Nine

A/N: My endless thanks to my beta, OpalJade.

On the day of the Ministry awards ceremony--New Year's Eve, incidentally--Granger spent most of the day preparing herself to be looked at, while Snape fumed in the next room. There was no reason, he felt, to do oneself up like a tart in order to receive a meaningless medal. Her shower, usually too long by half to begin with, was no less than three times its normal length, and spellwork flew from the loo in bursts of gold and peach that leaked beneath the door. The much-loved scent of her perfume got right up his nose, and he wondered who exactly all this was meant to impress. Did she even intend to stop by before leaving the house in a flourish of red silk and hair products?

In fact, he'd had no idea that she had even still intended to attend the idiotic function until this flurry of preparations began. He'd thought she'd agreed with his assessment of the ceremony as needlessly divisive--as if the sacrifices of those who had been left homeless or bereft needed to be ranked! If he were feeling fair minded, he would have admitted that even those who had escaped the war with families intact and no scars to show for it had not been unscathed. The war had been a wound across the chest of the entire wizarding world, and to award those whose contributions had been deemed the greatest was an insult to all who had--he cut himself off. There was no point in working himself into a froth over it. Apparently there were some who needed a framed bit of parchment and a glorified Knut in order to have closure or whatever ridiculous term they were using these days.

But while he was on the subject--did the 'Golden Trio' even need more adulation than they'd already received? The very fact of her, parading about the wizarding world like some strange agent of change, should have been enough to tell her that what she'd done had been valuable. And she herself admitted that she wanted no close ties to the Ministry until it had proven that it would not so easily join up with Dark Lords and their followers.

Snape threw down the book he had been pretending to read and felt irritated when it hit the bed not with a satisfying crash but with a muffled thump. And then he grew irritated at himself for having deliberately thrown it onto the bed so as not to indicate to Madam Importance that anything was wrong in his little hovel of a room.

He'd thought she was his girlfriend, for Merlin's sake, which was perhaps the most galling thought of all. Hadn't she come to him Christmas morning? Hadn't she nearly fucked him the night she returned from the Board of Governors? Hadn't they spent weeks working together? Hadn't he comforted her, touched her? Hadn't they... well, he had no idea what they were calling it, but wasn't there something between them? Forgive him for daring to believe that she might choose to spend the last night of the year in his company rather than in room full of her adoring public.

She knocked once on the hollow wall before she left and called, "Have a good evening, Severus!"

A good evening, indeed. Where were his glasses of champagne? His stuffed truffles? The laughing woman on his arm?

None of this, of course, stopped him watching her as she swept out of Grimmauld Place in the company of Harry bloody Potter. Her hair was gathered into a loose but elaborate knot of curls and her robes... oh, her robes made him want to weep with frustration. Crossing over her back, plunging down into her cleavage, exposing her shoulders and collarbones and... Goddammit. Goddammit! Why hadn't he agreed to go to this infernal party?

Snape charged through the house in a temper, nearly knocking Malfoy to the floor when he came suddenly around the doorway into the kitchen.

"So the Slytherins sit at home while the Gryffindors dance on the Ministry's Galleon?" he said viciously as Malfoy held on to the counter and struggled to right himself.

"If I'm not mistaken, you had a ticket to dance on the Ministry's Galleon, old man," Draco said calmly.

"If you call me 'old man' again, I will hex your precious Malfoy balls off," Snape said slowly.

"Mmm," Malfoy answered, apparently unimpressed. "She didn't go with Potter, if that's what has you in such a tizzy."

"I am not in the least concerned with Harry fucking Potter," Snape shouted, realizing that he had no idea whatsoever why he was in the kitchen at all.

"That's the spirit!" Malfoy said. "Fuck Harry fucking Potter and the whole fucking Ministry. Fuck New Year's Eve, while we're at it, and fuck the fact that with his master out of the house, I cannot locate that fucking house-elf anywhere and I want a fucking cup of tea."

Snape looked at Malfoy as if he'd gone mad. "Erm," he said. "Yes." He felt oddly diffused by the boy's outburst.

"Well, if that's settled, I think I'll leave you to it," Malfoy said and did just that, leaving Snape alone, purposeless and utterly furious.

***

Miss Granger, he scratched onto a bit of parchment, pressing so hard that the tip of his quill bent at an odd angle. It may have escaped your notice that you are not the only person using this lavatory. I should not have to clear the sink of your hair before attempting to use it. One would expect a war hero such as yourself to be more considerate in her habits. See to it immediately. S. Snape. He underlined the word immediately twice, threw the parchment into the sink, and returned to his room to wait for her response.

