Fic: If the Shoe Fits (2/2)
Happy Monday. I come bearing fic.
Part One is all the way back here.
Title: If the Shoe Fits
Pairing: HG/SS
Rating: PG-13, for a bit of suggestion and a great deal of silliness
Genre: Humour/Romance
Summary: Hermione begins to wonder if Severus might have some skeletons in his closet. Literally.
Notes: Sequel to In His Shoes, which may be found for your reading pleasure here.
Un-betaed for the moment, because this installment took me bloody long enough. It will be eventually. (Clearly, when I say 'tomorrow', I actually mean 'in three months'. I have no excuse, especially considering how speedy the writing process went. For once.)
~~
It’s wasn’t that Hermione didn’t trust Severus…
No, sod that; she was lying to herself again. She didn’t trust him; her conversation with Narcissa had made that perfectly clear.
It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t want to trust Severus, she just didn’t want her trust to be misplaced.
She had put a in a great deal of effort keeping him out of prison, finding him a high-level ministry position and bullying Kingsley Shacklebolt into letting him have it, and bribing the Daily Prophet with inside information on The-Boy-Who-Lived’s post-war exploits into publishing flattering stories-the last thing that she wanted was to discover that her efforts had been misguided. So, really, it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him; it was that she wanted proof that it was a good idea.
It seemed a sensible enough train of thought, and, in spite of her recent realisation that being sensible wasn’t the epitome of being, that was enough to make uncovering the truth seem like a good idea.
In order to do that, she needed a Plan. And in order to make a Plan, she clearly required a cup of tea. Caffeine was the only thing that allowed for rational thought before six in the morning.
As she carefully untangled herself from the sheets, she paused to glance over at Severus, who had his face mashed into the pillow at a painful angle as a sound that reminded her vaguely of a table saw came from his nose and a leg dangled over the edge of the bed. Surely no one who looked that adorable when he slept could be completely evil?
She was not yet, however, too blinded by love to realise that this was irrational thinking, and brushed the thought aside briskly, fumbling in the dark for her dressing gown. The only other person in the building who was ever awake this early was old Mr Murdoch, but he had taken a fancy to walking his corgis under her window every morning, hoping for a peep show.
It was bloody annoying, really; just because she had once-once-been startled out of bed by one of Crookshanks’ sneak attacks didn’t mean that he was due for a repeat performance of her bouncing up and down round the kitchen, stark naked and howling in pain. Not even if he brought her a tray full of biscuits to soften her up before asking.
Her super stealth was nearly wasted when, robe on, she forgot that they had left the door ajar in last night’s haste and walked directly into the edge. The loud thump was followed by a few soft yet creative invectives-she had always had her suspicions about the bedroom door’s intentions-that, rather surprisingly, Severus slept through. In fact, his response was to snore louder, a feat that she hadn’t thought possible.
If he turned out not to be evil and she decided that he was worth keeping, she would have to consider investing in nasal strips.
Padding quietly down the hall, she stepped cautiously over the floorboard that Crookshanks preferred to sleep on, and slipped into the kitchen. A flick of the wand ensured that the kettle was on, and she collapsed into a chair.
The upside of all of this sex-besides, of course, the shuddering orgasms-was that her legs would be toned as they had never been toned before; the downside was that walking hurt.
The sound of yapping dogs interrupted her thoughts, and she looked out the window, waving at Mr Murdoch. He lifted his cap at her, revealing the shock of white hair underneath, and she saw one of his large, bushy eyebrows drop into a wink, which was quite a feat from the third floor. At the sound of the dogs, a mewling ball of fluff that she was learning to associate with Voldie barrelled into the kitchen, leaping onto the table and hissing through the window with faintly disturbing vigour.
“Shush,” she whispered, scooping the cat into her hands and cradling her gently. “You’re much too sweet to be bothered by those silly animals.”
Wonderful. Now, not only was she falling for a man who may or may not be harbouring ill intentions, she was also cooing to his cat. Clearly she was losing her mind.
Just fucking fabulous.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked Voldie despairingly.
She was rather glad that the cat could only purr at her. Nevertheless, she was convinced that the tone was faintly mocking.
