Disguised Affections

A/N: Sorry I didn't get a chance to post yesterday!! It was quite a hectic day for me and I didn't get a chance.

This is JK Rowling's creation. I'm just swinging on her swing set.

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It was one of those nights when Constantine felt that the darkness in the boys’ dormitory was stifling and secretive. It was dusty and tasted like his dreams, plaguing him with visions of red, lantern eyes and deeds that were best done under the cloaking cover of dark. It muffled tiny whispers of noise that reminded him far too much of the sound of someone trying not to make a sound, setting his senses on high alert.

Sleep eluded him no matter how he menaced and punched his pillow, so he finally dismissed his wards and left his bed. The fire in the common room was kept continually burning in the cooler months, and he decided that he might as well catch up on some recreational reading that had been shunted aside lately in order that he might spend more time with Hermione.

Hermione, he thought, smiling in pleasure. What a fascinating, desirable woman. He found it almost difficult to believe that she wanted him, and yet want him she clearly did. In the week since their interlude in the jenett pond, she’d initiated a campaign of casual touching that was driving him wild.

That morning before breakfast, he’d decided to traipse down to the Potions lab to squeeze in a couple of hours worth of work. After his shower, he’d cast a quick Drying Charm on his hair without bothering to pull a brush through it and rushed off to catch the current vat of Headache Potion before the Stasis Spell wore off. Hermione, having had the same idea as Con did, had entered the lab practically on his heels.

He’d been sitting on a stool, his face bent over a cauldron when he heard her maniacal burst of laughter. The boy had jumped and whirled to face her.

“Whatever are you cackling at, witch?”

“Oh, Con. Your hair. It’s appalling!” Her mouth had been stretched wide in a friendly grin, but Constantine remembered how his heart had dropped into his shoes and his face had heated.

He’d felt sullen and heart-sore. He was new to these feelings and was surprised that her derision could wound him so quickly. He’d transfigured a stirring rod into a hairbrush with a sour expression. Hermione had tut-tutted, and with a soft, playful expression in her eyes, she’d turned him to face her. She pushed his knees wide so she could step between them.

Her hands had slid into his hair, as gentle and soothing as the sound of a page being turned in a quiet room. Con had struggled to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head, but was fighting a losing battle. He’d surrendered, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feel of her fingernails scraping lightly on his scalp.

“That feels good, I take it?”

“Ungh,” he’d replied around a thick tongue.

“There. Much more handsome.” Her whisper had been intimate, and unable to help himself, he’d leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers.

They hadn’t gotten much Potions work done for Madame Pomfrey after that.

Con had managed a fair bit of research, however. For example, he’d learned that the skin on the back of Hermione’s knees was ticklish. He’d discovered that she made the most delightful girlish squeals when he ran his palms down her ribs. She went crazy when he’d sucked on her earlobe delicately and allowed his hot breath to tease her neck and ear.

Constantine silently left the boys dormitory with his book tucked under his arm. Out of habit, he ran his hand down his face to hide his boyish grin. That last one had been his favorite discovery. At the time, he’d had her pressed against his Potions workstation. When his mouth had connected with her ear, she’d cried out and arched into him, one of her legs coming up to wrap around his waist. Her cry had made him feel primitive and masculine in a me-man, you-woman kind of way, and he’d wrapped his hand around her thigh and hiked her closer, inadvertently pressing his erection against her soft belly.

He firmly put a period on the end of that thought, and adjusted himself as he walked down the stairs. Although Con sincerely doubted that anyone would be in the common room so late at night, he hardly wanted to risk it by walking around with a massive, bloody circus tent in his pants.

The book in his hands was heavy. Hermione had leant it to him several days ago, stating it was ‘simply fascinating.’ It was called Wizarding Diseases that Feature Discharge - something that would be sure to quell even the most rampant libido. It covered the most common – a wizarding cold, to the obscure – Genetian’s Bubbling Dragon Pustules, the symptoms of which were so unpleasant, many wizards offed themselves before the disease had run its course. Some of the afflicted actually ended up drowning in…

Con stopped dead at the foot of the stairs. There was a body lying face-down in the center of the common room.

His brain shut down, and instinct took over. Con’s wand was out as he scanned the shadows of the fire-lit room. On silent feet, he moved towards the body and was horrified to the glint of red hair. Weasely, he groaned mentally, taking in the awkwardly sprawled limbs. He nudged the boy in his side with the toe of his boot, desperately praying that his suspicions were wrong, but Ron didn’t move.

Con flipped the cadaver onto its back to see if he could determine the cause of death. Clinically, he noted that the body was still warm and had not yet attained rigor mortis. There was not a mark on him. There’s only a few curses that kill without leaving spell damage on the corpse, and all of them are dark. He ran his black ebony wand over the body, searching for signs of foul play.

“Bloody hell!” The tip of a wand was pressed very firmly into Con’s neck, and he looked down into the eyes of a very startled, very much alive Ronald Weasely.

