The Sybil's Oracle Book Two

Chapter 8

By Pigwidgeon37

As he had promised, Lestrange came to visit next afternoon.

“I thought that sending poor Abraxas out into that weather wasn’t worth the trouble,” he said, handing Severus a small roll of parchment, “So I brought you the reading list. Unless McLachlan’s personal taste has changed dramatically over the last ten years, you should be able to impress him quite a lot with your knowledge.”

Last night’s brief improvement of the weather had only been temporary, and now rain was pouring down in thick, silvery-white sheets so that going out was one of the least desirable things to think of, and sending an animal out to carry a message would have been a very cruel act indeed.

“Thank you, St. John, I really appreciate your help. If the weather stays like this, I won’t be tempted to abandon my reading in favour of other pastimes.”

“Severus, unless my memory has been recently modified, you never abandoned your reading, whatever the weather outside. Nice jeans, by the way. They suit you. Muggle?”

“Er, yes,” Severus said, noticing that he was blushing and noticing that Lestrange noticed. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Yes, please, tea would be nice.”

Peggy was summoned, beamed at the visitor both for his good looks and for providing the occasion of boasting her tea-making skills, and soon afterwards came back with a tray so large and laden with food that she was invisible behind it. The whole thing looked like a tray moving on two spindly legs.

“Last time you is here, Professor Lestrange, you likes these chocolate cookies so much, so I puts some of them here for you,” she squeaked.

“Oh, thank you, Peggy,” he replied, “That is very thoughtful of you. Even if ‘some of them’ is a bit of an understatement, like saying that there are some books at the Hogwarts library.”

She evidently took that as a compliment, grinned and flapped her ears in a vehement nod. “And I makes potato chips for you, Master Severus. Here you is, gentlemen, tea is served.” And she popped out of view.

“Ah,” Lestrange sighed, deeply inhaling the steam billowing up from his cup, “there’s nothing like a well-made cup of tea. So, I understand you ventured out into the Muggle world? Not on your own, I suppose?”

Had Severus really expected him to abandon the subject? “I… yes, actually I did. In company of a… friend.”

Lestrange bent forward to take a cookie and looked up at him with a knowing grin. “The pause suggests that it was not a male friend, am I right?”

“I see that you have lost nothing of your perspicacity. It was, indeed, a female friend.”

“How interesting.” Another cookie went the way of all cookies. “Do I know her?”

“Maybe. She’s working at the… Oh, damn it. It’s Nathalie Pierson.”

“Playing in the A League, aren’t we?” Lestrange said, nodding appreciatively. “How did you—of, course, she’s Clarissa’s aunt. Nice catch, congratulations.”

“I’m not completely sure whether it is a catch, to own the truth. But anyway, she took me out to Muggle London and it was quite interesting.”

“The understatement of the century. Severus, if a woman makes you buy whatever piece of garment she wants to see you in it is a catch. Believe me. Maybe you could… No, forget it.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I was talking without thinking. Sorry. Perhaps another time. It’s not my place to ask you.”

Severus felt his curiosity rise. “Are you sure you can’t tell me?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Sorry, I shouldn’t… Anyway, I take it you were on your first mission last night. How did it go?”

Much as Severus had been looking forward to talk things over with Lestrange, he had been pondering all morning long—or what remained of the morning, for he had risen quite late—what he might actually share with him and what he ought to keep to himself. In a way, it was sad, for until now he had never really needed to bother with that particular problem; apart from the business with his uncle, he had told Lestrange almost everything, asked questions, sought advice… By now, the situation was changed: they were both Death Eaters now—at least technically, in spite of himself not yet bearing the Mark—and on the same level within the hierarchy. He had not given the matter much contemplation during the time between his first meeting with Voldemort—the first after school, that was—and today. Maybe he should not have considered it at all, he thought. For those musings led to a few not entirely pleasant questions.

