Objects of Desire

Chapter 7 - Flights of Angels

By Azrael Geffen

Rooms at the Hogs Head could be rented on an hourly basis; in fact that was how the landlord preferred to do business. The two people in room seven had been in there for almost three hours and as the landlord watched the hourglass spill over, he waited with greedy anticipation of the profit forthcoming. For this was a man who loved to make a profit, even if it was long past closing time and his wife had called him to bed.

The girl in room seven lay panting on the threadbare bed. Her breathless cries rose to a fevered pitch as the man whose face was firmly planted between her thighs urged her on to orgasm. Her hips quivered and bucked up into his sweating palms.

”George, oh Gods, George!”

Shit.

The man stilled and wondered what would follow.

He didn’t have to wait long as a tiny whimper escaped her throat and then, the distinct sound of sobbing.

Ron slowly lifted his head from between his sister-in-law's thighs, caught her horrified look and her tears began again in earnest.

“Oh Ron, I am so sorry,” Angelina rasped.

As well she should be, Ron had worked damn hard to get to this point. He had been the sympathetic ear and shoulder to cry on for the past month – sympathized, when Angelina explained her suspicions that George was having an affair; consoled her, and then spent the last 24 hours grappling with the guilt associated with lusting over his brother’s wife. He had spent his entire month’s allowance and, ironically, most of the money Fred an George had sent for emergencies, on bringing her here, paying for her drinks and of course the room, only to have her scream his brothers’ name just as he had achieved her orgasm.

Ron pressed a kiss to the inside of Angelina’s thigh, which served only to make her flinch and her tears worsened. Ron sighed and made every effort to be tender as he extricated himself from their rather intimate position.

Angelina sat up and turned away from him, presenting him with the lightly tanned curve of her back. He smiled at the exquisite sight, but accepted that nothing else would be happening this evening. Not that there was any harm in trying, of course. Groping around on the floor for his robes, he found a somewhat clean handkerchief and offered it to her. Angelina snatched at the linen and blew her nose inelegantly.

“I’m sorry Ron,” she sniffed again, “I really thought I could do this, I am so sorry.”

Ron tried to smile reassuringly. “Well, these things happen, eh?” He caressed her shoulder gently and tried to pull her to him, “why don’t you come here?”

Angelina shook her head and pulled away. “no, Ron, I can’t.”

“Ange,” he said, trying to sound seductive and not as supremely disappointed as he felt, “let me hold you honey. Remember - HE cheated on YOU.” In truth, Ron highly doubted that George had cheated on Angelina. Knowing George, and the fervour by which he worked his business, Ron surmised that he had simply neglected the needs of his wife. It also didn’t help that George and Fred went out most nights of the week. Angelina wanted a quiet home life, George wanted to have fun. Ron saw it as a by-product of marrying too young. He felt a surge of guilt at being here trying to get his brother’s naked wife back into bed, but quickly pushed it aside. “You owe it to yourself to finish this.”

Angelina turned her head to peer over her shoulder at him, the tears dried up remarkably quickly. “Trust me on this Ron,” she said wryly, “we are well and truly finished.” She padded across the floor to her robes and fished out a packet of cigarettes. She offered him one, which he declined, then she stuck one in her mouth and lit up.

”So what now?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know.” She sounded irritated and began to pace and smoke furiously, “We go home I suppose.”

Ron wished she would put some clothes on, pacing around the room naked was doing nothing to stop his very evident arousal. He needed to get out of there and he wondered exactly how to do so without looking like a total prick.

“You’re not going to tell George are you?’ He asked warily.

“What? Do you think I am insane? What did you think I was going to say? ‘Sorry I didn’t come home for dinner honey, I was out fucking your little brother’!” She inhaled her cigarette and her face was hard. At that moment, Ron could find nothing attractive about her at all, and he wondered how he got himself into this. Come to think of it, why was she so mad at him? This had been her idea. She had asked him to come to the Hogs Head, she had suggested the room. He had just gone along like a fool.

He was grasping for an excuse, and he knew it. He began to pull his robes on. “Well,” he said, “technically we didn’t actually fuck so you don’t have to feel like you cheated or anything.”

She gave him a withering stare and made no attempt to get dressed. “Go back to Hogwarts Ron,” she said, “don’t worry, I’m not going to tell your brother what you did.”

What he did? What about what she did? “Thanks a heap,” he said nastily, “but just remember who invited who here.”

“Yeah, I remember.” She blew smoke into his face. “Now fuck off back to school like a good little boy.”

He didn’t bother saying goodbye. He just shoved past her on the way out the door and threw some Galleons at the Landlord for the room. If she wanted to stay for longer she could pay for it herself. Angry at himself for his betrayal, he headed back to the castle and his own bed.

When he got there he discovered he had the smallest of rosebuds on the contract.

Harry wasn’t in his bed and he had the biggest rosebud Ron had ever seen. It still wasn’t a full rose, but it was damned close.  He wondered where in hell Harry actually was but decided that wherever he was he must be having fun and climbed into bed, happy, scared and annoyed that one of them was having a bit of success with this deal.

~ ~ ~

Hermione wrapped her robes a little tighter around her body and shivered as she made her way from the dungeons back to the tower. She had been wandering for longer than she realized. After leaving Snape’s office she had gone to the Potion’s classroom and sat there for a while, staring at his desk and trying to recollect every Potion’s class she had ever had, and trying to work out just how it could possibly happen that she could have fallen for him. In her very first class, he had scared her half to death and called her a silly girl (she had lost track of how many times those words had escaped his lips) and yet even then there had been something in the way he spoke. If she cut through the insults, she could detect a passion as he described the allure of a bubbling cauldron. She wondered if it could be his own personal Sirens call.

She hadn’t seen it then of course, she was too busy being afraid of him and likening him to a large malevolent rat. Now she danced the fine line between pleasure and pain. She felt overwhelmingly sexually frustrated. She had never experienced the sensation before, she had never felt the longing associated with it, the unfulfilled need, but then she had never been touched before either; at least not like he had touched her. She felt a rush of blood to her clitoris and a pleasant wave washed through her pelvis. She ground her thighs together for a moment, hoping to try and relieve a little of the tension and ache that had built up in her groin but it did no good.

From the doorway of the classroom, she had seen him leave his office and storm up the stairs at full speed and from there she had started to wander. It had taken her two hours to get from the Dungeons to the door of the Common Room and now she felt cold for the first time since she’d left him. Thoughts of getting to her bed began to seep into her brain and the idea was suddenly enticing and wonderful. She crossed the quiet Common Room and slipped into her chamber.

Lavender looked up as Hermione entered their room. She was seated on her own bed, cross-legged with papers surrounding her. Hermione could not help but feel some dismay, Lavender had obviously decided to study in bed, which meant that Hermione was either going to have to try and sleep with the light on or actually have a conversation with her room mate. She wasn’t sure which was the more unpleasant of the available options.

It wasn’t that Hermione disliked Lavender. It was simply that she had no interest in the pretty girl who was being forced to share her room. Lavender seemed to exist on an entirely different level to Hermione. She was pretty and popular and remarkably sociable. Lavender could hold court wherever she was, be it a corner in the Three Broomsticks, or a cubicle in a toilet. Hermione on the other hand found herself completely out of her depth in such situations, preferring the intimacy of a small group of friends, or by herself with a complex problem to solve. Lavender put a lot of stock in what she termed ‘Girly Chats’. Hermione was never included in such chats; in fact, Hermione had never had a ‘Girly Chat’ in her life, not even with Ginny.

Lavender smiled sweetly at Hermione and closed her textbook. “Hello Hermione, I haven’t seen you since this morning, how do you feel?”

Hermione felt herself start to go bright pink. She had forgotten that Lavender was the one to find her and get her to bed. “I…” she bit her lip. “Um, look, thanks for getting me to bed this morning, it meant a lot to me.”

“Think nothing of it.” The overly sweet smile was still fixed on Lavender’s face. “So, where have you been so late?”

“Um…” the flush became slightly pinker. “I had detention.”

“Really?” Lavender suddenly looked positively thrilled. “With Professor Snape?”

“Yes.” Hermione forced her voice to remain neutral and she made a great fuss of getting to her bed and searching out her pajamas, “I didn’t get everything finished last night, so I had to go back.” She couldn’t see her pajamas anywhere. “Have you seen my pajamas?”

“I put them in your drawer.” Lavender said dismissively as she continued. “Well, I am amazed that Professor Snape was able to see you for detention tonight, after all, he was very sick this morning.”

“Oh?” Hermione spun around in spite of all the promises she had made to herself to be cool and calm.

“Oh yes.” Lavender was enjoying this too much. “All of his classes today were cancelled. You must’ve had a fair amount to drink, I mean, the poor man was a mess.”

Hermione froze, and Lavender smiled her sickeningly sweetest at the look of absolute horror on Hermione’s face. “I…I don’t know what you mean,” Hermione stammered.

“Well, I figured to get him into the state he was in at breakfast, the two of you must’ve drunk enough to slay a dragon.” Lavender allowed herself the luxury of a chuckle before adding, “and you must’ve had some sex as well because you positively reeked of it!”

“I…” Hermione suddenly felt incredibly sick, her legs wobbled and she sat heavily on the side of her bed, “I wasn’t with Professor Snape, I don’t know what gave you that idea.” Of all the things that Hermione Granger did well, lying wasn’t one of them. She flushed redder still and began to focus on her increasingly wringing hands.

Lavender burst into sudden gleeful laughter. “Oh come on Granger, get over yourself, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hermione insisted helplessly. How did she know? How did Lavender know?

Lavender sighed, rolled her eyes and went to Hermione’s bed and dropped herself down beside her roommate. “Listen,” Lavender said cheerfully, “I may not have your incredible mental capacity, but I’m not completely stupid. All I have going for me, aside from a fairly average ability with Magic and Divination, is my sense of smell. Professor Snape usually smells really good…. And I mean really good. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he probably smells the best out of all the teachers and most of the students in this place. He smells of Sandalwood and Patchouli and this really complex under tone of flowers and potions. It’s a great scent, I would love to know how he makes it because I reckon I could sell it by the pint. You normally smell like this weird Muggle perfume, shampoo and soap set that says it is Ylang Ylang and Orange blossom but smells nothing like it. Anyway, this morning you smelled like some awful aniseedy alcohol substance, vomit, your weird muggle fragrance set, Sandalwood, Patchouli and a very unique scent that I will call your sex.”

Hermione blanched and stared at Lavender in horror, wondering exactly what was coming next.

“And this morning Professor Snape smelled like Sandalwood and Patchouli and his flowery potions smell, the aniseedy alcohol smell, your Muggle fragrance and, the crowning glory, your sex.” Lavender grinned triumphantly, “I rest my case.”

 Hermione sat with her mouth open in awe and wondered if she was the first person to ever be caught out because of the smell of her body. Lavender Brown should really give up on her idea of going into the perfume business, she should become an Auror, sniffing out crime with her almighty nose!

“Well?” Lavender asked impatiently.

“Well what?” Hermione’s voice was a little hoarse.

“Well, what was he like?”

“Nothing happened,” Hermione mumbled and blushed. She really was a terrible liar.

“The big love bite on your neck suggested otherwise, good job of getting rid of it by the way.”

Damn that infernal bite! She seemed to recall that it felt incredible when he was giving it to her, but it appeared that there was no one who hadn’t seen the damn thing!

“He…” She gnawed at her mouth, “We didn’t have sex or anything,” she said hastily.

Lavender squealed and clapped her hands. Throwing herself back onto Hermione’s bed and her eyes wide she said, “Ok, tell me what did happen – and don’t be short on the details.”

“I…He…We…” Hermione looked at Lavender and felt a small, mischievous smile spread across her face. She turned and pulled her legs up onto the bed, faced her roommate and prepared to have the first ‘Girly Chat’ of her life.

~  ~ ~

Harry opened his eyes and found himself staring at the back of a neck in extreme close up. Messy blonde hair lay silky and haphazard against pale skin and the neck curved down into a lean muscled shoulder. The flesh of that shoulder was marred with raw purple scars, the rest of the body was nestled cozily into the curve of his own.