Constantine’s mouth pinched as if he’d bitten into a pumpkin pasty and found the finger of a house elf. Faster than Weasely would have thought possible, his hand had pushed Ron’s wand away from his throat and disarmed him while his other hand had firmly boxed the boy on the ear.

“What in Merlin’s name did you think you were doing playing dead? Are you so lacking in brain cells that you cannot differentiate between your bedroom and the Gryffindor common room floor? Has the sheer quantity of low-quality perfume you’ve hoovered off the neck of Ms. Brown rotted your brain with its cloying stench?”

Ron’s expression darkened as Con spoke, and he made a rough grab for his wand. It was futile, of course. The dark-haired boy’s reflexes were too sharp. “I wasn’t playing dead, you berk. I was sleeping. That is, I was sleeping until I woke up with a dark, shadowy figure crouched over me with their wand shooting red sparks.”

Con sat back, his jaw closing with a snap. “Oh. You see, I thought you were dead. That was a diagnostic spell.” It wasn’t an apology. He hadn’t meant to frighten the Weasel, but he’d be damned if he apologized to someone who was doing something as idiotic as sleeping in the common area.

“Well, you’ve seen now that I’m not. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone now so I can get back to sleep.” And with that, Ron flopped back onto the floor and resumed his sprawl. Con winced. It didn’t look at all comfortable.

“Might I venture to ask why you are sleeping here? Surely, the sanctuary of your own bed or the pleasures of Ms. Brown’s would be more appropriate?”

Ron sighed and sat back up. When he spoke his voice was entirely dispassionate and his eyes were flat. “I haven’t been able to sleep in my own bed since last year, and Lavender broke up with me. Called me an ‘emotional cripple.’ How’d you like that? Been with her since middle of sixth year. Cripple couldn’t have done that.”

“On the contrary, Weasely. If the girl is willing to accept it, there’s no reason that someone with stunted emotions couldn’t be in a long-term relationship.”

Ron jumped to his feet. “Well, I’m a mite peckish. I think I’ll go tickle the pear for a midnight snack.” He strode towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Weasely…”

“You want me to bring you back anything, mate?” His smile was manic and aggressive and showed entirely too many teeth. “No? Well, guess I’ll be off then.”

“It’s after curfew. You’ll lose points for Gryffindor.”

The redhead shrugged. “If I get caught.” Weasely again smiled as if his sanity was suspect. Without another word, he slipped out into the corridors of Hogwarts.

Constantine sank into the chair closest to the fire, his book on his lap. He wondered when would be an appropriate time to warn Potter and Hermione that their best friend’s coping mechanism had just dumped him, and it wasn’t going too well. Ron had clearly just come face-to-face with his issues, and it hadn’t been a friendly meeting. Crossing his legs towards the firelight, Con opened his book.

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The raven-haired Gryffindor looked down smugly to where Hermione’s tiny hand was nestled in his paw. They were walking towards Transfigurations together, and he’d courteously offered to shoulder her bag as well as his own. Con was very serious about courting Hermione.

It was, after all, only logical. Con had decided they suited each other quite well, and courting was a way to engage her emotions thereby binding her to his side.

He was very much in favor of binding her to his side. Hermione was the only girl he’d met at Hogwarts who was not silly or frivolous. She had a calm, logical head on her shoulders, and she was ferociously intelligent. If they were to have children down the road, he wanted to ensure that they were intelligent as well – he couldn’t risk carrying on with a witch who would cloud their gene pool with idiocy. They shared several driving interests, the strongest of which was their mutual desire to pursue Potions research as a career.

And, if Con was honest with himself, he found her beautiful.

There was no shame in being physically as well as mentally engaged by another person.

As they neared the Transfigurations classroom, Con decided it was a perfect moment to woo her with a small gesture. When they stopped so that he might return her bag before entering the classroom, he reached up and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. He leaned forward and gently kissed Hermione’s lovely pink mouth, showing her that he was proud to stand at her side.

She opened her mouth slightly and he cocked his head to further take advantage of her silent offer to deepen the kiss.

Suddenly a cold, hard hand clamped on his shoulder and pulled him away from Hermione. Her bottom lip slid from between his with a soft popping noise, and she made a disappointed mewl. Her eyes widened when she saw Professor McGonagall standing with her feet planted in the space between them like twin oaks.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor from each of you!” The professor’s already upright posture was rigid and practically radiating fury. “Get in the classroom with you, Ms. Granger! Immediately!”

When Hermione complied, the dark-haired witch turned to face Constantine Prince. Her finger poked him hard in the breastbone, and in spite of himself, he stepped back in submission from the older woman. “How dare you. You are not to touch her, do you hear me?”

Con stared at her as if he’d been Stupefied. She took several deep breaths, her nostrils flaring, before reaching up to grasp him on the shoulder with her left hand. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler, although still frosty. “She is not for you. Are you listening to me? She is not for you.”

When Professor McGonagall pulled her hand away from him, Constantine saw the glint of a copper cuff, the mate to his own, circling her left wrist.

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A/N: Like it, love it, hate it, review it!