Fairy Feller's Masterstroke

Author's Note: I wanted this chapter to coincide with the beginning of March Madness – a homage to all of you basketball fans out there. International Drinking Rules can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Drinking_Rules

Fairy-Feller's Masterstroke

Over the next several weeks, following his recovery from his brief illness, Snape found himself more and more in the company of Hermione and Draco and less and less in the company of Miranda. His apologies, one of which he had tendered to Draco, who accepted it in his solemn and considerate way, seemed to have reinstated Snape's open invitation to spend evenings at Malfoy Manor. Hermione's Christmas there had created a bond between her and Draco that was immediately noticeable on such evenings; it made Snape feel very comfortable and easy in their presence, and even Neville's periodic attendance at the manor did nothing to mar this camaraderie. It had occurred to Snape to wonder what Potter and Weasley had made of Hermione's turning to a Malfoy for comfort, but his speculation always ended by his picturing the duo's faces as she explained to them why, exactly, that comfort was needed in the first place. Presumably, then, she had not told them anything. Whenever he thought of it, however, the very image of Weasley's outrage gave him a frisson of spiteful delight, and he hoped that, should circumstances ever change, he was a witness to the young men's reactions.

Snape also grew ever more convinced that Miranda's claimed lack of jealousy or possessiveness was genuine; as the days went by and their time spent together dwindled, she made no complaints. She seemed quite content with whatever amount of time he was willing to grant her, and her physical attentions remained as ardent as ever – if 'ardent' were an appropriate word to describe her particular detached passion. Their less frequent interaction also gave Snape the leisure to reflect on their relationship, and on Miranda herself, in an analytical manner he had not hitherto employed. Clear in his memory now were the reservations he had entertained about her at the beginning of the school year, none of which had been resolved. All of their many conversations, having been centred largely on academic topics, had not revealed much about her experiences after Hogwarts or her married life. Having confessed to leaving her husband, Miranda had never elaborated on her reasons for it, nor on any legal or familial repercussions she might be suffering as a result. In fact, her personal life was still a complete mystery, as far as he was concerned, apart from those bits that included Snape himself. With the exception of Draco's sketchy gossip all those months ago, Snape also remained in the dark regarding the character of Antonio Silva, about whom Miranda almost never spoke.

With these gaps in his knowledge in mind, Snape took himself to the library on several occasions to try to rectify his ignorance. As the repository of information for the magical youth of Britain, the Hogwarts library seemed suddenly woefully inadequate to him: the most recent volumes of pureblood genealogy were too old to contain any mention of Antonio Silva – through the older generations of his family had certainly been a colourful and eccentric lot, as was usually the case among traditional, and therefore heavily inbred, pureblood families – and, of course, the library held no information on Miranda whatsoever except her school reports, which Snape already knew quite well, given that he had helped to write them. He could go to the Ministry and use their resources, he supposed, but such a trip was, in his estimation, hardly worth the time and effort required; alternatively, he could ask Hermione for help – research was, after all, one of her favourite activities – but he did not want to do that either. His desire for information remained unfulfilled, therefore, for the time being; he decided to make a more thorough search during the Easter holidays, when he would have time to go to the Ministry in London and, possibly, to visit the Malfoys in Azkaban and pick their brains.

He raised the issue with Draco one Saturday night in March. They were sitting at the dining room table in Malfoy Manor, finishing Irish coffees after dinner. Snape could hear Hermione and Neville talking in the conservatory; the weather that night was unusually mild, and a fresh breeze coming through the open windows blew their voices back to him.

'You think my parents might know more than what I remember?' Draco was asking in a faintly slurred voice. He had served wine with the meal, and they were all slightly tipsy.

'I think they might. And I'd rather ask them than anyone else. They're my friends.'

Draco sighed and stared into his coffee. 'Why don't you just ask Filius? He's bound to have thought of all this when Miranda applied to work at Hogwarts.'

Snape shuddered at the thought. 'My personal life is none of his business. Besides,' he added, 'I'm not looking for evidence of criminal wrong-doing.'

'You just want to satisfy your curiosity.' Draco nodded. 'Come along to Azkaban with me, then. I'm sure my parents will help you if they can.'

The thought of visiting the remote prison did not entice Snape in the slightest; even the few short days he had spent there twenty-five years ago haunted him. The prospect was not nearly so abhorrent, however, as it would have been had the Dementors still guarded the island, so he steeled himself to face it when the time came.

Footsteps interrupted the silence in the dining room; Neville entered, carrying a pack of cards, and announced, 'We've got a couple of bottles of wine left. Bridge, anyone?'

