Chapter Text
CHAPTER LXII:
Severus's POV:
There was a tense atmosphere at Hogwarts, following Skeeter's latest article 'The Infamy and Incarceration of Sirius Black'. It wasn't hard to read the underlying accusations between the lines, the thinly veiled declarations that Dumbledore knew Black was innocent and had let an innocent (Pureblood Heir to an Ancient and Noble House) man rot in Azkaban in order to have control over the Boy Who Lived. Whispers were rife over the school amongst students and staff alike. As far as Severus knew, Harry was staying quiet– for once– but plenty of other people were talking, wanting answers– beginning with demanding for Lily and James Potter's Will to be made public.
Considering the upcoming custody dispute of Harry that was likely to end in blood, Severus wondered just who had been behind Skeeter's latest, suspiciously well-timed and well-informed article. Dumbledore's reputation taking such a hit was one of the best things that could happen for Harry right now– and so was the unsealing of his parents' Will.
He wasn't sure if Harry was aware of what the Headmaster was planning, or if he had guessed. The fact was, Dumbledore wanted control over Harry– and with Harry fighting him every step of the way, the best course for the old bastard to take would be to gain legal control. With the boy's custody up for grabs and Lily and James's Will tucked away, out of sight, it would come down to political power and influence to decide where the boy ended up– a painfully, Dumbledore-worshipping Light family being the Headmaster's first choice and one of the worst possible outcomes for Harry.
Skeeter's article, however, cast public doubt over Dumbledore's ability to make good choices, alienated him from his allies with the suspicions of his complicity in the imprisonment of one of their own and subsequently had begun to both minimise Dumbledore's influence in the Wizengamot chambers, the useless lot of them less likely to blindly follow his word like gospel with such dark suspicions hovering over him, and to remove the rose colored glasses of the Wizarding world as a whole.
Severus didn't like Black. Still loathed him, in fact– his ex-class mate had almost murdered him when they were teenagers, was he really supposed to just 'forgive and forget'? No, despite his bizarre not-friendship with Re– with Lupin (and no, he was not deluding himself, Minerva!) and recent grudging acknowledgment that holding onto his animosity towards a dead man wasn't worth it in the case of James Potter, especially not after the man had spent the last moments of his life trying to save Lily and Harry's, he still couldn't let go of his bitterness and resentment towards Black. He didn't care that Black was dead, murdered by his own beloved godson, or that the man had suffered for years in the hellhole cesspit that was Azkaban. He hated him and would always hate him.
And that was why he had been the one chosen to go talk to Dumbledore, to see if he could find out the truth.
He gave his usual weekly report to the headmaster, complaining about the Gryffindors, deriding the Ravenclaws, belittling the Hufflepuffs and praising his Slytherins, all as per normal and like he didn't admire Poppy's sharp intelligence, Minerva's fierce courage and Pomona's even fiercer loyalty, like he wasn't aware of the acumen, tenacity and resolution of most of the students from all Houses (even though they had the most irritating tendency to leave their better qualities behind when they entered his classroom).
Dumbledore made his usual 'mmm's' and 'ahh's' and scolded him for his 'bias' (his bias!? The hypocrite!), and as Severus stormed 'moodily' towards the revolving staircase he paused, as if it was an afterthought and not like this whole encounter hadn't been meticulously planned out by a vengeful Minerva, a shockingly cunning Poppy and a tearfully enraged Pomona.
"So was it more of Skeeter's nonsense, or is it true?" He drawled, his tone casually careless and indifferent. "Did you choose to let Black rot in Azkaban, knowing he was innocent?"
"Severus," Dumbledore said, disapproving, and Severus snorted as he turned back around fully to face the Headmaster, a sneer on his face.
"Come now, Albus, you know that I of all people don't care that Black was supposedly innocent. He was an attempted murderer at age sixteen, it's doubtless he would have ended up in Azkaban at some point regardless. I was merely curious."
Dumbledore sighed heavily, his light blue eyes grave. "As our spy in Voldemort's camps, I know that you, Severus, are aware of the terrible choices we must sometimes make for the Greater Good," he said solemnly, his tone almost one of mourning. Severus wouldn't actually be surprised if the bastard did regret what he'd done to Black– Black had been one of his precious Gryffindors, after all.
"So it's true?" He asked, arching an eyebrow.
"It's not entirely incorrect." Dumbledore admitted and the bitterness inside Severus centred around Black made him want to smirk in dark amusement. It was only the knowledge Black hadn't been the only one affected, that Harry had also been hurt, that kept him from being as vindictively pleased as he would have felt otherwise. "From the beginning, even before he confronted young Peter, I knew that something didn't add up about Sirius betraying the Potters," Dumbledore sighed, missing Severus's internal dilemma entirely.
"I knew the moment I learned of his survival how important Harry would be, so I sent Hagrid to fetch him– I couldn't allow the boy to be raised by Sirius, I couldn't risk what his influence would do, so I had the Will sealed. Sirius being young Harry's godfather was too well-known, however, particularly amongst the Order, and I was struggling to conceive of a way to stop him from gaining custody of the boy. And then Sirius was accused by Peter in front of a street full of witnesses and despite my suspicions, the answer to my dilemma had just fallen into my lap. I could have spoken up, but I didn't. Instead, I had Alastor and other Aurors and government officials who were loyal to me urge Bartemius Crouch and Millicent Bagnold to send imprisoned Death Eaters immediately to Azkaban, under the pretext that the world needed to heal and that holding trials, when it was so clear to everyone what their crimes were, would be unnecessary and cruel."
Dumbledore sighed heavily again as Severus made sure his face didn't reveal just how much he wanted to be sick in this moment. His face felt cold as ice and his stomach was twisted into knots as he wondered how he could have ever viewed Dumbledore as a benevolent, if somewhat manipulative, figure– from what he was hearing, the old bastard was the furthest thing from kindly or well-meaning. Sickened, he wondered if he hadn't have offered his services to Dumbledore as a spy, if he'd have been tossed into Azkaban never to see the light of day again at the bitter conclusion of the war, no trial to be had and the key to his cell thrown out into the icy North Sea.
