Chapter 10: The Incongruity of Control

She walked quickly through the winding subterranean passage, ignoring the chill. She moved past the dark, slick walls of the dungeon, her steps echoing in the deep silence. She climbed the stairs, emerging quickly into the relative warmth of the castle’s upper floors. The adrenaline that had propelled her through the unannounced Legilimency assault was beginning to recede, leaving a sharp, unsettling tremor in its wake. She had to walk a long way to reach her house Tower.

She entered the common room. She nodded a brief, silent acknowledgment to a fifth-year she vaguely recognized, then she headed directly for the girls’ dormitory staircase. She needed insulation, silence, and the simple relief of being entirely outside the sphere of his immediate authority.

She reached her chamber door. She slipped inside and closed the heavy oak door with a quiet, solid thud that seemed to absorb all the lingering noise of the castle. The chamber was dark, only lit by the pale, silver moonlight struggling through the high Gothic window. That silence was immediate and profound. It instantly replaced the cold, damp air of the dungeon and the sharp, hot intensity that had flared in Snape’s office. The feeling of adrenaline had been a constant companion since he had clamped down on her wrist earlier that afternoon. Now, the space was empty.

The emptiness allowed the physical and mental exhaustion to finally set in.

She stood near the door for a moment, simply leaning against the solid wood, letting the silence settle over her like a heavy blanket. The confrontation had been emotionally and mentally draining. She felt profoundly tired.

She collapsed onto her bed without bothering to change, the weight of her robes pressing against her like an unwelcome embrace, mirroring the way his presence had pinned her in place.

Her fingers absently touched the repaired silver earring, its cool metal a lingering echo of his first unsolicited act of care, a quiet mending in the midst of his perpetual disdain. It had been a crack in his armor, a glimpse of the man beneath the professor, and now it amplified the turmoil. She raised her left arm and absently touched the exact spot on her wrist. It was just where his long, cool fingers had clamped down outside the classroom earlier that day. She pressed lightly, tracing the area where he had captured her pulse point. There was no mark, no lingering trauma on the skin. It simply felt cool against the warmth of her fingertip.

The slightest, most visceral thrum of her pulse reacted to that phantom pressure she had applied. The response was immediate and entirely outside her control. It was a rapid, involuntary acknowledgment of the physical dominance he had asserted. She had managed the complete discipline of her mind, yet this small, quickening beat of her blood forced her to confront an entirely different reality.

There was a profound, troubling disconnect between her meticulously controlled, fortified mind and her immediate, primitive physical response mechanism whenever he was near.

She cataloged the list of internal physical reactions. She had been performing this inventory unconsciously, but now she forced herself to articulate it clearly.

There was the rapid acceleration of her heart. This happened always in Potions when he moved behind her desk during an inspection, sometimes so close that the hem of his robe dragged across her stool.

There was the sharp, tightening sensation in her chest when his voice dropped from its usual nasal drawl to that low, resonant register of command or, worse, low-volume contempt.

There was the residual heat of his carefully controlled anger, which, even when directed at the third-years, seemed to radiate a tense, physical energy that made the air feel thin and hard to breathe.

She focused on the memory of the sheer physical containment of their most recent interaction. The entire exchange had been defined by a sudden proximity.

There were the shared, strained silences in the office. They were silent, broken only by the scratch of his quill on parchment or the rhythmic, agonizing sound of her own breathing as she tried to maintain discipline.

There was the dense weight of his gaze during the occlumency sessions, a physical imposition of will that felt heavier than any embrace. The gaze was direct, invasive, and entirely concerned with finding her structural weakness.

The inherent tension of control and restraint defined their every moment. Everything was contained. The constraint was the thing. It was the absolute lack of release that made the pressure so overwhelming.

The inventory of small, repeated physical micro-aggressions led her memory straight to the most recent, most severe physical imposition. Her focus returned to the exact spatial reality of the office door.

She shifted, her back arching slightly against the mattress as the memory sharpened. The door to his office had burst open under his forceful shove, and in a blur of black robes, he had whirled her around, slamming her against the unyielding wood. His hand had come down beside her head, fingers splayed wide, trapping her in the cage of his frame. She could still feel the heat of him, radiating through the layers of fabric, his chest rising and falling with barely leashed fury. Those dark eyes, fathomless as the potions he brewed, had locked onto hers.

The large expanse of his heavy black sleeve had filled her field of peripheral vision. The memory was sharp, nearly photographic.

She remembered the raw, contained fury in his eyes. It hadn't been anger born of a teacher's disappointment, she saw now. It was the unraveling of a man who craved more than obedience or skill. He wanted inside her mind, to sift through her thoughts, to claim the vulnerability she guarded so fiercely. And in that moment, pressed so close she could trace the faint tremor in his jaw, the subtle hitch in his breath against her skin.

Her hand moved of its own accord, trailing down her side, fingers brushing the edge of her skirt as warmth pooled low in her abdomen. The dormitory's dim lamplight flickered, casting shadows that danced like whispers of his silhouette. She bit her lip, stifling a soft exhale, as she parted her thighs beneath the covers. The air was chill against her flushed skin, but it only heightened the fire building within.

With tentative strokes, her fingers slipped beneath the hem, grazing the damp fabric of her underthings. A shiver ran through her, eyes fluttering shut as she conjured him anew: the possessive lean of his body, the way his free hand grabbed his wand to conjure Legilimency.

Her memory seized the precise moment the conflict had ended. It ended not with a resolution but with an abrupt abandonment. He had simply released her. The lack of contact had been more intense than the contact itself.

She imagined what might have happened if she'd come a little closer. Emboldened by the fantasy, she pushed the fabric aside, her fingertips finding the slick heat at her core. A quiet gasp escaped her, muffled into the pillow, as she circled the sensitive peak, each motion sending sparks of pleasure radiating outward. It was more than physical release she sought; it was the emotional surrender, the trust in letting this impossible dynamic consume her. He wanted her focused on him alone, and in this solitary moment, she was, her body arching, hips lifting greedily as she delved deeper, two fingers sliding into the welcoming warmth with a wet, intimate sound.

She still felt the profound lack of balance. The mental victory felt hollow compared to the physical residue of the interaction. Tears welled in her eyes, born of the profound intimacy of it all: the vulnerability of desiring his intrusion, the affection woven into every recalled detail. His scent enveloped her imagination, his voice a phantom murmur-low, "Let me in," she heard him whisper in her mind, as a command, his lips ghosting her ear as he held her against the door, in shared revelation.

The rhythm quickened, her thumb pressing firmly against the bundle of nerves, building the tension until it bordered on exquisite ache. She clutched the sheets with her free hand, knuckles paling, as waves of sensation crested.

He wanted her to focus only on this impossible dynamic: "Stay focused." He had warned. His elimination of the outside world felt possessive, violating the entire context of their teacher-student relationship.

Her body was trembling under the weight of longing. With a stifled cry, she came undone, pleasure shattering through her like a Patronus charm, illuminating the darkness of doubt with pure, transformative light.

She knew what the unannounced assault had been: it had been a test of her Occlumency. But she also knew what the ensuing tantrum had been: it had been an expression of his frustration when the test failed to give him what he wanted. His frustration showed that he wanted more than a student who was merely competent at mental self-defense. He wanted access.

And for some reason, she wanted him to have access.