The room was light and for a moment Harry was certain that they had both overslept, but one look at the old style Grandfather clock Draco had in the corner showed that it was just after three in the morning. They had gone to sleep with the lighting spell still in effect. He was going to put the light out and go back to sleep, but in the yellow light Harry could see him.

Draco.

Draco peacefully asleep and nestled into Harry’s body. Harry’s arm was wrapped heavily over Draco’s body and he was amazed that the slow rise and fall of Draco’s breathing hadn’t kept him awake. In fact, despite the short few hours of sleep he felt better rested than he had in years. He was lost for a while in the glorious intimacy of the body cocooned against his own. In sleep Draco was vulnerable and yet he lay there trustingly, his fist half curled on the pillow, his lips slightly parted, his eyelashes splayed over his cheek. Even the feel of his feet, one of which was resting between Harry’s ankles, seemed so incredibly intimate that Harry felt a surge of emotion rush through him. He ran his hand up Draco’s arm and caressed the firm mass of Draco’s shoulder.

Gods, this was the most incredible thing. Draco’s body was wonderfully warm and Harry had never felt so relaxed and comfortable. Under his hand he felt Draco’s shoulder move and he marveled at the sensation of the muscles shifting liquidly and the bones rotating in their sockets. The texture of Draco’s skin under his hand was soft and smooth and he felt Draco’s spine arch and ripple against his chest. He smiled and reached up to stroke Draco’s silky hair.

Draco rolled onto his back and lay sleeping for a moment. Harry propped his head up and watched his lover sleep, taking in the clear brow, the gentle arc of his nose, the way his long lashes lay against his cheek and the sensual mouth whose lips were slightly parted. Then, as though aware he was being watched, Draco’s brow creased into a small frown, and he blinked his eyes open.

They stared at each other, unspeaking for what could have been hours before Harry whispered, “hi,” to him.

“Hello,” came the sleepy reply. Draco stretched a little and stifled a yawn, “What time is it?”

“Early, just after three.”

Draco did frown then and rolled towards Harry, throwing an arm around Harry’s waist and nestling his face into Harry’s arm pit, “It’s too early,” he pouted and seemed on the verge of sinking back into a deep sleep.

Harry looked down at the mass of blonde hair and wanted nothing more than to snuggle back down into the bed with him, “I have to go,” he said reluctantly.

Draco tensed and lifted his head, “Why?”

“I…Ron…” Harry really didn’t know what he wanted to say, something about Ron, but he was looking at Draco’s face and sleep mussed hair and relishing the warmth of the body beside him. Without hesitation he pushed Draco back into the pillows and rolled on top of him. “Do you mind?” he asked, leaning down and kissing Draco gently, running the tip of his tongue over soft lips. He didn’t know where he had found this sudden rush of daring, he would never have presumed to have done this yesterday. Then again, a lot had happened since yesterday.

“Do I mind what? You leaving or you kissing me?”

“I have to leave. Do you mind me kissing you?”

“No, kissing is good.” Draco gently guided Harry’s head back down for another kiss, nudging teeth apart with his tongue and feasting hungrily on Harry’s mouth.

Oh this was the best way to wake up ever. Harry felt as though he had died and gone to heaven. Draco’s body beneath him was incredible, a complex mass of nerves, blood, thoughts, emotions, bones and muscles all held willing captive in Harry’s embrace. Harry kissed his chest tentatively, tasting the salty sweat and milky white flesh on the lean muscular torso. He ran his tongue over Draco’s collarbone, down one firm pec until finally, he grazed Draco’s nipple with the edge of his teeth.

Draco half moaned, half laughed and stretched out under Harry’s mouth. “That’s nice,” he whispered.

Harry smiled and gently closed his teeth on the small pink bud.

“Oh fuck,” Draco gasped.

“Did I hurt you?” Harry asked quickly.

“Gods no, don’t stop!”

Harry chuckled. He sucked at the bud, nipped it a little harder and then harder still, testing Draco, making him groan and writhe and gasp his appreciation. Harry stroked and kissed a path down over Draco’s ribs to the flat plain of Draco’s stomach, flicking his tongue into the hollow of his navel and causing webs of gooseflesh to spread over the expanse of pale flesh. He fumbled with the drawstring of Draco’s pajama pants - he seriously doubted that Draco had even heard of elastic in waist bands – and pulled the silk pants down, leaving Draco naked beneath him.

Harry sat back for a moment, taking in his first sight of Draco Malfoy naked. He had seen naked guys before. You don’t go to a boarding school for seven years without seeing your friends naked, they shared bathrooms after all, but he had never really looked before. Draco’s long legs were toned and pale and dusted with blonde hair slightly darker than the hair on his head. Harry could see tendrils of the purple scars twisting around the top of his right thigh and his right knee. For a moment he focused on them, in his mind and with crystal clarity he thought that he was going to find who did this, find who hurt him, and he was going to kill them. Then he lay down and brushed his lips against Draco’s perfect cock.

Draco’s cock felt similar to his own and as Harry ran his fingers along the slightly textured shaft he savored the feel of it. He cupped his hand around it as though it were something incredibly fragile and kissed the smooth head. It was as smooth as rose petals and Harry rubbed his thumb across it, squeezing gently and smearing juices over the tip. He could see the blood suffusing the tissue just beneath the head, coloring it a dusky rose, darker at it’s centre. Harry licked at the pre-cum and heard Draco forcefully suck air in through his teeth and then a small cry escape from him. This was intimate and raw and incredible, as though he was holding someone’s heart in his hands.

Draco pushed himself up on his elbows and watched as Harry’s pink lips parted, so much like he had fantasized that they would, and Harry carefully took Draco’s cock deep into his throat.

It was awkward at first. Draco’s cock filled his mouth, pushing his tongue back and going too far down his throat. He almost gagged, but forced the reflex down, willing his throat to relax and open.

Draco closed his eyes and let his head drop back. This was too good and he knew he wasn’t going to last long. He had wanted to come since last night and now, with Harry’s mouth wrapped around him, he was so close to the edge he was amazed he was still going. He didn’t want this glorious sensation to end. Harry’s fingers were tickling his balls, the downy hairs at the juncture of his thighs, caressing his hips. Draco let those fingers go anywhere they wanted to go.

“Oh Gods, fuck, Harry…” he groaned urgently, collapsing back into the pillows and plunging his hands into Harry’s messy black hair. He was going to come. He could feel it. He couldn’t stop it. He was moaning and crying out “I’m gonna come” over and over again. His body was cresting.

Harry focused on moving his mouth over Draco’s cock, listening to Draco’s cries and knowing that Draco was close to the edge.

I want this, he thought, I want him to come, I want to be the one who caused it, I want him to.

“Harry,” Draco was crying out, “Harry, Harry, Har…ah…ah…ahhhhhhh”

Draco came, hard, all intentions of pulling out of Harry’s mouth gone as soon as he had started to thrust up in orgasm.

Harry gagged and forced his throat to work and swallow the semen that Draco had deposited there. He coughed a little and wondered if he would ever get used to that. He hoped so. He hoped he would get the chance to get used to it. He lifted his gaze back to Draco who was lying in the pillows staring at the ceiling with a blissful smile playing on his lips.

“Was it ok?”

Draco burst into laughter at the absurdity of the question. How could that have not been ok? “It was incredible.”

Harry crawled up to kiss Draco, to feel Draco’s lips soft and warm against his own.

“I don’t want to go,” Harry whispered.

”I don’t want you to go.”

They kissed each other again, lightly at first but as their tongues met and twinned around each other it became more urgent, they pushed their bodies hard together, their hand grasping at each other in ways that would leave tiny bruises on the pale flesh.

“You taste so good,” Draco whispered.

“So do you,” Harry gasped. He didn’t want to go, he wanted to curl up here in this bed with this man and sleep long into the morning, but he had to go, he had to get back to his own chamber. As much as he wanted to stay here until daybreak, he didn’t want to try and explain why he was sneaking out of Draco Malfoy’s bedchamber to all and sundry. Draco understood this. They both knew the delicacy of the situation. Draco sat up and self-consciously pulled a silk bathrobe over his scarred body.

Harry sighed, reluctant to let this end and then swung his legs out of the bed, pulling his boxers on, his cut-offs, and his robes.

“Will you come back tonight?” Draco’s voice was quiet, a little uncertain, and he clutched his robe around him defensively.

Harry could have danced a jig for joy. “Yes,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, he wanted to scream “yes” from the rafters.

“Come late,” Draco smiled, “and wear your invisibility cloak, I want you to stay the night and I don’t want the Weasel finding out and hexing me for defiling you.”

Harry grinned and after a moments hesitation he gave Draco a none to hasty kiss good-bye, letting their tongues meet and caress, before reluctantly taking his leave.

~ ~ ~

He hadn’t known she would be there.

He had looked for her, made it his job to find her, but eventually he knew that she was too well warded against him and he had given her up as lost. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would still be at school, but here she was.

Viktor Krum pushed himself further back into the stone corner of the bathroom, knowing that he shouldn’t worry, she wouldn’t be able to see him. Hermione Granger dropped her towel and bag on the floor beside the pool, yawned and turned on the taps.

The Sprout woman had told him she was still there. Not knowing about their history, the Professor had praised Miss Granger’s skills in Herbology. A few questions later and he knew where to find her. They were all still here, all three of them. He had gone to the Common Room to find her, not knowing exactly what he was going to say to her but perhaps hoping to give her forewarning that he was there, so that she didn’t choke on her breakfast. She wasn’t there, it was dark and deserted and so he used one of his manifold talents and disappeared from view and waited until she awoke.

He watched Harry come out of one corridor looking sleep mussed and satisfied and disappear through another door. It would be another two hours before anyone else disturbed the silence. He even managed to get some sleep. Then a door had opened, waking him, and she appeared.

He should have made his presence known then, either that or he should have left. Instead he followed her to the bathroom.

Krum was unaccustomed to the luxury of Hogwarts. Durmstrang had been cruder an colder. He had found the bathroom attached to his own quarters to be extravagant, then he saw this bathroom, and he couldn’t comprehend it.  To waste such luxury on students seemed ludicrous. A bathtub the size of a small swimming pool was nothing but a waste of water. Of course the students would no doubt share, but it was undoubtedly a luxury that he could never understand.

As if to prove a point about the students sharing, another girl entered the bathroom and began chatting away to Hermione. The seemed to be good friends, both laughing at some private joke. He couldn’t hear what they were saying with any clarity, but he didn’t want to risk getting any closer.

A trickle of sweat rolled down Krum’s spine. He knew he should go, he hadn’t taught a class yet and here he was, hiding in the senior girl’s bathroom, spying on her. He should go. He had to get her out of his mind, his thoughts, his sight, but as she untied her bathrobe and hung it on a hook, revealing her pale and gloriously naked body, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

He still had her last letter in his breast pocket. “I don’t think we should write to each other any more.” She had no idea how those words had tortured him. She had returned his subsequent letters unopened, warding herself against him so that he could search until the end of time and never find her.

But he had. She was here now. He could go up to her, he could reach out and touch her, prove to her that he wasn’t to be pushed away so lightly.

The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore, who had shown immeasurable kindness in hiring him, flashed through his mind. Dumbledore believed in honor and he had managed to find it in the most unlikely of places. The scowling Potion’s Master for one, Krum knew all about his past, Karakoff might have been a coward but he was also a useful source of information. While Krum knew that hiding in the girl’s bathroom and spying on the one girl who had rejected him (and consequently the only girl he wanted) was hardly honorable, he did have full intentions of doing the job he had come to do.

