Sorry about the delay - Madam Athcasta was giving me trouble.
Everything's a bit up in the air now, so I won't get back to a proper posting schedule till the New Year.
Hermione shoved down the need to very politely tell Madam Athcasta where she could shove a bolt of her very expensive green silk. And chase it with the armoury of pins with which the infuriating woman had managed to stab her thirty four times.
Thirty four. Hermione had started a silent count after the fourth pin found her skin without so much as a murmured apology. She hadn't looked to Severus. She could handle this.
He sat in a deep, wing backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, his face...unrevealing. The candle light of the circular, fabric-lined fitting room limned his face and shone against the curtain of inky black hair. It was difficult not to stare at him, to need to stare at him. The memory of his touch, the lightest of kisses that had seared her lips still haunted her.
His sophistication drew her. She wanted it for herself. That complete self assurance in any situation. Craved it. And him. His confidence was magnetic.
"That I have to work with such...material."
Madam Athcasta's quiet acidity pricked as sharply as the numerous pins. Bloody woman. But it was a point of pride not to complain, and not to complain to Severus. She had the suspicion that the madam and the professor had history. After all, Athcasta tailored to the wealthiest in society, which meant purebloods, which presupposed Death Eaters...
Hermione hissed as the thirty fifth pin found her hip. All of her stoicism vanished. Enough. Bloody enough. Especially with that nasty little smirk on the witch's perfect face. "Madam, perhaps we should stop for refreshments. You're still unable to tell the difference between my skin and the silk."
The witch's mouth thinned. She stepped back. "Apologies, Miss Granger. I was not expecting such flesh there."
Severus uncurled from his chair and offered her his hand. Hermione stepped down from the podium set in the centre of the room. She drew in a breath and wanted nothing more to lean against him and have his arms wrap around her. For two hours, the hideous woman had muttered under her breath about the quality of her client, and how she was expected to show off such mutton? To have her name, a witch who had dressed the royalty of Europe, reduced to this...
"How long?" Hermione murmured, watching the ragged little house elf arrange tea and little delicacies on a high table as the odious madam swept from the room in a rush of silk and thick perfume. "I hate this place."
Severus stroked her cheek and she leant into his warm touch, wanting more, wanting him to hold her and promise that, truly it was over and they could leave. Right now. "She has finished your evening wear. Day and work wear are to follow. Then I must be outfitted."
Hermione blinked. "You. But you're already..." The word 'perfect' hovered on her lips, but she bit it back. Her face heated and his dark smile said he knew exactly the thought she'd tried to withhold.
"You will be moving in rarefied company, Hermione. I cannot disgrace you by appearing...shabby."
With a quick crack the elf disappeared and they were alone in the intimate, candlelit fitting room. Hermione's heart was in her throat, all thought of the hideous owner of the shop chased from her mind. His mouth was so close, his heat, his scent working its delicious magic on her flesh. They should show propriety in a public setting, an example of the best wizarding etiquette. But all that could go to the wind because she wanted him. "Severus..."
Impossibly, his eyes grew darker. His thumb stroked a slow, slow line under her bottom lip. "Are you trying to tempt me, little witch?"
His hot breath burned against her parted mouth. "Am I succeeding?"
Severus' soft huff of laughter tightened her heart and her need for more, more than his body and skill twisted within her. "Very nearly." He stepped back and cold air and disappointment swept over Hermione. He looked to the closed door. "Madam Athcasta returns."
"She hates me."
"Amelia can be a...difficult woman."
Hermione lifted an eyebrow, even as she crushed the swift kick of jealousy. "Amelia?"
"I trust her."
Was all he said before the woman surged back into the room. "You are to work in archives, is that correct, Miss Granger?" She snapped her fingers and pointed to the podium again. So much for a break. "You'll require something sturdy then. Spelled to resist dust and ink." She sniffed. "I understand that you'll be crawling around on dirty floors too."
Hermione pressed her lips together. "I will do whatever is needed of me."
The witch's pale eyes narrowed. "Will you?"
The edge to her voice sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine. She resisted looking to Severus. Something about it concerned him and she wanted some clue. But she doubted a former –successful— double agent would reveal anything.
"Severus, may I have my wand, please?"
Without any comment, it was presented to her, handle first. She took it and cast a quick Adamantinus over her skin, denying the witch her chance to stab her another thirty times. Severus lifted an eyebrow as she offered him her wand again. She gave him a tight little smile and stepped back onto the circular podium.
Madam Athcasta's brows had narrowed and Hermione hoped the crease there became permanent. Had the woman doubted she was a witch? "I'm ready to continue, Madam."
