Home. Oh, thank God. And it's Friday night. I can actually rest.
A blast of freezing air and a several swirling snowflakes accompanied her in through the door. She had rarely been so relieved to get back to her modest little flat. It wasn't that today had been an extraordinarily long or difficult day; just that she'd been so fatigued from beginning to end. She'd had to take three separate doses of Pepper-Up Potion just to be able to keep functioning at an energy level even close to normal.
Her logical self could no long deny that all right, all right, she was feeling a little run down. She fully intended to take care of it, too- she would get a good night's sleep tonight. After she'd gotten all her work done, of course.
There was something bothering her, though; teasing the very edges of her mind. She just couldn't shake the feeling that she'd come home too soon. Had forgotten about something important.
It was all very abstract, though. She couldn't remember having any engagements for tonight, and Hermione Jane Granger did not forget important engagements, so if she couldn't remember one than there must not be one.
The logic was flawless.
She'd barely dropped her bag to the floor and shrugged out of her coat and scarf, leaving them draped over the back of a kitchen chair, when the doorbell rang. She groaned out loud; she so did not feel up to company.
She was working on the plait in her hair as she approached the door, glanced out the peephole, and then quickly opened it to reveal-
"Ginevra Potter! What on earth are you doing here?"
Standing on the other side of the door, looking both very pretty and very cold in a dark blue, snow-dusted traveling cloak and a scarf wrapped several times around her neck and up over her chin, her flaming hair stuffed into a winter hat- a hand-knitted Molly Weasley specialty- with just a few bright red tendrils escaping here and there, was Hermione's former Housemate, and Harry's wife. Leaving her braid half undone, Hermione ushered her quickly into the flat.
"I brought you a few things," Ginny said, walking straight to Hermione's small scrubbed-oak table and depositing the bundle she'd been carrying on top of it. "I heard you were under the weather."
Hermione stared at her in frank amazement. "Where did you hear that? I haven't said anything to Harry or Ron."
"Padma Patil," Ginny said distractedly, as she began emptying the contents of her parcel onto Hermione's nearby kitchen counter. There was a large covered bowl, a heavy thermos, and a couple of small, yet very healthy and vibrant looking, potted herbs. Opening Hermione's cupboard, she pulled out a pot, set it on the stovetop, dumped the contents of the bowl into it, and turned on the heat.
"But you don't talk to Padma," said Hermione, flummoxed, "do you?"
"Not to Padma, to Parvati," Ginny said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "She brought her son over for a play-date with the twins today. She said Padma saw you last night, and that she said you were ill. So I brought you some homemade chicken soup, and some of mum's special tea, you know, the sort you really like. And a couple of aromatic clippings from my windowsill garden. They won't help you with your cold, but they do brighten a place up in the middle of the winter. Listen, I know I ought to stay and watch you eat this, but it's nearly time to feed the twins and put them down for the night… and Harry just can't handle it all on his own. He says he can, mind you, but I know better. So I've got to go- but you must promise you'll eat some of it, Hermione. Won't you?"
Hermione couldn't help but smile- how very like her mother Ginny had become, with all her bustling about and her domestic offerings and her air of distracted, almost maternal concern. "Yes, I'll have some as soon as it's warm," she said, "and then I'm straight to bed."
Ginny grinned back at her. "Liar," she said. "You have no intention of going straight to bed. Just do all those who care about you a favor and don't go out again tonight; if you've work to do, do it at home, and don't stay up too late. If you venture out in that weather again you're sure to get worse, not better."
"Deal," Hermione said. "Thanks, Gin. It smells good already." This last was a lie; her nose had been consistently plugged for days. She couldn't smell a thing.
"Not a problem. Harry always says the portions I make are far too big anyway. But what can I say- I learned to cook from my mum. Oh, speaking of which, she said to ask you to dinner at the Burrow on Sunday- Ron will be in town; the Cannons're playing a home game. So you have to take care of yourself and get better. If you miss him Sunday, I've no idea when he'll be back."
