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.