"You brought food," Severus said, breathing through his nose. He'd been in limbo, sitting on the far end of the sofa and wondering how long it would be before he was called back to Malfoy Manor. It had been a week since Dumbledore's funeral, that miserable day where he'd closed the curtains and turned out the lights and drank all Hermione's booze. Since then, he'd just been waiting. In limbo. Waiting for the Dark Lord to call, waiting for Hermione to come home, waiting, waiting, waiting.
He might have been losing his mind a little bit.
"Fish and chips," Hermione said. She didn't bother with plates, simply setting the meals in their paper wrappings on the coffee table and sitting down on the couch next to him. Severus sat up properly and tucked in.
After a few bites, she set hers aside. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she just shrugged.
"I'm not in the mood for fish and chips, I guess." She sat back, getting comfortable. "You can eat mine, if you want."
She ate some of her chips, but mostly she just sat there and looked at him. She wasn't doing a thing to mask her appraisal of him. At first, he began to get annoyed, assuming she was looking him over for signs of depression or something. Then he realized she was simply ogling him. Good, old-fashioned ogling.
She was comparing her memories of him as her Potions master to her memories of him as her husband. Apparently, she'd noticed his jawline and "elegant" hands when she was fourteen. He also had his height, his shoulders that never fit into jackets properly unless he paid extra for tailoring, and "wiry strength." She even seemed to like his scars, if her mental review of them was anything to go by—the Cruciatus swirls like hers, the knife scars down the right side of his ribs, the new tapered pinkish lines on his forearms.
He looked her in the eye, wondering if she was transmitting her appraisal on purpose. It wouldn't surprise him. He wasn't the only one who was acting a bit unhinged since Dumbledore's funeral.
I stuck true to type with you, you know, she thought, and he scowled at her around his mouthful of fish. She was doing it on purpose after all. I'd always gone for the tall, dark, broody ones. Hell, even the distinctive nose.
"Distinctive?" he asked, voice low. She smiled at him. Beamed at him, really. The smile made his heart race in his chest even if he was annoyed with her for bringing up his nose.
I like the way I can feel your voice thrum through my whole body when we're sitting together.
He blinked at her. Had she read some book about keeping lines of communication open, about being honest, about making a marriage work? If she had, he wanted the book so that he could burn it. This was weird, this unprompted sharing. It was putting him off his lunch, and that was saying something considering he hadn't really been eating while she was away.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd had fish and chips. It had been a favorite when he was small, usually an outing with his father on one of the few good days. And he hadn't realized how hungry he was until she had walked in and he'd smelled it.
Now that he'd finished inhaling his food like an animal and she'd stopped thinking uncomfortable things at him, he sat back to watch her. She wasn't quite blushing, but she was more flustered than he'd seen her in a long time.
If it wasn't for the scars, she would've been much the same as she had when she was a schoolgirl. She was a small woman, short and slender. Her hair was a mess, all chestnut-colored curls and frizz, soft to the touch; he liked it. If he squinted, he could imagine she was the same person, vibrating with the need to prove herself to everybody, but it was an illusion that didn't hold; she was just as tired as he was and she didn't take any shit.
Severus smiled, crumpling his paper into a ball and getting up to wash his hands. He liked her. If he hadn't fallen in love with her, they definitely would have been friends at the very least. Luckily, he'd fallen in love with her, and she'd fallen in love with him, and… And, really, that was where it ended. They had these stolen afternoons between his Summoning and her going to check on Potter. They pretended they had a future, fantasizing about what color their kitchen would be and whether they'd turn the cellar into a potions lab or… actually they both wanted the potions lab.
"Severus?"
He turned and realized he'd been standing in the kitchen holding his ball of greasy paper, staring at nothing.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, so am I," she said, eyebrows raised, skeptical. He almost smiled.
He wanted to kiss away her ills, hold her tight to him and never let go.
Damn.
He threw the paper away and turned to her. She wore Muggle clothes; she'd be leaving to casually walk by the Dursley house soon. Jeans and a t-shirt, hair in a practical ponytail.
He ignited when he met her eyes. He burned for her.
\\
"News?" Yaxley asked.
"The best."
They walked down the lane, following the hedge on the right, cloaks flapping around their ankles.
"I thought I might be late," said Yaxley.
Please stop talking to me.
"It was a little trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be good?"
Severus nodded but didn't say anything further. Yaxley was one of the few Death Eaters who still seemed to think of it as a political club instead of an indoctrinated cult. He chatted and he schmoozed and he seemed to think the Dark Lord wouldn't actually kill them if he felt like it.
They turned to the right, following the hedge up the wide driveway off the lane. The gates were huge and almost impressive, or they had been the first few dozen times Severus had visited the Manor. He held up his Dark Mark and passed through the gates like they were smoke, a variation of the same spell that had been used to keep the un-Marked off the Astronomy Tower those few short weeks ago.
