19: Rung Nine – Her

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.

19: Rung Nine – Her

June 30th, 8:05 pm

I raise a hand to wipe away tears and feel the slide of metal across my cheek.

The ring!

Lowering my left hand to my right, I grasp the ring and slide it off.

The ruby appears almost black in the premature gloaming. The gold emits the last of the warmth taken from my body, cool but for where my fingers grasp it. It looks such a small thing on an empty street at dusk. How can it mean so much?

Oh, Ron …

We should never have gotten involved. I’d still have him as a friend. If only …

Movement in my peripheral vision reminds me that I’m on an open street. Grasping the ring with my left hand, I slide my wand into my right, arcing it along the inside of my forearm in case it’s a Muggle.

Keeping my head down to hide tear-stained cheeks, I track the person surreptitiously. Black-clad feet and legs stop in front of me.

“Professor Granger.”

His voice is so familiar that my eyes flutter closed in relief.

“Hermione.”

He called me Hermione?

My eyes snap open as I raise my head.

He has a strangely hesitant look on his face. One hand rises to gently brush a tear from my cheek.

This time, he whispers. “Hermione.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry …

Internal chanting aside, I feel tears welling in my eyes and my face contorting.

Suddenly, I’m enveloped, and my stomach twists with the disorientation of Side-Along Apparition.

My arms rise to loosely grasp his waist to steady myself, but I leave them there as I allow my body to relax against the warmth of his. Rubbing my face against the scratchy wool of his frock coat, I realize I can’t smell his familiar scent.

I really need to blow my nose.

My rueful chuckle causes his arms to tighten around me.

And I must look a fright.

He says nothing, and this is more of a help than I’d ever have imagined. I’m able to compose myself somewhat after a few more minutes.

When I finally step away, his arms let me go without protest. Pocketing my wand, I turn to hide my face, but he recaptures my attention with a flutter of white – a handkerchief.

“Thank you,” I mumble through blocked sinuses. Taking it, I wipe my face and dab at my nose, trying to remove the most liquid possible with the smallest sound.

“May I get you a drink?”

My stomach twists at the thought of alcohol. “Actually, some water would be lovely.”

Finally noticing my surroundings, I’m confronted by books at every turn. The smell of paper is strong enough to impress itself upon my partially cleared nose. His Potions collection is of course impressive, but what catches my eye is what appears to be a first edition of Evatra Collison’s Arithmantic Uncertainty.

I need to come back here.

I settle onto the settee and pocket the handkerchief as he finishes at the sideboard and joins me. The glass rests solid in my hand, the water cool and flavorless on my tongue.

“Hermione –”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Amusement colors his tone. “We do not have to talk.”

Suddenly, both of our glasses rest on a side table. His fingers glide over my cheek to brush against my ear. As they continue down my neck, a trace of fire burns along their path before racing ahead to tighten my nipples.

Soon after, his mouth joins his hand, and he runs his tongue from my neck to my mouth. This kiss is soft and gentle – a play of lips – nothing more.

It’s perfect.

When he pulls away, my hands reach out to rest lightly on his shoulders, and a part of my mind wishes he’d remove the frock coat.

“Hermione.” The husky timbre of his voice is as erotic as in past encounters, but it’s edged with something I can’t place.

I want to say his name, his given name, but as I open my mouth, he leans in again. Meeting halfway, our tongues dance lightly against each other. My hands slide up to tangle in his hair as his move towards my neck and waist. The tingling that began with his fingers grows and spreads to envelope my center.

Soon, his mouth slides to my throat, where the soft scrape of teeth and the hot wetness of tongue combine to make my clit pulse.

Goddess!

The very intensity of it brings me startlingly back to the present.

Shite! I did the same thing with Ron – I can’t do it again!

A jolt of anxiety races through me, and I pull my hands from him. “Severus.”

His continued assault on my neck causes another spasm, which is part pleasure, part panic, to shiver through me.

Ah – how am I supposed to think like this?

“Severus, stop. I can’t do this. Not …”

He pulls back, face stiffly blank. After a few moments, he asks, “Not now or not ever?”

“I … I’m not sure. But at least not now.”

Another pause. “When do you think you might know, Hermione?” His voice is grave.

“Know?”

“Know whether we are, in fact, something more than colleagues.”

Circe! How am I supposed to make such a decision tonight?

“You have to give me time, Severus. I need time.” I pause to take a shaky breath. “I only … this evening … and … this is too soon.” Another uneasy pant crosses my lips. “It’s just too soon.”

His movement from the settee to the bookcase across the room is as sudden as it is contained.

Having no idea what more to say, I concentrate on breathing smoothly.

When he turns to face me, his words are surprising mild. “Forgive me. I have been somewhat … precipitous in my attentions.” He pauses, his face neutral. “I have waited a year. I suppose it is possible to persist in doing so for a while longer.”

Goddess, a year!

Suddenly, he swivels away from me.

Standing slowly, I walk towards him and place my left hand upon his corresponding shoulder. He’s trembling.

“Severus,” I whisper. “Severus, please try to understand.”

His answer is to place his hand over mine, and we stand like this for long moments. The faint quivers subside.

I hate to leave it like this.

But I can’t stay.

I squeeze his shoulder and pull my hand away gently. “I have to go. I … I’ll see you soon.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.

Severus – I hope you understand.

I don’t ever want you to be a mistake.

With one last look at him, I Apparate into the familiar sitting room, where I stand still and attempt to collect myself. The dark house breathes around me, full of childhood sounds.

I make the climb to the first floor quietly, neatly avoiding the squeaky third and seventh steps.

A sliver of light shines from beneath my parents’ bedroom door, so I knock softly while calling, “Mum. Dad. It’s me.”

The door opens in a rush, and Mum takes a quick look at my face before pulling me to her.

Dad watches me from over Mum’s shoulder. “Hermione, love. What is it?”

I hold up my left hand – the hand no longer bearing a ring. “It’s Ron. I …” And I can’t do it anymore, I can’t keep it in. My sobs sound overly harsh in the small hallway.

“There, there, dear.” Mum’s voice is soothing. “There, there. It’ll sort itself out.”

I’m held tightly in their embrace.