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A Series of Drabbles by Shiv5468 [Reviews - 5] [2397
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It was cold in the bedroom; somehow warming charms never seemed to take in this damned house. Severus was wearing his thickest flannel nightgown, two pairs of socks, and was currently clutching a Muggle Device called a Hot Water bottle to his chest in faint attempt to stay warm.
Not for the first time he cursed Lord Voldemort, and the decision to join him. If it wasn’t for that mistake, he wouldn’t have to doss down in 12 Grimmauld Place whilst they put the finishing touches to their plans.
He could have been warm.
The Final Battle was looming and, knowing his luck, he would be ending up on the wrong end of a hex from someone – being a double agent meant being trusted by neither side, and therefore being a target for both sides.
Today had been a long meeting, even by the Order’s usually long-winded standards. He’d expected Potter’s hostility – he’d never come to terms with Sirius’ death, and used that as an alibi for his obvious dislike and disrespect - what had surprised him was the considered perusal of his person by Miss Granger.
What was that about?
Some last minute reservations about his trustworthiness, probably.
Cow.
What did you have to do to prove yourself to people if risking life and limb for seven years wasn’t enough? He may have made a few mistakes on the way, but did he really deserve to be continually punished nearly twenty years later? No one could deny that Life was a Bastard and Out to Get Him.
Tomorrow was the day set for the final confrontation between Potter and Voldemort - he suppressed a reflexive shudder at the name - so he was likely spending the last night of his life cold and alone and sober. He punched the pillow and tried to get comfortable, and was attacked by another wave of shivers, brought on by the cooling of his now Tepid Water Bottle.
He was debating whether casting a warming charm on the device would lead to some fatal rupture, or whether he would be better off braving the chill of the house to find the kettle, when the door quietly opened and a figure slipped inside.
His wand was in his hand and Lumos cast before he had really registered that there was an intruder in his room, so unlikely was the prospect.
Even more unlikely was the identity of the interloper – Hermione Granger – who now stood there, clad in very little and blinking furiously in the light.
“For heaven’s sake,” she hissed. “Can you point that thing somewhere else?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and dimmed the light. Though he wasn’t sure why he was apologising to someone who had made their way into his room without an invitation, after spending a day peering at him suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“Erm, well that’s a little difficult to say,” she replied.
“I hope it’s not going to be some sort of cross-examination about what side I’m on,” he said. He would have been huffier, but he was preoccupied with considering whether her outfit qualified as skimpy bearing in mind it covered almost all her skin. Form-fitting might be better, or suggestive.
And cold by the looks of things.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “It’s nothing like that.”
He felt marginally appeased. “Well, what is it then?”
“Last night, Ron was talking about how he didn’t want to die a virgin, and it got me thinking…”
“Miss Granger, if you’ve come to ask me to provide you with some contraceptive potion so that you might disport yourself with Mr Weasley, may I suggest that …”
“Ew,” she said, effectively cutting him off. “Ron? And me? Just, ew. Not to mention the fact that I am perfectly capable of performing a Contraceptus charm, and have done so, thank you very much,” she said primly.
“Miss Granger, I suggest you refer any … queries …you may have on personal development issues to your Head of House, who can be found several doors down and is far more suited to deal with any problems you might have.”
“For heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “I do not want to shag Ron, I have never wanted to shag Ron, and I never will want to shag Ron. Ron is presently making the beast with two backs with Tonks. We both decided that we wanted our first time to be with someone older and more experienced, so that we stood a better chance of erm success…” her voice trailed off.
Severus pulled the cover up to his neck. He gulped audibly – surely she couldn’t mean that she had selected him for the role of Cherry-picker.
“Oh dear, this isn’t going very well,” she said, almost to herself. “I knew I should have worn the shorter nightdress.”
“The nightdress is fine,” Severus replied, entirely unnerved by the whole situation. “Very nice.”
“Oh, you think so.” She smoothed it down over her hips, which made it cling to her in a not unacceptable way.
He nodded. Talking was dangerous; silence was the best course.
