The air in the Potions dungeon was thick with the ghost of a thousand simmering concoctions, but the heaviest scent was the one Severus Snape carried in his own mind. Lily. Always Lily. Today, however, the ghost had flesh. The final bell had rung, sending a cacophony of scraping stools and chattering students into the corridor. He'd watched her, as he always did, from the shadow of his desk. Ginny Weasley. Her head was bent over her cauldron, a cascade of vibrant red hair shielding her face—hair so like Lily's it made his breath catch in a familiar, painful vise.
But she was not Lily Evans. He knew this. He chanted it like a counter-curse. Lily was gone. Yet… as she'd straightened to leave, the torchlight had caught her profile. The slope of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the determined set of her jaw. For a heart-stopping second, the dungeon walls melted away, and he was a boy again, watching Lily Evans argue a point of Charms theory with that fiery, beautiful passion.
The door clicked shut, leaving him in silence. On his desk, beside a stack of poorly brewed Befuddlement Draughts, sat a small, crystal vial. The liquid within swirled, opalescent, shimmering with a deep, rosy hue. Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in existence. He hadn't brewed it for the curriculum. He'd brewed it in a fugue state of desperate, clawing need, the instructions flowing from his fingers as if guided by a memory of green eyes and a laughter he could no longer recall. It was perfect. It was an abomination. It was his only salvation.
His long, pale fingers closed around the vial. It was warm. Or perhaps that was his own blood, pulsing with a forbidden, frantic rhythm. He knew what he was about to do was a violation of every code, magical and moral. He was a teacher. She was his student. But the silhouette of her in the doorway, haloed by torchlight, had been Lily's silhouette. The need to touch it, to taste it, to hear that voice say his name without hatred, had become a screaming hunger in his gut, drowning out the last whispers of his conscience.
He strode to his office door, yanked it open, and his voice, low and silken, cut through the dwindling crowd. "Miss Weasley. A word."
Ginny turned, her brows knitting slightly. "Professor? Did I… misbrew the Draught?"
"My office. Now." He didn't wait for a reply, retreating into the dim, book-lined room, the vial a brand against his palm.
She followed, the scent of her—soap, broomstick polish, and the faint, sweet trace of her skin—washing over him as she entered. Lily's smell had been soap and grass and something uniquely, indefinably her. He closed the door with a soft but definitive thud. The sound seemed to seal them in a bubble of terrible intent.
"Is something wrong, sir?" she asked, standing before his desk, her posture straight but her hands worrying the strap of her book bag.
"Look at me, Miss Weasley," he commanded softly.
Her brown eyes, wide and curious, met his. Brown. Not green. The wrongness of it was a physical slap. He couldn't bear it. The fantasy would shatter before it began. The hunger roared, vicious and demanding.
"Imperio."
The word left his lips not as a shout, but as a breath, a sigh of surrender to his own darkness. The spell, unspoken for years, flew from his wand with practiced, deadly ease. A wave of blank, pleasant calm washed over Ginny's features. Her shoulders relaxed. The worry in her eyes smoothed into a placid, empty pool.
"You will feel no fear," Snape murmured, stepping closer, his own heart hammering against his ribs. "You will do exactly as I say. You will desire it. You will enjoy it." He lifted the vial. "You will drink this. Every drop."
A slow, serene smile touched Ginny's lips. "Yes, Professor."
He uncorked the vial. The scent that wafted out was not one single smell, but a cascade: old parchment, the damp earth of the Forbidden Forest, and… her. His Lily. He held it to Ginny's lips. "Drink."
She obeyed, tipping her head back. Her throat worked as she swallowed. The effect was not instantaneous, but a slow, insidious bloom. A flush crept up her neck, into her cheeks. Her brown eyes, still under his curse, began to soften further, but now with a dawning, warm adoration. The empty obedience of the Imperius Curse began to intertwine with the potent, artificial devotion of the Amortentia. Her gaze settled on his face, and she beamed. It was a radiant, open smile he had never seen directed at him. Lily's smile.
"Professor Snape..." she breathed, the name a caress.
A shudder wracked his tall frame. He had to look away. He couldn't see those brown eyes. "Stand there," he instructed, his voice rough. He gestured to the center of the room. "Remove your robes. Your uniform. Everything."
"Of course," she whispered, her voice now syrup-sweet. Her fingers went to the buttons of her school robes, fumbling slightly with an eagerness that was both the potion and the curse. The black fabric pooled at her feet. Then her grey jumper, followed by her white shirt. Each piece fell away, revealing more of her. Her skin was pale, dusted with faint freckles across her shoulders and chest. His breath hitched. Lily had freckles.
She unclasped her bra, letting it slip down her arms. Her breasts were full, perfectly rounded, with pink, taut nipples already pebbled in the cool dungeon air. He took an involuntary step forward, then another, until he was standing before her, drinking in the sight. "Beautiful," he heard himself say, the word torn from a place long buried. "So beautiful, Lily."
