Inscribed in Air & Fire
~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~
Chapter 8
It was shortly before the supper hour on the second Monday in October, and Annwyd was meandering through the almost leafless garden, indulging herself in a bout of self-pity—well-deserved self-pity, in her opinion. The last several days has been trying, to say the least.
To begin with, her students were giving her trouble. During the first month, when she had focused on providing demonstrations and explaining the history of her arts, she had kept their attention with surprising ease. When she had announced that they were about to begin the first of their practical lessons, there had been a gratifying show of enthusiasm. Most of that enthusiasm had dimmed quickly, however, when they realized that learning to cast a glamour was not as simple as learning to cast a spell.
The practical lessons started with breathing exercises that had to be practiced on a daily basis. She tried to explain that these were essential for sensing the subtle energies, but clearly the students found them boring. There were also mixed reactions to the observation assignments, which required them to silently attend to an object, plant, or animal for an entire hour and then record every sensory detail and emotional impression they could recall.
"Our goal is to paint a picture in the mind," she had tried to explain, "and before you can learn how to paint, you have to learn how to see." But most of the students, in spite of her explanations, were giving her impatient and dubious looks. They wanted something simple—a formula to follow or an incantation to remember—not the long, slow process of retraining the mind.
She wanted to ask Dumbledore for his input on the situation, but he and Flitwick had been away for several days on mysterious errands, and on his return the headmaster seemed so busy that she hated to bother him.
During the early part of the previous week, she had practically counted down the hours until her scheduled lunch with Lupin on Thursday. She hoped that he might provide some helpful suggestions for handling her classes, and, at any rate, it would be a relief to see a friendly face rather than the disgruntled looks that met her in the classroom. But on Wednesday she'd received a brief note canceling their plans. The note had been courteous enough—he claimed that he had mistaken the date and thus had neglected to account for another engagement—but she couldn't keep from wondering if he was still offended about whatever had gone wrong at their last visit.
She had spent a lonely Thursday evening wandering the grounds and gardens, avoiding the castle halls until the full moon was high overhead and it was finally too cold to linger out of doors, even wrapped tightly in her cloak. She hadn't seen Lupin at all on Friday, or during the weekend, and when she passed him this morning on her way to class, his smile had seemed forced. So apparently her blunder, whatever it was, was not forgiven.
And finally, Professor Snape had been worse than useless. For one thing, he seemed unable to understand why she would care if her students enjoyed their lessons. Remembering her own miserable days in the Potions classroom, she supposed that should hardly be surprising. She hadn't really expected any help from Snape on that score.
But beyond that, his demeanor towards her was rapidly wearing thin. For days now, he had been intermittently edgy and icy cold, and in either mood he spoke even less than usual. This afternoon she had finally asked him whether there was something he needed to tell her, only to be curtly dismissed till an unspecified "later."
Only a week ago, she was wondering if—perhaps—there might be a bit of hidden warmth in his eyes now and then. Well, that must have been a flight of imagination, because the look he gave her today could have made a glacier look warm by comparison.
She left the gardens and began a slow circle of the castle. As she neared the complex of greenhouses, she saw Professor Sprout emerging from number 4. For a moment, she considering retreating out of sight. She was not likely to be good company at the moment. But then she reconsidered. Maybe a good dose of the down-to-earth Herbologist would cheer her up and settle her wayward thoughts.
"Professor Sprout!" she called out to the little grey-haired witch.
Sprout looked around for a moment trying to locate the voice, then saw Annwyd emerging into the light of the building.
"Annwyd, my dear, how are you?" said Sprout.
As usual, Annwyd felt a pleasant bustle of energy from the older woman. Her worried mind relaxed just a little and she managed a smile that wasn't entirely false. "Fine, Professor. A bit chilly now that the sun's gone. But I'm fine. And yourself?"
"Can't complain, can't complain. Busy as always, of course." She locked and warded the greenhouse door behind her.
"Would you care to join me for dinner?" asked Annwyd hopefully. Yes, an evening in Sprout's solid aura might be exactly what the doctor ordered.
"I'd love to dear, but Clarice and I have some things to go over…." She shook her head. "Never a free moment these days. I'll have you round for tea next week though! I'll send you a note as soon as I figure out when I'll have an afternoon off."
Annwyd gave a resigned smile. "That would be lovely."
Sprout had been promising to invite her round for tea every week since her arrival, but the free afternoon and the invitation never seemed to materialize. Well, she consoled herself, it wasn't anything personal. She could tell that Sprout was sincere every time she made the offer. She was simply, as she claimed, terribly busy.