Goddamned peacocks, Severus thought, then almost smiled when he wondered if he was thinking of the birds or the family that owned them. But then, the Malfoys hadn't been strutting around like peacocks in awhile. Lucius was fresh out of Azkaban and wasn't the better for it at all. Narcissa clutched to her husband when she wasn't clutching to her son. Draco was faring the best of the three, and he looked like he was just barely recovered from some serious illness.
"He always did himself well, Lucius. Peacocks…" Yaxley said, putting his wand away.
The door opened for them when they approached, then closed again when they were through. The hallway was large, dim, and sumptuously decorated. They walked through, past pale-faced portraits of dead Malfoys, and came to a stop at the heavy wooden door. They hesitated. It was a game of politics, who opened the door, who entered first.
Severus turned the bronze handle; he was currently the favorite. He'd been the one to kill the great Dumbledore, after all.
The drawing room was full of people, but it was silent. They sat at the long, ornate table as they always did, the Dark Lord a blurred silhouette with the fire behind him. A trick Severus had played at Order meetings for years, making it easy to observe without being observed; the others could never tell where his eyes were, and now the Death Eaters couldn't tell where the Dark Lord was looking, who he was looking at.
Severus paused a moment, letting his eyes adjust. There was a person suspended over the table, but he didn't look at them. It would be easier if he didn't look, if he didn't know who it was. Child, adult, man, woman, Muggle, wizard. It didn't matter. They were dead whether he looked or not. Draco didn't seem to know that yet; he kept glancing up.
Stop torturing yourself, boy.
"Yaxley, Snape," the Dark Lord said, voice high and clear. "You are very nearly late."
Severus approached the table and the Dark Lord became easier to see through the gloom. Hairless, snakelike, slitted nostrils, red eyes with vertical pupils. His skin shone a bit in the firelight, almost seeming to emit a pearly glow. Everything about his screamed unnatural, wrong. Only Occlumency kept Severus from shuddering, from allowing his skin to crawl.
"Severus, here," the Dark Lord said, indicating the chair on his immediate right. The place of honor. He was still the favored one; that was a good sign. "Yaxley—beside Dolohov."
Severus took his seat and tried not to think about Dolohov. He'd developed new levels of hatred for the man since he'd married Hermione, since he'd traced the line between her breasts, from collar to hip, that marked where Dolohov's curse had almost split her in two.
Okay, not actually split her in two. It had been a serious injury, but not that serious. The point stood, though. He would kill Dolohov before it was all over.
"So?" Voldemort asked him, bringing Severus's focus back to the task at hand. He Occluded carefully, strengthening the compartmentalization that had become his life, secreting away his marriage and his hatred of the man down the table, of all of them at the table.
"My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall."
There were reactions around the room. Fidgeting or stillness depending on the person, sharpened interest all around.
"Saturday… at nightfall."
Severus met the Dark Lord's eyes and felt the intrusion. It wasn't pleasant like it was when Hermione's mind brushed his, when her mind sunk into his and they shared their thoughts, emotions, memories. Severus showed the Dark Lord what he needed to see—he brought the feeling of his hatred for those around him and played it off as hatred for the Muggle-lovers in the Order, he showed the Dark Lord flickering images of Mundungus Fletcher sneaking around back alleys.
"Good. Very good. And this information comes—"
"—from the source we discussed," said Severus.
"My Lord."
Slowly, Severus turned his head to stare down the table at Yaxley. The tall man was sitting forward ever so slightly, eager to share information, to curry favor.
"My Lord, I have heard differently."
Everybody at the table was looking at him now. The Dark Lord did not acknowledge him.
"Dawlish, the Auror, let slip that Potter will not be moved until the thirtieth, the night before the boy turns seventeen."
Severus smiled and didn't bother to hide it. It wasn't a nice smile. Hermione had been the one to Confund Dawlish, to feed him the false information. She'd loitered outside the entrance to the Ministry and caught several key people unaware, planting the hints they hoped would get back to the Death Eaters.
"My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it. No doubt a Confundus Charm has been placed upon Dawlish. It would not be the first time; he is known to be susceptible," Severus said. Though susceptibility had nothing to do with it when Hermione was the one doing the Confunding.
"I assure you, my Lord. Dawlish seemed quite certain," said Yaxley. Really, it was too easy.
"If he has been Confunded, naturally he is certain," countered Severus. "I assure you, Yaxley, the Auror Office will play no further part in the protection of Harry Potter. The Order believes that we have infiltrated the Ministry."
"The Order's got one thing right, then, eh?" Keating, even further down the table from the Dark Lord than Yaxley, said. He gave a wheezy giggle that was echoed here and there.
The Dark Lord wasn't paying attention; he did not laugh. He was looking up at the body revolving slowly overhead, lost in thought.
"My Lord, Dawlish believes an entire party of Aurors will be used to transfer the boy—"
The Dark Lord held up a hand, silencing Yaxley. The other man shot a resentful look at Severus when the Dark Lord turned to him.
"Where are they going to hide the boy next?"
"At the home of one of the Order," said Severus. "The place, according to the source, has been given every protection that the Order and Ministry together could provide. I think that there is little chance of taking him once he is there, my Lord, unless, of course, the Ministry has fallen before next Saturday, which might give up the opportunity to discover and undo enough of the enchantments to break through the rest."