*
Hermione stumbled through the next week in a daze, reluctant to admit, even in her mind, that she didn’t want to find any incriminating evidence against Severus. Every time she considered it, a wave of nausea washed over her; it wasn’t helped along much by the fact that she received a bouquet of flowers mid-week.
The problem, she thought in between sneezes, wasn’t with the roses, but with the stems of babies’ breath that were laced into the arrangement.
But, thought another part of her mind that she was quickly coming to label as foolishly romantic, that wasn’t the point. The point was that Severus had sent her flowers, which was something that Ron had never done. The only flowers she had ever received had been from Viktor in fourth year, and his sole aim was to get into her pants.
Severus was sending her flowers post-knickers invasion.
Obviously no man could be that considerate, unless he was using it as a diversion tactic. With narrowed eyes, she renewed her determination to reach the bottom of this.
*
The opportunity didn’t present itself for several days. Her planning had been vague and shadowy, consisting of a vague idea to sneak into his flat when he was out. As they hadn’t yet reached the stage in their relationship where one instinctively knew the other’s whereabouts and thoughts, this made choosing a time more complicated than she would like it to be.
Not to mention that she was certain he had a complex and potentially damaging warding system that she didn’t fancy trying to break through with a team of Aurors at her back.
Fortunately, Severus was turning out to be more dependable that she could have ever expected him to be, and solved both of these problems for her.
“You want me to feed Voldie while you’re in Paris?” In spite of spending her childhood in a firmly atheistic home, Hermione was occasionally tempted to believe in divine intervention. This was one of those times.
“No, I want you to make sure that Lucius is feeding him.”
“But why don’t I just feed him?” Hermione set the pen down on her desk and rolled her eyes at the whistle Justin Finch-Fletchly was directing at her from the next cubicle over.
Severus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s what I suggested, but he took offence to that. ‘Bros before hos,’ was the turn of phrase that I believe he used.”
Hermione winced sympathetically. “I take it that means the Muggle appreciation workshop he had to attend as part of his rehabilitation programme paid off, then?”
He made to lean against the wall of the cubicle, but straightened abruptly when it shifted under he weight. “I don’t know, but I have the sneaking suspicion that no amount of rehab will teach him how to take care of his pets.”
She nodded once, firmly; tossing aside opportunities that were handed to her on a silver platter by a well-mannered butler was, in a word, idiotic. “Of course I’ll do it.”
His face crumpled with relief and he made a move to hug her, but seemed to think better of it. “I’ll stop by tonight with the spare key, and let you know what needs to be done, shall I?” he asked.
She beamed. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
*
It took an excessive amount of willpower, but Hermione waited until the next afternoon, once she was off work, to use the key. Under normal circumstances, she would have been jealous that he was allowed to visit the continent for conferences, while she was stuck in a cubicle trying to keep order among the few employees that earned less than she, but she supposed that it was her fault for applying to the Department of Mysteries, rather than some non-competitive position in the Department for International Cooperation. The lower levels of the DIC were filled with brats fresh out of Hogwarts who thought that it was the fast track to earning the high salary of a diplomat; fortunately, Hermione had experienced the joy of Percy Weasley and his stories about measuring cauldron bottoms, and had known better.
Besides, she supposed, a promotion every six months was better than most people. At that rate, she would be Minister for Magic in slightly over two decades.
Not that she had done the calculations or anything.
Sliding the key into the lock, she murmured the incantation that Severus had told her would lower the wards and the door clicked open. Safely inside, it took her less than a second to bolt for the bedroom. She would check on the cat later.
Once she was armed with the truth… Well, in all honesty, she didn’t know what she was going to do with it. Still, it was knowledge, and she would certainly be better off with it than without.
She hoped.
Once in the bedroom, she eyed the closet door distrustfully, wondering what the best way to go about opening it would be. Just to cover all her bases, she tried the handle, but it was as stubbornly still as she recalled.
That, to be honest, came as something of a relief. At least she hadn’t imagined it.
