Disclaimer: As always, the majority of the characters do not belong to me, but to the great Jo. All hail and reverence.

A/N: As always, please read and review, because reviews feed the muse, but a special thank you to the reviewers from WIKTT; now I FINALLY now how to get there! And, this chapter was supposed to have significantly more in it, but it got to be long enough that I decided it would make more sense to just split the chapter, so now there will be yet another one to have to wait for. Smile!

Chapter Ten: Theseus' Thread

Lareine sighed with relief as she stepped into the Syron's Lair, her arms burdened with purchases. Diagon Alley was always too hot or too cold in her opinion. It entirely lacked any kind of middle ground.

"Madame?"

She turned to face Rachel, her plump receptionist. "Yes, what is it?"

"Lord Snape is here."

"What?" Carefully sculpted eyebrows, several shades darker than her fading hair, rose incredulously. She shifted her grip on the items to allow a better view of the nervous woman. "Nocturne is working tonight, he knows that."

"He…he doesn't seem to be here for Nocturne, Madame."

The formidable woman blew out a sharply frustrated breath. The strings of the bags were starting to cut into her fingers and wrists and she had a great deal to be doing, things that were much better uses of her time than playing twenty questions with her employees. "Rachel, where is he and why is he here?"

Rachel flushed a brilliant crimson, her long, painted nails running along her peacock feather quill. "He's in your private chambers," she answered hesitantly, "and he has flowers."

"Flowers?!" Only a quick dive on Lareine's part kept the parcels from tumbling to the ground. Her blue eyes blinked owlishly, her lower lip disappearing between her teeth. "Lord Snape?"

"Yes."

Shaking her head, Lareine wasted no further time in hustling to her quarters, wondering how he'd even gotten in there. The door was charmed to her touch and her touch alone; no one else should have been able to enter. She brushed her cheek against the plain wood of the door, pushing it open with her elbow and hip.

"Good evening."

She looked sharply at the owner of the deep, velvety voice, standing over the cauldron in which a brand new batch of contraceptive was bubbling. "How did you get in?"

He held up one of her gloves, turned inside out. "They were on your office desk." His pitch eyes glanced back at her over his shoulder. "I'm disappointed. Always before your potions have been your first concern."

Her frown growing deeper, she nonetheless set her packages on the table and crossed the room. "It needs to stew for a full moon cycle before the next step," she commented, adjusting the heat very slightly with her wand. "Rachel said you had flowers?"

"Yes, you just placed your bags atop them."

With a startled oath, the madam rescued the now rather squashed bouquet. "You're in a singular mood today." She gave him a dark look and found a crystal vase in which to display the bundle of crocus blossoms.

"The Dark Lord is still anxious for a match between us to work," he replied, taking off his cloak and draping it over a chair. "I suddenly find it advantageous to give him the impression of its success."

"Do you?" she asked, stalling for time. Without the cloak, she could see that he wore a very fine set of dress robes, immaculately tailored to his lean figure. They were black, naturally, but trimmed in hunter green embroidery with silver snakes for clasps. He'd done something with his hair, as well, she realized, eyeing the two thin, intricate braids that held the forelocks off his face. It was very old style in the wizarding world, all but forgotten now, but it had once meant that the bearer of the braids was of mixed or impure blood. He was making a statement that few would be able to understand, but then, he was certainly perverse enough to wring amusement from it. Severus Snape would never be an extraordinarily handsome man, certainly no match for the cold beauty of Lucius Malfoy, but for the first time in their acquaintance she saw him as a genuinely attractive man.

And was instantly suspicious. What had provoked this alteration in his appearance? One thing that Lareine counted on was that people were predictable and for the most part unchanging. She didn't trust change at face value.

An uneasy prickle ran down her spine and she busied herself with arranging the flowers so as to hide it. She'd been enjoying her share of the games; the risks had given an edge to her appetites that had been long-lacking. Now, though, she wondered how the uneven balance had shifted.

"Indeed," he said simply, noting the irritated flush to her cheeks.

"How so?"

"I thought we might discuss it over dinner. Café Dionysus said they had reservations open for tonight."

"Dinner, Severus?"

"Dinner, Lareine. An evening tradition consisting of the partaking of food. I trust you are familiar with the concept?"

