Three: Proof

A/N: Cos I'm sick and can't stop. My thanks once again to fhestia and snapekat.

She'd heard it all. And wondered if it were true.

Bat of the dungeons, they called him in their scorn. The greasy git, they dubbed him, laughing behind his back. Ex-Death Eater. Turncoat. Traitor. The snake in the dark that you'd never see 'til he struck.

The Hufflepuffs were afraid of him. They all were, but the Hufflepuffs especially so. Unforgiving, biased, unjust, they labelled him, muttering at his favouritism and prejudice that messed with their concrete definitions of fairness.

The Gryffindors hated him. Intolerant, nasty, humourless, they denounced him as, convinced he existed purely to ruin their lives; self-centric in the way Gryffindors were.

The Slytherins admired him. Champion of their cause, punisher of fools and defender of their rightful place above all others. They stood behind him in all things and smirked at those stupid enough to challenge.

But the Ravenclaws had not yet passed final sentence. Mean, they said, but strong. Bad-tempered but brilliant. Intimidating and exacting in standards. They could appreciate that, judging from all angles in the way Ravenclaws were prone to. She'd heard as many words of praise from their mouths as those of condemnation, and God knew there were plenty of the latter.

Ravenclaws left themselves open to possibilities, speculative and considering, always asking questions, demanding information that they tested, catalogued and applied. The Potions master was no different a subject matter than any other to them, but sometimes their analytical conversations wandered into unexpected areas.

She'd been in the library, sifting through the shelves in the section on politics in magical society to source material for some painfully dreary essay that Professor Binns had shackled them with when she'd overheard a small group of Ravenclaw sixth-year girls whispering at a study table behind the bookshelf she was perusing. At first, she had not known what they were discussing, merely using the sounds of their hushed voices to keep her from falling asleep on her feet. Dear lord, even the titles of the books were enough to bore her unconscious!

The realisation of the subject matter they were debating about came to her gradually, one eyebrow finally lifting in scepticism as she stifled a snort of amusement that was echoed by a majority of the girls at the table.

"I'm telling you, you're not looking at the facts," said the presenter of the theory that they were betraying their cynicism of. "They all lead to the same conclusion I've reached."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Natasha! You're just skewing the facts to fit your rather perverted hypothesis!"

Supporting murmurs followed.

"I think it more likely that you're unwilling to re-examine the evidence for fear you'll have to let go of your simplified and comfortable little categorisation, Amy," was Natasha's rather supercilious retort. "Just look at what he wears."

"The same black straightjacket he's worn ever since we've been here!"

"That's precisely the attitude I'm talking about, Amy! You're too quick to dismiss the theory at the surface level. A man who wears clothes that cover that much must have something to hide under it."

"Yeah, a pair of grey underpants!"

The girls sniggered in agreement at Amy's interjection, but Natasha refused to be dissuaded.

"You'd allow the rumour of old evidence to influence your analysis? Listen to what I'm saying."

From behind the bookshelf, their eavesdropper leant forward slightly, eyes no longer focused on the open book in her hand.

"Clothes with that many buttons take time to both put on and take off: patience and control. The cut and style of attire is close-fitting and restrictive whilst the teaching robes are longer and more voluminous than those of the other staff: carefully-considered flair. Movements precise and certain with hands as skilled and graceful in using a knife as they are elegant at rest: knowledge and experience in when and how to move."

"And she's off again," said one of the girls under her breath, making her companions giggle in agreement.

"Are you honestly telling me you have never wondered what those hands can do?" Natasha asked incredulously. "Fingers that long could reach all sorts of exciting places. Steady, delicate, rhythmic."

The faint gasps around the table evinced the shock such a scandalous thought elicited.

"Don't tell me you haven't wondered what it'd be like to have that dark voice whispering into your ear, talking dirty, making you so weak at the knees that the only thing that held you up would be the brush of his lips on your bare neck."

"What lips?" Amy muttered derisively.

"And the size of his nose..."

"Ah, Tash, you know that's just an old witches' tale! They've proved that a man's nose has nothing to do with the size of his..."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Amy. Haven't you ever had a guy go down on you?"

There was a shocked silence.

