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I have tried to keep this part of me under control for forty years. It has been repressed. Disciplined. Chained with the strongest links my will can forge and hidden under the disguise of unassuming friend, good prefect and gentle professor.
That was before her.
She kneels at my feet expectantly, arms raised above her head. The manacles around her wrists are finest goblin steel, charmed to be gentle, but unbreakable without a word from me.
I stalk around her, observing from all angles. The chains around her feet. The long braid down her back. I prefer her hair wild and free but she begs for every part of her to be controlled, at least at the start.
I roughly shove my hand between her legs. My little know-it-all can't control this; can't control how her body reacts to me.
"So wet, Hermione," I whisper beside her ear. "Anyone would think you like this."
I pull the tie from the bottom of the braid and watch it slowly unravel, the way she will slowly unravel. She tugs her wrists and I know it is not a struggle. She is seeking reassurance.
She tilts her head back in a gesture familiar to all wolves and I have to bite back an urge to sink my teeth into the pale flesh.
"Please," she breathes, and it is the same plea she has made since the first time she knelt at my feet. Loosen the restraints on your strength. Take control of me.
She whispers a word. A name.
It is a mantle I have never picked up, too afraid of what I would do with it. I gave it to James in school; allowed Dumbledore to wear it for too many years. I have not wanted this responsibility.
But then she bares her throat and whispers, "Alpha." I know I will never refuse her submission.
I press in behind her, practically rutting as the wolf goes wild for a moment with the feel of skin against skin. The smell of her surrounds the wolf and I and she cries out as my fingers grip her hips. It is a low moan that escapes her mouth when I finally give myself permission to bite the tender skin of her neck. I wish it was her heart in my teeth. Her soul. I want to mark the very essence of her and claim her as mine.
It is time. It is too close to the full moon for me to play games. A murmured word loosens the chain holding her wrists to the ceiling enough for me to push her forward.
I enter her roughly, one hand gripping tightly to her hair so that she whimpers with the pain. The other hand keeps hold of the chains. They mean nothing if she does not feel them; nothing if they cannot set her free.
I gaze down at her; my Hermione, unravelling under my hands. So in control, always, except for here where she cedes control to me.
"Alpha," she gasps and my hips snap, the hand in her hair tightening at the pleasure that single word sends to my groin.
I watch then as she falls apart, calling out for me – both wolf and man – as pleasure overtakes her. The wolf and I, we let loose our own chains and bite and claw as ecstasy hits, secure in the knowledge that our Hermione loves it.
Loves us.
I pull her into my lap, wondering again at how I managed to be lucky enough to win her love. Win her trust, which has set me free.
I speak the words that remove the chains and set them away until next time. Restraints are no longer needed. For any of us.