Lestrange, together with Julius Malfoy, had been one of the first to join Voldemort’s brotherhood. He was, as the Dark Lord himself had pointed out, without any doubt the one who occupied the riskiest position, right under Dumbledore’s nose. And thus, logically, he had been honoured and awarded the rank he was currently holding, as one of their Master’s most trusted followers. Severus had his own merits, that was for sure, but then he was intelligent enough to see that there was, after all, a big difference between what he had done and Lestrange’s achievements. And all the same he, Severus, had been given a position identical to Lestrange’s. Not that the latter had ever shown any sign of jealousy or envy—on the contrary—but Severus could not help asking himself whether there might not be something buried deep down, some grudge, a bit of covetousness, something that was maybe waiting for the right moment to show its ugly, green-eyed head. Lestrange was not a saint, but that was exactly what he would have to be in order not to feel the slightest sting of resentment against his former student and now-equal.

Once he had arrived at this result Severus had to ask himself, however, which moment was going to be the right one for jealousy to show its face. With Karkaroff and Avery, things had been relatively simple, from that point of view. They were envious and they showed it. You kicked their arse, and they saw reason. Besides, they were not his equals and would have a far harder time in gaining Lord Voldemort’s trust, provided they really worked up the nerve to try and undermine his position by slandering him. Lestrange though… Funny as it was, in this respect Severus felt he had to be much less wary of Malfoy for it was as clear as daylight that there was no love lost between them. If Lucius’s father tried to denigrate him, a good deal of his efforts would automatically be attributed to his dislike of Severus and thus discarded. In case Lestrange got the wrong ideas it would be more than difficult to defend himself.

And then there was, of course, Tabitha. For the next few months there was no need to worry as far as she was concerned. Once she and Lestrange were officially together, though, let alone when they were married—was it not likely that she would desire to be one of the Dark Lord’s Trusted Ones? Severus remembered Sybil’s alleged incident well enough to be sure that this girl would stop at nothing, literally nothing, to ensure she got what she wanted. Only the number of the Trusted Ones was not likely to be increased beyond a certain limit. And there still was Owen, who might be the next on the waiting list. They would be five then. Would Voldemort want a sixth? Severus was less than sure. The probability of one being exchanged for another one was far greater. And three guesses whom Lestrange would be more loyal to, Severus or Tabitha. It made him sad, but it was an undeniable fact: now that they were in the same boat he would have to be a little more cautious about what he told Lestrange.

It was because of this result of his matutinal musings that he answered Lestrange’s question about their mission of last night with a nonchalant “The mission? Oh, it all went rather well. No bumps, no hitches—well, but for Karkaroff.” That could not do much harm, could it?

Lestrange rolled his eyes. “Karkaroff! That sleazeball! What did he do?”

Severus told him about Karkaroff’s lateness and ensuing punishment. “And I have no idea what Lord Voldemort did to him afterwards, for we were all told to leave,” he concluded.

“You don’t really want to know. Suffice it to say that he certainly won’t repeat his mistake. Lord Voldemort takes insubordination very badly, be it towards himself or one of his lieutenants.”

Had there been the merest change of inflection in his last words? Or was he simply going paranoid? “I certainly hope that he has learned his lesson,” Severus said, “but the others were behaving correctly.”

He hated it. He hated the fact that he could not tell Lestrange about Avery. But he had kept it from Voldemort, and thus there was no way he could disclose it to Lestrange. Suddenly, he felt very sad and, surprisingly, old.

“Will you be at Malfoy Manor tomorrow night, too?” he asked, just to dispel the thought.