She moved closer to the bed, and then sat down “I had this speech worked out, you know. All about how you were a man of experience, and how you had these lovely hands, and that sexy voice, and how I was sure that you’d be able to run them all over my body, and tease me to the edge of madness, and bring me back again, and start all over again until I reached the heights of ecstasy at least seven times.”
Severus snorted.
“Three, then?”
He snorted again.
“Once at least, surely. I mean with all your knowledge and expertise, and I am a quick learner, you know I am.”
She looked so earnest, and deadly serious that he felt a pang of sympathy. It took a certain amount of courage to do what she had done, and he didn’t fancy facing death with some petty cruelty on his conscience. You couldn’t justify this as toughening up the students, or trying to get Potter to see that there were consequences to his actions; everyone was entitled to have their first fumbling attempts at sex treated with a little respect. “I really haven’t had that much practice,” he said, hoping she would take the hint and go away.
“But you must have done,” she said. “I mean if you didn’t join the Death Eaters for wild parties and kinky sex, what on earth was the point?”
“Well, I haven’t,” he said shortly.
Hermione could have posed for a portrait entitled ‘Illumination strikes.’ “You mean you’re gay? Oh god, it makes sense now. All that venom directed at Sirius and Remus; it was just suppressed passion, wasn’t it? Oh, this is so embarrassing.”
“I am not gay,” he snarled. “I’m a virgin, if you must know.”
“What?”
Severus winced. He certainly hadn’t intended to admit to that.
“You’re lying,” she said flatly. “Lying to make me feel better about turning me down.”
“Oh don’t be silly. I’ve never tried to make anyone feel better about themselves in my life, and I’m not about to start now. I’m merely pointing out that your view of me as some sort of Sex God is untrue. Good god, where was I supposed to find the time to have a girlfriend in between dodging Sirius Black and Remus Lupin? It didn’t get any better once I’d left school either, what with spying for Dumbledore and teaching dunderheads. You try getting a shag when you’re trapped in the Scottish Highlands, with your only possibilities being an over-hearty games mistress, a daft divination drip, and a couple of old wrinklies, and the only time you get to leave the premises is with a group of untrustworthy backstabbers where you wouldn’t turn your back on them, much less drop your trousers in their company.”
“Is that the Order or the Death Eaters you’re talking about?”
“I’m glad you find it amusing,” he said sulkily, plucking at the coverlet.
She put a hand over his. “I don’t find it amusing. I think it’s a crying shame actually, that all that passion should have gone to waste. I’m sure you would have been a really enthusiastic and talented lover, will be, I mean. Absolutely.” She sighed. “It’s just a pity I won’t get to find out.”
She smiled wistfully at him, and he thought she looked almost pretty.
“I don’t suppose,” she said. “That I could kiss you before I go?”
He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, and Miss Granger took silence for acquiescence. She had, at least, been practising this, because there was no awkwardness in the way she turned her nose to just the right angle and placed her lips on his.
At some point he released his death grip on the Tepid Water Bottle, and he’d pulled her down on top of him.
She drew back a little, and murmured against him, “Lots of stupid people have sex. It can’t be that difficult.”
“I suppose not.”
“And neither of us are stupid, so we should be able to work it out.”
“That’s true.”
“If you wanted to, I mean,” she added.
The room was cold, and her nipples were tight little buds pressing against her nightdress, which was a very nice nightdress really, and at least she’d made an effort, and it was cold, and he might very well die tomorrow, and he couldn’t think of any really good reason why he shouldn’t, and at least two good reasons why he should…
After all, the chances were that he wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.
It took several attempts before Hermione could slip under the covers without letting in too much of the chill, and then there was an awkward moment whilst both of them considered their next move.
He rolled across her a little way – men were supposed to be on top after all and more complicated and sophisticated manoeuvres could be attempted once they’d had a bit more practice – and they started where they had left off.
Things were going so well that he felt emboldened to move a hand down from Hermione’s shoulder to a breast and begin exploring – a move that was greeted with a muffled sigh of appreciation, and a reciprocal grope of his buttocks.
“You know,” she said, “This nightshirt is really prickly. I think we’d do a lot better without it.”
So he wriggled his way free of it, with Hermione helping to pull it over his head. She was a bit over-enthusiastic and for a moment he thought he was going to be garrotted by his own night attire, and then he popped free like the cork from a bottle with a stifled Ooof.
