Snape/Hermione/Harry.  Also dashes of other ships.  Going straight to hell, me.
Rated NC-17.  Seems conservative, yet appropriate, since this is a threesome involving 2 seventeen year olds and their teacher.  Yet ... a Lizfic?  Rated NC-17?  Gosh.
Disclaimer: charactrs are the property of J.K. Rowling.  I doubt she lets them have group sex much.

Summary: Dumbledore dies and Ron disappears, and now they're just waiting for Hell to open up.
Notes: Yes, it's wrong, and bad, and I should be very ashamed of myself.  A combination of three of my favourite ships.  Enormous gratitude to Twinkledru J, whose beta was fantabulously swift and thorough.  Karkaroff, for Spyke.
 
 
 

I woke up slowly, with sore muscles and a hangover.  There was no moment of disorientation as I regained consciousness; the events of the previous night had filled my dreams, so that I knew where I was and what had happened.

Dumbledore's death. I remembered *that*, too.

Dumbledore's death.  Scorched earth and a lingering odour of cooked meat and burnt wood in the wreckage of the Riddle House.  Two of the hostages had managed to escape.  One was still missing.

Weasley.  Snatched away by Lucius, because schoolboy grudges can be powerful things, and he couldn't resist the temptation to torment Arthur.

Granger and Potter.  Safe in the hospital wing.  Pale and shaking, looking far too young to be seventh years.

Granger and Potter.  Entering my dungeons later that night.  Wanting ... something.

They were curled around me now, these paragons of Gryffindor virtue.  Naked and sleeping, holding my body between them as if they were children clinging to a parent.

A terrible analogy, for a man who'd spent half the night fucking those children.

These children.

My students.

Students.

But Dumbledore was dead now, and couldn’t be disappointed in me any longer.  Dumbledore was dead, and Sirius Black was missing, and Granger's family was gone.

Orphans.  No families, not anymore.  No one to scream at me, to accuse me of molesting their children.  No one to protect them.

Except me.

Middle-aged before my time, ugly and Slytherin.  Cruel, sarcastic, bitter.

And yet, Potter had kissed me, and Granger had watched, surprised and knowing all at once.  Potter had kissed me, and my hands had relaxed their hold on the boy's thin wrists, because I was shocked, and amazed, and a little aroused.

Now they were curled around me, sleeping.  Potter lay on his stomach, an arm thrown carelessly over my shoulder, his hair falling down into his mouth.

(A highly kissable mouth, I recalled, soft and expressive.)

The boy was thin, almost dangerously so, with ribs and vertebrae easily found under my fingers.  A good build for a Seeker, but worrying when compared to his father's muscularity.  Little starved orphan boy.

Granger lay on my other side, curled into a ball.  Her hair streamed across the pillows, and I remembered how it had fallen into my face while she rode me, fallen into my mouth and eyes, creating a space just for the two of us.  She was still wearing her skirt, but it had ridden up around her waist. I could see an odd scar on her upper thigh.

("What's this?" Potter had asked, kissing it, and I'd looked up from the girl's neck to see what had caught his attention.

"I fell off my bike when I was six," she said.  Potter nodded, comprehending; I didn't bother to ask for clarification.)

I'd been sitting in darkness when they entered, sitting in darkness and remembering Dumbledore.  Feeling the cold for the first time in years, wishing that I could get the smell of cooked flesh out of my nose.  I didn't look up when they entered.  I knew who they were.

"You should be back in Gryffindor Tower," I told them.

There was no response.  When I looked up, Potter was sitting on a desk, staring at the marks carved into the wood by generation upon generation of students.  Granger was beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

"Potter?  Did you hear me?"  I kept my voice soft, because without control, I thought I might scream, or worse, cry.

"I heard you."

"And yet, you're still here."  I rose from my desk and walked smoothly towards them.  "It's not safe for students down here.  You know that."

"I know," said Granger.

