Ladder Act One
Summary: Victory did not make life perfect, and two years on, the shock of surviving the war is finally starting to wear off. Waking to everyday realities, Hermione and Severus discover the delights and pains of living - all prompted by a ladder. HG/SS eventually, but HG/RW and SS/NT for the first bit.
Multiple awards winner - details here.
This story uses an experimental form of alternating first-person POVs. Sometimes scenes are repeated, purposefully, offering readers a chance to see the differences in thoughts, motivations, and observations that the two main characters make, even if those differences are subtle. Such isn't to eveyone's taste, and that's fine, but I hope you enjoy.
Gobs of thanks go to my beta southernwitch69 and my Brit-picker saracen77 .
Additionally, thanks go to
sshg316 for the absolutely perfect banner!
1: Rung One - Her
June 30th, 3:05 pm
I give a rather indelicate grunt and attempt to push another box of miscellaneous bric-a-brac out of my way. When Tonks told me the decorations were just at the top of the ladder, I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Organization isn’t her strong suit.
In fact, the attic of her trendy Camden flat is so full of unmarked boxes that I can’t even get into it or find the light - you’d think I’d be used to all things Muggle.
But, no - here I am stuck partway up the ladder, wandless, with my hips just cresting the attic floor, unwilling to go further and less willing to admit defeat. I may have kicked off my shoes and put my hair up to get it out of the way, but I’m beginning to realize that my red party dress - or should I say Tonks’s party dress, which she insisted I wear as mine was deemed too boring - is quickly becoming inappropriate for the job.
Just as I lift my right foot to move down the ladder, a hand slides up my left calf. I jump.
“No, no - stay there,” a silky voice murmurs. “I have thought of you all day, and this position offers a delightful amount of access.”
I freeze - his voice!
Since when has Ron sounded so husky, so deep? And what is he doing here?
He and Ginny were going to host an informal game of Quidditch at the Burrow this afternoon, leaving me free to help Tonks get the Order’s 2nd Annual Victory Celebration ready.
The hand drifts up my inner thigh, teasingly stroking the skin, and a hot mouth begins to lave the inside of one ankle. The ladder creaks as he mounts a step, and the mouth moves up to the back of my knee - I gasp. The intense tingling sensation centered on my clitoris is already so strong that I begin to tremble lightly.
It is our first anniversary - maybe he arranged with Tonks that she would run an errand around three. If he wanted to surprise me, he couldn’t have done a better job of it.
Especially since he rarely goes down on me.
Another creak and he’s burrowed his head under the skirt of the dress while running a finger along the edge of my underwear. I’m amazingly wet, and realize he’ll feel as much as his hand moves closer to my core.
His nose brushes against the silk crotch of my knickers, and there’s a murmur I don’t catch. My underwear disappears.
When did Ron learn that?
Coherent thought stops as his mouth begins placing teasing little kisses on my clit. I spread my legs and lean forward onto a box so that my arms can take the weight my weakening knees suddenly refuse to support.
The teasing continues: light little flicks of tongue on clit coupled with a pressure that dances around my opening without really penetrating. It’s utterly delicious - every nerve ending sings in delight, sensitized by the fleeting touches.
He pauses to pull in an audible breath of my scent, and the thought that he enjoys my smell sparks something primal within me - I gasp, panting for breath and coating his face with my wetness.
He chuckles, a dark shiver against my eardrums that echoes lower when his lips quiver against my nub, and begins working me in earnest. A single finger slips halfway into me and crooks forward to rub repeatedly at the highly textured bundle of nerves comprising my G-spot; his tongue begins a relentless caress of my clitoris, timed to match the motion of his finger.
Circe, when did he learn this?
I spiral upwards, ever closer to climax, and he backs off slightly. His finger stills its in-and-out movement and rests pressing on my G-spot while his tongue returns to lighter licks. Squirming, I mewl a protest as my impending orgasm recedes slightly, but he is relentlessly gentle, and any movements on my part to sit more fully on his face meet with subtle withdrawals.
Then he increases intensity again, tongue and finger quivering over aching flesh, and I feel as if I can barely breathe as the delicious warmth once again begins to radiate from my core. I clamp my muscles around his finger, driving it further into my G-spot, and hold it there while my hips undulate in little waves over his tongue.
As soon as my walls shudder in a little pre-spasm, he backs off once again. This time I groan my disappointment, and if he weren’t doing such a good job, I’d be angry about his answering chuckle.
He runs his tongue up and down my slit, pausing to lap excitedly at my entrance as if starved of my taste. I love his enthusiasm, and the wet sounds of his mouth moving against my flesh stoke my arousal higher, but it’s not enough.
After what feels like ages of this torture, his finger and tongue return to their more intense stroking of both bundles of nerves: tongue sliding in concentrated circles, never losing contact with my nub, finger repeatedly sliding over my G-spot until a growing warmth emanates to join the one radiating from my clitoris. My legs are trembling noticeably now, and I can feel that my wetness slicks his face whenever it touches my thighs.
His tongue blurs across me.
Oh, oh, oh, shite …
A blossoming vibration coils outwards from my center to leave my fingers and toes tingling; my mouth gapes open, head arched backwards on corded neck, frozen in silent exaltation; my cunt spasms frantically as my entire core burns from a blaze of sensation; and the darkness of the attic grows even blacker around me as I almost pass out, hearing fading, my consciousness focused on nothing but this one overwhelming feeling.
My legs buckle, but he’s out from under my skirt and standing just below me on the ladder, and my body falls back against his. Arms circle and hold me upright while his height allows him to nuzzle my neck. I can feel his erection pressing against the back of my left thigh, but I’m too dazed to do much more than wiggle against it a bit.
“There now,” a velvety voice murmurs in my ear, “you should feel a bit more relaxed about throwing your first party after that.”
I freeze again. Two thoughts hit me simultaneously: I’m not throwing the party, and that’s not Ron!
Oh, goddess!
My brain rapidly sorts information I’d noticed but failed to collate: unusual spell prowess, exceptionally deep voice, large nose, talented hands and tongue - Snape!
The most intense orgasm of my life, and it was not only not my boyfriend, but Tonks’s - and it was Snape!
Thoughts scramble like terrified small creatures as I search for something to say.
I’m saved, if you can call it that, by a door slam.
“I’m back,” Tonks’s voice calls out, followed by the sound of dropped shopping.
The body behind me tenses.
“I forgot to mention, Mione,” she continues, “Severus might drop in early to help, though he’ll complain about it if he does.”
Quickly, he descends the remaining rungs to the floor, and there’s a quiet pop.
I move halfway down the ladder in order to look around the room - no sign of him.
Entering with her head down, Tonks picks distractedly at over-packaged wineglass decorations from Odd Bins. She looks up at me. “Has he been by?”
“No.” I sound a little too breathless and clear my throat. “I haven’t seen him.”
And it’s true - I never saw him.
2: Rung One - Him
June 30th, 3:05 pm
Being in a relationship - even one merely existing at the level of ‘fuck buddies,’ as Tonks so delightfully puts it - takes more work and consideration than I am accustomed to.
I, therefore, attempt to aid her in throwing the Order’s 2nd Annual Victory Celebration. My arguments that she allow Molly to once again throw the celebration at the Burrow have fallen on deaf ears. Fleur’s pregnancy and George’s wedding appear to be time consuming affairs. Similarly, my idea that if she is going to take responsibility for said monstrosity, she should consider Grimmauld Place as the venue was ignored. The pain of losing Potter makes his rather gloomy house an even more inappropriate location for the event even if the Order continues to use it as headquarters.
Since my brain seems to be unappreciated, I choose to don the role of supportive paramour for the evening and aid her preparations in a physical manner. Apparating to her flat, I decide I will surprise her - she has repeatedly said she wants me to be more playful, and it is our so-called ‘anniversary.’
I find her trying to enter her attic; although, if it is anything like her cupboards, it is a hopeless endeavor.
Tonks wears the red dress she showed me last week - one of five she was considering for the event. A pity - I was, of course, partial to the green.
