All's Fair in Love and War

Dirty Playing Grounds

Hermione stared at the Muggle calendar that she had magicked to her wall. Friday, October the sixth. Friday. It was only six-thirty in the morning, but she had woken up squarely at the crack of dawn, practically oozing excitement.

Hermione had never been one to procrastinate and, since she was already awake, she decided to make the best of her time. She showered thoroughly and brushed her copper tresses to a shine, dabbing on a bit of lip gloss for extra effect (something she usually didn’t care enough to do). Smoothing her dress over her midriff, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, appraising herself as though she were looking over a particularly difficult work assignment. Witches wore makeup on special occasions, didn’t they? And hey, well – this wasn’t exactly a special occasion, but it was as close to one as she’d gotten since arriving at Hogwarts.

“What the hell am I doing?” she murmured at the girl staring back at her through the mirror. “It’s just Hogsmeade. Nothing special. You’ve been there a thousand times.”

Except that you haven’t had any discernable social life since you got here.

Hermione ambled around half-heartedly for the majority of the day, too anxious to accomplish anything significant. She organized and reorganized her already-immaculate filing cabinets and shelved the potion ingredients in reverse alphabetical order. Every now and then she would check on the progression of the brewing potions in vain and finally, just after lunch, she marched down the school grounds to visit Hagrid in his shack to assist him with his groundkeeping duties and afternoon classes.

“Have fun in Hogsmeade, Hermione!” his booming voice called after her as she returned to the school. “Just let yerself go – ye’ll be fine!”

It was nearly four o’clock and the light had begun to dim by the time all the students and teachers going to Hogsmeade had been rounded up. After a quick attendance check, they set off in small groups, with half a dozen teachers keeping a wary eye out for them (particularly a couple of red-headed boys whom, Hermione guessed, bore a strong enough resemblance to the Weasleys to remind the teachers of the mayhem that Fred and George had caused; they seemed to be watching them a little more closely than the others out of pure habit). She didn’t notice Professor Snape anywhere among the throng of teachers and students being herded towards the wizarding village.

It was nearly impossible for the teachers to watch all the students, however, once they reached Hogsmeade; the students immediately broke up into small cliques and scattered in every direction, and most of the teachers simply gave up and went into the Three Broomsticks for a drink. Torn and not knowing quite what to do, Hermione headed into the Three Broomsticks as well, where she thought the majority of the students would probably be. She was right, for the most part; the pub was packed to overflowing with three or more people to a table. She had to dodge several students bearing mugs of hot Butterbeer on her way to the counter.

“Hermione!” exclaimed Madame Rosmerta, her face brightening instantly. “Hermione Granger, I don’t believe it! What are you doing here? I thought you graduated with Harry and Ron!”

Hermione grinned shyly. “Well, I did. But I came back here to work for Professor Dumbledore. At Hogwarts.”

“Isn’t that something,” she commented as she darted back and forth behind the counter, carrying empty trays and mugs. “That’s great for you. Listen,” she added as an afterthought, leaning in close, “it’s a bit busy out here, isn’t it? Why don’t you go back to the bar area?”

“Oh, er… I really shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be watching the students,” Hermione explained, gesticulating towards the heads of the students at their tables.

Rosmerta eyed Hermione knowingly, crossing her arms over the counter. The young witch couldn’t help but notice how Rosmerta’s breasts leaked over the collar of her Muggle shirt. She averted her eyes down into her own lap, suddenly embarrassed at how underdeveloped and juvenile her body must seem compared to Rosmerta’s feminine curves.

“Listen,” she began, her voice low, amused. Hermione could barely hear her over the constant din in the background. “You know that Hogsmeade trips are as much a break for the teachers as they are for the students, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded shallowly. She hadn’t thought of that. Of course the teachers worked hard, too. They deserved a break sometimes. She deserved a break.

“So.” Rosmerta concluded. “Get your butt back there and have yourself some fun.” The older woman leaned away with a wink and dashed towards a row of teachers sitting at the bar who were ready to order.

Hermione rose from her seat and peeked timidly around the corner towards a door with a sign that read ‘ADULTS ONLY’. She pushed past several large groups of teenaged socialites and stood on her toes to peer through the small, round window set just above her eye level. The young witched paused and held her breath. Well, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?

-----x-----

Severus had been watching Hermione discreetly ever since she’d entered the Three Broomsticks. She hadn’t noticed him, of course; a hooded cloaked concealed his face as he watched her squeeze her way across the pub, strike up a conversation with Rosmerta. He’d seen her staring at the bar door curiously before she got up and entered. A small pang of something unfamiliar prodded at his subconscious to take action. She was a small witch – who knew how much alcohol she could hold, what kind of trouble she could get into back there? This new feeling disturbed him. Resisting his urge to tag along behind her, he leaned back in his window seat and took another swig of Firewhiskey.

-----x-----

The room was dimly lit, the music tactfully low. Hermione took a few hesitant steps into the lounge – that’s what it was, really, more of a lounge than a pub. It was at least the same size, if not a bit larger, than the main branch, and tastefully decorated. The floor was lushly carpeted and her feet registered the contrast to the polished hardwood of the entry room of the Three Broomsticks. Bottles of multicolored liquor lined the glass shelves stacked behind the counter, covering one entire wall of the room. Little islands of tables and pouffes had been strewn strategically around the room. Several witches and wizards looked up as Hermione entered the room.

“What will the young lady have tonight?” questioned the bartender, a distinguished-looking, middle-aged wizard that reminded Hermione of butlers in old black and white Muggle movies. He retrieved a glass from somewhere below the counter and placed it before her, waiting.

