From HellChapter 7By Pigwidgeon37Death Eaters also eat other things. Hermione still doesn’t feel like attacking a teacher. When you sit to dine with a ruler, note well what is before you, and put a knife to your throat if you are given to gluttony. Do not crave his delicacies, for that food is deceptive. (Proverbs 23:1-3)
When the Christmas Pudding was brought by a House Elf staggering under the weight of the enormous silver platter, everybody groaned. They had certainly already eaten their fill of assorted delicatessen, a nine-course meal of gargantuan opulence, carefully composed by Narcissa Malfoy. It had been an original idea to choose the nine planets as reigning motto for the menu. Pluto, king of the underworld—a delicious cold starter with truffles. Neptune, ruler of the oceans—a tepid salade aux fruits de mer that made the taste buds scream in the throes of an orgasm of sapidity. Uranus, embodiment of the sky and heavens—roast lark on a bed of truly heavenly steamed rosebuds. Saturn, father of the younger gods, protector of crops and harvests—a deceptively simple risotto alle castagne, satiny and creamy with a peppery aftertaste. Jupiter, king of the Olympus and master of disguises—fillet of swan and white bull, with an ambrosial wine sauce, served on a plate of pure gold. Mars, the fierce condottiere, red, roaring raiser of war—a spicy-hot Hungarian goulash that reawakened the guests’ food-dazed senses. Earth—a soothing cream of potatoes and carrots topped with golden-brown breadcrumbs. Venus, voluptuous vixen among the goddesses—rose sorbet with crystallized violets in champagne jelly. Mercury, elusive patron of merchants and thieves, cunning expert of subterfuge—small pieces of patisserie, seemingly with pistachio cream that instead turned out to be a palate-stroking composition of avocado and gorgonzola. And now, centre of the solar system and flamboyant finale—The Sun, a Christmas Pudding soaked with brandy. With a flick of his wand, Lucius ignited the liquor, just in time for the House Elf’s pillowcase to catch fire, so that the creature fled in shrieking terror. The guests laughed and clapped. Not that setting fire to House Elves was a particularly sophisticated form of entertainment, but it was always fun to look at. And spirits had risen once more out of their food-and-wine-induced stupor. The conversation that had been somewhat languishing for the last half-hour or so began to flow again. “So, Severus,” Augusta McNair addressed Snape from his left, “How are things going at Hogwarts?” Snape gave her a vicious glare. “Did you think of this original way to start a dumb-witted conversation all on your own, or did you read it in One Hundred Ways To Bore Your Neighbour To Death?” Augusta didn’t seem to mind in the least. “No,” she retorted, “I found it in One Hundred Ways To Bore Severus Snape To Death, special edition. It’s so refreshing to see that your charm has lost nothing of its brilliance. I sincerely hope you bestow it upon your students as well.” Snape only sneered and gave his Christmas pudding a ferocious stab with his spoon. There was more than one reason for his mood to have dropped by several notches. Not only had Dumbledore made it clear that he expected him to garner as much information as he could during this dinner, which was simply futile because even Death Eaters and their spouses preferred to enjoy their holiday without incessantly talking business. But what small hopes he had harboured for some tidbit of information to come flying towards him had been destroyed by the seating arrangements. He had been placed between Augusta McNair and Mrs. Fudge—impossible to determine which of the two females was more stupid and shallow-minded. He wouldn’t have resented Mrs. Fudge, if not for the headache the colour of her dress robes was causing him, but he was most sincerely pissed off by the company of Augusta. For stupid as she was, she wasn’t stupid enough to betray any of her husband’s secrets. This was truly the worst possible combination, he mused while reducing his Christmas Pudding to crumbs and sub-crumbs, stupidity laced with a certain amount of shrewdness and pure malice. How McNair put up with her was a mystery to him. Small wonder that the man enjoyed slaying dangerous creatures; it was probably the only effective method of preventing him from doing so with his own wife. The coffee arrived, and when everybody had finished it, Lucius Malfoy stood up. The guests fell silent almost immediately. “My dear friends,” Malfoy began, “It is a pleasure to have you all gathered around this table. I hope that, so far, you have been enjoying