"Things are going well for you I hope? Students not giving you too much trouble?"
"No," said Annwyd. "The students are good—most of the time anyway."
"Good, good. Wonderful, dear," said Sprout rather distractedly. Annwyd could tell her mind was already elsewhere. Probably with the latest crop of mandrakes or the new Indian Tiger-Leaf trees.
Annwyd was about to say goodnight and leave Sprout to her own concerns when something occurred to her. "Professor Sprout, can I ask you a question? Do you know Professor Lupin very well?"
"Hmmm?" said Sprout. It took her wandering attention a second or two to return. "Lupin? No, not especially well. He seems like a very decent young man, and I know he's a good teacher—the students simply rave about his classes—but our fields don't overlap much. Why do you ask?"
"Well, do you happen to know if he has, um, something against wolves?" Now that she said it, the question sounded mildly ridiculous.
Perhaps Sprout thought so too, because she echoed in an odd voice: "Something against wolves? Did you ask if he has something against wolves?"
"Yes," said Annwyd, wishing now that she hadn't brought it up. She briefly explained her grandfather's habit of using animal names, and then described Lupin's reaction at their last lunch. "I feel like I must have offended him, but I'd have thought he'd find it amusing."
Sprout was now giving her a disapproving look. "Well, dear, under the circumstances, it wasn't very tactful, was it?"
Annwyd knew her face must be completely blank. What circumstances?
"Do you mean that you don't know?"
"Know what?"
"Oh my," said the Herbologist, shaking her head. "I thought all the faculty knew. And most of the students by now, I daresay, after Snape 'accidentally' opened his mouth the last time Professor Lupin was here."
"Professor Sprout," said Annwyd carefully, "I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I just assumed Dumbledore had told you. He told the other teachers when Remus was hired the first time. But I suppose it slipped his mind. He's even busier than the rest of us, of course, so it's not surprising. Can't imagine how he stays on top of all the things he does."
"What slipped his mind?" asked Annwyd, starting to grow impatient.
"Professor Lupin's a werewolf, dear. Has been since he was a child. Terrible shame for him of course, but he manages well enough."
A werewolf? She could think of absolutely nothing to say. Though after a second, she did manage to close her mouth when she realized she was gaping like an idiot.
"Bitten when he was just a boy," continued Sprout. "Very hard on him when he was a student here. Never would have made it through his studies if Dumbledore hadn't taken such pains to look after him."
The plump little witch delivered this information much as if Lupin had been afflicted with a particularly prolonged bout of childhood measles rather than turning into a homicidal monster once a month.
"It's much better for him now with the new potion," she added. "Doesn't have to be locked up anymore. I will say that for Severus—the man can whip up any potion you like in that dungeon of his. And it's lucky for Lupin that Snape's here. Not many Potions Masters could do it."
"Yes," said Annwyd weakly. "That's lucky."
"Oh goodness," exclaimed Sprout, looking at the little clock that hung from a chain around her neck, "Clarice must be wondering where I've gotten off to."
Annwyd nodded, not really listening.
"Have a good night, dear! And we'll have tea soon, I promise!"
Sprout bustled off towards the castle entrance nearest the Hufflepuff quarters, patting down her fly-away hair as she went. After a moment, Annwyd made her own way back to the building.
~*~
By the time she reached her rooms, Annwyd was no longer stunned. She was angry. In fact, she was downright furious. Her temper ignited only rarely, but when it did, she was as caught in its grip as a five-year-old having a tantrum. She stomped into her chambers, slammed the door behind her, and could barely resist the urge to find something to hurl against the wall.
Her one friend at Hogwarts was a werewolf. And no one—not Dumbledore, not Snape, and not Lupin—could be bothered to say a word about it.
She stormed into the bedroom and kicked off her shoes. She yanked off the robes and her dress and flung them onto the bed.
Gods, she felt like such an idiot. No wonder Lupin had been upset! The wolf remark was—how had Sprout described it? Not very tactful? That was a bloody understatement. But how in seven hells was she supposed to have known that?
She yanked off her bra and panties, pulled on a loose nightshirt, and stomped back into the sitting room.
It wouldn't have been so bad if it was a secret. She knew what it was like to have those. But it wasn't a secret—everyone at Hogwarts seemed to know, even the students. Everyone but her.
Her eye fell on her disused wand resting atop a bookcase. She wished she knew some spell for blasting holes in the wall—not glamoured holes but real ones. Big ones.
