8- Establishing Relationships

Standard disclaimer applies.

Chapter 8- Establishing Relationships

I wake up in the darkness, cold. Groggily, I reach for the covers that are bunched to one side, leaving me bare to the dungeon's chill. As I move, I feel the stuffiness in my head that presages a Firewhisky hangover, and the tight tug on the skin and hairs of my belly. Disconcerted, I run my hand down my skin and feel the dried remains of my lack of control. Shamed at the memory, I quickly cast a cleansing charm and yank the covers over me. Miserably, I shiver under the icy sheets, trying desperately to fight back the images that filled my mind in the explosive moments before I lost consciousness. Slowly, I warm up and stop shivering. My weary body and mind begin spiralling me back to sleep. Grateful when the images disappear and the blackness claims me, I hear naught but my own heartbeat lulling me to unconsciousness.

Hours later, when I wake again, it is with the urgent need to relieve myself of multiple glasses of Firewhisky. Staggering to the bathroom, I curse myself for drinking too much. My head is splitting. After a satisfactory meeting with the porcelain god, I fling open my cabinet, squinting at the contents, searching for my hangover cure. Thankful beyond measure when I find it, I eagerly quaff the whole of its contents. Propping myself against the sink, leaning my forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, I feel the potion course through me, wiping away the ache in my body, the cottony feel in my mouth, and the pounding in my head. Sometimes, it's good to be a Potions Master. Sighing in relief, I start the shower.

Once the water is hot enough, I step in, letting it cascade over me, drenching my hair, sluicing over my skin. I place my hands against the wall and tip my face up to the full spray, then tilt my head down so it falls through my hair down my neck. Nothing like a hot shower to revive you after losing a fight with Firewhisky...

I grab the soap and start washing, my face, my neck, over my arms and shoulders, then over my chest and under my arms. My mind is blank but for the routine of bathing until I soap my stomach and down to my crotch. Then, I remember waking in the night, my spendings dry on my skin. As my soapy hands slide over my cock and balls, I feel a surge, a tightening in them again. Thoughts of Hermione moaning under me surface in my mind. Groaning, I drop the soap and grip my temples, closing my eyes, trying to drive the thoughts away. I feel the pulsing response in my loins, my cock bobbing as it springs to life again. Angry at my lack of control, I roughly rinse under the water, but even the rough touch inflames me. Again, I'm propping my hands against the wall, the water running down the back of my neck as I hang my head and watch my body betray my will.

Viciously, I yank the knobs the other direction, turning the steamy heat to icy cold. Gasping under the onslaught, I feel the goose flesh spreading over my skin and I suppress the shivers that claim me. Wrapping my arms around me, I force myself to stand in the cold spray until my erection flags and finally disappears. Sighing deeply, I shudder as I wrap myself in a large towel, trying to get warm again. I run the towel through my soaking hair and then wrap it around my waist, tucking the end under itself. The frigid drops from my hair run over my shoulders and chest as I walk back into my room to dress. With a few practiced flicks of my wand, my hair is dry, my lounge wear is folded and put away, my bed is made, and I am once again clad in my robes and boots.

Grumpily, I stomp out of my room and head for the door, on my way up to breakfast. As I pass through my sitting room, my eyes involuntarily glance at the music box on the end table. Scowling, I shake my head and fling my door open, grunting with satisfaction at the echo produced by the violent slam of my door as I lock and ward it behind me. My footsteps echo along the passageway as I stalk up to breakfast.

Fortunately, it is still rather early for breakfast on a Sunday, so the Great Hall is not well-populated. Glaring sourly over those already assembled, I take my customary seat and pour a mug of black coffee. Grateful that I had my potion, otherwise the aromas of breakfast would certainly make me ill, I take a large gulp of coffee, grimacing as it scalds my tongue and throat, but sighing in relief when the comforting heat settles in my belly.

Mechanically, I serve myself from the platters and eat. I'm staring into space, not really seeing anything when she walks into the Great Hall, accompanied by her ever-present cohorts. My eyes focus on her, zeroing in on her face. She's smiling, laughing at something one of them said. I glance at the others and feel my anger rise at the look of over-protective possessiveness on Potter's face. That's when I notice that they are holding hands, and she is blushing prettily at something he whispers in her ear.

I stop eating. I have to, to focus on fighting the urge to stand up and wipe that self-satisfied grin off his face, to rip her hand from his and drag her away from him. My breathing increases and I hear the roar of my blood rushing in my ears. I manage to maintain my composure, but only by sheer force of will. Once I'm under control again, I reel a bit in shock at my vehement reaction. I'm surprised that simply seeing them together like that affects me so strongly.

I'm still watching them, watching her. Suddenly, she flicks a glance at me. Her eyes widen and her smile fades. Her chest rises as she inhales sharply and her eyes darken in confusion as a flush creeps up her throat to suffuse her face. She furtively tugs her hand from Potter's and chews her lower lip, as if she's ashamed.

I realize I'm staring at her; Potter notices this when she pulls away from him. He glares at me hotly, scowling. My eyes narrow menacingly, and I wish for a moment that he could know just how close he came to me throttling him into oblivion. Weasley sees the exchange between Potter and me and nervously jostles his elbow, drawing his attention away. Maybe Weasley's learnt something after all.

I let my gaze float back to Hermione. Hermione? When did that happen? Disconcerted at this realization, I shake my head sharply and reassert my authority. Miss Granger, not Hermione. She is my student, not my equal.

Nevertheless, I look at her again. She is elegantly eating her breakfast, vaguely listening to the chattering around her. Then, like a magnet, her face turns to mine and we lock eyes again. Her cheeks still burn, but this time her eyes glaze over and I see a spark kindle in them. She has stopped eating, toast in one hand and jam spreader in the other. Her chest heaves as her breathing deepens. We are both still and the force of our connection is palpable. I feel the desire from the night before return in response to the invitation in her body language. It's when I feel the all-too-familiar drawing in my loins that I gasp and break our gaze.

