I took prompts during a bout of insomnia yesterday (the prompt post was lost to my back-up snafu), and here are the results!
Severus unrolled the Invisibility Tape and wondered at it. The material was odd: it didn't feel real, despite the fact that he could sense it sliding gently across his palm.
Gossamer, was the first word that entered his mind as he swathed his arm in the stuff, watching with pleasure as his appendage—and the charmed fabric—disappeared. "This will do. Now how am I to sew it together to make a proper cloak?"
It was vital that his forthcoming meeting with Potter be clandestine, as the brat had no idea that it was Severus who had become his anonymous informant, and stealing the Invisibility Tape had been Severus' only means of affecting the requisite safeguarding of his identity, as the Dark Lord had other servants watching him—and monitoring his use of materials.
"Damn Potter for insisting upon meeting me face-to-face!"
It took Severus an hour to realize that he was not going to be able to pull the tape apart into threads; when he tried it, the skeins remained visible. In the end, desperate to make his meeting on time, he settled for wrapping his nude body in the stuff; he had not enough of the material to cover himself while clothed. Thus prepared, and feeling ridiculous, the Potions master Disapparated to Potter's chosen spot of the Shrieking Shack.
The floor squeaked as he arrived to find Potter pulling his invisibility cloak from his shoulders.
"Hello?" the brat called, pointing his wand in various directions. "Anon, is that you?"
Disguising his voice as best he could, Severus replied, "I'm here."
"I can't see you."
"That's the idea."
"It's hardly fair," Potter said, more or less focusing on Severus' location.
"Do you wish my information, or don't you? I can't be gone long." Damn, but this stuff itches, he thought, attempting not to squirm.
"The idea was that we were supposed to meet properly. Her—my friends don't like us trusting someone we don't know."
"I'm not risking my neck for your friends."
"Oh? Who're you risking it for then? Why've you been helping us?"
"I've been helping you," Severus said, shivering a bit.
Invisibility Tape didn't do much against the drafts.
Suddenly, Potter's eyes widened. "Um, I don't mean to pry, Anon, but your uh, your fly? It's . . . it's coming undone."
"Blast!" Severus exclaimed, mortified. "What do you see?"
A slow smile spread across Potter's face. "A great bloody lot, as it happens. So you've been risking your . . . neck . . . for me?"
"Don't come any closer!" Severus ordered, as Potter advanced on him.
"I don't think you mean that, do you?" the brat asked, grinning. "I knew you fancied me, Malfoy."
"I am not Draco Malfoy, you insuffera—whatdoyouthinkyou'redoing?"
Severus' words came out in an excited, horrified rush as Potter dropped to his knees in front of him.
"Look, Anon," Potter said, licking his lips and reaching for Severus' engorged prick—it had always appreciated an audience—"I'm lonely, as well. We might as well have a little fun."
Severus would have replied if Potter hadn't been enthusiastically sucking out his ability to speak through his prick. Fuck. Yes. What the hell. Oh, gods . . . .
Many hours later, Severus returned to his hideout feeling like a debauched mummy and wondering about the tensile strength of Invisibility Tape.
Because the next time I meet with Potter, I'm going to have to tie him down.
The brat struggled amazingly hard while being buggered.
There was a brazier of some sweet-smelling wood smoldering at the rendezvous point; it intoxicated Hermione as she slowly climbed up the hill and wondered with which potions the wood had been treated. She did not have time to wonder long. As soon as she had achieved the summit, she was giggling stupidly, her nipples were hard, and her knickers, wet.
"All right then, gentlemen," Hermione laughed more than said, "what are you planning?"
"Just a little something," George said huskily, suddenly standing behind her and undoing the zip of her dress, "to release some of that tension you've been carrying around."
"Oh," Hermione moaned, as Fred's hands skirted up her thighs toward the lace edges of her knickers. "Oh, who said I'd been tense!"
She always exclaimed when George nibbled on her earlobe.
The boys replied with actions rather than words, neatly removing her clothing, laying her out into the fragrant grass of the hill, and running their hands with maddening lightness over her excited skin.
"Please . . . touch me harder," Hermione begged, breathing in the delicious smoke, which seemed to roll thickly out of the brazier and hug the ground.
"Oh no, Miss Granger," Fred replied, his voice full of erotic promise.
"We want this to last," George said, though his voice seemed disembodied.
Can't be, Hermione thought. He's touching me. They're touching me. I feel it.
And she did: she felt Fred and George's hands everywhere, all at once, rolling lightly and teasingly over her body—but there were so many hands.
"This . . . oh, this is some sort of . . . some product . . . new . . . yes! Do that again!" Hermione cried, as the soft, inexorable touching dipped inside of her body to widen her.
"I think she likes it, Fred."
"Looks that way, George."
The pushing in and over sensation grew thicker, more intense, and Hermione snaked a hand toward her cunt to encourage whoever was thrusting into her keep doing it, but she found her arm being pulled away from her body and up over her head, pressed into the ground and secured by nothing that felt like fingers.
"Oh, it's . . . it's the smoke—thisisanewproduct!"
"You're a quick one, Miss Granger," Fred's floating voice replied.
"Yes, Miss Granger?" he asked, as if from deep under the ground.
"I . . . I need—"
Whatever Hermione had intended to say was forced out of her as a gasp, and the smoky ministrations delving inside of her began to thrust—as if with deliberate intent—over her clit.
All Hermione could do was to piston her hips up in hopes of achieving more friction, and then, blessedly, real warm hands and teeth and tongues began working over her flesh.
"Yes!" she cried, coming in a wave of incense- and Weasley-driven ecstasy.
When she came down to earth, it was to find herself being cradled in Fred and George's arms.