“Your turn,” he said, and she blushed before scrabbling around under the covers to take off her nightie with rather more skill than he had managed.
And then they were naked together, and suddenly it was much more serious, and his hands were busy searching out all the sensitive spots on her body, until he found that place, and she gave a sudden squawk.
“A little more gently,” she said. “More like handling Belota leaves and less like extracting bubotuber pus. Please,” she added politely.
So he’d been a bit heavy handed? Fair enough: he didn’t think he’d be too happy with a death grip on his genitals either. A little less pressure, a little more movement, and she relaxed back into the mattress making little moans whenever he got it just right, which seemed to be increasingly often until there was one last drawn out sigh.
What was the etiquette for this situation? Did you press on ahead? Did you wait for your partner to take the lead? Or at least regain her breath?
“I suppose,” she said, still a little breathless, “you’d like me to return the favour? Or would you like to move straight along to inserting Tabbe A into Slotte B?”
Mindful of the fact that he’d like to insert Tabbe A into Slotte B more than once before disgracing himself, he thought that it was time to move on to the main event.
So he did, and found that whilst the earth didn’t tremble, the bed squeaked, and it was really rather pleasant.
So much so that they tried it again, to better effect, some forty minutes later.
Severus hadn’t really expected to live through the day. He’d certainly not expected to make it through without a scratch, nor had he expected to find himself quite so anxious to find Hermione once the dust had settled.
He absent-mindedly kicked Lucius in the ribs, before he was formally taken into custody by some Aurors, and then headed off in search of a drink, somewhere to put his feet up, and Hermione.
She was being helpful, and organising people, telling them where to go and what to do. He felt reluctant to approach her – it would be presumptuous. There was no reason to think that she would welcome his company.
No reason at all. And yet, when she caught sight of him, she stumbled across the intervening space to wrap her arms round him. “Thank god,” she said. “I hoped you were alright, and here you are.”
“Here I am indeed. Are you still needed here?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, looking round. “I’ve just about had enough, anyway.”
“You need to be in bed,” he said, entirely innocently, but she looked at him in such a way that he couldn’t help but get ideas.
Ideas that were wholeheartedly encouraged once they apparated back to Grimmauld Place. Encouraged, reciprocated, and explored in detail until both of them had to admit that they were too tired to move.
“So,” she said. “Does this mean we’re going to be doing this on a regular basis?”
“You mean, as in a relationship?”
She nodded.
“People who have relationships normally have something in common,” he replied.
“Well, I think we’re getting the hang of this sex business, doesn’t that count?”
“I suppose. After all there are lots of people who don’t,” he said smugly. “I do think there should be something more though.”
“I’m sure if we think about it we can come up with, say, three things we have in common. If we can do that, I think we should give it a try.”
“That sounds reasonable.” He thought for a moment: what did he like? Easy one’s first. “I like reading.”
She snorted into his chest, which tickled.” So do I; that’s one.”
Erm, after that it was going to be difficult. She liked Potter and Weasley; he didn’t. She liked cats; he didn’t. He didn’t like Gryffindors; she was one. He didn’t like students; she had only just stopped being one. He thought Albus was a twisty bastard….
Ah, that might work.
“I don’t trust Albus,” he offered hopefully.
“Neither do I.”
So that was two. Silence descended as they tried to think of something else. Severus wondered if they could get away with arguing that liking sex was the third thing they had in common – always assuming that the answer to that was going to be yes, and he rather thought it would be – but that was cheating. Hermione probably didn’t like cheating; she liked fairness and equality and all that sort of thing.
“Well, I’ve thought of two things, now it’s your turn,” he said, elegantly putting the ball back into her court.
“I like Paris,” she said.
“I’ve never been there,” he replied, intrigued.
“Well then, perhaps we should go there, and see if we have three things in common?” she suggested.
“And if I don’t like Paris?”
“There are always other cities. We just keep going until we find one we both like.”
Severus smiled at the ceiling, and wondered whether you could be truly said to like a city if all you saw of it was the hotel bedroom. It could take a long time to find a city he could honestly say he liked.
Author's Note: