A Little Knowledge: Missing Scenes

Cyrus Knowles listened to the sound of Miss Howard’s retreating footsteps and sighed softly. Maybe he shouldn’t have encouraged her to go after Black.

He was too drained to be certain of his decision. To him, at that moment, it felt as though everything inside him had dimmed and faded just as his sight had done those months ago. Everything within him had turned to dismal shades of gray. The afternoon had made a phantom of his soul. His shoulders sank.

Why must everything be so unnecessarily difficult, he wondered silently.

“Cyrus?” questioned Krohn gently.

He had nearly forgotten that his friend was standing there with him as he brooded, but he was there with him, and whether this would make things more difficult or would ease his burden, Cyrus could not readily say.

“Yes?” he asked, gathering his strength just to say that one word. He was surprised he still had it within himself to answer.

“Do you want to go over those assignments some other time?” asked Reynard in a tone that Cyrus found overly cautious, but kind, if perhaps too tentative as well.

Gentle, he decided; Reynard’s tone was gentle. He was not certain he entirely approved of that.

“I... yes,” he finally answered, not knowing how to tell his friend that he didn’t have the strength nor the energy to mark papers at the moment. Such a simple task, and he was not able to perform it, even with his colleague’s assistance.

“What would you like...” Reynard began to ask him.

“To lie down... please,” he responded, tired, but sharp nevertheless, turning in the direction of the entrance to his rooms, re-orienting himself to his surroundings.

Cyrus knew that Reynard was there at his side, hovering just close enough for his presence to be perceptible, as he walked, using his cane to guide him, and Cyrus hoped that he would come with him, would stay with him for just a little while. Or else leave without a fuss. Whichever, it did not matter, just so long as he could lie down and collect his wits.

“Oh, my dear, but you do look a mess,” said Morgana in a low, false-sympathetic voice as he approached her, the warden of his private domain. “Did one of the ickle children trounce you ... again?” she asked, and Cyrus could hear her stick out her lower lip, even if he could not see it.

“Verisimilitude,” said Cyrus, giving the password without acknowledging her.

He fancied that Reynard, standing so close behind him that he could feel the heat of his breath on his left ear and temple, bristled at her antics. In some respects, Reynard had always been and would always be an open book to him. In others, he would probably never cease to be a mystery.

The portrait hole opened with a quiet sound and not another word from Morgana. Cyrus was immeasurably glad of that, not wanting to lose his temper in front of Reynard a second time that afternoon. And he wasn’t certain that he had the strength for it at that moment.

As they entered the rooms of the defense instructor, Cyrus heard Reynard quietly close the door behind them. He murmured his thanks as he found his way to the couch, propping his cane in its customary place against a nearby chair before kicking off his shoes and then reclining on the comfortable piece of furniture. He let out a long sigh as he rested his head against the soft, padded arm of the old, but deliciously comfortable couch.

Only one thing could make it more comfortable, he thought idly, and that was Reynard. He brushed the thought aside almost lethargically. While unaccustomed to such fanciful thoughts, Cyrus no longer chastised himself for his desire for companionship. Weakness or not, he knew that he did need a companion in life. Not a nursemaid. Not someone to coddle him. Just a companion.

“I’m putting the papers on your writing desk,” Reynard informed him from across the room, not doubt doing just that.

“Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes and waiting for the battered and faded feeling to leave him. He was not entirely certain that it would. Not for a long while at least, by his reckoning.

The couch creaked unhappily as Reynard sat down beside him just a few moments later. If left to his own devices, Cyrus thought that he might nap quietly and wake feeling more like himself; however, the thigh, warm even through both their robes, that pressed against his hip told Cyrus that he would not be left alone so easily.

“I’m sorry,” said Reynard softly.

“Oh, it’s not really your fault. Just look at what the young knave's father was. For some, there can be no help,” said Cyrus, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Perhaps,” he murmured with the sound of a suppressed sigh in his voice.

The acquiescence was reluctant, but Cyrus knew that Reynard placed less importance upon blood and birth than many of his lineage, which would no doubt have been of great interest to those who did care for such things. Sometimes Cyrus was grateful for that peculiarity, but at other times, like this one, he wished that Reynard put more stock in the proverbial apple not falling far from the tree. But then again, Cyrus knew exactly how far Reynard himself had fallen.

“Tell me what I may do for you,” said Krohn after a moment of quiet that Cyrus had only just begun to enjoy.

“Don’t coddle me,” muttered Cyrus with less enthusiasm than he was wont to put into such a remark. “You may do anything, but that,” he added with more conviction.