"You're both too brilliant to be allowed near a cauldron," she whispered, not meaning one word of it.
"And you," Fred and George said, sounding pleased and smug and wanting, "are the best product-tester we've ever had."
"Take me again," Hermione ordered.
"The things I do for romance appall me," Severus snapped, shaking his leg as he held the baby Crumple-Horned Snorkack securely upon his lap. "This creature is pissing all over me!"
Remus snorted. "You've had worse things all over you, I imagine."
"Is that an invitation to return to our rooms?" Severus asked, hopefully.
"Now listen, you're the one always dragging me to dusty libraries to open grimoires with teeth—I think I still have the scar from our last trip."
"I told you," Severus said, testily kicking out his leg, "not to open that one without first offering it a bit of blood. Why is this . . . thing humping me? I thought you said these creatures were infants?"
"It took its own damn blood, didn't it? And the thing about snorkacks is that their maturation rates vary. Be nice, Severus. It likes you."
"That is one way to put it. Gah! Their piss stinks."
"You do know cleaning charms, you know."
"If I had my damned wand, I'd—"
Severus stopped talking as the furry little monster humping him hiccoughed and fell sated from his leg.
Glancing at his robes in disgust, he said, "You're doing the washing. Don't even think about sending my robes to the elves at the hotel."
Remus laughed. "Why don't you take the bottle? I think Mr. Piddles here is hungry."
"They're all hungry in one manner or another."
"Yes, but once we've fed them and made our choice, we can get back to the hotel and slake another form of it," Remus told Severus, waggling his eyebrows.
It always amused Severus to see his lover behaving like an idiot, even though he'd never deign to admit it to Remus. He smirked, imagining how he would make Remus pay for this particular date night, and then the other wizard's words sunk in.
"What the hell do you mean, 'choice'?"
Trying and failing to pout, Remus said, "What? You didn't mean what you said about our getting a pet?"
Screw domesticity! Severus thought, shoving the Crumple-Horned "Pissack" into Remus' arms. "I have my limits, Lupin!"
"It's 'Gregory' now, is it?" Hermione asked, watching her fellow colleague over her glasses at the Spring Fling, which had become a post-war tradition at Hogwarts.
Never taking his eyes off of the Seventh Years cavorting across the dance floor, Gregory replied, flushing somewhat, "I think . . . I think it makes me sound distinguished."
"Yes, as distinguished as any Care of Magical Creatures professor can sound."
"That was mean, Granger. You're never mean. You've been testy all evening. What's got your knickers in a twist, then?"
"Shove off, Professor Greg—Gregory," Hermione replied, hiccoughing her way through his name and swaying uneasily.
"Delightful. You been taking bitch lessons from Professor Parkinson?" Gregory asked, feeling low, but also damned if he was going to allow Hermione to see it. Why do I even bother? She'll never—
Just then, Hermione tripped over her own feet and tumbled into his arms, and Gregory, mortified—he never moved quickly, fearing that his natural clumsiness would undermine his professorial authority, such as it was—rushed himself and Hermione out onto the dance floor, trying not to swoon as the witch's hair, which was redolent of lemons, brushed across his face.
Please don't be sick, he silently begged. I couldn't hide that.
"What are we doing?" Hermione demanded, though she made no attempt to disengage herself from her dance partner's arms.
"We're dancing, Professor."
"I can sfeel, I mean, I knows—that is, I . . . ."
"You're drunk," Gregory admonished her, pleased at how easily the dance seemed to be going.
Concentrating on making sure that his partner didn't topple was helping him to achieve some semblance of grace.
"Yes," Hermione giggled, "I am. And you've got very strong arms, Gregory."
"I . . . I do?" he asked, feeling himself respond in an unwelcome manner to the flattery. Why did this have to be a waltz?
"Yesh. You're a delightful partner," Hermione replied, pressing herself against him in an unseemly manner.
"Granger, stop that!" he admonished her, feeling prudish and aroused and terrified.
Hogwarts' professors didn't carry on like students.
With a decisive whirl, Gregory twirled Hermione out of one of the doors and onto a terrace, kicked the door shut with a foot, and then seized the witch by the arms and shook her.
"Tell me what you're playing at? You're pissed, woman! It's not like you."
"What would you know about me?" Hermione demanded, before turning suddenly over the terrace's railing and being quite ill indeed.
As annoyed as he was, Gregory felt sorry for his colleague. He moved toward her and pulled her hair back gently, waiting for her heaving to subside.
"Oh, oh Merlin! My head. What . . . what are we doing out here?"
"You don't remember?" Gregory asked, thoroughly surprised.
"Damn Fabian Weasley!"
"I know it's him," Hermione raged. "That little brat spiked the punch."
"Wait!" Gregory exclaimed, restraining Hermione. "Don't cause a scene. Your godson's a Slytherin—you know it'll just mean more trouble, later."
"Why are you always so worried about what the students might do? We can't just allow him to—"
"Professor Granger, I'm a Slytherin, too, remember? I'm not going to let Fabian get away with anything."
Hermione smiled. "Fine. I won't rush in there and take points. But you're going to promise to let me help. I'm the one the little prat got drunk and made ill. All right?"
Gregory, not one for thinking on his feet, but thinking that he'd done all right so far, decided, Maybe there's a way I can turn this to my advantage.
After all, there were precious few other ways he could work with Hermione.
"If you wanted to dance with me, you only needed to ask," Hermione said, straightening her robes and quickly returning to the hall.
Gregory smiled. He didn't have to be a genius to know what such an offer meant.
I knew "Gregory" was the right way to go, he thought, sedately—and appropriately professorially, or so he thought—following Hermione back into the Great Hall.