STAGES OF GRIEF
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE:
LIBERATION
Two weeks.
She's going to be gone for two weeks.
A fortnight.
Might as well be forever.
"I mucked it up, Crookshanks," Draco informed the squashed-faced ginger half-kneazle, who stared back at him with a knowing look, as if to say, 'I told you so.'
He'd tried during dinner. He really had. He was polite... at first. He'd shaken hands with Potter and Ginny Weasley. He'd complimented the witch's dress and asked her how her first season on the Holyhead Harpies was going. He'd answered Potter's broad, dull questions about his life post-Hogwarts (no, he didn't have a job. Yes, he was looking for one. No, he didn't play Quidditch much anymore. Yes, he was still in touch with Goyle. No, he didn't have plans for Halloween. Yes, he agreed they were having an unseasonably warm October.) but when the conversation turned to W.A.M.M. and their arrests back in May, Draco felt his patience waning.
"I hexed that prat and I'd do it again," said Ginny, referring to the man who'd shot a jinx in his aunt Andromeda's direction during the Ministry debacle. "It was worth a few weeks in Azkaban to see him post Bat-Bogey. Besides, prison wasn't that bad. Without the Dementors there, it's mostly just dull, but not unbearable."
"I disagree," Draco said, his voice without inflection. "The Dementors may as well have still been there. I was locked in my aunt's cell. It was dismal."
"All you need is a strong mind and you'll survive just fine," said Ginny dismissively. "It can only drive you to madness if you let it."
"Rubbish!" said Draco, a little more harshly than he'd intended. He felt Hermione's hand on his knee. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Perhaps it affects different people in different ways." He was trying to be diplomatic. "But I hardly think those who go mad are driven to it because they lack strong minds. The war hit some of us harder than others."
"You're suggesting it didn't hit me hard?" She narrowed her gaze, and though Draco didn't see it, now Harry had his hand on her knee, a silent reminder to keep calm. "My brother was murdered. Your aunt nearly killed me. The Final Battle was hell. What suffering did you endure, in your pampered palace? You got to spend three years committing war crimes only to be released from Ministry custody because you agreed to spend a couple of hours chatting it up with Hermione once or twice per week for six months."
"My father is dead," Draco reminded her. "My aunt is dead because your mother killed her. My mother–"
"My mother killed her to stop her killing me, or Hermione, or anyone else. She was bloody barmy. She was a murderer. She was as bad as Voldemort. And your father..."
"Ginny," said Harry, his voice low. "Let's change the subject."
"My father did not deserve to die," said Draco coldly. "My father was a good man."
"A good man who gave eleven-year-old me a diary to open a secret chamber knowing kids could get killed – knowing I'd probably be killed – for the fun of it? Any idea what it's like to be possessed by the darkest wizard of all time?"
"I think we need another bottle of this wine," said Hermione, holding up her nearly empty glass. She and Harry exchanged a look. "It's a sweeter wine than I'm used to, but I think I love it. Don't you love it? Harry?"
"Harry hates wine," Ginny snapped. "He's only drinking it because everyone else is and he didn't want to order a butterbeer like a kid."
"I think some of us have had enough wine." Harry's glass was nearly empty too, but that's because Ginny had been sipping from it since the bottle ran dry, having finished her own. "Anyone for coffee?"
"My father did not know you would end up possessed or that anyone might be killed," Draco insisted, even though even he didn't quite believe this. "He didn't know the diary was a Horcrux or that the Dark Lord's soul still existed within it. Had he known..."
"Had he known, he would've slipped it into the school years earlier, right? Don't misunderstand, Draco, I'm glad you're reformed, but he wasn't. He supported You-Know-Who during the First War and again leading up to and during the Second. He only defected because you and your mother did and because, once he knew Harry'd survived the Killing Curse for the second time, he knew your side would lose. He denounced You-Know-Who to keep out of prison, not because he felt badly for his actions."
"You don't have any idea how he felt!" Draco clenched his fists under the table. Hermione tried again to change the subject, she even whispered in his ear, 'She's pissed, let it go!' but now Draco was the one who couldn't let the subject drop. He needed her to know – he needed them all to know – that it didn't matter why his father had walked away from the Dark Lord. What was important was that he did, and he didn't deserve to die for his actions, and besides, some of the Dark Lord's ideas weren't so bad, especially during the First War, so it made perfect sense for anyone with a long lineage of magic and a sense of pureblood pride to follow him!
And dinner devolved from there.
