Author's Notes: This story is inspired by the amazing work of Chicxulub, specifically "The Seven Transgressions of Severus Snape" which can be found at Ashwinder. I highly recommend you all read it, for it's brilliant.

A HUGE Thank-You to my wonderful beta Sophi, who stepped up to the challenge, even though AU fics were not her favourite. She's awesome.

Our deliciously snarky potions master and his sinfully studious pupil belong to JKR, and sadly, not me.

Flamma

She cannot tell you when or why. She does not know how the situation came to be.
Her perceptions of the world have coalesced into this one moment, into the feelings that burn through her body and spark from her skin to his.

It is not how she had imagined it would feel, this frantic, dirty coupling. The dungeon wall is cool and rough beneath her heated body. Her skin blazes through the thin fabric of her half-ripped shirt. With each frantic thrust, jagged pebbles stutter down her back, mirroring her nails down the heavy woolen robe that covers his spine. His cauldron calloused fingers char her flesh, the circular wounds like the tracks of some ancient creature roaming her heated figure.

It is not how she had imagined it would smell, this selfish, wanton, possession. The stench of sweat and exertion overwhelms her. It is as if he possesses her fully – even his scent, heavy and male, penetrates her nostrils, filling her. His musk is fiery, the pungent scent of smoked fluxweed, briny murtlap and burned boomslang.

It is not how she had imagined it would taste, this forbidden, wicked union. His kisses had burned her lips as his tongue had darted, flame-quick, into her mouth. He had tasted curiously of cinnamon and peppermint. But now her lips are forced against his neck, and as she draws shuddering breaths she licks the salt off his fevered throat.

It is not how she had imagined it would sound, this violent, secret combustion. His seductive whisper invades her brain, wrapping tendrils of smoke around her mind and coiling in the pit of her stomach.
"Yes, Miss Granger, you twisted little witch. You damnable siren. I will make you come."
As their rhythm changes the coherency of her lover's murmurs dwindles.
"I want… you need…. mine… oh yesssss"
The flesh of her lover's (how strange it is to think of him as that) words dissolves and she is left with pale, angular bones of sound.
Sharp guttural exhalations.
A litany of nonsense.
An absurd prayer.
"No! Oh Gods! Yes!"

It is not how she had imagined it would look, this glorious, liberating explosion. She can see, from the corner of her eyes, the bristling tendrils of hair he has stretched in his fist – a sweat-drenched nimbus. His grip on her hair is painful as he forces her face to his, their eyes locked. The passion and possession in his gaze roasts her alive. He sends her higher and higher in the throes of ecstasy and watches his little Gryffindor firecracker shatter into a million dazzling fragments.

It is not how she imagined it would end, this sordid, fevered depredation. In one fluid motion he pulls away from her, black robes imperially swept into place. With the briefest of inclinations of his head and a rumbled "Miss Granger," he is gone. She lies jagged on the floor. Devoured by the inferno, consumed by it.
She cannot tell you when or why. She does not know how the situation came to be.