JUST ONE NIGHT

CHAPTER THREE:

ONE ATTACK

JUNE 2012

Four years.

She was going on four years in office. Four years since the retirement of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Four years since she achieved the dream she'd had since her fourth year at Hogwarts. Four years since she'd been officially sworn in by the Wizengamot as the youngest-ever Minister for Magic.

Four years since they first heard whispers of the rising Knights of Walpurgis.

It was late June, the end of the school year. In six days students would head back home for the summer, Severus would head back home to his wife, and Hermione would...

Sigh.

Hermione would start emotionally preparing herself for the fall, when her daughter Rose would board the Hogwarts Express for the first time. Rose would be eleven in July; the years had flown by. Hermione would be thirty-three in September, and she'd been shagging Severus Snape in secret since the night before her twenty-ninth birthday.

She sat alone in his office making small talk with the portraits of Dumbledore and McGonagall while she waited. He was late. They had three official meetings each year, by order of the Ministry during Shacklebolt's early years: One in September, one in December, and one in June. He'd never been late for one before.

She'd never had to sit alone and wait for him.

"How are the children?" asked Minerva's portrait. The Headmistress had met Rose several times before passing away when the girl was five, but had seen little Hugo only twice in that time.

"Rose cannot wait to come to Hogwarts. She's a lot like me, eager to learn, entirely too serious, though she looks more like her father, frazzled ginger hair and freckles. A few of her cousins are already here, so she'll not be alone. She wants to be Sorted into Gryffindor like Freddy or Ravenclaw like Victoire, but she also has Audrey in Hufflepuff."

"And if she's in Slytherin, she'll meet Severus' daughter, Delphini." Minerva said this off-handedly, but Hermione bristled at it. She did not want to think about her daughter meeting his. Not that the two would somehow managed to figure out what their parents were up to on a semi-regular basis, but the thought of them even in the same room together made the contents of her stomach swim.

"I know you think I'm a terrible person–" Hermione began, but the former Headmistress shook her head and held up a painted hand.

"On the contrary, I think you're a very good person. But I think you're doing a terrible thing. You must feel some degree of remorse for your actions. Wouldn't a divorce be better for both you and Mr. Weasley?"

"It's not that simple." Hermione fidgeted in the chair, feeling like a chastened schoolgirl under Professor McGonagall's discerning gaze – the artists had captured her eyes well. "Besides, it isn't as if my getting divorced would mean we could be together. Severus is still married... and I can't even be certain he likes me much."

She never referred to the man as Severus in his presence. Always, he was Headmaster. And she was Minister. This had started out of politeness and respect for their respective titles, but over time, as they grew closer, as their physical intimacy seemed like it might lead to emotional intimacy, the use of titles was necessary to keep them separated. Headmaster and Minister were partitions, fortress walls, intended to remind them with every breath and kiss and thrust that they were nothing more to each other than...

What were they, exactly?

Hermione sighed. If he did not arrive soon, she would have to leave for home. No sense waiting up all night for a man while sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a drafty castle when she could go home and spend all night waiting up for a man from the comfort of her own empty bed. At least, there, she had camomile tea and scented candles and a bright purple vibrator she secretly nicknamed The Half-Blood Prince... Of course, the real thing would be far better than the one that required batteries.

The best thing about her mother moving in after her father's untimely death was that there was always someone there to stay with the children, enabling Hermione to feel less guilty about her overnight "work trips" than she had in the past, when she knew clueless Ron was home wondering when she'd return.

She had given up the wait and was saying goodnight to McGonagall and Dumbledore while reaching for her cloak when the office door opened. There was a scuffling noise and a grunt before it closed again, seemingly of its own volition.

Hermione immediately drew her wand, pointing it at the source of the noise.

"Headmaster?"

"Minister," his voice said weakly. There was a shimmer and his body appeared, having been temporarily disillusioned to allow him to return to the castle unseen.

And for good reason.

He could not stand up straight. His right eye was swollen and already purpling, his overlarge nose looked off-center, he was much paler than usual, and there was drying blood running down from his hairline along the side of his face, dripping onto the high black collar of his frock coat. His hands clutched at his side, and he was limping.

"Headmaster!" Hermione rushed to him, catching him as he half-collapsed. She guided him carefully into the sitting room to the middle of his soft moss green couch, the most comfortable piece of furniture he owned. He winced as he settled upon it, pressing his hand to the left side of his ribs.