"I never definitively knew if Sirius was guilty or not," Dumbledore reiterated, like that made any difference at all when he'd condemned the man to Azkaban regardless. He'd thought that Dumbledore had merely– for a given value of 'merely'– stayed quiet to his doubts on Black's guilt, perhaps while even having evidence to the contrary. Even with Skeeter's accusations, he'd never actually suspected that Dumbledore could have had a hand in encouraging the justice system to forgo Black's basic rights, along with a number of other Death Eaters– or alleged Death Eaters– who'd had the misfortunate (that admittedly most of them probably deserved) to be thrown to the Dementors of Azkaban without a chance to defend themselves in a court of law.
"Well," Severus drawled, barely able to keep his voice from shaking, fear and hate churning sickeningly inside him, "it certainly couldn't have happened to a nicer person." Which he privately thought was true, but certainly wouldn't be passing on to Minerva, Poppy and Pomona.
"Severus," Dumbledore chided for the umpteenth time, peering sternly over his half-moon glasses at him. Severus twisted his mouth into a sneer. It came quite easily. "What happened to Sirius was a tragedy, and something that I regret." Dumbledore stated, "but it was for the Greater Good. You of all people, Severus, must understand why Harry could not be allowed to be raised by Sirius."
Why? Because he'd have been happy? Severus thought sourly, able to admit to himself that Sirius would have showered the boy with love and affection and made sure he wanted for nothing.
"Sirius would have raised him as the second coming of James Potter and, for all his virtues, you know better then anyone that James had his faults," Dumbledore said, shaking his head sadly. "The hero needed to defeat Voldemort could not be one who was arrogant, one who'd grown up without humility or restraint. The world needed a humble boy, one who was raised never knowing the fame associated with his name."
A boy who was beaten down and desperately wanted somewhere to belong; a boy who you could 'rescue', who would have been so vulnerable to kindness he would have been malleable as clay to a figure such as the wise, kind Headmaster of the school that had become his home, Severus thought furiously.
"A Harry Potter raised by Black would have been something loathsome." Severus sneered instead of saying any of what he was thinking out loud, his slight shudder not faked. He would have hated the Harry Potter who'd been raised by Black, Severus knew, but his student would have been raised loved, and that would have been worth it.
Dumbledore had taken that from Harry, like he had taken the boy's innocence and his chance to be a child, and had left him seeking the protection of the last... 'man' he should have ever sought for such a thing.
The women, Minerva in particular, were not going to be pleased, Severus thought, resigned. He should probably check his inventory of hangover potions before giving them the news. And gods forbid he be the one stuck telling Re– Lupin of Dumbledore's culpability in the wretched matter of it all.
...And who was going to be the one to have to tell Harry?
-
-
Harry's POV:
It took an embarrassingly long time after the resumption of classes for Harry to figure out that the Hogwarts professors were trying to help him with the Second Task. Well, Sprout and Flitwick were– Flitwick had winked right at him after he'd announced the class would be learning the bubblehead charm that day, and Sprout had decided, seemingly out of the blue, to do a water plants based unit; one that included gillyweed. Thanks to Barty's meddling, Harry already known about both methods for breathing underwater, but it was still oddly touching.
Tom's training was as tough as ever. The older boy seemed to believe less about him practicing a skill until he got it right and more about practicing it until Harry couldn't get it wrong. Considering the advanced spells he was being forced to learn, this meant many, many long hours casting spells in the Room of Requirement until he was so exhausted he was practically falling asleep standing up. It didn't help that every second day he was getting up at half past five in the morning to go running with Neville and Fleur, after which the three of them would meet Viktor for a 'delightful' swim in the Black Lake, originally at Neville's suggestion.
The sessions with Madam Bones were also continuing. The biggest issue right now was the custody one– Bones had confirmed he would never be returning to the Dursleys, an announcement that had left Harry in a state of numb shock that had lasted nearly three days, but the problem was figuring out where he'd be going now. His parents Last Will and Testament had finally been unsealed– Dumbledore would probably have fought it, Tom had told him, except that Rita's article meant there was too much public pressure on him for him to refuse.
Bones had actually shown him a copy– there hadn't been anything out of the ordinary for most of it, with only the custody arrangements in the case of his mum and dad's death being somewhat shocking. He'd already known that Sirius Black had immediate custody, but learning Alice Longbottom had been Lily's second choice for his legal guardian if his grandparents– her and James' parents– were deceased was a surprise, to say the least.
Harry had been simultaneously stunned and upset by the revelation. His brief memory of Alice had been very firmly burned into his brain and the realisation that Bellatrix, his sort-of mentor (sort-of friend), had been responsible for the state she was in had been hard enough before learning that his mum had wanted the woman to raise him, if anything happened to her.
He'd been able to look past Voldemort murdering his parents, though, so after taking a few days to mourn and be angry Harry had moved on towards not quite forgiveness but the same acceptance and decision to not ever think about that he used regarding Voldemort and his parents.
Due to obvious reasons, Alice clearly couldn't take custody of him and he was unsurprised to learn that his paternal grandparents, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, were just as deceased as his maternal ones, Basil and Marigold Evans, which meant that the issue of his guardianship was still up in air. Bones seemed highly competent, though, so Harry was working on not stressing– not when he had enough to stress about.
The Black Lake, which he had always taken for granted as just another feature of the grounds, drew his eyes whenever he was near a classroom window, a great, iron-gray mass of chilly water, whose dark and icy depths were starting to seem as distant as the moon. And while the Second Task was racing up on him, so was another, almost equally as intimidating event– Valentines Day. And Harry was in a relationship.
The most experience Harry had with Valentines Day was Lockhart's disaster so he decided to broach the topic with Tom during a training session. In hindsight, it wasn't his best idea.
"So I was thinking–"
"Not a good start to any conversation, Harry," Tom interrupted him with a smirk, "but do go on, Harry dear." Harry rolled his eyes at the older boy but forged on regardless.
"Valentines Day." He said determinedly. Tom arched an eyebrow.
"What about it?"
"Well, it's coming up, isn't it?" He pointed out.
"And?" Tom asked, bored. Harry glared.
"Stop being purposefully obtuse." He told his... sort-of boyfriend, who sighed dramatically in response.
"Harry, I have no interest in such a grossly commercialized holiday, especially one with no Magical roots, merely a muggle religious background. The entire concept is ridiculous and I have little doubt that Hermione would agree with me on the frivolity of it all."
