2. The Spiderman is Having You for Dinner

Wrapped Around Your Finger

The Spiderman is Having You for Dinner

"Be still be calm be quiet now my precious boy, don't struggle like that or I will only love you more

The Cure, "Lullaby," from the album "Disintegration"

He stops at the door, one hand reaching out towards the knob but not touching it. This hesitation is new. Why does he wait? Is he suddenly afraid? How unlike him. Yet I can't think of another explanation.

"Trying to postpone the inevitable, Severus?" I ask, then wince. I'm not usually quite so malicious. What's wrong with me? Am I having an attack of conscience after his earlier accusations? I push the idea aside. Not going to let that happen. I've seen what happens to nice people. Nice people get killed. I remember flashes of the final battle. The blood, the blinding light from the curses. Finding Dean's body, so twisted and mangled I didn't know it was him at first. And alongside that the rising anguish of my parents' death, a wound that will never fully heal, offering me to the sweet darkness of oblivion as I lapsed into unconsciousness...

No, indeed. I'm quite done with being nice. Aren't I?

As if he's reading my thoughts he murmurs: "You didn't used to be so vicious."

"I learned from a master," I retort.

"Touché," he answers, and slowly opens the door.

I can almost feel his apprehension. This I understand perfectly, for he never knows quite what will be waiting for him in this room. It all depends on my mood at the time. If I'm feeling generous, it's a simple bed. Sometimes I even decorate in neutral colors instead of the burgundy and gold of Gryffindor. If he's pissed me off, it gets more elaborate. Who knew transmogrifying a sofa into a torture rack could be so much fun? I didn't use it on him: I'm not a monster. But the expression on his face was exquisite. He was as docile as a lamb that day.

Today, despite our earlier discussion, I am in a gentle mood. Under different circumstances, I'd call it romantic. But that word isn't quite fitting here, considering that he's bound to my will whether he likes it or not. Still, some part of me hopes that he'll at least be pliant when he sees the room this time. I took special care. The bed is iron and mahogany, covered with velvet and silk in soft shades of purple and gray. Candles glow from all corners, and a faint scent of rose and amber fills the air.

"How elegant," he jeers.

"I can be gracious at times," I say.

He shakes his head as he walks into the room. His eyes absorb everything in a matter of seconds. When he looks at me he has an eyebrow raised.

"Very sensual. Planning on trying to seduce me? I don't imagine I need to tell you what a waste of time that would be. Or are you just trying to indulge in a ridiculous fantasy?"

I frown as I enter and close the door behind me. I hate these sudden mood shifts. "You're not very grateful for the change of pace."

"Oh, how remiss of me." His eyes take on a hateful glare. "Thank you, Hermione, for going to all the trouble to make our surroundings so pleasant while you compel me to satisfy your desires. It really is too kind of you."

"That's enough," I snap.

He subsides, but not before giving me an angry look. Well, I haven't changed my mind. Gryffindor stubbornness and all. I think a charge of pace is in order.

I gesture at a crystal decanter on a small table between two chairs. "Pour me a drink."

He obeys, his movements graceful and precise. When he hands me the glass I say: "And now one for yourself."

His eyes widen, but he makes no comment. I sit down in one of the black leather chairs, enjoying the smell of it, the smooth, buttery texture. He finishes pouring his drink and looks at me expectantly. I wave a hand at the empty chair. "Sit down."

Now that got his attention. I don't always let him sit in a chair. The floor near my feet, often. On my lap, once. O how he hated that! I almost chuckle at the memory. He sits down and looks at me warily, holding his glass close as if it were a shield. I raise mine out towards him in a toast.

"To the waters of Lethe!" I proclaim, taking a gulp of the absinthe.

He follows suit, still on edge. "Drink up, Severus, it's not poisoned," I state gently.

"If you say so," he mutters. But he kills the glass.

I take a few more quick swallows, then hold out my half-empty glass for him to top off. He does so, then refills his own and sits back down, taking a small, slow sip.

"How is it?" I ask.

"Adequate," he replies. "Though why you added vanilla is beyond me."

I shrug. "I like to experiment."

"So it would seem."

I stare at him, but his face is neutral, composed. I say nothing but gesture for him to continue drinking. Now the wariness is back. I can almost hear the gears revolving inside his head. Am I trying to get him drunk to dull his senses for what's to come?

"Such suspicion," I chide him.

He takes a long sip. "This is hardly necessary."

"I'm not doing it out of necessity, Severus."

" Why do you want to get me drunk, Hermione?"

Damn him and his exasperative ways. "I just want you to relax."

"Return me to my pre-conviction state and I promise you I'll relax."

I roll my eyes. "How do you propose I do that?"

"You're the smartest witch to graduate Hogwarts in twenty years, I'm sure you could think of a way if you wanted to."

"Are you implying that I don't want to see you exonerated?"

"You tell me, Know-It-All."

