Chapter Thirteen
The Fair Fortune

Stephen Seeker knew that this was a mistake.

He had barred himself with an iron will from seeing Ruta Lupin after the Wolfsbane Potion was brewed. He had sent Winky instead, absolutely certain that this was the only way of keeping a fragile hold on the peace of mind which had been so thoroughly disturbed during their last encounter.

But now he stood in front of her house, the light of the full moon cascading down from a clear, cold, cloudless sky, and calling himself a witless fool. Still he walked through the dew-damp garden to the door. There was no need to use any charm; Winky let him in before he could even raise his wand.

"Miss is upstairs in her bedroom," she said. "She has been asleep most of the last three days. I have brought her water and something to eat; she has been thirsty, but the food has not been touched."

Her voice was even higher and squeakier than usual; the huge, pale eyes were red-rimmed. They went through the vestibule and into the kitchen together, where Winky immediately busied herself with piling used mugs and plates from a tray, and carrying them over to the sink. Her hands were shaking badly, and suddenly the topmost mug overbalanced, toppled into the sink and crashed to pieces. Winky gave a shrill scream, and only a quick gesture from Seeker's wand kept the rest of the porcelain from shattering, too. His hand closed around the house-elf's elbow while the crockery settled gently on the table again. His gaze was stern.

"How many hours did you sleep during the last forty-eight hours?"

Winky raised a trembling chin.

"Winky didn't sleep. Master told Winky to watch over Miss, and watching she did. How could she disobey his order? Winky wants Miss to be safe, Winky wants…"

"Stop." He turned her around until they stood face to face. "Master wants you to take a nap. Well, a whole series of naps." His gaze wandered through the kitchen and found a box with coffee powder, the lid half open. Almost two thirds of the content was gone. "How much of your own brew did you consume, for heaven's sake?"

"Oh…" Winky blinked nervously. "A pot each day – or two perhaps. Just to stay awake and to do what Master wanted me to do."

"Three or four pots, more likely, given your state," he retorted, deliberately softening his tone. "You did a splendid job, Winky, but enough is enough. I'll take over now, while you return home and get as much sleep as you can. Understood?"

"But Miss did not eat," the house-elf complained querulously. "Winky cooked all of her favorite things, but she did not touch them. Then Winky made a bowl of nice, raw meat -- chicken and beef and egg, all together with a little salt and broth to make it taste good, and just a little bit of rosemary and thyme, but Miss did not eat that either. Winky can't go to sleep till Miss has been fed," the tiny cook wailed. "Miss will be hungry, she will get sick if she does not eat, but maybe Miss doesn't like Winky's cooking any more..."

He bit his tongue on a sharp retort, angry that Winky should have pestered Ruta to eat in the midst of the traumatic experience she was undergoing; incredulous that she could say 'Miss will get sick' as though Ruta weren't already in the grip of an incurable tragedy; irritated that he should have to deal with something as petty as hurt feelings when all his attention was focused on the room above. But the irritation faded as he looked at those reddened eyes.

He cared for this one, too, whose love and loyalty had literally brought him back from death, to begin this curious transformation from what he had been to whatever it was he was becoming now.

With a patience that would have astonished any of Severus Snape's students, Stephen Seeker looked down at the passionate, fussy, right now thoroughly irrational little creature and said, "Get some sleep, Winky. Ruta will be hungry when she wakes from the transition -- she will need you tomorrow, and we will both enjoy a good lunch. Boeuf Stroganov, perhaps, and a good coffee afterwards. Sleep now. I will watch over her."

"As Master wishes." She bowed deeply, trying to suppress a huge yawn, and one second later she vanished with a loud Crack! He felt himself wince and instinctively gazed up at the ceiling, but aside from his own heartbeat there was no sound.

He returned to the vestibule and walked up the stairs. The corridor was dark; two doors opened to a bathroom and an empty guestroom, a third was closed and locked when he probed the handle.

Seeker stood silently in front of it, trying to make up his mind.

He could hardly imagine that Ruta would be pleased at the thought of him invading her hiding place while she was transfigured. But at the same time he felt the stubborn urge to find out if she were well – of course Winky had taken good care of her, but he wanted to know for sure.