***

He was not sleeping when she returned. How could he have done? Behind his eyes he saw her dressed in her scarlet robes, and when he blocked that image, all that was left was confusion and fury and dread over the loss that lay inevitably around the corner.

He heard her knock twice as she entered the room, and still he lay there, frozen in his bed, cold radiating out from his stomach. He heard the door to the loo open, and he heard, or imagined that he did, the rustle of the parchment in the sink. There was silence for a moment, and it seemed the whole house held its breath, as he heard no sound at all except the sickly beating of his heart. There was a metallic clang, the sound of her footsteps retreating and the door as it shut behind her. He lay still for a moment, unable to move, and then he got hold of himself, gained his feet and went to see what the sound had been.

Lying in the basin was an Order of Merlin, first class.

He threw open her door.

"And what is this supposed to mean?" he said.

"Whatever you want it to mean, I suppose," she said, her back turned to him. She was gathering clothes from her bed and piling them into a hamper, seemingly deliberately busy.

"I don't want it," he said.

"Yes, you've made that perfectly clear. However, as it isn't mine, I thought it would be best that I rid myself of it."

Snape paused. Her tone was light, but it bore none of her usual unconcern. In fact, she sounded furious, a fact which both unnerved and angered him. What right did she have to be angry? She was the one who'd gone off without him, without even so much as a proper goodbye, to a place he found objectionable and then returned with some kind of---and she'd never before--what exactly was he supposed to do with this situation?

"You enjoyed yourself, I presume?" he said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"Oh, yes, very much," Granger said, finally turning to look at him. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shown dangerously in the light. "I can't imagine a more enjoyable evening. I spent it in the company of near strangers, rehashing what was undeniably the best year of my life, and then I had to make a speech, graciously accepting the second class award that, as you so thoughtfully pointed out, I should have known I would get. All this without the company of my... of the man... of someone who I might have thought would support me. Smashing. Really. Can't think of a better way to bring in the new year."

Snape sputtered momentarily. How in Merlin's name was this supposed to be his fault?

"I did not force you to attend," he said. "In fact, I seem to recall advising against it--advice I thought you had taken, incidentally, until your marathon fashion rituals commenced in the lav. Which might beg the question of whom, exactly, you were trying to impress."

"Who I was trying to impress?" She shouted, and Snape thought with no small measure of alarm that he had never seen her look quite this fierce before, perhaps not even in battle. "Well, I don't know; let me think. Could it possibly be that I've spent the last several months trying to impress the Board of Governors? Or perhaps the Wizengamot? Could it be, Severus, that I am a nineteen year old, Muggleborn witch, trying desperately to do the job of someone twice my age? Could you imagine for a moment that while I might agree with you about the relative merit of a Ministry award, I can use every ounce of validation and recognition that I can get right now?"

She turned away from him and continued her pointless task. She was no longer yelling, but her voice had not lost the ferocious quality of a moment before. "If an Order of Merlin makes those bastards take me seriously for even one second longer than they otherwise would have, then how can I turn one down?" Her voice broke, and Snape felt a horrible, traitorous urge inside himself to go to her. "This is my job, Severus. This is my life. I'm not in a position to act like John Lennon returning his MBE. And I--" She looked over her shoulder at him with an expression so pained and naked that it cut him clean through. "--I understood your reasons, so I didn't press the issue, but it would have been a fuck of a lot easier to take if you'd gone with me."

Snape stood there, his natural inclinations at war with one another. On the one hand, he wanted to yell at her that if she'd said any of this before, he might have known what to do and not made such an utter cock up of everything, that he was not a bloody mind reader and did not intent to be held accountable for things as if he were. It was that same hand that could not figure out how to say any of that with a shred of dignity and so was in favor of simply turning and marching coldly from the room. But on the other hand, her eyes and words seemed to be drawing something from him against his will, and he knew that no matter how terribly it pained him to do this, it was simply going to have to be done.

"I--" he looked at her, waited until he was certain that she was listening, gathered himself and tried again. "I apologize."

"You what?"

"I apologize," he said stiffly.

"Oh," she said and made a sound almost like a laugh, her posture breaking.

"I see now why you felt you needed to attend. And although I cannot promise that I would have accompanied you, I certainly would not--"

"--have been such an arse about it?" she sighed.

He pursed his lips. "Yes."

