A/N- The song is by The Police and neither it, nor Harry Potter belong to me... more's the pity.
Don't stand so close to me.
I may be the youngest teacher at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but I've never been the subject of a schoolgirl fantasy. Unless, of course, that fantasy includes abject humiliation, hexing and my subsequent demise.
I must admit to a certain level of morbid delight at that. Not that I'd enjoy the fantasizing of my horrible death, of course, but the fact that I'd inspire that level of hatred is something that isn't distasteful. After all, hatred is still an emotion—still a feeling. I'd be more upset at the indifference, a lack of any feeling or thought. So yes, maybe I deliberately cultivate fear and loathing. I know that they hate me.
But not her.
I catch her eye now and she darts away, her cheeks flushed with a becoming glow, but that glance was long enough to see what she is trying to hide. I don't need Legilimency to know what was going on in those deep hazel eyes. Not indifference, nor burning hatred. A burning of a different sort.
I have no idea what it is about me that fills her with such tender longing but I can see it in her face. As far as her emotions are concerned the girl is an open page; one that I'd delight in reading everyday for the rest of my life.
Yes, it's possible that the evil Potions master is falling for a student. A mere slip of a girl who imbues me with such conflicting sensations that Monday's double potions class becomes a trial of fire as my head battles my emotions whilst my body has other ideas.
I'd like to place the blame squarely at her feet for walking around all summer at the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix in short, tight outfits that made me see her as more than the know-it-all Gryffindor I had come to respect and admire. That was no body of a child.
She was all woman.
If it had been a bad case of lust I could have dealt with it. But the girl had to have a sparkling personality, mature outlook and the most brilliant mind to match.
In the few conversations that I managed to have with her she impressed upon me the depth of both her knowledge and her understanding. She almost equals me in wit and given time could surpass my own intelligence. It was an intoxicating thought and I was… am besotted.
But a crush, nay awareness, on my part could have been suppressed if not for her own interest in me.
For a woman of her calibre to look at me like she'd like to devour me, it's unthinkable.
It's happening again.
She looks up from her cauldron beneath those soft lashes and her gaze travels from boot to brain. I shiver as she meets my eyes again and I burn.
Thank sweet Merlin that class is over.
"Parchment on my desk," I order and it's her turn to shiver.
I pretend to glare at those dropping their woefully inadequate attempts onto my desk and lament that this is the future generation of Wizard-kind.
She waits until the crowds have waned, as eager to escape my presence as I am to escape theirs. Then she slowly places her long parchment on my desk and stands next to me.
"My homework, sir," she purrs.
She's so close now I can smell her soft vanilla scent and fruity shampoo. Clean, fresh, pure temptation.
I want her.
I need her.
My hand reaches out of its own accord and I snatch it back as my gaze falls on the school crest on her robes.
Her school robes.
She is a student. A brilliant student but a student nonetheless. This girl is half my age.
If only she didn't smell so good. If only her skin didn't beckon me to touch, to taste and see if it was as soft and delicious as it appeared.
I step back. She's a temptation I can't afford.
Don't stand so close to me. Merlin, please don't stand so close to me.
Young teacher: the subject of school girl fantasies.
She wants him, so badly, knows what she wants to be.
Inside her there's a longing, this girls an open page.
Book marking, she's so close now. This girl is half his age.
I watch her as she makes her way from class to class, her hand eagerly in the air as she shares her knowledge. Her friends are so jealous, although Potter and Weasley perhaps less so. Being head of Slytherin for ten years means I know how bad girls get. Teen girls are more malicious and infinitely more dangerous than any delusional Dark Lord. Indeed hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but even the devil hides from a teen witch with a jealous spirit and a wand. Luckily, Hermione is adept at hexes.
But I understand and recall from my own experiences that sometimes it's not so easy to be the teachers pet. McGonagall looks at her like another daughter and even as Hermione blushes in pleasure the other girls point and mock and hold back their attack until they are in private.
As the blush on her face disappears, I follow the flush down her shirt and feel my own blood start to heat.
I huddle back in the shadows as she passes and I reach out a hand to brush against her robes as she rushes by, anxious for her next class; anxious to glean more knowledge. Her thirst for wisdom and her hunger for learning astound me as much as it entices me.
My own hunger is much more base and as her scent drifts past, my heart pounds and my hands clench with longing. My own frustration mounts at being so close and yet so far that it brings unbidden tears to my eyes.
Its not the first time that she has made me cry.
I thank Merlin that her year has gone to Hogsmeade to engage in whatever depraved activity they usually are so determined to achieve.
For a few hours at least I'll be free of the fearful gazes and hate-filled glares. As I walk by the left tower on the way back from the infirmary I see a cowering figure in the hallway trailing water.
I open my mouth to deduct points when the figure turns.
"P-p-p-professor," she stammers, her teeth chattering as she pushes soaking hair from her face.
"Her- Miss Granger?" I nearly slip, letting her beloved name cross my lips. "What are you doing? I thought all students were in Hogsmeade?"
"I stayed behind to study for my NEWTS."
Of course she did.
"I was on my way back from the library when Peeves dropped a bucket of water on me," she gestured to the empty portrait in front of her. "I was going to change but the Fat Lady is missing."
It was now that I realise I have, inadvertently, wandered towards the Gryffindor corridor and I chide myself for my own obsession.
I stare at her, the damp cloak clinging to her lush figure, her unruly hair in saturated curls plastered against a flushed face intriguing in its innocence. I know that if I walk away, she'll still be standing there shivering with cold in the icy corridor in those wet clothes whilst my own cloak and my own rooms remain warm and dry.
