Chapter 33
Don't call me Sir, call me Severus.
"Stupid bastard," he admonished, mocking his final words to Granger, as he stepped heavily over the grate of his office fireplace.
He had been only a few kisses away from slinging the girl over his shoulder in the manner of an uncivilised troll brandishing a club, and squiring her up the stairs to her own bedchamber, where he would have exacted a repeat of what had just occurred on the kitchen table, only perhaps with less spanking and allowing sufficient time for his sperm count to reload.
Ravaging her mouth with all the enthusiasm of a teenage boy getting his first snog, it had taken every bit of his much-vaunted control to wrench himself away from her sweet lips, remove his hand from its grope of her naked tit, and desist grinding his flaccid but still hopeful cock from against her dripping wet cunt. What the hell did he think he was doing? His role was to relieve her curse symptoms, and then leave her be, not use her to slake his own vile lust.
Physically speaking, there was no getting around the fact that he would gain a certain amount of pleasure from the task, after all, he was but a mere wizard with needs and desires, and what heterosexual wizard would fail to enjoy sex with such a succulent young witch? However, when faced with the reality of Hermione Granger offering him her arse to spank for her imagined crime of kissing a Weasley, or naked and looking up at him, begging him to please kiss her, all good sense went out of the window. He couldn't get enough, every taste of her left him wanting, it was as if he were still compelled himself.
Severus hadn't lied when he'd reassured the girl that he'd had no other witches in his bed since they'd been cursed. However, the full truth was that he simply had no desire to seek out anyone else. Granger was more than enough for him. Hating to be grateful to the Dark Lord for anything, especially as the maniac had nearly killed him whilst forcing him to the absolute limits of his own compulsion, he could not deny that he was inordinately happy to still have a reason to fuck her.
What would become of them if they achieved their aim and managed to kill Voldemort? It mattered not if they didn't, since they would both likely die in the attempt, but what if they did? Fuck peace in the entire wizarding world, what he wanted to know right now, was if Granger would still be interested in him, were she not compelled to seek him out sexually?
His first thought was not to be so astoundingly foolish, of course she bloody wouldn't. A young, intelligent, brave, academically-brilliant witch would not wish to start a relationship with an ex-Death Eater, twenty years older, and her former professor, to boot.
But.
There had been times, many times, during their intimacies, that Granger had freely admitted she was not compelled, and that her actions were her own choice. She had told him she found him attractive. She had complimented his voice, his vocabulary – confessing that his unguarded, lustful words that he spilled during their most private moments brought her pleasure. The girl would not lie about these things. She would have no reason to lie.
Her bodily responses to his lovemaking were a joy to behold. He had never, in all his years, enjoyed watching a witch come, panting at his touch, quite like Miss Granger. Her orgasms were immense, and she seemed to have an endless supply. The benefit of youth, the compulsion, her own innate sexual response, or a sign of good chemistry between them both? So many unanswered questions, none of which he had the slightest intention of asking.
There was also the overriding matter that the capability to hold down a successful relationship had thus far eluded him. Snape's entire adult life had been spent mooning over a unrequited, one-sided, childhood love, and had shaped the very person he had become. He was a resentful, twisted, cynical wizard who had no business dragging a witch down with him, much less a prize such as the young girl that currently occupied all his thoughts.
As if he would ever be worthy of her.
The succinct statement was enough to jolt him out of his ruminating, and he barked a coarse, mirthless laugh. He had no right to even think about Hermione Granger in that way.
Striding through to his bedchamber, he threw off his clothes and headed for the shower to clear his head and cleanse his body before bed, where no doubt his dreams would be full of a curly-haired witch with pert tits and a wet cunt.
He really was a depraved bastard.
-xxx-
The smell of sex hit Remus in the olfactory nerves the moment he walked into the kitchen with Teddy tucked in the crook of his arm, the next morning. He'd retired to bed the night before having been firmly ousted with little subtlety by Severus, and had tried very hard not to think about what the two of them were probably doing. From the smells he was picking up with his sensitive nose, they hadn't even managed to leave the kitchen.
It was rather disturbing. Of course, he knew Hermione was of age, but she was under a dark curse and whatever was happening between her and Snape sexually was not of her own volition. Despite having great respect for her intelligence and abilities, he still found it difficult to think of Hermione as anything but the young girl he had taught Defence to, in her third year. The thought of her repeatedly shagging a wizard the same age as himself, and such a disagreeable one at that, he found highly inappropriate and distasteful, to say the least. Still, when had Tom Riddle ever done anything tasteful?