Alohomora didn’t work either, but that was hardly to be expected, and she didn’t fancy trying any spells more complicated than that until she knew what she was up against. He had described the wards on his flat to her in great detail, and they were more than slightly worrying, especially if there were things hidden away in the closet that he didn’t want people to see.
Logic kicked in a moment later. If there was a door and a lock, then obviously there was a key somewhere. Hidden, of course, but a flat only had so many hiding places: mattresses, floorboards, and hidden drawers in desks. The mattress was nearest, so she tried that first, tossing it off the frame with surprisingly little effort. No key. She tried the nightstands next, hoping for the painfully obvious, but all she found was a battered romance novel (odd, but hardly incriminating) and an unopened box of condoms (at the rate they had been going through them, it was a relief to see that he was so well prepared). She was about to start testing the floorboards, when a faint scratching noise from the inside of the closet made her freeze.
There was something in there.
And that something was alive.
Cautiously, she approached the closet door, squinting at it and trying to pretend that her heart hadn’t migrated up to her larynx. It briefly crossed her mind that the thing-whatever it was-was probably hungry, and if it escaped…
The scratching stopped, and Hermione released a breath that she hadn’t realised she was holding. She was sucking it back in a moment later, when the bottom half of the door moved-
And a tiny ginger head poked out of a heretofore-unseen cat flap.
Her laugher sounded tinny and perhaps a little hysterical to her own ears, but she knelt and patted Voldie on the head, using her other had to hold the tiny door open before it could close.
“Well,” she said, giving the cat a weak smile. “This, I suppose, is it.”
Voldie rubbed against her legs comfortingly as Hermione pulled her upper body through the trap door and blinked, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim light that was seeping through the spaces in the doorframe. At first, there was only the slightly dusty smell of a closet that desperately needed to be cleaned and some vague outlines against the floor, but after a few seconds, the outlines started to make sense and she could tell how far back the closet went back. A gasp escaped from her throat, although it was one more of surprise than horror.
The closet had been magically expanded to take up more space than the entire flat, and the entire thing was filled with rows and racks and some more rows of shoes.
Rather than feel the relief that was certainly imminent in such a situation, she felt ill. Next to this, her shoe collection was pathetic. What he must think of her…
She made to retreat hastily, not wanting to dwell on this further, and found that her shoulder blades wouldn’t fit back through the opening. A second attempt only served to emphasise this by scraping her back painfully, but she tried again and again. With any luck, she would break the door.
After half an hour, something broke through the crushing panic to point out that this clearly wasn’t working. The most logical thing to do would be to magically widen the cat flap-but her wand was in her pocket, which was on the other side of the door from her hands.
Fuck.
This was enough to make her claustrophobic for life.
Some of the terror was alleviated by the sound of the door to the flat being pushed open and footsteps echoing the hall. It didn’t particularly matter who was there, only that she was no longer going to starve to death, stuck in her boyfriend’s closet.
She had barely opened her mouth to shout for help, when a voice behind her said, “Dear, dear, Miss Granger. And here Severus had told me that you were sensible.”
Ignoring the fact that Lucius was the only other person currently in the country that had a key to the flat, Hermione wondered why, of all the people who could have wandered in, it had to be him. Honestly.
“I’ll explain if you help me out,” she snapped, not wanting to consider the comedic value that the situation held from his perspective.
“If we do it that way, who’s to say that I won’t regret letting you out. Besides, I’m rather enjoying the view-Severus was at least correct about the quality of your arse.” She could hear the smirk in his voice, and hated him more than usual for it.
She rolled her eyes, glad that he wasn’t able to see the childish gesture, and retorted, “I’m only in here because of something that your wife told me, so you had better damn well help me!”
“What did she say?” Some of the smugness shifted, making room for genuine curiosity. “If it was something about the irresistible nature of his shoe collection...”
“Er, no, actually. It was something about keeping skeletons in his closet.” Come to think of it, Narcissa hadn’t actually used the term ‘skeletons’. What, precisely, had she said?
“She told me that mine was obviously superior… Oh. Christ, Granger, haven’t you ever heard of a metaphor?”
“I’ve always been rather literal-minded,” she snarled. “Now are you going to get me out of this bloody closet, or am I going to have to hex you into next week when I make it out on my own?”