She stomped back into the bedroom, where there was also no suitable vent for her anger, and then back to the sitting room again.
All right, it had slipped Dumbledore's mind. Fair enough. But what about Snape? He could have told her. In fact, he'd found a number of occasions to make snide remarks about Lupin ever since he'd noticed them becoming friends. And, in retrospect, those remarks were always accompanied by a malicious little glint of amusement, the source of which was now abundantly clear. Apparently he was laughing at her for being in the dark, the smug bastard.
She continued to pace back and forth from sitting room to bedroom.
Maybe Lupin had been right about Snape's nasty streak. But that brought on another wave of anger. How dare Lupin lecture her about who to trust? Obviously she couldn't trust him. Or, worse still, he didn't trust her. Trusted everyone else with the truth, but not Annwyd.
Finally, she flung herself into an armchair, irritated with her own pointless pacing.
Maybe Lupin thought you already knew, said the small not-angry part of her mind.
But no, that didn't make sense. Even if he had thought that before, the incident at lunch last week should have made things clear. Surely he didn't think she'd say something so tasteless if she knew? Was his opinion of her really that low?
There was a rap at the door and she jumped at the sound.
Annwyd heaved herself out of the chair and stalked into the front room. "Who is it?" she barked at the door, half-wishing that whoever it was would go away and leave her to fume, half-wishing it would be someone she could give a piece of her mind to.
"Dinner, miss," a voice squeaked from the other side of the door.
She jerked the door open and glared at the house elf, who cowered back with the dinner tray, bobbing her pointy-eared head.
"Lolly is sorry to bother you, Miss. But Lolly is thinking that Miss will want to eat since Miss is not appearing in the Hall for dinner."
"Put it on the table," she snapped.
The elf bobbed nervously into the room.
"If Miss is needing anything—"
"No, nothing. Just leave it and go." Gods, I sound like my mother.
She was normally fond of Lolly, but at the moment she couldn't stop the words pointy-eared pest from forming in her mind in a nasty tone.
Lolly left the dinner tray on the table, gave an awkward little curtsey, then scampered out again as quickly as possible.
The fact that it was unreasonable to snap at the little creature was not lost on Annwyd, and knowing it did nothing to improve her mood. The sight and smell of the food on the tray was utterly unappealing.
She went back to the sitting room and slumped in her chair, her fit of anger starting to give way—as it always quickly did—to lingering irritation mixed with gloomy self-critique.
Most of Sprout's words had been ignored in the general shock of the revelation, but now her memory started to replay them.
"Terrible shame for him of course, but he manages well enough."
"Bitten when he was just a boy…."
You might at least attempt to have some sympathy for him, she told herself, instead of just thinking about yourself. Lupin's supposed to be your friend, isn't he?
She sighed, suddenly feeling very selfish and immature.
"Never would have made it through his studies if Dumbledore hadn't taken such pains to look after him."
And maybe, she admitted, that was the part that burned.
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
But she couldn't help it.
She didn't know much about werewolves, but enough to know that keeping one safe at Hogwarts must have been difficult.
Why not me? Why a werewolf but not a Glamour Caster? Dumbledore let Lupin stay at Hogwarts and graduate, but he was happy enough to send me packing.
Dumbledore hadn't been happy about it. She knew that. But nonetheless, he had sent her home, and the old feelings of shame and disappointment died hard.
She shook her head, annoyed by her own self-pity. She wished she were still just angry.
And really, they might have told me. I wonder what else no one's bothered to mention. Maybe the little talk that Snape keeps avoiding is leading up to the fact that he's a vampire.
That thought produced a grim smile, but nevertheless, she felt fretful.
What exactly does he want to tell me? Why does it have to be discussed in private? And why is he putting it off?
She couldn't shake the suspicion that it was going to be something she wouldn't like. And this vague sense of dread was—in spite of his recent coldness—mixed with a not-so-vague twinge of excitement at the prospect of talking to Snape in private. All in all, it left her feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Maybe I should try to eat something. Or take a hot bath. Anything but sitting here worrying and moping.
But neither a bath nor dinner sounded appealing. A moment later she was struck with another idea.
Maybe I should go downstairs and ask Snape now.
If the thing he had wanted to tell her turned out to be inconsequential, as it probably would, then she'd have no reason to worry about it further. And if it was some nasty little surprise, she might as well get it over with. Her evening could hardly go downhill from here.
Plus, she might even find an opportunity to tell him exactly what she thought of his snide remarks and unrevealing hints concerning Lupin. She got up and marched towards the door.