Once they'd returned to Malfoy Manor, all he wanted to do was rant and rave about the rudeness of the Weasley girl, and ask how dare she question his father's loyalties and motives, and suggest Potter find himself a less obnoxious, out-of-touch, obstinate and awful girlfriend, since the so-called Chosen One hadn't actually seemed all 'that bad,' save for the fact he couldn't control his witch. Hermione sat on the bed and let him have out his tirade, but when he was done, when he collapsed onto the bed beside her expecting support and sympathy, she said quietly, "Draco? I think we need a break."
"A what?" He sat up. She stood and faced him.
"Not a break-up, but a break. I... my parents have been asking for months for me to visit them. I haven't seen them since Easter. Six months. They... I think two weeks should do it. I'll take two weeks to go see them in London, and we can talk when I return."
"When you... what? You're leaving?" None of this made sense. Not at all. Not even a little. She was his girlfriend. They lived together! (Well, sort of.) He loved her and she loved him, or so she said. Hadn't she just said it earlier in the afternoon? He said the cat had never been in love, in love like they were, and she'd said "Obviously." That meant they were obviously in love, didn't it? And people who are in love don't take two week breaks from each other. His parents certainly never had.
"I need to think, Draco. I need... I need time. Space. Air."
"There's air here!" He stood too. They faced off across the bed. The cat hopped up and stood between them, dead center of the mattress, before flopping onto his back and mewing as if he thought asking for belly rubs was a good way to diffuse the tension of the moment.
"I need more air," she said.
"So open a window!" he shouted. No, none of this made sense, and he felt like he was spiraling, spiraling out of control, spiraling down a rabbit hole like the one in that stupid story his mother had made him borrow, the one from the Muggle children's book Severus Snape read her during her worst period months ago. ("You'll like it," she'd said. "It's delightfully odd.")
"Please do not yell at me."
"I'm not yelling!" he yelled. In a barely-controlled neutral volume, he reiterated, "I am not yelling. But I don't understand. She started it. She lit into me. She insulted my father. She..."
"She was drunk."
"That makes it alright?"
"She lacked control; she had no filter. You did. You do. And I'm not angry at you for defending your father, but some of the things you said, Draco... about Lord Voldemort having some good ideas, about the Weasleys never understanding the importance of blood status, about how your father didn't mean any harm in opening the Chamber of Secrets... I was Petrified by the basilisk, remember? Had I not had the sense to look around that corner with a mirror, I would've died at thirteen years old. I am not calling your father a terrible person–"
"But you're agreeing with Weasley, and she called him a terrible person!"
"He was... flawed," Hermione said delicately. She, unlike Draco, did not seem to have an ounce of anger in her. She seemed only sad. This, for some reason, made him angrier.
"He was raised to believe in blood supremacy and that's all he did! He couldn't help it! It's not his fault. We can't all grow up in a dirty hovel with a half dozen other kids and two pureblood parents who worship Muggles–"
"It's statements like that, Draco!" Hermione exclaimed, exasperated. "When you say things like that it makes me wonder how reformed you are, whether you've truly denounced pureblood supremacy, or whether you're like Snape, willing to look the other way as Muggles are harmed if it suits you, despite being in love with one! I am Muggleborn. I am a Mudblood! I've always been and will always be, and if you harness anti-Muggle feelings while seeing me as an exception to the negative stereotypes you were raised to believe about them–"
"I'm not like Snape!" Draco snarled, even though a tiny, nagging part of him thought she had a point. Snape would've been content to serve the Dark Lord and share his life with Lily Evans. He was willing to ask the Dark Lord to spare her but did not ask the same for her child. He would've seen nothing wrong with rising in the ranks of the Death Eaters as a young man with a Muggleborn wife on his arm. And though he wouldn't admit it to Hermione, if Draco were being completely honest with himself, so would he. If he and Hermione could go back in time, and if he thought it would benefit him and his family, he wouldn't have thought twice about asking the Dark Lord to make an exception for her while looking the other way as others like her were killed. And, for the first time in his life, for this Draco felt truly and deeply ashamed.
"This is who I am." She thrust up her sleeve, where only the M carved into her skin by Bellatrix Lestrange still remained. She had the knife, she had the antidote, but she'd not yet managed to rid herself of this last letter. It served as a constant visual reminder of who she was, what she'd endured, and how much she'd sacrificed to help save the wizarding world. As much as she'd hated having the word etched into her skin, there was a modicum of pride there too, and for that reason she had yet to remove it fully, despite her gratitude to Narcissa for having relieved her of the rest of the word. "This is who I've always been and will always be, Draco. I am Muggleborn. My parents are Muggles. But I fought against You-Know-Who not only because I am a Mudblood, but because I never questioned how wrong his means and motives were. Never once."