He gripped her by the ankles-he was probably looking up her robes, the prick-and he pulled.
“Ouch! Oh, fuck, what are you doing? That bloody hurts!” If she had scraped her back with her own attempts, Lucius’ tug had removed at least a pound of flesh.
“Pulling you out. Obviously.”
He yanked her a second time, and she made it through this time, too relieved to properly express her discomfort.
Still, she wasn’t about to let him get away with it. “You bastard! What the hell were you thinking?”
“What the hell were you thinking?” he roared back, obviously torn between tears of mirth and disbelief. “Skeletons in the bloody closet? Are you mental?”
“You try dating an ex-Death Eater! Of course I expect skeletons; I thought it came with the package.”
Tears of mirth won out. He blinked rapidly and wiped them away, shaking with silent laughter. “And the mattress?” he gasped. “Please don’t tell me that you were looking for a key.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her cheeks flared up, although she wasn’t sure if it was the result of shame or anger. What did he know, anyway?
“I’m ridiculous?” That set him off a second time, until he was all but curled in a ball on the floor, rocking with the hilarity.
She waited until it subsided before asking, timidly, “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
*
When Severus arrived home two days later, Hermione was waiting for him. She had bought a new pair of shoes-stilettos with a silver heel, as per Lucius’ advice-and was flopped back on the bed with nothing on, reading the romance that she had found during her hunt for the key. She was faintly ashamed to admit how much she was enjoying it.
Not, perhaps, the subtlest way to go about seducing him, but she was feeling guilty enough about the entire incident (which Lucius had promised her-at wand point-that he would never hear about from his or anyone else’s lips) that she wanted to send a clear message.
She was here to stay.
Judging by the haste with which he abandoned his suitcase to join her, he didn’t have any objections to that.
Besides, she decided, abandoning the paperback in favour of the real thing, there were marked advantages to a boyfriend with a shoe fetish-more than just the knowledge that he couldn’t complain about the constant drain on her paycheques.
Her lips curved into a smile as he stripped, and she began to ponder the creative use of shoelaces.
Part One is all the way back here.
Title: If the Shoe Fits
Pairing: HG/SS
Rating: PG-13, for a bit of suggestion and a great deal of silliness
Genre: Humour/Romance
Summary: Hermione begins to wonder if Severus might have some skeletons in his closet. Literally.
Notes: Sequel to In His Shoes, which may be found for your reading pleasure here.
Un-betaed for the moment, because this installment took me bloody long enough. It will be eventually. (Clearly, when I say 'tomorrow', I actually mean 'in three months'. I have no excuse, especially considering how speedy the writing process went. For once.)
~~
It’s wasn’t that Hermione didn’t trust Severus…
No, sod that; she was lying to herself again. She didn’t trust him; her conversation with Narcissa had made that perfectly clear.
It wasn’t that Hermione didn’t want to trust Severus, she just didn’t want her trust to be misplaced.
She had put a in a great deal of effort keeping him out of prison, finding him a high-level ministry position and bullying Kingsley Shacklebolt into letting him have it, and bribing the Daily Prophet with inside information on The-Boy-Who-Lived’s post-war exploits into publishing flattering stories-the last thing that she wanted was to discover that her efforts had been misguided. So, really, it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him; it was that she wanted proof that it was a good idea.
It seemed a sensible enough train of thought, and, in spite of her recent realisation that being sensible wasn’t the epitome of being, that was enough to make uncovering the truth seem like a good idea.
In order to do that, she needed a Plan. And in order to make a Plan, she clearly required a cup of tea. Caffeine was the only thing that allowed for rational thought before six in the morning.
As she carefully untangled herself from the sheets, she paused to glance over at Severus, who had his face mashed into the pillow at a painful angle as a sound that reminded her vaguely of a table saw came from his nose and a leg dangled over the edge of the bed. Surely no one who looked that adorable when he slept could be completely evil?
She was not yet, however, too blinded by love to realise that this was irrational thinking, and brushed the thought aside briskly, fumbling in the dark for her dressing gown. The only other person in the building who was ever awake this early was old Mr Murdoch, but he had taken a fancy to walking his corgis under her window every morning, hoping for a peep show.