Nonetheless, I can see up this one as well as the other and quickly recognize the potential of the ladder. I slide a hand up her left calf. She jumps a little and tenses to move.
“No, no - stay there,” I say quietly. “I have thought of you all day, and this position offers a delightful amount of access.”
As my hand drifts further up her leg, I begin to kiss my way to her core - hot, open-mouthed kisses that allow my tongue to swirl. Her skin is soft underneath my flesh, and she smells somehow different, as if she has used a new scent of shower gel; it is light and clean and strangely arousing. The ladder creaks with each step I take and almost drowns out the sound of her soft gasps.
Interesting - usually she is more vocal, almost annoyingly so.
My cock stirs to awareness.
As I duck my head under her dress, I smirk at the rather demure underwear she sports this evening. My typically g-string clad darling models hipster shorts of soft, red silk that cup her bottom enticingly. I am almost sad to make them disappear, but I will buy her more. Envisioning exactly what I want whisked away, I murmur, “Evanesco”- a personal variation of wandless magic I perfected years ago.
And to what benefit! Her center is spread bare before me, and I cannot resist kissing her clitoris repeatedly and ever so lightly. As her legs spread, I begin to lick instead while burying my nose in her entrance. Pausing momentarily to breathe in her scent, I revel in her reaction.
Never has she been so wet or smelled so divine.
She has also rather demurely crafted hair of a normal brown - a first, and hopefully done to please me, as I once mentioned my preference for a more natural look than chartreuse.
A small laugh of delight escapes me, and I reward her by inserting my middle finger into her and angling it until I can feel the nubbily textured area of her G-spot. I stroke in and out of her repeatedly, always catching this bundle of nerves, and my tongue lashes more firmly at her clitoris in exact time with my finger. Her gasps and pants are wonderful to hear, and my erection pulses in time with her exhalations, rubbing against the fabric of my boxers.
As she nears her crescendo, I reduce my attentions to her complaint - she is always a bit impatient. Holding my finger still on her G-spot and only licking her clitoris lightly, I take a few minutes to stroke myself through my clothing with my other hand. The mewl she gives when I will not allow her to force herself down onto my face is exquisite.
Merlin, I am harder than ever. Perhaps there is something to this spontaneity thing after all.
I begin to lick and stroke her strongly again and am rewarded by feeling her muscles clench my finger as she begins to move above me.
Damn, since when is she this tight? Perhaps it is a special indulgence she has created with this body.
It is not long before she once again reaches her edge, and I choose to hold her from completion one further time. Her groaned complaint causes me to laugh - as if she has not learned by now that such patience will be amply rewarded. Besides, this gives me the opportunity to lick her repeatedly from front to back, lapping at her nectar greedily as I pass its fount.
Even her taste differs in this form - somehow sweeter, more intoxicating.
I catch myself unconsciously grinding against a rung of the ladder and desist before I finish in my pants like an uncontrolled teenager.
Having held her at this plateau long enough that her next climb will be to a higher peak, I begin to move my finger and tongue more intensely again - over and over stroking her clitoris and G-spot with a relentless rhythm. Her wetness grows impossibly greater, her breath comes fast and shallow, and her legs begin to shake, followed by the walls of her vagina. Her body freezes at the pinnacle of a long spasm that leaves her arched, not even breathing. I ride it out with her, never decreasing the pressure on either nerve bundle until she sags above me.
Quickly, I climb the ladder until my body supports hers. As I nuzzle her neck and hold her close, I am reminded of my erection. Her weak-kneed movement against me is enough to consider moving this to the bed after all - party be damned.
“There now,” I soothe against her ear, “you should feel a bit more relaxed about throwing your first party after that.”
She tenses. Reminding her of the party may have been a poor decision on my part. She remains quiet. I wish the attic were not so dark so that I could see her facial expression.
I am just about to speak again, to reassure her of my aid, when the front door closes loudly.
“I’m back,” Tonks calls, her salutation echoed by the little plunks packages make impacting the front hall’s wood floor.
My muscles go rigid.
If that is Tonks, then …?
“I forgot to mention, Mione,” she continues, “Severus might drop in early to help, though he’ll complain about it if he does.”
Granger.
Although exclusivity plays no part in my relationship with Tonks, even I have to admit the gaucheness of performing cunnilingus on another woman in her flat. Cunnilingus on Granger.
And she loved it and I loved it.
I move down the ladder as quickly as I can and Disapparate.
My stumble upon appearing in the Leaky Cauldron causes Tom to look at me quizzically. “Moving from a spot of danger, were you?”
“Something like that,” I say.
Danger indeed.
3: Rung Two - Her
June 30th, 7:35 pm
I stand in a dark corner of Tonks’s temporarily enlarged sitting room and look across a mass of drinking, laughing, talking, dancing humanity, unable to join in. I can’t believe it’s only a half hour in - the party will last for at least five more hours. I claim a headache if anyone asks, and such a response caused Ron to ricochet back to his brothers about ten minutes ago.
Actually, my body feels fine - wonderful even.
And why is that, hmm?
I sigh. It’s my mind that needs a break. Which of course means it’s in overdrive. Maybe if I think of something other than Snape, I’ll be able to enjoy the party.
Who am I fooling - the Victory Celebration is excruciating this year. It was last year as well, but for a different reason. Then, I’d found it almost impossible to feel like celebrating because, even though we’d brought down Voldemort, we’d lost too many loved ones in the process. A year hadn’t been enough to dull the grief of losing them all: Cedric, Sirius, and Albus early on; then Luna, Justin, Seamus, Padma, Hannah, Neville, Fred, Charlie, Remus, Professor Spout, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Vector during the Final Battle; and, finally, Harry - Harry, who knew he was Voldemort’s last Horcrux and killed himself right after finishing off You-Know-Who. Harry, who’d never really gotten to live.
This year, instead of sadness, the mood of the Order is a feeling of quiet desperation. If so many of our friends died so that we could live in a better world, well then, we’d better get on with being happy. And not just happy - deliriously happy.
In the middle of the room are the Weasleys, who are pouring all of their substantial emotional energy into Fleur and Bill’s impending child and George’s marriage to Parvati. THE FIRST GRANDCHILD - and yes, this is always said in such a way as to denote an occurrence so important as to be in all caps - will be smothered within the first minute of life if Molly clasps it to her bosom with the death grip she uses every time she hugs me. Although George and Parvati have a natural connection as surviving twins, their courtship has a feeling of desperation to it. The sheen of their smiles is only outdone by the manic gleam of their eyes as they move together on the dance floor.
The lunacy extends to the other children. Ginny, crushed by Harry’s sacrifice, has only recently begun to date a similarly subdued Colin, yet Molly is already hinting about the beauty of spring weddings. Even now, I can see her pushing them onto the dance floor. Ginny’s back is stiff, and Colin stares at his shoes.
For Ron and me, who only got together a year ago, she has brought out her full arsenal: Ron had to help George select an engagement ring so he’d know what to do when the time came, and when my bridesmaid dress was made, Molly had Madam Malkin keep my measurements on file, saying they’d be needed soon for a white dress of my own. She even bought me a subscription to Witchy Weddings and expects me to bring each issue to lunch as soon as it arrives to discuss dress styles, flower preferences, etc. Arthur takes Ron to view houses the Ministry has recently repossessed for back taxes in order to find a good deal since Ron’s Auror salary isn’t very substantial and I’m just out of school.
I look over at Ron and see him making wild gestures that describe one of the amazing plays he’d made today. Ron, who really wanted to play Quidditch but went into Auror training because that was Harry’s dream. Ginny did the same. They speak of job satisfaction with big, bright smiles but never look as joyous as he is right now.
This desperation extends past the Weasley clan. Minerva has Alastor cornered, trying once again to defend her non-sexist language campaign to the old codger. Kingsley spins Tonks across the dance floor so quickly her red and purple striped hair appears to strobe - his face intense. Ernie and Dean are already pissed; laughing overly loudly, they attempt to help each other stand, but aren’t very successful. George must have spiked the punch in a determined effort to show he’s just as wild as ever, even without Fred. Mundungus finishes a dirty joke, and Hagrid’s laugh fills the room, yet sounds strained and hollow.
