Chapter 1: I
Notes:
“I remember a text that hung in my nursery as a child. ‘Be sure thy sin will find thee out.’ It’s very true, that.” - Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The wind is blowing a gale, the strong currents causing a sharp drop in the temperature.
Year-round it is cold here, but never more so than on windy days. She wraps her shawl more tightly around her. Despite the thick fabric of her tunic and scapular, the cold runs bone-deep. Even the veil shielding her head and face isn’t enough to stop the wind from stinging her cheeks. Still, she would never give up these walks of hers along the coastal cliffs. The salty smell of the sea is nostalgic for her, and it’s the one time she can guarantee complete solitude.
All of the others are too afraid to journey the path—too much climbing and the ground is uneven. Much as she sorrows them never getting to glimpse the beauty of the water and the stunning vista this walk offers, she covets it for herself. It’s selfish, perhaps. But here, on this remote coast, there is very little else to covet.
They are as far away from the insidious reach of modern society as they can be, living together in the Abbey, a small collective.
Now and again a streak of yearning will sear through her for that which is different from her daily life, and it’s then she escapes it all to listen to the ocean and gulp down lungfuls of salty air. Mother Superior is kind and patient with her, allowing her this freedom and trusting her to know when she needs space from the other nuns. Perhaps if she weren’t such a natural loner she wouldn’t need to be alone.
The closer she gets to the protection of the cluster of buildings, the less cold air cuts through. She moves quickly through the centre courtyard that adjoins them, making her way to the kitchens. She shouldn’t be surprised to find Sister Poppy and Hannah sitting at one of the tables, gossiping quietly with their hands wrapped around mugs of tea. Both look up at her as she enters in surprise.
“Sister Hermione!” Hannah jumps to her feet, rushing over to press warm fingers to her cold cheeks. “You’re frozen.”
Hermione shakes her head, dislodging the other woman’s hands. “It’s not that bad. Just a little nippy.”
Sister Poppy doesn’t waste time, getting up and lugging the kettle onto the hob to set it to boil. “Tea, dear?” she asks, but Hermione knows it’s a courtesy, not a question. She’s getting tea whether she wants it or not.
“That would be lovely, Sister.” She allows herself to be led over to the long communal table by Hannah.
In no time there is a steaming mug pressed into her hands as she sits opposite her fellow nuns—her sisters—listening to them speak. Most of what they gossip about is benign—tedious talk of village matters. Her interest is piqued when Poppy mentions a visiting clergyman.
“Who is it?” Hermione asks.
Poppy smiles. “Father Snape,” she says. “I don’t know much about him. Only that Mother Superior is familiar—”
“That I am,” the woman in question says clearly from the kitchen doorway. “Sister Poppy, Sister Hannah, engaged in gossip again, I see.”
Both of the Sisters shrink a little, sheepish expressions appearing at the note of disapproval in their superior’s voice. Hermione feels especially exposed, not usually one to engage in idle gossip. The weight of Minerva’s gaze as it moves towards her feels especially heavy. She can’t even defend herself, curious to know more about this visiting priest.
Despite her chastisement, the Abbess sits down beside her at the table. “Father Snape and I were acquainted during his time at the Seminary. He is a good man and dedicated to his work.”
Curiosity sated for now, Hermione’s attention drifts. Sister Luna wanders into the room sometime later with a very distressed-seeming Father Terrence, who sits down with them at the table somehow both incredibly pale and a little green.
“Are you unwell, Father?” she finds herself asking as Sister Poppy gets up and immediately starts brewing more tea—a pot this time for all the new arrivals.
He swipes the back of his hand over his sweaty brow, clearly flustered. “Ah, no, Sister. Thank you for asking.”
Father Terrence, sweet as the man can be, is a constant source of frustration to her. Between his bumbling sermons and his inability to keep a handle on the Abbey finances, Hermione wishes—prays—that someone more competent would take his place. She knows what a sin this is, of pride or ego perhaps. She prays on that sometimes too.
“You mustn’t let the fear of Father Snape’s arrival disturb you, Terrence,” Minerva tells him. “He is all bark. You shall see for yourself when he arrives.”
“And when are we to expect our guest?” Hermione finds herself asking.
“A week from today,” Terrence says anxiously.
She smothers her judgement, forcing a sympathetic expression. Besides, even as he said it, she could feel a knot forming in her stomach. It isn’t often that she feels nervous, but the prospect of a strange priest she’s never met or heard of before visiting their tiny little Abbey is unexpectedly nerve-wracking.
“There, there, Father,” Sister Luna says, patting his hand. “I’m sure it’ll be a lovely visit. You have nothing to worry about.”
Hermione begs to differ. Luna is unfailingly kind, endlessly patient, and exceedingly thoughtful; three things she will never be. She’s tried, but her efforts to improve herself have yielded disappointing results. Still, she has made a place for herself in this remote collective, and in her endless pursuit of knowledge, she will never not be useful. The Abbess can always count on her, and she prides herself on this.
It probably isn’t healthy to be this desperate for validation and praise.
It certainly isn’t godly.
“My dear ladies, do you truly not know?” Terrence argues as Sister Poppy tries to talk him down off his ledge. “He’s to be the new archbishop.”
“Is that true?” Both Hannah and Poppy look stunned.
“It is,” Mother Superior answers. “He is touring the province to acquaint himself before his official appointment. Now, that’s quite enough talk of this for one night.”
Hermione looks around at everyone’s expressions, taking in the mixed responses to this news. Learning he is someone important has only served to further pique her curiosity, and she wonders if there is any literature about him in the office. She supposes she could search the archdiocese directory the next time she has to go and fix Father Terence’s account entries in case they are audited.
Whether or not this level of anticipation is warranted, it seems that Father Snape’s visit will be an interesting one.
The sun is almost blistering in the middle of the day despite the time of year.
The Abbey vegetable garden is completely exposed, with no trees to provide shade. Hermione can feel sweat building beneath her coif. Though the veil covers her head, the dark, heavy fabric retains heat. Tugging at the cloth around her neck for relief, she rocks back on her feet, glancing beside her to where Sister Luna snips at the withered leaves from the broad beans. It’s nearing the time to harvest them.
Hermione’s least favourite duties are the outdoor ones. Her skin is pale and easily burns, and each time she spends time in the sun the freckles across her nose and cheeks become more pronounced. She’s never been one to enjoy getting her hands dirty, preferring clerical tasks, writing, and research. Hermione would never complain of any task. She has enough things to pray forgiveness for before she lays her head down to sleep each night.
A dry swallow reminds her it’s been too long since she last took a break for water. Dragging herself out of the dirt, she dusts herself off and looks down at her fellow nun. “Can I bring you some water, Sister?”
Luna looks up, her clear blue eyes sparkling in the sun. It seems a shame that a woman as beautiful, ethereal, and kind should waste away within the walls of the church. But perhaps she is better off here than out there in the world where all sorts of wicked men would pray upon her virtues.
“That would be very welcome,” Sister Luna replies with a sfumato smile. “Thank you, Sister.”
She truly is too good for this world.
Making her way along the path to the kitchens, Hermione finds a jug in the cupboard and fills it from the only tap in the entire Abbey with a filter attachment. As she hunts around for some plastic cups, not wanting to risk breaking any of the glasses lest she face Sister Hannah’s wrath, she hears voices and footsteps approach. One of the voices is entirely unfamiliar, so deep it reverberates off the walls of the hall as it draws closer.
Turning around, her eyes widen as the owner of the mysterious voice comes into view, entering the kitchen with Mother Superior and Father Terrence in tow. All three of them stop speaking as they notice her, and what feels like a large stone settles heavily in her gut.
“Ah, Sister Hermione,” Terrence says, brushing past the other man, “how fortunate you are here. I’d like you to meet our guest—”
“Father Severus Snape,” the priest says, cutting Terrence off with his low drawl.
Hermione is at a loss for words, her usual bluster failing her in the face of this dark-eyed stranger. His is a sharp face—hawkish—with a long prominent nose and high cheekbones. He is tall, towering over the rest of them, making the man beside him seem scrawny. Not that Father Snape is large. But even in his clerical garb, she can see that his broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist forming a pleasing triangle.
However dry her throat had felt outside, it feels even more so now, swallowing near impossible.
“Hello, Father,” Hermione manages to choke out. Her cheeks flush with heat, feeling awkward and clumsy already under his piercing gaze.
His thin lips form an almost smirk, but he doesn’t say another word. Instead, the Abbess seems to instinctively know that she is in need of aid, and says, “Sister Hermione is our resident bookworm, Father.”
“Is that so?” he says, his eyes remaining firmly fixed on her.
Hermione does her best not to shrink under his scrutiny and scrambles to find her words. “It is, though I am needed back in the garden presently. Sister Luna is likely wondering where I’ve gotten off to.”
Grateful to have an excuse to flee this moment, she snatches up the cups from the kitchen counter and nods at her superiors. Flustered beyond belief, she walks quickly past her superiors and back the way she’d come. Though she doesn’t dare look back to confirm it, Hermione feels the penetrating black gaze of Father Snape burn a hole in her back as she leaves.
As she comes upon Sister Luna, she can see the other nun is a little flushed from the heat, the front of her work apron covered in dirty handprints. She’s almost certain that her face is burning a brighter shade of red.
“Thank you,” Luna tells her as she accepts a cup of water, quenching her thirst. “So refreshing!”
Even as Hermione slowly sips at hers, it doesn’t feel like any amount of water will loosen the knots forming in her stomach as she catches another glimpse of their visitor across the courtyard.
The remainder of the afternoon moves slowly, and she relishes the physical chore, distracted by her labour. Mother Superior would tell her to use this time for prayer—to give thanks for the bounty of the garden they’ve cultivated with time and care. To thank God for blessing them with good soil, plentiful water, and the sunshine, limited though it is at times, for aiding in its growth.
Instead, she prays for the strength not to make a fool of herself—a selfish request if there ever was one.
The isles are a tedious place to visit.
This tour in the north has been long and exhausting, and by all accounts, this is to be his life moving forward. His ascension to Archbishop of this wretched northern region is nigh, though soon he’ll be settled into an office overseeing the affairs of the entire province. These little visits are purely ceremonial—a way to introduce himself before he is ordained. Lord knows it wasn’t his idea.
Severus pinches the bridge of his nose, willing away the sharp tendrils of an impending headache. He’s been listening to Father Terrence—a stammering, sweaty fool of a man—babble about scripture for almost an hour. He has no use for whatever suggestions his fellow priest wishes to impart about the preferences of the local congregation. When he leads Mass, the subject of his sermon will be determined by him alone.
If it weren’t for the Abbess, he’d have never agreed to visit this insignificant little Abbey in the middle of nowhere. Minerva had worn him down early, insisting upon his visit as the incumbent. In all their years of acquaintance, he’s had no shortage of difficulty refusing the nun.
Though he’ll never admit aloud how fond he is of her.
“Father Terrence, would you mind delaying the rest of this conversation for a later time?” Severus interrupts. He’d reached the limit of his patience thirty minutes ago, and it’s any wonder how he’s managed not to strangle the other man with his Rosary beads.
The other man looks nonplussed, but stammers, “Oh, of—of course, Father.”
