The Burning Pen

TWICE BITTEN
by Ruth Solomon

The story content is adult in nature and can contain graphic sex and violence.  Those under the age of 18 are asked to leave this site immediately.  You are not welcome here.  The author is not responsible for those under-aged who view these works.

CHAPTER 9

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JKR. All situations are mine. No $$$ is being made from this fanfic.
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Chapter 9 ~ Drawn

Hermione ran as if a Manticore was hot on her trail, flying up the long stairwell and stopping only to Disillusion herself and add a Silencing charm to cover her footfalls. She opened the niche wall, ran into the dungeon corridor and up toward the Main Hall. She skidded to a stop when she saw Filch, walking unsteadily, a half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey in his knotty fist. He stopped and tilted it up, drank a couple of swallows, then lowered it again.

Mrs. Norris was with him and looked right at Hermione, then ran up to her, yowling.

”Get over here!” Filch cried at the cat drunkenly. “None of your nonsense tonight, little lady. There’s nobody here, nobody but us . . . nobody . . .”

Hermione thought she detected a bit of despair in the drunken squib’s outcry and watched as he staggered past, then stepped over the still yowling Mrs. Norris and hurried up the Main stairwell.

Finally she made it to the portrait and let herself in, Oblivating it after it opened, the Fat Lady demanding to know who she was. She ran to Harry’s room, removed the Disillusionment spell and fell on her back in the bed. She was mortified with herself.

She had actually wanted Professor Snape to shag her. The desire had been so strong. Hermione lay there, pressing her hands to her belly. The effects of the Professor’s allure should be wearing off. She shouldn’t still be feeling this way. It was just part of his being a vampire.

But the truth was, she did still feel that way. Like she wanted him all over her, doing what he did to Lilutu. Everything that he did to Lilutu.

Hermione shuddered. Dear gods, what was wrong with her? Professor Snape was neither young nor handsome. He was controlling and mean as a Basilisk. The only reason he was showing any tolerance for any of them was because he needed help. The only attractive thing about him was he was a brilliant Potions master.

And maybe his voice.

Possibly his eyes.

And the way he moved.

And the power he exuded.

How courageous he was.

Hermione fought to stop listing things she had always thought attractive about the wizard, things she kept to herself since her sixth year. She was a normal witch with normal attractions to normal wizards her own age. Well, to Ron . . . and he was sort of normal. But she could handle Ron. What she was thinking about now was insane. Had she fought Ron off the past year just so she could spread her legs for the Potions master, who was a vampire to boot?

No. No, it was the vampire pheromones that had her this way. She had simply been in his presence too long. It would wear off. The tingling between her legs and the sensitivity of her nipples would pass. She’d had this happen before, though there hadn’t been a good reason for it. Maybe ovulation.

Hermione sprang out of the bed and stripped out of all her clothes. Cold showers were supposed to work for wizards. Maybe they worked for witches too. She headed for Harry’s bathroom, entered, used the loo, then turned on the shower. The cold spigot. She stuck her hand in the stream, then withdrew it, shuddering. That was much too cold. She turned on the hot water and mixed the water until it was nice and warm.

Maybe just a shower would do.

She entered the shower, the water streaming down her sensitive body, titillating her even more. Maybe this was a mistake. It only made her think of the Potions master more, how his hands stroked and caressed Lilutu’s body, his long fingers splayed and grasping, smoothing, petting flesh.

Hermione shuddered, her nipples hardening.

”Oh good gods,” she hissed, falling back again the tiled wall and slipping her fingers between her thighs, imagining the wizard’s head between her own legs.

Merlin.

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”This is insanity,” Snape groaned, unable to take his mind off the witch he had let go.

He paced the chamber like a trapped animal, trying to focus on anything other than the lust-filled expression on the young woman’s face. She had wanted him and in turn, he wanted her, wanted the heat and the promised abandon such a coupling would mean. He didn’t know if Miss Granger were a virgin, but felt that wouldn’t matter, not if she felt as he did the night he took Lilutu. It was as if he were consumed by need. It was almost frightening. Every pain was worth it, every rake of nail and taste of blood. Even the bite, at that moment . . . though the feeling quickly faded when he realized he was dying.

Yet, he didn’t want to turn Hermione. He needed her mortal, and able to move about in the day. There were places that needed accessing that were only available during day hours. Yes, she could break in, but that was risky. He didn’t want the witch attracting attention. But damn, she was certainly attracting him. He imagined he could hear her heartbeat even in the depths of the subdungeons. A compelling rhythm, calling him, beckoning him, primitive and feral. A call as old as Nature. He felt a tightening in his loins and cursed.

”I’ve got to get out of here,” he said to himself, and with a billow of robes, streaked up the stairs and out of the niche.

He didn’t bother Disillusioning himself. He moved so quickly, he wouldn’t be seen unless he stopped in plain sight. He zipped to the Main Doors, then let himself out on the grounds, walking normally. If he were human, he would have taken in a deep, cleansing breath of the cool night air. But that was a luxury denied him. Funny, he’d never thought of breathing as a luxury until now.

Suddenly, Argus Filch stumbled in front of him, Mrs. Norris at his side. The cat hissed and arched her back as she looked at the wizard standing in front of the doors. She knew he was unnatural. She fled into the dark, yowling a warning at Filch as she ran.

Argus stopped and swayed, looking up at the Potions master. A strong scent of Firewhiskey washed over Snape, and he relaxed. Filch was stinking drunk.

