Carpe Noctem: Knock First, Please.
by Tourniquette
Carpe Noctem
Chapter 1 - It's Polite To Knock First...
"And this—" Professor Severus Snape prodded the gooey mass at his feet with a single black leather boot, "—is what happens when someone attempts to speak the words 'Weasley' and 'competent' in the same breath."
Hermione's eyes widened to saucers as she stared at Neville. Or rather, what was left of Neville. Every bone in his body, save for his skull, had disappeared, and Longbottom was trying to wave his arms in a manner that reminded her of an amoeba she had seen in tenth form biology.
"Weasley's pulled another Lockhart," Draco snickered.
Prick. "Well, at least that's only thing he's pulling," Hermione shot back, raising an eyebrow nonchalantly at Draco's hand, which he quickly yanked out from under Pansy's jumper. Pansy, in turn, hastily withdrew her hand from inside Draco's trousers.
"Mind your own damn bloody business, Mudblood," Draco hissed. Suddenly, another thought occurred to him, and he sneered. "Unless, of course, you'd like to have a go?"
To Draco's satisfaction, Hermione's face turned a brilliant shade of crimson before words got the better of her. "Sod off!"
Draco grinned. "Come off it, Granger. We all know Ron hasn't been giving you any, and I'll be damned if Potter isn't the ripest fruit I ever saw." He sighed, putting a playful finger to his lips in mock concern. "I imagine it wouldn't be the most exhilarating experience, what with me being a Pureblood and you a lousy Mudblood, but with time—"
"Malfoy, if you were the definition of pure, blasphemy would be a benediction and the world would have fucked itself." Bugger. I think I just swore in front of a Professor for the first time in my life.
"Mister Malfoy. Miss Granger." The cool, velvety voiced floated between them. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Not at all, Professor. We were simply discussing…" Hermione scrambled for an excuse. "…Neville's unwilling ability to land himself in rather unlucky spots of trouble."
"Really," Snape purred, bending over between them.
When the words rolled off his tongue in that serpentine manner, one knew not to make a single false step, just in case. One couldn't always tell whether Snape was going to let a minor irritant slide like squashed biting faeries off the heel of his boot, or allow it to congeal like Longbottom's cauldron, slowly simmering until his mood abruptly boiled over, so to speak.
The Potions master paused, gauging some intangible scent between the two of them in the air. Hermione shivered. It wasn't his lanky black hair, his large, slender hands, or even the way his mouth was always curved into a cruel smile, colder than ice.
It was his eyes that frightened her.
If eyes were the windows to the soul, then she was constantly staring into a darkened well. Snape's eyes were bottomless pits, cavernous and full of secrets. The pathways to the gates of Hell.
Damn, but he's the creepiest teacher ever.
"Twenty points off Slytherin and Gryffindor." Professor Snape stood upright. "Weasley, kindly scoop up Mr. Longbottom and escort him to Madame Pomfrey's before you rack up a negative point average for your House. Mister Malfoy, detention is at eight pm in here. Miss Granger, I shall expect you at nine. Perhaps an hour of scrubbing for each of you will illuminate the benefits of tactful silence during my lessons. Class is dismissed."
Oblivious to Draco and Hermione's mouths hanging open, the other students scrambled to disappear from the Potion master's classroom before he decided to "enlighten" the entire lot of them.
"But—but—Professor—" Draco sputtered.
"You heard me," Snape replied calmly, not even bothering to turn around. "Interruptions in my class will not be tolerated. Eight pm sharp, wasn't it? Good day." With that, Professor Snape turned abruptly and glided toward his desk, the black folds of his cloak swirling in a cold rush of air around him.
Hermione was half an hour early.
She was so furious about the detention—the rumors, the hushed tones, the sidestepping in the halls and at supper, the laughter, quickly concealed by a wand wave or a robe sleeve—she had decided to start early and get it over with faster, even if it meant spending time in the company of one Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Pet Bastard. Snape doesn't exactly appreciate tardiness, anyway.
Ron, after receiving a good kick in the shins from Harry, had offered to accompany her to the dungeons during dinner. She had politely declined, and after silently noting the withering looks Malfoy was shooting her, it was probably for the best. Besides, he had to sweep all of the hallways of the entire East Wing for his stunt with Neville (currently on the mend, so to speak, in the infirmary), and given that Harry was dueling Ginny at Wizarding Chess in the library tonight, it didn't take a genius to deduce where Gryffindor's Seeker wanted to be as quickly as possible.
If that wasn't enough of a deterrent, there was always the likely chance that Snape would kill him on sight.
Well, at least there were actually people sitting out on the Beltane celebration by choice. Hermione sighed and licked her lips, imagining of all the chocolate mousse she was missing in the Great Hall. No use thinking about it now.
She reached the door to the Potions classroom and grasped the metal handle. It didn't budge. That's funny, Hermione thought. Snape's classroom is never locked during detention hours...
