Chapter 19
For one fleeting moment, as Granger slipped her hand under his hair and cupped his cheek, Severus could have been fooled into thinking this was real. Her touch had been so full of tenderness, and she'd appeared to regard him in an approving light, her brown eyes searching his unlovely face as if seeking an answer.
He had replied to her unspoken question by speeding his thrusts inside her, the lurch of the compulsion at her subtle gesture forcing his movements, stoking his ardour and urging him to chase the completion, the satisfaction that it was loudly demanding.
Still, she had kept her eyes locked upon his, as if she was enjoying his attentions, enjoying his lovemaking as if it were solely thus, and not a forced, inappropriate copulation dictated by a dark curse that they were both held under.
As he spilled himself inside her, his neck full of tension from holding himself prone above her, but the sweet release in his groin and stomach immeasurable at relieving himself of the curse symptoms. It felt so utterly wrong, as it always did, to be using this exceptional student in such a manner, to control a dark curse in such an exquisitely pleasurable way.
He had taken Granger in the middle of the Gryffindor common room, for fuck's sake. Minerva McGonagall would have several fits if she saw what the Headmaster of Hogwarts was doing at this moment, balls deep inside one of her seventh-years on the doubtlessly well-used sofa right in front of the main common room fireplace. Allowing his softened penis to slip out of her, Severus resisted the urge to drop his head and kiss her, instead sitting back on his knees and pushing himself to standing. He drew his wand and cast cleansing charms upon them both, and also on the conspicuous wet patch that glared at him accusingly from the red sofa.
Bending down, he picked up Granger's little pyjama shorts and slipped them over her feet, pulling them up to her knees before taking her hands and guiding her to stand. He could have allowed her to complete the job herself, but no, Severus Snape was nothing if not skilled at the art of torturing himself, so he knelt before her, took hold of the shorts that she was holding at her knees, and began to slowly raise them up her thighs, over her mound and back into the correct place around her waist. It was at that moment that he discovered, free from the compulsion, that dressing her was almost as erotic as the undressing.
He was eye-level with his favourite place in the world, and Merlin knows he wanted to lean forwards and part those soft pussy lips with his tongue and lick her to another orgasm where she stood, in the flickering light of the huge common room fire. Instead he simply stared, his black eyes fixated upon her sex as he denied himself, covering her delights with her nightclothes. He ran his hands inadvisably down the backs of each of her legs as he completed his task, feeling her shiver as his fingers stroked the sensitive skin in the soft curves behind her knees.
At length, he stood, and remained before her on the violently-red hearth rug, unwilling to leave.
"Are you still in any discomfort?" he asked, and she shook her head.
"I'm fine. Thank you for helping me so quickly, I'm sure you must have a thousand things to do, Sir."
A glint of mischief swelled inside him.
"Not one of those things are half so pleasant as doing you, Granger."
She smiled, appearing slightly embarrassed, and he belatedly thought what an inappropriate comment that had been from a teacher to a student. Then again, most teachers and students were not being compelled into regular sexual congress with one another.
"It's not exactly a chore to me, either," she admitted, and her honesty boosted his ego, for he was after all, just a mere wizard with base desires just like any another.
"Then I shall leave you for now. Please remember to remove the charms on the doorways before you retire to bed."
Severus wanted to say more. He wanted to tell Granger how delicately beautiful she was, how proud he was of the way she was coping with the tragic loss of her friends and the situation they now found themselves in. He wanted to plant light kisses on her pink lips, kisses that bid her goodnight, that wished her pleasant dreams, that kept the memory of his lips on hers as she fell to sleep.
But none of this was real. Their interactions were inappropriate enough without adding their personal feelings to the already toxic brew in the cauldron. He was not her lover. He was old enough to be her bloody father, for Merlin's sake. She did not desire him beyond the reaches of her compulsion, just as he did not truly desire her. If he told himself that enough, it would surely become true.
