JUST ONE NIGHT

CHAPTER FOUR:

ONE CONFESSION

DECEMBER 2008

He grabbed her hair, turning her head so her cheek was flush against the cool wood of the round table, and lowered his lips to her left ear.

"I'm going to fuck you harder and if it hurts, you'll tell me to stop."

"Very well," she said, as if he was making an innocuous business proposition rather than promising to pummel her sexually.

He was behind her, pushing his body against hers, crushing her lower belly against the edge of the table. The hand he had between her leg, the one he'd used to tear off her knickers, went to her inner thighs, shoving them further apart. He was already inside her, thrusting into her from behind while rubbing between her slick folds. Now he grabbed hold of her abdomen under her wool skirt and jerked her back so her arse was pushed out as if being presented to him, the way a baboon might in an attempted seduction. The mental image of the two of them as horny apes nearly made her giggle – she pictured him as a slick-haired Silverback gorilla and herself as a frazzled brown chimpanzee, two creatures that should not together mate – but the way he drew out and impaled her again forced the giggle out of her mouth in the form of an anguished moan.

He drove into her fast and hard and unrelenting, one hand returning to its spot between her legs, but now rather than gently exploring and caressing he was pinching and her clit, moistening his first and second digits, and then fucking her with his fingers and his cock at once, stretching and filling her, manipulating her body, nearly pulling away and then plunging back inside...

She let out another moan, this one deep and guttural, as his free hand worked its way between the table and her exposed breasts, grabbing one roughly. He bit down on the back of her shoulder, nearly bringing her to tears, but still she met him thrust for thrust, achingly partaking in this carnal act as if it were a well-deserved punishment. This was their second time together. The first had been unplanned, an accident, a mistake. A one-time thing they could both ignore and agree to forget about...

But this time?

He'd asked her to retire with him to his sitting room and she, knowing he had no intention of sharing tea and conversation, eagerly accepted the offer, thus making any unspoken agreement to pretend the first time hadn't happened void, and leading them to this point.

He drove both his fingers and cock deeper into her, penetrating her from two angles but meeting in the same place, as he sucked on the mark made from his teeth. She squeezed her eyes shut tight imagining the hard stomach and pecs of a man below her rather than the table, while simultaneously twerking her bum as if by doing so she could taken even more of him. This is what she imagined it would feel like to be with two men at the same time, not that she'd ever permitted herself indulgence in such a depraved fantasy. She could feel the threat of an eruption building inside her, starting from the pit of her belly and extending out, down sinewy legs and jelly-filled knees to her curled toes, up through her arms outstretched like a T to the fingers with which she clutched the sides of the round table, from the over-sensitive peaked bud of her nipple in his palm to the doughy flesh of her surrounding breast (which was bruising from the imprint of his fingers), from her fluttering heart and to deep within her pulsating quim... so many sensations, too many, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could take it.

He nosed aside her bushy hair to suck on the spot where the back of her neck curved to meet her shoulder. She could smell his minty clean shampoo as his own long hair created a curtain across their faces.

She was quivering and quaking and about to bloody explode when he suddenly withdrew both his fingers and his cock leaving her feeling unfulfilled and unfinished. The disappointment was short-lived, however, as he turned her, lifted her, and sat her on the edge of the table, forcing apart her knees. He was inside her again almost immediately, holding her so their chests were flush together. He was gasping for air and groaning obscenities into her ear and the lone tone of his voice sent shock waves down her body. She'd never heard him speak like this before, never even imagined he would. It occurred to her she might be able to orgasm from that voice alone, a theory that would eventually be put to the test.

"How are you so fucking tight?" he asked. She couldn't help going pink-cheeked in response, not that it was any reason to be embarrassed. He shoved her away from him but kept a hand on her outer thigh, causing her to fall back against the table with a soft thud. He pulled her legs down – her backside was hanging half off the table now – and plunged into her again, this time more erratically, before grabbed the backs of her knees to bend them, putting her kneecaps up against his shoulders, giving him ample ability to watch her breasts bounce and her face flush and her eyes roll as he jack-hammered her into a veritable puddle of sweat and satisfaction and sin.

"I... my... I can't... please... I need... you... please..." She did not know what she was pleading for. Rougher? Gentler? Faster? Slower? All just words. In truth, she'd lost her ability to think clearly, to focus on the individual sensations, especially as he bent to take her nipple in his mouth, alternating sucking at her with flicking his tongue.