I glance down. He continues his verbal assault, though his voice is quiet.

"You like being able to control me, don't you? Go on, admit it. It's not like I can do anything about it."

I give him an angry stare. "Can you blame me? After all those years of you tormenting me and Harry and Ron? Belittling us, turning cruelty into an art form? Taunting Sirius until he risked his safety and ended up dead? If you hadn't have thrown Harry out of Occlumency in fifth year, maybe he could've kept Voldemort from seeing what Albus was doing. It's your fault Albus has run off."

"MY fault? That brat Potter violated my privacy!"

"That brat, as you say, was a fifteen year old boy at the time. Sure, what he did was wrong. But you... you're an adult. An adult still nursing grudges from when you were that age!"

"Do you have a point to this analysis of my character?"

"My point, dear Severus, is that YOU are not nice."

"So my actions excuse yours?"

"I don't need absolution from you, Severus. I don't treat you any worse than the other servants get. In most ways I treat you a hell of a lot better."

"Except for times like these."

"Let's go back in time then, shall we, and watch how you treated your muggle victims? I'm sure you were so caring, so considerate of them as you poured potions down their throats to see what effect they'd have!"

"Is that what this is about?" he asks. "You want to punish me on behalf of every muggle I ever tortured?"

I snort derisively. "You don't understand anything."

"Then enlighten me."

I set my empty glass down. "I'm through talking. And so are you."

"What a surprise," he mutters.

"Go run a bath. Add some windwalk and lavender."

"And what temperature would her highness like the water?" he scowls.

I smile. "Whatever temperature is most comfortable for you. It's your bath."

"I'm not dirty," he says quickly.

"Go run the bath."

He glares, but obeys.

I have one final taste, then refill his glass and carry it into the bathroom with me. He's just finished adding the fragrances.

I hand him the glass. "Drink it all, quickly," I tell him.

Again he complies. When he's drained the last drop of absinthe he says: "you still haven't explained this."

"What's to explain?" I ask, sitting the glass down and turning to face him.

"Why do you care if I'm relaxed or not?"

I chew on my lower lip. How can I tell him the truth, that what I truly want is for him to come to me willingly, but I know I'll never have that? How can I tell him that this is as close as I can get? And...Gods help me; some part of me truly enjoys this!

I can't. That would give him an edge. Leverage.

"It's easier for me," I say with a shrug.

"Is it really," he murmurs.

The steaming bath, the soft fragrances and his nearness are making the desire rise in me. Whatever bits of conscience have tried to resurface today are shoved down. Only the hunger remains, as strong and sweet as ever and demanding fulfillment.

He's watching me now, trying to figure out the angle of my actions. The absinthe is kicking in: I can tell by the slightly glassy look in his eyes. His breathing has slowed as well.

"Now what?" he asks, voice slightly deeper than usual. My body responds to his voice, as it always has.

"Come here," I bid gently.

He moves closer but still stands about a foot away. I reach out for him, wrapping my arms around his waist to bring him against me. He makes no effort to stop me. I slide my arms up around his neck, and, because I can no longer withstand my wanting, I press my lips to his.

He neither resists nor responds, the barrier of his closed lips frustrating me. "Open your mouth," I whisper.

He makes a soft sound then, of anger and helplessness. He doesn't want to give over. Not that I blame him. I wait, and he waits; too long, regrettably for him, because the next second he's bent over gasping in agony. I lower him down onto the floor and hold him until the spasm passes.

"You knew that would happen," I remind him once he recovers.

He tries to pull away, but I tighten my hold. He stops moving. "I didn't care."

"You are supposed to obey."

His eyes are as dark as I've ever seen them. "I... don't... want to."

"It doesn't matter to the cruciatus what you want."

He sighs. I take his face in my hands. "Stop fighting me," I tell him.

His nostrils flare. "No."

"Then you're in for a rather painful stretch today."

He resists twice more. That's usually his limit, though he has made it to four and even five times once before he capitulated. The fourth time I kiss him I know I've won. His lips part under mine and he lets me ease my tongue into his mouth. Adrenaline rushes through me in one shock wave after another. How can I want this so desperately? How can a rational, intelligent person want to so utterly consume someone else that they abandon all ethics? How ironic that Severus called me a Know-It-All and I have no answer to what should be a simple question.

I stop the kiss. "Your bath is getting cold," I say.

"I'm devastated," he snips.

"Stand up."

He does. "I'm telling you, this is pointless."

I move behind him and circle his waist with my arms. "Let me be the judge of that."

"Forgive me if I don't trust your judgment."

Now I'm getting angry. I decide that I've put up with quite enough for the moment. My hands move to his shirt. I grasp the ends and pull hard and fast. The silk rends easily, buttons flying off like fireworks, revealing his smooth pale chest.

"Dramatic, aren't you?" he comments.

I push the shirt off and let it fall to the floor. I show as little mercy to the rest of his clothes, and a few minutes later he is naked before me.