He was late again. Strolled into class ten minutes after it was supposed to have started. His robes slung over one arm to show the clothes he wore underneath. Nothing that would be considered out of place in the muggle world, but the slacks and shirt combination was almost scandalous by the Wizarding World’s standards.
The stiff collar of his white cotton shirt a stark contrast to his hair and the tattoos printed across his knuckles. More of which Hermione could see peeping out the bottom of his sleeves and the collar of his shirt.
Not that Hermione was looking.
If anything, she was judging that fact he wasn’t wearing a tie. The top buttons of his shirt left undone; Hermione hated that her eyes lingered on the exposed skin when he turned to face the class.
Giving them a smirk as he threw the outer robes across his desk and spun to face them, Hermione could have sworn she heard a collective slow exhale as he did it. Felt her ire rise as he gave them an almost dangerous grin. Showing just the slightest hint of perfect, white teeth that she desperately tried not to imagine digging into her skin as he finally addressed them.
“Sorry, I’m late — hopefully, you got into at least some trouble while you waited.”
The gruff melody of his voice was met with nervous giggling. A quiet sound as they stared at him; Hermione hated that she joined them, couldn’t bring herself to tear her eyes away. Something about him almost magnetic; she couldn’t deny he caught the classes attention whenever he entered the room — she only wished he would actually do something with it.
“Well, then — who feels like some duelling today?”
And there it was. The very thing that made Professor Black so popular among the rest of the school, but that made Hermione clench her jaw and shift in irritation. Anger that he was so intent on making a mockery of her education flooding through her despite the fact she couldn’t dismiss the part of her that appreciated the way his wand holster framed his shoulders. How the muscles shifted beneath his shirt as he reached into the pocket under his arm and began twirling the length of wood through his fingers. Strength obvious beneath inked skin.
The suggestion was met with excited agreement. None of her year mates seemed concerned by the fact they’d learnt little of what they were supposed to have covered in the syllabus. That they spend more time hearing stories about their professor’s time as an Auror or working in their training department.
He’d given enough helpful tips to Auror potentials that Hermione knew he could be a good teacher if he just put his mind to it, and she thought that may be what irritated her the most. That the potential was there. That if only he would teach them what she knew they were supposed to be learning, she could even deal with this ridiculous attraction she had to him.
But he didn’t. He just kept telling stories. Letting them hurl curses at each other during the time he should have been lecturing, preparing them for their NEWTs which were approaching faster than even Hermione wanted to admit.
So, she couldn’t just go along with it. Felt herself shift slightly in her chair; she spoke before she even realised what she was doing. Too fuelled by irritation at both him and herself to stop.
“Professor Black—” his eyes locked on to her instantly, so intense they nearly stole her words from her. The grey of his eyes being overwhelmed by black as he looked at her, there was something almost challenging about his expression — like he was daring her to continue — Hermione couldn’t stop herself.
“Professor Black — please, we should be covering dark curses or creatures or something from the syllabus for once. Not just spending class throwing spells at each other.”
The room fell deadly silent as Hermione spoke, and while she was aware her tone was slightly less respectful than it should have been, it was hardly the first time the pair of them were having this argument.
It had become an almost weekly event, and yet something felt different this time. Oddly charged — it made Hermione shift uncomfortably under the weight of Professor Black’s gaze. His eyes heavy as they weighed on her, something seemed to spark in them before he spoke.
Lips twitching as he answered, “Are you suggesting duelling practice isn’t beneficial then, Miss Granger.”
She almost shivered as he spoke. Something about the words lilting and teasing, Hermione knew she couldn’t completely agree with him. Technically, there was some benefit to duelling practice; it was a large component of their practical exam, but that didn’t mean they should ignore every other element, so Hermione squared her shoulders before she replied.
Trying to ignore the way he seemed to suppress a smirk as she braced herself, “There is, of course, some benefit to duelling practice, but I think we’ve had more than enough of it this term, haven’t we?” Hermione could see the slightest hint of shock at how blatant she was being, but she continued anyway, “There’s still so much theory that needs to be covered in lecture.”
“I think you’ve expressed your disapproval of my teaching style before,” Professor Black shot back. The words sharp as a whip, they should have stunned Hermione into silence, but instead, they felt almost like a challenge.
One that the damnably Gryffindor part of her couldn’t resist, “Perhaps that because you’ve failed to give us a real lesson once this term.” She could see the rest of the class watching her with wide eyes, but she couldn’t stop. Something about the man’s presence drawing it out of her, “We need actual classes, not just tales of your glory days in the Auror Department before they had to retire you up here.”
Hermione knew she’d gone too far as soon as the words slipped out of her mouth, but it was too late to pull them back.
His face expressionless as he snapped, “See me after class, Miss Granger.”
“Prof—” she went to protest, but the twitch of his eyebrows stopped her before she could continue. The word dying on her lips as she watched him spin back to the rest of the class and give them that smirk again.
“Any other complaints,” no one dared say anything. “Well then — inter-house pairings, I think.”
The rest of the class was surprisingly uneventful, though Hermione supposed little else could have been expected from a Gryffindor/Hufflepuff DADA class. While the Gryffindor’s may try and play themselves up, the Hufflepuffs had no desire to join them, and the inter-house pairings meant the Gryffindor’s got little in return to their posturing.
She couldn’t deny it was a smart management technique, but instead of appreciating it, she spent the lesson dreading the end of class. Catching glimpses of the clock from the corner of her eye and tensing at every few degrees the hands moved. It didn’t help that the rest of the class were giving her uneasy looks.
In the few months Sirius Black had been their professor Hermione didn’t think he’d ever asked anyone to stay after class before. She didn’t think he’d even given a detention. Somehow managing them without using house points, it was like his magnetism kept them in control.
That or he just didn’t care.
Though she doubted that. Watching as he effortlessly corrected Ron’s form, made Harry laugh while he explained an advanced stunning spell. He was a good teacher; Hermione could admit that she just wanted him to concentrate on some of the parts which weren’t as interesting.
Still, watching him from the corner of her eye, the hour passed quickly, and as the rest of the class trickled out of the room, Harry and Ron shrugged awkwardly before they too disappeared. The pair of them finally left alone.