“No, as I told you there is always only one of us, except for extraordinary cases. I’ll have to show up in Albania tonight, so I’m not on duty tomorrow. Which is, in a way, a relief. I’m supposed to be on holiday, after all.”

~~~~*~~~~

 With amazing rapidity, a new living routine was developing. Of course, Severus knew that it was not going to last very long. Three more weeks, to be exact, for then he would start his apprenticeship and a new routine would settle in. So he tried to make the most of what life was offering him now: reading and studying, the occasional potions brewing with Gwendolyn, Death Eater meetings, strolling through London, both magical and Muggle—he would never have thought that he could actually begin to like the city—a visit at Monrepos that made him think Lucius was truly a bastard if he did not appreciate the wife fortune and family politics had bestowed on him… All in all, he was happy, in spite of some difficulties.

 For example, he was becoming more and more aware of his life being split up into more than one part, as if somebody were driving a wedge into it, neatly separating it in halves, and then again dividing the halves. With Voldemort and the Death Eaters, he was a very different kind of person from the one Nathalie knew. To neighbours and shop assistants he showed yet another face. Sometimes, the parts were overlapping, like in Clarissa’s case, or with Lestrange. There were so many parts he had to play, such a lot of things he had to keep in mind. He did not perceive it as a burden; it was more like participating in a very complex game—only the stakes were disproportionately high. He knew that he could pull it off, for his strength reserves felt almost inexhaustible, but there was no point in denying that to have one person whom he could trust would have done him some good. He had taken to talking to his familiars again, in interminable monologues, which neither raven nor cat seemed to mind. They did not mind but they did not respond either.

 He would have liked to trust Nathalie, and maybe he could even have done so; some of the opinions she uttered, together with the very pronounced disdain for everything to do with the Ministry, made it more than clear that if she was not with Voldemort she was certainly not against him. But it was one thing to sympathize and another to know that the person sitting opposite her was a Death Eater. And it was impossible to discuss with her one single of the questions or problems or whatever was on his mind without giving away this secret—she would not have needed to be a clairvoyant to put two and two together. Of course, he could start a highly intellectual conversation about torture being necessary at times but an essentially unsavoury procedure—only what was the use of talking about some abstract dilemma when it was in fact his, and very real and concrete?

 However, the conversations with Nathalie were something he enjoyed because of her sharp wit and immense knowledge. She and her daughter stayed at the Rosiers’ for another week but then, to his great disappointment, had to move back into their house, which was again stench-free and habitable. Gwendolyn told him so while they were brewing a Shrinking Solution.

“We’ll go back tomorrow,” she said, carefully pounding scarab beetles. He had conjured a kind of step for her to stand on, for she was far too short to use the workbench while standing on the floor.

“Yes, that looks good,” Severus told her, looking over her shoulder and into the mortar. “Continue until they are reduced to fine powder, no crumbs. You’ll go where tomorrow?”

“Back home. It’s a real pain in the arse, if you ask—”

“Language, Miss Pierson!” he admonished and pulled one of her plaits. “Why? Don’t you want to go home?”

“Yes, I do, but Clarissa won’t be there, and you’ll be so far away… I really like brewing potions with you, you know?”

He could not agree more, if for different reasons. “Far away? Where do you live? I always thought your house was in London.”

 “It is in London, but out in Hampstead, and don’t tell me that isn’t far away,” she snapped, still pounding furiously.

“If you had to walk all the way to Clarissa’s or my house, I’d agree. But you’re travelling by Floo, so what’s the big deal? You can stop now, Gwendolyn, you’ve already reduced them to mere atoms.”

She flung the pestle on the worktable. “The big deal is that it’s different. If you don’t understand that, it’s not my fault.”

Now her eyes were getting suspiciously bright. Cringing inwardly, for it was difficult enough to deal with children when they were not crying, Severus asked “Different in which way? I suppose you’ll have to explain that to me.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she replied gruffly.

“Try me.”

“Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes in exasperation, “If you insist… I don’t really like Uncle Charles and Aunt Roberta, but Clarissa is okay. And when we’re staying at their house it’s as if we were all a family. Not the family of my dreams, but then you don’t have a choice when it comes to relatives. I know it’s an allusion—”

“Illusion,” Severus corrected automatically.

 “Whatever. I know it’s an illusion but it’s nice to imagine we’re a real family, sitting round the table…”

 “But you have your mother,” he ventured, “And your nanny as well…”

 “Severus, I know you’re quite old, but do you have to be stupid as well? I don’t have a father, I don’t even know who he is, so I could at least see him from time to time. Everybody else has got a father—”

 “Well, I for one haven’t,” he interrupted her.