Thrown off guard by the silken offensiveness, she spoke without thinking. "You know, this could be why your students hated you."

To her very great surprise, his only response was a low chuckle. "Shall I take that as a yes to the invitation?"

Her mind spun with theories, each as unsupported as the last. What she did know for certain, however, was that the restaurant he'd named was a very upscale establishment favored by the Inner Circle of Death Eaters. It was a prestige mark, a gossip focus. The Dark Lord himself had been known to eat there on a semi-regular basis. It guaranteed that even if the despot wasn't present that evening, he would still know of the outing before the night was out.

That thought was strangely comforting. It was easier to describe their 'date' as a political expedience or a business arrangement. It was disconcerting to think that he might have been forming a romantic attachment. Disconcerting and extremely out of character for the dour Potions Master. "Shall I change?"

"That is for you to decide," he answered tactfully, once again making his token obeisance to the mocking god of irony.

Lareine looked down at her plain but well made robes, suitable for a day of errands when one has a reputation to preserve, then at his obvious preparations. "I'll change."

Having been raised in a blended environment of magical and Muggle, Lareine was a woman who liked to create her art by hand. She enjoyed selecting clothing, doing her hair, and putting on make-up; it gave her a perverse kind of pride, as it was something many witches couldn't do for themselves. Tonight, however, she employed Transfiguration and charms to speed up the process and kept the primping at a minimum, aware the entire time of the dark man's amusement.

In the space of ten minutes, she stood before him with her silk lined velvet cloak folded over one arm. She'd transfigured her robes to clinging indigo silk, mostly modest but for the fit and the plunging neckline. Her face was delicately painted, tumbling over her shoulders. "Shall we then?"

"Yes, I believe we shall." He took her cloak and draped it over her, fastening the black cloth frogs. He then swirled his own cloak about him, a dramatic movement more inherent than planned.

He gallantly offered her his arm and she accepted, the pair walking out to the wide eyed stares of her employees and the few patrons who waited in the reception area. They were met with an equal number of astonished or disbelieving looks along the street, which were disdainfully ignored by both of them.

Lareine was just a bit miffed when she realized that her acceptance had been taken entirely for granted. Reservations available…reservations had clearly been made, with a great deal of influence exercised in the process. They had no more than walked into the crowded restaurant, past the queue lining the walk, than they'd been seated at one of the best tables the establishment had to offer: near enough the orchestra to enjoy the music, not so near as to drown out all attempts at conversation, and in an alcove with the perfect blend of light and shadow to render their presences visible but their movements discreet.

Severus held out her chair, scooting it under her in a process that almost managed not to be awkward. There were no menus, but when the obsequious waiter floated up to them with an insincere smile, the Potions Master gave him their order in a bored drawl that strongly suggested his lack of confidence in the young man's ability to fulfill so simple a task. It was a tone his students would have recognized in their sleep.

His companion didn't object to his deciding her meal for her; it was expected among pureblood circles, one of the last remnants of the age of chivalry and chauvinism. It had never been something of which she'd been fond, but she dealt with it as an unavoidable nuisance.

While they were waiting for their food, Severus took her hand and raised her knuckles to his lips in a lingering kiss, conscious of the attention being focused their way from other tables. "Do look as if I'm not interrogating you, please," he murmured.

"If I do, will you explain all this?" she asked, indicating the room with a sweep of her other hand.

"I need you to get a letter to someone for me," he began, long fingers stroking the inside of her wrist. "And I need it to be with your customary degree of subtlety."

"I'm not an owl, Lord Snape."

"No, but you have the necessary contacts to ensure its timely delivery."

"To whom?" she inquired, curious in spite of herself.

"Severus?"

They both turned at the incredulous greeting, eyebrows raising almost in unison. Lucius Malfoy was approaching them from the host's stand. "Is that you old boy?"

"Lucius." He still hadn't released the madam's hand, nor did he now, again brushing his lips over her knuckles. "Narcissa."

"Interesting place to arrange payment for your whore," Lucius spat out, still seething over the denial of his privileges at the Lair.

"Indulge me, Lord Malfoy; precisely who is the whore?" Lareine's voice was sweet, her steely gaze anything but.

