hp fic: Last Transfiguration
Title: Last Transfiguration
Pairing: Snape/Lily, implied James/Lily
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angry!sex
Genre: Angst
Summary: She doesn't want to have this conversation, and she shouldn't have to -- he made his position clear enough at the end of last term.
Words: ~4500
A/N: Written for the![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88)
erotic_elves Fantasy Fest. Thanks to ![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88)
petulantgod for the hand-holding, and to darkasphodel, happiestwhen, and ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thysanotus for the beta.
Last Transfiguration
::
The Library is warm, defying the early October chill, and horribly stuffy. Dust mingles with the smell of old books, hanging heavy in the air, and Lily can taste it, fancies she can reach out and touch it. The silence is thin, stretched, punctuated by a cough here, a rustle of paper there, destroyed by the scratch of her own quill.
Lily frowns at her Transfiguration text, rubbing her temples irritably. McGonagall wants twenty-two inches on Animagus transformations in the morning, and Lily only has seven. She's not pleased with a word of it, and she's angry at herself for leaving it until the last minute. She's never been one to slack in her schoolwork, but the first few weeks of term have been a flurry of activity, and with the added responsibility of being Head Girl, both time and five minutes peace have been in short supply.
She flips through her book, scanning the pages for a particular passage. She saw it earlier, but she can't find it now, and she's been staring at the book so long the words are running together. She closes her eyes, sighing. She opens them to find a shadow spreading across the page, and glances up at the smiling face of James Potter.
"Evans," he says quietly. His hair is unkempt, but less so than usual, like he's forgotten to pull at it, and his tie is straight, knotted neatly. "Hi."
"Potter," she replies coolly. She turns her attention back to her book, but he doesn't take the hint, and she makes a vexed noise in the back of her throat as she looks back up at him. "What?"
"Are you busy?" he asks. His hand inches toward the chair next to her, but he stills it when she frowns.
"Extremely," she snaps, gesturing to her books and parchment. "Though I probably shouldn't expect you to know what studying looks like, since you do it so seldom."
Potter ducks his head a bit, but for the most part, seems undaunted. "What are you working on?"
"McGonagall's essay, which is due tomorrow," she replies. "You may have been asleep when she assigned it."
"Right," he says. He pauses, and his Head Boy badge glitters in the torchlight. "Animagus transformations."
"Yes," she says sharply. She glances at where he'd been sitting before he came over; Black, Lupin and Pettigrew are clustered around the table, pretending they are not watching Potter bother her. "Have you even started it?"
"Done," he says. "Finished it a couple of days ago."
"Cribbed from Lupin, more like," she accuses.
"I helped him with his, actually," he defends. "So did Sirius and Peter," he adds, and she snorts. "You can see it, if you like. Twenty-six inches."
"Twenty-six?" she repeats shrilly, and Madam Pince clears her throat loudly in warning. Heat rushes to Lily's cheeks, and she lowers her voice. "She assigned twenty-two."
"Yeah, well, I had a lot to say on the topic." A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, like he knows something she does not, and it infuriates her.
"Potter," she snaps. "While I am pleased to see that you are finally taking an interest in your studies, or as pleased as I can be about something that concerns you, I have work to do."
"I'm sorry, Evans," he says quietly. "I just wanted to ask you something."
She sighs and sets down her quill. "What?"
"Hogsmeade is this Saturday," he says quickly. His voice lacks its usual cocky tone. It's thin, almost nervous, and in spite of herself, she finds him less irritating that she did five minutes ago. "Will you go with me?"
"No," she replies. She's refused him so often it comes out automatically, without thought. He looks crestfallen for a split-second, which surprises her, but he covers it quickly.
"All right, then," he says, chewing at his lower lip. "I'm sorry I bothered you."
He pauses, fidgeting, and Lily can't help but watch. She's never seen him without his armour of conceit, and it's so utterly foreign she has to stop herself from staring.
"Here, this is for you," he says. He pulls a small, black box from his pocket and sets it on the table. It's tied with a red and gold ribbon.
"Potter--"
"It's your birthday, Saturday," he explains. Lily tells herself the colour blooming in his cheeks is from the heat in the room. "I'm giving it to you now, since we're not going to Hogsmeade."
"James," she says, but he's already gone.
Her hand hovers over the box, fingertips just brushing the curl of the bow. The knot gives away easily when she finally pulls on it, and her breath catches as she sets the lid aside.
It's a necklace; a fine gold chain with a charm shaped like a lily. A tiny pearl rests in the center of the flower, perfect opalescent white with just the slightest, pinkish hue.
He's given her things before -- handwritten sheets of clumsy prose, half-dead flowers picked from the school gardens -- but never something like this. She can't even imagine what it cost, and while she knows Potter certainly has the money, it's far too fine a gift, a gift that suggests he's not kidding.
She's always assumed he was. He's asked her for a date a hundred times, but only when he's been in trouble with her, or when she's been yelling at him, or when his friends have been around, watching in amusement. It has never occurred to her that he's serious; she's always thought he was only asking to annoy her, that his proposals were just the punchline to some joke she didn't understand.
Lily stares at it, unable to think and completely at loose ends. She puts the lid on the box to hide the necklace from view, but it doesn't help. She still knows it's there, still knows Potter gave it to her.
Taking a deep breath, she glances in his direction. He's not whispering with Black as she expects, but reading, hunched over a book with his forehead resting on one of his palms. He looks up at her, smiling softly, then returns to his book, flipping the page.
