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Debaucery Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 26266 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
A/N: OO – ‘And pronounced’ – hahaha – isn’t he just. I know you love Luna and so do I – have I told you that she reminds me of someone :P. ‘She was trying to shrink her shit.’ – LOL – I don’t know why that pleased me so much. ‘Just keep spying on each other in the buff.’ – hahah – wouldn’t be all bad. ‘Excellent word coitus.’ – I’ve got a cracker for the chapter after this – stay tuned! ‘Free the clit!’ – Bahahah – we must make T-shirts!
Kvarta – So pleased that you are enjoying this one. I hope it can continue to sustain you J. You’re right, it doesn’t take much to make Snape sexy. New chapter now ;)
Remarkable – So lovely to hear from you and thanks for your lovely review for Tango also. ‘Whip your butt for more’ – awwww, if you have to! Yes, we do need to stick together – it’s a fraught business trying to keep up. ‘At least he knows what he's hiding from. What's her excuse?’ – good point. I must ask her. ;) <3

Chapter 12 - Sensualicious
When he returned, Hermione was ready. Although it was only midday, they were at a high enough altitude for it to be permanently cold so Hermione had re-lit the fire and collected enough fuel for a good many hours. She hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous evening, and she doubted he had, so she’d cooked up the eggs and bacon she’d been saving for when she really wanted it, keeping it fresh in her bag the entire time with a cooling spell. She’d even opened the ground coffee she’d collected from her favourite café the morning before she arrived, and brewed them both a steaming cup.
He slowed his pace as he walked into the camp, instantly wary.
“Would you like to take a seat?” Hermione gave a cheery smile, gesturing to his armchair which she’d moved out of his tent so that it now sat beside the fire next to her own—a less elegant version made from a transfigured wood stump but sufficiently padded with her pillow to be comfortable.
“What did Miss Lovegood tell you?” he asked stiffly.
“Nothing that I didn’t already know,” Hermione replied airily, carrying the small table out of his tent and placing it between their chairs before setting the plates of food and cups on it.
“I thought you might be ready to start walking?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow. He still hadn’t moved.
“We’re not walking today,” Hermione stated matter-of-factly.
“Aren’t we?” The words rolled slowly out of his mouth.
“No, we’re talking.”
Hermione plonked herself down in her seat, placed her plate on her lap and jabbed her fork into an egg slightly overzealously but she was determined to make this work. She wouldn’t look at him. It was up to him to make the next move.
She’d eaten an entire egg, strip of bacon and half a slice of toast before she saw him approach out of the corner of her eye. A whole host of conflicting thoughts were, no doubt, racing through his head—to say nothing for how he would be feeling. She knew this wasn’t a comfortable situation for him—a woman taking the lead, but she needed to have it out with him once and for all. Otherwise, she was going to walk straight to the Apparition point that Luna had taken, and leave.
He halted in front of his seat. She felt him watching her. He was one of the only people she knew whose stare was actually palpable, but she remained unperturbed, doggedly focused on enthusiastically consuming another mouthful of egg. Eventually he sank into his seat and, after a few moments more, collected his plate and cutlery from the table and started to eat. After a few mouthfuls he reached for the coffee. She heard him inhale deeply as he brought it to his lips. It was the blend he drank every morning at home. She didn’t think she’d chosen it on purpose at the time, but it wasn’t her usual blend—maybe she had foreseen wanting to share it with him despite the fraught nature of their relationship back then.
They ate in silence, pleasant waves of heat from the fire, melding with the watery sunshine that filtered through the clouds. When she’d finished, Hermione sat back in contentment, simply staring into the flames. She would normally be riddled with anxiety at the prospect of a looming confrontation but she realised that they’d reached rock bottom and there was really only one direction that it could take. And even if he refused to speak with her, she was comfortable with her decision to leave. She would have done everything in her power to appease him . . . well almost everything.
When he set his empty plate back on the table, he saw him fishing around in his pocket for his cigarettes before making to stand.
“You don’t have to leave,” she told him quickly. “I don’t mind.”