Just inside the door she paused one more time. "Oh, I nearly forgot," she said, thrusting one hand deep into a pocket of her cloak. "Harry sent these along for you. He reckons you need them both. Bye, Hermione… feel better, all right?"
And she was gone in a blast of cold air, leaving Hermione standing by the door and looking down at the two items in her hands. A package of Muggle flu medication; TheraFlu, to be exact; and a sprig of mistletoe.
00000
She was asleep in her bathrobe, with her arms folded on the kitchen table and her head resting on them, the second time the doorbell rang. She bolted upright with a guilty start- she had meant to get twenty essays graded tonight, and she'd barely got through four… and besides which there was still that nagging, teasing feeling that she'd forgotten something major- had messed up big in some profound way.
She got to her feet too quickly, sending her head spinning, and had to take a moment to steady herself. By this time whoever was on the other side of her front door had commenced pounding on it.
"I'm coming!" she called, belting her robe more tightly about herself and making for the door. She'd had a feeling she hadn't seen the end of Ginny when the redhead had left, reluctantly, three hours or so ago. Honestly, chicken soup couldn't cure everything- not even wizarding chicken soup.
Not that she needed curing. She'd taken a double dose of cold medicine; that should be more than enough- since there was nothing really wrong with her, anyway. Nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix… which she intended to indulge in just as soon as she'd marked those twenty essays. Which she'd have an easier time doing if well-intentioned Weasleys- sorry, Potters- oh, who could keep it straight anymore?- didn't keep knocking on her door!
She chose to ignore the fact that she'd been dozing, rather than working, just a moment ago.
Her head was too foggy to come up with a good justification for that, so for the time being she let it slide.
"I told you, Ginny," she groused as she unlocked the door and swung it open, "for Merlin's sake, I'm-" and then she saw who it was.
She just stood there for a long, long moment, staring- her groggy, unwell state, in addition to the shock of finding this particular person on her doorstep, had robbed her of her normal sense of social protocol. Several seconds passed before she realized that her mouth was hanging open and she shut it with a snap. She blinked. When she opened her eyes, he was still there. She blinked again, holding her eyes shut this time; one… two… three-
When she opened them a second time, he was still there.
"Oh," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "It's you."
"Well spotted, Miss Granger," said Severus Snape. "May I come in? I'll only take a moment of your time."
"I… erm… of course." She stepped back to allow him entrance.
00000
"Can I… um… offer you anything?" she asked a moment later, having closed the door and turned to face him once more. He was standing in her small foyer, clad in black as usual, arms crossed over his chest, giving her what appeared to be a highly critical once-over.
"You look like hell, Granger," he said bluntly, dropping the prefix. "Are you unwell?"
Hermione felt herself flushing. "It's very nice to see you too," she snapped. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, may I ask? And… and how did you even find me? I'm unlisted."
"That may be so," Snape replied calmly, "but the Headmistress knows your address, and it was she who sent me. She was concerned by your absence at this evening's gala faculty dinner; the one at which we greeted the delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and commenced discussions about reinstating the Triwizard Tournament within the next few years… seeing as you live outside the castle, as do I, your absence would not in itself have been overly alarming but for the fact that you were the head of that particular committee, and so naturally…"
He trailed off, his features registering mounting concern. And not surprisingly, either, as Hermione had just swayed dangerously on the spot. She managed to catch herself up against the entryway wall.
"Miss Granger, you've gone as white as a sheet. Do you need assistance?"
She was almost positive she heard genuine worry in his voice.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, I can't have missed that, it was penciled in, I've been preparing for weeks… and what will Professor McGonagall think of me, I'll be asked to resign, I've embarrassed the entire school, this is an international incident, oh my God, this can't be happening, this is not real, this is a nightmare, this is… wait… this… is…" her voice trailed gradually into nothing… and then, amazingly, she smiled. It was a strange, dopey, delirious smile.
