The castle didn't settle after my refusal.
It tightened.
The corridor held a pressure that made my ears ring, a low vibration that crawled up the backs of my legs and lodged behind my sternum. The fissure we had half-sealed pulsed again, not widening, not closing. Waiting.
Snape stood a step ahead of me, wand still raised, posture rigid enough to look carved. His breathing was controlled but heavier than before. Mine wasn't. I drew air in through my nose and let it out slowly, counting the beats in my head until the tremor in my hands eased.
"Distance worsens it," I said.
Not a theory. A reading.
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes tracked the corridor, the ceiling, the stone under our boots. Calculating. Measuring response.
The vibration spiked when he took a half-step away from me.
Pain flared in my chest, sharp and warning. The castle responded like a thing denied oxygen.
He stopped.
The pressure eased by a fraction.
We both noticed.
"Proximity," he said.
"Yes."
A pause. Heavy. Deliberate.
"This is not..." He cut himself off. Jaw tightening. "...acceptable methodology."
"It's happening anyway," I replied. "Whether we like it or not."
The castle hummed louder, impatient. The fissure shivered, a thin line of light crawling along its edge like a pulse.
Snape lowered his wand slowly. Not surrender. Recalibration.
"Stand still," he said.
I didn't move. I watched him instead.
He stepped closer. Not touching. Close enough that the air between us changed temperature. The heat of him reached my skin in a way that had nothing to do with fire or spellwork. My breath hitched once, traitorously, then steadied.
The vibration eased again.
"Closer," I said.
His eyes flicked to mine. A sharp look. Question without words.
I stayed where I was. Didn't lean in. Didn't retreat. My shoulders remained back, spine straight, chin level. Consent, clear and silent.
He closed the remaining distance and placed two fingers against the inside of my wrist.
Not gripping. Anchoring.
The contact sent a clean line of heat up my arm and into my chest. My pulse jumped under his touch. He felt it. His fingers adjusted, pressure increasing just enough to still it.
The castle exhaled.
Stone groaned, long and deep, like something easing its weight. The vibration dropped from a scream to a tense murmur.
Snape didn't look away from my face. "You're the conduit."
"So are you," I said.
His fingers tightened once, then stilled. He didn't deny it.
We stayed like that for several breaths. The corridor held. The fissure dimmed.
When he withdrew his hand, the pressure surged again.
I caught his sleeve.
The movement was instinctive. Immediate. My fingers curled into black fabric at his forearm, grounding myself and the space between us in one decisive act.
He went very still.
The castle quieted.
We both understood at the same moment. The discovery landed between us, heavy and dangerous.
"This stabilises it," I said.
"Yes," he replied. Flat. Unadorned.
"And separation..."
"Exacerbates it."
Silence.
Not awkward. Not uncertain. Loaded.
I didn't release his sleeve. I didn't tighten my grip either. I let my hand rest there, a deliberate choice. My body felt warm and too alert, every nerve tuned to proximity.
Snape's gaze dropped to my hand. Then back to my face.
"You are aware," he said slowly, "of the implications."
"Yes."
"And you still choose this."
"Yes."
Another pause. Longer.
The castle shuddered, a sudden spike of pressure like a warning. Dust fell from the ceiling in a fine, glittering drift. The fissure brightened again.
Snape stepped closer without asking.
His hand slid from my wrist to my forearm, then to my elbow, guiding rather than pulling. He positioned me with precise economy, back to the wall, his body angled in front of mine. No weight pressed. No pinning. Just containment.
The air between us thinned.
My breath shortened. I didn't fight it. I didn't let it run away either.
"Hold," he said.
I did.
The castle responded. The vibration softened. The fissure dimmed another shade.
Snape's face was close enough now that I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension in his jaw. He smelled of clean ink and something darker beneath it, something that pulled at memory without indulging it.
"This is not.." he began, then stopped.
I lifted my chin slightly. The movement was small. Intentional.
"This is a decision," I said.
His eyes darkened. A flicker of something sharpened there, then locked down.
"Proceed," he said.
Not a command. Permission.
I closed the distance.
The first kiss was not gentle.
It wasn't slow or searching. It was precise, urgent, mouth to mouth as if silence itself had become hazardous. His lips were firm, controlled, answering rather than claiming. I felt the restraint in it. The care not to take what wasn't offered.
The castle reacted immediately.