And me - how does this mood extend to me? Fortunately, what I have always wanted to do corresponds to what others expect of me and what I expect of myself. I am an academic. After Portkeying to Beauxbatons five days a week for the past two years to apprentice with Master Javier Santiago, I have obtained the rank of Arithmancy Master and will return to Hogwarts in autumn as a professor.
No, my sense of desperation comes from a completely different source - my relationship with Ron. Until today, I thought my reluctance to commit to him was due to Molly’s pushing - a desire to maintain a feeling of autonomy. Now I realize that everything Ron and I have together is comfortable: simple conversations, nice cuddling, okay sex.
And what do those add up to? Only one thing: boring.
I might not have known that sex could be something other than okay until this afternoon, but I’ve always recognized that simple conversations weren’t enough. I’d been able to satisfy my intellect by discussing various areas of magical theory with Professor Santiago, but that ended last week. What will I do when most of the people I interact with are teenagers?
What about Snape? He’s brilliant, and Minerva’s determined to have him return.
I’m not going to think about Snape.
Or sex. Or mind-blowing orgasms.
Nope, not at all.
Until he ruins my resolve by entering the room.
4: Rung Two - Him
June 30th, 7:35 pm
The Leaky Cauldron is quiet. Most people spend Victory Day at home with friends and loved ones. Which means it is the perfect time to find Dumbledore’s pet Death Eater drinking alone in a pub.
Bitter, very bitter, old man.
All three of the other patrons stare when they think I am not looking and turn quickly away when they realize I am.
The Ogden’s is strong, but I cannot indulge in enough of it to make a difference at this point - Tonks’s party began on the hour, and even though I could back out of helping, I definitely stated I would be there for the event.
Although I did help - only I ‘helped’ the wrong woman. Or the right woman - after all, she orgasmed so fiercely that she must have needed it. Perhaps Weasley fails to keep his end up.
I toss back the rest of my drink, but it will do little to keep the dark voice at bay. I snort. ‘The dark voice’ - as if it were someone other than myself.
As if I were not the man who killed his best friend. Even though the ruddy bastard was correct, and it was a necessary step along the treacherous road to victory, the fact remains that I killed my best friend.
One year ago, I was still sitting in a Ministry cell, awaiting the completion of my trial, which had been temporarily suspended for the first Victory Day Celebration. The Ministry held a ceremony, the Order threw its party, and I had my first unofficial visit from Auror Tonks.
She had been the investigating Auror on my case, and this meant she had done most of the work uncovering evidence about my activities as both a Death Eater and a member of the Order. Since the case was winding down, and Albus’s Pensieve clearing me of responsibility had been viewed, Tonks once more saw me as a comrade in arms.
She came bearing dinner and must have asked Minerva about my food preferences because she had a Shepherd’s Pie and a four-pack of Boddingtons. How she ever learned the Muggle bitter I had grown fond of while on the run, I will never know.
I ate most of the pie, but she matched me drink for drink on the Boddingtons, and after finishing we were both pleasantly inebriated. When she slid to my end of the bed and straddled my lap, I did nothing to protest and returned her kiss with enthusiasm. A Slytherin knows how to accept gifts from Gryffindors, who rarely attach strings.
Thus began one of the strangest relationships of my life. The sex is good - primarily because of her enthusiasm and the fact that she constantly metamorphs her body into various shapes and colorations. In fact, it is more accurate to describe our encounters as a series of one-night stands. This was thrilling at first, and especially so since I had had so little time for carnal pleasures once Voldemort returned.
Yet, while some men would look upon my situation as a gift of the gods, it has begun to pale. There is no intellectual or emotional connection. Tonks may like me, but it is the like one feels for a fond acquaintance.
Or a pet.
Is that all I am to her? The partially tame Death Eater who is an exciting fuck? She always did like a little monster in her man - Lupin being a case in point.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. If that is the situation, then it is not conscious on her part. She is not a malicious person. To her, we are simply having fun, and it is enough for now.
But for me? What do I want anymore?
A Gryffindor who comes so hard that her deliciously wet cunny will squeeze my cock until it …
Enough! A fuck will not solve my problems.
First off, I need employment. My teacher’s salary never kept me anything but solvent, and the little I managed to squirrel away is dwindling quickly. Even after my full pardon, no apothecary seems willing to hire me, Potions Master or not. I have to hope that Minerva will ask me to return to Hogwarts when I see her tonight. She asked after I was pardoned, but I never thought I could stand to see the place where I killed Albus.
Now I will have to.
There have been changes. Who knew Head-Professor McGonagall would campaign so vehemently for non-sexist job titles? Gone is the rank of Mistress - all those completing a certified apprenticeship are Masters, which is the original title of the designation. Gone are the Head Boy and Girl positions - now there are Head Students for each House chosen from the seventh years with an unstated rule that the sexes will be evenly represented. Minerva argues that the inherent prejudice that gave rise to the Death Eater Movement can take many forms - magical ability, gender, race, class, sexual orientation, etc. Gender is the next area to undertake, and, as the leader of the now public Order, she has the desire and the power to do so. Besides, it keeps the hardnosed traditionalists - those who supported Voldemort without becoming Death Eaters - too busy to reorganize their blood-purity pogrom. Rather Slytherin of her actually.
There will also be an almost entirely new faculty. Albus, Filius, Pomona, and Veruca are gone. Sibyll retired since she no longer needed to hide from Voldemort. Minerva no longer teaches.
I hope it will be different enough.
Granger will be there. Having her in my bed and life would make things very different.
I stand quickly, toss a handful of Sickles on the bar, and Disapparate to Tonks’s - I am already late.
I have not thought on what I will do when I next see Granger. How very un-Slytherin of me.
My frock coat jockeys for space on a coat rack, and I run a hand through my hair before entering the chaos of the sitting room. Letting out a breath I had not realized I was holding, I feel simultaneously relieved and disappointed when I do not see her in the crowd.
AN: I nicked the phrase “a little monster in her man” from Buffy.
5: Rung Three - Her
June 30th, 8:05 pm
He doesn’t see me, and I’m glad.
I am glad, right?
Making up for my missed chance from earlier, I look at him. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. I may be friends with Tonks, but she doesn’t exactly bring him ‘round the pub. He looks better than he ever did at Hogwarts, but that could be because he no longer wears body-obscuring robes. He’s even lost the frock coat for the night, donning a silver and green fronted waistcoat over starched white cotton. I can finally appreciate his lean build.
No - it’s more than that. His face appears more relaxed, the lines of care he’d worn so harshly during the war look softer, his eyes and mouth less pinched.
The change extends to his body - the shoulders don’t ride so high, his movements appear even more fluid. In fact, when Tonks runs at him to hug him, he catches her and spins her lightly, twirling her laughter throughout the room. He even smiles.
Their physicality makes me uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable or jealous? Am I jealous? And if so, jealous over what? We had a … an encounter of mistaken identity. That’s all.
Ron chooses this moment to grab my wrist and drag me into the room proper.
“Snape,” he’s calling, and I wonder when he decided they were on such friendly terms. Whatever’s in the punch must really be something.
Snape appears puzzled by it as well and decorates his reply with a half sneer. “Mr. Weasley, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
If I weren’t so mortified, I’d laugh - he makes pleasure sound like the direst torture.
Why shouldn’t he - he’s good at combining the two, or have you forgotten already?
I blush fiercely, feeling the heat engulf not only my face, but my neck and décolletage as well.
He turns to me, and the sneer changes to a smirk, a smirk with eyebrow.
Ron continues. “See, it’s like this: Hermione has a headache, and it’s not only the Victory Celebration tonight, it’s also our anniversary. So help a bloke out, will you, and give us a spot of headache potion.”