The Burrow had been the obvious choice. Contacts at the Ministry had leant their assistance with the wards, but that would prove to be a weakness. Once the Ministry fell, the enchantments would be less potent, and there would be a record of them which would make them easier to unravel.
"Well, Yaxley?" the Dark Lord called down the table, the firelight glinting in his red eyes. "Will the Ministry have fallen by next Saturday?"
Yaxley squared his shoulders, all eyes on him. "My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have—with difficulty, and after great effort—succeeded in placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse."
"With difficulty, and after great effort," Severus mocked in his mind.
"It is a start," said the Dark Lord as Dolohov clapped Yaxley on the back in congratulations. "But Thicknesse is only one man. Scrimgeor must be surrounded by our people before I act. One failed attempt on the Minister's life will set me back a long way."
"Yes—my Lord, that is true—but you know, as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Thicknesse has regular contact not only with the Minister himself, but also with the Heads of all the other Ministry departments. It will, I think, be easy now that we have such a high-ranking official under our control, to subjugate the others, and then they can all work together to bring Scrimgeor down."
"As long as our friend Thicknesse is not discovered before he has converted the rest. At any rate, it remains unlikely that the Ministry will be mine before next Saturday. If we cannot touch the boy at his destination, then it must be done while he travels."
"We are at an advantage there, my Lord," said Yaxley, determined to win approval. "We now have several people planted within the Department of Magical Trasnportation. If Potter Apparates or uses the Floo Network, we shall know immediately."
"He will not do either," said Severus. He'd warned Hermione about the moles. "The Order is eschewing any form of transport that is controlled or regulated by the Ministry; they mistrust everything to do with the place."
"All the better," said the Dark Lord. "He will have to move in the open. Easier to take, by far."
Again, Voldemort looked up to the revolving body as he went on, "I shall attend to the boy in person. There have been too many mistakes where Harry Potter is concerned. Some of them have been my own. That Potter lives is due more to my errors than to his triumphs."
Down the table, Death Eaters shifted nervously. They were all waiting for blame to fall on them, no matter what the Dark Lord was saying. Severus kept still.
"I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and chance, those wreckers of all but the best-laid plans. But I know better now. I understand those things I did not understand before. I must be the one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall be."
Severus shivered, covering it by sitting up straighter in his chair. He was reminded that Ollivander was somewhere on the premises, providing information the Dark Lord hadn't seen fit to share with any of his followers. Or at least not with Severus. It was an unknown, and it made him uncomfortable.
He was distracted from his thoughts by a sudden wail. A terrible, drawn-out cry of misery and pain. Many at the table looked downward for the source of the noise, which seemed to come from below their feet.
"Wormtail," Voldemort said, just as quiet and thoughtful as before, still contemplating the revolving body above, "have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner quiet?"
"Yes, m-my Lord." Wormtail was halfway down the table, but Severus had missed him in his initial appraisal of the room because he was slouched so low in his seat. Now he scrambled from his chair and hurried out of the room.
"As I was saying," continued Voldemort, turning his eyes from the body above to look at his followers, "I understand better now. I shall need, for instance, to borrow a wand from one of you before I go to kill Potter."
Severus froze but tried not to appear as though he had frozen. Surely the Dark Lord would not require his wand; he was the favorite of the moment. No, it would be from one of the others, possibly even Yaxley. Any of them, except probably Draco.
"No volunteers? Let's see… Lucius, I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore."
Lucius looked up. His skin was yellowish in the firelight, waxy. His eyes were sunken and shadowed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.
"My Lord?"
"Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand."
"I…"
Lucius glanced at Narcissa. She didn't look at him, but she had gone even paler. Severus saw her shoulder move and knew that she was touching him beneath the table, and whatever was communicated with that touch made Lucius reach into his robes and withdraw his wand. It was passed down the table to Voldemort, who held it up in front of his red eyes and examined it.
"What is it?"
A wand, idiot, Severus thought, training his eyes on the table to keep from sharing the thought. He needed to get himself under control.
"Elm, my Lord," Lucius whispered.
"And the core?"
"Dragon—dragon heartstring."
"Good." Voldemort drew his own wand to compare the lengths, and Lucius twitched as if to take the second wand as an exchange. Voldemort's eyes widened maliciously. "Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?"
There were sniggers down the table.
"I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late… What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"
"Nothing—nothing, my Lord!"
"Such lies, Lucius…"
There was hissing then. It almost sounded like the Dark Lord's own voice, but the mouth wasn't moving. The snake was somewhere nearby, then. Severus saw a few repressed shudders down the table as they listened to something heavy sliding across the floor beneath the table.
He was filled with dread whenever he saw the snake. He'd never had a particular fondness for snakes, but neither had he been particularly averse. It was supposed to be the symbol of his House, after all. But this snake was not a normal snake. This snake radiated malevolence like no animal he'd ever come across, and that included the mean little dog the woman next door had had when he was a boy; the one that bit his ankles and put holes in his trousers that his father shouted at him over later.