Slowly, she turned back to face him. She didn’t know what expression to expect, but there was something strangely inquisitive about it when she turned to face him. Like she was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out.
“When’s your next class, Miss Granger?”
There was no tone to the words. Nothing to suggest what he wanted to talk about — though she supposed that much was obvious — there was only those fathomless grey eyes staring at her.
Keeping her frozen as she rubbed her lips together before she could reply. Something about being caught in his gaze intensified now they were alone. She thought she should have felt trapped. Like a rabbit being watched by a wolf, perhaps not yet understanding the danger, but uneasy all the same, and yet she didn’t.
Something in her almost warming under the weight of his eyes, she could have sworn there was more heat in them the cool grey should have allowed. That anything about their situation should have allowed.
Seconds had passed since he asked her. The weight of his gaze only growing as she tried to find the words to answer. Her brain going blank as she stood there and tried to remember anything but what it felt like to have his eyes on her. How she was almost certain, it shouldn’t be alighting the parts of her it was, but she couldn’t deny the usual chill of the castle was drowned out by the heat in her veins.
Finally, she found it in herself to reply. Caught a glimpse of the darkness outside and recalled her answer. Something almost damning about it as she replied, “There isn’t one, Sir. Not until tomorrow.”
He hummed in response. A pleased sound, though she couldn’t be certain. Didn’t understand what it would mean if it were, so instead just settled her eyes back on him and watched as he stared back at her.
There was something oddly assessing about his expression, like he was weighing her up; Hermione didn’t know how to feel about it. Shifted uncomfortably, more from confusion than actual discomfort, but he still caught the movement and looked away. Freed her from the weight of his gaze for just a second as he picked up his robes.
Hung them over his arm as he continued, “Let’s talk in my office.”
She didn’t get the chance to protest before he set off. Strolled up the stairs as Hermione followed numbly, she didn’t entirely understand what was happening, but it was like something pulled her with him as he ascended the small staircase.
She’d been in the DADA office plenty of times before. Had been a frequent visitor of Professor Lupin’s before he retired, so she was surprised by how different it was. Gone were the shelves of books that she used to borrow from, the almost homey feel he’d somehow given the cold stone room through her previous years at Hogwarts.
Instead, it was almost sterile — nothing particularly to mark it as belonging to the man in front of her. But she supposed it hardly mattered what his office looked like, only that he’d thrown his robes over the large black chair on the other side of his desk and was pacing almost aggressively the other side of it.
Long, quick steps back and forth as he turned to look at Hermione and gestured to the chair her side of the desk without a word. She sat slowly, still unsure what was happening and just watched him pace.
He looked at her occasionally before snapping his head away, something in his expression that Hermione couldn’t identify, it intrigued her. Made her look longer, appreciate the long lines of his body as he paced, made her shift every time he glanced at her.
Finally, he spun towards her, his eyes dark and oddly controlled, like he was forcing himself to look only at her face. His jaw was tight as he spoke, “This can’t continue."
“Sir…” it was barely a whisper, unsure what he wanted her to say.
“We can’t keep spending class arguing about my teaching style, so I’m inviting you to air your concerns now. Perhaps I can lay them to rest.”
Hermione froze at the suggestion. She’d never been asked to actively criticise a Professor before, and with just the pair of them alone — none of her year mates to spur her on — Hermione’s words failed her for the first time in years.
“Well?” he raised an eyebrow. “You’ve always had so much to say in class.”
He kept his eyes on her, his gaze almost heavy as he stared; Hermione tried desperately not to notice the way his fingers curled around the edge of the desk. How broad his palms were and how the ink-printed skin shifted as his hands moved. How some part of her almost wondered what they’d feel like pressed against her skin.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on his question and the demanding look on his face, but it was hard to concentrate as he loomed over her. His shoulders emphasised by the wand holster she knew had a practical purpose but mainly served to accentuate the muscle that belied his age.
Not that he was truly old — Hermione knew that much. His face wrinkleless as he stared down at her. There were perhaps laugh lines around his eyes, but his hair was dark and thick where it hung around his face — he was just older.
Broad in the way men got with age, there was a strength to him that was obvious as he curled his fingers into the desk. He may have lacked the ostentatious musculature of Cormac McLaggen and the like, but she could see the strength all the same and almost hated herself for how much she liked it.
She’d been silent for too long, though. Professor Black raising an eyebrow when she finally tore her eyes away from his hands to the cocky, almost goading look he was giving her. It finally forced Hermione to speak.
“Well… I just think there may be some benefit to a more classical style of teaching; Professor Lupin certain never spent so much time on the more practical elements.”
He’d straightened up as she spoke but kept his eyes pinned on her. His gaze almost assessing as he replied, “And you think Professor Lupin’s approach is the only one that works.”
It was challenging. Like he knew she couldn’t agree, and he was right. McGonagall and Flitch both relied on a more practical approach, too; it just wasn’t what she was used to here. Wasn’t what she excelled at in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and part of her rankled at the change.
“No — of course not,” she was forced to prove his point, “But that doesn’t mean we can spend all day flinging curses at each other. I understand you’re used to running around catching criminals but sadly, this is a classroom.”
There was something begrudgingly impressed about his expression as she ranted. Something about the tilt of his lips and the look in his eyes that was almost intrigued as his fingers went to the buttons at his wrist. Hermione’s eyes moving there almost against her will as he rolled up his selves.
Folded them almost methodically, so at odds with the patterned skin, he was revealing inch by inch. Tattoos stretching up his arms, yet another thing Hermione wanted to hate that she appreciated so much but mainly found herself distracted by his words as she completed the gesture.
Something almost suggestive about the way he enunciated, “Has it ever occurred to you, Miss Granger, that I prefer a more hands-on approach.”
“Obviously,” she almost spat back. Months of irritation at both herself and him bubbling to the surface as she tried not to let her eyes linger on inches of exposed skin, “Since it seems to be the only one you have. I thought you’d at least want Harry to pass his NEWTs even if you don’t care about the rest of us.”
His face flashed with fury as she spoke. Expression darkening, his whole body tensed, and Hermione knew she’d made a mistake immediately. Regretted the words as soon as they tumbled from her lips, an accumulation of her own frustration shot back at him — she knew she shouldn’t have said it.
