Against the Wall

It's an embarrassing thing.

A wizard of 'a certain age.' A nubile young witch.

He doubts that the witch herself is as appealing as what she represents. Young girls don't look at him anymore, if they ever did. But she does. Warily, he must admit, but she does look. Looks, and blushes, and tries to steel herself not to look again.

She also sweeps her hair from her face when speaking to him. A classic flirtation gesture.

For whatever reason, she seems to be attracted to him.

Stranger things have happened. He once fell arse-over-teakettle in love with a woman simply because she slightly resembled the singer Hazel Rowan and because of the way her uneven front teeth caught at her lower lip when she smiled. People fell in love, either suitably or unsuitably, and logic had very little to do with it.

How easy would it be, he wonders, to direct her to his office for 'additional study?' To make her twitch and blush and retreat? To offer her an upgraded test score for one kiss, a higher mark for oral sex, a recommendation to a Ministry position for intercourse? Would she bargain with him, or run shouting from his lair, returning with a brace of overmuscled Quidditch beaters?

Or would she allow him to press her into the ancient stones of the wall? She would be trapped, her eyes huge with fear and anticipation, as he bore down upon her. He wouldn't kiss her immediately. He would press against her belly, and lean in to smell her hair, rosemary. Her skin would smell fresh and vaguely pharmaceutical. There would be the remnant of a spot near her hairline, and the barest sheen of oil on her nose. Her breath would smell rich and brown, like the roast she ate at dinner, overlaid by the mint chewing gum she worked nervously between her jaws. She would see him looking at her mouth, and the chewing gum would disappear with an audible gulp.

Her breath would be coming faster now, and shallower. The minty-meaty-moisty little puffs of air would touch his face. Her pupils would be dilated, and not just because he was blocking the light. Her lips would blush and swell, her eyelids would grow heavy, and as she breathed, open-mouthed, she would look like a woman with a fever.

Now he would touch. He would trace the fine line of her nose from her forehead to her upper lip, tickling her sensitive skin. He would slowly caress her cheek with the back of his hand.

She might try to raise her hand to touch him, to touch his hair, but he would stop her. He would tip her chin up, exposing her vulnerable throat, and taste the salt of her skin. She would whimper and gasp, but he would move his mouth inexorably across that pale column, nipping and sucking and nibbling. He would smell her perfume only after he tasted it, and the scent would linger in his sinuses for weeks.

Lest she forget he was a man, he would bend his knees and pin her more firmly against the wall. She would moan and writhe against him, her desire and apprehension sweetly commingling.

He would reach up into her robes and feel her breast. He was no boy who had to wait for the proscribed two dates or whatever it was these days. He could stroke and pinch and twirl her nipples to his heart's content. He could sneak his other hand into her knickers.

She would sob her breaths now, her head rolling drunkenly on her neck as he caressed her. She would be wearing her cotton workaday knickers, the ones with the stretched-out elastic that made his task easier.

Quick as a cat, he would have his robes lifted in front, his y-fronts whisked down. He would pull aside the crotch panel of her knickers, breaching her, giving her a few seconds to recover before he thrust again, her knee pulled almost to her chest to allow him entry.

And it would be good, the best he'd had in months. Never mind that the girl was inexperienced and awkward. Never mind that she was a student. Never mind that she probably wouldn't climax. This wasn't for her. It was for him. And then he'd withdraw, leaving her off balance and trembling.

"I'll have your recommendation for you before class on Thursday, Miss Gilmer," he would say, adjusting his robes to their proper position. The girl would blush and nod and tug her clothing back into place. "You may go now," he would say pointedly, and she would leave. And that would be the end of it.

Only 'that' never was the end of it, was it? If he didn't catch hell from the student, or her parents, or his boss, there was one more person to protect. Or, rather, to hide from.

Surely he was ten kinds of bastard to be thinking such thoughts when his exhausted wife was sitting not three feet from him, cradling his cranky and demanding newborn son.

Was she spending her time thinking about the Boys She Could Have Had? He doubted it. She was so weary and wrapped up in her own survival right now that she couldn't spare two thoughts for sex, and if she could have, those two thoughts would have been: Why did I? and Why should I ever want to again?

Her once-nubile body was ravaged by childbirth. Her formerly-taut belly now snuggled next to her when she lay on her side, a warm little puppy of stretched-out flesh. Red and blue and ghostly white lines crossed her hips and her belly Only her breasts were an improvement, rising high and hard and painfully round, although, she assured him, when the baby was finished with them, they'd hang like a pair of Christmas stockings with an orange in the toe.

He didn't want anyone else, not really. He just wanted her back. He wanted to see her brown eyes shining when she looked at him, instead of the rather bruised look of frustration and discomfort she gave him now. He felt all of his forty-five years; even though he was twenty-five years shy of the traditional age for a wizard's mid-life crisis, he now understood the impulse.