She pushes her chair away from the table, legs scraping against the floor, a shriek of protest that's overloud in the silence. She approaches Potter with her heart hammering and her stomach knotting, unsure of what to say, convinced everyone in the Library is staring.
He looks up as she draws near, his face blank. Lupin and Pettigrew look up as well, but immediately return to their books. Black frowns at her like she's done him a personal wrong, and she supposes, as close as he and Potter are, that indirectly, she has.
"Potter," she says. "I can't accept this."
"Of course you can," he says. He sounds a bit more cavalier, now that his friends are around, but she find herself forgiving him for it. "I didn't nick it or anything."
"I don't think you did," she says.
"You don't like it, then?" he asks. He sounds disappointed, almost hurt.
"I told you to go with silver, mate," Black comments. He leans his chair back on two legs, folding his arms across his chest, and lifts an eyebrow at her like he's daring her to argue.
"James, it's beautiful," she admits. He smiles at her, wide and genuine, but it slips, and he rounds on Black, who is crawling under the table.
"Sirius, what are you doing?"
"I'm taking cover," Black replies. "She called you James, and she gave you a compliment. The world will be ending shortly."
Potter looks up at her helplessly, running a hand through his hair, then frowns at Lupin like Black's antics are his fault. Lupin doesn't even blink, ignoring them both flawlessly. Pettigrew is hiding behind a book, his face bright red, and he's making a funny wheezing noise, like he's about to choke on his own tongue.
"Remus, do something with him," Potter pleads.
Lupin lifts an eyebrow at Potter, then sighs, closing his book with a snap and standing. He reaches Black's side of the table just as Potter is hauling him out from under it by an arm.
"C'mon, then," Lupin says. His tone is long-suffering, but affectionate.
"Where we going?" Black demands, shrugging Potter off before Potter can get him on his feet. He rests his chin on the table and looks up at Lupin expectantly.
"Outside," Lupin replies, bringing Black to his feet by the tie. "Since you clearly can't behave inside."
Black relents, allowing Lupin to lead him out of the Library, Pettigrew trailing close behind. Lily watches them go, swallowing the laughter building in her throat because Potter will think she's laughing at him, and she's not sure she wants that.
"Right," Potter says. "About the necklace."
"Potter, I can't accept it," she insists.
"At least let me see how it looks on you," he says quietly.
Before she can argue he's behind her, the necklace clutched tightly in his hand. He presses close, his arms slipping around her neck, fingers brushing her skin lightly as he pushes her hair out of the way. His breath wisps past her ear as he fumbles with the clasp, and she feels herself flush, feels colour rush to her cheeks.
The necklace hangs clumsily around her neck, the chain snagging on the collar of her shirt. The charm sits crookedly on the knot of her tie, bright against the deep, red stripes. Her hand comes up, smoothing over it, and he steps around her, smiling.
"It's lovely on you," he says.
"Potter, I already told you--"
"I'm not taking it back," he cuts in, shaking his head. He's on the other side of the table now, stowing books in his rucksack. "Put it back in the box, if you like, but I'll just leave it on the table."
"You're insufferable," she says, sighing.
"I do my best," he replies. He flashes her a smile, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder, and she realises, a bit anxiously, that he's about to leave.
"Potter," she says quickly. Her hand darts out to stop him, catching the sleeve of his shirt. "I already have plans for Hogsmeade, with Marlene and Violet, for my birthday."
"You'll have a wonderful time, I'm sure." His eyes flick to her face, bright and hazel and boring right through her, then to her hand, which is still fisted in his shirt.
"We'll be at the Three Broomsticks," she continues. She hesitates, because a small part of her brain is just sure this is some kind of prank, but his eyes are strangely intent, and they pull the words right out of her mouth. "Maybe you could join us."
"Maybe," he says.
A knot forms in her stomach as he leaves, apprehension mixed with excitement, and she realises a bit hysterically that she's as good as given James Potter a date. She returns to her table, busying herself with her schoolwork, but she can't make herself concentrate, and when she tries to read her Transfiguration text the words swim across the page worse than before.
Lily heads for the stacks, hoping a short walk will clear her mind. Household Spells is packed with a group of giggling fourth years who flee at the sight of her badge, and in Ancient Runes she interrupts a fight between two Ravenclaws over a copy of Traditional Runes of Scandinavia. She ends up in Quidditch, which is no help at all, especially when she overhears two younger boys talking about their chances of making the Gryffindor team.
She walks into the Restricted Section like she has every right to be there, and Madam Pince doesn't even give her a passing glance. It's empty, just as it usually is, and poorly lit, shadows hanging heavy between the stacks. She walks close to the shelves, her fingers lingering over the spines, titles bleeding together in a swirl of tooled silver and gold.
Lily doesn't realise she's wandered into Dark Arts until she feels the change in the air, the sudden ripple of magic around her, dark and foul and clinging to her skin. She quickly turns to leave, and finds herself face to face with Severus Snape.
"Severus," she says stiffly. "Hello."
"I saw you," he says quietly. His face is grey in the failing light. "I saw you talking to him."
"Who?" she asks.
"Potter." He spits it out like a profanity, his eyes narrowing.
Her stomach knots again, heavy and cold, and her apprehension returns, mixed now with impatience, chilling her skin. She doesn't want to have this conversation, and she shouldn't have to -- he made his position clear enough at the end of last term.
"Speaking with Potter is inevitable, as he is Head Boy," she says lightly. "We often have school business to discuss."
