Seven Preposterous Things

There is nothing unbends the mind like women.
- John Gay, 1724


The next thing Millie knew, Snape had stalked out of the bathroom to stand before the patch she and Granger had cleared so they could sit in the lounge. The best approximation of stalking he could manage soaked to the bone and dressed in wet Muggle clothes, at any rate.

"I am not a virgin," he said, clearly cheesed off, drawing it out slow as if he was telling them not to add the shrivelfigs before the tiger's blood, and any fool wouldn't need telling.

After glaring down at both of them, he did something like stalking away again. It wasn't nearly as impressive without the rippling robes.

She supposed he'd been listening in. All the better for him if he had; he wasn't usually very smart at guessing other people's reasons for doing things and could use a leg up on Granger. Millie's mouth crinkled at her own joke, and she wiped the sweat from her forehead. He had a good idea with the wet clothes. The heat was worse than baking day.

Granger's eyes were wide. She looked mortified.

Then Whack meowed. It was a funny sort of a meow, probably because he had a mouse swinging from his mouth by the tail, twitching. So there were mice, but Millie wasn't much bothered by that.

Whack would have their tiny skulls stacked in a corner before Draco managed to get the house up to snuff.

She turned her head sharply when she heard Granger clear her throat.

"That was embarrassing," Granger said.

"For him, or you?" Millie asked, confused.

"He overheard us," Granger said, looking somewhat appalled, "speculating about him."

"And?" Millie asked.

"And?" Granger said. "And? And he heard me say I'd consider him."

"He's probably thanking his lucky stars you didn't call him a pervy old..." Millie was explaining when Draco raced in, dripping attractively with sweat, and plopped himself onto her lap.

"I think it's hotter in here than it is outside, though it might be a question of the company," he said, pulling one of her braids with a smile. She swatted his hand reflexively.


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Snape slammed the door to the room he had just decided was his own, throwing himself down on the dust covered bed. The heat was like a curse, and he hadn't been a virgin since Thatcher.

He'd been fifteen and home for the summer for no other reason than that Dumbledore insisted everyone go home over the summer hols. And there, inevitably, was Toby, wheedling and bullying him into lending a hand with the scheme of the moment.

In the summer of 1976, Toby had taken a hiatus from the usual breaking and entering and, just for the hell of it, Severus supposed, he'd taken to selling a variety of drugs. It was new, and thus made the entire family a bit more on edge than normal, if such a word could be used in the same sentence as a family like theirs.

Eileen's job, as always, was to keep the fuck out of men's business and provide tea, pints, and fry ups.

It didn't make any sense.

She was a witch, not to mention quite a bit smarter than her husband. If Toby had allowed her to help, they could have lived like kings. It was enough to make young Severus choke on his own frustrated rage. How could she let him talk to her the way he did? How could she let him hit her? How could she let that dunderhead run things? He had no idea what he had in her. He hardly allowed her to do more with magic than light his fags. He treated magic like it was carnival trick. From a purely practical standpoint Toby had, predictably, cocked it all up.

If Toby would have just listened to him, Severus could have brewed up drugs that would have made his current stock look a paper sack full of lollies. His own job was hardly better than Eileen's. Aside from running messages and packages to and fro, he stood watch and was to whistle upon spotting a law enforcement officer.

"Whistle twice for the Old Bill and once for Eileen," Toby said, as if young Severus had forgotten his entire childhood since the last hol.

More often than not, he merely watched father duck into the alley with some tart and come back doing up his trousers. He wasn't going to make any money giving away his hard bought drugs to every Muggle willing to go on her knees in front of him. Not to mention that the slag in question was frequently even younger than Severus.

It was a wonder Eileen let him live, not to mention the rest.

She blamed love.

If that was love he wasn't having any. He'd had enough humiliation for one life, thank you.

That didn't rule out getting a shag. In theory, at least. The trouble was he wasn't the sort -- Toby's sort, that cunt Sirius Black's sort -- that girls went for.