Snape groaned.

'Bridge is too hard when we've been drinking,' Draco complained. 'Nobody can concentrate properly.'

'Come on, Draco,' Neville bullied, plucking the wine bottles from the sideboard and waving them temptingly. 'Gryffindor versus Slytherin for the honour of our houses.'

'Fine,' Draco acquiesced, 'but on one condition. International Drinking Rules – and anyone who makes a stupid bid or loses has to sink their beverage.' He headed toward the door to the conservatory, still nursing his coffee, his steps slightly unsteady.

Snape tried to linger behind, but Neville was having none of it. 'Off your arse, Severus,' he commanded. 'Hermione's waiting.'

The best two out of three rubbers went to Hermione and Neville, as Snape had known they would: Draco was drunk and Snape, regrettably middle-aged, could no longer hold his wine as well as he used to. They had only managed to win the second rubber because Hermione had doubled, in a display of such incredible stupidity that Draco had made her down two glasses of wine on the spot; unfortunately, Draco seemed to have forgotten the rules he had insisted upon, and his cries of 'Drink, Hermione!' had resulted in the same penalty for himself.

When Snape had tallied the final rubber and announced the winner, Hermione and Neville directed identical gloating grins at him and Draco. 'Losers' penalty!' Hermione exclaimed as Neville dropped a Knut into each of their wineglasses. With a weary sigh, Snape exchanged a look of resignation with Draco and stood.

'God save the Queen,' he intoned and downed the last of his wine. Draco followed suit, then stuck his fingers into the glass to retrieve the coin. This effort seemed to be too much for him; he tumbled sideways into Neville, who laughed and caught his arm.

'Bedtime for you, I think,' he slurred and pulled Draco's limp arm around his shoulders. Together they stumbled back into the dining room, leaving Snape and Hermione alone in the conservatory.

He was tired, but Hermione, with the boundless energy of youth, leapt up from her seat and unlatched the glass door. 'Let's go into the gardens,' she proposed.

Snape followed her outdoors, grateful for the cool night air on his wine-flushed face. It was very late; a quarter moon hung on the horizon, and Orion towered above them, high in the sky. Hermione walked ahead of him, her pale yellow dress twisting around her knees in the light wind. They passed through the flowerbeds and onto the expanse of open lawn by the pond.

'I don't know why I like to go outside when I've been drinking,' said Hermione, kicking off her shoes to walk barefoot through the grass.

'Maybe it's the weather,' Snape suggested. He stood unmoving and watched her approach the edge of the water. The pond, at least, was still cold; with a gasp, she pulled her toes out of the tiny waves.

Then she turned to face him again, and he noticed that her wand was out. He fumbled in his sleeve, but it was too late: with a drunken cry of 'En guarde!' she whipped her wand in his direction. Panicked – was she having fun or seriously attacking him? – he dove out of the path of the spell, catching himself before he hit the ground. The bolt of light streaked past, nowhere near the place he had been standing: Hermione's aim was off, and she had missed him by a country mile.

He could hear her giggling as he extracted his wand. 'You want a duel?' he snarled at her.

'Yes!'

And then she was firing all sorts of hexes at him. He deflected the ones that looked as if they might come near him, but most of them sailed by, completely off target, even as she drew closer to him. After a few minutes, Hermione paused and looked at her wand quizzically, as if it, rather than her drunkenness, might be responsible for her poor aim. The sight was so comical that Snape doubled over in genuine, helpless laughter. That was his mistake: as soon as he took his eyes off her, she charged him. Dropping her wand, she ran forward and tackled him, barrelling into his hips. Off-balance from his bent position, he fell over, expelling his breath in a great whoosh as his back slammed into the ground. Hermione sat on his chest and looked down at him triumphantly as he wheezed.

'I win,' she said gleefully.

'You cheated,' he rasped.

'Cheaters never win,' she intoned sententiously. 'But I won, so I can't have cheated.'

He was getting his breath back now, despite the pressure of her weight on his ribcage. Furtively, he pushed his wand aside on the grass and tensed the muscles in his legs. 'I believe the proverb is cheaters never prosper.'

'I still won,' she countered, offering him a maddening shrug.

'You think so?' he said silkily. Suddenly, he flipped over, dislodging her easily and pinned her beneath him in one swift, graceful move. 'Are you winning now?'