"What if I'm interested in it?" Harry asked, indignantly.
"You're not," Tom said, bluntly.
"I could be," he argued. Tom sighed before his lips twitched into a smirk, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
"Well if you absolutely insist, then we should celebrate the way the Romans did," he suggested, sly-eyed and wicked in a way that meant nothing good.
"I'm actually afraid to ask," Harry muttered.
"In Ancient Rome, there was a festival from February 13th to the 15th," Tom told him anyway. "They called it the Feast of Lupercalia. The men would sacrifice a goat and a dog then whip the women with the hides of the animals they'd slain."
"...You have got to be making that up!" Harry protested.
"Oh, the women would line up to be beaten– they believed it increased fertility– and after they would all go at it like rabbits," Tom continued, still smirking. "For our celebration, we could forgo the animal sacrifices, of course, but whips are generally made from animal hide– currently, leather whips with deerskin tails are quite popular. The Romans did have a few good ideas."
"How could that – that Luper-something feast become Valentine's Day?" Harry asked incredulously, ignoring Tom's playful teasing. Or at least what he refused to even consider as anything but teasing. Tom answered his question.
"In the third century the Romans executed two men by the name of Valentine on the 14th," he lectured, "the Catholic Church made them martyrs, of course, so the day became known to those who followed Christianity as Saint Valentine's Day. In the fifth century, Christianisation across Europe had Saint Valentine's Day being combined with Lupercalia. The Christians removed the more... pagan aspects of the celebration, but the day remained about fertility and love."
"Huh," Harry murmured, more to himself then to Tom.
"You know, I think you're right, Harry," Tom mused, "perhaps we should celebrate Valentine's Day after all."
"Actually I think you're right," Harry said hurriedly, "it was a terrible idea, we should definitely skip it."
Tom just smirked.
Hindsight, Harry thought with a sigh.
In terms of helpfulness, Draco, Blaise and Theo weren't much better then Tom. At the mention of the day in question, they all pulled various faces. "Urgh, do you remember Lockhart's bloody cupid-dwarves?" Theo asked with a grimace.
"They're hard to forget," Harry grinned, because the memory of Hermione setting one of the harps on fire was still one that made him laugh. "Maybe I should suggest it to Dumbledore– I'm sure the old bastard would leap at the opportunity to ulp!"
"Don't you dare!" A horrified Draco threatened, having slapped his hand over Harry's mouth. "Do you not realise what Pansy would do with an opportunity like that?"
Harry licked Draco's palm as the blond shuddered at the thought of Parkinson's romantic machinations and the other boy immediately yanked his hand away, pulling a face.
"Urgh! That's disgusting, Harry!" He complained, wiping his palm on his robes. "I don't know where that's been!"
"All sorts of fun places," Harry said cheekily and Blaise and Theo laughed while Draco looked horrified. "But nah, poetry isn't really Hermione's thing. Well, unless it's nineteenth century gothic poetry about murder, revenge, torture, the plague, being buried alive, and insanity." He amended, thinking of her well-worn copy of 'The Complete Works of Poe'.
"I'm not even going to ask," Blaise decided. "But I agree that she'd be much more interested in something along the lines of a set of custom throwing knives then a 'roses are red, violets are blue' poem."
"Where would I even buy something like that?" Harry wondered. Blaise smiled, blue-jewel eyes glittering.
"I'll write to my madre." He promised and Harry, remembering the cold beauty of 'Black Widow' Marchioness Adrienne Zabini, tried not to shudder. Blaise looked far too amused for him to have succeeded but at least Theo and Draco both looked appropriately disturbed too.
"Just tell me how much I owe her." Harry said, resigned.
-
The morning of Valentines Day, Harry woke up wondering if he'd made a terrible mistake. The feeling grew as he met Hermione in the Common Room and she didn't even mention the occasion, but as they reached the Great Hall he was relieved to see it was decorated– tastefully, thank Salazar– with vases of great sprays of red, pink and white roses and the usual golden cutlery, dinnerware, jugs and goblets had been replaced with a silver set that went far better with the flowers. Scattered around the Hall, giggling girls were opening gifts and chocolates delivered by owl while embarrassed boys hastily hid the same from their laughing mates.
"It's Valentines Day?" Hermione asked, sounding surprised. Before Harry had to answer, Hedwig soared into the Hall, the snowy owl forever noticeable amongst the greys, tawnies and barn owls. Even Draco's sleek eagle owl had nothing on his beautiful girl.
She was carrying two wrapped parcels and Harry got a very bad feeling in his stomach when she landed in front of them, proudly preening her glossy feathers. Harry hastily grabbed several miniature sausages for her, placing them on a napkin for her to consume at her leisure (as was her right) while Hermione untied the parcels from her.
"There's a note," she told him, lifting a crisp white square of paper that had been folded neatly in half.
"From Tom?" He guessed. Hermione unfolded it, revealing red ink bleeding across the white in a familiar calligraphy.
"Tom," she confirmed, holding the note so they could both read it.
Tom's Valentine's message was simple and slightly horrifying, a twisted parody of romantic: Harry and Hermione~ I'd kill to be with you.
"I think it's supposed to be ironic?" Harry suggested, without much hope.
"I'm pretty sure it's just honest." Hermione said, wry and amused. Seemingly prompted by the sound of their voices, more letters inked their way across the bottom of the page, as if written by an invisible hand. "If you're confused, ask Harry for clarification," Hermione read aloud and Harry groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
"You better open it before the others get here– and don't let anyone else see what's inside." He mumbled.
He lifted his head as Hermione vanished the brown paper, revealing two sleek, black wooden boxes with silver hinges. She opened the first and sucked in a surprised breath.
Harry wished he could say he was surprised by the contents, but by this point he'd resigned himself to it.
The flogger was elegant looking, at least; the deerskin tails were a deep crimson color, soft and supple-looking with a braided black leather-hide handle. Nestled on snow-pale velvet with scattered white rose petals, the whip actually looked almost romantic. Snapping the lid closed before anyone else could see the contents, Hermione opened the second box. This time the velvet was a deep red colour and the set of cuffs resting on it had black leather straps with silver plating and were lined with pure-white fur.
"I believe Tom mentioned clarification," Hermione said dryly as she snapped the lid of the second box shut too. Harry groaned again, head falling back to his hands.