"Accio Essence of Murtlap," he said without waving his wand. It flew toward them from a cupboard; Hermione caught it in the air.

"What happened, Headmaster? How can I help?"

"Nothing happened and you cannot. I prefer to manage alone. You are dismissed."

"It is not your place to dismiss me." She narrowed her brown eyes at him, her expression making it clear she resented being addressed as if an insubordinate. "And even if it were, I wouldn't leave you like this."

"Go. I do not need your assistance. I'm... fine."

"Fine?" She pulled a clean white handkerchief from her dress pocket and used it to clean up the thick blood, trying to find the source so she could use the Murtlap on it. It was caked up in his hair, already having started to congeal, but at last she had the area clean enough to apply the Essence. "You told me once you do not make it a habit of going to bed with liars. Unfortunately, it seems I cannot say the same."

He snorted a laugh at this, despite the situation. He then flicked his hand as if to say he was giving in, letting her heal him. The way she straddled his lap to gain the best access to his head wound positioned her breasts right in front of his face, so at least he had something to look at while he was being babied in a most unappreciated way.

"I like this blouse." He brought his hand up to her chest, just under the band of her bra, over her shirt. "The material is thin."

"It was hot today."

"Was it?"

As she worked with her wand to close the gash in the side of his head, he let his hand slip up higher, cupping her breast. He kissed her chest over the material.

"Not now," she scolded, swatting away his hand. "You're hurt. Your eye – someone punched you? And your nose..."

"Was broken. I fixed it with Episkey so I could breathe, but it could use another break and a resetting by a more qualified Healer than I. I was never adept at properly mending broken bones. My ribs are merely bruised, I think." The hand not cupping her chest was unbuttoning her blouse. She ignored this as she did a series of diagnostic spells on him, waving her wand over his person. She also ignored it when he removed her shirt entirely, burying his broken nose in the valley between her breasts. He breathed deeply and groaned, earning an eye-roll from her.

"Are you ever not in the mood for sex?" she asked in a reprimanding tone.

"Yes," he answered, his voice muffled by her chest. "When I'm home with my wife."

She shook her head at this as she used her wand to remove the caked blood from his hair. While she worked, he placed a series of kisses along the supple skin above her bra-line, which was whiter than most of the rest of her, as this was a place the sun did not kiss even in her bathing costume. She was trying to tend to his bruised and blackened eye when he reached up to unclasp her bra, but again she swatted away his hands. Even so, she could feel the familiar poke of his growing erection as he shifted his weight between her legs.

"Who did this?" she asked, sitting back on his thighs, above his knees, away from the bulge in his trousers – the intention being not to stimulate him any further. When he failed to answer, she cradled his battered face in her small hands and studied him. How could he be thinking of sex now, when he was clearly in pain? Why didn't he want her to know what had happened? He must have been ambushed, likely by a group – she couldn't imagine any one wizard could have beaten him this badly. She knew him to be a skilled dueler and hyper-vigilant, especially with threats and dangers mounting every day. "Who attacked you?"

"Guess." He grabbed her breast, roughly this time, and drew toward his mouth, shoving down the cup to lap at her nipple. She moaned when his teeth captured the hardened peak in the center, but it was a pain he knew she enjoyed. He ran his tongue back and forth between his teeth over the bud, causing an instant flood of warmth to pool between her legs, but she had to put a stop to this. She had to. As much as the desire was mutual, he was clearly in no condition.

"The Knights of Walpurgis," she said, not needing confirmation. She removed his hand from her chest, holding it between her own. "How many of them?"

"Half a dozen." He wrestled his hand away, settling it on her arse instead. "Now stop talking and fuck me."

"This is not a good time."

"Do not be ridiculous, Minister. With me, you always have a good time."

"Headmaster!" She extracted herself from his lap, staring down upon him with her fists on her hips. He wouldn't tell her so, but she looked like a super hero from one of the silly comic books his Muggle father had occasionally gifted him as a child. All she needed was a cape. And, perhaps, a shirt.