“Just—just a Gillywater, please,” she asked meekly. She’d never had alcohol before in her life. Unless Butterbeer counted, she thought wildly.

“Nonsense,” chided a voice, smooth and deep. “Give her an apple martini, Solomon, and put it on my tab.”

“Yes, sir,” the bartender replied, fetching several bottles from the shelves behind him and pouring them into a mixer with several different types of fruit juice.

Hermione blushed, risking a sideways glance at the wizard beside her. His head was cocked in her direction, and he flashed a charming smile at her when she looked at him. Something about him was intimately familiar to her – his dark liquid eyes, the way his black hair fell into his face with a kind of casual elegance, the shape of his jaw. She stared at him headlong for a couple of seconds before she realized how rude she was being, and looked away quickly, heat rising in her face – but still, she couldn’t place him…

The wizard laughed, sipped his drink. He had an easy laugh, and was really quite attractive, Hermione noted, once she got over the haunting feeling of déjà vu. Her eyes swept over his body briefly before she turned back to face the counter, embarrassed. He wasn’t overly-muscular but lean and trim, a bit thin for his height. Randomly she thought that this man would have made a good Seeker at a younger age, with a build much like Viktor, but with a trimmer waist, a more sophisticated demeanor.

“Here is your drink, ma’am,” Solomon said, sliding the glass to her over the counter.

She murmured ‘thank you’ in a small, timid voice, swirling the greenish liquid into spirals uneasily.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” the man offered, turning on his barstool to face her. She could feel the intensity of his gaze as it hugged her diminutive curves appreciatively. Face burning, she took an obligatory sip of her martini, more for something to do than anything else.

“Wow,” she said, surprising herself. “This is really good. I can’t even taste the alcohol.” Butterbeer counts, right?

“See?” he said, his voice smooth, comforting. Hermione took another small sip, offering a shy, polite smile. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the wizard sitting next to her, but she felt suddenly very open, uninhibited.

“I’m Hermione,” she said, tilting her body towards him to shake his hand.

“Hermione.” He repeated her name, giving it his own personal signature as he accepted her hand in greeting. His skin was like silk, warm silk. Hermione reddened and took another sip of her drink, avoiding his gaze as if he would he able to read her mind if she looked at him. Well, that’s not unreasonable, Legilimency requires unwavering eye contact in order to—God, what am I saying? Calm down, it’s just a drink, people do this all the time… this is normal…

“A pleasure, Hermione,” he said, breaking her free from her own revolving thoughts. “You can call me Caius.”

The two spoke until late in the night, becoming more than a little acquainted with one another. Hermione finished her first drink, and then a second and a third, becoming quite intoxicated over the span of a couple of hours. She learned that Caius was in fact Caius Flint, one of the most revered Potion masters in wizarding Britain. They argued and debated questioned theories, and the older wizard became quite impressed with the extent of Hermione’s knowledge and the reach of her ambition. But the conversation took a different direction as the night wore on and Hermione became more inebriated. Solomon shook his head at the obviously drunk witch and the litter of martini glasses strewn over the counter before her.

“Tell me about your best sexual experience,” Caius asked, his voice lowering suggestively.

“Oh…” Hermione’s eyes glazed over for a moment before she began to giggle, snatched his glass and taking a hearty sip with a wince. “None.”

“None?” His eyebrows rose curiously. “Surely they can’t all have been that bad.”

“That’s not it!” she said, her speech slurred. She squinted, trying to bring him back into focus. “I’m a virgin, you know.”

Caius’ eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “A virgin?” he echoed, surprised. “Well, well. Miss Hermione Granger, a virgin! You’re far too pretty to let yourself go to waste like that.” He leaned forward, resting his hand on her thigh casually, as if he would have been surprised to find it there. His voice was soft, seductive. “If you let me be your very fortunate first, I promise I’ll give you an experience that you’ll never forget.”

Hermione stared at him, her eyes a bit heated. Normally, a proposition like that would have earned the offending wizarding a one-way trip to St. Mungo’s, but something about him made her want to comply. Badly.

“Hermione,” he whispered, leaning in further still, and her eyes drifted shut. His lips grazed her jaw and he planted a small kiss on her throat, her heart beating so fast that he could feel her pulse. “Come with me now,” he promised, his breath warm and soothing against her throat, “and I’ll make you come later.”

Without waiting for a response, he stood and slipped one arm beneath Hermione’s knees, the other, across the back of her shoulders. She squealed as he lifted her with ease, sauntering with wide steps towards the staircase that led to the rooms upstairs. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, her face pressed into his chest. That small familiar pulse burned between her thighs as he carried her up one, two flights of stairs, putting her down only to maneuver the door open.

Hermione shrank back into the corner and eased her way to the floor. As she leaned over to throw up, she didn’t notice a dark shadow streak up the stairs, grad her would-be lover and slam him roughly into the wall. She didn’t see two men struggling to best each other and she certainly wasn’t paying attention when the darker wizard threw a particularly nasty curse that knocked the other man out cold. But she did feel a pair of strong, steady arms lift her from the floor and cradle her against his chest, pressing a blissfully warm hand to her pale, clammy cheek.

“No,” she whispered at the sight of Caius’ body, limply curled into a ball on the hallway floor.

“Hermione.” Someone called to her, pulled her out of her dream, commanded her to return to the world. “Promise me. Promise me that you’ll always do what I say if it’s for your own good.”

“Yes,” she murmured, and neither of them noticed a whirlpool of golden light spiral around their interlocked bodies. “I promise, Severus.”