"Oh, I know what this is," she said then, slowly, "it isn't real at all! As if you, of all people, would really just show up at my door. This is just a dream, and I haven't missed the gala, and in a moment you're going to sweep me off my feet and carry me into the bedroom, and take off my clothes and do dirty, wicked things to me, until I wake with sticky fingers- again! Well, not this time, I'm on to you. I'm just going to wake myself up right now!"
And she pinched herself, hard, on the arm.
And nothing happened.
Nothing happened for a long time, as the two of them stared at each other; Snape agog as very few people had ever seen him, and Hermione registering with mounting horror that the situation in which she found herself was most certainly not an erotic dream.
"Oh Merlin," she managed at last in a small voice that was absolutely sick with mortification, "this isn't a dream at all, is it? You're… you're really here. Oh, God help me… just let me die now… this can't possibly get any worse."
And then her knees went right out from under her.
She slid down the wall to land hard on her bum on the floor.
"Hermione!"
It was the first time he had ever called her by her given name, but she barely registered it. She was nearly past registering even the sight of him, on one knee in front of her, almost impossibly fast, or the feel of his hands on her shoulders as he gripped her hard and gave her a little shake.
"Hermione. Hermione?" He pressed a hand to her forehead; to each of her cheeks in turn. "Bloody hell, you're burning up. Come on." And he scooped her into his arms.
She screwed her eyes shut and buried her face in his chest immediately; it was far preferable to meeting his eyes, after all, and a better alternative than mounting a struggle against him, for which she didn't have the strength. He felt cool against her skin; the fabric of his shirt scratchy against her cheek; the body beneath it sinewy and hard.
He carried her over to the sofa; deposited her gently on it. "Hermione," he said again, sinking down beside her on the edge of the couch, "how long have you been ill? And why didn't you see me for a potion? Or if not me, then at least Poppy, for Merlin's sake? You're so goddamn stubborn sometimes- why didn't you ask for help?"
Hermione swallowed- took a deep, shuddering breath- tried to collect herself. Everything felt distant and floaty now; dreamlike, unreal. She knew that he was only inches away from her, but she had to really concentrate and listen hard to make out what he was saying. She felt as if someone had turned down the volume on her life; as if she had cotton stuffed into both ears.
It wasn't exactly an unpleasant feeling; in fact, she thought, as she let her head fall back among the sofa cushions and allowed all of the tension to ebb out of her body, she could easily drift away right here and now. The papers she had meant to mark seemed distant and unimportant to her now; even the gala dinner debacle was beginning to fade, mercifully, from her consciousness. Only the humiliation of her recent comments to Snape remained fresh and sharp and painful in her mind. And that was directly attributable to the fact that he was sitting so close to her that she could smell him- the faint, pleasantly spicy aroma of a dozen different potion ingredients. She kept her eyes closed and lay there and just wished, wished, wished that he would simply go away and leave her alone with her shame.
No such luck, though. He didn't appear inclined to go anywhere, as evidenced by his next words.
"Hermione, I am not leaving you alone here in this state," he said quietly, almost as though he'd read her mind, "regardless of your apparent determination to ignore me."
She turned her face away from his voice, burrowing it into a handy cushion.
She heard him sigh.
"Very well, if you are dead set on being difficult. I'll be back in a moment. Do not even attempt to move, do you hear me? Stay. Where. You. Are."
She felt the couch shift as he stood; heard the muted thud of his boots across her floor. The front door opened; shut.
For the time being, at least, she was alone.
A hazy notion floated across her mind that she ought to follow him to the door and lock it after him; enchant it, even, to prevent him from gaining reentry… because he'd made it pretty clear that he intended to return.
She liked that idea; liked it so well that she indulged herself in imagining it, in minute and vivid detail, as she lay there on the couch- too lethargic, in reality, to move more than a few inches; she wriggled over onto her side and curled into a tight little ball facing the sofa-back. She wished there was something on hand with which to cover herself; she was feeling suddenly and increasingly cold. There was a fleece throw blanket tossed over the far end of the couch, way down past her feet… but as far as she was concerned it might as well have been a mile away. She did not feel equal to the effort which would be required to retrieve it.