'Oh, yes,' she breathed, looking up at him. The moonlight bathed her face, and in its pale glow, Snape could clearly see her dark eyes and smooth, soft skin. She panted through parted red lips – he had knocked the breath out of her, too – and she looked just as he imagined she would if she were lying beneath him in the throes of passion. He was seized by an almost irresistible desire to kiss her, to bury one hand in her wild curls and slide the other beneath her grass-stained dress, to worship her bare body in this cold, white light. He could feel the heat of her flushed skin beneath his hands where he was holding her in place; he was already on top of her; gazing down at her half-closed eyes, he knew she felt the same way; all he needed to do to set things in motion was lean forward and brush his lips against hers...

Instead, he moved away from her and sat in the grass, resting his arms across his raised knees. 'Oh, God, Hermione,' he whispered.

She sat up and came to kneel behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. For a long while, she didn't move; then, gently, she began to massage the muscles where his shoulders met his neck. He relaxed against her, letting her soothe him, wishing with a fervency borne of frustration that he could have done what he wanted to do. But it would not have been right: he was not that kind of man, and he didn't want Hermione to be that kind of woman. He would not use Hermione, not in that way, not in the way that he used Miranda – and in the way that Miranda used him.

'I'm sorry, Hermione,' he said quietly.

'It's all right,' she said immediately, softly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer. 'We needn't rush. We have all the time in the world.'

***

The knowledge that Hermione still wanted him, that she was willing to wait for him, cleansed Snape of all desire for Miranda. All of the admiration he had once felt for her mind and for her body paled in comparison to his appreciation for Hermione, who was sweet where Miranda was harsh, soft where Miranda was hard, warm where Miranda was cold, open where Miranda was secretive... He could have kept such a list going almost indefinitely. When he closed his eyes and thought of Hermione, he saw gleaming, colourful sunbursts; his mental picture of Miranda was the Venus de Milo – a blank, white and incomplete image of feminine beauty.

And yet, when he thought of ending his relationship with her, his perpetual uneasiness about her blossomed into a dull, grinding fear, not for himself, but for Hermione. He couldn't explain this reaction; nothing Miranda had ever done suggested that there was any reason for fear – hadn't she remained calm and forgiving in the face of Hermione's unprovoked attack? – but Snape had not survived as a double-agent for twenty years by ignoring his intuition. His sixth sense told him that, however reasonable she might appear to be, Miranda merited the same caution one might employ in the presence of a very dangerous, and very clever, animal.

So, for some time, Snape did nothing. He continued to see Miranda periodically; he spent most of his free time at Malfoy Manor; he taught his classes and held meetings of the Duelling Club. Nobody questioned this routine. And Snape thought, and planned, and wondered, and analysed, and nursed in his mind the resentment toward Miranda that began to grow there. The feeling was pleasant to him; it had been too long since he had had an object of hate to force his thoughts and intentions to coalesce into bright, sharp crystal-clarity.

Above all, however, Snape watched Miranda. He had been a spy; he was good at watching. He hoped his intense observation would reveal something to him about her own plans and motivations, for he had decided that this was what he wanted to know about most of all. Why was she with him? What did she see in him? What did she want from him? She did not love him, though she did seem to like him at least a little; she took pleasure in their intellectual conversations; she enjoyed sleeping with him. Could it truly be that what she wanted from him was... friendship? Again, while nothing she did or said contradicted it, he felt instinctively that this conclusion was the wrong one. For one thing, she was not interested in comforting him or seeing to his emotional needs. Her lack of sympathy was remarkable: following her brief evening spent playing Florence Nightingale, she had never asked after his health again or shown any concern regarding his well-being. For another, she seemed to require no such interest or concern from him. If she had any problems or worries, she did not turn to Snape for support or reassurance. He was ready to admit that his experiences with friendship were few and, of course, uniquely odd, but his life had not been so devoid of companionship that he didn't know that these things were essential components of the friend-relationship. Perhaps, then, she just wanted a regular sexual arrangement with someone who was reasonably intelligent and attractive. But this answer did not quite strike true either; Miranda, attractive as she was, could have found that sort of arrangement with almost anyone she chose – it did not have to be Snape who played the role of her lover.

At this point in his analysis, Snape always drew a blank; even his sly and suspicious mind could provide no further speculations about Miranda's interest except for ones he dismissed out of hand: he was not wealthy, influential, or well connected. Nor, he thought ruefully, were his genes the sort that might attract a woman hoping to have the 'perfect' child. In fact, Snape had nothing at all to offer a woman except himself – the very thing about which Miranda seemed supremely indifferent.

