THE DIAGON ALLEY SOCIAL CLUB
Snape glanced at the documents in his hand while parking his broom in the rack on the street. He knew his uncle had been into some weird shit, but….. He shrugged and spelled the broom against theft, third party damage, and hexes. The lawyer's words had been very explicit. "You have inherited your uncle's business. It is currently running at a profit, and the conditions of the will are that you take control of this venture for a period of five years. If you do not, the business will be sold."
Snape was the current Potions Master at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. For the tenth year in a row he'd been knocked back for his preferred position of teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. Dark Arts paid more and he could inflict more damage on students, walls, and Mrs Norris. But he was stuck with Potions, the expensive hobby of potion brewing, and the equally expensive membership of two professional Potion Brewers societies. He could do with extra money.
He'd run this business of his uncle's, make himself a bundle of galleons, then buy his way into more post graduate studies in the Dark Arts. Apparently two post-grad degrees weren't enough to get him the Hogwarts job. Let's see if another Masters, a flashier broom, and some new black duds did the trick. Last year he'd faked a picture of him shaking hands with Queen Mab, but all Dumbledore had done was ask the pictured fairy if she'd ever met Snape. When the fairy queen had made several choice comments about Snape's lack of dress sense, well…. Back to the cauldron.
He'd even owled himself several Success Charms. Power, control, success, women. He had control over his students, and all the power Potions Master could bring. But Potions Masters were overlooked. Dark Arts Masters were in Witch Weekly all the time. Success would come. Then, hopefully, the women.
Snape opened the front door of the establishment in Diagon Alley, off the main drag, and a subtle jangle announced his presence.
Hermione Granger sat behind her desk. She was a research officer for the Theoretical Charms Department of the Ministry of Magic, offices located in Diagon Alley, off the main drag. About to leave for the evening, she had snuffed out all the candles and kindled only weak witchlight while she finished her latest report. Two whole scrolls on the current theory of an over-abundance of magic stored on the Moon.
She stared at the male figure looming large before her. She couldn't see his face, but knew his voice anywhere. He obviously didn't remember hers.
"I said I'm looking for Tamara," Snape said.
Hermione jabbed at her parchment with quill and shook her head. "There is no Tamara here. This is the office of Theoretical Charms. The office is not currently open-"
"But you're here."
"Working late." She sighed. "What exactly are you looking for?"
Snape sighed. "Useful information. I'm looking for what sounds like some sort of old women's establishment. No offence."
Hermione rose to her feet. She was not old. It was the conservative clothing she had to wear. She was scarcely into her early twenties. He should talk. How old was he anyway? About 100? But she wasn't about to get into a slanging match with her OLD Potions Master. She gritted her teeth and flared her witchlight. Snape's eyebrow rose.
"Miss Granger?"
"Professor."
"Working for the government, I see."
"As are you. Still Potions Master at Hogwarts?"
They bared teeth at each other. One dissatisfied worker meets another.
"At least I can use my intellect," he said.
"Mmm, correcting all those first year essays must be a strain."
"Yours certainly were. And how is research into Charms suiting you? A two-scroll report? Your prolixity is still your trademark, I see."
Hermione clutched her quill so hard it snapped. She wished it were Snape's neck.
"Exactly which establishment were you looking for, Professor?" Just get out of my office.
"Never mind. I'll find it myself, Miss Granger." Another smirk, and he exited. No goodbye, no thankyou.
Hermione said several things about Snape's parentage that neither Sharleen nor Atticus Snape would thank her for, then stretched. She never worked this late, but since the manager had gone off on a quest to find himself(she suspected it would be at the bottom of a gully trap), she'd been researching, compiling, writing, editing, filing, and answering all incoming owls. To hell with it, time to go home.
She put on her coat and left. The alley looked different in darkness, with only the queer light of the moon. As she passed the terrace next door on her way to her broom, she saw the red light and Snape opening the front door. Now that she could see him from a distance, he did have rather a nice arse.
Hermione grimaced. What was she thinking? That was slimy Snape, who had a passion for Potions and little else. She'd never seen him out of his teaching robes. He did have a nice arse. As if she'd ever get close enough again to really check it out. She hurried towards her broom. It was stuck in place by a spell that was cast too quickly, without proper limitations. It not only protected one owner's broom, but hers as well. How generous of the owner to do that.
Snape was welcomed by the receptionist and escorted into the lounge room of the terrace house. The house had the same floor plan as the office next door, and the lounge room here was in the same place as Hermione's office.
"I'm after Tamara," he said, as he was handed a cup of coffee.
The receptionist grinned. "Everyone is, but she's the manager now. She doesn't see clients any more."