The working relationship between the two of them seemed to be sound, and Hermione showed no signs of distress, so Remus had to presume that Severus was, at least, taking her care of her emotionally as well as meeting the physical demands of the curse. He thought back to when Snape had first ensconced him in Grimmauld Place, making sure he was warm, fed and well, and despite everything being delivered in his typical morose, acerbic fashion, the practical care had been consistent. Perhaps he was approaching Hermione's needs in the same way. Perhaps he wasn't such a Slytherin arsehole, after all.
Still, it galled Remus to think that the odious Severus was getting such a reward as Hermione Granger. His former nemesis would have to be made of stone not to be enjoying every moment he was 'forced' to spend being intimate with her.
Walking towards the stove, Remus noticed an indiscreet wet patch on the end of the table, which had clearly received a cursory Tergeo, but his keen eyes and nose noticed it instantly, almost invisibly ingrained into the surface of the old wood. Merlin. The two of them had gone at it over the end of the kitchen table. He closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block the visual imagery of such a coupling.
Then, to his surprise, Remus felt definite stirrings in the front of his own trousers. He was so taken aback that he nearly dropped his son, planting the child in the safety of his kitchen cradle before gripping the high back of one of the wooden chairs.
What kind of pervert was he, getting an erection over the thought and smell of another couple having sex? Not that Severus and Hermione were a couple, he reminded himself, with a shudder.
Breathing a little heavily, he allowed the slight swelling to dissipate, conceding that it had indeed been a long while since he'd last had sex – a few weeks before Teddy was born, in fact. He had found his wife attractive throughout her pregnancy, and such was the newness of their relationship and her joy at finally being together that her own libido barely had diminished, wanting their lovemaking to continue until right near the end when she'd carried low and heavy, accompanied by the mental stress of the impending battle that put paid to more intimate encounters.
A wizard had needs, oh yes, and Remus was no exception. But to be with another witch who was not Tonks? He could not even countenance it. He missed sex, that was certain, but he missed making love to his wife, she was the only woman he wanted. The thought of seeking out someone new, who was not her, was unthinkable.
Lupin rubbed his tired face with his hand, sweeping it back through his unkempt, sandy-brown hair with an edge of frustration before walking towards the stove to warm his son's first bottle of the day. Tonight, he thought, it may be time to introduce his cock back to his right hand again. That method of relief would have to suffice, for now, his mind and emotions were not sufficiently rational for anything more.
Besides, where would he go? Whom would he seek out? The only witches he currently had contact with were either teenagers, old women, married to someone else or recently bereaved.
And none of them were Nymphadora Tonks.
Remus felt a few slow tears of grief track down his face as he warmed the bottle for the tiny son that she would never know.
-xxx-
Orla lay in the garden hammock in the hot afternoon sun, Teddy asleep on her chest and both of their fair skins were protected by the trees from which the hammock was slung. Remus had conjured it at her request, and he'd seemed surprised as she held her arms out for the baby, who was about to go down for his nap.
The fresh air would do Teddy good, she'd explained, and it hadn't taken the infant long to snuffle down into her chest and fall into the kind of deep slumber that was reserved only for the truly innocent. Orla had encouraged Remus to sunbathe again, urging that they all needed plenty of fresh air and sunlight as respite from their enforced incarceration in Grimmauld Place. However essential it was that they remained here, it was still a prison.
He'd looked at her in the most curious manner, but had been content to allow her to hold his son, and had quickly stripped off his shirt, transfigured it into a large sheet, of sorts, and lay down on the lawn, closing his eyes. Orla looked at him, covertly. His chest looked sturdy and strong, lightly covered with sandy hair, but not so much that some thick scarring wasn't clearly visible. He'd explained that he would often attack himself whilst transformed, waking up with cuts and scratches, but that the biggest scars had been caused during a fight with his friend, Sirius Black, who was in his Animagus form of a dog, and had been trying to protect Harry Potter and his friends from an unwittingly transformed Lupin.
Stripped from the waist up and sprawled in the bright sunshine, Remus looked younger than he did when clad in his shabby clothing – his wardrobe consisted mostly of old shirts and knobbly woollen cardigans, topped with a face scarred and prematurely lined. A lock of sandy hair slipped down his forehead and finished up by his ear, as his head sagged to the side in sleep. Good. He needed to rest, and Orla doubted he slept much at night with a young baby to care for.
She gave the hammock a little push with one foot on the ground and set it to swinging, her hands lightly on Teddy's back, enjoying the feel of the tiny baby under her hands, and closed her own eyes, thinking of the conversation she'd had with her two housemates, earlier that morning.
Hermione had eschewed the garden and was currently wading through piles of old books in the Black library, searching out information on subjects she'd been given a list of by Professor Snape. She'd shared this with her and Remus, along with the recommendation that Orla make an attempt to contact Lucius Malfoy, with a view to searching his library for the same, and perhaps getting close enough to him to find out if Malfoy knew what Voldemort intended to do with the destroyed Horcruxes that were being stored so securely.