Rising from his chair, Severus strides out of the cramped office with purpose, his long legs hastening his escape. He’d sooner be anywhere else than trapped for another moment with his colleague.
Of all the things that irritate Severus about this place, the fool sitting across from him is high up on the list. But no more so than the unexpected nuisance caused to him by the resident bookworm—Sister Hermione.
He isn’t certain what it is about her that vexes him most, but her appearance is the most obvious. Despite the heavy drape of the Benedictine habit, he immediately found himself captivated by her—distracted by her. The sun has kissed her skin with a smattering of freckles, and on one occasion he glimpsed a stray curl of brown hair that had escaped the confines of her coif. Such a small fascination would be nothing if it were not for the swing of her shapely hips as she walks and the stubborn set of her chin.
He’s seen her eyes sparkle with defiance when she speaks to the other nuns in the Abbey and watched the woman read for long periods, lost in the words that the pages before her carry. Such self-indulgence has always been frowned upon in the church, but he finds her interest—her hunger—for learning entirely intriguing.
Perhaps this is why his disdain for her has taken root so deeply.
This foolish woman has no idea what the beast is that she has awoken. It’s been many years—since before his time in the Seminary—that he’s been so weak-willed as to be tormented by the temptations of the flesh. Sister Hermione brings it out in him, a challenge from the Lord, perhaps? Has his will not been tested enough in life?
Who are you to question the will of the almighty? Severus reminds himself sternly.
The years have made him complacent, and he must rise above and disregard this leannán sídhe who seeks to lead him off his righteous path. A task that will be made simpler when he can leave this forgotten little Abbey and return to the mainland.
He knows not how he ends up in the archive, just that his feet unknowingly carry him there as he battles the intrusive thoughts. Standing in the doorway, Severus finds his lips pressing together into a firm line the moment his eyes clap on the very woman he’s been trying to avoid.
It’s a dimly lit room, barely bigger than an office, with a single small window allowing a little light to leak in, illuminating the only table in the middle of the room. She has her nose practically pressed to the page of the book she is studying, her eyes moving across it quickly as she practically devours its content. The intensity of her focus captivates him, and he almost forgets who they both are for a moment.
Reality crashes back in like the waves against the jagged coast, knocking the breath from him. Scrambling for composure, he clears his throat loudly, announcing himself.
Her large eyes widen owlishly as she looks up from the book. Her complete lack of awareness amuses him, and his lips curl upwards in a smirk. “Oh, Father Snape,” she says, stunned. Does she sound a little breathless, or was that his imagination? “Are you—is there something I can help you with?”
Right. He doesn’t have an excuse for his presence. “It is my duty to ensure the structural integrity at each of the monastic houses in the province.”
It’s hardly a falsehood, but he’s inspected the entire property several times over. In truth, much of his time in the seminary was spent in libraries and archives. The written word—history, philosophy, and literature—has always been a comfort to him, ever since he was young. Perhaps that is why he was drawn here. Perhaps it is why he is drawn to her.
At least partially.
Right now Sister Hermione’s cheeks are pink and mottled, and she is chewing on that blasted bottom lip of hers. A rather disturbing and distracting habit. During the past few days, he’s noticed far too many of her little idiosyncrasies, leaving him further flustered.
“Do you not have some other duty to attend to?” Severus asks rather curtly.
Her stubborn chin tilts up as she meets his gaze, a little frown appearing between her brows. “The Abbess knows where I am,” she says simply.
“And do all the Sisters enjoy the privileges of reading for pleasure?” he drawls.
“I’m certain if they wished to read, Mother Superior would be overjoyed,” she replies, crossing her arms. “Is there something you wish me to do, Father?”
The way her eyes flash with conviction causes a stir in his gut—lower. A reaction he cannot control and immediately seethes at. He looks away from her sharply, heat pouring through him. This will not do. Hands tightening into fists at his side, he turns around and stalks from the room wordlessly.
Walking is uncomfortable, and Severus is grateful for the length of his coat in hiding the shape of his erection as it strains against the fly of his trousers.
It’s been a long time since he’s been so inconvenienced by this particular bodily function, easy to ignore when one is largely surrounded by men. This, he thinks, is why there are so few mixed Abbeys—why he has been fortunate not to spend a lot of time with the fairer sex. Perhaps there is a deviant lurking within, just beneath the surface of his consciousness, all but waiting to be lured out.
And heaven help him, it seems that Sister Hermione has been sent with the sole purpose of testing his resolve.
The isle has never felt so small as it does at this moment.
She’d asked to be assigned here specifically because of its remote locale and the small, tight-knit community. Hermione has never liked crowded places, favouring the quiet pace of the country over large cities. She’d grown up in the city as a child. To her, they are large, overwhelming places where nobody knows the name of even their closest neighbour. She felt swallowed up by the crowd.
Now even the Abbey feels crowded, though she knows it is in large part due to the arrival of their honoured guest. It feels like everywhere she goes she cannot seem to escape Father Snape, and if she is honest with herself, there is a large part of her that enjoys it. She preens under his attention in a way that scares her.
This feeling inside her, it isn’t right.
It is sinful and indulgent.
Even now, thinking about this when she’s supposed to be reviewing the monthly budget and ordering supplies for the Abbey on Father Terence’s ancient computer, is wrong. Her mind should be on her work, not wondering what Father Snape might be up to. It’s been five days since his arrival, and she’s been hopelessly distracted since.
Perhaps this is the reason there are so few Abbeys occupied by both priests and nuns. Admittedly, it’s not as though she’d spare a glance at Father Terrence; the man has been a nervous wreck for the duration of the other man’s visit thus far. Vexingly, it is the tall, dark, brooding man who has captured her attention and wormed his way beneath her vows, drawing out the ungodly thoughts she’s been having.
What a joke she is. Plain, bookish Hermione, attracted to the sharp-tongued dignitary who’s to become their Archbishop. She would laugh if it weren’t so ludicrous. Of all the wicked thoughts she’s had during her life in the church, the ones she has of Father Snape are surely the worst. She wonders how much penance she will have to pay for these sins and imagines she must already be in arrears.
A sigh escapes her, and Hermione returns her attention to the dim monitor, trying to ignore her irritation at the cluster of dead pixels in the top right corner. She really should find room in the budget to replace this slow, outdated machine with something that isn’t almost as old as she is.
It’s another hour before she manages to wrangle the numbers into some kind of order, slowed down by the old technology. Shutting down the machine is out of the question as she isn’t convinced it will boot back up again, so she simply switches off the monitor, checks the office is tidy before she leaves, and locks the door behind her.
The sun is already setting as she walks along the long open corridor separating the Abbey offices from the living quarters. The hours between dusk and dawn are cold as the season changes, a sign that winter isn’t too much further away. Tempted to stop by her room to collect her shawl, Hermione oscillates between the two options before ultimately deciding the detour would delay her dinner too long.
It isn’t uncommon for her to become so lost in a task she forgets to eat, and today she has done just that.
The smell of dinner greets her as she enters the kitchen, and Hermione thanks the Lord for every day that she isn’t placed on dinner duty. She’s an abominable cook—has never mastered the skill no matter how often she practices. Sister Hannah and Poppy are far more accomplished in the kitchen than she is and watching the faces of her fellow nuns whenever they sample the food she’s produced is a blow to her ego.
They could at least pretend it isn’t revolting.
So entitled, she scolds. Sucking in her cheeks in frustration, she joins the other women and offers to set the table as they serve the food. She sits towards the end of the table so that she won’t be compelled into conversation with the others. They wait, and she realises that there are still two people missing and her heart sinks into her stomach like a stone in a pond.
Father Terrence is hot on the heels of Father Snape who sweeps into the kitchen wearing an expression of disinterest in what his fellow is babbling about. Having been on the receiving end of said chatter, Hermione can’t blame him. She simply does a better job of pretending to listen.
Her stomach turns to knots as he bypasses the seat beside the other clergyman and settles into one opposite her.
Lord have mercy, she thinks, trying not to let the panic show. His dark eyes affix themselves to her and a chill zips down her spine, spreading through her limbs. She knows it isn’t possible for him to read her thoughts, but the way he looks at her leaves her feeling exposed—as if he knows of her wicked thoughts about him. The paranoia forces her to look down at the plate in front of her just to break his gaze.
“Father Snape, would you like to lead grace?” she hears Mother Superior ask from a few seats down.
“It would be my honour,” he replies.
Hermione clasps her hands together in front her her, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. It’s a brief reprieve, but she gladly latches onto it, trying not to focus on the man across from her she’s been avoiding for days out of guilt. Why does the Lord test her resolve this way? Why now, and with him? All these thoughts roll through her head like loose marbles spilling across the floor until she’s yanked out of her thoughts by the low rumble of Father Snape’s voice.
“Bless us, O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” she says, forcing open her eyes and looking up so as not to draw attention to her.
“Sister Hermione,” he addresses her as they begin to eat, “it feels as though you’ve become a shade within the Abbey these past few days.”
She almost chokes on the mouthful of food she is swallowing and has to reach for the jug of water in between them. Mortified and spluttering, she glances at the rest of the people at the table whose attention is focused on her due to the commotion.
“Are you all right, Sister?” Luna asks.
“Fine,” Hermione croaks. She’s distressed to find Father Snape is still looking at her intently, waiting for her to answer him. “As to your question, Father, in what way?”
“I have hardly seen you these past few days, and yet the ghost of your presence lingers throughout the Abbey,” he replies with a smug look.
Hermione frowns. “I don’t know what you’re implying—”
“Oh come now, Sister Hermione,” Hannah says with a chuckle. “You’ve a habit of leaving biros and pencils wherever you go. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, just one of your…quirks.”
Her cheeks flame anew as the Father’s smirk grows. “I suppose I do,” she says eventually, not wanting to give him any further ammunition.
He raises one of his dark eyebrows at her, but the conversation mercifully moves away from discussion about her idiosyncrasies. With the Mass tomorrow, Terrence and Poppy excitedly interrogate Father Snape about his sermon, but the man is tight-lipped, revealing nothing. Hermione finds herself intrigued, but stays silent, choosing to remain under the radar.
After dinner she escapes, eschewing her evening walk in favour of hiding in her room, not wanting to chance another encounter with Father Snape. Christ knows what foolish thing she’ll do next. Curled up beneath the covers, she shuts her eyes and ignores the nagging in her gut.
It’s hours before sleep finally finds her.
Notes:
*sfumato/sfuːˈmɑːtəʊ/ [art] the technique of allowing tones and colours to shade gradually into one another, producing softened outlines or hazy forms.
*coif [noun] a woman's close-fitting cap, now only worn under a veil by nuns.
Chapter 2: II
Notes:
“Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.” - William Shakespeare, Henry V
Chapter Text
Sitting in the front row with Father Terrence anxiously buzzing beside her is nearly unbearable.
Despite finding his sermons tediously long and dithering, she’d much rather he was leading the service today. Unfortunately, he isn’t. Instead, she is forced to spend over an hour staring at Father Snape as he leads mass. However appealing he looks in his clerical attire, it is a totally different thing to see him in his formal vestments. He appears dignified and authoritative in a different way than usual.
