Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/973323.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Hermione_Granger/Ron_Weasley, Harry_Potter/Ginny_Weasley, Hermione
      Granger/Remus_Lupin, Luna_Lovegood/Ernie_Macmillan, Peter_Pettigrew/
      Original_Female_Character, Draco_Malfoy_&_Ron_Weasley, Neville
      Longbottom/Harry_Potter_(unrequited), past_Sirius_Black/Remus_Lupin_-
      Relationship
  Character:
      Ron_Weasley, Hermione_Granger, Harry_Potter, Ginny_Weasley, Neville
      Longbottom, Remus_Lupin, Ernie_Macmillan, Luna_Lovegood, Peter_Pettigrew,
      Narcissa_Black_Malfoy, Lucius_Malfoy, Voldemort, Draco_Malfoy, Original
      Female_Character(s), Madeleine_Yaxley_(OFC)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe, Post_-_Order
      of_the_Phoenix, Second_War_with_Voldemort, Dumbledore's_Army, Final
      Battle, Comfort_Sex, First_Time, Bad_Sex, One_Night_Stands, Swordplay,
      First_Kiss, Marriage_Proposal, Imprisonment, Torture, Threats_of_Rape/
      Non-Con, Past_Character_Death, Loss_of_Virginity, Introspection,
      Bisexuality, Bisexual_Male_Character, Room_of_Requirement, Pureblood
      Culture, Domestic_Violence, Infertility
  Series:
      Part 3 of The_False_Wand_AU, Part 4 of Madeleine_Yaxley_Arc
  Collections:
      Rare_Fic
  Stats:
      Published: 2006-09-02 Completed: 2007-09-18 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 17390
****** The Night Before ******
by picascribit
Summary
     1998: On the eve of the final battle, no one feels much like
     sleeping.
Notes
     An AU diverging from canon after the end of Order of the Phoenix.
     This story takes place between Chapters 11 and 12 of The_Power_of
     Two. It is not, strictly speaking, necessary to have read The Power
     of Two to understand this, but it does provide some context for a few
     of the references.
     Warning: This story has not been edited yet, and may contain
     unintended problematic elements and tropes.
***** Awkward *****
There was a light in his room. Why was there a light in his room? He had only
just managed to drift off, and now there was this light coming from --
"Whozzer?" he demanded groggily.
"Shhh, Ron. It's only me."
His brain was still sleep-muddled. "Hermione?" It looked like she was carrying
a candle. Why did she not just light her wand? He looked around the room, lit
by the flickering golden glow. "What're you doing here? Where's Harry gone?"
"I passed him on the stairs. I expect he's gone to see Ginny."
Some part of his brain was slowly waking up. "Ginny? He can't do that! It's
night time; she'll be wearing her -- y'know, nighttime stuff."
Hermione smiled slightly at that. "Somehow, I doubt she will."
Ron looked scandalised. "But she -- he -- they can't!"
"I expect they can," Hermione replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
It was a candle. She set it down next to the bed and turned toward him, the
flickering light and shadow making her expression unreadable.
"That's why I'm here." With no warning at all, she leaned forward and kissed
him, her lips pressing hard against his.
"Hermione!" he gasped, uncomprehending, struggling to push her away. "What in
Merlin's name are you on about?!" Now that she was so close, he noticed the
candlelight was reflecting off tears on her cheeks. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. No." She drew back, shaking her head. "I just thought -- I mean, I want
to -- Oh, this is so stupid! I'm an adult, and if I want to do something I
should be able to say it. Ron, I want to have sex, in case we die tomorrow."
"With -- with each other?" The expression on his face was so comical that she
would have laughed, given almost any other circumstances. "We can't! We're not
married, and --"
"And we never will be, if something happens to one of us tomorrow," she
finished for him. "If we live, it's not like we can't get married later, if -
- if you want to."
It was all going much too fast. They had never even talked about any of this,
much less -- "But what about your reputation?" he asked, desperate for an
anchor of sanity to which he might cling. "People will think you're some sort
of -- of scarlet woman."
She snorted at that. "My reputation? My reputation with whom, exactly? Our
friends? They'd understand. Our teachers? Ron, school's over. The Ministry?
It's nothing to them. And do you really think the Death Eaters care if a
Muggleborn girl is a virgin or not? The only people whose opinions about it
matter are right here in this room."
He glanced around, startled.
"You and me, Ron," she said in tones of amused exasperation. "So what I'm
saying to you is, I want to. And what I'm asking is, do you?"
He hesitated, torn between his upbringing and what her nearness was doing to
his body. "Er -- I guess so. I mean, if you really think it's okay."
"Well that settles it," she said, reaching for the bedclothes.
Ron started, pulling away from her. "What are you doing?"
"Well, there's the notion that both of us have to be in the same bed for this
to work," she replied, unable to suppress a tremor of nervous laughter. "And
possibly undressed as well."
"Oh. Er --" The dim candlelight hid his blush. Still he hesitated. "Hermione?"
"What, Ron?" she asked patiently.
"If we -- er -- don't die tomorrow, I mean, shouldn't we be worried about maybe
--?" His voice trailed off in the darkness.
"Oh." It was her turn to blush. "Don't worry about that. I've taken care of
it."
"How?" There was an edge of suspicion to his voice.
"There's a potion for preventing pregnancy. Madam Pomfrey gives the formula to
all the girls at Hogwarts. And you can wear this."
He looked at the shiny square she was offering him in puzzlement. "What is it?"
"It's a condom, Ron. It goes on your -- you know."
"What?" he asked, baffled.
"Oh, for God's sake, Ronald! It goes on your penis!"
He looked startled for a moment, but warily took the strange object from her
and held it up to the candlelight. Doing so, however, did not shed much light
on its purpose.
"What does it do? It looks uncomfortable. For you, I mean."
"You have to unwrap it," she said, biting back a smile. "It keeps the semen
from going in and joining up with the egg."
"Semen?"
"Do you need me to draw diagrams?" Her tone now verged on impatience. "You know
where babies come from, right?"
"Of course I do." His offended tone suggested that he did not see how this was
relevant to the topic under discussion. "The man's potion goes in the woman's -
- er -- cauldron, and they -- um -- stir it up, and a new life starts."
Hermione could not decide whether to burst out laughing or give up and go back
to bed. She stared at Ron in stunned amazement.
"No! That's not -- it's because --" She shook her head. "Never mind. You just
put this thing on, and there's no baby, okay?"
"Okay," he replied uncertainly. "But -- er -- how do I --?"
"Oh, give it here." She grabbed the foil-wrapped object from him and ripped
back the bedclothes, reaching for the waistband of his pajamas.
Ron threw himself backward against the wall, both hands clutched protectively
over his crotch.
She hesitated, then shook her head again. "I'm doing this all wrong."
"How do you know?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. "You haven't -- have you?"
She scowled at him. "I've just done some reading. I wanted to be sure I knew
everything I'd need to know before trying it out."
"You think this is something you can learn from books?" Ron asked in amazement.
"Well, why not?" She was defiant now. "Where else am I supposed to learn about
it? Not from you, Mr All-I-Know-About-Kissing-Is-You've-Got-To-Use-As-Much-
Tongue-As-Possible."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, indignant.
"Just that when you kiss someone, it should be less like choking on a live
Flobberworm."
"Oh, that's it! You think I don't know how to kiss?"
Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. His lips were warm
and soft, yet demanding against hers, and she unconsciously drew toward him.
"How was that?" he asked a moment later.
"Oh," she said breathlessly. "That was -- um -- better." But she still looked
slightly troubled.
"What's wrong?"
"I was just wondering. Did you ever -- with Lavender?"
"What? No! I -- we --" He made an inarticulate gesture down the front of his
body. "There was, you know, stuff. But we never -- I didn't want -- Look, are
we going to do this or not?"
"I guess so."
Hermione sounded slightly stunned at the idea that all of this might actually
be leading somewhere. Fortifying her resolve, she grasped the hem of her
nightgown and lifted it over her head. Ron moved to help her, tugging the
garment away from her face.
"Ow!" she cried. "Hang on a minute. It's caught on my hair."
He let go to allow her to sort out the troublesome garment, and suddenly
realised that she was wearing nothing but candlelight.
"Wow," he whistled. "You look -- really good."
She blushed and smiled lopsidedly, tossing the nightgown away. "Thanks," she
replied. "Your turn."
"My turn? Oh." His hands went to the buttons of his pajama top, but a noise
made him pause.
Hermione froze as well. The noise came again, then again, and finally settled
into a loud, rhythmic banging noise, accompanied by a piercing metallic squeak.
"What --?" Hermione began. Then, "Oh." She cast her eyes to the floor beneath
her bare feet.
Ron's face had gone blank with shock. Hermione stifled a giggle and then began
helpfully fumbling with his buttons.
"They're not --"
"Yes, I imagine they are," she said matter-of-factly. "Surely you don't intend
to stay a virgin longer than your younger sister?"
"You think she's --?"
"Yes," she replied firmly. "She is. Was. Do you want me to help with the
bottoms, too?"
"What? Oh." He looked down his now-bare chest at the drawstring of his pajama
bottoms. "No, I think I've got it." He tugged at the knotted laces for a
moment, then shrugged and pulled them down over his hips and kicked them off
into the darkness. "There."
She looked pointedly at his maroon pants, and he blushed and shucked them off
as well.
"Oh, so you do want to do this, after all?" she teased.
"Well, I can't help it, can I?" he said, flustered. "It just does that."
She gazed interestedly at the object in question.
"It's rude to stare," he said stiffly. "You act like you've never seen one
before."
"Maybe I have and maybe I haven't," she replied, looking up into his face with
a teasing grin.
For a second he opened his mouth to ask, but then decided maybe he didn't want
to know, after all.
"Look," he said. "Are you going to show me how to put this concord thingy on or
not?"
She swallowed a nervous giggle. "Condom," she corrected. "And yes. At least, I
think I know how it's done."
She ripped the foil wrapper open. The thin latex film within glistened in the
candlelight as she reached for the other half of the equation.
"Oi!" Ron cried, batting her hand away.
"If we're going to do this, I kind of have to touch you, you know," she
reminded him.
He looked sheepish. "I know. You just -- startled me."
"Right. I'll give you fair warning this time, shall I? Ron, I am going to touch
you penis now. Is that okay with you?"
"Er -- yes?"
"Fine."
He sucked in his breath between his teeth when she laid hands on him, but the
delicacy of her touch sent an unexpected shiver through him. He watched
interestedly as she rolled the strange device into place.
"There. That should do it."
"What now?" he asked, eyes leaving his own now-protected anatomy to wander up
her body to her face once more.
