Time Goes By So Slowly

Really, he thought, staring at the little Time-Turner on his desk, for being two of the most intelligent people I know, they can be quite dumb sometimes. At least when it comes to their own desires. Being a man who went after (and got) everything and anything he wanted, he really couldn't understand the mental and emotional blocks others put up that prevented them from doing the same. If you wanted another person, you subtly let them know it while convincing them that you were what they wanted (if only for the night) and plied them with 1924 Pinot Noir. Sex ensued.

It wasn't that bloody complicated.

Of course, his impatience wasn't entirely on his friends' behalf. If everything worked out as he planned it, he would be in for a treat as well. His cock stirred a little as he imagined all the possibilities of success, and he shot another glare at the Time-Turner.

Well, perhaps the third time would be the charm, though he was starting to think that the fifteenth time might be the charm if their bloody-mindedness kept up. With a push against his huge oak desk, he pushed his leather armchair back and stood up, stretching and allowing himself a yawn. He tugged at the ribbon that tied his hair back, letting the long, silken tresses fall loose around his shoulders. Perhaps a long, hot bath before bed would be a pleasant environment in which to assuage his aching loins. He smiled to himself as he began shedding his clothes on the way to the bathroom, casually dropping them on the floor as he went. Maybe tomorrow would be the day.

It was three iterations of Valentine's Day later, and Severus was seriously contemplating whether the rules of mortality applied in this situation. Maybe if he died it would end? Or would he simply arrive, alive and well, in his bed to be woken by the thunder that he was beginning to hate with an impressive ferocity. Every fucking morning it woke him from his dream, though he was torn between annoyance at being woken up and relief at not having to repeatedly experience being hit by cannonballs.

He glanced at the clock; it was half-past eleven, about time for a very unhappy Hermione to arrive, fresh from her most recent Percy Weasley Ordeal. He grudgingly admitted to himself that she was having a rather harder time of it than he was, as having to suffer through several hours of that boy's company every night easily trumped having to go to the Hospital Wing every day (though the repeated injuries were quite aggravating). The amount of liquor she consumed when she showed up in his rooms each night was a clue, if nothing else, though the curse was kind enough to refill the bottle every day.

As if hearing his thoughts, Hermione chose that moment to knock on the door.

"Come in," he said, summoning two glasses and the firewhisky from the cabinet and settling down in his preferred chair. Thus occupied, he didn't look at her until she had collapsed onto the couch; when he did, and saw what she was wearing, he couldn't contain a snort of laughter.

"Pajama party, was it?" he said, snickering as she shot him a deadly stare and tucked her red-and-fluffy-slippered feet beneath her and wrapped a worn lavender dressing gown more tightly around her. He was intrigued, however, that he caught no sign of a nightgown hem underneath said dressing-gown, which gapped to reveal smooth calves and knees.

"Excuse me if I've been a bed-bound invalid for the past two hours." She reached for her glass and took a large gulp, only rasping a little at the end. Her skills at drinking had improved considerably over the past few nights; as she had previously pointed out, practice helps.

"Am I given to understand that you faked sick?"

"Yes. I thought I was golden, I really did. I mean, it was nine-fifteen and he hadn't shown up and then... then..." She trailed off, staring miserably into the fire. Then, all of a sudden, she hurled her glass into the fireplace with a crash, watching as the flames flared when they caught the liquor.

"The pompous sonofabitch brought me soup!"

Never before had soup-bringing sounded like a deed that should warrant life in prison. Severus stayed very still as Hermione stared first at the fire and then at him, breathing heavily. She was beautiful in that moment, with the fire in her eyes matching the blaze in the hearth as she fought to regain control, small hands clenched around fistfuls of her dressing-gown.

"I am truly sorry," Severus said evenly, taking a sip of whisky. "Was it chicken or vegetable?"

"It was fucking beef broth and he was all set to spoon-feed it to me while bathing my 'fevered brow,'" she replied. "I finally had to inhale some and have a coughing fit all over his nice suit to get him to leave." She slumped suddenly, her eyes traveling to the carpet.

"Severus, we've tried everything, excepting suicide. Are we really trapped here forever?"

He was too much of a cynic to give her false hope. They stayed there for a while, Hermione staring at the carpet while Severus stared at her and wondered if now was as good a time as any to make some sort of proposition. After all, what had he got to lose at this point?