Not that it has a different effect on her. Apparently her hormones have decided to disregard the vows she took upon joining the church. It’s not as though the pleasures of the flesh are unfamiliar to her. Her youth was filled with many mistakes she will never be able to take back no matter how hard she tries to live a life free from temptation.
Perhaps it is that her body knows what it is missing that she is so plagued by these thoughts and feelings.
It also doesn’t help that Father Snape has a voice that is the incarnation of sin itself, caressing her entire being, seeping through her skin to enter her bloodstream so that she becomes paralysed by it. It’s terrifying, the way listening to him speak makes her feel—makes her crave.
His sermon is agonising, speaking of holiness and godliness and all things right and pure, his words pummelling her like an instrument of torture. She becomes entranced by the movement of his thin lips, coveting his gaze while simultaneously hoping he won’t look her way. She’s unsure how much more of this she can take and prays that he’ll leave before Mass next weekend so that she won’t have to suffer through it again.
“Father, what a wonderful speaker you are,” Sister Poppy gushes.
Hermione tries to keep a neutral expression, ignoring the niggling in the back of her mind—the voice encouraging her to trip her fellow nun for her shamelessness. Sister Poppy is no threat to her as there is no threat to be had. Jealousy is a sin, she reminds herself as Sister Hannah joins the conversation, enabling her to sink into the back of the group as she notices the members of the congregation surge towards the front of the chapel, all eager to speak to the visiting priest.
“He’s rather captivating, isn’t he?” Mother Superior says as Hermione tries to slink past her out of the church.
Pausing in the doorway, she doesn’t make eye contact with the older nun, fearing she might expose herself. This depravity must be stamped out before it consumes her. “I imagine he’s a very popular speaker,” she says noncommittally.
“It is fortunate that he was drawn to the church,” Minerva continues, apparently not noticing—or not caring—that Hermione was trying to flee. “He’d be terrifying as a politician.”
She can’t help but snort at this observation despite finding it a little alarming. She wonders what kind of things the Father might be able to persuade her to do had he the inclination.
“I’m making tea,” Hermione announces, finally forcing herself to look up at the Abbess. “Would you like a cup?”
Minerva smiles, reaching over to pat the top of her arm affectionately. “You’re too good to me.”
No, I’m not. “I’ll be back,” she says, making good on her escape and walking quickly through the cloister towards the living quarters.
The rest of the day she spends between the garden and reading room, intent on silent reflection. After Mass, there isn’t much to do on a Sunday. Sister Luna and Sister Hannah often go into the village to take meals prepared with donations to the struggling families in their tiny community. Sometimes she will go with them, but she isn’t feeling very charitable today. Instead, she prays.
She prays for all the depravity in her heart and body to be taken from her.
She prays that the Lord might redeem her fractured soul.
She prays to God that Father Snape leaves and takes his sinful voice with him.
That night she doesn’t take dinner, choosing to retire early and fast in penance. Washing, she scrubs at her skin, turning up the hot water so that it’s near-scalding, practically flaying herself. With fevered skin, she curls up beneath the covers and tosses and turns in discomfort until she can handle the heat no longer.
Tossing off the covers, Hermione scrunches her eyes and rubs a weary hand over her face, finding her skin clammy. She feels as if she might be sick, but the cramp in her abdomen is telling another story—one she is desperate to ignore. One she has promised to ignore. A line she mustn’t cross or all her time spent in prayer will have been a waste.
Closing her eyes, she wills the thoughts crowding her mind to leave. Instead, the darkness behind her lids transforms, turning into the dark eyes that have been following her everywhere the past few days it seems. The skin of her hands prickle, the sensation travelling throughout her body, pooling low in her gut.
“Blast it all,” she says into the damning silence of her room, the curse falling easily from her lips.
It feels like a regression—like she’s returned to the reckless, callow version of herself. It doesn’t stop her from grasping the bottom of her night shift, dragging the fabric up her legs to bunch around her hips, exposing herself to the cool air. It’s a near-instant relief, the heat that has been steadily growing between her thighs almost unbearable.
With a trembling hand, she reaches between her legs to find them sticky and a small gasp escapes her as her fingertips graze her mound. You mustn’t, she thinks, even as those same fingers slip between her slick folds. Inhaling sharply, she holds her breath as her fingers dance, exploring in a way that she hasn’t in so long she’d been convinced she wouldn’t know how any more. Her other hand wrenches the shift up even further so she can cup a breast, her thumb skirting over an already puckered nipple.
As wrong as it is, her movements feel natural, squeezing and pinching her nipple, stroking her fingers over her sensitive clit.
The worst part—the part that simultaneously fills her with guilt and causes her arousal to grow—are the thoughts of Father Snape. His long fingers, those thin, sneering lips, his penetrating gaze… She’s practically humping her fingers now, the wet sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. Biting on her bottom lip, she stifles her moans, recognising the feeling of her release approaching.
She slips a finger inside her sopping channel, gasping at the sensation. It’s not nearly as satisfying as her body would like, but it’s as far as she’s willing to go, wracked with guilt for giving in to the demands at all. In no time, she reaches climax, panting, squeezing, trembling, her way through it, her eyes flying open only to see bright spots of light before her eyes can adjust.
Catching her breath, Hermione withdraws her fingers, slick with her arousal. The room smells of sex now, and she grimaces, feeling sick at what she’s just done. Throwing an arm over her eyes to block out the light (it fails at blocking out her thoughts), she feels the frigid temperature of the room finally seep into her, her body cold now that it’s no longer vibrating with need.
She is startled when she hears a light knock at her door and jumps up from the bed, hurriedly smoothing her nightgown down to cover her and wiping her fingers on her sheets. Anxious, Hermione goes to the door and opens it a fraction, careful not to open it wide in case it appears like an invitation. She shouldn’t be surprised to see Sister Luna’s concerned expression.
“Are you feeling all right, Sister?” the other nun asks. “Mother was worried about you through dinner.”
“I was a little feverish earlier, but it seems to have broken.” It’s barely a lie, but there isn’t a chance in heaven or hell that she’s going to tell anyone what her true dilemma is.
“Oh,” Sister Luna exclaims, holding out a little dinner tray with a bowl of broth and a mug of tea towards her. “I know it isn’t customary, but at the last convent I lived, my Sisters would bring me food if I was feeling poorly.”
A new ache appears as Hermione becomes wracked with guilt. She is sick, but soup and tea are not going to cure her condition. Still, not wanting to add waste to the growing list of her sins, she cracks the door a little wider and holds out her hands to accept the kind offering. Luna’s smile makes her feel like the worst human being—the worst nun—on the planet. Even if that isn’t the case, she is certainly the worst one on this little isle.
“Thank you,” she tells her fellow nun. And she means it, even if this kindness has only given her more to feel terrible about.
“Feel better, Sister.”
Hermione doesn’t watch as Sister Luna disappears down the hall, already retreating into her room. A room as tainted as she is now. Setting down the tray on the small desk in the corner, she stares at it for a long time before forcing herself to eat the soup and drink the tea. It churns in her stomach, and after rinsing the dishes in the bathroom sink she drops to her knees on the floor beside her bed, the stones hard and unforgiving.
Resting her elbows on the mattress, Hermione clasps her hands together, bowing her head and closing her eyes. Prayer is hardly going to absolve her of her sinful ways this evening, but it’s all she has. It’s not as though she can simply waltz into the confessional tomorrow and reveal to Father Terrence the depth of her wickedness. She sucks in a shuddering breath, welcoming the icy burn of the cold air in her lungs.
If she wasn’t sure she was going to hell before, she certainly is now.
This little Abbey has grown on him.
Or rather, a certain know-it-all nun has rapidly become his hyperfixation. It’s not only unhealthy, he realises, but goes against every last vow that he’s taken to elevate him to his current rank. Severus knows all too well the stories of priests and other members of the clergy engaging in secret (and not-so-secret) relations. It’s a tale as old as time.
He’d always believed himself to be above such things. His life has been dedicated to the church these twenty years and not once has he been tempted to forsake his vows. He’s had no shortage of doe-eyed women—and men—look at him as though they’d like nothing more than to be ravished by him. He’d always ignored and discouraged it.
But his wayward hormones refuse to be ignored here.
His body—his tormented soul—craves this vexing woman with every fibre of his being.
However, it seems his increasing desire for her has scared the woman away. Her apparent avoidance of him has meant he never catches her alone any longer. During the day all of the nuns are occupied with their many tasks around the Abbey. It is convenient, perhaps. The last thing he needs is an opportunity to confront her while in this rabid state.
Still, distracted as he is, his own work to do at the Abbey—the many changes he’d like to make to the way Father Terence conducts Mass being one of them—cannot hold his attention. He is listless. This absolutely will not do.
“I’m going for a walk,” he snaps irritably, standing abruptly from his chair.
Father Terrence looks up at him, mouth gaping in surprise. “Oh, of course, sir. I–is there anything you need me to do while you’re gone?”
Severus folds his arms across his chest, looking down his nose at his incompetent colleague. “Continue your study of the Psalms. You have much to learn from them.”
Snarky remark delivered, he turns and strides from the office. Having to hand-hold the other priest through the study of the book he should be intimately familiar with by this point is tedious. He has already prayed many times that the Lord grant him patience, but it seems that God is busy occupied elsewhere. Why else would he be suffering torment on so many fronts?
His walk leads him to the gardens where he is not remotely surprised to find Sister Luna diligently working away. This nun seems to be in another world half the time, never fully living in reality. Perhaps it is that she’s transcended them all and exists on a higher plane in her mind. Whatever the case, she appears to be largely unmoved by his presence in the Abbey.
This is not the case with some of the others who are far too eager to hang off his every word. In the past, this has always been a boon to his ego, though with Sister Hermione avoiding him at every turn, the praise and admiration from the rest feels empty. Why is it that he wishes for her to admire him? Why does he desire her? It makes little sense.
“Father Snape?”
He whips around to face the interruption to his musings only to realise his feet have carried him along the cloister leading to the kitchens. Sister Poppy is frowning in concern, and he quickly rights himself, clearing his throat.
“Can I help you, Sister?”
She shakes her head. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You seem…distracted.”
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” he says curtly, displeased with being caught off guard.
This shrewd little nun apparently sees right through it, unconvinced. “May I offer you some tea? I was just about to make some.”
Severus gazes down at the stout woman and relents with a sigh. “My apologies, I did not sleep well last night. I am often restless sleeping in unfamiliar beds,” he says, telling a half-truth.
In the kitchen, he sits at the long dining table, watching as the nun fusses with the hob and kettle, preparing a pot of tea. A part of him regrets accepting her offer, but he has nothing better to do. This Abbey, being as remote as it is, offers very little in the way of activities, and his desire to walk to the village and interact with the residents is low. After the most recent Mass, he’d spent more than an hour following the service answering questions and being told what a wonderful speaker he was.
Though he is indeed capable of being a persuasive speaker, the last thing he wishes is for churchgoers flocking to him after. Is it his job? Perhaps. But it’s amongst the least favourite of his tasks. He’ll have to do a lot less of that when he’s made Archbishop next month. If he’s lucky, he’ll only have to do it a handful of times a year instead of weekly as he has done for more than twenty years.