Harry was a touchy subject. She knew that much, even if she didn’t know much else. Only that she’d heard plenty of stories about the elusive Sirius Black over the years but hadn’t actually met him until he’d started teaching, for all she saw more of Professor Lupin outside of Hogwarts than almost any other student.
She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but she knew Harry’s godfather had spent his whole childhood disappearing off on great adventures with the Auror department after the last war and that anything to do with the relationship between the two was a dangerous subject.
One she had just thrown at the almost seething professor despite knowing what she’d said wasn’t true. After all, he clearly was a competent teacher. He’d had them master the Patronus charm faster than should have been possible, so she couldn’t deny there was some benefit to his teaching style; she just wasn’t quite willing to admit it.
None of it mattered with the way he was looking at her now, though. Shoulders drawn tight, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on her, Hermione knew she should have been afraid. That her heart should be hammering for a reason other than the one it was. That she should be resisting the urge to shift in her chair from fear other than the warming sensation flooding her lower stomach, but she forced herself to stay still.
To look back at his darkened eyes as he bit out, “Fifty years ago, I’d have put you over my knee for that.”
“Well, if that’s the only thing that’s stopping you, might as well do it anyway.”
They both froze as she said it. Neither quite believing what she had just said, what she’d finally admitted and had been denying until this point. She could see the shock on his face, too — Professor Black’s lips hanging open, not gaping but parted, plump and pink. Hermione knew she should look away, especially after what she’d just said, but she couldn’t.
Just stared as he closed them, rubbed his lips together before tilting them into a smirk. Eyes flashing as he replied, “Ah — so that’s what this is about.”
He cocked an eyebrow in question, and Hermione could only gape at him in response. Finally, babbled, “I — I don’t…”
“Little Miss Perfect’s being acting out because she wants to be put in her place,” it was mocking, but it didn’t make Hermione angry the way it should have done.
Instead, it made her burn. Made her stutter, “I — I’m not sure,” her voice almost left her as she gave in and whispered, “Maybe?”
It wasn’t enough for him, though. His shoulders rolling so she could see his muscle move as he demanded, “Well — which is it? Do you want to be put in your place or not?”
His gaze was heavy, didn’t let her flinch away from the question despite how much Hermione wanted to. The part of her that was almost twisting with embarrassment wished he’d taken the choice from her, but she knew why he hadn’t.
Felt oddly relieved he was still giving her an out, she couldn’t explain how she knew, but Hermione was sure if she said no now, he’d let her leave without consequence. That they’d never discuss her embarrassing display again, and it was knowing that which drew the real answer to her lips.
Made her mutter “Yes” so quietly she wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t heard it — but he did.
Smirked slightly at her confirmation before demanding again, “Was that a yes? Tell me exactly what you want me to do then.”
“I want…” Hermione wasn’t sure why his tone was making her squirm in her seat quite the way it was. Almost trying to find friction with how she rubbed her thighs together, his eyes seemed to snap towards any movement she made and froze her in place. Stopped her from finding the relief she needed as the weight of his gaze forced her to continue, “I want you to put me in my place.”
The words settled in the air around them for a moment, and she watched as Professor Black seemed to revel in him. His lips twitched as his eyes fluttered closed for just a second. Long lashes brushing his cheeks bones, Hermione knew she shivered visibly when he looked back at her.
Something dangerous in his expression as he replied, voice strangely gravelly, “Very well then — since you asked so politely.”
He didn’t say anything else. His tone so dark it was oddly entrancing and left Hermione to watch as he nudged his desk chair out of the way. Shoved it to one side as he stood behind the table and looked back towards her.
Summoned her with two fingers, it was as if he’d called her to him without words. Her body moving without thought, he almost smile as she walked around his desk but something about his expression a little too predatory to be considered as much.
In front of him, she froze. Looked up to him for direction, her neck almost aching with how much it had to tilt back to look at him. He seemed almost amused by her predicament, as if daring her to continue now she was in front of him.
His expression gave Hermione back what courage had been stolen from her standing this close to him, and she rubbed her lips together before she asked, “What — what do you want me to do?”
Her voice was rough, Hermione’s throat dry for reasons she wasn’t sure of, and the words hung between them as he moved. Reached into the holster under his arm as she tried not to stare at where the fabric of his shirt strained slightly as he moved.
Forced herself to look back up towards him. Found herself caught in Professor Black’s gaze as he kept his eyes on her while he flicked his wand in the direction of the desk. Papers shifting into neat piles, clearing a space in front of them. She knew just enough to understand what he was suggesting — even if this all felt foreign.
It wasn’t as if she was some blushing virgin. The summer with Viktor, an unfortunate evening with McLaggen that was really best left in the past, one heated moment with Draco Malfoy of all people when their hatred for each other spilt over into something equally fierce but altogether different. She had experience, and yet it was nothing like this.
The look on his face somehow challenging but also reassuring as he gestured towards the desk. As he spoke without words, he directed her to lie over it. Her front pressed into the table, cool wood under her cheek and a stretch in the back of her thighs as she rested with her legs slightly spread.
She gasped slightly as his foot nudged them further apart. Her breathing uneven, almost shuddery; she jumped when he rested a hand between her shoulders. Dragged it down her back, somehow electric even though he wasn’t touching the skin, she shivered as he followed the curve of her arse.
Slid along her thigh to the hem of her skirt, played with it for a couple of seconds before he offered, “Last chance.”
“Yes,” it escaped her before Hermione could even think about it. The blood pounding through her veins, gathering low in her stomach and burning between open thighs meaning there was never any other answer.
She was sure her cheeks would somehow, impossibly, flush a darker crimson when he realised the mess she was beneath her skirt, but Hermione didn’t care. Could only press out towards his hand slightly, arch her back as if she were trying to display herself to him.
It should have been humiliating, but she had to resist the urge to pull her thighs back together for friction when he hummed, almost pleased with the motion.
Commanding, “Good — stay like that,” as he flicked up her skirt. Tucked it into the waistband, so there was no chance of it falling. She heard him let out a sharp huff at the exact moment she recalled which knickers she put on that morning.
