Chapter 7: Claiming What's His
The relentless, pounding rhythm finally stilled, leaving only the sound of their ragged breaths and the distant chirping of birds greeting the new day. He collapsed over her, his weight a familiar anchor, his sweat-slicked chest pressed against her back. For a long moment, neither moved, suspended in the raw, spent aftermath.
Then, with a grunt, he withdrew. The loss of him was physical, a sudden emptiness accompanied by the warm, slick trail of their mingled fluids on her inner thighs. He rolled onto his side, his arm draped possessively over her waist, his face buried in her hair.
Elara’s entire body hummed with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. Every muscle was liquid, her mind a blissful blank. She could feel the evidence of their night and morning seeping from her, a crude, intimate reminder of his claim. She had never felt so thoroughly used, so completely possessed. And she had never felt more powerful.
The sun was higher now, casting sharp beams of light through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the rumpled, stained sheets. The cottage, once a secret sanctuary, now felt like a shared battleground where they had both surrendered and won.
“I have to get back,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “Before the castle is fully awake.”
He didn’t argue. He simply tightened his arm around her for a fleeting second, a silent acknowledgment of the inevitable, before releasing her. The loss of his warmth was immediate. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her body protesting with a dozen small aches. She found her knickers on the floor near the armchair and stepped into them, the damp fabric a cold shock against her sensitive flesh.
He watched her from the bed, his dark eyes unreadable. He had propped himself up on one elbow, the sheet pooled around his hips. The morning light carved out the sharp lines of his torso and the pale scars that mapped his skin.
“Here,” he said, his voice rough with disuse. He gestured to a small, plain wooden box on the bedside table. “There is a potion. For… discomfort.”
She opened the box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a single, small vial of pearlescent purple liquid. A subtle warmth emanated from it. It was a considerate gesture, so at odds with the brutal ownership he had exerted minutes before. The contradiction was him in essence.
“Thank you,” she said, pocketing it.
She dressed quickly, the simple acts of pulling on her jumper and skirt feeling alien, like donning a costume. The girl putting on her school uniform was not the same girl who had been screaming his name into the dawn. She felt his gaze on her the entire time, a heavy, palpable weight.
When she was finished, she stood by the door, feeling awkward. The passionate animal was gone, and in its place was the Potions Master and the student, the reality of their situation crashing back down around them.
“The path behind the tapestry,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “It will be clear.”
She nodded, her hand on the latch. “Severus?”
He looked at her, waiting.
“Last night… this morning… it was…” She searched for a word grand enough, true enough, and found none. “It was everything.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Go,” he said, his voice soft but final. “Before my resolve breaks and I decide to keep you locked in here forever.”
A shiver, equal parts fear and desire, raced down her spine. She slipped out the door, into the cool, clean air of the glade. The walk back to the castle was a blur. Every step was a reminder of the thorough use her body had endured. She felt the ghost of his hands on her hips, the deep, satisfying ache between her legs. She drank the potion, and a wave of soothing warmth spread through her, easing the soreness but not the memory.
The rest of the Sunday passed in a haze. In the Ravenclaw common room, surrounded by chattering classmates discussing homework and Quidditch, she felt like an imposter. She could still smell him on her skin, a faint trace of oakmoss and sex beneath the soap. When she closed her eyes, she saw the fierce, possessive look on his face as he drove into her.
That night, sleep was impossible. Her body was tired, but her mind was racing, replaying every touch, every word. The darkness of the dormitory felt suffocating. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on a robe and crept from the tower, moving on instinct more than plan.
She found herself not at the door behind the tapestry, but in the Library’s restricted section, a place he patrolled frequently. The air was cold and still, thick with the smell of ancient leather and decaying paper. Tall, shadowy aisles stretched before her, the silence broken only by the soft sound of her own footsteps.
She turned a corner and there he was.
He stood by a high window, moonlight silvering his sharp profile. He was in his teaching robes again, the full armor of the Bat of the Dungeons. He turned his head slowly, and his eyes pinned her in place from twenty feet away. He didn’t look surprised.
“Lost, Miss Thorne?” His voice was the one he used in class, cold and cutting, a deliberate weapon.
The formality was a slap. It ignited something in her—a defiance, a need to shatter this facade. She walked towards him, not stopping until she was mere inches away, well inside the boundaries of a student and professor.
“You know I’m not,” she said, her voice low.
His eyes narrowed. “This is unwise.”
“I don’t care.” She reached out, her fingers brushing against the black wool of his robes. “I can still feel you inside me. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
He grabbed her wrist, his grip like iron. “You are playing with forces you cannot comprehend.”