Sister Poppy sets a tea tray down on the table and settles onto the opposite side of the table.
“Thank you,” he says as she pours him a cup. Severus adds a splash of milk and holds up a hand to politely refuse sugar.
“How are you enjoying your time here, poor sleep aside?” she asks, serving herself tea. He tries not to grimace as she adds two heaped teaspoons of sugar to hers.
He wonders at her question, curious to know what the meaning behind it is. Severus is normally quite shrewd when it comes to discerning people’s intent, and though she seems the gossipy type, he can tell she is well-meaning. Deciding to play along, he tries to deduce a way to play this to his advantage. There are questions, after all, that he wants answered, and he can’t think of a more convenient way to have them answered.
“It has been…illuminating,” he hedges.
“It’s a quiet place, but that’s how we all like it,” Sister Poppy replies with a smile.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Oh I’ve been here almost twenty years,” she says with a laugh. “I spent my younger years in a cloistered Convent, and before I joined the church I trained as a nurse.”
“Your Mother Superior told me of your medical prowess. She had nothing but praise for the many times it has been of use.” Severus can tell this was the right thing to say from the blush that stains the nun’s cheeks.
“She is far too generous,” she gushes.
“I have never known Minerva to falsely flatter.” He lifts a brow at her for good measure.
“You are young to be made an Archbishop,” Sister Poppy says.
“I’m hardly young,” he scoffs.
“Perhaps not so young as Sisters Hermione or Luna,” she agrees.
There.
He didn’t even have to work hard to steer the conversation where he wanted it. “And how long have the other Sisters been at the Abbey?”
“Oh, Sister Luna has been here for a number of years. She was a novice with us and took all of her vows here. As did Sister Hannah.”
“And Sister Hermione?”
Poppy’s expression shifts, turning serious. “Sister Hermione joined us later in her journey. She was already sworn in a year before she found our little Abbey. Just between you and I, she has had a rather difficult life. I imagine it’s why she sought out such a remote place to spend her days.”
Severus’ brows lift, his curiosity piqued. “A difficult life, you say?”
She nods. “She was orphaned as a child and lived with her mother’s sister until she was sixteen. I’m not clear on what happened, but I believe she lived rough for a couple of years before doing missionary work and then joining the church.”
Curious.
Unwanted and orphaned are words he is intimately familiar with. Severus’ own path to the church was paved similarly, though there was a period of time when he had foolishly believed his childhood best friend and the love of his youth had wanted to marry him. He was disabused of that notion rather cruelly. Ever since, there has only been his studies, his work, and the church. It’s all he needs, really.
“Gossiping again, Sister Poppy?”
Severus looks up to see Minerva standing in the entrance to the kitchen with her arms crossed. He isn’t fooled by it, seeing right through her body language. Before she’d been elected as a leader herself, he remembers a bold, sharp-witted nun who would give as good as she got when discussing theology. She never once let the men intimidate her, no matter their rank.
Not to mention, he knows that she enjoys gossip as much as the next person.
“Tea, Mother?” Poppy asks, already on her feet and bustling to retrieve another teacup.
Severus thanks them for the tea and conversation a short while later, and despite walking the corridors thrice, he doesn’t come across Sister Hermione once. Frustrated, he forces himself to return to Father Terrence’s office and resumes trying to teach the priest something.
Dinner that evening is a quiet affair, and he notices that Sister Hermione sits with her fellow nuns, conveniently surrounding herself on all sides. He doesn’t understand why he takes this as some sort of challenge, instead of seeing it for what it is, a resounding no from the woman. It’s as though a beast has been awoken within him, and if he were a smart man, he would turn tail and leave.
For the sake of both their souls.
He notices her slip out through the side door to the courtyard towards the end of the meal as she often does, and though he is curious, he doesn’t ask. Fighting against his desire to follow her, Severus dons his coat and finds a seat outside in the freezing air, clutching a bible. Perhaps, he thinks, reminding himself of his responsibilities this way will cool his ardour.
So he reads, with the only source of light outside dimly flickering above him. He’s approached with a mug of tea by Sister Hannah, which he refuses, not wanting any source of comfort to distract him. Eventually, though, Sister Hermione returns from wherever she walks, wrapped in a heavy shawl. Despite this, her cheeks are pink, likely from the frigid winds that buffet the isle this time of year.
He catches a glimpse of brunette curls that have escaped the trappings of her coif, and as she draws closer, he has to fight the urge to stand—to grasp the tempting strands and twist them around his cold fingers. He does, however, look directly at her, and she is forced to pass him on the path back inside the nun’s living quarters.
“Father Snape,” she says, acknowledging him with a dip of her head. She doesn’t break his gaze, and he has to admire her for it despite her recent avoidance tactics.
“Sister Hermione." He observes her face carefully, watching her dark pupils grow a little as he speaks her name, eclipsing most of her honey-coloured irises. “Did you have a pleasant walk?”
“Very pleasant,” she says, tucking the shawl around herself more tightly. “Well…have a good night.”
As quickly as she arrived, she flees, breaking the connection. Severus looks down at the pages of holy scripture he clutches and snaps the book shut. It’s fruitless to read another word like this. Growling under his breath in frustration, he marches—as quickly as he can with his cock hard and throbbing against the front of his trousers—in the direction of the house where he and the other priest share quarters.
Ignoring Terrence who is seated by the fire in the communal living area, he drops the book on the nightstand beside his bed and heads straight for his bathroom. Turning the taps for the shower, he is quick to disrobe, needing to get the cloth off him. It chafes against his sensitised skin as he removes every item, uncharacteristically dropping it all on the floor.
The first step under the spray is welcome, and for a short while he is distracted by the water warming him after spending too much time out in the cold.
Once he is warmer, he can no longer ignore the fact that such a short exchange with Sister blasted Hermione could cause his body to respond thus. He is tempted to ignore it. He has every other morning this week after waking up with an erect shaft. But no amount of prayer has been able to will away this intense physical response to the nun.
Caught between disgust with himself and his desire to sleep without the kind of accidents he’d been prone to in his youth, Severus decides to take matters in hand. The trembling digits of his right hand wrap around his length as he leans his other arm against the cold tiles. A hiss escapes him, hips bucking forward slightly. It’s been a long time since he’s been forced to indulge, but he sees no way around this.
Severus strokes firmly, twisting his hand around himself. It appears that no matter how much time has passed, one doesn’t forget the most efficient way to attend to one's needs.
Gritting his teeth, his eyes close automatically, thoughts immediately drifting to the plumpness of Sister Hermione’s freshly bitten lips. He can picture the spray of freckles across her nose, the blush across her cheeks as she returns from her evening walk. Severus wonders just how low that flush will travel. Would her eyes dilate as he pushes his cock past those perfect lips?
He sucks in harsh breaths, practically fucking his hand now as he imagines the nun on her knees before him, his hand buried in the curls he now knows are hidden by her veil and wimple.
“F–fuck,” he groans hoarsely, eyes flying open to watch as his body shudders in climax, continuing to stroke himself though more slowly now as his member begins to soften.
His seed paints the wall, just out of reach of the shower spray, and he watches as it slides down the tiles, gravity dragging it towards the drain. Out of breath, he pushes off the wall and redirects the flow of the shower head so it will wash away the evidence of his sinful transgression.
Now that he is no longer completely consumed, the weight of his actions settle heavily upon him. This island—this nun—has robbed him of his self-control. He can’t remember another time in his life when he’s had so little control over his thoughts and faculties. Breathing out in frustration, Severus finishes up his shower, rubbing himself dry a little more aggressively than he would normally.
Climbing into bed—without a doubt it’s more comfortable than the mattress Terrence sleeps on—Severus stares at the ceiling for a long time before unconsciousness finds him.
Chapter 3: III
Notes:
“As soon as sin was their choice, the cover of darkness was their preference.” - Lysa TerKeurst, Forgiving What You Can't Forget
Chapter Text
Living on a secluded isle has always had its ups and downs.
Everywhere she goes, she knows all and she is known. There isn’t a single inhabitant on this forgotten rock with whom she isn’t familiar. The small population being what it is means that there is a deep sense of community. This Hermione likes. What she doesn’t like is that there are very few places she can go to be alone or herself.
In her habit, almost completely covered from head to toe, she is Sister Hermione. She is a Benedictine nun—a person of virtue with very little in the way of personal belongings, dedicated to a life of simplicity and worship. But beneath these clothes there is a woman who sins. A woman with ego and pride who has uncharitable thoughts about her fellows in the Abbey.
Why then, should she deserve a place to be alone? To contemplate her place in the world and pray. Everyone else is able to do this surrounded by others, kneeling in the pews of the church side-by-side. She can never fully surrender herself when there are others around, trust issues baked into her being from childhood.
She knows the other nuns have some awareness of her life before she joined them in the Abbey, but she could never reveal all of her sordid past. She could never admit to them that she’d come to the church impure of heart, body, and mind. That she’d only done it because she had struggled to find a place in the world where she could belong and be accepted. And because of this, they will never truly know or accept all of her as she was and is.
Some days she thinks it might have been better if she’d never been born—never been a burden to those around her.
On those days she prays the most, asking for forgiveness for the terrible thoughts, and to give her the strength not to succumb to them. No one would miss her, not really. It would be easy, after all. So easy just to find herself at the edge of the rocks. The wind is strong enough to disturb them some days that they might simply crumble out from beneath her feet—
“Sister Hermione.”
His address immediately sends a bolt of electricity up her spine and through her limbs, her extremities tingling. It distracts her from her grim thoughts, and she turns her eyes away from the jutting rocks surrounding the edge of the cliffs towards the source of the voice. In the fading evening light, Father Snape appears more intimidating than usual, the shadows of his sharp face more pronounced. This is exactly what she has spent the past week trying to avoid.
Had he followed her? The visiting priest has been with them for nearly two weeks and not once has he joined her, or if he has, he’s not approached her. Mostly she had been glad of it—grateful for a reprieve from finding ways to avoid being alone with him. Unfortunately, in spite of this, her mind has found its way to thoughts of him against her will. Every night this week she has dreamt of him.
She has sought him out whenever she is in a common area.
She has touched herself to thoughts of him.
The shame from her actions closes in on her as she stands there only a few feet away from him, wrapped in her heavy shawl with his dark gaze penetrating her. She wonders if he can sense just from looking at her that she is a creature of sin. What if he knows she is far from the obedient, faithful servant of God she vowed to become? Her face becomes unbearably warm despite how cold her surroundings are.
“Father,” she replies tightly, trying to rein in her nerves.
He steps closer, and it takes everything within her not to cower backwards or lunge towards him. Right now she isn’t sure which way her trembling body would go. She feels like a scattered mess—like her ordinarily logical brain has been stolen leaving her weak and pathetic.
“These cliffs are rather remote and dangerous for you to visit alone, don’t you think?” Father Snape drawls. His blasted eyebrow ticks up as well, and she curses herself for finding his smarminess alluring.
What is it about him?
“I’ve been coming here alone every evening for years,” she says, tucking her shawl even more tightly around herself.
“And you aren’t concerned about the weather? What if rocks were to fall and you become trapped?”
“If the Lord wills it, I will have no choice but to accept,” she replies with a smirk.