yourselves.” Everybody applauded. “Sadly, our solar system has only nine planets, and thus the gastronomic part of this get-together is over. I sincerely hope, though, that you, all of you, will stay with us a little longer. In order to make this an unforgivable… sorry,” he corrected himself with a smirk, “unforgettable evening, I have prepared a little surprise.” He clapped his hands, and two House Elves, carrying a large tray laden with various glasses, goblets, chalices and tumblers, all of them filled, came scurrying into the room. They deposited it on one of the side tables and raced out as quickly as they could, so as to avoid one of their master’s more elaborate jokes. “I have known you for many years,” Malfoy resumed his speech, “and I daresay that I am acquainted with your characters well enough to be aware of both your strengths and weaknesses.” The guests began to look at each other, and it was obvious that most of them weren’t exactly comfortable with the turn this speech was taking. Malfoy, visibly enjoying their discomfort, continued, “And so I have decided to play… well, fairy godmother and to give you, at least for some hours, what you need. For each of you, I have prepared a draught that will counteract, to a certain extent, one particular weakness.” He made a pause, for effect and to savour his guests’ reaction. Discomfort had turned into curious excitement, everybody was talking to their neighbours in hushed voices. Snape, however, felt neither excited nor curious. Only very, very wary. “Let me give an example.” Twenty faces turned towards Malfoy. “If, let us say, I deem you a very shy person and would like you to overcome this particular weakness, you will find that the goblet I prepared for you contains the appropriate potion. You are, of course, free to decline my little gift, although I am sure you would miss something if you did.” The question that Snape and probably everybody else in the room were asking themselves at that moment was whether Malfoy could be trusted. This might just as well be one of his devilish ruses. It wouldn’t be the first one. There was one big problem, though: Malfoy was already one of Voldemort’s right-hand-men. Very conscious of his position, very intent on having no other rival than Severus Snape. Very skilled at cowing the others and undermining their reputation and authority. Now if they refused to pick up the gauntlet, thus giving him to understand how much they were in awe of Mr. Lucius-I’m-The-Greatest Malfoy, they practically offered him their future chances on a silver plate, already gutted and filleted and ready to eat. Probably he wasn’t even going to choke on them. This was, more or less, what the assembled guests were pondering. Cornelius Fudge was no exception. And he had been a Gryffindor in his long-gone schooldays. “Well,” he said, in his usual pompous tone, “That’s an awfully original idea, Lucius. Quite the resourceful host, aren’t you? It would be a pity not to honour such creativity.” If Manticores smiled, they surely did it like that, Snape thought. There was something very, very evil at work, only he couldn’t put his finger on it. But it was impossible, virtually impossible and completely out of the question for him to be the only one who declined. If the others drank, he would have to drink as well. Fudge’s presence at least guaranteed a minimum of security—not even Malfoy would be foolish enough to spike all the drinks with poison or, worse, Veritaserum when the Minister of Magic was among the guests. Fudge might be nothing more than a ridiculous puppet, whose strings were firmly clutched in Lucius’s elegant white hands, but the proprieties had to be observed. And Snape yet had to meet somebody who could give Lucius a run for his money when it came to keeping up appearances. Apparently, the other guests had come to the same conclusion, and so the glasses, chalices and goblets, deftly directed by Malfoy’s wand, made their way towards their more or less fortunate recipients. Snape curled his fingers around a magnificently cut crystal tumbler, sniffed the contents and was pleased when his sensitive mucous membranes were tickled by the aroma of vintage brandy. Pretending to be enjoying the scent and warming the glass in his hands, he tried to detect a trace of something else, all the while watching Malfoy out of half-closed eyes. Both inspections yielded no result. Neither did Malfoy pay him any unwanted or suspicious attention, nor did the brandy give any detectable hint at what had been put into it. Which was rather unsettling. There were some odour- and tasteless substances, not too many