He had to see her.

"Alohomora!"

The door opened soundlessly, revealing another bedroom, awash with moonlight and this time clearly lived-in. The bed was covered with a patchwork quilt, done in soft tints of rosewood, brown and beige.

He was still standing in the doorway when he heard a low, soft growl from the right side of the room. He turned to see – and even though he had been prepared for this, he froze.

Beneath the window lay a wolf.

It was a big animal, though not nearly as enormous as Fenrir Greyback. The long, slender body was covered with short, anthracite fur, the shoulders and legs dappled with white spots. At the sight of him the wolf slowly rose to its feet, but it had obviously no intention of attacking him. It moved in his direction - not with the normal grace of a wild beast, but slowly and limping, and then he noticed the stiff right front leg, with prominent, angry red scars, winding down from the shoulder to the paw.

There is no cure for the Werewolf Curse, of course, but the Wolfsbane Potion, when properly prepared, ameliorates the conditions. The werewolf changes physical form with the full moon, but retains both awareness and sanity. Given those benefits, the side effects of the potion – a lack of appetite and extreme drowsiness – are mere bagatelles.

To his surprise it was the lazy, drawling voice of Horace Slughorn in his head. Pompous idiot… though he was right, of course. With a loud, sarcastic snort he banished his former Potions teacher from his thoughts, and the wolf – despite all his knowledge and experience Seeker shied away from calling her Ruta – pricked up her ears.

"I am sorry," he said. "I know I shouldn't have come in. But I had to send Winky to bed, to keep her from falling apart. And I wanted to be sure that the potion shows the right effect."

The wolf whined softly, then slowly retired to her place beneath the window and lay down again with a throaty groan of palpable relief.

Again Seeker looked around, taking in more details of the room. The rosewood tone of the quilt was repeated on the walls, and the curtains were of a dark chocolate brown. A round carpet in faded shades of fawn, gold and a pale but still jubilant ruby red was the center of this refuge. The walls were covered with bookshelves, and interspersed with ample green potted plants on small wooden pedestals. It was a surprising mixture of bedroom and library.

He turned to the fireplace opposite the bed, and the deep, comfortable looking chair beside it.

"Would you object to a fire?"

The wolf gave no sign of disagreement, and so he knelt down on the floor and built a pile of apple wood logs from a small wicker basket.

"Incendio!"

Golden flames rose with a powerful roar, warming his face. A glint of metal on the mantelpiece caught his eye: a book, and seemingly a very special one. He took it, turned it in his hands and involuntarily held his breath. The book was bound in leather, darkened and softened by age. Precious silver embellishments decorated the cover, and in the center sat a small silver skull, with two shimmering moonstones in the eye sockets. It was an exquisite edition of The Tales of Beedle the Bard; his mother had sometimes read the ancient fairy tales to him when he was still a child, but her copy had been a simple one, bound in cheap paperboard and already well-thumbed. This book was something else entirely, the precious heirloom of some ancient dynasty and worth a small fortune. If the Muggle coffee pot and the set of comb and brush were the only precious things in this house, it did most certainly not belong to Ruta. Perhaps it was one of Andromeda's possessions - she had a grandchild, young enough to cherish Beedle's legends, and she was a Black, after all.

Silver and gems flashed in the firelight. Under his hands, the pages fell open, revealing beautifully printed, old minuscule letters, and a fine bookmark, made of embroidered silk.

"'The Fountain of Fair Fortune'" he murmured. It had never been Eileen Prince's favorite fairy tale, though he had liked it, at least whilst he still was a boy of Teddy's age. But the dolorous twists of his own fate had made him dismiss the gentle, hopeful moral of the simple story.

Suddenly he felt a cool touch against his hand. He looked up and saw that the wolf was standing in front of him, her bright, yellow eyes firmly fixed on the book.

"What is it?" He stared down at her. "What do you want me to do?"

Again the damp nose pushed gently against his fingers.

It was a remarkably silly idea… but there were quite a few hours ahead before the moon went down and the dawn began. And the chair felt very comfortable indeed.

