13: Rung Six - Him

Disclaimer: Not mine. No money. Special thanks go to JKR for sanctioning HP fanfic.

Gobs of thanks go to my beta Southern Witch 69 and to my Brit-picker the amazing Saracen77.

13: Rung Six – Him

August 31st, 8:35 pm

I am not quite certain as to what business I have in this particular corridor at this time of day. Its location is nowhere in the vicinity of my rooms or the potions stores I should be cataloging and organizing.

Please, I should at least do myself the courtesy of truthfulness.

I have been walking for hours, attempting to defuse an excess of rage-fueled energy.

I am no calmer than before.

Casting hexes as I go, I have succeeded in clearing the hallways of pesky ghosts and the portraits of annoying spectators.

Then, Nearly Headless Nick appears before me.

Gryffindor.

I prepare an especially nasty hex, which should raise the equivalent of phantasmal boils of a painful sort, but he darts around a corner.

My steps hasten, but I am halted in my endeavor by a collision with a smaller body. A subtle scent wafts over me that my mind can finally place – petitgrain. It is a scent I also recognize on some primal level.

Granger.

I pocket my wand hastily, suddenly anxious to have my hands unencumbered. As she stumbles slightly from the impact, my initial instinct is to steady her, and I grip her biceps. Within the matter of a second, the anger I have wrestled with for most of the day overwhelms me, and my fingers tighten in reflex.

I want to shake her until she leaves that twit, Weasley.

I want to fuck her until I am the only thing she sees, feels, knows.

A wince of pain crosses her features, and I thrust her away in disgust. But it is a disgust directed towards myself, and I turn away from her in an attempt to regain composure.

How charming. Hurt her as if she were some Death Eater groupie in love with pain and humiliation. She will be sure to fly from Weasley’s arms to mine.

Idiot.

Her voice infringes upon my dark reverie. “How dare you physically assault me?”

My response is both automatic and automatically sarcastic. “If I remember correctly, the last time I was physical with you was hardly an interlude that could be referred to as assault.”

“I didn’t mean the se…. I didn’t mean the ladder incident, you git. I meant just now!”

“I apologize, Professor Granger. I had no idea that a mere five seconds of my hands on a fully-clothed, nonsexual area of your person qualified as assault.”

“It bloody well hurt, you bastard!”

My defensive sarcasm abandons me at her confirmation of my concerns. “Then I truly do apologize, Professor Granger.”

“Look at me. Say it while looking at me.”

I struggle for the control I will need to evince and turn with the appearance of unhurriedness, securing extra moments of such preparation.

As always during our recent encounters, her face is flushed, her breathing quick. My erection stirs.

Damn, I want this woman.

While my face manifests composure, my desire nonetheless finds a way to escape through speech. “You want me to speak to you, you want me to look at you, but you will not have me touch you. I find you painfully hypocritical, Professor Granger.”

“Hypocritical? How dare you say that asking to converse in a civilized fashion without being mauled is hypocritical? It’s nothing more than the respectful behavior due a colleague.”

“And is that all we are, Professor Granger, colleagues?” I begin my advance upon her.

“Of course that’s all we are. You’re with Tonks; I’m with Ron. What more could there be between us?”

What, indeed?

“Ms. Tonks and I are no longer a matter of concern.” I pause – the most interesting expression just crossed her face, but I find it too transitory to analyze. “As for you and Weasley, that remains to be seen. One could have doubts, as it were, as to the amount of satisfaction you derive from your relationship with him.”

“Will you stop bringing up the sodding ladder! It was an accident, a … a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Another step forwards.

“Yes, a mistake. And one I don’t plan on ever making again.”

I drop my voice in reply. “Really?”

She trembles slightly and answers quietly, all earlier anger missing from her voice. “Yes, really.”

Bending towards her, I pause a few moments to partake of her scent before breathing across her ear, “I do not believe you.”

The shiver of her body tells me everything I need to know of her desire, and I press forwards into her.

Slowly. Remember how wet she became from going slowly.

I allow only the slightest of contacts for my initial assault. Skimming my lips from her ear to her mouth, I taste her briefly thrice. My cock throbs against the confinement of my trousers.

As I pull away, I notice her eyes have closed, and a perverse part of me wants them open. I want there to be no doubt that it is I who kisses her. Once her eyes flutter open, pupils dilated, I arch forward, holding her gaze with mine. As our lips join again, I rein in my rampant desire in order to continue kissing her lightly – a play of friction on blood-rich skin.

Her slight exaltation as I slide my tongue over her causes me to laugh quietly. As before, her responsiveness is delightful. Another swipe, and her mouth opens for me as her tongue begins to dance with mine.

I am careful to keep the pressure teasingly light, and my control lasts up until the point when she fists my robes and hauls me tightly against her body. Her leg rises, and I place my hand under it to wrap it more firmly around me.

Merlin, how I want her wrapped around me.

The little whimpering noises that escape her urge me to greater activity, and I find myself moaning and thrusting into her – my thigh at her crux, my erection straining against her stomach.

The pressure and friction against my cock cause me to throw all caution to the wind. I attack her mouth, biting her lower lip and sucking away the sting. She joins the assault and thrusts her tongue firmly across mine. We rock together in a building rhythm that has me close to orgasming as my senses are overwhelmed.

The smell of her, the sound of her, the feel of her, the taste of her …

My climbing spiral is brought crashing to an abrupt halt when she tears her lips from mine, and the hands that had just held me close force me away instead. I quirk an eyebrow, but she says nothing – she simply stands there, panting through kiss-reddened lips with wide eyes locked on mine.

I suppose I am not the only one who is overwhelmed.

My lips twitch in a grin, and I move to press them to her once more.

Another shove and she flees down the corridor.

Fucking hell! What is the cause of such a reaction?

I stare at the point where she disappeared for untold moments, fists clenched in anger.

Slowly bringing my breathing under control, I attempt to approach the problem rationally. It appears that a change of tactics is in order. I will have to observe her to determine precisely what my new course will be.

Because one thing is certain – I will have her, mistake or no.

AN: While there are wonderful, hot BDSM stories out there, it doesn’t work with the psyches of this Severus and Hermione. It doesn’t mean that I, the author, dislike that genre.

Thus ends the second act – next, an interlude chapter.