Beads of perspiration began to dot her forehead, but she was unaware of them. What she was aware of, marginally, at least, was that her teeth had begun to chatter.
She'd lapsed into something akin to semi-consciousness by the time he returned. She wasn't aware of him entering her flat at all; all of a sudden he was just there, looming over her, taking her by the shoulder and tugging her gently but insistently onto her back again. The effort of turning and opening her eyes made her head swim sickly. His face appeared wavery and indistinct, as if she were looking up at him through a thick heat haze… though heat was the furthest thing from what she was feeling at the moment. She was chilled to the bone. She was freezing.
"SHIT," he said, with feeling.
This struck her funny for some reason. He was a man who prided himself on his intellect, and resorting to swear words was almost ludicrously out of character for him, after all. She gave a weak little snort of mirth. "Language, Professor," she whispered.
He was in the process of unstoppering a small pewter flask he'd pulled out of his pocket. He lifted her head and held it to her lips. "Drink this," he said, and tipped the liquid into her mouth.
It burned all the way down her throat, sending her into a spasm of violent coughing. She wrenched herself into a sitting position; then folded over double so that her head was nearly between her knees. By the time she flopped back against the cushions, gasping, Snape was several feet away in the kitchen. She could hear him moving about in there, but she couldn't tell what he was doing. She didn't want to sit up again and turn around to find out.
She did feel a whole lot more clear-headed now, though.
"Wha- what kind of po- hotion was that?" she finally sputtered out.
"That was not a potion, Miss Granger, it was Firewhisky," came his voice from the other room.
Hermione choked all over again.
"It's alcohol, not poison," he said dryly. "And it's cleared your thinking and warmed you up a bit, has it not?"
This was true- her teeth were no longer chattering.
"So now you can give me the information I need," he continued. "How long have you been ill? What have you been doing about it? And why haven't you sought any medical attention?"
"I- I- it's just a cold," she stammered. "I've been feeling… under the weather, for a few days now, but… I never thought it was worth seeing anyone about. And anyway, I don't have time to be sick! I have far too much to do. I told my mum I wasn't feeling well. She sent me some Sudafed… and Tylenol. That's all I've taken."
"Sudafed? Tylenol? What the devil are they?"
"M-Muggle cold remedies," she said, in a suddenly small voice. She had a feeling he wasn't going to like that much.
She was right.
"Muggle cold remedies?" he echoed, and he could hardly have sounded more disgusted if she'd just told him she'd been drinking regular doses of Mrs. Norris' piss. Hermione actually cringed a little at the tone of his voice… but only for a moment. Then she did what she usually did when any aspect of her Muggle heritage was questioned. She bristled.
"Well, my mum sent them," she repeated, "and besides, Muggle remedies kept me alive and well until I got to Hogwarts, didn't they? They can't be all rubbish, thank you very much."
"Hm." He hardly sounded convinced, but he said no more about it. Instead he returned to the sofa, bearing a cup and saucer. He looked strangely incongruous; tall, dark and angular as he was, holding the delicate shell-pink china cup- part of a set that had been a flat-warming gift from Luna and Ron. She'd never quite been able to figure that out, come to think of it- a tea service seemed altogether too normal a gift to have been chosen for her by Luna, yet she could hardly imagine Ron walking into a store and picking out something so… well, pink. Actually, scratch that- she could hardly imagine Ron walking into a store at all, unless it was a Quidditch, joke, or sweet shop. She'd always suspected that Molly'd had a hand in it, or maybe Fleur… not that she'd ever know for sure. In any event, it definitely looked rather silly in Severus Snape's large, calloused hand. She had to fight back the urge to giggle again.
Merlin. She was delirious.