"Are you sure you really want… oh, for heaven's sake, why not." Seeker sighed. "At least this place is private enough that I can make a fool of myself and stay undetected." He gave the wolf a stern gaze. "But I should warn you in advance that I've never been a good storyteller."

The wolf settled at his feet, head sinking down on her paws.

"Once upon a time there was a wondrous garden at the far end of a magical kingdom, enclosed by a high wall and protected by powerful spells no wand was able to break. Every year, at the turning from winter to spring, the charms were lifted for one single day, and a slim crack opened in the wall, to let one single unfortunate pass and grant him a bath in the fountain, to win fair fortune forevermore…"

The fire was burning bright enough for reading, and aside from the crackling of the flames the deep voice of the man in the chair was the only sound in the room. He read page after page, rediscovering a story he had desperately and against all evidence of reality loved as a small child. And he found himself getting increasingly engrossed with the ancient tale of three witches, seeking redemption and help: Asha, "sick of a malady no Healer could cure", Altheda, desperately craving to be released from poverty and betrayal, and Amata, still grieving for a lost love… all of them eagerly waiting with a vast crowd of fortune seekers for the right moment.

"The first light of the wondrous day came, casting a faint, golden shine on the enchanted wall. 'Look!' Altheda cried. 'It is opening! Make haste, or we'll never be able to pass through in time!' Grey-green vines came creeping through the fresh crack amidst the stone, wrapping around Asha and pulling her inside. 'Watch out!' she yelled, getting hold of Altheda's wrist and dragging her along. Altheda whirled around, grabbing for Amata's sleeve. But while Amata was pulled off her feet, a knight in rusty armor stumbled out of the swarming crowd, and his iron-clad foot tangled in the hem of her long robe. With a scream they both bolted forward, scratching against the raw stone and finally tumbling in a heap on the lush lawn of the secret garden. And with a loud thunder the wall closed behind them."

The tale led the party past the three challenges every wizard child knew by heart: the monstrous, white worm, bloated and blind, demanding the proof of their pain (and satisfied by Asha's tears); the steep mountain, only to be overcome by the fruit of their labors (the sweat on Altheda's brow while she was cheering on her companions on their way to the peak); and the treasures of their past (given through the sacrifice of Amata's bitter-sweet memories). It said how the witches helped each other without having to use the legendary fountain: Altheda, by brewing a healing draught for Asha, taking away her malady and proving to herself that she would be able to earn her living by using her skills and putting an end to her poverty. And finally Amata, realizing the falsity of her cruel and faithless lost lover and offering the knight in rusty armor, the brave Sir Luckless, the bath in the fountain she no longer needed.

"Sir Luckless climbed out of the fountain, his face shining, water dripping from his armor. With a mighty clangor of battered iron he fell to Amata's feet. 'My lovely Lady Amata!' he exclaimed. 'You have restored my courage and my faith, and all I will ever need to be happy for the rest of my life is your heart and your hand.' And Amata looked down at this brave man, finally understanding that he had indeed proven to be worthy of her. She laughed, her eyes alight with wonder and joy. 'I gladly grant you both, my dear Sir Luckless,' she said, "and now we will have to find you a new name, for we shall live happily together forevermore.'"

Stephen Seeker carefully closed the book and put it back on the mantelpiece. Then he settled in the chair again, staring down at the wolf. After a moment of hesitation he reached out and gently touched her. The fur felt surprisingly soft under his palm.

"Ruta." It was a nearly inaudible whisper.

The wolf raised her head, looking at him, the massive head following the movement of his fingers as they were drawn back. Behind them the flames sank down in the fireplace, fine wisps of smoke curling towards the chimney. A sudden gush of wind stole through the cracks in the window frame and billowed the heavy curtains. Yellow eyes stared up at the man leaning forward in the chair, and black eyes returned the gaze unblinking, finally blinded by the truth they had so long denied themselves to see.

"Ruta."

vvvvv

He woke up with a start. Faint light was trickling through the closed curtains; his neck felt stiff and sore. He sat up, instinctively searching for the silent figure of the she-wolf at his feet.