"Well," she said uncertainly, "Now I guess we lie down."
Lying beside her, it seemed natural to put an arm around her. As he did so, he
felt her shiver.
"Are you cold?" he asked. "Do you want to get under the covers?"
"No. Yes. I'm not cold, but we could --"
He pulled the blankets up over them, turning toward her as he did so. As their
bare skins came together, he realised just how close and how naked they were.
He could feel her soft skin pressed against him from chest to knee, and
swallowed nervously.
"Do you want to touch me, Ron?" she asked tentatively.
"Yeah," he said, awkwardly putting a hand on her shoulder.
She very gently took the hand and moved it to her breast. "I meant more like
this."
"Oh. Ah." Her flesh was soft and warm and pliant under his fingers.
"And I'd very much like for you to kiss me again. Like you did before."
"Sure." He bent his lips to hers, and for a long moment they stayed just like
that, not moving.
She pulled away at last, smiling at him shyly. "Are you ready?"
Ron's heart was pounding. Hermione. Naked. In his bed. How many times had he
imagined it?
"Um. Yeah, I think so."
She lay back against the pillow and parted her legs. He awkwardly rose to his
hands and knees and moved over her. Suddenly he thought of something.
"Isn't this going to hurt? You, I mean?"
"Probably not," she replied, but her voice did not sound terribly certain. "The
breaking of the hymen is largely a myth, from what I read. Only about forty-
three percent of women bleed the first time they have sex."
"Right. Okay."
He was mildly unnerved by her ability to quote statistics under the
circumstances, but he gamely lowered himself until their bodies were pressed
together once more. He squeezed his eyes shut as if he were expecting it to
hurt him as well as her, but in fact --
"Hermione, I don't think this is working."
"Umm -- try a little bit to the left. No, my left, Ron. Down a bit. Here; let
me do it."
Nerves lent an edge of exasperation to her voice. She plunged a hand between
them and grasped his wayward anatomy by the root. He let out a most un-
masculine squeak, and she loosened her grip slightly.
"Sorry. Just there, okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
He thought he could feel where she meant, and his own nerves were suddenly
banished by excitement and arousal. They were really going to do it. He thrust
his hips downward, and this time it was her turn to squeak. He did it again.
"Oh, wow, Hermione," he gasped as she squirmed slightly beneath and around him.
"Ron --"
"It's bloody amazing!"
"Ron --"
"Should -- have done this -- ages ago," he panted. "Don't know -- what I was -
- thinking."
"Ron!"
"What?" He paused, brain catching up to her tone of voice.
"Could you please just stop for a minute?" she asked breathlessly.
"What? Why?"
He found it difficult to focus on her words, and the bit of him that was doing
all the thinking at present was telling him that stopping at this juncture in
the proceedings was a terrible idea. He moved his hips experimentally, and she
pushed him roughly away.
"Take it out, Ron! You're hurting me!"
He collapsed on his side, mind reeling, trying hard to make his brain work. "I
thought you said it wasn't going to hurt."
"Well, I didn't know, did I?" she snapped, pushing back the sweaty bed sheets.
"Oh, shit! I'm bleeding!"
"Is there supposed to be that much blood?" he asked nervously, reaching out a
hand toward her thigh.
"I don't know, I don't know!" she cried, panicked. "Don't touch me!"
"Umph!"
This unorthodox response distracted her from her distress, and she looked
around to find a squirming bundle of bedclothes, neatly knotted, where Ron had
been. Quickly, she untied the knot and freed him, red-faced and gasping, from
his suffocating prison.
"I'm sorry," she said, voice trembling. "I panicked. I can't remember the last
time I lost control of my magic."
"It's okay," he gasped. "I think maybe we've had enough excitement for one
night, though. Maybe we should try to get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow, yeah?"
She nodded mutely and lay down again, staring at the ceiling. Side by side they
lay, rigid as matchsticks in a box. The candle by the bed burned low and then
went out altogether.
"Ron?" Hermione said softly from the darkness beside him. "Do you love me?"
He was silent for a moment. "Of course I do," he said at last. "Now get some
sleep."
"Oh. Good," she said. "Good night, Ron."
He waited until he thought she was asleep to finish himself off as discreetly
as he could manage. He was not sure if the magic of the condom would quit
working if he took it off, so he left it on, just to be on the safe side. Sleep
was a long time coming to him, and was intermittently interrupted by the
frequent rhythmic pounding from the room below.
Well, he thought with a sigh, no matter what happens tomorrow, at least I can
be pretty sure it won't be nearly as awkward as tonight was.
The next time he awoke, Hermione was gone.
***** Ready *****
She was hot, wet and tight, engulfing him in pure sensation. The heady scent of
sex filled his nostrils, and her taste still lingered on his tongue.
"Harder, Harry," she urged between clenched teeth, her legs twining about his
hips, fingernails digging into the firm flesh of his buttocks.
He gave his body over entirely to her desire, thrusting as hard and fast as he
could, their skins, slick with sweat, slapping together in time to the
piercing, rhythmic squeak of the old brass bed frame. His glasses pressed
awkwardly against her cheek as he bent to capture her mouth with his, and he
was oddly excited by his own musky taste on her lips.
He usually felt strange wearing his glasses when he wore nothing else, but this
time -- the first time -- he wanted to be able to see her perfectly. The way
the lithe, pale shapes of her body moved beneath him. The curve of her small
breasts as they filled his hands. The exquisite delicacy and detail of that
beautiful, secret place between her thighs. The flush of her freckled cheeks as
she gasped his name when he first entered her. The sweaty tangle of her copper-
silk hair. But most of all, her eyes -- dark, excited, brave, determined,
beautiful -- locked with his own, hardly blinking, never looking away. He felt
as bound to her by her eyes as by the slick, hot clutch of her around his cock.
"You feel -- so good -- right there -- so good!" she gasped between thrusts,
arching her back to take him into her as deeply as she could. "So -- good -
- Harry -- oh!"
The last syllable was barely more than an intake of breath, but he felt it echo
and reverberate throughout her body, her muscles clenching -- releasing -
- clenching -- releasing, in an ancient, mystical rhythm which could not be
denied. He gave himself to it joyfully, complying with the demands of her body,
pouring himself into her in a spiral of sensation which left him not knowing
where he ended and she began.
As he slowly came back to himself, sweaty forehead pressed against hers, it
seemed to him that he had touched something toward which he had been striving
all his life. He felt at once sated and hungry for more.
And then Ginny giggled. The vibrations of her body sent small aftershocks into
his own through the point of their joining, as if they were two halves of the
same creature. He raised his head to look at her.
"What's so funny?" he asked with a shy half-smile. "Did I do it wrong?"
She met his eyes and then laughed again. "No. It's nothing. Only -- I thought
about it so many times. What it would be like to be with you. I thought I had
imagined every possible aspect, but somehow I never considered the sound of
your bollocks slapping against my arse."
He snorted and rolled off her, the cool air of the room drying his sweaty skin.
"So you've thought about this in a lot of detail, have you?" he asked. "Did I
live up to your daydreams?"
"Oh, most definitely." She sighed contentedly and stretched, arching her back.
Harry watched this process with fascination, glorying in the idea that he could
reach out his hand and touch her if he wished. He did so, tracing the curve of
a lightly-freckled breast. She turned toward him, nestling her head against his
shoulder.
"I hope we'll get the chance to try out all of the things I imagined doing with
you."
He did not answer. He had not wanted to think about that tonight -- the fact
that they might not get another chance like this -- that one or both of them
might be dead by this time tomorrow. But he knew the thought was looming large
in both their minds, and that it was what had impelled them to this place on
this night, as they sought reassurance from one another, and took for
themselves as much as they could of life's joys and the joy of each other while
they were able. Part of the reason why this night was so exquisitely precious
was that it might be all they would ever have.
She shifted to look up at him. "I think it will be all right," she said softly.
"The way Fred and George described the plan, I don't think we'll be in all that
much danger."
"Maybe not. But there's still a chance we'll lose people. If you or Ron or
Hermione --"
She sat up suddenly, laying her fingers against his lips to silence him.
"Don't," she said. "Tomorrow will come. Let's not waste tonight mourning anyone
prematurely."
A floorboard creaked over their heads. Ginny and Harry cast their eyes toward
the ceiling.
"How do you think they're getting on?" Harry asked nervously.
Ginny laughed softly. "You sound more nervous about them than you were about
us."
"They're my best friends," he said simply. "I want them to be happy."
"They'll be fine," Ginny assured him, laying her head beside his once more.
"Painfully awkward and embarrassed at first, knowing my brother, but fine."
"If they have time to get to 'fine'," Harry could not stop himself saying
darkly.
"I don't want to talk about tomorrow," she said firmly. "I want to talk about
life. Once we've won our glorious victory, what will we do with the rest of our
lives?"
"Well, I imagine you, Miss Weasley, will go on to your final year at Hogwarts,
and make your parents proud with all the NEWTs you'll earn," said Harry,
raising himself up on one elbow to look at her some more. "Technically, you
shouldn't even be coming with us tomorrow. You're underage."
She raised an eyebrow at that. "You're welcome to try and talk me out of it, Mr
Potter," she said, casually parting her thighs to suggest exactly how he might
go about persuading her. "But you didn't seem to notice my being underage a few
minutes ago."
He grinned and rolled his eyes. "Give me a minute to rest, and I'm sure I can
come up with a -- er -- compelling argument."
She grinned in return, and reached out to trace the lightning bolt scar on his
forehead. He drew back in surprise.
"Sorry," she said, still smiling a little shyly. "I just realised I'd never
even thought to touch it." She giggled again. "Now I'll be famous too. I get to
be the Girl Who Shagged the Boy Who Lived. There isn't a girl who went to
Hogwarts with us -- bar a few Slytherins maybe -- who didn't want that on her
CV."
That surprised a laugh out of him. He captured her hand and kissed her fingers
grinning against them. "My various scars are yours along with all the rest of
me, Ginevra."
"I like this one," she said softly, her fingers moving to touch a knotted scar
on his arm. It was the one he had earned five years before, saving her from a
basilisk and the memory of Tom Riddle. "Maybe you got the other one when you
became the saviour of the Wizarding world, but you got this one as my champion.
I've never forgotten."
"I never asked to be anyone's saviour," he said, bending to kiss her softly on
the mouth. "But I'm glad to be your champion. If you ever have need of one,
that is. I've seen you with that crossbow; you don't need me to protect you."
"Maybe not, but it's nice to know you're looking out for me." She kissed him in
return. "Mmmm -- that's nice. How did you get to be so good at kissing?"
"Natural talent, I guess."
