CHAPTER FIVE - Les occasions de pécher / The Opportunities to Sin

It seemed to Hermione that her life was definitely taking a turn for the better. Certainly for the more exciting, because after a hike through a dozen paintings (and more cat-calls and wolf-whistles than she'd ever heard) they'd actually arrived in the portrait Malfoy had mentioned, whereupon he'd performed a complicated spell that transported them to his great-aunt's portrait at Malfoy Manor, just as he'd predicted, from where they'd stepped into a dining room of impressive proportions. Her awe at having accomplished this feat had faded into nothingness, though, when she'd caught her first glimpse of Severus and Malfoy in the latter's natural habitat.

They were both wearing Muggle clothes, both had had their hair cut and, most of all, both looked extremely appetizing. And she'd lost her virginity to one of them only a few hours ago! If this wasn't the stuff of dreams… In her case, it was, and when a small voice in her mind whispered, 'One down, one to go' she couldn't help feeling quite the femme fatale.

The Lady of the Manor was nowhere to be seen, which suited Hermione just fine. Given Malfoy's reputation, the thought that she wanted him to cheat on his wife didn't trouble her much, but ogling the two wizards under the coolly disapproving eyes of Narcissa Malfoy wouldn't have been quite the same as ogling them undisturbed.

Lucius Malfoy in jeans and a shirt – the demons of hell had probably started knitting socks for the freezing damned. If this could happen, anything could.

Lucius had ordered breakfast for all of them, and while the table was being set, a House Elf had shown Hermione to an upstairs room with an en suite bathroom that defied description. The combined effect of her memories of earlier that morning and of luxurious bath products did nothing to calm Hermione's raging hormones. Not that she was complaining, she merely noticed the fact with scientific exactitude and acted accordingly.

Simple white cotton underwear – she hadn't bothered to pack anything else for a holiday with Ron – was transformed into something black and moderately sexy; the sweatshirt she'd worn became a sleeveless, clingy black top with a rather daring neckline, and the jeans obeyed another flick of her wand and changed into a pair of black Capri trousers. Black flats and a denim jacket – surely Lucius wouldn't mind the loss of a washcloth – completed her outfit. When her hair had woven itself into a modest French braid, Hermione gave a satisfied sigh and descended the stairs.

The men had obviously freshened up as well, and for a few seconds Hermione was content just to sit there and inhale their scents. She had to persuade them to let her come to Paris with them, though, and since she was sure the two wizards were going to object, she firmly told herself to stop drooling and get on with the convincing. 'So how are we going to capture McNair and Beasley?' was her opening gambit.

Two pairs of eyes focused on her. It was a slightly disturbing experience, but Hermione bravely maintained her smile.

'You can't come with us,' Severus said flatly.

'Of course I can, you just don't want me to.'

'A very astute observation.' Lucius poured himself more coffee and smiled at her. 'And absolutely correct. We don't want you to accompany us.'

Aware that she'd never be able to outmanoeuvre two Slytherins – she intended to learn how to do it, but now wasn't a time for learning, it was a time for winning an argument – Hermione had decided beforehand that sledgehammer tactics would be a lot more successful. Time to deliver the first blow, then. 'I had sex with him,' she said and fondly watched as Severus inhaled his orange juice.

'Did you indeed?'

A few weeks ago, Hermione would've run as fast as she could, had Lucius regarded her with that kind of interest. Now, she merely found it rather fascinating. Vanquishing Dark Overlords and seeing their right-hand man beaten and bruised tended to change one's view of the latter. 'Uh-huh. Earlier this morning, in the river. Oh, and we had some foreplay during the night.'

'Foreplay too? Severus, you're quite the ladies' man, aren't you?'

Between wheezes, Severus coughed something that sounded like 'She started it!'

'Delighted to hear it,' Lucius remarked. 'But I fail to see how this erotic adventure might lead to you accompanying us back to Paris.'

'Well, that's quite obvious. I want to have sex again, and I'm not going to wait until you return.'

'Ah.' Lucius scrutinized her until she blushed. 'You are of course aware, aren't you, that Severus and I are sharing a room? Not to mention a bed.'