He stares at her for a long moment, and she wonders if her answer had been a little too provocative. When he turns away from her to look out at the view—at the vast expanse of rocks and sea sprawled out towards the horizon—she breathes a sigh of relief. Perhaps he was simply here to take in the view? Perhaps all of her paranoia and avoidance of him has been for nothing?
It would be typical of her, really, to see a threat where there was none.
Father Snape, by all appearances, is a pious and hard-working man of God. Perhaps her time away from people in this little place has given her a false understanding of others. She used to always think she was shrewd and discerning, but perhaps she knows less about human nature than she has always assumed.
A gale whips through, and she fumbles and almost drops her shawl which would no doubt be carried away on it. Thankfully, this part of the cliffs is protected by a little cluster of taller rocks, or she fears she might have been carried away on it too on the days when it’s worst. Sneaking a sideways glance at him, Hermione ponders leaving and making her way back to the Abbey sooner than usual, though just as she makes up her mind, he speaks again.
“You’ve been avoiding me this past week, Sister.”
She freezes in place and what feels like a heavy stone sinks into the pit of her stomach. Not subtle enough about it, apparently. Perhaps she should have banked on this priest being a lot more straightforward than Father Terrence. Exhaling the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, Hermione turns to face him. This was a mistake, because the moment she sees him her heart begins hammering madly against her ribs.
This dark-haired man is the embodiment of sin with his sneering lips, high cheekbones, and that long, terrible nose. So sharp and unyielding, and yet wholly captivating. She finds she can’t turn away. From the way he looks at her now, there is no hiding anything further from him.
“I haven’t been avoiding you, Father,” she lies anyway, hoping he’ll just accept it and give up. Doubtful.
“Lying is a sin, girl,” he says, staring down his substantial nose at her.
She bites her bottom lip. Surely, this is hell, she thinks, breaking his gaze and looking at the ground. The sun has completely disappeared beyond the horizon now, but with the full moon, it’s still bright.
A gasp escapes her when he closes the distance between them and grasps her chin, forcing her head up to make eye contact with him. His hand is firm, and the strain it puts on her neck as he makes her look up at him while standing so close is almost painful. Hermione’s breaths are shallow, visible in the increasingly crisp temperature. She’s never been this vulnerable with another person in her life, including the few boys she’d fooled around with as a teen.
This priest—this man—has no boyishness about him at all.
He is lean and wiry like a greyhound but somehow still solid and strong. Her lips part, excuses—lies—on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps he is the punishment she’s to receive for her lies and deceit.
The words never come, though. They are swallowed, along with any objections that might have taken their place, by the thin, unyielding lips of the man before her. Father Snape’s kiss is almost bruisingly hard, his crooked teeth catching on her lips as he continues to grip her chin forcefully. She should push him away or protest, but in truth this is what she has been desperate for this past week.
Instead of protesting, she whimpers into his mouth helplessly, giving herself over to it.
Her hands are trapped, still clutching her shawl, but as Father Snape crowds even closer to her, they are dislodged, the fabric falling to their feet heavily. This causes him to break the kiss, drawing back just enough that she can see his thin lips are flushed, contrasting with his pale skin.
“Curse you,” he says, his voice rough and so unlike the even, sonorous drawl she is used to hearing.
“What did I—”
He cuts her off with another kiss, relinquishing his hold on her chin so he can cup both sides of her face this time, his wicked tongue sweeping into her mouth to tangle with hers. She hears herself moan and tries to stifle the sound, mortified at her shamelessness. They’ve already broken several of their vows, but she can’t find it in herself to stop it. Because the reality is, she wants it—wants him—and it seems he must want her too.
Hermione doesn’t notice as he backs her towards the nearest cluster of rocks until she feels the jutting stone press against her bottom. His hands grasp her backside a moment later and he lifts her with uncanny ease to perch her on it, slotting himself between her legs.
“I—we—Father, this isn’t right,” she stammers weakly. Even to her own ears, the argument sounds disingenuous, but she continues. “We should stop.”
He gazes at her silently but doesn’t make any move to part from her. In fact, his hands find her knees and push her legs further apart so that he can crowd her further. This time when he kisses her, she can’t pretend to fight it any longer and meets him with hunger.
Between her legs, the fabric of her tunic and scapular are inching their way up, and from the way Father Snape is pressing against her mound, she can feel the hard outline of his interest through the layers of fabric between them. Sweet mother of mercy, it’s been a long time since she’s had this—since she’d writhed against another person with abandon.
She should be more concerned—more ashamed of herself—for how aroused she is, feeling a wet spot blooming at the gusset of her knickers. But the man doesn’t leave much time for thought, his hands roughly pushing the fabric all the way up to bunch at her hips, exposing her lower half to the freezing air.
“My, my, Sister,” he says, his voice low and rough. How is it that he’s able to further arouse her with little more than a handful of words? “Your knickers are soaked.”
Her cheeks flush with heat. “F-Father I—"
“Tell me, Sister,” he begins, his cold hands sliding up her thighs until his thumbs can tuck into the waistband of her aforementioned undergarment, “have you ever touched yourself? Brought yourself pleasure?”
Her bottom lip trembles. “I took vows—"
“That is not my question,” he interrupts curtly, yanking her knickers down her legs.
“I have,” she answers, her breathing becoming shallow as her most private of areas is fully exposed to him.
“And have you ever fucked anyone before?” the Father continues, his long fingers tracing her damp folds.
It takes every ounce of self-control she has not to buck into his touch, greedy for more than the whisper of his fingertips. Her patience is rewarded moments later, one of those fingers sinking into her slippery channel. Hermione’s eyes roll back and her mouth hangs open, panting as he fingers her agonisingly slowly.
“Answer me,” he prompts again.
“A long time ago,” she answers. “Before I joined the church, oh!” The moan slips past her lips as he adds a second finger, stretching her.
“Good.”
Without warning, his fingers are removed. She doesn’t have time to mourn their loss, however as Father Snape drops to his knees before her, bringing his face level with her quim. Before she can protest his fingers part her folds neatly and his tongue is pressing against her, licking a line from her sopping hole up to her clit.
Her shriek of pleasure echoes off the stones surrounding them and she bites down on the inside of her cheek, trying to muffle any further noises. Her fingers grip the edge of the rock shelf tightly as though fearing she may fall.
The sounds of him pleasuring her are loud and sloppy, and she finds it both incredibly exciting and yet totally humiliating. Her fingers twitch with the urge to bury her fingers in his black, stringy hair, but if she lets go, she might topple.
“Christ,” she groans as his fingers slide back inside her as he continues to torture her clit, his pointed tongue teasing it over and over, driving her mad.
And mad she must be, flushed and sweating, her legs cold but her core an inferno as he licks and fingers her towards climax. It coils low in her gut like a spring.
“Come for me, Sister,” he murmurs into her folds, increasing the pressure of his pointed tongue against her.
And she does, her vision flooded with technicolour spots of light despite her tightly closed eyes. Hermione’s hips buck involuntarily into him, and his mouth gentles as he withdraws his fingers from her still-quivery cunt.
Finally, her body still trembling, Hermione opens her eyes, gazing down at the man still on his knees before her. The Stygian shards of his eyes are dark with lust, chin and lips glistening with her essence. Now that her mind isn’t crowded with a fog of pure unadulterated desire, the panic sets in.
“I—”
Her hands automatically begin shoving down the skirt of her tunic and she slips off the rocks beneath her to stand on shaky legs. He is standing back up, and the only thing she can think of now is to flee—to run away before something far worse occurs between them. Filled with panic, Hermione backs away from him in the direction of the Abbey.
“Forgive me,” she says, her voice shaky. “I—forgive me.”
Turning around, she hastens away and it’s only when she’s most of the way back that she remembers that her shawl—and underwear—are back at the cliffs.
With Father Snape.
Deciding not to risk going back, Hermione escapes to her bedroom and sags against the door the moment it closes behind her. Cold and shaking, she slides down until she’s sitting on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. She feels ill—sick with guilt over what has just occurred.
She touches a hand to her lips and she can still taste him. She can still smell herself and feel him between her legs.
“Lord have mercy on my soul,” she whispers into the cold dark room.
There is a strong beam of light falling over the altar.
Today the thick cloud coverage that has loomed overhead for days has cleared, and now it sees fit to taunt him. He has always been a sceptical man, despite his faith and dedication to the church, viewing the study of theology as an intellectual rather than spiritual pursuit. A more superstitious priest might be concerned that the lack of something terrible befalling him is a sign that God is no longer with him.
Severus just thinks He is biding his time. Just this past week alone he has sinned more times than he can count on two hands, and there will be some comeuppance. He can’t endlessly sit around waiting to learn just what and when that will be.
This very moment, pacing back and forth in the sanctuary with his own worn copy of the bible in hand, Severus has a pair of cotton knickers tucked away in the pocket of his trousers. Hardly the actions of a repentant man. Despite his profound irreverence, he chooses to spend the day in reflection; reading, pacing, and praying.
As always, he speaks to God but hears nothing back. Much of this job—this calling—involves a show of faith, and through the years he has had more or less of it. Right now the only thing he is certain of is that he’s likely to find himself in the fiery depths of hell for besetting upon Sister Hermione.
Not that the little nun had put up much of a fight.
He’d gone back to the cliffs again last night bearing her shawl—the one she’d left behind along with her knickers—the night beforehand. She’d fled in such haste that she’d inadvertently abandoned the items, and he’d known seeing her there for a second night in a row would be a long shot. She has since resumed her avoidance of him, but instead of being frustrated by it, he is intrigued, wondering how long she’ll resist.
Stopping beside the lectern, Severus leans against the structure as he’s assaulted with thoughts of two nights earlier. Even now it feels like a fever dream—like the lascivious imaginings of his overactive mind. But he knows it to be real. He can remember the taste of her sweet mouth, the sounds of her mewls and gasps, the look on her face as she’d found her release on his tongue and fingers…
After she’d abandoned him there, Severus had been far too smug to care about the fact she’d left him severely sexually frustrated. He’d taken himself in hand right there on the cliffs and had stroked himself to completion before tucking away into his trousers and fetching the clothing items she’d forgotten.
Severus hisses in annoyance as his cock stirs against the front of his trousers. Making a quick adjustment, he swallows thickly and ignores it. This is not the time for giving in to the puerile urges of his body.
Perhaps he should be concerned that this woman may destroy his plans for career advancement—that she might rob him of his promotion and he’ll be exiled. But he doubts it. In fact, he suspects that she, more than him, cares far too much about things remaining as they are. That she would be far too ashamed if news of this ever spread.
It may be foolish of him to pin his hopes on this, however.
He doesn’t have long to mull over this before his pacing and peace is disturbed by Father Terrence poking his head in through the doors of the church. Although slow-witted, Severus is grateful the younger priest isn’t particularly shrewd. He has little to fear from a man who can barely string together a sermon or keep up with his books. He knows very well that the smooth running of the Abbey is largely due to Minerva and the other nuns.
“Are you joining us for lunch today, Father?”
Severus shakes his head. “Not today,” he answers. He hasn’t been hungry, and even if he were, he’d likely be fasting in repentance anyway.
