Chapter 3
Sleep on
Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek
No happier state, and know to know no more.
Paradise Lost, Book IV
The Dark Lord's Legilimency was a scalpel in Severus's mind. Deftly, it sought out imperfections, mistakes, anything that might indicate corruption of what should be there. Severus concentrated on the image of Dumbledore's doppelganger lying broken at the foot of the tower. Over and over he mentally intoned, Dumbledore is dead. I killed him.
The scalpel turned, cutting to the scene at the top of the tower. Severus felt the validity of the memory being probed: was the green flash the correct shade of green? Did Severus say the proper words?
Dumbledore is dead. I killed him.
Voldemort did not become a Dark Lord without a healthy amount of paranoia. He reviewed the memories several times. Severus never allowed himself a flicker of doubt, never permitted himself to think of Dumbledore not being dead. The tiniest slip would mean his death.
Eventually, the Dark Lord left his mind. Severus returned to the world around him in time to see him relax back into his chair at the head of the Malfoy's dining table. Pale grey fingers tapped against nonexistent lips, and Severus coolly met the cold red eyes.
"I commend you, Severus," the Dark Lord said. "Your loyalty and quick action in a moment of crisis will not go unrewarded."
Severus inclined his head, trying to emanate modesty. "I did my duty, my Lord, nothing more." This was always tricky; the Dark Lord did not appreciate obsequiousness in his followers. To deny the part you played too strongly could anger him nearly as much as arrogance would.
Of course, the definitions of "obsequious" and "arrogant" could change in a moment and condemn words that were approved of a minute earlier. Dealing with the Dark Lord was much like dealing with the Dark Arts. Tactics had to change each day as variables shifted; what worked previously might not work now, but could possibly work tomorrow. It was not for nothing that Severus had lectured his students on the mutability of the Dark Arts. With any luck, some of it would stick in their heads and they would stand a better chance.
"Very well." Voldemort stood, his body undulating with every movement in a manner remarkably reminiscent of Nagini. Severus quickly got to his feet. How he hated these little gestures of servitude, the careful bowing and scraping and tugging of forelocks that were implicit upon swearing fealty to the Dark Lord. Dumbledore might be a meddling old bastard, but he at least did not require the staff to kneel when he entered a room.
"You may go, Severus. I shall call you when I require you. I think," he continued, gliding past Severus to move into the opulent entrance hall, "that we shall have to take the Ministry before the search for Potter begins in earnest. Once I am the only authority the wizarding world answers to, no one will dare harbor him. Also, there is the future of Hogwarts to consider. Shutting down my dear alma mater simply will not do." He laughed, high-pitched and hissing, a sound that still pricked the nerves of Severus' spine.
"My time is at your command, my lord." Swiftly, Severus knelt to kiss the black fabric at the hem of the Dark Lord's robes, before standing and backing out of the hall.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the heavy doors of Malfoy Manor shut behind him. Having furniture, walls, doors, or preferably a planet between him and his supposed master always made him feel slightly less on edge. It lessened the immediate threat of death, though Severus was beginning to suspect that he was growing less and less expendable in Voldemort's demonic eyes. Both hints of rewards to come and nary a threat for the past few months indicated his growing usefulness. He would have to cultivate it without, of course, actually assisting the Dark Lord's plans to any great extent.
When all this is over, Severus thought, striding through the lush gardens towards the gates, I am going to buy myself a warehouse of Ogden's Finest.
He vented his frustration for the moment by Transfiguring one of Lucius' prized white peacocks into an azalea bush. A flick of his wand ensured that it would wear off in an hour or so. Bellatrix, he recalled, was violently allergic to azaleas. The thought of her haughty face swollen and blotchy, with tears pouring from eyes and nose, lightened his spirits slightly, and he smirked as he Apparated home.
The next evening, after dinner, Severus stepped outside his house and into a dark alley next to it. No crickets provided a symphony in this skeleton of an industrial town, so his complex incantation hung alone in the stillness. With his wand, he tied a glowing blue knot in the air. Two sharp words, accompanied by violent slashes, and the knot unraveled into a clean, hovering oval.
But inside the glowing curves could be seen, not run-down buildings, but a quiet forest, highlighted in silver by a bright moon. It was a perfect forest, in fact, with picturesque trees spaced fairly evenly apart, and no straggly or thorny underbrush to inconvenience a wanderer. In fact, it looked like a forest that had been made to look exactly as people imagined forests ishould/i, and nothing like they do.