Her smile deepened at the name. She didn't correct him. The potion wouldn't let her. It made her hear what she most desired to hear. She stepped out of her shoes, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her skirt and knickers, and pushed them down in one smooth motion. She stood before him completely nude, one hand drifting to rest on her hip in a pose of unconscious, potent allure.
Snape's mouth went dry. He had imagined this, in his darkest, most private moments, but the reality was a punch to the soul. She was magnificent. The gentle swell of her stomach, the flare of her hips, the thatch of coppery red curls at the junction of her thighs. Every detail was a sacred profanity.
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice a hoarse scrape. "Let me see you."
She obeyed, presenting him with the elegant line of her back, the delicate knobs of her spine, the glorious curve of her arse. Her hair, long and fiery, cascaded down her back, just as he'd dreamed. He reached out, his hand trembling. He let the backs of his fingers trail down the length of her spine, from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. Her skin was so soft, so warm. She arched into the touch with a soft sigh.
"Lily," he moaned, surrendering completely.
He stepped in, his body not quite touching hers, but his hands came up to cup her breasts from behind. They filled his palms, heavy and perfect. He squeezed gently, then more firmly, reveling in the yielding flesh. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, feeling them harden into desperate peaks. A low groan escaped him. He bent his head, his long, black hair falling like a curtain to mingle with hers. He nuzzled the side of her neck, inhaling deeply. Soap and grass and her. The scent was madness.
He turned her back to face him, but kept his gaze carefully averted from her eyes, focusing instead on her chest. He lowered his mouth to one breast, taking the stiff peak into his mouth. He suckled, gently at first, then with increasing hunger, his tongue lashing the sensitive nub. Her hands came up, tangling in his hair, not pushing him away but holding him closer. "Professor..." she gasped. "Oh, yes…"
He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, biting and sucking until the pale skin was flushed and marked with his possession. His own arousal was a painful, insistent throb confined within his trousers. But he wasn't ready for that. He wanted to taste. He needed to claim every part of the illusion.
"Bend over the desk," he growled against her skin.
She moved willingly, leaning forward until her palms were flat on the polished wood of his desk, her arse presented to him, her feet spread. The pose was utterly lewd, utterly submissive. The red curls of her pussy were visible from behind, glistening already with her arousal. The sight made his knees weak.
He sank to his knees behind her, his robes pooling around him on the cold stone floor. For a moment, he just stared, committing the view to memory: the pink, swollen folds, the tight, puckered star of her arsehole just above. He leaned forward, his nose—that large, hooked nose he'd always felt so self-conscious of—brushed against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Then higher.
He blew a soft, warm breath across her wetness, and she shuddered, a full-body tremor that made her backside clench.
Then he tasted her. His tongue, long and agile, swept a broad, flat stroke from the bottom of her entrance all the way up to the tight, wrinkled knot of her arsehole. The taste was musky, salty, so profoundly real.
"Oh Lily!" he groaned into her flesh, the vibration making her shudder. He did it again, and again, lapping at her like a man dying of thirst, his large nose bumping and nudging against her sensitive back passage with each stroke.
He focused his attention, his tongue spearing into her pussy with shallow, rapid thrusts. He added a finger, sliding one long digit into her welcoming heat alongside his tongue.
She was slick and tight and hot, her inner muscles fluttering around his invasion. He curled his finger, stroking searching for the spongy spot high inside her.
"Oh yes, Professor!" she cried, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth desk as he found her special spot. "Right there!"
"Call me Severus," he growled, his voice muffled against her skin.
"Severus!" she wailed as he worked her with his tongue and then a second finger in a relentless rhythm. His thumb found her clit, that hard, needy nub, and he rubbed it fiercely.
His other hand came up to grip the cheek of her arse, holding her open for him. His nose, buried in her crease, tickled and probed at her other entrance. On an impulse, a desperate, deviant need to claim every part of this Lily-facsimile, he shifted his head slightly and let the very tip of his tongue circle that forbidden, tight little star.
She went rigid. "Severus!" his name a shocked, breathless wail.
He circled the tight ring with the tip of his tongue, then pressed more insistently, rimming her with a fervor that was part worship, part degradation.
The dual assault—his fingers pumping into her dripping cunt, his thumb diddling her clit, his tongue teasing her arsehole—drove her to a frenzy.
He could feel her climax building, a tension coiling tighter and tighter within her. Her breaths became ragged sobs. Her body began to tremble, her knees buckling. She was chanting his name, a broken, pleading litany. "Severus… please… I'm going to… oh Merlin, Severus!"
