Seven Preposterous Things

The best of all our actions tend
To the preposterousest end.
– Butler
Genuine Remains; Satire Upon the Weakness and Misery of Man


Severus Snape aka Stephen Liston drove on, his magic manifesting itself in a dozen narrowly-missed collisions as he manoeuvred the behemoth of an automobile through back alleys and city streets, frequently avoiding stops by cleverly cutting through parking lots. One would assume he'd learned to drive in Cairo, instead of the north of England. His companion imagined the whole business might have been marginally less nerve-wracking had he shown himself able to refrain from bloody whistling as they careened from near miss to near miss.

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked, her fingers aching from their death grip on the cracked vinyl seat.

"A number of places," Snape said with a mysterious smirk.

"Where?" Hermione asked, keeping none of the annoyance out of her voice.

The look Snape gave her in response slid quickly from the ire of the surprised back to amusement. What a self satisfied shit. In the rear view mirror, Hermione watched as the smirk spread itself into a smile so broad and nasty it deserved some other name. Full of vicious, crooked teeth, it held some secret that allowed for contempt of everything outside itself. It was the smile of an entity complete in itself and content watching the weak fall and flounder within arm's reach. More a warning, more a signal of danger than anything even vaguely like joy. It was the smile of a shark or, somehow more frightening, a crocodile.

"Where are we going?" she repeated, biting the words as though they burnt her lips.

Snape had the utter lack of disregard it took to chuckle at her displeasure. "My agenda has but two aims; although I cannot say precisely how many stops will be required to achieve them. Firstly," he said, releasing his haphazard grasp of the steering wheel to wag one long finger in the direction of the windshield, "to secure paying work for myself. There are certain of my skills which translate into life as a Muggle..."

"Are you going take work as a chemist?" she interrupted him, as curiosity overcame her other emotions. If not chemistry, what else was Snape suited for? Perfumery? Explosives expert? Druggist?

Snape's smile flattened to a dour frown, and his nostrils flared. "Need I remind you that, as far as Muggles are concerned, you are speaking to a man whose formal education consists of exactly five years of primary school? My prospects are rather more limited than you imagine."

"And the second?" she asked.

Snape cleared his throat. "I have given the matter some thought, and have come to the conclusion that a sharp eye must be given to our future. Your marks were excellent during your Muggle schooling, or do I surmise incorrectly?"

Hermione's forehead knit itself. "My marks were fine."

Snape smiled that smile again, only this time somehow she got the feeling she was being included in the inner circle, the enchanted ring of superiority from which Severus Snape sneered at the world. "And by fine, you mean brilliant. To posit further, you have retained every word to pass your school masters' lips. What's more, you've no doubt studied a number of Muggle topics well into university level, simply because that is what you do, Granger. You learn. You study. You should have swot tattooed on your arse."

Hermione pursed her lips and mentally flipped through her grammar school examinations. That was why they called it elementary school; it was the basic elements, building blocks if you would, of knowledge. How was one to learn what came after if one lost sight of the basic information? What was she supposed to say to Snape? Of course she remembered it; how dull did he think she was? Still, she also remembered how many times during her school days he'd called her a "show off" and, even more tiresome, "know-it-all". It had to be some sort of trick question. The best option seemed to be a shrug.

She therefore gave Snape a shrug. She was too bewildered to do otherwise.

"False humility does not become you," he said, still including her in that terrible smile.

"What you're saying is...?" she asked, half fearful.

"To cull the pulpy fruit of success from the bitter seeds of defeat, all that is necessary is for each player in our little farrago to devote him or herself to that particular task at which they excel above all others," Snape said, and he looked like his old self for a moment... before he lit a fresh cigarette.

"If you have a point, I wish you'd make it," Hermione said, and the car door scraped against a particularly high sidewalk, sending off a spray of sparks along the side of the street.

Snape rolled his eyes heavenward and flicked the ash of his cigarette into the back seat. Disgusting.

"My second goal for today is to enrol one Jane Liston into whatever local Muggle university my somewhat strained finances can allow." His grin returned, as Hermione's pupils dilated at the notion of returning to school. She felt guilty at her own pleasure for a moment, but she knew there was nothing wrong with taking the opportunity, was there?

"After all," Snape continued cheerfully, "someone has to support me in my dotage, and Draco runs through funds like an inebriated sailor."