Severus stepped through the doorway as though walking into a grocers. It closed behind him without a sound. He was used to the process by now; he had been slipping into the magically enclosed haven every other day for three weeks. Spying on Granger and Weasley was simple compared to his usual espionage situation. The information needed was minimal, and he had already gleaned most of it. Everyday patterns had formed in the three weeks since his ex-students had been placed here, and he had their usual schedules practically memorized. His work now was to attempt to discern the emotional state of the pair; every fight, spat, and interaction he viewed from afar could give him more weapons to use against the girl.
He cast a Disillusionment charm over himself, nodding in satisfaction as his outstretched arm took on the colors and shapes of his surroundings. Quietly, he made his way through the woods.
When the trees thinned and he could see the cottage, he stopped. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a fleshy string. He sent one end of it scuttling across the grass like a snake, while the other he placed against his ear. Annoying little brats though they were, the Weasley twins came up with some very useful products.
The mug of tea warmed Hermione's hands, though they hardly needed it. The night air was balmy, the residual heat of a very warm day keeping the chill from it. Hermione was perched on a wooden bench in the front garden, staring up at the glittering stars. She had counted three meteorites in the past hour. Whoever had designed the sky (Dumbledore, she assumed) had programmed it to behave idyllically. At least the moon waxed and waned, and each night the shooting stars were in a different part of the sky, but she couldn't help but feel a new videotape was put in at sundown and some omnipotent finger pressed "play".
Did Dumbledore think I wouldn't notice? she groused to herself, setting her mug down on the wood slats beside her so she could cross her arms. Or did he not care that I would notice? Three weeks she and Ron had been here, and God only knew how many more were to come. Surely Dumbledore's brilliant mind would have foreseen the cleverest student at the school noticing the odd astronomical tendencies.
She had to admit that considerable effort had gone into making this ersatz world somewhat realistic, but in some cases the design stopped short of unpleasant aspects of reality, yet in other cases embroidered upon nature. The deer in the woods moved correctly, and one small doe even limped, but no droppings were to be found anywhere, nor did the flora look nibbled-upon. The waterfall in the woods fell into a deep pool, but the last time she checked, there had been stairs and seats carved into the rock and the water was perfect swimming temperature. A smaller pool some ways off resembled a mineral hot spring that Hermione had read of once in a book on American geology—it was the perfect level of hot for a good soak. The whole place was a haven, a paradise, and she instinctively hated its perfection. It reminded her of a resort she'd stayed in when she went to the South of France: your every need was catered to, which was fun for a time, but soon became dull.
However, it wasn't as though she any choice about what programmed sky to look at. Or what small, fairy-tale cottage to live in.
She heard the front door creak open behind her.
Or what housemate to have.
"Hermione?"
She didn't turn at his call. Maybe Ron would work out that she wanted to be left alone.
No such luck.
"There you are." Footsteps on the flagstones came towards her. She saw him in the corner of her vision. He was bare-chested. The moonlight almost hid his freckles, leaving only pale skin. He still smelled of the roast beef he'd eaten for dinner; Hermione had opted for a salad of spinach, walnuts, and goats cheese, with a sharp balsamic vinaigrette. Her appetite for rich food had vanished in the stifling atmosphere.
For a second she thought she might have to rescue her mug of tea from Ron's rear end, but he remembered to look before he sat. She did snatch the cup from him before he could set it on the ground, but did not acknowledge him any further. It was rude and she was fully aware of it. Living with Ron for three weeks had that effect.
"It's a nice night," he offered, after a few minutes of silence. Hermione nodded.
He sighed gustily and turned to her, placing a hand on her arm. Forced to recognize him, she looked over.
"Hermione, I'm trying," he said, eyes pleading. "I know living with me can't be fun, we've nothing to talk about, but I'm bloody trying to be bearable!" He snapped off the end of his sentence and glared at her.
"You haven't spoken three words to me today," he continued, releasing her arm so he could gesture with both hands. "I'm not a mind reader; I don't know if you want to be left alone or hugged or kissed or what, and unless you tell me what you want, I won't just vanish until you're in a better mood. We're stuck here together," he concluded.
She bit her lip and looked away. It wasn't fair to cut him out like this; he was used to being surrounded by family and friends. Solitude would never be a haven for him like it was for her. Running to the borders of the space they shared wouldn't get rid of her confusion or her irritation.
"Ron, I- I'm sorry," she said, more to the ground than him. "This place puts me on edge in an odd way, and you're the only person to take it out on. Nothing's real here!"
A hand brushed her cheek, vanished, and then reappeared lower down to slide into her own hand.
Oh, no, Ron, don't set yourself up for this, don't make me hurt you more…
"I'm real, Hermione. What I feel is real."
She wanted to run, wanted to slap him and tell him he was mad to think she wanted him. Whether he realized it or not, he was taking advantage of her being lonely and unhappy and she hated him for it. But it was, she thought as she looked back into those begging brown eyes, like hating a puppy for wanting to be fed.