"I knew you were angry. I could practically hear you seething over there. I could hardly think of anything else all night, knowing I was going to have to endure that ridiculous parade of manners and then come home to this." She walked to the bed and sank down on it, ran her hands over her face. "I thought--oh, Christ, I thought we were going to split up over this, and I--"

He thought she was going to cry again, and it suddenly seemed imperative that he do anything to stop such a thing from happening. He walked to the bed.

"May I?" he said.

"Yes, you idiot," she said, and he sat down beside her. She leaned against his arm, and they sat quietly for a few moments.

"If it is at all helpful, I spent an equally miserable evening," he said. It unnerved him, having to say such things aloud. He felt naked, exposed to the elements, to the storm that had so recently passed through this room, leaving the air feeling supercharged and heavy, as if with ozone.

She almost-laughed again. "And my robes itch," she said petulantly, coaxing a small smile from him.

He considered replying that at least that portion of the evening's disappointments could be remedied, but he did not think that he should press his luck.

She nudged him slightly. "This is when you take them off me," she said, sotto voce.

"Perhaps in my room?" Snape said. "I find I am feeling increasingly guilty about the house-elf."

She did laugh, finally, and the sound eased him considerably, as did the sight of her as she walked to the loo, swinging her hips perhaps a bit more than she normally would.

***

There was something almost unbearably exciting about having her in his bed, about seeing her hair unbound and spread over his pillows, and he hoped that the smell of it would seep into his sheets. Her knickers were plain, in contrast to the elaborate robes he'd just helped her out of, and he was glad. It seemed that beneath all she had put on to show the world, the woman he knew still waited.

"Off with yours," she whispered, and Snape knelt on the bed and pulled his robes awkwardly over his head. They had never done this before, bared themselves in quite this way, and he felt defenseless as her eyes ran eagerly over his thin frame. He knew that he was bony, all harsh angles and depressions, and he leaned down so that his hair fell against his face and he would not have to watch her staring at him. But she ran her hands over his shoulders and down his chest, feathering her fingers over the hair that trailed up to his navel, dragging her nails lightly over his skin.

He settled beside her, and she squirmed against him, her thigh slipping between his and her face pressed into his neck, where she drew circles on his skin with her tongue. The feeling of her mouth on his neck always sent a terrible and pleasurable tingling down his spine and made him long to press against her from crown to toes and just rub himself against her body.

He slid his hand over the soft flesh of her stomach, pressing her gently back against the bed, and he felt her muscles quiver against his palm. He dipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her knickers and watched her in the semi-dark for a moment to see if she would protest. She did not, instead tipping her hips toward him until he found himself reaching deeper in, feeling the crinkle of her hair against his fingertips. His cock ground against her thigh.

"It's all right to touch me," she whispered, and ran a hand over his Y fronts as if to underscore her point.

His index finger slipped along her seam, and she nudged her hips upward again until he felt, he felt... something fundamental in his mind seemed to shut down. He felt her, and there was no point of reference in his brain for him to compare it to. She was slick and warm, the texture of her skin there unlike any other place on her body. It was secret--that was the only word he could think of to describe it. Secret.

She reached inside his pants to circle his cock with her hand, and the way their arms crossed was awkward, he with his hand in her knickers and she attempting to inch up the bed so as to get a better grip on him. She took a sudden breath as his finger slipped upward, and she froze and then, almost imperceptibly, moved against his hand. Fucking God. Desire surged through him more strongly than he had ever known. She was... he was touching her, and she liked it. His hips bucked, and she made a little noise of approval and tightened her grip--Merlin, woman, are you trying to get me to come in your hands?--and then she said, "Wait--here--this will be easier," and tugged on his shorts.

He waited, unsure, for a moment, and saw that she was raising her hips, pushing her own knickers down her legs, lifting her knees to remove them. He complied more out of dumbfoundedness than anything else. Granger was taking off her knickers. He wondered vaguely if it was possible to die of good luck.

This task complete, she rolled toward him and put his hand back where it had been. This nearly undid him, the sight of her small hand guiding his back into place between her legs, the feeling of her fingers as they pressed down against his, showing him, helping him to feel her, to please her. She reached for him, and he whispered, "Don't--I need a moment. I just want to touch you."

