In the Niche
He had trapped her in a niche.
The castle was literally filled with them. They were around every dark corner, seemingly as a place for the shadows to gather and plot. This particular one was not far from his old office and was a favorite of Slytherins who wanted a quick snog without an audience.
The girl struggled, even though he was far stronger than she. He trapped both of her wrists in one of his large, spidery hands and lifted them up above her head. His body pressed her taut into the cold, stone wall, and she could feel the contours of his lean but muscular body, even through the heavy material of the Death Eater robes.
"Be still," he hissed, his head bent down only slightly, his hair obscuring most of his face. She had grown tall since he had first known her when she was but a wee sprite, full of energy and faintly veiled ecstacy at the idea of magic. Now she came up to his chin, her eyes blazing with anger, hurt, and crinkling around the edges was fear. But there was righteousness too, there, in the center of her iris. He could feel himself being damned for eternity in that small pinprick of blackness.
"You traitor," she struggled, ineffectually. Pressing her body against his in an attempt to lodge him did not deliver that particular result, though another, harder one was beginning to arise against her stomach. "You bloody traitor!" She was practically screaming. "Let me go!"
He doesn't. Instead he continued to cover her body amidst the sweeping fabric of his robes in what can only be described as possessive. Territorial.
Outside, and a million miles away, Voldemort and Harry Potter were drawing wands, and their forces were behind them in great numbers, such that the wizarding world had never seen gathered before. The walls of Hogwarts shook with the magic and the passion, and even deep down in the dungeons the two lone occupants could feel almost ever hex, every jinx, each killing curse like little rumbling sighs against the infrastructure.
The girl had wandered down there to gather potions for the Order. The ones in the infirmary, where she had unwillingly been stuck, were growing low. As more injured poured in she took flight, hoping that there were a few bottles of anything left within Slyhterin territory that might be of aid.
There weren't any. She had been about to run back up the countless flights of stairs when a hand had reached out and pulled her into the dark crevice.
"First lesson," he said, smirking ever so slightly. "Do not speak of things beyond your comprehension."
She sagged then, leaning as far as she could against the wall and away from him. She glared at him though, meeting his black eyes with her own. She was utterly defiant.
He chuckled. It was a rich, dark sound.
"The second lesson, Miss Granger, is to always be mindful of the territory." He paused, allowing his free hand to go up to cup her cheek. Almost. Not quite touching, though she could feel the heat of his palm.
Her breathing regulated somewhat. "You're not going to kill me," she said simply.
"Really."
"No. Only a cat plays with its food," she said, the familiar bossy tone coloring her voice. "A snake devours on sight."
His right eyebrow arched. "I must say, I do not like the comparison."
"Let me go."
"No."
She made to escape him, pushing against the wall to give her added strength. She managed to back him up a few steps and relished in her premature triumph. He was quick to recover, and with more force than necessary he slammed her body back into the stone surface. She cried out in some pain, mostly in frustration.
The way he held her now, the tips of her breasts slightly rubbing against his black robes, his hand idly stroking her hair, caused a slight brush of panic and ice-blue fear to creep into her spine. Her head dipped low.
"Then kill me. I don't want to wait."
His hand left her hair and grasped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. He was staring at her, penetrating without the use of magic. She could feel his black eyes crawling across her brain as if seeking something. But what? Something to steal, perhaps. She wanted to throw herself in front of her collected knowledge and scream at him to leave it alone, because it was hers.
"Do not presume to dictate my choices."
His voice was cold, but it hardly belayed the gentleness of his thumb tracing the contours of her chin, moving up slowly towards her lips . . .
She wrenched her head to the side, staring off at a point beyond his shoulder.
"Why?"
She breathed the word, and though he knew exactly what she meant. . .
"You'll have to be more specific."
"You betrayed us."
"Did I?" He said absently, seemingly taking a heavier interest in how the paleness of his skin contrasted the dark auburn color of her hair.
"You murdered Dumbledore," she spat, raising her eyes to his face to see the result of her accusation.
She was not disappointed. His eyes snapped to hers. She could feel the coldness radiating from them in waves.
"Lesson number three, Miss Granger," he hissed, his voice dangerously sibilant with suppressed rage. "Do not incite my anger."