"You're a better person than I am, then, Hermione. Congratulations."
She shook her head and he scowled, an expression that very much reminded her of the boy he'd been in school. The look broke her heart, splintered it into a thousand pieces, did to it what the Final Battle had done to the destroyed Mirror of Erised. Damn. She wished she could look into that mirror now, as a barrage of mental images from the past invaded her mind's eye. She remembered the disgust with which he'd looked upon her back then, the word he'd called her, the satisfying way it felt to punch him in the face, the way he'd goaded Buckbeak and played up his injuries to get the creature killed and Hagrid fired, simply because he was a brat and a bigot. He's stomped on Harry's face and left him to bleed. He'd nearly killed Katie Bell trying to use her to get to Dumbledore. He'd been delighted to turn the DA over to Umbridge fifth year. As a prefect, he'd bullied younger students. He'd said she stunk when she entered Madam Malkin's while he was being fitted for new robes. He'd clearly worshipped his father, no matter how heinous the elder Malfoy's actions had been. The bad he'd done, so much of it had been in an attempt to make his father proud, but did that make it forgivable? He'd not identified Harry to his aunt when they were caught by Snatchers, but he did fight in the Final Battle, at least for a little while. Hermione felt herself on the brink of ugly sobbing, a complete emotional breakdown, and she was even more certain now than when she'd first suggested it that they needed a break. Though, hopefully, not a break-up.
"I don't know if I know you," she said quietly, thinking she needed to get out of here before she lost it entirely. "I don't know if I truly know you, and what's worse, when I look in the mirror, sometimes I don't recognize myself."
"Then leave."
"It's not forever. Two weeks. I promise. Unless... unless you don't want me back in two weeks?"
"Your brother and sister are allergic to cats, aren't they?" he asked. She nodded, looking surprised by the question. She barely talked about her brother and sister, the two children her parents conceived while they were unaware of her existence. "Leave Crookshanks here. I can manage the ugly rat-catcher for a fortnight."
"I do love you," she whispered. She wanted to kiss him, to hug him and apologize even though she felt this was the best thing for them right now, especially if they had any hope of being more than they were now in the future, but she was afraid if she crossed to him she'd want to be held and never let go.
"I love you, too," he said quietly. "Now go. Crookshanks and I need space. You're using up all our air."
She'd half-smiled, half-heartedly waved, and left the room, presumably to pack a few things from her own bedroom, and then to be gone for the next fourteen days.
Leaving him alone.
Leaving him.
Neither knew it, but both were asking themselves the same question after their unfortunate goodbye.
Redeemed and reformed as he seemed, could he ever truly be free from the person he was?
Hermione was back at her parents' house before midnight. Her mother was surprised to see her... and even more surprised when she threw herself into her arms and cried, "Oh, Mum!"
Draco sat on his bed, pet the cat, and stared at the clock until nearly midnight, trying to work out what went wrong.
He wondered if his mother was still awake.
Hermione needed time with her parents. Perhaps he needed time with his.
He changed into pajamas, pulled on his dressing gown and slippers, and headed down the hall to his mother's bedroom. He turned the knob without knocking but had only opened it an inch when the groans and sighs of sexual activity punctured his eardrums. He released the knob as if it were hot to the touch and backed away, hands over his ears. How could that be? Who could his mother be with? No, it didn't make sense.
He was going mad, that was it. Just as he had in Azkaban, when he thought he heard his father and aunt's voices and his mother crying and saw Dumbledore falling through that tower window over and over again...
He was having a flashback, surely that was it.
A flashback to his early childhood, when he'd walked in on his parents in a most compromising position. His father's pale naked arse was in the air, and he was moaning, while Narcissa was under him, saying "Lucius, oh, Lucius!"
And Draco, being four years old, shocked, scared and confused, had burst into tears.
His father and mother had immediately parted. Thanks surely to every God that might exist, his mother had been wearing a silk negligee, thus Draco only had to suffer seeing his fully nude father before the man strategically placed a pillow in front of him.
"Draco!" Lucius had said. "What are you doing in here?"
"Why you hurtin' my mummy?" Draco had cried. He scrambled onto the bed, intending to comfort his poor, abused mother, who laughed for reasons he could not grasp. She then cradled him, his cheek to her chest, and kissed his forehead.