She kissed him, her tongue darting into his mouth, as she had so many times, except that this time, she kissed him as he pressed a finger inside her, felt tight warmth of her around him. She lifted her leg over his hip to give him more room, and the heel of his hand came up against her. She moaned, and he very nearly moaned right along with her. He was holding Granger's cunt, burying his fingers in her, feeling her squirm against him, and every second of it was the most erotic second he had ever felt, each one building on the one before until there was nothing at all in his head but want. They might have been that way for hours; he no longer had any way of knowing. He was drowning in her.

She reached beneath his arm and pulled his hips toward her, dislodging his hand, but bringing his cock against her cunt. The pressure behind his eyes--the blood pounding in his head--was so strong, he thought he might pass out. He felt her with his cock--oh, God--they were touching. He leaned back slightly, took his cock in his hand and dragged it between her lips, felt his head against the smooth heat of her. She watched him, her mouth slightly opened, her breathing shallow and quick, and then she tugged on his shoulders, trying to bring him over her.

"It's good... yes, come on," she breathed.

Yes. Yes, she said. He was on his knees between hers when fear began to edge up on the lust. He had no idea what he was doing--she'd showed him the other, she'd showed him with her hands, but this... He wanted to, God, yes, he wanted to; he'd thought of nothing for the last hour but how badly he needed to get in her, but this luck of his was going to run out. He was going to fumble this somehow, and it wasn't going to be what she wanted. She probably thought that he was going to impress her, that he was going to teach her, that he knew something that he didn't know. And oh--he had never thought of it before but the idea was so strong it nearly knocked the wind out of him--what if she had fantasized, what if she had imagined that he--what if this was all some student-teacher thing?

He backed up on his knees, sat back and put his hands on his thighs, covering himself. "I--"

"Severus?"

He looked at her, and even in the shadows, he could see the confusion in her face, the way her brows furrowed over lust-shot eyes.

"I don't know what you expect," he said. "I am not--"

"I'm not expecting anything," she said. "I mean, I'm not expecting you to--"

"I have never done this before," he said, and as the words left him, he felt himself go cold.

She twitched her hand slightly where it lay against the mattress as if she were waving away a trivial bit of information. "Good," she said, and she sounded almost relieved. "Because I thought you wouldn't want to if you knew I hadn't."

He sat there for a moment, breathing. His thoughts raced around his brain. She hadn't? Should he even be the one to-- but it was good, wasn't it? Because she wouldn't be judging him. But if it went badly--

"I can practically hear the wheels turning," she said. "What are you thinking? Do you not want to?"

"No," he said quietly. "No, I want to."

"I want to, too," she said. "Come here."

He eased himself over her and braced himself on his elbows. "Contraception?" he said, and the word felt exotic and strangely dirty in his mouth.

"Taken care of," she said.

They kissed, slowly at first, and then the kiss deepened until he felt the return of that pulsing in his head, the surging of his blood, the need to feel her all over him. He felt her hand on him, felt her guide him into place, felt the hot flesh of her cunt against him, and he pushed.

His thoughts shook loose and scattered; his skin had been peeled away until he was nothing but the raw pleasure of being inside her, of feeling her tighten and grip him, the sweetest, most intense feeling he had ever known. It took all his concentration to come back to himself, to look to her face and measure what was happening there.

"All right?" he said hoarsely.

She nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "Good." He scrutinized her as well as he was able, but she seemed to tell the truth. Her body still reached for him, her hands still held onto his hips, pulling him in.

He moved slowly, so as not to hurt her, and because moving quickly was almost too much; he was so close to the edge already. He pushed himself up on his hands and looked between them, watched his cock as it disappeared inside her, and lost it entirely.

He felt as if something was being drawn out of him from the base of his spine, something that had his balls in its delicious grip, and he came into her, just coming and coming and coming.

"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, I couldn't help it."

She smiled broadly--pleased, it seemed, though he could not imagine why, though it thrilled him that she was. Then she buried her hands in his hair and kissed him so thoroughly that he could almost have repeated the whole performance.

***

That night, he lay wakeful for a while after she fell asleep, feeling the press of his naked skin against her back. This was allowed, it seemed. His cock could just touch her while she was sleeping. He felt himself going hard at the thought and fought to change the subject in his mind.

I am no longer a virgin, he thought with some wonder. He'd thought that would always be a fact of his life, like his nose, or breathing air, or wearing clothes to bed.

Granger made a muffled noise in her sleep, and he thought of her, of the realness of her: the flash of her eyes when she was angry, the way she bit her lips when she was thinking hard, her endless showers, her traveling music, the wet sound of her mouth when he licked it with his. She was real.

"Happy New Year," he whispered, before falling headlong into sleep.