of them, though, and none of them pleasant. Veritaserum being only one of them. Impossible to determine what had really been added to the liquor. He simply had to take the risk and drink, and the consequences be damned. <><><>°<><><> “I swear that this is the only positive thing I’ll ever say about Lucius Malfoy,” Hermione declared while she and Ginny were heading back to the Gryffindor Common Room after dinner, “But I’m eternally grateful to him for having invited Professor Snape for dinner. My stomach was actually relaxed and I could eat something without having it clenched into a tight knot immediately.” “Long live Lucius Malfoy,” Ginny said and snorted. “That’s not the password, dear,” the Fat Lady remarked. “No, I bet it’s the Slytherin password, though. Aetas Aurea!” “That’s more like it,” the Fat lady said with a benign smile. “There you go, have a nice evening.” “Same to you,” Ginny said, “And don’t have too many cognac truffles.” The girls giggled at her indignant look and slipped through the hole into the Common Room. They agreed to play a game of chess before Hermione retired to her own quarters. “Don’t tell me you’re going to study!” Ginny said, with an expression of horror on her face, while she put up the board and figures. “I didn’t do anything yesterday, so I’m already a little behind. It can’t be helped, I simply have to continue today.” Ginny frowned at her with a mix between compassion and awe, but didn’t comment any further. Hermione tried to concentrate on the game but failed miserably. As she had done yesterday when trying to establish a list of things she’d like to do. To her utter terror, she had become aware that for the last eleven years she hadn’t done anything but study. And unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to remember anything she had enjoyed doing before. Although she had to admit to herself that pastimes she had found satisfying at age five probably wouldn’t have much potential for development now. But still, it was pathetic. Not to mention depressing. “Aaaand… check mate!” Ginny said. “Hermione, if you didn’t want to play, you just had to tell me. Letting me slaughter you in less than ten minutes might be a more subtle response, but it’s offending all the same.” “I’m sorry Ginny, I didn’t mean to… My heart wasn’t really in it, I suppose. Subconscious trying to get me back to work, or something along those lines.” Ginny snorted. “Your subconscious is supposed to do exactly the contrary. But seeing as how you’re absolutely no fun when you’re behaving like this, you are free to return to your books.” No fun, Hermione thought, leaving the Common Room and returning to her hermit’s haunt. That was exactly what she was. No fun. With a sigh of deep resignation, she unlocked the door. On her desk, perching atop a stack of books, an owl was sitting, apparently waiting for her and very obviously miffed. It was a medium-sized, nondescript school owl, and Hermione wondered who might have sent her a message. She unfolded the piece of parchment and felt her stomach clench as soon as she recognized the handwriting. “And I thought I might enjoy one single evening without being sneered at,” she muttered. “But obviously I’m reaching for the stars. Although I should probably rejoice at the thought that the Great Severus Snape requires the help of Humble Hermione. Wait for him in the laboratory! The sheer gall of the man! As if I hadn’t anything better to do.” The owl gave a small hoot and Hermione dug through her pockets for something to feed it. Fortunately, cats and owls both enjoyed the same treats, and as Crookshanks was becoming more gluttonous with every year that passed, she always had a few little somethings for him in the depths of her robes. While patiently holding out the treat for the owl to chew on, Hermione mentally calculated when she would have to be down in the dungeons without keeping Snape waiting for her, but equally avoiding a major loss of precious time for studying. She had seen him sweep through the entrance hall, majestically clad in dress robes, when she and Ginny had gone down for dinner… fifteen minutes to reach the gates and Apparate… three hours at the Malfoys’ at the very least… half past six…ten o’clock would be more than enough. And if he had to wait for her for five minutes, then he had to wait. And that was that. For a moment, Hermione played with the idea of keeping Snape’s note asking for her assistance—not exactly in friendly terms, but anyway—under glass in a gilt frame, just because of its probable uniqueness. In the end she decided that it would be a very childish thing to do. She opened