Volatile

KeKe

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 27/01/2005
Last Updated: 27/01/2005
Status: completed

They’ve been rapidly spiralling out of control since the start of this school year.

Chapters

1. Volatile

1. Volatile

Volatile

He never could full-out deny her anything, he realises as his eyes meet hers over the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Even in earlier years, they’d find a way to compromise and work in tandem in their then platonic relationship. Now, in their seventh and final year at school, she’s able to make or break him with a look of anger or, in this moment, desire. They’ve been rapidly spiralling out of control since the start of this school year, and he’s well aware of it. He doesn’t care.

He thinks he’s in love, but can’t be sure; however, he does know that another experience such as this one has yet to occur in his life. He also knows they’re setting themselves up for disaster; they’re inviting danger, heartbreak and tragedy and aren’t doing anything to prevent it all from crashing down around them. Their relationship is an ultimatum, as is the prophecy that constantly looms above their heads; one cannot live without the other, one cannot function without the other, if one dies the other does as well. He’s too far-gone to protect her and they both know it. She’s said before that she’s a liability to him and she’s the real danger, she distracts him from the ultimate goal. He doesn’t care.

She’s all that matters to him now; her adamant affection for him, her unwillingness to leave his side even when his presence does nothing but hurt her. Their relationship has effectively isolated them within the castle’s suddenly not-so-friendly walls; even their mutual best friend has been slowly and surely drifting away. He thinks it’s due to jealousy, jealousy of the fact that three became two as soon as a thin, dark-haired boy’s lips came into contact with those belonging to an equally thin, brown-eyed girl. He doesn’t care.

He’s regarded as a lying, attention-seeking boy again; she’s thought of as a devious girl who’s playing with his already fragile emotions. What would have bothered him before means nothing now that he has her unwavering loyalty and devotion. The professors have expressed concern about their recent behaviour together in public, and he wonders just how concerned they’d really be if they knew half of what happens between him and her behind closed doors. Some of the students give him odd, almost knowing looks, but most avert their eyes and hurry on, anxious to put a decent amount of distance between themselves and him. She used to glare in his defence, a defiant and protective gesture, but she’s since come to terms with their seclusion and now dutifully ignores the offending students. Whispers are everywhere; talk of just what exactly they’re up to, what they’re supposedly conspiring about, how different they’ve both become from their earlier years. They disregard the whispers, the talk and the gossip. He doesn’t care.

And now, now she’s staring at him from across the table with darkened eyes and the corner of her bottom lip held firmly between her teeth. The food lies abandoned on his plate and the non-stop chatter of students around them becomes even more unimportant than it usually is as his heart rate increases and his stomach twists itself into knots. He recognizes that look and is familiar with the usual outcome; she glances toward the tall doors, the exit, before returning her gaze to his. He gives an imperceptible nod and stands suddenly, desperately wanting to escape the hall and needing what’s surely coming his way. This is something he cares about.

“The Head Boy and Girl are both raving, mad –“

“Potter’s obviously addled Granger’s brains –“

“They’re always running off together!”

The loud whispers and curious stares follow them as they hastily leave the Great Hall, hands joining as they meet at the doors. He’s nearly dragging her as they set off for Gryffindor Tower, racing through empty corridors, running by countless paintings and rusting suits of armour; at this point there is nothing else in the world, nothing else on his mind, it’s all about her. Her pulse is racing; he can feel it through their intertwined fingers, and his grip tightens as he sees her lick her lips out of the corner of his eye. They’ve arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady to find it already open as a young boy climbs out. The boy’s expression of boredom changes to one of trepidation as he steps out of the way and they hurriedly scramble into the Common Room, hands still holding on as though for dear life. There are a few people scattered about the familiar room; he’s unaware of whatever it is they’re doing. He only cares because it means they’ll have to spend another thirty seconds climbing the stairs to the boys’ dormitory instead.