He played with her clit again as he brought her back to the brink of bliss; by now she was a trembling mess, dizzy and heady and delightfully empty from the neck up, as surely no more blood was flowing to her brain. She'd never before had such a clear mind – usually, even during sex, there was at least part of her head that was focused elsewhere, on work, on the children, on matters related to the house or paying bills or worrying about the state of her marriage – but in this moment she felt what only those who had truly mastered Occlumency must be able to manage... a complete disconnect from her inner voice, her over-thinking self, and all emotions. All she could concentrate on – all she could register – was the incredible pulsating thrum caused by his stiff, throbbing cock pummeling unforgivingly into her sex. Her short fingernails dug painfully into the backs of his shoulders as she lifted her pelvis, writhing and bucking beneath him. Noises she'd never heard the likes of before released themselves from the depths of her throat of their own accord, spurring him on.

"Are you on the potion?" he asked. He had to ask twice more before she could process and answer the question, which she did with a shake of the head. He swore, took her other nipple into his mouth, and used the combination of his fingers against her clit and his cock buried inside her to bring her over the edge, earning from her a scream of pleasure followed by the sob of having been overwhelmed, before he pulled out and pumped his hand up and down his shaft for mere seconds before exploding himself, emptying his seed along her bare inner thigh. He half-collapsed on top of her then, leaning over the table on which she lay, his forehead to her breast. Both were breathing heavily, too heavily to even speak, though somehow she managed to continue to sob. Her hands covering her bright-red face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, once he managed to find both the words and the ability to utter them.

"No," she said, trying not to wail her next words. "I feel great."

"You're crying." He forced himself to stand, Scorgified the mess along her inner thigh and on his softening member, and fixed his trousers, but did not bother with finding his shirt. Then, for reasons he could not quite put into words, he tastefully rearranged her skirt, covering her private bits, before Accioing over a throw blanket to drape across her bare, bruised and heaving chest, thus affording her the dignity deserving of the Minister for Magic.

"I'm sorry for crying," she whispered. "I'm not hurt."

"Upset, then?"

Should he apologize? Did he have anything to apologize for? She'd consented at the start, encouraged him throughout, and clung to him in the end. Surely he had nothing to be sorry for? He clenched his teeth, feeling uncomfortable and perhaps the slightest bit guilty.

"Overwhelmed. Good overwhelmed," she finally articulated, much to his relief. She managed to pull herself into a seated position. She spotted her blouse on the floor by the door but before she could rise to retrieve it, he grabbed it and handed it to her. She almost asked how he'd known she wanted it before remembering his Legilimency skills. Her upper body flushed crimson again as she wondered whether he'd double-penetrated her because it was something he enjoyed... or something he could sense that she'd fantasized about.

"I wasn't in your head during sex," he said, answering the question she hadn't asked. "It is generally too taxing for me to be inside my own and someone else's during that particular activity."

She nodded, hurrying into her blouse, though she did not yet attempt to climb down from the table, not until the last of her buttons was done up. He had found his own shirt during that time and was now using his wand to repair the four buttons she'd popped off when tearing him from the confines of it.

"I've never done that before," she said, her voice still somewhat breathy, though she'd regained use of her weakened limbs.

He set down his wand, looking puzzled. "Done what?"

"Been... been fucked like that." The word felt dirty in her mouth, as dirty as her body felt from having been deliciously defiled by him over this last hour. She rarely used such language in her general life, but given the circumstances, the term seemed most appropriate.

"Never?" He couldn't hold back a self-satisfied chuckle, impressed with himself for having so thoroughly exceeded expectations. "But you're married."

"My husband doesn't touch me like that." She closed her eyes as a confession tumbled from her mouth. "My husband doesn't touch me much at all."

"We have something in common, then, he and I."

"What could you possibly have in common?" She didn't add, 'You touched me plenty!' but she could tell by his smirk that he knew she'd thought it.

"If I may be so bold, it appears Weasley has limited physical interest in his wife, whereas I have absolutely none in mine."

"Why are you married, then?" Hermione moved farther away from the table, straightened her skirt, and scanned the floor for her knickers, which were surely torn. "Why do men marry women they do not want?"

"There was a time I wanted her. That time has passed."