He and Toby had gone to London, ostensibly to pick up product. Toby disappeared right away, because that was what he did. Severus went about his father's business; just because the old man was irresponsible, it didn't mean Severus was. He relieved himself of certain questionably procured goods, received his contraband parcel to be divvied up into saleable packets later under Toby's supervision, got himself something to eat and drink, hung about.

...Like a week old kipper, Toby would have added.

He had been working at staying inconspicuous, leaning against the fire escape with his bag of chips in his dad's leather jacket with the sleeves ever so slightly too short, reminding himself that all the girls who strode past without giving him so much as a glance were Muggles and therefore, by definition, his inferiors. They weren't failing to notice him; he didn't choose to draw their attention.

He was deep in that thought when a long black nailed finger stuck itself into his chips.

His eyes travelled up the finger to the white arm and black vinyl dress of its owner. She had cleavage which could only be described by the word epic.

Make that tight, black vinyl dress.

He looked up into her face. Her eyes and lips both were painted black, a state which did little or nothing to improve looks that were at best plain.

Either side of her head was shaved to the skin, and in the middle her hair stood out like a fan. She smelled faintly of sick but, he decided taking the cleavage into account, there were worse things.

He wound up using part of Toby's hard earned dosh for the two of them to enter a club down the street. The music sounded like his mum and dad going at it on a Friday night accompanied by rubbish bins rolling down the stairs.

It mattered not, several passes round of more than one bottle, and he joined her in the dancing that was more than half brawl. There, in the crowd, just a few meters from the cunt singing on the stage, she lifted her skirt and let him fuck her hard against the wall. It was over almost as soon as it started, and her kisses tasted of vomit.

The next morning, he could recall that she did tell him her name. He just couldn't remember what it was. Neither did he remember the two of them cutting into one of Toby's parcels, but apparently they had.

The realisation had come only seconds before Toby's fist made swift contact with his gut, dropping him like a stone. Instinctively, he curled up into a ball as Toby's boot met his spine, ribs, then arse.

As he lay there he wondered, how was he any different than Eileen?

Did he take it out of love? Not bloody likely. He took it because he was used to it. He resolved to make himself unfamiliar with anything that smacked of Toby Snape.

Over the years, he had succeeded in that to a great extent.

His luck with women did not improve markedly. He did manage to get shagged a few times in the years that stretched between that summer and his return to Hogwarts as Potions master. Never by witches, though. A Muggle with a few drinks in her he could coax into bed, or at least a supine position. His luck with witches was downright disheartening.

After his return to Hogwarts, his only companion was his own left hand, and sometimes his right, for variety's sake.


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Draco had circled his quarry for the last three quarters of an hour in the wretched heat. He thought his skin was going to crack open from the pounding sun.

These were the times that tried men's souls. He'd heard that in Muggle studies class, but he couldn't put his finger on the context. It sounded good, at any rate. His arse had been rescued from Voldemort in one relatively unscathed piece. Still, while surviving was something of a feat in the current political atmosphere, he hadn't endured all that mess in order to waste away in a filthy hovel.

Under normal circumstances, he'd have turned the whole thing over to the house elves, but as it stood, it looked as though he was going to be forced to make this house liveable through the sweat of his own brow. Not only appalling but grotty as well.

His only other option was to live in squalor, ala Uncle Severus. Not much of an option, if you asked him.

Speaking of Snape, his mentor might have more than his fair share of admirable points, but neatness wasn't one of them. This was just his sort of tip. Inside was literally knee deep with stacks of Muggle newspapers and magazines. Outside every tree, bush, and blade of grass on the property was dry and dead.

On the positive side, he had reason to believe a good deal of furnishings lay buried under the paper, and the dead landscaping did mean he wouldn't have much trouble ripping out the old plantings to replace them with his own.

Still, he shuddered; he'd seen a tin of beans in the kitchen that was older than his dad, and Snape looked as though he was considering prying it open.