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "Because there were about a million girls at
Hogwarts would would have lined up to give you lessons. But I never heard about
you kissing any of them, apart from Cho."
Harry blushed slightly. "That's because I didn't."
"You've never even kissed any other girls apart from Cho and me?" Ginny said
with an air of surprise.
"Well, no, but --" Harry's blush deepened.
"What?" said Ginny, suddenly sitting up to stare at him intently. "Did you and
Cho do more than just kiss?"
"What? No! This is the first time I ever --"
"What, then?" There was curiosity and also suspicion in her voice.
He had put his foot in it, and now it was too late, and he was going to have to
tell her. How would she take it?
"I -- er -- haven't kissed any other girls, but --"
"You kissed a bloke?!" She put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with shock when
he made no move to deny it. "Oh my God, Harry! It was Ron, wasn't it? I know
how close you two are, but I never thought -- shit! -- now I've --"
"No!" He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand away from her mouth and squeezing
it between both of his. He had to make her understand. "It wasn't Ron. It -- it
was Neville."
"Neville?" She looked at him blankly for a moment and then, amazingly, she
began to laugh.
Whatever reaction he had been expecting, this was not it. "What's so funny?"
It was a moment before she could get the words out. "I kissed him, too," she
giggled helplessly. "I can't believe we've snogged the same bloke! God, did you
see his face when we left tonight? I thought he was looking at me, but --"
Harry was nonplussed. "First of all, I didn't kiss him; he kissed me. Secondly,
it wasn't a snog. It was just really quick. Like this."
He bent to softly, briefly brush her lips with his own. When they parted, she
had stopped laughing, and was looking at him thoughtfully.
"Wow," she murmured. "Neville kissed you. I'm impressed. He was so nervous when
he kissed me at the Yule Ball, and he kept apologising after. That's why I got
fed up and ditched him for Michael. But -- he's really different now, isn't
he?"
"Yeah. He is. At least, he never apologised after." Harry was unsure what to
make of her reaction. "It doesn't bother you? Him kissing me?"
"No," she said, a wicked-eyed smile blooming on her face. "Did you like it?"
"I -- I dunno," he said, surprised. "At the time, it seemed weird, but not in a
bad way."
"Did you ever wish he'd do it again?"
That gave him pause. There had been moments -- rare moments in the two years
since that night -- when he and Neville had found themselves alone. Harry had
thought at those times that Neville might try again, but he never had. Once or
twice, Harry had even lain awake at night, wondering what would happen if he
ventured across the room for a late night visit. But how could he tell Ginny
any of that? Could she ever understand the faint thrum of longing that underlay
all else -- a longing he had long ago made his peace with, knowing that it
could never be fulfilled?
"I'm with you now," he said firmly, looking into her eyes. "Whatever I might
have thought then, it doesn't matter now."
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not what I asked, and you know it, Harry
Potter."
He shifted uncomfortably. What did she want? A signed confession? She did not
seem disgusted, only keenly interested.
"I don't know. Maybe a couple of times I thought --"
"Would you do it again if I asked very nicely?" she purred, trailing her
fingers up his thigh.
His mouth fell open in shock. "You're joking."
She smiled enigmatically, then rolled over to push him back against the
pillows, swinging a leg over to straddle his hips. He felt himself stiffening
again as her wet heat rubbed against him. When his fingers trailed down her
body to find the center of her her desire, he felt exactly how slick and
willing she was.
"Damn," he moaned as he slid inside. "You're not joking, are you?"
"No," she said, moving her hips. "I'm really not."
Somehow, they missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and the front door
closing quietly.
***** Brave *****
Neville was alone. And he was praying. He was never sure to whom or what he
prayed, since he had not had any kind of religious upbringing at all. Most of
the time, he was not even sure what he was praying for. But when one is alone
and confused and fearful, it can help to think that there is a Benevolence
which understands what is going on and that no matter what happens, it is all
part of some greater plan.
Neville had spent a lot of his life alone and confused and fearful. His parents
had been snatched away from him when he was was not yet two years old, leaving
him nothing but their empty bodies and the screams which haunted his
nightmares. His grandmother had never been very affectionate and was often
quick to criticise the grandson she clearly felt was an inadequate replacement
for her stricken son.
Even at Hogwarts he had been alone. Surrounded by his peers, he had never had
even one close friend in whom he could confide his hopes, dreams and fears. He
had felt invisible. It was easy to be invisible when one shared a room with
Harry Potter.
He tugged back the curtains of the four-poster where he had slept for seven
years to peer across the darkened dormitory at Harry's empty bed, remembering
the night two years before when Harry had walked across the space between them
to ask Neville about his parents.
Harry had never made Neville feel invisible. From their first year when Harry
had declared him to be worth twelve of Draco Malfoy to the battle of the
Department of Mysteries, Harry had never treated him as less than anyone else.
Harry made Neville feel grateful. And confused.
Here he was on the eve of what might be the definitive battle against Voldemort
and his Death Eaters, and instead of fear and worry, Neville's mind was full of
Harry. It always had been. He used to rationalise it -- hero-worship,
admiration, friendship -- but not anymore. He would be facing death tomorrow
and he could not lie to himself any longer.
From that moment two years ago when his lips had touched Harry's for one brief
instant, something had clicked into place inside him. He did not just admire
famous, heroic Harry Potter. He loved him.
That was the confusing part, because he liked girls, too. He had been so
pleased when Ginny had agreed to come to the Yule Ball with him in his fourth
year after Hermione had turned him down, and he had enjoyed the one kiss they
had shared. Awkward though it had been, it was his first, and he treasured it.
Was it possible to like both girls and boys? Neville had only ever heard of
liking one or the other, and he knew his Gran's opinions on such things. He
wondered what his Gran would think if she ever found out he had kissed another
boy. What if the other boy was Harry Potter, whom she so clearly would have
preferred to have as a grandson? Neville allowed himself a tiny smile at the
thought of that opinionated old woman, for once struck speechless.
The smile faded as he remembered Harry leaving with Ginny after the gathering.
Everyone had been pale and subdued, and no one had spoken more than a few
murmured words following the horrific death of Professor Snape. Dumbledore had
grimly informed them to go get some rest, that they would reconvene the
following morning, and that beds would be provided for those who wished to
remain at the school overnight.
Neville had hoped that Harry and his fellow Gryffindors might stay -- that he
might not have to face tonight alone -- but he had heard Mrs Weasley say that
it was a night for the family to be together. Her statement clearly included
Hermione holding Ron's hand, and Harry with his arm around Ginny. He had laid a
hand on Neville's shoulder in passing, but had spoken not a word. Dean and
Seamus had not stayed either.
Neville rolled over on his stomach and stared moodily at his headboard, where
some previous occupant has scratched the letters "RL + SB". He tried to feel
happy for Harry and Ginny, but all he could think was that if he died tomorrow
no one would ever scratch his initials like that. With Ron and Hermione, Harry
and Ginny all wrapped up in one another -- and he had no illusions about what
this night likely held for them -- he thought it was entirely possible that no
one gave so much as a passing thought to Neville Longbottom.
But he had no room for bitterness tonight. These were people he cared for, and
if they were not thinking of him, well, he would think of them instead.
Wonderful heroic Harry, loyal Ron, thoughtful Hermione, strong Ginny, stubborn
Seamus, easy-going Dean, the irreverent twins, otherworldly Luna, wise
Dumbledore, kindly Lupin ....
Remus Lupin had stayed, he remembered. Neville had watched everyone else leave
the Great Hall in twos and threes, seeking comfort in numbers and drawing
strength from the presence of friends and lovers. But Lupin had stood staring
at the body of Severus Snape still tied to its chair. Neville had seen him
reach down at last to touch a blackened hand. "Go in peace," he had heard Lupin
say softly.
Lupin, along with a few other members of the Order, had been staying at the
school for several days now. Neville was even fairly certain he knew which room
the former professor occupied. Lupin had always been kind to Neville. He had
known Neville's parents, and he and Harry were close. He would be alone
tonight. Perhaps he would offer Neville a little company and a kind and
sympathetic ear.
Decision made, Neville slipped out of the silent dormitory and padded down to
the common room in his bare feet, out through the portrait of the Fat Lady and
through the dark and echoing corridors of Hogwarts. Reaching the door he
sought, he crossed his fingers, held his breath and knocked.
A minute later he was trying to decide whether to knock again or give up and go
back to bed when the door opened a few inches, revealing the disheveled
countenance and bare shoulder of Remus Lupin. He smelled strongly of
firewhiskey and something else that Neville could not quite name.
"Oh, good evening, Neville," he said, not impolitely. "Do you need something?"
"I'm s-sorry," Neville stammered. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just -- wanted
someone to talk to."
For a moment, Lupin looked torn. "I'm sorry, Neville," he said at last, with
sympathy. "I wish I could, but now really isn't a good time."
"Oh," replied Neville as realisation dawned. "I didn't mean to -- I'll just let
you get back -- I mean, goodnight, Professor."
He turned and walked away quickly. The door clicked shut behind him.
Even Lupin has someone tonight, he thought gloomily. He wondered vaguely who it
was. Probably someone from the Order, he guessed. There had been rumours that
the Auror Tonks was interested in him. Maybe it was her. But then he remembered
that the Aurors were already in position for tomorrow. Then who --?
The walk back up to Gryffindor tower seemed longer than usual, and the silence
of the corridors was eerie. It did not feel as though the castle was sleeping;
more like it was waiting for what the morning would bring.
When he reached his dormitory once more, he did not go to his own bed, but lay
down on Harry's instead. Neville pulled the covers up over himself and laid his
head against the pillow, breathing deeply to see if he could catch the
lingering scent of the boy who had slept there for seven years.
There was no one left for him to talk to. Instead, Neville tried to imagine
that Harry was there beside him -- tried to conjure the words of encouragement
Harry might offer to calm his fears and worries -- but Harry would not be
summoned so easily.
He wondered if he would survive tomorrow's confrontation. The way the twins and
Dumbledore had explained the plan, it did not sounds as if they expected many
casualties. Perhaps everyone would be all right. But what if they were wrong?
If he died tomorrow, he would never finish reading the book Professor Sprout
had written. He would never learn how to swim. He would never get to visit a
tropical rain forest. He would never write that comparative study of wand woods
like he had always wanted to. He would never hear someone say they loved him.
He would never tell Harry how he felt.
A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away angrily. What was the point
in dwelling on all the things he might never do? What about all the things he
had done?
