Charge

Severus looked out the window. The garden, once beautiful, had become a haven for weeds, desperate plants choked by creeping vines. Succulent flowers shone, grotesquely illuminated by the setting sun. Poison dripped from their petals, staining the grass.

A soft tread on squeaky stairs. A rustling pause. A soft click. He turned as she entered the kitchen, then swallowed heavily. Her steady look dared him to speak. He dared not. Her hair hung loose, tamed into soft waves. His fingers twitched as he imagined the texture. The rich brown of her eyes was made even more prominent by faint color and darkened lashes. Her lips...

Dropping his gaze did not help. Bare shoulders, the thinnest of straps, silk emphasizing her curves as she walked toward him. The light seemed to gather to her. Each deliberate step revealed a hint of thigh. He gripped the counter behind him, leaning back on his hands. She had not done this for him, could not know what it was doing to him.

"I see you listened," she said, brushing against him as she reached for her coffee. "Even took the initiative." She stepped back, wrapping manicured fingers around the cup.

"It's warm." She took a sip, her eyes not leaving his. "Wonderful. I didn't know you knew how."

"I have some experience brewing things, Hermione."

"Thank you. For this – and for last night."

"I see you've recovered."

"Your skills have not suffered for being out of the classroom." Her subtle taunt was deliberate.

If she wished to spar, he would oblige her. "It was never where they were best employed. Surely you realized that?"

"A number of things came to my attention where you were concerned."

"Such as?"

"Your hands – the ones you're intent on crushing. I wonder what you're hiding."

Everything. "Nothing."

She laughed. "You expect me to believe you have nothing to hide."

"Nothing that bears discussion."

She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Ah." She set down her cup. "Perhaps we should avoid talking of secrets. There are so many."

"Not all of them mine." He straightened.

"No." She stepped up beside him. "What should we discuss instead?"

"Your research," he suggested.

"Tomorrow."

"Did you have other plans this evening?" He regretted the question instantly. He did not want the answer.

"I'm as much a prisoner here as you, Severus. More, as I've been instructed to stay until the others return. So I'm left to find ways to amuse myself, and at the moment, research does not appeal."

"How unlike you."

"You don't know what I'm like. You see what everyone else sees – a trumped up little know-it-all." She could not hide the bitterness.

"Once," he conceded. "That changed."

"Did it?" She turned to him. "I've seen no indication of that."

"You had no reason to look."

"If I didn't, it was because you never gave me one. So I'll take it now, if you please."

He could not stop himself, did not want to. His hand locked on her elbow, hauling her to him. His other hand held the back of her head as he lowered his lips to hers. She tasted of coffee, and something sweeter. She yielded to him, her hand sliding up his chest. When he broke away, she sighed.

"About bloody time," she said.

His apology stuck in his throat. She stepped back and looked up at him. Her eyes glittered.

"Well, that's done." Her smile was vicious. She turned away from him, hips swaying, head held high.

Unacceptable. He closed the distance silently and wrapped his arms around her. "Not done by far, Hermione." He spun her around and kissed her, harder this time, hands on her back, pressing her to him so she would know what she had set in motion. He was not close to done.

Her fingers grasped his shirt, whether in passion or to keep from falling in those outlandish shoes he did not know. Nor did he care. If she found it too difficult to stand, he would oblige her in her fall. When she moved against him, he groaned into her mouth.

"Much better," she purred when he released her.

"It was quite lovely." Sharp clapping shattered the reverie.

Two hands snapped up, wands ready. Sirius tilted his head and laughed. "Are you going to hex me for walking into the kitchen? Though I admit my timing could have been better." He glanced at the table, the counter, the floor, raising his eyes at last to lock on Severus.

"It is but one of your failings." Severus held his wand steady. Hermione lowered hers, face flushed.

"There are so many." Sirius smiled. "It would take a lifetime to catalog them."

"I have better things to do."

"So you've said." Grey eyes raked over Hermione as she stared at the floor. "And so I see."