The wolf was gone. On the carpet lay Ruta, sound asleep, her head on folded arms, her unbound hair covering most of her bare shoulders and back. His fatigue had made him miss the transformation, and her own exhaustion had kept her from rising in time to avoid being found like this.

For a few moments he was at a loss for what to do next. Sneak out and leave her behind, unaware of his presence? Get a blanket to cover her, in case she might wake up, to spare them both the embarrassment? Finally he made up his mind, lifted her gently and carried her over to the untouched bed. He managed to pull back the counterpane and duvet with one hand and carefully laid her down on the sheets, covering her with the quilt.

He straightened his back, looking down at her – the face, relaxed in deep slumber, the strained lines of pain and endurance wiped out, smooth and pale like marble.

He looked at her hair - the soft, hazelnut waves, spreading on the pillow like an astonishingly thick cloak of silk. He vividly remembered how the long, shining locks had felt when he braided them a week ago.

He knew he should leave; but somehow he didn't manage to turn away. Instead he found himself leaning back in, watching his own hand with a kind of odd detachment as it reached out and touched her, touched the hair, cautiously talking a fine strand between thumb and forefinger. Then, still very slowly and hesitantly, his hand moved to her head, very gently stroking the forehead, the temple and finally the cheek.

He knew he had to go… quickly, before she woke up. But in the tiny moment before he could draw back his hand and break the contact, she opened her eyes.

Her gaze immediately met his, clouded by drowsiness and then, all of a sudden, wide awake. There could be no mistaking the situation; he was still leaning over her, his palm still cupping her face, and she had to be aware of the fact that her body under the duvet was completely naked.

The villain, clad in sinister black, prepared to take advantage of the helpless maiden. The cliché was trite enough to make his lips twitch, despite the sudden, bone-deep fear, cramping like a fist around his heart: that this small gesture might destroy whatever they had gained. He had repressed this hunger almost completely for more than two decades, because the woman he'd been craving for all those years was lost, a bittersweet, haunting dream, strong enough to keep him focused on his task to guard her son, but unable to quench the physical need he'd learned to deny himself.

"Stephen."

It was barely more than a whisper, and he was close enough to feel it like a warm breeze on his skin. Suddenly her face relaxed in a smile, and he could see his twin reflection mirrored in her eyes. Her good hand came up from the duvet and covered his, and without thinking he turned his palm until their fingers entwined.

"Stephen…"

No blame in her voice, no sudden fright. With disbelief and wonder he realized that instead of the angry refusal he had taken for granted, there was only a joyful welcome. She made an effort to prop up on the injured arm; instinctively he reached out, supporting her before the weakened muscles could slacken, and now he sat on the edge of the bed, holding her in a loose embrace.

He could feel the ridged scar directly beneath her shoulder and shifted slightly, moving his hand away from the injury and closing it around the back of her neck. His thumb found her earlobe, gently stroking while her soft hair fell over his arm. Somehow it was only logical to do what he did next: he leaned in even closer until his lips found her mouth.

Her breath mingled with his, and what had begun as a gentle, tentative touch became more intense when he felt her hand on his back. He pulled her closer, caressing the base of her skull, and the strong, thrilling sensation of the shiver running through the body pressed against his own made him gasp into her mouth. She drew back, but only the tiniest distance; her eyes were shining.

"You'll have to bear with me," she murmured, and now her fingers reached his face, following a maddening trace along his cheekbones and around his ear. "I'm a bit… out of practice."

He opened his mouth, but he found himself unable to speak. A disturbing multitude of thoughts crossed his mind, the newfound, hesitating delight almost immediately stifled by a darkness he'd learned to live with over the years; the hunched creature that had clung to his heart on the way into a new life raised its ugly head, hissing of doubts and distrust. More than twenty years of laboriously seeking his way across a mine field of hidden traps and lethal dangers had taught him to nurture suspicion as an essential virtue, and now he found himself unable to believe that this unusual woman should actually desire whatever he had to offer. He had no illusions when it came to his outwardly appearance, and he knew the scars and deformations of his old soul too well to be completely sure of his new one.

"Stephen?"

He looked into her eyes and before he could even try to control himself, he had wordlessly cast the spell unlocking the mind beyond that clear gaze, meeting not even the mildest resistance.