Suddenly realizing the exact meaning of "I've bitten off more than I can chew" Hermione forced her slackening facial muscles into a bright smile. 'Yes, I think Severus mentioned it. It's not a problem, is it?' Maybe her neckline was a bit too daring – Lucius's eyes seemed to have got lost spelunking in her cleavage. Well, at least she had nipples now. Not that they would have needed to make themselves quite so visible.

'I wouldn't call it a problem. Threesome would be a more appropriate term, wouldn't it?'

'Three… Yes. Erm, yes, that's probably what you call it.' Breathing had become a little difficult, and then she made the mistake of looking straight into Lucius's eyes. It was the visual equivalent of being caught between steel clamps. She meant to say something, anything really, not necessarily witty. Just… something. Unfortunately her mind didn't seem to contain any words but… 'Mango chutney!'

'I beg your pardon?' Lucius's lips were twitching. 'I must admit, I have found many creative ways to use food in a non-strictly-nourishing context, but mango chutney is news even to me. I do hope you don't prefer it spicy.'

'N-no. I mean I never had time to look at the labels.' She buried her face in her hands. 'Just forget what I said, please!'

Severus, who had finally overcome his coughing fit, took a sip of coffee. 'I believe,' he said, 'that you ought to answer the unspoken question. I seem to recall that you're quite fond of them.'

'Y-yes. Fine.' Her eyes searched for and met Severus's. 'I'd, uh, like come to Paris with you anyway and to, erm, to try. If that's… if that's okay with you,' she croaked.

'Certainly,' he said smoothly.

Something seemed to be stuck in her throat. Hermione swallowed, but the thing didn't budge. 'Right. If sex with one man is good, sex with two men has to be twice as good. That's logical, isn't it?'

'Not necessarily,' Severus retorted. 'Because, you see, the pleasure might increase exponentially.'

A lesser witch would probably have chickened out, but Hermione wasn't a lesser witch. 'Are we going to hunt Death Eaters before or after having sex?' she asked.

The fond smiles the two men gave her almost made her believe in her own bravado.

--..--..--

A hundred feet seemed a lot more harmless from a horizontal than a vertical perspective. If, for instance, you were standing at a distance of a hundred feet from, say, a shop, you were free to decide whether you wanted to move towards it or walk away from it. More importantly, you could choose the speed at which to approach it.

If, on the other hand, you were, well, suspended a hundred feet above ground, there was only one way you could move, and that was downwards, and if you couldn't get to your wand, determining your cruising speed was up to gravity and not to you.

It had most definitely been a mistake, Ron thought, to concentrate less on his bed than on the Chudley Cannons poster pinned to the wall above it. At least he'd had the presence of mind to grab the goal hoop, but the sudden movement had made his wand slip from his sleeve. If only he hadn't eaten all his sandwiches. Ron felt the deep conviction that not having eaten them would've made all the difference – he could've pulled himself up and scrambled into a sitting position. He would still be a hundred feet above ground, but in less imminent danger of his hands losing their grip.

Ron closed his eyes and swallowed. Talk of exchanging the frying pan for the fire. Well, a future holding the distinct possibility of falling and breaking all his bones, if not his neck, was slightly more appealing than the alternative future of being held prisoner by Death Eaters and tortured to death. He forced himself not to look down. He didn't have a problem with heights when on his broomstick, but right now he was feeling downright sick. Maybe he ought to look up…

Muscles screaming in protest, he forced his head back until the lower part of the hoop, to which he was clinging, became visible. It was only an arm's length away, which wasn't that much, even though his arms felt as if they were five feet long. He had to try. Was it better, though, to swing up his legs, or should he simply pull himself up?

Suddenly the decision wasn't his to make any more, because his right hand slipped off the metal. He swung to the left and, oh miracle of miracles, his feet encountered the long, vertical pole holding the hoop. He clamped his shins around it, gave an almighty lurch to the left, and then he was already sliding down the pole, braking with hands and knees and the rubber soles of his trainers. It wasn't a pleasant journey downwards, but compared to a fall it was practically a luxury trip.

His feet once again safely on the ground, Ron glanced at his watch. Unbelievable though it seemed, no more than five minutes had passed since he'd Apparated out of the hotel room in Paris. Probably he wasn't looking as if he'd spent the last night asleep in his bed, but, once home at The Burrow, he'd try to clean himself up as well as he could. Then, he was going to think of something to tell mum, and if she didn't believe it, which was highly likely, at least she was never going to guess the truth.