"Don't let him in the bed, Feather!" Lucius had scolded, backing off the mattress, his back facing the far wall, still holding the pillow in place.
"I'll take him back to his room." She got up, lifted her son like one would a baby, and carried him toward the door. Once they were safely back in his bedroom, she'd sat in the rocking chair, kissed his forehead again, and said, "Sometimes Mummies and Daddies hug like that, Love." He'd shaken his head because it didn't look like a hug to him. Then she'd added, "Maybe we'll hug until we make you a baby brother or sister. Don't you want a baby brother or sister? I know you do. But you need to stay in your bed tonight. All night. You may not come out until morning. Understand?"
He nodded, and he did want a sibling, but he did not understand. Hugging made brothers and sisters? That didn't make sense. He hugged his mummy all the time and didn't have a single brother or sister to show for it.
And now, over nineteen years later, he was still without a brother or sister, despite having caught his parents in various degrees of 'hugging' several more times over the years (though, thankfully, he'd never again had to look upon his father's naked arse).
He lowered his hands from his ears, exhaled loudly, and reached for the door again, admonishing himself for letting his imagination play tricks. Maybe Ginny Weasley was right. Maybe he didn't have a strong mind.
But no.
No, he could still hear it.
"Yes..." she cried. "Yes, yes... there... Oh... Severus..."
Severus?
Severus Snape?
Was Severus Snape in bed with his mother?
Draco blanched and gagged. He thought he might vomit, right there in the hall. Severus Snape was shagging his mother? In his father's bed?
His disgust was joined by another emotion.
Fury.
He was furious because Severus Snape was shagging his mother, in his father's bloody bed, no less! How could he? How could he take advantage of the emotionally fragile woman in this way?
Draco considered barging in as he had as a boy, but opted instead to quietly close the door and return to his room to fume. He intended to speak to Snape about this. He envisioned himself using Ginny Weasley's Bat-Bogey hex on the former professor. He envisioned himself using Snape's own Sectumsempra. He envisioned himself using the Cruciatus Curse.
How dare that filthy half-blood opportunist take his mother to his father's bed! The man hadn't even been gone a full year.
The more he dwelled on it, the angrier he grew, and it almost felt good. It felt good to focus on something that was completely unrelated to having been left by Hermione.
He went down to the kitchen to drink tea and wait. He didn't know if Snape would sneak out under the cover of darkness or stay the entire night, but he intended to confront him before he left.
He placed his wand beside his tea cup.
Yes, he'd teach that perverse Mudblood a lesson.
At his feet, Crookshanks mewed and begged for attention.
"We'll teach him," said Draco. He lifted the cat onto the table and summoned over a bowl of tuna juice, which Hermione kept refrigerated as a treat for him. The cat lapped up the fishy water while Draco sipped his tea.
"We'll teach him."
"Did you hear something?" Narcissa asked Severus. It had been a click, like the sound of a door closing, but she was sure she hadn't left her door open.
"No," he said, not pausing in his movements. She was on her back, facing up at him, with her right leg bent and her left down flat. He was pumping into her, holding her knee with one hand, the other playing with her clit. "Did you?"
"I thought I did. Stop, let me listen."
He stopped. She listened. After a moment, she let loose a sigh of relief.
"I must have imagined it. I'm sorry. Keep going." She put a hand on his hip, coaxing him to continue. "Keep going, please. Please, I'm so close."
He leaned down, kissed her soundly, and was all-too happy to oblige.
The night hadn't started this way, but it had ended up fulfilling every fantasy he'd had over the last several months. Against the tree, in the rain, while the leaves swirled around them, he'd taken her. He'd been without shirt or coat, she'd had her skirt hitched up just enough, and she'd clung to him while he thrust into her.
"Harder," she'd begged. "Harder, Severus, please."
He half-wanted to stop. He wanted to tell her it wasn't supposed to be this way. They weren't supposed to be frenzied and desperate for each other outside against a tree in a tempest. He'd given considerable thought to how he'd wanted their first time together to go (assuming it ever happened). And in every scenario he saw himself slowly undressing her, pleasuring her, making her forget – at least in the moment – all about her late husband. He wanted them to spend a satisfactory amount of time on foreplay, touching and kissing and exploring each other. He wanted to keep holding her once they were finished, he wanted to spend the night together, he wanted her to tell him she loved him... or, at the very least, that she fancied him as he did her.