A surge of magic rolled through the corridor, wind without wind, rattling frames and making the stone sing. The fissure flared bright, then dimmed, then flared again before settling into a dull glow.
I broke the kiss first, breath coming fast. My forehead rested briefly against his. The contact steadied me. Steadied everything.
"This won't stop," I said.
"No," he replied. "It will escalate."
"Yes."
A beat.
I slid my hand from his sleeve to his chest, palm flat, feeling the solid heat beneath layers of fabric. His heart beat steady under my hand. Faster than before. Not out of control.
I pushed.
Not hard. Enough.
He followed.
We moved as a unit, steps measured, until the wall was at his back instead. My choice. Clear. Unmistakable.
His hands came to my waist. Open. Waiting.
I leaned in again, this time slower, letting my mouth find his with deliberate intent. He responded with the same controlled precision, deepening only as much as I allowed. No rush. No conquest.
The castle quieted further. The pressure receded to a low hum, almost bearable.
I drew back and met his gaze. "This is not relief."
"No," he said.
"It's consequence."
"Yes."
I nodded once and reached for the fastening of his robes.
He stilled. His eyes searched my face, not for permission but for certainty. I didn't look away. My hands didn't shake.
I undid the clasp.
He exhaled once, controlled, and let the garment fall open. His hands moved only when I stepped closer, following rather than leading, adjusting my balance when the floor vibrated again.
When the escalation crossed from touch to something irrevocable, the world narrowed to breath and proximity and the dangerous knowledge that this choice could not be unmade.
This was a collision.
A collision of two people who have no business being this close, this honest, this naked before each other without apology.
The only safety here is the certainty of his control.
The air tasted of static.
The silence was so complete it was a sound of its own, a pressure against my eardrums. Behind us, the tapestries shredded themselves, threads whipping like lashing whips, but I didn't look. My world had narrowed to the space between his body and the stone. He didn't touch me yet, but he filled the space, a sheer wall of presence and black wool.
The light from the torches guttered, plunging the corridor into a bruised twilight. His face was all shadow and blade-edge cheekbones. He moved then. Not a step, but a shift in weight, a transfer of pressure that was a question and a demand at once. He closed the remaining inches between us, his chest brushing mine. The contact was a spark against my nipples, hardening them instantly beneath the thin fabric of my shirt. The wall was cold at my back. He was solid heat at my front.
My breath hitched, a tiny, audible betrayal in the suffocating quiet. He heard it. I saw his head tilt, a fraction of an inch, an adjustment of focus. His hands rose from his sides, not fast, but with the inexorable slowness of a closing door. I didn't flinch. I held his gaze, letting him see the challenge there. He placed one hand flat on the stone beside my head, the other mirroring it on the other side. I was caged. A deliberate, soundless imprisonment.
I could have pushed him away. I could have ducked under his arm. I knew he would let me.
I didn't.
The castle shuddered. A deep, grinding groan echoed from the very foundations, and dust rained down from the arched ceiling. He didn't react to the chaos. His attention was absolute, fixed on me. He leaned in, not to kiss me, but to bring his mouth to the shell of my ear. His breath was a hot, clean slide of air against my skin. "This," he murmured, the words a low vibration that sank straight into my bones, "is unwise."
It wasn't a warning. It was an acknowledgement. A fact.
He shifted again, pressing his hips against mine. The hard ridge of his erection was a firm, undeniable line against my belly.
My own body responded instantly, a liquid heat pooling in my core, my thighs pressing together.
This was the truth of it, stripped bare. No pretense, no games. Just this raw, elemental physics.
He moved then, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that ground his cock against me, and a soft gasp escaped my lips before I could bite it back.
He moved back just enough to create a sliver of space. His hands left the wall.
One cupped the back of my neck, his long fingers wrapping around the nape, thumb pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath my skull.
It wasn't a caress.
It was a hold. A grip that was unyielding and steady.
He used it to angle my head up, forcing me to meet the full force of his gaze.
His black eyes were fathomless, unreadable, but they saw everything.
My other hand slid down my side, over my hip, to the hem of my skirt.
He didn't ask. He simply took the fabric in his fist, bunched it in his grip, and slowly, methodically, drew it upwards.
The cool air hit my bare thighs as he exposed me. He stopped just short of my hips, his knuckles brushing against the damp cotton of my knickers.
The touch was electric. A jolt of pure need shot through me.
With the hand still gripping my neck, he applied a gentle, firm pressure. A directive. My knees bent without conscious thought, and I slid down the cold wall until I was kneeling on the flagstones, my skirts bunched around my waist.
