It's Twelfth Night and the Order of the Phoenix are having a party in
Grimmauld Place. The house looks much better these days. It should,
considering all the effort and shopping she's put in. Dumbledore's here, so
are Moody, McGonagall, the Weasleys, Mundungus, Kingsley, Tonks, Emmeline,
Hestia, Dedalus Diggle, Elphias Doge, Harry, Hermione, Remus and –
surprisingly – Professor Snape.
I wonder who put him up to this, she thinks. Dumbledore? An awful job it must have been, getting the man to come. Three months of seeing him five days a week, half of them for private lessons, has acquainted her well with her professor's moods. She guesses that he's not the sort to enjoy gatherings of this kind. And he does look faintly brooding too.
Some of the guests, in passing, compliment her on the appearance of her home. Woman's touch, they say. Exquisite taste you have there. She gives them that lovely unforgettable smile of hers. Thank you. She moves on, making sure everybody has enough wine, enough food, a partner to converse with. She papers over lulls in the talk with a sparkling, gay wit. She's the perfect hostess.
Professor Snape is speaking to Dumbledore and Remus to Kingsley. She watches the two of them alternately. They are the ones whom she feels capable of falling in love with in this world she's so recently entered.
Suddenly there's a mounting amount of noise from the other end of the room. It appears that the Weasley twins have decided to give a preview of their latest joke-shop product. Under The Mistletoe, they say it's called. She laughs along with the others as Bill Weasley and Tonks are forced to kiss each other to rid themselves of the bushel of mistletoe hovering above their respective heads. The mistletoe is very persistent. Bill and Tonks have to repeat themselves six times before the offending plant is satisfied with the degree of passion exhibited and vanishes in a rain of gold coins. Applause and laughter all around. She starts to leave the room for the pantry, the sausage rolls are running low.
But there's something odd happening. A lot of people are turning to stare at her and Fred and George are grinning diabolically in her direction. On instinct she looks up. The accursed mistletoe has chosen to rematerialise over her head and is floating along with her every movement. Inwardly, she sighs, but smiles gamely anyway. Her eyes search the room for the other victim.
It's Remus Lupin, her legal guardian of three months. Fates, have it so if you will then! Your choice.
They move towards each other. He's smiling a little sheepishly. They meet and he puts his hands upon her shoulders. She doesn't move. She can feel his reluctance, his embarrassment. Over his shoulder the piercing eyes of Snape catch her own and she looks into Remus's instead.
Ready, he asks.
Ready.
His face is very close to her own now and he brushes her lips with his in a chaste kiss. Very proper, as it should be. It is the way one kisses ikons of the saints, the feet of the Holy Virgin. She's surprised he didn't choose to kiss her on her forehead.
They gaze smilingly at one another, apart now. Above them, the mistletoe is quiet for a moment. Then it breaks into the unmistakable hallmark of flatulence and brown blobs fall from it to the ground. The room erupts in mirth. Fred and George remark, we've never had so bad a reaction. He rolls his eyes drolly.
When the clamour has abated. She's a little annoyed by the prank now. There are many things she should be doing, tasks, and her time is being stolen. She decides to have it over with immediately.
He's holding her shoulders once again. This time, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls his head down to hers. She moves so fast he can't stop her. Then her lips are on his, teasing his mouth open, and her tongue is tasting him, exploring every bit of him.
He's thoroughly startled, she knows that from the rigidity of his body. But she's relentless, she won't let him go. She kisses him with merciless passion, her undeclared love for him, his goodness, his decency, spurring her on. She feels the arousal start to uncoil in him against his will. At last he garners enough strength to push her away.
His blue eyes, shocked and disbelieving, looking into hers. There's desire in them as well. She returns the stare, wearing her swollen lips like a badge of honour. Can she not just push him down now, strip and implore him to take her there on the floor? His face is flushed. Are you angry with me, Remus, my dear, kind, guardian?
The coins are showering down around them from the gone mistletoe. People are cheering, but they are standing in a vacuum, just the two of them.
You shouldn't have, Helen, he says quietly. He's not smiling.
She suffocates her need for him. He's a good man, too good for her perhaps. The kiss must have felt incestuous, a form of betrayal to him. She doesn't want him to feel guilt, or be hurt in any way. He'll think it's treachery to the memory of Sirius if they ever made love. Backing off is correct here.