Her hands trembled. Severus was accustomed to the casual torment. He would not stand for it being loosed on her.

"Leave."

"Abandon her to your... ministrations? I think not."

Hermione's scream rent the air. "I do not need protection." She bit down on each word.

Snape smiled, triumphant.

"From either of you." She fixed them each with baleful glares. She stalked to the door, pushing Sirius aside to walk through. Heels struck with a sharp click as she disappeared up the stairs.

"Put away your wand, Severus. You always did like it a bit too well." The sharp words belied Sirius' casual stance.

"I could kill you where you stand."

"It doesn't seem to stick."

"Yet." He swept past Sirius.

"She set her own wards tonight, Snape. I wonder why that is."

Dark laughter raked down his back like talons. He walked stiffly to his room, closing the door to block out the sound.

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Hermione stood in the middle of her room, heart pounding. She slipped the shoes off, running her thumb along the smooth straps. Some of her plan had worked. He had liked the shoes. And more. Her stomach clenched. She had thought getting him to admit attraction would be difficult. She had miscalculated, counted on his usual reticence. She would have to adjust for contingency. And for Sirius. They had existed separately for her, but that no longer applied. Their rivalry drew them closer than either would ever admit.

Damn them. They had forced her to tip her hand more than she'd wanted. She hung up her clothes and removed the make-up. Her next move would have to be more subtle.

She flopped onto the bed, disturbing Cookshanks. He glared at her and jumped off the bed, tail stiff. She stared at the canopy, a god-awful green, and considered her options. Crookshanks mewled, looking intently at the wall in the manner of all cats receiving what she assumed were coded messages. She had never heard him make such a quiet sound. His tail flicked back and forth slowly. The mouse must be in the wall.

"Leave it be tonight. You can torment it again tomorrow." She scooped up the cat and set him outside the room. He huffed at her and walked away, tail stiff. That was more like him. She settled back onto the bed and lost herself in thought.

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Her wards presented a problem. Sirius leaned against the wall, careful to make no noise. If he looked at her again, stretched out with her hands behind her head, wearing nothing but bits of lace, he might well risk triggering the spell. He sighed softly when she banished the cat. He wasn't overly fond of cats.

The secret door was no barrier to her scent. He breathed deeply, drinking it in, a heady mix of anger and desire. So it's not just on his part. He'd not expected that, though it made perfect sense. She was, above all else, a creature of intellect. He would have to keep that in mind. He could not play on Severus' field in that regard, but neither was she one-dimensional in her criteria for a lover. And she was most definitely looking for one. Possibly more. He could accept that. Social mores aside, humans were animals and not the sort that mated exclusively.

He doubted Severus would be as sanguine about the idea. That could be entertaining, but he would have to proceed with care. The man was wound tight, always had been. Watching that spring uncoil was a delight – and very dangerous. Anything could happen.

It was worth the risk. He'd had a suspicion, since looking in the mirror, that the change to his form might not last. Perhaps the other changes would fade, as well. If he was on borrowed time, there was no reason to waste it.

He slipped silently down the hidden corridor and returned to his room. Morning would come soon enough.

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Pacing did not help, yet Severus continued. He had to do something, but his choices were few. Unraveling her wards could be done, but it would only fuel her ire. He shook his head. He had no doubt she had been eavesdropping earlier, listening as Sirius revealed things she should not know. How much did she hear? Enough that she'd thought she could tease him.

She did. And he had fallen like a school boy with little self-control. He could still feel her hair, smooth under his hand, the way she'd trembled when he'd kissed her. She'd been surprised. He laughed softly. He might have given in, but it was not unwittingly. He knew enough of artifice to pick his moments. He was sure there would have been more, had they not been interrupted.

There was some satisfaction in her fury towards Sirius, less with having to share in it. He could use it either way. She was at her least stable when angry, easier to push in the direction he wanted. For now, he would bide his time.