Hermione strolled down the stone hallway a few steps further, reaching the second door in sight: one of dark cherry wood, the dark latches etched firmly in place in the quaint fashion of the local countryside.
Suddenly, thoughts on exactly how old the castle really was rose unbidden to the surface of her mind. Secrets, rituals—the binding spells that must have gone into the mortar, the sweat and blood and obsession woven into the very fabric of the walls that—
Stop it. Hermione snorted in self-derision and pushed open the door.
She had seen his office only once before. It was a marvelous secret, indeed.
Books lined the wall behind his mahogany desk. Tomes of all different languages, many in Greek or Latin, forbidden books one couldn't even find in the Restricted Section of the library. And the other side, amidst the vases from China, the mosaic coffee table and the hand-woven Indian tapestries…
She had little time to think about any of it. There were noises coming from the classroom.
Gasping, moaning, panting noises.
The door was fifteen feet away.
Hermione barely had time to duck behind the desk as the second door leading to the Potions classroom banged open.
Hermione stifled a gasp of shock as the door to Snape's office creaked open and a frighteningly familiar voice broke through the silence.
"Mmm, Professor—"
Oh, Gods, Hermione groaned. Malfoy shagging an instructor in an empty office. Where in the hell is Snape?
She stiffened, then relaxed. That possibility was as implausible as a house elf receiving a pension. If only you knew what Draco was doing while you left him left him alone...
She groaned inwardly. It can't get any worse than this.
A frustrated sigh. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Malfoy." The Potions master's voice sliced through Hermione's uncertainty. "It's Severus to you."
I stand corrected.
"Whatever you say, Professor," Draco answered breathily, indicating that he could care less what Snape said, as long as the Potions master did what he wanted.
Hermione crawled under the desk just as Snape reached around Draco to slam the door shut.
She sat perfectly still, hunched into a ball in the footspace made for Snape's desk chair and feeling like an amateur spy in a detective thriller. The floor was freezing cold, and her nose was itching from the dust. She shifted her head slightly, and noticed that the side panel obscuring her from view had a grated pattern with small holes in it.
Great, Hermione thought. They'll see me. Damn it.
For the first time in what must have been eons, Hermione said a silent prayer. At that moment, she was hard pressed to think of any point in time when it could possibly be worse for Snape to find her in his office.
Or to simply find her, period.
And yet...
There was something, a tug of deep, morbid curiosity that forced her to turn her head once again towards the slits in the wood design and watch them both, the kind of unbidden action that forces one's self to abandon a state of high anxiety in favor of keen perception.
Draco was tugging frantically at Snape's buttons, moaning loudly against the taller man's shoulder. In the end, Severus had far greater success in disrobing his lover. Malfoy's robes, shirt and tie were gone before he had finished with Snape's vest, and his trousers weren't far behind.
"Honestly, Draco," Severus' voice dripped with condescension. "We haven't got all night. There is another detentionée arriving in less than twenty minutes. Unless you have forgotten, which wouldn't surprise me in the least."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Can't she wait?" he whinged, somehow transforming a childish plea into the demand of distinguished company who felt miffed at the restraints of the hourglass.
"No. I'm afraid we're going to have to skip the lengthy...exposition this time."
Now naked except for his briefs, Draco obediently lay down, splaying himself across the chaise in what even Hermione had to admit was a most seductive fashion. From her viewpoint, his upper body was visible over the arch at the head of the furniture, his arms dangling lazily over the sides in the same manner as his disheveled platinum hair.
Snape circled the reclining couch, eyeing his prize. Stroking his tapered fingers softly along the lines of muscle and sinew in Draco's shoulders, the Professor straddled him and began massaging his back in long, fluid strokes. Draco's eyelids fluttered shut, and he moaned facedown into the cushions.
After a minute or so, Snape slid further up, his fingers lightly traipsing over Malfoy's temples--a silent dance of domination to accompany the caresses of his mouth on the student's skin. The golden boy's head shot up, and he gasped and shuddered, slowly relaxing again into regular series of whimpers and moans.
Wow, Hermione thought, intent on not letting the erotic scene before her affect her judgment too badly. That is one accommodating Professor...
Her mind did a double-take. Professor? Ewwww.
But that wasn't what her body was saying.
At that particular moment, Snape was emitting a kind of sound that Hermione failed to find words for, save that he would be fired if he made it in front of Dumbledore. He was moving along Draco's back in a rhythmic fashion, and Hermione finally realised that he was already shagging Malfoy. He was simply doing so with subtlety.
Why am I watching this? Hermione thought to herself in panic. I'm going to be dead enough as it is; there is absolutely no need to add guilt into the equation.
