For once Severus and Min were in complete agreement; kissing Hermione was A
Good Thing.
Severus would have enjoyed kissing Hermione more – and it must be admitted he was enjoying kissing Hermione a great deal – if he hadn't been treated to a running commentary from Min.
*I think you're right about modern women, you know. In the old days, no girl would have dreamed of making the first move like that. Pity, really.*
Severus was too busy to reply. He had a promise to live up to; he was determined to demonstrate that he could do better than before when he had been under the influence of a lust potion, particularly an inadequately brewed lust potion.
*Although you do get the unfortunate addition of the forceful opinions.*
Seveus spared a brief moment of inattention from snogging Hermione to comment that he was fairly certain that women having opinions wasn't something new.
*That's the truth. Women have had an opinion on everything since the world was young.*
Severus couldn't restraint his little huff of laughter, but fortunately Hermione assumed he was attempting some bizarre Slytherin foreplay.
Severus slipped his hands from her shoulders, where they had been decorously resting since she had launched herself upon him. One moved down to cup a breast – a manoeuvre greeted with an appreciative murmur; the other moved upwards, his fingers stroking her hair, and the thumb caressing the pulse point on her throat.
Severus had barely a moment to savour Hermione's enthusiastic response – which consisted of nipping along his neck – before Min had to add his mite. *I still say it's like camel hair, though.*
Severus snapped a mental command at Min to shut up, but Gods are equally indifferent to commands and hints.
*A fine, silky-haired camel, but a camel nonetheless.*
Severus had insufficient experience with camels to dispute this description – *and keep it that way; they're brutes* - but felt that times had moved on. It was no longer the height of romance to describe one's beloved in terms of a domestic animal, no matter how attractive an example of the species.
*Goat, then.* said Min with the air of one making a concession to an unreasonable disputant. *Some of those are really silky.*
"Will you shut up about goats," snarled Severus.
"Goats?" asked Hermione.
Bugger. That had been out loud.
And Hermione, being Hermione would want an explanation – a detailed explanation – and she'd get in a huff, maybe slap his face, and that would be that.
If she got really cross he would be stuck with Min till Bill got back from Egypt; and he wasn't sure that he would be able to resist the urge to amputate the offending limb before then. He certainly wouldn't be able to keep the whole sorry business a secret for that long.
On the other hand, if her ire were directed in the right direction, he might be able to get some peace and quiet. Hermione seemed to have a knack of God handling. Severus stamped on the mental image that crossed Min's mind about just how good she would be at God handling. He didn't need thoughts like that when he was trying to dig his way out of trouble.
"And Camels. Min is trying to describe your hair."
That ought to put the cat among the pigeons nicely.
"Ah," she said, quite calmly, all things considered. Which, whilst it removed the threat of instant face slapping – which was good – did seem to indicate that there wouldn't be imminent God slapping. On balance, Severus felt a little disappointed in Hermione.
*You see, I said she wouldn't mind.*
"I do find it interesting," she continued, "that he seems to reference the classical Arab rather than the pure Egyptian tradition. Camels were quite a late arrival in Egypt you know."
*I hardly think this is a time to be talking about camels*
'You started it," said Severus, with some bitterness.
Hermione continued her discussion of the classical tradition in Arab poetry – with references to the essentially domestic nature of the tropes, the eventual stagnation of the tradition, and the consequent over-use of certain metaphors – whilst scrabbling around under the back of her shirt.
Severus was beginning to think that he had written Hermione off too soon; she was up to something.
*What is she doing? It's hardly time for literary criticism either.* huffed Min.
Severus shrugged mentally; he had no idea, but he was looking forward to finding out.
"What has always puzzled me," Hermione continued, a little short of breath, her fingers now busy on the buttons of her shirt, "is the description of breasts as trembling fawns or gazelles." She shrugged out of her shirt and bra. "I mean," she said critically, looking down at herself, "do these look like gazelles to you?"
Even Min recognised that the question was rhetorical; which was fortunate, as it's rude to talk with your mouth full.
Severus woke alone – as alone as a man can be with a possessed cock. Hermione had left before things could get too interesting saying that, whilst she looked forward to performing acts of unparalleled salaciousness and kinkiness with him in due course, she drew the line at three in a bed.
She had a point. He'd had visions of things proceeding to their natural conclusion and things being interrupted by Min's muffled voice floating up to him. *It's very dark in here.* He could be mentally scarred for life; and for a man who had been a Deatheater for several years that was saying something.
Min had sulked last night once Hermione had left. Why he thought that withdrawing the shining pleasure of his company had been a punishment, Severus would never know. He was back this morning, with all the eagerness of a wet-nosed, waggy-tailed Labrador waiting for his walkies; only it was Severus's tail he was wagging. It was only when Severus absent-mindedly reached for his morning erection and began his usual perfunctory fumblings that he realised what Min was up to.