Halfway across the room, she realized she was barefoot and wearing a nightshirt, and she headed back to the bedroom impatiently.
She pulled on a clean pair of underwear and the simple dress she had been wearing earlier, deciding to forgo the discomfort of the bra. She hesitated for an instant as she passed the mirror. Her breasts were too full for the absence of a bra to go unnoticed. But to hell with it. She was impatient to carry out her decision. And, she added to herself with a touch of defiance, if I notice him taking a look—or not taking a look—that might help clear up the other question. She retrieved her shoes from the other side of the room where she had kicked them, put them on, and left her rooms, heading for the dungeons.
~*~
Annwyd rapped loudly on Snape's door.
No answer.
She waited a decent interval, then knocked again.
She knew Snape was there. She could feel the sense of presence through the walls, could feel his attention fixed on the door. In fact, she was surprised at how clear this impression was. He was usually so damn self-contained that it was hard to tell anything about him, but at the moment she could practically see him glaring at the door from the other side.
Well, let him glare. She wasn't going away. And if she had caught him at a rare unguarded moment, so much the better. Maybe she'd finally clear a few things up. She knocked again.
The door swung open so abruptly that she had to jump back to avoid a bruise.
"What?" It was practically a snarl.
For a moment, neither the word nor the tone registered. She was too busy reeling under the sudden waves of energy that blasted out of the room like waves of heat shimmering from an open furnace. She simply stood there, no doubt gawking stupidly.
An unguarded moment indeed, she thought, trying to collect herself enough to speak. She had, on a few rare occasions in the past, been aware of a little burst of feeling breaking through his defenses, but this was definitely more than a little burst. He seemed to be entangled in some chaos of emotion that even he was having trouble concealing.
There was a long pause.
"Well, what is it?" he snapped at last. The tone was still undeniably hostile but he seemed to have reined himself in—a little. The haze of energy still vibrated out of the room, but contracted slightly, growing tighter and denser around him.
"I need to talk to you." She managed to say it firmly.
Snape scowled and ran a hand through his already much-disheveled hair. "This is not a good time, Instructor. If there is an emergency, then apprise me of its nature as quickly as possible, and if not, then kindly see me in my office tomorrow."
He was reeling himself back in quickly. She could still sense the thick web of energies surrounding him, but already it was impossible to sort out the threads. She was both irritated and impressed.
She said nothing in response to his demand for an explanation, still trying to read the atmosphere. He made a derisive noise in his throat and reached forward to pull the door shut.
The movement jolted Annwyd out of her observations and she caught the edge of the door before it could close. "You said last week there was something we had to discuss." She stepped forward, blocking the path of the door. "You said it was important. I want to know what it is."
"Now is not the time to discuss it." Snape's mouth twisted into a grimace. "Tonight is…not a good night."
For the first time, she took a careful look at him. For whatever reason, it wasn't a good night. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked even paler than usual.
"Are you unwell, Professor?" she asked, momentarily diverted from her own purposes.
He raked his hand through his hair again. "I am…well enough. I am not, however, in any sort of mood for conversation. Good night."
For a second, she almost complied and backed out of the doorway. But her own temper was still close to the surface and, dammit, she didn't care what mood he was in.
"Perhaps I should make you some tea," she said briskly. "You look as if you could use some."
She advanced across the threshold even though he was still blocking the doorway from the inside. If he didn't step back, she was going to walk right into him. And, she noted with grim satisfaction, the ploy worked. His desire to avoid physical contact won out over his wish to keep her out of the room. He retreated a step, and then another.
"I am perfectly capable of providing my own tea, should I want it, which I do not. I will ask you again, Miss Gwir, to kindly defer this uninvited visit until another, more suitable, time."
She ignored this and proceeded further into the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
In the brighter light inside, and with Snape no longer blocking her view, Annwyd could see that something was indeed wrong. In contrast to the austere neatness of most of the room, there was a chaotic sprawl of books and parchments on the table behind him, an uneaten meal on a tray, and, rather surprisingly, an open bottle of whiskey. More notably, there were fragments of broken glass in front of the empty hearth, where something had been dropped or flung.
His white linen shirt—he had obviously dispensed with the academic robes for the evening—was unbuttoned at the throat and distinctly rumpled. There was a large blot of ink on one sleeve, and a smudge of dust or dirt on the loose shirttail—all out of character with his usual meticulous habits. His posture was unnaturally rigid, his dark eyes had an almost feverish glitter, and there was a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead.