Despite her mind's desperate pleas, however, Hermione couldn't help but be fascinated by the way they rose together, arching and entwined like tangled branches twisting at the onset of a storm. It was so foreign to her, this sinuous, sinister embrace of bodies. She had never been that intimate with anyone, and though Hermione had no doubt that Ron would happily volunteer his services, she was as likely to take him up on that offer as Aragog was to sprout wings. Seeing this act was tasting forbidden fruit, a glimpse inside a hidden world to which she had no means of entry.
Besides, she was in love with his best friend. And he evidently forgot that she was a girl most of the time.
Except when it's convenient to try and set me and Ron up, her thoughts remarked bitterly. Merlin, if he doesn't feel that way about me, why can't he just leave my personal life the heck alone?
Of course, no one was there to answer her. Except for the couple fucking themselves incoherent on the chaise, and Hermione seriously doubted they'd be amenable to conversation at this point.
Speaking of which...
Hermione turned her attention back to Snape and Malfoy. The Potions master's breathing was definitely ragged, and Draco was mumbling indiscernible words of encouragement. Suddenly, he turned his head sideways, lying in the direction of the desk. She could see straight into his line of sight, and it frightened her for several moments, until she figured out that he wasn't looking in her direction. Still, it was a disturbing gaze, the eyes devoid of any human traces of compassion. They were icy, fathomless depths of electric blue, cruel and otherworldly.
He looks like a porcelain doll, Hermione thought. Cold. Perfect. Beautiful.
The Gryffindor, hunched up in a crawlspace that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, allowed herself to grudgingly admit that he was good looking, if also a complete prick. She thought of a story her friend had let her read when she was eleven. Hermione still had Muggle friends back then, before her constant evasion of their questions and sudden disinterest in fashion and local guys had driven them apart . It was a short, simplistic book about twin girls who solved riddles attached to mysterious dolls they received as Christmas gifts, and the porcelain figures came to life as two princes from another world. Rubbish, really, but Hermione failed to stop thoughts of Draco as toy doll from entering her head.
His eyes were glazed over with lust, and with each thrust his golden-white hair moved along the cushions. He reached up to brush it away with a free hand (the other was decidedly busy). Professor Snape was very, very close to the edge. And all she could think of was Draco as a porcelain prince.
Porcelain Prince. Ha! It fits him perfectly. The thought of Draco in miniature, combined with someone painting red lipstick and dots of rouge and eyeliner onto his tiny, churlish face made her want to die of laughter.
Unfortunately, it also made her giggle. Just once, and quietly, but Hermione clamped a hand down over her mouth in horror, unable to prevent the escape of noise that rose from her concealed observatory.
At that exact moment, Draco's eyes shot to the position of her hiding place, and her heart nearly stopped beating.
Well, bugger.
Simultaneously, Snape gave one final thrust and cried out, coming a second later. Hermione froze. She sat perfectly still under the desk, unwilling to move, knowing she could be caught if she did—that in all likelihood, she was probably caught already.
Snape had collapsed onto Draco. He lay there for a moment, tracing the side of Malfoy's chest, a secret smile on his face. He rose noiselessly, and Hermione realized he had had his robes on the entire time.
Malfoy, on the other hand, was content to dwell in the languor of post-coital pleasure, not seeming to care that she, Hermione, was supposed to be in the Potions classroom any minute now. Noticing his companion's hand still moving underneath him, Snape sighed and sat back down. He flipped Draco over, pushed the younger man's fingers away from his own member, and resumed the same action, only quicker and more forcefully than Draco had done. "We don't have any time for this," the Professor hissed. "Perhaps later, at the fires—"
Hermione started to relax, despite being fascinated and disturbed by what she was seeing. Draco hadn't noticed her. He was too busy trying to get off quickly. He was looking in this direction before I erupted into peals of stifled laughter, at any rate.
Indeed, Draco was fairly preoccupied with Snape's...ministrations. He tossed his head from side to side, approaching climax, turning in the direction of the desk again, eyes unseeing before they closed in delight.
She was safe. They would get dressed, Draco would leave, and she could exit out the other office door and emerge in the hallway, pretending that absolutely nothing had happened. Nothing had happened.
Malfoy arched off the couch as he screamed Snape's first name. Then the sound of his breathing subsided, returning to normal.
She hadn't seen anything. They certainly didn't need to know. Hermione sighed in relief. Everything will be all right after a—
—And Draco's eyes snapped open, focusing on the exact spot where she was hiding, his lips spreading in an amused grin. "Oh. Hello, Granger."
Author's Note: I finally decided to resurrect this ancient relic and post it in completed form. There are five chapters in total, and future chapters will include some slash as well, although this is a het-centric story. Originally, I intended for it to be a PWP, but the spellwork and corrupted versions of the Beltane Rites got the better of me. No character deaths, but don't expect a happy ending...
Constructive criticism is always appreciated, since I have no beta and the work is almost three years old. It is dedicated to Auror Borealis, a wonderful SS/HG fanfic writer from WIKTT who suddenly and inexplicably left the fandom in April 2002.