He looked at her uncertainly, his dark eyes studying her for a disconcertingly long period before he relaxed back into his seat and slid one out, lighting it with a flick of his index finger. As he took a deep drag, she noticed his eyelids fluttering faintly with pleasure. It was clearly an avenue of such intense enjoyment for him, she felt slightly bad for wishing to deprive him of it.
“How long have you smoked?”
He inhaled until his chest was fully inflated, before exhaling slowly.
“Over thirty years now.”
Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “Over 30 years?”
She couldn’t understand how she’d never sensed it in the entire time she’d been under his tuition at Hogwarts. “That would mean you started as a child . . . ”
He stared into the fire as though recalling. “I was around nine or so, yes.”
She watched as he took another drag, trying to imagine a very young version of him doing the same.
“That seems terribly young. What was it, peer pressure?”
He snorted gently, smoke curling from his nostrils.
“Where I came from—a working class mill town in the sixties—there were certain rites of passage that brought one into manhood . . . or what was perceived as manhood.” He blinked slowly in what seemed like a reluctant reconnection with his underprivileged past. “Smoking was merely one of those.”
Hermione studied him—wondering at his dispassionate recall. His upbringing was clearly vastly different to hers. She’d basically been a spoilt only child, living in a ‘good part’ of the country, wealthy enough to have just about whatever she wanted. Despite their differences, she found herself craving an understanding of his past.
“And the other rites? What were they?”
Severus took another slow puff from his cigarette as though contemplating his next admission. “There was the first time one took a drink of hard liquor. The first time one used fists in a street fight, and the first time one . . .” He paused, searching for the right words. “. . . experienced a woman.”
Hermione tried not to react despite the prickling sensation that crawled from her spine into her scalp.
“I see, “she said, feigning nonchalance. “So . . . how old were you when you . . . experienced those . . . milestones?”
He turned in his chair then, tilting his body to face her as he rested the fingertips holding his cigarette against the plane of his jaw.
“Tell me what she told you—Miss Lovegood.”
Quid pro quo? Hermione supposed it was only fair. He’d been surprisingly honest and forthcoming about himself so far.
“She told me that you were concerned about this trip and about my safety.” She faced him squarely. “Is that true?”
His eyes searched her face, as though trying to trust her.
“Yes.”
“I want you to tell me why we’re here.”
He pinched his cigarette between his fingers before rubbing them together, disintegrating it into dust.
“I’m going to get a glass of something,” he muttered.
“Make that two,” Hermione interjected quickly.
When he looked into her flashing brown eyes, it was clear that she wasn’t prepared to take ‘no’ for an answer. He sighed inwardly. This couldn’t be a good idea—intimate conversation, reduced inhibitions. He wasn’t usually cautious. In fact, in recent years he’d been completely unrestrained. But he felt a strong sense that things could progress further than either of them would otherwise allow—and he did feel a sense of responsibility for her.
She looked up at him expectantly, holding his gaze in a flagrant indication that she was more than capable of making her own decisions. Fiery fucking Gryffindor.
Giving a brief nod, he strode to his tent and returned with two glasses half-filled with liquor. He handed her one before resuming his seat. Throwing back a large gulp he grimaced as it burned a long strip down the back of his throat. She took a sip and only just managed to swallow before choking out her earlier statement, “Tell me why we’re here.”
He downed another mouthful, then turned his head in the direction of the mountains. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t what she’d expected.
“Greyback was a diversion.”
She frowned. “Fenrir Greyback?”
He didn’t respond, continuing to stare into the distance.
“But he killed dozens of people, turned many more into werewolves.” She looked at him doubtfully. “He carried out Voldemort’s instructions with utter savagery—I saw it with my own eyes. How can you say he was a diversion?”
Severus returned his gaze to her. “Voldemort’s control was an illusion. Greyback’s real master remained hidden, sending instructions remotely. The Dark Lord allowed it. He didn’t trust the werewolves sufficiently to bestow the Dark Mark but knew they would be valuable to his cause . . . and it furthered their own.”
“Which was?”
“This.” He inclined his head toward the mountains. “The dark beast uprising. An attempt to unite all magical creatures under the control of a single leader.”
Hermione brow creased in puzzlement. “Are you saying that the uprising is happening here? In these mountains? The ones we’ve been approaching for five days?”
