Propensity and the Chaotic Pendulum

    In the closet, they both held their breath--someone’s figure slipped past, then a few others. Hermione was slightly trembling; Snape was too confused to even move. He had just received a truly painful beating, then counterattacked against some of the most powerful wizards he knew. He’d found out that his former student was a rather intriguing woman, then a day later discovered said intriguing woman was married to someone else.

It was all a bit much for Snape to handle, especially when he and Hermione were sharing very close quarters.

    Hermione’s thoughts were running in similar confused circles. What was Snape even doing here? After yesterday afternoon, she’d thought of little else but him--even as she was captured and forced to marry Draco. Well, not really forced, she reflected. It was all part of the great Dumbledore’s plan. Thankfully, Draco had decided that a consummation of the marriage was more than he could handle after the day’s events, and Hermione had been spared having to have sex with him. She had been rather anxious on that point. There were a lot of people she wanted to bed, but Draco Malfoy was not among them. The man standing very close behind her, however, was.

    Snape tried not to inhale through his nose--well enough, since it felt as if it may have been broken, again. How many broken noses have I suffered? He wondered idly. Perhaps if it weren’t so large; but there wasn’t much he could do about the honking thing. He tried a steadying breath and found it hurt only a little, but also found that Hermione smelled very, very good. All at once, a subtle rage began to creep back into his tired veins. She had turned him down and then turned right around and married Draco Malfoy. What was she even thinking? Going to the dark side? That can’t be true, he assured himself. After all her efforts for the Order, she couldn’t be harboring evil tendencies… but her eyes did flash sometimes, with something quite akin to malice. Maybe that was just the effects of a friendship with Potter and Weasley. Or maybe she felt something like he did… maybe she got tired of being shunted sideways while others got the glory. Doing all the work while getting none of the credit. Never really belonging anywhere.

    Hermione shifted slightly. Snape was panting rather heavily, and it was hitting her right on the back of the neck. She could feel the moisture building in the air, between panting and sweating. It wasn’t exactly a well ventilated closet. She could smell the remainder of his drinking binge on the air, as well as the unmistakable scent of blood. There was something else, too, which she supposed must just be his natural scent. She hadn’t had many occasions on which to get close enough to smell him. At least not occasions with nothing else to think about. But all at once, it became overpowering. His warmth, his breath, his scent. She tried to scoot forward a few inches, to breathe, to stop that incessant chant in her head… I want him, I want him, I want him.

    Snape gritted his teeth as the blasted girl shifted yet again. He was trying to think here; excess movement was not required. Everything about her incensed him, from her faintly strawberry scent to the tendrils of hair that seemed to be, well---everywhere. Her dress robes, although quite nice, were rubbing against his cloak. The sound of silk on rough cotton was somehow not decreasing his annoyance. Yet it was altogether hard to be angry when she smelled like strawberries… and the chit shifted again.

    Hermione was quite oblivious to Snape’s musings. She was hoping to get out of the closet as soon as possible. She was a little too comfortable with this proximity--and entirely uncomfortable at the same time. She knew Snape, at least she thought she did. And he didn’t strike her as a man overly fond of physicality. Yesterday’s incident was just the Firewhiskey, she’d told herself a hundred times. He doesn’t actually like you. More to the point, you don’t like him. Or at least you never did before. Respect him, yes; perhaps even admire. But you respect and admire McGonagall, too, and your loins don’t burn for her!

    Snape was just beginning to feel less angry when Hermione suddenly laughed. The sound of her laughter was absolutely beautiful--he wasn’t sure he’d really heard it before. How dare she have a beautiful laugh? How dare she make me feel these things? How dare she SHIFT AGAIN?

    Hermione felt Snape’s entire body tense when she laughed. She turned around to apologize, and found their lips pressed together.

    Snape didn’t know what came over him, but as she turned to him, he grabbed her head and pressed his lips to hers. At once he felt a surge of triumph. He had control of the situation once again. The triumph continued as she didn’t wriggle away as he had imagined, as she pressed her lips back onto his and sort of, fell against his chest.

    His lips were softer than she’d imagined in her dreams, but he was by no means gentle. She couldn’t pull away had she wanted to; he had her in a vise grip. But she didn’t really try, either. She was quite content to kiss him and lean into him. He felt somewhat solid against her. Her hands weaved into his hair, feeling it slide beneath her fingers. Even that seemed sexy at the moment.