He had single-handedly fought Crabbe and Goyle in his first year. Lost, but
still fought. He had once earned the house points that had put Gryffindor over
the top for the House Cup. He had been one professor's star pupil. He had
achieved an Outstanding in Herbology and Exceeds Expectations in both Charms
and Defence Against the Dark Arts. He had been a member of Dumbledore's Army
and a credit to Harry, his teacher. He had faced his fears in open battle at
the Department of Mysteries and he had not fallen to his enemies. He had kissed
Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter.
If I fall tomorrow, he decided, that's all right. I've done things. Maybe a few
people will even remember me. And if I live, all the better. I'll do more
things and I'll make sure the people who matter most never forget me.
***** Lucky *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm adding an extra warning on this chapter because it's the one I
     get the most pushback for from my readers. Let me state for the
     record that, at this point in the story, however they may feel about
     one another, Ron and Hermione are *not* in a committed relationship,
     nor, in fact, in any formally declared kind of relationship, and what
     Hermione decides to do with her body is no one's business but her
     own.
It was always a gamble. Sometimes the drink kept the ghosts at bay, but at
other times they clustered close about him, filling him with memory, regret,
and crushing sorrow. Tonight was one of those nights.
They haunted him, populating his mind. James and Lily, gone these many years.
Sirius, whose death was still a raw wound on his heart. And tonight they were
joined by new shadows. Severus Snape smirked at him, lurking in a gloomy corner
of his mind, and behind him, the pale face of Sirius's brother Regulus.
That had been a shock, but the diary left little room for doubt. Remus had
taken it from the blackened hand of Severus's corpse, and had spent the last
few hours exploring a life to which he had barely given a thought to before
tonight.
Regulus had loved Severus, beyond doubt, beyond reason. And it was clear from
the fact that Severus had kept the little book by him all this time that the
feelings Regulus had confessed therein were not unreturned.
"You win," Remus said to the lurking Presence with grim humour. "You had the
most tragic romance."
Lily and James had had two years of happiness -- enough time in which to marry
and have a child. In death, they had become celebrated heroes. Their son had
somehow defeated Voldemort as an infant, and might just manage to do so again
tomorrow. None could argue that their lives had been wasted.
Remus and Sirius had had five years from the beginning of their own romance
until tragedy had torn them asunder. And then, miraculously, they had been
given two unexpected years together. They had had the privilege of seeing the
young man Harry had become. Sirius had cleared his name and died a hero.
Regulus and Severus -- what had they had? Any joy had existed in secret, stolen
moments, and had been cut short by Regulus's death at the age of barely
eighteen. Whether Severus's own death would remove the tarnish from his
blackened reputation remained to be seen, but he surely deserved it. Voldemort
had killed Regulus, and the only other love Severus had known -- Lily Potter
nee Evans -- and Severus had spent nearly twenty years exacting slow, subtle
vengeance. He had earned his rest a hundred times over.
We were the lucky ones, as it turns out, Sirius and I. Remus laughed bitterly.
Who would have thought?
He rested his forehead against the rough wooden surface of the table as the
room spun around him, the figures in his mind swaying sickeningly. He could not
remember how much he had had to drink. He should try to get some sleep before
morning came. But the spectres of his past would not depart.
"Go away," he mumbled. "Leave me be."
When the knock came at his door a moment later, he considered repeating
himself, but the company of a living person might help to dispel the shadows
from his mind. He hoped it was not Tonks; he did not think he could deal with
another tearful, pleading confession of love in his current state. No, Tonks
would be stationed with the other Aurors, already awaiting the morning.
"Who's there?" he called, squinting blearily toward the door.
By the time the door frame came properly into focus, Hermione Granger was
standing in it, looking uncertain.
"Hermione? I thought you were at the Burrow?"
"I was," she said, twisting her fingers together. "But -- may I come in? I sort
of hoped -- I need someone to talk to."
He waved a hand toward a second chair before carefully pouring another measure
of firewhiskey and pushing it across the table to her.
"Drink up," he suggested. "You look like you need it."
"You're not having any more, Professor?" she asked, gingerly taking the glass
from him.
He shook his head. "I've had more than enough already. And I haven't been your
professor for a long time. You can call me Remus, you know. Everyone else
does."
For a long moment, she stared into the glass, saying nothing. Then she burst
into tears.
"Hermione!" He moved around the table to put an arm around her, patting her
comfortingly on the back. "Hush, now. Don't worry about tomorrow. You've heard
the plan. Everything should be fine."
She shook her head through a couple of gasping sobs before she was able to
speak. "It's -- not that -- Prof -- Remus," she managed at last. "It's -- it's
Ron. Ron and me. I -- we were -- well, we could die tomorrow, couldn't we? I
just -- wanted to --"
"I understand," Remus said gently. "It's all right. Did he not want --?"
"No," she sniffed. "He did. But then when we --" She pressed her lips together,
unable to say the words. "It was so awful. I wanted it to be good. I did all
kinds of research --"
Remus suppressed a laugh and pulled his chair around beside hers to sit down
again. "It's silly to think you know what you're doing the first time," he told
her. Taking both her hands in his, he wrapped them firmly around the glass of
firewhiskey. "Drink up. You'll feel better."
This time she did not hesitate, but drained the glass in a single swallow. She
made a face.
"I didn't know who I could talk to. And I couldn't bear the thought of how
awkward it would be, us waking up together in the morning."
"What about Ginny? Not that I'm not pleased to have company, but surely another
girl --"
She laughed. "No. She's -- busy. With Harry. I didn't want to interrupt."
"And so you came to me for advice?" He laughed aloud at that.
She scowled at him. "We're all people; the theory should be the same,
regardless of -- Anyway, it is a man I want to do it with."
"You're right and you're wrong," he admonished, suppressing a chuckle at her
assessment. "Yes, people are people. But your approach is wrong. You're
treating it like a problem you need to solve."
He poured her another drink, which she dealt with as swiftly as the first.
"What you said about the theory being the same --" he continued "-- you can't
treat it like that. There's no theory or equation or predictive model that you
can apply to love, and always come up with the right answer. It's just about
two people and the things they need."
She sniffed again and nodded, reaching to pour herself another drink. She
sipped it slowly this time, regarding him over the rim of the glass.
"It's just -- well, I want it to be good," she confessed. "I guess I mean I
want to be good at it. But I don't know what I'm doing, do I? I don't even know
if I like it. I mean, I know I like Ron. I l-love him. But, well, sex."
She tossed back the rest of her drink, abruptly slamming the glass down on the
table.
"If I could just know!" she burst out. "If I could just try it with someone
more experienced than, well, Ron. Then I would know if I like it or not, and at
least I wouldn't have to worry about that, on top whether I'm doing everything
wrong!"
He was torn between laughter and sympathy until he caught the look she cast him
as she poured a fourth drink. It was a speculative look, and it made him
decidedly uneasy.
"Maybe you should slow down with the firewhiskey," he suggested cautiously.
She settled back in her chair, cradling the glass between her hands, eyes fixed
on his.
"You were one of our best teachers," she said slowly. "I always liked you.
Maybe you could tell me what I'm doing wrong."
"Tell you?" he asked warily. "Or show you?"
She set down the glass and leaned toward him earnestly, face intent. "Professor
Lupin -- Remus. I know I'm not exactly your type. I realised that when we were
staying at Grimmauld Place -- how it was with you and Sirius -- I'm not blind
to the obvious like Harry and Ron, you know."
He looked away from her and considered refilling his glass despite the fact
that he almost never drank with company.
"Well, that was --" he cleared his throat. "We went back a long way, me and
Sirius. I don't expect you'd understand what that's --"
"I'm eighteen years old, Remus; I'm not a child," she said sharply. "I know you
and Sirius were lovers."
"And I am more than twice your age, Miss Granger," he replied, matching her
tone. "And as you have so keenly observed, gay as a maypole."
"You're not old, though," she said. "And as for the rest, it just means you're
no threat to me and Ron."
She was very close. He could smell the firewhiskey on her breath.
"I know I'm not him -- not Sirius --" she was saying, "-- and you're not Ron.
But at least we wouldn't have to be alone tonight."
He drew back slightly. "What you're suggesting -- you said you wanted someone
with experience," he reminded her. "Mine hasn't exactly been with women."
"People are people," Hermione repeated dismissively. "I bet you know a lot
about how to kiss and how to touch so it feels nice."
He found he was staring at her mouth. That full, wide lower lip was the only
feature she shared in common with his dead lover. And yet she shared it. He
knew exactly how the sweet curve of it would feel sliding over his --
He shook himself. She was half his age, not to mention female. What was the
matter with him? But he knew the answer to that perfectly well. The full moon
was only days away. Liquor and the wolf rising within him were always a
dangerous combination. He was not a reckless man by nature, but he had his
moments, and they usually started something like this.
What if they did die tomorrow? Did it matter, in that case, if they took a
little comfort in one another? That was all she had come to him for, after all.
Ultimately, it was Ron she wanted, not him. Unlike Tonks, it was within his
power to give this girl the thing she wanted from him.
What the hell? he thought, mentally shrugging off his reservations. I could use
a little comfort, too. Someone warm to be close to tonight. We can't hurt one
another; I haven't got what she needs any more than she has what I need.
She saw the decision in his eyes, and he saw her resolve waver for an instant
before he kissed her.
He had been wrong about her mouth. It felt a little like Sirius's, and he had
certainly tasted firewhiskey on those lips a hundred times or more, but Sirius
had never kissed so hesitantly, not even the first time. Sirius's lips had
always tasted of certainty.
"The first lesson," he said softly, breaking their kiss, "and the most
important, is that you have to relax to enjoy it. Don't think; just feel."
He kissed her again, running a hand down her back. He felt the tension leave
her body as her lips parted before his gentle assault.
"You see?" he said a moment later. "That was better, wasn't it?"
She nodded once, looking slightly stunned.
"The second lesson," he continued, rising from his chair and shrugging of of
his outer robes, "is that unless you are sleeping with a powerful Legilimens,
you must say what you want in order to get it." He held out a hand to her.
"Will you come to bed with me, Hermione?"
Eye wide, she rose, awkwardly shrugging off her own robes. He saw that she was
wearing only a thin nightgown underneath, and noticed a red stain near the hem.
He realised that his sensitive werewolf nose had picked up the scent of blood
on her, along with her fear and natural feminine scent and -- Ron. He could
smell the traces of Ron's desire on her, heady and masculine, and felt the
first stirrings of arousal uncurl inside him.
Taking her hand, he led her to the unmade bed and sat down beside her. He
watched her covertly as he unbuttoned his shirt and shucked off his trousers
and pants, seeing that her hands trembled as she drew the nightgown up her
slender body and over her head.
She was slim of hip and small of breast, but there was no mistaking her for
anything other than what she was: a woman in the flower of her youth -
- everything a man was supposed to desire. But not him.