Severus took another gulp, finishing his glass.
“Accio!” The bottle flew through his open tent door and slapped into his palm. He refilled his glass and downed another mouthful.
“There’s a complicated network of caverns within these mountains. That’s where I believe they’ve been gathering since the end of the Second Wizarding War. It’s been a slow build-up but the numbers are now such that they can no longer conceal the impact on the local species. That’s why the populations of other creatures have been falling.”
Hermione was stunned. She’d heard so many conflicting reports about the, so called, ‘dark beast uprising’ that she’d begun to question whether it was simply a rumour to keep people vigilant and continuing to work their arses off for the Ministry.
“Dark creatures have come from all over the world. The dragon that killed that sheep was likely to be a Scandinavian migrant. There’s evidence here of others native to the Northern parts of Canada. Then there are the trolls, ogres and an army of ghouls.”
“Army? How do you know?”
“Haven’t you seen the footprints?”
She had discovered a large number of prints by the river but hadn’t actually considered where they’d all come from.
“And, of course, there’s the leader and his pack of werewolves.”
“So the leader of all this is a werewolf?”
“I believe so.” He necked the rest of the Firewhisky before placing his glass on the table.
Hermione stared into her own. It was an incredible story but it fit with everything they’d seen on their journey so far . . . everything except the eggs.
“None of those creatures are known to eat baby birds from their nests,” she said.
“And there are snakes.” Severus closed his eyes. “Big . . . fucking . . . snakes.”
Hermione noticed how pale he was. She suspected that he had nightmares about snakes all the time—about the snake that nearly killed him.
“How do you know all this?”
He sighed, raising a weary hand. “That’s what I’ve been doing this whole time—looking for prints, counting, measuring, trying to work out what we’re dealing with and how many.”
“And you’ve known about all this the whole time and not told me?” Hermione’s voice was tight.
There was a long silence.
“You asked me about the rites of passage.” Severus opened his eyes to look at her. “Growing up?”
She stared at him, simmering with hurt and anger.
“The first time I had a shot of this was when I was ten.” He picked up the bottle and tilted it to and fro, allowing the viscous spirit to slip around the inside. “And shortly after, I had my first fight—had the shit kicked out of me by the local bully.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a fight,” Hermione remarked flatly.
“It wasn’t,” he admitted. “But it was either that or face a beating by my father for being a coward. Tobias was a mean drunk. So I let old Bully Boy do his worst.”
Hermione was struggling to hold onto her anger. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to evoke sympathy. Rather, she felt he was looking for understanding—perhaps alluding to the reason for his imperfections. Maybe even an oblique segue-way into this trip. In some ways she dreaded the thought of a connection between the two. She was also starting to feel the effects of the liquor, which made her more forgiving than she might otherwise be.
“Let’s play chess.”
He gave her a curious look. “You are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”
There was a playful glimmer in his eye and his voice had taken on that hint of honey that she was finding less and less able to resist.
She looked down to avoid his gaze, and was surprised to discover that she’d finished her glass already. Holding it out, she gave a resigned shrug. “You know what they say . . . If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
Then he laughed, a low rolling chuckle that startled her. She didn’t think she’d ever heard it before.
“So you’re admitting that you can’t beat me?” he said, refilling her glass and his own.
“Correction,” she replied primly, although she was feeling anything but prim with the whisky starting to muddy her senses. “I admit I am unlikely to beat you at chess. However, I believe I could beat you in many other endeavours.”
He snorted as he set out the rocks on the board. “Such as?”
“Well . . . “ She narrowed her eyes as though she were appraising him carefully. “From this trip alone . . . I can name a number of things.”
His black eyes alighted on hers. “I doubt it.”
“Hmmm.” She placed a finger below her bottom lip in a mock thinking pose. “I believe I could climb a tree better than you.”
He chuckled again, continuing to set the board. “I’m not going to dignify that suggestion with a response.”
She couldn’t hide her smile—she’d hoped to make him laugh.
“I believe I could fit inside that empty sheep carcass better than you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Miss Granger . . . what would make you even say that? I would strongly suggest that you’ve had enough whisky.”
“It’s true though, isn’t it?” She leaned towards him. “Say it . . . say that I would fit inside a sheep better than you.”