 Gwendolyn’s eyes lit up. “Really? Why?”

 “Because he died when I was two years old. I don’t even remember him.”

 “Oh, but that’s different,” she said, rather disappointedly. “Because at least you know who he is… was, I mean. I don’t know anything, I don’t even have a picture, and mum won’t tell me. Can you figure out why she wouldn’t tell me? He’s my father, I have a right to know, haven’t I?”

 Severus could imagine very vividly that she was giving her mother a lot of trouble—in a way, it was even true, she had a right to know who her father was. To be sincere, he was not entirely uninterested in the question, either. But it would not help if he took her side against her mother.

 “Maybe she doesn’t know who he is,” he offered therefore.

 Obviously, this had not been a very wise thing to say for Gwendolyn stared at him furiously. “Are you saying mum’s a slut?”

 Now he was completely taken aback—by an eight-year-old girl to boot. “I never implied—Where do you get that language from, Gwendolyn?”

 “That’s what Aunt Roberta says.”

 “I am fairly sure your aunt would never say such a thing in your presence. Don’t you try and lie to me, it’s—”

 “I am not lying!” she yelled, stamping her foot and nearly falling off the step, “She said it and I heard it! Of course I wasn’t present, but… but,” she gave him an inquiring look.

 “Don’t even try to look guilty. And yes, I got the message. You were eavesdropping. Anyway, whatever your aunt says—and I wouldn’t pay too much attention to that, for she and your mother are not exactly what you’d call friends—whatever she says, I wasn’t insinuating anything of the kind. Your mother is a strong, self-assured woman, who doesn’t have to account for her actions to anybody, and certainly not to her sister. But it’s also possible that she doesn’t want you to know for some very good reason.”

 This was obviously something she had not yet thought of, and it seemed to disturb her because she frowned at him. “What kind of reason could that be? What do you mean?”

 “Well,” he said, “For example, suppose—You know what, Gwendolyn? Let’s go downstairs to talk this over, for I don’t think we’re going to arrive at any result today with that Shrinking Solution.”

 “I’m sorry,” she muttered, looking very downcast, “I didn’t mean to… to spoil your afternoon.”

 Severus laughed. “I think I’ll survive that disappointment,” he said and lifted her off the step to put her down on the floor, “Go and tell Peggy while I clean up here.” She nodded, plaits flying, and cantered out of the room and down the staircase.

 What a fortunate coincidence, Severus thought while mechanically cleaning the workbench—not that he had discovered his vocation for soul healing all of a sudden, but children had a way of discovering and ingenuously telling things if they trusted you, which might provide more valuable information than carefully worming it out of Clarissa or Nathalie herself.

 She was nursing a mug of hot chocolate almost the size of her head when he entered the living room. “What reason?” she asked before he had even sat down.

 “Do you think I might have a sip of tea first?” he asked.

 “Uh, yes, sorry,” she said, grinning guiltily. “The chocolate cookies are great, by the way.”

 “You’re not the only one who likes them.”

 “Who else does?” she inquired. Two cookies made their way into her mouth.

 “St. John Lestrange, a professor of mine at Hogwarts. He teaches potions, you’ll meet him when you start school. And he’ll be your Head of House, I suppose, for if you don’t get sorted into Slytherin I don’t know who will.”

 “Is he nice?”

 “Yes, he is. With the Slytherins at least. Very strict though, so don’t try your little ruses on him.”

 Gwendolyn pulled a face. “So he’s old, isn’t he?”

 “Considering that you seem to think I’m old, yes, he is.”

 “Older than mum?” she asked, looking terrified.

 “No, he’s only twenty-eight or twenty-nine. More or less right between me and your mother.”

 “Oh,” she said, evidently trying to process the information, “I thought you had to be older than that to become a teacher. So, how does he look?”

 Severus sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Gwendolyn, what is this? Some kind of questioning or what? You’ll see him soon enough. Don’t pout, I couldn’t care less. Anyway, all the girls had a crush on him. And that’s the last thing I’m going to say on this matter.”

 “Fine!” she snapped, “That’s what you get when you’re a child. You don’t ask, people call you dumb. You ask, people get impatient. What am I bloody expected to do?”

 “You’re expected to drink your chocolate and stuff your mouth with cookies so you can’t speak,” Severus retorted. “And unless memory fails me, we came here to talk about something else, didn’t we?”

 She had followed his instructions and thus was only capable of nodding.

 “I’m glad you agree. What I was saying earlier was that there might be a reason for your mother not wanting you to learn about your father’s identity. Just suppose he is a well-known personality like, I don’t know, the Minister of Magic—”

 “The Mi—I don’t want to be that moron’s daughter!” she said indignantly.

 Severus threw up his hands in desperation. “I said it was an example, merely to illustrate what I meant. He might be married, or even dead, for all I know. Maybe he’s not living in England—I suppose your mother knows a lot of people from abroad. So what would be the use of knowing who he is if he lives in Africa?”

 Now it was her turn to sigh impatiently. “Do I really come over as black? Is that something that comes with age? Seeing everything darker than it is?”

 He laughed so hard that he had to put down his cup. “No, you insolent brat,” he said when he was again capable of articulate speech—the epithet seemed to greatly flatter her, “It was, again, merely an example. But for correctness’s sake, let’s say America, or Australia. Once again, then: What would be the point in knowing that your father is Mr. Koala Kangaroo, from Adelaide?”

 This question required a lot of time and cookies to be answered. “I don’t know…” she said slowly, playing with a plait, twisting it round her right forefinger, “It would be different, I suppose… he would at least be somebody, instead of just anybody.” A long silence ensued. Then she suddenly raised her head and glanced at him, or rather scrutinized him, with narrowed eyes and a look of intense concentration on her face. “You wouldn’t marry mum, would you?” she asked, rather hesitatingly and probably sure that the answer was going to be no.

Severus almost dropped his cup. “I think that’s the most preposterous idea I’ve ever heard of,” he said, “Why should I marry your mother? And, more importantly, why should she marry me?”

Now she glared at him. “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? Because I want her to, that’s why. You’d be a nice crossbreed between a father and an older brother, you could teach me potions, sleep in my room and comfort me when I have a nightmare… Oh, forget it!” she snapped, “I know it was a stupid thing to ask. But one can always try.” She put down her now-empty mug and curled up in her chair, definitely sulking.

He was unsure whether to laugh or to cry. “Apart from the fact that I refuse to be a crossbreed between whichever species, you might want to consider that people usually marry for love. Or money. Even social status. But certainly not to sleep in their alleged stepdaughters’ rooms. I suggest that you keep your ideas to yourself, especially as far as your mother is concerned. She would not be overly pleased with the plans you’re excogitating for her future.”

“What makes you so sure? She likes you.”

At last this absurd conversation had something like a point of interest. “Really? To answer a question with another one: what makes you so sure?”

“I know her, don’t I?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Clarissa is right. Boys are daft. She wouldn’t hang around with you as soon as she’s got a free minute if she didn’t like you. Honestly!” And she got up to ask Peggy for a refill of chocolate.

Now that was an interesting bit of information, he thought. He had never looked at it from that point of view—in hindsight, it seemed as clear as daylight, only he had never really considered it. Nathalie simply could not have a lot of spare time, her job was far too demanding. Until now, he had regarded her obvious interest in him as merely casual, like being on a shopping trip and buying a pair of shoes that caught your fancy when you went past the shop. It seemed, though, that looking for shoes and returning to the shop a couple of times had been the sole purpose of her outing. He had to admit that he quite liked the thought. If a woman makes you buy whatever piece of garment she wants to see you in it is a catch—obviously Lestrange had been right. What were her motives, though? He knew that he was not handsome, and Nathalie Pierson had no reason whatsoever for fancying a man like him. She cold have ten good-looking, rich and influential men dangling from each fingertip if she chose to. So what—

“Severus? Are you somewhere near the fireplace?”

Speak of the devil. “Yes,” he said, rising and walking over to stand by the hearth so that she could see him, “Good afternoon, Nathalie.”

She smiled at him. “Good afternoon, sorry to disturb you. But I need Gwendolyn to come here, we’ve got to pack our things because we’re moving back home tomorrow.”

“I know, she already told me. And she doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic.”

“Of course I’m not.” Gwendolyn had come back from the kitchen and was now standing beside him. “And I hate it when you’re talking about me. And I don’t want to leave now, we were having the most interesting—”

“Gwendolyn, please. I’m in no mood for discussions right now. You will please do as you’re told.”

“But I want to stay with Severus…”

“Gwendolyn!”

“Okay,” she said, sulkily, “But you must promise that I can see him when we’re back home.”

Nathalie heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Of course.” A dimpled smile for Severus. “What about coming to our place for dinner tomorrow night, Severus? So you can have a look at the house…”

“Er,” he began but was interrupted by Gwendolyn.

“Dinner! Why dinner? That’s stupid! I have to go to bed afterwards and can’t stay with you and—”

“Indeed,” said her mother, “But I hope you’ll allow me to have some hours of… undisturbed conversation with an adult without being constantly interrupted by you. No!” she added, causing Gwendolyn to shut her mouth again immediately after opening it to utter words of protest, “This discussion has officially ended. Severus, haul her into that fireplace of yours, please, before I lose my temper. Is seven o’clock fine with you? So the young lady may enjoy your company for two hours?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for the invitation. Come on, Gwendolyn, off you go.”

With a rueful look, she stepped into the green flames, called the address of the Rosiers’ house and was gone, leaving Severus to intense musings on the next evening in general and the course it was going to take after nine o’clock.