She, on the other hand, was staring at his body in round-eyed wonder. Raising a
hand, she traced the curve of a scar.
"Does it bother you?" he asked, suddenly hesitant. It was over twenty years
since he had felt so self-conscious of his body.
"No," she said softly. "I mean -- it does, but not -- Does it bother you?" She
looked up into his eyes.
"Not for a long time," he said, taking her hand and laying if flat against the
scripted "S" over his heart. "They're part of who I am. Lesson three, by the
way, is 'never criticise a naked man'."
She giggled nervously, and he let go her hand, leaning to grab his wand from
the nightstand.
"Do you mind if I --?" he inquired, pointing the wand between his legs. "Only,
I don't think I'll be much good to you otherwise."
She blushed. "No. I mean, if you need to --"
"Priapus." Golden sparks prickled against his skin, and a sensation that was
not quite arousal stole over him. It was odd, but not unpleasant, and it did
the trick.
Hermione licked her lips nervously, then seemed to realise she was staring, and
blushed still more deeply.
"You understand it's only tonight?" he reminded her. "I can give you this, but
nothing more."
"I understand."
He hesitated a moment. "Are you -- er -- protected?"
She looked away, embarrassed. "I took a potion."
"All right. I just hope to God your potion-brewing skills are better than
mine."
That got a smile out of her. "They are," she assured him.
"Right," he said. "That's the last thinking I want you to do tonight.
Understood? You can tell me to stop any time, but from now on, you follow my
directions."
"I understand," she said again.
"Good. Come lie down beside me."
She did as he bade her, but seemed reluctant to allow too much contact between
them. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her body close
against his, and kissing her soundly once more. Her skin felt good; warm and
soft, and her mouth opened under his. But even when he closed his eyes, he
could not ignore what she was. Still, he had always been fond of Hermione, and
she deserved the best he could give her.
"Touch me," he said softly. "Explore my body. Learn my reactions."
Her touch was light and quick -- almost ticklish. She traced his scars and the
shadowed curves of his bones and the muscles of his shoulders. It had been a
very long time since anyone had touched him, and it felt good. Her hands were
smaller and softer than the ones he remembered, but as they moved lower, he
found himself responding to her touch more than might be warranted by the spell
alone.
When the tip of her finger brushed against his cock, he gasped and pressed
against her hand. She drew back as if burned. Opening his eyes, he found her
staring at him, hands clasped to her breast.
"No, that was good," he said hoarsely. "It feels good, having you touch me. Do
you want me to touch you?"
"Yes," she whispered, eyes falling to his hands.
"Look at me, Hermione," he said, lifting her chin with a finger. "You told him
what to do, didn't you? Try saying what you want instead. There's a
difference."
The molten gold of his eye held her. Slowly, she let her hands fall away from
her bosom. "I want -- I want you to touch me, Remus. Please."
Holding her gaze, he let the finger beneath her chin brush gently down the
length of her throat, following the sweeping line of her collarbone before
tracing around the curve of her breast. Her eyes fluttered closed.
"Like that?" he asked, a hint of amusement on the edge of his voice.
"Oh, yes," she sighed. "That's nice."
"And this?" He placed the tips of all five fingers below her breasts and drew
them slowly downward over the sensitive skin of her belly until they rested
against the nest of curls between her thighs. "Do you want me to touch you
here?"
She nodded wordlessly.
"Open your legs."
He felt a tremor run through her, but she obeyed. He did not move his hand as
he spoke, letting her lie for a moment, open to him, waiting.
"If he's nervous and doesn't get it right the first time, be patient with him.
Tell him what he can do differently, not what he's doing wrong."
Slowly, he let his fingers drift downward, stroking the outer petals of her
feminine mysteries.
"You have to trust him to be guided by your reactions. Do you trust me,
Hermione?"
"Yes," she gasped. "I t-trust you, Remus."
"Okay. Now, you're going to have to help me here. I've never done this before."
He drew one fingertip up her moist, pink slit, eliciting another gasp. "Show me
how you touch yourself, Hermione. How better for a man to learn how you like to
be touched?"
Eyes still closed, she drew her knees up slightly, letting her hand fall
between her thighs, brushing his aside. He watched as she found that
exquisitely sensitive nub and began to stroke it in tiny, rhythmic circles.
Every now and then, her fingers would glide down and dip inside her for a
moment, stroking in and out to the same rhythm.
Remus found it vaguely mesmerising. When her breathing began to come in gasps,
he laid his fingertips against the back of her hand.
"Show me," he said. "Show me how."
She took his fingers in hers and rested them against her, moving them in the
same rhythmic circles, not pressing, but gliding over the slickness of her
flesh. After a moment, her hand fell away and she arched her back, moving her
hips against his fingers.
"Mmmm -- that's good," she sighed. "I think --"
"No thinking," he reminded her.
"It feels --" she amended "-- better when you do it than when I do."
"Good," he said approvingly. "It's good to say how it feels. Offer him
encouragement. Make him understand what you want. What do you want, Hermione?"
"I want you to -- to put your f-fingers inside me," she breathed. "Please."
"Like this?" Keeping up the rhythm with one hand, he brought the other to her
entrance and carefully slid one finger inside her.
"Oh!" she moaned. "Oh, that's good."
He could feel her body pulsing, hot and tight around him. It was an incredibly
odd sensation, especially since he felt completely detached from what he was
doing. There was no passion here, and no attraction; only the closeness of two
bodies. He watched with an almost scientific curiosity as his finger slid
inside her and she squirmed against his hand.
He licked his lips. "Do you want me to taste you?" he asked, unsure what he
hoped her answer would be.
Her eyes opened at that. "Oh, but -- you don't want --?"
"What I want is immaterial," he reminded her. "This is about you learning to
say what you want."
"Oh. Well then, yes. I -- um -- I think I would. If you don't mind."
"Thinking again," he admonished. "You know that's not allowed."
She managed a tiny smile. "I want you to taste me, please, Remus."
He returned the smile. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Settling himself between her thighs, he inhaled her heady, feminine scent. It
was not bad, he decided; just not what he wanted. He rested a hand on her
thigh, and continuing to stroke her inside with the other, bent his head to his
work. She tasted strange and slightly salty in a way that he was not entirely
sure he liked. But she seemed to enjoy it, if the whimpering coming from the
pillows was any indication.
"Please, Remus," she cried a moment later. "Please, I need more!"
"Tell me what you need," he said, raising his head.
"I need -- please -- I need your fingers -- inside --"
"You mean like this?" he asked, slowly sliding a second finger into her tight
passage.
Her only answer was to lay a hand on his head, pulling his mouth back down to
her.
As his tongue explored her secret places, her cries became louder, more urgent,
until with a shrill scream, she arched her back sharply, thrusting her hips
hard against his hand. He could feel her muscles squeezing in steady rhythm
around his fingers in a way he had not expected at all.
When she lay still and limp at last, he cautiously withdrew his fingers from
her and looked up to see her covering her face with her hands.
"Hermione? Are you okay?"
"Oh, God!" she moaned. "That was so embarrassing! I can't do that in front of
Ron!"
He eased himself up beside her, and took her into his arms, kissing her on the
forehead. "Trust me," he said. "If you do that for him, he will think you're
the most beautiful thing in the world."
She peeked at him from between her fingers. "Really?"
"Really. I always did when --"
"Sirius," she said with soft understanding. Then the look of determination was
back in her eyes. "Teach me," she said. "Teach me the things he did for you. I
want to learn something that you like. And -- and Ron will like it, too. Won't
he?"
Remus was touched by her obvious desire to prove herself, and to give something
back to her teacher.
"All right," he said. "We'll start where we stated before, with touching. Don't
be afraid of my reactions. If I need something different from what you're
doing, I'll tell you."
More boldly now, she raised her hands to run through his graying hair, to
stroke his cheek, caress his neck, glide over his shoulders and down the much-
scarred expanse of his chest, skim feather-light along his sides, circle his
waist, cup his buttocks, and -- and she was kissing him. He had not expected it
-- had not even realised his eyes were closed -- until her lips met his.
He felt her fingers run up his thighs, and whisper across his lower belly,
making him shiver. A slight hesitation, and her hand wrapped around him, slowly
and tentatively stroking the length of his cock. He wrapped his fingers around
hers and showed her to squeeze tighter, helping her find the rhythm he needed.
She broke their kiss to look down and see what her hand was doing.
"Do you like it?" she asked nervously. "Am I doing it right?"
"That's -- that's good," he told her, struggling for composure. "And taking the
initiative like that is good, too. Shows a man you -- you want what he's got."
"What should I do now?" she asked.
He took a steadying breath. "Would you -- would you use your mouth on me?"
A smile touched the corner of her mouth, and she moved down the bed to position
herself between his thighs, without hesitation engulfing the head of his cock.
"Christ!" he gasped as her tongue moved along the underside and he was
catapulted backward in time to a different bed and a different teenager with
coal-black hair lying between his splayed thighs. "Where did you learn how to
do that?!"
She raised her head and gave him a grin, half sheepish and half smug. "This,
I've done before. With Viktor. It was only a couple of times, and he seemed to
forget how to speak English when we got to this part, so he wasn't very
instructive. Am I doing all right?"
"Er -- yes," he said, somewhat disconcerted. "You're doing very well, in fact."
"I thought maybe."
She bent to her work once more, and he let his head fall back on the pillow. If
he closed his eyes and did not inhale through his nose, he could almost pretend
that --
No. He shook himself sharply. He was meant to be helping Hermione. Drifting off
into fantasy was not on the menu.
"Hermione?" he gasped through gritted teeth.
"Hmmm?" she murmured, not stopping what she was doing.
"Do you want me to come in your mouth?"
That gave her pause. She released him with a pop.
"What? Er -- I don't know --" she said, disconcerted.
"Well, if you don't, you'd better stop now; I'm about five seconds from it."
"Okay," she replied, eyeing his cock nervously as if it might do something
unexpected. "What do you want me to do? Oh!" A blush suffused her cheeks. "You
don't want to -- um --" She glanced over her shoulder at the smooth, pale curve
of her buttocks.
"Not if you don't want to," he assured her.
"Er -- I don't think I'm quite ready for that."
"And you're thinking again," he reminded her with a smile. "What did we say
about that?"
"Not allowed." She bit her lip and stared speculatively at his swollen anatomy.
"What do you want to do about it, Hermione?" he asked gently.
She glanced up at him shyly. "You could -- um -- put it inside me. At least, I
think you could. It looks bigger than Ron's, though."
He laughed at that. "Well, don't tell Ron that, all right?"