the window for the owl to fly out, chuckling softly when the bird, with surprising deftness, yanked the last bit of the treat out of her hand as it passed. The night air was cold and humid, and she remained standing at the open window for some time, letting herself be thoroughly frozen through to better enjoy the warmth of her room when she finally closed the window. Crookshanks, who was by no means a whippersnapper anymore—he hadn’t been more than four years ago when she had bought him—meowed at her angrily. Cold was something he definitely didn’t need, not after he had witnessed a feathered fiend munch one of his treats. “Okay,” she said, turning to the bed upon which the cat was lying, “I won’t do it again. Come here—” and she scooped him up into her arms “—oooh, aren’t you a big, heavy boy! Come, curl up on my lap. You can help me with my Transfiguration homework.” <><><>°<><><> So it had all been a joke, Snape thought, trudging along his way from the Hogwarts gates to the castle. All a sick joke, one of Malfoy’s little ideas he thought funny, that sick fuck, that bloody albino. Everybody’s potion had had its predicted effect, but for one: Severus Snape had not been given a potion, he’d been tricked in the worst possible way. Augusta McNair had talked at great length about Leibnitz’s theory of monads; Cornelius Fudge had admitted that he didn’t have the solution to all problems and been sitting there, eagerly listening to McNair’s ideas about establishing a National Park safeguarding endangered magical species. Lucinda Parkinson had seriously considered entering a convent, Pettigrew had challenged Malfoy to a duel… Only he, Severus Snape, had been sitting there with nothing but the feeling of being utterly ridiculous. Lucius had challenged him, and in a way he had won. Snape felt thoroughly embittered. Of course, Lucius would immediately tell the whole, oh-so-funny story to the Dark Lord, and he was going to be disgraced. His chances of hearing anything of importance would dramatically diminish. Dumbledore would finally lose his patience and kick him out of Hogwarts. And then… what then? Did he have much of a choice? Angrily, Snape opened the enormous castle door and stomped through the entrance hall in the direction of the teachers’ quarters. No, he told himself, if that really happened, if Dumbledore really didn’t need him anymore, there was only one thing he could do: Go back and be a Death Eater again, this time for good. Without noticing it, he had reached the entrance to his rooms. He was undoing the wards when he noticed the piece of parchment attached to the plain wooden door. With a frown, he ripped it off and read
Professor, Sorry to disturb you, but I think I’ve got a problem with a potion I tried to prepare. I’m not sure what exactly went wrong—could you please come down to the laboratory? I’ll be waiting for you. Thank you and sorry again Hermione Granger
Snape uttered a growl like that of a furious dog, flung the parchment to the floor and strode down the corridor. What had that stupid girl gotten herself into now? It had to be really bad for otherwise she would never have requested his help. He really didn’t feel like succouring a damsel in distress right now. On the other hand, he thought with a grim sneer, it would be the perfect occasion to let off a bit of steam. Quite a lot of steam, come to think of it. He was certainly angry enough to give her a month’s worth of detention. As soon as Snape had rounded the corner, a soft chuckle drifted through the corridor, and the piece of parchment mysteriously floated upwards through the air and vanished. The way from the staff quarts to the dungeons was rather long, long enough for Snape to realize that he felt… strange. To tell the truth, he felt horny. Full of lust and desire. A sensation he hadn’t had for a long time, at least not to this extent. He was barely forty years old, which for a wizard was still quite young, and his sex life was non-existent; the mere fact that he was probably full with pent-up hormones up to his ears and possibly over the top of his head wouldn’t have overly irritated him. It was perfectly normal and deplorable only insofar as his possibilities of release were rather limited. Mona or Lisa—mostly Mona, after all, he was right-handed. But this… this onslaught of hormonal rage, this assault of arousal was completely unusual. He could even have coped with that, had there not been another problem, far more disturbing and deeply embarrassing: he wanted to fuck Hermione Granger. Her of all possible persons! The girl on whom he had cast the Coelibatus Spell! Snape felt