Potter looked up.  "I just wanted to say thankyou," he said finally.  "For getting us out of the Riddle House."

Gratitude.  From Potter.  For a botched mission, a failure.

"If I'd done my job properly, I'd have gotten all of you."

"I know.  But thankyou."

"Leave."

"I--"  Potter looked at Granger helplessly.

"Do you think that Ron's still alive?" she asked.

"Lucius Malfoy won’t kill him immediately.  He has too much hold over the family this way."  Watching them, I added, "and others."

"I'll kill Malfoy," said Potter softly.

I laughed bitterly, wondering which Malfoy he meant.  "You'll do no such thing, boy.  You haven't a homicidal bone in your body.  You couldn't even kill Pettigrew today."

Potter stood up.  "I'll kill him," he said again.

"Get out, Potter."

Neither student moved.  My control snapped, and I grabbed Potter by the arms to physically throw him out.  Potter resisted, and my hands slid down to the boy's wrists, thin enough that my thumb and middle finger could meet.

Potter kissed me.

Granger gave a little strangled gasp.

I kissed Potter back.

We separated, and watched each other.  Out of the corner of his eye, I could see Granger, wide-eyed, probably wondering how many points the attempted seduction of a teacher was worth.

"You hate me, don't you?" asked Potter, desperation in his voice.

"No, boy.  Not anymore."  Not since Potter had been in fifth year, when he'd borne Hagrid's death with dead-eyed stoicism.

"I don't hate you either," said Potter softly.

Granger made a small, exasperated sound.  "Wonderful.  Utterly romantic."  In a smaller voice she added, "but now you'll leave me alone."

Potter held out his hand to her.  It was shaking slightly, but his voice was even. "Not a chance."

She stared at them, and I felt a moment of pity for these innocent Gryffindors, fumbling their way through the lessons most Slytherins learnt in fifth year.

Sex as expression of affection.

Sex as a form of manipulation.

Sex as a means of feeling something.  Anything.

Anything but the cold and the scent of Dumbledore's death.

She took Potter's hand and kissed it.  I felt the boy shiver slightly, and became aware of the coolness in the air, and the openness of our location.

"Not here," I said.

The dungeons were Slytherin territory, after all.

"Where?"

"My rooms."

Down the corridor, Potter striding forward, resolute, and Granger jumping at shadows.  And me.  Down the corridor, around a corner, through a concealed door.

"Lumos," I said, closing the door behind Granger, and warded the corridors.  No one would disturb us.  Whatever happened here, no one else need know.

I reluctantly abandoned Potter and Granger to each other while I sought a few things.  Behind me, Potter said something, and Granger made a noise which might have been a laugh or a sob.

I'd never thought of Potter as a person who could make others laugh.

I turned back to them, watching him kiss her for a few minutes.  His glasses bumped her nose, and she slid them off, setting them aside with the care I'd seen her use for volatile potions ingredients.

They turned and looked at me, or rather, Potter looked at me, and Granger looked at the two of us.  She seemed hesitant, as though she were intruding upon something private.

"Do you *want* to be here, Granger?" I asked.  "Are you absolutely certain?"

"I'm of age," she said.

"That's not what I asked."  I lowered my voice and leaned in so that I could feel her breath on my face.  "Do you want to be here?"

She licked her lips.  "Yes," she said eventually, and kissed me.  She was more practiced than Potter, and I wondered whether she was in the practice of sneaking Weasley into the prefect's bathroom.

I broke the kiss and held up a small green vial.

"What's that?" she asked.

Obviously not.

"The Contraceptus Potion."  She accepted the vial from my fingers.  "Whatever happens here," I said, looking up to make sure Potter recieved the message too, "there are to be no consequences."

Potter nodded, but Granger said, "None we can't control," and drank the Potion.  A drop lingered on her lip.  I touched it, and she licked it from my finger.

"As you wish, Miss Granger."

Nervous virgin, yes, but she could still surprise me.