He sat down this time on the edge of the coffee table, holding the cup out to her. "Sit up and drink this," he said curtly, and as she took it from him and raised it to her lips he unfastened his traveling cloak, swept it off, and covered her with it all in one fluid motion.
She felt warmth seeping back into her, both from the heavy black cloak now draped over her and from the liquid in the teacup- aromatic and hot, but not in the burning, choking way the Firewhisky had been hot; this was a pleasant and comforting warmth. It was almost… narcotic…
The cup slipped from fingers that were rapidly going numb. Snape seemed to have expected this- he was leaning toward her already, and caught it easily out of the air.
"Wha… whadidju… givme?" she slurred, falling back once more- except now, and she recognized this fact with only dim surprise in her suddenly drugged and torpid state- she did not fetch up against the sofa cushions. She fetched up against him.
He'd slipped behind her on the couch when she'd sat up straight to drink, so that now she fell back against his chest, her head clunking on his collar bone. "What…" she swallowed thickly, "what're you…" try as she might, she couldn't seem to finish her thought. When his voice came, it was right in her ear. She could feel the vibration in his chest- a deep rumbling, so quintessentially masculine- as he spoke.
"Is this all right, Hermione? Would you rather I put you to bed?"
"N-no… s'fine… please don'go."
His arms wrapped around her from behind, hands clasping over her stomach, on top of the cloak. Her eyes were falling closed, an incredible feeling of safety and security washing over her. "Wha… s'happening?" she managed with difficulty.
"You're being healed, of course," he said. "It's the best remedy there is… my own personal creation. Still, it doesn't work instantly; it will take a couple of hours, at least. You're quite sick- you let this go on for far too long, pushed yourself too hard, Hermione. You're running a fever and you're going to have to sweat it out until it breaks. I'll stay right here with you… unless you'd rather I… summoned someone else. Potter, perhaps? Your mother? Although I confess I have limited experience with Muggle communication devices-"
"No." The word was barely more than an exhalation. "Stay."
"If you insist." She almost thought she heard a trace of a smile in his voice… but she was well beyond the point where she could trust her senses. She just knew that she was warm again… and drowsy… and wrapped up in strong arms… the arms she'd wanted around her for so long… though the only time she'd been able to fully admit it to herself was in her sleep.
She could feel his chest rise and fall as he breathed. It was lulling her, lulling her… she was drifting away. Her last conscious thought was that she hoped her hands didn't find their way into her knickers again, right there on the couch with him holding her.
00000
As it turned out, sweating out the fever, as he'd called it, was anything but a bed of roses. She only got perhaps an hour of quality sleep before she tossed awake again- and now she was hot; every bit as hot as she'd been cold before. She tried to kick off the cloak that was covering her- stifling her- but Snape was having none of it. He kept his arms tight around her, holding her relatively immobile and holding the cloak in place.
"You're going to have to fight through this, Hermione," he murmured into her ear.
She tossed her head restlessly from side to side, whimpered, tried to wriggle free. When she wouldn't stop kicking at the heavy cloak he wrapped his legs around her too, effectively immobilizing hers.
"No!" she half-sobbed. "nuh… please… I'm hot!"
"I know," he murmured. "I know. The fever has to break, Hermione. I'm sorry. You've got to ride this out."
The minutes wore into hours. Hermione struggled herself into complete exhaustion, lay still for a long time panting, her hair now damp with perspiration where it lay tousled against his chest and shoulder and neck, then tossed her head and began to struggle again. At one point she thrashed so hard that she managed to wrench herself completely over, so that now she was sprawled face-down across his chest and body, her cheek once again pressed into the fabric of his shirt, her hair now positively everywhere; slow, tired tears of frustration leaking from her eyes.
"Please," she whispered brokenly, "please, I can't… I don't want to be sick anymore."
"You're almost there," he said, "you're almost through it. Stay strong, Hermione." One of his hands buried itself in the hot, tangled, now near-sodden thicket of her hair; began stroking it soothingly, teasing apart the snarls.