Nagini emerged, climbing Voldemort's chair. Severus tried not to watch as the snake kept coming, endless coils of serpentine body resting across Voldemort's shoulders. The snake's neck was thicker than Severus's thigh; its eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. The Dark Lord stroked the creature fondly.
"Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?"
"Of course, my Lord," said Lucius. He drew attention to his distress by wiping sweat from his lip with a shaking hand. "We did desire it—we do."
Narcissa nodded stiffly, eyes still fixed on the table. On Lucius's other side, Draco glanced down from the body above to Voldemort, then away again. They were over careful not to make eye contact, not to allow an opportunity for Legilimency.
"My Lord," Bellatrix said, seated beside her sister, "it is an honor to have you here, in our family's house. There can be no higher pleasure."
"No higher pleasure," Voldemort repeated, tipping his head to one side as he considered Bellatrix. "That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you."
The witch blushed. Blushed. Her eyes welled with tears of delight. It was disgusting.
"My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!"
"No higher pleasure… even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?"
"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."
Severus smirked. He knew what the Dark Lord meant. Tonks and Lupin had married; it had been a quiet ceremony, hardly more than signing the marriage license with a few friends to witness and a large dinner at the Burrow after. Hermione had joined them at the Burrow for the celebration.
"I'm talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She had just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud."
Jeering laughter erupted. There was much exchanging of gleeful looks, fists thumping the table. Bellatrix's face went from flushed with pleasure to blotched red with anger.
"She is no niece of ours, my Lord," Bellatrix said, too loudly. "We—Narcissa and I—have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries.
"What say you, Draco?" asked the Dark Lord. "Will you babysit the cubs?"
The hilarity mounted. Draco looked to his father, who was staring into his own lap, then to his mother, who shook her head almost imperceptibly. Severus found herself wishing that the Malfoys had been thus ousted years ago. Lucius had been his closest friend once. If the timing of things had been right, the fall from favor and this realization that the Malfoys had seemed to have about their loyalty to family over loyalty to the Dark Lord, they might have been friends again. Not proper allies, he couldn't risk that sort of trust, but… Things might have been different, easier.
"Enough," Voldemort said at last, stroking the snake, which was agitated from the noise in the room. "Enough."
The laughter died at once.
"Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time," Voldemort said. Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring. "You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest."
I will have to send word, Severus thought. The Tonkses and the Lupins.
"Yes, my Lord," Bellatrix said. Her eyes were swimming with grateful tears again, so easily appeased. Like the favorite dog, scrambling back for a pat on the head after it was just kicked. "At the first chance!"
"You shall have it," Voldemort promised. "And in your family, so in the world… we shall cut away the canker that infects us until only those of the true blood remain…"
Voldemort raised Lucius's wand, pointed it at the figure above the table, and flicked it. The figure groaned and began to struggle. It was a woman, judging from the groan. Severus kept his eyes on the Death Eaters, not looking up.
"Do you recognize our guest, Severus?" Voldemort asked, removing the choice. Now he had to look up.
Charity Burbage rotated above, angled with her head slightly lower than her feet. Just enough that there would be blood constantly rushing to her brain, making her all the more uncomfortable.
As though they had been given permission to show interest, the rest of the Death Eaters looked up. She revolved, slowly, now her face was in the firelight.
"Severus! Help me!" Her voice was cracked and terrified. Severus did not look away, did not blink.
Charity Burbage taught Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. She'd been there since his third year as a teacher. She'd been nice enough, though never a particular friend.
"Ah, yes," Severus said in response to the Dark Lord's inquiry. Burbage kept rotating, her face now away from him. He hoped her end would be quick. He hoped she hadn't been in the Manor long, hadn't been raped or otherwise tortured. She was dead already; her body just hadn't realized it yet.
"And you, Draco?" Voldemort stroked the snake's head with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily, staring at the table. Severus almost pitied him.
"But you would not have taken her classes," Voldemort said. "For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
There were noises of comprehension, nods as the Death Eaters placed the face. Gretchen Goyle cackled, pointed teeth gleaming.
"Yes… Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles… how they are not so different from us…"
Somebody spat but Severus didn't see who. Burbage revolved, now facing him again.
"Severus… please… please…"
What did she think he could do? Did she not see who else was in the room? Did she not see whose right hand he sat at? Did she not remember what he'd done to Dumbledore?
"Silence," Voldemort said, flicking Lucius's wand again. Burbage went silent, as if gagged. "Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds of Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance… She would have us all mate with Muggles… or, no doubt, werewolves…"
Nobody laughed. Severus found himself recalling, madly, an article he'd read in a French journal examining birth rates around the world, and the interesting conclusion of the article that magic itself played a part in the reduced number of pureblood children. The data supported the conclusion, pureblood-pureblood couples produced, on average, one child, while any other pairing was more than twice as likely to have two or more children.
Though, of course, they didn't include the Weasleys in the study…
Burbage rotated again, faced him for the third time. Tears were pouring down her face, dripping into her hair. Severus looked back at her, met her eyes. It was as close to comfort as he could give her, and it was nothing at all.
The only comfort he had for himself was that she was facing away from him when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse.
Her body crashed to the table, making it tremble and creak. Several Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his chair onto the floor.
"Dinner, Nagini," said Voldemort softly, and the great snake swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.
Severus held himself still, forced even breaths in and out of his nose, and wished he were anywhere else.
\\
The first thing he did when he got home was shower. He didn't even kiss Hermione hello; he just called out a greeting and closed himself in the bathroom. Under the steaming flow of the water, he scrubbed himself raw. Every part of him was pink and tingling when he finished.
He didn't want to put his clothes on again. At least the snake hadn't touched them, so he wasn't inclined to burn them. He still didn't want them on, constricting him, reminding him.
She was cooking when he emerged, and she smiled at his bathrobe. It wasn't the first time he'd returned only to scrub away the day; she didn't ask him questions. He'd probably tell her about later.
"How do you feel about chicken alfredo?"
"Sounds delicious."
"Good, because it's almost done."
He smiled, feeling some of the tension leak out of him. He went into the bedroom to find clothes. Blue jeans, preferably. He wanted to rebel against the Death Eater ideals. When he reemerged—blue jeans and a Beatles t-shirt, and he hadn't bothered with socks—she was scooping pasta and sauce onto plates.
"We don't have any wine," she said. "I haven't restocked since we drank it all."
"Probably for the best."
They sat down and tucked in. It was thoroughly domestic. They'd been at this for a few weeks, living these dichotomous lives. They went their separate ways during the days, he playing the Death Eater while she plotted and worried with the Order, then returned to the haven of the flat at night. They ate together, relaxed together. They pretended that the world didn't exist for the short snatches of time that they could afford.
"Hestia and Dedalus volunteered to tackle the Dursleys," Hermione said. The stress was getting to her, he could see. She would start meals as if she was famished, eat half her plate, then poke at it. She slept like the dead. It didn't help that she was PMSing, too (by her own admission)—a pleasure he hadn't experienced up close before. She grouched about her jeans not fitting right, her breasts were sore enough that she wouldn't let him touch them, and her moods were more… meteoric… than normal. He was keeping a mental checklist of things to watch out for, just for future reference in case they survived long enough that it could be useful.
"Dedalus Diggle is going to be in the same house as those Muggles?" He tried to imagine it. Diggle was one of many who loved Harry Potter without really knowing him, blind celebrity worship. And, as Severus had learned from the aborted attempt to teach Potter Occlumency, the Dursleys held the opposite opinion of their nephew.
"I almost wish I could be there, just for the first few days," she said. She had given up on her food and was picking at it again. He frowned. "They'll spend so much time trying to tell the Dursleys how great he is."
"I'd be more interested to see the Muggles' reaction to the safe house," Severus said. "Petunia hated anything remotely 'not normal' on principle when she was a child. I can't imagine that's changed."
"It's probably gotten worse."
\\
The next evening he didn't get to eat with Hermione; instead, he participated in an awful, stilted mess of a meal at Malfoy Manor. The food was good, but that was the best that could be said of the evening.
He was seated conveniently close to Marcella, as he was still in favor. They sat together in a loveseat sipping cognac and watching the show on the other side of the room: Lucius was being made to use a Muggle paddle to spank his son as punishment for failing his task. The subject of childhoods and childhood punishment had come up at dinner, and Severus had made the mistake of mentioning a few of Flich's ideas on the subject.
While Severus's friendship with Lucius was largely farce these days, he genuinely cared for his godson. It was hard to watch.
Marcella rubbed at him, trailing her fingers up and down his thigh. Since the Dark Lord had his eyes on them from his place near the fire, Severus smirked and snaked his arm around her and played with her breast, pinching the nipple too hard to be exactly pleasurable. She wilted against him anyway, moaning delightedly. After a bit more of that, he was able to dramatically drag her off to the privacy of the anteroom, where he could dump her on the sofa with the usual "contraceptive" down her throat.
He leaned against the door and closed his eyes. It was getting more difficult to keep doing this. The whump of the paddle and Draco's strangled whimpers came through the door, mixing with Marcella's idiotic moaning. Severus wished he could Silence all of it away, cast Muffliato on himself and just sit for awhile, be away from it. He was sick of it.
Instead, he opened his coat and untucked his shirt, ran a hand through his hair. He smirked at Marcella when she opened her eyes, and whipped away through the door before she could say anything. Sometimes she disgusted him more than the proper Death Eaters.
In the main room, Lucius was sitting stiffly on the sofa, the veins in his neck telling that he had his fists clenched in the folds of his robes. Draco sat beside him, face deep red with humiliation; however, he sat close enough to his father that Severus knew the punishment had only cemented family bonds further. The Dark Lord was priming the Malfoys for defection and he didn't even realize it.
The party broke up less than an hour after that. Most of them had appearances to keep up with day jobs. Severus returned home to the flat in Edinburgh. He had a foul taste in his mouth, and all he wanted to do was hang on to his wife and never let her go.
She was sitting on the countertop in the kitchen, holding the delicate golden Time Turner.
"Do you ever think of running away?" Hermione asked. Her supper dishes were in the sink next to her; she'd eaten pasta left over from the day before.
"All the time," he admitted. There was no point lying to her. Even when they weren't leaking thoughts, they were both too good at Legilimency to be fooled by false words.
"At the funeral," she said slowly, still not looking up from the Time Turner, "I almost left. When everything was finished and people were milling about, I almost just came back here and got the Time Turner and left."
He sat on the bench by the door and removed his boots.
"I was going to come here and just sit and wait for you to come home, then Turn us both away. Keep Turning back so that when we eventually caught up to it we'd be so old we'd be useless, nobody would believe who we said we were, and then we could retire to the middle of nowhere and get a cat."
He knew from her tone that she was just telling him to say it out loud, to admit that she didn't want to do this any more than he did. She didn't really plan on running. Neither of them had it in them to turn their backs on their friends and family like that. They might wish they had it in them, things would be easier (at least for them) if they did. But they didn't.
He left his boots and coat by the door and went to stand by her, putting his hands on her knees and opening them so that he could stand between her legs. He wrapped her hands around the Time Turner and then wrapped his hands around hers. They didn't say anything for awhile.
He didn't want to be sad anymore. Enough. He'd take what time they had and worry about the rest later.
She seemed to be thinking along the same lines. When he kissed her, she responded with zeal. Their hands stayed between them, still clenched around the Time Turner, and it felt like they were stealing time, like the kiss could go on forever and they wouldn't lose a second.
The spell was broken by the pressing need to breathe; he was light-headed when they broke apart. She smiled at him, setting the Time Turner aside, reaching for the flies of his trousers, undoing them with practiced ease. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled her shirt over her head. She slid off the counter, her body gliding wonderfully down his, and they she kept going down until she was kneeling on the floor at his feet, hands pulling his trousers down.
Her mouth was hot and wet, and her fingers were cool contrast. His hips bucked, and he grabbed the counter for support. She continued to explore, though it was familiar territory by now, with her tongue and lips. Planting little kisses here, trailing her tongue along there. She brushed her teeth across the head and then grinned up at him when his hips twitched again.
"Patience," she said, her breath hot on his shaft. He growled, unable to find any words, especially not when she took him in her mouth the next moment. No more teasing, she swallowed him whole, lips and tongue gliding all around him, throat convulsing around his tip.
He bucked, his body trying to thrust into her mouth. She let him, beginning to move with him. Her head came away, releasing him, only to move down on him again. He moaned, gasping for breath.
Again.
He had one hand tangled in her hair, guiding her head along his shaft. The other was still clenched on the lip of the counter.
Again.
She sucked hard, and that was the end of him. He burst, coming hot full in her throat. She moaned, continuing to suck, drinking it all down. He watched her, watched her eyes slide closed as she brought him over the edge. It was one of the most erotic things he'd ever seen.
His head fell forward, and he drifted for a moment. He was limp, sated, but only for an instant. She had released him from her throat, but she was still sucking, licking, cleaning his come off of him. He opened his eyes when she sat back on her heels, and watched her wipe a hand across the bottom of her face. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
He could feel his sack tightening; he wanted to have her again. As soon as possible. Sooner, actually.
Severus tossed his shirt away, stepped out of his trousers, toed off his socks. The cupboard by the kitchen table held their potions. Most of them were healing things, considering the kitchen's second purpose as a surgery, but he also kept the potions he brewed for the Death Eaters in there. The bottle he was looking for was small and purple, the potion inside an old nameless thing simply for potency.
He knocked it back, and his cock jerked to attention the moment it hit his tongue. He was almost painfully aroused in the time it took him to turn around to face her again. She had her clothes off now, down to her knickers and bra. In two steps, he was on her, looping his fingers in the waistband of her knickers and letting them drop. She stepped out of them, ending up closer to him, and he spun her in his arms so that he could see what he was doing as he unclasped the bra. He kept her facing away from him, sliding the straps of the bra down her arms. It fell away, landing on the kitchen floor with a soft thump.
Both properly naked, he pulled her to him. He put one arm around her waist, and slid the other across her breasts, pressing them against his forearm. She moaned; her breasts had been so sensitive lately. She leaned back into him, grabbing the arm he had around her waist, fingers clenching around his arm right below the elbow. Her other arm reached up for his head, her hand finding his hair. He pressed forward as she pressed back. She moved a leg, pressing her foot into the back of his thigh, opening to him.
The angle wasn't right; he wasn't properly inside her. It didn't matter. She was still all around him; he was encased. His tip nudged her clitoris each time they moved. She was panting in his arms.
He tipped his head down, sucking and biting her shoulder gently as they moved.
She moaned and the one leg she stood on gave out. They stumbled forward, the foot she had against the back of his thigh almost pulling his knee into a bend. They almost fell to the floor, but they found the counter first. Her hands jerked away from his, breaking their crash.
