JUST ONE NIGHT

CHAPTER SIX:

ONE DISTRACTION

FEBRUARY 2011

"Minister!" His eyes widened with surprise. She had never before dropped in unexpectedly; even when there had been an emergency in the past she'd preceded her appearance with a Patronus.

"Evening, Headmaster," she said formally, inclining her head in greeting.

She was well-dressed tonight, in a fitted but professional charcoal gray pantsuit, with her tamed hair swept back and up into some sort of comb that kept it in place. Her lipstick was a dark burgundy and though he tried to suppress the perverse thoughts that flickered across his brain, he couldn't help imagining that color stained in a ring around his cock. He felt a twinge in his groin at the possibility and immediately employed Occlumency to keep her from knowing, not that she was a Legilimens, but women sense things.

While he looked her over, Hermione waited, hoping for an invitation. When none came, she asked, "May I come in?"

"Certainly." Severus stepped back to grant her entrance into his office, glad Minerva seemed to be asleep in her portrait, as he hoped this was a social call but wasn't in the mood for another of her lectures. "What brings you here?"

"Apparition," she answered. "I find it's the easiest way to travel these days."

"Amusing." He rolled his eyes. "But why are you here?"

"I've spent the entire day in meetings with world leaders, both Magical and Muggle. The Muggle Prime Minister, the Prime Minister of Canada, the President of the United States, the Chancellor of Germany, America's MACUSA President, France's Directeur de Sorciers... etcetera. There is considerable unrest in the world, in both our worlds, and they all want to know how we're going to work together to keep the calm. I had to tell them about the resurgence of the Knights of Walpurgis and how they both predated and have followed the Death Eaters, then they told me about the possible rising of neo-Nazis, and we agreed the entire planet is a bloody mess. Do you have anything to drink?"

"Sounds like a taxing way to spend your Valentine's Day," he said, leading her into his sitting room, surprised at the request. She rarely drank and in the two-and-a-half years since they'd started this – whatever it was – he couldn't recall her ever asking for anything stronger than tea, though she'd occasionally imbibe if a glass was handed to her. He went to the cabinet where he kept his alcohol and poured them each a glass of elf-made red wine; it did not feel like a Firewhisky sort of night.

"Taxing is an understatement! I swear those self-indulging bastards don't care what they're saying or to whom, they just like to hear themselves talk! The Chancellor wasn't so bad, though not terribly warm, and the President of MACUSA is a lovely woman, albeit a bit unusual, but the men? No offense to you or those who share your gender, but I finished a five-hour meeting feeling as though we'd been at work for forty-eight hours straight and left feeling as though I wanted to hex the bollocks off the next man I happen to see!"

"Which brings you to me?" One eyebrow cocked, he regarded her with a look of cagey curiosity as he held out to her a wine glass. "I hope my bollocks are safe."

She flushed a deep crimson as she realized what she'd said.

"I have no desire to divest you of yours," she said. "I feel that would be counter-productive, considering."

"Considering?" He attempted a look of innocence, but she had no intention of playing games. Not tonight.

"As you said, it's Valentine's Day, and since my husband has to 'work late...'" She put air quotes around those two words before accepting the drink. "My mother is watching the children."

A sly grin grew from one cheek to the other, positively lighting up his tired, pale face. "And when does your mother expect you back?"

"She doesn't."

"Excellent." He set the wine he'd just poured down on the table, placed his hand securely at the base of her neck, and swooped in for a kiss. Their lips met before she was ready – she'd just taken a sip and some of the wine sloshed from her mouth to his – but both swallowed it down as his tongue laved over hers. She kissed back with ardor, eager to be distracted by the day's events. He moaned into her mouth and the sound of it caused a clenching in her lower abdomen. Though they'd been together less than a month ago, it had already been too long since their last encounter. She wrapped her arms around him, holding her wine glass behind his head with both hands, and eagerly accepted another passionate kiss, this one even more insistent.

His hands went first to her lower back, then her hips, and finally her arse, thrusting her against him, squeezing her cheeks and forcing her lower belly against his rapidly swelling cock. When they parted it was only because both needed to breathe, and as soon as he had the air to speak, he growled into her ear.

"Witch, you are going to come to my bed and do as I say."

Though this made her knees weak, she tossed her hair (or would have, technically, if it weren't so tightly done up) and said no.

"No?"