***

They could both surprise me, and I could surprise myself: on my knees, Potter's cock in my mouth, *relishing* my subordination to the Boy-Who-Fucking-Lived.

Granger: a quick learner, breath in little gasps against Potter's neck; sliding over me; lips and hands on skin.  I ran my tongue down her spine, feeling her shiver against me.

Potter: more confident, more dangerous.  No blushing virgin, for all his nervousness and youthful eagerness.

"Who?" I asked, hands on his hips.  Granger was half asleep by now, sprawled over my bed.

For a second, I thought that Potter wasn't going to answer.  Then he said, softly, "Viktor Krum."

"Ah."  Potter's hair was in my mouth, a silky irritation.  "He was Karkaroff's, you know," I whispered.

"I know."

"As was I."

"I knew that, too.  Viktor told me.  That's how I knew ... I knew that you'd understand, a little."

"I do."

I understood more than he thought.  These patterns weighed down on me: patterns, parallels, repetition, down the generations and into infinity.  How much was pre-ordained, and how much had Dumbledore planned?

Surely he'd not intended for us to fuck each other into oblivion the night after his death.

Surely.

At least, unlike Igor, I would not be introducing my young lovers to the joys of the Darkest Arts.

The Dark Mark throbbed when I held it against Potter's skin.  Granger had looked at it, traced her fingers around it, and then tried to pretend it wasn't there.  Potter had kissed it, rolling his tongue over the stain in my skin.  A blessing, of sorts.

We exhausted each other, and I ended up teaching them the charms which would extend the body's abilities, delay orgasm, control the uncontrollable.  Sweaty, messy sex, until we were numb.

After Potter was asleep, Granger stirred, sitting up and watching me pour a glass of nettle wine.  I'd half dressed, but the air was cold on my chest.  Bitterly cold, yet Dumbledore had perished in flames.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Fine, Granger."

She pushed her skirt down and crossed her arms over her chest.  "You *can* call me Hermione, you know."

I didn't answer.  Instead, I drank bitter nettle wine, all the while conscious of the sleeping boy and watchful girl in my bed.

After a long time, long enough that the wine had blurred the edges of reality, Granger finally looked away from me.  She took Potter's hand and kissed the tips of his fingers.  He didn't stir.

"I think we've thoroughly worn him out," she said.  "At least he won't dream tonight.  That's what he was afraid of, you know.  The dreams."

"And what were you afraid of, Miss Granger?"

"Being left alone."

"I see."

For a second, I thought she would ask what I feared, but she evidently changed her mind.  A pity: I might have answered her.

I feared the cold, which had never touched me before this night.

Instead, Granger said, "Did he tell you about Viktor, then?"

"Yes."  I drank my wine.  "How did you know?"

"When he worked so hard to keep it from everyone, you mean?"  Her voice was light, yet brittle.  "Viktor told me."

"Ah."

"We weren't going out at the time."

"What else did Krum tell you?"

"About Karkaroff."

"All of it?"

"Some.  The rest I worked out for myself."

"And you've kept it to yourself?"

"Of course."

She had a knack for finding her teachers' secrets, but at least she understood discretion.  She lay back and put her arms behind her head, forgetting about her semi-nudity.  "Are you going to sit there all night?" she asked.

I stood up, finished my drink and performed a quick Engorgement Charm on the bed.  Potter didn't stir.  I'd expected Granger to move over, but she remained where she was.  I slipped between the two of them, and found that their bodies were warm.

When I woke up, they were curled around me.  In the dim light, they looked oddly unreal, as though they were paintings come to life.  Angels, perhaps, or beautiful nude Renaissance figures, although surely no detached paintings or delicate angels could breathe the way they did, or taste, or smell.

Human.

Students.

It was morning, the day after Dumbledore had died.  In a few hours, the school would be filled with Aurors and Unspeakables, planning for the aftermath.  Weasley's rescue.

It was morning.

We'd survived the night.

The cool air prickled my skin, but the cold was no longer unbearable.
 

end