"If you must know, I was lured to Hogsmeade this evening, about ninety minutes before our meeting was to commence. I'd received a Patronus that I believed to be from Lucius Malfoy. The message, whispered in a strained whisper I now realize was not his, was that he was in dire straits down at Rosemerta's. I was nearly to the pub when I was apprehended, hit with an anti-disapparition spell, and knocked unconscious by physical means – that's what caused the blood spilling from my head. Though I regained consciousness at least twice during the attack, I do not know what I was hit with or whether they assaulted me with magic as well as brute force. I estimate there were six but was in no condition to count. I passed out for the last time after being kicked in the face and awoke in the Forbidden Forest less than an hour ago. I had been beaten - obviously - and my wand was broken in two. This was in my pocket."

He reached into the pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. She took it from his outstretched hand.

Your time is coming, traitor.

Consider this your only warning.

-Knights

A cold washed over Hermione, reminding her unpleasantly of the time she'd fallen through cracked ice into a lake while skating as a young girl. She hadn't yet known she was a witch. She'd sunk, weighed down by her skates and her clothes, and could feel hypothermia kicking in. She closed her eyes and wished to be back up on the surface and, moments later, she was. Her parents swore instinct must have kicked in and she must have managed to swim, but she knew the truth – one second, she was sinking and dying, the next, she was on her back on the thickest part of the ice, in a place where she could be rescued, feeling a tingling warmth in her limbs.

She needed that warmth now, but no magic would stave off the chill of knowing the Knights were getting bolder, bloodier. It was only a matter of time before someone was killed.

While she refolded the note, he summoned over a vial of pain potion from the top drawer of his desk, downing it in two gulps. He pulled a face – it tasted vile – but he knew it was the one thing that would help him breathe without feeling as though tiny knives were stabbing at him from the inside out.

"Do you have a bruise salve for your ribs?" she asked. He nodded and gestured toward the cupboard from whence the Essence of Murtlap had flown. She retrieved it while he unbuttoned his coat and shirt, dropping them to the edge of the couch. He sat again and leaned to one side, allowing her ample access to the injured area, though he assured her he could easily apply the salve himself.

She said that was nonsense, insisting upon massaging the eucalyptus-infused cream into the pale skin over his ribs with skilled, gentle fingers. He moaned at her touch, not only from the pain, but because it had been too long since she last touched him. She knelt on the floor between his legs to do so and he couldn't help threading his fingers into her bushy brown hair as she healed him. He liked her in this position, to which the tenting of his trousers could attest.

"You've made my ribs feel better," he said as she closed the container of salve. "You might make the rest of me feel better."

"You want me to suck you off, here, now, while you're wounded?"

"I want you to say 'suck you off' again." He shifted his weight with a groan, ignoring the throbbing in his head and eye and side in favor of concentrating on alleviating the throbbing of his cock. "Tell me all the dirty things you'll do to me, Minister. Show me what your lips and tongue are capable of. Make me forget the indignities I suffered this evening at the hands of my unidentified assailants."

When they'd first started this affair nearly four years ago, he'd expressed mock surprise to learn that her sexual proclivities were woefully vanilla and that her experience was limited – she'd had one partner and few positions and the mere suggestion of experimentation was enough to make her blush from cheeks to chest.

She'd come a long way since then.

She'd come in a lot of ways since then.

But despite having spent her morning with a fluttering heart and a butterfly-filled belly, misusing the detachable shower head while fantasizing about their upcoming evening together, she was now in no mood to indulge his dark, deviant, sexual side, never mind her own.

"Have you eaten? How long did you say you were unconscious? That pain potion shouldn't be taken on an empty stomach."

"Leave me alone! If you're not going to give what I need, get out!" he snapped, absolutely hating to be fussed over, though the truth was he hadn't eaten and she was right about the potion. "For what it's worth, you make a better lover than you do a mother."

He realized his word choice made have been excessively cruel when her rose colored lips parted with a gasp and the cinnamon brown eyes staring up at him filled with tears. He felt the familiar well of guilt rearing up inside him like bile and immediately sought to apologize, but the words "I'm sorry" wouldn't come.

"Minister, please understand, I–"

"Glad to know I'm not as dreadful as a mistress as I am as a mum."

"That is not what I meant."

"You meant that I'm only good for sex, and if that's not what I'm offering you, you don't see any reason for me to stay?"

"That's..." He cleared his throat, momentarily averting his gaze from hers. "That's more in line with what I was saying."