Tossing his coat over the door of the wardrobe, he sat down at the desk, trying to dislodge from his mind the image of her bent over it. He pulled out the spiral bound notebook he'd taken from her room and began reading her notes. They were faded in places, as if the ink had bled through paper too thin for it, though the page looked unmarred. He tilted his head, reaching for his wand.

"Let us see what you are hiding, Hermione," he whispered. A simple spell revealed pages filled with words, previously invisible under precise calculations and bald facts. Fascinated, he followed each rambling thought. Even her stream of consciousness was complex, layered, brilliant – and illuminating. She had told him the truth when she'd said he didn't know her. His chin rested on his hand as he discovered what she had really done on her summer vacation.

----------

It was Snape's fault that she could not sleep. Writing the essay had thrown off her normally strict schedule. That's not why. She stomped on the thought, but it would not go away. The anger was fading far too quickly, leaving her only with the memory of his lips, his strong hands, the press of his hips against hers.

She had every intention of beating Sirius with The Daily Prophet in the morning. In the meantime, she needed a distraction. Perhaps writing about it would put the night in perspective. She took her robe from the hook and wrapped it around her. It was an absurd thing – the costly wrapping for a present she'd not known she was expected to bestow. Burning it had crossed her mind, but it wasn't likely she'd get another silk robe anytime soon. She had earned this one.

She turned to the desk, putting away the makeup, making space to think and write. Her head cleared along with the surface. Everything would be fine. She would figure out how to face them tomorrow. And what to do about them after that.

She went to the bed and slid her hand under the mattress. The notebook was not there. She frowned, looking around the room. Sorting through the desk drawers revealed nothing but a few dried bits of something. She shuddered and hastily closed them. A horrifying thought dawned on her. In the middle of the night, she had gone downstairs to check her notes. In her exhaustion, she must have left the notebook in the library. Idiot. She would have to retrieve it. She belted the robe and left the room.

The hall was abandoned. She heaved a sigh of relief. Given the way the evening had gone, she didn't think she could bear running into Sirius, much less Snape. She tiptoed down the stairs, hovering at the door of the library, listening. She heard nothing.

The fire had burned down, the only light in the room provided by glowing coals. The moon was hidden behind dark clouds. She crossed to the desk. No notebook. She checked the drawers and found them blessedly free of desiccated things. Unfortunately, they were also free of poorly bound paper. She went through the stacks of books, though it was obviously not there. Stifling her panic, she turned away from the desk. Silver patterns appeared on the floor as the moon revealed itself. Light glinted off of something. She bent down to see what it was and pulled the notebook from under the desk. She clutched it to her chest and closed her eyes. Disaster averted. She needed to be more careful.

"A notebook, Hermione? How... quaint." His voice dropped over her, trapping her beneath layers of shame. For six years, she had kept her Muggle talismans secret. To have him make the discovery was more than painful.

"It's just notes from my research this summer." At least she was not forced to lie.

"I see."

I doubt that. She kept her back to him, afraid to turn around and see the scorn in his eyes. The room grew warmer, the revived fire casting flickering shadows on the shelves.

"I didn't hear you come in."

"Possibly because I was sitting in the chair when you arrived, though you never were the most observant of pupils."

"For all that, I did well enough – even in your class." Her fingers curled around the edges of the notebook, bending it.

"Sneaking off to the library in the middle of the night seems to be a habit of yours."

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted, turning slowly to face him.

"Nor I. Far too many things to contemplate." Long fingers stroked the back of the chair. "Perhaps you would like to share your summer discoveries."

"I thought we'd agreed to discuss research tomorrow." This was steadier ground.

"No," he said, moving toward her. "You put forth the conditions. I agreed to nothing."

She stumbled backwards, bumping against the desk. He plucked the notebook from her hands. It landed behind her with a soft thwap. She resisted the urge to grab it.

"I... I should go to bed. This can wait until morning."

"I think not." He leaned down and kissed her. It was everything the moments in the kitchen had not been – cautious, gentle, long. When she caught her breath, she was grateful for the support of the solid desk. She opened her mouth to speak and he claimed it again, stronger, insistent.

