wl_mods (wl_mods) wrote in wizard_love, @ 2009-02-13 07:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | *fic, hermione, ron, snape |
Special Delivery For: psyfic, pt 2
Title: Lines in Shifting Sand, part 2
Author: tjwritter
Recipient: psyfic
Pairing: Ron/Hermione, Ron/Hermione/Snape
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 16,000
Summary: Ronald Weasley had done a lot of things for his wife that he thought he would never, ever do. Inviting Severus Snape into their bed had been the last in a long list of lines he’d crossed.
Continued from here.
Here it is that we find our young Mr. Weasley at a crossroads—the choice that we all must make in our lives at one point or another—between what is right and what is easy. Those of us that remember only a Ron that could abandon his friends in their hour of need for the want of a sandwich might believe him always choosing the easy. For those of us who remember that he came back, swam to the bottom of a frigid lake and brought his charge out of death’s grip, that he faced his personal demons and, in the end, destroyed them with a sword’s piercing thrust, that he then went on to became a valuable member of a team directly responsible for the end of a long and bloody battle of good triumph over evil, would not find it hard at all to believe that he choose the path of what was right.
We, of course wouldn’t be as foolish as to say he did it willingly, or without a bit of grumbling.
But he did come back home the next morning with a enormous hangover that the best of remedies couldn’t relieve, went to work, then came home to prepare his household’s dinner before performing the exercises he had begun the night before with Snape. After that, he went to visit his mother who had floo-called him earlier, excited about an owl she had received from Hermione asking for help with the upcoming wedding. When he returned from the Burrow, he found a book and went back up to Snape’s room to begin a new chapter.
And the next day he did it again, and the next, and the next.
To him, it didn’t seem that he had made a decision, it felt more like he was fighting against rising, swirling sand trying to choke and suffocate him if he didn’t constantly keep moving, one step at a time, one foot in front of the other.
It would have seemed like a small march to death if not for a few bright spots along the way. The first being the increased correspondence with Hermione, who was obviously missing him and excited to begin their life together, the other, surprisingly, was Snape. They weren’t sharing their feelings or bonding or anything. In fact, the more time Ron spent with Snape, the less they talked; Snape’s loathing of dependency bumping again Ron’s increased obligations didn’t allow for much conversation.
But it wasn’t the man’s shining personality or witty repertoire that bolstered Ron’s outlook. It was his physical being. After about two weeks of exercise, Ron began to feel the muscle under his hand forming along Snape’s bony arms and legs and see color return to his pallid skin.
The more he saw his ministrations paying off, the more Ron didn’t mind the physical contact and the more he allowed himself to take care of Snape. He started to feel he had a knack for this. Soon he was administrating the muscle-soothing massages and applying the creamy medication that Snape still needed to eventually gain the ability to become mobile again. By the time that Hermione’s last days at school came around, Ron’s only use for Kreacher was to oversee Snape’s bathing and the dressing and undressing of the man.
It wasn’t just Ron who was coming to terms with his new reality. Snape also was finding ways to do more than merely survive. Perhaps he finally decided that he was no longer fate’s whipping boy and since he survived—when there was no reason that he should have—he ought to see it as a sign that life was finally his, and only his, to live as he saw fit. While Ron felt Snape’s muscles and health return, Snape felt his magic returning, infinitesimally, but still, and with it came hope.
By the time Hermione came home from her schooling, Snape was sitting up, listening to the wireless, reintroducing himself to the news of the wizarding world. He was spending his days working out crossword puzzles with the help of Kreacher and had even challenged Ron to wizard’s chess—once. Turned out, despite it all, Snape was still a terribly bad sport when it came to losing. And maybe due to everything, Ron was incredibly cocky about his superior talent with the game.
Also, by the time Hermione had returned, the wedding plans had been cemented by her and Mrs. Weasley. So, the day that she returned, they were hurried to the Burrow for the festivities. With the new hire of Winky to assist Kreacher in taking care of Snape, they were insured that he would be all right, even if not highly amused by the antics of a tired old house elf and his alcoholic assistant. Ron and Hermione promised to be back soon. Snape merely nodded and wished them luck with absolutely no sincerity.