It was bloody annoying, really; just because she had once-once-been startled out of bed by one of Crookshanks’ sneak attacks didn’t mean that he was due for a repeat performance of her bouncing up and down round the kitchen, stark naked and howling in pain. Not even if he brought her a tray full of biscuits to soften her up before asking.
Her super stealth was nearly wasted when, robe on, she forgot that they had left the door ajar in last night’s haste and walked directly into the edge. The loud thump was followed by a few soft yet creative invectives-she had always had her suspicions about the bedroom door’s intentions-that, rather surprisingly, Severus slept through. In fact, his response was to snore louder, a feat that she hadn’t thought possible.
If he turned out not to be evil and she decided that he was worth keeping, she would have to consider investing in nasal strips.
Padding quietly down the hall, she stepped cautiously over the floorboard that Crookshanks preferred to sleep on, and slipped into the kitchen. A flick of the wand ensured that the kettle was on, and she collapsed into a chair.
The upside of all of this sex-besides, of course, the shuddering orgasms-was that her legs would be toned as they had never been toned before; the downside was that walking hurt.
The sound of yapping dogs interrupted her thoughts, and she looked out the window, waving at Mr Murdoch. He lifted his cap at her, revealing the shock of white hair underneath, and she saw one of his large, bushy eyebrows drop into a wink, which was quite a feat from the third floor. At the sound of the dogs, a mewling ball of fluff that she was learning to associate with Voldie barrelled into the kitchen, leaping onto the table and hissing through the window with faintly disturbing vigour.
“Shush,” she whispered, scooping the cat into her hands and cradling her gently. “You’re much too sweet to be bothered by those silly animals.”
Wonderful. Now, not only was she falling for a man who may or may not be harbouring ill intentions, she was also cooing to his cat. Clearly she was losing her mind.
Just fucking fabulous.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked Voldie despairingly.
She was rather glad that the cat could only purr at her. Nevertheless, she was convinced that the tone was faintly mocking.
*
Hermione stumbled through the next week in a daze, reluctant to admit, even in her mind, that she didn’t want to find any incriminating evidence against Severus. Every time she considered it, a wave of nausea washed over her; it wasn’t helped along much by the fact that she received a bouquet of flowers mid-week.
The problem, she thought in between sneezes, wasn’t with the roses, but with the stems of babies’ breath that were laced into the arrangement.
But, thought another part of her mind that she was quickly coming to label as foolishly romantic, that wasn’t the point. The point was that Severus had sent her flowers, which was something that Ron had never done. The only flowers she had ever received had been from Viktor in fourth year, and his sole aim was to get into her pants.
Severus was sending her flowers post-knickers invasion.
Obviously no man could be that considerate, unless he was using it as a diversion tactic. With narrowed eyes, she renewed her determination to reach the bottom of this.
*
The opportunity didn’t present itself for several days. Her planning had been vague and shadowy, consisting of a vague idea to sneak into his flat when he was out. As they hadn’t yet reached the stage in their relationship where one instinctively knew the other’s whereabouts and thoughts, this made choosing a time more complicated than she would like it to be.
Not to mention that she was certain he had a complex and potentially damaging warding system that she didn’t fancy trying to break through with a team of Aurors at her back.
Fortunately, Severus was turning out to be more dependable that she could have ever expected him to be, and solved both of these problems for her.
“You want me to feed Voldie while you’re in Paris?” In spite of spending her childhood in a firmly atheistic home, Hermione was occasionally tempted to believe in divine intervention. This was one of those times.
“No, I want you to make sure that Lucius is feeding him.”
“But why don’t I just feed him?” Hermione set the pen down on her desk and rolled her eyes at the whistle Justin Finch-Fletchly was directing at her from the next cubicle over.
Severus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s what I suggested, but he took offence to that. ‘Bros before hos,’ was the turn of phrase that I believe he used.”
Hermione winced sympathetically. “I take it that means the Muggle appreciation workshop he had to attend as part of his rehabilitation programme paid off, then?”