The very thought of getting in touch with the wizard who had given her half her genes, and undoubtedly all her magical powers, was terrifying. The last time she had seen Malfoy, he'd been watching his son die, locked in the jaws of a giant snake. The wizard and his wife had been looking utterly shocked as it was revealed he was the father of an illegitimate daughter, and Orla had to wonder at what conversations had passed since them. No doubt they were grieving their son, but Lucius' paternity could not be ignored, and would likely not be.
She'd watched the owl fly from the kitchen door just after lunch, clutching the letter that had taken her all morning to write.
It had been Malfoy's retribution against Yaxley that had finally given her the impetus to write it. She had suffered greatly at the psychotic Death Eater's hands, and it seemed that her newly-discovered father had avenged her in every way possible, stopping just short of killing the man, and injuring him enough that he may never leave the hospital.
Professor Snape had indicated that this was out of character, since Malfoy was not one of the more bloodthirsty Death Eaters, and that he was more of a coward, more inclined to hide from violence than to seek it out. The description reminded her a little of Draco, who could never be called a coward, but had wanted to hide rather than fight. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Marked as a Death Eater, there had been sparse choice for the considerate young wizard she had spent too-short a time with.
Orla couldn't help but cast her mind back to that time, together with Draco in their little studio flat above the pharmacy, bringing food to each other's work, evenings in the local pub and nights discovering each other in bed. Sadly, the final thought brought a wave of shame and embarrassment, since neither of them had known of their sibling connection. Whose fault was that? Lucius Malfoy's? Or could it have been … her mother's? Suddenly, she wanted to know.
-xxx-
The owl had been returned before darkness had fallen that evening. Grimmauld Place might be under a Fidelius charm, but a post owl could find its recipient anywhere in the world. The reply had led her to where she was sitting now, the following afternoon, waiting in a wood-panelled drawing room in Malfoy Manor, accompanied by Charlie, his distinctive red hair now transformed into a nondescript brown using Fleur's hair-colouring charm to conceal the obvious - that he was a Weasley.
Orla had insisted on bringing a chaperone with her to Malfoy Manor, and Lucius had agreed, although promising that she was in no danger, but reassured her that he understood her need to feel secure. Hermione and Remus were both in hiding, and none of the other Order members could reveal their alliance with her, lest they jeopardise their own positions, so the unknown Charlie it had to be, and he was willing to do so. Orla was relatively certain that he was looking forward to a spot of adventure.
She stood up as the large double doors of the drawing room opened, and her newly-discovered father entered with regal bearing, allowing the attendant house-elf to close the doors behind him, and strode towards her, unsmiling, his white-blond hair streaming behind him as he crossed the room quickly, his cane tapping lightly on the floor.
Lucius Malfoy stood before her, fixing his ice-blue on hers, before searching her face. They were, of course, her own eyes. The eyes that were identical to Draco's, that had so often been commented on. Everything was so obvious … now.
"You came to me," he began, his voice surprisingly quiet and not at all snooty.
"I had to know," she replied. "I had to know … how this could have happened."
Malfoy sighed, casting a quick look around the room, noting Charlie who was seated in an armchair before the huge fireplace, unobtrusive and not participating, but effecting a definite warning presence, should discussions take a turn for the worse. Malfoy indicated the large, hard sofa, and they seated themselves, facing towards one another. Was it her imagination, or did he seem as nervous as she felt? The thought gave her a strange comfort.
"Believe me when I say that I had no idea I had fathered a daughter. Angela Clairvhelly and I had a brief, rather painfully intense affair during the summer I spent in Narraghmore. My marriage was … strained at that time, and I behaved in a reprehensible manner, taking up with another woman whilst my wife was struggling to conceive. Angela and I parted at the end of the summer with no promises to keep in touch. It was an agreed 'summer romance' for the both of us. I have never heard from her since."
"I tried to remember when my parents met, when they got married, but I can't. I'm not sure they ever told me," she offered, in way of reply.
"Then there are two possibilities, as I see it," Malfoy said, placing an elegant arm along the back of the sofa. "Either your mother was already in a relationship with your father at the time, and either believed the baby was his, or pretended it was. I think this would have been easy to do, as from what I remember of Angela, you resemble her greatly?"
"She did," Orla confirmed, nodding. "I look just like her, well, I thought I did. Since I met you, and Draco, I suppose it's rather obvious what family I come from. My father, the man I thought of as my father, Gerard Roach, had red hair and I looked nothing like him."
"The other possibility is that Angela discovered she was pregnant and enticed Mr Roach to believe you were his, or they arranged a consenting agreement thus."
Neither of Malfoy's suggestions were particularly palatable, but Orla had to concede that she couldn't think of anything else that was likely, and with both her parents dead, she would never know.