“That is utterly ridiculous.” He frowned, but there was a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
She knew she was being ridiculous—it was the sort of thing she and Ginny would say to crack each other up, but she liked seeing him smile.
“And I think I would look better standing under that waterfall,” she murmured. And instantly regretted her words.
He stopped fiddling with the stones to gaze at her with an intensity that made her want to melt off her seat and slide away in a glob of molten arousal, singed with humiliation.
“Really?” The word rolled languorously off his tongue.
Their seats were facing one another with the table between them and his boot was sitting just outside hers. He lifted his toe to graze across her ankle and she shivered.
“I . . . I really didn’t mean that,” she stammered. “I just thought it might be an amusing thing to . . . say.”
“Amusing? . . . That’s certainly not a word I would use to describe such a thing.” His words were slow and measured, her insides dropping with each one.
“No—I meant it was amusing to suggest that I could look better than . . . you . . ." She tailed off, realising she’d said way too much.
He kept his eyes on her and moved his knight stone. She quickly followed his lead with a pawn, focusing intently on the board.
The game continued in silence but she could still feel his boot touching hers. She knew she absolutely didn’t need it, but in the absence of anything to do between turns, she drank more whisky. Soon she’d forgotten about her embarrassment and just looked at him openly. In fact, she stared at him—all of him—she was particularly taken with the subtle shifting of his features as he considered his options—tiny, sharp saccades of his onyx eyes, slight flexing of his brows, twitching of his lips . . . those lips . . .
“Miss Granger?”
“What?”
His eyes were on her. “Check . . . mate.”
“Oh . . . “ She scanned the board as if suddenly remembering that they were meant to be playing. “Well done.”
He leaned back in his chair and appraised her, his mouth moving as though he were slowly chewing something.
“Have you had enough?”
She continued to gaze at him, eyes sliding over his features. “No.”
“So you want another?”
“Game?” She glanced at the board distractedly. “Oh . . . yes, alright.”
His eyebrow lifted in obvious amusement. She felt his toe gently nudge her foot again as he re-set the board.
They continued to play for hour after hour. He’d stopped filling her glass but she was comfortable with that—quite comfortably numb. Occasionally one left to relieve themselves in a spot over the bank or to place a log of wood on the fire. Hermione retrieved a packet of crisps and then a bag of salted peanuts from her bag for them to share. And it was as he was licking salt from his upper lip that Severus placed an elegant finger on top of his Queen, sliding it across to take her bishop.
“Who taught you to play chess?” she murmured slightly drunkenly, marvelling, not for the first time, at his skill.
“Lily”
She was jolted by his response. For some reason the name felt forbidden.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I greatly enjoy the game.”
“No . . . I meant—“
“I know.”
Silence.
“You must miss her.”
He studied the board for so long, she didn’t think he was going to respond.
“I do . . . She was great company . . . Much like yourself.”
Hermione blinked in surprise. She was good company? The last time he’d provided a direct appraisal of her was to tell her she was an ‘insufferable know-it-all.’ As far as she knew, he’d continued to hold that opinion of her.
“I find you good company too,” she responded tentatively, unsure of whether the exchange might signify too much.
He pursed his lips dubiously. “Which is why you were looking to leave this morning.”
Hermione’s mouth dropped open, she hadn’t expected to be confronted over that.
“I . . . I admit that I was upset.”
“Because you didn’t trust me.”
“No . . . I simply jumped to a conclusion that turned out to be wrong.”
“You needn’t explain. I wouldn’t trust myself either.” He refused to look at her, focusing on the remaining few stones on the board.
Hermione felt herself getting defensive but Luna was right, she did struggle with vulnerability. What they both needed now was the truth.
“I was disappointed when I saw you with Luna. I didn’t know who she was then. I thought that you’d arranged to meet up with another woman for . . . for . . . “
“Sex?” His eyes suddenly penetrated her.
“Yes.” She returned his gaze just as directly. “It’s what I would have expected of you before . . . before this trip. But somehow I thought you’d changed. You’ve been different out here. So much more . . . thoughtful, considerate . . . but when I saw you I felt that it had all been an act, an attempt to deceive me, and I fell for it. And, admittedly, I was angry at myself for caring.”