"School business," he sneers. "Do his duties as head boy require him to ask you for dates? Or give you gifts?"
"No," she replies sharply.
"He did, and you accepted." He leans in, lank hair curtaining his face, and his gaze flicks to her neck. "Both."
"That is none of your concern, Severus," she snaps. "None of your concern at all."
Severus considers her wordlessly, his lip curling, and the chill on her skin ebbs away, replaced by heat, anger. His silence -- the same ridiculous, brooding silence he's always handed her in large amounts -- infuriates her, makes her want to scream.
"You didn't want this," she says, her voice almost a growl. "Us," she adds, hurling it like an insult. "You said as much last spring, and when you avoided me on the train at the beginning of term."
Severus doesn't move, doesn't even blink. His features seem carved from stone, and for a fleeting moment, she wonders if he's even breathing.
"I understand," she continues, with a self-depreciating laugh. "Believe me, Severus, I understand. You didn't want your housemates to know you'd taken up with a Mudblood." She laughs again, clipped, mirthless. "I'm sure with that lot, your father has given you enough to be going on with."
His eyes narrow just slightly, and his lips give the barest twitch, but other than that, nothing. It only enrages her further, only makes her anger flare, prickly and hot.
"It was my own fault, I suppose, letting you snog me in corners and never asking for more," she says. "It was my own fault, for caring. And I did care -- enough to be content with what I had."
Images flit through her mind, of clumsy, hurried kisses shared between the stacks and under staircases, of his hands on her body, potion-stained fingers slipping inside her shirt, under her skirt. Heat sparks under her skin, pooling low in her belly, different from the anger but no less dangerous.
"I should have asked. I should have insisted." There's an almost hysterical edge to her voice now, and she sucks in a sharp breath, hoping she can reign it in. "But I didn't, because I understood your position. Some of my housemates are no kinder to me than yours are to you."
"My housemates have nothing to do with this," he hisses.
"Nor do I, Severus, because this is about you," she returns. "You didn't want this, you only wanted what you could get in hallways and empty classrooms." He stiffens slightly, his lips parting, but she doesn't give him the chance. "You'd as good as abandoned me by final exams, and you've barely spoken to me since term started. You're only bothering now because it's Potter."
"Potter is a vile, hateful--"
"Exactly my point, Severus," she says. She's almost pleased, underneath the anger, because it's a relief to let it all out, because any other time they've come close to arguing he's walked away before she could even get started. "You hate Potter, so you hate the idea of us together, even if you couldn't actually care less about me."
"I never said that," he snaps.
"You've proved it well enough, without words," she argues, leaning close in an effort to keep her voice down. She can smell him, camphor and shrivelfigs and mugwort, and the familiarity of it only makes her angrier. "I think you only started messing me about because of Potter."
"Tell me, Severus, what did you think of, the first time you kissed me?" she asks, moving closer still. She can feel the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his chest, knows their lips will meet if she so much as breathes. "Did you think of the fine prank you were pulling on Potter? Of how it would drive him mad if he knew you were touching me?"
"No."
"I don't believe you," she says. It's dangerous to shake her head, but she does it, slowly, her lips brushing his so lightly it could be her imagination. "You were using me from the first, whether you choose to admit it or not. But the joke's on you, now. I'm going to Hogsmeade with Potter on Saturday, and it's none of your concern."
His face is out of focus, his features fuzzed, fractured, but she can see that his eyes are closed, that his jaw is set in a tight line, that he's struggling to keep himself under control. She lets out a tiny laugh, a soft huff of sound that hangs in the small space between them, and she steps back, but he catches her by the arm, his fingers twisting in the sleeve of her shirt.
"Severus."
He kisses her then, roughly, his hands snagging in her hair, his tongue pushing insistently between her lips. She pulls away from him quickly, only to meet the bookcase behind her, a thick, wood slat cutting a stripe across her shoulderblades.
"Severus, no." she says. "This is done. We are done."
"Is it?" he asks quietly. "Done?" His hand ghosts over her cheek, down to her neck, her hair slipping through his fingers like water. "According to you, it never started."
She gapes at him, unable to speak, swallowing the noises building in the back of her throat because she knows they're not words. She remembers how it happened, how he kissed her unexpectedly after a long night of working on a potions project, but to this day, she has no idea why. He is sour and caustic, and she doesn't find him attractive, but something about that kiss, secret and illicit and wrong, had lit her on fire.
"You say I don't care, that I never did," he murmurs. His mouth is close to her ear, his lips brushing the shell with every word, and she shivers. "How can you be so sure?"
"I've already told you," she says. "You've never given me any reason to think otherwise."
"You never asked." His hand skates over her breast, warm through the material of her shirt, and her nipple hardens under the press of his thumb.
"I've told you why I didn't," she says. His thumb flicks over her nipple, circling it, her shirt muting the scrape of his thumbnail, and she bites her lip at the rush of heat between her legs. "I knew what you would've said. You didn't want to be seen with me."
"Did you ever once stop to think that I might've thought the same thing of you?"
"No!" she hisses, but she wonders if that's true. She wonders what she would have said if he'd offered her something more than hurried snogs and late night meetings, if he'd offered her something permanent, something public.
"Tell me, how would you have fared in your own common room?" he asks. Her hands come up to push him away, but he leans close, his breath trailing over her lips, and her fingers catch in the folds of his robes. "What would they have said, if they'd found out you'd taken up with me? A Slytherin. Someone despised by the kings on that side of the castle."
"This isn't about me," she snaps. "This is about you -- you, and Potter."