Hermione blinked once, then again. Snape had, in the rudest, most self-serving way possible, offered to pay for her to go to university, after saving her life earlier in the same day. It went without saying there was a catch, a great greasy, pompous big-nosed catch.

Snape switched on the radio and began twiddling the knob, peering at her furtively out of the corner of his eye.

With all the firmness she possessed, Hermione forced herself out of her emotional turmoil and into the waiting succour of rational thought.

The choice was her own; she simply had to sift through her options.

Number one: her life had been spared; did she wish to chance a return to England? The answer to that particular question was clear; she could not succeed alone against Voldemort, besides which all her comrades had been killed. To return to England, even to life as a Muggle, would only serve to endanger her family, not to mention herself.

That was settled, she would not return to England, but it did not necessarily follow that she was obliged to stay with her current associates. Leaving them would pose certain problems, however. Were she to enter into magical life on this side of the pond, there would be questions. Neither the governments of New England nor California, the two magical nations that made up the Muggle nation of America, had expressed the slightest sign of opposition to Voldemort. In fact, he was known to have well-placed followers within both countries. To become at all conspicuous in either would put her in danger, in addition to marking Snape, Bulstrode, and Draco for certain death, and that wouldn't be very grateful considering they'd saved her life.

Still, she wasn't obligated to cast her lot in with them. Except, she noted, that the life saving business meant exactly that.

Muggle or Magic, like it or not, it was one of the basic tenets of Arithmancy and ancient runes, both of which made infinitely more sense than fuzzy headed divination; all actions have calculable consequences. To save a life was to connect oneself to that person forever, to take responsibility for another person, weaving them willingly into one's web of wyrd. Snape seemed intent on deliberately securing her attachment to him. He understood how the magic worked. They were connected forever; although the manner of that connection was their own decision.

She had never got the impression he particularly liked her before those last few days he was at school, and there were definitely prettier witches. The only conclusion she could draw was that he honestly admired her, liked her as it were, and wanted her in his life, even if it meant putting her in a position to cause his death.

It was rather like possessing no weapons other than a row of nuclear warheads. Her choices appeared to be 1) cause his death or 2) give him exactly what he wanted.

And what did she want? Were circumstances different – namely, he had better teeth and hadn't murdered Headmaster Dumbledore - she would definitely consider Severus Snape an option. He was, without question, one of the more interesting and intelligent wizards she knew; though she would readily admit the pool of single, magical males was a limited resource.

No, if he got what he was after, namely Hermione herself, she was going to get precisely what she wanted as well. Any relationship would take place on her terms.

She cast an appraising eye toward her former school master. He fidgeted under her gaze, as well he should, for at that moment Hermione Granger, the newly christened Jane Liston, decided to give Muggle life and Severus Snape a chance. It wasn't as though she couldn't change her mind if either failed to suit her.

He was an utter mess now, but she was rather interested to see what she could make of him. And she had always wanted to go to university.

"Don't imagine you can dictate my course of study," she told him, clear and concise; that would be her method when dealing with Severus Snape.

"As long as it is a profitable field, I am willing to finance your endeavour. I refuse to pour the sweat of my brow into a degree in either philosophy or literature," he said, apparently gauging her reaction in the rear-view mirror, despite the fact that she sat beside him.

"I was rather thinking of studying law," she said, being forthright.

Snape brought the car to an abrupt halt, parking, at least he seemed to be parking, on the side of a street that didn't appear certain whether it was artistically decadent or merely sleazy. The front bumper of their car jostled the rear of the car parked in front of them.

Turning away from the mirror and the street, and looking Hermione face to face for the first time in quite a while, Severus Snape's gaze shook her. She knew no word for the emotion his expression conveyed but black-eyed burning lust, as though what frilly knickers did for lesser wizards, the practice of law did for her former Potions master.

Hermione knew the one thing she wanted in this situation was control. From the look of things Snape was ready to tear her clothes off in broad daylight in the front seat of the wretched car. She had to gain the upper hand. Shaking off the desire that flooded the car like cheap perfume, she frowned quizzically. "So, you're looking for work in a tea shop?"

"It's just a clever name," he said, looking away again and allowing her to breathe. "According to the paper, The Gypsy Tea Room is a night club of sorts, features live music, needs a barman."

Hermione could only think of two or three wizards less suited for work in the service industry. Fortunately, she was in no way involved in the hiring process.