"Did my mum know you were a wizard?" she asked, suddenly interested, since her parents had always been so accepting of her magical abilities, that might indicate her mother's lack of surprise when she was revealed as a witch.
"She did not," he replied, smoothly. "In a long-term relationship with a Muggle, they of course become aware of our powers, and of the magical world, but as I have told you, this was a short affair that meant very little to either of us."
Orla winced to hear the circumstances of her conception described as such.
"I apologise if that pains you," he said, a concerned look on his pale face.
"It's a bitter potion to swallow, I'll give you that," she admitted.
There was an awkward silence that stretched beyond what either of them were comfortable with. Clearly, he had more questions to ask, and Orla was sure she could guess one, in particular.
"May I ask, Orla, of the exact nature of your relationship with Draco?"
She saw Charlie visibly shift in his chair, ready to leap into action and whisk her out of there if needed. There was bound to be all sorts of anti-Apparition wards on the Manor, as they'd had to Apparate to the main gates and request entry, so a quick exit was unlikely to be simple.
"We became friends when I returned to Hogwarts, after the battle. Draco was appalled at how I was being treated, as a Muggle-born, and in turn he was terrified of being aligned with the Death Eaters. We escaped the school together, and lived as Muggles. Our life, for the few weeks we spent together, was good."
"But were you …"
"Yes! We were, ok? Is that what you wanted to hear?" Orla shouted, angrily. "My half-brother and I were sleeping together! Not straight away, but after a while. And it was beautiful! We made love innocently, we didn't know who we were to one another, how could we have done?"
Malfoy hung his head, and Orla could see a red flush of shame through the curtain of white hair. She lowered her voice.
"I apologise for raising my voice."
He looked up, his eyes clear and honest.
"I should be the one who is apologising to you. What's done is done, and I do not blame either yourself or Draco for what happened between you. As you have said, how could you have known? Even I, your father, did not know."
"My father …" she murmured.
"If you allow it."
"I'm scared of you. In fact, I'm terrified of you."
"You are a Malfoy, Orla. You are entitled to take your place in our society and your place in this home - there is no need for you to be in hiding. When your blood status was presumed to be unworthy, you were treated appallingly, in such a way that no Malfoy should ever have to endure. I have wreaked my revenge upon Corban Yaxley, and avenged your honour. He will never again lay a hand upon my daughter, and nor will anyone else."
She flickered her eyes towards Charlie, and saw the anger burning there, and knew they were having the same thought. That Malfoy believed it was acceptable to abuse Muggles, or those witches and wizards who were Muggle-born, but not those of half or pure blood. It was the stench of racism and pureblood supremacy that was the cancer currently destroying the wizarding world. It was Voldemort's ideal, and he sought validation through these peacock pureblood families who were only too keen to lap up the myth that some bloods were 'dirtier' and somehow less worthy than others. How utterly ridiculous. How dangerous.
"Can I have some time?" she asked. "This is all such a lot to take in. Do I have to move in straight away?"
"I can give you a little time to clear your head. But this is where you belong, and I shall stop at nothing to bring you home, my daughter. I expect you to return here within the week. I cannot ensure your safety if you are not under my roof and my protection."
"I understand. I just need to think. I mean, I don't even know you. I can't even think what I should call you."
"Draco used to find that Father worked rather well," Lucius replied, smiling in a smug way that she found nauseating, considering what he had just said.
"I'll try," she replied, not trusting herself to say what she really thought, lest she want to get her and Charlie both killed.
"Good girl. We will get along amiably, I am sure. You are in need of parents, and I am in need of a new child, after the loss of my son. The situation could not be better. And in confidence, my daughter, it gave me great pleasure to hex the life from Corban Yaxley. The man is a hideous waste of space."
Lucius Malfoy's conclusion, apparently unbothered by human grief and emotion, stunned Orla to silence. She indicated to Charlie that she needed to leave, and he rose from his chair by the unlit fireplace, crossing the room and offering his arm for her to take.
"I am going to take Orla home now, Mr Malfoy," Charlie announced, in a manner that suggested he would brook no argument. "Please can you release the wards from this room so that I can Apparate her directly from here?"
Malfoy arched an elegant eyebrow, but nonetheless drew his wand and cast, Orla feeling the security of the wards drop around them.
"And you are?" her father asked.
"I'm your worst nightmare," Charlie retorted, grinning. "Orla will return when she's good and ready. If you want your daughter to trust you, you'll give her the time she needs."
Lucius pulled a sour face as if he was sucking on a particularly bitter lemon.
"I sincerely hope that you are not her current paramour?"
"You never know," teased Charlie, with a wink, and Apparated them away with a loud crack, before Malfoy could say any more.