Grabbed in the mad rush to get dressed, running late to herself but still early to everyone else, she hadn’t thought twice as she pulled the scrap of black lace up her legs. But now, knowing he was staring down at her, she tried to shift her hips inwards and hide from him.
Well aware that the lace cut high on her arses and sat snuggly against her core — they barely covered anything. Something Hermione appreciated for the sake of knowing what she was wearing beneath her clothes, even if no one else did, but exposed to him, she almost wished for more fabric.
Something about the huff he let out squashed that part of her, though. Made her focus on the feel of his fingers as they ran along the edge of her knickers, played with the border before he chuckled, slightly, “Perhaps you’re more interesting, than I thought, Miss Granger. Tell me — who else has seen these pretty little knickers of yours. Got to see the way they cup your arse.”
He dug his fingers into the muscle as he said it, jostled the flesh, and Hermione had to bite back a whine as cool air washed over her soaked knickers. The fabric chilling against her overheated cunt.
“No one. Not — not this pair.”
“But others? You’ve let the others see them, have you?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, unsure how he’d react. Wonder if he assumed she was untouched, like most of the school did, but instead, he hummed in approval again, twisting his fingers in the fabric of her knickers.
Almost barked, “Good,” as he yanked them up into the crease of her arse, “I don’t have to be too gentle then.”
The movement forced a gasp out of her. Made her rock against the desk as he did it, breath leaving her in a sharp exhale before she was distracted by his fingers brushing over the newly exposed skin.
Slight callouses dragging over the sensitive flesh, it made the heat in her stomach burn with a new intensity. Made her wish he would touch her with more than the maddening brushes of his fingertips.
Made need cloud her mind as she abandoned the last shreds of her sanity to demand, almost mockingly, “Well then, are you going to do it.”
Hermione didn’t know where it came from. It was less a conscious thought and more a reaction to being displayed like this. She wasn’t prepared when the first slap came.
A sharp sting with the ends of his fingers, a warning more than anything, it still made her gasp, made heat flood through her skin as he soothed it.
Explaining, “When I’m ready. Tell me, Miss Granger—” she tried not to shudder at the way he said her name. His lips almost caressing the syllables, “—are you familiar with muggle traffic lights.”
She tried to shift in confusion, to look at him as if to ask what the hell he meant, but Professor Black pressed his hand into her lower back to keep her still.
Waited for her to stutter, “Yes — of course, I’m familiar,” confusion making her tone less than respectful, but he ignored it. Kept playing with the fabric that was gathered between her arse cheeks. Snapping the elastic back against her skin, not painfully but a reminder of what was coming.
He continued, “So you understand how they work then. Green for go, red for stop, yellow for slow down—”
“Technically, it’s amber—” she choked before she could finish the thought. His fingers raining down another quick sharp slap that startled the thought out of her. Made her go quiet as she tried not to push into his touch.
She took a shuddery breath as he continued to soothe over the skin of her arse before he replied, “So you do know them — good girl.” The words sent a bolt of molten heat through her, made something within Hermione flutter and her skin tingle where he was touching her.
Almost made it difficult to keep listening as he continued, “Then I’m sure you can put together how they’d work in this situation.”
Even with how her brain felt faintly fuzzy, Hermione immediately understood what he was doing. How he was giving her an out if she needed it. She could only assume his familiarity meant it wasn’t the first time he’d used such a system, and the thought made something within her burn.
She forced herself to dismiss it, though. Instead, nodded slightly as she whispered, “Yes, Sir,” as his hands finally left her arse.
Left the skin tingling. Begging for his touch, part of her wanted to shift her hips. Wriggle and try and entice him into touching her again, but something kept her still. Anticipation making her breathing heavy, Hermione knew what was coming, but nothing could have prepared her for the feel of his hand coming down on her arse properly for the first time.
His full palm making contact, almost rolling through her. A sharp sting, an ache through muscle and a burn that faded into a warmth unlike anything she’d ever felt before, Hermione didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t need to, was distracted by his hand coming down again over and over again.
Quick, sharp smacks that made her pant. Made her shift her hips towards him or away from him, she wasn’t sure — thought it may have been both. Like she couldn’t decide if she wanted more or less.
She was only relieved she didn’t have to. That she was left to mewl, whimper and whine, and take exactly what he gave her. Slaps raining down on her arse, on the crease of her thigh, sneaking between them ever so slightly, it felt like she was burning in the best way possible.
And then, right when she thought — knew — she couldn’t take any more. That another smack would push her over the line between pleasure and pain — he stopped. His hand thudding to a stop against her arse — lacking the sharp sting of his previous hits, there was only a dull sort of impact that made her clench around nothing.
Made her feel exactly how wet she’d become. Thighs chilled in the cool castle air, her underwear were somehow soaked even further through, and Hermione knew if she was wearing anything other than black — his colour — there would have been a dark stain between her thighs. That the whole gusset would be wet.
She thought she should be embarrassed, have felt it twist in her stomach, but she couldn’t concentrate on any of it. Mind entirely focused on the way his hand soothed over her arse. On how he hushed her, but less as a command to keep quiet and more like he was to keep her calm — the kind of gentle sound you made at an animal that may try to bolt.
It worked somehow, though. None of the tension she’d had before returning to her — it was almost like something in her had calmed, and yet Hermione still needed more. Something within her making her keen as he continued to brush his fingertips teasingly over her sensitive skin. A whimper escaping her as he took in her ruined knickers.
She was forced to listen to him hum approvingly before he asked, “Enjoyed that did you?”
The casual mockery made her burn. Made her shift further towards his hand, not quite willing to admit it was true but needing more anyway. He didn’t give her what she was looking for, though. Just kept up his light teasing touches, like he enjoyed the way shivers ran through her with each brush of his fingertips.
Finally, he dragged his hand between her legs. A spark of hope running through her before it died as he just cupped her through her knickers. Kept pressure against her but did nothing to ease the burning tightness in her stomach.
The pressure maddening, it made her legs twitch in a desperate attempt for more, but he gave her nothing. Just let her feel his gaze weighing down on her, watching her struggle, waiting for her to give in.
The tension in her stomach, the feel of his hand on her, and the realisation he was just waiting for her broke Hermione’s resolve. Made her let out an almost defeated sigh as she begged, “please,” the word breathy and desperate. She could feel his smirk as she gave in. Felt him move his fingers, drag them over her knickers and tease at her folds through soaked fabric.