Dumbledore had nothing to worry about on that score, at least Krum hoped so. He wouldn’t touch her, he had made a promise to himself. At Hogwarts he was being given a chance he would never have received at home. The war had decimated his country and his former school. They no longer had a Quidditch team worth mentioning and many countries seemed reluctant to take him on, no matter how good he was and despite the fact that he had nothing to do with the Dark Lord or Death Eaters during the war. He would do nothing to jeopardize his position. His job consisted of teaching children to ride broomsticks and the intricacies of various Wizard sports. He would also referee the Quidditch games, something that sent a pang through him because he was aching to play, but which he also accepted as part of the aftermath of war. His path would rarely cross Miss Granger's, and he knew how to avoid complications by avoiding her.

Except that he was already complicating things by spying on her, and her friend, in the bath.

Her friend had also removed her robe now, and he suspended all thought for a moment while he appreciated the sight of the two women in front of him. Hermione was slight. When he had first met her she was a child and he had thought her tall for her age; it appeared that she hadn’t grown an inch. Her body was unremarkable, pale and slender with breasts that were a little too small and hips that didn’t swell enough to be truly womanly. Her nipples were small and pink and the hair in the v thrust of her thighs was sparse and unkempt, and the same color as the hair on her head.

By comparison the other girl was taller and prettier, with long dark hair and lightly tanned, supple limbs. She had largish breasts with large pinkish brown nipples that Krum knew would feel like satin on his tongue. The dark hair of her pubis would be thick and luxuriant had it not been waxed to within an inch of its life.  She turned and his gaze trailed down over the curve of her hips and over the perfect smooth flesh of her buttocks. Of the two, this girl was the beauty and while Krum could imagine that she would be able to provide ample amounts of pleasure, she did not possess one thing that was essential. She was quite simply not Hermione.

For a fleeting moment he considered what could be done with an Imperius curse right then and there. He pushed that idea away, no use going to Azkaban just because he was horny.

He would keep his distance, he would keep his hands to himself and he would give her privacy.

After the girls had taken a bath.

He figured he could allow himself this much.

~ ~ ~

Hermione left the bathroom with an eerie feeling, almost as though she was being watched. She had heard that Moaning Myrtle had taken a keen interest in the occupants of the boy’s bathroom. It seemed only logical that she would decide to take a peek at the girls at some point, so Hermione reasoned that it was probably Myrtle that had unsettled her so. Lavender had agreed, but being more of an exhibitionist that Hermione, she had stretched out at full length and floated happily at the centre of the pool, which is where Hermione left her.

As decidedly creepy as the idea of Myrtle spying on her was, Hermione was not going to worry about it. She figured that the unfortunate ghost had very few pleasures and if she thought about it seriously, she wouldn’t mind catching a glimpse of a few of the boys taking a bath. Besides, Hermione had other things on her mind at that moment, like the fact that Lavender had promised to do her hair and makeup this morning.

She was about to walk through the Common Room to her chambers when she felt his presence. It seemed that in the last few days her body had involuntarily tuned itself into him and she looked around just as Professor Snape stepped out of the corridor that lead to Draco’s room.

She froze, they both did, paralyzed for a moment as they took in and absorbed each other’s presence. They were reasonably close to each other, no more than a few feet apart, Hermione’s bedroom door being right next to the corridor’s entrance. She reasoned that all she needed to do was take two steps towards him and she could reach out and touch him. Let her hand rest on his chest. Feel his heart beat. Kiss him. Drag him into her room and ward the door so heavily that Lavender would never get in. Throw him on the bed and molest him. She felt herself grow wet and sticky between her thighs. 

He was dressed in his usual impenetrable black, but not his school robes. He had on what appeared to be Muggle clothing and once she registered this she almost died from the wonder of it. He was wearing black trousers and shoes and a black woolen jumper that looked soft and tactile and was a little too big for him. In his hand he held a long black coat. Remembering her conversation with Lavender the night before, she took notice of the scent of him. He smelled clean and the Sandalwood scent was not overpowering, indeed it seemed to be more part of his skin than something that was applied to it. His hair was damp, as though he had not showered long before. She took all of these things in, aching to touch him, to feel the wet hair twinned around her fingers, to test the softness of his woolen jumper.

As his eyes raked over her she mentally cursed her Winnie the Pooh obsession. She was wearing her fuzzy Piglet bathrobe and bright orange slippers in the shape of tiger claws that Ron had purchased for her birthday. He had found them in a Muggle store in London and thought they were hilarious. So had she, until she was standing in front of Professor Severus Snape in them. Absently she pulled the towel in which she had wrapped her hair, off her head, and immediately regretted it because the wet curls fell around her shoulders in a frizzy damp mess. Lavender had insisted that Hermione wash it with Lavender’s own shampoo and rinse before she could style it.

He had thought he was fine, shocked to see her standing there, instantaneously drawn to her, but fine. He had decided that if he concentrated on the ridiculous fuzzy bathrobe and the Merlin only knew what things that she had on her feet, he could pretend that perhaps it wasn’t her. Of course, it was patently obvious that she had nothing under the robe, it parted just enough that he could see a small trace of a thigh, one pale knee and the slight curve of a calf, but if he didn’t look there, if he just lifted his gaze a little, away from the bare flesh, then he was just fine. Then she had pulled the towel off her head and all of those wet curls had tumbled down, smelling of Honeysuckle and lilac and frizzing in such a way that made his mouth run dry. He really was not fine, he had to get out of there, the Muggle clothes he was wearing were not as forgiving as robes and he had already masturbated over her once this morning (and last night, just after she left) and seeing her in the flesh (oh Gods, her flesh) was not really helping his cause.

They both let their eyes dart about the room, trying to detect any sign at all of movement or life. Most people were still trying to catch a few last minutes of sleep, those who had ventured to open their doors had seen Professor Snape and closed them again. It was far too early to be confronted with the snaky Potions Master, most would need at least another two hours before that was an option. Lavender had walked out of the bathroom, seen the two of them and turned around and gone straight back in.

So they were alone, anyone could walk out, but at that moment they were alone.

Hermione’s heart began to beat in her chest so hard and loud that she was certain he could hear it and she began searching for something to say, something that would be profound and perfect and make him want her. “I…” she fumbled, “Good morning Professor,” she finished quietly.

“Good morning Hermione.” His voice was devoid of sneer or silkiness, it was quiet, a little raw and he had called her by her first name.

They returned to staring at each other, each focusing on the intricacies of each other face. He was looking a little paler than usual and she noticed that there were dark shadows under his black eyes, as though he hadn’t slept well for a long time. She let her gaze travel down the prominent arc of his nose to his pale mouth which, when devoid of a sneer, looked soft although she would never say it was gentle. For the first time in her life she did not look at him and see any ugliness. His face was an amalgam of faults, eyes that were too dark, a nose that was too big and lips that were too thin. His face was gaunt, his complexion sallow and pale, his hair greasy and at that moment she could not have beheld a sight which would have enchanted her more.

“I’m going to London,” he said awkwardly, breaking the promise he had made to himself earlier that he would not tell her of his movements, she had no need to know, she was only a student. “I won’t be teaching today.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She and Lavender had only hauled themselves out of bed this early in order to ensure she looked perfect for him today. Instead he was seeing her in her Piglet bathrobe and tiger claw slippers. “Oh,” was all she could say and then she thought about it, about why he was going. “Is it because of me?”

He curled his lip into a sneer and arched an eyebrow. “Now Miss Granger,” he said silkily, “do you really think you could make me run away?”

For a moment she thought he was serious, and then she realized he had made a joke, and a rather self-deprecating one at that. Professor Snape was joking with her! She flushed and felt her feet move as she took a step closer to him. “When will you be back?”

“Sunday.” He had to fight himself to stop from adding “come with me”, knowing that would be the worst thing he could possibly say. He still had to make this right somehow, so far he was making a glorious mess of rectifying the situation. It was becoming worse now because he had just taken a step towards her and they were in the Common Room of her tower and any moment could bring over thirty students out to bear witness to his foolish behavior. Here was an excellent opportunity to repel her (because Merlin only knew why but his looks weren’t doing it), and he could barely speak. His tongue, usually so adept at a stinging retort or blatant cruelty, felt twisted and more dead than alive. All he could think of saying was “come with me,” and in such a circumstance he just shut up.

“So long?” She heard the anxious sound her voice had made. It was only Wednesday, to stay away until Sunday would mean he would be gone for almost a week. She desperately wanted to beg him to take her with him. She could go to London, she was ahead in all of her lessons. They could go together. She knew it was a ridiculous thought. He would never say yes to such a request, he might even scorn her for even suggesting it. He was her Professor and she was his student and she knew that was how he wanted it to be. But they were moving closer to each other, as though they were being winched together, not of their own accord.

She hesitated and placed a trembling hand against his stomach. Feeling for the first time the unyielding mass of the body beneath the clothes. Against his will his own hand came out then, stroked sensitive fingers over the soft fleece of her bathrobe and felt the hardness of a nipple beneath the fabric. He had to stop this, he had to - he just didn’t want to.

“I have some things I have to take care of,” he felt as though his mouth were full of marbles and his fingers strayed lower, over the belt tied around her waist and after a moment’s hesitation, delved into the opening in the robe.

What in the name of all that was sacred and holy was he doing?  He wasn’t doing this. It wasn’t rational and he was above all a rational being …. Most of the time. He was not reaching between her thighs, he just wasn’t. But he was and he knew he was.

“Professor Dumbledore will take Potions until I get back,” he said, hoping that the sound of something so mundane would somehow bring his hand out from the heat between her legs.

Her breath hitched as his fingers stroked gently over the damp curls at the juncture of her thighs, she parted them slightly to give him easier access and one long finger brushed over her clitoris and then pushed gently into her body.

“A...and y-you’ll be back on S-Sund-d-day?” Oh Gods how was he doing that? He was still inside her, other clever fingers massaged her clitoris, and she rocked against his hand.

“If…” his own breath caught and he wanted to pull her closer and bury his face in her wet hair, “If not before.” She felt so hot and tight inside. If she felt like this around his finger he could only imagine what she would feel like around his cock. He’d tear her open, he’d be too big. He desperately wanted to find out. He knew he had to stop this, they could be caught, it was just a matter of someone walking out of their bedroom, but he couldn’t stop because she was so hot and wet inside and he wanted her so much he felt he’d die if he didn’t have her.

They’ve done it, he thought suddenly, they’ve finally found a way to kill me.

“C-c-can I s-s-see you when you get b-b-back?” She was beginning to crest, and she willed him to keep going, it wouldn’t take long, she was almost there.

“I..” he swallowed, “I…” If she would just move her hand lower, “yes, I…” he gasped as he felt her body tighten around his fingers. She began to strain against his hand, “I think we need to…discuss….” He closed his eyes, she began to whimper quietly, biting her lip, trying not to make any noise, “some things,” he finished.

Hermione came and her hips pistoned forward into his hand, she stumbled forward, fell against him, and he held her against his body, forgetting for a moment exactly where he was as she rasped her orgasm out. She couldn’t speak, she could barely think. She could hear his heart beating in his chest and she realized she was pressed against him. “Take me with you,” she whispered, struggling to stay on her feet.

At that moment he was willing to take her anywhere she wanted to go, just so long as when they got there he could lay her down and fuck her until neither of them could walk. “I…”

He was saved from answering when Draco walked out of the corridor wrapped in a silk bath robe, yawning hugely and running straight into the back of the Potions Master. Snape quickly set Hermione on her feet and stuck his hand in his pocket, then pulled it out again, straightened her bathrobe and put it back. Hermione was still in a state of bliss and hadn’t yet realized what was happening.

Draco Malfoy was no fool. While he would have had a hard time believing it was possible that Hermione Granger and Severus Snape could possibly be doing something even remotely sexual with each other, the heat and tension coming off them in waves was almost tangible. There was also the fact that he had seen Hermione pressed against Snape and the Professor’s hand in her robe. “Sorry,” he yawned again, “was I interrupting something?”

“No, of course not.” Severus snapped very quickly back into Professor Snape, “I was simply telling Miss Granger that I would not be teaching today and that she should continue with her planetary tinctures for the remainder of the week. I dare say you should do the same.”

“Ok, what ever you say Uncle Severus.” Draco grinned.