~~~~*~~~~

“Finally!” Nathalie said, slumping down on the sofa and patting the upholstery beside her. “I really love her, but she has her moments…”

Severus sat down next to her, trying hard not to ogle her, which was quite difficult for she was wearing a white satin blouse, on which the candlelight was creating the most interesting shadow effects, enhancing the soft mounds of her breasts.

“That’s the problem with intelligent children, I suppose,” he commented, “They are difficult to silence.”

“Don’t tell me! Would you like some whisky or brandy?”

He gratefully accepted the offer, opting for whisky. Not only was he quite full—the dinner had been truly excellent—but he hoped that the liquor would calm his fluttering nerves. Nathalie summoned the bottle and two tumblers and poured rather generous amounts for both of them. They raised their glasses to each other and took the first sip. With a contented purr that reminded him very much of Esmeralda, she relaxed against the back of the couch and pulled up her feet, folding her legs under herself and turning slightly, so that she was now facing Severus.

“So,” she said, comfortably stretching out her right arm on the backrest and starting to play with his hair, “What about your apprenticeship? When will it start? Or did you give up on it altogether?”

“No, on the contrary. I’ll start in about two weeks, 1 August to be exact. I just thought I had deserved a bit of a holiday first.”

Her hand had found his ear and was now softly tracing its outline. “And… how is your holiday going?”

Speaking was becoming increasingly difficult, for all he really wanted to do was lean into the caress and then kiss her. “Not too bad. To quote you, if in a different sense: it has its moments.”

“Good ones, too?” The soft fingertips were now resting on his throat, right under the jaw where the skin was sensitive and she could feel the pulse of his carotid.

“Yes,” he said, trying to calm his treacherous heartbeat, “Definitely.” As he noticed after another sip of whisky, the alcohol did nothing to calm him; on the contrary: it seemed to enhance his skin’s sensitivity.

“And…” her fingers went past the open collar of his shirt, nails lightly grazing the area above his collarbone “…would now qualify as a good or bad moment?”

Slowly, so as not to make her think he wanted to shake off her hand, he turned his head towards her, just in time to see her drink—how could the simple act of drinking look so sensual? “It is… well, I think I’d have to create one more category for this. ‘Excellent’ doesn’t even begin to cover it, but for the lack of a better word…”

Their eyes locked and both put down their tumblers simultaneously. She really had something of a cat, he thought, as Nathalie rose to her knees and, slowly and elegantly, put her left knee on his other side, the rest of her body following lazily, in the languid movement of some oriental dancer. He gasped when she settled down on his thighs—he had never felt her that close before.

“Any chance of further improving it?” she asked, her face merely inches from his. Now that she had both hands free, she began unbuttoning his shirt.

It was definitely time to give his hands some occupation, too, and so he put them on her hips, stroking softly up and down, to her waist and back, slowly but firmly. “I think you might have found a very good way of going from excellent to incredible,” he murmured, drawing her closer.

Their last kiss, the one they had shared thanks to the diversion created by Elias and Esmeralda, had taken place little more than a week ago, and he still remembered every detail very distinctly. But all the same, the sensations he felt now came as something of a surprise. Maybe because the body contact was so much more intense. Or maybe because of the effects of alcohol and relaxation. However, right now he had no wish to analyse what exactly was going on; he just wanted to savour that feeling of Nathalie melting into him as much as possible. She scooted a little nearer still, making something white-hot flare up from his loins right to the top of his head, and causing his hands to start a more frantic and erratic exploration of her body.