"I don't understand," she whispered moments later, some semblance of clarity beginning to return to her thoughts. "Why are you here? Why didn't you take me to the hospital wing? Why… why are you… doing… why?"
He was quiet for a long time… long enough that she became convinced that he wasn't going to answer, and started to wonder whether she'd even asked him those questions at all, or whether she hadn't imagined doing so, the way she'd earlier imagined following him to the door and locking him out.
But then he spoke.
"I didn't take you to the hospital wing, Hermione, because I couldn't have held on to you there. And I've wanted to hold you for so long. For so long. And I doubt I'll ever get another chance. That's why I stayed here. Because sick or well, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And in the morning everything will be as it was before, and I'll cease to be anything to you except a greasy old man who once tormented you in potions class. But I'll-" his arms tightened around her, almost convulsively, almost fiercely- the hand that was buried in her hair pressing her head down hard against his chest- "I'll have this to hold onto. And it will be enough. This night will be enough. Shit, I- I might as well say it all; it's not as if you're likely to remember. I love you, Hermione. Bloody hell. I've loved you for years. And I expect I will for years to come. And I know I can never have you; you deserve someone as young and as… pure and as whole as you are… but knowing that doesn't change the fact. I love you and I always will. Now go to sleep and I promise you'll wake alone in your bed. I will never burden you with my unwelcome attentions again… you deserve better than that."
And Hermione began to cry in earnest.
She had struggled herself into complete inertia, and had been lying more or less in a boneless heap on top of him, but now she tightened her arms about him to the best of her ability, hands fisting in his shirt. And it was only a matter of seconds, really, before the first forlorn little sniffles had morphed with astonishing speed and strength, into great, body-wracking, nearly alarming sobs.
"Hermione, my God, what is it?"
"I'm still dreaming!" she choked out, speaking into his chest, her words so badly muffled as to be nearly incomprehensible, "I thought for a while that I was awake, that you were truly h-here, but now I know better! You would never say… that you loved me, not really… you think that I'm an insufferable, buck toothed, know-it-all little girl, and that's all you'll ever think of me! It really is just another one of those dreams, I wo-hon't ever escape them! Oh God, I can't take it anymore! I'm so tired of waking up alone! And of coming home alone! And eating alone! And going to bed alone! Please, I don't want to be alone any mo-ho-hore!"
She gradually became aware, even through her tears, of the fact that he had suddenly gone very, very tense beneath her- though still reclining on the couch, he had turned abruptly as stiff as a board. His hands found her upper arms; gripped her there so tightly it hurt.
"Hermione." His voice sounded cautious now… distrustful… hard. There was an unmistakable edge to it. "What are you trying to say?"
She had reached a place of such profound upset that she was having trouble stringing her words together… but still she tried. She was past caring, now, how foolish this admission made her look- past even her fear of his response to what she was saying; the rejection- pity- contempt she was sure to see in his face, hear in his voice, once she was through. She had to get this out, and she had to do it right now. He had talked about breaking the fever, well, this was how she needed to do it; this was a fever, a slow-burning fever that had been eating her alive for the past few years. Wanting him, needing him, desperately and in silence; it was poison; it was killing her from the inside out. Come hell or high water, whether this be dream or reality, she was going to tell him everything. Right now.
"That I want this!" she sobbed, nearly hysterically. "This is what I've wanted for so long! This, right now- I want… I want to fall asleep and I want to wake up and I want you to still be here! And I want to go to work and I want to come home and I want you to still be here! If I wake up alone and this was all just another dream it'll kill me, do you understand? It will kill me because it seems so real and I don't want it to end!"
His fingers were gripping her now so hard they would have to leave bruises. Under other circumstances she would have cried out from the pain of it- but she was already crying out from an emotional anguish so great that the physical pain paled in comparison. And Snape was sitting up, now, shifting her off of him- actually, shoving her off would be a more apt description. And his face… it was… well, closed- all expression wiped off it as abruptly as if he'd slammed down the cover of a book. He looked as cold and as distant and as inaccessible to her as he ever had, as far back as she could remember.