Snape’s flesh infused with a hint of a blush and he turned to Hermione, “While I am away, the Headmaster has requested that you help to ensure that at least one of Mr. Potter’s tinctures actually works, he is rather anxious for Potter to pass this year.”

Hermione was flabbergasted at just how fast he could go from the man who she wanted to throw on the floor and molest to her sarcastic Potions Master.

That’s because he is your sarcastic Potions Master you fool. “Yes Professor,” she managed to say, but he had already turned on his heel and was heading out the door. Her legs started to wobble, and she felt an arm stretch around her waist. She looked at Draco who was grinning at her.

“Why Miss Granger,” he said smiling and helping her to her room, “I think he likes you.”

“I…” she blushed as they staggered into her room and she sank onto the bed, “I…”

“And I think we have worked out just who the giver of love bites is.”

She shook her head, “Please, don’t…”

“I’m not going to say anything,” he laughed gently, “I’ll say good job, I don’t know how you managed it.”

Something clunked into place in her head. “Uncle Severus?”

“He’s my Godfather, not technically an Uncle, I just call him that when I want to give him a little shit.” Draco chuckled, “or let him know I’m onto him.”

“You won’t tell?”

“Of course not!” he frowned, “You might need to have a bath though, you smell like you just got shagged.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open and Draco wandered out of her room, still chuckling and heading for a morning shower.  

~ ~ ~

Ron Weasley was in an unreasonably bad mood. His evening had not gone as planned, he had fully expected to have a rose on the Contract and the ability to flaunt his success (although certainly not his lover) to his less successful friend. When he had left, Harry had been sitting in the Common Room alone and contemplating going to bed early, by the time Ron got back at around 2am there was one of the biggest rosebuds Ron had ever seen on Harry’s rose bush. Ron had a rosebud of his own but it was rather small and it looked a little brown and dead.

To add insult to injury, when he had woken at 7am, Harry was asleep in his own bed looking satisfied and there was another enormous rosebud on the bush. To make matters worse, there was another bud on Hermione’s rose bush as well. Harry it seemed got red roses, Hermione, pink and Ron? Well, from what he could see they would be yellow, when they weren’t kind of brown and dead.

Harry was also keeping very tight lipped about the identity of the mystery woman and what exactly had taken place to earn the buds. He did however work out that Harry had received a blow job and that it was pretty fucking mind blowing and Ron felt a surge of jealousy so strong he almost spat.

So now he was stuck at breakfast with Harry who wasn’t quite there and glaring down the table at Hermione who was sitting with Lavender on one side and Draco Fucking Malfoy on the other. Hermione didn’t look all that comfortable and that probably had something to do with the fact that Viktor Krum was sitting at the High Table and had been introduced by Dumbledore as the new Sports Master.

Ron surveyed Krum coolly and sneered, “Well it looks like Hermione’s set,” he said to Harry, “Krum’s back, I’d say it’s just a matter of time before she gets her rose.”

Harry looked at Krum and frowned as though he had only just realized he was there.

“Didn’t Hermione dump Viktor Krum?” Harry asked, coming to himself momentarily. “He sent all of those really nasty letters, didn’t one of them have a curse in it? Why would she do anything with him?”  

“Well he has got to be better than Malfoy,” Ron bit into his toast and eyed Draco who surreptitiously flicked him the bird. “I can’t believe she let that prick touch her.”

Harry flushed and felt a wave of protectiveness wash over his body. He looked down the table at Draco who flashed him a smile that made him want to melt. “I don’t think she did anything with Malfoy,” he said.

“Oh come on!” Ron nearly choked. “You saw ‘em!”

“Yes, but maybe there was a good explanation for it.”

“What? Like they were talking about Transfigurations, and she kissed him on the cheek for no apparent reason?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Explanation my arse!” He threw what was left of his toast on his plate, “She should have her lips cut off for touching his with them. Gods, anything his mouth touches must be contaminated.”   

Harry shifted uncomfortably and wondered just what would happen to his cock if Ron found out exactly where Draco Malfoy’s mouth had been. “Gods Ron, he’s not that bad.”

Ron gaped at Harry as though he had suddenly developed a mad hysteria. “Not that bad?” He looked around for back up, “NOT THAT BAD?” Now half the Great Hall was staring at him. “Are you kidding me? Might I remind you that his father tried to kill you on how many occasions? Fifty wasn’t it?”

“About four actually.” Harry began to smile.

“And how many times has the little blond ‘ferret’ tried to hex you?”

“That would number in the thousands.” Harry was out and out grinning now, at the other end of the table Draco was eating something which could have been yogurt and was comically sucking on the spoon and staring at Harry.

“And who would have become a Death Eater if the War had continued?”

“Well we don’t know that.”

“Yeah, he didn’t even fight, he hid at home like a fucking coward. If he did fight we might all be lucky and you could’ve killed the fucking shit.”

Harry started in his seat and he had to force down the rush of anguish that coursed through him. It didn’t matter now, it never happened. Draco hadn’t become a Death Eater and he didn’t fight in the war and he was there, sitting at the other end of the table and he was alive and whole. That was all Harry cared about. Draco winked and Harry started to laugh.

”So now it’s funny?”

“No Ron, it’s just...” He sighed and rolled his eyes, he really didn’t want to fight right now, not when he felt this good. “You’re right, point taken.”

Ron frowned, “Right, good.” He picked up his toast again and began eating.

Harry sighed. So much for telling Ron about Draco because if everything worked out, he would need a vat of tranquilizing tonic for that little conversation. He looked back down the table but Draco was talking to Hermione, grinning a rather evil grin and looking edible. Hermione still looked uncomfortable, but she seemed to be enjoying the company.

The guilt he’d been ignoring with his morning euphoria finally surfaced. He was going to have to do something to make up for what he had done. It was going to have to be something pretty big. Really, really big. He had no idea what. If someone he trusted hit him (well, clobbered and knocked him into a fireplace actually) he would have a pretty hard time forgiving them.

Hermione was different from him though and he knew it. She forgave people, often people who didn’t deserve to be forgiven. He just had to be honest with her. And therein lay the problem. He looked at Ron who had turned his back and was talking to Padma on his other side. How did he tell them something like this? It was one thing to want to be open and honest with them, it was another thing entirely to say ‘Ron, Hermione, I’m gay and I am in love with Draco Malfoy and he gave me really great head last night’ - or words to that effect.

He began to smile and dissolve back into his own euphoric world again. Yes, he would have to say that Draco Malfoy gave really really great head.

~ ~ ~

The fact that Krum was not only at the school, but teaching there, annoyed Hermione no end. She had worked hard on creating and maintaining the wards to keep her whereabouts hidden from him and now he had just turned up and here she was. She was kicking herself for not having told Dumbledore about the curse that the bastard had sent her in the post. Still, she reasoned, if Dumbledore had hired him then he must pose no threat to her. Dumbledore would hardly hire a maniac.

What about Professor Quirrel? Or Gilderoy Lockhart?

Everyone has their off days. She eyed Krum nervously.

Dumbledore believes in second chances, so why don’t you?

It was a good point and she knew she should follow it. Still, she resolved not to make so much as eye contact with Krum unless he actually came over and started talking to her, and so far he had pointedly ignored her. She stared down the table at Harry who gave her a tentative smile, she looked away, she was still angry at him. She had managed to avoid getting a bruise where he hit her, but it still hurt despite the pain killing draught she had made. It was typical of her luck that she has a falling out with Harry right when Krum turns up.

She looked wistfully at Snape’s empty place and wondered exactly where he was and if he would miss her. Draco had filled her in on why he was going to London but it did little to curb the want in her.

~ ~ ~

 A trip to London in the middle of the school year was not part of Severus Snape's plans. Especially not now when he had so many things that he had to straighten out in his own life. He was still having difficulties believing the situation he was in. He had never experienced a woman actually wanting him, a woman letting him touch her, wanting him to touch her! After he left Hermione his intention was to go straight to London, but he returned to his room, jerked off, had another shower and wished to the Gods he was taking her with him.

It was probably a good thing he was going away. He needed to be away from her. The fact that this experience was so new and so fresh was surely the reason why he couldn’t control himself. The attraction made no sense to him, yes he had been aware of her but not in such a way as to make him become unreasonable. Certainly not in such a way that would make him abandon all sense and molest her in the middle of a communal room just before it was filled with students. His behavior this morning was completely irrational. He had to forget her and there was no better place to do that than in the one place he truly despised.

He hated London, he hated the entire city with its tight narrow streets and the multitude of Muggles that swarmed into even the tightest of alleyways at all times of the day and night. Despite the complete irrationality of it, Snape hated Muggles. He had argued it in his head over and over again and had decided that it wasn’t that he discriminated against them, he just found their existence futile. As if to prove his point he rounded a corner and was confronted by a huge WH Smith newsagent, large magazine posters glaring from its windows, one proclaiming it’s “Stars without their makeup” issue and featuring a collection of spotty looking Muggles on the cover. He had no idea who Melanie Griffiths was or why she was so important that Muggles would pay good money to see her without her make up but evidently they did, he sneered in disgust and kept walking. If it wasn’t for Draco he would never have come.

There were very few people in the world that Snape felt the compulsion to do something for, and fewer still whom he couldn’t refuse. Draco Malfoy fitted into the ‘couldn’t refuse’ category, along with Minerva, Dumbledore and Lucius. A nagging voice in the back of his head added Hermione to the list and he had to concede that she had probably made it, although he would never admit to it openly and he would never tell her that. Evil wench with her soft lips and her wild untamable curls that frizzed when they were damp.

He had been made Draco’s Godfather years before when Lucius was more than just Voldemort’s thug. Well, Lucius had always been Voldemort’s thug, but he’d had been different once. Snape had good memories of him. As a child, the young Severus had hero worshiped his neighbor, six years older and impossibly good looking, Snape had felt it the tragedy of his life that he hadn’t turned out the same. He had watched Lucius’ habits with an almost religious fervor, even admiring his rather annoying habit of stopping everything in order to write down some ridiculous thought he had (or a quote he had heard or some damn thing from the side of a building) in the pocket book he carried everywhere with him. Of course, Lord Voldemort hadn’t shared Snape’s admiration and had subjected Lucius to a full 15 minutes of the Cruciatus curse for not listening during a meeting and thus put paid to that habit. It was Lucius who had taken him to meet the Dark Lord in the first place - so perhaps he didn’t have to thank him for that turn of events.

The last time Severus had spoken to Lucius was after the battle was won. Voldemort had taken refuge in a crumbling tower and was killed there; Lucius had gone in and was taken down. Severus had carried him out of the wreckage of the tower, knowing that it would be inevitable that he would receive the kiss but hoping that perhaps his fate would be different. He didn’t want to leave him there to die. Lucius, weak from the stun spells, had looked at him and realized that he was a traitor and had laughed. It was so typical of Lucius. The old Lucius. Laughing at his own stupidity. Then he had looked seriously at Snape and whispered, “Look after Draco will you,” before passing out. They were the last words Severus heard from him. 

He quickly pushed his mind to the task at hand. He had informed Draco he would go to London to get Narcissa, and so a little after ten in the morning he found himself plunging into Soho, joining the flotsam and jetsam of Muggle humanity that inhabited London’s dirty streets, pushing his way past market stalls and sex shops, in search of the gray façade of the Museum of Magical Arts and Antiquities.

Snape had never understood why it wasn’t located in a Wizarding area. To have the world’s foremost Wizarding Museum located in the heart of the Muggle red light district, wedged between a lingerie shop and an adult bookstore, was a travesty. Then again, when the museum had been built, this was open countryside.

He hadn’t been to the Museum since he was a child. It had been one of those strange days when his Father was in a particularly cruel mood and his Mother had felt the rare need to shelter him from it. She had purchased tickets to the museum, the tickets were Portkeys and they carried them to the street outside. It had been raining that day, and she had felt the need to stand them out in it, looking at the front door and sighing a few times before saying in a high pitched voice that meant she was attempting to be playful and understanding of him; “Come on Severus, you’ll love this, this place is full of all sorts of interesting things.”

