Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Staccato ❯ Staccato ( One-Shot )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

You haven't had Wolfsbane for the past three cycles; it is beginning to take its toll. Severus Snape is missing. You miss him, strangely.

The Order watch over you now, makes sure you are safely locked away, fed and watered like a beloved, rabid dog.

You do not know how long it has been since you woke, nude and shaking, by the time she comes in. She brings a tray stacked with food and water, and she is to watch you eat, so that nothing is left behind for the wolf to destroy when it overtakes you.

The meat makes your mouth water, but so does the acrid tang of her fear. When she sets the tray in front of you, you feel hoarse. You drain the first glass of water before you rasp out your “thank you.”

Her smile is wan, concerned. You were her teacher, and she respects you, admires you. You wonder vaguely, as you tear into the meal she has brought you, if she will still respect you after this.

She makes idle conversation with you, and you watch her, the glisten of her skin, the way the brown curls cling to the sides of her face. It is summer, and she is dressed in Muggle clothing for it. Her unease is sweetly sour in your nostrils.

The wolf wants her.

Oh, you don't care for women, not for this, but the wolf is scratching at your insides to have her, because it wants her. It craves.

You are too weak to put up much of a fight, and you find yourself staring at her jugular vein, watching the blue staccato pulse beneath summer-gold skin. She clears her throat nervously, and the scent of her rolls toward you in waves.

The clatter is loud and far away when you drop the last bone to the plate. When you drain the last of the water, you leave greasy fingerprints on the glass.

She bends down then to retrieve the tray, and her damp curls brush your face. She smells of soap and sweat and a mix of both terror and tender concern, and you grab her wrist then, bones fragile in your calloused hand, and you drag her to you.

She stumbles, sprawls nearly onto your lap, and you lean over to devour her mouth before she can make a noise. The taste of her saliva is bittersweet, and the back of your throat is vibrating with her horrified whine.

Her legs thrash, but you are stronger, pushing her skirt up and her underwear aside, fingers tracing along her slit. It is that which makes her go still.

You pull your mouth away from hers, and her brown eyes are wide, lips wet and red and gaping, but she makes no noise. She smells like fear, and she smells like resignation, and, underneath, she smells like arousal.

Your fingers are wet, and you push them into her, watch her brows furrow and teeth clench, before you lower your mouth to her throat to suck at that entrancing vein.

Her thighs tighten around your arm, her body shaking, and she squirms beneath you, afraid and excited at the same time. She is getting too loud, so you cover her mouth with the palm of your hand.

It is when you move between her legs to position yourself that you hear the door open, a loud crashing in the distance, because she is still squirming, body opening to you and almost ready, and she is screaming against your hand.

Someone grabs hold of your wrist and jerks your fingers roughly free of her wet heat, and you turn to see who it is. What you find, though, is a fist in your jaw, and your head is knocked into the stone wall. Sparks dance in your vision, and you hear the scuffling.

The boy, redheaded and red-faced is hovering over you, smelling of hatred, and you see Harry in the doorway, eyes wide and disbelieving. She saves you, though, points to the darkening sky through the window, and the boy turns away. They all leave you, food tray forgotten, in this cell.

But she casts you one last look, and you know. You can smell it on her.

She wants, too.