It did indeed sound like the Headmaster and her husband had something in common, then.

"Why?" she asked, her brow furrowed, her quest to find her discarded last item of clothing forgotten. "What makes it pass?"

"You are asking because you want to know what caused your husband to lose interest in you, but I assure you, Minister, beyond the similarity I have already highlighted our situations are too vastly different to compare. You and Weasley married for love, did you not?"

"Yes. Didn't you?"

"Hestia was..." He scowled, went to the cupboard, and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's Best Firewhisky, twisting off the cap and taking a swig. He held the bottle out to her. She shook her head. She rarely drank and when she did, spirits were hardly her first choice. "I had a number of physical relationships during and between both wars, but I had never... I had never done what you might call dating. Hestia was the first. I enjoyed my time with her. I began to relax, to relate to her as I hadn't with other women, not since..."

He did not finish the sentence, but Hermione knew he meant 'Not since Lily.' She watched him stalk over to a cabinet where he found two glasses, poured a double in each, and downed a long gulp before holding one glass out to her. She took it and sniffed– it smelled like hot cinnamon – but did not sip.

"I was up front with her. I made it clear I had no desire to produce children – I already had Delphini, one more than I'd asked for – and I could not foresee myself marrying, not ever. She said she understood."

Hermione settled herself on the couch, tucking her skirt around her lower body with her feet under her bum, regarding him carefully... and glad it didn't seem he was going to throw her out immediately after coitus, as he had the last time (which was also the first time).

"What changed?"

His expression darkened, bringing to mind the loathsome bullying potions professor who's once called her an insufferable know-it-all. He paused so long Hermione didn't think he would answer, but finally, he said, "She claimed the potion failed."

"Contraceptive potion?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"She said it failed, she was with child, and it was mine. When she refused to... to terminate it... I did the right thing. Or what I am told is the right thing. I married her. It was the same reason my father married my mother, though I have done my best not to spend these last few years punishing her and the child for the loss of my freedom as my father did to my mother and me."

"But you only married her because she was pregnant?" That sounded simply awful to Hermione. She'd made it clear to Ron from the very start of their sexual relationship that any unintended pregnancy was to result only in a child, not in a marriage. Marriage would wait until they wanted to be married for reasons unrelated to the child later. Her own father had married his first wife because she was pregnant and it had been a disaster for all involved. Hermione wanted no such future.

"What else was I to have done?" Severus demanded with a sneer. "Abandon her to raise my second bastard child? To do so without any assistance? Or to offer payment, as if Hestia were a prostitute and our child an unfortunate reminder of the dangers of the profession? No. As I said, I married her because it was the right thing to do. I believed, given time, I could learn to love her the way I should."

Hermione considered asking him if he did indeed learn to love his wife, but he had already moved on.

"Hestia knew, though. She knew I would. Marry her, I mean. If she became pregnant. I'm certain she knew. She knew how I felt about Delphini, the guilt, the self-loathing, the way I can never forgive myself for..." He silenced this confession about his older daughter by chugging down the rest of what was in the glass. He glared at the darkened windowpane as if he could see his wife in the reflection.

"You can tell me," Hermione said quietly. She fiddled with the hem of her wool skirt and waited for him to speak again.

"I told Hestia early in our courtship that I was a terrible father." He said the word courtship as if it were cock or cunt, something not quite suitable for civilized conversation. "I was unable to relate to Delphini, unable to connect with her. I told Hestia of my own abusive childhood, I told her it left me too broken to know how to parent properly. I told her I had no interest in bringing another baby into a cruel, cold world, knowing full well I wouldn't be able to shield that child from the darkness... Knowing I'd be no kind of father..." He lobbed his empty glass furiously into the fireplace, where it shattered. The residual alcohol made the flames flare up and Hermione flinched in response.

"First the Dark Lord was my master, then Dumbledore, and now, her. Just as both men were able to manipulate me – the former using my poor self-esteem and desire for greatness and the latter using my remorse and sense of responsibility regarding the murder of my only childhood friend – she does. She makes me feel guilty for my inability to show our daughter proper affection, she has me over a barrel until the girl turns eighteen. I serve a new master now and what infuriates me is that I can't hate her as I did the Dark Lord, or even as I sometimes did Dumbledore, because we created Iris together, and to hate Hestia would be to hate half of my own daughter. The girl deserves better, even if better is not something I can provide."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue – surely he could be better, surely he could try, he could learn to connect with his daughters, he could be a better father than his own was – but again he continued before she could speak. This time, the anger in his voice was palpable, his usual stoicism gone.