The sun sets and evening swallows up the light, forcing Severus to switch on the lights and light the candles around the church. Later on, he suspects he’ll regret lighting all of them, but they bring a certain warm ambience to his time spent in reading and distracting himself from the bombardment.
Eventually, he tires and finds himself in the pews, kneeling as if he were a parishioner on the cushioned floor. Weaving his fingers together, he rests his arms on the rail before him and closes his eyes. Prayer is difficult, and he struggles to mean any of it while his mind is pulled away from repentance towards honeyed eyes, freckled skin, and the sweetest little cunt he’s ever tasted.
He really needs to leave this place before he does something unconscionable.
To that end, Severus plans instead, turning himself to the task of extricating himself from this Abbey and this little island sooner so that he isn’t tempted to ruin himself and the Sister further. At least if he can tear himself away, he can take control once more—he can resume spending time in other communities and take his place as Archbishop and this past fortnight will just be a blip.
Just as his life before he’d joined the church had been. He barely remembers it now unless provoked and this will be the same.
He feels a dip in the cushion beside him before her now-familiar scent envelops him. An uncomfortable sensation finds purchase within him, causing his heart to race and hands to become clammy. He suppresses it out of habit. It’s an unwelcome feeling he refuses to acknowledge, best tucked away with all of the memories of his life before the church. Severus opens his eyes slowly and is surprised to see Sister Hermione kneeling beside him, her hands clasped together as she too leans on the rail for support, rosary beads clutched tightly. He spots the hint of a rogue curl trying to escape her coif and smirks.
So fucking pretty.
The profanities filling his mind and tumbling freely from his lips are just another thing to add to the list of reasons he needs to get away from this place.
“I know I shouldn’t be here,” she begins, her voice quiet despite it just being the two of them there, “but I think I should make something clear.”
Severus raises a brow. “And what is that, Sister?”
She turns to look at him then, that stubborn little tilt in her chin returned. She’s been so avoidant and shy of late, that he’d quite forgotten the swotty stubbornness that had originally captured his attention.
“I just want you to know I won't tell anyone about what happened,” Sister Hermione says, and he notes that her cheeks begin to pink. She pauses and swallows. “We both have things we want, and I don’t think our lives need to be ruined by this mistake.”
He has to admit to himself he is a little relieved he’d been right about her in this instance. “Anything else you’d like to add?” he drawls, unable to help himself.
“Yes,” she answers after gulping down another steadying breath. “I think until you leave here we shouldn’t speak to or be near one another again.”
Severus stares at her for several moments, the silence stretching uncomfortably between them. To her credit, she doesn’t shy from his gaze, and he notices a little wrinkle appear between her brows as if she’s trying very hard not to flinch. Brave little nun, he can’t help but admire her for confronting him. Unfortunately, it only serves to render his efforts today moot.
“To what end?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” Her brow wrinkles in confusion.
“We’ll keep away but that won’t change anything. I have still known the taste of you, still coaxed you over the edge with my lips and tongue in your—“
“Don’t say it,” she interrupts, a plea in her voice and eyes. “It’s been hard enough remembering it myself, I beg you, Father. Please, let us be done. I‘d so love to be able to pretend I haven’t strayed from my path.”
His pride would be wounded were it not for the marked change in her breathing and her pupils beginning to grow. Instead of being offended by her guilt and shame, he reaches into the pocket of his trousers and fishes out the little cotton briefs, the scrap of fabric dangling from his fingertips. Her eyes are almost comically owlish, and as her shock subsides she tries to snatch them out of his grip.
“I don’t think so, Sister,” he taunts, tucking them back away. “You lost your right to them the moment you left them behind.”
She looks like she wants to punch him, and he probably deserves it.
“Would you like to know what I want, Sister?” She looks as though she has something to say, but he doesn’t allow her to cut in, leaning closer to her so that his nose almost touches hers. “I would like nothing more than to sin with you again.”
Her lips part on her inhale and he can hear it shudder into the back of her throat. “Further proving my point.”
“You are lying to yourself and before our Lord,” he sneers.
“Perhaps,” she says, standing. “But I have a point and you know it.”
Severus watches her leave, staring at the doorway long after she disappears through it. His thumb traces over the soft cotton in his pocket as he ponders her words, feeling his earlier resolve to leave weaken in the face of the challenge she’s thrown down.
He is almost certainly going to hell for this.
The dish soap is extremely sudsy.
She’s noticed it the last two times she’s been assigned duties in the kitchen. Whenever she is forced to attend to this task, Hermione always strikes a deal with whichever nun has the misfortune of being partnered with her. She will chop any vegetable put in front of her and wash every single dish, utensil, or pot used in the cooking process, but she is not allowed to cook.
She’s burnt, overseasoned, underseasoned, or undercooked every meal she’s been left in charge of despite all of her attempts to improve. Each time she’s overcorrected to account for any prior mistake has only led to a new disaster and forced polite smiles from her fellow Sisters when they eat her cooking.
To that end, Hermione prefers to assist and clean, leading her to be very familiar with the efficacy of the cleaning products they use. She often has to order all of them whenever she “assists” Father Terrence with the Abbey inventory. Whatever detergent they normally order had been low in stock, forcing her to purchase something different. She doesn’t like the way this one overly suds.
Too much risk of the dishes remaining soapy even after she rinses them.
Her mind has been latching to whatever little things it can nitpick around the Abbey the past twenty-four hours. It isn’t healthy, but it’s the only coping mechanism she has short of burying herself in the archive under a pile of books. That isn’t possible around her daily schedule of chores, however. If she could live in there she would, surrounded by the slightly musty smell of the pages and all of the old long burnt-out candles, their wax caked onto the surface of their holders.
The problem now is that she’s come to associate the smell of books and ink with Father Snape, and this is a problem because the last thing she needs is to think about him. Not when she’d finally made herself confront him. Not now when she is trying to stay away from the man.
His presence here is far too…tempting.
Sighing, she looks ahead through the slightly warped glass of the window in front of her, resuming her scrubbing of the pot Sister Hannah had cooked their lunch in. Stew is all well and good, but Hannah tends to take caramelising things in the heavy cast-iron pot to another level making it that much harder to clean. Giving up on the sponge, she hunts around in the cupboard beneath the sink for a bit of steel wool, the abrasive item hurting her fingers.
By the time she has finished cleaning, she’s broken a sweat and sits down for a moment to recover, sipping at a glass of water as she gazes out at the courtyard beyond.
“Sister Hermione, there you are.”
She is surprised to see the Abbess so flustered, her lips pinched together in a hard line. Mother appears incredibly irate, and Hermione’s stomach begins to twist into knots. Is she angry with her? What could she have done to upset her superior, she wonders.
You know very well what, the cruel voice whispers. The very same voice that has provoked all of her terrible behaviours of late.
The devil on her shoulder.
“Is everything all right, Mother?” she asks.
Minerva sits, rubbing a weary hand over her eyes. “Our dear Father Terrence has either misplaced or deleted all of the budget reports from the last three years and Father Snape has reminded us that bi-annual audits begin next month.”
“Oh,” Hermione says, breathing out in relief. The guilt and shame she’s been wearing on her sleeve is apparently as invisible to everyone else as it is apparent to her. “I think I might be able to help.”
“Bless you,” the older nun says, reaching a hand across the table to grasp hers. “We’d be lost without you here.”
Hermione’s face floods with heat, a blush spreading across her cheeks. While most of the time she feels a little like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole, there are flashes of moments when she feels valuable. She knows these thoughts likely say a lot about what kind of person she is.
“I’ll go help him in a moment,” she tells the Abbess. “Let me make you some tea first.”
Tea she can make without disaster, so she does, pouring and setting it down in front of the other nun who looks up at her with a tired but grateful expression. Hermione makes her way around the cloister until she is in the administrative building. Father Terrence’s office is cluttered as it always is. The moment she enters, the breath quickly flees her lungs, her heart rate through the roof the moment she spies Father Snape looming behind the frazzled priest sitting behind the desk.
His arms are crossed and his eyes are narrowed until the moment he looks up at her intrusion. In those blackened depths she sees a flash of something—danger, she thinks—as he looks her up and down. An uneasy chill curls down her spine, and she clears her throat to get the other man’s attention.
“Reverend Mother sent me to assist,” she announces.
“Sister, thank the Lord,” Terrence says, flying out of the seat and almost knocking over Snape in the process. “My apologies, Father.”
The taller man looks disgruntled but doesn’t say a word. Hermione rounds the desk, deliberately walking around to the left to avoid brushing past Father Snape. Blood pounding in her ears, she forces herself to take a breath and focus on her task so she can get out of the cramped office as quickly as possible. Her spine stiffens when the priest comes to stand close to her, his hand coming to rest on the desk near her as he leans down to peer at the dodgy little computer monitor with her.
His scent, his warm breath against her neck, and the near-suffocating warmth of him envelop her—distracts her momentarily.
“How will you fix our dear friend Father Terrence's mistake, Sister?” he drawls. God in heaven, the man has a voice that could melt chocolate at fifty paces.
“Simple,” she says, trying to sound more confident than she is.
Reaching under the desk, Hermione feels around for a moment until her fingers encounter a row of rectangular objects adhered beneath the desktop. Counting three along the row, she stops to pick at the edge of the tape and peels it away so that the little bit of plastic falls into her hand. Withdrawing the object, she holds up a little pink flash drive and smiles.
The flutter in her chest is impossible to ignore when she looks up at Father Snape to see an impressed smirk. She should be ashamed of her approval-seeking, but she can’t help preening just a little. Another little sin of conceit to add to the growing pile. At this rate, she’ll never be able to repent all of them.
“I have several flash drives that I update every week so there is less chance we’ll lose anything due to a mishap,” she explains, looking over at Father Terrence whose ears are turning pink.
Inserting the drive into the computer, she has to wait for it to load before she can slowly copy all of the necessary files back onto the hard drive. Labelling the folders clearly, Hermione organises them on the desktop in the way she prefers them, hyperaware of the man looming behind her.
“I think it’s all there,” she announces, standing up.
“Well done, Sister Hermione,” Father Snape says, and she tries not to blush again.
Quickly extricating herself, she slips past Father Terrence who appears both ashamed and grateful. “Thank you for your help as always, Sister.”
Smiling sympathetically, she leaves the office with the full weight of Father Snape’s gaze following her.
Chapter 4: IV
Notes:
“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.” - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The cold weather is hostile during these last weeks of autumn.
Had she not lost her shawl a few days ago, Hermione still might be tempted to go out to the cliffs to clear her head. The chill might give her something else to focus on. Trapped inside, she has no choice but to be social with the other nuns. Tonight, despite not being on kitchen duties, Hermione offers to clean after dinner just to have something to do. It makes her appear noble, but in her mind it is penance.
She rather suspects her guilt might fuel her actions for years to come.
Hermione is grateful to have so many dishes to wash, even waving off Sister Hannah’s attempts to help her. Sister Luna, saint that she is, sits around drinking tea and waiting for her, and they walk back to their quarters together. A small part of her resents her fellow nun for being so irreproachable.
“You seem troubled, Sister,” Luna says when they arrive at the part of the hall where they part ways to go in opposite directions.