"I'll come to your bed, but you're going to do as I say. I've been listening to other people all day, mostly Muggle men, all of whom want to condescend to me about what's best for our world, a world they cannot even understand, and I believe, Headmaster, that what I desire most this evening is to reclaim my power."

This turned him on more than she knew. When they'd started this – whatever it was – she was relatively passive. She'd allow him to do whatever he wanted to her, within reason, but any sort of rough play seemed to shock her, especially when she liked it more than she thought she would. She was content to allow him to take the lead, to dominate her and give her orders, to bind her wrists and pull her hair - all under the guise of teaching her to seek more from sex than the simple satiation she could, theoretically, get at home from her husband. Instead he had opened her mind – and body – to a host of new positions and possibilities. And now, knowing she wanted to take the reins, he felt he was more than ready to relinquish control.

"Shall we indulge in our starters in here, or move straight to the main course?" He lifted his glass from the table again, downing a long, slow sip while she narrowed her eyes and chewed her lip, thinking carefully. He was about to remind her that foreplay was better when she put less thought into it when she spoke up, her chin jutted out to convey more confidence than she felt.

"I'm going to strip you naked, tie you to the bedposts, and tease you with my fingers and tongue and perhaps a feather or flogger until you are certain you can't take another moment of it. Then, when you're so hard it literally hurts, when you're begging me to put you out of your misery, I'm going to ride you until I allow you to be done, and once we've both finished you're going to hold me as if I'm worth more to you than a casual lover, then we shall fall asleep for no less than six hours, and you will kiss me goodbye in the morning."

She had indeed grown bolder in these last few years, though he fought the urge to laugh at her tone and expression – she resembled a pushy teenager, puffed up with false confidence. This bravado faltered slightly as he took too long to respond; he caught the flicker of insecurity across her face and smirked, always one to enjoy having the upper hand.

"I refuse to hold you." He sipped the wine casually, contemplating the rest of her statement. "But I'll allow anything else. Everything else. Use me. Make me suffer. If my pain will bring you pleasure, hurt me in any way you wish. If you'd prefer to punish me with a gentle touch, I'll not fight you. Ride me until I'm too tired to move, tie me down, give me orders... you'll spend the night in my bed and, at sunrise, I shall even kiss you goodbye. But I'll not hold you."

She considered this compromise. Spending the night in his bed may be enough. She'd done that before, though not as often as she would have liked. It was somehow more intimate, sleeping beside each other, quiet and at peace, than it was to be naked and fucking, tandem breathing and timing their orgasms.

When sleeping, they were vulnerable.

Sometimes, when sleeping, he would move to her in the middle of the night, would place a hand on her abdomen or allow her to drape a leg over his thigh.

Sometimes, when he was sleeping, she'd sit up and watch him, wondering what he dreamt about, and fantasizing about kissing him in the daylight.

It could be downright dangerous, sleeping together.

"I'll agree to your terms, Headmaster." She stuck out her hand. He shook it.

"You won't regret this, Minister."

"I'm quite sure I will, but not enough not to do it again at first opportunity." She said this with such an innocent, genuine smile he couldn't help responding with a chuckle.

"Into my chambers, then." He gestured toward the door.

"No, sir." She removed the jacket of her suit and draped it over the back of his couch, smiling at him over her shoulder. "I give the orders tonight, remember?"

"My apologies."

"You are forgiven. Now, carry me."

"Excuse me?" That one eyebrow was up again, nearly lost into his hairline.

"Carry me into your bedroom. You don't have to hold me, but I want you to carry me to bed. Make me feel wanted."

"I believe I can manage that, Minister." He had only a split second to decide between lifting her as he had in the past, facing each other with her legs wrapped around his waist, and scooping her up as a rescuing prince might a storybook princess. Thinking it might make up for his unwillingness to cuddle (the very word disgusted him) he opted to scoop.

She let out a little gasp of happy surprise, closed her eyes, and smiled.

Moments later, they were in his bedchambers, where he deposited her carefully onto the mattress of his large four-poster bed, atop a plush moss green blanket.

"We don't have to tie you down straight away," she said, propping herself up with her elbows to face him standing beside the bed. "First, you'll undress for me."

"I won't do a striptease, if that's your fantasy," he said dryly. "I am far too old and far too ugly for such silliness."

"How old are you? You just had a birthday in January. I don't know the date."

"It was the ninth and I turned fifty-one. Too bloody old for a young witch like you."

"I'll be thirty-two in September. Not so young."

