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Cold air sliced into her lungs as she ran. Her feet fell as fast as they could, her muscles burning from exhaustion. The forest was a blur around her, dark and unknown, and she navigated by pure instinct. There was no time for thinking. Their plan had failed, they'd been spotted, and now Hermione fled for her life.
She had no idea where Harry and Ron had gone. She hoped they'd been able to get away. Apparate, perhaps, to safety. She hadn't been able to before a ward had come down, preventing any escape.
Distant howling sounded behind her, followed by jeers.
"Run, Mudblood, run!" someone shouted.
They were gaining on her. Soon they'd catch her, and then she was dead. No, no, she mustn't lose hope. Maybe the anti-Apparition ward didn't extend far. Maybe she could reach its edges if only she got a little further. She pushed herself, summoning more strength from some deep well inside her, her legs powering faster. She went through a dense patch of brambles, stumbling in the dark, and thanked her past self for choosing to dress in Muggle fashion this morning, with jeans that spared her painful lacerations.
The ground sloped down. She didn't slow, running blind, praying she wouldn't fall. She couldn't afford to light her way and reveal her position. A Lumos would paint a nice, pretty target on her back at this stage.
The trees thickened around her. She kept going, heart hammering at her ribs, her fingers gripping her wand so tight she barely felt them. Weaving between trunks, she dared to glance back. The wandlights from her pursuers were fainter than before. So was the shouting, now muffled.
She was losing them!
She could do it, she could escape.
When she tried to Apparate away, the block felt thinner, less concrete. She must have been at the edge. Only a few more feet and she'd be safe. She darted forward, all but tasting freedom, there, past this tree, and she—
—collided with a tall figure.
She recoiled, stunned. Dread squeezed her insides. He'd been waiting for her in the shadows, smarter than the others, circling ahead to cut her off. Decked in black robes and wearing a silver mask, the man loomed over her, a threat carved out of the night itself—one raw block of darkness that stood squarely in her path. Most absurdly, she recognized him by his hands. Long, slender fingers that bore the stains of years of handling potions ingredients. The black wand he aimed at her was familiar as well, but she hadn't spent nearly as much time staring at it in class.
His hands, though.
She had stared at his hands so much as they wielded a knife, as they cut and sliced and sublimated ingredients, as they demonstrated keenly the very meaning of magic.
"Miss Granger," Snape said in a smooth voice, as if they were meeting at the local pub instead of here, at midnight in a random forest swarming with rabid Death Eaters.
She lashed out with her wand. His own spell, Sectumsempra, thrown at his face. He had killed Dumbledore. She would have no mercy. White light flashed between them, and she expected him to stagger back, his throat cut, blood spilling down his front. Instead he parried the spell point-blank, his wand arm barely twitching, and then he grabbed her, curling a large hand around her wrist while the tip of his wand found the hollow of her throat and pressed there. She froze.
"Your wand," he said.
She tightened her grip on it. He tssked.
"Shall I use the Imperius? You'll happily hand it over then, along with everything else I might desire."
He said the words with no particular inflection, but the threat turned her stomach to ice all the same. She wasn't like Harry. She couldn't throw it off, couldn't beat it. She'd be locked into her body while it did whatever Snape wanted. The thought sickened her. How vulnerable she'd become, how violated—no.
She chose.
Loosened her grip, and offered her wand to her captor.
He pocketed it like it was spare change. She watched her most precious possession disappear into the folds of his black robes, perhaps never to be seen again. Bile rose in her throat. She furiously blinked tears from her eyes and tried to step back, away from him and away from his wand. He yanked her closer, fingers bruising her wrist.
"I do not advise you keep struggling."
His grip hurt, his hand like a band of steel, locked too tight. She could feel the strength of him, brutal and wiry and entirely focused on her at the moment, and she knew there was no escape.
"Murderer," she hissed, staring up at the mask.
"So I am."