The stone was hard, unforgiving. He released my skirt but not my neck. His other hand went to the fastening of his trousers.
The soft rasp of the zipper was obscenely loud in the fractured silence. He freed his cock, thick and heavy, the head flushed a dark, angry purple in the dim light. He didn't stroke it.
He didn't offer it. He simply held it, waiting.
The choice was mine. It had always been mine.
I leaned forward. The scent of him was overwhelming... clean skin, old books, and something darker, purely masculine.
I closed the distance and took the head of his cock into my mouth. The velvety skin stretched over the hard steel of him was a stark, beautiful contrast.
He tasted of salt and inevitability. I swirled my tongue around the ridge, and I heard the faintest hitch in his breathing. A tiny crack in the porcelain control.
It was all the encouragement I needed. I took him deeper, the wide stretch of my jaw a pleasant ache.
I set a rhythm, slow and deep, using my tongue, my lips.
The hand on the back of my neck tightened, a warning, a guide. He didn't thrust into my mouth.
He let me set the pace, but the grip was a constant reminder of who was truly in control.
He was letting me worship him. I hollowed my cheeks, sucking hard, and I felt his thigh muscles tense against my shoulder.
He pulled back, withdrawing from my mouth. I looked up, a protest dying on my lips at the look on his face. It was raw. Possessive.
He hauled me to my feet with one hand, the strength in his arm effortless. He turned me, pressing my front against the cold stone wall.
The rough texture scraped against my sensitive nipples. He kicked my feet apart with his own, a decisive, controlling movement that left me off-balance and open.
He flipped the bunched fabric of my skirt up onto my back.
Then he ripped my knickers.
The fabric gave with a sharp tearing sound. There was no preamble. No teasing fingers. I felt the blunt, wet head of his cock press against my entrance.
My body was ready, slick and wanting. I pushed back, a silent, desperate plea. He answered with a single, powerful thrust that buried him to the hilt inside me.
The sensation was a blinding, white-hot flash. A full, deep stretch that bordered on pain. I cried out, the sound swallowed by the grinding groan of the castle as the torches flared, then died completely, leaving us in absolute darkness.
He stilled, letting me adjust, letting the frantic beating of my heart pound against my ribs. His body was a heavy, hot weight against my back, one arm banded around my waist, the other braced on the wall beside my head. He was a cage of bone and muscle. I was well and truly caught.
He began to move.
There was no tenderness. There was only a steady, pounding rhythm. Deep, controlling strokes that claimed every inch of me. Each thrust was a statement, a silent assertion of ownership.
The stone bit into my palms, my cheek scraped against the rough wall. The sounds were the slap of skin against skin, my ragged gasps for air, the deep, guttural sounds he made from the back of his throat.
The world was reduced to this: the hard cock driving into me, the body holding me down, the violent, ecstatic surrender.
The pressure inside me built, a coiling, tightening knot of pure sensation. His rhythm never faltered. When I was on the very edge, shuddering and gasping, he brought his other arm around my waist, pinning me completely.
He changed the angle of his thrusts, grinding into that spot deep inside, and the knot snapped.
My orgasm tore through me, a violent, shattering wave that left me limp and trembling, a sob caught in my throat.
He drove into me once, twice more, hard and deep, and then I felt him pulse inside me, a hot, liquid flood. He stilled, his forehead resting against my shoulder, his breath a warm, damp puff against my skin. For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing and the settling dust.
The magic didn't vanish. It redistributed. Calmer. Heavier. Watchful.
We stayed still as it settled.
When it was over, the silence was immense.
We separated without ceremony.
I adjusted my clothing with steady hands. Snape did the same, movements precise, economical. He didn't look at me. I didn't ask him to.
The air between us remained charged, altered. The castle breathed evenly now, too evenly.
An alarm rang somewhere distant. Sharp. Urgent.
McGonagall's voice echoed faintly through the stone, calling wards to attention.
Snape reached for his wand. "We are needed."
"Yes," I said.
He paused, then added, "This changes parameters."
"It does," I agreed.
We moved toward the sound together, not touching, not separate either.
For a moment, I was alone in the corridor as he stepped ahead to assess the disturbance. The castle felt calm beneath my feet. Too calm.
Something had unlocked.
Something larger had stirred.
The castle had stopped screaming.
That frightened me more than the noise ever had.