His chuckle turned into a groan as their position changed. She ground her hips back, squeezing her ass closed over his shaft.
"Fuck," he whispered harshly. She released him, and he shifted back, drawing out of her. He wanted to be inside her properly.
She turned in his arms, hard nipples trailing along the arm he still hand clenched to her as she moved. She gasped, breath ragged. He released his arm to grab her and lift her, moving to the side, setting her on the table and standing between her knees as he had earlier.
The table was the perfect height. It was as if they had planned it. He stood there, appreciating the view, appreciating the way her little wet hole now effortlessly lined up with his cock.
She was a small woman, and too skinny, but she had such curves—his mother would have called her hips "child-bearing hips" for their wideness, and would've said something about happy babies for the fullness of her breasts. He mostly liked her hips because they led to some fine-shaped legs and cradled him so nicely when he was inside her. And her breasts were heavy in his palms, warm and soft, begging for him to press his face against them, to kiss them, to suckle the nipples.
He did all that, burying his face between her breasts and inhaling. This was the best place for the scent of her skin. The vanilla of her lotion, the warm smell of sweat, that undefinable scent beneath it all that was just her.
He tickled the underside of one with a fingertip and was rewarded with her happy quiver in his lap. He pressed his lips to the skin around the nipple, kissing, sucking gently. She arched into him, her hands coming up to his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, to guide his lips where she wanted them. He didn't let himself be rushed; in his own time, he lay the flat of his tongue against her raised nipple, drawing it slowly into his mouth, his hand going from her breast to her back, holding her to his mouth. His other hand grasped the other breast, the thumb pressing on the nipple, rolling it, kneading the breast.
She arched against him, pressing her breast into his mouth. He lifted his head to kiss the underside of her chin, then switched breasts. His hands went around her, pulling her closer until she was arched into him again, the bare flesh of her torso pressed into his chest.
"Severus," she moaned when he stopped, shifting back and breathing hard. Her lips found his again, her hands exploring his shoulders and back, tangling in his hair, digging into the soft skin of his neck.
Severus hesitated for only a moment, considering his options. He thought of returning the favor, of going down on her; it was something he actually enjoyed doing, as she seemed to enjoy sucking him off. He'd gone a long time before any woman had told him he wasn't supposed to enjoy it, and by then he hadn't cared what the other men they might have taken to bed thought of it or what they did. And this was Hermione, this was his wife.
It came down to the simple fact that he would rather come inside her than come all over the floor as he licked her cunt.
He ran his hands along her thighs, pulling her knees out wider. She looked up at him, leaning back and propping herself up with her hands, watching. He moved slowly, savoring it all. She was shining, all glistening pink and red. She was radiant.
He slid home, hands finding her hips and bracing there as he leaned forward into her.
"Yes," he whispered. She released a high keen, a wanting noise that he heard more with his cock than with his ears.
When he was in to the hilt, pressing against her in the deepest place, surrounded by the stretch of her walls, he continued to lean forward over her until they were pressed together entirely. She wrapped her arms around him, fingers digging into his shoulder blades, trying to pull him closer.
"Severus."
He began to move, just little rolling thrusts at first. He couldn't be slow and gentle this time, though; not with this woman, not with the potency potion. Not when she said his name every time he pushed in again. Then it was a syllable each time as he moved faster, faster.
"Sev-rus." She was gasping, hands scrabbling at his back, knees rising up so that they were alongside his ribs, her feet tight against his ass. "Sev-rus!"
She was almost lying on the table now, he had one of his hands stretched forward to the wall and the other still on her hip. He couldn't form words. His thoughts had derailed entirely when he'd felt her tightness around him. They'd been doing this so often he had expected to get used to it, to begin to lose the intensity of the way she stretched to accommodate him. He hadn't.
He knew he was grunting and groaning, making all the traditional guttural male noises of the act, but he was beyond caring. He slammed into her, and she convulsed around him, her head dropping back against the table as she cried out, wordless for once. He followed her over the brink, exploding in the depth of her with a low groan.
She drew him down for a kiss, lips light and lingering. She shifted beneath him, wrapping both legs around his waist now and maintaining their connection even though he was limp inside her.
"Hermione," he groaned, his hands pressing her hips into his hips, holding himself in as they shifted. She sat up from the table and he dropped into one of the hard wooden chairs. She shifted forward, keeping him inside, putting her heels against the back of the legs of the chair and pressing her pelvis down against his. She never broke the kiss, deepening it once they were settled.
The kiss, the exploring hands, and suddenly he was growing hard again. He wondered if there was a record for this particular potion, but not for long.
She took the lead this time, planting her hands on his shoulders and grinding down on him. He let his hands roam, sometimes bracing against her ribs or back, sometimes tracing along the breasts bouncing against his chest. She came first again, settling down heavily onto him and throwing her head back, screaming her release. He held her hips, watching, trying to hold on.
She finally fell forward, pressing her forehead against his neck, gasping. "Come on, Severus," she said, almost playfully, then nipped at the side of his neck at the same moment she squeezed him with some unnamable inner muscle.