C'est la vie, she says as lightly and gaily as she can. She walks away. Nobody has noticed anything amiss. Not that she would give a damn.
I wonder who put him up to this, she thinks. Dumbledore? An awful job it must have been, getting the man to come. Three months of seeing him five days a week, half of them for private lessons, has acquainted her well with her professor's moods. She guesses that he's not the sort to enjoy gatherings of this kind. And he does look faintly brooding too.
Some of the guests, in passing, compliment her on the appearance of her home. Woman's touch, they say. Exquisite taste you have there. She gives them that lovely unforgettable smile of hers. Thank you. She moves on, making sure everybody has enough wine, enough food, a partner to converse with. She papers over lulls in the talk with a sparkling, gay wit. She's the perfect hostess.
Professor Snape is speaking to Dumbledore and Remus to Kingsley. She watches the two of them alternately. They are the ones whom she feels capable of falling in love with in this world she's so recently entered.
Suddenly there's a mounting amount of noise from the other end of the room. It appears that the Weasley twins have decided to give a preview of their latest joke-shop product. Under The Mistletoe, they say it's called. She laughs along with the others as Bill Weasley and Tonks are forced to kiss each other to rid themselves of the bushel of mistletoe hovering above their respective heads. The mistletoe is very persistent. Bill and Tonks have to repeat themselves six times before the offending plant is satisfied with the degree of passion exhibited and vanishes in a rain of gold coins. Applause and laughter all around. She starts to leave the room for the pantry, the sausage rolls are running low.
But there's something odd happening. A lot of people are turning to stare at her and Fred and George are grinning diabolically in her direction. On instinct she looks up. The accursed mistletoe has chosen to rematerialise over her head and is floating along with her every movement. Inwardly, she sighs, but smiles gamely anyway. Her eyes search the room for the other victim.
It's Remus Lupin, her legal guardian of three months. Fates, have it so if you will then! Your choice.
They move towards each other. He's smiling a little sheepishly. They meet and he puts his hands upon her shoulders. She doesn't move. She can feel his reluctance, his embarrassment. Over his shoulder the piercing eyes of Snape catch her own and she looks into Remus's instead.
Ready, he asks.
Ready.
His face is very close to her own now and he brushes her lips with his in a chaste kiss. Very proper, as it should be. It is the way one kisses ikons of the saints, the feet of the Holy Virgin. She's surprised he didn't choose to kiss her on her forehead.
They gaze smilingly at one another, apart now. Above them, the mistletoe is quiet for a moment. Then it breaks into the unmistakable hallmark of flatulence and brown blobs fall from it to the ground. The room erupts in mirth. Fred and George remark, we've never had so bad a reaction. He rolls his eyes drolly.
When the clamour has abated. She's a little annoyed by the prank now. There are many things she should be doing, tasks, and her time is being stolen. She decides to have it over with immediately.
He's holding her shoulders once again. This time, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls his head down to hers. She moves so fast he can't stop her. Then her lips are on his, teasing his mouth open, and her tongue is tasting him, exploring every bit of him.
He's thoroughly startled, she knows that from the rigidity of his body. But she's relentless, she won't let him go. She kisses him with merciless passion, her undeclared love for him, his goodness, his decency, spurring her on. She feels the arousal start to uncoil in him against his will. At last he garners enough strength to push her away.
His blue eyes, shocked and disbelieving, looking into hers. There's desire in them as well. She returns the stare, wearing her swollen lips like a badge of honour. Can she not just push him down now, strip and implore him to take her there on the floor? His face is flushed. Are you angry with me, Remus, my dear, kind, guardian?
The coins are showering down around them from the gone mistletoe. People are cheering, but they are standing in a vacuum, just the two of them.
You shouldn't have, Helen, he says quietly. He's not smiling.
She suffocates her need for him. He's a good man, too good for her perhaps. The kiss must have felt incestuous, a form of betrayal to him. She doesn't want him to feel guilt, or be hurt in any way. He'll think it's treachery to the memory of Sirius if they ever made love. Backing off is correct here.
C'est la vie, she says as lightly and gaily as she can. She walks away. Nobody has noticed anything amiss. Not that she would give a damn.