"Don't speak," he whispered. "Feel." His hands slid across her waist, loosening the belt. The robe fell open. She shivered, looking away.

"Look at me," he commanded. She met his gaze and froze at the light in his dark eyes. "This ends when you speak."

He was giving her the chance to leave. She knew she should take it. And then what? A sleepless night spent dreaming of what she had denied herself. A lifetime of 'what if?' It would drive her mad.

She nodded and was rewarded with another kiss. He wrapped his arms around her, warming her, pulling her closer. She wriggled, pressing against him, the soft cotton of his shirt brushing against her chest as his kisses trailed down her neck. One hand dropped to her thigh, pushing the robe away, sliding up – and up. She gasped, hoping desperately that it did not count as speaking. His fingers continued to play, gliding over her hip bone, slipping under the insubstantial lace, exploring. She hardly noticed when the thong disappeared. She arched her back as he stroked her, crying out when he delved into her secrets.

"Lovely," he murmured, slipping another finger inside her. She clenched around them, breathing raggedly. It was not enough. She trailed her hand over his chest, his stomach, lower. His turn to moan. He released her, pushing her hand away.

"Not yet." He lifted her, setting her on the desk, laughing as her eyes widened. The robe slid off her shoulders. He kissed them in turn. He lowered his head and rubbed his cheek over one breast, pausing to kiss the exposed curve before moving on. She reached up to unhook her bra. He grabbed her wrists, pulling them back and down until her back bowed.

"Not. Yet." He kissed her again, harder, demanding. He released her hands and trailed kisses from her neck to her navel. She clutched the edge of the desk as he pressed her legs apart, just a little wider than was comfortable.

Surely now. She tensed, hoping she had not spoken aloud. Desperate, she searched his face. With a satisfied smile, he dropped to his knees. His breath was warm against her thigh. She squirmed as he repeated leisurely kisses on the other side. His dark laugh swirled around her, lingering as his tongue flicked out. Oh, lord. She shuddered, a slave to his mouth. Three fingers this time, stretching her. She pushed against them, moaning as he pressed further. They curled inside her and the world exploded.

"Shh." He stood, holding her until the shaking subsided. Then he picked her up and carried her across the room.

"Are you ready to speak?" he asked, setting her on her feet. She shook her head. She could not speak if she'd wanted to. And she most certainly did not.

"Good girl." With a flick of his fingers, he unhooked her bra and dropped it on the floor. He sat on the couch and pulled her to him. Her legs trembled as he took her nipple into his mouth, tongue running in circles until it stood at attention.

"Trouble standing? That won't do." He pulled her closer, keeping his knees together so she would have to part her legs. His hands dropped to her waist, supporting her as she straddled him. He was hard against her. She slid back on his thighs and reached a tentative hand to stroke him through the cloth. He did not stop her this time, shaking as she opened his trousers and wrapped her hand around him. His fingers gripped her hips as he raised her up, then slowly uncurled. His eyes held a question. She lowered herself in answer, letting him fill her, stretch her, possess her.

Her hands gripped his shoulders as he moved inside her, maddeningly slow. He kept his eyes locked on hers, conveying what he would not say aloud. She kissed her understanding, fingers straying to lay against his chest. He quickened the pace until it was a heartbeat. Hers, his – there was no distinction. She tightened around him, struggling to postpone her release. He groaned, holding her still.

Her turn. She pushed his hands away, leaning to drive him deeper into her, then sliding back. When he threw his head back, she kissed his neck, sucking gently at the spot where it joined the shoulder. His hands came back to her hips, the look he gave her saying more than words that he would not be denied. She smiled at him, raising up on her knees, challenging. He returned the smile and slammed her back down. She leaned into him and did it again. And again.

"You will not win," he ground out, controlling their movement. Faster, frantic.

She kissed him, fierce, desperate, wanting. And then she whispered, "I already have."

It ended when she spoke, her voice bringing his release.