"Only yours?" Her chin was raised in that natural defiance. Even she was amazed by it, however, as a voice inside of her screamed to back down and whimper. "Or does that include Death Eaters too, and dark lords?"
"An interesting hypothesis," he said quietly, his face close to her ear, whispering every word. "Perhaps I will give you to my brethren and take note of how much they allow that running tongue of yours to get away with." His hand trailed to her neck and gripped it, applying slight pressure. She gasped inadvertently and he let out a dark chuckle. "If all they did was snap your neck, Miss Granger, it would be a rare show of mercy."
He chuckled, the sound originating from what must be a monstrous place. "Have you seen wolves devouring their prey? It is a spectacular sight. Men are no different, I'm afraid, for all our culture and manners," he said with a touch of cynicism. " And how they would like to tear the flesh off of your bones, piece by piece, with their teeth. Where would your Gryffindor bravery be then, I wonder?"
"Please," she whispered, not daring to trust her voice beyond a few measly decibels. "Don't."
She didn't want to die, not like that. Better he do it swiftly then the Death Eaters as a whole. She had heard of their revels and the rumors, if even half true, were enough to incite heavy nightmares.
He growled low in his throat. "Never. Ever," he said each word clearly, pressing the point further in with slight pressure to her jugular. "Beg."
"Is that lesson number four, Professor?" she rasped wildly, an edge of hysteria seeping into her tone.
Unfortunately she never got to find out if that was, indeed, the fourth lesson. Snape had made to open his mouth when a noise, specifically that of expensive leather boots reverberating against the stone floor of the dungeon, rose to his ears. Instantly his hand was removed from her throat, though he kept her hands in his left, raised far above her. His wand appeared in his left and was trained on the source. Hermione made to make a sound, but his narrowed eyes darted to hers, a silent warning to be still.
"Well, well," a cultured voice with the sneer perpetually painted on. "Looks like you've gotten to the spoils before the war is won, old friend."
No no no, thought the girl. Anyone but him.
Lucius Malfoy stood before them with a salacious gleam in his eye, taking in the girls precarious position. He himself was looking worse for wear. His expensive shirt had a large tear in the sleeve. His hair was disheveled and flew around his face, the pale strands spotted with blood here and there. His hands gripped the head of his trademark snake cane, its polished surface covered in strips of mud.
"Merely sampling victory, Lucius."
The potions master lowered his wand, but his hands tightened against the young girls wrists. She whimpered, even as he slightly bowed his head in deference to the pureblood.
"A fine choice, Severus. She looks like she has some fire in her," he perused her body like a man at the butchers, looking at a particularly fine cut of meat. "A Gryffindor?" he sneered, taking a step closer and looking at her robes. "You always did have poor taste, my friend. Still, she is rather pretty. Familiar, too. Tell me, girl, where have I seen you before?"
Hermione was about to tell him that their first encounter involved her watching him get his lip split open by Arthur Weasley in a bookshop. Severus turned his eyes on her with a quelling look. Six years of his tutelage had conditioned silence when he had that sort of look in his eye.
"Her name is Hermione Granger," the potions master supplied, saying it simply, like it was nothing at all.
It made Hermione want to cry.
Lucius' eyes danced. "Ah! So this is the infamous mudblood. Harry Potter's best friend, the smartest witch of her age," he said the words with disdain, and a heated, sinister look came over his face. "Not smart enough, it seems. Still, you may have your uses yet."
Lucius made to touch the girl, reaching out his cold, pale and magnificently sculpted hand. Hermione, realizing his intent, began to struggle against the wizard who held her. It seems she really would be shared amongst the Death Eaters. A quick end would have been preferable to the agony that their attentions would bring.
Severus, with alacrity, moved between that hand and the girl, his face blank and his eyes slitted.
Lucius laughed disdainfully. "Don't tell me you aren't going to share?"
Hermione couldn't help the noise of helplessness that escaped her throat.
"This one is mine," Severus said quietly.
"She's only a mudblood," Lucius reasoned. "And, after all, are not all things belonging first and foremost to our lord and master?" His eyebrow was raised, a test of loyalty set out.
"All things," allowed Severus, giving Hermione a passing glance. "Except this one."