Heard him hum as he touched her, voice carefully controlled like he was trying to be unaffected — she could hear the tension underneath.
“Colour, Miss Granger?”
She didn’t even have to think about the answer, heard it tumble from her lips almost unbidden, everything in Hermione needing him to know that she wanted it.
“Green—“ it was almost a gasp, “Just — just touch me.”
It was like her body was burning for it. Need overwhelming everything, she could only focus on his hands against her. How he kept brushing so, so close to her clit but somehow kept missing it.
Something deliberately teasing about the denial, it broke her further. Made her beg again, “Fuck — fuck — please just take them off.”
She half worried he’d make her beg more, would prolong her torture just to watch her squirm, but he didn’t. Instead, giving her the relief that she needed so desperately as he ripped through delicate lace.
The motion stung against her hip, but Hermione barely noticed it. Distracted by the rough sound of his voice as he praised her. The words burning hot in her blood as he muttered them, “Such a good girl — such a good little slut telling me exactly what you want.”
The words almost stole her breath as he jostled her out of her knickers, nudging her legs further apart and exposing her to him. That same part of Hermione from earlier wanted to shift in embarrassment, wanted to close her legs and try to hide herself away, but the rough breath he let out at the sight of her kept her still.
Made her pause long enough to forget her uncertainty when he brought his hand to her cunt. Touched her properly for the first time, the thought of it made her somehow — impossibly — more sensitive. Made her whine as he ran his fingers through her folds, making them slick with the mess between her thighs before teasing her entrance with his fingertips.
Pressing in ever so slightly but giving her nothing close to what she wanted. He didn’t give her the chance to complain. Instead, he just let his fingers rest almost within her as he stepped closer. Pressed his hips against her and let her feel the length of his cock against her arse as he leant forward. Laid his body over hers and finally sunk a finger into her as he spoke,
“See what happens when you ask nicely, Miss Granger?”
Her reply was stolen by a gasp. Her hips rocking against the desk, her fingers tightening desperately in their hold on the other side of it. She was surrounded by him. The weight of his body holding her to the desk and the musky scent of him making her brain haze, it all added to the need pulsing in her cunt.
Part of her wanted to beg him to call her Hermione. To do away with the formality of their titles, and just hear his lips wrap around the letters of her name, but another part of her almost revelled in it. In the idea it was him — her professor — who was touching her like this.
She didn’t get the chance to ask, though. Her breath stolen again as he slipped a second finger in beside the first. The stretch of even just two tearing a whine from her throat. She knew she could take more — had previously — but she still felt stretched over his digits.
Felt her legs shake as he crooked them inside of her; the motion made almost uncomfortable by the way she was spread over the desk. It made her dig her fingers further into the wood, knuckles going white as her body went taught.
He distracted her again, though. Brushed his finger over her clit, the touch enough to make her jolt as he almost tutted, “You’re a tight little thing,” he paused for a second. Pumped his fingers in and out of her, letting the obscene squelching sound echo between them, “It’s okay though; we’ll get you filled up properly soon enough.”
“Pr—professor,” Hermione’s breathing was ragged as he continued to work his fingers within her. Stretching her open, filling her up, preparing her.
The thought made something within her crave more. Need him closer, need to see his face and not just be stretched out over the desk at his mercy. She wanted to see his hands on her body, inked skin brushing over her own tanned flesh. She wanted to watch him take her — see the way he was opening her body to him.
Half driven mad by his fingers, Hermione heard herself beg again, “I — I need more.”
He made contemplative noise. Pressed his fingers against some sensitive spot inside her — it was almost awkward from the way they were positioned, but Hermione didn’t care. Her world narrowing to that spot — it wasn’t enough.
He seemed to sense it, though, kept his fingers moving as he spoke, “What do you need?”
His tone almost a demand, Hermione had no choice but to answer — felt almost compelled too. Words escaped her before she could stop them like they were coming from somewhere more primal than her conscious mind, “I need to see you. I want to watch you take me.”
The words had barely left her mouth before he was moving. Too fast for Hermione to comprehend, she didn’t even get the chance to complain when his fingers withdrew. The words stolen as he flipped her onto her back, her arse hitting the desk enough to force the breath out of her with how sensitive she was, but he didn’t let her rest.
Instead, he opened her legs. Ran his hands up them, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Spread open, she was exposed again. Her skirt bunched up around her hips, Professor Black could see even more of her than he could before, but she barely noticed. Distracted by how his smirk had turned almost wicked and how the way he’d manhandled her had only added to the desperate, burning, pulsing need between her thighs.
“Was this what you wanted?” he demanded, almost growled, as he brought his hand back to her cunt. Slipped his fingers in her, the sudden stretch sending a jolt through her that was echoed as he circled her clit his thumb.
Already sensitive, every movement brought Hermione closer to the edge. Her legs shaking enough she clung to the desk, almost afraid she’d fall off it, but somehow knowing he wouldn’t let her.
It was like her whole body was tightening. Focusing on the spot behind her navel where pressure just kept building and building. The stretch of his fingers, the way he kept demanding things of her, and the whole situation building an impossible tsunami in her stomach.
One that finally overtook her as she fell into the abyss. A last brush of his thumb against her clit, his other hand holding her to his chest and letting her breathe in the scent of him, and the wave hit. More of them running through her. Hermione’s muscles tightening and loosening with them, while he kept soothing a hand down her back — guiding her through it.
Her breathing was still ragged, body still trembling, when she realised she was in his arms. Pressed up against his chest, his hand still rubbing that same path up and down her spine, it was strangely comforting, but she couldn’t properly appreciate it. Was distracted by where his cock was pressed against her.
Still hidden by his trousers, she couldn’t even see it, but some part of her questioned if she could take it. Thought that she may be too sensitive, too overworked to even imagine it, but something else stopped her from pushing him away.
The thought of not having him, of not feeling him stretch her open properly, of not having him take her like he’d promised enough those concerns meant nothing. Need rising in her bloodstream once again, she bucked her hips against him.
Let wet folds rub against the crouch of his trousers; it should have been mortifying. Have made her want to cringe at her own behaviour — how wanton she was being — but Hermione didn’t care.