Seeing her appraising look, he scowled in her direction, then paced into the room's center, putting more distance between them.
"Professor, are you sure that you're not ill? You look unwell."
"If you must know, I have not been sleeping well, but I will live. If you are concerned for my health, then perhaps you will allow me the remedy I request and leave me in peace."
"From the looks of things," Annwyd said, surprised at her own boldness, "you were not exactly at peace before I arrived."
He made a noise that was, perhaps, meant to be a laugh.
Before she could say anything else, his eyes locked on hers. Once again she could feel the charge of energy expanding in the room. Her own muscles suddenly felt almost as tense as his appeared to be.
"I will repeat myself, Miss Gwir." His voice was low and harsh. "I am in no mood for conversation."
She could feel him—could practically see him—gathering his defenses around himself. But even as the walls went up, she sensed that they were not exerting their usual effect. Instead of feeling pushed away, she felt pulled as if by a magnet. She moved forward until she was less than an arm's length away from him.
This time Snape held his ground.
"You look feverish," she said, and her own voice sounded hoarse.
She raised an arm and laid her hand against the side of his face. He froze and, for just an instant, she felt the jolt of contact. The surface of her body seemed electrified and she was minutely aware of the weight of the dress on her skin. Oh gods, this is not good. The thought flashed through her mind. This is not why I came here…is it?
Then Snape seized her wrist and jerked her hand away from him.
"What do you want from me, Instructor?"
He held her wrist in a vise-like grip and his eyes held hers just as firmly. Any excuses that tried to come to her lips were silenced under the force of his dark eyes. She breathed in the sweet-musky aroma of his scent and hers, and she knew that every nerve in her face and body were betraying just exactly what she wanted.
He smiled, but it was a very cold smile.
Still holding her trapped by the wrist, he brought his other hand to her face and his fingers trailed gently across her cheek, then traced the line of her jaw from chin to earlobe. She let out a long, shuddering breath. She could feel the warmth of his body next to hers, not touching her, but close enough to radiate its heat onto her skin.
"Is this what you want from me?" His harsh voice had suddenly turned soft. She trembled as his hand moved lightly over her hair and gasped when he drew his fingers down her neck. Light touches again, but leaving a trail of heat under her skin.
"Is it what you want?" he repeated in the same low voice, caressing the little hollow above her collarbone There was something wrong in his voice, something too cold and too controlled in the silky tones, but she could feel her breasts swelling against the fabric of the dress and could feel the heat spreading down her thighs as his fingers circled that sensitive hollow of skin. Her pulse was loud and her breath sounded ragged in her ears. "Is it, hmmm?" His voice was almost a whisper. It teased her nerves just as his fingers did. "Is this what you came here for?"
Her eyelids closed as she savored the touch. She nodded.
The caressing hand dropped and the other hand tightened on her wrist painfully.
"You are in the wrong place, Miss Gwir."
The sudden snarl jolted her eyes open.
"If you wish to be petted and stroked, perhaps you should visit Professor Lupin." She flinched away from the sneer in his voice and the hard look in his eyes. "The two of you seem to be friendly enough, and no doubt he will make a suitable lapdog—except during the full moon of course."
His hand returned to her face, but this time he grabbed her roughly and tipped her head back, forcing her to look at him. For a long second his eyes raked over her lips and throat, then they caught her stunned gaze and held it.
"My own tastes are rather more demanding. I doubt you'd care for them."
He released her—flung her away—and turned his back.
Her brain reeled and her body shivered and ached, as if she had been burned and then doused with cold water.
"I suggest that you leave now, Instructor."
A very good idea, said the sensible part of her spinning, confused mind. But the sensible part was very small at the moment. She drew in a long breath and looked at the man in front of her, who stood rigidly facing the other direction. She took in the lines of tension in his back and shoulders, the tightly controlled stance, the sudden twitch of his hand. The hand jerked up and pointed at the door.
"Go."
I should leave.
She didn't move. The air crackled with an energy field that held her rooted in place. It seemed to pull her forward and push her away with equal force, making it impossible to move, or breathe, or think.
The field snapped and Snape whirled around and advanced, his eyes smoldering with what appeared to be anger.
"Since you haven't the sense to find the way on your own, I will show you out." His hand closed on her upper arm and he yanked her towards the door. She wanted to twist out of his grip and run, wanted to hit him, wanted to press her shivering flesh against the heat of his.