Her scowl cleared and her pale eyes hardened. She Summoned a bolt of dark fabric, the light catching on it reminding her of the oily sheen of Severus' teaching robes.
"I don't believe Miss Granger needs to resemble a stuffy academic, Amelia." Severus added milk to a delicate china cup. "Sensible, yet stylish. We will, after all, be of interest to the Daily Prophet, as well as other periodicals."
"As you say, Severus."
The slight remains of her accent teased around his name and Hermione ignored another hit of jealousy. Had Severus learned his skill with tailoring magic from this witch?
She closed her eyes and drew in calming breaths. Not much longer. Then she could escape.
Fabric wrapped around her, the tingle of magic cool and quick. And no pins. Quelle surprise, as the witch herself would say. In so very short a time, Madam Athcasta stepped back, her sneer back in place. Severus had reminded her that for good or ill, her creations would make an appearance in a lot of papers. Attaching her name and style to something as sacred as a ribbon-witch would force her to make an effort.
Still, Hermione wished he'd chosen another tailor.
"We are done." Madam Athcasta presented her with a slim, hardback volume. "Your hair is unnatural. There are charms within this book which can…tame it. Also spells for your skin."
Hermione blinked. She stopped her fisted hand from pressing against her chest. Had the cow sensed her glamours? Was she having a dig at her scarred skin? She took the book –because it was a book, and she never refused a book— and stepped down from the stupid platform.
She wanted to sit and eat. Her stomach growled and she didn't care that the tiny little sandwiches were slightly curled or the delicate and fancy cakes had hardened. She'd inhale the lot.
"Hermione."
Severus held out three wands. One was hers. His body's warmth still heated the wood of the smooth, ebony wand and the long Lebanese cedar. Hermione held the wands reverently. He was trusting her with them. Both of them.
She sank back into the chair Severus had sat in, his wands on her lap, her own tucked into her sleeve, the warmth and scent of him surrounding her. Wandlessly, he waved his hand down his chest, and the numerous buttons to his frock coat, slipped free. He shrugged and Madam Athcasta, standing behind, caught the loose material.
Hermione frowned. The witch's hands were on his back, stroking down as she eased the coat from him. It was blatant. Hermione looked away, even as her fingers formed fists around his wands. The smoothness of the ebony and the rich scent of the warmed cedar unexpectedly calmed the uneven thud of her heart.
His life was his own. Though it was hardly –seemly— for another witch to paw him in front of her. Athcasta murmured something and Severus replied in equally low, smooth French.
A few hard heartbeats later, Athcasta had him stood on the platform, her hands on his hips, her thumbs following the dip of his pelvis in a way that made Hermione blush. His eyebrow had risen, his expression unreadable.
Hermione fixed her attention on the tiers of delicate little pastries and sandwiches. She willed herself not to think of that witch's hands on him. She had to think of something -anything- else. She had no idea he was so fluent in French. Yet more of his sophistication. She almost winced as she ate. Everything about him drew her…but what —if anything— would draw him to her? An eager-to-please know-it-all. And usually she had all the subtlety of a bludger to the face.
Earlier, she truly believed she was tempting him, finding him as wanting of her as she was of him. But how much of it was real? He was her Mentoris. Her teacher. It was his role to seduce her.
The pastry in her mouth soured. Was any of his interest in her real?
"Please say that we never, never ever have to do that again?"
Hermione flopped into the deep, plump sofa dominating the larger reception room of Prince Albert Mansions. Gret scuttled forward with tea and she could've kissed him. "Thank you, Gret." She smiled at him and his face reddened, his ears flicking.
Severus accepted a cup. "Madam Athcasta has your measurements—"
"And yours," Hermione muttered, her cup at her lips, watching over the rim as he sank back into a nearby chair. She crushed the thought that he would go back to the loathsome witch for more of her obvious touches...
"So it should be unnecessary. The bulk of your ensembles—"
"Please, shoes and frocks."
Severus mouth thinned. "If you could refrain from interrupting me."
Hermione blushed, the hot rise of anger and bitterness still chasing through her blood. "Sorry. That woman…" She shuddered. "My clothes will be kept here? Even magically, I couldn't fit so many in my room in Grimmauld Place."
"Yes. Gret has retrieved them. Work wear will go home with you for the week." His head tilted. "You still plan to move here on Friday."
"Oh, gods, yes. I'm sure Mrs Weasley plans to make my life hell from now on."
"But not tonight."
"No."