The purebloods lips twisted in a sick form of joy, turning his beautiful features ugly in their cruelty. "How curious," he drawled. "Do not tell me the stoic potions master has, dare I say it, feelings," he spat that particular word, "for a mudblood."
Severus smirked and took a casual air but for his thumb gently caressing Hermione's hands. "Once again you've leapt to the wrong conclusion. The girl has been the bane of my classroom for six years."
"And you thought she'd make a nice reward?" Lucius said, halfway between disappointment and amusement. It was a little sad, how easily he was convinced and swayed by the mention of corruption. "I agree. She would make a fine toy. Perhaps you'll let me have a taste when you're finished?"
"Perhaps," said Snape, noncommital.
"We always used to share, Severus. Why change habits now?"
Hermione couldn't take it, and she gasped and whimpered. She felt the back of her eyes burning, hoping beyond hope that she wouldn't cry. Not in front of them. They didn't deserve her tears.
Oh gods oh gods don't let it be true.
"I said this one is mine." His voice was that dangerous purr Hermione had come to associate with a dire warning to put one's head down or seek immediate escape. Even now, though it wasn't directed at her, she cringed and fell back against the wall as hard as she could, wishing it would swallow her whole.
Lucius narrowed his eyes, then tutted. "All the better," he began, turning his nose up and beginning to saunter away. "I wouldn't want your seconds."
Within a few moments he was gone, and Hermione let out a heavy breath.
When she turned her face to his she was unsurprised to see his eyes, filled with something indescribable, focused on her again.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
She meant, why did you save me? Me, the mudblood, the bane of your classroom, the princess of Gryffindor, the brightest witch of her age. Me, Hermione Jane Granger.
Of course, she didn't say that. She didn't have to. He usually knew what she meant.
He leaned in. "I don't like my things being touched."
"I am not yours," she bit out, outraged and unsurprised by the declaration.
"No," he said quietly, to himself. "I suppose you're not."
His head was so close to hers that it only took a slight movement, perhaps from both sides, and their lips touched. It was delicate at first, as delicate as a mistake. Perhaps he was afraid he might break her, or that she felt a rock jutting into her back that caused her to move forward and into him.
It didn't remain gentle. Within the moment that she realized the reality of his soft lips touching hers, a place she believed reserved only to those she allowed spoken access, he became aggressive, though not hard. She felt his tongue and was surprised to think that it felt good and tasted sweet. He licked her lips, worshiping them, even though they were chapped from her constant biting of the lower extremity.
She opened her mouth to protest or to help the kiss along, she wasn't sure, but in either case he took it as a good of an invitation as any. Their tongues met, as his hand moved up to cup her cheek. She leaned into his palm and thought, wildly, that she'd always remember exactly where the callouses of his fingers matched up on the skin of her face.
It was a heady moment. She hardly realized it was over but that his forehead was leaning against hers, his eyes closed, his large nose pressing into her own. He still held her hands up above her head in his grasp, though it was gentle. Merely a warning not to move, to let him enjoy the moment.
He sighed, and she felt the noise would break her heart.
"It will have to do," he murmured, though to her or himself she wasn't sure.
He looked at her then, and saw the questions in her eyes. He couldn't answer them, of course, and she could barely give them the syllables necessary for words. They hung like daggers over their heads. Oh, but if one of them would only break the string and let them fall.
Severus slowly released her hands and backed away. He watched her with a fearsome intensity as she lowered him, rubbing her arms and pulling them to her chest. She looked up at him, questioning, but he only looked at her, memorizing and pleading, like a dying man before his last wish.
She watched him disappear into the hallway and found that it was several moments before she could move herself.
Hermione came to herself. She rushed up the stairs and, staying safe in the infirmary be damned, headed out to meet the Death Eaters in battle.
A war cry issued from the lips that still tasted of him.
a/n: This is a one-shot that just popped in my head and I put down on metaphorical paper. I think it's missing a bit, or a lot. But for what it is, an exercise in scene, I can live with it.
And who wouldn't want to get caught with Snape in some dark corner during the final battle? Seriously, if you don't, you're either a straight male, a lesbian, or ridiculous. . . . Or into Lucius. Pretty pretty princess Lucius.