"I made the mistake of mentioning the upcoming Valentines Day to Tom," he explained, voice muffled. "The tosser started going on about the Ancient Romans and some feast they used to have before all the Christianisation happened, where animals were sacrificed and skinned and people were beaten with the hides."
"The Feast of Lupercalia?" Hermione asked in surprised realisation. "The old Roman festival of fertility and unbridled carnal copulation?"
"That would be the one." Harry confirmed. "And you know about it because...?"
"Because after 'Uncle Thaddeus' had his Bill passed in the Wizengamot about the traditional Wizarding versions of holidays being celebrated at Hogwarts, I investigated all the muggle holidays to find their magical equivalent," Hermione explained. "Valentines Day, unlike Easter or Christmas, doesn't actually have a traditional counterpart, though the Feast of Lupercalia can be considered its pagan roots. Hogwarts doesn't usually do anything special to celebrate it, barring of course Lockhart's spectacular disaster, but I'm not surprised that this year Dumbledickhead decided to passive-aggressively decorate the castle to celebrate the muggle holiday. I think I'll write to Vo– 'Uncle Thaddeus' about this, see if he can't prevent it happening again next year."
"Well," Harry said, feeling nervous all over again, "I wasn't really sure if you were expecting me to do anything or not, so... er, well, I sort of got you something."
"You did?" Hermione asked, sounding surprised.
"Blaise helped," Harry mumbled, pulling the present wrapped in silver with a pale pink ribbon from his robes, where he'd pocketed it while dressing that morning.
Still looking surprised, Hermione accepted the present. She took the time to actually unwrap it instead of vanishing the paper and ribbon, uncovering the simple wooden box, a dark honey colour and not quite as fancy as the sleek ones Tom's gifts had come in but still pretty enough.
Opening it, she let out a quiet sound of surprise. "Oh! They're beautiful, Harry!"
The ornamental hairpins the Black Widow had bought were indeed beautiful– beautiful and deadly.
The heads of the pins were pretty, green stones bracketed in floral silvery filigree nests and Elizabethan heart embossed silver beads, but those pretty green stones and heart-shaped beads also happened to be hollow– as were the pins themselves, all of which ended in a razor-sharp, hollow tips. The beads were designed so they could be filled with a poison of choice and twisting them widdershins would release the poison into the body of the pin, and down to the exit point– the hollow tip that was easily sharp enough to stab through any material and skin like a knife through butter.
Explaining that to Hermione had her eyes light up in actual delight. Adrienne Zabini was terrifying and deadly and apparently she had far too much in common with Hermione.
At least Hermione liked her present.
"Harry!" She exclaimed, visibly thrilled. "There are so many things these could be used for!" She sounded far too gleeful and Harry smiled weakly. His smile stopped when she dropped her voice to whisper, "I think Tom still has some dimethyl mercury– I'll ask him to send some in, disguised as perfume or something. And Veritaserum! Veritaserum would be so useful... maybe Draught of Living Death? For if we need to stun someone but don't want them to be enerverated by the first person with a wand who comes along..."
As Hermione continued planned quietly, Harry considered if he'd just made a huge mistake. Then he sighed, shrugged and decided to just go with it– he had more to worry about then how terrifying Hermione's brain was.
After all, the Second Task was just over a week away now.
-
The professors seemed determined to ignore the holiday of love that had once an ancient Roman ritual. Harry was horrified to receive several anonymous gifts throughout the day, mostly of chocolate (which Blaise, Theo, Draco, Vince and Greg had all happily appropriated once they'd checked they weren't laced with love potions) but there were no gnomes dressed as cupid trying to deliver him poetry, at least.
The decorations in the Great Hall were gone by dinner, but when Hermione joined him for training in the Room of Requirement, he got the feeling that the holiday wasn't over yet. Actually, he was actually more surprised that the room wasn't some sort of sex dungeon when they walked in to meet Tom, instead it was a mirror image of the living room from their wing in Riddle Manor.
Tom looked as striking as ever, his eyes red and his smile sly on his sharp, lovely face as he sauntered over to them, the prowling gait of a predator. Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and wasn't sure if his speeding pulse was due to nerves or excitement. "Hermione thought that you deserved the night off training, you were so thoughtful with your gift," the older boy practically purred, his voice as heated as the look in his eyes. "And I quite agreed with her." Harry looked at Tom suspiciously.
"What's the catch, though?" He asked warily, because he was a Slytherin; he knew better then to not look a gift horse in the mouth. Tom made a mock-disapproving noise, shaking his head.
"And here I thought a night of fucking your significant others would be something to anticipate, not dread." He said dryly. Harry blushed and Hermione whacked Tom's shoulder half-heartedly.
"Tom!" She scolded. "Don't be so crass!" Tom rolled his eyes at the rather hypocritical statement coming from her, giving her a sharp push back in retaliation. The Room of Requirement materialised a bed behind them for her to fall on and Hermione hit the mattress with an amused sound, a murmured word from her own lips vanishing her robes. "Come on, Harry," she urged and Harry, almost like he was being pulled by strings (or pushed by Tom's hands on his shoulders, to be exact), stumbled forwards, onto the mattress.
Hermione reached up, grasping onto his robes and pulling him down, twisting them so she was straddling him; naked and beautiful and glorious, she grinned down at him and he gripped her hips as she leaned down so they could kiss.
In this moment, Hermione kissed with her everything; body and heart and soul, and Harry returned her sweet passion with his own, barely noticing his robes disappear. Hermione broke apart, moving off him and up to the top of the newly created bed, turning she was sitting on the pillows there, leaning back against the headboard. Harry knew without having to ask what she wanted. He moved up so he was on his knees between her spread legs, kissing her for a long, long moment before shuffling backwards as he kissed down her body, pausing briefly to nip at her breasts the way she liked, to press his teeth against the softness of her naval, before dragging them over her hip and burying his face between her legs.
Sex felt good, but Harry never really felt the need to be the one to seek it out– he left that for Hermione and Tom, who seemed to get something from it that he didn't. This, though– this he loved doing. The rich scent and taste, the quiver and clench of thighs over his shoulders, pressed to his head, the feel of the give and pressure of it all against his lips and teeth and tongue, all as he figured out what felt good by listening to the way Hermione and Tom sounded, to feeling how their muscles clenched, how their bodies moved under his touch.
The mattress dipped and shifted as Tom joined them on the bed, his long fingers tracing along the curve of Harry's spine before the sounds of Hermione's whimpers abruptly muffled, he presumed as Tom pressed his lips to hers.
"I– I think you should fuck Harry," Hermione panted after a minute or two of muffled sounds and Harry felt a hot frisson of want shiver down his spine at her words. Hermione moaned again, her thighs clenching. "Ooh, yes, he likes that, Tom– yes, yes–" Harry groaned as Hermione's hands fastened in his hair, tangling and gripping hard enough to send sharp flicks of pain across his spine.
"Is that what you want, Harry?" Tom hissed against his ear, his tongue tracing the curve. Mouth busy, Harry lifted one of his hands from Hermione's thighs to give a shaky thumbs up. Tom actually laughed, leaning down to nip the digit before moving back behind him.
Tom murmured the spell that cleaned him inside, then as he pushed two slick, slender fingers inside Harry couldn't help but jerk, his teeth accidentally digging into Hermione far more violently then he'd ever do purposefully. That just made Hermione twist and cry out as she came, her body curving forwards, her hands in his hair holding his head firmly in place before she slumped back, hands releasing him, one falling to the mattress while the other idly ran through his hair.
Harry panted for a moment, his concentration on what Tom was doing with his fingers and rocking back into it. He glanced up at Hermione who was looking back at him, her eyes half closed with pleasure, her smile lazy and sated. He pressed his lips briefly to the point his teeth had dug in before resuming his previous task, taking more care this time, which wasn't quite as easy as it sounded with Tom's fingers practically making him see stars.
He was so on edge, hot need clouding his head and senses, that when Tom finally gripped his hips and pushed in, he was already coming undone. Tom fucked him through it, through Hermione coming again and pulling away only so she could pull him up onto his elbows and kiss him, reaching underneath to stroke him back to hardness through his choked off moans that bled into sobs and then to harsh pants, clinging desperately to her arms while she held him up.
Tom reached his own finish, gripping hard enough to bruise as he did so, and as soon as he pulled out Harry sprawled across Hermione's stomach, slumped and boneless. Tom stroked his back as Harry trembled, his strong hands turning Harry around. Harry tensed and tried to roll away when Tom reached down where he was sensitive and aching but Hermione held him in place as Tom gripped onto him, jerking roughly. Harry gave in to it, gave in to Hermione's teeth on the nape of his neck and Tom's hand hard and tight around him.
He turned his head, pressing his face against the mattress as he came again. It hurt, it did, but gods, it was good. Hermione's fingers stroked through his hair, her hands only trembling slightly as she sucked in deep breaths. Harry made a bleary sort of sound and Tom chuckled quietly.
"Perhaps we should rest here for the night," he suggested. "I'm not sure Harry can move."
"Arse," Harry muttered and Tom laughed again.
"Happy Valentines Day, Harry." He teased. "Though next year, we're celebrating like the Romans." He added. Harry wasn't sure whether it was a warning or a promise.
And it was probably just the mess of endorphins in his head, but at that moment he wasn't sure he cared either.
-
-
Fleur's POV:
La fête de Saint Valentin had never been an overly important day to celebrate in Fleur's family. She hadn't been expecting it to be any different in Britain, had barely even taken note of the date, in fact, other then as a way to measure just how many days left until the Second Task (only ten).
As such, it had been a surprise when her darling owl, Aurèle, had flown through the window of her room in the Carriage proudly carrying a bouquet of flowers. It was a small bouquet in shades of purple, white and green; violets and heather were interwoven with the delicate white lime blossoms, sprigs of coriander flowers and elegant lily of the valley, the blooms all arranged with a frothy asparagus foliage.
Fleur studied it carefully, identifying the plants used and translating their meanings; the asparagus foliage was for fascination, the purple heather symbolised beauty and admiration, the lily of the valley was trust and the purple violets for love between two women. Amusingly, the lime blossoms and the flowering coriander springs were for fornication and lust respectively– a lovely, if unusual, bouquet but certainly one she could never show her maman, grand-mère or Gabrielle, despite the surprising sweetness of her lover's gesture.
There was a card attached to the bouquet and Fleur smiled softly as she read the message Tonks had left–J'aimerais être une de tes larmes pour naître dans tes yeux, vivre sur tes joues et mourir sur tes lèvres.
(I'd like to be one of your tears to be born in your eyes, live on your cheeks and die on your lips).
On the back, Tonks had added 'Tu veux sortir avec moi? 7?' to which Fleur's enthusiastic reply, sent off with Aurèle, had been that yes, she would like to go out with Tonks at seven that evening.
She hadn't been expecting any romance from Tonks; they'd had a number of liaisons over the term, each which had been varying degrees of 'kinky', to say the least. Tonks was... an unusual woman of very particular tastes. Fleur's horizons had been broadened dramatically over the past weeks, much further then she'd have ever anticipated.
And she wasn't afraid to admit that Tonks made her nervous. There was something fundamentally wrong with the woman, something inside her head that worked differently from most people. But while it did make her nervous, Fleur didn't judge Tonks for it and had subsequently not attempted to hold the older witch's behaviour to normal societal standards. Which meant she really hadn't been expecting any sort of romance.
She and Tonks had come to an easy, comfortable understanding where neither of them felt the need to fake who they were to each other. Fleur was unashamedly and unapologetically not entirely human, freely allowing her nails sharpen to claws as they fucked and using her Allure to increase the intensity of the sex. And Tonks didn't constantly pretend to smile and laugh and joke or act like she wasn't far more into causing Fleur pain then making either of them come; sex always second to the sadism the older witch enjoyed (though that wasn't to say Tonks didn't enjoy sex, because she most certainly did– she just really, really enjoyed pain).
'Romance' didn't fit into the 'relationship' they'd created together. Even the flowers were a surprise, though Fleur knew that Tonks appreciated the uncommon ability they both had to understand Victorian flower language.
Fleur asked Hermione, during lunch, if she had any inkling as to why Tonks would change the routine they'd worked out together. Hermione had informed her that her psychopathic lover had sent her (and Harry) handcuffs and a whip as Valentines Day gifts in what he no doubt thought was a romantic gesture. "In other words, not even Merlin knows how their minds work," Hermione had concluded, sympathetically. "Don't try to figure it out, you'll just give yourself a headache."
It was, Fleur decided, probably the best advice she was going to get.
She'd existed in a state of nervousness the entire day, anxiously waiting for evening to arrive. Tonks hadn't given any details about what she had planned for their date, but Fleur assumed sex would be involved and dressed accordingly.
By the time seven o'clock had arrived, the sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky had been reduced to a dazzling blanket of stars. The moon was barely a sliver, the crescent finer then the delicate pins holding Fleur's carefully styled hair in place.
She'd decided to wait outside the Beauxbatons Carriage, having convinced one of her classmates, Gervase Sinclair– the boys had always been easier to deal with then the girls– to inform Madam Maxime she was ill and resting in her room if the headmistress came looking for her. Fleur doubted she would– Maxime had been occupied enough in her conversation with the Hogwarts groundskeeper during dinner that Fleur suspected her headmistress would be quite engaged herself that evening.
She felt Tonks approach before she saw her; the older witch's shallow, artificial emotions were distinctive enough that it made Tonks herself distinctive to Fleur's empathetic senses. She let Tonks approach her from behind, not fighting as the witch immediately pulled her into a rough kiss. Tonks bit her bottom lip sharply before coaxing her mouth open with her tongue and surprised Fleur by pushing something in it.
The unexpectedness of it had her bite down and the cherry split under her teeth, sweet juices filling her mouth. Tonks pulled away, stepping back slightly as Fleur rolled the split cherry on her tongue, confused, before finishing it and plucking the pip from between her teeth, vanishing it with a neat bit of magic.
Tonks was smiling at her, sharp and hungry-eyed. Cherry juice had left red smudges on the witch's lips and stained her teeth. "I've got snacks, wine and more of those cherries– feel like having a picnic?" She asked in lieu of any sort of greeting– or maybe the kiss had been the greeting?
Wine was probably not the best idea as Tonks was undeniably dangerous, and if she was smart, which Fleur knew she was, she would definitely stay sober while dealing with the older witch. But honestly, wine sounded really good– and so did the cherries, actually– so Fleur just smiled back. She could still taste the fruit in her mouth and wondered if her teeth were stained too. The idea was strangely arousing. Tonks's smile widened, almost as if she was reading Fleur's thoughts– or possibly her face was being a lot more expressive then she usually allowed it– and Fleur hastily nodded.
"Yes," she said, breathless.
-
-
Tonks's POV:
Tonks liked to wear her hair in bright, bold colours because people remembered them. They remembered violent violet, bubblegum pink, sunny gold, lime green and crimson red. It meant when she went plain and brown, eyes slid right over her; it was the best disguise out there, the knowledge that to be invisible all she really needed to do was be unapologetically visible until she wasn't.
For her 'date' with Fleur, Tonks had decided to 'dress for the occasion'. She'd picked out a cobalt blue slip dress with a decorative pink flowered pattern that matched her lipstick, her hair was a deep, eye-catching crimson and her eyes were their natural pale grey, a shade that looked almost violet in the right light, the unusual colouring a result of her Black family genes and occasional use of Dark magic.
Fleur seemed to have had a similar idea about dressing up because she looked breathtaking; the frosty white of her robes draped over her willowy figure like a layer of snow on marble and the moonlight that hit her face turned her skin pale as the dead (such a beautiful horror, and just for her). Looking at her, so utterly fair and painfully perfect, Tonks wanted to see her lover soaked with red, could practically taste the hot iron of it on her tongue.
She'd been so fucking desperate for it lately; the cravings were stronger and darker then they'd been for over a year. They gnawed at the back of her mind like an itch she couldn't scratch, deep and irritating and persistent, the unsettling restlessness within her a constant reminder of what she craved, the need of it leaving her unfulfilled and afraid of being driven (closer) to the brink of insanity with her inability to find relief.
Blood-lust raged through her, filled every inch of her body with the compulsive need for turning her pretty blades wet and slick with life-liquid until she could think of nothing else but thick, hot blood covering her shaking hands and the euphoric feel of relief that rushed through her as she watched the sweet nectar of mortality spill. There was no other substance or symbol more potent than blood; nothing more intrinsically bound up in the sinewy cockles of humankind's collective unconscious and Tonks wanted; oh, she so desperately, desperately wanted.
She'd set up a picnic in the Forbidden Forest, because that's what the students had always dared each other to do back during her Hogwarts years and all the time she was spending at the castle over the past few weeks was making her surprisingly nostalgic.
The wine was good. The cheese and crackers were acceptable, as were the tartlets, and the little sandwiches surprisingly delicious (Hogwarts house elves did good work). Fleur had easily accepted Tonks feeding her cherries through kisses, not questioning it despite her clear confusion as to why. The part-Veela was easy-going like that. It did terrible things to Tonks's self-control; it made her desperately want to push the younger witch to her limits, just to see how far the part-Veela would let her go. It was a hungry desire that grew with each sweet, breathless whimpered 'yes' and 'oui', with each gracious surrender and gift of submission, each glimpse of that beautiful trust that Tonks wasn't sure she deserved, nor did she know when exactly she'd earned it, but made her want to not break it.
Her mother had taught Tonks good manners, after all, and being careless with gifts was the very lowest of manners.
"Zese are délicieux," Fleur declared, licking her lips to catch a bit of juice that had escaped. Tonks smiled at her, hungry and wanting.
"They can get even better," she offered. Fleur looked startled then contemplative (always so good, her lovely little French doll, always saying yes).
"Oui," she said after a pause, a small, curious smile forming on her face. Tonks's own smile widened and she reached over to tug them both to their feet then reached for the laces that tied Fleur's robes.
As she slid the pale material off Fleur, she was delighted to see the part-Veela was wearing only stockings and a chemise underneath. Barely reaching the tops of her thighs, the skirt of the chemise was made of ruffled, transparent white silk with delicate lace trim adorning the hem. An equally white satin ribbon wrapped around the slender curve of her ribs, tied in a delicate bow. The sweetheart neckline barely covered her full breasts, the pale pink blush of her nipples noticeable under the nearly transparent lace. Visible under the skirt were a pair of glossy underwear, decorated with another delicate satin bow (like the most precious of gifts and Tonks wanted to devour her sweet, sweet present).