He sounded bored. Indifferent to his crimes, and to his capture of her. She wondered what expression he wore behind that mask, if the true Snape lied there somewhere beyond chiseled silver, or if he was here right before her, uncaring of anything that wasn't his Lord's praise.
Footsteps thundered behind her. Voices rose, along with wild clapping and joyous whoopings.
"Nice catch, Snape!"
"Got the Mudblood, did you? Bet you cheated and flew ahead, eh?"
"She made us run, the little slut!"
A dozen Death Eaters surrounded them, closing in like a pack of wolves, masks glinting in the moonlight. Their grating laughter and the leering she could feel directed at her chilled Hermione's blood. One tall blond man stepped closer.
"What shall we do with her?" he said, his voice all but dripping with suggestions.
Another man made a crude gesture.
"She smells so sweet," said Greyback, the only one not wearing a mask. "I'd love a taste..."
"She is mine," Snape said.
The others backed off without protest. Clearly Snape held a lot of sway among his peers. Relief blossomed in Hermione's chest, along with wretched gratefulness. She didn't want to be thankful for this, didn't want to owe Snape anything. He hadn't saved her.
"Is she?" a new voice said.
Hermione's stomach plummeted into her toes. Her arm burned, burned like mad, and for a second she was back there, in Malfoy Manor, pinned on her back as a lance of fire carved horrid letters into her flesh, as she screamed helplessly, as that voice gloated, mocking her… Then Snape jolted her, pain shooting through her wrist, and the scene dissolved.
The pack of Death Eaters parted for Bellatrix. She strode forward, tapping her wand against her thigh, and removed her mask with a flourish. She grinned at Hermione.
"Do you feel safe with your Professor, little Mudblood? Do you think he'll protect you?"
Hermione pressed her lips together.
"Or is he wondering just how sweet you taste, mm?" Bellatrix went on, her smile edging into deranged territory. "Just how tight that Mudblood cunt is? You know he's somewhat of an expert on the matter. No pureblood witch ever wanted him, so our poor Severus has had to slum..."
One man barked out a laugh. The others remained silent, watching the scene unfold. Hermione sensed there was a power struggle here, Snape and Bellatrix at odds while she was stuck in the middle.
Snape tilted his head.
"Don't feel slighted, Bella. We all know how hard your husband labor in your marriage bed. That he cannot satisfy you should not make you so bitter when all you yearn for is our Lord's affections."
As usual, Snape's viper tongue had struck true—except this time he hadn't verbally lashed at some poor student who'd messed up his potion, but at one of Voldemor's favored. The man who had previously laughed roared with mirth, only to silence himself quickly when Bellatrix cut a vicious glare at him, her face twisted in rage.
"You say the girl is yours? Prove it, Snapey, or forfeit the claim."
What did that mean? What was she expecting Snape to do?
The thought had barely gone through Hermione's mind that Snape placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her to her knees.
Too stunned to react, she remained frozen as fingers snarled in her hair and twisted. The silver mask loomed above her, cold and merciless. She found black eyes beneath and held eye contact. Those eyes said that there was no choice this time, that this had to happen. Slender fingers worked at his belt, followed by a rustle of fabric, and Snape freed his cock, big and pale and very much erect.
She registered chuckles and whistling, but her brain relegated them to the background, too focused on that cock, on its implausible size, on what Snape intended to do with it.
His fingers tightened further in her hair until her scalp hurt. He brought his weeping cockhead to her lips.
"There shall be no biting, Miss Granger, not unless you wish to lose your teeth... permanently."
She opened her mouth for him—no choice, no choice—and he eased past her lips. He sank into her mouth in one smooth thrust, nearly to the hilt. His girth stretched her lips. He throbbed on her tongue, and the bitter taste of his pre-cum hit her, the sticky liquid slathering the inside of her mouth. He withdrew as she began to gag, paused for half a second, and pushed in again.
He set a slow pace, hips rocking in languid strokes, taking his time with her as if savoring every second. Behind the mask, his eyes burned. He watched her with such intensity she felt the scrape of it, like a heated blade held half an inch from her face. She held his gaze. On her knees, breathing hard, her hands fisted in her lap, she fought off the shame and held herself intact around the core of her hate.
Fuck Snape.
Fuck them all, those disgusting men who gathered around her and made awful comments, acting like this was some sort of grand spectacle. She would have her revenge. She would—she would kill them all, and she'd make Snape beg before the end, before she allowed him the mercy of slitting his throat.
"...tight little throat, I bet."
"Wonder if she's a virgin. What d'you reckon? Think Potter or the Weasley boy got in there?"
"Oh, definitely. Doesn't mean I wouldn't like a ride myself..."
Her blood beat in her ears, her cheeks heating further with each obscene comment. Snape appeared unaffected. His breathing remained steady, and he made no noise as he fucked her mouth. She slobbered around his cock. His length glistened with her saliva each time he withdrew, and there was a wet noise accompanying every plunge of his cock down her throat. She struggled to breathe whenever he hilted himself fully, her nose buried in the wiry curls at the base of his shaft.
"Excellent, Miss Granger," he purred. "We've finally found a use for that bothersome mouth of yours."
Between her legs, her cunt gave a throb. Laughter rippled around among the Death Eaters. She sank her nails into her palms until it hurt. How dare did her body react this way? How could she feel any kind of pleasure from this? It was the pitch of his voice, too close to her fantasy, and it was those words. She would never have admitted it in a million years, but when she touched herself, he spoke like this, like velvet over steel, hissing the filthiest of things in her ear.
He needed to shut up.
He needed to stop looking at her, black eyes burning into her, looking at her as if she was his—
His rhythm stuttered. He let out a faint exhale. His cock twitched, and forceful jets of come washed down the back of her throat. She took each long, thick pulse as he emptied himself. Finally he withdrew, the last of his come splattering across her tongue.
His hand dropped from her hair. For the first time since he'd caught her, she wasn't restrained, but it made no difference. She just hoped it was over.
"There," Snape said. "The slut wears my come on her tongue. She is mine."
"Snape, Snape, Snape," Bellatrix chanted in a faux-girlish voice. "You see, this is what happens when one doesn't attend our Lord's revels. You end up woefully uninformed. That is not how you claim a Mudblood." She clicked her tongue. "Boys, how do we claim a Mudblood?"
"Fuck her!"
"Mount her!"
"Make her scream!"
Hermione shuddered.
This wasn't over at all.
"The Dark Lord is expecting us," Snape said coldly. "And I intend to enjoy the girl on a proper bed rather than here on the forest floor."
"When we present the girl to our Lord, she will have been properly defiled," Bellatrix replied. "If you are not going to do it, let another take your place. There is no lack of candidates."
Hermione could feel a dozen hungry gazes on her. They were all eager to touch her, all eager to be in Snape's position. She met his eyes through the mask and silently pleaded with him. If it has to be someone, let it be you.
He emitted a soft snarl that communicated disdain, though she couldn't say if it was directed at her or at Bellatrix.
"A quick claiming," he said, "since you insist upon tradition. After this, the girl is mine, claimed and bloodied."
"Certainly, Severus. Let's see you bloody her."
There was a challenge in there that Hermione couldn't decipher. Not that it mattered much. Snape lowered himself to her level and put his hands on her again. He turned her around, positioning her roughly on all fours like a bitch about to be mounted by her sire, and then he was yanking down her jeans and grabbing her hips and there was no time to think.
His blunt cockhead nudged at her slit. Somehow he was already hard again. She heard him murmur a spell, and moments later realized what it was when sudden wetness filled her cunt—lubrication. He sank inside her, pressing deep. A muted ache bloomed in her belly with each advancing inch. She was too tight, and the spell could only help so much. His girth spread her open mercilessly, and he didn't stop, he didn't, just one long slide of cock until she was speared.