Without even thinking of my wand I simply remove my cloak and place it around her shoulders, hoping that it will soak up her scent as much as the moisture.
"Until the Fat Lady comes back, perhaps it would be advantageous to go somewhere to warm up?" I hear my own voice say and I know that this is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea.
But she nods and huddles in close as we walk back down to the dungeons. I feel myself reacting to her presence and my hands shake as I pray. Please don't stand so close to me.
Don't stand so close to me.
The door shuts softly behind us before I even realise that I have taken her into my office. I move forward and tell her to take it off. At my blunder her face flushes—as does my own— and I stammer an apology. She smiles a simple shy smile and I am lost and know it.
One drop of water leaves a curly tendril and snakes down her face leaving a glistening trail. Unthinkingly, I catch the drip with my finger, noting with unease that my hands are shaking. I am overwhelmed with emotion, desire, as she grasps my wrist and brings it to her mouth, licking the wetness away.
My world spins at the innocent yet so seductive action. Heat pools in my lower belly and my breathing is ragged.
No one has voluntarily touched me in so long that I have forgotten it was possible and the soft touch of her hand in mine is almost more that I can bear.
Carefully, slowly, allowing her chance to move, to stop this madness, I lean down.
She raises herself until we are a breath away and our eyes catch. I am drowning in her deep chocolate pools, her vitality pushes at me forcing me to open up, forcing down the once-impenetrable walls. I close my eyes against the inevitable and our lips touch.
So innocent and yet so corruptive, a simple kiss that breaks the rules beyond the telling of it. But right now I don't care. I can't care. I need her so very much.
Her arms snake around my neck slowly, almost as if she is as afraid and yet desperate as I am and I feel her young body press against my own.
I have always prided myself on my control but right now I come undone. Only for her I relinquish my unwavering control and I let go, my fingers becoming entangled in her hair, the strands silken beneath my fingertips. I draw impossibly closer, wanting her totally in mind, body, heart and soul.
A soft moan shakes me to my core and I deepen the kiss, tasting her so deeply, my spirit soaring as she reciprocates.
A crash registers outside my senses and I release the angel in my arms stumbling back two steps at the suddenness of the motion. I look up into the astonished face of Filch and a sixth year Slytherin. They may not have seen the kiss but there is only one way that a heavy breathing, half-dressed, flushed 18 years old in my office could be construed. And since I myself am breathing heavily and flushed there is no mistake. I close my eyes even as the boy grins in triumph.
Her friends are so jealous; you know how bad girls get.
Sometimes it's not so easy to be the teachers pet.
Temptation, frustration; so bad it makes him cry.
Wet bus stop, she's waiting. His car is warm and dry.
Don't stand so close to me.
My life has always been an endless nightmare and now is no different. Each class seems to think it can run riot, loose talk in the staffroom abounds as they titter behind their hands and shake their heads disapprovingly. The gossip of the Dreaded Potions Master and the Head Girl is not a rumour that is easily quashed.
I hear reports of her in floods of tears at cruel words and I wish I could go to her. My arms ache to hold her. I, myself, endure glares and expressions of disgust but that is nothing new to me. I have my own trials to bear in the staffroom as I am cornered by Dumbledore whilst Hooch holds Minerva back. Albus' face, no longer twinkling and so disappointed is as hard to bear as Minerva's shrieking proclamations of seduction, manipulation and molestation. I know that if I wasn't so useful to the cause then I would have been handed my dismissal papers.
I understand their stand and maintain that I can remain professional. Away from her hazel eyes I can protest error of judgement, a spell by Peeves, a miscalculation, an aberration; a mistake.
Strong words wrapped in that fatherly smile and all is right in his world. The hissing of Minerva simmers and her matronly air is resumed as I leave the room in disgust.
Loose talk in the classroom to hurt they try and try
Strong words in the staffroom the accusations fly
It's no use
He sees her
He starts to shake he starts to cough
Just like the old man in
That famous book by Nabakov
Double potion's is a chore, a bind, a hell of my own making.
She walks in flanked by her two loyal knights and as much as I hate them I would award a million points for the way that they stand by her.
Her head is held high, ignoring the whispers and sniggers as they look from me to her. Her face flushes as she sits down and tucks her hair behind her ear. The hair that feels so wonderful in my hands. I swallow at the memory of her lips, her body pressed to mine; her arms fixed around by shoulders and her fingers in my hair.
I snap out instructions so they won't hear the tremble in my voice.
I can't look at her as I stand behind my desk, my hands clutching the back of my chair so hard my knuckles glow white. I need her, I want her so badly.
She draws in each breath and I am jealous of the air, she stirs her potion and I wish to be her spoon, she writes her notes and I long to be her quill. I am in a hell of my own making made sweeter and yet more bittersweet with the knowledge that she feels it too.
She is both my torment and my salvation. My only saving grace is that her table is far enough away from my own that I can't smell her or I would be undone.
I know my words to Albus were a lie, she is no miscalculation; she is my inspiration.
But despite all that I feel and despite all that I know, I understand that in the eyes of the world it is still wrong.
I demand parchments as they leave, glad to be rid of their laughter and judgement. Glad to have the weekend free to get drunk and try to forget. Forget her scent, forget her taste; forget her.
I can do this.
But as she places down her parchment— smudged with tears— her scent fills me and I react. My eyes meet hers and I am drowning again.
My hands shake and my breath catches so abruptly I begin to cough, drawing in more vanilla and strawberry scent. I'm drowning in her and I don't want to be saved. She knows and smiles.
"Two months till graduation, sir," she says and I nod in understanding.
"Until then, Miss Granger—please don't stand so close to me."
Don't stand so close to me.