"No, Lily," he replies. "This is about you and Potter."
Severus kisses just below her ear, mouthing a wet trail along her jaw. She freezes, unable to move away, pinned against the bookshelf by his weight and the heat coursing through her. His tongue darts out when he reaches the corner of her mouth, licking its way inside, and she gasps, allowing it, her lips parting easily.
He unbuttons her shirt just enough touch her, her tie cold against her belly as his hands come up to cup her breasts. He teases her nipples through her bra, long fingers rubbing and circling until the lace seems rough against her skin, and she arches into him, wanting more, wanting to feel his hands.
She pulls him closer, pushing apart his robes to tug at the buttons of his shirt, and she maps out his chest and belly, his skin warm under her hands. She kisses his neck, lips and tongue with the barest scrape of teeth, and he moans quietly, pushing her harder against the bookshelf.
Severus sneaks a hand under her skirt, sliding it inside her knickers, and he touches her with the tip of a finger, tracing up and down her lips without parting them, without slipping between them. It's the barest tease, light and fleeting, and she shifts restlessly, wanting, needing, rocking her hips and pushing against his hand.
She feels him smile against her neck, and she growls, anger spiking through her arousal, and she reaches down, grabbing him hard by the wrist.
"Do it," she snaps. "Do it, or leave me so I can do it myself."
"If I was Potter, you'd beg for it."
Lily growls again, pushing him away roughly, but he catches her by the shoulders, slamming her back against the bookshelf and pulling at his flies. He kisses her, a press of lips and tongue that is almost painful, and he tugs her knickers down, yanking so hard the fabric burns her legs as it scrapes over her skin.
Severus lifts her easily, pressing her against the shelves until the wood bites into her skin, bringing her legs around his waist before fitting his palms around the curve of her arse. His lets his cock brush against her, teasing her the same way he did with his finger, but it's different, more real, and she rocks her hips, urging him.
He enters her in one smooth thrust, and she gasps at the suddenness of it, at the feel of him filling her, long and hard and almost too much. She's barely caught her breath before he pulls back, his cock close to slipping out of her before he slides it back inside.
Heat rushes through her, delicious and hot, coiling tighter and tighter with each of Severus' thrusts. She arches against him, meeting his movements as best she can, her fingers scratching at his shoulders and her heels digging into his back.
His teeth find her neck, scraping light and quick over her skin, and she hisses, the pain sharp through the liquid pleasure coursing through her. Her fingers snag in his hair, pulling him up for a kiss, and his tongue pushes inside her mouth hard and fast, stroking rough and slick against her own.
Severus runs a hand up her back, wrapping his arm tight around her waist, and brings the other between them, slipping it between her legs. His fingers dip down to where his cock disappears inside her, then slide up to her clit, wet and slick, circling in time with his thrusts.
A moan builds in her throat, choked, desperate, and she rocks hard against him, wanting more of his cock, his hand, anything. He thrusts into her hard, his finger flicking over her, pressing lightly, and she shatters, pleasure washing over her in sweet, heavy waves.
He thrusts into her again, his movements jerky, erratic, a moan tumbling from his mouth between hitched, broken breaths. His hand comes up, his fingers catching her necklace, and she feels the chain snap against her neck just as he comes inside her in a warm, thick rush.
She grabs it before it falls, the charm cool in the palm of her hand, and she stares at it dumbly for a moment, her mind heavy and clouded with release. When she realises what it is, what Severus has done, her hand flies toward his face.
He dodges her easily, letting the blow glance off his shoulder, and steps away from her, his cock slipping out of her as he drops her to her feet. He tucks himself away, his fingers flying over his button and zip, then swirls his robes around his body, sneering.
"Goodbye, Evans," he spits.
Lily whirls around to face the bookcase, unwilling to watch him go, anger and loss twisting sourly in her stomach. She feels a tightness in her chest, sharp and painful, and her hands shake as she buttons her shirt and slides her knickers up over her hips.
She's halfway out of the Restricted Section when she remembers the necklace, still clutched in her hand. She studies it for a moment, watching the feeble torchlight play over the gold, then pulls her wand.
"Reparo," she says softly.
She twists her arms behind her neck, fumbling with the catch, and she remembers Potter standing behind her, remembers his fingers brushing her skin and his breath against her ear. She thinks of the way he'd smiled at her, the way his eyes had lit up when she'd said she'd meet him in Hogsmeade, and the ache in her chest dulls, lessens.
"Lily?"
She looks up quickly, and finds Potter watching her, sweaty and short of breath. He's red in the face like made the trip from Gryffindor Tower at a dead run, and he's holding a battered bit of parchment in his hand.
"You all right?" he asks.
"Fine," she says. "I'm fine."
"I saw -- I heard you were up here with Snape," he explains. He folds the parchment small, stuffing it in his pocket, and steps closer. "Was he bothering you?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. She's afraid to think of what she looks like, of her rumpled skirt and tangled hair.
"You sure?" he asks. "You've gone all red."
"We argued," she replies slowly. "Over a book." Her hand darts to the bookshelf, snatching up the first book she touches. "This one."
"Heart and Soul of the Animagus," he reads, lifting an eyebrow. "For McGonagall's essay?"
"Yes," she says, and he laughs.
"That one's rubbish," he says. He takes it from her, tossing it on the shelf, then selects a different book, a fatter one with a brown leather cover and silver letters curling around the spine. "This is the one you want."
"Last Transfiguration?"