The weekend was a flurry of parties, celebrations and ceremony, all of which was barely noticed by Ron who was only fully looking forward to the alone time with Hermione after it was all over. It was nice to see everyone, especially Harry and friends from school that he hadn’t thought about since the last time they saw them all those months ago. So much had happened since then, and he didn’t want to think about the life they had already started for themselves while he sat and waited for his to begin. But it all stopped that night, all the waiting, all the fears of drowning a sandy death.
***
Ron sat on the edge of a rented bed and watched his wife—he loved that word, wife—slowly undress before him. The years of sparring partner friendship, a year of soldering in an army of three and the months of them being lovers, combined with the rings on their fingers, bonded them together and made them stronger and more assured than ever before. Hermione especially seemed to feel all-powerful as she began to give her husband a show, removing so very slowly her wedding dress, her corset, and garter belt before placing her stocking-clad leg beside him, allowing him to aid her in removing the silk.
He licked his lips as he looked into her shining eyes. Starting at the arch of her foot and with feather light circles, he traced his way lazily up her ankles, shins, knee coming to the top of the stocking at mid-thigh. Leaning into her, he kissed her where the silk meet skin, rolling the stocking down a bit, he kissed again, and again, until he’d slid off the bed and had her foot in his hand.
She let him spin her around and place her softly on the edge of the bed where just before he had been. He was on his knees before her and, taking the other leg and lifting it, he removed the stocking. He draped her leg over his shoulder and began running his tongue along her thigh, kissing and sucking skin as he moved himself to her center.
She had laid herself down onto her elbows, her eyes on him, one leg still wrapped around his head, the other spread, exposing herself fully to him. He looked at her with a wicked grin as he licked his lips, causing her to whimper in anticipation as he spread her lips apart with his long, meaty fingers. He slid one finger in and she arched her back and balled the blankets harshly with white-knuckled fingers.
“Fuck me,” she whispered throatily. “Fuck me with your tongue.”
As he continued stroking her with his finger, he licked and kissed his way to fulfill her demand. While he breathed her in, he thought of all those months in that horrible tent, how he had dreamed of moments like these, longed for them. When the damned locket around his neck slithering its thoughts into his head and the images turned dark and the longing became about possession, owning her, overpowering her, bending her to his will.
While he worked his tongue along her opening, he worked his free hand up to her nipples, teasing them with her fingers while his tongue teased her clit. She moaned loudly and clutched his shoulder painfully. As he worked his tongue deep inside of her, tasting her, he remembered that first time he had come to her, weary from battle, saddened with loss, and still feeling the guilt and filth of the horcrux’s whispered desires, he had been shaken, timid and anxious to only take what she willingly gave.
He’d like to think he’d improved markedly from that first time, he thought as he twirled his tongue deep inside her before pulling out and diving deeper inside. But he had no intention to ever stop trying to be better, giving more. With a joyous, throaty chuckle, he caused Hermione to shiver and with a loud gasp, she came.
“For the rest of my life,” he whispered as he got up and lay beside his wife, wrapping himself around her.
“For the rest of our lives,” she corrected, her fingers gently swiping his sweaty fringe out of his eyes.
With gentle strokes, she wiped herself off Ron’s face. He licked his lips one more time before she wiped her taste completely off them.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, kissing him.
“Hmmmm,” he hummed, putting his hand around her throat, running his thumb along her chin. “I can stand doing this for a bit more.”
She kissed him again; licking his mouth open, she twined his tongue with hers. Just when he thought the kiss would last forever and he was lost in it, he realized that her fingers were tiptoeing down his side, swirling lazily on his hip.
“What now?” she asked, enlarging her circling caress until she had worked her way to his erection.
He took her hand, guided her to stroke his shaft and rolled onto his back, putting his hands behind his head. “Do with me what you will.”
It was her turn to smile wickedly as she continued to stroke him a few more times before she, in one fluid motion, straddled him, situating herself so that she easily glided him inside her.
Ron bit his lip and pumped his hips to feel her wrapped around him more deeply. She rocked in a circle before rising up and back down again. Each time she slammed down on him, he rose up to meet her, his hands now on her hips.
“Harder,” he begged, wanting to feel her all around him and the slide of her up and down him.
