier. He traced the very tips of his fingers over the swell of her breasts and across her stomach until he met the waistband of her jeans. Hermione was panting by the time he popped the button open, and the rasp of her zipper was like exquisite torture as he slid it down, his gaze never wavering from hers.

"Are you afraid?" he asked in a low, sinful voice that made her tremble.

Hermione shook her head slowly from side to side, reaching to rest her hands on his shoulders when he opened her jeans and began working them down her legs. His lips twitched when they were bunched at her ankles, and Hermione slipped her shoes off before stepping out of them. He deliberately traced his gaze over her body in that cold, assessing way of his, and Hermione trembled all the more when his fingers toyed with the little bow stitched on the front of her black knickers.

"Have you done this before?" he asked just as quietly.

Hermione was torn. She'd certainly had sex before, but she'd never felt so much like vibrating out of her skin or like she was going to explode with lust and need. She'd never been touched so gently as when he traced patterns across her stomach with his thumbs, drawing runes and circles that made her want to melt into his embrace.

She nodded her head slowly when he lifted his eyes to her face, stilling as he awaited her answer. Another twitch of his lips belied that he was pleased she was experienced and Hermione hoped it was because he had no intention of going easy on her or being gentle with her. He wasn't a gentle or a nice man and she didn't expect him to shag like he was.

When he slid his hands under the waistband of her knickers, Hermione practically vibrated with need and he smirked wickedly at her before he flicked them off her hips, sending them skidding down her thighs to puddle at her feet, leaving her bare to his gaze.

He gripped her hips lightly, steering her further around in front of himself before pushing her back against his desk. Hermione squeaked when he lifted her with apparent ease, sitting her on the edge of his desk. He nudged her legs apart and Hermione gulped, realising what he meant to do when one hand slid up to press to the middle of her chest, pushing her backward until she was lying across the desk with him between her thighs.

Hermione writhed with apprehension and excitement when she felt his free hand smoothing slowly across her abdomen and then lower. His fingers danced through the neatly trimmed curls as her core and when he sliced two fingers the length of her slit they were frigidly cold and a complete contrast to her hot, throbbing flesh. She cried out when he drove two long digits deep inside her without warning, her pussy so wet that he met with no resistance.

She arched into the touch, her head thrown back and a low moan drawn from her at the caress. Gods, she had ached for this and she was terrified that any minute now, she would wake and find this was all a dream. Not the first she'd endured, either.

"Fantasizing about me, Miss Granger?" he asked as he beckoned with those clever fingers deep inside of her.

She was beyond words, inarticulate with pleasurable delirium, but Hermione knew he didn't need her to say it to confirm the truth of it. All he had to do was peek inside her head and he'd have his answer. She dreamed of nights spent in his embrace and Hermione whimpered when he leaned forward without warning and suckled her clit into his mouth, his fingers still beckoning inside her.

Gods, she was going to explode and he'd barely touched her. Hermione whimpered, her eyes crossing and her legs trying to snap shut on him in a desperate effort to protect herself, as though they might stave off the devastation that promised should the tidal wave of pleasure be allowed to reach it's crescendo. His bony shoulders hindered their closing and his wicked chuckle titillated her senses, making her wild.

Without meaning to, Hermione tangled her hands in his dark hair, weaving her fingers through the fine strands as she arched into his touch. The caress of his lips and his tongue combined with that of his fingers and she was certain she was dying a pleasurable, happy death as he tormented her mercilessly. Butterflies rioted in her stomach and fire crackled across her senses. Fireworks began behind her eyes and Hermione huffed out a breathy little moan of completion when the wave crested, slamming into her and knocking the breath from her lungs even as she clamped tightly around his fingers.

Another of those wicked chuckles accompanied his withdrawal and before Hermione could mewl needily, her body feeling boneless with bliss, he peeled her off the desk, skidding her across the surface and pulling her into his lap. Hermione moaned when he perfectly performed the move in such a manner that before her orgasm petered out, she found herself impaled upon his throbbing cock, her legs straddling his, and her hands knotted in his hair. His arms were strong and secure around her back, holding her to him and Hermione moaned when he trailed a line of kisses across her chest, rocking under her and driving himself deeper.

