Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Hermione stands in the changing room, the white robes puddled on the floor at her feet, and looks at her body. There are strips and strands of the sheathe remaining...mainly those attached to the woven collar of the garment. She flicks her fingers angrily and the remaining tatters Vanish. Now it is just her, in her skin, save for the glamour still disguising her face.

She turns her back and picks up a hand mirror to see her back and bottom. Just as he said, there is a darkening bruise marring the curve of her left buttock. How dare he mark her with ownership if he never meant to follow through?

In another burst of temper she hurls the hand mirror at the wall mirror, but it pings off harmlessly and falls to the floor.

"Well, I never!" the wall mirror exclaims, sounding quite indignant. "None of that from you, missy. You'd best get your clothes on and go home. Break mirrors there!"

Hermione thrusts herself into the shower. Had she actually been thinking of not washing him off her? She twists the taps, turning the water as hot as she can stand it. She'd scald him from her skin if she could ...

In the privacy of shower stall in the dressing room at TPE, she slides down the tile wall, her face in her hands, and cries until the water runs cold.

Severus walks out of the session room and flings himself into the cold air of the October night. It's late now...he stayed with her for nearly two hours, fool that he is...and he needs to be back at the castle for a last patrol of the corridors for Halloween high-jinks. The ghosts do their part, but he has promised Minerva he will do a final check.

He darts a nervous look around him. Here he is, a mighty war hero, terrified of being found on the street by a little girl. Surely she's no more than twenty-two, could scarcely weigh eight stone, and if she's like most of the young witches he meets at TPE, she hardly knows her wand is good for anything more than applying cosmetic charms.

Even so, he turns into Disapparition, and arriving at Hogwarts, he Disillusions himself. The gates are Charmed to allow him through without opening, and he strides up the long drive, his mind seething with jittering confusion from thought to undisciplined thought.

She is lovely, his little Kitten...not his and not Kitten but Kitty, bugger it all...but she is too young, too unspoiled, too innocent (for all her sexual appetite) for the likes of him.

If he were looking for a partner...which he certainly isn't...he would look for a woman no younger than the mid-thirties, intelligent, with some life experience. A woman who might be able to grasp some small part of the life he's lived. She needn't be particularly pretty...he did not want to be one of those men constantly on the look-out for other men wanting his woman...and he didn't even mind if she had children. Merlin knew he was familiar with disciplining them, and for a period of time, he could play the father role, if he had to.

He feels like an idiot. He allowed himself to become immersed in the moment with a submissive, and he lost all perspective. He behaved like the veriest beginner with her, as if he were wooing her, rather than servicing a need. He made her promise to call herself "Kitten" just to please him...and she was oh, so willing to do it.

The sudden pain is like a knife piercing his chest. It is only emotional anguish...nothing real or important...but it staggers him with its intensity.

She saw me...saw my soul...and she liked what she saw.

He forces himself to walk on, shaking his head to dislodge the silly, sentimental...adolescent, even, and he knows of no greater insult than that...feelings about Kitten. It was an illusion. She is a submissive who responded beautifully to him...she would have done for any dominant who went to her, no doubt...there is nothing personal about it.

There is. It's personal. And when I called her Kitty at the end ...

The memory of the hurt on her face feels like a twist of the knife in his chest. It is behind his breastbone, making him feel short of breath. He is likely having some sort of breakdown. It's of no consequence. He'll persevere. He'll patrol the halls, go to his rooms, and down a stiff brandy.

He'll be fine. And he won't think of Kitten again. It's pointless.

Hermione is climbing up the marble staircase to the third floor, where her room is located, her thoughts far away. She nearly walks into Professor Snape, who is standing on the landing, his black eyes narrowed and suspicious.

For a moment, Hermione is a student again, almost always guilty of something Snape will disapprove of. That lasts only an instant, then passes. She meets Snape's eye and raises her chin, straightening her spine to stand as tall as she can.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," she says, moving around him with her head held high.

"Where have you been?" he asks sharply.

Her back is to him, but she turns her head to the side to speak to him. "I think, Professor, that is none of your business."

When he moves around her and forces her to stop again by standing in her path, she is impressed. He is remarkably quick on his feet for a man of his age.

"I would like to know," he says, his thin lips pressed into a line of displeasure. "Humour me."

She inspects him, wondering how she ever imagined this man would want to ... do things to her. She glances from his face down to his clothing. No jumper beneath his frock coat, but a black cravat, as always. His arms are crossed over his chest, a belligerent attitude to block the hallway. She looks at his hands, which are resting on his elbows, and she weakens. Those could easily be the hands of Sir Tobias. Does he have a red silk scarf in his trousers pocket? What would he say if she put her hand in there to find out?

"Well?"

She responds with the first thing that comes to her mind. "I was at Harry's Place. It was their opening tonight, you know."

His frown deepens, but Hermione does not stay to argue. The turmoil she suppressed as she left TPE is rising in her chest like smoke, thickening by the second, to the point she feels she can scarcely draw breath.

She hurries to her room, her head down, her arms wrapped protectively around herself.