He picked up his wand and readied himself for another bit of Apparition. Never, he swore to himself, never ever again was he to disobey mum and dad. They were right: he wasn't cut out to be an Auror. Accounting seemed like a very attractive career option.

He had to face it. He really wasn't the adventurous type.

--..--..--

Hermione, blissfully ignorant of her now-definitely-former boyfriend's escapades, was standing between Severus and Lucius in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, hand poised over the Portkey that was going to activate within a few seconds.

They were returning to Paris. They were going to have adventures and capture Death Eaters. And they were going to have sex. All in all, it was a very exciting perspective.

Funny, she thought. Before Hogwarts, there hadn't been any adventures, and during her time at Hogwarts, adventures had always tended to land her in the hospital wing, while Harry got all the praise and accolades. The year they'd spent on the run had been exactly the same, only with a greater probability of replacing "hospital wing" with "grave"/"all over the place"/"gruesome end of, no sorry, not your but somebody else's choice".

And now, when she'd said and done more outrageous things in a mere five hours than she'd dreamed of doing in five years, and when, more to the point, she'd finally exchanged the Good Guys for a couple of jaded, cynical ex-Death Eaters, the word adventure suddenly sounded less like Good Old Hermione Will Fix It For Us than Come Here Sweet And Let's Have A Threesome Before We Go Get The Bastards. The word adventure had gained a certain panache, a bit of chutzpah, it had come of age. Feverishly casting protection charms on a tent in the Forest of Dean and cooking mushrooms in a rusty tin over a conjured fire suddenly seemed a bit… lame. Certainly less glamorous than what was lying ahead of her. And glamour, well, some might say it was superficial, but that was probably sour grapes.

'Touch the Portkey,' Lucius said.

She did, and felt Lucius and Severus's fingers next to hers. A quick glance at their profiles, and then came the well-known pull, the sensation of being sucked through the narrow space between dimensions.

The room they ended up in was quite spacious, certainly bigger than the one she'd shared with Ron (but then her holiday hadn't been paid for by public funds). The predominant colours were black, grey and ivory, which made for an atmosphere of cool, relaxed elegance.

Her first thought upon closer inspection of their surroundings was that there wasn't a bed. Probably this was a sign of the thorough corruption her character had undergone during the last hours. Her moral decline was further proved by the satisfaction she felt when she spotted the bed through the door to the adjacent room. It seemed very large, and the realization that, by achieving her goal and accompanying the two men to Paris, she'd more or less consented to share this soft oasis of white linen with both of them suddenly made her feel a bit dizzy.

Of course she was always free to say no, and she was sure that not even Lucius would think of forcing her to do anything she wasn't comfortable with, but… The nature of this "but" wasn't quite clear to her. It wasn't that she felt obliged to have sex with one or both of them. She merely sensed vaguely that this second trip to Paris was some kind of chance – maybe to grow up, maybe to discover some hidden part of herself or perhaps merely to have bloody good sex – that she ought to grasp, even if she was completely out of her depth.

A hand touched her shoulder; the contact ended her reverie. She glanced up and into Lucius's eyes. His look was much more reassuring now, his expression less predatory. 'I beg your pardon for having interrupted your contemplation of the mysteries of the universe,' he said, 'but I think we ought to make some plans.'

"Plans" was a reassuring word, one she still associated with the safety of exams. 'I think I ought to go back to my hotel and check out,' she said.

Severus, who'd been rummaging in the bedroom, emerged just in time to hear her words. 'You certainly won't be going anywhere near your hotel,' he said, shaking his head, 'and neither will Lucius or I. I'd be very surprised if Beasley and McNair hadn't yet paid a visit, and even if they haven't, they're likely to do so very soon. It would be madness for any of us to walk right into their arms.'

'Yes, but if we know it's meant to be a trap,' Hermione objected, 'couldn't we somehow turn the tables? Use it to our advantage?'

Lucius sighed. 'Look, both of you. It's almost noon, so why don't we order a nice bottle of wine and think this through logically? Especially bearing in mind that lunchtime isn't far away, and knowing where we're going to have lunch is nothing if not important.'

'Wine? Now?' Hermione's morals may be quietly rotting away, but she hadn't had alcohol very often in her life and certainly never before dinner.