"But I have to see her. My uncle-"
"I'm sure your uncle gave her a wonderful recommendation, but unfortunately she no longer sees clients."
Snape put down his cup. It made a loud clink on the glass top table. "I'm the new owner!" he ground out. "My uncle died and left me this place. Now, I want to speak to Tamara." His best there-will-be-no-foolish-wand-waving voice, letting the students know he was in control. Aaahhh, control.
A full twenty six seconds and Tamara was making herself comfortable on the couch beside him. Big frizzy blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and wearing a tight, pink suit. If she'd worn wings, Snape would have been tempted to say something about pigs flying. She poured him something stronger than coffee and smiled a big, wet red smile. Snape blanched.
"Well," she said. "Willard's gone, has he? Always thought he lived too fast. Whiskey, hexes, gambling?"
"Broomstick."
"Pardon?"
"He was run down by a broomstick on the Quidditch pitch. He was on the field, shouting at the Keeper and-"
"Gambling." She nodded, as if she'd been expecting it. "So you're the new boss. Severus Snape. Well, Mr Snape-"
"Professor."
"Professor, then. It's nice to have you on board. Would you like a fuck for old time's sake?" Tamara gave him another red smile and licked her lips. "I'm still the best in the business when it comes to french."
Men started to drizzle through the front door. Dalia, the receptionist, directed them to the waiting room, knowing what was likely to be happening in the lounge room. She grinned. Tamara never could resist going back on her word. Every month it was: "No, I don't fuck any more. I'm management." And every month there'd be some bloke from her past, a favourite john, a friend dropping by, or Willard Snape. And now Severus, the new boss. And Tamara would decide "just one more, for the hell of it".
Dalia was sick of lying for Tamara. She'd had enough. Her first book of Charms For Teenage Witches was nearly complete and surely then she could pack in this night work and reserve her evenings for readings and signings. She ground her teeth. No more lies. If she had to tell one more, she'd-
The front door opened again.
Hermione couldn't charm, hex or talk her broom into moving. Anyone would think it was a bloody Muggle contraption. Then she remembered that she was one of the Bloody Muggle and said a quick sorry to her ancestors. She said sorry about fifty times a day.
Hermione stormed back to the Charms office and spelled warmth and light.. If she had to wait, she may as well do it in comfort. It wasn't any use her trying to Apparate. She could barely admit to herself that she had failed her Apparition test three times now. Her body steadfastly refused to wink out of existence and reappear elsewhere. Her spare time was devoted to trying to invent the magical equivalent of Star Trek's transporter.
She dug around in her manager's office and found his winter warmers. A knee blanket and a bottle of whisky. She sat herself in his chair, and dragged a bundle of scrolls over. What a fabulous evening. Heat, booze, and Ministry crap to read.
She was deep into a theory about the potential magic stored in a woman's ovaries. She realised too late that she hadn't locked the front door, when she saw the man standing before her.
"I'm here for my eight thirty appointment," he told her.
"Trust me," Hermione said. "You haven't an appointment here."
"Oh yes I do. I owled last night. Can you just check?"
Hermione had nothing better to do. She glanced through her pile of scrolls. "Sorry, no appointment here."
He came close, peered at the scrolls of parchment, then at her.
"Cripes, they're not all like you, are they? Sorry, love."
"I am not your love, and there are no appointments here. This is the office of Theoretical Charms, Ministry of Magic. Perhaps you have the wrong address." She thought this bozo deserved Snape's wrath. "Why don't you try next door?"
He was gone, no thankyou, no nothing. Bastard.
He stuck his head back through the door. "Sorry about that crack. If I bring my dad down next time, he might like you. He can't see too well." Gone again.
Hermione was getting very tired of being every guy's best female friend, mate, buddy, punch-on-the-shoulder gal. She was even more fed up with the sly comments about her ordinary looks.
Snape declined the fuck, politely, politically correct, so Tamara called the girls in to meet their new owner. It definitely wasn't an old women's club, despite the name. A flock of young attractive girls greeted him, and then whisked themselves away. Some looked disturbingly familiar, probably former students. Several had giggled at him, one had paled. Definitely former students then.
"They're good girls," Tamara said. "No scrags, no polyjuice addicts, all with good heads on their shoulders. I pride myself on only hiring classy girls for The Diagon Alley Social Club. Now, I suppose you'll be wanting to see the books?" Tamara called past him. "Dalia, can you bring in the accounts?"
The receptionist appeared shortly with a box of scrolls. Snape set about learning his new business. It beat applying for the Dark Arts job again.
"WOMEN!" the man bellowed at Hermione. " I wanna woman!"
He reeked of sweat and she thought she recognised him from a Quidditch team interview on in The Daily Prophet. Hermione put down the scroll she was vetting and glanced at him coolly.
"Go away before I call the Dementors."
"I can take them. I can take anyone! I'm ….." His name confirmed it. Captain of the Chudley Cannons. "I'm da captain. I wanna woman. Nice one, big tits." He drew breath. "I can fight anyone, can fuck anyone too. I wanna woman!"
Hermione clung to logic until it drew blood from her palms. "There are no... women here." She ground out the words, then realised what she'd said.
Bloody men, now they had her believing she was less than female.
"Go away, try next door. You know, the place with the red light." The place where Snape was hopefully obliterating the last idiot.
The man clumsily tapped his nose with his finger. "Gotcha. Red light. Always knew this street was just a front. The whole lotta yas are up for it." And he lurched out of the building. She heard him fall against the wrought iron gate and fiddle with it for some time, swearing at it until it opened and he was gone.
She peered out the front door. The brooms still hadn't shifted and it now appeared that Captain Conan had locked his broom to hers as well. Great.
She had had enough of this. She wanted to get out of the office, away from lousy theories about ovaries, away from third-rate postulations about the Moon, away from learned articles on whatever shit was trendy at the moment, and away from her boss' desk. She threw a pile of scrolls into her large bag, shut up the office, thoughtfully taking the bottle of whisky with her, and marched up to next door. Those crummy broom parkers had to be in there. It seemed every other man in the universe was.
Hermione knocked on the door. No answer, so she opened it and was enticed inside by warmth, the smell of ylang-ylang, and soft lighting. Much nicer than the Charms office.
A young woman passed her in the doorway.
"That's it!" she said. "I've had it with this place. I am sick to death of lying for that woman. That's the third bloke this evening I've had to lie to. I am out of here. I can make it as an author."
"Excuse me, I'm Hermione Granger. I work next door, at the Charms office. I think some of your…er…friends have boxed my broom in, and-"
The girl stopped in her tracks. "Charms office? The one who authorises publication of all new Charms books?" She shook Hermione's hand violently. "I'm Dalia Kenneally. I have a proposal with you at the moment. How is it going?"
Hermione's smile quivered. Oh shit, no! A writer. A desperate, new, hungry Charms author. And there was no escape. "I'm not quite sure I recall-" she hedged.
"I sent five samples. One about accessing Moon magic, two about female magic, and two about polyjuice." Dalia drew breath to recite.
Hermione deflated her quickly. "Oh yes, yes. I remember those. We're a little behind in our reading at the moment, but you will be hearing from us shortly." What a shame it wasn't the done thing to write "Please do not send us anything ever again, you polyjuice pothead" on a rejection slip, or "Get thee to a Charms class where stronger folks than I can vilify you"
Dalia regaled Hermione with details of her book, and then flipped her hair back. "I wouldn't come into this place. That Tamara!" She strode away down the street. Nope, her broom wasn't one of the ones blocking Hermione's. Damn.
Hermione ventured inside. The waiting room was in chaos. An uneasy group of eight men sat in easy chairs and on chaise lounges, drinking coffee. Three women were serving from a large coffee pot. All the men were arguing as to who was next, who's on first, and I dunno on third.
A door slammed upstairs and a handsome man with a beard and moustache, clad in dark clothing, walked downstairs. He gave a sharp look to Hermione and his face twisted in a 'I think you're a bit square for this, sweetheart' grimace. Hermione threw down her bag. She had had enough of men condemning her for looking like the perpetual virgin. She was experienced. She had been around, in her time. She knew stuff!
She knew the effects of common household mint on the Amorphia Charm; she knew exactly which muscles seized up when you tried page 86 of The Joy of Sex Magic; she recognised the spidery handwriting in the Gaia Guide to Wizarding Europe(Macgonagall's); she knew how to unmelt cauldrons(if only Snape had taught that in first year, it would have saved Neville Longbottom a lot of grief); she knew how to get ice cream stains out of bedsheets.
"What the hell is happening here?" Hermione shouted.
Silence, then one man spoke up.
"The receptionist hexed the bookings sheet and left. No one knows who's next."
Hermione rolled her eyes and ventured behind the front desk. The booking sheet was merely spelled invisible, not completely destroyed. But in their turned on state, none of the men would recognise a simple spell. Hermione muttered the counter charm and up came the client list. Everyone had a nickname.
"Who's Batman?"
A tall middle aged man nodded.
"Carmen. Upstairs, first bedroom. Cowboy Joe? Tania, upstairs second bedroom. Aquaman? Ariel, spa room." And so she disposed of six of the men, the other two having to wait their turn. One was Captain Conan, getting more sweaty and anxious by the moment.