He made to lean against the wall of the cubicle, but straightened abruptly when it shifted under he weight. “I don’t know, but I have the sneaking suspicion that no amount of rehab will teach him how to take care of his pets.”
She nodded once, firmly; tossing aside opportunities that were handed to her on a silver platter by a well-mannered butler was, in a word, idiotic. “Of course I’ll do it.”
His face crumpled with relief and he made a move to hug her, but seemed to think better of it. “I’ll stop by tonight with the spare key, and let you know what needs to be done, shall I?” he asked.
She beamed. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
*
It took an excessive amount of willpower, but Hermione waited until the next afternoon, once she was off work, to use the key. Under normal circumstances, she would have been jealous that he was allowed to visit the continent for conferences, while she was stuck in a cubicle trying to keep order among the few employees that earned less than she, but she supposed that it was her fault for applying to the Department of Mysteries, rather than some non-competitive position in the Department for International Cooperation. The lower levels of the DIC were filled with brats fresh out of Hogwarts who thought that it was the fast track to earning the high salary of a diplomat; fortunately, Hermione had experienced the joy of Percy Weasley and his stories about measuring cauldron bottoms, and had known better.
Besides, she supposed, a promotion every six months was better than most people. At that rate, she would be Minister for Magic in slightly over two decades.
Not that she had done the calculations or anything.
Sliding the key into the lock, she murmured the incantation that Severus had told her would lower the wards and the door clicked open. Safely inside, it took her less than a second to bolt for the bedroom. She would check on the cat later.
Once she was armed with the truth… Well, in all honesty, she didn’t know what she was going to do with it. Still, it was knowledge, and she would certainly be better off with it than without.
She hoped.
Once in the bedroom, she eyed the closet door distrustfully, wondering what the best way to go about opening it would be. Just to cover all her bases, she tried the handle, but it was as stubbornly still as she recalled.
That, to be honest, came as something of a relief. At least she hadn’t imagined it.
Alohomora didn’t work either, but that was hardly to be expected, and she didn’t fancy trying any spells more complicated than that until she knew what she was up against. He had described the wards on his flat to her in great detail, and they were more than slightly worrying, especially if there were things hidden away in the closet that he didn’t want people to see.
Logic kicked in a moment later. If there was a door and a lock, then obviously there was a key somewhere. Hidden, of course, but a flat only had so many hiding places: mattresses, floorboards, and hidden drawers in desks. The mattress was nearest, so she tried that first, tossing it off the frame with surprisingly little effort. No key. She tried the nightstands next, hoping for the painfully obvious, but all she found was a battered romance novel (odd, but hardly incriminating) and an unopened box of condoms (at the rate they had been going through them, it was a relief to see that he was so well prepared). She was about to start testing the floorboards, when a faint scratching noise from the inside of the closet made her freeze.
There was something in there.
And that something was alive.
Cautiously, she approached the closet door, squinting at it and trying to pretend that her heart hadn’t migrated up to her larynx. It briefly crossed her mind that the thing-whatever it was-was probably hungry, and if it escaped…
The scratching stopped, and Hermione released a breath that she hadn’t realised she was holding. She was sucking it back in a moment later, when the bottom half of the door moved-
And a tiny ginger head poked out of a heretofore-unseen cat flap.
Her laugher sounded tinny and perhaps a little hysterical to her own ears, but she knelt and patted Voldie on the head, using her other had to hold the tiny door open before it could close.
“Well,” she said, giving the cat a weak smile. “This, I suppose, is it.”
Voldie rubbed against her legs comfortingly as Hermione pulled her upper body through the trap door and blinked, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dim light that was seeping through the spaces in the doorframe. At first, there was only the slightly dusty smell of a closet that desperately needed to be cleaned and some vague outlines against the floor, but after a few seconds, the outlines started to make sense and she could tell how far back the closet went back. A gasp escaped from her throat, although it was one more of surprise than horror.
The closet had been magically expanded to take up more space than the entire flat, and the entire thing was filled with rows and racks and some more rows of shoes.