The look on Snape’s face turns thoughtful, and, even as he answers Ron, he keeps his eyes on me. “Ah, a headache - we all know how infamous those can be.” His tone is sardonic, and the eyebrow arches higher.
I blush even hotter, darker.
“I will see what I have.” He disengages from Tonks and moves towards a front hall crowded with overflowing coat racks borrowed from Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, and my flat. Their restless shuffles can barely be heard above the noise from the next room.
I only know all of this because Ron continues to pull me by my left arm as he trots after Snape.
Turning abruptly, Snape puts a stop to Ron’s forward momentum by raising a hand. “Mr. Weasley, undoubtedly, you have a plethora of family members to attend to. If you would leave Ms. Granger in my hands, I promise I will strive to return her to you shortly pain free.”
Ron breaks into a smile and raises an arm to cuff Snape’s shoulder, but it waivers without making contact as some part of his brain belatedly realizes that might be taking things a bit too far. “Thanks, Snape. Now that the war’s over, you’re an alright sort of bloke.”
Another eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Weasley, such high praise from you wipes the slate clean of the condemnations of my life.”
I fight to stifle my snort of laughter, turning it into a cough.
Pounding my back, Ron smiles again, this time a little unsurely, before turning to kiss my lips gently. “I hope you feel better soon, Mione,” he whispers.
I sigh a bit as he walks away - how can he move so quickly from oaf-like to sweet? It’s one of his most endearing qualities and one of the first things I loved about him.
Then I turn to face the intensity that is Severus Snape.
I meet the sneer on his face with a glare of my own, and we stand deadlocked like this for what seems ages, but must only be a few minutes.
I have no bloody clue what to say.
He breaks the silence. “Let us discontinue this farce. Unless, that is, Weasley’s inane Quidditch babble has truly given you a headache.”
“You leave Ron out of this. He’s a good man and doesn’t deserve such derision.”
“A good man, you say?” He moves closer, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Just how good is he?”
Of all the nerve. As if he were so wonderful.
Oh, but he is - at least at that.
I give myself a mental shake and purposefully respond only to the surface meaning of his words to more fully reject the dampness growing between my thighs. “He’s kind. He’s caring. He’s loyal. He’s -”
He interrupts, “You mistake the connotation of my words, Ms. Granger. The, shall we say, double entendre as it were.”
I’m gritting my teeth to keep from replying. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the competitive world of magical graduate studies, it’s if you want the ruddy bastard you’re fighting to drown himself, you have to give him time to cook up a large enough cauldron.
He takes the bait and steps closer to continue. “I must admit I am curious. During our little bout of mistaken identity this afternoon, you reacted like a woman in dire need of my attentions. If Weasley were as good -”
This time I stop the conversation - with the crack my hand makes connecting with his cheek.
He backs slightly away and stands at his full height. His eyes flash dangerously, but a small smile pulls at his lips. “Touché, Ms. Granger.”
Brushing past me, he leaves the front hall, and I stand, waiting to get my breathing under control, trying to organize my chaotic thoughts.
All I feel is the stinging of my hand.
6: Rung Three - Him
June 30th, 8:05 pm
I continue to scan the crowd, zeroing in on any flash of red, but all of them fail to be her.
Just as the tenseness of my shoulders relaxes, an exuberant Tonks whirls out of Shacklebolt’s arms and into mine. I channel the momentum into a circular swirl: the skirt of her red and purple striped dress flares outwards with the movement before subsiding to rest against her legs as she comes to rest against my chest.
She laughs, her eyes shining with mischief. It is undoubtedly the most emotion she has ever displayed in my presence. The party must be going well.
Tonight’s body is tall and exceedingly thin; the cheekbones are prominent, the eyes almond shaped. Her hair matches her dress, as do her eyebrows and, I have little doubt, her pubic pelt.
How very … garish.
“There you are. I was beginning to miss my favorite snake.”
I smirk. “If that is all you miss of me, then I am sure I can Transfigure an exact replica of that portion of my anatomy. I could even charm it to mimic my typical movements.”
She laughs again. “Oh, Sev, you tease. You know it’s absolutely hours until I can get you alone. I am hosting this party, as you could have remembered this afternoon.”
Sev? She knows I detest such monikers.
How to explain this afternoon ...
My prevarication is forestalled by a vaguely familiar voice shouting my name. I turn to find Ronald Weasley advancing upon me while dragging Ms. Granger rather unceremoniously.
With her hair in a sophisticated up-do and Tonks’s revealing red Muggle dress on, she is more attractive than I remember her being.
Or is it what is under the dress that is now so attractive? Speaking of which, I wonder if she conjured new undergarments.
I fight to settle the burgeoning of my cock.
Or is she waiting for Weasley to run his hand up her thigh and -
My face twists into a sneer I fight to quell. “Mr. Weasley, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
My eyes escape my control, and I am drawn to look at her. She blushes almost brightly enough to match her gown, and I find myself amused.
Her poor choice of paramour continues. “See, it’s like this: Hermione has a headache, and it’s not only the Victory Celebration tonight, it’s also our anniversary. So help a bloke out, will you, and give us a spot of headache potion.”
A headache. My amusement increases, but I successfully school my features into what I hope is neutrality - all the better to deliver the blow. “Ah, a headache - we all know how infamous those can be.”
Her blush now matches the coloration of her gown, but the young pup latched onto her side remains oblivious to my meaning.
“I will see what I have,” I conclude and step away from Tonks to retrieve the shrunken potion vials I keep in my frock coat.
As I move down the hallway, the sound from the next room should be deafening, but my years as a spy do have their benefits. I can faintly hear two sets of footsteps following me - one a bit heavy and eager, the other lighter and hesitant. The coat racks shuffle nervously, spelled to bring to the front whomever’s garment is needed most, and appear unsure as to which of us that is.
This is perfect - I can talk to her. Alone.
I turn to address the ginger-haired menace. “Mr. Weasley, undoubtedly, you have a plethora of family members to attend to. If you would leave Ms. Granger in my hands, I promise I will strive to return her to you shortly pain free.”
He smiles, lifts his arm in what he assumes will be a comradely gesture of masculine slapping, and belatedly halts this impulse. “Thanks, Snape. Now that the war’s over, you’re an alright sort of bloke.”
“Why, Mr. Weasley, such high praise from you wipes the slate clean of the condemnations of my life.”
I am more successful in refraining from laughing than Granger, but then I have had more practice.
The arm lifted towards me descends upon her back as he attempts to ameliorate her artificial cough. Calming, he kisses her and whispers an endearment before turning away.
How sweet.
My upper lip curls in disgust.
Her sigh matches the wistful look I briefly glimpse when she again faces me. Then she sees my sneer and her features harden.
We spend an interminable amount of time glowering at each other.
Look at the flush of her cheeks, the snap of her eyes - a worthy opponent.
My patience wears. “Let us discontinue this farce. Unless, that is, Weasley’s inane Quidditch babble has truly given you a headache.”
“You leave Ron out of this. He’s a good man and doesn’t deserve such derision.”
“A good man, you say?” I step closer, and a waft of her skin’s scent passes my nose. It is subtle and natural - uniquely her - and branded upon my olfactory senses. My cock twitches to life, and suddenly I lose any noble intentions I may have had for this conversation. “Just how good is he?”
“He’s kind. He’s caring. He’s loyal. He’s -”
She is either naive or purposefully misconstruing my meaning, and I grow even more impatient. “You mistake the connotation of my words, Ms. Granger. The, shall we say, double entendre as it were.”
Emboldened by her silence, I move nearer. Her eyes are especially beautiful at this close range. “I must admit I am curious. During our little bout of mistaken identity this afternoon, you reacted like a woman in dire need of my attentions. If Weasley were as good -”
Her hand rises in a flash, and I am hard pressed to determine which impression reaches my senses more quickly: the sound of the report or the sharp sting of my cheek.
A worthy opponent indeed.
“Touché, Ms. Granger.” Nodding slightly to signal her win, I move past her to enter the toilet, which is miraculously available.
In the mirror, my eyes offer no answers.