Lucius. Draco maintained a vague hope against hope that they would somehow bump into his father.

When Lucius went into hiding, it was obviously somewhere obscure; somewhere no one would ever look for a Malfoy. He could have very well gone to Texas.

Draco might have felt that his father coddled him a bit, but he understood that he'd done it out of love. What was more, he admired his father, more than anyone except, perhaps, his head of house.

Lucius set the standard by which all other wizards were judged. He was cunning, impeccably elegant, and loyal to his own.

The only wizard Draco might have secretly held in higher esteem was Severus Snape. He was not impeccable, even if he had a certain undeniable style. His loyalty was tempered by a healthy regard for his own neck. His cunning was legendary. But none of those things explained his most basic appeal.

The wizard was indomitable. In fact, compared to the other wizards Draco knew, Snape was impossible to destroy. At his core was a sort of toughness that no one else in Draco's small circle approached.

Millie, though, she had the potential to embody the greatest strengths of both Lucius and Severus.

Not that she realised it. It was frustrating; Millie steadfastly refused to be moulded, even if it was into something pleasant.

Still, he admired the brilliant brute that she was. Unfortunately, if she remained a brilliant brute, her latent greatness would remain just that, latent. Except for the sex, it had been a disheartening first month of marriage. Then he had his epiphany.

His father had told him all his life that clothes had the power to transform. His mother, furthermore, had taught him that shoes were the true foundation of any ensemble. More than that, shoes were aspiration.

"Close you eyes and imagine perfection. Now, Draco, choose your footwear accordingly," Narcissa would whisper in his ear.

So he gave Millie shoes. Special shoes, made from sketches he'd owled to his mother. The construction was overseen by Narcissa herself.

At first, Millie had snorted. Then tentatively, in the privacy of their own room, she had tried them on.

He watched her slowly change under their influence, standing straighter, her eyes shining brighter.

The first pair were most like her old thick soled school shoes, although older, more sophisticated, more demanding. He did not want to shock her. They were straightforward, but undeniably special: black, leather, lacing all the way up to the tops of her plump thighs, but it was the red satin lining that made them magic.

Four times a year, or so, he gave her new shoes. The latest were his most daring, the farthest reach yet. The heels were high, encouraging Millie to project her great round breasts and her high round bum. The shoes themselves were rich red silk brocade trimmed with ermine. Narcissa had insisted on including a matching ermine hat.

When she wore the two together, Draco could see nations fall, trembling under her dainty feet. She had already conquered him.

There was no way he could have left her shoes behind, bugger the bloody Muggle paper money.

Millie's shoes were not only his aspiration, they were his inspiration. The stage on which both their sexual fantasies were played out, and the ladder they would climb to their future.

He wiggled on Millie's lap and gave her his best smile.

"I don't know about you, dear, but I need a lie down," Draco said, pretending to stifle a yawn.

Millie frowned at him, it was her standard frown and he could easily ignore it.

"Don't you need a lie down?" Draco said, winding her plait around his forefinger.

From her end of the divan, the mudblood raised an eyebrow. Draco chose to ignore her.

"I certainly could use a rest," the mudblood said. "If you'll excuse me," and she walked away, taking the room farthest from the one Severus had taken.

"I was talking to her," Millie said, sounding annoyed.

"Wouldn't you rather converse with me?" Draco said trying not to whinge.

"I talk to you all the time," Millie said, her little hand lifting the bottom of his shirt so she could stroke his belly.

He wondered idly which shoes she'd wear this time.

The answer was written in fur.


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In the narrow bed with a musty counterpane, Severus Snape dreamed he was short. It was strange.

He was short, shorter than he was in his waking life, although not child-sized.

He stood in the Atrium level of the Ministry of Magic watching the battle rage around him, for some reason overly concerned with the fate of Neville Longbottom. Some part of him exercised its right to consternation, while another cried out in pure horror. There were loops of bloody intestines sullying the formerly pristine floor. Innards spilled everywhere. Screams like the most terrible vision of Muggle Hell. And then.