Maybe she could have reality, for a night. It was hard to be more real and down-to-earth than Ron without being a boulder. It was possible that sex would fuck everything up, but at least there could be a solid problem to have actual fights over, not this vague sense that everything was wrong.
Also, Hermione was desperately, insanely bored. If nothing else, sex was something to do. Or rather—and she kicked herself for this—Ron was someone to do. If all hell broke loose, she could go back to ignoring him.
Slowly, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his.
It was clumsy and awkward. He kissed her and she let him; she did not object when a large hand squeezed her breast. She slid her hands up his back and swung a leg over his lap to straddle him.
It took fifteen minutes of kissing and fondling before she felt even slightly aroused. She gave up enjoying the process as a lost cause and decided to get it over with. Standing, she grabbed Ron's hand and began to drag him toward the cottage. No clothing was shed until they were in his bedroom, with the door locked; an instinct, she supposed, that came from living six other people.
She stood naked before him. She would have been shy of her plump thighs and soft stomach if she'd cared enough. But he didn't care, his hard penis was proof of that, and he touched her eagerly. He was rough with desire, which did nothing to help his bedroom talents, such as they were. Fingers fumbled in her vagina and rubbed at absolutely nothing of importance.
When he was propped up on his elbows above her, poised to enter, he asked her if she was a virgin.
Hermione looked up at him, weighing her response carefully.
"No," she lied. He looked disappointed, or at least as disappointed as any seventeen-year old boy who was about to get laid could look.
"Are you?"
He looked slightly insulted at the question. "Nah, me'n Lavender… "
She knew he, at least, was telling the truth. Slightly alarmed at the thought of sleeping with everyone Lavender had slept with, she took a few minutes to wrestle a condom onto him. He made faces the whole time, but didn't protest too much.
It hurt a bit when he pushed into her. She wasn't wet at all, which didn't help, and he was ignorant of the new abuse her inner flesh was taking. He panted away above her, occasionally pausing to kiss her roughly. She went along with his kisses and faked her sounds of pleasure, though every once in a while, he would hit a spot inside her that pulled a genuine gasp from her lips.
But those moments were brief and far between. They disappeared entirely as his movements grew more and more erratic, and his groans louder.
"Oh, Hermione… I'm gonna… unh!"
Ron thrust into her one last time, his freckled face scrunched up with orgasm. Gradually he relaxed, peppering her face and neck with kisses before collapsing onto the bed next to her.
Hermione waited until his snores rang in the room before slipping back into her own chamber and climbing into her own—blissfully empty—bed. She was sore and tired. Sleep took her quickly, giving her little time to reflect on the mess she had just made of her current living situation.
I bloody hope sex improves with time, was her last thought before she drifted off.
Standing at the edge of the forest, Severus wiped tears of silent laughter from his eyes. He didn't need x-ray vision to know the general idea of what had gone on inside the cabin for the last twenty minutes or so. With any luck, Weasley would be as inept at sex as he was at everything else. A frustrated and curious Granger would be of great benefit to his machinations.
Still smirking, Severus recoiled the Extendable Ear and turned back the way he came.
Severus spent the rest of that night carefully sculpting his plan for Granger. The more he outlined and researched, the more he realized that she could be genuinely useful to him. Originally, he had simply needed someone to be a decoy, a bodyguard for Potter to ensure that Voldemort had his hands full. Now, he saw, Granger had potential to aid him considerably in his plan to rid the world of two meddling megalomaniacs. Those on the side of Light wouldn't touch her, those on the side of Dark would underestimate her (at least, they wouldn't take into account a whole summer of his personal tutelage), and hopefully, she could end up, at least partially, on the side of Severus Snape.
And there was the matter of seducing her. It wasn't necessary, by any means, but one so young and innocent would place great importance on sex (and after the scene he had just witnessed, on good sex), and by inference, on those involved in it. It was another level of attachment, an emotional one, that Severus felt could benefit him greatly. He wouldn't force her—Merlin, no; he might be a bastard, but he was no rapist—but delicate hints and perhaps some carefully pointed comments could have her in his bed, willing and eager.
He saw Granger as being a Gryffindor woman of a polar opposite to Lily. Granger was pretty enough and plump; Lily had been slender and stunning. Lily had been untouchable to Severus, nearly sacred, which was why he hated Harry so; Harry was proof that a man had dared to lay hands, mouth, and even cock to Lily Evans. But Granger, well…
She was eminently fuckable. She was flesh, plain and simple; she was human to Lily's angel. Granger would ultimately fall to his seduction, and thus would allow him to shake Dumbledore off his marble throne.