All I see is her imprint upon my skin.
AN: Thus ends the first act. Next up - an interlude chapter, then on to the Act Two.
Multiple awards winner - details here.
This story uses an experimental form of alternating first-person POVs. Sometimes scenes are repeated, purposefully, offering readers a chance to see the differences in thoughts, motivations, and observations that the two main characters make, even if those differences are subtle. Such isn't to eveyone's taste, and that's fine, but I hope you enjoy.
Gobs of thanks go to my beta southernwitch69 and my Brit-picker saracen77 .
Additionally, thanks go to
sshg316 for the absolutely perfect banner!
1: Rung One - Her
June 30th, 3:05 pm
I give a rather indelicate grunt and attempt to push another box of miscellaneous bric-a-brac out of my way. When Tonks told me the decorations were just at the top of the ladder, I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Organization isn’t her strong suit.
In fact, the attic of her trendy Camden flat is so full of unmarked boxes that I can’t even get into it or find the light - you’d think I’d be used to all things Muggle.
But, no - here I am stuck partway up the ladder, wandless, with my hips just cresting the attic floor, unwilling to go further and less willing to admit defeat. I may have kicked off my shoes and put my hair up to get it out of the way, but I’m beginning to realize that my red party dress - or should I say Tonks’s party dress, which she insisted I wear as mine was deemed too boring - is quickly becoming inappropriate for the job.
Just as I lift my right foot to move down the ladder, a hand slides up my left calf. I jump.
“No, no - stay there,” a silky voice murmurs. “I have thought of you all day, and this position offers a delightful amount of access.”
I freeze - his voice!
Since when has Ron sounded so husky, so deep? And what is he doing here?
He and Ginny were going to host an informal game of Quidditch at the Burrow this afternoon, leaving me free to help Tonks get the Order’s 2nd Annual Victory Celebration ready.
The hand drifts up my inner thigh, teasingly stroking the skin, and a hot mouth begins to lave the inside of one ankle. The ladder creaks as he mounts a step, and the mouth moves up to the back of my knee - I gasp. The intense tingling sensation centered on my clitoris is already so strong that I begin to tremble lightly.
It is our first anniversary - maybe he arranged with Tonks that she would run an errand around three. If he wanted to surprise me, he couldn’t have done a better job of it.
Especially since he rarely goes down on me.
Another creak and he’s burrowed his head under the skirt of the dress while running a finger along the edge of my underwear. I’m amazingly wet, and realize he’ll feel as much as his hand moves closer to my core.
His nose brushes against the silk crotch of my knickers, and there’s a murmur I don’t catch. My underwear disappears.
When did Ron learn that?
Coherent thought stops as his mouth begins placing teasing little kisses on my clit. I spread my legs and lean forward onto a box so that my arms can take the weight my weakening knees suddenly refuse to support.
The teasing continues: light little flicks of tongue on clit coupled with a pressure that dances around my opening without really penetrating. It’s utterly delicious - every nerve ending sings in delight, sensitized by the fleeting touches.
He pauses to pull in an audible breath of my scent, and the thought that he enjoys my smell sparks something primal within me - I gasp, panting for breath and coating his face with my wetness.
He chuckles, a dark shiver against my eardrums that echoes lower when his lips quiver against my nub, and begins working me in earnest. A single finger slips halfway into me and crooks forward to rub repeatedly at the highly textured bundle of nerves comprising my G-spot; his tongue begins a relentless caress of my clitoris, timed to match the motion of his finger.
Circe, when did he learn this?
I spiral upwards, ever closer to climax, and he backs off slightly. His finger stills its in-and-out movement and rests pressing on my G-spot while his tongue returns to lighter licks. Squirming, I mewl a protest as my impending orgasm recedes slightly, but he is relentlessly gentle, and any movements on my part to sit more fully on his face meet with subtle withdrawals.
Then he increases intensity again, tongue and finger quivering over aching flesh, and I feel as if I can barely breathe as the delicious warmth once again begins to radiate from my core. I clamp my muscles around his finger, driving it further into my G-spot, and hold it there while my hips undulate in little waves over his tongue.
As soon as my walls shudder in a little pre-spasm, he backs off once again. This time I groan my disappointment, and if he weren’t doing such a good job, I’d be angry about his answering chuckle.
He runs his tongue up and down my slit, pausing to lap excitedly at my entrance as if starved of my taste. I love his enthusiasm, and the wet sounds of his mouth moving against my flesh stoke my arousal higher, but it’s not enough.
After what feels like ages of this torture, his finger and tongue return to their more intense stroking of both bundles of nerves: tongue sliding in concentrated circles, never losing contact with my nub, finger repeatedly sliding over my G-spot until a growing warmth emanates to join the one radiating from my clitoris. My legs are trembling noticeably now, and I can feel that my wetness slicks his face whenever it touches my thighs.
His tongue blurs across me.
Oh, oh, oh, shite …
A blossoming vibration coils outwards from my center to leave my fingers and toes tingling; my mouth gapes open, head arched backwards on corded neck, frozen in silent exaltation; my cunt spasms frantically as my entire core burns from a blaze of sensation; and the darkness of the attic grows even blacker around me as I almost pass out, hearing fading, my consciousness focused on nothing but this one overwhelming feeling.
My legs buckle, but he’s out from under my skirt and standing just below me on the ladder, and my body falls back against his. Arms circle and hold me upright while his height allows him to nuzzle my neck. I can feel his erection pressing against the back of my left thigh, but I’m too dazed to do much more than wiggle against it a bit.
“There now,” a velvety voice murmurs in my ear, “you should feel a bit more relaxed about throwing your first party after that.”
I freeze again. Two thoughts hit me simultaneously: I’m not throwing the party, and that’s not Ron!
Oh, goddess!
My brain rapidly sorts information I’d noticed but failed to collate: unusual spell prowess, exceptionally deep voice, large nose, talented hands and tongue - Snape!
The most intense orgasm of my life, and it was not only not my boyfriend, but Tonks’s - and it was Snape!
Thoughts scramble like terrified small creatures as I search for something to say.
I’m saved, if you can call it that, by a door slam.
“I’m back,” Tonks’s voice calls out, followed by the sound of dropped shopping.
The body behind me tenses.
“I forgot to mention, Mione,” she continues, “Severus might drop in early to help, though he’ll complain about it if he does.”
Quickly, he descends the remaining rungs to the floor, and there’s a quiet pop.
I move halfway down the ladder in order to look around the room - no sign of him.
Entering with her head down, Tonks picks distractedly at over-packaged wineglass decorations from Odd Bins. She looks up at me. “Has he been by?”
“No.” I sound a little too breathless and clear my throat. “I haven’t seen him.”
And it’s true - I never saw him.
2: Rung One - Him
June 30th, 3:05 pm
Being in a relationship - even one merely existing at the level of ‘fuck buddies,’ as Tonks so delightfully puts it - takes more work and consideration than I am accustomed to.
I, therefore, attempt to aid her in throwing the Order’s 2nd Annual Victory Celebration. My arguments that she allow Molly to once again throw the celebration at the Burrow have fallen on deaf ears. Fleur’s pregnancy and George’s wedding appear to be time consuming affairs. Similarly, my idea that if she is going to take responsibility for said monstrosity, she should consider Grimmauld Place as the venue was ignored. The pain of losing Potter makes his rather gloomy house an even more inappropriate location for the event even if the Order continues to use it as headquarters.
Since my brain seems to be unappreciated, I choose to don the role of supportive paramour for the evening and aid her preparations in a physical manner. Apparating to her flat, I decide I will surprise her - she has repeatedly said she wants me to be more playful, and it is our so-called ‘anniversary.’
I find her trying to enter her attic; although, if it is anything like her cupboards, it is a hopeless endeavor.
Tonks wears the red dress she showed me last week - one of five she was considering for the event. A pity - I was, of course, partial to the green.
Nonetheless, I can see up this one as well as the other and quickly recognize the potential of the ladder. I slide a hand up her left calf. She jumps a little and tenses to move.