Near the middle of April, however, an event occurred that gave Snape the insight he needed into Miranda's character. That Friday was the last meeting of the Duelling Club before the Easter holidays; the students were rowdy and excited, as many of them would not be able to participate again until after O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s were over. Snape had decided to put their mastery of duelling skills to the test in a tournament. To that end, he had organised the sixteen older students into pairs and drawn up a schedule of fifteen single-elimination bouts that would narrow down the group to a single champion, who would be permitted to choose a prize. Snape fully expected the winner to ask for house points; lately, he had spent a lot of time in the Entrance Hall, staring at the hourglasses and trying to work out how many points he could give without upsetting the current balance too much.

Because he wanted to give the students taking part in the tournament a chance to prepare, he had published the brackets outside the Great Hall the previous weekend. This turned out to have been something of a mistake; he had confiscated innumerable copies of the list from students during lessons, children who were too distracted by their attempts to pick the winners to focus on learning. The rest of the staff had also caught wind of the event; being something of a duelling enthusiast himself, Flitwick did not object when Snape discovered Madam Hooch running a book and even 'anonymously' placed fifteen Galleons on Stephen Corner to win. Snape had been unable to hold in his derisive snort when Draco told him – he very much doubted that Corner would make it even as far as the semi-finals.

After dinner, Snape and Hermione had set up one of the house tables in the middle of the Great Hall and arranged benches for the spectators on either side of it. They had decided to allow non-members to attend and reserved the first row of benches for the first- and second-years, who were too short to watch from the back rows. Shortly before eight o'clock, students began filing into the hall. The first to arrive were the competitors themselves, who stood at one end of the room in an excited and nervous huddle. Then the younger students came in, escorted by their Heads of House, and finally the upper forms, who carried their copies of the brackets and, noticing the many white faces amongst the competitors at the back of the room, began to make surreptitious changes to their predictions.

When the rest of the staff had arrived and taken their seats, Snape closed the doors to the Great Hall and explained the rules of the tournament to the assembled audience. Each duel would last for precisely five minutes, at the end of which he and Hermione, as the judges, would determine the winner. Points would be awarded for etiquette, showmanship, creativity, and accuracy of casting. The student who won the whole tournament would receive a trophy and a prize of his or her choosing. As he spoke, Hermione made her way around the centre table, casting protective charms to prevent stray spells from damaging the spectators or the Great Hall.

Then, taking his seat next to Hermione in the front row of benches, Snape announced the first duel.

The nervousness of the competitors seemed to wear off as each one in turn climbed onto the table to face his or her opponent. The excitement in the room was palpable; the spectators cheered the inventive spells and flashy manoeuvres, and many of the competing duellists took confidence from this. At the end of the first round, when eight of the sixteen duellists had been eliminated, Snape announced a short break. During those five minutes, which he spent walking around the Great Hall to stretch his legs – sitting still for long periods of time was not very comfortable for him these days – he noticed money changing hands amongst many of the students and staff. Those gamblers who had supported the losing duellists were being forced to pay up.

The second round took only half as long as the first; Stephen Corner lost, as Snape had predicted, and he grinned at the knowledge that Madam Hooch was now fifteen Galleons richer for Flitwick's folly. The four remaining competitors, three girls and a boy, were all Slytherins; Snape thought that Draco must be proud. Glancing across the room at Miranda, Snape noted that she seemed pleased with the results of the tournament so far, despite the fact that all of her Ravenclaws had been eliminated. He supposed she simply enjoyed the cut and thrust of a good competition.

At last, just before ten o'clock, Snape called a halt to the final duel. He and Hermione argued for a few minutes over their judgments; then Snape climbed atop the table and said, 'The winner of the 2005 Hogwarts Duelling Tournament is... Selene Harper!'

The tall, blonde Slytherin seventh-year joined Snape on the table amid deafening cheers from her housemates. She had performed amazingly well, Snape thought, handing her the trophy: her aim was unerring and her physical evasions were some of the most graceful and economical Snape had seen in someone with so little experience. She was too young to remember the days when Snape had been Head of Slytherin; nevertheless, she beamed at him with obvious pleasure at winning such an honour for her house.

'Miss Harper, as the winner of the tournament, you now have the opportunity to choose a prize. Have you decided yet what it will be?'

She looked over her shoulder at the other Slytherin competitors and nodded, then turned back to Snape and said, 'Yes, we all decided what we would ask for if one of us won.'

'And that is?' he prompted, expecting a demand for a ridiculous number of house points for Slytherin.

To his complete surprise, she responded, 'I would like to see Professor Silva and Professor Granger duel –'

He started to interrupt; surely she could think of something far more rewarding! But then she finished:

'– with you and Professor Malfoy.'