Delirious with pleasure, Hermione rolled her hips, rocking into each thrust of his hips and arching under his mouth. She could feel the tremble in his muscles and the puff of his breath as he worked himself into a frenzy, using her for his own pleasure even as he pushed her toward completion once more. When she was certain she couldn't take another moment of the sweet torture, his breath hitched and his hips snapped and Hermione broke as he groaned very softly, his forehead resting against her shoulder as he spent himself inside her.

Hermione sighed as the high slowly wore off, still intimately entwined with him and not at all interested in moving. His hands kneaded her lower back just hard enough to make her groan and she surrendered her weight to him, leaning against his chest as he slowly leaned back in his chair with her sprawled across him in the closest thing to cuddling that she imagined he might ever permit. Hermione let her eyes drift closed, simply breathing in the scent of his skin and focusing on the warmth that seemed to finally begin emitting from him, rather than the power and cold fury he'd been radiating since he walked in.

The hiss of a cauldron penetrated her hazy mind slowly and Hermione turned her head where it rested on his shoulder, her eyes narrowing on the potion she'd been brewing in the corner of the room.

"What were you brewing, Miss Granger?" he asked quietly, tensing slowly under her once more as the quiet moment of bliss was broken.

"Bruise Salve," she sighed, frowning as an acrid odour began emitting from the neglected potion.

"You have over-cooked it and created Garrotting Gas," he observed and Hermione had never heard him sound so utterly blasé about the destruction of a potion.

"Seems that way," Hermione agreed, making no move to intercede with the potion, not wanting to get off him quite yet.

"You can't stay there forever, you know?" he asked dryly, apparently caught somewhere between disapproval and amusement.

"No," Hermione sighed. "I suppose not."

As she slowly peeled herself off him and leaned back until she could peer into his face, Hermione coughed lightly, frowning.

"Off, now," he commanded. "Quickly. Before we both begin to choke."

Hermione nodded, squirming in his lap until she got her feet under her and could stand. The wetness between her legs felt uncomfortable as he slipped free of her folds and Hermione stumbled back a step until she hit his desk when he stood quickly, the cloak still hanging about his shoulders falling forward to keep his modesty as he fished out his wand and flicked it at the cauldron, Vanishing the contents and dousing the flame. Another flick cleared the air and Hermione felt her mind kick-start once more when he slowly turned his dark eyes on her, watching her with an unreadable expression. Standing once more and towering over her, Hermione remembered all too well why the younger students cowered in his presence and why the older ones didn't dare to argue with his directives unless they had a death wish.

He exuded power. It oozed from his pores and radiated from his person in such a way that had she not already been pressed up against the desk with her shirt hanging open and her knickers tangled about her feet, she'd have taken a cautious step back.

"You shouldn't be here, Miss Granger," he informed her, his brow furrowing as though just realising that her presence there so late at night meant she was out after curfew.

"I know," she nodded. "I lost track of time brewing, and then you returned…. I might've been a little distracted after that."

He sniffed imperiously, though a wicked gleam in his eyes belied his sardonic amusement.

"So, to be clear on the extent of your rule-breaking, you are out of bed after hours, making use of school supplies and equipment without permission, and have been canoodling on school grounds. You are in breach of the dress code, and you are not showing proper respect for a teacher of this school. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"That I've never shown as much respect for any teacher as I've shown you this evening," Hermione retorted, her pride flaring. "Sir."

His smirk was purely wicked as he took a step closer to her. Hermione leaned back, not at all feeling safe when he looked at her like that. She made to lean her hands on the desk and she hissed in surprise when his hand shot out to grip her wrist tightly just before she could touch his discarded Death Eater mask. The smirk he wore, that she might've called playful, disappeared in an instant and he jerked her away from the mask before she could comprehend what was happening.