Then.

Then one small pale figure surrounded by a nauseating green glow and floating high above the crowd.

He couldn't breathe. He tried to force the air, but his lungs had shut down in pure terror.

He wasn't certain how long he'd been awake because the screaming hadn't stopped; it went on and on.

Fuck!

The dream had not been his own.

There was only one person in the immediate vicinity who gave two shits what happened to Longbottom.

It had been Hermione's dream, and she was still screaming.

He all but leapt from the bed and flew to her. The trouble was, once he came to her doorway he was fucked if he knew what to do.

Millie and Draco stood there as well, necks craned, peering into the room; the scent of sweat and sex radiating off of them in waves. Still Hermione screamed.

Severus took a deep breath and thought to his days as nursemaid to every whinging infant in Slytherin.

He walked deliberately to the cluttered kitchen and poured a glass of water. Tepid was all that could be managed.

Just as deliberately, he carried the glass to Hermione and forced the drink to her lips.

She sputtered for an instant, then drank deeply.

"It was only a dream. A nightmare if you will," he said, self-consciously resting one hand on her back.

Her shirt was soaked with sweat.

Her eyes stared at him dumb, uncomprehending. "Harry's safe?"

"Potter is dead, but you are safe," he said, forcing the glass to her lips once more.

"Harry can't die," she said, not yet fully emerged from her dream.

"Potter can die, as most definitively demonstrated by today's events," he said, not sure what else to say.

"No," she said. "No." She shook her head. He longed to either pull her close or throttle her; he couldn't quite decide.

"Listen to me, Granger," Severus said, shoving her hair out of her face and cupping her cheeks in his hands. He leaned in until they were nose to small non-descript nose. "Potter is dead. The Dark Lord has triumphed. Potter failed, and Potter died. It was a forgone conclusion. His preparation was inadequate. His training was inadequate. Dumbledore was inadequate. I was inadequate. All is lost. The world we knew is gone. But we are still alive. That has to be enough because it is all we have."

He knew she was at last awake because she began to weep, her hands twisting his shirt to knots.

She did not cleave to him, and he could not bring himself to hold her tight.

Millie and Draco continued to watch from the door.

It should have been the dead of night but the house was stifling and merciless sunlight streamed through the bedroom curtains.

"I believe we have all rested quite long enough," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the red-eyed boggart sobbing before him. "Make yourself... presentable, and you may accompany me on a few errands I would like to complete before the day is out."

A great panic seized him, though he gave no external sign. He had the witch of his dreams within his grasp. What was he supposed to do now?


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"Eight gallons of petrol on pump number four," Severus said, holding the clerk fascinated with his impenetrable black eyes. "You'll find I've already paid."

In disbelief, Hermione watched him pocket several boxes of cigarettes and a packet of crisps as he held the woman's gaze.

"Would you like something?" he asked, without looking her way.

"No," she said, feeling her mouth curl downward.

A moment later she joined him in the car, slamming the door and unleashing her tongue.

"You are incredible!" she said, livid.

"Nothing of the sort," Snape said casually. "It was simple fascination. Anyone could do it."

"We needed the petrol, granted, but stealing cigarettes and crisps like a common hoodlum?" Hermione said.

Snape's forehead wrinkled; he seemed both annoyed and somewhat confounded, which only served to anger her more.

"I fail to note the moral difference made by some fags and a packet of crisps," he said, ripping open the crisps, she supposed for emphasis.

"Besides being a filthy habit, smoking is hardly what I would call a necessity," she said, feeling her face flush in anger, "and stealing crisps...."

Snape looked her dead in the eye and up-ended the crisps into his mouth. He raised one eyebrow, chewing slowly as he pulled out of the parking lot and into the street.

"Oh, that's very amusing," she snarled.

"I happen to consider fags a necessity," he said.

"And what of the crisps?" she asked.

"I wanted them. I took them," he answered, enunciating with exaggerated clarity, then lighting a cigarette.