Severus narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, studying the Lady Malfoy. Narcissa had been heartbroken at her son's defection, all but shattered by his disappearance after the war. She existed as no more than a wispy shadow, only the devoted care of her house elves and a few steadfast friends keeping her alive. He decided to take a gamble and injected a sympathy into his voice that was only partially feigned. "My dear Cissy, I'm afraid I've been neglecting you recently." He was acutely aware of Lucius' fierce scrutiny. "Can you ever forgive me?"

She summoned a weak smile, her grey-blue eyes watery with constant tears. "There's nothing to forgive, Severus."

"Will you allow me to pay you a call sometime soon?"

Her eyes flickered to her husband for wary approval before answering. "That would be…I would…" She cleared her throat, her flustered blush staining her pale cheeks. Once, Narcissa Malfoy had been the epitome of poise and social grace, unflappable in any situation. "I would be grateful for the company."

He nodded slowly, feeling an alien stab of compassion. He'd always thought Narcissa Black Malfoy to be vain, shallow, and insipid, but the loss of her son had revealed a great deal about her. In all things she had deferred to her husband. All things but one: she truly, deeply loved Draco, and mourned him greatly. He wondered idly if Draco knew, if he had known. It was possible, he decided, if highly unlikely. The Malfoys were demonstrative in many things- wealth, power, connections- but affection had never been one of them.

"Shall we join you, old boy?"

"I think not," Severus answered coolly. He met the hard grey eyes as he nibbled the end of Lareine's finger. "In such a case as this, a crowd would be absolutely insupportable."

His lips turning white in pinched disapproval, Lucius bowed stiffly and stalked back to the perplexed seating host, his wife following aimlessly behind. Severus watched him until the pair of blonds were seated at a distant table, turning back to Lareine only to find her regarding him gravely.

"You play a dangerous game in baiting the snake."

"You forget, Madame, that I am a serpent as well."

"So to whom am I supposed to be delivering this letter?"

"To your friend in Spain, as an intermediary." He waited until she was taking a sip of wine. "From thence to Nymphadora Tonks."

It was slight- very slight- and its minimal existence made her rise somewhat higher in his estimation. It was still there, though, that telltale widening of the eyes and the muted choke of liquid catching in a surprised throat. Lareine calmly set down the glass and wiped her lips daintily on the linen lap cloth. "I understood her to be missing after the war," she noted.

"You also understand her to be in Spain, posing as Neville Longbottom. Don't reach for your wand," he continued sharply, seeing her fingers twitch at her décolletage. "You don't want me dead."

"No?"

"No," he echoed with grim satisfaction. "Not with the precautions I have taken."

The blond remained silent, her eyes darting quickly back and forth.

"You see, I have all of my facts, all of my theories, all of my guesses written down and in my vault at Gringotts. With my death, the vault gets opened and perused by the Dark Lord, of which I don't see you being much in favor. If you attempt to Obliviate me- which, I should mention, is a charm to which I have a very high tolerance- there are notes in my house telling met to go to my vault. Either way, you lose, and will have given a way a most costly hand."

She heard him out in a silence that continued as the waiter delivered their meal. "This has to do with Nocturne," she said finally.

"Only peripherally."

Her brow furrowed questioningly. "It's true then? You really were loyal to the old man?"

"With every fiber of my being," he swore lowly.

"Hmmm…." Another long silence, one he was content to wait out. "Do you know who she is?"

"Do you?"

"No," she admitted ruefully. "I was simply asked to take them in. They were already glamoured when they arrived."

"You keep records, do you not, of the names they carry before they enter the Lair?" He knew who Nocturns was, but he wasn't entirely sure about Thantatos.

"Names are easy to fake, Severus."

"But names, even fake ones, have meaning."

Her eyes closed, twitching beneath the lids as though she read a paper against the darkness there. "Tristan," she recalled after a moment. "She came in as Tristan."

"And the other?"

"Lancelot."

He almost laughed in spite of himself. If there was any doubt that the silent paid were supporters of Dumbledore and Potter, it was dispelled. Tristan and Lancelot. He snorted elegantly. The two greatest champions of courtly love in Arthurian legend, one from Cornwall and one from France. It made a great deal most sense that in didn't, and gave him a possible clue into the identity of the platinum-haired bodyguard.