Tonks picked a cherry, brought it to her mouth and held it there, careful not to bite as she knelt down in front of Fleur, reaching to grab the French witch's hands and move them to her shoulders so Fleur could brace herself. Tugging those satin-silk knickers with that delightful bow down Fleur's mile-long legs was enough to make Tonks want to just push Fleur down and fuck her rough and dirty on the forest floor, but there was no need to rush things. She helped Fleur step out of the underwear, not wanting to ruin them, then coaxed Fleur's legs apart wide enough that it was easy to nuzzle into her, gripping onto a slender thigh with each hand, keeping them firmly open.
She grinned as she rolled the fruit in her mouth before moving her hands high enough on Fleur's thighs that she could use her thumbs to open the younger woman up enough that it was easy to use her tongue to push the cherry inside her. Fleur must have guessed where Tonks had been going with it all, but the loud gasp and the way her fingers tightened almost-painfully over Tonks's shoulders indicated she was still plenty shocked.
Tonks ignored that, though, concentrating instead on slowly but insistently pushing the cherry into her lover and listening to her moan, feeling her twitch and jerk. She repeated the process four more times as she leisurely ate Fleur out in between until the poor thing was panting and moaning against her, thighs trembling and hands clenching every time Tonks added a cherry or pushed her tongue in deep. She'd already come once, between the second and third cherry, and glancing up, Tonks was delighted to see the sparkling blue pools of Fleur's perfect eyes had transformed to dark oceans flooded with desire.
Getting the cherries out was just as much fun as putting them in. Casually pushing two fingers deep inside her lover, Tonks was able to tease Fleur to a second then a third orgasm as she located and tugged out the fruit, adding first a third and then a fourth finger inside Fleur as she did so, until she had five warm cherries, three intact and two busted, the latter staining Tonks's fingers and the skirt of her dress with their dark juices. They were still delicious, as promised earlier, and she pulled her exhausted, weak-kneed lover down onto the picnic blanket to let her sit and rest while she bit each cherry in half and shared the spoils of her labour with the younger witch.
But Tonks hadn't come yet and she was aroused and restless and as soon as the last cherry and been split and devoured, she poured them both another glass of wine which she quickly drained, waiting for the flushed Fleur to do the same before asking, "Want to move this to a bedroom?"
Fleur seemed only too happy to agree. "Mine eez closest," she suggested and Tonks certainly had no problem with that.
Sneaking into the Beauxbatons' carriage was easy and although the bedrooms already had silencing charms applied, Tonks took a moment to cast several of her own as well as a tricky door-locking spell and a ward that would warn her of anyone approaching with the intention of either knocking or entering the room. She didn't have any specific plans for them but she knew herself, knew the restlessness that went deeper then her bones, and she could acknowledge that it wasn't going to be a gentle, calm sort of night.
Fleur had already come three times recently, but multiple orgasms were a blessing to their gender that should never be wasted (she'd certainly heard Charlie bitch about it enough) and Tonks gleefully pushed Fleur down on the bed and moved between her legs again, drawing teeth over the younger woman's hip and then burying her face between her legs once more. Fleur threw a leg over her shoulder and ground down onto her face. Tonks moaned in response and pressed two fingers up inside of Fleur, causing her to immediately twist and come with a shout.
"N-No more!" Fleur pleaded, her trembling hands weakly trying to push Tonks's head away. Tonks pouted playfully but backed off. Instead, she took in the sight of the lovely creature on her (well, on Fleur's) bed.
"I want to stain you red," she breathed, dragging her teeth over the creamy flesh stretched out before her, admiring the pink lines left but wanting more. "I want to soak you in it, want to make you cry–"
"Oui, oui," Fleur moaned, tears already sparkling in the corners of her pretty eyes, "yes, I want you, fais-le, je te fais confiance–" Tonks licked up all traces of the salt, adoring the way Fleur slipped back to her native tongue, before pressing their lips together, almost laughing as Fleur practically purred in response, tilting her head back to automatically deepen the kiss. She could taste the wine on the younger woman's tongue.
Trailing her lips from Fleur's delectable mouth back down her body, she kissed and sucked down her clavicle, her sternum, stopping to bite at the undersides of her breasts.
"Will you let me?" She breathed, digging her teeth into the creamy flesh just to hear the whimpers of pain. "Will you let me, pretty girl?"
"Oui– yes, yes," Fleur whimpered and Tonks grinned, claiming the French girl's mouth again in a savage kiss before pushing up to a crouch.
Fleur looked perfect, pink-faced and tear stained, sparkling eyes fogged with pleasure and wine. "Choose a safe word," she told her, because she was already dizzy with want and she didn't want to accidentally damage her lover more then what could be fixed.
"Camellias." Fleur said, after a brief moment. Tonks couldn't help her delighted laugh; in flower language, camellias represented the message 'my life/destiny is in your hands'. It was oddly fitting and undeniably clever, evidence to the sharpness in Fleur's eyes under the fog of the wine and the coy slyness in her poison-sweet smile.
Tonks watched, hungrily, as the French witch shifted around on the bed, pushing herself to the middle of the mattress. She rested her arms at her sides, hands palm up, exposing the blue river lines of her veins. Her tender, pale stomach was exposed; her head was tilted back, showing her throat. It was a sacred trinity of vulnerability, all of which silently declared that Fleur trusted her, trusted the predator she called lover. Blood beat so hard and hot beneath those defenceless, delicate offerings, her skin thin and so, so fragile and Tonks's teeth sharp and so, so hungry, yet Fleur was blatantly giving the message that she wasn't afraid. She was merely waiting.
Tonks was only too happy to take her up on the offering of tender flesh laid out so temptingly before her.
-
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Fleur's POV:
***(warning)***
Fleur held herself still as death as Tonks conjured a dagger and pressed it just below her collarbone. The hilt glittered, the untarnished gold and silvery iron almost luminous under the glow of the moon. There was something wild, feral and undeniably dangerous in the older witch's eyes. Tonks currently had deep red hair, the colour of 'romance' she'd playfully joked, but Fleur rather thought that the crimson falling over the opaque paleness of her skin and framing her icy violet eyes more resembled slashes of blood.