"Trust me," he says, smiling. "It's a much better read."
FIN
Pairing: Snape/Lily, implied James/Lily
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angry!sex
Genre: Angst
Summary: She doesn't want to have this conversation, and she shouldn't have to -- he made his position clear enough at the end of last term.
Words: ~4500
A/N: Written for the
erotic_elves Fantasy Fest. Thanks to petulantgod for the hand-holding, and to darkasphodel, happiestwhen, and thysanotus for the beta.::
The Library is warm, defying the early October chill, and horribly stuffy. Dust mingles with the smell of old books, hanging heavy in the air, and Lily can taste it, fancies she can reach out and touch it. The silence is thin, stretched, punctuated by a cough here, a rustle of paper there, destroyed by the scratch of her own quill.
Lily frowns at her Transfiguration text, rubbing her temples irritably. McGonagall wants twenty-two inches on Animagus transformations in the morning, and Lily only has seven. She's not pleased with a word of it, and she's angry at herself for leaving it until the last minute. She's never been one to slack in her schoolwork, but the first few weeks of term have been a flurry of activity, and with the added responsibility of being Head Girl, both time and five minutes peace have been in short supply.
She flips through her book, scanning the pages for a particular passage. She saw it earlier, but she can't find it now, and she's been staring at the book so long the words are running together. She closes her eyes, sighing. She opens them to find a shadow spreading across the page, and glances up at the smiling face of James Potter.
"Evans," he says quietly. His hair is unkempt, but less so than usual, like he's forgotten to pull at it, and his tie is straight, knotted neatly. "Hi."
"Potter," she replies coolly. She turns her attention back to her book, but he doesn't take the hint, and she makes a vexed noise in the back of her throat as she looks back up at him. "What?"
"Are you busy?" he asks. His hand inches toward the chair next to her, but he stills it when she frowns.
"Extremely," she snaps, gesturing to her books and parchment. "Though I probably shouldn't expect you to know what studying looks like, since you do it so seldom."
Potter ducks his head a bit, but for the most part, seems undaunted. "What are you working on?"
"McGonagall's essay, which is due tomorrow," she replies. "You may have been asleep when she assigned it."
"Right," he says. He pauses, and his Head Boy badge glitters in the torchlight. "Animagus transformations."
"Yes," she says sharply. She glances at where he'd been sitting before he came over; Black, Lupin and Pettigrew are clustered around the table, pretending they are not watching Potter bother her. "Have you even started it?"
"Done," he says. "Finished it a couple of days ago."
"Cribbed from Lupin, more like," she accuses.
"I helped him with his, actually," he defends. "So did Sirius and Peter," he adds, and she snorts. "You can see it, if you like. Twenty-six inches."
"Twenty-six?" she repeats shrilly, and Madam Pince clears her throat loudly in warning. Heat rushes to Lily's cheeks, and she lowers her voice. "She assigned twenty-two."
"Yeah, well, I had a lot to say on the topic." A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, like he knows something she does not, and it infuriates her.
"Potter," she snaps. "While I am pleased to see that you are finally taking an interest in your studies, or as pleased as I can be about something that concerns you, I have work to do."
"I'm sorry, Evans," he says quietly. "I just wanted to ask you something."
She sighs and sets down her quill. "What?"
"Hogsmeade is this Saturday," he says quickly. His voice lacks its usual cocky tone. It's thin, almost nervous, and in spite of herself, she finds him less irritating that she did five minutes ago. "Will you go with me?"
"No," she replies. She's refused him so often it comes out automatically, without thought. He looks crestfallen for a split-second, which surprises her, but he covers it quickly.
"All right, then," he says, chewing at his lower lip. "I'm sorry I bothered you."
He pauses, fidgeting, and Lily can't help but watch. She's never seen him without his armour of conceit, and it's so utterly foreign she has to stop herself from staring.
"Here, this is for you," he says. He pulls a small, black box from his pocket and sets it on the table. It's tied with a red and gold ribbon.
"Potter--"
"It's your birthday, Saturday," he explains. Lily tells herself the colour blooming in his cheeks is from the heat in the room. "I'm giving it to you now, since we're not going to Hogsmeade."
"James," she says, but he's already gone.
Her hand hovers over the box, fingertips just brushing the curl of the bow. The knot gives away easily when she finally pulls on it, and her breath catches as she sets the lid aside.
It's a necklace; a fine gold chain with a charm shaped like a lily. A tiny pearl rests in the center of the flower, perfect opalescent white with just the slightest, pinkish hue.
He's given her things before -- handwritten sheets of clumsy prose, half-dead flowers picked from the school gardens -- but never something like this. She can't even imagine what it cost, and while she knows Potter certainly has the money, it's far too fine a gift, a gift that suggests he's not kidding.
She's always assumed he was. He's asked her for a date a hundred times, but only when he's been in trouble with her, or when she's been yelling at him, or when his friends have been around, watching in amusement. It has never occurred to her that he's serious; she's always thought he was only asking to annoy her, that his proposals were just the punchline to some joke she didn't understand.
Lily stares at it, unable to think and completely at loose ends. She puts the lid on the box to hide the necklace from view, but it doesn't help. She still knows it's there, still knows Potter gave it to her.
Taking a deep breath, she glances in his direction. He's not whispering with Black as she expects, but reading, hunched over a book with his forehead resting on one of his palms. He looks up at her, smiling softly, then returns to his book, flipping the page.