She stood with a growl of obvious disgust and moved away from him, toward the windows overlooking the grounds. Furious splotches darted her flushed cheeks, her fists clenched and her chest heaved as she glared back at him. He couldn't help committing the image to memory... Fuck, she looked good angry. There was a reason their first time together followed a fight.

"You don't care for me at all, do you, Headmaster?"

"Must we have this discussion now?"

"Why not now? Now is as good a time as any."

"Why not now?" he repeated, again struggling to control his temper. "Not now because I return home in under a week to spend a miserable summer in the company of my wife. Not now because I've already been attacked once this evening and I don't feel up to another round. Not now because discussions about feelings rank right up with Yule Balls and Sirius Black on my personal list of least favorite things. Not now because I bloody said not now."

"Not now," she echoed, shaking her head. She retrieved her shirt, pulling it on so furiously one button actually popped off. "Not now, not ever."

"Minister..." His tone and expression softened. She was only trying to help him, to heal him, and didn't deserve his resentment for it. He was being a bastard and he wanted to make it up to her the only way he knew how. "Come to bed with me."

"You won't break bread with me but you'll take me to bed?" She stormed toward the door to his office, clearly intending to bid him adieu, oblivious to the fact that her blouse was buttoned incorrectly. He was about to call out to her – to call her by name – when she whipped back around.

"Am I nothing to you but a willing vagina, Headmaster?"

"No sex," he offered, hoping she'd understand this to mean she meant much more than that, though he wasn't sure he could ever say so. He tried to stand but the pain was not yet alleviated by the potion; he fell back to the couch with a wince. Still, he appealed to her. "Please, Minister. Sleep with me. Sleep beside me. No sex. I'll... hold you. I... I don't want you to go."

"You never hold me." She whispered these words, pain palpable in her voice, which cut into him more deeply than whatever had earlier been used against his head. "I've asked you."

"I will," he promised. This time, he was able to stand successfully, to walk toward her, albeit at a snail's pace. "I need something to hold onto."

"You're going to fall?" She rushed forward, sliding her arm under his and around his back, the way she'd helped him into the room. He allowed this assistance, but shook his head, hating himself for the vulnerable honesty about to spew from his lips. The pain must be making him delirious.

"I meant, I need a memory to hold onto over the summer. Something until I see you again in September."

"I don't understand you at all, Headmaster."

They turned, limping now toward the door leading to his bed chambers, her nonverbal agreement to stay.

"That's just it, Minister." He tightened his grip around her shoulders, perhaps relying on her support more than was actually necessary. "You've been telling me for years that you do not understand me, but you do, don't you?"

She whispered her answer. "Better than anyone, I believe."

"And I you, perhaps better than you do yourself," he said. "We are broken people. And darkness is on the horizon. They wish to finish what the Dark Lord started."

"We won't let them." They'd reached his chambers. She guided him to the bed, depositing him there, and began undressing while he wandlessly sent small balls of fire to every sconce around the dark, drafty room. She knew where his sleep shirts were kept. She retrieved one for each of them, leaving her work attire neatly folded at the bottom of his wardrobe. She then used her wand the light a fire in the hearth before placing it inside his bedside table for safe-keeping.

"I am not strong enough to do this again," he confessed as he crawled under the covers. She slipped between the sheets beside him and, as promised, he held her, though gingerly on account of his ribs.

"You are. We are. You won't be alone." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "This was just one attack–"

"It's always 'just one.' Until it's more. Until it's many. Too many."

"If you're in less pain in the morning, you can have me then," she offered, suddenly feeling wrong for denying him, though it was the right thing to do.

He closed his eyes, guided her head to his chest, and wandlessly extinguished the candles before responding.

"I have you now."

A/N:

I did not invent the Knights of Walpurgis. That was said to be JKR's original name for the Death Eaters. I've just re-purposed it into a group rising up starting about a decade after Voldemort's second defeat.

Sorry, no real smut stuff in this chapter... but the next one is the most lemony thus far!

If you're interested, I recently completed Stages of Grief, a long NM/SS & HG/DM fic that takes place starting right after the war ends, plus started a short spin-off featuring Andromeda (Black) Tonks' dark journey through drug and alcohol rehab. All Roads Lead to Rome (HG/SS) is in the works still too.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! I love and appreciate your reactions and responses!

-AL