Their panting almost drowned out the slapping sound of body on body as she complied. Ron bit his lip painfully to stop himself from coming before her. When she stopped bouncing on top of him and rotated her pelvis slowly to feel him throughout her, Ron felt her shiver and knew that he was now allowed to come too. Pumping his hips one more time, he exploded inside her with one last grunt.
She collapsed on top of him, her head on his chest as if listening for his rapidly beating heart. Her hair tickled his face and he wrapped his arms around her, taking her hair into his fingers and plaiting it.
“Sorry,” she said with a laugh.
“For what?”
“My unruly hair,” she answered, taking the braid and flicking it so it fell down her back.
“Are you mental? Never apologize for that. I love your hair, always have.”
She rolled off him, still resting her head on his chest. “Liar.”
“Never.”
They stayed liked that, neither of them talking, running their hands along each other, until their fingers found each other and they danced them together before entwining them. Ron brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.
It was quiet for a long time, and Ron was about to fall asleep when Hermione shocked him back into consciousness by asking, “Do you really think Snape’s never had this?”
“What?” he sputtered.
She laughed at his expression. “I’m just curious, that’s all. You think he’s never been with a woman? A woman who loved him as I love you?”
“I don’t think there is a woman who loves anyone more then you love me.”
Hermione kissed him. “Well, that goes without saying.”
“But, what I’m curious about is how your mind always goes to Snape while we’re in bed together.”
Now she stammered. “No it doesn’t! What…How…”
She stopped. He watched her with mild amusement. She tried again. “It’s just when I think of love, I think about how blessed I am and that makes me think of Snape, how sad he is, was…”
“Well, I don’t know if he ever had the sort of love that we have, or even if he’s ever had sex. These are not things I think about. But I think we were right about the healing power of touch.”
“Oh? Were we?”
They talked about the work he and Snape had been doing and how Ron thought it was affecting the man physically and he supposed mentally and emotionally as well. They had talked of Snape’s health before and Hermione had seen his progress in that bit of time she had been back before the wedding, but she hadn’t heard Ron talk about his work with Snape the way he told it now. When he was done, he wiped away the tears from her eyes. It all seemed worth it.
“You’re a good person, Ronald Weasley.”
“So are you, Hermione Weasley.”
“That’s Hermione Granger-Weasley thank you very much.”
Ron smiled and kissed her sweetly.
***
They all settled into an almost mind-numbingly comfortable existence. Ron continued to exercise Snape in the morning and evening before he went to work and after he fixed dinner. Hermione took over applying the medication and giving the massages, and she also kept Snape company throughout the day. While she studied for her NEWTS they discussed potions, herbology, and human transfiguration. Hermione even got him talking about the Dark Arts, in practical, theoretical bases, of course.
At first, Ron was relieved that Hermione took over the care of Snape. It allowed him to do other things he enjoyed. It wasn’t until he realized there wasn’t anything he really wanted to do that he started moping around.
Standing at the door, he listened as his wife’s laugh lofted around the room. “Severus, it’s true. Slughorn really told me you could replace it with the liver of a toad.”
Severus? When did she start calling him Severus?
He asked her that night. Waving it off as no big deal, Hermione answered, “It’s all about that thing I said, you know, the becoming friends? Being kind, remember?”
“Of course I remember, but…but…” He couldn’t go on, couldn’t articulate just what he was feeling. He didn’t know himself.
But as he watched them interact throughout the next couple of months, how easy it was for them, how Snape talked about educational theories and cauldron maintenance and in there somewhere, he shared with her his beliefs and philosophies. He watched as Hermione kneaded Snape’s back, kind and firm, and how he moaned into her touch, how she brushed his hair, tying it back out of his face. Ron realized with a jolt that he was jealous and with another jolt that took his breath away, he realized he didn’t know which one he was more jealous of.
He had worked really hard to gain Snape’s respect, and, in weeks, Hermione had come along and they shared stories and she called him Severus and it was like they forgot all those years as overbearing professor and terrorized student and were like colleagues or something. No. He couldn’t possibly be jealous of Hermione. It must be the way Snape practically purred under her soothing hand. The longing Ron could see practically dripping from Snape’s eyes when he looked at Hermione. What was he thinking agreeing to this? If it were true that Snape had never been with a woman, what was he doing practically throwing his wife at him?