She pushes her chair away from the table, legs scraping against the floor, a shriek of protest that's overloud in the silence. She approaches Potter with her heart hammering and her stomach knotting, unsure of what to say, convinced everyone in the Library is staring.
He looks up as she draws near, his face blank. Lupin and Pettigrew look up as well, but immediately return to their books. Black frowns at her like she's done him a personal wrong, and she supposes, as close as he and Potter are, that indirectly, she has.
"Potter," she says. "I can't accept this."
"Of course you can," he says. He sounds a bit more cavalier, now that his friends are around, but she find herself forgiving him for it. "I didn't nick it or anything."
"I don't think you did," she says.
"You don't like it, then?" he asks. He sounds disappointed, almost hurt.
"I told you to go with silver, mate," Black comments. He leans his chair back on two legs, folding his arms across his chest, and lifts an eyebrow at her like he's daring her to argue.
"James, it's beautiful," she admits. He smiles at her, wide and genuine, but it slips, and he rounds on Black, who is crawling under the table.
"Sirius, what are you doing?"
"I'm taking cover," Black replies. "She called you James, and she gave you a compliment. The world will be ending shortly."
Potter looks up at her helplessly, running a hand through his hair, then frowns at Lupin like Black's antics are his fault. Lupin doesn't even blink, ignoring them both flawlessly. Pettigrew is hiding behind a book, his face bright red, and he's making a funny wheezing noise, like he's about to choke on his own tongue.
"Remus, do something with him," Potter pleads.
Lupin lifts an eyebrow at Potter, then sighs, closing his book with a snap and standing. He reaches Black's side of the table just as Potter is hauling him out from under it by an arm.
"C'mon, then," Lupin says. His tone is long-suffering, but affectionate.
"Where we going?" Black demands, shrugging Potter off before Potter can get him on his feet. He rests his chin on the table and looks up at Lupin expectantly.
"Outside," Lupin replies, bringing Black to his feet by the tie. "Since you clearly can't behave inside."
Black relents, allowing Lupin to lead him out of the Library, Pettigrew trailing close behind. Lily watches them go, swallowing the laughter building in her throat because Potter will think she's laughing at him, and she's not sure she wants that.
"Right," Potter says. "About the necklace."
"Potter, I can't accept it," she insists.
"At least let me see how it looks on you," he says quietly.
Before she can argue he's behind her, the necklace clutched tightly in his hand. He presses close, his arms slipping around her neck, fingers brushing her skin lightly as he pushes her hair out of the way. His breath wisps past her ear as he fumbles with the clasp, and she feels herself flush, feels colour rush to her cheeks.
The necklace hangs clumsily around her neck, the chain snagging on the collar of her shirt. The charm sits crookedly on the knot of her tie, bright against the deep, red stripes. Her hand comes up, smoothing over it, and he steps around her, smiling.
"It's lovely on you," he says.
"Potter, I already told you--"
"I'm not taking it back," he cuts in, shaking his head. He's on the other side of the table now, stowing books in his rucksack. "Put it back in the box, if you like, but I'll just leave it on the table."
"You're insufferable," she says, sighing.
"I do my best," he replies. He flashes her a smile, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder, and she realises, a bit anxiously, that he's about to leave.
"Potter," she says quickly. Her hand darts out to stop him, catching the sleeve of his shirt. "I already have plans for Hogsmeade, with Marlene and Violet, for my birthday."
"You'll have a wonderful time, I'm sure." His eyes flick to her face, bright and hazel and boring right through her, then to her hand, which is still fisted in his shirt.
"We'll be at the Three Broomsticks," she continues. She hesitates, because a small part of her brain is just sure this is some kind of prank, but his eyes are strangely intent, and they pull the words right out of her mouth. "Maybe you could join us."
"Maybe," he says.
A knot forms in her stomach as he leaves, apprehension mixed with excitement, and she realises a bit hysterically that she's as good as given James Potter a date. She returns to her table, busying herself with her schoolwork, but she can't make herself concentrate, and when she tries to read her Transfiguration text the words swim across the page worse than before.
Lily heads for the stacks, hoping a short walk will clear her mind. Household Spells is packed with a group of giggling fourth years who flee at the sight of her badge, and in Ancient Runes she interrupts a fight between two Ravenclaws over a copy of Traditional Runes of Scandinavia. She ends up in Quidditch, which is no help at all, especially when she overhears two younger boys talking about their chances of making the Gryffindor team.
She walks into the Restricted Section like she has every right to be there, and Madam Pince doesn't even give her a passing glance. It's empty, just as it usually is, and poorly lit, shadows hanging heavy between the stacks. She walks close to the shelves, her fingers lingering over the spines, titles bleeding together in a swirl of tooled silver and gold.
Lily doesn't realise she's wandered into Dark Arts until she feels the change in the air, the sudden ripple of magic around her, dark and foul and clinging to her skin. She quickly turns to leave, and finds herself face to face with Severus Snape.
"Severus," she says stiffly. "Hello."
"I saw you," he says quietly. His face is grey in the failing light. "I saw you talking to him."
"Who?" she asks.
"Potter." He spits it out like a profanity, his eyes narrowing.
Her stomach knots again, heavy and cold, and her apprehension returns, mixed now with impatience, chilling her skin. She doesn't want to have this conversation, and she shouldn't have to -- he made his position clear enough at the end of last term.
"Speaking with Potter is inevitable, as he is Head Boy," she says lightly. "We often have school business to discuss."
"School business," he sneers. "Do his duties as head boy require him to ask you for dates? Or give you gifts?"