'My dear' – Lucius put an arm around her shoulders and guided her towards the sofa – 'there is so much we'll be able to teach you. So let us start with the beneficial effects of a glass of white wine in the late morning.'

'What if I get tipsy?'

Severus had moved over to stand behind her and bent down until his lips grazed her ear. 'Why, then we're of course going to take advantage of your state of slight drunkenness.'

'Isn't…' Once again, the bottom seemed to be falling out of her stomach. 'Isn't that against etiquette or something?'

'Only in England,' Lucius replied, looking up from the wine list. 'But then most things physical, except for cricket, are. In France it is perfectly all right.' He gave her a smile that held promises of all the things he meant to teach her, and dialled room service.

So maybe this was a dream. Hermione rubbed her eyes. 'He's… he's using the phone!' she said to Severus, pointing at their third.

'Yes, well, owling room service might cause slight disturbances in the kitchen area, you know.'

'Yes, but…' This was all becoming a bit too much. Maybe having one or two glasses of wine was going to put things into perspective, although she doubted it.

'Well, then,' Lucius said, returning to join them on the sofa, 'I think it's plotting time.'

--..--..--

During the one memorable night Ron had spent in a Muggle hotel in Romania (the family had gone to visit Charlie, but all humans had had to leave the reserve when a fight had broken out between two male dragons), he'd discovered a book called The New Testament somebody had evidently forgotten on the nightstand. He'd started to read it and not found it to be of much interest, but in the spirit of thoroughness he'd then leafed through the last pages, curious to see how it ended.

It hadn't ended overly well. The image of the Four Riders, Death, Famine, Pestilence and War, had made a particularly strong impression on him. And now he knew exactly how the people in the book had felt. Since such a thing as Famine was a bit difficult to incorporate into such plentiful surroundings as The Burrow, only three riders had come to announce the Final Judgment.

Things had seemed to go so smoothly, though. He'd Apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole – this time to the doorstep, and he wasn't sure whether he'd ever again dare Apparate to his bedroom – crept into the house through the back door, tiptoed up the stairs and into the bathroom. A washcloth and soap had taken care of the dirt on his face and hands; he'd changed into his pyjamas and hidden his clothes under the bed, planning to repair them later that day.

After the night he'd spent mostly on a broomstick and partly at the police station, he was surprised that sleep didn't come to him more easily. He'd merely fallen into a light doze from which he woke up frequently. The ferocious bites of hunger, triggered by the aroma of breakfast wafting into his room, had made him leave his bed and go downstairs shortly after half past nine.

Kingsley Shacklebolt sitting at their kitchen table, his large form seeming to occupy half the room, should have warned him. But Kingsley had been his father's friend since their Hogwarts years, and visits to The Burrow weren't anything unusual. Besides, things were always much clearer in hindsight, such as the warm smile Molly gave him when he entered the kitchen. When he'd done something really stupid or dangerous, and accompanying Hermione to Paris against mum's explicit wish certainly qualified, his mother giving him the cold shoulder for a few days after was an absolute certainty. He ought to have known that something was afoot. Not that such knowledge would've helped much.

Kingsley got up and shook Ron's hand. 'It's good to see you, Ron. How have you been? I hope the Aurors haven't given you too much trouble.'

'I suppose they were only doing what they had to do,' Ron replied, trying to sound very much like a man of the world. 'And they needed to know all that background stuff.' His mother put a plate of sausage, eggs and mushrooms in front of him, and he attacked it with gusto, wisely choosing not to comment on the superiority of an English breakfast compared to the rubbish they made you eat in France. Never tickle a sleeping dragon and all that.

'I'm glad you see it that way,' Kingsley said. 'Your help and that of your two friends was invaluable. We were of course worried that recounting such traumatizing events might reopen old wounds…'

Ron shrugged. 'It wasn't nice,' he said through a mouthful of sausage and mushrooms, 'but everybody has to do their bit. Responsibility, you know.' He helped himself to the bottle of HP Sauce.

Somehow his last words seemed to have struck the wrong chord, though, because suddenly Death, War and Pestilence were all sitting at the table and giving him ominous looks. Their chairs didn't move, but somehow they seemed to be closing in on him. Ron made a brave attempt at giving them all a carefree smile. Their thunderous expressions made him doubt he'd succeeded, though.