    Snape was very, very confused--and angry again. As she stroked his hair and let out the tiniest of moans, his rage bubbled over again. He was not doing this to make her happy, damn it all. He pulled away from her roughly and whispered, “I’m not altogether sure you should be enjoying this, Mrs. Malfoy.” Her face slackened and she raised a hand to her eyes, as if to shield them. He pulled the hand roughly down. “If you’re going to cry, Mrs. Malfoy, I’d like to see it,” he snarled. He pulled her back into a kiss, but now she was fighting a little, trying to pry her hand from out of his grip. Her moves to pull away just made him try harder to keep her still. She let out a little, “ow!” and pulled harder.

    Despite having her hand crushed, Hermione was not finding this all unpleasant. It was like a little game, a miniature battle of wills in the broom closet. And his kisses kept coming, his tongue a bit pushy now, but not unwelcome. Surrendering control didn’t feel too bad…

    As Hermione’s enjoyment clearly grew, Snape’s irritation went with it. He finally spun her around and pushed her face against the door. She was suddenly still and quiet beneath his hands, still soft and warm and smelling of strawberry… still Mrs. Malfoy. Still the little bitch that had caused this whole problem--still so much like him. But he’d conquered himself, hadn’t he? He could set her right, too. Just as easily. Don’t form connections. Don’t fall in love.

    Snape has utterly lost it, she thought as he pressed her face against the door. Maybe he’s just confused--he did just receive quite a beating, judging by the blood and bruising. He’s justifiably angry at me--especially if he believes I truly betrayed the Order. “Professor Snape, I didn’t really marry Malfoy!” she whispered. “It’s just a rouse, for Dumbledore, you know?” she was getting more urgent as he violently turned her around again. She ought to gain some weight, she thought suddenly. She was sick of being tossed around like a rag doll.

    “On top of everything, you’re going to lie to me?” he seethed. She tried to protest, but he had utterly abandoned reason. His erection was absolutely throbbing, which was really not anything different--every bit of him seemed to be throbbing. He didn’t know whether he was aroused with anger, or just because she was so close to him--he couldn’t honestly say he found her altogether beautiful. She was plain, mousy even--too busy reading to bother with looks. It was probably the fact that she wasn’t beautiful. She was just way too much like Snape himself. Perhaps a tad more reasonable, but obviously a betrayer, a liar--just like he had been, like he continued to be.

    It took Hermione a few seconds to realize that the hard object pressing insistently into her stomach was Snape’s, erm, manhood. She almost started giggling but looked into his eyes and lost all sense of humor. He was staring at her with ferocity, with rage--with hatred, almost. He savagely kissed her throat, biting the tender flesh near her collarbone, still staring insistently upward. She couldn’t help but meet his eyes--the way they were smoldering was having far too much effect on her. She could feel her desire mounting, and was at once confused and pleased. At least her body knew what it wanted, even while her mind was deigning itself to run the hell away, as fast as possible.

    He couldn’t stop himself, he began to pull at the cumbersome clothing separating their bodies. Hermione gasped in surprise but was not prepared to fight him off, he had her body exposed before she could clear her head. She gave a desperate push at his arm. “Stop,” she whispered. He looked into her warm brown eyes, slowly filling with tears, and felt the biggest rage of hate he had yet. As she attempted to disentangle herself from him, he pushed his hips forward and slid easily inside her.

    I can’t believe this is happening--that was the only thing going through Hermione’s head. As he entered her, admittedly it was not painful--she’d been sufficiently prepared. But she had whispered stop--she had asked him to stop. “Please don’t,” she whispered again, futile though she knew it to be. He was already there, why not let him finish the job, she reasoned. She leaned her head back and let her tears flow, not caring now if they were heard.

    As her tears splattered onto his face, he thrust with more ferocity. He wasn’t seeing Hermione at all, wasn’t thinking about Hermione at all. He was thinking of the million and one ways he had gone wrong, how many chances he had to get out of this horrible mess, yet every move he made dug him in deeper. He couldn’t betray Dumbledore, and he couldn’t fully leave the Dark Lord either. He hadn’t been able to set aside his personal feelings to save lives--he had given up on Potter’s Occlumency--it had been a long time ago, but it was fresh in Snape’s mind as a failure. Had he better prepared Potter, the prophecy would not have been destroyed. His Lord would not have been angry--he would have had all he wanted. Despite his allegiance to the Order, Snape could never quite shake the desire to please his Dark Lord. If Potter had stayed away from the Department of Mysteries, the school could have continued to operate under Umbridge, the world could be kept in the dark about the evil activity around them.