It was on the edge of her tongue to call for Tonks to stop; the older witch had traced stinging red lines into her flesh before with that same blade, but those had been light and shallow, barely deeper then the scratches left by her fingernails. It would be different this time, she could already tell by the distant, yet contradictorily hyper-focused look in her lover's eyes, carved deep as they were with shadows, equal parts sleepless nights and a darkness that Fleur would never be able to truly comprehend.
And perhaps the biggest warning of all? Tonks hadn't ever told her to pick a safe word before. Last time they'd used the dagger, the older witch had been in complete control; confident and precise, even in her lust. She'd never pushed further then Fleur could take, shockingly good at reading her moods by her expression alone. Tonks wasn't even looking at her now.
Fleur kept her mouth closed, though, clenching her teeth and ordering herself to remain still as the dagger bit in. The pain took a second to catch up to the cutting of her skin, but when it did, it hurt. It burned and throbbed sharply as her skin grew wet with blood. Tonks moaned as she pressed down with the dagger again, carving another gash into Fleur's skin. It was deeper this time and Fleur could barely keep from twitching, her hands frantically fisting the slippery silk sheets beneath her as the pain burned through her.
Tonks barely gave her time to gather herself before she was cutting her again, a third time, and through a sheen of tears Fleur pinned her eyes to the slight shine of the blade. She could smell her own blood now and Tonks's face as she started the fourth cut was just shy of blank, no fake mask in place; nothing in place, just a gleam in those violet-ice eyes.
The cuts were short but deep and blood was running down her side and up towards her neck, little trails of hot stickiness.
"Merde– merde–" she choked, wheezing, as Tonks sliced into her skin again. The side of her chest was on fire now, wet and burning, but there was an unexpected heat building up between her trembling, twitching thighs.
And then Tonks moved the blade to the opposite side of her chest, trailed the point along the blank canvas over her ribs, leaving a smudged trail of red behind, and Fleur started sobbing, unable to help it as Tonks began a second row of weeping cuts. Tonks lowered her head to press a hungry kiss to each of the dripping cuts and then licked into them, running her tongue through the deep gashes. Fleur's hands automatically moved to the back of her head, gripping her long red hair, unsure if it was to push her aware or hold her in close.
She then arched up against Tonks with her whole body, crying out sharply as the older witch bit over the cuts then sucked at them. The pain was white-hot, almost blinding, but she still ground her hips against her lover, chasing the build up of tangled pleasure-pain-heat-hunger-want in her abdomen. She tangled her hands in deep crimson tresses that spilled like blood over her fingers and tried not to scream.
Tonks pulled back, moving her head up to press a wet, metallic kiss to her open, panting mouth and sliding her tongue inside. When she moved back again, Fleur didn't even try to muffle her wretched-sounding sobbing. The cuts were burning lines of pain-fire-pain on her torso and she could barely concentrate, having long since crossed the invisible line that existed during sex that dropped her into a haze, sinking into whatever was happening to her.
Even as Tonks dug her nails into the cuts on the left side, raking them down at an angle while still applying that heavy pressure, Fleur could only respond by screaming and bucking her hips, wildly thrashing in place. Her mouth tasted like blood and at some point she hadn't even noticed, Tonks had used magic to tie her down. With the amount of writhing and twisting she was doing, it was probably a good idea.
Fleur shook her head, trying to clear it, but she couldn't find the words, could barely even process anything aside from the way everything hurt and she was shaking and crying and she desperately wanted, but she wasn't sure what. The tremors ran up and down her body, shaking her apart and making her teeth rattle in her skull as Tonks made her fall to pieces.
The wash of heat, want and agony entwined together like lovers, made breathing difficult as Tonks cut away and Fleur just lost herself in it, in the rhythm of the older witch's movements. There was a ceaseless eternity in the way Tonks hurt her, each incision causing more blood to spill in rivulets over her skin. The wet ache between her thighs had been reduced to little more then an afterthought as her nerves light up and each thump of her heart was a beat of pleasure, a sick throb in her abdomen and inching along her spine with prickling white heat.
She whimpered and pressed her thighs tightly together, felt the way they trembled and she moaned. The pain was consuming her and she gladly, gratefully fell into it, darkness rising up from behind her eyelids to drown her alive.
When she came to again, it was to Tonks's mouth pressed between her thighs and she helplessly rode her swelling arousal to its completion. Tonks brought her off almost embarrassingly fast; Fleur's skin was fever-hot and clenching tight, the air was too close and too warm, and Tonks' hair seemed to run down her face and down her pale shoulders and the arch of her back like wet blood.
***(scene over)***
After, Fleur blinked blearily looked down at herself to see no open wounds, only pale silver lines running down her flanks that were almost unnoticeable against her creamy skin, starting just below her collarbone and ending halfway down her rib cage. She wasn't sure if she'd regained consciousness at some point or if Tonks had just continued cutting her up while she was passed out, but she didn't really care either way.
The bed sheets were beyond ruined, soaked with an almost alarming amount of red. "I gave you a blood-replenishing potion when I healed you up," Tonks informed her and Fleur nodded weakly, reaching up with a trembling hand to run fingers through Tonks's hair, now a bright bubblegum pink. "You're so perfect," Tonks whispered, catching her hand as she let it drop and pressing a soft kiss to each of her fingertips. "So, so perfect– I'm never going to let you go, my pretty doll."
Fleur let out a small hum, not seeing any problem with that. Tonks laughed softly and shifted so she could lay down behind her, pulling Fleur into the curve of her body and pressing her lips against the soft skin of her neck. "You're so gone right now, love. It's so pretty– you're so pretty. Sleep, lovely thing– sleep and dream sweet things."
When she woke, she was alone but draped across the pillow beside her where Tonks had been laying were several beautiful elongated ropes of deep purple-red flower blooms, all long and drooping, the pendulous flowers almost dripping from the stems. Scattered across them were a several hydrangeas the same reddish-purple colour.
Fleur couldn't help her smile as she looked down at them. The message of the hydrangeas were as obvious as they were touching– heartfelt gratitude for being understood. The other, more startling flowers were amaranthus caudatus. Their meaning in flower language was hopeless love or hopelessness, but Fleur had a feeling that Tonks hadn't chosen them for that– rather, for the name they were widely known by; Love-Lies-Bleeding.