He was speaking; a low, distracted rush of words- but even though he was addressing her, his speech seemed intended more for himself.
"You're not yourself. You don't know what you're saying. I'm the one who's older, who's not running a temperature, who's in my right mind. I've let this go far enough." He began to unfold himself from the sofa; to get to his feet. "This was a terrible mistake. Sweet Merlin, what was I thinking? I'm going to floo someone to come and sit with you immed-"
And suddenly, Hermione didn't care anymore whether this was a dream, or delirium, or fantasy or reality, or right or wrong. This was what she wanted; he was what she wanted. This whole situation was the culmination of all her deepest longings come to life. And she was not. Going to let him. Get away.
Before he'd managed to get more than halfway to his feet, she threw herself at him; flinging her arms about his neck with a frantic little cry- all of her unhappiness, loneliness, longing, articulated in a single desperate sound- and then she virtually crashed her lips into his, catching him off-balance and pulling him back down so that now their positions were reversed; she on the bottom and he on the top, and kissing him as if her life depended on it, because in a very real way, it did. Not literally, of course… but in almost as important a respect.
She couldn't let him go. She couldn't. All of her potential for future happiness hung on this man, this moment, this kiss… because for her, there was no other, and there never would be. She saw it now, in a brilliant flash of clarity as her lips moved against his, restlessly, frantically, seeking entry to his mouth (to his heart, to his soul)- she saw and accepted consciously- at last, at last- what her unconscious mind had known for a very long time, and had been attempting, lately, to put across to her with ever-mounting desperation.
Severus Snape was her mate; her match; the man she dreamed (recently in minute, torturous detail) of giving her virginity to; the man she wanted to grow old with; the only one she wanted, inside the bedroom or out. And if he walked away from her now, she'd be… she'd be… lost.
Her arms tightened further- almost spasmodically- at this thought… and when he tensed against her, preparing to wrench himself away, his shock having finally, apparently worn off, she responded by wrapping both her legs around him too.
He tore his mouth away from hers and groaned. The expression on his face was agony. "Hermione," he ground out from between clenched teeth, "you don't know what you're doing to me." He was breathing in short, sharp gasps; his entire body taut; trembling. Abruptly he buried his face in the junction of her shoulder and her throat. His skin, where it pressed against hers, felt as flushed and feverish as her own. His breath, bursting hot and erratic against her, was exquisite... and when he spoke again she gave a shuddering gasp; his lips were moving- dragging- against her skin. "You have… to stop… so help me… or something bad is going to happen," he rasped.
"No," she said, tears still leaking steadily from the corners of her eyes, clinging on to him for dear life, "no, the only bad thing will be if you leave me here. Oh God, please don't leave me here, not now that I finally understand what I want!"
He shook his head, still pressed against her neck, half-buried in her tumbled hair. "You don't want this," he said, his voice muffled. "God, Hermione, you're perfect… you're intelligent, you're beautiful, you're strong, and focused, and… and you shine, my God, you shine so bright… you could have anyone. You do Not. Want. Me."
She had reached the end of her capacity to argue with him. There was nothing more, she thought, that her words could do at the moment. So she fisted both her hands in his jet black hair and pulled- none too gently, either- dragging him back up to face her. Their foreheads clunked. Their noses clunked. His eyes were pressed shut, a deep furrow between his brows. When he spoke again, his lips moved against hers.
"Hermione, this is your last chance. For God's sake, don't throw your life away on me. If we start again… I don't think I… can stop. And if I… claim you tonight, then it's only fair you know… I will never let you go."
Her lips curved up just slightly- slightly- into a shaky smile-through-tears. And she angled her head just the tiniest bit to the side, very deliberately negotiating around their bumping noses.
And kissed him again.