"Well, yes, but I didn't think it was all that amazing," was the reluctant reply.

"A guy, Amy, not a boy," Natasha clarified. "An experienced guy knows how to drive a girl crazy with his nose as well as his mouth and tongue."

Their eavesdropper's eyebrows shot up in astonishment.

"And he has a very long tongue."

Someone squeaked. "How do you know that?"

Natasha laughed quietly. "I saw him lick his knife at dinner once. Very, very slowly. It was one of the most erotic things I'd ever seen."

"Gross!" squawked a couple of the girls, making the others hush them lest Madam Pince descend upon them in ire for breaking the hallowed silence of her domain.

"You've all felt what it's like to have his eyes on you, so black, so penetrating that you're sure he knows what you're thinking."

"Tash, if he knew what you were thinking, he'd have a fit and then hex you into next year!"

"I don't know, Belinda," Natasha replied. "I think our Potions master has a few secrets that'd make your toes curl."

"Speculation!" the other girls pointed out, almost as one.

"Speculation is what makes it fun," Natasha giggled. "I've often wondered what he'd be like in bed."

More scandalised gasps. Their eavesdropper blinked rapidly, echoing their gasps with one of her own.

"What a nauseating thought!" said Amy quietly, though with not nearly the level of repulsion that had been in her voice previously.

Seconds of silence passed, broken only by the sound of a page being slowly turned.

"Have you ever seen two snakes fighting? I reckon it'd be like that."

"Belinda!"

"Ah, stop being such a prig, Amy!"

"Do you think he'd hold his partner down?"

"Or tie her up?"

"He'd have to, otherwise she'd run a mile."

"Shut up, Amy!" they all hissed.

Another pause. Another page turned.

"He looks like the type to be into bondage."

"Ooh, leather! That's hot!"

"Dominant or submissive?"

"Dominant!" they all pronounced emphatically and sniggered.

"Dominant all the way." There was no mistaking the taint of Natasha's grin in her voice.

Someone shifted in their chair.

"Do you think he'd talk while he was doing it?"

"Hearing him talk is like doing it!"

"Can you imagine him saying the word 'fuck'?"

More muffled giggling.

"Do you reckon he'd snarl when he came?"

"Amy!"

"I reckon he'd bite."

"You've been reading those vampire novels again, haven't you, Tracey!"

"He looks starved for it. I reckon he'd come hard."

"Hissing."

"Cursing!"

The girls snorted, and one of them drummed her feet on the floor in delight.

"But his hair is so greasy," Amy pointed out, making the others sigh and tut in annoyance.

"I bet it's to stop you from pulling it while he's growling you out," Natasha guessed.

"It wouldn't stop me! Toby loves it when I pull his hair! He says it makes him hard."

"A stiff breeze would make Toby Federson hard!" someone muttered.

"I can't imagine Snape letting a woman pull his hair. I think he'd pull her hair, though."

"While he was doing her."

"From behind!"

"On the floor!"

"Of the classroom!"

More feet drummed on the carpet in excitement, laughter muffled in hands and in crooks of elbows.

Their eavesdropper shook her head in disbelief.

There was a heavy sigh.

"I still can't see it," said Amy.

"I can!" said all the other girls simultaneously before bursting out into gales of laughter that reverberated back and forth between the walls of the library, drawing the vulture out of her eyrie to scold and drive them out for such shocking and disrespectful behaviour.

Missed by Madam Pince in her purging sweep, their eavesdropper closed the book in her hand, slotted it back into its place on the shelf and found her own way out. The girls' unashamed speculations weren't what she found surprising; it was how closely they had matched her own musings that unsettled her and, if truth be told, made her hackles rise slightly in jealousy.

She lived her life in second place, her rightful place: second in all things. Except danger. That was what she was trained for. The shield always on guard to take the brunt. Her needs did not enter into it. Her wants were unimportant.

But her fantasies were hers alone. She was entitled to them, but she held them close and caressed them when no one was looking, twisting her mind closed lest any trace of her thoughts become apparent to others and betray her selfishness and indulgence, consuming the eroticism of her sordid desires like the smooth delicacies they were, full and bittersweet, making her sigh and shudder as the flavour of them gripped her body and made her dissolve in the heat of lustful imagery.