To speed up his rehabilitation, Ron began spending time at St. Mungo’s, learning more about the human body, the power of magic and what exactly he could be doing to help get Snape’s health back.
“What are you doing?” Snape asked when one day Ron entered his room with a determined look, pulled the coverings off the bed, reached his hands under the man’s thighs and around his neck and lifted in one fluid movement.
“Getting you out of this room,” Ron answered.
“Finally giving me the boot then?”
“Don’t be daft. I’m just getting you out of that room, not the house, unless you’d like me to carry you around the neighborhood.”
“Oh yes, what a handsome picture that would be.”
“Good, because you’re heavier then you look.”
They had come down the stairs, and Ron was making his way to the library, making sure not to bump his bundle along the narrow walls.
“It’s not my fault you insist on cooking all those heavy creamed dishes.”
“Yes, that you hate so much you occasionally lick the platter clean.”
Snape sniffed. “Only occasionally.”
Ron smiled. “Which chair is your favorite?”
“That one is fine,” Snape answered, pointing to the closest.
“Are you sure? I think that one over there next to the books on plants and their magical properties looks the most lived in.”
“If you prefer,” Snape answered.
Ron placed him lightly in the chair. “Are you cold?”
“Not really, however, a fire might be nice.”
“Sure,” Ron said, casting his wand on the fireplace first before lighting a few candles around the room. After that, he scooted one of the footstools over and sat down in front of Snape, who was still looking at Ron skeptically. Ron reached out and took Snape’s hand, doing nothing to lessen that suspicion.
Taking Snape’s hand in both of his and smoothing out the fingers slowly, one at a time before massaging the palms, Ron worked silently.
“Can you make a fist?” he finally asked.
Snape gave him a look that usually was followed by a cutting remark, but he seemed to stop himself and instead focused on his own hand. Slowly, very slowly and with a tremendous amount of struggle that caused his whole arm to shake, Snape began moving his fingers into a fist.
“Take it easy…that’s it…breathe…” Ron murmured soothingly.
It wasn’t a tight fist, but Snape panted in satisfied exertion when Hermione came into the room, celery stalk in one hand, open book in the other.
“Oh,” she said when she realized they were in the library, then, “Severus, oh my! Look at you! You’re up and you’re…did you do that? By yourself?”
“Are you going to come over here and pat me on the back and get me a biscuit?”
Hermione glared at him but Ron chucked him under the chin. “That’s a good boy!”
Snape’s fingers twitched, as did his lips. “You’re only giving me cheek because you know my wand hand is still not up to scratch.”
Ron smiled wickedly. “Yes, that’s exactly why I am being cheeky. That and I’m really quite pleased with your progress.”
“What made you think of this?” Hermione asked, coming behind Ron and putting her hands on his shoulder, then hugging him.
“I went to see Mediwizard Palmer and he suggested a few more exercises and perhaps a change of scenery.”
“What new exercises?” Snape asked.
“Just what we were doing. Can you try it with the other hand? It’s your wand hand, right? It should be easier, stronger to begin with, yes?” Ron said, taking Snape’s other hand and beginning to massage his palms and fingers again. Hermione was breathing in his ear.
He was right; it was easier.
The celebration that night was subdued but pleasant as they all enjoyed a dinner in an up-to-now unused dining room, and Snape didn’t even mind that Hermione spelled his utensils to feed him and his wineglass to rise to his lips and tip its contents into his mouth.
Later that night, after they had consumed their weight in elf-made wine and had put Snape to bed before stumbling to their own beds, Hermione said something relatively innocent that would change all of their lives.
“Tonight,” she began, taking Ron’s hand as she pulled him to the bed. “When you had Snape’s hand in yours,” she took her finger and ran it along his palm, “and when you took his fingers and stroked them, almost…lovingly…” she stroked his fingers.
Ron swallowed as she gave him that look that he liked so very much. “Yeah?”
“That was very…” she kissed his palm, “very…” she put his thumb in her mouth and sucked, “very sexy…” She took his hand and put it down her pants.
If he had objections, he forgot what they were. For a while.
Later, while they lay cuddly and post-coital, Ron remembered.
“You thought me touching Snape was sexy?”
