The Burning Pen

An Unlikely Savior
by Ruth Solomon

The story content is adult in nature and can contain graphic sex and violence.  Those under the age of 18 are asked to leave this site immediately.  You are not welcome here.  The author is not responsible for those under-aged who view these works.

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JKR. All situations are mine. No $$$ is being made from this fanfic.
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Chapter 4 ~ The Pursuit (Short Chapter)

Hermione ran into the forest, her gown billowing as she moved through the close-knit trees, a swirling, glowing, low-lying mist lying at the base of them, giving her light as she ran after her quarry. She stopped several times, whirling, her gown and hair spinning about her as if she were trapped underwater. Everything seemed to slow as she searched for a glimpse of the beautiful stag.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow leap past a tree, and she ran toward it, only to see it again to her right, and again she followed, beseeching the creature to slow down and come to her, not to flee her, promising it would come to no harm. She had no idea why she wanted the creature so much, it meant nothing to her . . . except that it was so beautiful, so compelling that she felt as if she would die if she didn’t touch it.

Around her, the night was full of soft, sensual whispers, seeming to come from the trees themselves as they moved their roots for Hermione’s passing, so she would not fall in her pursuit as she ran toward the unknown that waited for her at the edge of the wood. The mists parted only to flow together behind her, covering the forest so she couldn’t backtrack even if she wanted to return to her place of origin.

She could hear the voice as well, an undertone, teasing and beckoning, calling her forward, silken on the winds that rose and fell through. She followed it, coming to the edge of the woods, the stag leaping before her, running through the moonlight, bounding ahead.

”Come back!” Hermione cried, desperate to capture the compelling creature, to draw it into herself. She ran across the field, beseeching the animal, her gown streaming behind her as if she were ghost or nymph.

The stag was running toward something low in the field, beneath a kind of arch made of loosely weaved tree branches, flowers entwined among them. Streaks of moonlight illuminated the inside of the structure through the branches, falling on what rested within it. Hermione couldn’t tell what the thing was at first as she drew nearer. The stag entered the bower and stopped, staring back at the pursuing witch with its beautiful dark eyes, then faded away as she drew nearer.

”No!” Hermione breathed, slowing to a halt and stopping outside the entrance as she looked at the man seated on the ground before her.

Well, he looked like a man, except he was wearing antlers and a soft animal skin. He was seated in repose, cross-legged, the fingertips of his thumb ands middle fingers touching as he held them aloft by his sides. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be in meditation. Hermione stepped closer. He looked . . . familiar.

”Who are you?” she asked him, feeling drawn.

The black eyes opened, and the antlered man looked up at her.

”I am the voice,” he said softly.

”It was you who summoned me?” she asked him, her eyes washing over him curiously. He was bare-legged, the animal skins parted because of the way he was seated, just covering his loins and thighs.

”Yes,” he said softly, uncrossing his legs and rising, walking to the entrance and halting, revealing the soft hides he wore were full length and had no clasp. He was nearly nude beneath them, glimpses of his bare chest and belly visible in the broken beams of light that penetrated the bower. Only a small, tented loincloth hid his nether parts. He smelled of earth, smoke and leather, and Hermione reflexively touched his coverings. They were soft under her fingertips, nearly downy.

”Your skins are soft,” she said in a low voice, “like your voice.”

Snape smiled at her.

”There is hardness and thunder in me as well, my Queen. I am fire and earth for you. You are water and air for me . . . only you can quench the burn inside me. Only you can make this hard stone loosen and breathe.”

He leaning forward to take her into his arms and draw the enchanted witch into the bower, but Hermione laughed and danced away.

”Such pretty words from a beast,” she laughed disdainfully. “You seek to immerse yourself in my water, paw at my air with your hooves? Why should I accept you?”

”Because . . . you are meant for me . . . you feel it inside you . . . that is why you followed the stag . . . instinctively knowing it would lead you to me and make you whole,” Snape said, stepping after her tentatively.

Hermione backed away from him, smiling naughtily.

”Feel? How do you know what I feel, beast? Are you a man to know what feelings are, in your skins and antlers? Where is your tail?” she asked the wizard, taunting him as he took another step toward her, reaching for her. Again, she danced away, her gown swirling, her body seeming to be barely wrapped in mist in the moonlight, Snape’s nostrils flaring at the tempting sight. He exited the bower.

”I have no tail and tonight I am more than man. Come to me. Be one with me,” he pleaded, fully immersed in his role of Cernunnos. He could not force her. The act must be consensual.

”You don’t even know my name,” Hermione hissed at him.

”But I do know your name . . . it is Queen, Goddess, Mother . . .” Snape breathed at her. “Enter my bower. Come to me.”

He suddenly lunged, but Hermione ducked, darted away, and ran across the moonlit field, her gown streaming behind like a following ghost.

Snape pursued her.

It was not a true pursuit, because he was faster and could easily catch her. It was more of a dance of seduction on the part of the wizard. Like a stag chasing a doe during rut, it was a kind of foreplay, where he would show her his speed, strength, physical agility. It was part of the enchantment as was Hermione’s taunting and fickleness. Her role was that of Nature, and Nature was never truly kind. Only the strongest survived to pass their seed.

Snape caught hold of Hermione’s arm several times, pulling her close to his body, attempting to kiss her, yet his grip was slack so she could escape him if she chose. Hermione did pull away, running wildly, laughing, heading for the forest and the safety of the trees. Snape ran ahead of her, blocking her path so she changed direction, and continued to do so, cutting off her escape constantly, grabbing her and touching her lightly, his hands caressing her gently, beseeching her to accept him as she slipped away.

Like a doe, Hermione felt her desire growing as she tried to enter the forest again, only to have Snape block her way and try to herd her back toward the bower. His determination was part of the ritual . . . the enchanted wizard would not give up until she received him or until the sun broke over the horizon, at which point he would have failed to gain what he wanted. Still, Hermione would have fulfilled her debt to him, because she did participate even if he didn’t deflower her. She would be free.

Finally, Hermione began to run back in the direction of the bower, Snape behind her, covered in perspiration, lust and hunger in his black eyes as they approached the house of branches, the scent of the witch’s arousal, the night and the entwined flowers assailing his senses as she entered the arch and turned to look at him, her eyes as luminous as the moon. He stopped just outside the entrance, his chest rising and falling, robes parted, the loin cloth still greatly tented as he stretched out one hand toward her. Hermione was also panting as she looked up at him.

“I am the voice of the past that will always be,” Snape said softly. “Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields. Bring me your peace. Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal.”

Again, something inside Hermione resonated with those words as she looked into his dark eyes. Sympathy and longing filled her heart as Snape stretched his hand toward her. Dimly, some memory touched her, some distant sadness she recognized but couldn’t clearly identify through the haze surrounding her. His wounds . . . yes . . . his wounds . . . they had been so great . . . His sacrifice . . . so complete . . .

Slowly, Hermione stepped forward, stretching her own hand outward as Snape watched her silently, his body quivering slightly. She touched his hand, then curled her fingers around it firmly. Power and desire crackled between them at the contact, and Hermione slowly drew Snape inside the bower.

She had accepted him.

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A/N: Short chappie, I know, but this was always meant to be an experimental little short story. I have a real love of mythology, although I always put my own weird twists on it. This is in no way a true ritual or meant to be one, and is total fantasy considering anything remotely paganistic. Much like my view of the Greek gods. I just find it kind of sexy and fun. Thanks for reading.

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