Sullen child that he was, he looked up at her and tried to smile through rain soaked hair. He had hated every square inch of that Museum.

It was now some 34 years later and he could still feel the cold sting of rain on his face. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, as though they had been held so tightly they ached, and turned the corner onto Bouchier Street. The Museum suddenly appeared before him, two cold and miserable looking Aurors were posted at the door - ironic guards for the Death Eaters. He wished for a moment that he was dressed in a decent set of robes, rather than the Muggle trousers, jumper and long black coat, but it would have been foolish to traipse around London in full wizard regalia. He would rather drink his own urine than have some Muggle look at him as though he were mad.

He mounted the steps, nodded to the Aurors who eyed him suspiciously, and entered the Museum. The first sensation to hit him was the smell; that same, musty smell that he remembered from his childhood. It pervaded every space and must have been ingrained into the very stone of the walls. There were a number of Witches milling about the entrance, all dressed in Muggle clothes with various measures of success, and each holding the hand of a small child who would have done anything to be a million miles away from that place.

A couple of Witches looked at him, remembering him from school and visibly shuddered. He suppressed a smirk, he did like to be remembered. It was then his turn to shudder as her turned and saw a large sign advertising the Dark Arts Exhibition that was due to open in a week. He shuddered at the thought of the Ministry putting people on display as though it were the Dark Ages. Snape had no doubt it would be a huge success. He walked quickly to a desk with an ornate information sign and looked at the nervous looking House Elf who stood on a stool waiting to serve.

“I am here to see the Curator regarding the retrieval of Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy’s remains,” he hissed quietly. There was no need to let everyone here know what he was doing.

“Does Sir have any letters of recommendation?” the House Elf asked with more imperiousness than Snape thought a House Elf could possess. He was unused to addressing most people with civility, it was going to be a cold day in hell before he kowtowed to a House Elf!

“I have letters for the Curator to see, now get him for me before I have you presented with a hat.”

The House Elf shook, bowed it’s head in terror and disappeared. It returned less than a minute later, still shaking and still bowing and requested that Snape follow it into the Museum.

~ ~ ~

Harry held out his hand and tried not to give over to irritation as Lavender Brown caressed it and stared closely at his palm. All he really wanted to do was eat his lunch, it was lunch time after all and he was fairly keen to find Ron and get away from Hermione’s hurt stare, but Lavender was insistent, she had Divination straight after lunch and she hadn’t completed her homework. Firenze was not as easily fooled as Trelawney. Apparently Ron had already done readings of all of her best friends and so she had assembled Harry, Draco and Hermione as her subjects.

Despite her total lack of regard for Divination as a subject, Harry noticed that Hermione was watching Lavender with some interest and that Draco was looking on intently, a dubious frown on his face. Harry felt a little like a Jobberknoll on it’s deathbed, with an audience waiting to hear it die.

After close inspection Lavender declared him to have an Earth Hand. He couldn’t see it himself, not knowing what an ‘Earth Hand’ would look like over any other hand, but Lavender was writing it down in her book and returning to stare at the lines of his palm.

“So why is it an Earth Hand?” he asked when it became evident that no one else was going to comment.

“Well,” said Lavender, still staring intently, “there is a structural heaviness to it, a square palm, short fingers….”

He had short fingers? He looked at his hand, they didn’t look that short.

“Although there is no paucity, which is unusual in an Earth Hand.”

No what? He frowned at her and she caught the look.

“Usually there is a paucity of lines on an Earth Hand.”

He had no idea what she was on about, he was still getting over the short finger’s remark.

“The Earth Hand indicates a practical nature, people with these hands are usually honest, noted for their inclination towards effort and hard work.” She looked a little closer, “you have a nice, powerfully masculine hand.”

Draco snorted with laughter and Harry flushed.

”Don’t you laugh, you’re next,” Lavender told Draco and returned to Harry’s palm, “you have a strong streak of ‘typical masculinity’ in your psychological make up...”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You know, rescue damsels from burning buildings type stuff...”

Well he could hardly deny that, didn’t Hermione once accuse him of having a saving people complex?

“Hmmm, but I see you have a darker side.”

Where? How did she see anything like that in the lines on his hand?

“Beneath the outward solidity lurk certain forces which, given the right circumstances, can break through in a thoroughly destructive way.”

Harry jerked his head up to look at her and cast a glance at Hermione who was nodding in agreement and glaring at him.

“You have a nicely developed Mount of Venus, which means that you have a warm and sympathetic nature and a strong desire to love and be loved. It is rather springy in texture, which means you are probably pretty energetic in bed, a bit submissive, eager to please.”

“Don’t you write that down!” Harry flushed and Draco was almost rolling on the floor with laughter, even Hermione smirked.

“I have to! It’s all there in your hand. You have a strong appreciation for beauty, you’ll probably only be attracted to really beautiful looking people.”

Draco rolled his eyes and Harry felt himself grin and flush a little more.

“Now, your heart line is very deep and strong with no off shoots at all,” her eyes widened, “It seems you are going to have one great love in your life,” she frowned then, “and only one. That’s pretty weird, usually a few lovers are evident, I can only see one for you. It lasts until you die.”

He pulled his hand away. “That’s enough,” he muttered.

Lavender sat back. “What’s the matter? It’s a good reading.”

“It’s all crap,” Harry said a little defensively, “you know Divination isn’t exact.”

Lavender rolled her eyes and wondered why she ended up with the three biggest skeptics in the school for her subject matter. She was the first to admit that Divination was an imprecise art at the best of times, but palm reading was probably one of the more accurate methods, it was just a matter of being able to decipher the unique lines on the person’s hand. She considered herself rather good at it. 

“Ok,” she turned to Draco, “your turn.”

Harry shifted over and Draco slid onto the bench beside him. Harry felt fingers brush his thigh briefly. It was the first contact he’d had since he left Draco that morning and he was going to cling to it like a ship wrecked survivor clings to a piece of driftwood.

Draco held out his hand and Lavender took it – and began to smile.

“Ooooh, I’ve never seen a Water Hand before.” She grinned at Draco, “just love to be different don’t you?”

“I try to oblige.”

“Ok, very delicate hand, long fingers, long palm, lot’s of lines.”  She smiled at Draco, “so lot’s of secrets to be found. They call this the sensitive hand, it’s very feminine…”

”Oh thanks very much,” he drawled.

”I can’t help it if you have girly hands,” Lavender laughed. “Ok, you are subject to ever changing moods, your psychological state has it’s physical analogue in flowing water – running sometimes shallow, sometimes deep. You tend to reflect your immediate environment.”

“So I’m a shallow person who does what everyone around me does?” Draco raised an eyebrow.

“No, not at all, you’re ever changing. By reflecting your environment I mean it in a sense of ‘you be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you’… you reflect your surroundings, which also means you are adaptable, versatile, flexible.”

“Fair enough.”

“Ummm, slightly over developed Mount of Venus but it is quite fleshy, so you also have a warm and sympathetic nature and a desire for love and to be loved, but you hide a lot of that. The fact that it is over developed shows that you have a tendency to over indulgence. You enjoy being pleasured but you like to be in control..” she stroked the fleshy Mount, “I really pity the poor girl who ends up with you!”

Draco smirked, a little offended, “And why would that be? I think I’d make a pretty good catch.”

“Well, you won’t accept anything but the best and most coveted of people and you want to be worshipped.”

“Sound about right.”

Lavender burst into laughter, “You are hopeless.” She went back to the palm; “Although, interestingly enough, you don’t value beauty very highly.” She looked him square in the eye. “My goodness, Mr. Malfoy, there might be some hidden depths in there.”

“Well, I figure I’ll never find anyone as good looking as me so I’ll just have to settle for second best.” He sighed dramatically and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in mock anguish and had everyone at the table in immediate fits of laughter.

“Ok, ok, we have to get back to this.” Lavender stroked his hand affectionately and Harry was suddenly certain that they’d had a thing once. He looked away and Lavender continued. “Heart line indicates that you have a number of lovers very young,” she smiled, “a LARGE number of lovers very young.”

Draco nodded, trying to see what she was seeing.

“Then you find the one that’s your soul mate. It looks like it’s unexpected because all activity stops after that, not even any minor offshoots, no other lovers are indicated after that.”

“Really?” He sounded dubious.

“Really, looks like you actually manage to settle down.”

He didn’t know if that was such a good thing, until he really thought about it and remembered Harry’s palm. Harry only got one lover, only one. He looked at Harry and allowed his gaze to travel over the face in profile, “can you see when I am going to meet this amazing person that will mend my wicked ways?”

“I can’t give you an exact date or anything. I’d say it’s soon. It’s early on in your line which would indicate that you’re fairly young, before your twenties.”

Draco shrugged, “Ok, I think I can handle that.” He grinned, “Of course, Potter here thinks it’s all crap, so I won’t take it as gospel.”

Harry felt fingers stroke his thigh again and he felt the first vestiges of arousal in his groin. He smiled a small smile and looked at his own palm. With Draco still stroking he looked up at Lavender, “Do you really think I have short fingers?”

~ ~ ~

The existence of windows in the Curators’ office surprised Snape and he found his eyes wandering to the windows and scanning the somber gray clouds until lightning cracked a jagged course across the sky. Rain beat with sudden fury against the windows, then streamed down the glass, blurring the view outside and drawing Snape's attention back to the man seated at the desk in front of him.

The Curator Archibald Semeuse sat with his back to the windows studying Snape’s letters of recommendation while thunder reverberated through the sky. The request for the release of Narcissa’s body lay close to the Curator’s hand and he was making a great show of checking everything thoroughly. Every so often the man’s dark eyes would flick up and take in the tall lean form of Snape and then go back to the letters, otherwise he didn’t move.

Snape felt his mouth start to twist into a sneer, and he resisted the urge to say something. The Curator was horribly neat and Snape noticed with no small amount of distaste that when he sat in that way, unmoving and unnaturally still, he could have passed for a mannequin. He was also exceedingly well groomed, which put Snape’s rather unkept appearance to shame. His hair looked as though it had been cut less than an hour before and his gray robes were impeccable, each fold pressed into a crease as tight and straight as blades. Snape had no doubt that the man’s shoes would positively gleam.

Semeuse looked up from the letters and smiled a large fake smile that was his standard welcoming look. His teeth were exceedingly straight and white.

“Well then Mr…”

”Professor,” Snape interjected with some irritation.

“Professor Snape.” Semeuse straightened the page of its creases. “This all seems to be in order. I can release Mrs. Malfoy’s body to you. There are also some personal effects that have been sent from Azkaban. If you do not wish to take them I will be only too pleased to assist you and dispose of them myself.”

Snape forced a tight smile to his lips, “I believe I will take them with me,” he said. The Curator unnerved him, managing to do what only one man had previously been able to. The Curator made his skin crawl.

Semeuse smiled a tight smile of his own. “As you wish,” he said and began to deliberately fold the letter again, ensuring that each fold was perfectly symmetrical. “I will have the House Elves prepare the body for transportation; it should take less than an hour. In the meantime, please stay and look around the museum, I am sure you will find something to amuse you.”

“Actually, it is the express wish of Mr. Draco Malfoy that I check on his father. I am sure it will not inconvenience you to allow me a few moments.”

The Curators hand balled into a fist under the table and his face hardened. Snape’s smile became slightly more genuine, enjoying the older man’s discomfort and wondering exactly what he had to hide. Semeuse was well aware that he could deny the request, but the dour man in front of him was no Piers Tampling. He was Godfather to the Angels son, he had a letter of recommendation from Albus Dumbledore, and he was also a Professor at Hogwarts, as well as Head of Slytherin House. He was not someone to be meddled with. Denying the request could arouse suspicions that the Curator did not want aroused. It would be best for the man to go and view the Angel and leave satisfied that he was alive and well. In fact, it might even be for the best.

“Of course, Professor Snape.” Semeuse returned to his large cheerful smile, “I will show you to the Sais Room.”

