Work Text:
Her head was buried in her hands. Her fingers still thin and her skin still paler than normal. Though the war was over and the good side victorious, Hermione had not found her peace. Her appetite eluded her as she struggled with emerging demons; her own mind was becoming an enemy.
She sat among the curiously quiet portraits in Headmistress McGonagall’s office. She could feel their acrylic stares and could hear their canvas shifting. Yet, they did not speak to her, not even the most recent portrait that she avoided with purposeful desperation.
Minerva watched her former student struggle and she felt helpless to aid her. The post-wizarding-war-world was fraught with young witches and wizards struggling with the gravity of not only what they’d won, but more so what they’d lost. Hermione had only danced around her problems, never speaking of them fully. The weight of them was holding her down and Minerva knew if she didn’t release them soon, Hermione may never be unencumbered by them.
“It’s every time I close my eyes, Professor,” Hermione croaked from behind her palms, “I haven’t slept well since the war and I’m exhausted. But everytime I try to rest, I’m haunted by what I see…” She knew that she sounded as if she were describing nightmares instead of what they actually were. She was not terrified by the images she saw, she was comforted by them.
But the comfort was fleeting, for as soon as she woke, she had to reacclimate to every depressing reality as she grappled with the fictional world of her dreams. Her waking moments were haunted by the desire to live only in her dreams. She knew the logistics of such a life were unrealistic and if she were to speak this to anyone, she knew exactly the advice she’d received.
“There are potions, elixirs,” Minerva mentioned, noting the way Hermione’s fingertips gripped her hair more tightly, “That promote certain dreams or even prohibit any. They are usually restricted, but I believe your predicament would afford you certain concessions.”
Hermione’s hands lowered to fold her in her lap, her head still downturned as she leaned backwards in the chair. Her shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat, but her old Head of House’s words brought a glimmer of hope. At the same time she felt a sadness of what illusion she may miss out on.
“"There's nothing you can do to bring him back." Minerva said more gently, speaking to her suspicions. She approached Hermione carrying two black vials.
“I know, Professor,” Hermione mumbled, her most recent dream playing like a film reel in her mind. She stared at the offering for a moment before taking them.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She had not the energy or focus to apparate now - so Hermione found herself on a train from Hogsmeade back to London. There were few other passengers, so Hermione easily found an empty compartment. She sat next to the window, her forehead leaning against its cold pane. Her reflection was fogged by her breath as the clicking and the clacking and the motion of the train car became a hypnotic refrain. She was drowsy, but she fought it. She was more tired of towing the blurry line between fantasy and reality.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“You’ve returned again, Granger?” The voice bellowed in an echo as visuals fell into place around her. She sighed as her surroundings dripped in, filling in the void of darkness with color and light.
“It would seem so,” She answered unannoyed, but with a resolute sadness.
“Memories of me displease you?” Snape asked, sitting casually in a dark, wing back chair. Books stacked themselves from the ground up and a fire bursted to life in an ornate fireplace.
“Real ones, yes. But these,” She motioned around the room, “Not so much,”
In J z jus
“So you find enjoyment from my presence in your mind?” He asked the question with a snarky confidence. She wanted to brood and pout, but his oddly playful nature drew a smirk from her.
“I prefer to think of you not dead, yes,” She answered quickly. She needed to remember reality and not be so easily subdued.
“If I were alive, would you carry on the same way you have been in your subconscious?” he closed his book now, the words on its spine as well as any other book in this library-esque room obscured as they always were.
“Doubtful, Professor,” she approached him, sitting on a stack of heavy textbooks next to his chair, “I believe you found my company distasteful,”
“Can you name anyone whose company I did seem to enjoy?” He countered, smirking himself when she had no quick reply, “So you have no basis for comparison.”
Hermione wanted to argue with him, but she wanted so much to believe that he desired her in real life as he had in her dreams. She looked down at her hands in her lap. She was in her school uniform once again, though the skirt seemed to be much shorter than the dress code allowed.
“There’s nothing I can do to bring you back, Professor,” She admitted with a sense of shame.
“Are you sure of that?” He postured, almost playfully, “Perhaps, part of me slithered into your mind to live out my sordid fantasies of you, a prideful Gryffindor that seemed to struggle at keeping herself muzzled.” The aspiration spoke to the silly hopefulness in her mind that somehow he was indeed a sentient spirit that was independent from her psyche.
He slunk from the chair as he spoke, kneeling before her feet. His hand held her chin while his thumb slid along her lips, parting them.
“You shouldn’t say such things, Professor. It isn’t right,” She argued with an obvious lack of conviction.
“But then why do your knickers dampen so when I say them,” He didn’t have to run his hand up her thigh to know how she responded to him, “And why do you call my name so loudly when I’m inside of you?”
Her core burned with anticipation. It was so visceral that she was aware that her unconscious form was responding as well. The dreams hadn’t always been so carnal. They started off rather innocent and oddly comforting. But as she became closer to this imagined being, she felt herself desiring him, needing him….and dare she even admit for the consequence of losing her mind, loving him.
She could feel the friction of his hand resting on her knee and the drag of his palm as his fingers disappeared underneath the pleats of her skirt.
“Your thighs open at the mere chance of my touch, and you think this isn’t right,” He scoffed at her, his face nearing hers. She could feel the tickle of his hair against her cheek, his breath against her lips. How could a dream feel so real?
Her head tilted back as his finger tips stroked the fabric of her predictably wet knickers. She knew she would need to resist it someday, but she didn’t have the strength or wish to do so now.
“Professor….Severus,” She whispered, her hips rocking ever so gently. The stack of books she sat upon swayed with her movement. It defied the laws of physics, but it was her dream, she made the rules.
“Hermione, my dirty little witch,” His fingers slid to the edge and slipped underneath her knickers. His fingers felt so definite, so real, so talented, “So needy,” His fingers slid into her deprived entrance, letting her movements make them delve deeper into her slickening tunnel. She chased the itch that was beginning to spread in her sex. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the lifting of her skirt as his head descended between her spread thighs. She could feel lips suckle her nub and his fingers bury themselves to his bony knuckles in-time with his lashing tongue.
She gritted her teeth as she grabbed a handful of his stringy hair, groaning as a bursting pleasure erupted from her manipulated sex.
“You certainly didn’t waste any time,” She gasped for breath as she leveled back down from oblivion. Dreams used to stretch for hours on end with little progress. Lately he seemed impatient to defile her. She couldn’t complain though.
“We’ve wasted enough of each other’s time,” He stood, his cloak draped open and he undid his belt and trousers. A flip of his fingers and the book stack transformed, stretching into a shining onyx black desktop beneath her, “And your train is nearly to the station,”
Hermione furrowed her brow, how could he know such a thing?
His manhood was as pale as the rest of him, but bulging with veins and ridges. She was eager for it, spreading her legs even wider as he stepped between them. Her thighs rested against the sharp lines of his hips. The weight of his shaft rested against her while his hands slid under her sweater from her waist. Her nipples were already peaked in the anticipation of his ministrations and of the exposure to his gaze.
His kneading made them ache, but she enjoyed the torture so earnestly that she dared not request it to cease.
“Look at you,” He tried to sneer, his black eyes boring into her, “Just begging for it aren’t you?” He watched her squirm rubbing her soaked knickers against his shaft in hopes of enticing him quicker. He seemed to acquiesce to her urgency. Pulling her knickers to the side, he plunged into her waiting quim.
Hermione squealed as she was filled, the pressure of the intrusion sending shockwaves from her core to every nerve-ending in her body. No other person or device that she’d had inside of her felt quite as gratified. How could a mere thought satisfy her so much more greatly than something physical and tangible?
She had never been physically close enough to him to inhale his musk other than moments before his death. But the scent that surrounded her, she just knew was his. She reveled in the closeness of him, knowing that in life he kept every other person at such a distance. To be allowed this close to him was an honor even if it wasn’t real.
“You feel exquisite,” He growled into her ear, feeling her sex quiver around his pummeling cock, “Let me claim you, witch,” He demanded.
“Severus, please ….” She beseeched him, her body begging for completion.
“You can claim me, but you must first give yourself to me,” he slowed his thrusts, much to her devastation, he grinned with a sinister manner, “I have plans for us, witch,” He veiled his intention, knowing it would intrigue her into compliance. She looked into his very likelife stare, kept on the edge of orgasm by his slow, purposeful fucking.
“Severus, I am yours,” She finally relinquished and was immediately rewarded with the punishing pace she’d come to crave. Her mouth hung aghast as she was ravaged, staring up into his intense visage. Her release rolled over her like a crushing wave, capturing his attention and dissolving his restraint. The heat of his seed filling her was absolute, the weight of his body as he shuddered over her was felt with such a present realism. She wished she never had to wake up.
The entire room jolted and began to melt away as quickly as it had appeared.
“Severus?” She called out to him as he looked around the room and back to her. His hand grazed her cheek momentarily before he drifted away. The disappearance was followed by another jolt and then blackness.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Hermione’s eyes fluttered open quickly as the daylight assaulted her vision. The train was stopped and the steam from the train’s undercarriage obscured the view of the station landing. She still felt heat at the apex of her thighs. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she once again tried to reacclimate to conscious reality. She knew if she explored her knickers they would indeed be soaked, but the pooling of Severus’ cum would be absent in them. It had occurred so many numerous times before she thought herself used to the disappointment by now, but it still seemed to sting.
She deboarded the train and began a slow walk to her flat. Her hand in her coat pocket held the two vials from the Headmistress gently. She couldn’t help but think a mindless rest would do wonders for her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Minerva paced in her office, replaying the different conversations she’d had with Hermione over the last few months. It was evident she was troubled. It didn’t seem to be the guilt for being unable to save Severus as it was early on. Something knew was weighing on her and Minevera’s own mind was troubled with the suspicions she had.
“Minerva, you’ve never been one to be apprehensive with your words,” The portrait behind her desk drawled. She straightened her spine before turning to face the Headmaster she replaced.
“Perhaps my words, Severus, have never been quite so malignant.” She replied sharply as she faced the most newly installed portrait.
“Please, speak your mind,” he implored, but his tone indicated no curiosity.
“The seriousness of this situation is not without grave danger. Even the accusation is reprehensible.” She had hoped her suspicion was a baseless one, but doubts about its falsehood were building, “Tell me, Severus, how much you know of horcruxes.”
His widening smirk confirmed what Minerva had feared.
“She can’t bring you back, Severus,” Minerva said, lacking conviction.
He answered her question with a confident coolness. “Are you sure of that, Minerva?”