She grimaced. "Don't worry; if we do end up getting together, he's never going
to hear about this."
"Probably for the best," he replied. "And I promise I'll be gentle with you."
He laid her back against the pillows, kissing her, and ran his hands over her
body, gently teasing her thighs apart with his knee. Reaching a hand down
between them, he found that she was still wet from his last assault. He found
her sensitive spot and began making slow circles again, wanting to make her as
ready as possible, hoping to spare her any pain.
"You tell me when you're ready, all right?" he said softly between kisses.
She nodded and let the breath she was holding out in a long sigh, but he could
still feel tense expectation in her body.
"Relax," he whispered, face close to hers, a hand resting against her cheek.
"Don't get so wrapped up in the mechanics that you forget to enjoy yourself.
This is sensual, not intellectual. Trust in your body; it knows what it wants -
- what it needs. Now, are you with me?"
She nodded nervously.
He smiled. "Remember how you liked it when my fingers were in you? How you
wanted more?"
She nodded, and he slid a finger inside her again, making her gasp.
"You'll know when you're ready," he told her. "Don't rush yourself."
"Do you -- do you want to be inside me?"
"I do," he assured her. "I think you'll feel good around me."
She closed her eyes, moaning softly and pressing against his hand. "Okay. I -
- I'm ready."
He could feel his heart beating rather faster than he had expected. "All
right," he said. "I'll go slow, and you can tell me to stop if you need to."
He rose up on his hands and knees, positioning himself over her. Taking her
hand, he wrapped it around his cock. "Guide me," he said.
He could feel the wet heat of her as she pressed him against her slick
entrance.
"Just there," she whispered, moving her hips against him.
Slowly, he pushed into her, watching her face intently for any sign of pain.
Her eyes were closed, and she was biting her lip, but seemed to be in no great
discomfort. He slid in a couple more inches, enjoying the warm pressure of her
as she engulfed him. It was only when he was buried in her to the root that she
moaned softly. He held very still.
"Am I hurting you?" he murmured, kissing her throat.
"No," she sighed. "No, I just feel -- I don't know -- full. It feels good." She
arched her back, moving luxuriantly against him.
"You feels good, too, Hermione," he told her.
He moved inside her, pulling out a fraction, and then pushing back in. He went
slowly at first, but as she began to meet his thrusts with her own, he began to
increase his speed to match his rising need. He had not been sure that he would
be able to finish like this, but he found the wet heat of her overwhelmed him
after having only his own hands for relief these past two years.
Sooner than he had thought, his forehead was pressed against hers, his hips
jerking as he poured himself into her.
"Sirius!" he sobbed, eyes shut tight.
He collapsed against her body, trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Slowly, tentatively, her arms came around him, and she held him to her until
the shaking had passed.
Rolling away from her at last, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling
and wondering what he had just done. After a moment, he felt her hand on his.
"Remus, are you all right?" she asked in a small voice.
He nodded, not looking at her. "You?"
"I'm fine," she said. Then after a moment, "Thank you, Remus."
He looked at her then, giving her a weak smile. "It was -- my pleasure," he
said ironically.
"Well, I hope you enjoyed it a little bit, at least. Did I do all right?"
His smile warmed at her obvious insecurity. "You did fine," he assured her. "If
you can be for Ron the way you were for me tonight, I'm sure he'll be a very
happy man. Even if it takes you some time to get there, I wouldn't worry too
much about it. You'll have plenty of time to figure things out."
"If we live," she said, an edge of bitterness to her voice.
"If you live," he told her, "things will be very different after tomorrow. You
may see your friends fall around you. You may know grief as you've never known
it before. But once you've come through it, you will be amazed at how much it
forces you to appreciate what you have. And I think you and Ron could have
something wonderful if you'll just give him a chance to prove himself."
She looked at him sadly. "What about you?"
"Me?" he said, surprised. "I had something wonderful. I know what it's like.
And I'll have it forever. No one can take Sirius away from me now, and the joy
we had was worth the pain. All of it."
She laid her head on his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her.
"Remus?" she whispered a short time later.
"Hmmm?"
"Sirius was a very lucky man."
"Thank you," he said, touched. "I think maybe Ron is too."
***** Alive *****
They moved with a grace neither had suspected the other possessed. Truth be
told, neither of them had ever given the other much thought before now. They
were too different; male and female, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, blood-conscious
and open-minded, but here and now they had at last found some common ground.
They circled one another, blades ringing together then sweeping apart again.
Her movements made him think of a dancer. She was effortless -- instinctive -
- and he found himself envying her. His own muscles ached from their long hours
of practice, but if she felt any pain, she hid it well. Her face wore only its
usual expression of detached serenity. She might have been dancing with her own
shadow.
She had been a quick study, he had to admit. A natural with the blade. He had
been working with her for only a few months, and yet every time, it took him
longer to disarm her. She said she had made the sword herself, and if that was
so, then she had an eye for beauty as well. The slender blade was long and
straight, and the basket hilt, as finely-wrought as the wing of a bird, curved
to protect her small hand.
At last, Ernie Macmillan put up his sword. "I yield, Milady," he said with a
half-smile, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I perish for thirst. We've been at
this for ages; what say we pause for refreshment?"
She lowered her blade as he turned to a table that had not been there a moment
before, and poured them something cold and fruity-smelling from a newly-
appeared decanter into two silver goblets. He passed one to her, something
weighing on his mind.
"Luna," he said. "I've been meaning to apologise to you, and this may be the
last chance I get. I'm sorry I called you a weirdo when I was in fifth year. I
didn't know you then."
"It's all right, Ernest." Luna Lovegood gave him a bright smile. "A lot of
people have called me worse things."
He shook his head. "No, it's not all right. It was rude and it was thoughtless.
And I was wrong." His brown eyes met her pale blue ones. "You're not weird,
Luna. You're -- free. You don't care what people think. I envy you that."
She gave him an odd little bow. "Thank you, Ernest."
He took a long swallow of sweet, chilled wine to hide his momentary
embarrassment, then said, "Should we call it a night? It must be very late."
The Room of Requirement had given them no windows and no clocks by which to
judge, but then he supposed he did not really want to know the time. All they
had wanted was a place for their final practice session. The room had provided
a large, open space, torchlit and with a stone floor. There were a few pillars
to duck behind and weave around, but beyond that, the floor was as bare as the
walls.
"No," she replied, lowering her own empty goblet. "I don't think I could sleep
yet. Tomorrow is going to be very exciting, don't you think?"
"Exciting?" he said, startled. "I -- er -- suppose that's one way of putting
it. We'll be facing You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters and Merlin knows what
else without our wands. Sounds ruddy terrifying to me."
Luna fixed him with her misty gaze. "I trust Harry," she said simply. "And he
trusts those twins."
"Well, obviously -- " he began. "But those twins, you know. One of them is
dead, and the other one thinks he's got his brother living inside his head with
him. That just sounds mad. I mean to say, are we seriously planning to put our
lives in the hands of a madman?"
She smiled at that. "Some of us aren't nearly as mad as you might think,
Ernest. You don't know everything there is to know. I think it sounds like
quite a good plan."
She set down her goblet, which vanished the moment it touched the table, and
raised her blade once more. "En garde."
He did his best to keep up, but the ache in his muscles seemed to have sunk
into his bones, and he could feel his reactions growing slower by the minute.
Her movements mesmerised him, though, and he found he did not want to stop,
because then she would stop as well. She was not only beautiful to watch; it
seemed to him that her dancing kept the uncertainty of tomorrow at bay.
He realised that she was watching him, too. In fact, her eyes were fixed on
his, as if she was no longer aware of the movements of her body at all, and he
saw in them a look of determination -- of focus -- which he had never seen
there before.
Neither of them noticed the lush blue carpet that spread across the floor like
moss, even as they trod upon it. Tapestries unfurled across the walls, and a
window opened in the stone to let in the moonlight and the warm May breeze. The
torches in their wall sconces narrowed into candles, and a bouquet of lilacs
bloomed into existence on the table, which had returned along with the wine.
All he saw were her eyes, pale and intent, but later, he swore that it was the
scent of lilacs that had disarmed him. The blade flew from his hand and he took
a step back as she moved forward, pressing her advantage. The backs of his
knees came up hard against something, and they were falling.
The bed had sprung up out of nowhere, tripping him and catching him all at
once. He landed on the rich blue coverlet with her on top of him, her hair
falling around his face. She was disconcertingly close. He could feel the heat
of exercise radiating from her body where it pressed against his, see the curve
of her bottom lip, smell the scent of her hair. She was still watching him.
"Er -- maybe the room thinks it's time we got some sleep?"
"Do you think so, Ernest?" she said, the corner of her mouth twitching
slightly.
"Well," he babbled, "it must have thought we were tired, mustn't it? I mean,
there's a bed."
"There is," she acknowledged. "Good night, Ernest."
"Er -- good night, Luna."
But neither of them moved. Everything seemed so still and quiet that Ernie was
no longer certain that his heart was still beating or that air still moved
through his lungs. The only thing he knew was that her eyes were beautiful
after all, and that he must do something before his brain realised that his
body had stopped, and decided that he was dead.
"I'm not dead," he said fiercely. "Not yet."
His fingers curved around the back of her neck, tangling in her hair as he
pulled her down for a kiss.
"I'm sorry," he said as his upbringing reasserting itself. "I should have
asked. Kissing you like that, and on a bed! It's unseemly and disrespectful and
--" And the dreamy smile on her lips made him want to do it all over again.
"I don't mind," she told him. "It was nice. I like you, Ernest. Do you want to
go to bed?"
He sat up, scandalised, setting her gently away from him. "I would never
presume -- Not without a proposal of marriage --"
Marriage? Why in Merlin's name was he talking about marriage? Until an hour
ago, he had not even known that he loved -- No! He should not be thinking that
yet, either.
She fell back on the bed, laughing, and he was reminded of the silvery sound of
their blades ringing together.
"I didn't mean like that," she said. I just meant --" She inclined her head
gracefully toward the pillows. "Unless you want to go back to Hufflepuff?"
He looked at her for a long moment. The last thing he wanted tonight was to be
out of her presence.
"No," he said at last. "You'll stay with me, then?"
"I'd like that very much, Ernest."
She held out her hand to him, and he took it. Together, they made their way on
hands and knees to the pillows at the other end of the huge bed, and lay down
side by side, their heads close together, their fingers interlaced. Ernie
thought he might ask the room to provide them with a shower and a change of
clothes, but he found that he did not wish to be apart from her even that long.
The connection they shared was too new -- too delicate and precious -- and he
feared that any step away taken too soon might sever it.