She laughed. “Why do you always have to talk about Snape while we’re in bed together?”
“Me?” he said, trying to sound affronted. “You’re the one who’s always invited him in here.”
“Inviting him in here?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, of course. Only…”
“No, no only…”
***
The next day when Ron got home from work, he found Snape and Hermione in the library listening to music and talking.
“Hey, how’d you get down?”
“Well, it turns out,” Hermione began, “There’s this thing called magic. You’ve heard of it?”
“Funny. I think he is a bad influence on you and your ability to use sarcasm effectively.”
“Yes Ronald,’cause hanging out with you for the last eight years taught me nothing of sarcasm.”
“You see? It’s that.”
“How was your day, dear?” Hermione asked, changing the subject none too subtly.
“Great. It is the era of toilet humor, let me tell you.”
Ron noticed that Snape was busy balling his hands into fists, then releasing them and doing it again.
“How are the exercises?”
“I can feel the muscles in my arms returning,” Snape answered, sounding slightly mystified.
“Brilliant. Care to work some more tonight after dinner?”
“Yes.”
That night, they worked on rotating his wrist, the next night, it was bending at the elbow and the night after that, lifting his shoulders. By the end of the week, Ron sat beside Snape with a wand in his hand. Snape studied his wand longingly, as if a part of him he thought lost forever was within reach. Snape held his hand open and Ron placed the wand in it, not letting go until Snape’s hand tightened around it. Then he took Snape’s hand in his, and together they worked on swishing and flicking.
Hermione stood in the doorway watching them.
So sexy, she mouthed when he looked at her. He smirked at her.
Later, she brought out dessert, and Ron watched her, sitting on Snape’s other side, taking care of Snape in her own way, and he started to realize that he wasn’t jealous of either of them anymore. There was something else, however, as he watched them in their ease of each other, their laughing over something one or the other had read. The something else he didn’t even want to begin to define.
***
The next week, they began to work on his legs. Thanks to the months of exercises Ron had been doing to keep the muscle from atrophying, they were able to get him to stand quite successful with Ron supporting most of his weight on one side and Hermione on the other. They shifted their weight to see if Snape could support himself. His legs shook, but for a minute, he was fully supporting himself before he again slumped into their support.
“Good job,” Hermione said proudly.
Snape just mumbled his opinion.
“No, really,” Ron said. “You can’t expect too much to start with. Each and every time you stand up is an accomplishment. I know it doesn’t seem it, you who have been so strong for so long, but it all will take time.”
Snape studied his former student before asking, slightly awed, “When did you get so patient?”
They eased Snape back into his chair before Ron answered. “I’ve been spending a lot of time at St. Mungo’s, watching the Healers. We think magic is all-powerful and instantaneous, but I’ve seen remedies and I’ve seen miracles that takes time, patience and belief when there is no evidence of success and I…well…I want to be a part…I want us to be a part of that.”
Hermione gave him that look, but it was Snape’s look that warmed him this time; the man actually looked proud. At least that’s what Ron hoped the look meant; he’d never seen it before on the man.
“Are you saying you want to go into medicine?” Hermione asked.
Ron shrugged. “I don’t know really. I mean that’s what this year has been, hasn’t it? Figuring out what I wanted to do. I’ve watched you go off and work towards a goal. I’ve seen Harry run away and try to find some peace for himself and I’ve been here feeling sorry for myself because I wasn’t doing either of those things. But maybe I was.”
He turned his attention to Snape. “I know for you it’s been a torturously slow process, but I’ve enjoyed watching the progress. Do you even remember what it was like those first days when we thought you’d be gone every morning? When we thought you’d never again be conscious, able to even have a conversation, let alone be able to sit here and look at me like that, as if I’ve lost my mind? Really, when you think about it like that, it isn’t that long of a time that you’ve accomplished so much.”
“I could say the same for you,” Snape said.
Hermione put one arm around Snape’s shoulder and with the other hand, reached across him and took Ron’s hand in hers. “I’m proud of both of you.”
Ron twined his fingers with hers for a moment of somewhat awkward silence before he suggested they try getting Snape on his feet one more time before bed.
Later, Ron would curse what happened next on his unease at tender moments. That was why he buckled slightly when heaving Snape up to his feet and his slight misstep caused Snape to lose his negligent balance, which, of course, caused him to latch himself to the closest thing for support. That is how all three of them found themselves sprawled in tangle of limbs and harrumphs on the library floor, Ron breaking all their falls by providing his body for padding.
Ron wrapped his arm around Snape protectively to make sure he didn’t slide off in the momentum of the fall and crack his head onto the hardwood floor.
“Is everyone else okay?” Hermione asked.
“Splendid,” Ron answered breathlessly. “Professor?”
“Fine.”
Hermione started laughing as she readjusted to remove herself from on top of Snape’s body without causing him any discomfort. She had almost gotten off him when he screamed and thrashed free, rolling himself away from them.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” Ron and Hermione both asked frantically going to him.
“I’m fine, just fine.” Snape answered feverishly, keeping his back to them.
Hermione and Ron exchanged worried, puzzled looks.
“Did you pull a muscle?” Hermione asked, placing her hand gently on his bicep.
He shrugged her hand off violently and rolled onto his stomach. “I said I was fine. Please leave me alone.”
Ron barked out a laugh, realizing what exactly was the man’s problem. “Well, at least we know that all your muscles work.”
“Bugger off,” Snape hissed.
Hermione looked from one to the other before her eyes bulged in understanding. “Oh.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t need any help exercising that one,” Ron continued his ribbing.
Snape growled.
Hermione shushed Ron and gently placed her hand on Snape’s back, between his shoulder blades. “It’s really not a big deal. It’s a perfectly natural reaction to friction and pressure. You know that.”
“Of course I know that,” Snape said in a voice so low they had to lean in to hear it.
Hermione began rubbing his back in soothing circles. “How long has it been, Severus?”
Now it was Ron’s turn to have his eyes bulge. “What are you doing?” he mouthed to her.
“Relax,” she mouthed back.
“What do you mean?” Snape asked.
“I mean, when was the last time you were with someone?”
She lay down beside him and moved her hand from his back, to his shoulder and then cupping his chin, forced him to look at her.
“What concern is that of yours?” he whispered.
She began caressing his back again. “I could help you. We could help you.”
“WHAT?!” both Ron and Snape said together.
“Shhhh,” Hermione soothed. “It was just an idea. We’ll talk about it later.”
Snape and Ron didn’t say anything for a minute, just stared at Hermione in awe. Finally, Snape said, “Hermione, could you stop touching me for awhile? It’s really not helping.”
Blushing, Hermione removed her hand, leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek and got up. “Of course.”
***
“What was that all about?” Ron asked later that night, when he and Hermione were in their room getting ready for bed. They had given Snape some alone time before Ron had wordlessly Levicorpused Snape to his room.
“Don’t act so surprised. You knew it was going in that direction, eventually.”
Ron opened his mouth to object, but nothing came out. Had he known that? He’d like to deny it, of course he would, but thinking back from the beginning—the questioning of Snape’s sexual experience, all the talk of love and its healing powers, the growing, maturing and dare he say, mutual respect— had he really thought this was where it would all end? He tried to fight the voice in the back of his head that said, of course you had, and instead focused on the practical aspects.
“How do you see this coming about?” he asked.
“Just leave that up to me,” Hermione answered, pulling back the coverings of their bed.
“And after? What happens after?”
“Well, I guess that would be up to all of us, wouldn’t it?”
“How about we sleep on it,” Ron said, getting in bed beside her. He hoped he would be able to fully form and articulate his objections in the morning.
The next day, he had no new insights. They all seemed awkward and ill at ease with each other. Snape seemed to be apologizing to Ron with every look he gave him. For what, Ron didn’t know. Perhaps for being aroused by Ron’s wife? Well, by this point, Ron thought with a rather mirthless laugh, better Hermione then himself. For as much as he wasn’t completely putting his foot down at the idea presented to him the night before, he would have serious restrictions to what exactly was performed in said situation. He’d have to lay the ground rules to Hermione before she got too carried away in her plans.
***
The little house on the little street in a little forgotten corner of London was an abyss, a gulf in time and place where things took place that had no explanation, no rational meaning outside its walls. That is what our Mr. Weasley kept telling himself, kept reassuring himself with as he walked slowly down the hall. His formerly villainous, crotchety, half-dead potions master draped around his neck as they took torturously slow and labored steps towards the bedroom door.