“You’re a needy little thing,” his voice barely broke through the haze of her mind, but him stepping away as he continued to speak did. “I’d almost say greedy — writhing against me like you haven’t already come once.”
“No — no, Sir,” Hermione rushed to protest. Something inside her twisting with his words, “I just — I need you.”
He chuckled as she pleaded, reassured, “I know, sweet girl—” as he started to undo his belt buckle. The metal sound ringing between them, drawing Hermione’s eyes downwards, she couldn’t look away.
Thought for a second how bizarre they must look. Her knickerless but still wearing her blouse and school skirt, him almost fully dressed. His shirt ruffled, those top few buttons undone from earlier, tattoos teasing her from beneath white cotton.
It was worse than just that, though; he still had his wand holster on. Leather framing the width of his shoulders, highlighting quite how little they’d both undressed — too desperate to bother tearing off unnecessary layers — but Hermione was distracted before she could overthink things, preoccupied as he finally revealed himself.
He was long and thick. Looked big even in his own hand, and for a moment, Hermione stopped breathing as she watched at him. Just stared as he lazily pumped his cock, the wetness from where his fingers had been inside her easing his path. It made her dizzy, made her shift uncomfortably, unsure whether she wanted him to touch her or keep touching himself.
He spoke before she could make up her mind, though. The hand that had drifted back to her thigh gripping the muscle as he kept stroking himself while he talked.
“I never thought I’d do this. Didn’t think I’d give in — not after spending so much time holding myself back, but it’s like you’ve been begging for it.” It felt like Hermione’s lungs had frozen, her heart stopping as he spoke without seeming to mean to. Like the words were some kind of confession he had no choice but to give.
“I’d heard about you, of course. Little Hermione Granger, in letters from Harry, stories from Remus over the years, but you weren’t what I expected — you were…” his breath hitched as he gripped himself, fingers flexing around his cock, digging into her thigh as he seemed to hold himself back from whatever he was thinking, “more than I expected.”
Hermione was entranced — the world fading to nothing around her as she watched him, eyes flicking between where he gripped himself and the expression on his face. He looked somewhere between ecstasy and agony. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing, or what he was telling her — she couldn’t look away.
She could only sit there, watching him, waiting for him to say more, unwilling to risk breaking his train of thought. Instead, she was just left to wriggle on the desk, his fingers nowhere near close enough to where she wanted them, but a reminder of what she needed all the same.
He seemed almost oblivious to her distress, though. Only squeezed her thigh as if telling her to sit still while he continued talking, “You were always catching my eye, demanding my attention, demanding more. Sitting there, almost bouncing in your seat, pretending like you hated me when I could see what you really wanted — what you needed — was for someone to just not give in. Not put you in charge of every little thing, leave you to ensure sure my godson passes his NEWTS — hell, for once, you just needed someone else to be in charge.”
Hermione couldn’t breathe. If her lungs had been frozen before, it was like they were lead now — his words weighing down on her chest. Part of her wanted to rile against them, wanted to protest, scream at him that he was wrong, but she couldn’t.
There was a part of her that knew it was the truth.
That remembered times when it had all just felt like too much. Like the world was pressing down on her, and there was no one to help bear the burden. Times where all she’d wanted was for someone to relieve the pressure of being Hermione Granger. To not have to be perfectly in control at all times; always have a plan, a goal, something that she needed to do. To not be expected of anything more than what was asked of her.
It seemed almost impossible. The dream of a girl who’d so often felt like she was being pulled in a hundred different directions and was just waiting for something to finally tear her apart. A girl who was fraying at the edges without anyone around her noticing.
And yet — he apparently had. Even in the short time he’d known her, he’d seen through her carefully constructed façade.
The revelation should have quelled the need in her stomach. She should have run cold realising he’d seen through her so easily, but instead, she felt oddly secure — like for once, she could trust someone to hold her together rather than tear her apart. Or at the very least, help her put back together all the pieces.
It made her warm. Made her ache, made her want more than just his hand on her thigh as he stroked himself in front of her. The muscles of his arm twitching as he moved, something about it — the strength she could see there, and in his shoulders, and behind his eyes when she glanced up at them — almost intoxicating.
A heady feeling that she couldn’t explain; something about the whole afternoon, about being stretched over his desk and at his mercy — under his control — made her blood burn. Need and desperation coursing through it, her muscles quivered, begging for release, her skin almost tingling at the thought of his hands brushing over it again.
He’d only paused for a moment to let her process what he was saying. His hand continuing to work his cock, she could see pre-come glistening on the tip — mixing with wetness from where his fingers had been inside her.
His movements were slow. Methodical. Not meant to bring him to the edge — none of the desperate jerking she’d seen from boys in the past — it was more like he was putting on a show for her. Making her watch so she’d know exactly what she was taking when he finally pressed into her.
The thought made Hermione squirm. Wiggle against the desk as her need threatened to overwhelm her, make her beg the same way she had earlier. He beat her to it, though.
Rubbed his lips together before he continued talking, “It was more than that, though — when you looked at me. I could see what you were hiding. The way you tried to deny it — even to yourself.”
He stopped again. Abandoned his grip on her thigh to hold her chin, made her look up at him as he spoke, “And now look at you — spread open, your drippy little cunt leaking all over my desk, begging for it—”
The wicked look in his eyes was back. Grey almost completely replaced by black, something challenging about his tone as he asked his next question, as if he was daring her to lie to him, “—you are begging for it, aren’t you, little one?”
The word slipped out of her before she could stop it. Uncontrolled — pure want, pure desperation, like he’d reduced Hermione down to her most base instincts. “I want it — I want you.”
His lips curved upwards at the confession. Not a true smile, more of a smirk but not cruel like it sometimes was in class. Instead, it was almost victorious. Like he’d been waiting for this moment for longer than either of them dared to admit.
His voice was gravelly, barely controlled. Like Hermione giving into him one last time had unravelled him — unravelled them both based on how their lips met. A collision of passion, of two people who’d been holding themselves back for months now and could do so no longer.
His hand slid into her hair to tug at it, adjusting Hermione to his liking, tilting her head back to let him steal breathy gasps from her lips — she gave into him easily. Let him taste her, tease her with flicks of his tongue and with his teeth digging into her bottom lip.
