A/n: ok, I know, I know….OMG still isn't finished. well, damn... i haven't got a reason... uh... I'm not in the mood? :C Sorry. I like this story's mood though so I thought I might continue it.

Song to be played: Familiar Taste of Poison, by Halestorm

He reminded her of arsenic.

Arsenic that had been subtly mixed into a parched man's favorite drink; he tastes so fine you never smell the odorless death laced between every swallow. It's only after you have taken a drink; after you let him take you, consume you, that you feel that toxic tremor across your lips.

She knew it was wrong, but with every taste she loses a little bit of care. She'd rather drown in his poison than breath in air lacking his intoxicating scent. And as his hands caress the skin just below the small of her back, she can't help but wonder if the torture was intentional; if he did such dangerous and delicious things, so close to prying eyes, just to watch her strain against the feeling of bliss for fear of having the person she was talking to notice what his hands were really were up to.

They were talking hairstyles of all things. She had made a wayward comment about her own curly monstrosity, not meaning anything by it, yet still he softly answered so only she could hear, "I like curly hair, much more than plain old straight hair." And still his fingers kept on, even as more people joined the conversation. People they knew, people they loved.

If they noticed he would have to stop.

If he didn't stop they would notice.

Neither option is desirable, so she fights both, she fights a battle that can't be won and damns any thought that might lead to her rescue. She doesn't wish to be saved. Taint me, her heart whispers. Blacken me with your very being, so long as it is you.

His fingers move from soft caresses to entrancing designs, of what she isn't sure, but she arches into the touch as subtly as she can regardless.

Her eyes drift close and she remembers a similar caress from only hours before. Their stance was almost identical to the one they now stood in now. Her mind can't help but to go back to that place and soon, everyone else recedes...

His hands are stopping their maddening trails and reaching for her own. He is tugging her away from them, they who know nothing of his lethal taste, and is leading her to the seclusion of his bedroom. The darkness of the room swallows nearly every feature they possess, save for the glint of light that reflects from the crack in the door off his glasses. She can see his eyes clearly as they rake across her face, as they fall in half-lidded daze. She can hear when his mouths falls open and he begins to breath heavier, brushing his sweet breath across her skin like an artist to a canvas.

His hands are at her hips, circling, gripping, owning, numbing. The marks of his need will be there tomorrow, imprints bruised on her skin just as he is seared into her soul. And his lips are at her ear whispering words so much more harmful than his hands. The hope he gives is painful.

He's closer now, if that was possible, lips scorching his words into her skin, ghosting hope down her jaw line and across her collar bone.

"So beautiful… so sweet…" He is licking his lies now, his skillful mouth leaving marks so much further than skin deep. "Need you 'Mione. Need you now."

And then his hands are at her hem, tearing the cloth from her body, desperate for her skin against his own.

"So soft, so round, so smooth," his hands are grasping her breasts, which she readily arches into, oh Merlin, the feeling of it! She cannot describe the pleasure of his touch, be it a brush of the hand, or this.

The aching is unbearable, this aching need for more. But it is nothing to what it will be later. For it is always so much worse when he left, when he… No! She won't think of that now. She will enjoy this drawn out death of hers, this pollution of her very soul.

And so she reaches for him in return, her hands moving from their position at her side, sliding beneath his shirt, gliding across his abs, and nails clawing up the skin of his back; drawing him closer, welcoming her destruction.

Worshipping her demolisher.

And then they were a fury of lips and teeth and tongue and burning. The inevitable burn that spreads throughout her body, driving her farther and farther until her skirt is somewhere around her waist and his jeans around his knees, her back against the door, legs wrapped around him. Yet, he hesitates, as he always does, because that is the most venomous part of this entire game: it is always her choice.

But what choice does she really have? With him pressed against her, teasing her flesh apart, silently reminding her of what is to come should she continue. Even now with him barely in her, the flames have started.

Turn him away? Ignore the burning?

It has ceased to be a choice since the first taste.

And so her hips are grinding down against his in encouragement and he is plunging into her, biting into her neck. She's clenching at his hair, mouth open wide with silent screams. His whispers are gone, replaced by the animalistic grunts escaping him with each divine thrust. And she's shivering, and buring, falling apart against him, and feeling the waves of bliss.

Of incandescence.

Then it ends. It's over fast, too fast for either of their liking, but they don't have the time to be slow. Yet still, as she loosens her fingers from his locks of hair, she slides her hand to his cheek and holds it there firmly. Because he has already ruined her, because he is her chosen poison, she tells him the truth.

"I love you, Harry."

His head reels back and anger fills his features and ruffles his brow. "Are you listening to me, Hermione?"


"I said are you listening to me Hermione? Honestly, it's not like I'm talking about quidditch…."

And suddenly everything filters back into consciousness, the room full of friends and colleagues. Ron is across from her continuing the conversation she can't even remember at this point, and Harry, tracing nonsensically luscious patterns into the small of her back.


"That's ok, 'Mione. You look at bit flushed, are you alright?"

Harry chuckles deeply and slides his hands a bit lower, forcing her reply to take a back seat to the sensation, but then she must answer.

If they notice, he'll have to stop.

But before she can reply there is a flash of green light in the fireplace and Ginny steps through. She makes her way over to the golden trio, firm athletic body displayed to its greatest advantage in her sleek black dress. She rushes over and greets everyone happily, but her attention is truly only for one.

"Hello Mr. Potter." Her voice purrs his name as Hermione's never dared.

"Hello, Mrs. Potter." He purrs back with deepening lust.

"Join me in the kitchen will you…" she trails off and walks ahead of him, straight hair swinging prettily behind her back.

And his touch is gone.

But his taint remains.

He poisoned me

Heart, body and mind too

Yet she is the bullet

To end me, sure and true.

A/n: ok, what do you think my lovelies? It's kinda depressing… but that will hopefully change. this is HHr. R/Hr does not exist... ever. it is wrong and should only be employed if the author intends to harm Ron afterward. same goes for G/H. And yes, I fully intend to damage her... repeatively.