Severus watches her retreating figure, his righteous indignation at her late return on a school night supplanted by other thoughts.

She left the Halloween Feast before he did...he saw her go. And he was at Harry's Place. She wasn't there...he even remarked on her absence.

Where has she actually been?

Bugger Granger. He has problems of his own. He glances at his watch. It is nearly midnight. The corridors are quiet, no students out of bed. He can leave the ghosts to patrol the castle and wake McGonagall if there's an issue.

For himself, Severus finds that he needs another point of view...a worldly, sardonic one, preferably. And if that input should come with a snifter of cognac far better than any he could ever afford, all the better.

Lucius Malfoy sits in his study with his old friend, swirling the Grande Champagne Cognac in the finest wizarding crystal, a delicate tulip glass. The decanter from which he has dispensed the liquor sits on the table at his elbow, a thing of beauty in itself. Hand-blown from gothic black crystal, it was given to his ancestor, Louis Malfoy, in 1673, for service to the Ministry. It is one of the treasures of his family, and he brings it out only for special occasions...or when he needs a bit of a lift, which occurs more frequently now because of the tedious house arrest he endures.

Besides, Severus looks like death warmed over. He deserves a special treat.

Severus is one of the few former associates who continue to visit. Lucius, who is easily bored, rewards this constancy to encourage frequent repetition. Narcissa, unruffled and magnificent as ever, is better able to amuse herself with projects around the estate, but Lucius is a social creature. He misses society.

Narcissa is sleeping. She maintains a strict schedule, as if nothing in their lives has changed. Lucius is unable to be as disciplined as his wife. He stays up late, reading into the wee hours. And very occasionally, once Narcissa is safely tucked up for the night, he manages to escape to TPE with the help of Slinky, his only remaining house servant. House-elf magic continues to be undetectable to Magical Law Enforcement, so Slinky can take him to London by Side-Along Apparition. And the glamour Lucius wears at TPE gives him complete anonymity as Sir Ambrosius Aurelianus.

Lucius can be a selfish creature, vain and thoughtless, but he is still recreating himself, after his dismantlement by the Dark Lord. This time around, he can choose the characteristics he will possess. He has no intention of "reforming," as directed by the Wizengamot, but there is no harm in being more mindful of the important things in life...his family, Narcissa and Draco, and friends.

Friend.

Now he exerts himself to be a good listener. Severus tells his story in painful stops and starts, his self-blame radiating like heat from the sun.

"Kitty, you say?" Lucius says.

Severus nods morosely and takes another sip of cognac. "Newcomer, but not awkward and frightened, like they usually are."

Lucius nods to indicate understanding, though he has no experience of the newcomers. On his rare visits to TPE, he seeks out experienced partners...he finds the encounters far more satisfactory that way.

"She is perfect. She is all curves, ivory and rose skin. Intelligent, too...I can tell. And responsive. Sweet Merlin."

Lucius, shifts in his chair, crossing one exquisitely clad leg over the other, admiring the cut and colour of his dove grey trousers. Dragging his mind from his tailoring, he cocks his head to one side.

"I'm not following you, old man. What is the problem? She told you she has no husband. If you're concerned that she's lying to you, I could speak to my man of business ..."

Severus raises his haunted eyes to Lucius' face. "Don't you see? I can't become involved with some girl who knows nothing about who I am and what I've done."

Lucius places the cognac glass on the table and leans forwardly slightly. "Why ever not?"

"I have no room in my life for a young woman with a hero worship fixation," Severus replies. "And I have no interest in settling down."

Lucius holds out his empty hands. "I see. It is not a matter of scruples. An entanglement would be ... inconvenient."

Severus drains his cognac and stares down into the empty glass, twisting the fragile crystal stem between his fingers. When he speaks again, he speaks to the glass. "She's perfect. It felt like she saw right through the glamour...as if she knew me right down to my soul."

Lucius watches him, sorting out the puzzle of Severus' behaviour. Clearly, something has wedged itself between Severus and his inimitable equilibrium. It is almost indecent for the spy who played both ends against the middle to be brought low by something called "Kitty."

"Perhaps she was using an additional enhancement glamour...as a newcomer, she would be insecure and wish to use all her resources to engage her partner."

For the briefest moment, relief flits across Severus' face...after all, it is better to have been made a fool by a young woman's admiration than to be a fool in love...but then he raises scornful eyes to Lucius' face.

"Do you think I have fallen so low I cannot perceive the use of magic in my presence?"

Lucius' reply is immediate, and he injects his words with all the sincerity at his command. "Of course not. Don't despair. You need never see her again...you never repeat your performance with any of the others. Your inclination to avoid her is simply an extension of your already well-honed talent for remaining ... singular."

He rises and pulls the fleur-de-lis stopper from the decanter, tipping another generous measure into Severus' glass. The cognac sells for more than a Hogwarts teacher makes in a year, but it is a luxury well-spent on a friend. He smiles, exerting the full force of his charm, pleased with himself that he has fulfilled his duty as a friend.

Kitty.

Lucius files the name away for future use.