"I needa woman, now! I got these needs!"
"As have we all, dear. You'll just have to wait."
He moaned, then his eyes lit up. "I don't suppose, in an emergency…?" He leered at Hermione.
"Don't even go there." Just then, a man appeared from upstairs. Hermione nodded to Conan. "Up you go, then. Be careful, don't trip on your knuckles." He didn't hear her, taking the stairs three at a time as he was.
The remaining man sniggered at her comment, but otherwise said nothing. As he shifted in his seat, she noticed what looked like chainmail poking out the bottom of his coat. She raised an eyebrow. He smiled.
"Quidditch at the national level can be a rough game." He looked her up and down.
Hermione admired his consideration for his own safety, but she wasn't going to give in.
"And you would be…?" she asked, glancing at the appointment schedule. "Let me guess. King Richard?"
"At your service, milady." He nodded at her.
She consulted the parchment again. "Marie will be free in about five minutes. It says here she's a Quidditch buff. So you should have a good time together."
When he finally stood up to visit Marie, he sketched a bow in her direction.
"My thanks, milady. May I say you're much nicer than the last girl."
Hermione peered around her. Nice surroundings. She tried to see through to the loungeroom. She was sure there were voices. Surely someone could help her. She tapped on the door. No answer. Just then two men lurched through the door and immediately started bidding for her with each other.
Fifty galleons, one hundred galleons, two hundred. Hermione paid attention. Two hundred galleons? She could buy some new clothes, and….no, no! What was she thinking of? She quickly enlightened the two hopefuls and sent them in the direction of the waiting room and the 'coffee, tea or me' girls.
She pushed open the door to the private lounge. Snape was lying buck naked on the couch, and a busty blonde in a suit was fanning him with some parchment. There was a sight she never expected to see. But now she had, and she was equally impressed with Snape's front side as his rear.
"Who're you?" Tamara and Hermione said at the same time.
"My broom's blocked in-"
"Waiting room's on the other side of the hallway-"
"I need someone to unspell their broom-"
"We don't normally service women, but-"
"There's no one tending the front desk-"
"Where is Dalia anyway-"
They paused, then finished together with "I need some help".
Hermione's gaze strayed to Snape again. She couldn't help it. Quite an impressive set of tackle. She could fit that in and feel good, then make him feel good. What was she thinking? She shook herself.
They introduced themselves, and Tamara pointed to Snape.
"This is our new owner. I was trying to help him understand the business. I may have been a little overenthusiastic with my spells to get his clothes loosened, and him relaxed." She grinned. "He's out cold." His clothes were neatly folded on a chair in the far corner. Very loose clothing.
Hermione shut her eyes, thought of the Charms office, and then focussed on the Madam. After half an hour's chat, most of the clients had moved their brooms, but it was apparent Snape's broom was spelled to Hermione's. Snape opened his eyes. He was not a blushing man, and usually didn't care who saw him naked. If they couldn't cope for whatever reason, fuck them. But here was one of his ex-students, memorable for her capacity to learn, and shoot off her mouth, sitting in front of him. She was fully dressed in some bloody nerdy clothes. He was naked and sporting a semi-erection.. He donned his clothes as hastily as possible.
She and the manager of the brothel seemed to have reached some sort of agreement. They shook hands and Hermione took her place at the front desk.
"Career move, Miss Granger?" he asked, hiding behind a wall of sarcasm.
"I could ask the same thing, Professor."
He shut the lounge room door with more force than necessary, and got down to the business of running The Diagon Alley Social Club.
Hermione directed a group of seventh year Hogwarts students to stop drinking her health and proceed to the Group Room where four girls were waiting with cherries and whipped cream, as requested. Inbetween clients, Hermione read Charms parchments. It paid to have a compartmentalised mind. If any of the girls were free, Hermione doled scrolls out to them. They made their comments and she took them on board. After all, nearly all the girls were undergraduates, bonking their way through their university degrees. Hermione made sure the learned articles went to the Potions students.
At seven in the morning, they bid goodbye to the last of their clients. The red light was turned off, and only the staff broomstand was full. Tamara cooked the girls breakfast and took them through a debriefing(her idea), and doled out antibiotic potions(Snape's idea). Then Tamara turned to Hermione.
"Last night was a turning point for The Diagon Alley Social Club. Dalia quit."
There were cheers from most of the girls.