He gave her a single nod of farewell, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets lest he take hold of her, and turned towards the fire, stepping into the flames and returning to his office. As he resumed his position behind his desk, where he had been working before her Floo call came through his office fireplace, and took a sip from the glass of firewhisky that he'd poured earlier, he glanced at the clock to realise that the entire process from her call to now had been less than fifteen minutes.
Fifteen of the most outstanding minutes of his life.
-xxx-
Orla and Draco awoke hours later, when the sun was just beginning to set, the shops in the high street had closed for the evening, and the restaurants were doing a steady trade for dinner. They could hear everything through the unforgivingly thin glass of the large window at the front, the only window in the tiny studio flat, apart from the miniature one in the bathroom. Both were still wrapped in their blankets, a decent space between them on the bed. There would be plenty of room for them to sleep without embarrassment, she was sure.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"Starving."
"Let's go and get some dinner. I have some Muggle money stored here, it won't last long, we'll need to start working, but there's enough to keep us going for a few days. We look normal enough, clothes-wise, but we're going to need to get some more for you, unless you're particularly skilled in Transfiguration?"
"I'm not the best, but we can give it a go," he replied, pulling on the pair of her trainers that Madam Pomfrey had sized to fit him. "Either that or I'll just wear women's clothing, I suppose."
She couldn't help but smile. All her Muggle clothing was in the wardrobe here in the flat, so she had plenty to wear, but Draco would need everything, unless he was indeed intending to dress her in clothes for however long it was that they hid here.
Orla took some money from the tin at the back of her underwear drawer, and they ventured down into the high street, choosing an innocuous and cheap-looking café to eat their dinner in. Sitting at the formica-topped table in the garishly-lit café, Draco was enthralled by the plastic menu, and needed help choosing exactly what to have. She couldn't believe he'd never eaten a hamburger before, and he ordered a double with extra bacon, some fat chips and a plate of onion rings.
"For research," he smirked, before quizzing her on exactly what a milkshake was.
As they gobbled down their food, realising how hungry they were, both agreed that the food would be the only thing they missed about school. Meals at Hogwarts were regular and plentiful, no one ever went hungry within the castle walls.
"Take a few days to acclimatise, Malfoy," she told him, "you can't go from not knowing what a hamburger is, to working on a till in a shop the very next day."
"What's a till?"
She rolled her eyes at his ignorance.
"Muggle Studies, Draco. You're going to need a crash course."
"Yes, Professor," he quipped.
"Very funny. Here's your first lesson, coming right up. Take the bill, here, and tell me how much it is."
His blue eyes scanned the small docket that she passed him, and he wrinkled his nose at the unfamiliar currency.
"There's some kind of rune, then the number nineteen, dot forty-nice and a 'p' on the end. How many Galleons is that?"
"I have no idea of the conversion rate, and that's not a rune, that is a pound sign, and it's the main form of currency, like a Galleon. After the dot is the pence."
"Pence?"
"Sssh. Just listen for once. There is one hundred pence, or pennies, in a pound, so it's quite easy to work out."
"So, our bill is nineteen pounds and forty-nine pennies?"
"Correct. So, we'll give her a twenty pound note and get change."
Orla took a twenty from her back pocket and laid on the table. Draco snatched it up and began to examine it.
"Paper money? No coins?
"Paper money," she confirmed. "Much easier than piles of Galleons that you need to carry around in a coin bag, or that need to be stored in vaults in Gringotts."
"I am never going to get used to this," he muttered, shaking his head and replacing the note on the table.
"You can, and you will. It's not that hard, I promise. This is just the beginning, and I won't be babysitting you, poor little rich boy. If we're going to do this, you'll be working too."
He ran a hand through his uncharacteristically messy white-blond hair, looking a little stressed and overwhelmed, nearly jumping out of the plastic seat when the waitress came to collect the money from their table. She had to be patient. She had signed up for this in full knowledge of his limitations in the Muggle world. This was exactly why he had sought her out.