Damn her intuition. Luna often seems off in her own world, but somehow she always know when there is something amiss. It’s one of her best and most frustrating qualities.
“I’m fine,” Hermione lies. The last thing she needs is anyone becoming concerned or suspicious.
“You haven’t been for your walk the past few nights,” the other nun points out.
Bollocks. She had wondered if anyone would notice that. “I seem to have misplaced my shawl,” she explains lamely. “I’ll search for it tomorrow perhaps. Besides, the weather these past few days has been dreadful.”
“That makes sense,” Sister Luna says, accepting her excuse easily.
She’s honestly never been so grateful for the rain in her life. “Sleep well, Sister.”
“And you.”
Sleep doesn't find her, the two of them strangers of late. She wonders if this insomnia is to blame for some of her poor decision-making. To her it feels like she isn’t making the choices, her body making choices and her mind and soul paying the price. It doesn’t help that Father Snape is sharp-tongued and clever, dangerous in combination with his overall tall, dark, and brooding aesthetic.
It reminds her of a time when she’d been younger—no older than fifteen—and finding herself fancying her maths teacher. Mr Johnson hadn’t been a nice man either, strict and demanding, no stranger to demeaning a student in front of the rest of the class. Hermione suspects that Father Snape would be similarly inflexible as a teacher based on watching him attempt to guide Terrence.
“Silly,” she whispers to herself in the darkness of her room. “Silly, silly girl.”
She knows not how much time passes, only that the moon shifts in the sky which she can see through the high, uncovered windows of her room. Restless, Hermione sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet slide into her slippers, and without her shawl, she finds a dressing gown to pull around her nightgown, the fabric of the shift far too thin to wear alone at this time of year.
Using a candle to light the way, not wanting to wake any of her fellow nuns with her late-night wanderings, she walks the cold halls, her breath visible even with the scant light. She ends up at the doors to the church and hesitates at them, finally giving in and pushing it open to slip inside.
It isn’t the first time she’s found herself here late at night, but all of her past transgressions seem petty in light of recent events.
Hermione lights a handful of candles near the sanctuary before she kneels in the front pew, her hands cold as she clasps them together. If she cannot sleep, then at least she can put her insomnia to good use and pray. Somehow she doubts it will be enough as even now she can feel her thoughts slipping and sliding down a seemingly endless slope towards Father Snape.
To his terrible nose crashing against hers as he kissed her.
To his surprisingly strong hands gripping her thighs.
To his wicked mouth that made her see such a spectrum of colours that surely can’t all have names.
Closing her eyes, Hermione takes a shuddering breath as she pushes the thoughts away and begins asking—pleading—for forgiveness. Even bringing these thoughts here, she feels sick with shame. All her time spent unlearning her youthful ways to fit in, and she’s back at square one.
She becomes lost in prayer, with no notion of how much time has passed with her eyes closed, her lips moving, the words whispering over her lips as she mutters them under her breath. Eventually, her knees become so sore that she cannot ignore it, and she leans her forehead against her hands for a moment before rocking back on her heels to take some of the weight off them.
Wrenching her eyes open, it takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the flickering candlelight.
“Had enough yet, Sister?”
Her stomach lurches, and her heart begins thudding hard in her chest as she whips her head around, seeking out the source of the question. She finds Father Snape standing at the end of the pews, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed over his chest. With so little light she can’t read his expression. How long has he been there, she wonders.
“I’m sorry,” she says, standing up in a rush.
Her legs prickle with pins and needles from the cold and her poor circulation while kneeling and she staggers, almost toppling down. He closes the distance between them in a flash, his hands finding purchase on her upper arms to stabilise her. This close to him, she can see a prominent frown line between his brows. Once she straightens out his hands fall away and she mourns the loss of his touch.
Barely a foot away, she is free to examine him as a series of emotions play out on his face. They are small; a slight thinning of his lips, his cheeks sucking in slightly in aggravation, a twitch near the outer corner of one of his black eyes. All of his expressions are so subtle a casual observer might miss them, but not her. It almost looks as though a war is being fought within him, and she can relate.
“The enormity of my desire disgusts me,” he says finally, breaking the silence with the harshly whispered words.
The pit in her stomach expands. She seems to have lost the ability to string together enough words to form a sentence. She should leave. Instead, Hermione stares up at him wide-eyed, also unable to move.
“And yet,” he continues, moving so close she is forced to crane her neck to keep eye contact, “I can’t seem to stay away from you. You are a leannán sídhe sent to this earth to weaken me—to test my resolve and drive me to sin.”
“Then why come here at all?” she challenges.
“Because I must have you,” he hisses. “Only once I do will I be able to get you out of my mind.”
Her entire body is practically trembling with need, though she tries to fight it. “And what if I refuse?”
“Ah, but you won’t, will you, my little temptress?” One of Father Snape’s hands delves into her curly mass of unmanageable hair she’s grateful is normally hidden by her normal attire. “Such pretty hair. It’s a shame to keep it covered.”
Hermione’s lip trembles and she watches his eyes rove over her face hungrily. “I am consumed by you,” she says, her voice quavering only a little.
That seems to be enough encouragement for him, the priest lowering his lips to hers, guiding her head with surprising gentleness so their noses don’t clash uncomfortably. Nothing else about his kiss is gentle, his tongue plunging past her lips to invade every corner of her mouth like he is searching for an answer within it.
The hand tangled in her hair moves around to cup her cheek. Hermione is ashamed of the whimper that escapes her as he draws back, the sounds of their joint breathing echoing off the vaulted ceiling of the church. The hand cupping her cheek slides down the length of her throat, his thumb rubbing up and down as he stares at its movement. She wants to know what’s going through his mind, gasping in surprise when he presses down on her windpipe a little more firmly on an upstroke.
“Will you let me, little virago?” Father Snape asks, his thumb tracing along her jaw to her chin, finding her bottom lip which he presses on with a little more force. “Will you let me have my fill of you—let me sate our lust to rid us of its unbearable grasp?”
She could stop this now, she realises. He’s all but giving her one final chance to leave and let this be done by posing the question. What he doesn’t know is that it hasn’t been an option for her from the moment he’d touched her hair. She’d forgotten what it was like to have the hands of another card through her curls. Now, the only person who picks through that tangled mess is her, and she doesn’t gently scrape her nails over her scalp as he had.
Hermione answers his question by parting her lips, taking the tip of his thumb into her mouth and tracing her tongue over the pad, tasting a little salt on his skin, feeling the texture of it. His growl in response startles her, a raw, feral sound she isn’t used to hearing. He allows her to explore a little longer before withdrawing his thumb and kissing her again. This time his hands begin to wander over her body, untying the sash of her robe to expose the thin fabric of her shift. It’s practically see-through, the hard points of her nipples outlined beneath it.
“Come,” he says, grasping her hand, eclipsing it with his much larger one.
He leads her along the pew and down the right side of the church, tugging her through the door that leads to the vestry. It’s dark inside at first, but he switches on a small lamp that barely lights the room. She hasn’t had much occasion to enter this room, unsurprised to find it scantly furnished with an ornate wardrobe, a large chest of drawers, and an armchair to one side, and two short bookshelves on the other.
“Take off your clothes,” he tells her, working the buttons through the holes of his dress shirt, yanking out the clerical collar which falls to the floor.
She stands there numbly, her head spinning. Is she really going to do this? To sin in the worst way possible with this man—this priest? He pauses at the cuffs of his sleeves and gazes at her hotly, his eyes wordlessly inviting her to comply with his direction. Her dressing gown falls to the floor as she shrugs it off while he watches her.
“Father, I—”
“Severus,” he says firmly.
“What?”
“While we are here, you call me Severus,” he answers clearly.
Father—Severus—forgets about his own clothing and closes the gap between them, cupping one of her breasts through her shift, his thumbnail grazing over a turgid peak eliciting a gasp. He dips his head and encloses his hot mouth around her nipple, soaking the fabric as he licks and grazes his crooked teeth over it. He abandons it for the other, and she flushes at seeing the thin fabric translucent and clinging to her puckered skin.
He doesn’t bother undressing her, instead picking her up as he had on the cliffs a few days ago, this time depositing her on top of the heavy chest of drawers, rucking up the fabric to expose her. Her knickers find their way down her legs and onto the floor, and Hermione realises she is beyond wet, her thighs sticky with her arousal. She fights against the urge to close her legs, even as he pushes them open wider.
“What a perfect little snatch you have, Sister,” he tells her appreciatively, tracing a long finger through her slick folds.
“Hermione,” she corrects him, blushing at his vulgarness. He shouldn’t be allowed to wield words in this way.
“Hermione,” he murmurs, burying his face against her neck to latch his lips on her throat, sucking hard. She’d worry about him leaving a mark, but it’s not as if her neck is often exposed.
Her hands grip the edges of the drawers as he sinks a finger inside her, pumping it in and out slowly as if trying to torture her. Perhaps he is torturing them both. She’s been on edge for days, refusing to acknowledge her desire for him—refusing to touch herself for relief—and now all that burning is like a spring coiled low in her abdomen just waiting for someone to release it.
“How do you—this is—” she starts to stammer, wondering where this priest—this man—had learned how to pleasure a woman.
“We all have lives before the church,” he replies in a way that suggests that particular avenue of inquiry is not up for discussion.
Severus shoves a second finger inside her roughly, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to muffle her squeal. He withdraws them only to crouch down in front of her, leaning forward and inhaling her scent before his tongue teases her folds for the second time this week. She stifles every moan and whimper, watching his shoulders work as he rids himself of his shirt and the white vest beneath it, exposing his pale skin.
He is just as wiry as she’d suspected he’d be, and though she can’t see all of him, she sees enough to know she likes it. Severus is thorough in his exploration of her, coaxing her already strung-out body—manipulating it skillfully—until she is on the edge. She makes a sound of profound disappointment as he abandons her soaked quim, his chin bathed once more in her pleasure.
Severus chuckles darkly, his hands finding the placket of his trousers and making quick work of the fly. Hermione blinks and almost misses his trousers dropping to the floor along with his pants, his cock standing out from his body. The tip is weeping in anticipation, straining towards her. It’s been so long that his shaft is a little intimidating, but she also can’t wait to feel it inside her.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
Her fingers grip the drawers even tighter, and he laughs at her again. He fists his length, pumping it a few times as he moves in closer. The tip of his glans rubs through her folds, coating him with her arousal. The stimulation is almost too much for her and she pants with every pass of his prick over her sensitive clit.
“Guide me in,” Severus directs, and she does, grasping his velvety cock to direct it to where they both want it, notching the tip inside.
A feeling of unbearable fullness follows, his cock stretching out the long-unused muscles on his ingress. He moves slowly, though she can tell from the tension in his jaw this is more for his benefit than hers. At this angle, it rubs along the front wall, and she can tell she isn’t going to last very long at all.
His hands begin pushing up her shift and Hermione scrambles to help him tug it up and off over her head. One of his hands slides up her torso to pinch a nipple as he begins to move, drawing back before slamming his cock back into her. She bites down on her bottom lip, trying not to make any noise. Her body is tight and unused to this invasion, but with each thrust, she relaxes around him.
“Let me hear you, girl,” Severus tells her, his free hand moving between them so he can stroke her needy clit.