“I comprehend that you fucked me raw this morning,” she whispered, leaning in, her breath ghosting across his lips. “I comprehend that you called me your whore. Or have you forgotten so easily, Professor?”
A low growl escaped him. The civilized mask shattered. He yanked her into the deepest, darkest row of shelves, between a treatise on medieval blood magic and a folio of cursed botanical illustrations. He backed her against the cold stone wall, his body caging hers.
“You crave degradation?” he hissed, his face inches from hers. “You seek it out in the shadows like the little slut you are?”
“Only from you,” she breathed, her hands fisting in his robes, pulling him closer.
His mouth crashed down on hers, a savage, punishing kiss. It was nothing like the kisses in the cottage. This was pure anger and desperation, a clash of teeth and tongue. He ripped her robe open, his hands roughly shoving her nightdress up to her waist. His fingers dove between her legs, finding her already wet and ready for him.
“Fuck,” he snarled against her mouth. “You are always so ready for me.”
He fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers, freeing his hard, thick cock. He didn’t prepare her, didn’t tease. He just hooked one of her legs over his arm, lifted her, and impaled her on his length in one brutal, driving thrust.
She cried out, the sound swallowed by his shoulder as she buried her face in his robes. The stretch was immense, a blinding flash of pleasure-pain. The stone was cold and unyielding against her back, his body was hard and demanding against her front. He fucked her with a frantic, furious energy, each slam of his hips driving her into the wall.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his breath hot in her ear. “To be taken in the fucking library like a common trollop?”
“Yes!” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “God, yes!”
His pace was relentless, a hard, pounding rhythm that echoed in the silent, sacred space. The only sounds were their ragged pants, the wet, slapping noise of their union, and the soft rustle of his robes as he moved. He was a storm of contained violence, and she was the center of it, welcoming every lightning strike.
“You will be quiet,” he commanded, his voice a dark whisper. “You will take my cock and you will be silent.”
She bit her lip until she tasted blood, stifling her moans as the pleasure built, coiling tighter and tighter. He was hitting a spot deep inside her with every thrust, a blinding, white-hot friction that was pushing her rapidly towards the edge. The forbidden nature of it, the risk of discovery, the sheer filth of being fucked against a wall in the Restricted Section, it all fed the frenzy.
He felt her inner muscles beginning to flutter and clamp down around him. “Come for me,” he ordered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more precise. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The command broke her. Her orgasm exploded through her, a silent, screaming wave that shattered her thoughts and turned her bones to water. She convulsed around him, her body milking him desperately. With a guttural, choked-off groan, he followed her over, pouring into her, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that filled her completely.
He held her there, pressed against the wall, for a long moment, both of them panting, suspended in the aftermath. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her leg. Her knees buckled, and he held her up, his arms surprisingly steady.
They stood in the dark, still joined, listening. The library was silent. They were undiscovered.
He pulled away, and she winced at the sudden feeling of emptiness and the cold air on her damp skin. He adjusted his clothing, his movements brisk, efficient. The Professor was reassembling himself.
“Go back to your tower,” he said, his voice flat, drained of all emotion. “Do not linger.”
She straightened her nightdress and robe with trembling hands. She looked at him, but he was staring out into the darkness of the library, his face a stony mask.
As she turned to leave, his voice stopped her, so quiet she almost missed it.
“The cottage. Friday night. Do not be late.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a summons. And she knew, with a thrilling, terrifying certainty, that she would be there.
The heavy oak door of the library clicked shut behind her, sealing away the heat and the smell of their transgression. The castle’s morning chill seeped through her thin nightdress, a stark contrast to the feverish sweat drying on her skin. Each step up the marble staircase was a reminder of the brutal fullness she had just contained, a slick, aching testament to his claim.
She slipped into the Ravenclaw dormitory, the silence of sleeping girls a world away from the ragged sounds that had torn from her throat in the dark. In the sanitizing brightness of the bathroom, she cleaned herself, watching the evidence of him swirl down the drain. The physical proof was gone, but the deep, satisfying soreness remained, a secret she carried into her Monday classes.
He was a specter in every dungeon corridor, his presence a constant, low hum in her blood. During Double Potions, his gaze never once strayed to her, his criticism of her perfectly diced daisy roots as cold and precise as ever. It was a performance of profound indifference, and she found herself perversely thrilled by it, by the secret knowledge of what lay beneath the black wool robes.
Friday arrived with the slow, agonizing pace of a condemned man’s walk. The final bell rang, a release. She waited until the corridors were empty, the stone echoing with the distant sounds of students heading to the Great Hall for dinner. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she approached the tapestry of the forgotten battle, its threads faded with age.