They took a stroll down the high street to avoid going straight back to the tiny studio that was now their home for an unspecified period. Draco enjoyed looking in the shop windows at the 'curious items' on sale, although Orla found it far less exciting than her first trip down Diagon Alley, with the array of magical items in every window.
Turning down a side street that had an old pub on the corner, she bought two half-pints of beer after he expressed an interest, despite her warning that it was nothing like Butterbeer. Indeed, the look on his face after taking his first hearty swig was a sight to behold – his eyes opened wide and began to water, his cheeks reddened and puffed out as he held the bitter liquid in his mouth, not swallowing.
"I always knew Butterbeer was a kids' drink," she teased. "This is real beer, Malfoy."
Orla downed half of her own, delighting in the tart taste of the familiar ale. Raised in Ireland where everybody drank, alcoholic drinks presented no problem for her. Draco had been raised on Butterbeer and little else, unless he'd been partial to nicking from his father's liquor cabinet.
Deciding that half a pint was probably Draco's limit, as well as being mindful that their funds were limited, too, she dragged him out after twenty minutes and they headed back towards the high street from the side road. Draco stopped outside a tattoo parlour, which was open late into the evening five nights a week. She saw his right hand move unbidden to his left forearm, where his Dark Mark was branded.
He pointed to pictures in the window that advertised the parlour specialised in tattoo cover-ups, and there were some rather impressive photographic results of bad tattoos being covered with much nicer, more expansive ones.
"What do you think?" he asked. "I need some way to cover and block the Dark Mark."
"Wouldn't that only cover it, though?"
"I suppose so. But if we were to add some magic, possibly?"
"I honestly don't know. Do you want to go in?"
He nodded, and pushed open the door. A large, bearded man sat behind the reception desk, several piercings in each ear and an amazing set of tattoos down each of his arms. He looked up as they walked in.
"I'm interested in one of your cover-up jobs," Draco said, in a slightly haughty manner that she'd have to knock out of him, sharpish.
"He's got a tattoo he hates," Orla cut in, much more politely. "On his arm."
"Let's have a look then," the bearded man muttered, opening both hands as if to say; What are you waiting for?
Draco rolled up his left sleeve and revealed the Dark Mark, and the man took hold of his arm and ran his fingers over the surface.
"Odd design," he commented. "All in black, nothing too difficult here. I can cover that, no problem. Do you know what you want?"
"I've no idea," replied Draco. "I just want to get this monstrosity covered as soon as I can."
"There's some books over there with sample designs that you can have a look at. Make an appointment and we can discuss it."
"What price are we looking at?" asked Orla.
"A large cover job like that, depending on what he chooses, about a hundred I suppose, maybe more."
She winced. That was a lot of money.
"We'll get the money, Orla," he hissed, in her ear. "We need to get this covered, or we're traceable, and it won't matter how much cash you've got left in that tin."
"You don't even know if it will work," she hissed back.
"I'll make it work," he replied, mindful that the man was now looking curiously at them.
"I've got some time now, there's about an hour before we close. Do you want me to sketch something out?" the man asked them.
"We could? We've got no other plans. Draco?" Orla asked, looking across at him.
"Draco, eh? That's an unusual name."
"I have unusual parents. It means dragon."
"No wonder you want rid of the snake then, eh? And skulls are bit dated, nowadays. How about a dragon, in honour of your name, bright and full of colour, wrapping right around your arm, covering this mistake right up?"
Draco's eyes brightened.
"I like that idea. Do you have any examples?"
"Sit yourself down on the big chair, there, and I'll bring the dragon folder over. You and your young lady can decide which one you like, and I'll size and shape to fit around the area that we're covering."
The man gave them the loose-leaf folder, and then said he was going out the back to make a cup of tea before getting started. Orla and Draco sorted through the dragons, snickering at the crude attempts of Muggles to ascertain what a real dragon looked like. Some were good, though, coincidentally so, and they were soon choosing between what resembled a Chinese Fireball in vibrant shades of red, or a fairly typical Common Welsh Green.