~ ~ ~

As much as Semeuse did not want to leave Snape alone in the Sais Room with his Angel, he had no choice. The necessity of having the woman’s body prepared forced him to go; that, and he knew better than to hover when the point was to prove that all was well.

The other cabinets were all covered, only the case containing Lucius was uncovered, a soft light infusing the glass box, lighting him up for Snape to see. For a moment he felt the sting of guilt creep up the back of his neck. Dumbledore had once said that standing up to your enemies took great courage, but standing up to your friends took greater courage still. He made such an enterprise sound noble, but confronted with the product of his treachery, Snape couldn’t believe it to be so.

“Hello, Lucius.”

Lucius stared back at him, his grey eyes clear. Snape was surprised to see that he looked a little tired. He didn’t think that they could look that way. He watched as a thin stream of drool escaped the corner of Lucius’ mouth and trailed down over his chin, pooling on the white cloth of the shift he was wearing. Snape turned his head away for a brief moment and fought the urge to scream. Lucius Malfoy was not supposed to look like that; he wasn’t supposed to do that.

“Draco sent me to make sure you are alright.” He felt foolish speaking, knowing that Lucius couldn’t hear him, but he had to say something to pretend Lucius was still there. He remembered how it felt to carry him off the battlefield. Lucius had been lighter than he had expected, he had reached an arm around Snape’s neck, and he had laughed.

“Take care of Draco will you?” Those last words echoed in his head.

Snape shook his head, “Who is there to take care of you?” he asked the body in the case so quietly he barely heard the words himself. The Curator? He felt a shiver race down his spine. “Draco is well,” he continued, pushing on, trying to ignore the rising guilt. “He went back to Hogwarts to finish his final year, he’s drinking a little too much but then we all do that.” He laughed at himself and wished Lucius was not sitting propped up in a glass case. “He is a little concerned about what to do after school finishes, I think he is afraid of being in that house alone.”

He looked into Lucius’ eyes. They looked so very clear, not like what he had been told to expect at all.

“Draco is…”

All thought of conversation was suddenly extinguished as Snape was hit with a momentary flash of vision, feeling and sound. It was incoherent, not a memory, more like a fragment of thought. A great rush of wings, Angel wings beating frantically, beating to dust against the cavity of a skull, a mind being beaten to powder. He heard himself gasp and felt as though great wings were folding around him, as intimate and raw as love-making, drawing him closer to the case and the sound of a scream that was not his own filled his head.

Then it was over and he was released. He reached forward to the case to steady himself, his eyes wide, his breath heavy.

No, it was impossible. It was the product of looking too long into those clear eyes. It was guilt, his own imagination working overtime in light of the upheaval in his life. No, Snape told himself, I did not feel that. I did not feel Lucius’ mind beating on the inside his skull like a dying insect (it was an Angel, they were Angel wings). I did not feel the breakdown of his brain, Legelimen or not, I did not feel that, I could not feel that. Lucius is gone; there is nothing there to feel.

“Lucius?”

Once again he could feel the beating of wings and then the feeling was gone, the sensation was only fleeting, he had imagined it.

“Lucius?”

“He can’t hear you.”

Snape almost leapt ten feet into the air in shock and spun around to face the Curator. He was grateful to have another animate being in the room, even if the Curator did make his skin crawl. “Curator.” He smiled nervously and felt as though he had been caught doing something wrong. “You can’t help speaking to him, he looks as though he will answer back.” He actually laughed a nervous laugh, unable to shake the feeling, the image of those wings, the mind beating against the skull, the sound of the scream.

“I trust you find Mr. Malfoy well?”

Drawing a deep breath and calming his thoughts, Snape smiled. “Yes, very well, he looks well cared for, his son will be most relieved.”

“Ah yes, his son.” Semeuse steepled his fingers and forced himself to be nicer to the Professor, “I actually have an interesting proposition for his son. As his Godfather I thought you might be able to help him come to the right decision; perhaps even benefit from it yourself.”

Snape regained his composure with incredible speed. “What kind of ‘proposition’?” he asked, he was automatically suspicious. There was something inherent in the Curator’s manner that made Severus guarded in his replies.

“Mr. Malfoy here, is the jewel in the crown of this collection.” Semeuse looked at the Angel and his eyes began to gleam with some kind of inner light, “The Ministry have consented to allow the collection to remain here permanently after the exhibition has finished touring and I dare say that it will be a fine thing for the Wizarding world.”

“How so?”

“Sir?”

“How can it be a fine thing? What is there to possibly be gained from displaying these people aside from some mild titillation for those in our society who want to be satisfied that they have suffered. After every one has seen it, what possible good can come of it?”

“It is an important collection, Professor.” Semeuse knew it was pointless trying to convince this man. He was not Cornelius Fudge, he had no political agenda, nothing to gain from keeping the Death Eaters at the museum. He continued anyway, hoping that some of the importance of his position might prevail upon the sour looking Professor. “Future generations need to see what can become of the evil doers in our society, they need to see what the Dementor’s kiss will do.”

Snape shook his head dismissively, “So what is your proposition?” he growled.

“I would like to make an offer to Mr. Malfoy’s son for his father.”

Snape’s eyes widened as he looked back at Lucius, “are you suggesting that you wish to purchase Lucius?” he asked, incredulous lest it be true.

“Yes, of course you would be adequately compensated for your efforts.”

Snape’s hand balled over the handle of his wand, trying to find some kind of Dumbledore logic in his mind to stop him from hexing the Curator into oblivion.

“Mr Malfoy is an unseeing, unfeeling being.” The Curator continued, “he would be no end of trouble for a boy to take care of and a constant reminder of the family’s downfall. He can be of little use to his son, and as you can see he is well taken care of here.”

“Is Mrs. Malfoy’s body ready?” Snape asked his throat dry, “I believe it is time for me to depart.”

“Will you take it up with the boy?”

“Yes,” he said tightly, “and I believe that he will find the idea as ludicrous as I do. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to get out of here as soon as possible.”

~ ~ ~

Ron was avoiding him, Harry was certain of it. He knew why. Christmas. Ron had received a letter from home requesting that he return for Christmas – alone. He hadn’t told Harry yet and Harry suspected that he couldn’t work out quite how to do it. It would perhaps be best for Harry to bring it up first, suggest that Ron go home this year and spend some quality time with his family. In all honesty, Harry didn’t want to go to the Weasley’s this year. He knew that despite their proffered affections, Molly Weasley could never quite accept that Harry had been unable to do anything to save her sons, especially since he had been there when one of them had been blown to pieces. She could also never accept the fact that Harry could never love her daughter in the way she wanted to be loved. Harry’s own feelings of guilt were still fairly strong in this regard and so he preferred the idea of spending his Christmas in his usual fashion at Hogwarts. Of course, it had been seven years since he had spent a Christmas without Ron.

So this evening, as at lunch time, Ron had made himself scarce, preferring to head into Hogsmeade with Anthony and Seamus than stay at Hogwarts and study. Harry had to admit that life at Hogwarts had been pretty dull since Voldemort died. With no adventures to be had, Hogsmeade was looking pretty exciting to everyone. Things had changed in that last few days however, and at that moment, Harry couldn’t think of anywhere else he would rather be than at Hogwarts.

Draco was studying with Hermione. They had both taken Arithmancy and were arguing over something called ‘Aiq Bekar’. Harry sat by the fire pretending to read and listening to their conversation, caught between his desire for Draco and his need to try and approach Hermione to make amends. At that moment the need to make amends was winning. In the certainty that he was going to be seeing Draco rather more intimately in a few short hours, he began to worry about exactly how he could approach this. Hermione had repelled every attempt he had made during the day to speak to her. He had hoped that after the palm reading (she was an air hand, the intellectual hand, smart, resourceful, forgiving, forgiving, forgiving) she would give him a moment to try and speak, but she had shoved past him and stormed off to her Arithmancy class. He didn’t blame her of course, but he knew he had to do something and soon.

“No, no, no!” Hermione was shaking her head, “each Hebrew letter represents a number and vice versa. Words that add up to the same number have a connection. For example, the Hebrew word for ‘corpse’ has the same numerical value as the word for ‘to extinguish’.”

“I know that,” Draco said impatiently, “who do you think I am? Longbottom? What I am saying is that these connections are not always so easily made. Sometimes you can only fathom them through deep contemplation that can take years and I have to say, it seems completely futile in light of the fact that you can make the damn talisman and have it work without all of this carry on.”

“Well there are clerics who spend their entire lives devoted to pondering these connections. I always thought that the principal aims of any Witch or Wizard was to understand the relationships among all things!”

“Sure, if you want to waste your life away,” Draco smirked, “the fact is, we can do magic and Muggles can’t. Why spend an entire lifetime trying to fathom the connections between words in the pursuit of useless knowledge?”

“The pursuit of knowledge is never a waste,” she replied matter of factly.

“Well now you just sound like my father.”

Hermione scoffed in disgust before she was even aware of what she was saying, “I highly doubt that I have anything in common with your father.”

“Why?” Draco asked, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest, “because he was a big mean nasty Death Eater?”

“Well, I, I guess, well, Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean….”  Hermione began to chew her lip, something that Snape had said during detention came back to her, something about installing a filter between her brain and her mouth.

“He had other interests you know,” Draco said sarcastically, “I mean, killing Muggles and trying to bring our world to its knees took up a lot of his time but he did other things on his weekends.”

“Draco, I…” She flushed and Draco’s face hardened.

“No, it’s fine, don’t apologize, of course you have nothing in common with him. The fact that he has the largest collection of Kabbalah influenced Arithmancy books in England would mean nothing to you. He also has sets of ancient Melancholia Talismans and their workings, but that wouldn’t interest you either, having no interest in anything like that.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

Draco picked up his books and papers and pushed himself away from the table, “maybe you should consider that if you think you might actually like me, if you think that I am amiable enough to be your friend, then perhaps my Father isn’t the demon you suppose him to be. I am, after all, purported by everyone who knows us to be just like him.”

“But you’re not like him,” she blurted out, “you’re different, you chose not to fight, you chose a different path.”

“It’s all a matter of circumstance.” he sounded hard now, “I didn’t fight because he hid me away, he didn’t want to risk the family line ending with both our deaths. That is the only reason. There was no noble decision on my part, if I’d had my way I would have stood beside him and against you. Consider that in light of any new found respect you may have for me and talk to me when you have worked it through.”

Draco turned and walked away, looking at Harry briefly before disappearing into the corridor that lead to his room.

Harry looked at Hermione and for a moment she returned his stare. She looked a little stunned and if she felt anything like Harry did at that moment, she felt stunned as well. Harry knew that Draco was protective and predatory when it came to his family, a slur against his family was a slur against him, but Harry had never considered it in quite that way before. He had always assumed that Draco hadn’t fought because of a cowardice on his part, or perhaps that he actually believed his father to be wrong. He had never considered that it was Lucius Malfoy who had stopped his son from joining the battle. Both Harry and Hermione were fast learning that Draco Malfoy’s personality was as complex and as faceted as a precious stone. His wit was sharp and waspish. He was intelligent, he could laugh at himself and when it came down to it, he could be thoroughly enjoyable company. He could also be one of the nastiest people they had ever known. The idea that Lucius Malfoy could be downright nasty came as no surprise, that he could possess any of the other qualities seemed an affront to everyone who had died trying to bring him down.

“He’s just upset,” Harry said at last, “I’m sure he’ll calm down soon.”

Hermione seemed to come to her senses then and remembered she wasn’t talking to Harry. “Don’t speak to me,” she muttered and picked up her own books.

Harry took a deep breath, now seemed like as good a time as any to try and do this. “Hermione, we need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I am so sorry for everything I said to you, I was wrong. I am sorry that I hit you, it was unforgivable and I know that, but could we at least talk about it?”

She glared at him, “Why should I talk to you? Why should I listen to you when you refused to listen to a word I said last night?

“I...” he looked around and spotted Neville with Susan Bones, both watching them with some interest, “can we talk about this in private?”