“All right,” said Reynard with even more reluctance than before, though Cyrus caught a hint of something else in his voice too.

For a moment, as the potion master’s substantial weight shifted, drawing another creak of protest from the couch, Cyrus thought he was going to leave him. And part of him, as always, would have been disappointed in the loss of his company, of simply having him there. However, Reynard did not move as though to leave, but instead merely made himself more comfortable on the edge of the couch.

“If I cannot defend myself against a third year Slytherin,” Cyrus began to say, thinking aloud as much as talking to Reynard, “how will I ever be able to do my duty as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?”

“Your duty? I don’t understand, Cyrus. You are being cryptic again, and...” Reynard started to answer him in a mildly baffled tone.

“My duty to defend the school. That is within the defense professor’s purview, you know. Armando Dippet once defended the school from a lethifold during his tenure as professor,” answered Cyrus.

“Those were different times. No one is expecting you to do such things,” said Reynard.

“That was hardly more than fifty-five years ago,” Cyrus corrected somewhat pointedly.

“Well before your time,” said Reynard with another soft hint of something in his voice that Cyrus could not readily identify.

“Before yours too then, I would imagine,” he said with a half-sigh, not quite giving in, but acknowledging that the former headmaster’s deeds of renown were indeed things of by-gone days. And those days, he believed, would never come again.

“So they would be,” Reynard agreed, sounding vaguely amused by the observation, or had Cyrus known it, by the perturbed expression on his otherwise tired face. Cyrus startled slightly when cool fingers brushed back his hair, which was growing longer again, and smoothed the furrows that creased his brow. “I’m sorry,” said Reynard in swift apology.

“Just my nerves. It’s all right,” said Knowles with an awkward half-smile. He moistened lips without thinking and said, “I don’t mind, Reynard. You should know that by now.”

In the months that had passed since his memory was restored, since Reynard had more than proved his worth as friend and companion, they had been very close, yet never again so intimate as they had been that night.

With all of his wits about him, Cyrus knew that he needed, in some very small measure, to be wary and cautious with Reynard. He never doubted the other wizard’s heart or friendship. Not even his loyalty or devotion, really. Reynard merely had the unfortunate reputation of being, at least in his younger days, not so long passed as all that, a capricious lover. Cyrus feared that once his appetites were sated and his curiosities were satisfied, Reynard would move onward to a new conquest without so much as a backward glance. Not out of meanness or spite or anything terrible, but rather just because.

After all, how could he, blind, scarred, and a thoroughly unpleasant person, hope to keep the attentions of someone like Reynard?

Fingers that he knew from memory to be long, though somewhat crooked, brushed his cheek, perhaps detecting some remnant of tears there that Cyrus could not feel or sense for himself. Perhaps just enjoying the leave they had been given. Cyrus inhaled slowly as Reynard caressed the side of his face, working their way down to the tight collar of his robes.

“You would tell me if I were taking advantage?”

“Oh, most assuredly, Reynard,” he told him, feeling what he could only describe as a sudden and most peculiar surge of mischievous energy as his friend's fingers began unfastening the clasp of his robes. For an instant a feeling of invigoration and anticipation eclipsed the faded and worn feeling. Almost a sort of giddiness. “Despite what happened this afternoon, I assure you that I am quite able to take care of myself... in most situations,” he continued, reaching up with both hands and, with less fumbling than even he expected, grasping Reynard by the front of his robes so that he could pull him closer.

Those nimble fingers, equally accustomed to the painstaking preparation of potions' ingredients as they were to unbuttoning someone else’s robes, began making swift work of the fastenings of Cyrus’s outer robes. His mouth quirked into something like a smile as Reynard’s full, wickedly seductive lips enveloped his own and a probing tongue immediately sought a way to part them. Cyrus was quite willing to oblige.

The aged couch groaned and creaked loudly as Reynard placed his full weight upon it. Cyrus felt his heavy robes brush across his stomach and hips. His heart began to race, and he slipped his hands over Reynard’s broad shoulders. Heat radiated through those thick robes.

Pulling away for a moment, reclaiming his mouth from his companion, Cyrus managed one word: “Why?”

What he wanted to ask Reynard was why now? Why choose this moment? Why not sooner or why not later? But Cyrus could find neither the breath nor the wit required for such complex inquiry.

“I want to give... I thought you needed something... needed this,” answered Reynard without any pretense. Just an honest answer. Perhaps not the one that Cyrus longed to hear, but an honest answer was better than a feigned because-I-love-you any day of the year.