I grip the table edge, attempting to quell the rampant surge in my groin. Taking a deep breath, I look back at her, incredulous and startled by the strength of my reaction. She is blinking, puzzled. Her gaze finds mine again and she quickly looks away, abashed. I feel the trembling in my legs as I force myself to stand.

I have to leave. I have to get back to my quarters until I can learn to control my dangerous reactions to her presence. I try to convince myself, as I rush from the Hall, that this is not a retreat, but a strategic repositioning based on new information.

******** *******

Hermione woke up, stretching languorously under her covers. As she yawned, she threw back the covers to rise. Her yawn ended in a squeak of surprise when she noticed that her nightgown was bunched above her waist, and she had no knickers on. Her cheeks grew hot as she remembered the events of the night before, and her legs squeezed tight with the memory of what she had felt and done. Even now, she could feel the wetness that had pooled between her thighs.

Embarrassed, she scrambled out of bed, quickly yanking the covers over the damp spot under where she had lain. Even though she had bathed the night before, she felt dirty. She padded into the bathroom and started a shower. Something quick, and not dangerously relaxing like her bath last night.

She was startled by a knock on her door. Warily, she crossed her room and opened the door a crack. Exhaling gustily with relief, she smiled gingerly when she saw Harry's familiar smile.

"Morning, 'Mione. Coming to breakfast?"

She cracked the door a hair more and grimaced. "Yes, but I just woke up. I'm about to take a quick shower, then I'll meet you in the common room, okay?"

Harry's grin widened mischievously, and he stuck his foot in between her door and the frame. "About to take a shower, eh? Need any help?" He leered at her suggestively.

Hermione felt herself blush again, and looked away, shyly. Glancing at Harry, she saw the desire in his eyes again, and felt an answering pang in her centre. She suddenly was acutely aware that she was wearing only a thin cotton nightgown. Unnerved by her own reaction, she poked her bare toes at his foot, shoving it away. "Very funny, Harry. I'm quite sure I can manage on my own. I'll see you lot in a few minutes." She firmly pulled the door closed a little more.

Harry smirked, disappointed, but not really surprised. He saw her shutting the door and, with his unbelievably fast reflexes, grabbed it and held it still. Hermione gasped and looked up at him, startled. She felt his strength holding the door and knew she couldn't close it if he really wanted to keep her from doing so. Harry merely looked at her, thoughtfully, as he leant in closer. She knew he was about to kiss her and, at the last moment, threw her hand up to cover her mouth.

"Harry, I haven't even brushed my teeth yet! Honestly!"

Harry rolled his eyes at this dentists' daughter and snorted. Gazing levelly at her, he took her hand from her mouth and lightly kissed it instead. Then, flashing her a dazzling smile that made her stomach flutter, he dropped her hand and spun on his heel, jauntily heading back toward the common room. He looked over his shoulder at her, wiggled his fingers in a wave, and called, "See you in a few, then!"

Hermione let out a ragged sigh as she shut the door again. Gods, he is going to be the death of me! She practically ran to the bathroom, pulling her nightgown off in one smooth motion. She jumped into the shower and began lathering up. Ignoring her once again erect nipples, she soaped up thoroughly and rinsed in a quick, businesslike manner. Firmly diverting her mind elsewhere, she managed to wash away the leftover stickiness from her juices the night before without inciting more cause for arousal.

She dried off and dressed quickly, knowing the boys were waiting for her. Idly, she wondered if Ron knew about her and Harry. Then again, what was there to know about her and Harry? That they had kissed a few times? That he was making lewd suggestions to her? That she was seriously considering taking him up on said lewd suggestions? She giggled nervously. I'm sure it'll all be fine. I'll just tell Ron that we're exploring the possibility of a relationship. Then I'll make him tell me what Harry may have said about me!

Waving her wand to settle her hair, she smirked at her reflection, then filled Crookshanks's food bowl and scrubbed him behind the ears on her way out.

Harry and Ron were waiting for her, playing Wizard's Chess, as usual. They both smiled in greeting as they stood. Then, Ron's smile gaped into a huge yawn. He grimaced. "Sorry 'bout that. G'morning!"

Hermione chuckled at him. She looked at Harry, whose eyes had never left her, and sidled up to Ron. She pulled him down to whisper in his ear and Harry scowled. Ron looked askance at Harry's expression, but nodded meekly to Hermione. Hermione threaded her arm through Ron's and led him away from Harry. "Excuse us a moment, Harry. I have to talk to Ron in private."

Harry bristled at the sight of Hermione hanging on Ron, even though he knew nothing was going on. He strained to hear what she was saying, but to no avail. It was rather off-putting to be left out while they muttered to each other, repeatedly looking at him. Self-consciously, he ran a hand through his hair, wishing it would lie down properly. Shifting his weight uncertainly, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Hermione was smiling and her cheeks were pink, and Ron was grinning but trying to hold it back. Harry sighed impatiently.

"Ron, I have to tell you something, and then I want you to answer a few questions." Hermione glanced back at Harry, seeing him watching them unhappily.

"Sure, 'Mione, what's up?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure you know Harry and I were... well... involved a bit when you brought breakfast up yesterday." She tilted her head, full of meaning.

Ron smirked and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. He looked back at Harry. "Uh, yeah, it was a little obvious."

"Well, it happened again last night."

Ron's eyes widened at this. "It did? When?"

"After the meeting, I came up here and it was chaos, and he went with me to my room. I'm sure you can figure out why."

Ron shrugged sheepishly. "He is a teenage boy, 'Mione."

"I know that, which brings me to my first question: has he told you anything about us? About me?"