"I love the Fireball," he said. "I have done ever since Krum took one on during the Tri-Wizard. But I'm leaning towards the Green, I'm still a Slytherin at heart and I'm not sure if I want to walk around with that much red on my arm, if I have the choice."
When the man returned with tea for all of them, they showed him the Welsh Green and he pronounced it a 'cracking choice'. He took a pen from the table of instruments and began to sketch a basic outline on Draco's arm, and Orla watched it form, the lines of the dragon reaching far beyond that of the Dark Mark.
"That's about where it will go," he advised, once he had finished his intricate sketch on Draco's skin. "What do you think?"
"I love it," Malfoy told him.
"Want me to make a start? I can put in an hour, then you can come back tomorrow, there are appointments available. I'll need a deposit, though."
Orla thought quickly. Draco needed this done, he was quite right. If they were indeed traceable through his Dark Mark, then they needed to do everything they could to prevent that. A small voice niggled that they could spend a hundred pounds and it wouldn't make any difference to the magic imbued in the Mark, but they had to at least try.
"You make a start," she confirmed. "I'll nip back to the flat and get the money for a deposit. Thirty ok?"
"That's fine, young lady."
He turned away from her and began to prepare his ink and instruments. Orla looked back as she left the tattoo parlour, and distinctly saw Draco draw his wand when the man's back was turned, casting something over the bottle of black ink. She'd have to ask him about that, later. She nipped out of the door and back the way they had come, heading to the flat to make her second withdrawal of the day from her little cash tin.
She made haste, for she was worried about leaving Draco in the sole company of a Muggle for any length of time, especially as he'd already seen fit to draw his wand.
When she returned, Draco was palm upwards in the chair, pain etched upon his face, as the tattooist inked the first part of the outline into his skin. As she approached, she was horrified to see that the serpent that coiled its way around the skull was moving, almost as if it were breathing.
"Oi, mate, what the hell's this? This bloody tattoo is moving!"
The man looked terrified, despite his age, stature, and menacing appearance. Orla watched Draco put his right hand on his wand again.
"Obliviate," he hissed, causing the tattooist to shake his head as if to clear it, then continue inking as if nothing had happened.
"How many times have you done that?" she muttered.
"Far more than I planned to," he replied, as the man looked up and smiled at him.
"Alright, mate? Pain not too much for you?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Draco replied, forcing himself to return the smile despite appearing in considerable pain. "I'll tell you everything later," he whispered to her.
Orla watched, fascinated, as the skilful artistry of the tattooist wove a distinctly dragon-shaped black outline through the Dark Mark, and around Draco's arm. Every time one of the lines crossed the Mark, the snake would move, the man would exclaim, and Draco would Obliviate him yet again.
-xxx-
More than two hours later, and well past midnight, they returned to the flat. The tattooist had insisted on completing the outline, so that he was ready to fill tomorrow. Orla suspected that his enthusiasm had less to do with their paltry deposit, and more to do with some cunning and covert wandwork from her new housemate.
Walking up the stairs after locking the front door and turning off the hallway light, she found Draco slumped on the little sofa, his arm outstretched in front of him.
"Sore?"
"You have no idea."
Grabbing her rucksack that she'd brought from Hogwarts, Orla rummaged inside, finding a vial of single-dose pain potion that Madam Pomfrey had supplied her with, but she'd not taken. She tossed the small bottle at him, and he flipped the cork out using his thumb, with practised ease, and downed the lot, sighing with sweet relief.
"Potions! It's almost like we're back at school," he smirked.
"Don't be a smart arse. I could have taken that myself, but your need seemed greater than mine," she retorted, sitting next to him on the other cushion and crossing her legs as she faced him. "So, what happened? What did you do?"
"Well, it fucking hurt, that's for starters."
"Tattoos generally do hurt, Malfoy. They're done with needles piercing the skin, as you no doubt noticed, they're not branded by magic."