He'd never felt for another woman as he did for her, save for Lily, but that was different. Lily would always be different. But just as he'd never been with Lily, he'd never been in any way intimate with a woman he wanted to love... he'd never before thought of sex as 'making love,' but when he pictured himself with her, that's what he thought about. Not that he was past or over his love for Lily. He would always been in love with her. She would always be held on that pedestal, and he'd never stop wondering 'what if' as far as she was concerned... but the way Narcissa smiled at him, the way she teased him, the way her dry, sometimes dark sense of humor complimented his, and the way she got his heart racing and his cock hard without even trying to conspired to making him almost as obsessed with her as he'd once been with Lily. He thought about her constantly. He wanted her all the time. And now, he was finally having her... and it wasn't right at all.
"You alright?" she asked, her legs wrapped around his waist, her back to the bark. She had to shout to be heard over the wind and the rain.
"I wanted this to be... different!" He had to shout too.
"You're a romantic!" she shouted. He scowled. That wasn't a word he ever wanted to hear as a description for himself. "Don't deny it! I can read your mind, remember?"
"Get out of my head, witch!" He thrust faster, harder as requested, and thought it wasn't what he'd been picturing for months, fuck, it felt good. He wasn't going to last long. He kissed her, hard, and she returned the kiss with such force it almost hurt.
"Harder!" she demanded, and he obliged. She gasped and moaned and kissed him again, and when she called out his name he couldn't hold back anymore. He finished inside her, right there against the tree in the rain with his shirt missing and her dress still on.
He set her down and then neither of them moved. Neither could. He could barely stand. He rested his weight against hers, though really all that held either of them up was the trunk of the tree. The rain beat down on their heads; their clothes were soaked straight through. She kept her arms wrapped around him, her hands linked behind his back, and his wrists were crossed between her lower back and the tree.
After awhile, she suggested they Accio their missing clothing and go inside before catching cold. He agreed. Once in her bedroom, she told him he could place his wet clothing in the laundry chute for the house-elves to handle.
And then she removed her dress. He was frozen as if by magic, but her wand was not in her hand. She was standing before him in only a bra and knickers and thigh-high stockings, her blonde hair dripping onto the floor, all tangled up with orange leaves, and he'd never seen anyone more beautiful.
"What?" She reached back to unclasp her bra. His mouth fell open comically. She grinned like a cat that had just caught a particularly clever mouse. "We should take a hot shower. It's not good to spend too much time in cold, wet clothing." She undid the strap in the back but did not remove the bra just yet. "Do you want to shower with me, Severus?"
It took all his willpower not to reply, "I want to do everything with you." He merely nodded. Smirking flirtatiously, she turned her back, took off the bra, and dropped it down the chute. She then did the same with her thigh-high stockings and knickers, winked at him over her shoulder, and headed into the loo. After a few seconds, he heard the shower.
He quickly divested himself of what was left of his clothing and hurried in after her. Steam was already rising in the bathroom, fogging up both the shower door and the mirror.
He stepped into the shower. She had her back to him, facing the shower-head with eyes closed, so he wrapped his arms around her from behind.
"You're certain you want this?" he asked.
"No," she answered honestly. "But if I wait until I'm certain, it'll never happen..." She leaned back, resting her back against his chest, letting the water stream down her front. "And, in this moment, I want it to happen."
"Will you regret me in the morning?" He kissed her earlobe. She placed her arms over his, fully settled in his embrace.
"I don't think so."
"If you don't want to..."
"I want you." She extracted herself from his hold and turned to face him, letting the water run down her back. "I've been attracted to you for some time."
"Clearly, I feel the same."
She smiled. "Clearly. Have you ever had sex outside before, Severus?"
"Never." He leaned down and kissed her, a tender, lovely kiss. Then, though it was not easy to do so, he made a confession. "I've only ever been with one woman, Charity Burbage, who wouldn't have consented to anything quite so potentially public. She was the Muggle Studies professor who..."
"Oh, Severus, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what happened to her."
If it surprised her to learn he, too, had only ever been with one other person, she did not let on, for which he was grateful. As a man who'd spent two decades surrounded by the toxic masculinity that was the inner circle of Death Eaters, he was a bit sensitive about his lack of experience. Though he'd engaged in other activities with a handful of women, he'd always been bothered by the idea of bedding a woman who only wanted him to help herself rise in the Dark Lord's ranks, and there didn't seem to exist witches who had any genuine interest in him. As it was, he'd never actually dated Charity. But she was homely and lonely and socially inept, not to mention stuck at Hogwarts for ten months of the year, and he was too. So they'd spent fifteen years getting sexual satiation from each other (off and on) without the emotional commitment of a real relationship. It had worked for him at the time, for a long time, as he'd never wavered in his love of Lily and devotion to her memory, but now... now, he wanted more.