It was impossible to tell if it was his decision or hers, but one second Annwyd was being firmly propelled across the room and the next she was pivoting, crashing into his chest.
In an instant, the entire length of her body was locked to his—her hands clutching his shoulders, his fingers seizing her hair while his other hand found the base of her spine and pulled her tight so that she gasped at the hardness of his arousal pressed against her. A moan was trapped in her throat as his mouth covered hers, his kiss rough and demanding, stealing her breath.
The hand that had caught her hair jerked back even harder, forcing her to offer her neck and throat to his lips and teeth. Her own hands clawed at his back and tangled in his hair, and her hips stayed locked to his even when his hands released her to pull and then tear with impatience at her dress. She heard—as if from a great distance away—the tiny sound of a button hitting the stone floor and bouncing. The air was cool but seemed to burn rather than chill her skin as the dress slid off one shoulder.
His lips found hers again, hungry and insistent. She tasted the whiskey-sharpness of his breath, felt his teeth close on her lower lip. His hands moved urgently over her neck and shoulders, not caressing her but claiming her, making her his. It was not the sweetness of pleasure that she felt under his touch but the fire of his raw, furious need overwhelming her, making the room pound with the sound of his heartbeat, making every molecule of air hang taut.
Clasping her tight, he pulled them both to the floor. He rolled onto her, trapping her under his body. She reached for his face, his neck, needing to feel his skin. But then he was raising himself, drawing back.
She moaned at suddenly losing the heat and weight of him pressed against her, tried to sit up to keep the embrace. But a hand on her shoulder held her down firmly while another hand pulled the skirts of her dress above her waist. With a rip of lace, the panties were torn aside and for a second his hand grasped her hip possessively.
The lamplight swam and shimmered, fever-dream bright, as she watched him unfastening his trousers.
Either he knew she was ready or he didn't care. Already he had positioned himself against her. It should have been too quick, too sudden, but it wasn't. He was looking at her now with those intense black eyes, so glittering on their surface, so bottomless in their depths. For an endless second everything was still.
She felt the desire coiled in her belly and crying in her veins, but she didn't know how close she was to climax until he entered her. When he sheathed himself in her body in one smooth, hard stroke, the harsh growl of pleasure torn from deep in his throat was enough to send her screaming over the edge.
She didn't know how long it lasted. There was no time, no part of her left separate to think. There was only the relentless thrust of him—fierce and hard and deep, as if he couldn't possibly get far enough inside her—and her own body writhing and arched against him. She had fallen from a rocky cliff down into the sea and the waves pounded over her, drowning everything but the ecstasy and the heat. And when she might have surfaced, might have drawn a sane breath, he screamed, low and guttural, and the air exploded with his release and the waves crashed over her again.
~*~
For a long time afterwards, her mind was utterly empty. Then, slowly, her dazed senses returned and she was aware of the cold floor pressed to her back and the weight of his body collapsed across her chest and the warmth of his face buried against her shoulder.
Moments later, he stirred, his cheek rubbing against her neck. After the intensity of her climax, she would have expected to be completely sated, but when he kissed her ear and filled it with a warm release of breath, her body thrilled and shivered once again.
He rolled off her, exhaled a long breath, buttoned his trousers. Then he stood and drew her to her feet. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, kissed her cheek, her temple, rubbed his face against her hair. He breathed her name into her ear. "Annwyd."
She froze, gripped by a feeling she couldn't name. She didn't help or resist as he carefully worked the ripped dress from her body. It slithered down to fall in a pool at her feet. She realized that her feet were bare though she didn't remember kicking off her shoes. She didn't recall unbuttoning his shirt, but when he stepped back, she saw that it hung open, revealing the pale, taut skin over his stomach and chest.
Her gaze moved up, wanting—suddenly needing—to find his eyes. But his eyes were not looking at her face. They were traveling slowly, intensely over her body. As if just waking from a dream, she was abruptly very aware of being naked. The nameless feeling that had frozen her in place tightened its grip, twisting her stomach and whispering in her mind.
She was afraid.
Afraid because he was a wizard, not some Muggle-lad from the village. Afraid because he was not a boy, good-hearted and clumsy, but a man who could possess her utterly and completely, who could dissolve her mind to nothing with the force of his will and desire. Afraid because this was suddenly, terribly real and she was only herself—Annwyd—exposed and unglamoured—with no mask to hide the flush rising to her cheeks.
Instinctively, her arms moved up to cover her breasts.
"No." His voice was low and soft but commanding.
Her muscles twitched with indecision, torn between the desire to shield herself from his eyes and the need to obey that commanding voice.