She exhaled a strained breath when his hips met her rump. He curled over her, and she had the absurd thought that he was protecting her from the others. His cock was a branding line of iron inside her, a steady, implacable presence skewering her softness. She trembled around him. Her hands grasped at the soil, crushing dead leaves.
Snape fucked her like this as the others laughed and made crude comments. She ignored them. Refused them any importance, shutting them out.
But she couldn't ignore Snape.
His cock carved a path into her. Her body fought him and he bullied her cunt open, stretching her until she took him. She dripped arousal all over him, the joining of their bodies accompanied by a litany of slick noises, but she told herself it wasn't her. It was the spell. She wasn't wet for Severus Snape, she wasn't.
The muted smacks of his hips hitting her arse echoed in her ears. The wool of his frock coat chafed her, burning her skin. He burned inside her too, though the pain was far less than expected. It sparked faintly in the background even as Snape thrust and thrust. Instead, a vague, fuzzy pleasure bloomed in the pit of her belly, growing stronger every time that thick cock pistoned inside her, every time it dragged over sensitive places. She bit her lips so she wouldn't make noise.
It worked for a time.
Then Snape did something, changed his angle, dragged her back onto him with his next thrust, and a ragged whine spilled from her lips. Another soon followed. The pleasure was catching between her legs, undeniable, inescapable. Her cunt clenched. Snape's hands flexed at her hips and he let out a rough exhale.
Polished boots entered her field of vision.
"Does the bitch feel good, Snape?" Bellatrix asked.
Snape remained silent. Hermione kept her head down, breathing hard. The tip of a boot nudged her chin, and she had to look up, into Bellatrix's eyes.
"This is your place, Mudblood. Warming a Death Eater's cock, being a good little slut for him. What other use could there be for that hole between your legs, mm?"
With a growl, Snape yanked her back. She tumbled backward until she was in his lap, half sprawled into him, and he slipped back inside her, fucking her from below. Bellatrix laughed, mad eyes glinting.
"Perhaps Severus has other ideas. A little runt? A little babe with a big horrid nose and greasy hair... if the Dark Lord doesn't kill you."
She grinned, obviously delighted at the thought.
Snape switched to a stuttered grinding that poured bright heat into Hermione's veins. With no warning, she came, shuddering against him as bliss tore through her belly. Her nerves glowed incandescent, and her cunt contracted in fluttering spasms that must have felt really good for him because he groaned and halted, hilt deep inside her, flooding her abused cunt with his seed. He released a hot exhale next to her ear as he held her and filled her, cock twitching, delivering its load as far as it could go.
His come dribbled out of her when his cock softened. He unceremoniously pulled out. The Death Eaters clapped and cheered while Hermione felt ill. Snape grabbed her by the arm and tugged her up, but she could barely stand. Her legs wobbled.
"Looks like you broke her, Snape," someone said.
"They're delicate, those Mudbloods," Greyback commented. "They never last long."
Snape was looking at her. She realized he had removed his mask, his face on display, starkly white against the black of his robes and the darkness of the forest. His lips were pressed together. It was the only sign he might be feeling something. The rest of his features were perfectly blank, perfectly bland. The moment she noticed the tension in his mouth, it was gone, lips now flat and inexpressive, and she wondered if that had been a trick of the light.
"Miss Granger," he said, and then his mouth kept moving but the words missed her entirely, striking past them as the forest blurred and the ground swept itself away beneath her feet.
Someone caught her. She inhaled, surprised, disoriented, and found her face pressed up against warm wool. She was no longer vertical.
"...not fragile," Snape was saying.
His voice rumbled through her. He was carrying her, one arm braced at her back while the other supported her legs.
"We'll have to disagree, Snapey," Bellatrix said. "Come, now. Let's not make the Dark Lord wait."
Hermione clung onto a man she could never trust and prayed she would survive the next hour.