He wanted Narcissa.
He wanted more from Narcissa.
Fuck, was he a romantic? He hoped not.
That sounded simply awful.
Their shower lasted much longer than showers typically should. During it, they kissed and touched and talked and washed each other, and she confessed that showering with her husband had been one of her favorite things to do, so he confessed that co-showering was another thing he'd never done.
They ended up, unsurprisingly, in bed, where they spent the next two hours doing more of the same – kissing and touching and talking, and then she took him in her mouth until he was spent, for which he returned the favor (judging by her reactions, he was better at this than he'd previously thought, as he brought her twice to orgasm in a matter of minutes).
She asked him to spend the night. They crawled under the covers, still naked, still so terribly exposed in more ways than one, and they'd actually fallen asleep without having sex again.
Shortly before midnight, a particularly loud clap of thunder woke her with a start. It took a second to remember she was in bed not with her husband, but with Severus, and though she felt an initial jolt of guilt and self-loathing, it quickly gave way to curiosity and need, as she began tracing her fingertips up and down his side, from his ribs to his hip and back again, until he stirred. She continued these ministrations, coming closer and closer to his growing erection with each stroke, until he groaned.
"Touch me, Narcissa," he asked. "I need you to..."
She took his length in her hand and he couldn't finish his sentence for moaning. Their lips met over and over again, as he threw off the blanket and she crawled on top of him. According to that vile wench quoted in the Prophet, this was her favorite position, riding her husband, holding the power. Though he did not want to think of himself as a convenient substitute for Lucius Malfoy, he hissed with gratification as she lowered herself over him and began to grind. She moved slowly, which was almost as painful as it was pleasurable. He massaged her clitoris with the pad of his thumb as she leaned back, causing him to hit her inner walls at a new angle, one he'd previously not experienced. When he thought he couldn't handle another moment like this without exploding he pulled her down into a searing kiss, then guided her off of him and onto her back. His mouth explored her breasts, taking one into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over her nipple as she gasped and writhed and begged him to be inside her again. He did the same to the other breasts and fucked her with her fingers but would not give into her demands, not yet, not until he was good and ready.
"You're so wet for me," he growled in her ear when he added a second finger to the first.
"Yes," she whimpered. "Yes, Severus, yes..."
And then, just when she thought she might die from the dizziness that invaded her brain as her orgasm built, he was inside her again. He was kneeling up, staring down at her, her knee bent. He held it tightly with one hand, kissed it, and used his other hand to touch her upper body, to caress her breasts, to work over her clit until she was again on the edge, crying out his name.
"Yes..." she cried. "Yes, yes... there... Oh... Severus..." She heard a noise. Her eyes, which had been half-closed with contentment, snapped open. "Did you hear something?"
It had been a click, she was sure of it, like the sound of a door closing, but she knew she hadn't left her door open, and could see that it was closed now.
"No," he said, not pausing in his movements. He liked her this way. She was on her back, facing up at him, with her right leg bent and her left down flat, giving him a perfect view of her body. He was pumping into her, holding her knee with one hand, the other still playing with her clit. "Did you?"
"I thought I did. Stop, let me listen."
He stopped. She listened. After a moment, she let loose a sigh of relief.
"I must have imagined it. I'm sorry. Keep going." She put a hand on his hip, coaxing him to continue. "Keep going, please. Please, I'm so close."
He leaned down, kissed her soundly, and was all-too happy to oblige.
Second later, she hit her peak for the third time that evening, and in response he came with even more force than he had outside by the tree. It drained him of his energy; he couldn't even muster the power to pull out and roll off her. Rather he collapsed with his chest to hers and remained there, sweat-drenched and satiated, until he slipped out naturally. Now he rolled off and was glad when she snuggled up beside him. She used wandless magic to summon the blanket back to the bed, covering them, and kissed his bare shoulder.
"You'll stay the night?" she asked. He nodded. "Good." She wrapped her arm around his waist. "I love my husband, Severus. I'll always love him. But I think I love being with you."
He nearly replied, "I love you," but knowing it was too soon (and would probably an incredibly stupid mistake) to do this, he simply said, "I know precisely how you feel."