20: Rung Nine – Him

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20: Rung Nine – Him

June 30th, 8:05 pm

She leans against the railings, starring fixedly at something in her raised right hand.

As I approach more closely, I detect that she is inspecting the rather insipid ring Weasley mistakenly deemed appropriate to grace her finger. It no longer does so.

Has she finally freed herself of that pillock?

I can feel both my heart rate and breathing speed up as I continue to advance upon her position. By the time I arrive in front of her, the ring is no longer in sight.

“Professor Granger.”

She does not look at me. In fact, her entire person remains unnaturally immobile.

Well, old man, it is time.

“Hermione.”

The use of her given name has the desired effect, inciting her to raise her head, giving me my first unobstructed view of her countenance.

The wetness of sorrow marks her cheeks.

She has been miserable.

Surprisingly, my stomach clenches at the thought.

I raise my hand to wipe away the salty solution that lies upon one soft cheek, wishing it were so easy to rid her of the underlying melancholy.

“Hermione.” My voice emerges as a whisper.

Her face crumples in upon itself as tears start afresh.

Realizing we should not remain in such an exposed location, I gather her to me and Apparate directly into the sitting room of Spinner’s End. It is the first time I have ever willingly brought another person into my abode.

I would think nothing more of her arms rising for balance, were it not for the fact that she proceeds to leave them wrapped around my lower torso.

Petitgrain suffuses my entire sense of smell as I continue to hold her. I must acknowledge that its complexity suits her.

After a few moments, her small, remorseful laugh causes me to ponder whether I should speak or not.

What would be most appropriate to say?

Nothing suitable comes to mind, so I hold her more tightly to me.

Eventually regaining a modicum of composure, she removes herself from my arms and turns slightly away to hide the effects her distress has had upon her countenance. My handkerchief appears a welcome aid in facilitating this endeavor.

“Thank you.” Her reply is somewhat muffled.

I turn to provide her with some small amount of privacy. “May I get you a drink?”

“Actually, some water would be lovely.”

Procuring glasses from the sideboard, I pour a whiskey for myself and cast a silent Aguamenti in order to produce water for her.

The settee is small enough that it does not appear odd for me to sit somewhat close. I allow her time for a few small sips before speaking. “Hermione –”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

Talking is not exactly what I had in mind, my dear.

I voice as much in a low murmur. “We do not have to talk.”

A large swallow finishes my drink, and I quickly set the glass aside before doing the same for hers. The hairstyle she currently models allows me to trace the ridge of her cheekbone, the shell of her ear, the line of her neck in an unencumbered fashion.

Leaning towards her, I lick away the salty residue that clings to the underside of her jaw before moving towards her mouth. Her lips are hot and trembling against mine. My cock twitches as it swells.

I pull back to look at her. Even with reddened eyes and nose, she is lovely.

“Hermione,” I whisper as both question and promise.

Her lips part, and I move forwards to taste them. Our tongues remain gentle, touching quickly, retreating, only to return time and again.

Merlin, to feel her pressed against my cock.

I content myself instead with sliding one hand around her waist while the other strokes the enticingly bare back of her neck. Her fingers play along my scalp, sending pleasurable signals directly to my erection. Again my lips leave hers, but this time to assault her throat, where I breathe deeply of the scent of her skin.

I am mapping the exact dimensions of her pulse point with teeth and tongue when she speaks.

“Severus.”

I offer a tongue-laved nip in answer.

She shudders.

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

Abandoning her neck, I look at her closely but am unable to discern adequate data to determine anything beyond the fact that she is troubled.

Fucking hell – not? – not what?

She appears unwilling to continue, so I decide prompting is in order. “Not now or not ever?”

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

My jaw tightens and I look away. “When do you think you might know, Hermione?”

“Know?”

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

“You have to give me time, Severus. I need time.”

I suppress the desire to snort.

“I only … this evening … and … this is too soon.” She pauses. “It’s just too soon.”

Bloody hell!

Standing abruptly, I stride to a bookcase and stand, keeping my back to her. My heart races, but it no longer does so due to passion.

Do not be a complete fool. She has, after all, only just freed herself from the ginger menace.

A few calming breaths later, I regain enough control to allow me to keep my features and voice somewhat neutral. Turning, I say, “Forgive me. I have been somewhat … precipitous in my attentions.” Her expression appears receptive, so I continue. “I have waited a year. I suppose it is possible to persist in doing so for a while longer.”

A look of astonishment crosses her features.

I have admitted to too much – pressed too hard.

Idiot.

I pivot to lean upon the bookcase once more. After a few moments, her steps sound softly behind me, and her hand comes to rest upon my left shoulder, setting my muscles to quivering.

“Severus.” Her voice is low and sorrowful. “Severus, please try to understand.”

Unable to face her, I nonetheless place my left hand on hers. My eyes close.

We stand thus, linked by her hand, until it moves slightly, presses more firmly into my shoulder, and then frees itself from my person.

“I have to go. I … I’ll see you soon.”

A few quiet moments pass before I hear the pop that heralds her Disapparition.

Eventually, I find that I have returned to the settee, head resting upon the cushion that faintly holds her scent.

If only I had coerced her, I could have had her.

Her face appears before me, but it is not flushed with passion, as I would wish to imagine it. Instead, tears glisten on her cheeks, her brow furrows with misery – she is as she looked standing outside of Grimmauld Place.

Once again, I find my viscera swirling with discomfort, but upon this occasion, I am able to deduce its source.

I could never have forced her.

I … I truly care for her.

I sit staring into the distance, her visage a constant haunt. It is an interminable amount of time before sleep claims me.

AN: Thus ends act three. Next is an interlude chapter, followed by the fourth and final act.