"No," she replies sharply.
"He did, and you accepted." He leans in, lank hair curtaining his face, and his gaze flicks to her neck. "Both."
"That is none of your concern, Severus," she snaps. "None of your concern at all."
Severus considers her wordlessly, his lip curling, and the chill on her skin ebbs away, replaced by heat, anger. His silence -- the same ridiculous, brooding silence he's always handed her in large amounts -- infuriates her, makes her want to scream.
"You didn't want this," she says, her voice almost a growl. "Us," she adds, hurling it like an insult. "You said as much last spring, and when you avoided me on the train at the beginning of term."
Severus doesn't move, doesn't even blink. His features seem carved from stone, and for a fleeting moment, she wonders if he's even breathing.
"I understand," she continues, with a self-depreciating laugh. "Believe me, Severus, I understand. You didn't want your housemates to know you'd taken up with a Mudblood." She laughs again, clipped, mirthless. "I'm sure with that lot, your father has given you enough to be going on with."
His eyes narrow just slightly, and his lips give the barest twitch, but other than that, nothing. It only enrages her further, only makes her anger flare, prickly and hot.
"It was my own fault, I suppose, letting you snog me in corners and never asking for more," she says. "It was my own fault, for caring. And I did care -- enough to be content with what I had."
Images flit through her mind, of clumsy, hurried kisses shared between the stacks and under staircases, of his hands on her body, potion-stained fingers slipping inside her shirt, under her skirt. Heat sparks under her skin, pooling low in her belly, different from the anger but no less dangerous.
"I should have asked. I should have insisted." There's an almost hysterical edge to her voice now, and she sucks in a sharp breath, hoping she can reign it in. "But I didn't, because I understood your position. Some of my housemates are no kinder to me than yours are to you."
"My housemates have nothing to do with this," he hisses.
"Nor do I, Severus, because this is about you," she returns. "You didn't want this, you only wanted what you could get in hallways and empty classrooms." He stiffens slightly, his lips parting, but she doesn't give him the chance. "You'd as good as abandoned me by final exams, and you've barely spoken to me since term started. You're only bothering now because it's Potter."
"Potter is a vile, hateful--"
"Exactly my point, Severus," she says. She's almost pleased, underneath the anger, because it's a relief to let it all out, because any other time they've come close to arguing he's walked away before she could even get started. "You hate Potter, so you hate the idea of us together, even if you couldn't actually care less about me."
"I never said that," he snaps.
"You've proved it well enough, without words," she argues, leaning close in an effort to keep her voice down. She can smell him, camphor and shrivelfigs and mugwort, and the familiarity of it only makes her angrier. "I think you only started messing me about because of Potter."
"Tell me, Severus, what did you think of, the first time you kissed me?" she asks, moving closer still. She can feel the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his chest, knows their lips will meet if she so much as breathes. "Did you think of the fine prank you were pulling on Potter? Of how it would drive him mad if he knew you were touching me?"
"No."
"I don't believe you," she says. It's dangerous to shake her head, but she does it, slowly, her lips brushing his so lightly it could be her imagination. "You were using me from the first, whether you choose to admit it or not. But the joke's on you, now. I'm going to Hogsmeade with Potter on Saturday, and it's none of your concern."
His face is out of focus, his features fuzzed, fractured, but she can see that his eyes are closed, that his jaw is set in a tight line, that he's struggling to keep himself under control. She lets out a tiny laugh, a soft huff of sound that hangs in the small space between them, and she steps back, but he catches her by the arm, his fingers twisting in the sleeve of her shirt.
"Severus."
He kisses her then, roughly, his hands snagging in her hair, his tongue pushing insistently between her lips. She pulls away from him quickly, only to meet the bookcase behind her, a thick, wood slat cutting a stripe across her shoulderblades.
"Severus, no." she says. "This is done. We are done."
"Is it?" he asks quietly. "Done?" His hand ghosts over her cheek, down to her neck, her hair slipping through his fingers like water. "According to you, it never started."
She gapes at him, unable to speak, swallowing the noises building in the back of her throat because she knows they're not words. She remembers how it happened, how he kissed her unexpectedly after a long night of working on a potions project, but to this day, she has no idea why. He is sour and caustic, and she doesn't find him attractive, but something about that kiss, secret and illicit and wrong, had lit her on fire.
"You say I don't care, that I never did," he murmurs. His mouth is close to her ear, his lips brushing the shell with every word, and she shivers. "How can you be so sure?"
"I've already told you," she says. "You've never given me any reason to think otherwise."
"You never asked." His hand skates over her breast, warm through the material of her shirt, and her nipple hardens under the press of his thumb.
"I've told you why I didn't," she says. His thumb flicks over her nipple, circling it, her shirt muting the scrape of his thumbnail, and she bites her lip at the rush of heat between her legs. "I knew what you would've said. You didn't want to be seen with me."
"Did you ever once stop to think that I might've thought the same thing of you?"
"No!" she hisses, but she wonders if that's true. She wonders what she would have said if he'd offered her something more than hurried snogs and late night meetings, if he'd offered her something permanent, something public.
"Tell me, how would you have fared in your own common room?" he asks. Her hands come up to push him away, but he leans close, his breath trailing over her lips, and her fingers catch in the folds of his robes. "What would they have said, if they'd found out you'd taken up with me? A Slytherin. Someone despised by the kings on that side of the castle."
"This isn't about me," she snaps. "This is about you -- you, and Potter."
"No, Lily," he replies. "This is about you and Potter."