He’d abandoned his cock, let it rub against her where it was trapped between them. His free hand slipping under her shirt, Hermione had to dig her fingers into his shoulders as he grazed over the curves of her body.
Skin hypersensitive, it was like every brush of his hand sent shivers through her, made her tremble against him. Her mind almost overwhelmed by the sensations as he trailed kisses down her throat. Sucked bruises on to delicate skin as a reminder of what they were doing.
He was demanding. Something about his touches unrelenting in their efforts to drive Hermione insane — make her beg for him more than she already had. One of his hands cupped her breast, flicking at her nipple with his thumb, while the other kept her at his mercy.
Left her unable to shift away from the feel of his lips on her neck, something about his grip on her hair, the slight tension in her scalp, making her brain haze further.
“Do you feel this,” he bucked his hips against her. Cock hard and hot as it brushed against her folds. “This is what you want, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been begging me for.”
“Fuck — yes,” Hermione couldn’t stop herself from agreeing. Her mind cloudy with want, almost drunk on the way he was surrounding her, guiding her back against the desk.
Dragging a hand up over her stomach, it left goosebumps in its wake. Sent tingles straight through her skin to converge behind her navel — warmth burning in her stomach and need twisting around her spine as he stretched her arms over Hermione’s head.
Held them there with one large hand as he looked down at her. Let her feel the weight of his body over her, something exhilarating about being trapped beneath him. The muscles in his arm twitching like they had when he stroked himself. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was demanding — a warning not to fight.
Brushing his other hand back down her body, he sent shivers through her again. Watched her tremble as he positioned himself between her splayed thighs. A realisation that made her breath uneven.
Made her chest rise and fall as she looked down towards where their bodies would meet. The pattern breaking as he thrust his hips against her, let her feel some small glimpse of what was to come. The motion sent a jolt through her, a brief flash of pleasure that scalded as it coursed along her nerves.
“Tell me,” He demanded — grip still tight on her hands as the other dragged between her thighs. Teased the sensitive skin before brushing over her folds and slipping back within her to let Hermione feel the stretch again. “Tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll give it to you, sweet girl — you just have to ask for it.”
Need dripping out of her, she was almost incoherent. Could only focus on his body above hers, how his fingers weren’t enough and how she could feel his cock pressing against her thigh. Teasing her — taunting her with the promise of what she could have.
Desperation made words slip from her lips before Hermione could think about them. Pleas coming more effortlessly than ever before, “I want — I want you to take me. To stretch me over you and fill me up — I want you to do what you promised.”
It felt like she was burning admitting it. The confession running through her blood, scalding hot. It should have been cruel making her admit it, making her say the words, but confessing it out loud only made her need it more.
Gripping himself with his free hand, Hermione’s breath hitched against as he ran the head of his cock through her folds. Let it bump against her clit and make her twitch, let her feel what she’d seen, what she’d begged for but that he still hadn’t given her.
“And what was that?” he asked again, “What did you want me to do — what did I promise?”
Her pulse was pounding in her ears, blood coursing through her, drowning out everything but him. His body pressing against her, his hands on her skin, and his words somehow breaking through the haze of her brain.
“To put me in my place,” she almost sobbed. So desperate she didn’t care what she was confessing, her very being focused on getting him to give in.
“And where’s that?”
It was a cry — desperate — broken. Pure need that he immediately fulfilled. Thrusted into her as Hermione’s body gave way to him. Stretched over him as she choked on the immediately full feeling. His cock pressing into her deeper than she’d thought possible, and yet he still wasn’t entirely within her.
Instead, he’d paused. Soothed a hand along her thigh as they twitched around his hips like he’d stopped to watch her shiver, see the way she was split open over him. The sight made Hermione clench, made them both groan as she fluttered around him, his hand gripping her leg tightly as if he was trying not to give in.
Her breathing was still uneven, legs still quivering as she felt him press in further. Reach the point within her that made Hermione’s whole body go rigid before giving into it; that soft sensitive spot that made every nerve tingle — heighten in sensitivity.
His body pressed against hers, his hips flush with her own Hermione almost thought she couldn’t breathe. That her lungs had stopped working with how full she felt, that her muscles had frozen in place. That she only existed as the heat radiating through her stomach, swirling behind her navel, waiting for release.
Distantly she could hear herself whimpering. Desperate mewls interspersed with breathless yeses and mores, but she could barely hear it. Hardly seemed present within herself; she only knew he was above her, and around her, and in her.
That he was pressed up against her cervix, filling her completely as he panted above her. His brows drawn together, it was like they’d both lost the ability to speak, so consumed by one another they could only gasp in tandem at the rock of their bodies.
At the rhythmic thrust and withdrawal that was slowly making Hermione’s muscles tighten. Make her arms twitch in his hold as he continued to work himself in and out of her, the sensations running through her body begging for release; she could only writhe beneath him.
Her nipples sensitive beneath her blouse, the rock of his chest against hers made Hermione gasp. Sent shivers down her spine to coalesce between her hips, waiting, begging, to be released. The tension within her just kept building.
His hand finally abandoning his hold on her wrists, Hermione didn’t dare move them. Couldn’t bear if he stopped were she to do it, so she just kept taking what she was given. Pleading for more as he gripped her hips and made him take him. The quick slap of their bodies coming together echoing around them; she could barely hear it over their gasping breaths.
Over Professor Black’s muttered profanity, “Fucking perfect — made for this — made for taking my cock.”
The words sunk into Hermione’s bloodstream, somehow added to the heat burning through it. Making her body tense as pressure and need kept building, her body almost starting to ache with it.
Burn with the need for release; she almost started to fear that if it didn’t come, if he didn’t give it to her, she’d succumb to it. Her body overwhelmed by need — an all-consuming fire.
It seemed an impossible thought, and yet she couldn’t stop herself from begging. The words leaving her lips breathy, desperate, barely recognisable as herself, “Please — Sir — Sir — please — I —”
“I know — I know,” he reassured, but the words meant nothing to her. Meaningless background noise compared to where one of his hands had finally drifted back to her cunt. His fingers brushing over folds that were stretched around his cock, it made the muscles in her legs spasm.