"Hestia knew – she fucking knew before she did it! She knew how I felt about Delphini, that I certainly could do no better with another. But she got herself pregnant anyway. Selfishly. And who pays the price?"

"You?" guessed Hermione, running her index finger over the rim of her whiskey glass. He shook his head furiously, though she thought she could see sadness in his expression too.

"The child!" He picked up a throw pillow from the edge of the couch and threw it back down. It bounced back up, nearly knocking Hermione's drink from her hand. He didn't seem to notice. "Iris Autumn – that's her name. The innocent product of an irreparably damaged home." He scowled. "She looks like me, the poor mite. She looks like I did as a child - except that she smiles."

"But sir!" Forgetting for a moment that she was no longer his student and therefore did not have to address him as 'sir,' Hermione set the Firewhisky down on the end table and rose to face him, taking hold of his upper arms and waiting for eye contact. "You cannot blame Hestia for a failed contraceptive potion. Those potions are complicated and notoriously unreliable. The apothecary and St. Mungo's alike offer a warning when–"

He wrenched away from her, his disgust palpable. "The contraceptive potion she was taking was not from the apothecary or St. Mungo's. The one she has taken is unpatented, but never before had it failed."

"You brewed it yourself," Hermione guessed softly, understanding. She plopped back down on the sofa. "So either she purposely got pregnant, or..."

"Or I made a mistake." He lifted her glass from the end table and sipped, his eyes closed, willing himself to calm before putting the drink down again. "It was either entirely her fault or entirely my own, and I'll never know which, because she is as good an Occlumens as I am a Legilimens. I know from prior experience it is of no difficulty for her to lie to me – and honestly, I don't know which is worse, to think that she forced that child on me, or that I forced the child on both of us."

It was pain, Hermione realized, that was the source of his anger. His bitterness. He'd spent his entirely life being more or less owned by others and his wife was no different. He had been right – this was not the situation in which she and Ronald found themselves, though it was no less depressing.

"How old is your daughter now? Iris?"

"She turned three in August. She calls me 'Daddy,' unlike her sister. Delphini is more comfortable with either 'Snape' or 'Father' and, occasionally, 'Professor,' generally accompanied by an air of indifference. Personality-wise, I see more of myself in Delphini, whereas Iris is an overly affection child. She tells people she loves them even when that love is undeserved. She tells me she loves me. Often. She shouldn't. I say it to her because it's true, and she is deserving of it, but for her to look to me and say-"

"You genuinely don't think you deserve to be loved by your own child?" Hermione couldn't remain on the sofa at this, staring up at his back as he faced the window. She moved to him instead, wrapping her arms around him from behind. How could this man have so much self-loathing that he couldn't even fathom why his own daughter would deem him worthy of love?

His body tensed. As comfortable as he was with himself and physical contact when it came to sex, he was equally uncomfortable when it came to contact meant to comfort.

"Headmaster? I don't believe you're as incapable of affection as you seem to think you are."

He shook his head but did not move from her hold. "The best I can be is a better father than my own father was, but that is hardly setting a high bar."

She pressed her lips to the back of his shoulder, feeling his deep inhale as she did so. She backed away then, suspecting he needed space. She retrieved her whiskey and moved back to the table against which he'd held her down. She jumped up, perching herself on the edge. It was time for a confession of her own.

"People think Ronald is a wonderful father, but the truth is, he mostly likes to show off our children. He likes for people – women, really – to see him playing with them or carrying them on his shoulders or making them laugh so they'll say, 'What a wonderful father! I wish my husband could be more like you!' Then they turn and tell me how lucky I am that I'm allowed to have a career because I have such a supportive husband to help out with the children." The sneer on her face rivaled the one Severus had just worn. "Headmaster, you wouldn't imagine how many dates he's gotten simply by looking like a decent father in public."

"Dates?" Severus turned around to face her, a quizzical expression on his pale face.