Severus kisses just below her ear, mouthing a wet trail along her jaw. She freezes, unable to move away, pinned against the bookshelf by his weight and the heat coursing through her. His tongue darts out when he reaches the corner of her mouth, licking its way inside, and she gasps, allowing it, her lips parting easily.
He unbuttons her shirt just enough touch her, her tie cold against her belly as his hands come up to cup her breasts. He teases her nipples through her bra, long fingers rubbing and circling until the lace seems rough against her skin, and she arches into him, wanting more, wanting to feel his hands.
She pulls him closer, pushing apart his robes to tug at the buttons of his shirt, and she maps out his chest and belly, his skin warm under her hands. She kisses his neck, lips and tongue with the barest scrape of teeth, and he moans quietly, pushing her harder against the bookshelf.
Severus sneaks a hand under her skirt, sliding it inside her knickers, and he touches her with the tip of a finger, tracing up and down her lips without parting them, without slipping between them. It's the barest tease, light and fleeting, and she shifts restlessly, wanting, needing, rocking her hips and pushing against his hand.
She feels him smile against her neck, and she growls, anger spiking through her arousal, and she reaches down, grabbing him hard by the wrist.
"Do it," she snaps. "Do it, or leave me so I can do it myself."
"If I was Potter, you'd beg for it."
Lily growls again, pushing him away roughly, but he catches her by the shoulders, slamming her back against the bookshelf and pulling at his flies. He kisses her, a press of lips and tongue that is almost painful, and he tugs her knickers down, yanking so hard the fabric burns her legs as it scrapes over her skin.
Severus lifts her easily, pressing her against the shelves until the wood bites into her skin, bringing her legs around his waist before fitting his palms around the curve of her arse. His lets his cock brush against her, teasing her the same way he did with his finger, but it's different, more real, and she rocks her hips, urging him.
He enters her in one smooth thrust, and she gasps at the suddenness of it, at the feel of him filling her, long and hard and almost too much. She's barely caught her breath before he pulls back, his cock close to slipping out of her before he slides it back inside.
Heat rushes through her, delicious and hot, coiling tighter and tighter with each of Severus' thrusts. She arches against him, meeting his movements as best she can, her fingers scratching at his shoulders and her heels digging into his back.
His teeth find her neck, scraping light and quick over her skin, and she hisses, the pain sharp through the liquid pleasure coursing through her. Her fingers snag in his hair, pulling him up for a kiss, and his tongue pushes inside her mouth hard and fast, stroking rough and slick against her own.
Severus runs a hand up her back, wrapping his arm tight around her waist, and brings the other between them, slipping it between her legs. His fingers dip down to where his cock disappears inside her, then slide up to her clit, wet and slick, circling in time with his thrusts.
A moan builds in her throat, choked, desperate, and she rocks hard against him, wanting more of his cock, his hand, anything. He thrusts into her hard, his finger flicking over her, pressing lightly, and she shatters, pleasure washing over her in sweet, heavy waves.
He thrusts into her again, his movements jerky, erratic, a moan tumbling from his mouth between hitched, broken breaths. His hand comes up, his fingers catching her necklace, and she feels the chain snap against her neck just as he comes inside her in a warm, thick rush.
She grabs it before it falls, the charm cool in the palm of her hand, and she stares at it dumbly for a moment, her mind heavy and clouded with release. When she realises what it is, what Severus has done, her hand flies toward his face.
He dodges her easily, letting the blow glance off his shoulder, and steps away from her, his cock slipping out of her as he drops her to her feet. He tucks himself away, his fingers flying over his button and zip, then swirls his robes around his body, sneering.
"Goodbye, Evans," he spits.
Lily whirls around to face the bookcase, unwilling to watch him go, anger and loss twisting sourly in her stomach. She feels a tightness in her chest, sharp and painful, and her hands shake as she buttons her shirt and slides her knickers up over her hips.
She's halfway out of the Restricted Section when she remembers the necklace, still clutched in her hand. She studies it for a moment, watching the feeble torchlight play over the gold, then pulls her wand.
"Reparo," she says softly.
She twists her arms behind her neck, fumbling with the catch, and she remembers Potter standing behind her, remembers his fingers brushing her skin and his breath against her ear. She thinks of the way he'd smiled at her, the way his eyes had lit up when she'd said she'd meet him in Hogsmeade, and the ache in her chest dulls, lessens.
"Lily?"
She looks up quickly, and finds Potter watching her, sweaty and short of breath. He's red in the face like made the trip from Gryffindor Tower at a dead run, and he's holding a battered bit of parchment in his hand.
"You all right?" he asks.
"Fine," she says. "I'm fine."
"I saw -- I heard you were up here with Snape," he explains. He folds the parchment small, stuffing it in his pocket, and steps closer. "Was he bothering you?"
"No," she says, shaking her head. She's afraid to think of what she looks like, of her rumpled skirt and tangled hair.
"You sure?" he asks. "You've gone all red."
"We argued," she replies slowly. "Over a book." Her hand darts to the bookshelf, snatching up the first book she touches. "This one."
"Heart and Soul of the Animagus," he reads, lifting an eyebrow. "For McGonagall's essay?"
"Yes," she says, and he laughs.
"That one's rubbish," he says. He takes it from her, tossing it on the shelf, then selects a different book, a fatter one with a brown leather cover and silver letters curling around the spine. "This is the one you want."
"Last Transfiguration?"
"Trust me," he says, smiling. "It's a much better read."