He missed sex. Rough sex, fevered sex, dirty sex. Sex that felt like rutting rather than cherishing. Sex that had little to do with tenderness and gentleness. Ten months without now, and counting. And at least one more month without even tender sex. And even if she offered (unlikely), he didn't think he wanted to put his penis anywhere near her sharp little teeth, given her disposition of late.

He shifted uncomfortably at the thought, crossing his legs to protect his shrinking erection. A man gave up an awful lot when he married, even more when he had a child. And perhaps he was only imagining it, but he would swear that the fractious little shit was nursing more than he really had to, just to rub his father's nose in it.

The child wailed suddenly, insistently, and she rose to return to their rooms, leaving most of her meal untouched. She still wasn't quite ready to nurse in the Great Hall, although the mediwitch had shown her how to modify her robes to allow for discreet nursing. He should probably follow, to render assistance, or, at the very least, to give her someone to snap at. Nursing wasn't coming easily to any of them.

He caught the headmaster's eye, and indicated that he would be leaving. Albus nodded serenely, and Severus followed his wife out into the corridor. Even if he hadn't known where their quarters were located, he could have found his way there by following the child's insistent "Ooo-LAH! Ooo-LAH!" and Hermione's murmured rejoinders.

He paused outside the door. The baby was roaring now, with all of the force his tiny lungs could summon. But there was another sound, like muffled screaming.

He didn't think; he just reacted.

He kicked the door hard; it rocked on its hinges, and he vaulted into the room, wand out. The baby was furiously red, and his skinny little limbs were drawn up as he shrieked in his cot.

Hermione looked up from the sofa where she lay, kicking the cushions. Her face was as red as their son's, and streaked with tears.

He dropped his wand and rushed to her side, gathering her in his arms. His hands shook with reaction as he smoothed her hair from her face.

"I hate this, Severus," she said, sobbing into his shoulder. "I can't do it right."

"What can't you do right?" he asked.

"Anything. Nursing. Changing nappies. Getting him on a schedule. He hates me."

He kissed her sweaty forehead. "He doesn't hate you. It's nothing personal. He's just hungry."

"This is horrible. Why did I think I could do this?"

The baby continued his furious squalling, and Severus did his best to tune the noise out. He settled her against his chest, stroking her wild hair. "We'll just have to give him back," he said lightly.

Hermione gasped, looking frantically at him. He pressed her back into place. "A joke, love."

"Not funny."

"I know."

"I miss this."

"What? Sobbing on the couch while a baby screams from across the room?"

"I miss you holding me," she said, and her voice broke. "It's all over, and I'm hideous and a mess, and the baby won't stop screaming."

Severus raised his hand, and cast Silencio on the occupant of the crib.

Hermione sobbed more ardently. "What if something happens to him? I won't be able to hear it..."

"Nothing will happen in the next three minutes. He certainly won't starve, the little piglet. He might get angry enough to flip himself onto his belly, but that's it." He rubbed her shoulders and back, helping her to calm herself down.

After a moment, she looked up at him, her brown eyes shining with tears. She grimaced, pulling her robes away from her breasts. "I leaked," she said flatly.

"Are you ready for him?" he asked. She nodded.

He brought the baby to his wife. He hadn't ended the charm, however, and the baby was red faced and bawling noiselessly.

"Aren't you going to..." Hermione began.

"A theory of mine. I wonder if you might have an easier time of nursing if he weren't screaming at you." He raised his eyebrows. She nodded tiredly, accepting the wriggling baby.

He helped her to arrange her robes and support the baby. She unfastened the front of her nursing bra and pinched her breast between two fingers, touching her nipple to the baby's mouth. After a moment of shifting and repositioning, he was latched on and suckling lustily.

"Finite Incantatem," Severus said softly. The infant grunted and sighed and slurped contentedly.

After the baby had nursed and produced an acceptable belch, Severus took his son in arms and pointed his exhausted wife toward their bedroom.

Brian Albus Snape gazed sagely at his father and waved his fists.

"You're more trouble than you're worth, little one," Severus said severely.

Brian yawned.

"You'll never make a Slytherin," he said sternly. "If you could have waited just four more days it would have been possible. But a Sagittarius sorted into Slytherin...highly unlikely. Although," he said, warming to his subject, "it has been known to happen, but only when the student in question was expected to grow into a big, strapping athletic fellow. And you just don't come from that kind of stock."

Brian grunted.

"No, you're going to be a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw, most likely."

Brian grimaced and stiffened. An ominous rumbling issued from within his diaper.

"Couldn't have said it better myself." The boy grinned gassily at him. "Now that we're in agreement, I expect that you will give your poor mother a bit of a rest. Take it easy on her, son."