Vicarious pleasure, eh?
An amateur bastard, one whose skills hadn't been honed before a generation of children, would have stopped. A professional bastard like Severus – an uber-bastard, if you will – would continue, sure in the knowledge that vicarious pleasure was all that Min would be getting.
Now to find some salt to rub in the wound.
He rifled through his mental library of fantasies, usually reserved for a more leisurely moment of an evening. Now what would a sex-starved God really enjoy?
Ah.
That would do nicely.
He built a careful image of a semi-naked Hermione kneeling before him. Oh yes, what a lovely mouth she had, so warm, and wet and willing; and ooh what talented fingers she had, knowing just where to touch his balls. A practiced flick of the wrist and he was home.
'Like that did you?'
There was a faint sense of curiosity, coupled with a determination not to give anything away; Min said nothing.
'Because Hermione is coming here this afternoon to complete the ritual.'
Absolute silence.
Severus wasn't a man given to guilt, but even his elastic conscience felt a twinge of something as he opened the door to Hermione and an enormous Gladstone bag later that afternoon. It wasn't that he regretted fantasising about her, that was perfectly natural after all, but it was perhaps a little less than polite to use that fantasy to taunt Min, no matter how annoying he was.
He brightened almost immediately. Still, at least he wouldn't have to apologise, because Hermione would never find out about it.
In his book, that was practically the same as never having done something in the first place. It was a philosophical position along the lines of the question whether a tree makes a sound in the woods when it falls if there is no one there to hear it. He'd never understood the point of the hypothesis stated like that. Presumably, there would be other creatures and insects with auditory equipment who would be able to hear the tree. His preferred version was: have you done something wrong if there are no witnesses.
Certainly in a practical sense he rather thought the answer was an emphatic 'no'.
The more sophisticated version of the question was: have you done something wrong when you have an alibi. The answer, so far, seemed also to be 'no'.
He was therefore somewhat dismayed when Hermione, after a quick peck on the cheek, gave him a hard look and said, "What have you been up to? You look a bit shifty." It seemed to him to be wholly unfair that guilt should be ascribed on such flimsy grounds as 'looking shifty' when there was no hard evidence. Spluttering indignation would only have confirmed her suspicions; silence amounted to an admission of guilt; as it turned out, so did hesitating whilst thinking of an excuse.
"Never mind. I'm probably better off not knowing."
*Smooth, really smooth.*
Determined to regain lost ground, Severus said, "I'm deeply hurt that you should describe me as shifty when I was aiming rather more for soulful with a slight hint of wistfulness."
"Really?" asked Hermione, suppressing a smile.
"Really," he replied, in his silkiest tones, as he moved closer to her. "You seem to find the idea that I missed you last night amusing in some way."
"N-no," she stammered, staring up at him wide-eyed, with all the tremulous anticipation he could ever hope to see. Miss Granger could well be putty in his hands if he played his cards right.
He ran his finger delicately down her cheek, smoothed her hair behind her ear, and then bent to kiss her: a subtle press of the lips, a small retreat, and then back for more. She made an absurd, contented sound in the back of her throat, then stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist.
"I missed you too," she said softly.
Even Min's pronounced sulking failed to dent Severus's contented mood. He had Hermione in his arms, soon Min would be gone, and then he could really have Hermione.
"That's enough of that," said Hermione regretfully, easing out of his arms. "The sooner we start, the sooner we can get your annoying guest back into his rightful home."
Min stopped sulking; Severus could feel him wrapping his ghostly little fingers tightly round his person and holding on for grim death. Hermione oulled a chair into the middle of the room, directed Severus to sit in it and handed him a statue with a very large penis.
Whilst she was bustling around taking various ingredients and other paraphernalia from the bag, he eyed the statue suspiciously. 'Typical god,' he thought, 'had to go in for exaggeration.'
*Don't kid yourself matey, there isn't enough clay to make a statue in the correct proportions. They tried; and the knob kept falling off.*
'I bet they couldn't find enough to make your big head either,' retorted Severus.
Hermione drew the traditional warding circle round him and scattered salt to the four cardinal points. She took her wand and began the Ritual. Severus could feel a tugging at his genitals, similar to a portkey; he could also feel Min digging in his heels. He wasn't going to leave easily. Hermione was chanting busily, her wand swishing through the air. Her incantation reached a triumphant peak, there was an entirely over-dramatic swishing of wand, and then......nothing.
*I told you her accent was terrible* came a triumphant voice.
Severus didn't say anything; he didn't need to, his face said it all.
"Shit!" said Hermione, slumping into the chair opposite. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."