Rather than feel the relief that was certainly imminent in such a situation, she felt ill. Next to this, her shoe collection was pathetic. What he must think of her…
She made to retreat hastily, not wanting to dwell on this further, and found that her shoulder blades wouldn’t fit back through the opening. A second attempt only served to emphasise this by scraping her back painfully, but she tried again and again. With any luck, she would break the door.
After half an hour, something broke through the crushing panic to point out that this clearly wasn’t working. The most logical thing to do would be to magically widen the cat flap-but her wand was in her pocket, which was on the other side of the door from her hands.
Fuck.
This was enough to make her claustrophobic for life.
Some of the terror was alleviated by the sound of the door to the flat being pushed open and footsteps echoing the hall. It didn’t particularly matter who was there, only that she was no longer going to starve to death, stuck in her boyfriend’s closet.
She had barely opened her mouth to shout for help, when a voice behind her said, “Dear, dear, Miss Granger. And here Severus had told me that you were sensible.”
Ignoring the fact that Lucius was the only other person currently in the country that had a key to the flat, Hermione wondered why, of all the people who could have wandered in, it had to be him. Honestly.
“I’ll explain if you help me out,” she snapped, not wanting to consider the comedic value that the situation held from his perspective.
“If we do it that way, who’s to say that I won’t regret letting you out. Besides, I’m rather enjoying the view-Severus was at least correct about the quality of your arse.” She could hear the smirk in his voice, and hated him more than usual for it.
She rolled her eyes, glad that he wasn’t able to see the childish gesture, and retorted, “I’m only in here because of something that your wife told me, so you had better damn well help me!”
“What did she say?” Some of the smugness shifted, making room for genuine curiosity. “If it was something about the irresistible nature of his shoe collection...”
“Er, no, actually. It was something about keeping skeletons in his closet.” Come to think of it, Narcissa hadn’t actually used the term ‘skeletons’. What, precisely, had she said?
“She told me that mine was obviously superior… Oh. Christ, Granger, haven’t you ever heard of a metaphor?”
“I’ve always been rather literal-minded,” she snarled. “Now are you going to get me out of this bloody closet, or am I going to have to hex you into next week when I make it out on my own?”
He gripped her by the ankles-he was probably looking up her robes, the prick-and he pulled.
“Ouch! Oh, fuck, what are you doing? That bloody hurts!” If she had scraped her back with her own attempts, Lucius’ tug had removed at least a pound of flesh.
“Pulling you out. Obviously.”
He yanked her a second time, and she made it through this time, too relieved to properly express her discomfort.
Still, she wasn’t about to let him get away with it. “You bastard! What the hell were you thinking?”
“What the hell were you thinking?” he roared back, obviously torn between tears of mirth and disbelief. “Skeletons in the bloody closet? Are you mental?”
“You try dating an ex-Death Eater! Of course I expect skeletons; I thought it came with the package.”
Tears of mirth won out. He blinked rapidly and wiped them away, shaking with silent laughter. “And the mattress?” he gasped. “Please don’t tell me that you were looking for a key.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her cheeks flared up, although she wasn’t sure if it was the result of shame or anger. What did he know, anyway?
“I’m ridiculous?” That set him off a second time, until he was all but curled in a ball on the floor, rocking with the hilarity.
She waited until it subsided before asking, timidly, “You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
*
When Severus arrived home two days later, Hermione was waiting for him. She had bought a new pair of shoes-stilettos with a silver heel, as per Lucius’ advice-and was flopped back on the bed with nothing on, reading the romance that she had found during her hunt for the key. She was faintly ashamed to admit how much she was enjoying it.
Not, perhaps, the subtlest way to go about seducing him, but she was feeling guilty enough about the entire incident (which Lucius had promised her-at wand point-that he would never hear about from his or anyone else’s lips) that she wanted to send a clear message.
She was here to stay.
Judging by the haste with which he abandoned his suitcase to join her, he didn’t have any objections to that.
Besides, she decided, abandoning the paperback in favour of the real thing, there were marked advantages to a boyfriend with a shoe fetish-more than just the knowledge that he couldn’t complain about the constant drain on her paycheques.
Her lips curved into a smile as he stripped, and she began to ponder the creative use of shoelaces.