Well, if she refuses, then you're stuck forever with the one woman you want, who would know that you want her, but wouldn't want you, and it would quite possibly be the most awkward situation you've ever been in. And it would still be bloody Valentine's Day every day. He decided to keep his mouth shut and instead buried his miseries in the firewhisky.

Hermione traced the patterns in his Persian rug with her eyes, letting her mind sink into the colorful whorls and dots. Every night she had been debating with herself whether to tell Severus of her feelings, and every night she talked herself out of it. He would probably just dismiss it as a pathetic plea for some physical comfort during this rather trying time, and she would have to go through the rest of the curse without looking forward to a drink (or three) in his rooms each night. And the constant knowledge of why there was an extra sneer in his lips when he looked at her.

Well, she would just have to keep going as it was. With my books, my chocolates, and my vibrator keeping me company each night. Lovely. Irritated at her own foibles, she stood up and moved to the fireplace, watching the flames crackle. She could see pools of hot, molten glass where the shards of her tumbler had melted. Any regret she might have felt at breaking the glass was glossed over by the knowledge that it would be there, whole and complete, for her to break again the next night. And the next. And the next...

Merlin, that was depressing. Sighing, she ran her hands through her hair, tugging it around to one side so she could rub at the knots of stress in the back of her neck. Behind her, she heard Severus shift and stand up, his feet making soft sounds against the rug. She felt more than heard him move to stand just behind her, a little closer than she would have expected--but then again, he had had a bit to drink tonight. It probably didn't mean anything.

She hoped like hell it did mean something.

Turning slightly, she caught her breath at the sight of him. The firelight simultaneously softened and sharpened his features, giving warmth to his sallow skin even as it cast angled shadows over the planes of his face. It erased the scowl lines, put a warm glow in his black eyes, and turned his hair to silk.

The sight had her knickers dampened in about two seconds, and she blessed the heat of the fire for lending pink to her cheeks which hid her blush. Hastily, she turned back to look at the fire, both hoping and dreading that he had noticed her gawking at him. The smooth murmur of his voice from behind her had her knickers going from damp to saturated; that voice was a natural weapon.

"You do realize that when we are free of this, I will not allow you to abuse my glassware in such a manner."

"And you do realize that I don't throw glassware unless I'm really upset." It was so tempting to pick up on the implication in his sentence: that she would still have access to his glassware once the curse was gone. She dared not mention it; if it was what she hoped it was, then it would be fine, but she didn't want to scare him or force his hand. He was so damn prickly and unpredictable that there was no telling what he'd do.

The clock on the mantle chimed midnight in her ear, making her jump. She shot it a look of pure hatred, and then turned around and looked at Severus. He was scowling fiercely at the clock, and she had to smile at the familiar look of frustration and dislike being aimed at an inanimate object. His gaze flicked back to her, and when their eyes met, Hermione wanted nothing more than to dive into those black irises and never come out. She felt herself leaning forward a bit, closing the surprisingly small distance between them, waiting to see what he would do.

His eyes went wide, but he, too, leaned in, and she thought she saw one of his hands make a movement upwards, as though he wanted to cup her cheek. It was surreal, and maybe in the morning it would be attributed to too much firewhisky and stress, but right now it was perfect.

And then, right before she mustered up the nerve to stand on her toes and offer her lips for a kiss, every fiber of her body jerked in a familiar way. She was pulled in a million different directions and then the world went black.

When she woke up in her bed, her alarm clock whistling in her ear, Hermione stared at the ceiling for a half a second before sitting up and yelling.

"I almost had him! Almost kissed him, and now he'll just say we were drunk and stupid! One more bloody minute, would that have been too much? When I get my hands on you I'll... I'll... well, you'll be bloody sorry I got my hands on you!" She sat in her bed, hands clenching the sheets as she breathed deeply through dilated nostrils, lips clenched in an expression that Ron had learned to fear.

Unsurprisingly, her morning did not go well. Of course, technically her morning went exactly the same way it had for the past five times, but it seemed even worse than usual. She snarled at her students, nearly bringing Brevley to tears, and took fifty points from every couple she encountered in the hallway. She did remember, however, to cast a Cushioning Charm as she approached the staircase, for sure enough, Peeves had strung a length of twine along the top of it, and she went tumbling down. Unhurt but in an even fouler mood, she brushed herself off and looked around for Severus, who was usually there to laugh at her mishap.