“Ah!” The incoherent sound tumbles from her lips without her permission and her hips flex upwards into his touch.
His hand, which has been toying with her breasts, slides up her chest to delve into the hair at the back of her head, tugging it backwards to expose her throat. She’s almost relieved when he latches on with his mouth, craving more but not having the words to express it. Reaching up, she moves his hand to her throat, dislodging his mouth and pressing his hand into place. His brows track up his forehead in surprise, his lips going slack as he fucks her harder, his strong hand squeezing her neck just right.
The euphoric sensation of her body gripping his cock as he does the same with her throat overwhelms her. Her climax is imminent, each rub of his cock within her pushing her closer, making her forget about how hard the wood beneath her is and the cold press of the hard wall behind her.
“S—Severus,” she utters as she shudders over the precipice, her muscles all convulsing.
“Yes,” he growls, his grip on her throat tightening a fraction as his thrusts falter.
Heat floods her as Severus shouts his release, his fingers releasing her neck so he can grasp her hips with both hands, slamming himself into her with short, stuttering thrusts. Their breaths come ragged, and she stares up at his face to observe his unguarded expression, eyes closed and lips parted as he sucks in the chilly air. Like this, he almost appears soft—relaxed—but the moment is lost a second later when he opens them to look down at her.
Unable to help herself, and unwilling to break the connection yet, Hermione reaches up to wrap her hands around his shoulders, pulling him towards her. Their lips meet almost tenderly, a harsh contrast from the activity they’d just been engaged in. His tongue strokes hers gently like he is savouring the taste of her this time, and she swallows down the sob that surges up from her chest.
When he withdraws, she gasps at the warmth and stickiness between her legs. He helps her down from the drawers and she’s a little stunned when he finds her knickers on the floor and holds them out for her to step into. As the waistband snaps into place on her hips, he pauses, on his knees before her, touching his fingers into the crotch of her underwear, rubbing them against the fabric which is now soaked with their combined release.
“I shouldn’t want to bury my face in your cunt right now, but I do,” he says, voice husky with residual desire. Hermione’s knees feel weak, unable to believe how much she’d like him to do the same.
He shakes his head and lets his hands drop, rising from the floor. They dress in silence, and move back towards the church, snuffing out all of the candles on their way out. She looks up at him at the door, surprised at how little guilt she feels. She should be wracked with it, but instead, she just feels sad because in two days Severus—Father Snape—will leave and things will return to normal.
This normalcy she’s been craving for two weeks suddenly tastes like ash in her mouth.
“Father,” Hermione begins, but for the nth time words fail her. She has so many thoughts jumbled in her head and no notion of where to start.
“Are you certain you want an answer?” he asks.
“To what? I haven’t even asked,” she replies, confused.
“To whatever it is dancing through that precocious mind of yours,” he says, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Sometimes knowing an answer isn’t worth the mental or emotional turmoil it may bring.”
She gazes at him through her lashes, thinking he might have a point. What has all her thinking or guilt done? None of it stopped this from happening. All the torture she’d been putting herself through still didn’t stop them from finding their way to each other tonight. It is all she knows, however. Her entire life has been making up for something she is lacking.
“Do you believe we will be able to atone for the sins we’ve committed this past week?” Father Snape poses.
“No,” she answers truthfully. “I think there is a pyre in hell waiting for me when I shake my earthly coil.”
He snorts. “You and me both, Sister.”
“Does that mean you don’t think we should strive to do better? Be better?” Now that some of the tension has eased between them, she isn’t as afraid of picking his brain, curious about how his mind works.
“There is no higher calling than self-improvement and serving God and the church.”
Hermione can’t help rolling her eyes at his carefully chosen response. Mother Superior had been right that he should have been a politician. The Archdiocese was going to be in good hands.
“Go to bed, Sister,” he says before she can prod him further. “There are only a few hours until sunrise.”
Deciding it’s not worth the trouble to argue, Hermione nods and begins walking back towards the nun’s quarters, forcing herself not to look back at him.
It’s strange.
Two weeks doesn’t seem like a lot of time to have one's life turned on its head, and yet before visiting this little Abbey off the coast, it had been a lot less unpredictable. By no means was it simple, but at least Severus knew what to expect.
Now he is almost reluctant to leave. Fucking Sister Hermione should have been the cure to his distracted thoughts, but it only seems to have deepened his obsession. In another life, he could see himself being content to settle somewhere remote like this and enjoy the simplicity of such an uncomplicated existence. It is perhaps why Father Terrence is so happy here. At least he might ordinarily be happy. Severus knows all too well the other priest has been a tightly wound ball of anxiety during his entire stay.
Though he’ll admit he rather likes that he is still able to intimidate people.
He isn’t delusional enough to believe that in another life he and Sister Hermione might have found one another naturally and ended up blissfully happy together living in a little house in the country keeping chickens. He does not doubt that if their early lives had taken different paths they very well might have never met. Severus is certain her life would be better if they hadn’t met at all.
And yet.
And yet, here he sits, in this forgotten part of the world, wishing for a different life than the one he has. All his great ambitions—all the years of disciplined study and hard work. Severus can’t believe he’d even for a second think about throwing it all away. And for what? No.
There is no other path for him. Tomorrow he will move on to the next leg of his journey, and next month he will be installed as Archbishop. Once he is there, well, there will be very little anyone can do to topple him. His life is the church, and the church gives him purpose—gives him a reason for existence.
To that end, he rises from the bed, his body still aching from the strenuous activity of the night before last. It’s been more than twenty years since he’s done anything of the sort, and his body is older now than it had been then. He’d quite forgotten just how aerobic sex could be. The ache causes memories to flood his thoughts, thinking of Sister Hermione’s dark eyes as the fingers of his right hand had closed around her throat as he’d fucked her.
His cock stirs, and he sourly wills it to shrink. There isn’t time for that today.
After he’s dressed for the day, Severus runs a hand through his stringy hair and with a long-suffering sigh, finds an elastic in his travel case and ties it low at the base of his skull to keep it out of the way. As he leaves his room, he can hear Father Terrence stirring in his room and hurries out of the house they’ve been sharing for the duration of the trip, not wanting to get caught up chatting. In the kitchens, he’s relieved that Sister Hannah is preparing breakfast, content for her to ignore him.
Of all the nuns, she is the one he senses isn’t particularly fond of him, making getting through his quick breakfast easier.
His hours today are spent taking confession, broken up by a few hours of counselling in the middle period. He can think of several things he’d rather be doing than talking couples through their petty quibbles, but it is his duty. All this time, he is glad not to run into Sister Hermione and become distracted, making confessions easier on his mind.
He listens to the details of all their mundane sins, offering them platitudes before absolving their sins and assigning penance. He could likely use a confession himself, but wouldn’t dare trust Father Terrence with his current burden. Whether Severus confesses to them or not, the Almighty is all-knowing.
The day drags on, and towards the end of it, Severus can feel the press of weariness upon him, wondering if it is nearing the end. He hears the door to the other side of the confessional open, and he swallows his sigh.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” he drawls.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Severus’ mouth goes slack with shock at hearing her voice, apparent to him even through the screen. He cannot see Sister Hermione, but as he leans forward a little he can smell her—the light lemon and lavender scent he’d noticed with his nose buried in her wild curls.
“It’s been three weeks since my last confession,” she continues, and he snaps out of the sweet-scented daze.
“Speak, my child,” he manages to choke out.
“I have committed many sins, Father, that I dare not speak of. Sins of the flesh, no less. I’ve been having inappropriate thoughts that stray from the promises I have made,” she says, her voice coming out as a ragged whisper that she speaks so closely to the screen he knows she must be kneeling on the floor of the booth to press right up against it.
His hand moves as if it has a mind of its own, his fingers coming to rest on the screen and through it he can feel the warmth of her breath. In his chest he feels something—a familiar and wholly unwelcome ache. One he hasn’t felt since the death of his childhood friend and crush. The first and last woman he’d ever loved.
How has she wormed her way so easily past his walls?
“Is there anything else you would like to confess?” he asks, an almost wistful note in his voice. Don’t be a fool, he thinks.
“I am a fool, Father,” she admits, her voice quavering as his thoughts are echoed back by her, “for I know there is no future to be found there, but I am weak. I covet a life that I have no business wishing for.”
Now his heartbeat is like thunder in his ears, suddenly hot. Severus sticks a finger beneath his collar in an attempt to bring some relief but there is none to be found.
“In life, there is always temptation,” he says instead, trying to keep his voice even despite the myriad emotions he is being pummelled with. “One must strive to resist it, and beg forgiveness when we fail to do so.”
Because despite the many years he’s tried to separate himself from the very human part of him, Severus is as much a man as he is a priest.
“Offer The Lord’s prayer in penance,” he continues, “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” they speak in unison.
“Sister Hermione,” he says before she can get up to leave.
“Father?”
“When I am Archbishop, I will have the freedom to go where I please without scrutiny,” Severus tells her, hoping she will understand what is unspoken.
“I’m sure you will be most welcome anywhere you go, Father,” Sister Hermione replies, and the corners of his mouth lift in response, the closest he’s come to an outright smile in years. “You are also welcome to keep the shawl you still have in your possession.”
Severus feels his face heat, caught out by the nun. Instead of responding to her sly little taunt, he says, “Go in peace,” dismissing her.
“Thanks be to god.” He can hear the smile in her reply.
She slips out of the confessional, leaving him alone again, and for the first time all day there isn’t someone else waiting to take her place. He knows that tonight he’ll see her at dinner, but it won’t be the same. Severus knows she won’t risk being caught again.
He is a man of great patience, but he suspects this will be put to the test in the near future.
His sleep is restless, and in the morning Severus has to drag himself through a shower to wake himself properly. The car to take him to the jetty where he will travel by barge back to the mainland. He isn’t surprised that Father Terrence accompanies him and chatters away out the front of the Abbey as they wait.
The sun has barely risen, the first beams of light just now breaching the horizon. He is surprised when the Abbess arrives with Sister Hermione close on her heels. The damn light illuminates her, making her appear ethereal, and he swallows the lump beginning to form in his throat. Allowing his eyes to linger on her for a moment, he nods almost imperceptibly. The corner of her mouth lifts and she nods back.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mother,” he tells Minerva.
“Until next time, Father,” the older nun responds, holding out a hand to shake.
Further pleasantries are interrupted by the arrival of his transport, and the driver hops out to take his bag and open the door to the back seat. He gets in, forcing himself not to look back as the door is shut behind him. The driver turns the key and the engine rumbles to life loudly, the vehicle old as many of them are out here.
“I hope you enjoyed your time here, Father,” the driver says, far too cheerful for this time of the morning.
“It was most enjoyable,” Severus replies, looking out the window as they speed along the narrow road.
His hand, restless, delves into the pocket of his coat, eyes widening as he encounters a forgotten item of clothing—a sweet-smelling cotton souvenir.
Notes:
Thanks to everyone who has been following along this month, and to Fleur who has created the most incredible art for the story - it is always a pleasure to work with her. I leave you with the promise of a sequel that I have already outlined for later this year. I thought writing this would help me move past the Sniest brainrot, but I'm afraid it's sunk its claws in even deeper.
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