mightbewriting

Unbeknownst to his better judgement, Hermione Granger had become his biggest, boldest dream.

“If it’s from you, Granger, I can guarantee there’s no disinterest. You may touch me whenever, and however, you like.”

She smiled up at him, another shape made by her lips for the catalogue he planned to build with his tongue.

He savored her smirk, the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth. He planned to learn how those smirks tasted, how they differed from her hidden smiles, her grins, even her frowns and her grimaces. He would endeavor to know how each shape of her mouth felt against his own.

He’d be happy to live and die by that look of pride, knowing that he’d pleased her.

When he spun her, he realized the storm in his chest had strengthened to a hurricane. And it had a name: hers.

“That you’ll be my undoing,”

his only focus ought to be the sweet sounds he could draw from Hermione’s throat.

This path had a single destination. And, in his own version of prophecy: it would be his undoing.

. I don’t know if I can just sit around expecting something to hurt you again. I think I’ll go mad.”