“No, no - stay there,” I say quietly. “I have thought of you all day, and this position offers a delightful amount of access.”
As my hand drifts further up her leg, I begin to kiss my way to her core - hot, open-mouthed kisses that allow my tongue to swirl. Her skin is soft underneath my flesh, and she smells somehow different, as if she has used a new scent of shower gel; it is light and clean and strangely arousing. The ladder creaks with each step I take and almost drowns out the sound of her soft gasps.
Interesting - usually she is more vocal, almost annoyingly so.
My cock stirs to awareness.
As I duck my head under her dress, I smirk at the rather demure underwear she sports this evening. My typically g-string clad darling models hipster shorts of soft, red silk that cup her bottom enticingly. I am almost sad to make them disappear, but I will buy her more. Envisioning exactly what I want whisked away, I murmur, “Evanesco”- a personal variation of wandless magic I perfected years ago.
And to what benefit! Her center is spread bare before me, and I cannot resist kissing her clitoris repeatedly and ever so lightly. As her legs spread, I begin to lick instead while burying my nose in her entrance. Pausing momentarily to breathe in her scent, I revel in her reaction.
Never has she been so wet or smelled so divine.
She has also rather demurely crafted hair of a normal brown - a first, and hopefully done to please me, as I once mentioned my preference for a more natural look than chartreuse.
A small laugh of delight escapes me, and I reward her by inserting my middle finger into her and angling it until I can feel the nubbily textured area of her G-spot. I stroke in and out of her repeatedly, always catching this bundle of nerves, and my tongue lashes more firmly at her clitoris in exact time with my finger. Her gasps and pants are wonderful to hear, and my erection pulses in time with her exhalations, rubbing against the fabric of my boxers.
As she nears her crescendo, I reduce my attentions to her complaint - she is always a bit impatient. Holding my finger still on her G-spot and only licking her clitoris lightly, I take a few minutes to stroke myself through my clothing with my other hand. The mewl she gives when I will not allow her to force herself down onto my face is exquisite.
Merlin, I am harder than ever. Perhaps there is something to this spontaneity thing after all.
I begin to lick and stroke her strongly again and am rewarded by feeling her muscles clench my finger as she begins to move above me.
Damn, since when is she this tight? Perhaps it is a special indulgence she has created with this body.
It is not long before she once again reaches her edge, and I choose to hold her from completion one further time. Her groaned complaint causes me to laugh - as if she has not learned by now that such patience will be amply rewarded. Besides, this gives me the opportunity to lick her repeatedly from front to back, lapping at her nectar greedily as I pass its fount.
Even her taste differs in this form - somehow sweeter, more intoxicating.
I catch myself unconsciously grinding against a rung of the ladder and desist before I finish in my pants like an uncontrolled teenager.
Having held her at this plateau long enough that her next climb will be to a higher peak, I begin to move my finger and tongue more intensely again - over and over stroking her clitoris and G-spot with a relentless rhythm. Her wetness grows impossibly greater, her breath comes fast and shallow, and her legs begin to shake, followed by the walls of her vagina. Her body freezes at the pinnacle of a long spasm that leaves her arched, not even breathing. I ride it out with her, never decreasing the pressure on either nerve bundle until she sags above me.
Quickly, I climb the ladder until my body supports hers. As I nuzzle her neck and hold her close, I am reminded of my erection. Her weak-kneed movement against me is enough to consider moving this to the bed after all - party be damned.
“There now,” I soothe against her ear, “you should feel a bit more relaxed about throwing your first party after that.”
She tenses. Reminding her of the party may have been a poor decision on my part. She remains quiet. I wish the attic were not so dark so that I could see her facial expression.
I am just about to speak again, to reassure her of my aid, when the front door closes loudly.
“I’m back,” Tonks calls, her salutation echoed by the little plunks packages make impacting the front hall’s wood floor.
My muscles go rigid.
If that is Tonks, then …?
“I forgot to mention, Mione,” she continues, “Severus might drop in early to help, though he’ll complain about it if he does.”
Granger.
Although exclusivity plays no part in my relationship with Tonks, even I have to admit the gaucheness of performing cunnilingus on another woman in her flat. Cunnilingus on Granger.
And she loved it and I loved it.
I move down the ladder as quickly as I can and Disapparate.
My stumble upon appearing in the Leaky Cauldron causes Tom to look at me quizzically. “Moving from a spot of danger, were you?”
“Something like that,” I say.
Danger indeed.
3: Rung Two - Her
June 30th, 7:35 pm
I stand in a dark corner of Tonks’s temporarily enlarged sitting room and look across a mass of drinking, laughing, talking, dancing humanity, unable to join in. I can’t believe it’s only a half hour in - the party will last for at least five more hours. I claim a headache if anyone asks, and such a response caused Ron to ricochet back to his brothers about ten minutes ago.
Actually, my body feels fine - wonderful even.
And why is that, hmm?
I sigh. It’s my mind that needs a break. Which of course means it’s in overdrive. Maybe if I think of something other than Snape, I’ll be able to enjoy the party.
Who am I fooling - the Victory Celebration is excruciating this year. It was last year as well, but for a different reason. Then, I’d found it almost impossible to feel like celebrating because, even though we’d brought down Voldemort, we’d lost too many loved ones in the process. A year hadn’t been enough to dull the grief of losing them all: Cedric, Sirius, and Albus early on; then Luna, Justin, Seamus, Padma, Hannah, Neville, Fred, Charlie, Remus, Professor Spout, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Vector during the Final Battle; and, finally, Harry - Harry, who knew he was Voldemort’s last Horcrux and killed himself right after finishing off You-Know-Who. Harry, who’d never really gotten to live.
This year, instead of sadness, the mood of the Order is a feeling of quiet desperation. If so many of our friends died so that we could live in a better world, well then, we’d better get on with being happy. And not just happy - deliriously happy.
In the middle of the room are the Weasleys, who are pouring all of their substantial emotional energy into Fleur and Bill’s impending child and George’s marriage to Parvati. THE FIRST GRANDCHILD - and yes, this is always said in such a way as to denote an occurrence so important as to be in all caps - will be smothered within the first minute of life if Molly clasps it to her bosom with the death grip she uses every time she hugs me. Although George and Parvati have a natural connection as surviving twins, their courtship has a feeling of desperation to it. The sheen of their smiles is only outdone by the manic gleam of their eyes as they move together on the dance floor.
The lunacy extends to the other children. Ginny, crushed by Harry’s sacrifice, has only recently begun to date a similarly subdued Colin, yet Molly is already hinting about the beauty of spring weddings. Even now, I can see her pushing them onto the dance floor. Ginny’s back is stiff, and Colin stares at his shoes.
For Ron and me, who only got together a year ago, she has brought out her full arsenal: Ron had to help George select an engagement ring so he’d know what to do when the time came, and when my bridesmaid dress was made, Molly had Madam Malkin keep my measurements on file, saying they’d be needed soon for a white dress of my own. She even bought me a subscription to Witchy Weddings and expects me to bring each issue to lunch as soon as it arrives to discuss dress styles, flower preferences, etc. Arthur takes Ron to view houses the Ministry has recently repossessed for back taxes in order to find a good deal since Ron’s Auror salary isn’t very substantial and I’m just out of school.
I look over at Ron and see him making wild gestures that describe one of the amazing plays he’d made today. Ron, who really wanted to play Quidditch but went into Auror training because that was Harry’s dream. Ginny did the same. They speak of job satisfaction with big, bright smiles but never look as joyous as he is right now.
This desperation extends past the Weasley clan. Minerva has Alastor cornered, trying once again to defend her non-sexist language campaign to the old codger. Kingsley spins Tonks across the dance floor so quickly her red and purple striped hair appears to strobe - his face intense. Ernie and Dean are already pissed; laughing overly loudly, they attempt to help each other stand, but aren’t very successful. George must have spiked the punch in a determined effort to show he’s just as wild as ever, even without Fred. Mundungus finishes a dirty joke, and Hagrid’s laugh fills the room, yet sounds strained and hollow.