-- he saw darkness… darkness, and a boy, smiling up at Ruta. Teddy. And then there was another face he knew all too well, gleeful malice and an untamed greed to destroy, to maul, to kill… Fenrir Greyback, cruelly enjoying the prospect of feasting on his long awaited revenge.

Teddy. Please, not Teddy.

Overwhelming panic, replaced by the fear for the boy, and only the boy. Excruciating pain, a crashing fall, and darkness again. He left the disturbing images behind, exploring layer after layer of thoughts and memories and constantly seeking for the one man he expected to see… but to his utter surprise he didn't find him.

Instead, he found his own face. He found himself, standing a short distance away, eyeing her with uneasy interest and then stepping closer, reluctantly establishing the first contact. This must have been the day when she spoke to him about the mysterious transformation of his garden. His own face once more as he leaned over the garden wall, his eyes, surprisingly close, and his voice, speaking to her:

"Are you ashamed of him?"

Ah, there it was – a short glimpse of Remus Lupin, younger, much younger, without the tired lines, etched into his face, smiling and saying something he didn't understand. But then the small, vivid image went out like a candle, and he saw his own face again and again… brightened by the sun and an occasional smile, warmed by firelight as he sat beside the table in his living room, revealing his story to the woman who knew so much about him now and still wanted to learn more… his familiar play of features, seen through her eyes, and all those memories radiating a warmth that trickled into his body, filling him to the brim… hesitating care, growing into a honest friendship and then – very slowly - changing again, to something deeper this time, something much deeper, something that --

He withdrew from her mind with a violent jerk and found himself slumped against her body, his brow touching her naked skin; he was shaken to the core.

"Forgive me."

His own voice, though he barely recognized it. For a long, agonizing moment Ruta lay completely still, and he couldn't bring himself to look up and see his own damnation in her face. And then, all of a sudden, he felt her hands… both hands, gently lifting his head from her shoulder.

There was no damnation in her eyes whatsoever, only a hint of sadness.

"You could have asked," she said.

"For what?" he asked in a sharp, desperate tone. He could feel the all-too-familiar self-loathing rise and break over him like a black wave. "For the permission to enter your mind and discover your deepest secrets?"

To his surprise she laughed… a soft, low chuckle.

"No, you trying, askant man," she said, and now it was she who sought his lips. It was a quick, fleeting kiss, and then her mouth wandered across his cheek, whispering into his ear. "For the truth. What did you expect to see? That I still hunger for the shadow of someone who never was mine in the first place? Well, I don't. The man you've been searching for in my mind has died with the past. I want you, Severus… Stephen… whoever you chose to be in the future, I want you… or you wouldn't be here."

Ruta laughed again, a warm, earthy sound, and despite his bone-deep unease he felt his body react in an unmistakable way. Whatever he wanted to say, any further apology, any sincere expression of thankfulness fled from his mind when he felt her lips on his mouth again, a sweet, exhilarating invitation to learn, to discover, to feel. With a shiver of sheer relief he gave in to the long-denied, long-forbidden wish to explore this body that was offered to him.

He kissed her temple, the curve of her jaw and the point where the long, slender neck merged to her shoulder. He stroked her collarbones and heard her delighted sigh when she wriggled free from the duvet and gave him access to small, firm breasts with rosy tips, filling his hands and sending an electric shock through his entire flesh. He tried to remember when he had done this before, losing track along the chain of far too many empty years without a touch and warmth like this, without the fleeting breeze of his breath on a woman's skin and the thrill of his mouth, blindly seeking for a firm bud. A low moan came from somewhere above him, and then her hands combed his hair, encouraging him further while the duvet finally slid down to the floor.

His left hand followed the soft curve of her hips in reverent wonder while the right found its way across her flat belly and felt the long thighs open under seeking fingers. Her body rose to meet him and he drew back his hand, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hold back if he rushed things now, and forcefully willing his fingers to stop from shaking.