And with that confession, Cyrus sought, and found, his lips again without hesitation. The tiredness was leaving his body, replaced by a nearly frenetic energy, as Reynard devoured his mouth with almost astonishing skill and a passion that left him feeling breathless and dizzy, yet wanting more.

He didn’t realize that Reynard had unbuttoned his shirt until one of his long hands, soft here and callused there by his work, rested flat against his side. He flinched slightly at the thought of Reynard seeing his scars, though by the position of his face, their lips still locked firmly together, Cyrus should have perhaps realized that Reynard couldn’t see anything more than his closed eyes.

Reynard pulled away for a moment, and asked, “All right, Cyrus?”

“I think so,” he replied breathlessly, though in a quieter tone, not wanting to spoil everything by telling Reynard what was the matter.

For a moment Reynard’s hands and lips left him. He moved his hands to cover his bare, disfigured stomach. The loud rustle of fabric told him that Reynard had shucked his heavy robes off. He heard Reynard toss them into the chair against which he had propped his cane. Then Reynard’s strong hands grasped his own and drew them up until they found the buttons of his shirt.

“Here,” said Reynard softly, almost invitingly.

Cyrus swallowed hard as Reynard leaned down and let him begin unbuttoning the shirt. He knew by his friend’s custom and predictability that it was a white Oxford that had been worn soft through years of laundering. Even the house elves couldn’t keep age away from garments forever.

Clumsy fingers fumbled with the small buttons, but Reynard did not fidget or hurry him. When the fastenings were all undone, Reynard shrugged off the shirt and slid forward on the couch. Cyrus’s heart began racing again as warm skin pressed against him. Crushing weight and incendiary heat. He could feel the contours of Reynard’s chest against his own, then their stomachs and trouser-clad hips. Not a perfect fit by any stretch of the imagination, but Cyrus savored the warmth, the contact.

With what, from Cyrus’s perspective, felt like practice ease, Reynard slipped his shirt and robes all the way off and wrapped his arms around him. Cyrus mirrored the gesture, letting his hands wander over the smooth skin of his companions back and shoulders. Sensual lips paid homage to his collar and the top of his shoulder. A soft gasp drew a chuckle from deep within Reynard that Cyrus felt as much as heard.

“Reynard...” he said quietly, biting back some of the emotion that threatened to spill out with his words. Attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible as Reynard worked his way lower, skin sliding against skin as a thin sheen of perspiration formed between them, Cyrus said, “If you’re going to do anything that might result in loud sounds... screaming, moaning, and so forth...” A roguish tongue against a sensitive nipple drew an unexpected sound from him.

“Like that?” said Reynard into his skin.

“Yes...” said Cyrus, arching his hips against the other man’s almost instinctually.

Reynard paused and rocked back and forth against him for a moment, robbing him of all speech until he began his downward descent once more. Cyrus could hardly believe it as his friend kissed the ugly band of scars near his navel. How could he not be repulsed?

“My parlor shares a wall with... the second... year Hufflepuff dormitory. If you... Merlin!” he gasped as Reynard hooked his fingers underneath the waist of his loose-fitting trousers and began drawing them down.

“I’m listening,” he said, kissing Cyrus again just a half inch lower.

“They’ll hear us... without a Silencing Charm,” he panted, hardly able to say the words as Reynard touched him through his undergarments. He hoped they were one of his nicer pairs, but he couldn’t tell anymore. They all felt the same. Crisp and white he hoped. Not faded. Not moth-eaten.

He trembled as Reynard ran his fingertips over the fabric and the growing bulge underneath. Slow, maddeningly circles that made his body ache for more. He tried not to squirm or arch into his touch. He wouldn’t beg him for more with his lips. Why should he beg with the rest of his body?

“Does that mean we should stop?” asked Reynard, though by his tone Cyrus knew that the thought of being overheard did not bother him. If anything, the notion seemed to titillate more than discourage him.

“No, no, just that one of us probably ought to cast that charm,” said Cyrus, breathing heavily as Reynard continued slowly to disrobe him, peeling back cloth and revealing skin.

“Or adjourn to your bedroom?” Reynard suggested.

“Right,” Cyrus agreed with a fervent nod. “No one would hear us in there.”

“No one would hear you,” said Reynard with a hint of amusement as he made quick work of the trousers and pants, leaving Cyrus completely unclothed and trembling with anticipation and need.

“Of course,” he conceded, fully realizing for the first time that Reynard intended to have his way with him and that he intended, without reservation, to let him.

With that, Reynard gave him a swift, but passionate kiss before leaving the couch, which squeaked almost gratefully as it was unburden. He scooped Cyrus up in his arms and carried him into his bedroom.

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