by: ScarletDeva
Author’s Note: And another one. Apparently they make do with about once a week. I don’t know if I will do every week they have left till graduation but I will try. Review please.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not yours probably either. Oh well.
Dedicated to: Shawn, who encourages my damn HP muse, and Wild-Melody, who is just plain cool.
Rating: R.
Review Responses:
‘Airelle Vilka’ – I cannot believe you called Snape Snapey-poo. Be ashamed. A lot. LOL. Meanwhile, I will be christening many other places in the castle in this manner… Heh.
‘HarryPotterWanter’ – Thank you. They’re slightly loony I think. Anyway, keep reading and you will know all. Oh and thanks for giving me another idea for one of these episodes. Heh.
‘Fiery
Slut’ – Torrid was the idea. And I am trying to update quite a bit. This fic won’t let me stop for some reason.
‘Hartfelt’ – Thanks chiquita.
‘Dagmar’ – Well as long as you liked dear…
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Hermione walked out of the secret entrance to the
Headmaster’s office, her shoulders stiff, her face as pale as newly fallen snow
and her eyes darkened to a brown so deep that it was almost black. She just reported back from her latest scout
mission, three dead and two badly wounded.
It was a trap, a setup and she fell for it. Walked right in like an idiot child. Her second-in-command was hit with three
Curses at once. She couldn’t help,
having to defend herself against a high-ranking Death Eater. Adia Marnes, her friend, her co-conspirator in silly jokes to
play on the other prefects and the Head Boy, died screaming her name in
warning. So Hermione lived and Adia was in a better place, supposedly. Along with Gavin Dunnesbury and
Draco climbed out of the portrait entrance to the Slytherin common room into the general dungeon area. It was just past curfew and he was tired of sitting around with his foolish House-mates. They were all either talking about licking Voldemort’s behind or, well a small group anyway, discussing battle strategy against the said Dark Lord. He wanted no part of it. He turned a corner, then another and felt something barrel into him, slamming him into the wall.
“Make me forget, now!” he was roughly ordered in a voice that did not sound completely familiar. It was ragged, low, and full of anguish. The dim light of the dungeon hallways allowed him to make out Hermione’s face. It was smudged with soot and streaked with blood, one cut near her lip still bleeding freely. He pushed her back a little, examining her quickly. The heavy-duty black leather pants, which the Hogwarts student squads have been using as uniform, were ripped in places and blood could be seen coagulating between the gaping holes of the fabric. Her fitted black shirt was shredded, covered with dirt, ashes and more blood than could have been hers. He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers and was startled at her expression. She was glaring, impatience glowing in her eyes, a very single-minded impatience. He swallowed.
“Now!” she said again and yanked his head towards her, almost bumping their foreheads. Their mouths clashed and she shoved him against the wall again, her hands ripping apart his robes immediately and zeroing in on his pants. He gasped into her mouth as her palm settled over his zipper, and she bit his tongue, feeling him grow and stiffen under her hand. Suddenly, she had power over what happened in her life, even if it was as simple as this, if this could be called simple.
He ripped his mouth away from hers and began nipping his way across her jaw, his hands settling firmly on her hips. She leaned into his kisses and moaned, her free hand slipping under his shirt and straight for a pebbled nipple. He groaned, bucking his hips into her palm, which immediately began small circular movements, eliciting more groans from him. He ducked his head and bit the tender skin on the side of her neck. She jerked, pressing up against him, her busy hands exerting more tantalizing pressure on his sensitive body. The flow of feeling that she was causing in him blanked out the world. Voldemort could show up just then and all he wanted to do was… He laved at her neck and then moved up to her ear, caressing the delicate shell with an eager tongue. He felt her whole body tremble violently and his hands caressed her stomach and skimmed higher, her trembling intensifying, until he reached the collar and yanked. The black fabric fluttered down and she swayed against him, her hands suddenly abandoning their tasks and, judging by the metallic twang, moving to undo his zipper. Her fingers sneaked into the opening at the front of his boxers and the skin on skin contact, the first that week, made him snarl with the terribly sweet ache of it. He spun her around, pushing her against the wall, his hands discovering the sturdy but delicate lines of her black bra. Impatient, he slipped his fingers under the under-wire and yanked it up, leaving it hanging limply over her chest. His tireless fingertips roamed over the newly bared skin, tugging, pinching, caressing.
She leaned back against the wall, her body limp, with only her hands showing any signs of life as they skillfully finished undoing his pants and maneuvered them down his legs along with his boxers. She explored the re-discovered area blindly, her eyes never leaving his face, which was stamped with a frown of intense concentration. His jaw tensed as she let her fingers enclose around the very stiff evidence of his arousal. She moaned lightly as he found a particularly sensitive spot on her ribs and tightened her hold, moving her fingers up and down slowly. This was about control, taking it, letting go of it, and she was determined to prove to herself, and by extension the world, that she could do both and force him to do the same. A few quick tugs in succession and he snarled, slapping her hands away.
He grabbed her zipper and yanked it savagely, shoving the pants and the panties down harshly. She made him lose control and his father would have him killed if he knew but he liked it. A lot. He stepped out of his own clothes and removed the offending items from around her feet, tossing them all callously to the side. She responded by tugging on the hem of his sweater and he smirked unconsciously as he allowed her to remove it. He stalked closer to her, leaving her almost melded into the wall and grabbed her hips, lifting her up, allowing her to wrap her legs around his hips. He bit her lower lip and moved his mouth next to her ear, his heated breathing leaving her shivering.
“Whose blood was it?” he demanded hotly.
“Adia’s,” she whimpered and turned her head to lick the side of his face. He groaned and repositioned her, slamming into her body a brief moment later. Her fingers clutched his shoulders tightly and his were pressing into her hips, tightening their grip each time their bodies joined together. The frozen wall on the sweat and blood slicked skin of her back was a sharp contrast to anywhere where her skin met his. She felt like he emitted heat, painful, sweet, dizzying, setting her straight into a place where all she knew was his touch, his voice. No need to worry, just to lose control, lose reality. It was better that way.
He kept a firm grasp on her body, keeping her at the right angle and just high enough for him to hit the right spots. And he hit them, hard, fast, angry, making her scream in a way that the old dungeons have never heard before. He closed his eyes, his body already familiar with the rhythms of hers, denying himself the view of the blood, the soot, the dirt. He felt one of her hands brush over his hard-lined chest and stop at his left nipple, worrying it. His Quiddich-hardened leg muscles began to quiver gently and for a moment he wondered if he could keep this up before she flicked her fingers and he forgot to think.
She watched as the heat between them took him away too lost herself in the desire to take all of him, to possess him, for he was her only outlet and she could no longer survive without one. He leaned forward and kissed her, softly, in a manner that conflicted with the ferocity of the maelstrom that moved over and inside her skin. That was the last push she needed and her body felt like it was exploding ever so slowly, the jagged edges of her oblivion colored strangely silver and red.
He felt her tremble around him and pulled back one last time, before slamming into her harder than before, allowing her explosions to become his. His legs gave out and they sank to the ground still connected. He slumped back onto the floor, rolling her onto his chest and sighing, his vision spotted with golden sparks.
“She’s gone,” she said after a few minutes in a little girl voice.
“Yes,” he replied, his fingers unconsciously tracing idle patterns on her back.
“I’m dead too,” she stated in a calm voice.
“You can’t escape yet,” he informed her, a slight tinge of his aristocratic roots showing up in his tone.
“Only every so often,” she said thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he echoed, wondering if these moments were repayment for the all the ones they could not stand or if they would have to pay extra, in more blood, in more pain. He closed his eyes against it and just listened to her breathe.