He looked up, reveling in the sight of her: a flushed face, lips half open, eyes glowing in a secret fire that struck sparks on his very skin, the long hair a tousled mass over her naked shoulders and back. He noticed the silvery streaks interspersing the warm hazelnut brown, he saw the fine lines around her eyes, the marks of exhaustion and lost youth, leading down from her nose to the corners of her mouth, and the painful pattern of scars on shoulder and arm. She was beautiful.

Ruta sat up, reaching out for him.

"I… I want to see you." She found the topmost button of his shirt, struggling to open it with her left hand, then gave a shaky giggle and bit her lip. "My goodness, look at me… this is the worst moment possible to be clumsy, isn't it?"

"Let me do it."

Her unsteadiness was delightful and encouraging at the same time. He quickly got up from the bed to rid himself of his clothes, dropping them unceremoniously on the carpet. There was no time to be uncertain or embarrassed; he returned to her, watching her face as she looked at him, her eyes shining in amazement and joy. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"You know that I have to ask," he whispered, "and I will only ask once. Are you… sure?"

"I am sure, Stephen," she replied, reaching out for him; her hand touched his cheek, and her thumb caressed his mouth. "Sure enough to beg, if I must. Please…"

He sat down in front of her and pulled her close, cupping her breasts again, overwhelmed by the sensation of arousing curves and silky skin while he captured her lips in a long, hungry kiss. She drew back, her hands roaming his shoulders, the planes of his chest and abdomen, and he sat still, barely daring to stir, and at the same time fighting to keep control. It would be so easy to dictate the fast, rough pace his famished body was screaming for. But he wanted her to enjoy this wholeheartedly, silently blessing fate that his experience with the matters of physical love was sufficient enough to give her the pleasure she deserved… even though it took all his force of will to banish the knowledge how he had gained this particular experience. He agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him… Voldemort's own words about his doubtable ability to love and to desire after Lily's death, screamed right into Harry Potter's face and mercilessly repeated in one of Rita Skeeter's dratted articles.

No. No, he wouldn't allow a rotten past to demolish what fate had granted him now. Voldemort was defeated, nothing more than a pale shadow. Other lovers, forced upon him and painfully unwanted, were lost in his past, nothing more than faceless bodies. Even Lily was gone…. and it had been Lily who told him that he deserved a second chance, in the cheerful brightness of the dreamlike place between this world and the next. A second chance to start all over again, a new chance to trust and to care. To trust and to care for this astonishing woman who had turned out to be a most powerful and healing Bezoar against what had ailed and poisoned him for most of his life.

But only if he managed to let go of the images he still kept in his soul.

Lily in Hogsmeade, her eyes laughing up at him under a fur-lined hood. Her face, swimming in the clouds of steam from a cauldron, pure and as stunningly beautiful as a precious medal. Not all of his treasures had he delivered to her son on that day in the Shrieking Shack. Some of them had wandered with him into the new, unfamiliar skin of Stephen Seeker – and now he understood in a sudden flash of insight that the moment had come to abandon them. No silver mist, following the momentum of a wand down to the surface of a river, like in the fairytale – rather a door, ultimately closed against a pain long past, while he turned his face to the future.

With the past finally bestowed, he was able to focus on the present, on the breathtaking reality in his hands. Gently he lifted Ruta into his lap; he knew that she could feel the hardness of his desire against her thigh, and he gave a shallow, hissing breath when she touched it. She explored him without any shyness, running her fingers up and down the whole length and then carefully adjusting her hips; the hale arm slipped around his neck.

She let herself sink down, and from one moment to the next he was surrounded by slick, smoldering heat. His head fell back and he gasped in unexpected panic. It was too much, too intense, too fast… and then his starved body refused to follow the dictation of his will, thrusting up into her yielding flesh and breaking the tension with an irresistible, violent peak.

Stephen Seeker was at a complete loss for words; he held her close, his brow against the consoling softness of her skin, breath and heartbeat ragged from his untimely release. His mind was swirling with embarrassment and silent anger. That was disastrous. He had wanted to give her nothing less than the ultimate experience of physical pleasure, and then… this.

"I'm sorry," he murmured when he finally found his voice again. "I must admit that I feel as silly as any sixth-year dunderhead after a first and completely miscarried fumbling session in the bushes."