“Ah, it’s you, eh? I figured your spirit would end up hanging about here. Yep. Serves you right,” the caretaker slurred, taking another swig of Firewhiskey and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now you’re bound to Hogwarts forever. Serves you right, it does.”

Filch staggered back a ways, and Snape thought he would fall, but he managed to regain his balance. The squib squinted up at him.

“You know Snape, I always liked you. You knew how to keep these little bastards in line you did. I used to love the way they skittered whenever you appeared. You didn’t coddle them . . . nope. You gave the little buggers what for. A man after my own heart, you were,” the squib confided, taking another drink, then sitting heavily on the stairs.

Snape descended the stairs and stood in front of Argus, interested in what the squib had to say. He was going to Obliviate him anyway.

Argus looked up at Snape, and his rheumy old eyes filled with tears.

“Then you had to go and kill old Dumbledore. Why’d you do that, Snape?” he wailed, tears streaming down his craggy face. “He was soft, yes . . . wouldn’t let me take a cane to the students, but he was a good sort. He didn’t deserve to die that way. Why’d you do it? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me that, Snape?”

There was so much pain in the old squib’s eyes, that for a moment, Snape was moved.

”He asked me to do it, Argus. He was dying,” the Potions master said.

Filch fell still for a moment, then said, “You know, I always suspected it was something like that . . .”

Suddenly, he flopped over, succumbing to the drink and dead to the world. The rest of the Firewhiskey drained down the stairs.

Snape looked down at him, Filch’s scraggly hair partially covering his face as he started to snore.

”Poor old bastard,” the wizard said softly, pulling out his wand and Obliviating him as he slept. Then he conjured a blanket and threw it over him. He blinked down at Argus.

So, the old squib had liked him. One person at least.

Snape turned and walked out on to the grounds, thoughtful.

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Hermione stood gasping against the tiled shower wall, water streaming over her puckered breasts and down her body as she masturbated, her hips winding as she sought some kind of relief, emitting little sighs and moans of pleasure as she imagined the dark wizard doing things to her that no one had ever done. She let out a cry of pleasure.

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Snape stiffened. What was that noise? He listened closely, his vampiric hearing amplifying the slight sounds floating on the air. No human could have possibly heard them.

But Snape wasn’t human. Not anymore.

”Oh, Professor,” the soft voice crooned, followed by sounds of pleasure.

That was Miss Granger’s voice.

Snape swallowed, unable to move away from the sounds. They were like magnets, pulling at him, tugging on his body, filling his head.

”Insanity,” he hissed as he took a reluctant step toward the castle.

The volume of Hermione’s voice seemed to increase, and he could hear her heartbeat now, racing, excited, pounding in her chest. Slowly the wizard placed one palm against the cold stone of the castle, then the other.

He began to climb, sticking to the sheer face like a large black-robed insect, moving over the uneven stones, crawling around the side of the castle, toward Gryffindor tower, his black eyes glinting as Hermione’s sighs and moans fell on his ears, his title whispered over and over by the witch as if she were calling him, summoning him out of the night, conjuring him up from the darkness to envelope her.

Slowly, Snape ascended the castle walls, mesmerized by the rise and fall of Hermione’s voice. He had no other thought than getting to the witch. He hungered for her, but it wasn’t the bloodlust. It was the call of Life, the promise of being enmeshed within its embrace again. Dimly he knew he couldn’t bite her . . .

And this knowledge caused another hidden attribute to manifest in the wizard . . . a kind of line that could not arbitrarily be crossed, not if his intentions were not to feed. It appeared the parasite within registered its host’s desires as well as its own and worked toward keeping it satisfied. It withdrew its influence slightly, an involuntary reaction, a survival instinct, giving the host a bit more of itself so it could accomplish its task and be satisfied.

Snape saw the light coming from Hermione’s window and climbed around it, inverting himself and looking down into the empty bedroom. He heard her clearly now, primal, sexual sounds. His gaze phased through the stone and he saw the shimmer of her outline, her hand between her thighs and head flung back, water, moving water streaming over her.

He wouldn’t be able to touch her in the shower.

The vampire pulled out his wand.

”Alohamora,” he said softly.

The window clicked, then swung inward. Snape climbed inside, but instead of landing on the floor, he climbed upward, clinging to the ceiling, his dark eyes on the bathroom door. He would wait until the witch exited.

Listen and wait for his moment.

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Hermione’s fingers worked feverishly as she imagined the wizard’s tongue lapping at her core, his head moving sensuously, just the top of his head and a bit of his pale forehead showing as he laved her, flicking her clit and tonguing her, moving her fingers in tangent to her fantasy, groaning as she felt her pleasure grow.

Snape let out his own series of groans as he felt her heart rate soar, and saw the flush rising in her lower belly. He could see her approaching orgasm, a pulsing pinkish light below her navel, growing brighter and brighter.

”Oh Professor! Yes! Professor!” Hermione breathed, then suddenly peaked, climaxing with a small shriek, pleasure pouring down as the water poured over her body. Her head dropped forward as she panted, relieved at finding some release. But still she felt the urge for the real thing. Imagination was nice, but no substitute.

By doing this, Hermione had done nothing to help her situation and she knew it. She should have fought her desire, rather than give in to it, but she felt so randy.

At least it was her little secret.

She picked up Harry’s washcloth and the soap and began to bathe, washing her secret from her body, unaware that the subject of her imaginings was in the next room, clinging to the ceiling like a spider ready to drop upon its prey.

Snape disillusioned himself and waited, his Undead heart pounding in his chest, consumed by lust.

Well, he had tried.

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A/N: Thanks for reading.

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