"Young enough that you still say, 'I'll be...' so you can up your age, even when your birthday is more than seven months away. Tell me, in March, will you claim to be 'Thirty-one and a half' or..."

"If I wanted you to do a strip tease, I could force you," she interrupted, annoyed and wishing to change the subject. She hated being reminded of her youth; it was one of the things the Prophet and those who'd voted against her ascension to Minister brought up most. "If I wanted you to strip for me, I'd use the Imperius Curse."

"I'd block it."

"With what wand? Wait... let me guess... You intended to use this wand?" From behind her she presented his wand, apparently slipped from him at some point between the sitting room and the bedroom. She grinned devilishly when his jaw dropped. "They taught us how to perform the Imperius Curse when I was working in the Magical Defense Dark Arts Detection and Regulation Department, working closely with Unspeakables. I'd tell you what they do specifically, but it's, you know... unspeakable."

He clamped his mouth shut, glared at her for several seconds, and finally sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "It's adorable that you think because the Ministry taught you to use the Imperius Curse and you're holding my wand, I couldn't throw it off as easily as I could wave away a pesky fly. I promise, nothing Shacklebolt taught you will supersede the lessons the Dark Lord taught me."

Disturbing as it might to any outsiders, were this conversation to be overheard, this was but foreplay to them, a sinful competition that would end in mutual satisfaction.

"I'm not afraid of a former Death Eater, and especially not one who defected before I was born. I'm the bloody Minister for Magic, remember? Besides, I know all your weaknesses."

"What weaknesses, witch?" He moved closer until his legs were against the edge of the mattress, and leaned to loom over her, but she did not look even slightly intimidated by the position. On the contrary, she continued to lay on her back, propped up by one elbow, twisting his hand between the fingers on her free hand, as casually as if she were at a summer picnic instead of in the bed of a man who was not her husband. The only thing that would make this moment better, in his eyes, would be if she were naked for it. He briefly considered vanishing her clothing, but frankly he was hoping she would perform her own striptease after tying him down – a welcome torment.

"Remove your frock coat first. Then shirt, then trousers. Socks too. And shoes, obviously. But leave your shorts on for now. It doesn't need to be an artistic divesting of the clothing, I don't intend to play music or expect you to dance, nor will I toss knuts and sickles your way, but I'm going to watch."

"Knuts and sickles?" He feigned hurt. "Surely I'm worth at least a couple of galleons."

"You're worth my time," she answered. "And that's invaluable. Now... get on with it. Coat first. Let's go."

He began by unbuttoning his starchy collar.

"That's good," she said as she drew a line with his wand from the center of her throat down to the valley between her breasts. As she did so, her own buttons popped open, one by one. She stopped when she reached the center band of her bra, giving him ample view of her modest cleavage. He paused his own ministrations to focus on hers. "Did I tell you to stop, Headmaster?"

He smirked and continued. There were what felt like millions of tiny buttons down his front and he undid each in a painstakingly slow way, never averting his eyes from hers, not even when she brought his wand down lower, leaving her blouse completely undone.

When his frock coat was on the floor and he started again from the top – more buttons – she lost her patience. She waved his wand, divesting him of everything but his pants (shorts, actually. Blue silk ones that almost made her wonder whether he had intended to spend the night with another woman before she'd shown up).

"In a hurry?" he asked coolly.

"You should undress me," she replied.

"I should? Or I must? If your intention this evening is to order me around, take care that your orders are orders and not mere suggestions. Suggestions can be ignored."

"Now." She knelt up, facing him, trying to look stern. "I want you to undress me and I want it done now. I order you."

"Very well; as you order." He slipped her unbuttoned white blouse down her arms and tossed it to the floor before going to the clasp at her waist. He continued to make uninterrupted eye contact as he undid it, sliding the material slowly over her arse and to her knees. She dropped back onto the bed to allow him to continue. He then positioned his body over hers, running his palms over her bra-covered breasts before she grabbed his wrists to stop him.

"You are supposed to be undressing me, sir, not weighing my chest with your hands."

"Let me be in control." He squeezed one breast – hard – and forced his knee between her thighs, parting her legs. "It's better that way. You like it when I'm in control. I'll tie you down, I'll spank you for the offensive interruption into my evening, punish you until you're begging release."

"No, thank you. Not tonight. I've had enough of relinquishing control to men today. I have no choice but to be polite to them, but I want to... I want... I want to punish and emasculate you!"