When she drew back after a long while, her eyes were slightly glazed over and she had at least as hard a time breathing regularly as Severus. Catching his hands that refused to let her go, she said “Don’t you think that we should continue this at a more… appropriate place? If you feel like continuing, that is. This would be your first time, wouldn’t it?”

“It… er, yes,” he admitted, feeling more embarrassed than ever in his life. “Do you mind very much?”

“On the contrary.” She bent forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. “But I want you to be sure you really want this. Don’t feel obliged to do anything you don’t really desire. If you say no, I promise I won’t be offended. Maybe a bit disappointed,” she added, caressing his exposed chest, “But I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“What about Gwendolyn?” he asked, for he could not imagine anything more awkward than the girl running in on them.

“I’ll take the liberty of putting a sleeping spell on her, just to be on the safe side. May I take your question as a yes?”

Severus’s mind was racing. The fact that he was so aroused that he thought he might explode any second was not really helping him think. He had liked kissing, and he had liked being touched. Even where his skin came into direct contact with hers. But he was still fully clothed. What would it be like when he did not have this protection anymore? Would he be able to overcome that feeling of being uncovered, unshielded, vulnerable… If he said yes now, he would have to go through with it—Nathalie might be comprehensive of a no if uttered now, but she would be understandably offended if he bolted out of her bedroom the moment she touched him. On the other hand, he felt that he could trust her. She liked him. He was fairly sure that she was not going to poke fun at him if he was shy or clumsy. She would allow him to take his time…

He nodded. “Yes, you may take it as a yes.”

“That’s what I call good news,” she said, showing her dimples and gliding off his lap. “I’ll just go to Gwendolyn’s room, then. Stay here and wait for me, I’ll be back in a second.”

When she was already half through the door, she turned round. “And don’t try to calm yourself with a double whisky. It only makes you tired, and you don’t want to fall asleep immediately, do you?”

As she had explicitly mentioned the dampening effect of double whiskies, he poured himself a single, very small shot. There had not been many times in his life he had felt so very excited. His Transfiguration N.E.W.T., meeting Voldemort at the beginning of his holidays. But that was it. Yes, he had felt rather queasy before his first mission but it was nothing in comparison to what he felt now. Which applied to the pleasure factor as well. Pleasure-wise, this was certainly number one. Unrivalled. Oh, Gods… He had not even yet seen a naked woman up close and personal. Pictures, yes, both scientific and pornographic—Owen had a certain liking for the latter, and showed them round the dormitory whether you wanted or not—but never the real thing. Was she going to notice he had a… a past? Would she instinctively feel that he had been touched, if unwillingly, that he had been with a man? Now he was very close to panicking. He had no time to dwell on his fears any longer, though, for she was standing in the doorframe again, smiling, holding out her hand to him, saying only one word.

“Come!”

So many promises crammed into a single syllable… He rose and went towards her, to take the offered hand. She did not move, though. She pulled him a little closer and looked intently into his eyes. Cupped his right cheek. Brushed her thumb over his cheekbone. “You’re afraid.” It was no question, no provocation. Merely a statement.

He cleared his throat. “I… yes, a little. Well, rather more than that. A bit scared.”

She smiled at him. “Would it help if I told you that I was scared shitless the first time?”

They had begun climbing the stairs. “I reckon I would be scared, too, if I were supposed to have sex with Alastor Moody,” he retorted.

Nathalie giggled. “Well, yes, I suppose that would be the equivalent of me having a tryst with McGonagall. But seriously, I do remember how it felt. So don’t worry.” They had arrived at what he supposed to be her bedroom door, for she stopped. “With lights or without?” she asked over her shoulder, entering the chamber.

He was momentarily puzzled. “A very small amount of light would be nice, I think. If that’s fine with you.”

She nodded and lit two candles at the far end of the room. “Like this?” He agreed and she closed and warded the door.

It was a very large bedroom, all done in soft, warm colours, although it was difficult to make out their exact shade with what little light there was. The bed was enormous and very low.

“So we won’t get hurt if we fall out,” she observed, following his line of view. Taking both his hands in hers, she guided him towards the bed and made him sit down. “You may close your eyes,” she whispered, kneeling down between his thighs, “if you promise not to think of England.”