4

Lily smelled of spring, Hermione of the fall. Both of them with notes of honey, but not the same honey, honey from different blooms. Buckwheat honey, that’s Hermione. Lily is too long gone for him to remember anymore. His nose is large, and his nose is clever, but never clever enough. Lily used to say if this war gets all too much for us, we’ll run away and buy a vineyard; keen smell’s a plus in that business. He knows very little about wine, only that the more vines struggle against drought and ill light the better fruit they yield. He thinks about their vineyard, how the three of them would bottle the very finest. Red not white, because white must be served chilled and Severus has had enough of cold. He thinks of honey-women at harvest time, grapes beneath their feet. Lily. Hermione. They hitch up their skirts, but the hems catch in the juice. It stains the fabric the color of plums.

He of all people should know how to quiet his mind.

He catches Hermione out after hours the night of Ronald Weasley’s narrow miss. She’s alone. If Potter--

Potter, Potter, please. It’s a small blue bottle. The Snakecure Serum. Left front pocket, nearest the heart. Listen for once; listen to me. It’s a small blue bottle, a small--

She's alone. If Potter were with her she’d be safe under his cloak and he wouldn’t have seen her at all.

“Miss Granger,” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m scared,” she says, which he realizes later is not exactly an answer.

“Mr. Weasley will recover.”

“I’m scared all the time these days.”

He doesn’t tell her he’s scared too. He’s her teacher; he can’t burden her like that. Can’t burden any of them. He’s her teacher; he ought not back her against the wall, part her knees with his own, draw a hand slowly up her thigh. No one else is in the corridor, but they’re two doors away from Weasley’s sickbed. Poppy will be hovering. Poppy with her shrewd ears. “Please,” says Hermione, her voice little more than breath, and he cups her. He pulls the crotch of her knickers aside. She nods, and so he takes her again, right there, braced against the cold stones. He thrusts harder this time, but Hermione’s much quieter, only a kittenish little keening. Where she’s tight, she gets twitchy-tighter, once, twice, three times. She rocks against him, frenzied, but still she makes no sound.

“Let it out,” he says. “Let it out.”

She’s crying quietly.

“Don’t stop,” she says when she sees he’s noticed the tears. It’s a whisper. “Hard now. Harder.” That’s a whisper too.

He pounds and pounds. Harder like she asked, hard as he can ever remember going. He feels her come once more, and they both look down, rapt, to watch the in and out of their bodies meeting. The castle sleeps. It’s appalling that no one catches them; even the portraits snore. He expected better of the school’s guardians. Their world is at war. They really ought to be more alert.

After, she thanks him, of all the preposterous things. Why has no one come running? The castle’s always so quiet by night. The tiniest sounds carry. When she leaves him, he can still hear her footsteps halfway down the hall…

AN: Sorry so short! The next one will be longer.

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