No sign of him. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen him at breakfast either. Was it possible for him to get sick while under the curse? If so, Hermione was determined to do whatever it took to catch what he had.

However, illness had not kept him away that morning, as he showed up at the meeting that afternoon. Resolving to ask him where he had been that morning, Hermione settled into her usual seat, front and center, and waited for the torture to being anew. To her surprise, Severus did not join her in the seat next to her; craning around, she saw him leaning against the back wall of the staff room, arms crossed over his chest. His hair had swung forward, shielding his face, so she could not make out his expression.

"Professor Snape, there is a chair right here, next to Hermione, if you would like to sit down..." Percy gestured to the aforementioned furnishing, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses self-importantly.

"I am not blind, Mr. Weasley. If I wish to sit, I will." His voice was like a whip, and Percy drew back a little before gathering himself and turning his gaze to the...slightly...less hostile portion of his audience.

"Well, if we're all comfortable, we can begin..."

Tuning him out automatically, Hermione fixed her gaze on the wall behind him and allowed her mind to wander. Why didn't Severus sit? It was possible, of course, that he was just being contrary and rude, but he was unlikely to sacrifice his own comfort for that. He could have just sat down in front as usual and surreptitiously cast jinxes on Percy the whole time. And why would he be missing the entire morning but show up to this God-awful event?

Of course, she reminded herself, she had no proof that he had been gone from his morning and afternoon classes; she simply hadn't seen him at either meal or in the hallways when she usually did.

He might just be avoiding her.

Bastard.

Well, she'd get him after this, preferably in a corner where he couldn't escape, and they would have Words. Confronting him would probably be the most enjoyable part of her day, since it was unlikely that he would welcome her into his sitting room that evening after she yelled at him. Plan in mind, Hermione concentrated on finding something interesting enough to look at to keep her engaged through the next hour of Percy's speech. A curious carving of an imp in the corner of the fireplace caught her eye, and she began studying the little wood figure with as much interest as she could muster.

Almost... Severus thought, staring at the clock as it ticked towards the end of the torture. It's almost over... He needed to know exactly when it ended, because he had to escape twice as fast as usual to avoid Hermione. He still wasn't quite sure what had happened the night before, but he didn't want her finding him and asking rather uncomfortable questions...or worse, apologizing for what she had done while intoxicated. No, it was quick getaway time if it ever had been.

He stared at the clock, almost desperate enough to sink to personification and accuse it of mocking him with each tick. Mentally he shook himself. There was absolutely no reason for him to be this upset over something as simple as the woman of his dreams looking very much like she had been about to kiss him, which was tinged with the uncertainty that accompanied all such actions when alcohol was involved.

Certainly nothing to get agitated about.

The clock chimed. Percy stopped talking. Severus fled.

A few portraits exclaimed at his pace as he flew down the corridor to the dungeons, hoping that he had left quickly enough to elude Hermione. Years as a spy taught him well, though; he slipped into a small alcove and stood, waiting to see if she passed him. A quick Disillusionment charm made sure he blended in perfectly with the shadows.

Footsteps, coming down the hallway, echoing slightly. They were slow and erratic, as though the person were pausing to look into alcoves and empty classrooms. They were also too close for him to slip out unnoticed. Safer to stay where he was.

There was a very low murmur of a voice, answered in similar tones; whoever they were, they were right across the corridor from him, though a little farther up. More footsteps coming closer, coming directly towards him, and then Hermione stood in the entrance to the alcove, hands on her hips.

"Severus, drop that Disillusionment spell right now, or I'll conjure some paint to dump on you. Red paint."

Damn portraits never could keep their mouths shut. He felt like a complete fool as he undid the spell. Peace had made him soft, apparently. She had a smirk on her face that she must have picked up from him, and he glared at her for looking smug and for looking lovely in her victory.

"I didn't take you for the type to chase after a man, Hermione," he said.

"Depends on the man. Severus, I--" She glanced back up the corridor, and he saw a pained expression cross her face. "Oh, fuck!"

He didn't have to ask. Quickly, he reached out and yanked her into the alcove. She was already babbling.

"Oh, Merlin, I can't talk to him any more. If I have to spend one more minute with that insufferable man, I swear I will...Severus, I don't know, do something!"