Ron looked back at Harry again. Earnestly, he looked into Hermione's eyes and answered, "No. He hasn't said anything. But, let me tell you: he's dead gone on you. I can tell. And it's even more serious that he hasn't said anything to me. But trust me, I know him pretty well after all these years, and he really fancies you, Hermione."

Hermione smiled and blushed. Ron started to smile. "So, I take it things progressed better with you two than they did with us?" Hermione looked away, then glanced at Harry again. Ron patted her arm. "'Nuff said. Good for you two. So, is it official?"

Hermione shook her head shyly. "I think this is where we could use your help, Ron. I think he may be afraid of letting it show in front of you."

Ron's eyebrows rose to his hairline and he thwacked his chest with his thumb. "Me? The old bugger must be daft if he thinks I'd be upset! I think it's great!" He grinned conspiratorially ay Hermione. "Leave it to me. No worries here." Ron winked at Hermione and turned back to Harry.

Once he and Hermione joined Harry again, Ron stepped between them and threw his arms over their shoulders. Hermione looked up at Ron expectantly and Harry squinted at him, perplexed. "Oi, here's the deal, mates. Harry, Hermione, it's bloody obvious you two fancy each other, and I think it's about ruddy time you two got together!"

Harry's expression changed to one of surprise and he looked from Ron to Hermione and back again. A tentative smile spread across his face as he looked at his best friend. "Really? You don't mind?"

Ron smacked Harry on the back and winked suggestively at him. He leant in to him and said, "Look, if you can succeed where I failed, then more power to you!"

He snorted with laughter when Hermione swatted him and squawked, "Prat!" He backed out from between them and pushed Harry toward Hermione. When Harry took her hand and they smiled shyly at each other, Ron beamed enough to almost rival Dumbledore.

They took off for breakfast, chatting about inconsequentials. As they entered the Great Hall, they were all laughing at a joke Ron had told. Harry glanced about quickly, looking to see who was there. He was waiting for someone to crack wise about him and Hermione.

He leant toward her and said, "So, 'Mione, does this mean you'll sit next to me at breakfast?" She smiled and blushed. They sat beside each other at the table, still holding hands, and Ron took up residence across from them.

Hermione felt a prickling on her scalp, like static electricity, and turned her head, to find Snape staring at her intensely. She could see the suppressed anger crackling in his eyes and gasped.

Then she remembered the thoughts she had had about him the night before and felt the blush creeping up her face. Confused by the conflicting emotions and sensations she felt, she pulled her hand from Harry's, worrying about her physical attraction to two completely different men, one of which was out of the question!

Harry felt her tug her hand from his and looked at her in surprise. He saw her eyes looking at the High Table and turned to find Snape pinning them with an icy stare. Harry's anger grew and he glared back at Snape. Snape's eyes narrowed at him, but Harry refused to back down.

Ron noticed both Harry and Hermione suddenly going quiet and looked to see Harry and Snape locked in a silent battle of wills, and Hermione looking distressed. So, Ron took it upon himself to lean across the table and knock Harry's elbow, to end the confrontation.

Once they were no longer looking at Snape, both Harry and Hermione started to eat breakfast with at least some semblance of normalcy. Ron engaged Harry in talk of Quidditch as usual and Hermione let her thoughts wander.

Again, her thoughts turned to Snape, whom she could feel like a weight against her neck. She turned to see him looking at her again. Hermione saw the fire in his eyes, the same look that had sparked her reaction previously. She felt sucked in by his magnetic gaze and her breathing quickened in remembered attraction. Heat roiled in her stomach once again and her lips parted as she exhaled heavily.

The fire in her body rekindled and she felt drawn to the answering fire she sensed in Snape. Involuntarily, her body leant toward him. Suddenly, she saw him gasp and wrench his gaze away. The intense, fevered connection between them was broken. She blinked, taking shaky breaths, trying to regain her senses.

Snape finally looked back at her and she saw the faint panic in his eyes. She knew he could see her arousal and looked away, embarrassed. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him stand slowly and then hurry from the Hall. She forced herself to not watch him leave, denying herself the thrill from seeing his black robes billowing dramatically behind him. But there was something in the haste with which he fled that made her think he was running like one pursued by demons.

When he was gone, she took a deep breath of release from his palpable presence. Now that she was able to come out from under the thrall of his powerful personality, she resumed eating and listening to the conversations of her tablemates. And, when Harry reached for her hand again, she let him take it and keep it.

****** *******

I'm back in my lab, forcing myself to brew a replacement for my hangover cure when I hear the flutter of wings behind me. I turn to see the school owl landing on a desk nearby and I deftly remove the scroll from its leg. It flies away immediately, indicating that an answer to the missive is not required.

Dumbledore's seal is on the wax and I frown as I open the scroll, wondering what on earth he wants now. I blanch as I read his words.

"Professor Snape,

–A. Dumbledore, Headmaster and Director."

My eyes close in pained denial. The little chit will be invading my domain! Abruptly, my brow creases in sudden thought. Wait a minute; she will be in my domain. I am the one in control here! I'll show her that she can't get to me, in this play or not. I smile haughtily at the realization.

Determined to meet her on my own territory, I remain in my quarters the rest of the day, brewing potions and grading lacklustre attempts at essays. I take my meals in my sitting room, gazing at the music box, loath to listen to it before the meeting tonight.

Finally, as it nears 7:00, I carry the music box and script into my classroom, placing them prominently on my desk. I settle into my chair, preparing to look imposing for when she arrives. When I note that it is almost 7:00, I school my expression into one of grim indifference. Right on the dot, I hear a tentative knock on my door.

"Enter." I don't look up as she steps quietly into the room. She approaches my desk, scroll and script in hand, and stands politely, waiting to be acknowledged. I continue reading an essay...well, pretending to, really...to make her wait, reasserting my authority. Finally, I can't wait any longer, for her silent presence inflames my senses, and I slide my gaze from the page to meet hers. I look steadily at her for a moment before nodding and saying, "Miss Granger."

She quickly responds, "Good evening, Professor Snape. I received this message from the headmaster saying I was to come here tonight to meet with you." She falters a bit as I curl my lip in distaste.

Boredly, I remark, "Yes, yes. I, too, received such a message. Now, let's get this nonsense over with and you can get out of my sight." Her eyes flash with irritation at my casual dismissal of her. "I believe we are to listen to the recording and follow along in the script. Then, apparently..." I sneer in disgust, "we are supposed to 'discuss our characterizations.'"

She nods and opens her script obediently. I roll my eyes and flip my script to the first page. Steeling myself, apprehensive about going through the play again, especially after the events that had transpired last night, I reach toward the music box. You were drunk and out of control last night. Now you know better and you'll be fine. Just get this over with and send her away.

I glance at her studiously keeping her eyes cast down on the page, patiently waiting for me to start the music box. Inhaling silently, I tip it open, startled by the immediate sound of a smacking gavel and the cry, "Sold!" Surreptitiously, I glance to see if she noticed my surprise, but she is sitting like a statue, head bowed, eyes looking at the script. Realizing that I am treading in dangerous territory if I keep staring, I shade my eyes with my hand, leaning my forehead against my fingers.

Closing my eyes, I hear the quality of the recording. It sounds like the people are right there in the classroom. Suddenly, my eyes fly open as I am once again startled, this time by the abrupt and rather loud blare of music. Peeking out from under my hand, I see that she has her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. Did she see that? Is she laughing at me? Frowning, I bark, "Miss Granger! What, pray tell, do you find so amusing?"

Her eyes snap open at her name, and her mouth forms a small "o" of worry. "Nothing, Professor! I don't find anything amusing, sir. I was just... enjoying the music." She pauses for a fraction of a second before barrelling on, "I just love this play, sir. The music is wonderful; and the story is so beautiful and sad at the same time! It really is exquisite..."

Her eyes fill with their characteristic sparkle as she waxes enthusiastic about the play, and I find myself appreciating her vivaciousness on some primal level. Realizing that, I tear my gaze away and dismissively wave my hand at her.

"Enough, Miss Granger. Be good enough to cease your prattling so I can hear the recording. Not all answers require the 'Granger extra.'" I sneer derisively at her, seeing her eyes cloud with irritation. Her lips purse, and she gets that bossy look I recognize all too well. Before she can open her mouth to argue with me, as she is clearly preparing to do, I slam the music box shut and glare at her. She jumps at the sudden gesture and her expression changes to one of apprehension.

"Miss Granger, all that is required of you is to sit and listen. I have no interest in your opinions about the work. If you persist in being a nuisance, rest assured that you will have detentions to fit into your schedule as well." Her eyes narrow in anger and indignation. "Now, one more word from you without being spoken to, and you can rehearse your lines with Filch." Pausing for effect, I raise my eyebrow at her, expecting a response. Stonily, she nods, lips shut in an angry line. Pointedly, she looks down at her script.

Smiling to myself for having put her in her place, I open the music box again, relieved to hear it pick up where it left off. We sit in silence, listening to the swell of the music. She is sitting stiffly, her anger virtually exuding from her body language. Smirking, I relax back in my chair, stretching my legs under my desk. The overture ends and I look to my script to follow along with the song that begins. I quickly realize that there is more dialogue in the script than is in this recording. My eyes skip along the pages, picking up where the lines have been included. Finally, we come to the point where Christine sings her first song. A few lines in, I glance up at Granger, only to see her, eyes shut again, lips moving silently with the song. I gaze fully at her, puzzled. Watching her mouth, I realize she's mouthing the lyrics, but her eyes are closed!

Inexplicably incensed, I slam the music box shut again and shoot forward in my chair, leaning menacingly toward her. "Miss Granger!" I hiss. "Just what are you doing?"

Startled again, she warily eyes me and says, confused, "I'm just singing my part, sir. I didn't make any noise..."

I interrupt testily, "I never claimed you did. How, Miss Granger, are you 'singing your part' when you only received it a day ago?"

Blinking rapidly, she stammers, "I already knew the part, sir. I've known this play for years now. I know all of the songs and most of the rest."

Exasperated, I roll my eyes at her. "Yet another area for you to be a Know-It-All, isn't that correct, Miss Granger?"

Obviously torn between anger and fear, she wisely chooses to say nothing, looking down from my irate glare. Irritably, I fling the box open again and flop back in my chair again, arms crossed. I can't believe this! She already knows it all! Damn her, living up to her insufferable title. It is completely unacceptable for her to be ahead of me. That's it. I will know this play backwards and forwards by the next meeting. She cannot be allowed to think she's better than I at anything!

We continue to sit in silence, listening. I hear Potter's character again and scowl. Then, after Christine's song, I hear the Phantom for the first time. Hmm, lovely effect, that echo quality...

Eventually, the recording proceeds to the Phantom's first song. It's the one that gave me the jolt of recognition when I read the words the first time. I concentrate on the song, ingraining it into my memory, intent on remembering everything to match Granger. I hear the hypnotic tones of the Phantom's voice, luring Christine, and I mentally practice it, smirking to myself, knowing that I can definitely do that part well.

As they begin the duet, I glance up. Again, she is singing silently with the song. Her eyes are closed and her cheeks are slightly flushed. Intrigued, I watch her as I listen. When the Phantom's first line of the duet begins, a convulsive shudder ripples over her. What was that about? When she's not mouthing the words, her lips fall open slightly, and I notice she's breathing heavily. Fascinated, I stare at her. The song crescendos, the Phantom murmuring to Christine, coaxing her to higher vocal peaks. I can't take my eyes off her. I'm transfixed by her overtly physical reaction to the music. Her face is even redder now, and her brow is furrowed. Then, when the Phantom cries, "Sing for me!" her hands clench and her head lists back. She sighs spasmodically, trembling.

I realize that I am barely breathing, entranced by her. The Phantom begins "Music of the Night" and she sighs deeply, her body sagging. Her head rolls forward again, and her hair partially shields her face. Coming back to my senses, I feel the tightening in my trousers, my instinctive reaction to her raw display. The throb of my blood pounds through me, in my temples, my groin, my chest. I let the Phantom's words flow through me as I watch her intently.

She slowly lifts her head again, with a dreamy expression on her face. There is something distinctly sensual about her body language now. She seems to be swaying with the music, and she strains up in her seat as she hears the line, "Let your soul take you where you long to be!" Then, she opens her eyes and looks directly into mine as we hear, "Only then can you belong to me."

The passion in her eyes staggers me, and I feel another answering surge in my lap. I don't blink as I gaze into her eyes, stunned to see the flicker in them at the words, "Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation!" Desperately casting about for control, that voice inside me speaks up. She's staring straight at you. Use Legilimency to find out what that was all about, what she's thinking right now!

Not caring about the unethical manner in which I'm about to use my skills, mainly due to the raging erection I'm sporting in my reckless reaction to a student, I send a piercing look straight through her, easing past her lowered defences effortlessly. I almost pull back in shock at what I find.

Merlin's beard! She's coming down from an orgasm! That's what that was! Gods, she's practically burning with heat and want right now. Bloody hell, she wants me? Reeling in awe, I'm distracted by that other voice.

So take her. You want her. She wants you. Take her! She's already hot and bothered for you, wet from coming in front of you. You know you want to. Do it!

My cock throbs. This is dangerous. Steeling myself, I withdraw from the heated turbulence of her mind. Shite. I can't believe I did that! 'The Phantom of the opera is there inside her mind!' How damned ironic. I wonder if she noticed. Bugger me! Ruthlessly clamping down on my seething emotions, I look away from her fiery gaze.

This is too much. I have to stop this. I must recall her to our normal relationship. Christine's song in which she takes the Phantom's mask is playing while I am pondering. Then, as the Phantom explodes in anger, I glance sharply back at her, in time to see her jump and cringe. When her eyes reopen, I see the confusion and fear in them again. I let my gaze bore into her, grateful for the song's inadvertent restoration of our normal positions. She is looking at me, frightened, and I hold her prisoner with my gaze. The previous tumult of heat and desire is gone, replaced by the usual wary dislike.

Then, the Phantom's words impinge upon my consciousness and I hear his mood change. Once again, the tone becomes softer, more hypnotic. My chest tightens at the words, "Fear can turn to love. You'll learn to see to find the man behind the monster." My overbearing attitude crumbles and I see her stare turn from fearful to speculative. I can tell from the intensity of her gaze that it's a good thing she has not been trained in Legilimency, otherwise she would be reading my very soul right now. I blink distractedly and let my eyes fall to the page. I curse myself for backing down from her, but I can't seem to maintain my calm, cool façade while I'm around her, immersed in this infernal play!

While I am determinedly reconstructing my indifferent demeanour, the scene ends. I look up again to see her still staring at me, like she's trying to decipher some old runes. Irritably, I shut the box again and scowl at her. In a dangerously calm tone, I bite out, "Miss Granger, is there a problem?"

She blinks and thoughtfully chews her lip before answering, "No, Professor."

"Then why must you persist in staring at me in such a lack-witted fashion? It is obvious you are obsessing over something. What is it that seems to be preoccupying you in the face of our assignment?"

At my question, her eyes dart away quickly. It's obvious she's hiding something. That traitorous voice speaks again. Use Legilimency again! I instantly balk at this, still unsettled by what I found last time. She is anxiously clasping her hands and worrying them, still avoiding answering me.

"Miss Granger?" I repeat acidly, one eyebrow slowly arching.

She meets my eyes again and I see the blush staining her cheeks. Then, it's as if a light has gone on inside her. Her nervous twitching stops and she takes a deep breath. With quiet composure, she sits up straight and says, "Well, sir, I was just wondering: are you planning on singing yourself or are you going to use the spell?" I see a mixture of relief and real curiosity in her eyes, and I realize that she just came up with that idea. Nevertheless, I am taken aback by her question.

Narrowing my eyes at her, I glower and sit straight in my chair, reaching for the music box and looking down my nose at her. "Keep your thoughts on your assignment, Miss Granger, not wandering into affairs that are none of your business." She deflates slightly, the spark of real curiosity guttering out, then primly returns her attention to the script. I flip the box open again.

I lean my brow against my fingers again, skimming the lines as the recording continues, consciously avoiding looking at Granger. The silence between us stretches on as the scene with the managers begins. Frankly, I'm relieved that she is just quietly sitting there.

After several minutes, I venture to look up and see her mouthing the words again. Blast! She wasn't exaggerating when she said she knew all of the songs! Damn it, I better start right away learning this thing; I refuse to lag behind this insufferable know-it-all! My nostrils flare in a silent huff of irritation.

Minutes tick by as we listen to the multi-part song that leads into "Prima Donna." I now understand how complex it will be for the others to sing their parts in such an interweaving piece. I briefly forget about Granger's presence as I focus on the intricate meshing of several voices. This brings to mind her question about my singing. I frown to myself, knowing I have not yet made that decision. I have not made many occasions to sing, but I don't think I have a bad ear or voice. On the rare occasions I indulged in song, I felt rather pleased with the quality of my performance. However, I know that this is a very important event, and I don't want to do anything that may not live up to the quality needed for competition.

Looking up at her again, I decide. Hmph. She claims she can sing. Well, we'll just have to see about that. If she sings on her own, I will. A flare of doubt interrupts me. Glumly, I continue, Unless, of course, I'm not good enough, in which case Dumbledore will cast the spell on me, in every effort to win.

Resettling myself in my chair, I scowl at the script, annoyed once more with this whole debacle. Again, I notice that there is more dialogue during the "Il Muto" performance than is on the recording. Briefly, I smirk in appreciation of the Phantom's trick of making Carlotta croak. Then, I hear his diabolical laughter and goose flesh prickles my skin. Involuntarily, I chuckle evilly right along with him.

Upon hearing me, Granger's head snaps up, her eyes wide in consternation. She sees my wicked smirk and hooded eyes and jumps, shying back from me like a frightened colt as a shiver runs through her frame. Delighting in the rush of power I feel at her reaction, I let my laughter grow along with the Phantom's. I'm enjoying the maniacal sounds issuing from both the recording and myself, appreciating the echoing in the dungeon. She shakes her head faintly and forces herself to drop her eyes back to her script. Triumphant once again, I desist and lean back lazily, stretching my legs out under my desk.

The music changes as Christine and Raoul have escaped to the roof. I let my eyes close as I listen, rolling them under my lids at the sickeningly sweet mood when "All I Ask of You" starts. How disgusting to have to watch Potter moon over her even more. He's besotted as it is. Surely she'll find it as annoying as everyone else does who has to suffer through watching them. I recall the boy's face as he walked in holding her hand at breakfast. The anger comes rushing back. Good gods, what is your problem? Why should you care if she's going out with him? Maybe if they're together they'll be less underfoot... But deep down, the possessive part of me is growling, wanting the girl that has invaded my mind so completely. I set my lips in a tight thin line and open my eyes a crack, watching her.

She is smiling, her cheeks pink, happily mouthing the words. Jealousy rears its ugly green head as I study her. The duet ends and the Phantom quietly sings his betrayal. Her smile falters and she blinks rapidly. She lifts her eyes to mine. Again, she is captured in my gaze. This time I make sure my expression is unreadable, closed. She is conflicted. I can see pleasure and pity and shame all battling for purchase. I refuse to release her from my stare until the scene ends. As the Phantom shouts "Go!," she jumps again, her eyes never leaving mine. I reach out and shut the box. At the sound of it snapping shut, she blinks, flustered. I study her a moment longer before I rise smoothly, looking into her upturned face. Her expression is wary, her body tense, like an animal ready to flee at a moment's notice.

"As this is the intermission, we will pause for a short break. If you choose to leave, Miss Granger, return in five minutes...no more. We will continue then." I spin on my heel and retreat into my office. In the shadows of my private office, I turn back and watch her, concealed from her view. She apparently watched me leave, as her gaze is fixed upon the doorway from which I spy on her. She is gripping the chair tightly, her knuckles white, her eyes dark with tumultuous emotions.

After a beat, she shakes her head and lifts her hands to her face, sighing. Her fingers are trembling as she rubs her eyes and forehead, massaging her temples. She darts a quick glance toward me again, then stands.

Idly shaking her hands from the wrist, she takes a deep breath. She exhales gustily, then covers her mouth as she yawns. Lacing her fingers together, she raises her arms above her head and leans back, stretching. I inhale sharply at the tightening in my groin as I watch her breasts strain against her robes, her nipples clearly stiff under the fabric. She grimaces and straightens, a look of chagrin on her face before nervously glancing about the room, pointedly at my door, and crossing her arms in front of her, covering her breasts.

My cock is swelling again and I reach within my robes to adjust it. I feel a surge of pleasure at my touch; the wish that it were her hand flashes across my mind. I stifle a groan at the thought and look back out at her. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, watching my door anxiously. After a peek at her watch, she sighs and sits again, fluffing her robes out over her chest, surreptitiously watching for my return. The five minutes are almost up, and I close my eyes, dreading going back in there to suffer more torment.

Setting my jaw, I straighten my robes, ensuring that my erection is invisible, and stride back to my desk. She looks up at me through her lashes, slouching in her chair, her arms folded in front of her. On a wicked impulse, I sneer at her and demand, silkily, "Sit up straight, Miss Granger. That posture is undignified and defiant. I will not tolerate such a display of insolence."

Her eyes widen in shock and dismay. Reluctantly, she slides her arms apart and places her hands in her lap. Then, blushing profusely in humiliation, she looks down as she straightens her spine. Her body is rigid with outrage and shame, and I feel a surge of smug satisfaction as well as a tingle in my loins when her hard nipples poke against her robes. Smirking to myself, I sit indolently and flick the music box open again.

She grips her script tightly, her hands trembling. She is breathing heavily, undoubtedly seething at such injustice! I force myself to look at my script and not at her enticing breasts rising and falling. Silently, I will my desire away, hoping my erection will go away soon.

Reading the stage directions during the introductory music, I muse about how much Dumbledore will revel in the staging of this masquerade. He loves his banquets and holiday balls; no doubt he'll be quite in his element in this aspect! The song plays on, and we are silent in our own thoughts, until the moment when the Phantom arrives. As he begins, I feel a tingling on my scalp, and I look up to find her staring at me in wonder. Nonplussed at her odd expression, I mechanically reach out and close the box again.

"What?"

Seemingly unperturbed by my flat tone, she gazes at me thoughtfully. After a beat, she responds, "I can't help but think of your mask and cloak that you wore to the Death Eater meetings. It just came to me last night when I read through the script."

A cold chill sweeps over me. Utterly floored that she too made the connection that I did, I swallow against the sudden dryness in my throat. "And just when did you see me like that?" I manage to rasp out.

In a low voice, she explains, "Last summer, right before the Final Battle, you appeared at Number Twelve in your Death Eater garb, straight from a meeting. I was afraid for a moment that we were being invaded, but then you pulled off your mask and left to find the other Order Members." She smiles tentatively. "I don't think I've ever been quite so glad to see you as I was at that moment, Professor Snape." A nervous chuckle follows her statement, dying out quickly in the silence.