“No.”

“Please, ‘Mione, please can we just go and talk?”

She stood, clutching her books to her chest and went to her door. She stopped with her hand on the door knob and turned back to him. After a moments hesitation, she said in a voice that was as hard as he had ever heard her be; “Come on then.”

~ ~ ~

Severus Snape stared out the window into the darkness of the winter evening and knew that in the distance loomed the great stone walls of Malfoy Manor. The Fenn had been built in its shadow some years after the initial construction of the Manor by some Snape ancestor who wanted to be close to greatness. While the Manor had seen several refurbishments and renovations, growing ever larger and more grand, the Fenn had weathered the storm of some 300 winters untouched.

Now the Fenn was his and despite being born and raised inside its’ walls, despite coming back to it every summer, he didn’t feel as though he owned it. This was still his Father’s house, not someone’s home. When he came here he felt as though he could still hear the man screaming at him, as though the sound of his voice had been trapped in the stone walls and it had caused hate to grow like mould.

The only changes he had made to The Fenn since inheriting it some 21 years ago was to refurbish the bedrooms. He turned his old room into a guest room and moved into the old guest room that was pleasantly furnished and utterly impersonal. In this room he could almost feel like the landowner he was, not dull and grey as his own room had been. In this room he did not have the memories of zapping flies when he was angry, or the frustrating sexual experiences associated with girls who had laughed at him before running away. In this room he felt like a welcome guest as opposed to the frustrated Master.

He hadn’t planned on coming home. His aim had been to deliver Narcissa to the Manor. He knew where the family vault was, and he could have her interred there. He would then go back to London where he planned to spend a few days at the Leaky Cauldron, away from Hogwarts and Hermione, where he could settle down and think about his situation and how he could rectify it without making things worse. He hadn’t counted on the Ministry not letting him within ten feet of the Malfoy estate. They had offered to take the body, but he didn’t relish the idea of a dozen or so Aurors picking over Narcissa’s remains and the few meager possessions he had in the box the Curator had given him.

That box was now sitting on the drawing room table and Narcissa was downstairs in his own Family Crypt. He had unceremoniously moved his father’s stone coffin out of the way to make room for her. Now he was stuck at his own house with little to do but think and prowl around the dark stone corridors.

The Fenn was not a particularly wealthy property. It produced nothing and had a fairly small acreage. While the Snape family had at one time been quite wealthy, his father had spitefully gambled away most of their wealth before he died. The Fenn was all that was left, consisting of the house itself, a fairly large garden that was beautiful in the summer (although he rarely walked in it) and a small stretch of river that also passed through the property. Severus had a memory of there being a boat on the river when he was a child; but where it went he could never recall. The property also came incumbent with two House Elves named Melville and Vesna. Apparently there was another, a Melville Junior, somewhere in the house, but he had never seen it nor, had he asked after it. Unlike Lucius, Severus made a point of not treating the House Elves badly, nor did he treat them well. If he didn’t need anything of them he simply ignored them, and they kept the house and grounds very well, always ensuring it was ready lest he drop in unexpectedly, which he never did. Until today.

The house was quite large by Muggle standards, despite being dwarfed by the Manor on the hill. It was a gray stone building, built in a similar style to the original Manor. It started out as a basic village residence, and then it had been fortified to make it look far more important than it actually was. The result was that it had far too many turrets and towers that made it look top heavy, as though it would topple over from all the weight. As a child he found it fanciful, as an adult he hated it. It looked like a fairy tale castle, too small to be a real castle and all too obviously held up by magic.

To Minerva McGonagall’s delight, The Fenn had a ballroom, and she had spent the past two and a half months trying to convince him to have a New Years party there. He had declined as soon as it was mentioned in the teacher’s lounge one Friday night after too many Zombie Death Punches, but in typical Minerva fashion she had begun a campaign of gentle nagging to wear him down, and he had to admit he was pretty close to relenting, just to make her stop. Of course that would mean that he would have to open the house up to all of Minerva’s guests and he really didn’t know if he was ready for that. She had already told him she was going to invite the entire staff of Hogwarts and the whole of the Order of the Phoenix, which put the guest list at almost two hundred. He simply wasn’t that sociable, and he hated the idea of having people judge him based on his home. It usually went one of two ways, the first was that people found the house ‘adorable’ and thus he must be in some way ‘adorable’, or that they found the house ‘adorable’ and how dare a sour faced prick like him own it.

He would like to show Hermione the house and say ‘this is mine’ and impress her on some level. Not that he needed to, she probably thought he lived at Hogwarts, part of the furniture, like a House Elf himself.

He turned away from the window and wondered if she would ever like to be mistress of a place like this one.

”Oh good grief,” he muttered, “now you’re marrying her? What’s next, children and a three headed dog?”

He turned to look at the box sitting on the table. It was an ordinary box, like something that old test papers would be filed away in and left to gather dust. Except that there were no old test papers inside that box, inside that box were things belonging to Narcissa. He had always liked her. If he was honest with himself he would have to admit to having a crush on her at one time. He had attended their wedding and every photograph revealed him with a scowl on his face that betrayed his thoughts readily. While it was true that he always had a scowl on his face, this one held a look of possessive jealousy. It didn’t help that Narcissa was one of the few women that he actually got along with. The feelings had passed with time and a friendship of sort ensued. Now she was dead and he was staring at a box containing the few things she had with her when she was sent to prison.

He would have to open the box. Technically everything inside it belonged now to Draco, but Severus had little regard for the Ministry and he would put nothing past them. He also knew that they viewed Draco Malfoy with some suspicion, he had no doubt that they would stoop so low as to put something in the box that would hurt him. If not physically then emotionally, as if going through his dead mothers’ things would not be hurtful enough. 

Walking to the table, Severus ran his fingers over the lid. He hesitated for a moment, and then he removed the lid.

~ ~ ~

“Alright,” Hermione said sitting on her bed and looking at Harry with her jaw set hard, “talk.”

“I…” Harry sat opposite her, disrupting Lavenders’ coverlet, now that he was here, now that she had given him the chance to speak, he wasn’t sure what he could say. He was going to have to be honest with her, she wouldn’t accept anything less. His greatest fear was that she wouldn’t accept the truth. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve said that a few times.”

“I know, I was just sort of planning on saying it until you believe me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and snorted with impatience, “Actually Harry, I do believe you, but believing you is not the point. I know you are sorry, you are not the kind of person who says sorry when you’re not. What I want to know is why you think you can hit me and expect me to forgive you just because you tell me you say you’re sorry. What happens the next time you get angry? Or the time after that?”

“It won’t happen again,” Harry said quietly.

“It shouldn’t have happened the first time!” Hermione cried. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to have this conversation, she wanted this over with, or a time turner to take them back and have it not happen.

“I know.” He looked at his hands, his fingers and felt nothing but disgust.

“So tell me why you did it. Was the idea that I could possibly like someone like Draco Malfoy so bloody awful that I deserved to have some sense knocked into me?”

“No, no of course not,” Harry felt his eyes start to glaze and wondered what exactly was wrong with him at the moment, he kept wanting to cry – like a bloody girl.

“Or is it that you actually believed I would lie to you about it? When I have no reason to lie to you and you know I’m a terrible liar? Did I deserve to get hit for that?”

“No.”

Hermione looked at him, desperately wanting him to actually say something in his own defense. He was just sitting there, looking at his knees and fidgeting with his hands.

“I…” his voice seemed small, thin somehow, his breath caught, “I thought you were with Draco,” he said slowly, hoping that she would cotton on, “I thought you’d kissed him.”

“And?” she cried again, “even if I was with him, even if I did kiss him, you had no right to hit me!” Her face was flushed now, she felt warm, it felt good to be upset, it felt good to be telling him what a bastard he had been, proving her strength. “You cannot choose who I am with or who I like, you have no rights at all when it comes to that part of my life. How dare you presume to dictate to me who I can be with!”

“It’s not like that…”

“How would you feel if I hit you because I thought you were with someone I didn’t like?” She threw a book at him and it cracked across the boney joint of his shoulder, hurting him, she could tell by the sound he made, “How does that feel?”

Harry stared at his hands, refusing to lift his head, refusing to acknowledge the flare of pain in his shoulder, thoroughly believing he deserved it. A large tear dropped onto his robes and he cursed it. This was not fair, he was not supposed to be crying like a fucking child, he was supposed to be making her understand.

Hermione saw the tear and her eyes widened. He was crying, he was actually crying. She had seen him standing in the middle of a field covered in the blood of his friends and he hadn’t shed a tear. She felt a surge of power and a hard part of her whispered fiercely, ‘let him cry, let him feel like that.’

“I…” he drew breath in a great shuddering gasp, “I’m sorry…I..”

“I DON’T CARE THAT YOU’RE SORRY!” She stopped, hardly believing that she had just yelled at him. He wasn’t answering her because he had no excuse and he knew it. That could be the only reason. She just wanted him to admit it. “I don’t care that you are sorry, I just want to know why you did it.”

“Because… I thought you were with him,” he closed his eyes, his head hurt and he drew another shuddered breath, “I thought you were laughing at me.”

“Why would we be laughing at you? Why would we even care about you?”

“I…”

“What? You what?” She was being cruel now and she knew it, he seemed to shrink in front of her, curl into himself somehow. He still hadn’t looked at her and when a drop of blood splattered over his fingers he didn’t seem to notice it.

Hermione did and she finally felt her heart melt in the quick rush of panic. He was bleeding. Where was he bleeding from? She rushed forward and lifted his face and quickly found a handkerchief in her pocket and covered Harry’s nose. “It’s ok,” she said softly and pinched the bridge of his nose, “sit still.” She pulled out her wand and quickly cast a healing charm to stem the flow of blood. Her aunt had always had nose bleeds when she became stressed; she had never thought Harry the type.

“Are you alright?” she asked, gently stroking her fingers through his hair, calming him down. Harry nodded, still holding the handkerchief to his nose. His eyes looked so incredibly green.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again and closed his eyes, wishing he could say something else but terrified of saying it.

Hermione pulled him to her and hugged him. “Just tell me the truth Harry,” she whispered, she felt tired, she didn’t want to fight with him, “just tell me what it is, what is doing this to you?”

“Draco,” he whispered.

“What about Draco?” her voice was gentle now and she tangled her fingers in his messy hair.

Harry wiped his nose, silent for a time. If she was going to hate him, she may as well hate him for the truth of it, not because he was incapable of explaining himself. He told her everything, with it all coming out in rush, from the moment he had noticed Draco’s stomach to the moment he kissed him, to thinking she was there and that they were laughing about him. After telling her about making love to Draco, about the intricacies of their night together, he looked back down at his hands and waited for her to speak.

Hermione sat back and didn’t know what to think or say. She had wondered, in the past, why Harry had rejected most offers from girls who formed some kind of interest in him. There had been many of them and he’d never shown an interest. She had believed it was because of the war, because of what he had to do, because he might not survive it. She had never thought this was a real possibility. When Draco had told her that Harry had ‘peaked his interest’, she was sure it had been Draco having a pipe dream, not that Harry had kissed him. She had thought about it, considered it even, but decided it was impossible.

They had been together, made love to each other. Some hidden voyeur inside her wished to the Gods she had seen it, two ridiculously beautiful boys entwined around each other. He had held on to the knowledge of this attraction, this desire, for two years, hiding it from everyone, from Ron and herself.

Oh merciful Merlin, Ron!

Hermione looked at Harry who had lifted his gaze to her. He looked expectant, worried, as though he expected her to hate him. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before she managed to get out, “What about Ron?”

“He… Ron doesn’t know.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know,” he swallowed, “I guess I’ll have to.”

She began to stroke his hair again, cradling the side of his face with her hand, “I don’t think you should,” she said, “not yet. I mean, do you know how Draco feels about all this?”

“No, I guess he thinks it’s just a fuck.”

Hermione frowned, “It’s a pretty big step to take for just a fuck Harry. I mean, I’ve only ever heard of him being with girls before. Maybe you should talk to him about it.”