Severus thought that summed up the situation admirably.
Severus would have enjoyed kissing Hermione more – and it must be admitted he was enjoying kissing Hermione a great deal – if he hadn't been treated to a running commentary from Min.
*I think you're right about modern women, you know. In the old days, no girl would have dreamed of making the first move like that. Pity, really.*
Severus was too busy to reply. He had a promise to live up to; he was determined to demonstrate that he could do better than before when he had been under the influence of a lust potion, particularly an inadequately brewed lust potion.
*Although you do get the unfortunate addition of the forceful opinions.*
Seveus spared a brief moment of inattention from snogging Hermione to comment that he was fairly certain that women having opinions wasn't something new.
*That's the truth. Women have had an opinion on everything since the world was young.*
Severus couldn't restraint his little huff of laughter, but fortunately Hermione assumed he was attempting some bizarre Slytherin foreplay.
Severus slipped his hands from her shoulders, where they had been decorously resting since she had launched herself upon him. One moved down to cup a breast – a manoeuvre greeted with an appreciative murmur; the other moved upwards, his fingers stroking her hair, and the thumb caressing the pulse point on her throat.
Severus had barely a moment to savour Hermione's enthusiastic response – which consisted of nipping along his neck – before Min had to add his mite. *I still say it's like camel hair, though.*
Severus snapped a mental command at Min to shut up, but Gods are equally indifferent to commands and hints.
*A fine, silky-haired camel, but a camel nonetheless.*
Severus had insufficient experience with camels to dispute this description – *and keep it that way; they're brutes* - but felt that times had moved on. It was no longer the height of romance to describe one's beloved in terms of a domestic animal, no matter how attractive an example of the species.
*Goat, then.* said Min with the air of one making a concession to an unreasonable disputant. *Some of those are really silky.*
"Will you shut up about goats," snarled Severus.
"Goats?" asked Hermione.
Bugger. That had been out loud.
And Hermione, being Hermione would want an explanation – a detailed explanation – and she'd get in a huff, maybe slap his face, and that would be that.
If she got really cross he would be stuck with Min till Bill got back from Egypt; and he wasn't sure that he would be able to resist the urge to amputate the offending limb before then. He certainly wouldn't be able to keep the whole sorry business a secret for that long.
On the other hand, if her ire were directed in the right direction, he might be able to get some peace and quiet. Hermione seemed to have a knack of God handling. Severus stamped on the mental image that crossed Min's mind about just how good she would be at God handling. He didn't need thoughts like that when he was trying to dig his way out of trouble.
"And Camels. Min is trying to describe your hair."
That ought to put the cat among the pigeons nicely.
"Ah," she said, quite calmly, all things considered. Which, whilst it removed the threat of instant face slapping – which was good – did seem to indicate that there wouldn't be imminent God slapping. On balance, Severus felt a little disappointed in Hermione.
*You see, I said she wouldn't mind.*
"I do find it interesting," she continued, "that he seems to reference the classical Arab rather than the pure Egyptian tradition. Camels were quite a late arrival in Egypt you know."
*I hardly think this is a time to be talking about camels*
'You started it," said Severus, with some bitterness.
Hermione continued her discussion of the classical tradition in Arab poetry – with references to the essentially domestic nature of the tropes, the eventual stagnation of the tradition, and the consequent over-use of certain metaphors – whilst scrabbling around under the back of her shirt.
Severus was beginning to think that he had written Hermione off too soon; she was up to something.
*What is she doing? It's hardly time for literary criticism either.* huffed Min.
Severus shrugged mentally; he had no idea, but he was looking forward to finding out.
"What has always puzzled me," Hermione continued, a little short of breath, her fingers now busy on the buttons of her shirt, "is the description of breasts as trembling fawns or gazelles." She shrugged out of her shirt and bra. "I mean," she said critically, looking down at herself, "do these look like gazelles to you?"
Even Min recognised that the question was rhetorical; which was fortunate, as it's rude to talk with your mouth full.
Severus woke alone – as alone as a man can be with a possessed cock. Hermione had left before things could get too interesting saying that, whilst she looked forward to performing acts of unparalleled salaciousness and kinkiness with him in due course, she drew the line at three in a bed.
She had a point. He'd had visions of things proceeding to their natural conclusion and things being interrupted by Min's muffled voice floating up to him. *It's very dark in here.* He could be mentally scarred for life; and for a man who had been a Deatheater for several years that was saying something.
Min had sulked last night once Hermione had left. Why he thought that withdrawing the shining pleasure of his company had been a punishment, Severus would never know. He was back this morning, with all the eagerness of a wet-nosed, waggy-tailed Labrador waiting for his walkies; only it was Severus's tail he was wagging. It was only when Severus absent-mindedly reached for his morning erection and began his usual perfunctory fumblings that he realised what Min was up to.