The door opens noiselessly and he releases her hand from his own to reach into his pocket for his wand; a quick wave of it ensures their privacy. He haphazardly tosses the wand onto a nearby bed, not knowing or caring whom it belongs to. Blood boiling, hands shaking, abdomen on fire, he shakily walks toward her with weak knees – yet another product of the irrepressible lust that’s electrifying his senses. She’s leaning against the frame of his bed; her gaze is positively smouldering and spurs the feral emotions that only she can bring about. Her fists are balled so tightly that her knuckles have turned white, as though she’s clinging to the last of her composure. He stops directly in front of her, pausing only a moment before his hands find her shoulders and he closes the remaining distance between them by roughly pulling her into his body and pressing his lips hard against hers. He thrusts his tongue into her mouth while pushing her down onto his bed and lowering himself to her. As he breathlessly lifts his mouth away from hers and drags his lips toward her neck, he spends only a moment remembering the softness they shared in the past. Nearly all traces of that tender nature have disappeared, only to be replaced by a frantic and seemingly insatiable need. Sometimes he likes to think it’ll return once the war is over, but as he scrapes his teeth against her neck and a moan escapes her throat, he realises he might not live to see the return of their gentle romance. At this moment in time, with her writhing beneath him and the taste of her skin on his tongue, he doesn’t care about the future.

She continues to moan as he feverishly kisses his way down her throat, occasionally drawing a startled gasp as he nips at the soft skin. His hand trails up and down her stomach, feeling the muscles flutter under his touch and the way her hips raise off the mattress every time his fingers slip just below the waistband of her skirt. He returns his lips to hers as his fingertips briefly ghost across the undersides of her breasts, drawing a louder moan. Her hands are swiftly underneath his shirt and rubbing his back, nails lightly grazing the skin, causing him to shudder and grind his hips into hers. He craves friction and rolls his hips again only to crash into hers as she bucks against him, nails painfully digging into his shoulders. The pain doesn’t matter; he only cares about the way her sharp hip bones are digging into his as they repeatedly meet, increasing his need of skin-on-skin contact.

One shaking hand works on the buttons of her shirt as the other supports his weight; he aggressively pulls the garment off and tosses it over his shoulder. He feels a shudder pass through her entire body as his hand firmly rubs a breast before focusing on the other. She rapidly removes his shirt and he cannot stifle the hoarse groan he emits as she pulls him closer and his skin finally comes into contact with hers. This is as far as they’ve gone in the past, slowing down and backing off at this point, unsure of what comes next. He isn’t satisfied this time, however, and he knows she isn’t either as her hips incessantly rock against his. Their kiss is broken as he pulls away to fumble with the zipper of her skirt, pushing the article down her legs and watching her kick it away. He raises a hand to the clasp of her bra and his eyes meet hers – a question. She nods and runs her hands up and down his arms – an answer. The bra goes the same way as their shirts and her skirt; he’s left gaping at her exposed breasts and raking his eyes over her body. His mouth feels unnaturally dry and he licks his lips several times before bending down to kiss her and moving a brash hand across the newly exposed skin. Her reaction is immediate, her back arches, she bites down sharply on his lower lip and her hands fly to his shoulders where she holds him in a vice-like grip. He tastes blood and feels a sharp sting as he sweeps his tongue across his own lips, but the moment her hand leaves his shoulder and passes into his trousers, he figures she can make him bleed all she wants.

The feeling of a foreign hand stroking him and the inquisitive, almost innocent expression she’s wearing as she explores him is quickly devouring any restraint he may possess. His skin is burning where it is in contact with hers; his arms are shaking and threatening to give as he holds himself up and drives into her palm. He’s so close to finishing when she abruptly removes her hand; he lets out a completely animalistic growl of utmost frustration and feels as though he could cry before he feels a tugging at his hips and realises she’s trying to remove his trousers. He struggles out of them and the sound of his belt buckle hitting the floor echoes around a distant chamber of his mind. They remove the remaining articles of clothing that separate them, and self-consciously keep their eyes on one another’s face. Time seems to stand still as they lie there, unmoving and waiting for whatever comes next. He feels vulnerable yet safe, inexperienced and scared yet wanting nothing more than to lower himself into her. It’s certainly one of the more precarious situations they’ve been in during the course of their relationship; he knows there are consequences that come from something this significant but he’s having trouble caring when she’s lying beneath him, waiting.

“Please.”

It’s the first word she’s spoken to him all day, and although it’s hardly anything more than a whisper, it shatters the silence of the room. He nods once and enters her, sealing both of their fates.

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Author’s Notes: I’d like to genuinely thank everyone who took the time to read and review my last story; your encouragement is priceless to me. This is quite different from ‘Confrontation,’ I know; I’m still trying to find my writing style and this is more of an experimental story than anything else. Hope you enjoyed it!