“I should have let you leave.” His voice was low, almost a whisper.
“What do you mean?” Hermione could feel her anger rising. “I was good company only a moment ago.”
Severus slumped back in his chair, his expression surprisingly defeated.
“I shouldn’t have brought you this far.”
“Then why did you?” Hermione snapped, sharper than she’d intended but she didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark for so long.
“Because I’m a selfish bastard. Without you I would have backed out—given up.”
“Given up on what?”
Severus looked at her, his expression pained but resolute. “Hermione, I won’t be leaving here.”
Hermione frowned. “I don’t understand. Why are you staying?”
“I’m going into the mountains.” He circled his fingertips over the arm of his chair. “I’m planning to inflict as much damage as possible. I won’t be coming back.”
“What?” Hermione cried, leaping off her seat. “That’s complete madness! All we need to do is return to the Ministry and tell them what we’ve discovered. They can arrange to deal with the matter—they have plenty of resources. There’s no reason for you to go in alone. That would be suicide!”
His expression, dark brooding eyes fixed upon her, told her everything she needed to know. She took a step toward him, imploring him with her own eyes.
“I know your life hasn’t been easy. And I understand that you’re in pain right now. But this isn’t the solution. You have so much more to do—more to offer.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m not the man I once was.”
Turning to face the fire, he stared vacantly into the flames. “I’ve given up on everything of value, including my integrity. I’ve kept you here to remind me of that—of what I did to you. I’m disgusted at myself but it’s helped me to focus on what I need to do. I have the best chance of thwarting the uprising alone. If what I suspect is true, any sense of a major response to this gathering, and they will simply disperse and reassemble elsewhere. This is the best opportunity to take out the leader once and for all.”
“You can’t!” Hermione shouted. She crossed her arms like a petulant child. She didn’t want to hear any more of his self-loathing and ridiculously calm explanations. She was still fuzzy from the alcohol, and she was furious and desperately upset at him for considering such a thing. “And I don’t accept your judgement of your circumstances,” she snapped.
He frowned at her. “Hermione, it isn’t yours to accept.”
“Yes it is. It’s about me. And I happen to have forgiven you for what you did. I don’t hate you anymore. So you have no right to hate yourself on my behalf.”
He clenched his jaw in anger. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he growled. “Any of it. I suspected you wouldn’t accept my decision. You just can’t help but interfere, can you? Forcing your self-righteous opinions upon others. I’m not fucking interested in what you’re willing to accept from me!”
“I think you wanted me to interfere.” She approached another step. “I think you’ve wanted me to all along.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he sneered.
“And how were you going to make me leave?” she implored him. “What could you have said that would make me go?”
“I wouldn’t have said anything.” Severus’ voice was so low she could barely hear him. “I’d simply have taken you by the throat again—as I did before. And you would have gone.” The pain in his eyes was so raw that she wanted to look away. “Then you would have been glad when it all played out—when I was finally removed from your life—everyone’s lives—once and for all.”
“Oh Gods, Severus.” Hermione shook her head as she stumbled toward him, tears brimming in her eyes. “You stupid fucking bastard. Why didn’t you just tell me you needed a hug?”
Collapsing onto his lap, she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed him as though her life depended upon it. He didn’t return the hug but he didn’t throw her off either. He was so tense, it was like hugging a statue but she didn’t let go, holding him till she felt the air slowly escaping him and his shoulders gradually sagging beneath her. She pressed her heart against his, each powerful thud jolting through her.
She waited until his laboured breathing had steadied to slow rhythmic waves before lifting her head to look at him. His face was close. It had only been closer in the den, when he’d kissed her. Keeping one arm hooked around his neck, she brought the other around to touch his cheek. He flinched but she held it there as she gazed openly into his eyes. Gradually, she trailed her fingertips down to the curve of his jaw before sliding across to his mouth, trickling up the fleshy furl under his lower lip before tipping over onto the impossible silkiness of those sensuously soft pads. His lips parted slightly with the insistent pressure of her fingers and she flexed to press gently into the gap.