The path through the glade was familiar now, each step a conscious choice. The cottage windows glowed, promising warmth and the obliteration of the civilized world. She didn’t knock. The door was unlocked. He was standing before the fireplace, a glass of dark liquid in his hand, already watching the door as if he had sensed her approach.
“You’re late,” he stated, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t an accusation, merely a fact.
“I had to be sure no one saw,” she replied, shutting the door and leaning against it.
He set his glass down with a soft click. The firelight played over the sharp angles of his face, deepening the shadows in his eyes. “The risk is part of it. You know that.” He crossed the room in a few strides, stopping so close she could feel the heat from his body. “It sharpens the hunger.”
His hand came up, not to caress, but to grip her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Have you thought of nothing else?”
“Yes,” she breathed, her defiance a fragile thing.
“Good.” His kiss was not gentle. It was a conquest, his tongue plunging into her mouth with a familiarity that was both shocking and deeply arousing. He tasted of firewhisky and a dark, unique bitterness that was his alone. His hands were already on the fastenings of her school robes, pushing them from her shoulders. They fell to the floor in a heap.
He backed her towards the large, worn armchair, the same one he had knelt before her in. “On your knees,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for debate. “Over the arm.”
She obeyed, the rough leather cool against her bare stomach. He pushed her skirt up to her waist, his hands rough on the bare skin of her thighs. He parted her, his thumbs spreading her open to the cool air. She felt exposed, utterly vulnerable, and more turned on than she could ever remember.
“Still so perfect,” he muttered, his fingers tracing her slick folds. “So ready for me.” He didn’t tease. He positioned himself, the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against her entrance. “This is what you came for.”
He drove into her with a single, powerful thrust that stole her breath. She cried out, her fingers clawing at the leather. He filled her completely, a stretching, burning fullness that was exactly what she needed. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm from the start, each snap of his hips slamming her into the chair.
“You belong to this,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place for his relentless pace. “To my cock. To this fucking.”
“Yes,” she gasped, the word torn from her. “God, yes.”
He leaned over her, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth near her ear. “I want to hear you,” he snarled. “I want to hear you come apart.”
His words, the filthy, raw command of them, pushed her higher. The pleasure was a tight coil, winding inexorably towards its breaking point. He fucked her with a focused, animalistic intensity, the sound of their bodies meeting a wet, rhythmic slap in the quiet room.
“I’m close,” she warned, her voice cracking.
“Not yet.” He suddenly pulled out of her, leaving her empty and aching. He turned her around, her back against the chair. Her legs were shaking. “I’m not done with you.”
He lifted her, carrying her the few steps to the bed and throwing her down onto the rumpled sheets. He followed her down, his weight pinning her, his cock finding her wetness again and pushing back inside with a guttural groan. This was different, face-to-face, his dark eyes boring into hers as he moved.
He kissed her, a devouring, desperate kiss as his hips pistoned against her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts. The world narrowed to this: the sweat-slick slide of their skin, his ragged breaths in her ear, the overwhelming sensation of being filled, possessed, known.
Her second orgasm crashed over her without warning, a silent, seizing wave that clenched around him, milking him, pulling a raw, shattered sound from his throat. He came inside her with a final, deep thrust, his body shuddering as he emptied himself.
For a long time, they lay tangled, the only sound their slowing breaths. The fire had burned lower, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. Eventually, he moved, withdrawing from her with a soft, wet sound. He didn’t look at her as he stood and walked to his discarded robes.
She lay boneless, spent, the deep ache a pleasant throb between her legs. She heard him rummaging in a drawer. When he returned, he was holding a small, obsidian object, smooth and vaguely phallic, humming with a subtle magical energy.
“What is that?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
He didn’t answer. He simply pushed her thighs apart. His fingers, slick with their combined fluids, pressed against her swollen flesh, opening her. He guided the cool, smooth tip of the object to her entrance.
“A reminder,” he said, his voice low and utterly serious.
He pushed it inside her.
The vibrator slid in easily, a foreign, unyielding presence that stretched her already sensitive channel. It was smaller than him, but its solidity was intrusive. He pressed it deeper, until it was fully seated within her. A faint, internal vibration began, a low, persistent thrum that made her gasp.
“It’s charmed,” he said, his eyes holding hers. “It will stay until I remove it. You will feel it all the way back to your tower. In your common room. In your bed.” A cruel, possessive smile touched his lips. “You will feel me inside you long after you’ve left this room.”
He pulled her knickers up, the fabric trapping the toy securely inside her. The constant, subtle vibration was already a maddening tease on her overstimulated nerves. He helped her dress, his movements efficient, his face an unreadable mask once more.
At the door, she paused, hyper-aware of the object buried inside her, a secret she was now forced to carry. He looked at her, his gaze intense.
“Until next time, Miss Thorne.”