Snape was as good as his word. By evening time, he was employed, and she was enrolled.


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Draco all but wept when Snape told him the news.

"It's not fair. Granger doesn't have to work because you fancy her? You're sending her to school? Severus, she's over twenty years old," he said trying to keep his voice from going shrill. "Not eleven."

"Had you paid any attention in Muggle Studies..." Severus started wearily, but Millie interrupted.

"That's how they do it; if they want anything better than work as a tradesman, they have to go to university. It was in the Muggle Studies textbook," Millie said, wrinkling up her nose piquantly. "More school, and you're welcome to it, Granger. It's prob'ly in our best interest, but better you than me."

Draco stared at Millie in disbelief; would she never take his side on general principles?

"What about me? I did well at school too. Just because I didn't spend all my free time swotting..." He was picking up momentum, when Severus broke in.

"Name the elements, Draco," Snape said, his eyebrow raised.

"What kind of question is that? Earth, Air, Fire and Water, everybody knows that." Draco pushed his hair out of his eyes defiantly.

"Would you mind answering the question, Hermione, since 'everybody knows' the answer?" Snape said superciliously.

"Certainly," Granger said with a nasty smirk; only one day so far, and she was already spending too much time with Snape if she was making faces like that. "Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine..."

"I believe that makes my point sufficiently," Snape said.

"Neon, sodium, magnesium, aluminium, silicon, phosphorus, sulphur, chlorine, argon, potassium, calcium, scandium," she went on, not stopping even as Snape interrupted her again.

"You are without a doubt, well versed in the ways and means of wizards, but when it comes to Muggles, you could not compete with a child, Draco," Snape said.

"Polonium, astatine, radium," Granger droned.

"If the Mudblood is going to school, so am I," he hissed.

"Suit yourself, but it's going to be more difficult than you can even imagine," Snape said.

"Fermium, mendelevium, nobelium, lawrencium..." Granger went on.

"You're just making those up," Draco said.

Granger shook her head. "Yttrium, niobium."

"What's the difference between them and, you know, our elements?" Millie asked; the little traitor.

"There are more than that, but in essence what wizards call elements are more states of matter. Fire, at least, is a state of combustion. Water, is a combination of the elements hydrogen and oxygen. Air, is a combination of gases, most importantly oxygen. Earth, is a mix of things. But the Muggle states of matter are similar to the wizarding idea of elements, but not the same. Any element can be a gas, a solid, or a liquid depending on the circumstance. What Muggles call elements are chemical building blocks that can't be broken down any further without losing their basic properties," Granger nattered on, and Millie seemed enthralled, who knew why.

In the meantime, Snape gestured for Draco to follow him down the hall.

"Give me this, Draco," Snape said, once they were safely hidden from the excitedly jabbering witches. What had Millie so worked up was puzzlement to her husband.

"It's stupid," he said.

"Believe what you will, only grant it to me," Snape said, his whole body drawn up stiff and commanding.

Draco gave him only what his mother called a "dead codfish stare" when his father did it.

"Please," Snape said, through clenched teeth. Now that was something. It took a wizard of some weight to wring a 'please' out of Severus Snape.

Draco felt inordinately pleased with himself as he shrugged. "It's not as though I actually care." He was the very essence of noblesse oblige.


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Millie Malfoy was fortunate enough to have never actually been inside of Madam Puddifoot's; still she had heard enough from those who had - Vincent, Greg, and, of course, Draco - to know she was in its Muggle counterpart. Every bloody inch of the place was covered with chintz or lace or gold paint.

Apart from having a poncy sign, the tea shop had seemed like a safe bet. Still, a job was a job, and if they'd hire her she'd take it.

A bell rang as she stepped past the doorway, and a Muggle female came out, straight off looking at Millie like she smelled of week old kipper.

"May I help you?" the Muggle said, with a bright false smile. She had a face like one of the heinous little cherubs some moron had charmed up to deliver valentines when Millie was a second year. She wore the most perfectly clean apron Millie had seen in her life, the sort of apron that not only hadn't been worn for cooking recently, but had probably never been near anyone even thinking about food. Short golden ringlets covered her head, and red rouge marked her doll-like lips and cheeks. For all that, she was an ageing doll, as far as Millie could figure; not too old but at least middle aged. Seventy, perhaps. Millie couldn't recall if Muggles aged the same as regular people.