He chuckled. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do!"

"You don't know how."

"I... yes, I do! I absolutely do! I most certainly do!" Her cheeks went pink and his smirk grew. The more she insisted she did, the more it became clear she did not. "I order you to... to... to remove your shorts at once and position yourself on your back on this bed! Now!"

He pressed a quick kiss to her collarbone before standing up to oblige. He slid the silk shorts down his legs, revealing his developing erection, and moved obediently to the bed as she vacated it.

She straddled him, tossed his wand aside, and reached for her own. With a casual flick of her wrist, both of his were bound to the headboard by the same scarves he'd previously used on her.

"Do you feel... do you feel controlled now?" she asked, jutting up her chin. She undid the comb from her hair, tossed it to the floor, and shook out the strands dramatically. "Do you feel submissive to me?"

"No," he replied honestly, a twinkle in his impossible dark eyes. "I feel amused. I can sense that you have no idea where to go from here, and I am eager to watch you struggle."

"What makes you think I'll struggle?"

"You're struggling now. Not with me, but with yourself. You are frustrated, yes, but you are also unused to being in this position of power in a sexual setting. It is quite unlike being in charge in professional setting. You enjoy submitting to me but the reversal of roles frightens you. You do not know what you might be capable of doing – you're both afraid that you'll be unable to dominate me, and afraid that you'll do so successfully and enjoy it too much."

"That's utterly ridiculous!" she exclaimed, but the way she avoided his eye told him he'd been spot on.

"Hurt me, then, Minister. Punish me. Place me under your complete control."

"Stop telling me what to do!" She climbed off him, turned her back to his body on the bed, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Petulant child," he said, goading her. "Going to throw a tantrum? Cry, scream, stomp your feet? Tell me how unfair all the world is, how terrible it is to know you should be the most powerful person in the room but instead to be condescended to and cast aside by those to whom you should be revered? Are you going to whine about your husband, out with another woman tonight, likely free from the emotional hang-ups and–"

"Stop it!"

"He's probably panting over her right now, Minister. He's in control. He holding her down, fucking her into submission, into oblivion. He knows how to get what he wants."

"I mean it, you shut it, stop talking."

"She's on her back, or perhaps bent at the waist with him behind. Or do you suppose he likes her on all fours? He's pulling her hair as if restraining an unruly dog on a leash. She's pulsating with pleasure. He knows just what she needs, and you know only how to express your frustration in words, words he ignores, just as he ignores you in the bedroom."

She turned, stalked over to him, and slapped his face as hard as she could, leaving a pink handprint. Her eyes were glassy and full of hurt – but also fire.

"That stung," he said. Before she could open her mouth to apologize, he added, "Do it again."

She hesitated, but then, picturing Ron with a submissive slag down on all fours as Severus said, she slapped the Headmaster again, leaving an even greater red welt. He groaned as his semi-hardness swelled proudly.

"You want me to hurt you?" she asked. She brought her small hand up to his neck, pressing the space between her thumb and forefinger against his Adam's apple. Her fingernails lightly dug into his skin, causing his breath to hitch in his throat. It had been a painfully long time since a witch last abused him in the bedroom. He liked it. He'd missed it.

"I'm not afraid of you, Minister." He regarded her as one would an attention seeking puppy, placating, but dismissively. "You amuse me. You're... cute."

"Cute?"

"Adorable."

"Adorable?!"

"Swipe at me again, but this time, make contact with my face. I think you missed last time. Or perhaps you're simply so weak I was unable to feel it."

She drew back her hand, ready to strike, but after several seconds of staring down at him, she lowered her hand and sighed.

"You're right. I can't do it. I'm not cut out for sadism or dominance. I'm weak." She tipped forward until her forehead was resting on the center of his chest, which put his engorged cock against her abdomen in a most uncomfortable way. "This is why no one listens to me in meetings."

"I... fuck." This was not the response he'd intended to elicit. His hands were still bound to the headboard, he was completely naked, hard, and cold. And, suddenly, he could feel droplets of water on his torso that were most definitely tears. "I was trying to – I did not mean to – this was not..."

"Sometimes I think I am not cut out for this position at all, you know?"

"Which position?" He certainly wasn't cut out for his current position. His manhood was bent awkwardly under the weight of her body, her hair was tickling his sides, and one of the tears had made its way to his nipple.