And me - how does this mood extend to me? Fortunately, what I have always wanted to do corresponds to what others expect of me and what I expect of myself. I am an academic. After Portkeying to Beauxbatons five days a week for the past two years to apprentice with Master Javier Santiago, I have obtained the rank of Arithmancy Master and will return to Hogwarts in autumn as a professor.
No, my sense of desperation comes from a completely different source - my relationship with Ron. Until today, I thought my reluctance to commit to him was due to Molly’s pushing - a desire to maintain a feeling of autonomy. Now I realize that everything Ron and I have together is comfortable: simple conversations, nice cuddling, okay sex.
And what do those add up to? Only one thing: boring.
I might not have known that sex could be something other than okay until this afternoon, but I’ve always recognized that simple conversations weren’t enough. I’d been able to satisfy my intellect by discussing various areas of magical theory with Professor Santiago, but that ended last week. What will I do when most of the people I interact with are teenagers?
What about Snape? He’s brilliant, and Minerva’s determined to have him return.
I’m not going to think about Snape.
Or sex. Or mind-blowing orgasms.
Nope, not at all.
Until he ruins my resolve by entering the room.
4: Rung Two - Him
June 30th, 7:35 pm
The Leaky Cauldron is quiet. Most people spend Victory Day at home with friends and loved ones. Which means it is the perfect time to find Dumbledore’s pet Death Eater drinking alone in a pub.
Bitter, very bitter, old man.
All three of the other patrons stare when they think I am not looking and turn quickly away when they realize I am.
The Ogden’s is strong, but I cannot indulge in enough of it to make a difference at this point - Tonks’s party began on the hour, and even though I could back out of helping, I definitely stated I would be there for the event.
Although I did help - only I ‘helped’ the wrong woman. Or the right woman - after all, she orgasmed so fiercely that she must have needed it. Perhaps Weasley fails to keep his end up.
I toss back the rest of my drink, but it will do little to keep the dark voice at bay. I snort. ‘The dark voice’ - as if it were someone other than myself.
As if I were not the man who killed his best friend. Even though the ruddy bastard was correct, and it was a necessary step along the treacherous road to victory, the fact remains that I killed my best friend.
One year ago, I was still sitting in a Ministry cell, awaiting the completion of my trial, which had been temporarily suspended for the first Victory Day Celebration. The Ministry held a ceremony, the Order threw its party, and I had my first unofficial visit from Auror Tonks.
She had been the investigating Auror on my case, and this meant she had done most of the work uncovering evidence about my activities as both a Death Eater and a member of the Order. Since the case was winding down, and Albus’s Pensieve clearing me of responsibility had been viewed, Tonks once more saw me as a comrade in arms.
She came bearing dinner and must have asked Minerva about my food preferences because she had a Shepherd’s Pie and a four-pack of Boddingtons. How she ever learned the Muggle bitter I had grown fond of while on the run, I will never know.
I ate most of the pie, but she matched me drink for drink on the Boddingtons, and after finishing we were both pleasantly inebriated. When she slid to my end of the bed and straddled my lap, I did nothing to protest and returned her kiss with enthusiasm. A Slytherin knows how to accept gifts from Gryffindors, who rarely attach strings.
Thus began one of the strangest relationships of my life. The sex is good - primarily because of her enthusiasm and the fact that she constantly metamorphs her body into various shapes and colorations. In fact, it is more accurate to describe our encounters as a series of one-night stands. This was thrilling at first, and especially so since I had had so little time for carnal pleasures once Voldemort returned.
Yet, while some men would look upon my situation as a gift of the gods, it has begun to pale. There is no intellectual or emotional connection. Tonks may like me, but it is the like one feels for a fond acquaintance.
Or a pet.
Is that all I am to her? The partially tame Death Eater who is an exciting fuck? She always did like a little monster in her man - Lupin being a case in point.
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. If that is the situation, then it is not conscious on her part. She is not a malicious person. To her, we are simply having fun, and it is enough for now.
But for me? What do I want anymore?
A Gryffindor who comes so hard that her deliciously wet cunny will squeeze my cock until it …
Enough! A fuck will not solve my problems.
First off, I need employment. My teacher’s salary never kept me anything but solvent, and the little I managed to squirrel away is dwindling quickly. Even after my full pardon, no apothecary seems willing to hire me, Potions Master or not. I have to hope that Minerva will ask me to return to Hogwarts when I see her tonight. She asked after I was pardoned, but I never thought I could stand to see the place where I killed Albus.
Now I will have to.
There have been changes. Who knew Head-Professor McGonagall would campaign so vehemently for non-sexist job titles? Gone is the rank of Mistress - all those completing a certified apprenticeship are Masters, which is the original title of the designation. Gone are the Head Boy and Girl positions - now there are Head Students for each House chosen from the seventh years with an unstated rule that the sexes will be evenly represented. Minerva argues that the inherent prejudice that gave rise to the Death Eater Movement can take many forms - magical ability, gender, race, class, sexual orientation, etc. Gender is the next area to undertake, and, as the leader of the now public Order, she has the desire and the power to do so. Besides, it keeps the hardnosed traditionalists - those who supported Voldemort without becoming Death Eaters - too busy to reorganize their blood-purity pogrom. Rather Slytherin of her actually.
There will also be an almost entirely new faculty. Albus, Filius, Pomona, and Veruca are gone. Sibyll retired since she no longer needed to hide from Voldemort. Minerva no longer teaches.
I hope it will be different enough.
Granger will be there. Having her in my bed and life would make things very different.
I stand quickly, toss a handful of Sickles on the bar, and Disapparate to Tonks’s - I am already late.
I have not thought on what I will do when I next see Granger. How very un-Slytherin of me.
My frock coat jockeys for space on a coat rack, and I run a hand through my hair before entering the chaos of the sitting room. Letting out a breath I had not realized I was holding, I feel simultaneously relieved and disappointed when I do not see her in the crowd.
AN: I nicked the phrase “a little monster in her man” from Buffy.
5: Rung Three - Her
June 30th, 8:05 pm
He doesn’t see me, and I’m glad.
I am glad, right?
Making up for my missed chance from earlier, I look at him. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. I may be friends with Tonks, but she doesn’t exactly bring him ‘round the pub. He looks better than he ever did at Hogwarts, but that could be because he no longer wears body-obscuring robes. He’s even lost the frock coat for the night, donning a silver and green fronted waistcoat over starched white cotton. I can finally appreciate his lean build.
No - it’s more than that. His face appears more relaxed, the lines of care he’d worn so harshly during the war look softer, his eyes and mouth less pinched.
The change extends to his body - the shoulders don’t ride so high, his movements appear even more fluid. In fact, when Tonks runs at him to hug him, he catches her and spins her lightly, twirling her laughter throughout the room. He even smiles.
Their physicality makes me uncomfortable.
Uncomfortable or jealous? Am I jealous? And if so, jealous over what? We had a … an encounter of mistaken identity. That’s all.
Ron chooses this moment to grab my wrist and drag me into the room proper.
“Snape,” he’s calling, and I wonder when he decided they were on such friendly terms. Whatever’s in the punch must really be something.
Snape appears puzzled by it as well and decorates his reply with a half sneer. “Mr. Weasley, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
If I weren’t so mortified, I’d laugh - he makes pleasure sound like the direst torture.
Why shouldn’t he - he’s good at combining the two, or have you forgotten already?
I blush fiercely, feeling the heat engulf not only my face, but my neck and décolletage as well.
He turns to me, and the sneer changes to a smirk, a smirk with eyebrow.
Ron continues. “See, it’s like this: Hermione has a headache, and it’s not only the Victory Celebration tonight, it’s also our anniversary. So help a bloke out, will you, and give us a spot of headache potion.”
The look on Snape’s face turns thoughtful, and, even as he answers Ron, he keeps his eyes on me. “Ah, a headache - we all know how infamous those can be.” His tone is sardonic, and the eyebrow arches higher.
