She ground herself painfully into me, her sharp hips against my own. Our friction was frenzied, standing there, clawing at each other. Her lips bled beneath my fervor, but neither of us cared. Just the taste of her spurred me on, the coppery tang of her purest self. Her tongue, fiery as a poker, probed my mouth in such an achingly slow manner, I thought I was dying an exquisitely painful death.

The terribly dark feeling of not caring for this girl clouded my thoughts and hazed my vision. I wanted to crush her beneath me, to cease her hurried breaths and ragged gasps for air. The need to cruelly ingest each breath she took, so she would have none of her own, was too great. I pulled her hair so hard, she wheezed. Her breasts were pressed so two dimensionally against me, it took me minutes to discern where she ended and I began. This was too much, this pent up rage. If we continued like this, we would kill each other. I could already feel the hard ridges from her nails that she had made on the nape of my neck.

I pushed my leg farther between hers, and she groaned. I thought she was in pain, and I dropped it. She looked at me with such an earth shakingly lustful gaze, that I almost came.

She took my hand and guided it. , I panted, we can't do this. She froze, her body stiffened beneath mine. Her hands lay rigidly at her sides, and she looked like a morbid reenactment of her second year petrified self. Her lips, red and bleeding, were slightly open and swollen, and she stared at me with a very peering look. Almost as if she could see straight through me. I looked away, I can't stand the thought of anyone seeing inside my head.

, she asked, her voice unruffled as the surface of the dormant lake. Because this isn't right. You're a student, I'm an old man. Go away, Granger. Fly away to your Weasley, I said callously. I felt exactly what I meant, but also an overwhelming jealous anger that it would inevitably be Weasley or Potter with her heart in tow.

You're a true bastard, Severus Snape. Why can't you just accept the fact that my feelings are genuine and not misplaced affections? I'm not a student anymore, I'm a grown woman and am certainly less suscept to hormonal rages. I've felt something for you since the minute I heard it was you trying to save Harry and not kill him. What kind of man would swallow his pride in such a humliatingly public way and save the boy of a man that nearly killed him? I admire you, and I hate you. Just because you don't think you deserve happiness doesn't mean that no one else does, she finished scathingly. I felt sufficiently less smug.

She took of my cloak and threw to me. I felt incredibly restrained in my trousers as I saw her lithe form briefly in the torchlit hall. She leaned forward and kissed my very chastely on my cheek. Gods, she smelled delirious.

If you really care, meet me here tomorrow, was all she said before she disappeared quickly into the dark.









































A/N: Sorry for length. Anyway, would appreciate more reviews. Title from an old Persian poem. This story dedicated to the fabulous Richard Harris, RIP. You Were Dumbledore.