I'm still staring at her, remembering the day in question. I can see her terrified expression again. It melted into relief when I removed my mask. I remember the jolt I felt when she smiled up at me, radiating her pleasure in seeing me. I didn't know how to feel about the sensations she evoked in me and I purposefully put her out of my mind as I went in search of Dumbledore. Now, the image of her dazzling smile hangs in front of me. Ruefully, I wonder if I could ever elicit a smile such as that one from her again.

Ignoring the pounding in my chest, I blankly turn to the box and restart the music. I glance back at her, my expression inscrutable, and she looks down, crestfallen. The scene ends, and I note that there is an entire scene left off the recording between Raoul and Giry. Vainly, I try to concentrate on the next scene. It's another song with multiple parts mixing together. Several minutes later, through which we have both remained introverted, Christine's song begins where she is faced with being the bait to try to capture the Phantom.

I glance up to see Granger mouthing the words again, her face plainly showing the pain and worry of her character. As Raoul speaks up in response, I picture Potter leading her into something dangerous, as he's done so many times before, and I feel the familiar anger rise. One of these days, Potter is going to do something rash and foolish again, and this time he's not going to come out of it a hero! My teeth grind in irritation and I stew in my resentment of bloody Potter through the next scenes.

Christine sings her melancholy song in the mausoleum, and the sombre mood settles over us in the classroom. The Phantom appears and begins luring her to him, when that interfering imbecile Raoul steps in, drawing her back again. I imagine the confrontation scene with Potter, relishing the idea of shooting fireballs at him. I wonder how much trouble I would be in if one just so happened to actually strike him? A black smile hovers on my lips at the thought. Granger is avoiding looking at me anymore.

I flip through my script to the current page, having lost track during my musings. Another scene is skipped, in which the Phantom eludes the bumbling police in their attempts to capture him. The recording proceeds directly on to the scene from "Don Juan Triumphant." My pulse speeds up at the memory of what happened when I read "The Point of No Return" the night before. I know what's coming, and my body responds in kind.

I incline my head, letting my hair cloak my face, and I watch Granger from beneath half-closed lids. As the song begins, I wait for her reaction to the blatant sexuality in the lyrics. Heat races through my body as I think of how I envisioned this scene with her, seducing her with my voice and claiming her with my body. My breathing is erratic and shaky. The tension in the room increases noticeably.

She is mechanically mouthing along with the songs until the import of the words seems to hit her. She stiffens. Her eyes widen and her lips still. Agitatedly, she turns her pages until she, too, is at the correct place. Her eyes blink rapidly, as if she's trying to comprehend something incredibly complex. At the words "sweet seduction," she swallows and I can see her chest heaving. Then, moments later, at her words "In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenceless and silent," she gasps audibly and flicks a terrified, agonized glance at me.

I keep my head down, avoiding meeting her questing gaze. I don't want her to see the desire that must be nearly incandescent, it burns so hot inside me. I am as relieved as she when the scene culminates in a scream and the sexual tension abates.

The Phantom takes Christine down to his dungeon and the others follow. I remain still, trying to maintain my composure. Granger is fighting for control over her own emotions. She is breathing erratically and nervously darting her eyes between the script, the music box, and me. Her hands keep clenching spastically. At Christine's words "This haunted face holds no horror for me now. It's in your soul that the true distortion lies," she looks up at me, and her eyes glisten with unshed tears. I still refuse to meet her gaze openly, peering through my shielding curtain of hair.

My lips thin in a grim line of displeasure when Raoul appears. Part of me identifies with the Phantom in wanting to dispose of such a nuisance, but another part of me rebukes me, knowing that my character is unbalanced and such thoughts are unworthy of me. Perhaps I wouldn't feel so strongly about it if Potter weren't the one playing the role. Fervently, I wish the end of the school year would hurry up, so I can be rid of The-Boy-Who-Annoys-Me-To-No-End.

Finally, Christine is faced with her impossible choice. My stomach roils, resenting the fact that I have never known, nor am I likely ever to know, the kind of love that saves Raoul from his fate. There is no one who would ever sacrifice herself to save me. I school my expression into a cold, stony one of indifference. This girl cannot be allowed to see the despair within me.

Eventually, Christine and Raoul depart together, and the Phantom is left a broken man. I see Granger furtively wiping her eyes and sniffling. She gulps in air and sighs, trying to calm herself. By the time the last line dies away, she is composed, but her eyes are red-rimmed, and her nose is pink.

Profoundly disturbed by the fact that I, too, felt moisture threaten at my increasing misery, I lash out at her instead. Forcefully shutting the box, I say harshly, "Come now, Miss Granger. I have no use for your snivelling. Stop being so overly emotional. It is just a play, after all." I finally toss my hair back from my face and snarl disdainfully at her.

Her eyes kindle again, indignant. Shutting her script with a bang, she looks up at me, eyes blazing. "I beg your pardon, sir. I told you this play was sad and beautiful. Forgive me for allowing my heart to feel. It really is something worth doing. Perhaps you should try it some time."

The silence following her insolent words is charged with electricity. I am momentarily struck dumb in shock that she actually made that comment out loud. Bitter rage surges through me, and her eyes widen slightly as the folly of her remark hits her. The righteous anger fades from her eyes, to be replaced by stunned fear.

I deliberately scrape my boots across the stone floor. Agonizingly slowly, I draw myself up to my full height, towering over her. The silence is deafening as I step around my desk, never taking my eyes from hers, never blinking. She is transfixed, unable to look away, terrified of what I'm going to do. I stop directly in front of her and lean down toward her menacingly. My eyes narrow. A rush of predatory power goes through me. My face is now only a hand's span from hers. Before I speak, a low growl emerges from deep within me. Her eyelids flutter in fright and her lips fall open as she gasps.