    Hermione was shaking now, trying to meet Snapes eyes, but he was staring somewhere past her, his eyes dark and troubled. She wanted to beat him off her, wanted to kiss his furrowed brow and say she would never have walked away from him had it not been for Malfoy--she wanted to say that she loved how strong he was, she loved his voice, his hands, his chest--she just did NOT love them forced upon her. She was sobbing suddenly as it hit her--Professor Snape was raping her, he was RAPING her! Hermione reached into her pocket and grabbed her wand. She wracked her brain but suddenly all of the spells she knew had disappeared--she could do nothing but claw feebly at his hands, which were firmly around her hips. She tried to scream but found her voice had also abandoned her. “Stop,” she whispered again, pleading, desperate, trying to make him come to her, abandon his thoughts and realize what he was doing.

    “Stop?” he asked, his attention back on Hermione. He slowly began to withdraw, then plunged back inside with no warning. She bit her lip in pain but didn’t cry out. “I would never want to stop, Hermione,” he whispered, leaning into her ear. She shuddered at his use of her first name. “I’ve waited so long to feel something like this… forbidden fruit, indeed,” he said, licking her neck. She shuddered again, more from the sensation of his warm tongue against her sweaty neck than fear. He lingered there for a moment, pressing his lips to her tender flesh. “Believe it or not, Hermione, I’ve always just wanted someone like you,” he said with a smirk, gently shifting his hips to hit her in the most pleasurable way.

    An orgasm was threatening to wrack her body, even as her mind screamed No! This is all wrong! Suddenly she found her voice. “Professor, please. You’re… please, stop,” she said feebly, urgently. “Stop it!” she ordered again as he looked up into her face and stroked her cheek.

    “What is it Hermione? You don’t want to be loved by someone as foul as me? What was it… sallow? Hook-nosed? Greasy? Or are you just more comfortable with pointed blondes?” he spat.

    “It’s just… you’re hurting me,” she whispered. This was both true and false--her body couldn’t have been enjoying it more; but her emotions were just starting to kick in. She could feel blood trickling down her thighs from his force, she gave a biting sob and fell forward as her body and emotions met in the most wounded, confused orgasm of her life.

    Snape had gone over the edge as she did, withdrawing and allowing her to slip to the floor. Her head now comfortably against his chest, he could feel each tear moistening his robes. ‘Ah, well, they were bloody anyway,’ he joked to himself. He looked down at the top of her head, which was shaking. Her hands were firmly grasping his upper arms, as if she were anchoring herself. Her entire body was slightly trembling, and suddenly he realized what he had just done. He hastily drew her robes back around her, noting with displeasure that she was bleeding.

    Hermione felt cold air suddenly on her back; the door had been wrenched open. Standing there, against all logic, was Albus Dumbledore. “Miss Granger!” he gasped, and then spotted Snape standing there, face swollen and bloody, shoulders wet with Hermione’s tears and a tear in his sleeve where she had tried to claw him away. Dumbledore noted also the glazed look in Snape’s eyes, the mechanical way in which he forced the words, “Hello, headmaster,” as though they were merely meeting for tea.

    Dumbledore at once grabbed them both and Apparated into Snape’s flat.

    Where Hermione promptly lost it; hurling abuse (and objects) around and at Snape. Where Dumbledore had demanded an explanation; where he had failed to give one. A sufficient one, at any rate,

----

    “Well,” Hermione whispered after several minutes of silence. There were tears glistening on her cheeks.

    “Miss Granger--I…” but Snape could find nothing to say. Not only had he just bared the very depths of his soul to this woman, she had admitted to being, well--excited by the whole event. Snape understood her rage now; it was twofold. Not only had he taken her dignity, he’d made her enjoy it. Without warning, he stood up and began to leave the restaurant, throwing a large enough wad of cash on the table to cover their meals and the disturbance of being there nearly two hours. Hermione sat at the table alone, trying to collect herself. She was so baffled to know that Snape had been raging about things that are nothing to do with her… she had never been a student of psychology, but had a fairly good intuition about people. She’d never taken Snape as the angry type--the suffering genius, perhaps. But never the suffering psychopath.

    After a few long minutes, she too stood and left the restaurant. She found no sign of Snape anywhere, and finally Apparated herself back to her parents’ home.