"Never touch that, Miss Granger," he warned, his voice losing its mildly teasing lilt and returning to the serious, no-nonsense tone he used in his everyday teaching.

"Yes, sir," Hermione whispered, her eyes widening when he flicked his wand once more, levitating the blood-stained mask from the desk and sending it whizzing through the door that led to his office, and then to his private quarters beyond the classroom.

She recognised in an instant that whatever strange moment they'd shared that had left them both sated and pant-less was over and Hermione stepped back out of his hold once more. Her cheeks flushed crimson as he re-drew the line between student and teacher. Ducking down, Hermione scooped up her knickers, her jeans, and her shoes, and she scurried to the far side of the desk to don them. She didn't dare look at him again as he dressed himself once more.

She couldn't believe what they'd done and her mind began to race with fear over the repercussions of their actions. Unable to look at him again, fearful of his reaction, Hermione pressed her lips together and twitched her hands. She wanted to leave before he could say something hurtful about her morals or her obvious stupidity, or before he could tell her what a mistake they'd just made. She wanted to, but she didn't dare. Not until he dismissed her. She didn't doubt he would give her detention or dock house points for all the infractions he'd listed.

Hermione darted a nervous glance in his direction when the scratching of a quill caught her attention and she watched, brow furrowed, as he scrawled out a hasty note.

"Return to bed, Miss Granger," he commanded, thrusting the piece of parchment in her direction when he laid down his quill.

Hermione blinked, taking it automatically and nearly jumping out of her skin when her fingers brushed his. She noticed idly that the floor was damp as she backed away, belatedly realising that both the cauldron she'd used to clean the blood off him and the whiskey bottle he'd been skolling had toppled from the desk amid the throes of passion. She hadn't even heard the clang or the tinkle of a falling cauldron or shattering glass and Hermione's cheeks warmed even more.

"Yes, sir," Hermione whispered, accepting the note – a permission slip for being out of bed after hours - and her instructions. "Thank you, sir."

He narrowed his eyes on her and Hermione blushed brightly, realising he thought she was thanking him for the sex. She held the note up indicatively, unable to articulate her meaning of gratitude for the note, though she was grateful for the sex, too.

Hermione scuttled over to the desk where she'd been brewing and flicked her wand, watching her notes and her equipment pack themselves up and tuck themselves back into her bag. She slung the bag onto her shoulder and she didn't wait for him to speak again before she headed for the door. A lesser man might've threatened her or warned her to keep her mouth shut about what they'd done. A more caring man might've thanked her, or at the very least offered to walk her back to her dormitory or even bid her goodnight.

Not Snape.

He didn't say a word, though his eyes tracked her every step as she left the room, meeting her gaze unapologetically when she looked back from the doorway. Hermione bit her lip, taking in his dishevelled appearance, his ruffled hair and his rumpled clothing. His cheeks bore the faintest tint of colour from their exertions, barely perceptible in the darkness of the dungeon classroom, but as she hurried away, Hermione couldn't help the smile that crawled across her face or the spring that crept into her step.

She didn't know how she would face him in tomorrow's Potions class, or how she would explain to Harry and Ron why it was that she didn't have fresh pots of Bruise Salve to hand out to them to better treat their Quidditch Training injuries. She didn't know how she would get through the day without thinking about the sweet feel of his mouth on her body and his fingers beckoning deep inside her. She didn't know how she would ever look upon his desk whilst delivering samples of her potions for class without blushing and recalling the way she'd sprawled across it while he licked her pussy. How would she ever see him sitting in his chair and not daydream of straddling his lap and riding him once more?

As she trailed away, revelling in the darkness and silence of the cold corridors while she climbed toward Gryffindor Tower, Hermione didn't know how she was going to ever forget what she'd just done. And she didn't mind a bit, because if the memory of his body moving so intimately with hers was the last she could recall on her deathbed, that would be fine with her.