'Is this your signature?' said the First Rider, his ebony forehead wrinkling in a frown of disapproval.

Ron swallowed. This was the form he'd had to sign upon leaving the police station. How on earth… Play it cool, he told himself. There still might be a chance to get out of this with his dignity intact. He cocked his head and pretended to examine the writing while dabbing HP Sauce from his chin with a napkin. 'Yeah, that does look very like my signature,' he finally said, glancing at each of the Three Riders in turn. 'But it isn't. What's this, by the way?' He pointed at the form. 'Looks like French to me.'

'It is French,' the Second Rider said. His blue eyes, usually looking at the world with an expression of mild surprise, had assumed a steely glint. 'To be exact, it's a form somebody obviously called Ronald Weasley had to sign when he was released from a police station in Rouen.'

Ah, so that's where he'd landed. Rouen. Interesting. 'Erm, yes? Well, I've never been to, uh, Rouen. To Paris, yes, but you know that.'

The Third Rider shoved her plate towards the middle of the table and crossed her arms. 'Oh, yes, we know that.'

'Well, that's all right then,' Ron said brightly. 'Where are all the others, by the way? Sleeping in?'

'The whereabouts of all the others,' the Third Rider growled, 'don't seem very interesting right now. It's your whereabouts' – she stabbed him with a surprisingly sharp forefinger – 'I'm interested in.'

Time for a sunny, reassuring smile. 'Well, I'm here, Pestil- er, mum.'

The devious smile the Third Rider gave him was very disquieting. 'And your broom? Where's your broom, Ron?'

Shit, oh shit, oh shit. His broom was in a hotel room in Paris – for all he knew, the two Death Eaters had destroyed it in their fury. 'Out in the broom shed, why do you ask?'

The Second Rider smiled and nodded. 'That's good. Because Kingsley suggested a game of Quidditch. You're going to play, aren't you?'

'I, er, well, I'm not sure. It's a bit cold outside, and I wouldn't want to… Erm, I've been feeling a bit… Maybe next time,' Ron concluded lamely, trying to fight an increasing sense of desperation.

'The fresh air will be good for you,' the First Rider said reassuringly. 'Come on Ron, don't be a spoilsport. It's not every day you get to play Quidditch with the Minister for Magic.' He winked.

'All… All right.' He'd just borrow Ginny's broom, and no-one was going to be the wiser. 'Let's go.'

The Three Riders nodded and got up. Ron surreptitiously wiped the sweat off his forehead. That had been a close shave, the third this morning. He wondered how much more he could take, but was secretly proud of himself – maybe he was going to be an Auror after all. You needed nerves of steel, and presence of mind didn't hurt either.

'You'd do well to enjoy this game,' the Second Rider suddenly said. 'Because it's going to be your last until your N.E.W.T.s.'

'What?' Ron whirled around to look at his father. 'You can't be serious!'

The Third Rider, balled fists resting on her ample hips, nodded grimly. 'Oh yes, we are. No Quidditch, and you'll be doing household chores for the rest of your holidays, and no Quidditch when you're back at school. You have no idea how lucky you've been. You might be dead now, or worse!' Her eyes filled with tears.

'But… But I told you it wasn't me who signed that paper!'

'So you told us,' the First Rider said. 'But I bet you won't be able to lie your way out of the statement of one of the policemen, who happens to have a brother who's a wizard – your broomstick was a dead giveaway, I'm afraid. Then there's the urgent owl I received half an hour ago from the French Aurors, who found your broom among the debris of a hotel room in Paris. There aren't that many Cleansweeps around anymore, and all of them in England. And then there's the matter of the Floo call alerting Law Enforcement to a guy hanging from the goal hoop at the Manchester Quidditch Stadium.'

'That's not true,' Ron spluttered, 'There was nobody there, I mean…'

'I suppose you weren't really in a shape to take in your surroundings. Jolly Paisley, the Seeker, was doing a bit of early morning practice when he spotted you.'

'Paisley? Paisley was there? Shit, and I didn't see him – I would've asked him for his autograph!'

The Three Riders closed their eyes and gave a collective sigh of exasperation. Their trumpets, useless in the face of such bone-headed ignorance, fell clattering to the floor. St. John had got it all wrong, obviously.