16: Rung Seven - 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.

16: Rung Seven – Him

June 30th, 3:05 pm

I glance at my clock, wondering where Hermione could be. Having specifically requested this meeting time in order to remind her of our dalliance a year ago, I can only hope her Gryffindor bravado does not fail her.

I want her to remember that occasion. I want her to dwell upon it. As I do.

The sounds she makes – breathy little gasps that send blood straight to my cock.

Every week of our summer separation, I have extracted that episode and viewed it in my Pensieve. Yet doing so is hardly adequate. I may be able to review how she sounds, but there is minimal visual stimulation due to the skirt of the red dress. Indeed, all of my other senses are decidedly shortchanged.

Her taste – Merlin, her smell.

They linger as a faint remembrance – too faint.

A knock sounds at the door, and I adjust my robes to hide my erection before I open it.

“Professor Granger.”

“Professor Snape. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

Her formal robes part to show a hint of red fabric, and my breathing fluctuates. It is not the same garment as last year, but the color is amazingly similar in hue and tone. With hair twisted into a complicated chignon, she is lovely.

“It is of no matter.” I struggle to prevent ardor from coloring my voice. “I merely spent the time reviewing the notes of our last meeting.”

Once she has taken her seat, I move into the one beside her, making sure to graze her knee with my own. Her robes fall further apart, and I contemplate her dress while pondering my cock’s seemingly conditioned response to her in that color.

My erection’s plight only worsens as the combined scents of her skin and petitgrain surround me.

She smells divine.

Her words recall me to the meeting’s obvious purpose. “Since we last met, I have run a variety of equation sets to determine if adding moonstone for its calming properties would be beneficial.”

“And?”

“Short answer – yes. Long answer – the best results were obtained when three powdered pieces are added between steps five and six of the traditional brewing process. Does that make sense?”

I ponder the Arithmantic results in light of what occurs during that stage of brewing, making sure to adopt my new-found, finger-tapping tic before replying. “Yes. It is early enough in the process that the moonstone can exert a stabilizing influence on the later, more volatile ingredients, yet after the aconite has finished reacting with the scarab beetles. It makes perfect sense.”

Capturing her eyes, I find myself reacting to her pleased smile with one of my own.

How very lovely.

Her eyes appear transfixed as we continue to regard one another for a stretched period of time; eventually, she glances away. “Well, good. That’s sorted then.”

“Indeed. I will factor in your latest finding and brew the necessary batches by next month’s full moon. The arrangements with Healer Shoredom at St. Mungo’s are fully in place – eight victims of Greyback are willing to test our potion’s efficacy. How fares the design of the questionnaire they will make use of?”

“I’ve added in your two suggestions, so it’s ready. We should have them fill it out this month when they take their regular Wolfsbane in order to have a base-line reading to compare our potion against.”

Such intelligence, as always.

“Precisely.”

“Any ideas as to what you’d like for us to do next?”

Why, yes, my dear. I do have quite a few ideas as to what I would prefer for us to do next.

My erection, which had subsided somewhat, twitches with renewed interest.

Refocusing on the immediate task at hand, however, I answer, “I posit that we have gone as far as possible at this juncture with alterations affecting the ingredients alone. It is now time to switch our focus to the incantations involved.”

“That sounds reasonable. Are there any specific areas you’d like to look at adjusting?”

“I had something rather more ambitious in mind, if you will indulge me.”

“Go on.”

“It is a well known fact that all language is metaphorical with every word representing something that it is not.”

Her response comes more quickly than might be expected upon being confronted with such a drastic change of topic. “Oh, yes! That’s why we can have different languages. A rose by any other name actually does smell as sweet whether we label it using the English word or the French, Japanese, Russian, etc.”

She is truly brilliant.

“Precisely. In the Muggle world, that is the extent of the relationship between the word, the signifier, and the object it is meant to indicate, the signified. Magic, however, utilizes a person’s association of the metaphorical word with a concrete object to manifest said object. It cements the formerly tenuous and arbitrary bond between signified and signifier. Therefore, I cast Incarcerous,” I pause to wave my wand, “and rope, i.e., incarceration, manifests.”

Said rope grips my left wrist. And not just any form of rope – I visualized a very specific silken variation, which is highly pleasing to the touch. A tiny flick of my wand and the other end slithers into her right hand.

She unconsciously caresses the braided silk resting across her palm for a few moments. Then, flushes slightly when her eyes dart its length.

The coloring of her skin indicates that she understands at least part of my intended implications, but possibly not all. After all, it is only recently that I have been able to admit to myself that I would, in fact, bind myself to her in more than a merely sexual way.

Time appears to elongate anomalously as we continue to observe one another. I count her every breath, every blink, every caress of the rope – seven, five, eleven.

My observation is disrupted by a look of bewilderment flickering across her face.

I continue my proposal in an attempt to forestall any awkwardness. “I am propounding, if feasible, that we use the Arithmatical system you have developed to aid in creating entirely new incantations for brewing Wolfsbane.”

The contemplatively inwards turn of her gaze is quickly followed by an assault upon her lower lip.

To taste her!

Suddenly, the expression she turns upon me is once more intent. Eagerness graces her features.

She continues to hold me bound.

AN: Did I mention that I’m a Ravenclaw?