Hermione shrugged and reached for the whiskey glass he'd poured for her. She took a long sip, which burned going down, and held it out to him with a coral lipstick print where her mouth had been. He strode to her, taking it, letting their fingers brush as he did so. It gave her a pleasant chill thanks to the muscle memory of what he'd been doing to her with those fingers just a short time earlier. He sipped the Firewhisky, regarding her carefully, as he moved closer and closer until her thighs were on either side of his hips, the same positioned they'd been in already. "Your husband dates often, does he?"

"I told you he doesn't touch me."

Severus threaded the fingers of his free hand under her hair, turning her face sharply toward hers. He leaned down and for a moment she thought he might kiss her, but his lips made contact with the love-bite he'd left on the side of her neck instead, causing her to arch her back, wanting to be held by him.

"As you've no doubt discerned," he spoke softly against her skin. "I am more than happy to touch you, Minister, assuming I have permission to do so."

"I believe I'd made it abundantly clear that I welcome your touch, Headmaster," she said boldly, wondering if being this close meant he would sense her quickened pulse, the dramatic thumping of her heart inside her chest, and the return of her inability to properly breathe.

"You'll not tell anyone what I've confessed to you regarding the way I feel about my wife and children?" He nipped at her neck before tracing his mark with the tip of his tongue. His hands went to her arse, pulling her to the edge of the table.

"Of course not." She slipped her arms around his waist, her hands coming to rest on his lower back. "And you won't reveal what I confided to you about my husband and his... extracurricular activities?"

"What sort of man would I be if I shared your intimate secrets with the world, witch?"

"Not the sort to whom I'd grant permission to touch me."

Though she wouldn't have thought it possible for her abused sex to last another round, she welcomed having him inside her again. This time he undressed her completely and carried her to the sofa where he was gentler, slower, almost tender... though he still turned his face away when she attempted to capture his lips in a kiss.

When they were through, she finally found her knickers, fixed her rumpled shirt, skirt, and frazzled hair, and hurried out of the castle, already late for dinner with her family.

It was odd – though she ought to feel like a slag for having let him shag her not once, not twice, but three times since their first professional meeting only months ago, what gave her the knotted feeling in the pit of her stomach was actually the confession she'd made – in all the years that her husband had been cheating, she'd never once said a thing about it, not to anybody, not to Harry or to Luna, not even to Ron himself. It was as if she could believe it wasn't happening if she refused to recognize it, but now she had not acknowledged it, she'd shared that personal information with the Headmaster of Hogwarts, of all people. And what was to stop him from sharing what he now knew, putting her and her position as Minister at risk? She could not handle a scandal, not when she'd only taken office in August and had both a reputation to protect and an image to maintain.

But despite the fact that she barely knew him – not as a person, not on an intimate level, not as anything more than her former potions professor turned Headmaster and as a spy for the Order – she felt strangely comfortable having confided in him.

After all, she told herself, it isn't as if you said much. You didn't give details. And why would he tell anyone? It wasn't as if she told him everything, everything she sought to keep hidden from the greater wizarding world, everything she would die to keep secret. It was just one little thing. Just one confession.

That's all.

A/N:

Thank you all for the Follows and Faves, and thanks to the reviewers I've had thus far: smithback, PadmeG, FrancineHibiscus, houstonclay, Francis-rose, clarasnotlikely, evil-sensei iruka, Zedoc, CinderSpire793, PopularCats, TheLadyBookworm, Sundaegirl99, sassanech, Poledne, kleipoppetje, Mel, bulletgirlmiami89, Superfan, traveltotheend, Vani12, Lilikaco, and Guest. I know this is kind of an odd fic both in terms of content and structure so I hugely appreciate your feedback and patience! (PS: thanks houstonclay for the C3 edit! I fixed it)

To answer clarasnotlikely's Q about how long this fic will be... I'm not sure. I have mapped out 30 possible chapters but don't intend to use them all. I've already written the last one so I know where this ends up and structured a timeline for plot purposes, but since I can create more/different chapters out of various times they were together between 2008-2013 as long as none predate the first time (a future chapter) and the last time (the end) I can have a lot of freedom with it. Basically, it'll depend upon how interested people are in reading more. I definitely won't leave it unfinished if there's not much interest, but I won't create extra content if it seems readers are really just hoping to jump to the end instead (I don't want to accidentally create one of those fics that goes on for 30,000 words longer than it should have!). So I'm thinking between 15-25 probably, given what I've already mapped out.

Thanks!

-AL