About him.

With her.

Doing the things she wanted him to do with her. To her.

The blood would rush to her face at the thought of it, but she could never stop herself. It was a compulsion she relished, as exhilarated by its intensity as she was fearful of it, an intensity that increased steadily until it began to make her careless around him.

But she couldn't stop it, didn't want to stop it. It felt too exquisite to do anything but allow it to run through her. To make her stomach drop when she heard his voice, so silken and fluid, as masterful in arousal as it was in scorn and derision. To run her eyes over his body and wonder what it looked like uncovered, moving over her, the faintest sheen of sweat making the contours of his muscles catch the light as they rippled in rhythmic effort. To watch his hands as they gestured in graceful and unfailing exactitude, and shudder at the thought of them on her body, stroking her skin, bracing her hips, fingers dipping inside her to pull her taste to him. To marvel at the clean, arcing silhouette of his nose and imagine the enjoyment of having it sliding against her, teasingly insistent, a counterpoint to the writhing twist of his tongue as he left no part of her unsavoured. To inhale the scent of him, a melange of all the things he touched and mastered to do his bidding, eliciting a thirst in all her senses that made her curl in on herself in an effort to quench it. To wonder if she could stand the dark destructiveness of his eyes locked on hers as he pushed firmly inside her with both mind and body, leaving her no refuge from the spiralling rapture such overwhelming penetration would ignite.

Twisted and hateful, they called him in their ignorance. The black-clad wraith who went out of his way to punish and hurt, they described him as. Arrogant. Untrustworthy. Coward. The Dementor born a human to fool the unwary into carelessness.

The same man whose face was buried in her neck, whose hands had eased back her coat, trailed down over her ribs and ghosted up over her breasts and twisted themselves in her hair, whose voice had pinned her and melted her and sunk inside her in imploration and insistence, whose body had sinuated against her until she peaked in red-faced amazement under his ministrations, whose unexpected actions had let her feel what it was like to be first instead of second.

He had done nothing to satisfy her appetite, manipulating her against him in such a way that it made her want him more desperately than ever, more selfishly than ever.

First. She liked first. It made her bold enough to touch him, her hands finding the front of his coat, the ends of her fingers tracking upwards along the buttons to his throat, working the fastenings until they relaxed apart one at a time, down over his chest, down to where their bodies were pressed together. Her palms glided over his shirt, tracing the outline of his muscles as her legs tightened greedily around his hips, making him draw in his breath against her neck in a long, sucking gasp, making him shudder as she whispered his name for the first time, making the pulse inside the evidence of his lust thud against her even harder.

Slowly, deliberately, she gathered the material of his shirt in her hands and tore it straight down the centre, its buttons unable to withstand the force she put on them, seams wrenched apart in ragged wounds.

His teeth latched onto her throat as she ran her hands over his flesh, his body quivering at the contact, so unfamiliar, so delicious. His own hands left her hair and slid over her, fingers pressing firmly against her as if testing her ripeness. His skin, hot and slightly damp from his exertions, thrilled her. His body, lean and slender, promised her endurance and strength. The moans that stayed trapped behind his teeth, which thrummed against the skin of her neck, assured her of his willingness.

She wondered how he'd react if she pinned him down and fucked him six ways from Sunday. Would he submit, letting her take whatever she wanted? Would he fight her for dominance? Would it shock him or would it please him? Would it give him what he wanted or would it make him pursue even more, matching her gluttony and challenging her to best him?

She pushed him back with the flat of one hand, his heart under her palm, his teeth dragging at the skin of her neck in his reluctance to release it. Her knee pressed against him to make him sway back far enough for her to place one foot on his sternum, forcing him to edge backwards on his knees and away from her until her leg was straight.

Eyes wide, nostrils flared, bottom lip glistening faintly with moisture in the firelight, the front of his body finally revealed to her from under black and white, his raven hair brushing his collarbones as he moved...a picture to tempt her, to lure her into frenzy, to snare her in a web of delicious craving.

They stared at each other, poised in a moment of time that stretched and flexed and collapsed in on itself.

"Show me," she told him.

He blinked at her, uncertain of her meaning.