She took another sip of her tea to deny the sudden tremor in her hands. She wanted to ask more, a host of question burned on her tongue, but every single one of them would show her inexperience. The book had said little. It had mentioned the first sharing of a bed, which had to happen quickly after the ribbon was placed. But nothing more. Would they simply sleep? Or was tonight the night she stopped being a virgin? The Mentoris' judgement trumped everything. Did Severus believe she was ready?
She put her cup down and glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was barely eight. She had to do something. "I'm going to change and disappear into the library."
"As you wish."
She smiled and all but ran from the room. She hated that she had no idea what she was doing. And that her one source of information, of experience would simply look at her with a sly tilt to his mouth and amused eyes. It also didn't help that there was an almost permanent hum to her flesh. And a desire to fling herself on him given the slightest invitation.
He expected her to initiate…something. She simply wished she knew that that something was.
The room she'd chosen was on the lower floor, which also held a vast space with its own, angled reception room and to the back, a large kitchen. Gret was bustling about before a new set of doors in her bedroom. He smiled at her.
"I made your bathroom smaller. Not so much, but enough. You need space for your clothes." He opened the pale, double doors to reveal a whole room dedicated to her new dresses, work and formal robes, shoes, under things, casual clothes, all pristine and colour-co-ordinated. The light scent of vanilla and jasmine warmed the air. Her scents. "Do you approve, Miss?"
"A work of art," She moved, walking into the space lit –it seemed— by natural daylight. A large mirror bifurcated one wall, reflecting the room back at her. "Is this a magical mirror?"
"No, Miss." There was a curtness to Gret's voice. "Magical mirrors are nasty things."
"Thank you. I've never liked them either." They had always had too much to say about her hair.
"Does Miss need anything else?"
"No, thank you, Gret. And this is wonderful."
The little elf beamed at her. "You are special. You deserve my best."
"You know I'm muggle-born." She flexed her hands, aware that she could easily upset the house-elf with her ignorance. She'd done it enough times, to other elves, in the past. "And I'm still working my way through wizarding traditions. Can you tell me why this," she touched her ribbon and it hummed under her fingertips, "pleases house elves so much?"
"You are protecting us. So many creatures. Witches and wizards." Gret's ears flicked, and he pressed his long fingers into a knot before the curve of his belly. "Bad wizards can use you against us. Miss is of age. Unbedded. Your blood. Your bones are vicious. Can make of us such creatures." He shuddered, his ears flat to his head. "As ribboned-witch, you are not allowing it. You want us as we are."
"Thank you," Hermione murmured, slightly stunned.
The elf nodded and with a crack was gone.
"Brightest witch of my age." She snorted and kicked off her transfigured boots. There was a whole underbelly to her world about which she knew nothing.
Stripping down, she showered and took time rubbing her lotions into her skin. Her fingers paused over the still raw and ragged scar cut into her arm. She'd hidden it with a thick glamour for the odious Madam Athcasta. Should she do the same for Severus? And for Dolohov's scar or the thin sliver slice cut into the neck? Glamours coated them all.
Severus was a brilliant wizard. Would he feel the magic covering her skin? Question her? Be horrified? She pulled on her pyjamas and found thick socks to warm her toes. Had she held back from intimacy because of her scars? She'd always told herself she'd get around to a boyfriend, a relationship, sex one day. And there had been a world to save from a maniacal wizard first…
Yet everyone else –even as the world turned to shit— seemed to find love. Or at least another warm body. She hadn't. The Prophet had hinted at her promiscuity after the war's end, especially when it came out that she'd travelled for almost a year with two hormonal boys.
She shivered, bile rising at the thought. They'd had barely enough food. Were always afraid, often lost and darkened by that insane locket. They also stank. Ron's socks in particular could curdle milk. She didn't doubt that living with Ron for a year in such conditions had killed practically all of her interest in him.
Hermione dried and charmed her hair, fighting it back into something that at least stayed off her face and headed off to the library.
She'd been so excited about her new job. They would be paying her to scour books. It was her dream. But since Friday night, she'd hardly given it a thought. She flushed, feeling guilty. She was certain, once everything settled down, it would all be fine.
Now she just had to get her night with Severus out of her thoughts.
"Hermione."
She looked up from her sprawl on the soft, deep rug before the dwindling fire, a gentle ball of light illuminating her open book. Severus had entered the room, unseen, unheard. Her heart gave a painful thud. The immaculate wizard had vanished. He came to her in only trousers and shirt sleeves, three buttons undone at the throat. The fire flickered gold and shadows against his pale skin and the sudden urge, the need, to dip her mouth into the open, tempting vee, to kiss and lick, burned up through her flesh.
His mouth lifted at the corner and he offered his hand. "Time for bed," he murmured.
As every, let me know what you think :)
AN: Adamantinus = Impregnable