Vicarious pleasure, eh?
An amateur bastard, one whose skills hadn't been honed before a generation of children, would have stopped. A professional bastard like Severus – an uber-bastard, if you will – would continue, sure in the knowledge that vicarious pleasure was all that Min would be getting.
Now to find some salt to rub in the wound.
He rifled through his mental library of fantasies, usually reserved for a more leisurely moment of an evening. Now what would a sex-starved God really enjoy?
Ah.
That would do nicely.
He built a careful image of a semi-naked Hermione kneeling before him. Oh yes, what a lovely mouth she had, so warm, and wet and willing; and ooh what talented fingers she had, knowing just where to touch his balls. A practiced flick of the wrist and he was home.
'Like that did you?'
There was a faint sense of curiosity, coupled with a determination not to give anything away; Min said nothing.
'Because Hermione is coming here this afternoon to complete the ritual.'
Absolute silence.
Severus wasn't a man given to guilt, but even his elastic conscience felt a twinge of something as he opened the door to Hermione and an enormous Gladstone bag later that afternoon. It wasn't that he regretted fantasising about her, that was perfectly natural after all, but it was perhaps a little less than polite to use that fantasy to taunt Min, no matter how annoying he was.
He brightened almost immediately. Still, at least he wouldn't have to apologise, because Hermione would never find out about it.
In his book, that was practically the same as never having done something in the first place. It was a philosophical position along the lines of the question whether a tree makes a sound in the woods when it falls if there is no one there to hear it. He'd never understood the point of the hypothesis stated like that. Presumably, there would be other creatures and insects with auditory equipment who would be able to hear the tree. His preferred version was: have you done something wrong if there are no witnesses.
Certainly in a practical sense he rather thought the answer was an emphatic 'no'.
The more sophisticated version of the question was: have you done something wrong when you have an alibi. The answer, so far, seemed also to be 'no'.
He was therefore somewhat dismayed when Hermione, after a quick peck on the cheek, gave him a hard look and said, "What have you been up to? You look a bit shifty." It seemed to him to be wholly unfair that guilt should be ascribed on such flimsy grounds as 'looking shifty' when there was no hard evidence. Spluttering indignation would only have confirmed her suspicions; silence amounted to an admission of guilt; as it turned out, so did hesitating whilst thinking of an excuse.
"Never mind. I'm probably better off not knowing."
*Smooth, really smooth.*
Determined to regain lost ground, Severus said, "I'm deeply hurt that you should describe me as shifty when I was aiming rather more for soulful with a slight hint of wistfulness."
"Really?" asked Hermione, suppressing a smile.
"Really," he replied, in his silkiest tones, as he moved closer to her. "You seem to find the idea that I missed you last night amusing in some way."
"N-no," she stammered, staring up at him wide-eyed, with all the tremulous anticipation he could ever hope to see. Miss Granger could well be putty in his hands if he played his cards right.
He ran his finger delicately down her cheek, smoothed her hair behind her ear, and then bent to kiss her: a subtle press of the lips, a small retreat, and then back for more. She made an absurd, contented sound in the back of her throat, then stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist.
"I missed you too," she said softly.
Even Min's pronounced sulking failed to dent Severus's contented mood. He had Hermione in his arms, soon Min would be gone, and then he could really have Hermione.
"That's enough of that," said Hermione regretfully, easing out of his arms. "The sooner we start, the sooner we can get your annoying guest back into his rightful home."
Min stopped sulking; Severus could feel him wrapping his ghostly little fingers tightly round his person and holding on for grim death. Hermione oulled a chair into the middle of the room, directed Severus to sit in it and handed him a statue with a very large penis.
Whilst she was bustling around taking various ingredients and other paraphernalia from the bag, he eyed the statue suspiciously. 'Typical god,' he thought, 'had to go in for exaggeration.'
*Don't kid yourself matey, there isn't enough clay to make a statue in the correct proportions. They tried; and the knob kept falling off.*
'I bet they couldn't find enough to make your big head either,' retorted Severus.
Hermione drew the traditional warding circle round him and scattered salt to the four cardinal points. She took her wand and began the Ritual. Severus could feel a tugging at his genitals, similar to a portkey; he could also feel Min digging in his heels. He wasn't going to leave easily. Hermione was chanting busily, her wand swishing through the air. Her incantation reached a triumphant peak, there was an entirely over-dramatic swishing of wand, and then......nothing.
*I told you her accent was terrible* came a triumphant voice.
Severus didn't say anything; he didn't need to, his face said it all.
"Shit!" said Hermione, slumping into the chair opposite. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."
Severus thought that summed up the situation admirably.