In a dangerously low voice, barely more than a murmur, I speak. "I'm certain that you have quickly grasped the enormity of your impudence. I must say that I am shocked at your outrageous audacity, Miss Granger. And after everything you promised to the headmaster, too." A sinister smile curls my lips as I whisper, "Tut, tut."

She gulps nervously, her lips trembling as she opens them to speak, and I quickly place one long, slender finger on her lips, stopping her. I am about to flay her alive with my scathing remarks, but I am stopped by the tingle I feel from my finger on her lips. It shoots through my hand to my centre. I tense in surprise. She, too, is virtually vibrating with tension as she sits as still as possible, cowering below me. As I pause to identify the sensation, I become aware of her breath puffing against my finger. I realize how soft and pliable her lips are against my skin. Rushes of heat spread out from the point of contact to all parts of my body, particularly to my groin, where my cock is once again stiffening.

Distinctly unsettled by these wild emotions running rampant, I look back at her eyes. I feel another jolt as I recognize the passion and desire lurking behind the fear.

"Fear can turn to love..."

We're rooted to the spot. Languidly, her lids droop and I nearly jump out of my skin as the tip of her tongue snakes out to flick lightly against the pad of my fingertip. Desperately fighting for control, I inhale sharply, feeling my blood pulsing through me.

Unable to stop myself, as if I'm under a spell, I speak, my voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Do not presume that I cannot feel, Miss Granger. I may not be as transparent in showing them as you are, but I do have feelings."

Her eyes lock on mine again, and the invitation is unmistakable. Breathily, her lips moving against my finger, she asks, "Then, why don't you try showing them?"

The wickedly amused voice in my head smirks, Yes, why don't you show her your feelings? Undoubtedly, she'll feel them, deep inside her... Reeling, flailing about in my mind, I grasp with all my strength onto the thought, No! She's a student, and you're letting yourself get carried away! End this nonsense and send her away!

Reluctantly, I back my finger away from her mouth. She leans forward, following it, until I hurriedly snatch my hand away. Her gaze snaps back up to mine. Confusion swirls the lust and fear in her eyes. I straighten my spine and turn away from her, ripping myself from her gaze. I pause for a moment, my robes twirling about my ankles. I can feel her stare upon me, like a brand against my back.

Stealthily, I adjust my straining erection before I return to my seat. Sitting stiffly, I turn my gaze back to her. She is nervously running a hand through her hair, chewing her lip, avoiding my eyes. She has transformed from the passionate woman back to the spooked girl.

Wearily, I say, "I believe we have spent enough time on this tonight. We will just have to save the discussion for another time. You are dismissed, Miss Granger."

She glances up at me, relief mixed with confusion apparent. Hesitantly, she asks, "Professor?"

Irritably, I drum my fingers on the desk. "What is it now?" I huff in exasperation.

She stands and humbly hangs her head. "Professor, I want to apologize for what I said. I was rude and childish, and I didn't mean it. I'm sorry for my outburst, and I will behave more maturely in the future." She pauses, but I don't respond, as it's obvious she's not done. After a few beats, she continues, her voice even lower, almost a whisper. "I know you have feelings. I didn't mean to hurt them. Anyone as brave and noble as you can't possibly be heartless. Please forgive me, sir." Her face is red with shame.

I am once again struck dumb. What is it about this silly little girl that can completely shatter my faculties? I know I'm staring at her, incredulous. Finally, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, she looks up at me. Her expression is a bizarre mixture of dignified hope, humiliation, and apprehension. I blink rapidly. I can't figure out what to say. At last, I manage to grind out, "I'm sure such an immature, undignified display will not occur again, Miss Granger. Now, return to your Tower. Our meeting is over."

Recognizing that that is as close as she'll get to me forgiving her, she accepts the tacit understanding and nods, gathering her script and scroll. Solemnly walking to the door, she pauses and turns back, offering a grave, "Good night, Professor. Thank you for meeting with me."

I am amazed at the courtesy she is determined to show, no matter what invective flows in the meantime. Grudgingly, I am impressed with her attempts at behaving like an adult. That voice pipes up again, Well, she is new at it, after all...

As she opens the door, I surprise myself by calling to her. She turns immediately, attentive. I clear my throat, and then speak. "You asked whether I plan to sing myself or not." She smiles faintly, that spark of interest back in her eyes. "I do. That is to say, I hope to do so. I suppose the headmaster will have the final say, of course." I clear my throat again as I trail off.

She smiles, and it reaches her eyes. "Indeed. I hope to do the same thing." She pauses for a beat, looking down, and then locks eyes with me as she continues. "I look forward to hearing you, sir. I'm sure your singing voice will be just as commanding as your speaking voice. But," she breaks off with a little chuckle, "I'm sure you are well aware of the effects of your voice." Her smile is warm and friendly, and a little bit something else.

I feel the tightness in my throat loosen and a soothing sensation flows through me at her smile. It lights up her whole face, like the one she gave me last summer at Number Twelve. Unsure of the very voice of which she speaks, I merely nod at her, a rusty smile tugging at my lips.

She looks down briefly, then back up as she nods. "Good night, Professor." With that, she turns smartly on her heel and exits, softly closing the door behind her.

"I'm sure you are well aware of the effects of your voice."

My thoughts tumble in my mind as I struggle to understand everything that happened this evening. Pensively, I ward the classroom door and retreat to my quarters. Painfully aware of the effects she had on me, I resolutely summon a Dreamless Sleep draught. As I prepare for bed, I toss back the potion. I can't take the chance of a replay of the night before. I have classes tomorrow!

Worriedly, I wonder what class will be like with her in it after tonight. Then, I gratefully feel my cares dissipating as the potion takes hold and I sink into sleep, ignoring the clamouring in my body. Things will surely look better in the morning...