I blush even hotter, darker.
“I will see what I have.” He disengages from Tonks and moves towards a front hall crowded with overflowing coat racks borrowed from Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, and my flat. Their restless shuffles can barely be heard above the noise from the next room.
I only know all of this because Ron continues to pull me by my left arm as he trots after Snape.
Turning abruptly, Snape puts a stop to Ron’s forward momentum by raising a hand. “Mr. Weasley, undoubtedly, you have a plethora of family members to attend to. If you would leave Ms. Granger in my hands, I promise I will strive to return her to you shortly pain free.”
Ron breaks into a smile and raises an arm to cuff Snape’s shoulder, but it waivers without making contact as some part of his brain belatedly realizes that might be taking things a bit too far. “Thanks, Snape. Now that the war’s over, you’re an alright sort of bloke.”
Another eyebrow. “Why, Mr. Weasley, such high praise from you wipes the slate clean of the condemnations of my life.”
I fight to stifle my snort of laughter, turning it into a cough.
Pounding my back, Ron smiles again, this time a little unsurely, before turning to kiss my lips gently. “I hope you feel better soon, Mione,” he whispers.
I sigh a bit as he walks away - how can he move so quickly from oaf-like to sweet? It’s one of his most endearing qualities and one of the first things I loved about him.
Then I turn to face the intensity that is Severus Snape.
I meet the sneer on his face with a glare of my own, and we stand deadlocked like this for what seems ages, but must only be a few minutes.
I have no bloody clue what to say.
He breaks the silence. “Let us discontinue this farce. Unless, that is, Weasley’s inane Quidditch babble has truly given you a headache.”
“You leave Ron out of this. He’s a good man and doesn’t deserve such derision.”
“A good man, you say?” He moves closer, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Just how good is he?”
Of all the nerve. As if he were so wonderful.
Oh, but he is - at least at that.
I give myself a mental shake and purposefully respond only to the surface meaning of his words to more fully reject the dampness growing between my thighs. “He’s kind. He’s caring. He’s loyal. He’s -”
He interrupts, “You mistake the connotation of my words, Ms. Granger. The, shall we say, double entendre as it were.”
I’m gritting my teeth to keep from replying. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the competitive world of magical graduate studies, it’s if you want the ruddy bastard you’re fighting to drown himself, you have to give him time to cook up a large enough cauldron.
He takes the bait and steps closer to continue. “I must admit I am curious. During our little bout of mistaken identity this afternoon, you reacted like a woman in dire need of my attentions. If Weasley were as good -”
This time I stop the conversation - with the crack my hand makes connecting with his cheek.
He backs slightly away and stands at his full height. His eyes flash dangerously, but a small smile pulls at his lips. “Touché, Ms. Granger.”
Brushing past me, he leaves the front hall, and I stand, waiting to get my breathing under control, trying to organize my chaotic thoughts.
All I feel is the stinging of my hand.
6: Rung Three - Him
June 30th, 8:05 pm
I continue to scan the crowd, zeroing in on any flash of red, but all of them fail to be her.
Just as the tenseness of my shoulders relaxes, an exuberant Tonks whirls out of Shacklebolt’s arms and into mine. I channel the momentum into a circular swirl: the skirt of her red and purple striped dress flares outwards with the movement before subsiding to rest against her legs as she comes to rest against my chest.
She laughs, her eyes shining with mischief. It is undoubtedly the most emotion she has ever displayed in my presence. The party must be going well.
Tonight’s body is tall and exceedingly thin; the cheekbones are prominent, the eyes almond shaped. Her hair matches her dress, as do her eyebrows and, I have little doubt, her pubic pelt.
How very … garish.
“There you are. I was beginning to miss my favorite snake.”
I smirk. “If that is all you miss of me, then I am sure I can Transfigure an exact replica of that portion of my anatomy. I could even charm it to mimic my typical movements.”
She laughs again. “Oh, Sev, you tease. You know it’s absolutely hours until I can get you alone. I am hosting this party, as you could have remembered this afternoon.”
Sev? She knows I detest such monikers.
How to explain this afternoon ...
My prevarication is forestalled by a vaguely familiar voice shouting my name. I turn to find Ronald Weasley advancing upon me while dragging Ms. Granger rather unceremoniously.
With her hair in a sophisticated up-do and Tonks’s revealing red Muggle dress on, she is more attractive than I remember her being.
Or is it what is under the dress that is now so attractive? Speaking of which, I wonder if she conjured new undergarments.
I fight to settle the burgeoning of my cock.
Or is she waiting for Weasley to run his hand up her thigh and -
My face twists into a sneer I fight to quell. “Mr. Weasley, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
My eyes escape my control, and I am drawn to look at her. She blushes almost brightly enough to match her gown, and I find myself amused.
Her poor choice of paramour continues. “See, it’s like this: Hermione has a headache, and it’s not only the Victory Celebration tonight, it’s also our anniversary. So help a bloke out, will you, and give us a spot of headache potion.”
A headache. My amusement increases, but I successfully school my features into what I hope is neutrality - all the better to deliver the blow. “Ah, a headache - we all know how infamous those can be.”
Her blush now matches the coloration of her gown, but the young pup latched onto her side remains oblivious to my meaning.
“I will see what I have,” I conclude and step away from Tonks to retrieve the shrunken potion vials I keep in my frock coat.
As I move down the hallway, the sound from the next room should be deafening, but my years as a spy do have their benefits. I can faintly hear two sets of footsteps following me - one a bit heavy and eager, the other lighter and hesitant. The coat racks shuffle nervously, spelled to bring to the front whomever’s garment is needed most, and appear unsure as to which of us that is.
This is perfect - I can talk to her. Alone.
I turn to address the ginger-haired menace. “Mr. Weasley, undoubtedly, you have a plethora of family members to attend to. If you would leave Ms. Granger in my hands, I promise I will strive to return her to you shortly pain free.”
He smiles, lifts his arm in what he assumes will be a comradely gesture of masculine slapping, and belatedly halts this impulse. “Thanks, Snape. Now that the war’s over, you’re an alright sort of bloke.”
“Why, Mr. Weasley, such high praise from you wipes the slate clean of the condemnations of my life.”
I am more successful in refraining from laughing than Granger, but then I have had more practice.
The arm lifted towards me descends upon her back as he attempts to ameliorate her artificial cough. Calming, he kisses her and whispers an endearment before turning away.
How sweet.
My upper lip curls in disgust.
Her sigh matches the wistful look I briefly glimpse when she again faces me. Then she sees my sneer and her features harden.
We spend an interminable amount of time glowering at each other.
Look at the flush of her cheeks, the snap of her eyes - a worthy opponent.
My patience wears. “Let us discontinue this farce. Unless, that is, Weasley’s inane Quidditch babble has truly given you a headache.”
“You leave Ron out of this. He’s a good man and doesn’t deserve such derision.”
“A good man, you say?” I step closer, and a waft of her skin’s scent passes my nose. It is subtle and natural - uniquely her - and branded upon my olfactory senses. My cock twitches to life, and suddenly I lose any noble intentions I may have had for this conversation. “Just how good is he?”
“He’s kind. He’s caring. He’s loyal. He’s -”
She is either naive or purposefully misconstruing my meaning, and I grow even more impatient. “You mistake the connotation of my words, Ms. Granger. The, shall we say, double entendre as it were.”
Emboldened by her silence, I move nearer. Her eyes are especially beautiful at this close range. “I must admit I am curious. During our little bout of mistaken identity this afternoon, you reacted like a woman in dire need of my attentions. If Weasley were as good -”
Her hand rises in a flash, and I am hard pressed to determine which impression reaches my senses more quickly: the sound of the report or the sharp sting of my cheek.
A worthy opponent indeed.
“Touché, Ms. Granger.” Nodding slightly to signal her win, I move past her to enter the toilet, which is miraculously available.
In the mirror, my eyes offer no answers.
All I see is her imprint upon my skin.
AN: Thus ends the first act. Next up - an interlude chapter, then on to the Act Two.