For a long time, neither of them said anything; they merely lay together,
touching and breathing and peacefully existing. He realised how much he liked
that about her. His upbringing had taught him self-consciousness, but with her,
he could just be, secure in the knowledge that she had no expectations of him.
"I don't want you to think," he said at last, words awkward in his mouth, "that
this happened just because of what we're going to do tomorrow. I think -- I'd
really like to know you better, Luna."
He thought he could hear her smiling. "I'd like that, too," she said softly.
He squeezed her hand in his. "I thought maybe you and Ron --"
Luna giggled. "Really? I did used to fancy him a bit, mostly because he's
Ginny's brother and she was always so nice to me. But no, Ronald's with
Hermione."
He chuckled. "I had noticed something of the kind. I just -- wasn't sure how
you felt about it."
She rolled over on her belly to face him. The smile was no longer on her lips,
but he still saw it in her eyes. The fingers of her free hand strayed to touch
his hair.
"Most people think it's me and Neville," she told him. "But you know, I think
he's a little scared of me. Anyway, I always thought --"
"Me and Hannah?" He grinned. "Everyone thinks that. We're really just good
friends."
She giggled again. "I was going to say I always thought you were with Justin."
He blushed crimson. His reply was a long time coming, but something about her
compelled him to honesty. He knew she would not judge him.
"I think maybe Justin thought so, too, sometimes," he reluctantly admitted.
"But it was just curiosity, you know? Youthful high spirits. Anyway, it was all
over a long time ago."
"So you're available?"
He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close for another kiss.
"Not anymore," he sighed contentedly.
The room would conjure an alarm clock when it was time for them to wake.
***** Fallen *****
"Why are you here, Maddy?" he asked softly, not wanting to wake her if she
slept.
He stroked the soft waves of dark hair that spilled across his pillow, feeling,
for the moment, like the luckiest bastard in the world. For so long, he had
lived with nothing but his own fear and self-loathing, but somehow, without
ever speaking a tender word, she made him feel that, to her at least, he was
valuable.
She was one of the few who had managed to avoid sentence in Azkaban following
the Dark Lord's fall from power seventeen years before, and at thirty-eight,
her beauty still bloomed. So many of the others had become ravaged shells of
their former selves from the torment of incarceration. As for himself, he had
only to look in the mirror to know that he was no woman's ideal lover. It was
one of the reasons they made love in the darkness; so that she might imagine he
was someone else, if she wished.
Just when he was sure she was sleeping after all, she turned to face him, fair
skin glowing in the moonlight. "I don't know."
"I've never understood it," he confessed. "Why you would want to be with
someone like me."
The expression on her face was serious. Even as a girl, her smiles had been
rare. "You never acted like you wanted to own me or control me. Like you were
better than me. You were always -- kind."
"I was grateful," he replied. "I still am. Now more than ever. I never expected
you'd come back to me after I was -- gone for so long."
"I thought you were dead, Peter."
Peter. She was the only one who ever called him that anymore. The others all
followed the Dark Lord's lead, mocking him, throwing his schoolboy nickname
back in his face, a constant reminder of the friends he had betrayed.
"Why are you here?" she asked him.
He laughed softly in the darkness. "You know why I'm here, Maddy. How often do
you think a beautiful woman consents to come to bed with someone like me?"
Her expression did not change. "You know that's not what I meant. I mean, why
are you with us? With the Dark Lord? I know you, Peter. You've never cared
about the pure-blood cause or the Dark Lord's quest for immortality. You're too
smart to think you're going to earn power and glory here. So why?"
His laughter turned bitter in his throat. "Where else could I go? Any of my
friends who are left would happily see me dead. The Dementor's Kiss is the best
I can hope for from that lot. I'm a coward, Maddy, and well you know it."
"Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not looking for a hero." Even when she
joked, she did not crack a smile.
"I guess it is." His own smile was sheepish. He bent to kiss her, but she
turned her face away.
"You never meant to betray them, did you?" she said to the wall. "That James
Potter and his wife?"
"What are you going to do?" he asked. "Report me to the Dark Lord? He knows
what I did, and probably why I did it. He knows well enough that fear is what
keeps some of us loyal."
She turned back to him then. "Why would I turn you in," she asked, "when you're
the only one of them I can stand to fuck?"
He should have been used to it by now, but somehow vulgarity coming from that
beautiful mouth always disconcerted him, and he looked away from her.
"It just sort of happened," he admitted. "I thought -- well, looking back, it
was a pretty stupid thing to think. All I really wanted was to be safe, and I
thought James might have had a chance of -- making life safe again."
"You really thought your friend could defeat the Dark Lord?" she asked
incredulously.
"I thought he could do anything," he said softly.
"I guess you were wrong." There was a snide coldness to her tone that he hated.
Sometimes he wished he could discomfit her as much as she did him.
"Why are you here, then?" he asked, trying and failing to match the chill in
her voice. "What's the Dark Lord got that you want badly enough to risk Azkaban
and spend time in the company of the Lestranges and the Malfoys and the rest of
them? You hate them."
She reached out a slender, pale hand and drew a fingernail down his chest,
leaving a long, red welt in its wake.
"Maybe I just like to hurt people. Did you ever think of that, Peter-my-love?"
He shuddered, and it was only partly in response to her touch. He knew she
spoke truly. Madeleine Yaxley had never been a nice girl. Peter himself had
witnessed her attempt to kill a fellow Hogwarts student in their fifth year.
"That can't be all of it," he said doggedly. "It's hardly a good reason to
throw in with this lot."
She shrugged. "I guess it's the pure-blood thing. A world where I get to be one
of the elite sounds like a worthwhile cause to me."
"I don't buy it," he said, shaking his head.
"Why not?"
He looked at her. "All the good pure-blood women I know have made themselves
good pure-blood marriages, and set about producing the next generation of the
'elite', as you call them."
It seemed that he had managed to make her uncomfortable after all. She turned
away from him again. For long moments, she did not speak. He had nearly given
up and tried to go to sleep himself when her voice broke the silence between
them.
"You remember how I was?" she asked, an odd, hollow tone in her voice. "When we
were in school?"
He did. Vividly. She had been a pretty thing even then, and she had known it.
Any boy at Hogwarts had been fair game, and there had been a lot of girls who
had hated her for it. After their own first encounter, Peter had watched,
bewildered, as she worked her way through what seemed like half of the male
population of the school.
"You were -- flirtatious," he said uncomfortably.
"I was a slut. Mother found out, of course. It -- broke her heart, I guess. She
said I'd dishonoured our good name and polluted my blood with Muggles and
blood-traitors. We fought -- and then I left. She had wanted so badly for me to
make one of those good pure-blood marriages."
There was a sad note under the harshness of her tone, but Peter was afraid to
touch her for fear that she would think she had said too much and close herself
off from him again.
"Why didn't you?" he asked instead, as if he were merely curious. "Most girls
do. Didn't you want --?"
"Of course I did!" she burst out, sitting up and turning to glare at him. "I
wanted it all. But bloody Rabastan Lestrange went and spoiled it for me, didn't
he?"
"Did he?"
She ignored the question.
"And by the time Mum found out, I knew --"
"Knew what?"
"Open your eyes, Peter," she said in disgust. "In three years, I was with
nearly half the boys at Hogwarts, and I never once used any kind of protective
potion. If I could have children, I would have had one by the time we left
school. But I can't. What good is a pure-blood woman if she can't bear a pure-
blood child?"
"I wouldn't have cared about that," he said quietly.
She snorted at that. "I cared about it. So here I am, doing what I can for the
pure-blood cause in the only way I know how. And now --" she sighed. "There are
some things you can't come back from. I've done things -- I only escaped
Azkaban because I did a deal with the Ministry." She smirked. "I'm the one who
gave evidence against the Lestranges. I told them everything they wanted to
know about that family, and happy to do it. Better them than me."
"Do you want to get married?" Peter asked.
The corner of her mouth twitched at that, and he thought she almost smiled.
"That's what you come away from this with? I tell you all that, and you ask if
I want to get married? Why?"
Because then we could be together. Because then I could have you all to myself.
Because you're the only one in the world who doesn't look on me with loathing
and contempt. Because I love you, Maddy. Because I always have. But he could
not say any of those things. She had always scorned displays of sentiment.
He shrugged as if it were of no consequence to him. "I just thought I'd let you
know the offer was on the table," he said. "If you want it."
She gave him a long, measured look. "I'll think about it," she said at last.
So startled was he that she would even consider his proposal that he did not
notice the owl until it pecked sharply on the window glass. He jumped, then
rose to let the bird into the room. A scroll of parchment was tied to its leg.
He removed this, unrolled it, read it once silently, and then read it aloud to
the dark-haired beauty in his bed.
"We have one of them. Report to headquarters."
Madeleine smiled.
***** Divided *****
Though the hour was late, lights burned in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor.
Long, shadowy shapes could occasionally be seen moving past the windows with
apparent purpose, but no sound drifted into the dark, sleeping grounds.
Inside the house was another matter. The barbed words of a man, voice raised in
anger, and a woman, voice desperate and pleading, seemed to lash through every
corner of the house. Their son would have found sleep impossible, but their son
was not at home. That was why they were arguing.
"Would I rather be stuck in Azkaban, plagued by Dementors day and night? Is
that what you're asking me, woman?" the man with the pale, pointed face and
white-blond hair shouted. "Of course not! I am of more use here, regardless of
my past errors, and the Dark Lord knows it. He saw fit to forgive me -- to
release me into his service once more. Why should I not be grateful?"
His wife's eyes were bloodshot from weeping, but dry now, and her voice was a
screech of disbelief. "Grateful?! He took our child! Your son! How can you
speak of gratitude when you know full well --?"
"All I know," he cut her off, "is that if I serve well and faithfully, the boy
need not fear for his life. As I have every intention of doing so, I do not see
why you cannot let the matter rest."
"You don't see anything!" Narcissa shrieked, stepping forward as if she meant
to strike him, but not quite near enough to do so. "You watched what that
animal did to him like it was nothing, but I saw. How can you stand by and
allow them to treat your own flesh and blood -- your heir -- in that vile
fashion?"
Lucius shrugged as if it were no matter to him. "It was the Dark Lord's price
for my error."
"His price? Our son's honour pays for an error he made!"
Two strides brought him near enough, and he struck her hard across the face.
She stepped back, shocked, and sank into one of the green velvet chairs, hand
to her bleeding mouth.
"How dare you?" he hissed at her, gray eyes cold. "How dare you speak of the
Dark Lord in such a way? His plan was perfect. His servants botched it, and I
was responsible for the mission. It is only just that I am the one who should
be punished."