"I'm here to inquire about a position," Millie said, forcing herself not to scowl as she waived the folded Muggle paper clenched in her fist. "You've got an advert in the paper?"

Millie watched as the Muggle's barely concealed disdain was instantly replaced by delight.

She must have been desperate for staff.

"You're English," the Muggle said, looking for all the world like Christmas had come in August.

"Lancashire," Millie said "more or less."

"But you're from Great Britain," the Muggle said.

"I've work papers," Millie said, wondering exactly what she said to thrill the Muggle so.

"Do you have any experience?" the Muggle asked.

"I've haven't exactly been employed before..." she said honestly, "but I can cook anything you want."

"Can you make a proper English tea?" the Muggle asked, in what appeared to be breathy ecstasy.

Millie looked at the Muggle in abject confusion; what was special about that?

"I've been doing it since I was old enough to be allowed near the stove," Millie said.

"I usually require at least three references but under the circumstances..." the woman said.

"The proof of the pudding is in the eating," Millie said jumping in, trying to hold down the soaring feeling in her chest. "If you show me the kitchen, I'll show you what I can do."

From there, it was fairly straightforward. The butter smelled of something Muggle and unnatural, and the milk was strangely not-fresh, yet at the same not gone off either, but that said, Millie could get used having all her cold foods at her fingertips in a Muggle refrigerator.

Her finest hour was using the automatic stove like she'd been born to it. She turned those knobs like champion. Not having to chop wood, with or without magic, was fine with her.

Working with what she'd been given, an hour later she laid out a gamut of breads, cakes, and buns that would have been barely adequate in her mother's opinion, but appeared to please the Muggle no end.

In any event it was a position, and as such would keep the wolf from the door.


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Draco knew a bit about difficult people, having been raised by two of them. Still, after Millie's pointed rebuff of his initial request to undo her plaits he was wary enough not to ask again.

Had Millie and her rather definitive "No" been Lucius or Narcissa he might have been more willing to cajole. After all, he was Lucius and Narcissa's precious baby, the culmination of their romance. As it stood, he knew Millie was rather fond of him, but she was in possession of a less than restrained temper and the better part of valour held him back. Not to mention, she was far more inclined than either of his parents to call him a "brat" or a "stupid git". She'd come around sooner or later. He was hardly desperate. Or so he thought at one time.

Usually, the way she always held some small part of herself aloof was her greatest charm. She wasn't like Pansy, fawning over him, falling all over him like an ill-mannered dog. No, when he got Millie's affection it was because he'd earned it. It was the first thing Draco had ever got entirely on his own in his life. She had more family connections, more money without him than she had with him; yet she'd set it aside and gone with him.

That didn't mean she would be easing off any time in the near future.

Still, so far from home and weighed down with the knowledge the only life he'd ever known was over, he needed something more than Millie's enticing blend of sexual availability and emotional elusiveness. He needed succour.

"Millie," he said, burying his lips in that place at the base of her skull that he knew made her light headed. "Could I..." with all the care he had in him, Draco nibbled his way from Millie's neck to her left shoulder, noting her shudders along the way, "...unlace your hair?"

His heart rose to just under his chin then dropped leadenly to his stomach as he felt Millie breathe in sharply, her muscles going tense as a Petrificus.

He couldn't see her face with his lips still on her shoulder, but he was certain her expression was anything but placid as she sighed deeply, if silently.

"If you want," she said woodenly, and he fought the urge to blink for fear she'd hear him. Millie's hearing rivalled the average hound's.

Astonished, he ran his hand down the length of one plait, thick as rope and black as the forbidden forest, black as some of his favourite thoughts, black as treacle. He traced the line of white scalp along her parting with one finger. Then, without thinking, he wound one plait around each fist until he pulled her to him, pressing his face against the back of her head. Millie was not only brilliant but also beastly and divine in a way that was entirely her own. And entirely his, as well. Or was he hers? It was an amusing question. After a moment his senses returned, and he turned his attention to her hair ribbons.

It was not unlike unplaiting a rope: the hairs were thick and stiff and Draco had to rake through them with his fingers get them loose.

"Lie back," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion and with the newfound knowledge that, unbound, Millie's hair fell past her bum.

"See what I get for giving you your way," Millie grumbled.

"Lie back. Please," Draco said softening his tone.

"Don't get used to ordering me about," Millie said as she complied.