Tighten around his hips and break his rhythm, sinking him further into her; she felt a groan run through him into herself. The vibration making her nipples tingle where their chests were still pressed together, barely separated by thin layers of cotton.
Her hands scrabbled for purchase against the smooth wood of his desk, fingers wrapping around the edge to cling here like when he’d first laid his hand across her skin. It felt like it had been hours ago, like eons had passed between then and now, but the slight sting as her arse bumped against the desk told her differently.
Arms stretched above her; she was still at his mercy. Left to twist and tremble beneath him as he kept touching, as he made her listen to him, “Do you feel me—” he demanded, still brushing over where he was stretching her open, feeling him slide in and out of her. “Do you feel me stretching you open — making you mine.”
His fingers against her, his words ringing in her ears, it heightened every thrust of his hips. Made Hermione try and wriggle away, the feelings rushing through her body overwhelming, as she babbled through her reply, “Yes — yes — fuck — I feel you.”
“And here?” He slid his hand over her mons and pressed down on her lower abdomen, the unexpected motion making Hermione gasp, almost convulse with the shiver that ran through her as she realised what he meant. The way the pressure against her stomach had heightened the feeling of fullness, let her feel him brush her deepest depths each time he drove his cock into her.
It made her head spin, turned the way her whole body had tightened into something almost painful, like it was thrashing within her waiting to be released; she had to gasp, “Yes!” Had to pray he’d let up, that he’d give her release because Hermione didn’t know how much more she could take — wondered if this may be her undoing anyway.
He seemed to understand her desperation. Almost mirrored it with how his thrusts had started to grow uneven, his breath heaving gasps as he spoke, “What do you want? All you — all you have to do is ask me remember, sweet thing.”
“To come,” Hermione cried before she could stop herself. Knew she wouldn’t have even if she could, that the need was overwhelming. It felt as if she was going to shatter as soon as he let her. Like she was going to fall apart as soon as he touched her the way she so desperately needed.
She choked as he finally let his thumb brush her clit. Started rubbing circles on it that shot through her, like lightning coursing through her blood, collecting in her stomach with the warmth already there — electrifying it.
His hips stuttering as she continued to beg, “Please — I just — I just need…”
She couldn’t manage full sentences. Could only focus on the way he kept hitting that sensitive point inside her, kept circling her clit like he was trying to wind her up tighter. Her body preparing for something Hermione didn’t know if she’d survive. A storm about to wash through her with nowhere to hide.
There was only his cock inside her and his hands on her body, holding her in place, making her accept the brushes of his thumb against her clit, not letting her escape the pleasure he was going to give her.
The weight of his body against her own felt like the only thing holding Hermione together, but she doubted even that would last. Not with his breath ghosting over her neck as he panted into it, his lips brushing the sensitive skin as he muttered about how good she was — how perfect.
It was all going to be too much. She didn’t think she could take it, didn’t want to know if she could, doubted she would ever recover from what he was about to give her, but there was no way to stop it.
Her body tensing, drawing into itself for a final time, as he kept on talking, voice gravelly, almost as broken as Hermione knew she was going to be, “I know,” he tried to reassure her, but his thumb increased the pressure against her clit as he said it, drove her closer to the edge she didn’t know if she wanted to approach.
“I know — just —” his breath hitched, and Hermione could feel the tension in his body, the tension in both their bodies as they tried to hold themselves back, “—just give in. Just come for me — like a good girl.”
The words — the permission, the reassurance that she was good — combined with the stretch of his cock inside her, the feel of his hands on her body, and she could hold back no longer.
Felt her breathing stop for just a moment before the world started falling apart from within her. Waves wracking through her, tearing her apart. It was almost painful, pleasure tearing along nerves where she’d denied it, white-hot as she whimpered and clenched around him, fingers digging into the wooden desk’s edge before she needed more. Had to abandon it to clutch at his shoulders, needing something to weather her through the storm, she took shelter in his arms.
Distantly, she felt him finish too. Heard him grunt in her ear, felt another burst of heat in her abdomen, but it was as if she was no longer in her own body. Like she’d unravelled beneath him, her limbs heavy and distant, her mind hazy.
She could only feel the remnants of pleasure, a faint tingle in her arms and legs, a looseness that Hermione didn’t think she’d ever known; it was like her mind was quiet.
The world oddly in focus and not. Professor Black a single sharp point as the world around her was nothing; she just seemed to float. To revel in the shivers still running through her and how she somehow felt both exhausted and rejuvenated.
Slowly, the world came back into focus. Made Hermione aware of an ache in her muscles like she’d just run ten miles, of a hand soothing up and down her back as she was held to Professor Black’s chest. The man having sunk back into his chair while she drifted, she was folded into his arms.
Apparently having noticed her come to herself, he spoke. Voice carefully light, not controlled in the same way it was earlier but instead like he was trying not to panic her, “Back with me, Miss Granger?”
“Hermione,” she whispered before she could stop herself. Part of her was screaming to get away to, to run, that she couldn’t believe what had just happened, but a much larger part refused to move. Wanted to hear him say her real name far more than she wanted to hide from what had just happened.
Blinking up at him as she said it, she watched his lips twitch like he was holding back a smile. Instead, looking down at her with an oddly soft expression as he rubbed his lips together and nodded.
Conceding, “Hermione, then. How are you feeling?”
She thought about it instead of replying instantly. Ignored that part of her that was convinced it had been a horrible mistake; the feel of his hand slowly rubbing up and down her spine far too comforting to her to want to run from him — not as she realised, he’d cast a warming charm on her.
Her limbs lacking the slight chill she usually associated with staying in the castle, instead, she just felt warm. Admitting as much as to herself, the way he’d taken care of her, the way he’d made her feel, she refused to shift away. Couldn’t bring herself to do it with how steady she was feeling for once.
“I feel good, Professor — relaxed.”
Her tone betrayed the statement as the novelty it was, and she knew he’d realised it. Felt his hand pause on her back, not pulling away, just stopping for a moment as if he was thinking.
“Well then, I guess we’ll just have to keep this up for both our sakes.” Hermione’s heart fluttered at the thought it wouldn’t be a one-time encounter, “So you should probably start calling me Sirius.”