"And Hermione has joined us as our new receptionist. Also, I'd like everyone to make Professor Severus Snape welcome. Willard Snape, our beloved owner, died a month ago, and Severus is his nephew. He won't be here all that often due to…other commitments (Snape was glad she didn't mention his Hogwarts position, but most of the girls knew him anyway) so I'd like you to welcome him now."
Snape was smothered in kisses and warm flesh, then abandoned as the girls settled back down to their coffee. One had whispered "You failed me in Potions, I'll get you!" But that was such a common thing he had said to him, he didn't even speculate who had uttered it.
Tamara continued. "Now, as you know, at the Diagon Alley Social Club, we are a pretty informal lot, but we do have one or two traditions."
Hermione could see the girls winking and grinning at each other.
"One is that any new girl has to prove herself here." Hermione felt a trickle of sweat slide down her back. "The other is that our boss always has to feel welcome."
Snape twitched and instinctively covered his crotch. It was of little use. Four girls seized and stripped him, disarming him of his wand. Four treated Hermione the same. Both were womanhandled up the stairs and tossed into the spa room. The door was locked behind them.
Hermione could now see Snape's arse, and what a fine one it was. Firm with defining muscle. Clearly, sitting behind his desk in the dungeons wasn't everything. He obviously worked out. Snape glanced at her, then ran an appreciative eye over her body.
"Miss Granger…."
"Professor."
"You have a magnificent body."
That was the best thing he could have said. She was tired of being a mate, and dressing in conservative, sexless clothes, suitable for the office. She'd given three years to the Charms office and ended up ghost writing dry theories in a run down office, whisky being her only juice. It was time to get other juices flowing again.
She pounced on Snape, giving him the full power of a tongue kiss.
"I normally don't kiss ex-students," he gasped around her tongue.
She pulled back. "Only students, right? Did I miss out at Hogwarts? Is that what Lavender Brown was always smirking about?"
"You misunderstand me, Hermione. My partners are usually my own age."
She shrugged. "Me too."
They regarded each other soberly for a moment, then Snape stuck his tongue in her mouth. She tasted of coffee and whisky. She sucked on him, drawing him into her further. Their mouths covered each other, wide open, exchanging essence, hot, their tongues sliding. When they parted, a string of saliva still connected them. Hermione wound it on her finger and licked. Snape watched her finger in her mouth. He grew hard thinking of her warm, wet depths.
He drew her to him, just close enough that he could push her breasts across his chest. She reached down and down and gave him loving attention.
Slowly Snape edged them towards the spa. He let go of her long enough to start running water. They stepped in. Snape added a bath bomb that softened the water. In the heat and wet it was hard to tell if they were touching flesh or water. They sank into the spa.
Snape gently slid his hands over her, liking the contrast of her wild frizzes of hair concentrated in spots, to his smooth dark hair. Small spa bubbles drilled into them and the aroma of rose and ylang-ylang rose heady about them as they caressed and pushed against each other. He had her clasped tight around the hips, ready to push her right down onto him, she held his wet hair in both hands, pulling, forcing his face up to brush her breasts and to meet her dark gaze.
He came deep inside her and she clamped down holding him tight with her muscles so that he was unable to thrust, merely spurt into her. He could not thrash his head, she held him firm and all he could do was let the orgasm charge through him, cell by cell.
Gradually his hold on her slackened, and she let go and let the water float her away on a sea of bubbles.
They smiled at each other through the steam and enjoyed the spa in silence.
Downstairs the girls were finishing up their coffees.
"Do we enforce the usual rule?" one of them asked.
Tamara shook her head. "No, they don't have to bonk in every room. They're both new to the business. Probably both awful in the sack. They probably haven't even done anything. You girls go home and I'll let them out. They'll be embarrassed enough by now."
The girls moved towards the back door, to the broomstand. Most were yawning and talking about sleep, but one girl Apparated instantly to Elvenbows University. Early weekend lecture in Arithmancy. Tamara locked the door after her and slowly climbed the stairs, two sets of clothes in hand. She felt sorry for them. Poor Hermione. She figured the age gap would be grossing her out. Young enough to want it, and be prejudiced about age, looks, and social standing. And plain enough to not be getting it easily. Poor Snape. The girls had talked about him, those who had attended Hogwarts. Severus Snape: Potions Bastard. Most likely a long time since he'd had any. She'd unlock the door and they'd both be cowering behind towels, or at each other's throats.
She unlocked the door and opened her mouth in surprise. A small squeak came out, but Hermione and Snape were too engrossed to hear. Possibly Snape's whole head was muffled. Tamara put their clothes just inside the door and made her way downstairs. She locked the front door and retreated to her own bedroom at the back of the house. She left the rest of the converted terrace house untouched. They might want to use every room after all.
***** ***** *****