Her foot trailed down his stomach, over the waistband of his trousers and along the length of him, making him hiss and clench his hands into fists, his eyes never leaving hers. Searching. Asking.

She opened her mind. And told him.

His eyes went even wider in shock, showing more white than she had ever seen, mouth falling open to show the slightly elongated incisors that made his sneer so distinctive. His astonishment lasted only a few seconds, his eagerness to comply filling the vacuum in a swell.

Fingers wrapping around her foot, he held it still against him until she passed the control from her to him. Head bowed forward, his face hidden from her, he gazed at her foot hungrily, fingertips stroking softly, giving her the chance to study him, half-unbound and on his knees, silhouetted against the darkening afternoon through the window behind him.

She'd seen the scars at his throat. They were not new to her but no less powerful for that. Three lines across his torso, pale and precise, two crossing each other over his heart as if someone had deliberately marked it so, flexing as his chest expanded and contracted in increasing cadence. The first flush of dark hair guiding her eyes down his abdomen made her tingle at what it promised, down to where his hands cradled her foot, down to where his hips rocked gently.

He tugged at the cuffs of her trousers, his eyes lifting to her face, speaking silently to her through the warming air of the room, through the locks of his hair that she wanted clenched tightly and possessively between her fingers. She fumbled at her waist and wriggled so he could pull her trousers down to slide along her legs, reluctantly opening a gap between them to allow him to discard the clothing atop his overcoat. Scooping up her other foot, he placed it next to its partner, bracketing the engorged flesh still trapped behind his own clothing. His hands clasped eagerly over her feet, drawing them towards each other and squeezing himself rhythmically, pulling up an ardent groan from within her that he answered with a curling twist to his mouth, eyes glittering at her as she gazed fixedly at where her feet sat. Stroking him. Hardening him. The feel of his flesh behind the fabric was incredible. Hot. Powerful.

Her own hands travelled up the insides of her thighs, their movement ensnaring his eyes and causing him to bare his teeth in the same burgeoning lust she attended to with careful, obvious motion.

One hand took on the work of two as he stilled himself to loosen that final barrier between them, one button at a time, revealing the intensity of his appetence with agonising graduality, torturing her, making her writhe as he uncovered himself, inch by inch. Thick, wrapped with snaking veins that helped to darken him, flaring wider underneath the head in a pledge to her pleasure, in a vow to slide inside her and lock himself there, moving in delectable friction, deep and slow.

He lifted her feet up to his mouth and ran his tongue along first one instep and then the other before trapping himself tightly between her arches, hips moving once more in a sinuous movement that started from his sternum and ran down his body in a muscular wave.

She sighed at the sensation of him sliding between her feet, at the sight of that firm column of flesh as it stroked back and forth, at the sound of his breathing as it hitched in his throat, at the way his eyes never left the site of such glorious frottage of sensitive skin, at the clear drop of fluid she desperately wanted to wash away with her tongue as it trailed down the underside of him, at the brush of hair on the soles of her feet and the caress of his loosened clothing along her ankles.

He pushed her feet together even tighter, making the velvet skin ripple in his efforts, increasing his pace and plunging deeper in this perverted version of copulation that allowed them both to see how he used himself to help satisfy the both of them, the cords of his muscles standing out under pale skin dewed with sweat.

Faster. Harder. Rougher.

She saw his head fall back as the waves pulsed along him, pushing against her insteps, his long fingers interlacing tightly over the end of himself, his whole body shaking and her name falling again from his mouth as a milky trickle escaped and ran over the knuckles of his hands. Hips twisting and grinding erratically, his movements lessening until he drew in a deep, shuddering breath and his body clenched over her feet, holding himself there for over a minute, panting helplessly as the shocks of his orgasm wracked his frame.

Words ancient and well-known to him sighed in an exhalation, purging the slipperiness from his hands, allowing him to unlace his fingers and use his mouth to soothe her bruised flesh in apology and appreciation.

Bastard, they called him. Vicious and bitter, they labelled him . Ugly and gaunt, pale as bone and cold as ice, they described him as. A man with no heart, no remorse and no empathy, as soulless as the grave. A man born only to be hated and despised.

She'd heard it all. And knew now what was true.