Her lips were red with blood in her pale face, but she met his eyes,
unflinching. "Then you can go and take your punishment from that animal, and
send your son home where he belongs."
Lucius turned away and strode to an end table to pour himself a drink. "Why
should I?" he said callously. "The boy is damaged goods now. A man can always
get more sons."
"You know we can't," she said quietly.
He knew as well as she did that the danger of bearing a Squib was exponential
in witches over forty years of age, and for a woman who had already borne one
such child, there was little chance that their next would be anything else.
"We dare not. Not after --"
"I know." His gaze was coldly appraising. "You gave me a Squib once already. I
should have killed you then along with it, and found myself a proper wife."
Ice water poured through her veins. "You wouldn't," she whispered. "You
wouldn't dare. Surely the life-bond prevents --"
"Oh, I need not do it myself," he said with a smile like a blade. "Now that I
am back in the Dark Lord's favour, I'm sure he would be only too happy to
arrange a little 'accident' on my behalf. Then I would be free to get myself
decent wife and more sons. There are plenty of young pure-blood women who might
find me a suitable match, and new heirs are easy and pleasant to make. Perhaps
the Dark Lord will reward my loyal service with the Parkinson girl."
Narcissa grasped at a single coherent thought amid the chaotic tumble of her
reeling mind. "But -- Pansy is promised to Draco! How can you even think --?"
"That is the thought which troubles you most in this?" Lucius laughed, sipping
at his brandy. "I threaten to kill you and take another wife, and your concern
is for the boy's right to a warm place to put his cock? Typical female
weakness! Use your head, woman. She cannot very well wed your son now, can she?
His blood has been compromised. No woman in her right mind would touch him."
"Do you mean to have us killed then?" she asked, fingers edging imperceptibly
toward her wand pocket.
She did not know what would happen if she tried to kill the man with whom she
had been life-bonded. If she could just stun him, maybe she could run, but then
how could she rescue her son from his imprisonment? If she ran, Draco was as
good as dead. Perhaps the Imperius Curse would be best.
She thanked god that she and her sisters had practiced Occlumency together as
girls, and that her husband could not read her thoughts. He was gazing at her
as if he were attempting to do so now.
"No," he said at last. "You are safe. For tonight, at least. There would be a
scandal, I suppose, and the life-bond might prevent it, in any case. You'll
stay for the boy's sake, no doubt. If anything were to happen to me, the Dark
Lord would have no further use for him. Given his treatment of the boy thus
far, I doubt he would be granted an easy death. No. Go to bed, woman. I am
weary of the sound of your voice."
He turned away from her to pour himself another drink, and for a split second,
she stared at his exposed neck, imagining what his blood would feel like
pouring hot over her hands. She could do it. It would be easy. And if she died
of it, too --
A sharp rap on the window made her jump, and she hurried to let the owl in,
unconsciously wiping her hands on her robes. The message was for her husband.
She dropped it, unread, next to the brandy decanter, and turned to go to her
bed, as he had commanded.
Her foot had barely touched the bottom step when he said, "Get your cloak.
We're wanted at headquarters."
***** Trapped *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"We caught him wandering not far from the house, My Lord," one of the hooded
men said derisively. "Yelling his head off, he was, and didn't even have his
wand out. A child could have taken him."
His cheeks flamed at this mockery of his own stupidity, but he kept his head
up, his back straight, and looked them each in the eye in turn. If he lived, he
wanted to remember who had been there. The Lestranges, the Malfoys, a big blond
man, a man he recognised from the Department of Mysteries as Antonin Dolohov,
Wormtail, a dark-haired woman, the werewolf Fenrir Greyback --
"He is a member of the Order of the Phoenix?" asked the tall, pale man, red
eyes burning. "You are certain of this?"
"Better than that, My Lord," the hooded man said smugly. "This one is friends
with Potter. And we all know what Potter does when his friends are in danger."
Laughter rang out around the circle of Death Eaters, echoing off the cracked
plaster of the old walls.
"A friend of Harry Potter," mused Voldemort. "You have done very well indeed,
Travers. I shall not forget it. Potter has proved rash under such circumstances
before. I think we shall lay a trap for our young friend. But until Potter
comes to us, this one shall be our honoured guest."
He stood as tall as he could, and looked straight into the pitiless red eyes.
He was not afraid for himself or for Harry. Harry had faced Voldemort before,
and won. He would do it again.
"You can do what you like with me," Ron Weasley said as bravely as he could
manage. "I don't care. Just let Hermione go."
More laughter echoed around the room, but Voldemort raised his wand and pointed
it at Ron's chest.
"You will speak only to answer our questions, boy. Crucio!"
Pain screamed through his bones, twisting and grinding them together so that
they would surely shatter. It ended as abruptly as it had begun, and he found
himself lying with his face pressed to the flagstone floor. His body ached
atrociously and their laughter echoed inside his skull.
He tried with all his might to listen to what his captors were saying, knowing
that it might well be important, but the words came to him muddled and
indistinct. He wondered muzzily how hard his head had struck the floor. He
could not distinguish between the residual ache left by the curse and any
physical trauma he might have suffered.
"-- Greyback in a few days," he managed to catch. "Soften him up a bit."
There was more laughter, and then hands seized him roughly by the shoulders,
forcing him to his feet. He stumbled along, unable to offer much resistance, as
they half-dragged, half-carried him down a narrow corridor, dimly lit by old
gas lamps, through a doorway and down a flight of steps into dark and chilly
space that smelled of mildew and something less pleasant which he could not
identify in his befuddled state. There was no light down here but the wand of
one of his captors, which threw confusing shadows on the stone walls.
A shove, and he was on the floor again, banging his knees painfully against the
stone, and throwing out his arms only just in time to save himself another blow
to the head. There was a clang of iron on iron and the grating sound of a key
in an old lock.
"There you go," laughed a rough voice through the bars. "You two lovebirds can
keep one another company."
Their footsteps retreated, and Ron was left in darkness. But not alone.
"Hermione?" he whispered, blinking into the gloom, trying to force his eyes to
adjust, which they did reluctantly.
Ron's heart fell. The figure who huddled against the wall, forehead resting on
knees drawn up to its chest, was male. He was also thin and ragged, light hair
grayed by grime or age, Ron could not tell. Until he spoke.
"Lost your girlfriend, have you, Weasley?"
The head tilted back and a pale face seemed to glow in the darkness. Draco
Malfoy. Ron's eyes had adjusted enough to see his reddened eyes and the white
channels left by tears streaking the grime of his face. He reeked of weeks of
incarceration and something else that Ron thought might be fear. He was so
shocked by the apparition that, for a moment, he forgot his schoolboy loathing,
ignoring the barb and answering the question.
"I woke up and she wasn't there. Have you seen her? Did they bring her here?"
Draco chuckled. "Finally managed to pry Granger's knees apart, did you? Well
done."
Ron shot him a dirty look, and Malfoy grudgingly added, "If they've got her,
they didn't bring her here."
A sigh of relief escaped Ron's lips. "Thank god. I thought for sure they'd got
her."
The cell was small, no more than six feet by eight, and there was nowhere he
could sit that was far enough away from the other boy to avoid his stink. He
rested his back against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe through
his mouth.
"You may not have noticed, Weasley, but they've got you." There was the ghost
of a smirk in Draco's voice. "You think your Mudblood girlfriend will be any
happier when she finds out you're here?"
"Shut up, Malfoy," he said without much heat. "I haven't got the energy to
teach you a lesson just now."
Draco only chuckled.
Ron opened his eyes again and turned as something occurred to him. "What are
you doing here, anyway? I thought your Mummy and Daddy were all chummy with
You-Know-Who. They were upstairs just now."
"Were they?" Something moved in the depths of Draco's eyes, as if he were about
to ask more, but changed his mind. Instead, he gave a sharp bark of bitter
laughter. "Oh, they are. Best mates. And just to show them how much they mean
to him, the Dark Lord is keeping me safe down here."
"He seems to have gone all out on the accommodations," Ron commented drily.
"Indeed." Draco's tone matched his own.
"Any idea why they stuck me in here with you?"
Draco smirked. "Maybe because we're such good friends, and the Dark Lord didn't
want us to be lonely."
Ron snorted at that.
After a moment of stillness, Draco said softly, "But it's probably because of
Greyback."
"Greyback?" Ron asked, puzzled. "You-Know-Who's pet werewolf?"
Draco nodded, looking uncharacteristically grim. "They probably think I'll warn
you what he's like, so you can be properly horrified and willing to do anything
they ask by the time it's your turn."
Ron looked in shock at the boy as gray and thin and ragged as Remus Lupin. "He
bit you? You're a werewolf now?"
"No, nothing like that." Draco stared straight ahead. He might have been
talking to himself. "They don't let him in here on the full moon. He's got a
cell down the hall, though, and I hear him. When they don't let him out to have
his fun, that is." He shuddered involuntarily.
"If he didn't bite you, how bad can it be?" asked Ron skeptically.
His own eldest brother, Bill, had been savaged by an untransformed Greyback,
and apart from some scarring and a liking for rare steak, had taken no ill
effect. Draco did not look all that scarred.
"Bad enough," Draco said quietly. "They brought me here when they released
Father from Azkaban. That was the arrangement; my freedom for his, and his good
behaviour and diligence for my safety. And just to show he meant it, the Dark
Lord made Mother and Father watch the first time he let Greyback in with me."
Ron's mouth dropped open in dawning horror. "He didn't --?"
Draco's gray eyes were haunted, but a mirthless smile played across his lips.
"Who would have guessed that my mother's tears would hurt worse than being
buggered by a werewolf? And my father just stood there looking about as
disgusted as you do right now."
"Merlin's arse!" Ron grimaced, revolted. "That's horrible. I wouldn't wish that
on --"
"Your worst enemy? Thanks, Weasley. I appreciate the sentiment."
"You're not my worst enemy," Ron said after a moment. "I hated you, right
enough, but that was kids stuff. This is war. You're nowhere near the worst
thing out there."
Draco cast him a pitying look. "You'll know that for certain soon enough. I may
even feel sorry for you when your turn comes."
Ron balled up his fists in his robes until his knuckles turned white. "That's
not going to happen," he said, voice carrying as much conviction as he could
muster. "The Order -- Harry -- my brothers -- Hermione -- they'll come and find
me. They'll get me out. I know it."
"If you say so," Draco said with a shrug. He slid down the wall and curled
himself up on the floor, pulling his tattered robes tightly around him. "I'm
going to get some sleep, myself. Wake me when your rescue party arrives."
Chapter End Notes
     This story is continued in The_Power_of_Two,_Chapter_12.
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