Her orgasm crashed over her with a force that made her legs give way. She would have collapsed if he weren't holding her up. A guttural, raw scream tore from her throat as her pussy clenched and gushed around his fingers, her entire body convulsing in waves of pleasure. He held his mouth to her, drinking her in, the taste of her release the most potent potion he'd ever consumed.
He pulled back, his face wet with her. He looked up at her, at the beautiful, spent curve of her back. "You taste so good, Lily," he panted, his own need a roaring fire. "My cock is so hard for you. Would you like to feel it inside of you, Lily?"
She turned her head, her cheek resting on the desk, her expression one of dazed, potion-fueled ecstasy. "Oh yes, Severus! Please!" she begged, and she wiggled her arse in his face, a blatant, hungry invitation.
He stumbled to his feet, his fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. He shoved them down, along with his pants, freeing his erection. It was thick, heavily veined, and painfully hard, the head weeping with pre-cum. He grasped it, stroking himself once as he positioned the tip at her entrance. She was so wet, so open from his mouth and her orgasm. He could hardly wait. It was the moment he waited his whole life for.
He plunged into her in one brutal, deep stroke.
Her inner walls, still fluttering from her climax, stretched to accommodate him. She was impossibly tight, scalding hot, and wet. The sensation was so intense it blinded him. He froze, buried to the hilt, his head thrown back, a strangled sound escaping his throat. Lily. Lily. Lily.
Then he began to move. He set a hard, driving pace from the start, fucking her from behind with a desperate, punishing rhythm. Each thrust rocked her body forward on the desk.
The sound of skin slapping against skin, of their combined ragged breaths, filled the quiet office. He leaned over her, his chest pressed to her sweaty back. One hand groped for her breast, pinching her nipple. The other fisted in her long red hair, pulling her head back. He buried his face in the cascade of her hair at her neck, inhaling deeply. Shampoo and sweat and her. The smell, the feel of her tight cunt milking his cock, the illusion complete but for the eyes he refused to see… it was too much.
His thrusts became harder, deeper, more frantic. The desk creaked in protest. Potions vials on a nearby shelf rattled. He was losing himself, the careful, controlled man dissolving into a creature of pure, unadulterated lust.
"Lily… my Lily…" he chanted, a broken prayer.
"Severus! Harder! Don't stop!" she screamed, meeting every thrust with a push of her own hips.
He felt the tidal wave of his orgasm gathering, unstoppable. He drove into her one last, deep time, his body locking, and with a roar that was part agony, part triumph, he came. Hot jets of his release pumped into her, painting her insides with his seed. He spasmed, his body shuddering violently as he emptied himself into the warm, willing vessel of the young girl who looked like his heart's only love..
He slumped over her, his weight pressing her into the desk, his face still hidden in her hair, his cock twitching weakly within her as he emptied himself.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths. Then, slowly, she twisted beneath him. He, spent and vulnerable, allowed it. She turned in his arms, her face flushed and beautiful, her lips seeking his.
He met her kiss. It was hungry, grateful, passionate. The taste of herself was on his lips, mixing with the taste of her mouth. It was perfect.
And then she opened her eyes.
Big, warm, chocolate-brown eyes stared up at him, swimming with post-coital bliss and potion-induced adoration. But they were brown. Not green. Not Lily's brilliant, piercing emerald. The fantasy, so carefully constructed, imploded with the violence of a shattered vial. This wasn't Lily in his arms. This was Ginny Weasley, his student, under the influence of an illegal potion and an Unforgivable Curse. The heat of passion evaporated, replaced by a cold, rushing flood of shame so profound it felt like drowning.
He recoiled as if burned, pulling out of her with a wet, terrible sound. She blinked, confused by his sudden withdrawal. "Severus?"
The sound of his name on her lips, now, was a condemnation. He couldn't look at her. He snatched his wand from where it had fallen on the desk. His hand shook violently.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words ash in his mouth. He couldn't let her remember. He couldn't live with himself if she did. "Obliviate."
The spell washed over her. Her confused expression smoothed, replaced by the same placid blankness the Imperius Curse had first brought. He pointed a trembling finger at her scattered clothes. "Get dressed. You will return to your common room. You will remember only that I gave you a tedious lecture on ingredient preparation that made you late for dinner. You will feel… happy. Content. You will crave my presence, but you will not know why."
He turned his back as she dressed mechanically. He couldn't watch. The silence was deafening. He waited until he heard the soft click of the office door closing behind her.
Only then did he turn. The room was empty. It smelled of sex and sin. He walked stiffly to his desk, where a small, damp patch remained, the evidence of their coupling. He stared at it, then lifted his head, his black eyes burning with a furious, directed hatred.
Not at her. At himself.
He sank heavily into his high-backed chair, the worn leather groaning in protest.
No wonder Lily had rejected him. He was a monster. A pathetic, lovelorn monster who preyed on the innocent to sate a hunger that could never be filled.