He grasped one of her arms firmly and lowered it to her side.
"No," he repeated, his voice even lower, deadly soft. Her other arm dropped to her side as well.
He stepped back and his eyes worked over her body. Her own eyes closed and her fingers curled into her palms. Her breath came fast and shallow. Her mind squirmed in the taut darkness. She could feel his gaze gliding slowly over her stomach and hips, could feel it probing the heat between her thighs. She shivered as the brush of his awareness slid over her ribcage and her fingernails dug into her palms as his gaze lingered, circling, on her breasts. Her nipples hardened for him, teased to aching attention by his stare.
The muscles in her legs were weak and trembling when suddenly the heat of his eyes vanished, leaving only the chilled air against her skin. Her eyes snapped open to see him turning away, picking up his wand from the table.
She remained frozen in place, motionless and speechless, as he approached her. Then a whimper was torn from her throat as one finger brushed her nipple lightly. For a second, she thought he smiled, but then he was scooping her into his arms, lifting her as easily as if she were a child. He carried her through an open door and into a darkened bedroom, laid her on the bed and sat beside her.
He murmured a word, wand in hand, and the lamps flared to life.
Annwyd looked up and saw his eyes fastened on hers, saw the lamplight glittering on the surface, saw the depths like dark tunnels behind the reflected gleam. Still holding her with his eyes, he drew his fingers over her ribs, making her gasp and quiver. She reached for him, wanting to kiss his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids, the tantalizing skin at the base of his throat. She wanted to rub against him, wanted his arms around her, wanted to hide herself against his chest.
"Be still," he whispered, pushing her back.
This time she didn't obey his voice. She was too hungry to close the distance between them. It wasn't fair that she should be naked and burning with renewed heat while he was clothed and cool and commanding. She struggled against the restraining hand, needing to embrace him, to feel his hair under her fingers and taste his mouth again.
One hand was on her shoulder. The other held the wand.
Turning the wand to point at her, he whispered an incantation. There was a flash of light brighter than the lamps, dazzling her eyes, and then she felt an unknown something tightening around her wrists. She let out a gasp of surprise as her arms were pulled back irresistibly and the magical bindings fastened her wrists to the iron posts of the bed.
She pulled and struggled against the sudden restraints, but they held tightly. Desire and sudden frustration churned in her guts.
"Don't," she pleaded. "Please. I want to touch you."
He gave a low chuckle as he laid the wand aside. "That's good," he murmured, "but you can't. Not just yet."
She tugged against the bindings again, but she knew it was useless. They didn't hurt her, but they didn't loosen no matter how hard she pulled.
"Shhh," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Be still."
He continued to brush his hand firmly but gently over her hair and his voice murmured phrases of reassurance, low and soft, as if he were trying to lead a nervous horse from a burning building, the words unimportant but the tone guiding and calming.
At last she slumped back against the bed, her resistance spent. Her eyes closed and her breathing returned to almost normal, deep and even.
"Good," he said, his hand still stroking her. "Now look at me."
She didn't think she could stay calm and still if she saw him, so she kept her eyes closed, kept her attention on the sound of her breath and the smooth repetitive motion of his fingers over her hair.
"Look at me." The undertone of command returned to his voice.
She opened her eyes and was instantly caught by his gaze. His hand left her hair and moved down to rest lightly against her stomach. His fingertips traced a path from her navel to the space between her breasts and then up to the hollow at the base of her throat. As his fingers sketched the lines of her collarbones, he must have sensed that she wanted to tear her eyes away from his, wanted to savor that shivering touch in the darkness.
"Keep looking at me," he whispered as he teased the sensitive places along her neck, making her breath quicken and her muscles tremble. "Show me how it feels." His fingers glided lightly over her ear. "Put the feeling into your eyes and show me."
They were only words, but they seemed to cast a spell she couldn't break. Her eyes were bound to his just as her wrists were bound above her. He stroked the insides of her arms and glided his fingers slowly down her sides. He found the spot of nerves where her leg joined her hip, drew patterns of heat across her thighs. Her body twisted and shivered as his hands played over it, but her eyes stayed locked on his dark gaze.
His fingers trailed back to her stomach and over her ribs again, and finally came to circle her aching breasts. The line of sight between their eyes was an almost-tangible thing, and she felt its hold tighten as his fingertips brushed her nipple. Her body strained and writhed out of control as his fingers retreated, and she thought his eyes heated with her frustration.