He hadn’t responded whatsoever to her thus far and so when she felt it, the warm tip of his tongue flicker against her sensitive tips, she sucked in a rapid breath. Tilting her head, she leaned forward to place a single, soft kiss against his temple, near his earlobe. He tilted away ever so slightly as though unconsciously positioning himself for her next indulgence. The following kiss she placed on the firm ridge of his cheekbone before trailing across to the corner of his nose. He bowed his head slightly but she firmed her fingers against his lips, holding him in place.
Angling her head, she grazed down to alight on the gentle hollow at the corner of his mouth. Sliding across to replace her fingertips, she finally pressed her lips against his, feeling his warm breath shudder out against her.
He couldn’t remember being explored with such tender curiosity. And now her tongue was out, tasting him in slow, sweet tips that prodded and probed the length of his lips before slipping like a succulent fruit between them. He’d had so much sex with so many people and yet he was trembling like a teenager, not only because it was the last time it would ever happen—the last time he would feel another’s lips against his own, but because it was her and she was showing him what it was like to be accepted, how it would feel to be loved unconditionally.
This was the last thing he’d wanted. It would make everything to come so much more difficult. But he could no longer restrain himself; she was fresh water and he was a dying man. His mouth closed around her offering and his tongue slid up beside hers as his arms wrapped around her, drawing her in. The moan came from deep in her throat, revealing the intensity of her need and he responded by flexing his fingers into her denim-clad buttocks and delving his tongue inside her. She sighed as he raked his fingers into her hair and lapped her mouth, his lips hot and loose. He felt her body melting into his and his cock responded as though he were already inside her, arching up to grind into her groin.
Maybe it was the alcohol but within seconds her hand was down there, rubbing gratuitously at his member. He tore his lips away, breathing raggedly against her cheek.
“I’m not sure you want to continue with that,” he groaned, unable to hide his pleasure despite trying to warn her off.
“I’m sure I do, actually,” she breathed, twisting her head to capture his lips again.
He probed and sucked her more before regaining his senses and capturing the wrist of her hand that was doing a very good job of trying to jerk him off through his trousers.
“Hermione . . . we can’t fuck,” he sighed.
“Why?” She kept trying to reach for his cock despite his iron grip.
“Because you’re drunk. You wouldn’t want this if you were sober. I know how much you disapprove of me—of the fact that I’ve fucked your friends.”
It was true. He was tainted. It was extremely off-putting to recall what she’d seen. And yet she couldn’t remember wanting anyone so badly in her life. Her senses seemed to be overruling her mind at that moment—in fact, she so wanted him inside her that she was just about ready to beg him for it.
But then she had an idea.
“Potions.”
“Sorry?”
“Sobriety potions. Do you have any?”
It turned out that he did. He’d brought them in case he hadn’t been unable to resist the draw of the bottle and the shit had hit the fan, requiring immediate action.
“Yes.”
“Right.” Hermione sat back on his lap and fixed him with a determined look. “We’ll both take one and if we feel the same as we do now, we will fuck.”
He couldn’t help smirking; it sounded like a proclamation by the Queen.
“And if we don’t?”
“Then you’re going to have to put up with a quick hand-job.” She smirked. “Your own.”
He couldn’t help looking disappointed.
“But I want you to promise that you’re still going to talk to me,” she stated firmly. “Even if nothing happens.”
He sighed. “If I must.”
“I’ll meet you in your tent,” she said, slipping off his lap. “I think we might need the extra room.”
He snorted as he watched her weaving her way back to her tent. Then, rising creakily from his chair he looked skyward, surprised to see that the sun was starting to set. He was still extremely apprehensive but a small flicker of hope had dared to weave its way into his thoughts. He didn’t deserve to hope—not after what he’d done, but he felt himself clinging to it all the same.
Inside her tent, Hermione located the small blue bottle, slipping it into her pocket. If fucking him was what was needed to stop him from pursuing his plan to offer himself as some sort of noble sacrifice—again, she’d do it. But she was still concerned that sobriety may well bring up all her misgivings about his past and what he’d done with practically everyone she knew. She felt the weight of the bottle as she stood, she would just need to find the courage to drink it.
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Debaucery *Complete*

Debaucery Complete