"Minister for Magic! Ever since I got elected, my life is falling apart! My husband doesn't desire me, my children don't respect me, I feel like an actor when I'm at work, like I'm playing a role, like I'm undercover, terrified they'll discover I'm a fraud! And I haven't been hugged in seven weeks!"

"And hugged is a euphemism for...?"

"Hugged!" She sat up, again straddling his hips, and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "A little affection, or... or... attention, or appreciation might be nice! But no one... no one..."

Now she was sobbing. Her entire body shook, creating a spasm-like sensation against his thighs, as hers were flush against his. His erection was abandoning him, along with all hope for a satisfying evening with the witch, and he didn't seem able to nonverbally release himself from her binding spell (which would have been impressive in other circumstances).

"What's wrong with me?! Am I unattractive? Am I unintelligent? Am I..."

"You are both attractive and intelligent."

"No, I'm not." She covered her face in her hands, muffling her next words. "You said it best years ago! I'm a big-toothed, bushy haired insufferable know-it-all!"

"Bloody... damn... shite... fuck!" He wished he could get up and fix them both a stiff drink, but unfortunately, despite her confessed weakness in the moment, she still had the control. "I am sorry I called you an insufferable know-it-all, I am sorry I said I saw no difference in the size of your teeth, and I am sorry... if ever I insulted your hair, I am sorry for that, too."

"I should have been a dentist!"

"Would you mind releasing my wrists?" he asked, his voice without inflection.

"Hmm? Oh, sure." She waved her hand and the bindings fell away. He flexed his hands and massaged his wrists. She wiped her face with her palms, breathing shakily, with little hiccups between slowly dissipating sobs.

"Come here." He ran his strong, slightly calloused hands up her sides, from her thighs to her hips to her ribcage, then wrapped them around her and pulled her chest to his.

"What are you doing?" she asked, still hiccupping.

"Is it not obvious?" He ran his hands up and down her bare back, pressing down hard, as if giving a massage. This clearly had a calming effect, as he felt her body relax on top of his. She rested her cheek against the front of his shoulder, facing him. He closed his eyes, so she did the same.

"It feels like you're holding me," she said softly.

"You wanted to be in charge, did you not? And you ordered me to hold you, didn't you?"

"But you said no."

"You'll spend the night?" One of his hands worked under her hair, scratching against her scalp, further releasing the tension from her body.

"Yes."

"Good." He waved a hand, Accioing over the blanket that had been tossed from the bed before he'd crawled into it. He covered them as she slipped from on top of him to beside, though she kept her head positioned on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the arm that was under her, even though he knew it would soon go dead on him from her weight. With the fingertips of his free hand, he traced patterns up and down her forearm, which was resting on his chest. "This may not be the ideal time to tell you, but she's pregnant again."

"Your wife?"

"I'm not convinced it's mine." He brought Hermione's hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips over her wrist, feeling her pulse against his lips. "I told her I wanted no more. I told her in October, in no uncertain terms, as I told you then."

"But you've been sleeping with her?" Now Hermione was the one tracing patterns, drawing nonsense shapes over his left pectoral. He kept his arms around her.

"She's my wife."

"What does this mean for us?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's having another child. She's pregnant and you're... you're with me."

"Does that bother you?"

"Shouldn't it?"

"I want you." He repositioned them so that she was on her back and he, beside her, was leaning over. He splayed his fingers under her breast, "Minister, I want you. I want to share my bed with you."

"We shouldn't."

"I know." But she was guiding his face to hers, guiding his lips to hers.

"We have to stop this," she murmured, her lips brushing against his. She could feel him breathing into her, taking the breath from her, like a Dementor except that his kiss filled her with the warmth she craved rather than a hollow, terrifying, empty cold. "Headmaster, we have to stop this."

"I know."

But then his lips were on hers and her tongue was seeking his, and without further conversation they were touching each other, caressing, exploring, stimulating... and then he was inside her and she was clinging to him with an almost embarrassing level of desperation, and he was panting into her ear, inhaling the sweet familiar scent of her hair...

And they both were wishing things could be... different.

But they couldn't be.

They couldn't.

This, what they were doing, meant nothing, and to each other, they meant nothing.

This was merely a distraction.

Just one distraction.

Just one Valentine's Day.

Just one more 'just one night.'

Nothing more.

A/N:

Sorry for the long delay between posting! The holidays, New Year, and some personal stuff got in the way, but I'm going back to weekly updates. Thanks for reading!

-AL