For a long time he teased her breasts, touching them lightly, briefly, then turning his attention to her thigh or the crease of her elbow. She was moaning, practically sobbing, when his hand finally cupped her breast and stayed there. "Show me," he whispered again as his fingers tightened on her nipple.
Dear gods it was unbearably good—his fingers working that tender point of flesh, twisting and pulling rhythmically, caressing and then pinching harder. And all the while, his eyes seemed to grow impossibly darker and deeper, his hands giving her pleasure and his eyes drinking it out of her.
Even when a fingernail bit sharp and deep into the terribly sensitive spot at the very tip of her breast, she couldn't twist her eyes away from his. Tears came to her eyes as the pressure held and then increased. His voice was crushed velvet, half growl and half purr. "That's good," he murmured, "show me everything."
And it was good, gods help her, even the pain was good. Even that was not too much to give him.
She wouldn't have thought he could push her over the edge just from touching her breasts, but she was shuddering on the brink of another climax when he stopped. She moaned and her body writhed convulsively as the release that was so close was taken away, pulled back just beyond her reach.
"Not yet," he said silkily, stroking her face, his eyes soaking up her frantic need. He brushed his fingers gently through her hair, soothing her backwards, just a little, from what she wanted. She cried out when he teasingly brushed the skin of her inner thigh, instantly at the brink once again. It seemed like an eternity that he played her back and forth along the edge, never allowing her to retreat very far from desperation but never letting her cross over the threshold.
She was sobbing and twisting under his maddening hands when once more he cruelly slowed, retreating to the lightest touches. She wanted to feel his body pressed against hers again, wanted to feel his energy crashing around her, but he was withdrawn inside himself and there was only the terribly focused heat of his fingers and the relentless pull of his gaze to connect them. The air of the room was empty of him, filled only with the pitch and fever of her own desire.
His fingers, barely touching her, slid across her skin.
"Say my name," he whispered. "Say my name."
For an instant she almost said Professor Snape, but then the name she had never called him was on her tongue with the taste of a curse or a prayer.
"Severus."
The sound of her voice breathing his name and the flash of heat in his eyes seemed to unlock a torrent of words that had been caught in her throat, and suddenly she was pleading with him, begging for him, screaming, sobbing, and then finally whispering that she needed him, wanted no one and nothing else but him.
He closed his eyes.
His mouth moved almost soundlessly and the lamps flickered and died.
For a terrible endless second she was completely alone in the dark. Then there was movement, the feel of breath against her skin, and his lips, warm and trembling, finding hers. The kiss deepened slowly. He stroked her mouth with his, and his hand moved between her thighs, caressing her inner folds, finding the place and the rhythm to release her.
Everything melted. The air turned to dark water around her and her mind floated out of time and thought. After a while she was aware, with a wordless liquid awareness, that her wrists were free and her arms were wrapped around him, his shirt gone and the skin of his back deliciously smooth and warm under her hands.
He raised himself on one arm and struggled to remove his trousers. She started to help him when something caught at the edge of her awareness. She was conscious of the warmth and scent of him, but also the pure sense of his presence, and somewhere in that presence, something was…not right.
Her mind began to reform itself out the dream-like wash of her pleasure, and she felt, with quickening certainty, a snag in the flow of his energy, a hard, cold knot of something alien and wrong.
Her eyes strained in the near-total darkness of the room and she could make out the shape of him as he kicked off the last of his clothing. He knelt between her thighs, leaned over her. Stroking her again, he murmured her name. But his touch felt far away as her gaze instinctively went to his left arm.
She shouldn't have been able to see anything but a silhouette—it was too dark to perceive colors or features—but there was something on his arm that was more than a color or shape. She fixed her entire awareness on the knot of coldness that tugged at her mind, used every skill she knew to see it.
And then she did see it. Oh gods it was on his arm but it was stamped into the fabric of his subtle body as well. A skull with a snake crawling from its open mouth. An ugly thing. A grotesque thing. A thing she had seen before.
It had been on the front page of the Daily Prophet last year after someone had cast this symbol huge and glowing into the sky. But long before that, when she was still only a child, she had seen it then. Those had been the dark days of fear and torture and murder. She had felt safe enough in her isolated village, but she knew that witches and wizards across the land were living in terror. And her grandfather, looking more stern and somber than she ever remembered, had shown her a picture of the snake and skull.
"If you ever see this symbol, Annwyd, anywhere on anything, you run away as far and as fast as you can. It's the Dark Mark, girl. The sign of the Dark Lord."