Snape's objection was pre-empted by the Headmaster's enthusiastic shout of, 'An excellent idea, Miss Harper! We can all watch.' With a flick of his wand, he directed a second house table into position parallel with the first and smiled encouragingly at Snape.

Gritting his teeth, he watched as Miranda eagerly joined him on the table, followed by Draco and Hermione, neither of whom looked especially pleased by Selene Harper's choice of prize.

'Headmaster,' Snape began, 'surely we haven't the time for this? It is nearly curfew for the younger students.'

'Not at all!' exclaimed Flitwick, who was seated amongst the first-years in the front row. 'This will be a special treat for them – a dual duel!'

Groaning inwardly at the terrible pun, Snape sighed in resignation and moved to the end of the first table. Draco stood next to him and said under his breath, 'Stupid idea, letting students choose their own rewards.'

'Clearly,' Snape drawled. Bowing, he presented his wand to the women, keeping his eyes on Flitwick in anticipation of the signal to begin.

Flitwick's arm dropped; Snape brought his wand up immediately and cast two rapid Petrifying Hexes toward the other end of the table. Both spells missed, and he dodged rapidly behind Draco's Shield Charm to avoid the Stinging Hex careening his way. Draco continued to provide the defence while Snape shot spell after spell at the women across from them. From what he could see, Hermione was covering Miranda's offensive attacks, but she was doing a much better job than Draco. In fact, she and Miranda worked together like an extremely efficient and well-oiled machine; both of them moved around a great deal but never seemed to get in each other's way, and the timing with which they lowered and raised their Shield Charms to cast curses at the men and yet still provide cover for themselves was impeccable. Snape knew they couldn't have practised this, and not for the first time he wondered if there was something special about communication between women that men would never really grasp or master.

After ten minutes, Flitwick called a halt to the duel and joined his four teachers on the tables. 'I think we should let the students decide the winner, don't you?' he called out. 'Who chooses Professors Snape and Malfoy?' A great roar of applause greeted his question, coming largely from that part of the room occupied by Slytherin House. 'And who thinks Professors Granger and Silva performed the best?'

This time, the screams and cheers and stomps were deafening; Snape stared around the room in amazement as the other three houses shouted themselves hoarse in acclamation for the two women. Returning his gaze to his colleagues, he saw that Hermione was grinning happily, no doubt pleased to lived up to expectations. The look on Miranda's face was harder to interpret; she met his eyes and seemed to direct her expression at him, a subtle smile that contained no small amount of smugness and satisfaction, as well as some other emotion he couldn't immediately identify. He began to clap for them too, shooting a pointed glance at Draco, who dropped his wand on the table in good-natured capitulation. By popular choice, the women had defeated the men; female dominance was clearly on the rise at Hogwarts.

Later that night, after he had consumed a great deal of champagne at Malfoy Manor in celebration of the successful tournament, Miranda came to him in his rooms and seduced him. He observed with great fascination as she divested them both of their robes; for once, he felt as detached as she always seemed to be. His fascination only grew as she used all of her considerable skill to bring him to the edge of orgasm over and over but never allowed him to reach the peak – and then, with a startling clarity that he had never believed he was capable of achieving in this drunken, frustrated state, he realised exactly what she was doing and why.

She was trying to defeat him in this, the way she had defeated him in the duel that night, and the look on her face that had so puzzled him was an expression of triumph. Now, as she controlled his body and relished in her ability to do so, he felt like a city being sacked by an invading army. Having killed the men and raped the women – his resistance and his good sense – she was now enslaving the children: his willpower. She was trying to break him, to make him dependent on her for pleasure and completion. And she thought he would accept it passively. Even as the very idea of being treated in this way made him sick, he smiled a little to himself, a devious and unforgiving look that many of his former students would have recognised.

He let Miranda carry on for a bit while he planned his assault; then, with a growl, he flipped her onto her back and pinned her wrists against his mattress. Slowly, deliberately, he slid inside her, maintaining eye contact and making sure she felt every movement of his body on hers. She gazed up at him, still detached, and his smile grew with the knowledge that she would not preserve that detachment for much longer. He had never minded her emotional barriers before, so he had never tried to breach them; he would do so now and make her a victim of her own strategy – because he would not be broken, and in breaking her, he would conquer the fear that had held him captive for the past month.

He made love to her masterfully, touching her, stroking her, bringing her closer and closer to climax, kissing her devotedly and passionately, until at last, finding his own release in the convulsions of her powerful orgasm, he heard surrender in her scream of the first word she had ever said in bed with him:

'Severus!'