He left me in the night, as he often did, just as he thought I had fallen asleep. It was an uncharacteristically tender habit had developed over the years, and sometimes he would wrap himself around me, hair fanning over both of us, his bleached eyelashes fluttering in the nubs of my shoulders.


I rose from the bed at length, almost sleepy, but not quite tired. My dressing gown was folded discreetly at the end of the bed, sleeves tucked softly away beneath the bundle. I had always wondered exactly how much watching our silent helpers did around the house, and whether or not these elves were just extremely helpful voyeurs.


The fire was already burning in the hearth, and the room was pleasantly temperate. Yet I still could not shake the weird chill that had overtaken me when I had pictured the Professor, with such stunning clarity and perfect vividness, it was almost as if it had really happened.


Because there was nothing else to do, and also because it was far too drafty to wander the house at night, I decided to open the stack of dull, but necessary correspondences that lay atop my scroll desk. It was a magnificent table that Lucius had bought my for our anniversary, and I was singularly delighted with the magically appearing pigeon holes and refilling inkwells.


He had also bought me a smallish dagger, to be used to letter opening, a muggle artifact. It had the largest sapphire I had ever seen set in the center, and the blade was enchanted (by Lucius, of course) to keep itself perilously sharp at all times.


I snapped my fingers and one of my table lamps went on (Lucius had grudgingly taught me some limited and petty wandless magic) .The first letter was from Desedemona Lafey, Hubert Lafey's wife, another rather prominent Deatheater. I had met him once, at one of our balls, he was a squashy man with a pointy goatee that was supposed to make him look dignified but only made him more goatish. Where he himself was rather stout, his wife was long and lean and horsey, often appearing in garish robes and over rouged face to try and chisel cheeks where she had none. She had an irritating laugh.


The letter was another flimsily veiled, societally motivated invitation. I sighed, and set down to write. As I reached the end of the paper, I hadn't realised that I had placed the blade facing myself, and as I reached to blot the letter, my hands curled around the double edged blade.


I took a high, hissing gasp of pain, for it had come as a shock. Unfortunately, I had not the sense to move my now copiously bleeding hand from hovering over the letter, and it was dotted scarlet as well.


Damn it, I swore, and was surprised at myself. Normally, my composure is piqued at all times, even in the privacy of my own chambers. I took the edge of my robe and wrapped it round my hand, creating somewhat of a turquoinet, and hurriedly opened the door.


I rushed down the hallway, wincing as my bare feet touched patches of naked marble. In my hurry, I had neglected slippers. At the end of the corridor, there is a bathroom, where medicinal supplies lay in a vast cupboard.


I didn't see another cloaked figure hurrying towards me, gloved hands outstretched. I was too busy preventing drippings on the carpet. The sight of my own blood had fascinated me, so I was not too put off, but I knew Lucius would upset to see his handsome rugs stained.


May I help, madam?, a startlingly baritone voice said into my ear, and I jumped. I turned around to find the Professor giving an indifferent overview to my cushioned hand.


I'm fine, thank you, I replied curtly, not only being unseated by the fact that the fantasies which I had so firmly bolted from my mind were returning with rapid and distressing clarity. Wordlessly, he grasped my wrist in such a spot that it forced the tendons to become lax. I winced as my fingers splayed themselves, and the freshly gilded wound was revealed in a nefariously gaping manner.


His black eyes seemed to be searching for something else, and I realised that my Mark was only several inches from the where the robe had been rolled up. I struggled to pull back, but it made no difference.


This is not so bad. It appears to be only superficial, he said at length, and I gave an unseen eye roll. He looked back up at me, a wisp of hair obscuring the etch like quality of his eyes. What did you cut yourself with?, he asked again, tone more demanding, something roughly tugging at his voice.


It was a letter opener Lucius gave to me, it had a sapphire in the center, I felt silly telling him these things, almost as if I was babbling. He was still holding my hand, and I could feel the heat from his skin through the gloves.


Was it enchanted?, he asked me, and without my even realising it, had slipped on his hands up the sleeve of my robe, close to my elbow, eyes still locked with my own. I nodded, hypnotized by him; he was rolling the sleeve farther, pulling my closer to him.


Perhaps not so easy to fix, he almost whispered. I nodded still, not being able to not look away. I felt his leathered fingers briefly caress my arm, almost tenderly, before his other hand had traveled and found what it was searching for.


His index finger ran over the Mark, scraping the skin in an oddly ticklish way. I squirmed, but he managed to grip me so hard, I'm sure that my blood supply was abruptly cut off.


Let me go, my voice quavered, and I was flushing. Why could he still make me feel so small? He smiled at my request, but in a very Chesire-esque way (I had done my fair share of muggle reading). His fingers were still rubbing me, but so slowly, and with such sensual depravity, that I was moving into him, rather than away.


My Mark was starkly denuded without my robe, and I was well aware of my lack of clothing. I felt ashamed suddenly, as I beheld the ugly tattoo that sullied the rest of my otherwise porcelain skin.


I pulled back, and he expected this, dropping my hand, only to my wrist, then bending slightly and kissing it.


If I had not known better, or was not quite as shocked, I could have sworn he extended his tongue only briefly from his lips, and flicked it hotly over my skin.


How dare you, I breathed quietly, his complete and total equanimity unnerving me. He smiled in return, raising his finger to his head, imitating the old fashioned habit of tipping one's hat.


Be sure to bandage that, he said, nodding at my arm. But, I cannot tell whether he was gesticulating towards the Mark, which was still uncovered, or my hand, whose liquids had seeped through the flimsy silk bandage.


Take this, he said, his voice cross all at once. He shoved balled up piece of material into my fist. I let it open and dangle from my fingertips; it was a silken handkerchief, black of course, but pungently aromatic of some blossom or bud that I can't describe.


I stared at him blankly, still trying to recall the hot surge of memories that the silken square ushered into my head. He took it from me, and waved it in front of my eyes. I must have stared at him glassily, for he gently wound it round and round, stopping to tie it with a fantastically fast motion, that I didn't even feel how tightly he had done it up.


I began to tug at it, nervous habit I suppose, but he shook his head. It will come off on it's own accord. It's specially designed to know when the wearer no longer has need of it. Then it will fall away and become clean and reusable. I find them quite useful, as I work with knives and hot liquids, he spoke monotonously.


You shouldn't wander in the halls, I blurted, stirring myself out of my reverie. He looked surprised, and raised an eyebrow; he never seemed to find enough justification to voice his questions.


This house can be dangerous after dark, I said quickly and my hand flew to my Mark, which began to burn. He didn't notice.


Thank you, he said, no note of sarcasm or disparaging comment that diluted his sincerity. I gave a small, awkward curtsy, and he returned it with a nod. He walked off in the other direction, his footsteps purposeful, like he knew I was still watching him. I sank to the floor, still staring blankly, holding his tissue to my nose, inhaling the darkly sensual smell of him.


Lavender. Tuberose. Cedar. Moonlight. Winter. Wind.










A/N: I'm not too good with actual ingredients to perfumes, so this was hard. But I thought a while about what other things seem to express him, like when someone comes in from the cold and they have that icy, snowy smell on them? I always think that when I read or see him. I duno, just me being a freak.