They rested like that for a long moment, just breathing. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and enjoying the feel of skin on skin. Sated.
"Ugh," she said when she got up, reaching her arms up to the ceiling in a long stretch that was very nice to watch. "I'm a mess."
She bent over, which was also nice to watch, and fished her wand out of her jeans on the floor, the flicked it at herself. The shine of his come leaking out of her vanished, and the fine sheen of sweat covering her body as well. She flicked her wand at him, too, and he felt much better for it.
He smirked, rising, and stood very close. She looked up at him, dropping her wand to the counter, and ran her hands up his chest. He lowered his face to her upturned lips, kissing her chastely. If they'd been clothed, it was a kiss that could have passed between any couple in the middle of the street. Something intimate, promising more, but just a kiss.
Hermione tilted her chin up, lips parting ever so slightly to him in welcome, and his tongue slipped into her mouth. Tongues dueled, sliding enticingly across each other, until she got frustrated with the angle of the kiss. Her hands tightened on his shoulders and she broke the kiss to jump onto him, her knees clamping around his waist, her hips cradling his erection between them. He caught her, taking advantage of the opportunity to cup his hands around her ass.
Now with their mouths level, she leaned in for the kiss again. It was sweet, almost, all light and teasing flicks of the tongue. Then her hands locked around his neck and shoulders, though, and the teasing disappeared. She made him very aware of her breasts pressed to his chest, her tongue in his mouth, her sex inches away from his own.
He stumbled away, intending to go to the bedroom, but they didn't make it. He missed the door and had her against the wall instead. She locked her ankles at the base of his spine, her heels digging into the top of his ass, bouncing with each move he made. They thudded and shuddered, and she found her release only moments after he had his own.
After, she lowered her legs and he slipped out. They stood there for a long moment, just trying to breathe. He had her enveloped in his embrace, arms that had been braced next to her shoulders were wrapped around her waist, his head next to hers as he enjoyed the coolness of the wall against his forehead. Their hips were still pressed together, one of his knees between her legs so that his hip bone rested against her pubis. She had her arms around his chest, a hug now instead of whatever the term was for when she trying to pull him entirely into herself during sex.
"I don't think I can move anymore," she whispered to his collarbone after an unknowable space of time. Their hearts had stopped racing, at last. He could breathe normally. He knew the potency potion had worn off because he hadn't immediately rallied for another round. He felt like, if he let her go, he might collapse at her feet from pure physical exhaustion. The crash afterwards was always the price of that sort of potion.
Wordless, he kissed her temple and scooped her into his arms. She wrapped her near arm around his neck, which pressed her breasts against him wonderfully. Focus, Snape. Don't drop her.
He carried her into their bedroom and set her on the bed. She began to scoot back, raising her knees to push herself along, but he stopped her with a hand on her thigh. The posture had opened her to him, quim shining wet in the dim light coming through the curtained window.
Severus went to his knees on the rug beside the bed, pulling her close. He drew first one leg and then the other over his shoulders until he was perfectly placed. He inhaled, breathing her in, running his nose along her slit.
"Severus, you don't have to—" she started, but he cut her off with his tongue against her clit.
He buried his face between her legs, teasing with tongue and gentle teeth. Sucking gently at her clitoris, and pressing one then two fingers inside, feeling the renewed slickness, curving his fingers just so so that they reached that particular spot inside of her. His thumb joined his lips at her clit, and he sucked one last time. She came, walls clenching around his fingers, thighs clamping his head between them. He couldn't breathe for a moment, but that was alright; the next moment, she slumped back in boneless release, and he crawled up onto the bed next to her.
Her chest was heaving, breasts rising and falling, nipples dark and pebbled against the pale skin. He teased the side of a breast with his lips, waiting for her to come back to him. His hand, fingers still wet from her, rested low on her belly.
"Holy shit," she said, and he smiled, nipping at that near nipple before he sat up properly for a kiss.
She melted against him, pulling him down to her, hands everywhere. She grasped him, drawing a gasp from him. Her hand was steady; she knew exactly how he liked to be touched, and did it better than he ever had. He thrust into her hand, and she lightened the pressure, thumb flirting with his foreskin.
"Hermione," he moaned. He ached, both with need and tiredness. The tiredness evaporated when she shifted, her whole body sliding along his for a long moment, and then dropping back to the bed. Then again. She wormed her way to the top of the bed, lying back against the pillows and fixing him with what could only be described as a "come hither" stare.
Smirking, he did. He crawled along the length of her, beginning with the nearest foot, dragging lips and tongue and teeth up the delicate ankle, teasing the inside of her thigh with his fingertips, kissing along the crest of hip bone, teasing past her bellybutton and up the center line of her torso, precisely avoiding her breasts. He lay on top of her, lacing his fingers with hers and holding her hands above her head in the pillows. He trailed wet, sloppy kissed from one side of her collarbone to the other, then up her neck. He paused at the sensitive spot beneath her ear, sucking, biting, kissing, marking.
"You are mine," he said before finally claiming her lips. He hadn't actually meant to say it out loud.