The door that would change everything, for good or bad, from that point onward.
When they arrived, Hermione was bustling around with nervous energy and ushered them to the bed she had prepared for the event. The sparse candlelight gave the room a grainy darkness that threw everything into soothing shadow, further illuminating the unreal quality of the night. The bed had been stripped of coverings, other than a silk sheet, if more concealment was needed.
“I know we’ve talked about this,” Ron said to Snape as they walked in. “But let me say again. If any of what happens begins to strain any of your muscles, you need to let me know. You are getting stronger every day, but still, this shouldn’t hurt…um…unless…well, unless you’re into that…but still…”
They had talked about it, all of it. What was wanted, needed, expected and forbidden had all been discussed. Ron hadn’t seen Hermione tackle a theory, a goal or a desire like this since the days of S.P.E.W. Snape might have thought this idea would blow over and nothing would come of it, but Ron knew better when he saw that gleam in her eye. There would be no stopping her.
“Thank you, Mr. Weasley. I will keep that in mind.”
“And I thought we talked about that,” Hermione began to scold. “I can’t possibly share a bed with two people who are so formal they can’t even call each other by their first names.
“Sorry, I mean, thank you, Ron,” Snape corrected.
“It’s alright, Sev…Sever…yeah, sorry, it’s still strange. How about if I call you Snape instead of Professor or sir? Would that be close enough?”
They both looked at Hermione for her approval. She crossed her arms and looked slightly put out. “I guess that will be acceptable. For now. If that is okay with you, Severus?”
“Fine.”
With that settled, Ron brought Snape to the bed and helped him get situated in the middle of it. After that, with Snape laying down, Ron standing on one side of the bed and Hermione on the other, there was a long silence with them all just looking at each other rather hopelessly.
Finally, Hermione took the lead and untied the knotted belt around her silk robe, letting the robe fall to the floor. Underneath it was an outfit Ron had never seen before and he was thankful, as it allowed him to separate the Hermione standing across from him from the Hermione that was his wife. What she was wearing was a long, burgundy silk gown that seemed to float around her, keeping the skin beneath an alluring mystery and the exposed skin of her shoulders and arms an enticing invitation. Her hair was loosely plaited, tendrils of curls already escaped and she smiled nervously at both of them, the only chink in the alluring armor, but all the more sweet for its realness.
Ron swallowed, his mouth dry and throat scratchy. He noticed Snape doing the same, his eyes gleaming and looking awestruck. She gathered the material of her gown at her thighs daintily and lifted her knees so that she could crawl on the bed to meet Snape.
“May I kiss you?” she asked, reaching out to stroke his cheek.
Speechless, he nodded, only finding words as she bent to brush her lips to his.
“Wait, I want to say something first,” he said, and she sat back up. “To both of you.”
Ron sat down on his other side, as if knowing instinctively that what was to be said would be whispered in conspiratorial tones. He was right.
“I just want to say, that no matter what happens here tonight, what transpires after, that I am…am…immensely grateful for all you two have done. It’s been a long time since I’ve…since I’ve been shown affections. Whatever your reasons, whatever your motives for taking me in, for healing my body…and for this attempt to…to heal something…basic inside me…well, words cannot express my…gratitude.”
And it was those words of healing that eased Ron’s mind. Perhaps it was just another excuse for possible deniability in the following days, perhaps it was his newly acquired interest in the profession of healer, but whatever it was, he felt more confident that there was a purpose for this for him that didn’t involve curiosity or the desire to please his wife by playing along. He could be an active participant.
While Hermione leaned in to kiss Snape again, Ron lifted off his jumper, toed off his shoes and socks and dropped his jeans effortlessly before laying beside Snape. Rotating Snape’s shoulders and the rest of his body so that he was on his side, Ron spooned behind him, draping his arms over Snape’s, taking his hands and guiding them to cup Hermione’s face. She wrapped one of her hands around both of the men; twining her fingers in Ron’s hair, while her other hand worked its way under Snape’s shirt and began caressing up his abdomen and chest.