“Umm, I think it might be a bit early for the ‘Where is this relationship going?’ talk.”

Hermione hugged his again and held on to him tightly. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.

“Don’t you ever hurt me again,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“I won’t, I promise I won’t.”

She drew away from him, pushed his hair out of his eyes and smiled at him. “I love you, I will always love you. I don’t care who you are with or who you love, I will always be your friend and I will never lie to you, I promise you that.”

Harry felt as though his heart had expanded in his chest and relief flooded his gut. He rested his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes, thanking the heavens that they hadn’t taken her from him.

~ ~ ~

At first Severus was convinced his eyes had deceived him and that all he could see in the box was blackness, and then he reached in and discovered that at the top of the box was a mass of black fabric. He pulled it out carefully, aware from just touching it that it was fragile, a little worn and threadbare. It was a robe, tattered and ruined, but most definitely a robe. He held it up, his fingers taking in the texture of the weave and the tiny stitches that held what was left of the seams in place. It seemed incredibly old and yet he knew it wasn’t. The fabric was fine, no doubt the finest money could buy. The collar was torn, as though someone had grabbed the wearer by it, but two serpents were still sewn there. Made from fine silk cord, Severus knew that their heads would entwine to form the clasp at the throat. He also knew that the Curator had given him the wrong box. This robe did not belong to Narcissa, it belonged to Lucius.

In a moment of absolute clarity, Severus knew that the Curator would be livid when he realized his mistake.

The robe hid an assortment of objects beneath. All of them so completely Lucius that Severus felt a lump form in his throat. A pair of boots, good ones made of dragon hide, socks, a belt, black leather gloves, a black ribbon that had once tied his hair. For some reason there were no other clothes although Severus knew Lucius well enough to know he would have worn a shirt and doublet and no doubt a decent set of breeches as well on the day he was sent to be kissed. His wand lay in the box, broken in two, the Dragon Heart Strings at it’s core had been stretched and snapped along with the hard wood coating.

There was jewellery in the box. A platinum wedding band and a locket on a long chain. A pocket watch. Severus closed his eyes and imagined someone removing these things from Lucius’ body as though he was dead. In his minds eye he knew it was Moody and he knew Moody would have laughed as he did it, reveling in the fact that he was stripping back the Death Eater to the unseeing, unfeeling being that now sat in a glass case in a museum.

Severus opened the locket. It contained a lock of pale blonde hair, a tiny curl, baby fine and tied with a fine piece of blue ribbon. On the other side of the locket were engraved the words “Draconis lux lucis”. He closed the locket and gently placed it with the ring and pocket watch.

I brought him to this, Severus thought, I destroyed him utterly. He could have hidden him away, he didn’t need to take him to the Aurors that day, he could have hidden him, pretended he was dead.

Guilt mingled with pain and Severus nursed the hurt gripping his heart. He would survive this. He always did. He had betrayed his friends and his Master in order to be where he was now, alive and whole and able to take stock of his friend’s life from the contents of a box. His treachery had kept him alive and free, that was all that mattered in the end.

Except it didn’t make this any easier to bear.

The final two items in the box were an empty potion bottle, upon sniffing it Severus was unable to discern what it had once contained, and finally, a pocket book. It was this book that Severus pulled from the box with the greatest wonder. That damn book had gone everywhere with Lucius for as long as he could remember him. It was thick and old and full of pictures and objects that had been stuck in, page over page. The leather had once been a tan color, but was now dark from years of being handled, the oils of Lucius’ fingers dying it a deep burgundy. The ornate M of the Malfoy crest was embossed heavily on the cover, it was tied together with black ribbon that had seen better days.

With hands that shook a little, Severus untied the ribbon and let the book fall open.

“SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees.”

He had never taken Lucius for a Wordsworth fan. It was possible that Lucius had no idea who Wordsworth was or even that he was a Muggle, he had just liked the sound of the poem.

He turned the pages, revealing more poems and ridiculous thoughts and snippets of useless information. But impressively, there were photographs, hundreds of them. Photographs of Narcissa, other women that Severus did not know but who could well have been various lovers – Lucius made no effort to hide the fact that he had them, Narcissa had them too – the occasional man who had a certain slenderness to him and once again, could have been a lover. There were even pictures of Severus himself, looking younger and just as dour as he did now.

In the end it was a photograph of Draco that made Severus Snape cry. A picture of a child of about five clutching what could have been a teddy bear with eyes the size of tennis balls. Severus knew exactly what it was. Off camera an arm came to try and take the thing away and the boy simply clutched it tighter, stamping his foot and his face threatening tears if any such thing happened.

The Malfoy’s had a House Elf named Non whom Lucius had one day cursed with hirstutism whilst in a rage. The poor creature had grown so much hair that it was entirely covered and Draco had taken it to be some kind of toy and had latched onto it. No amount of cajoling would convince the child to relinquish the unfortunate Elf. In the end, Lucius had left it that way until Draco eventually grew bored with it, some five years later. Until that time, the Elf went everywhere Draco went, the breakfast table, the bathroom, bed, holidays, everywhere.

Severus started to laugh and the laugh became a choked sob. He turned the page quickly, only to be confronted with another picture of Draco, this time dressed head to toe in Montrose Magpie Quidditch gear, he would have been less than two. Severus wondered for a moment if a more spoiled child than Draco Malfoy had ever been born.

He made to close the book, deciding it was dangerous to keep going. To see so much of the past dredged up was not going to do his mental heath any good. The book wouldn’t close, instead it started flicking through the pages of it’s own accord and Severus stared wide eyed, wondering exactly what it was he was supposed to see.

The book was charmed, it never ran out of pages, whenever a fresh page was needed it would always be there to use. By the same token it was charmed to show the reader exactly what Lucius Malfoy wanted them to see. The pages slowed as they reached the end of the book and eventually it stopped and the pages flattened themselves out. Severus picked the book up and read the word: METATRON

~ ~ ~

When Harry could bring himself to break the peaceful silence and speak again he was playful. Not taking his head from Hermione’s shoulder he said; “So, you have a couple of rosebuds yourself, I told you my secret, you tell me yours. Who is the lucky guy?”

Hermione could hardly deny him. He had given her his overwhelming confidence, and she could hardly throw that back at him. But despite the fact that Lavender and Draco had been quite impressed, she doubted that Harry would see it so. She really didn’t know how he would take the news.

“I already told you,” she said, “right before you clobbered me.”

“No you didn’t,” he laughed, “you said Snape.”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

Harry tensed and sat bolt upright. He turned to stare at her. “Yeah, it’s pretty hard to believe.”

She smiled and peered mischievously through her fringe. “Maybe you’re just going to have to believe it.”

“Snape?” Harry laughed, she had to be joking, “Long haired, greasy, gross Professor Severus Snape?”

“He’s not that gross.”

Harry was still laughing in total disbelief, “No. No way. Not possible.”

“Why not?” She wanted to sound defiant but she found herself smiling, “he’s a man, I’m a woman.”

“You’re 18, he’s what, 50?”

“38.”

“Whatever!” Harry stopped laughing, “That man is a nightmare Hermione. You are one of the best people I know. You are smart and sweet and brave and pretty and he is… he is… Oh Gods ‘Mione, he’s just awful. He is nasty, sneaky, mean, sarcastic, just plain evil, not to mention ugly and with one of the foulest tempers I have ever known a man to have. Please tell me this is a sick joke to cover the fact that you’re dating Colin Creevy and I’ll be really happy.”

Hermione laughed, “Harry, yes, he is all of those things and probably more, I know that, but I assure you, I am not seeing Colin Creevy and Professor Snape is who I was with.”

Harry just stared at her, unable to fathom this piece of news. “But… but why?”

Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t know. The first time, it just sort of happened, we were drinking, talking and the next thing I knew we were kissing, and I really liked it.” She blushed, but not through embarrassment or shame.

“Ok, Ok, I can accept that you were drunk and when you’re drunk your judgment is impaired, and you suddenly thought he looked like the bass player in the Weird Sisters, but what about the second time? What’s the excuse there?”

“There is no excuse. I really like him. I think he’s sexy.”

“I think you’re insane!”

She began to laugh again at Harry’s astonished and slightly disgusted face, “Oh Gods Harry,” she couldn’t stop laughing now, it was coming from deep in her belly, “Oh Gods, we are a couple of idiots. Looks like we both like bad boys.”

“Yours is badder than mine!” Harry declared but he began to laugh with her.

“Oh no he’s not. At least mine wasn’t hoping Voldemort would win!”

“Good point,” he grinned at her, “So what are we gonna do? Poor Ron’s gonna have a fit.” 

“Ahh, Ron’s still in my bad books, so he can either accept it or piss right off.”

Harry let the laughter settle in his gut and lay back on Lavender’s bed, “somehow I think he’s going to choose the piss right off option.” He said it with humor but they both knew he meant it.

“Yeah, so do I.” She lay down next to him, “It’s going to be pretty awful if that happens.”

“I know, that’s why I plan to prolong it for as long as possible.”

“You never know,” she said, her head resting on his shoulder, “Ron is full of surprises. Maybe he will surprise us with this too.”

Harry smiled grimly, “We can only hope.”

~ ~ ~

Severus’ eyes flew across the page that the book had revealed to him, trying to understand exactly what Lucius had written down and what it’s meaning could possibly be.

“The supreme order of Angels that gaze upon the sphere of Kether, the greater countenance of God, is known as CHIOTH HA QADESH. Its Angels are also known as the Holy Living Creatures and equate to the Seraphim of Dionysius. Their Archangel is METATRON, referred to as “he who bringeth others before the face of God.” Metatron is the youngest of all Angels and tradition has it that he was once the biblical patriarch Enoch. The Talmud says that Metatron is the link between God and Humanity. He may therefore be invoked, despite the fact that Kether itself is beyond the Wizards reach.

I have come to the conclusion that it is one of three potions, Reservoare Magnanimitas, Anima Reservo or Reservo Animula. I can only ask for one, I think it is the last one, my soul is only small. The ritual should be performed during the hour after Sunrise on a Friday:

Checklist:

Green robe

Copper necklace with jade, malachite or emerald

Sandalwood & cinnamon for anointing

Green flame

Green silk triangle

49 green stones

Sandalwood and Cinnamon for burning”

Lucius was obviously planning on invoking someone, but did he think he could possibly draw down the Metatron, and if he could, just what did he think the Angel could do for him? .

Severus turned the page and froze. It was a potion. He had heard of such potions existing but had given up hope of ever seeing one. Angelic Magic was difficult to fathom, being a strange hybrid of various mythologies including Muggle religious doctrines, and even the most powerful of Wizards could not decipher much of it. It was said that to understand the process one had to receive the instructions direct from a heavenly being. And, Severus thought wildly, what Angel in their right mind would give instructions to Lucius Malfoy, a man whose list of good deeds was remarkably short?

“Reservo Animula – To save a little soul

“Take a piece of gold, heat until red hot and drop into bowl containing ten times the weight of filtered rain water (must be collected in a non metal container at least five feet before it hits the ground.) leave for 45 minutes and remove gold, strain water into cauldron containing 2 pints Venus Planetary Fluid condenser. Add four drops each of essence of “Abdiel”, “Chamuel”, “Jophiel”, Michael” and Zachiel”. Stir 78 times in a counter clockwise position. Add 25 grams ground Angel feathers (see Metatron). Boil for 25 minutes and decant for three days.

Imbibe within one hour before kiss.”

The ingredients were virtually impossible to find, Angel essence had to be gathered after the celestial wars and while there was a set at Hogwarts, it wasn’t his; the set had come with the school. To get the Angel Feathers Lucius would have had to successfully invoked the Metatron and convinced an Angel to hand over his feathers, then he would have had to put the potion together from what looked like the most makeshift recipe he had ever seen. It would never have worked.

The sudden rush of beating wings at the museum came back to him, the strange clear light in Lucius’ eyes.

Severus looked back down at the potion.  “Lucius, what have you done?”

Chapter 8 >>