EXIT

23. CHARCOAL BLACK

23. CHARCOAL BLACK

The first thought that crosses my mind when I wake up the next morning is one full of determination to finally find an adequate alternative for my Occlumency. Something, anything, to distract myself or at least blow off some steam with. Because not only is Granger haunting my dreams at more and more regular intervals, the images are also becoming more and more vivid. To make today's experience perfect, my brain even deludes me into thinking I'm smelling her shampoo. What a torture.

And then I stiffen, because with the first blink I notice that a soft golden light is falling into the room. A rather unfamiliar light, coming from the morning sun just rising behind the pane of the magical window and shyly sending its first rays through the immaculately clean fake glass. Rays that make the dust dance in the air and remind me that actually my robes should be hanging in front of the window like all those months before.

My brain is still working with drowsy slowness, trying in vain to recall the supposed dream. Then I take a deep, incredulous breath of belated realization that promptly carries another whiff of Granger's scent into my nostrils. In a merciless, volley-like sequence of various physical sensations, I suddenly become aware of the situation I am in.

Well, fuck.

I'm in my bed. In my sleeping quarters. At Resistance headquarters.

Granger is in bed next to me.

Correction. By definition, Granger is beneath me rather than next to me.

Our bodies are so intertwined that, due to my semi-comatose state, I don't immediately know where I end and Granger begins.

I can feel her breathing, slow and even, right at my throat. Her hair has come loose and is all over my pillow, which explains why the smell of her shampoo is so strong. Her arms are definitely wrapped around my torso, but I'm not sure where her hands are. One of her legs is somehow tangled between mine, the other is around my waist in a circus-worthy contortion, causing my pelvis to pin her into the mattress. And not just my pelvis, as I realize next. What's throbbing against Granger's lower body in indecent anticipation is a full-grown, rock-hard erection.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And the stream of perceptions continues to flow and even surpasses all previous ones. Because my hands are no longer behind my head, where, as I now remember, I clasped them so securely last night. Quite the contrary. One of them is currently resting on Granger's hip and the sudden tremor in my fingers alerts me to the delicate fabric beneath my palm, which can only mean I'm touching Granger's knickers. My other arm is under her head and the appendant hand is cupping the back of her neck to hold her tightly against me, my fingertips lost in her silky curls.

Bloody fucking hell. This witch is going to kill me.

Panic doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling. I'm suddenly wide awake. And this time, it doesn't even occur to me to pull the treehouse-proven one-finger-at-a-time stunt, because she would surely wake up before I managed to withdraw completely. So I opt for a solution that is a tad more radical.

I leap out of bed, sending her tumbling back onto the mattress with her limbs being roughly shaken off of me. Then I practically fly to the other side of the room, grab my wand and dismiss my erection with a soft hiss before jumping into my cargo trousers. I fish yesterday's t-shirt off the back of my desk chair and hectically pull it over my head. I'm already halfway in my boots when there's a faint rustling sound behind me.

"Where are you going?" comes Granger's sleepy voice.

And I just can't help it — I look at her over my shoulder, which I immediately regret.