Leaving Snape’s hands where they were caressing Hermione’s jaw and neck, Ron moved his own hands and began working his fingers down the buttons of Snape’s shirt so that Hermione could more easily remove it before he did the same to the fly of Snape’s trousers. All the while, Hermione still was kissing Snape deeply, causing a humming sort of moan to work its way out of him.
While Ron sat up to remove Snape’s trousers and pants, Hermione slipped out of her own gown, reveling nothing but flesh underneath it. This time, Ron moved behind Hermione and while she continued to kiss Snape, Ron sucked her neck, her shoulders, while again taking Snape’s hands, this time guiding them to caress Hermione’s breasts. She had one of her hands wrapped around Snape’s shoulders and the other she snaked in between herself and Ron, taking his erection in her hand and stroking him.
Snape slowly kissed his way down to take her breast in his mouth while Ron placed his knee between her legs and spread them apart, bringing both his and Snape’s hand to her thigh, were they then kneaded their way to her center. Ron spread her lips apart before guiding Snape’s middle finger inside her. He noticed that Snape’s hand was shaking, but looking at the man, Ron didn’t think it was because of muscle fatigue.
Ron added one of his fingers to Snape’s and as Ron wrapped his finger around Snape’s, Hermione moaned, bucked and increased her speed on Ron’s shaft, running her thumb back and forth along his slit. He felt his orgasm rip through him as he felt Hermione come too. She wrapped herself around Snape as Ron wrapper himself around her.
They lay like that for a moment before Hermione gently straddled Snape. “Are you ready?”
He swallowed, nodded, and then answered, “Does it look like I’m ready?”
Reaching down and cupping his sac before running her fingers along the vein of his cock she smiled. “More than ready.”
As she guided Snape’s erection inside her slowly, he hitched his breath, his head thrown back, his eyes shut tight.
“Breath,” Ron urged, as he leaned on one elbow, surprisingly titillated by the scene. But, just as he was about to watch his lovely wife fuck the brains out of their former professor, it was over.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Snape chanted, seemingly horrified by his premature ejaculation.
“Shhhh,” Hermione soothed, leaning over him and kissing him over and over. “It’s okay; it’s okay. Like you said, it’s been a while.”
“You have no idea,” Snape whispered.
She rested her head on his heart, grasped both of his hands in hers and said, “We’ll just give you a moment or two, see if you’ll want more. Meanwhile,” she looked at Ron, motioning with her eyes to her arse in the air.
He got the hint and got up behind her, with a knee on each side of Snape, he finished what the other man had started, going slow, giving the man time to recoup. This time, Ron didn’t have to distract himself to stop from coming before her. Just as he began to feel ready to burst, Snape was ready again. As he came with a gasp, he slid out of her, and she hardly missed a beat before she had Snape positioned inside her again. This time, he lasted much longer as Hermione glided up and down his length. He came again moments after Hermione did herself.
Hermione wrapped herself around Snape in a sweaty embrace and when slipping off him, rotated him so that they were both on their side, facing each other, her head still on his chest, as if making sure he was still alive, for he had still not opened his eyes, not uttered a sound.
Finally he parted his lips and uttered a long gasping breathe. Ron and Hermione sighed, and Ron wrapped himself around Hermione from the back, reaching around her, taking Snape’s hands and placing his arms around them in a tangle of fatigued limbs. Ron knew that Snape would need a long bath and soothing massage, but that could wait.
“So that was what all the fuss has been about,” Snape said, as if to himself. Ron and Hermione chose not to interrupt. Hermione kissed his chest then his neck where the scar still stood out like a beacon of pain. He shuddered.
“What’s next?” Snape asked, looking from Hermione to Ron.
Ron grinned and placed his palm on the other man’s forehead. “Rise up! With these all-powerful hands, I declare thee healed!”
Oh, if only it were that easy, our young Mr. Weasley thought. But if he had learned anything in the previous year, it was that — like the tide’s dance with the sand which took ions to form and shape a single pebble — healing and magic, took time.
So, it is here, with Snape’s question of “What’s next?” still ringing in our ears that we will conclude this story. The greatest gift a storyteller can give is an ending of hope, but more importantly an ending of possibility, of allowing our own imaginings to answer Snape’s question for ourselves.