"That seems to be quite a habit of yours," she said, her voice taking on a quality she would have called acid had it been directed at her.

Snape pulled hard on the cigarette, staring into the rear view mirror.

"I would hardly equate saving a witch's life with nicking a bag of crisps," he said, smoke curling around his nostrils.

"How noble," she said, fairly consumed with rancour. It could no doubt be argued either way, and yet it enraged her to think Snape might expect something in return. He had to. She might have some inclination toward him, but she'd be damned if she'd be coerced into anyone's bed.

"You will note, that unlike the crisps, you are a free to leave at any time," he said, and balancing both the cigarette and crisp packet in one hand, dumped the rest of the crisps into his mouth. "I am hardly holding you hostage, and I have yet to eat you up."

"I am perfectly capable of caring for myself," Hermione said.

"Of that I have no doubt," Snape said, his black eyes hooded.

It was infuriating of him, refusing to argue. By his gallingly amused expression, Hermione took it he was well aware of that.

She glared.

Her gut instinct was to tell him to pull the car over and then storm off in a snit. Unfortunately, her instincts were untenable. She was still uncomfortable after the crying episode. She wasn't used to her own tears, they made her feel both weak and somewhat unclean. She would either have to slink back cowed and admit defeat or Snape would have to apologise. Both were equally unlikely and uncomfortable propositions.

The silence stretched as they careened down the street.

Still, he hadn't made any attempt to hold her nightmare over her... yet.

"Yet" was probably the operable word.

They both understood the reason things stood as they did. He was a third wheel in the grand passion of the Malfoys. Hermione had already seen that. Yet if he left them, he would be adrift among Muggles. Severus' position wasn't that different from her own, when it came down to it. He was likely grateful to be alive or grateful as Severus Snape could manage, anyway, but he would almost certainly be lonely and probably bored to tears before long. He knew it. She knew it. She also knew that while she'd do fine on her own among Muggles in the practical sense, she too would quickly grow listless.

Her mere presence would save Snape a certain amount of isolation, but she wasn't entirely certain whether he would do her any good or not. He was making an effort, but that did not guarantee success.

She watched him as he flicked his ash out of the car window and took another suck of his cigarette.

Severus Snape had never been what Hermione, or anyone else, would call handsome, but it had only been three years since he'd been her teacher, and the time looked much longer on him. His face had gained a certain puffiness that didn't do anything to mitigate his hard features. Most likely, it was a pit he'd been sliding into for some time.

"What have you been doing for the last three years?" she asked, wondering if he'd call her an impertinent little shit and toss her out of the car.

"Drinking, for the most part. It passes the time," he answered laconically.

One look at him bore the truth of his statement.

"And you?" he said, looking straight ahead, black eyes focused on the road.

"Alastor Moody's paperwork," she said and some perverse internal demon forced her to add. "And dating. It helps pass the time."

Snape gave a little start at that. "So, I take it the course of true love didn't run clear," he said, almost instantly unruffling, as if he hadn't looked utterly undone for an instant.

Hermione was baffled. She blinked. "True love?"

"Or the facsimile thereof taking place during your time at Hogwarts," he said, flicking his cigarette ash out the window again.

Hermione blinked again.

"Potter," Snape said

"Are you still going on about that?" she asked in amazement. "It wasn't Harry, Professor; it was Ron."

Under most circumstances she would have been embarrassed to slip and call him Professor, but under current circumstances she was too surprised to even note her faux pas.

"Call me... Stephen," Snape said, the car lurching as he pulled a plastic identification card from the front pocket of his trousers.

He tossed it into her lap. Stephen Liston, it read. Millie had already shown her everyone's new names, but she hadn't expected to use them.

"Weasley?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, Ronald Weasley," she said, folding her hands primly in her lap.

She didn't know how to respond to Severus Snape chuckling to himself as he turned up the radio.

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Author's Note: Thanks to Shiv for Beta


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