himself become gradually hotter, as unbidden images flooded his mind—Granger in nothing but a black corset and fishnet stockings, Granger in nothing but a thong, Granger completely naked in the grass… He shook himself. How deep could you sink? Probably to counterbalance what was unmistakeably rising… His mind towards the gutter and his cock towards the sky… Well, it was going to wear off as soon as he set eyes on her. After all, that was what the Coelibatus Spell was for: to keep horny students and lecherous professors away from Hogwarts’s prize student. Down, boy. Afterwards, upon returning into his rooms, he could freely indulge those fantasies… oh, that was going to be good! The undeniable advantage of his right hand over Hermione Granger being that he didn’t have to give Mona an orgasm unless he wanted to feel like a complete bastard. His dress robes… yes, they were voluminous enough to hide the more obvious signs of his arousal. Brutus could have stabbed Caesar with a hard-on like that. Hopefully that girl hadn’t got herself into too awful a mess, for he really would like to hurry to his rooms very soon. He opened the door to the dungeon laboratory, and The Beast pounced. <><><>°<><><> How fortunate that she had brought her Arithmancy textbook and some parchment, a quill and ink. Otherwise the thirty-five minutes she had to wait for Snape in that damp, chilly, and probably also mouldy dungeon hole would have been completely wasted. More fortunate still that she had thought of putting on her warm winter cloak. In the beginning she had almost been too warm, but after the first ten minutes of sitting exposed to the draft and humidity she was more than thankful for it. Only her fingers were a little numb but that couldn’t be helped, as she had forgotten her wand in her room. Finally, it was already after half past ten, she heard footsteps outside in the corridor. “About time!” she muttered, without looking up from her book. She’d be damned if she was going to rise and welcome him. The door opened, and Hermione still pretended to be deeply absorbed in her work. Hymens are fragile things, and this one’s integrity was saved by sheer Gryffindor stubbornness. Hermione, who had been bracing herself for the whiplash of sarcasm, was too shocked to scream when she felt the iron grip of two hands on her shoulders. The next thing she felt was the impact of teeth on the nape of her neck. “So he really is a vampire…” she thought, and that made her scream. It didn’t seem to overly disturb him, though. Snape yanked her up from her chair, brushed her textbook and the rest of the inevitable Granger paraphernalia off the desk, so that the floor was splattered with ink, and shoved her against the wooden edge. It was a very heavy table that didn’t move by a single inch even under their combined weights falling against it. When her lips were squashed by the first kiss, if the violent gesture deserved that name, Hermione realized that the Potions Master was by no means after her blood. Her mind, surprisingly clear and fully functional even while she was desperately trying to defend herself against the man who seemed to have grown at least two additional pairs of arms, was even trying to decide whether it was worse to be raped or bitten by a vampire. It decided that the latter was worse. Her mind also registered that he was determined and ruthless but by no means brutal. He didn’t hit her a single time. Then her mind came to the conclusion that everything she had ever learned about self defence—and Hermione had memorized every detail as conscientiously as if it had been part of the syllabus—was completely useless when you were pinned to a table and your legs spread apart. She knew that she should try and poke her fingers into his eyes or break his nose with a well-aimed blow of her head. But she was Hermione Granger, who had gone into hysterics because she had attacked a teacher in her third year, and that had only been a simple Expelliarimus. Even in her panic and red-hot anger—for there was a good deal of that, too—she couldn’t bring it over herself to actually hurt Snape. So she limited herself to screaming and wriggling to avoid his greedy hands and trying not to look into his eyes, in which a passion was flaming, the likes of which she had never seen. To tell the truth, she could have done without the experience. He had ripped away her robes and blouse and was trying to do the same with her jeans, when suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped on top of her, still and motionless. Looking over his shoulder, Hermione met the worried blue gaze of Albus Dumbledore. |