He had a thought. A mad, impetuous thought that might get him the slap of a lifetime, but it was guaranteed to get rid of Weasley, and, if he had any sort of luck at all in the world, might get him what he wanted.

Severus waited, holding Hermione's arm as she mumbled about how miserable she was and if there was anything he could think of, anything, he was given free reign to do it. He waited until Percy's freckled face appeared in the alcove entrance, horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the light of a nearby torch.

"Hermione? Are you in here?"

Taking a swift, deep breath, Severus yanked her close to his body and kissed her hard. She stiffened, surprised, and he pulled away, hoping she would play along.

"Professor Snape! What on earth are you doing? Hermione, come here, it's all right..." Percy reached out for Hermione's other arm, frowning at Severus. Hermione, though, seemed to have other ideas, for she wrapped her arms around Severus' neck, and, much to his surprise, kissed him back in a way that left no doubt as to her intentions.

"Oh... er... well, I'll just be going then."

He didn't even get the chance to leave, as Severus grabbed Hermione's hand and nearly bowled the redhead over as he pulled her out of the alcove, heading for his rooms. The two of them all but ran to the dungeons.

The instant the door to his bedroom shut behind them, he had her pinned against it, faces close together and bodies flush.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked her, needing some assertion of her desire, of her willingness. In answer, she wound her fingers into his hair and pulled him down for another kiss, murmuring the word "Yes" against his lips. Tongues met and slid over each other, tasting and exploring as the kiss deepened. She traced light, tickling lines on the roof of his mouth; he groaned and retaliated by suckling on her lower lip until she moaned. They separated, panting, and she wasted no time in pushing his robes down his shoulders and flinging them into a corner, leaving him in his black coat and trousers. He did the same with hers, greedily running his hands over her body, caressing each plump curve.

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him again, but he backed away, teasing her as he started unbuttoning her shirt, revealing a gorgeous black lace bra. He also toed off his shoes and socks, holding her up as she did the same. With his help, she got his coat and shirt off, and he was rewarded when she placed open-mouthed kisses all over his chest and ran her hands up and down his back. Fumbling at the zipper on her skirt, he cupped one of her breasts, feeling its soft weight as she moaned into his mouth and pressed into him. The skirt hit the floor and she stepped out of it, showing off thigh-high stockings, suspenders, and matching knickers. He growled at the sight of her: smooth, creamy skin; full curves and a flush that was rapidly suffusing most of her face and chest. Her lips were parted and swollen, and her eyes were hot as she stared at him.

His trousers hit the floor in record time; seizing her around her waist, he half-flung her onto the bed and followed quickly, collapsing between her thighs to stare down into her eager face.

It was so small he almost missed it. A little tug behind his navel, akin to that of a Portkey, but much diminished. Another man might have dismissed it as a side affect of the fast-growing erection in his pants, but Severus was not another man. He pulled away from Hermione (not without some difficulty) and looked around.

To all appearances, they were still in his bedroom.

"What...what's wrong, Severus?" Hermione panted. "I thought you wanted--"

"It's not that," he said, quickly looking back into her stricken face and hastening to reassure her. "Did you feel a tug just now? As if you had been using a Portkey but not as strong?"

Her brown eyes glazed over for a moment as she thought, then she nodded. "I did, yes. I take it you did as well?" He nodded and rolled off her, helping her to sit up as he scanned the room.

It was his bedroom. The bed was in the right place, the rugs were right, everything down to the book lying on his bedside table was exactly right. Yet something very basic was wrong.

"Severus? Is it just me or is it awfully warm in here?"

About to scold her for her terrible use of innuendo, he stopped. Yes, as a matter of fact, his room was at a comfortable temperature, which would have been innocuous had he not been a man who lived in cold dungeons. It should have been freezing.

"I do not believe," he said slowly, "that we are in Hogwarts. Someone has gone to great pains to replicate my room elsewhere. It would have been a very expensive project, and it would be foolish to think that it was unconnected to the curse." He pulled out his wand and cast a few spell-detection charms.

The wall across from his bed lit up brilliantly, a huge rectangle of spelled area glowing. Twin bolts of light shot from his and Hermione's wands, hitting the wall at exactly the same time to reveal a huge pane of glass, behind which was a small room containing a table and a comfortable armchair.

In that armchair, looking extremely chagrined, was Lucius Malfoy.