Chapter Text
The war had ended with the Dark Lord's triumph. Harry Potter had perished, his light extinguished in a final, desperate battle that would have echoed through history, if anyone could remember it.
But they didn't. Overnight, it seemed, the wizarding world had forgotten. The screams, the blood, the terror, all of it had dissolved like morning mist, leaving behind only a strange, unsettling calm.
Hogwarts continued as if nothing had changed. Students returned to the castle each September, their trunks packed with cauldrons and textbooks, their minds blissfully empty of any memory of resistance or loss.
Hermione Granger walked through the castle doors alongside Ginny Weasley and dozens of others. It was rather surprising that they would even allow her to live.
The truth, had anyone been able to speak it, was simple: a world of pure-bloods alone was not enough. Their numbers were too small, their hands too few to turn the wheels of society. Who would work in the Ministry's Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes? Who would brew the potions, file the paperwork, maintain the wards?
Even the Dark Lord understood this. A nation needed more than aristocrats and ideologues. It needed workers. It needed obedient cogs in the machine. And so the Muggle-borns and half-bloods were allowed to return, as long as they obeyed the rules.
The castle felt different. The portraits whispered less. The ghosts seemed more subdued. And in the Headmaster's office, where Dumbledore's twinkling eyes had once surveyed the school with gentle wisdom, now sat someone else entirely.
Professor Severus Snape. Headmaster Snape. That was what everyone should call him now.
**
Today was Voldemort Day. The castle had been transformed overnight into a monument of celebration.
At precisely eight o'clock, the enchanted bells began to toll throughout the castle. Crystal chandeliers dripped with emerald light, casting everyone below in an eerie, flattering glow.
An orchestra of skeletons sat on a raised platform. They would play only the approved songs tonight. Waltzes composed in the Dark Lord's honor, hymns to the new era.
Students began filing in, dressed in their finest robes.
Hermione stood near the entrance with Ginny, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her robes were simple, a dark navy that bordered on black, with no adornment. She kept her eyes down, trying to be invisible.
"Remember," Ginny whispered beside her, her voice barely audible. "Smile if anyone important looks at you. Dance if asked. Don't refuse."
Hermione nodded mutely. The rules were clear, even if unspoken.
The ball was about to begin.
Headmaster Snape swept through the corridors, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of some predatory bird. His pale face remained impassive, but his dark eyes gleamed with something that might have been satisfaction.
He paused at a junction where a massive portrait of the Dark Lord had been hung, wreathed in enchanted flames that burned green and never consumed the frame.
After all, he had climbed to the top. From Half-Blood Prince to Death Eater, from spy to trusted advisor, from reviled professor to Headmaster of Hogwarts itself. The Dark Lord's right hand. His most valuable counsel.
This was his reward. This castle, these students, this power.
His gaze swept across the Great Hall. Then his eyes stopped.
Hermione Granger.
She had changed since he'd last taken proper notice of her. The bushy-haired know-it-all had transformed into something else entirely. Her features had refined, high cheekbones, a delicate jawline, lips that were fuller than he remembered.
She had grown beautiful.
His eyes traveled lower. Her robes, though modest in cut, could not entirely conceal the curves beneath.
It had been several months now. He knew she was trying to get his attention.
If not, why did she always wear those tight shirts that left so little to the imagination? He could almost see her nipples standing erect.
Why were her skirts always so short, surely there was some spell that could fix that. And the way she walked, with that deliberate sway of her hips.
Did she think him blind? Did she think he hadn't noticed the way she lingered around the library? The way she bit her lower lip when he spoke, her eyes never quite leaving his face?
Before he could dwell further on these thoughts, a group of Death Eaters approached him.
"Headmaster Snape," Yaxley said with a deep bow, his voice dripping with reverence. "What a magnificent celebration you've orchestrated. The Dark Lord himself would be pleased to see such devotion displayed within these walls."
Carrow stepped forward. "Indeed, Headmaster. Your leadership has transformed this castle into a true beacon of our new world. No one could have done it better."
"The students are properly disciplined now," another Death Eater added eagerly. "None of that foolish resistance we saw in the old days. That's all thanks to your firm hand, Headmaster."
Snape inclined his head slightly, accepting their praise with the cold grace that had become his hallmark. "The Dark Lord's vision required proper implementation," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "I merely ensure that his will is carried out within these walls."
"Modest as always," Yaxley laughed.
The group murmured their agreement, their voices a chorus of flattery and envy poorly disguised as respect.
Snape's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. "Gentlemen," he said, his gaze drifting back toward the Great Hall, toward where Hermione stood. "Enjoy yourself. I have matters to attend to."
He watched as Hermione spoke with the other girls, her head tilted slightly as she listened to something Ginny was saying. Then, as if sensing his gaze, she looked up. Their eyes met across the hall.
She smiled at him, a small, careful smile, before excusing herself from the group and walking away.
Of course, Snape thought. Look, there it is again. Another one of her little tricks to seduce men. That calculated smile, the way she held his gaze just long enough before turning away. Did she think him so easily manipulated?
He found himself following her, keeping a distance as she moved through the corridors. His footsteps were silent.
Until she reached a quieter corridor near the library, he emerged from the shadows.
"Miss Granger."
She turned, her eyes widening slightly. "Headmaster Snape."
"I've been meaning to speak with you," he said, his voice smooth and controlled. "There is a rather advanced text on advanced potion theory that I believe would be... beneficial for your studies. It's in my office. I thought I might lend it to you."
Hermione's heart skipped. She remembered what Harry had told her before the end of the battle, in what felt like another lifetime, that Snape had been working to protect them, that beneath everything, he is a good man.
Hope bloomed in her chest. Perhaps this was a sign. Perhaps he was still on their side, still fighting in whatever way he could.
"I—yes, Headmaster," she said, her voice soft. "I would very much like to see it."
"Follow me, then."
And she did, her footsteps echoing softly behind his as they ascended the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's office.
The office was dim when they entered, lit only by a few flickering candles that cast long, dancing shadows across the walls. The portraits of former headmasters were all removed, as Snape would love to keep his privacy.
.
"Where is the book, Headmaster?" Hermione asked, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom.
"In the middle of the bookshelf," Snape said, gesturing toward the far corner of the room where towering bookcases lined the walls. "In the section near the window."
Hermione moved toward the corner, her fingers trailing along the spines of ancient volumes as she searched. The bookcase was massive, packed with texts she had only dreamed of reading.
"These are incredible," she breathed, her excitement momentarily overcoming her caution. Her fingers hovered over the leather bindings, her scholarly instincts awakening despite everything. "Some of these are first editions..."
"Do you like these books?" Snape's voice came from directly behind her.
"Yes," she said. She was still focusing on the books. "Very much, Headmaster."
"Then you may come every day," he said softly, his dark eyes fixed on her. "To read. To study. I would... permit it."
Hermione's eyes widened in surprise. "Really—" she began, turning to face him properly.
But the words died on her lips as she felt his hand settle on her waist.
The touch was light at first, his fingers spreading across the fabric of her robes. Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat.
"Headmaster..." she was so confused, uncertainty flooding through her.
His other hand came up to rest on her shoulder, turning her slightly so that her back was pressed against the bookshelf. His face was unreadable in the dim candlelight, those dark eyes studying her with an intensity that made her heart hammer in her chest.
"You've been trying to get my attention for months now, Miss Granger," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "Haven't you?"
His two hands slowly began to grasp her breasts, his palms covering the soft curves completely. **
So sweet, so perfect, he thought silently to himself, feeling the warmth and softness in his hands. Then he began to slowly, deliberately play with the sensitive nipples with his fingers, feeling them gradually harden under his touch.
Hermione's mind went blank with shock. Her body froze completely, unable to move, unable to process what was happening.
This couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. But the weight of his hands on her body, the heat of his breath on her neck, it was all horrifyingly, undeniably real.
"No—"
"Don't play coy with me," Snape said, his grip on her waist tightening slightly. "The way you dress, the way you look at me. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
Hermione's hand instinctively moved toward her wand. But Snape was faster. His own wand was already in his hand, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, he sent hers flying across the room.
"Or," he said softly, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "would you prefer I send you to Azkaban instead?"
Hermione's blood ran cold. "No—no, please—"
"Though, believe me," Snape continued, his fingers still toying with her, "there are things far worse than Azkaban. I'm sure some of my colleagues might appreciate a new... plaything."
Terror flooded through her. "Please," Hermione whispered, her voice breaking. "Please don't. Harry—Harry said you were a good man—"
Snape's expression hardened, something dark and bitter flashing in his eyes.
His two hands continued to knead her nipples, then began to pinch them forcefully. She made sounds of pain, and this pain seemed to excite him. "Potter knew nothing," he said, his tone laced with fervor. "Absolutely nothing."
Hermione's voice broke into desperate sobs. "Please—please, I'll do anything—just please don't—"
"Anything?" Snape's voice was soft.
His hand moved from her breast to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"You will do as I say. When I say it. Without question. Without hesitation." His thumb brushed away a tear from her cheek. "And everything will be fine."
Hermione's body was trembling.
"I will protect you," Snape continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "From them. From the others. But only if you obey."
More tears spilled down Hermione's cheeks.
Snape's thumb traced along her jawline. "You will listen to me, won't you, Miss Granger?"
A sob escaped her throat. She nodded, the movement small and broken.
"Say it," he commanded softly. "Say yes, Headmaster Snape."
"Yes, Headmaster Snape."
"I—I'll listen," Hermione managed to choke out between sobs. "I'll do what you say."
"Let me see your nipples," he said in a low, commanding voice. "Pull down your dress now."
She complied with his command.
"A lace bra?" His eyes gleamed with dark amusement as he observed the delicate garment. "So you were indeed expecting something to happen tonight," he said, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his lips as he reached forward and pulled it down, removing the last barrier.
Her skin was exposed to the cool air.
"Hold up your breasts," he said, "present them to me with both hands, inviting me to play with you as I please."
Her trembling hands slowly moved to her breasts, lifting them up. In the dim candlelight, they appeared so soft and inviting, full of alluring curves. At the same time, tears continued streaming down her cheeks.
"Now, beg me to touch you. Beg me to play with you."
Hermione's entire body was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face in steady rivulets. Her voice came out broken, barely more than a whisper choked with sobs and humiliation.
"Please..." she managed to say, her voice cracking with each word. "Please... touch me... play with me..."
The words felt like poison on her tongue. But terror had seized control of her mind and body, leaving her with no choice but to comply with his degrading demand.
She displayed herself so shamelessly.
His hands were clasped behind his back, not touching her at all.
Her breasts were beautiful. The pink nipples stood out against her pale skin, and her breasts were impressively large. If they were even larger, that would be even better, he found himself thinking. However, with the correct potions, this could all be arranged and adjusted to his preferences.
"Tell me," he asked, still not touching her. "Why have you been trying to seduce me?"
Hermione's eyes widened in confusion and fear. "I—I haven't," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I never—I would never—"
"Lies," Snape hissed, his grip tightening on her chin. "The way you look at me in the corridors. The way you linger after class. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
"No," Hermione sobbed, shaking her head as much as his grip would allow. "No, I wasn't—I—"
"Lies," he repeated once more.
He slapped Hermione's breasts with sharp, deliberate force.
She immediately let out a piercing scream, crying out "no" in desperation. But he didn't stop—he continued striking her again and again, each blow more deliberate than the last.
"Shameless, wanton cow," he said with contempt dripping from every word. "You wanted everyone to see your nipples, didn't you? Wearing those tight sweaters like that."
"Count," he said.
Hermione's voice trembled with sobs, tears streaming continuously down her cheeks. "One." She barely managed to force the number from her throat.
Then came another loud slap, the sharp sound echoing in the quiet office.
"Two," her voice was even more broken now, barely audible.
Another fierce strike came. This one was harder than before, the pain intensifying instantly, making her unable to suppress a muffled cry of pain.
"Three," she choked out through her tears, her vision blurred.
Her breasts had turned red.
The strikes continued, one after another. "Four," she said the number trembling. Then "Five." Then "Six." Then "Seven." The pain became increasingly unbearable, but she had to keep counting. "Eight." "Nine." Finally, when the tenth strike fell, she used almost all her remaining strength to cry out: "Ten."
The marks on her skin were shocking to behold. Crimson was vividly against her pale flesh.
However, Snape was not satisfied. He let out a soft sigh. He slowly spoke, asking: "How many men have touched you?"
She immediately shook her head. “No…no…not a single one."
"Liar."
She cried, tears continuously streaming down, her voice broken as she repeated: "Really, I'm telling the truth. I swear, really none."
Snape was not satisfied. He began to dig his fingernails forcefully into her breasts, the pressure so intense she could barely endure it. Soon, a patch of skin turned purple and blue—clear marks left by his nails.
She let out a scream, saying, "It hurts—"
He said, "How many men have touched you? Answer me. Before I smash the nipples again."
She began to cry, her voice trembling as she said: "Only two men..."
"Who?" His voice was cold and full of menace.
"Viktor Krum," she barely managed to say the name, tears blurring her vision.
Snape's expression grew even darker. He began to forcefully slap her face. Her face also turned red. She let out a sob.
"Krum," he repeated the name, his tone dripping with obvious contempt. "That Bulgarian fool. Where did he touch you?"
Hermione's entire body trembled, shame and terror making it almost impossible for her to breathe. "He... he only... kissed me..."
"Where?" Snape pressed, his fingers still lingering on the marks on her chest.
"My lips..." she said in a small voice, "only my lips."
"And the other man?"
"Please..." she said, I'll listen to you.
"Tell me. Or I can read your mind.
"Gilderoy Lockhart..." Hermione choked out. "Please, please believe me..."
"In second year?" Snape raised his eyebrows. "I must say I am impressed."
She cried so hard. "Let me go, please, Headmaster. Let me go."
"What did he do to you?" Snape demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
Hermione began to cry harder, her whole body shaking with sobs. The shame of having to confess this was almost unbearable.
"Tell me," he pressed.
"He... he rubbed..." she could barely force the words out through her tears, her voice breaking with humiliation and despair. "He made me sit on his lap, and he rubbed against my legs."
Snape felt his rage and desire burning through him completely. His trousers grew tight.
But he was a man of discipline. So he only leaned closer, taking a deep breath. She smelled so good, so sweet. Like camellia flowers.
"Tell me the details," Snape whispered in her ear. "Did you take off your underwear at the time? Did he touch your body? Tell me everything."
"Please, Headmaster," she begged through her tears, her voice trembling with fear and humiliation. "Please, don't ask anymore, please let me go..."
He suddenly struck her face with a resounding slap, the force so powerful it made her whole body sway. Hermione felt the world spinning around her, her vision blurred, her ears ringing, her cheek burning with pain.
"Or do you really want to become a plaything in the hands of my colleagues." Each word like a scar carved into her heart. "They won't treat you as gentle as I do, nor will they give you any choice. They will destroy you without mercy."
Hermione clearly realized she had no way out at all, no possibility of escape. Her voice trembled with fear and shame, barely able to form sentences.
"He... he took off my skirt," she choked out, tears blurring her vision. "And my underwear... and then he pressed his sex against my leg, rubbing against me until he reached climax."
Saying these words made her feel unprecedented humiliation, but she knew if she didn't tell the truth, the consequences would be even more terrible.
"Did he penetrate you?"
Hermione shook her head desperately, tears continuously flowing, "No no no... please..."
"Lying." His tone became even more severe, filled with unquestionable threat.
"No... really not..." Her voice trembled with fear and shame, barely able to form sentences.
"He tried... he tried many times..." she choked out, each word making her feel utterly humiliated. "But he was never hard enough... he never succeeded..."
She could no longer control her emotions and began to cry out loud.
Lockhart had been her first crush. She could still remember how her heart had fluttered whenever she saw him, how she had hung on his every word in class. He was so handsome, so charming, with those perfect teeth and that dazzling smile. She had been so young, so naive, believing every story he told.
"No," Snape said firmly, his voice cutting through her sobs like a blade. "Not your leg. He rubbed himself against your clitoris, didn't he?"
"That's not true—it's not—" she protested desperately, her voice breaking with fear and shame.
"Yes, it is," he said calmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Admit it. Tell me the truth."
She let out a broken cry, her sobs echoing through the office.
"Only a few times," Hermione cried out. "Only a few times."
"A wanton cow indeed," Snape said coldly, his voice filled with fury and contempt.
Unexpectedly, he pulled back, creating distance between their bodies, no longer pressing against her as before.
She watched as Snape raised his hand and flicked his wand through the air, summoning a glass jar.
Then Snape opened the jar's lid and scooped out some of the cream inside with his fingers. Without hesitation, he smeared the cream from the jar onto her swollen breasts, his movements rough and brooking no refusal.
Hermione immediately felt an intense stinging sensation.
"What... what is this?" Her eyes were filled with fear and unease.
"Specially made for wanton cows," Snape said coldly.
Then, without any hesitation or mercy, he grabbed and yanked at her nipples with brutal strength, pulling and twisting them so violently that it seemed as though he intended to tear them completely off her body.
Snape stared at her, with that burning desire in his eyes, continued, "You will see in a week."
She didn't know how much time had passed, but that cold and viscous cream was finally spread completely and evenly across her skin. Yet her skin still looked shocking—purple in some places, blue in others, covered everywhere with obvious bruises and red swollen marks. Her cheeks were still burning hot, that scorching sensation seeming like it would never fade.
Hermione felt deep fear, her heart filled with uncertainty and anxiety, completely unsure of what terrible thing would happen next.
But to her surprise, Snape's attitude suddenly shifted, becoming very gentle, almost tender, though that burning, desire-filled flame in the depths of his dark eyes had not disappeared—instead, it seemed even more dangerous.
He slowly spoke: "It's all right. I will forgive everything you've done. I will personally guide you back to the right path, help you become once again a pure, respectable young woman."
Hermione had no idea what he meant by those words. Her mind was in complete chaos, unable to comprehend the true intentions of the man before her.
Snape slowly placed the glass jar on the bookshelf, then reached out his hand and began to gently stroke her hair. His fingers ran through those soft strands, as if enjoying their silky texture. How soft they were, how beautiful.
Then he spoke in an almost tender tone: "I will spoil you with wonderful things, things other women can only dream of, but you will have everything. Don't you think you're lucky?"
She didn't dare speak, didn't dare react in any way. But deep down she knew clearly that angering Snape in this situation was definitely not a good choice—it would only bring her even more terrible consequences.
"Now, pick up your wand and leave. When you need me, come back to me," Snape said. "Remember my word."
Hermione nodded. She could not imagine she would ever come back here again and why she would need him.
She pulled up her dress, frantically found her wand on the floor, then fled the office that filled her with such fear and humiliation, stumbling and staggering as if in complete retreat.