Chapter 6
(Present day)
Three days have now passed since that night in the lake, and Severus dressed this morning to find a single black button missing from the cuff of his nicest set of robes.
Three days since yet another Death Eater’s son was found bloodied and bound to the Headmaster’s podium— his podium, now— with the words ‘TRAITORS WILL PAY’ expertly carved into his forehead with not a single jagged edge.
Only three days, and a half-blood Slytherin barely escaped the common room with his life this morning.
Three whole days, and magical law enforcement has only just managed to send an auror to his office as the clock strikes noon.
“I have a few questions for you, Miss Granger,” The auror says.
Not but twenty minutes ago, Detective Brighton had strolled into Severus’s office looking as if he had only just changed out of his graduation robes on the way here. Within minutes, Severus had gathered that the young man has no tact nor talent. What he does have, however, is a desperate need to prove himself, a keen interest in The Great Hermione Granger, and a tiny notepad that he greatly enjoys brandishing about.
It took only five minutes for Brighton to request Miss Granger’s presence, and only seconds for Severus to know that meant trouble for the witch.
Severus glances up from his hand resting on his desk, from the fraying black thread where a button should be, and looks to the auror sitting across from him with the hope that Miss Granger has brought her good sense now that the pleasantries are finally over.
“You were supposedly brewing potions with Headmaster Snape late into the night of the incident, correct?”
“Yes,” she replies simply.
Severus briefly catches her gaze as Brighton scribbles on his notepad.
Good girl.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Mr. Sinclair?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“Not specifically, Miss Granger?” Brighton asks, narrowing his eyes at her.
“Mr. Sinclair is a blood supremacist, Sir,” She says, furrowing her brow in an expression of innocent confusion.
Only Severus hears the ruthlessness of her words.
“Right, well… Let’s see, uhm…” Brighton mumbles, clearing his throat uncomfortably as he scans his notebook. “Our medical report shows a knife was used rather than a wand. As a… well, as someone raised by muggles, that is— do you think that might mean…”
Severus holds back a smirk as the witch arches a brow, daring the detective to finish his sentence.
“… Well, that the perpetrator could have been of your… similar background?”
“A muggleborn, you mean?” Miss Granger asks sternly. “You think a muggleborn wouldn’t think to use their wand?”
“Not at all, I— Forgive me, no— Only to mean—“
“The child of a Death Eater might think to use a knife,” Severus interjects. “To inflict greater pain.”
Both of their gazes snap to Severus.
“Why would one of his own kind do this?” Brighton quickly asks, unable to disguise the edge of defensiveness to his tone.
Perfect.
“It seems it is entirely possible we could have been wrong about the intended message behind the banner in the first place,” Severus says thoughtfully, planting his first seed of doubt into the detective’s rattled mind.
“Now, Miss Granger, I believe you have a lesson to get to.”
***
She is a terrible little thing, he thinks once he slips into her room that night. A terrible creature with smooth skin made of the most delicate ivory, a bewitching creature, a brutal creature who has plucked the sword of justice from the heavens and now wields it as her own.
Such a terrible and vicious and utterly divine creature.
The air is unusually warm, her quilt lying crumpled at her feet, and there is not a stitch of clothing to be seen as she lies here sleeping, not a sound to be heard but the violent pounding of his heartbeat against his ribs.
She lies like an offering, consecrated by the moonlight painting her skin, with her arms draped above her head and her ankles crossed. He draws closer, just to gently sweep a stray curl from her cheek… just to brush the tips of his fingers down her slender neck and dip into the hollow of her collarbone… to graze a perfect rosy peak before tracing along the curve of her waist and the swell of her hip and the firm expanse of her thigh as his own flesh aches, yearning with a terrible heat that urges him to grip and taste and possess—
He releases a ragged breath and retreats with a single step, retrieving her little black button from his pocket and placing it on her nightstand.
Sweeping his gaze over her one last time before he leaves, he pauses upon catching sight of a curious slash of red hiding under the curls that are splayed across her inner forearm…
***