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Cantata for Three Voices in G Major	By : wire-fish Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 2798 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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2 Sept 98, Dungeon

Start of school year. Per usual, essential tasks and unnecessary dramas piled high as a Fifth Year’s dessert plate. First task: get the students’ schedules distributed. Auxiliary first task: last minute prep for classes. Second task: orient the new First Years on Slytherin House history. Auxiliary second task: curtail any zealot lunacy. Third and fourth tasks: establish and maintain absolute order in the House. Somewhere in the second digits of his list he’d added “sleep, eat, read.”

He stole a few minutes peace in his office between appointments to swill down tannicky tea, noted the next attendant to his advisory sessions for N.E.W.T. and O.W.L. candidates, and muffled a growl. Draco Malfoy.

The whole little nest of sympathizers should have skipped their final year. But the boy’d returned, clearly just as deluded as his parents. Likely the few others who came back suffered the same loose grasp on reality. Deluded—not only about the outcome of the war but about their positions in the House.

Handling that muddle, simple. He enjoyed disillusioning idiots and it gave him an excuse to prowl. No, that wasn’t what frustrated him.

If Malfoy’d succeeded in the Dark Lord’s task, one vital thing beyond the obvious would have been different. Shame of incomplete schooling would have been eclipsed by the glory of the Dark Lord’s thoroughly Slytherin gratitude. But he’d failed, and twice failed meant more than dishonor squared. There’d never been a Hogwarts dropout in either the Black or Malfoy families. Draco Malfoy carried the full weight of restoring family honor tarnished by terrorists, torturers, and traitors. Hence his slinking return.

And here he was, Severus Snape, still alive despite supposedly making an Unbreakable Vow with the boy’s mother. That whispered footnote had coupled with his outliving the Dark Lord and spawned strange results. Distrust he expected, but he couldn’t have predicted how his non-bigoted snakes mooned after him as though he’d invented a Midas Glove. Pity he’d earned neither sentiment.

Why must he suffer such drama his last year in the wretched school?

He Vanished the dregs from his cup and called Malfoy into his office.

###

3 Sept 98, Potions Classroom

He exhausted his prodigious vocabulary of obscenities in the two minutes after she dashed from the classroom. Smashed and repaired the work tables three times in the ten minutes that followed. Crumpled to the floor and almost longed to be summoned to the Dark Lord’s side, even to be tossed to Bella for entertainment. Then he pulled himself together and went to dinner. His finest honed skill: to force himself to do things he loathed without betraying himself. To maintain a seamless facade over savage turmoil.

Muggles called it impression management.

He called it Slytherin ideals raised exponentially.

That evening, after he’d settled his asps (tryouts for team sports planned, Firstie questions answered, two girls who’d crossed into puberty sent to Pomfrey, Malfoy’s infant coup squelched), he slumped in the leather chair in the classroom’s workroom to review the next day’s lesson plans. And stared at the last class of the day, the Seventh Years.

He’d planned to review the remedial exercise on temperature control he’d herded them through at the end of class Thursday.

Granger.

Snape rubbed his face and fisted both hands in his hair. If he hadn’t been feeling himself up, he could turn her in for enticing him. He’d considered telling Dumbledore anyway, admitting the whole bathetic mess of his life, which would be misinterpreted and lead to enforced social outings, a few scattered blind dates with whatever witch was daft or desperate enough, cow-eyed tsking from his female peers—no, he’d been down that path.

Most distressingly, he’d enjoyed it. Not the cudgeling so much—she hadn’t a damn clue what she was doing and he’d feared for his genitals—but everything else. His slip of nearly giving her points had been from shocked admiration. Her assumption of power, his almost too eager submission, her direct handling of his body. Her stripping the gloves from him stunned him—his fantasies often included magical disrobement, but what wizard’s didn’t? And when she’d turned his own words against him to mop up his spunk....

He shifted in the chair. The stripes stung.

He should tell Dumbledore they were doing something dicey in the castle. Made a note to search Myrtle’s bathroom. But if he mentioned what she’d stolen, he’d have to admit why he’d let her take it. Explain how he’d kept it hidden in plain sight, largely secure and overlooked because of its uncommon uses and casual storage. Only a dozen potions called for it, in particular a notoriously undetectable abortifacient. He smirked. He’d brewed it himself since his sixth year once he realized how much Squibs and unscrupulous rivals would pay for the fiddly concoction. No Hogwarts student should need it for that use, especially since contraceptive spells were routinely taught in Third Year sex ed. The draw had to be one of its marginally better known applications as a superb explosives amplifier. They probably believed they could defeat the remaining Death Eaters themselves.

Best no one knew he had that particular substance on campus. Least of all the old man.

Trapped.

Tomorrow she’d be there, first row, end table. No doubt had already told the whole tower what she’d caught him doing. What she’d done. Crowed about it, even. “Had him begging for release, but he got what was coming.”

He sighed and flipped through the lesson plan again. He’d managed to keep his interests secret from the Dark Lord, Bellatrix, Wormtail—even Lucius and Narcissa remained unaware—and somehow a irritating school girl had laid him bare. Figuratively, since he’d stripped himself. The paper crunched as his fingers knotted, recalling bone on bone.

Could have snapped her wrist, but he held back. Even though she might strut, he’d marked her and she’d remember he had teeth. Would she heal the bruise and hold her tongue or bandy it about, garner sympathy, advertise his cruelty?

What if she’d kept it and hidden it? He sucked through pursed lips and rubbed his thumb over his palm. What if her interest were sincere, if she wore it as a badge, the same way he regarded his weals? She’d be silent then too, enjoying her secret.

Had to know if she’d hid it or healed it. How? He drummed on the desk as he reviewed potions, discarded them steadily until he hit on one so flippant the class would be distracted while he interrogated her.

He stumbled over a dark lump in the classroom store closet as he confirmed supplies for the changed plans. Granger’s bag. Stifled the urge to incinerate it. Whatever her failings, she remained legitimately the best student in the castle. Snape finished his preparations and headed out for midnight patrol with the bag tucked under his robes.

###

4 Sept 98, Potions Master’s Chambers

It was nearly ten when he closed the door behind her and retreated back into his private rooms, spewing wards as he went. He’d forgotten how enticing he found watching someone wield a whip, if only on a target.

The body-hugging Muggle garments hadn’t hurt. Snape sprawled across the sofa and wedged pillows under his head. He’d suspected since he was a student that half the reason for the Hogwarts’ uniform was to render female forms shapeless. He replayed the scene, lingering over the movements of her hips, how she had irritably bound up her hair, her scowl when he’d taken the flog from her. Just as driven outside the classroom as in.

He chuckled, Summoned a box of chocolate truffles from the cupboard, and let one dissolve in his mouth. The little know-it-all couldn’t help herself. Wouldn’t be one bit surprised if she hurt herself trying to perfect her technique. With luck, one of her Quidditch-obsessed friends would set her straight.

He’d been relieved when she tired. Her expression, her intensity, the flogging—he’d not been entirely honest with her about the leather. His whips excited him. Throwing his bullhide braided cat with an audience, seeing his red deer flogger handled—she’d been so focused practicing he’d been able to adjust himself without notice.

And just as he managed to calm himself, she’d stirred him to aching again. Hardening now, just relishing the memory of her tentative exploration of him. She’d been more confident the first time, drunk on adrenaline, surely. The quiver in her voice when she’d asked had echoed the throbbing in his groin. He casually stroked himself and recalled other times he’d been fondled during scenes. The last time he’d paid for a visit, the domme had—

The door alarm sounded and he rolled to his feet with a groan. Without fail, the first few weeks of school promised interrupted nights until the students learned who their new family was and who could be trusted and to not bother him without real cause.
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Cantata for Three Voices in G Major