"Thanks for the sympathy. Anyway, as soon as his needle gun thing passed over the Mark, I had this burning pain, similar to how it feels when I get summoned, but only in that area. That would have been alright, but then the damn thing started to move, as if it could feel the needle defacing its lines. That fucking thing lives and breathes."
She nodded for him to continue, genuinely interested in what had happened.
"Of course, he noticed, and he completely shit himself, looking at me as if I was some kind of freak, so I had no choice but to Obliviate. It wasn't happening all the time, so I just cast it when needed, as you saw. Tomorrow, I think I'm going to have to Imperio him, I don't think there's any other option, I'm going to be there for hours and I wouldn't want to continually Obliviate – that could cause permanent damage."
"What spell did you cast on the ink bottle, just as I left?"
"You saw that did you? I told you that we needed to add some magic to the mix. I have no idea if it will work, but I sent a curse to the ink, something Aunt Bella showed me, it drains the victim's strength and blocks creativity and intuitive thought. I'll be casting it on the colours tomorrow, too. I thought that if enough cursed ink is injected into the Dark Mark, it might just block the connection?"
"I like the thinking behind it, and it just might work. Unfortunately, we won't know this unless someone comes to find us, so it's a bit of a double-edged sword," Orla replied, impressed but concerned.
"The snake recoiled from either the cursed ink, or from the injection breaking its surface. A Dark Mark will always try to protect itself from damage. The dragon design is huge, my arm will be flooded with the cursed ink, and thousands upon thousands of holes will be injected all over it," he said, earnestly, grabbing her hands and pleading with her to understand.
"What if the cursed ink damages you? Or someone else?"
"I've already planned for that. Once the tattoo is finished I'm going to destroy all the inks that I cursed, either by accidentally knocking things over, or something else. Sadly, I'll then have to Obliviate again, since we can't afford to pay for the damaged ones, but in the future, we'll do something to make it up to him, I promise."
"And what about you? You're evading that bit of the question."
"Orla, I don't care if my fucking arm falls off, I have to do everything I possibly can to destroy the Mark."
"And if it destroys more than your arm?"
He sighed, toying with her hand in his as he leaned back on the sofa, his hair flopping down over one tired eye.
"Then who cares? I'll die running. No one gives a shit about me anymore."
His face was exhausted and defeated, no longer the swaggering peacock that she had watched saunter the halls of Hogwarts over the last seven years.
"I care, Malfoy."
"Why?"
"It's a mystery to me," she shot back. "But yet, here we are."
To her surprise, he laughed. Perhaps he was used to simpering fools like Pansy Parkinson catering to his every whim. Well, he wouldn't find any arse-kissing here.
"Bed?" he asked.
"I thought you'd never ask. I need to go and see Brenda first thing tomorrow about my job in the pharmacy. Shall we see if we can transfigure the bed, maybe into two smaller ones?"
"Did you sleep well, earlier? Because I did. In fact, I've not slept so well as that for a long time now, Orla. If you're happy to leave it how it is, so am I. No funny business, I promise."
"Ah, I'm offended, Draco. No funny business? "
"Definitely not. My arm hurts too much. Give me a few days to recover?" he smirked, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
Draco Malfoy joking around? Who would have thought it? It seemed as if the Slytherin King might actually have a decent soul, after all.
It was fairly easy to sort out sleeping attire; Orla was in one of the pairs of pyjamas that she'd kept here at the flat, and Draco was in his undershorts and an old Muggle Aerosmith t-shirt that had once belonged to her boyfriend, whom she'd been seeing last year, and she'd hung on pathetically to the black garment after he'd relieved her of her willing virginity and then broken her heart. Arsehole.
Anyway, Malfoy looked far better in the slim-fitting t-shirt than Conor Cready had done.
As they wrapped themselves in the covers that night, they were less careful not to touch. Draco's right arm slipped across the centre of the mattress and his cold hand sought her own, grasping it firmly, the squeeze giving all the thanks that his words could not.
Thank you. I feel safe here with you.
Surprisingly, she felt quite safe too. It was good to not be here alone.