To his astonishment, Ruta giggled.

"Before you reported that clumsy Casanova to his Head of House or afterwards?" she asked, her mouth in his hair.

"Before, I presume," he said, his lips relaxing in a reluctant smile; he felt more than a little sheepish. "After my report – and my thorough lecture – he would be completely crushed."

Her giggle turned to a full-blown laughter… and the effect on his treacherous body was as surprising as it was hopeful.

"Don't… don't stop laughing," he breathed against her breast. "It works wonders on my… erh… condition."

"Oh. Does it indeed?" She laughed again, in a mixture of amazement and delight. He straightened his back, his arms supporting the body enclosing his newly growing hardness, and was rewarded with the sight of her sparkling eyes.

"It is like riding a bicycle, you know," she informed him in a serious tone, spoiling the impression with a sigh as she rose slightly atop of him and sank down again. "You never… ahhhh… you never unlearn it." Another, deeper sigh, as his body responded with a flowing movement, his hands running down her spine and resting on the swell of her buttocks.

"I've never mounted a bicycle in my entire life," he protested before his lips found a quickly hardening bud. Now it was her turn to gasp, and his hands slid to her waist, closing around it in a firm grip.

"Move for me," he whispered, voice catching in his throat. "I promise I'll hold you."

He couldn't take his eyes from her as she slowly found her rhythm, eyes closed, brow furrowed in rapt concentration. For a long while, the only sound in the silent room was their heavy breathing and the soft creaking of the bed frame. Now she moved faster, and he could feel his hips arching involuntarily when the burning forebodes of a second peak made every muscle tense in feverish anticipation.

Her fingers dug into his bare shoulder; suddenly she gave a sharp scream and her entire body grew rigid, balancing at the edge of her climax. He moaned aloud, for the moment careless of everything else but the unleashed passion radiating from her, and his own, seething need. Then Ruta cried his name with a broken, breathless voice, shivering, her face sinking against his neck. There was no need to hold back any longer, and he wouldn't have been able to curb the maddening urge to move anyway. Once… twice… a third time, erratic and ferociously now… and then he felt his own release erupt deep inside of her again. At the same time she raised her head and claimed his mouth in a ravening kiss, and for a few seconds the world sunk into a blissful, velvet-black darkness.

He came back to himself, lying with her on the bed in a boneless embrace, limbs entangled, her hair spilling over his chest like a soft, warm curtain. He could hear his heartbeat slowly returning to a steady rhythm while the sensation of their lovemaking still hummed in every fiber of his body. He wanted to speak, to give words to the numb, disbelieving wonder filling his heart, but then he turned his head instead, kissed her temple and said the first thing that came into his mind.

"Does your arm hurt?"

"No," she murmured; her smile was sweet and cheerful against his bare skin. "I have forgotten how pain feels."

"Then you should recommend this special cure to the healers of St. Mungo's," he gently remarked. "They will doubtlessly be rather… intrigued."

A long moment of silence. Then her voice again, drowsy but still curious: "Did you really report each and every student you found in the bushes, entangled with a classmate?"

Stephen grinned. "Actually, I never did. Being caught in the act by me of all people was punishment and humiliation enough, wasn't it?"

"How very true." Her eyelids fluttered closed, and only moments later she fell asleep. He held her in his arms, watching the sun rise outside in flaming pink and gold, the brightness of the new day like a warming fire within his soul.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Author's Notes:

I kept as close to Rowling's version of The Fountain of Fair Fortune as possible (at least to the details amazon revealed in the summary). If you want to check it, go here:

/
refamblink60575422?ieUTF8&docId1000180871&pfrd
mATVPDKIKX0DER&pfrdscenter-3&pfrdr19ABP3RH7J6TG4MMKPEW&pf
rdt1401&pfrdp377812001&pfrdi1000179911#review2

And if you return to the main page (see link at the bottom) and are patient enough to wait for the pictures to load, you'll be able to have a look at the book; you will doubtlessly notice where my description came from. :-)

I would like to give my praise to the two amazing ladies who helped me with this chapter, rabidsamfan and clevertoad. This wouldn't be as half as satisfying as it is, if not for you.