Draco was comforted to be reminded that some things were eternal.

Spread out, Millie's hair reached past the tips of her fingers. The black tendrils nearly floating on the soft white sheets, it reminded him of nothing so much as Hogwarts' giant squid.

Draco was all wide, mesmerised eyes and hard cock. Millie was a jewel that flashed a new facet from every direction as she glared at him through slitty, blue eyes, unchanging and yet never the same twice. He bent down and brushed his lips against hers, the kiss of a summer breeze across the surface of a lake. Without pause, his lips drifted down her throat, tickled by the vibration of her moan.

First the left breast, soft yet firm, like cake; he smothered it with kisses, ran his tongue like a loving viper along the underside. Sucked unrestrained at her nipple. There was something utterly edible about Millie; her body was as comforting and indulgent as his first box of sweets from home.

The right breast called to him next; it wouldn't do to ignore such a perfect tit, would it? Besides, it was every bit as delicious as the left one. He licked the nipple that stood as thick and as tall as the first joint of his smallest finger.

Sliding down on the right side, he gave a meaningful suckle to the flattened third nipple situated there.

A witch among witches was his Millicent.

Her hands kneaded and pulled at his hair deliciously; it was a perfect counterpoint to the pounding of the blood in his cock.

Her navel was a goblet of fire that accepted only his name... and his tongue. Her face was like the shining moon, and her back like a cliff, but the warm mound of her belly was a place of special comfort, like the great hill of Maison de Malfoy where his child self would slide until he was dizzy from the first snow of winter to the last, and roll down all summer long, scaring the house elves silly. He did not know how it happened, but Millie's body had become the landscape of his soul, a wizarding England he could curl up with at night. He kissed all his secrets into her soft sweet abdomen. A thousand kisses for the belly where he staked his heart.

He laid his next kiss on the inside of each chubby knee, sensing both her delight and her frustration. He was in no rush; Draco Malfoy knew how to savour a good thing. There was nothing he knew of as silky or as soft as the skin on the inside of her thighs, and he made a point to enjoy it as frequently and as fully as possible.

He'd stepped away from his name, his birthright, his family. Things as fundamental to his personal happiness, as flying his broom, slipped away in the desperate pursuit of safety, but he could weather it all if he kept this close to him. The wild heart of witchcraft spread-legged before him made it all bearable.

Draco was a man not a child, he savoured his meat before he had his pudding, but pink cunt lips beckoned, and he was more than ready to dive in face first.

Sometimes, he swore the first lick was the best, the way the flavour snapped every taste bud on his tongue to attention, coupled with Millie's first savage thrust of hips. It was like the moment when the broom took flight.

Other times, he would have sworn it was the last suck of the swollen cherry of her, the syrupy juices, the feeling of triumph knowing he, Draco, had brought a witch like Millie to shaking, mad, trembling climax. They didn't call it grabbing the snitch for nothing.

Six of one, half dozen of the other, really. Not one bit of it was half bad.

He thrust two fingers inside her cunt in time to the wet music of her pulse, catching her pink clitoris gently in his teeth. He swirled his tongue round one, two, three times before taking it in and sucking hard. Strictly speaking, Draco was not a homosexual, but he often thought the clitoris was like a little cock, small and hard between his lips, a female cock at least, wet and delicious. He sucked rhythmically in agreement with himself, before doing all sorts of fancy tricks with his tongue that made Millie spin like a sneak-o-scope.

He was torn out of his reverie when Millie forced her way up and shoved him down into her spot on the bed. She climbed astride him and, though she was small, it was as though he was engulfed by her. The wet slurp of her cunt clamped down and pulled at him, muscles like something deadly grasped him.

Sweet dimpled fingers and a mouth like satin belied the crushing power between her thighs. Her hair wrapped itself around the two of them like devil's snare.

Usually all in favour of survival, Draco would have died happy the moment her breasts were in his grasp and his seed sprayed deep inside her.

Later, as Millie slept, Draco felt both brave and curious enough to undo the plaits in the treacle black hair at her crotch as well.


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She noticed her absent plaiting between her legs in the midst of her morning shower. After a moment of swearing that caused the paint to peel in weak spots, Millie balled her fists and dressed. She said nothing to Draco about what he'd done. His part of it was over. It was all up to her now, whatever she decided to do about it.


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Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Shiv, without whom I would not be engaged in writing this story.