"I seem to remember being informer that you were staying out of this particular game."

"I changed my mind."

"And if you change your mind again?"

"I won't."

She studied his angular face, noting the facial hair and wondering if it meant anything. She didn't want to believe him but her instinct was certain of his sincerity. Her instinct had kept her alive too many times to argue with it now. "So you wish a letter delivered to Spain. What is this letter to say?"

"That, my dear Madame Lareine, is a secret."

"No, it isn't," she refuted harshly. "Nocturne and Thanatos were introduced to me by one I trust explicitly. You don't have the honor of that distinction."

"I rarely do."

She ignored his sarcasm, flicking her fingers in annoyance. "Be that as it may, I will not be party in delivering a letter of whose contents I cannot be sure."

"I believe you will, Miss Walsham."

She froze, staring at him with large, uncertain eyes. "How did you-"

"I may have been clumsy for a spy before, Lareine, but suffice it to say that genuine interest in the outcome has motivated me to step up my efforts. I'm fully aware of your rather colorful background, such as your departure from Hogwarts and your attempt to find a Potions Master willing to teach you in spite of it. I believe it was he who first sold you into prostitution?" he offered smoothly, ignoring her stricken look. "I hold a great many of your secrets now, Lareine, and I am fully intending to keep my own as well."

"As well?" She whispered.

"Do you keep mine, I will also keep yours."

She spent a long moment considering that, but she really had little other choice. Her reputation as a madam was built into the mystique of her name and the shrouding fog of her history. It was that same secrecy that gave many of her girls their allure, Nocturne not the least of them. "Will it endanger me if it gets intercepted?"

"No."

"You sound sure of that."

"I'm more careful than that." He reached out and lightly touched the back of her hand with a fingertip, more than he was comfortable giving when not in the façade of doting suitor. "You may rest assured, Madame, that I am cautious of my fellows in this."

She nodded unhappily, stabbing at her steak with her fork.

"In time, I shall also have letters for France and Italy, to be delivered in the same manner. Quiet and untraceable, and unsuspicious."

"Italy won't be a problem, though it will take some time to track down which brothel he'll be visiting. France, though…"

"She is a paragon of beauty in the French state; there will be many willing to take love notes and tokens to such a one, and if it has a symbol the messenger will not recognize but that the recipient will, so much the better."

"And why is that you think they will all be so willing and easy to trust you?" She demanded shrewdly. "You killed the old man, after all, and were perfectly beastly through all their school years. Have you earned their trust?"

"You confuse trust with affection. I may never have had their affection, and quite frankly, I've never wanted it." Except one, his traitorous mind whispered, and he ruthlessly tamped down the stray thought. "Their game- our game- has moved far beyond the petty restrictions of affection. Affection dictates a school clique; it does not dictate a political stratagem."

"Are you being optimistic?"

He gave her a sour look. "Hardly."

"Then what are you being?"

Her query ended on a trailing sigh and it was all he could do not to laugh at it. He'd forgotten in the past five years how good it felt to feel alive. In the fourteen year entr'acte- or eleven year, depending on whether he ended the intermission at Potter's arrival at Hogwarts, when the troubles first resumed- he'd felt alive during his research. The pursuit of his grail had filled him with a purity of emotion that had seemed entirely different than the adrenaline-induced euphoria of escaping from another meeting or revel with his life and sanity still intact. Now, however, he wasn't so sure that they weren't eventually the same thing. It seemed that he was never going to stop learning, a thought that brought with it a profound and unsettling comfort.

He noticed Lucius watching them intently and allowed the smile to grow, not so large as to appear frightening to anyone who knew him, but more than was his wont. His elegant fingers re-captured her hand and brought it to his lips, his breath whispering against her palm. "I am being what I can. Precisely what that is I will discover in time."

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They left the restaurant hand in hand, Lareine giggling and flushing as they passed the Malfoy table. They both ignored the daggers the blond man shot at them with his eyes, emerging into the clammy darkness of Diagon Alley. It wasn't until they were safely ensconced in her chambers at the Lair that they left the façade of courting sweethearts aside and relaxed into their more taciturn demeanors.

"And you really won't tell me what is in the letter?" she pouted playfully, already fully aware of what his answer was going to be.

"I prefer to hold an audience in suspense," he shot back. His dark chuckle rolled across the space at her indignation.

The amusement faded from her blue eyes and she studied him, her expression closed and concealing. "Nocturne should be finished for the evening," she told him quietly, hanging her cloak in the wardrobe. "She was on early shift."

"Getting rid of me?"

"I'm curious," she confessed easily. "You know who she is, Snape. I don't even know who she is, but you do. You figured it out, and yet you're still here. But I also know that you haven't touched her since finding out, which would argue to me that she's one of your former students."

He remained silent, which was in a way acknowledgement enough.

"You're still drawn to her. I can see it. It's my job to see it, to separate clients from my girls when one or the other starts getting too attached. But you're not exactly attached, are you?" she continued, the small, puckering frown appearing between her eyes. "I don't think I can quiet determine the connection that binds the two of you, yet bound you are.

"If nothing else, I am not the only one aware of this connection. Lord Malfoy has already sought to take advantage of it, the Dark Lord is assuredly aware of it, seeing as he is constantly attempting to redirect it, and not every member of the Circle is as daft as Crabbe and Goyle." She gave him another piercing look, eerily reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall. "Besides, I think it would be healthy for you to figure out what it is, see if it's something you can work with."

He wasn't entirely sure what to say to that line of reasoning, so choosing the wiser course, he again said nothing. Silence could be interpreted many ways; making a fool of himself through stumbling words was more difficult to shrug aside. With a mocking bow, he left her rooms and walked quietly up the stairs to the very top of the Lair, where Nocturne kept her room. Even while still debating with himself the wisdom of this course, his hand rose to knock on the plain door.

It was opened by Thanatos, and seeing the bodyguard was, as always, a shock after seeing Lucius. The aristocratic features of the two men weren't really similar, but the coloring and the aura of malevolent power was. Bodyguard and spy stared at each other in the doorway. Finally, an almost smile quirked at the younger man's lips and he stepped aside to allow Severus entry.

The Potions Master could hear muted splashing from the bathroom but took the time to remove his heavy cloak, folding it and laying it over the back of one of the chairs. He didn't know what to make of Thanatos' apparently easy trust when the other man waved lazily toward the bathroom and then disappeared behind the closed door of his own room. It wasn't the action- the bodyguards didn't stay in the room when their charges plied their wares- but they never left without the slightly menacing awareness of an observer nonetheless.

Shaking his head, he filed the change in a corner of his mind and entered the small bathing room, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

Nocturne was in the tub, her eyes closed and her head leaned back against the ledge of cool porcelain. His chest tightened at the smooth, tense line of her throat blending into the curves of her chest and stomach. She was an unearthly beauty and even knowing that it was a creation of spells and intent couldn't detract from that. It may have been created, but it still existed, and it was before him in shameless display. He could see and smell the oils floating on the surface of the water, the subtle, clinging scents of lavender and white heather. Beneath the water, her alabaster skin was flushed the palest pink from the heat of her soak.

He just stood there, drinking her in like a dying man at an oasis. She was poison and antidote in one glass, treading the razor-fine line of balance between the two. He tried to be diligent, tried to remain separate enough to name the strange connection Lareine had indicated, but even with the attempt he knew it was futile. She was an intoxication that would never fully be named; knowledge and awareness didn't alter that in the slightest.

It was unclear to him what precisely alerted her to his presence but he saw the instant that she noticed him. Her magnificent eyes didn't open, but every line of her body was suddenly thrumming with tension and awareness, as if it was all she could do not to leap out of the tub and square off against him. Her nostrils flared and she took in his personal scent of sandalwood and herbal soaps, cataloging it in her memory and identifying who it was that invaded the sanctity of her bath. Only then did she turn her head to look at him, her deep violet eyes neutral in their regard.

Without a word, Severus removed his dress robes, standing naked before her without any trace of discomfort or modesty. His dark eyes continued to drown in her, the air humming between them. She started to sit up but he shook his head, letting the rich fabric pool on the slick tile floor. Approaching the tub, he swung himself over her and knelt in the steaming water, not once looking away from her vaguely bemused gaze.

He saw a dish of soap, soft and almost liquid, resting on the ledge between the tub and the wall and scooped it into his hands, rubbing the slick substance between his fingers. His hands found her shoulders, gently massaging the tightness there and not moving on until her felt them relax and loosen under his skilled ministrations. The lather built along her slender arms, her fair skin blooming a pale red at his strong touch, but from the breathy groans whispering from her sealed lips, he knew that if there was pain, it was only the sharper edge of pleasure. Whenever his hands grew dry, he scooped more of the soap and continued, working at her body underwater until she was nearly boneless in his grasp.

Her eyes flew open as he slid first one finger, then two within her, the pad of his thumb resting over her clitoris. Then the hand stopped moving. She mewled soundlessly and ground her hips against him but her merely smirked down at her, arresting her with the look in his eyes. She couldn't describe that look, couldn't capture it within words, but it stole her breath away. His other hand smoothed down her legs, caressing the soles of her feet, the backs of her knees, before sliding back up her body to caress her face. His touch was gentler now, tender somehow with every sweep of his fingers against the arch of her brow or the curve of her jaw. The fingers slid through her damp hair to clamp tightly around the back of her neck, his forehead lowering to hers, and only then did his lower hand resume its movements.

Water and oil splashed heedlessly on the floor with her writhing, her hands clutching at his whipcord shoulders. Just when she felt the painful bubble about to burst in her chest, he pulled his hand away, holding her against his chest while she shook with blade-sharp tremors. When they had slowed somewhat, he took a bottle from the ledge and poured the viscous liquid into his hands, strong fingers digging possessively into her scalp. She could still feel his breath against her cheek, her throat, as he washed her hair with a strange mix of tenderness and power. She felt distinctly off balance, but couldn't help but be aware of his arms waiting to catch her when she fell.

He arched her against him, her breasts pressing into his bare chest, so that he could rinse her hair underwater, his fingers threading through the thick mass of curls. Under the surface, they floated around her face like seaweed trailing from a naiad; when he pulled her back up, they stretched and elongated with the waterlogged weight. He Vanished the water but rather than reaching for a towel, he poured more of the oil into his hands. Severus caught her eyes with his, not allowing her to look away while he smoothed it into her body, sucking up the moisture and locking it into her skin. She stared back at him with something akin to wonder, though the edges were tainted with confusion and wariness. She was letting him have his way for the moment, but he was under no illusions that she'd let down her guard.

When her body was completely dry and gleaming, he reached for a cloth and transfigured it to silk, twining the whispering fabric through her hair and letting it absorb the excess water. He dried himself with a dispassionate charm, pulling her against him and playing with her wet curls.

Finally, she shook off his hands and stood up, taking his hand. He followed her docilely into the bedroom, allowing her to push him gently onto the bed. Her small, delicate hands remained in contact with his chest, Nocturne tumbling down with him atop the comforter. She gave him a considering look, her nails scratching ever so lightly against the smattering of dark hair against his pale chest. Her eyes spoke what her voice wouldn't; where was the balance here? What twist in the game did this present?

Severus didn't give her the chance to find out. Encircling her upper arms with his hands, he swiftly rolled them over, trapping her beneath his weight. The two thin braids on the sides of his face swung down, just brushing the comforter. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his face to hers, feeling the pace of her breathing quicken, hearing the unease as it rattled through her throat.

And he kissed her.

His lips teased against hers, coaxing them open with gentle movements. Although she stiffened against him, he didn't stop kissing her, nipping her lower lip with soft insistence. Melting against him, she opened her lips to a dance of tongues and heat, an exploration more sexual, more sensual, than anything they'd done before. He had always played the game of whoring dangerously close; now he toppled them over the edge into a sweet oblivion of breathy gasps and swallowed groans. He pulled away and looked down at her from a few inches, seeing her face flushed prettily and her mouth swollen with his kisses. It had been a very, very long time since he'd seen a woman like that because of him, because of his actions, his kisses. With a rumbling growl of longing, he resumed his attack on her willing mouth.

Nocturne closed her eyes as the enigma atop her slid slowly down her body, paying every inch of her skin the reverence he'd given her lips. Even if she had been just a regular prostitute, with nothing but the job on her mind, he would have been an odd man. Whoever heard of trying to pleasure a whore? But nearly every single time he came, if the visit was or became sexual in nature, he saw to her own height, sought her pinnacle before allowing himself to reach his own. It was a perverse kind of courtesy, a mocking discipline that baffled her. She choked on a strangled cry, her fingers tangling in his clean hair and digging into his scalp.

Severus didn't know anymore if this was part of the game or not. All he knew was the taste of her redolent on his tongue and the sweet pain of her hands on his head. He knew it was wrong, that he shouldn't be taking advantage of her knowing who she was, but the thought didn't bring with it the sick, black guilt that it usually did; instead, he slid his arms under her hips to reveal her more fully to his questing mouth, his overlarge nose finally a blessing rather than a point of ridicule.

Tugging at his arms impatiently, she tried to make her wishes clear. The heaven of his mouth was pure hell when she desperately wanted him to quench the fires he was stoking. A small part of her screamed that this was Severus Snape, the teacher who had lived to make others miserable, but memories of an accident in Potions, of a robe draped around her, of the depth of self-loathing in his eyes when he'd marked her…these things clamored louder than the voice of caution and drove her to greater heights than she'd ever known. Losing all semblance of patience, she wrapped a lock of hair around her small fist and tugged viciously, yanking his head away from her.

He actually grinned. Granted, it was barely discernible from a smirk, but to someone who'd spent the past several months studying the former Head of Slytherin, there were subtle differences. Severus Snape was grinning. He kissed his way back up her body, marking her with her own essence, before recapturing her lips, his body a firm weight atop her. She whimpered and rolled her hips, her entire world narrowed to her own pleasure and the man pinning her to the bed.

He teased her mercilessly, surging against her only to pull away. When she struggled against him he only grabbed for her arms, sure that there would be inadvertent bruises in the morning. The more he restrained her, the more unrestrained she became, writhing underneath him with a litany of silent pleas pouring from her elfin eyes. She caught her lower lip and sucked it sweetly, and he thrust into her with a groan that threatened to split his chest.

For several long moments, neither moved, their lips brushing against each other and breaths rasping against their skin. Still motionless within her, Severus kissed her softly, slowly, fire racing from where they were joined to rack his brain and render him senseless. He could feel her skin hot and flushed against his hands, his chest, everywhere they touched and it was that sensation of all-consuming flame that made him roll his hips gently, grinding into her to hear her breath catch. It had been barely enough but it was too much and she was quaking around him, ripples chasing down his shaft to batter at what little remained of his self control.

Ruthlessly, he rode it out, waiting until the tremors had slowed to start a rhythmic surge and retreat, rendering her gasping in moments. Their skin gleamed with oil and sweat, her alabaster face blotchy with a fierce flush, but her eyes were closed and her head thrown back in bliss, her empty hands curling and uncurling into helpless fists as waves of pure sensation crashed over her again, pulling her under. He could feel himself tighten and he let go of her arms, gathering her close against his chest and claiming her mouth in another searing, plundering kiss as he poured into her. Neither noticed his collapse atop her, the sweat drying on their skin in clammy puddles as they sought to find the world in the chaos of sensation.

It was Nocturne who awoke first, her eyes snapping open to fix on the man still sprawled half atop her. She eased out from under him, reaching for her wand to perform cleaning charms on them and the room itself, heavy with the scent of exertion and fluids. She stared at him for a long time.

She was still staring at him when she heard Thanatos emerge from his connected room, studying both her and the Death Eater on the bed. She looked up at him with huge, tear-filled eyes.

He slowly shook his head, communication passing effortlessly between them though not a word was said. His grey eyes, normally hard and cold and dead to the world at large, darkened with compassion as his ward buried her face in her hands. He knew what it was like to suddenly have the balance ripped out from under her, and when she learned more about the strange puzzle of Severus Snape, she would remember that she knew what it was like, as well.

But Nocturne hadn't gotten back her distance yet, and her hands shook as she stroked a silky lock of hair off the pale forehead of the man in the bed. She'd always vaguely expected passion from the Potions Master; it the tenderness that had shocked her.

Still shaking his head, Thanatos moved to the chess board and adjusted the black pawn, setting it where it could pose a threat to the white queen. The white king still loomed dangerously over it, but depending on who made the first move, and what the first move was, he had a feeling that the queen would be more at risk than he.