A response to Autumnmist's Valentine's Day fic challenge. In which Severus shows off a new skill and gets into big trouble. Rated R for the one-woman show. Contains very mild tossed-off slash implications.
[Anyone you recognize, which should be everyone, belongs to JKR, not me. No infringement is intended, no money is being made, and no animals were harmed in the making of this fic.]
Though it was dangerous to attempt it alone for the first full time, deep in his heart of hearts, Severus Snape was confident. If he hadn't been so, he would have avoided it for a while longer, or prepared a will and testament, or at the very least done it under his mentor's steady eye. But confident he was, and he had succeeded--very well indeed, he couldn't help but think as he looked at himself in the mirror and still kept his wits enough to recognize that the reflection was himself, though it did not look like himself at all....well, not much.
Minerva McGonagall was the best of teachers, he had to admit. Though at first she thought he might be too old--she'd never heard of a wizard his age learning to rearrange himself like that--the glint in her eye told another story, that she did indeed have faith in him. And with the war picking up pitch, the best witches and wizards Hogwarts had to offer needed to acquire or hone every skill they could; after all McGonagall was also doing quite well with the top-level Potions tutoring he was using for barter.
Watch the mind, she had said. Do be careful of your mind.
And no, you don't get to choose. It comes from within, or somewhere else. You may think you know, and you may be surprised. You may not be happy with it at all. But you cannot change your mind.
She was right. He'd been fairly sure, with the confidence of instinct, what he'd get. Didn't his reputation, his mannerisms, his House, even the sound of his name, make it obvious? And he could live with it. It was not too showy, it was appropriate, and though he dreaded temporarily (or permanently, if he misfired) losing his limbs and his hearing, it could be dead useful--at least until the day when some shrieking hausfrau would decapitate him with a garden hoe.
So when he got his first glimpses in the earliest half-cocked attempts, he was shocked. His nose had transformed first. Just the nose and nothing else, one horrid day--thick and black and hard. Then another time, one arm--growing feathers, not scales, and hanging broad and useless at his side, shockingly weightless. This particular cold February night after performing the final rites, he stood before the mirror a little over two feet tall, sleek and quizzical. His feathers were as black as his robes had been but for a greyish-silver tint to the spiky neck ruff (and a bit of a green cast to the sheen immediately around that); his beak heavy and sharp; his black eyes glittering and smart. And most importantly, he retained himself, knew himself still for what he was: the body of a bird bearing the mind of a wizard. He could feel tinges of a different consciousness tickling around his edges--the shiny caps of bottles held new fascination; he knew the meat served at dinner wouldn't appeal to him in this state unless it were tossed out to rot for a few days. He was a rara avis: Corvus Severus, newborn Animagus.
He was damn proud. Addressing his reflection to congratulate himself, what emerged was a rattling, croaking *cronk*. He could understand himself, of course--but only another of his bird tribe could. Still, he had to gloat to someone. A bit reluctantly, he turned back into himself--his familiar old human self, that is, as opposed to the new self he had already accepted as another version--and opened the door into the hallway, and walked up a low flight of stairs to the nearest window. He opened it and glanced around. Then he muttered to himself, changed back, and launched himself at the starry sky, arching up and around towards Gryffindor Tower where Professor McGonagall sat in her flannel robe in comfortable yellow light, reading.
She jumped up when she heard the scratches at the window, and smiled broadly when she saw the silhouette of the large bird in the diamond-paned glass. "Surely, said I, surely, there is something at my window lattice," she said, opening the latch. "Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore."
"Hello," she said. "Come in."
Snape caught a whiff of cinnamon from her steaming mug of eggnog. It was almost overpowering, and interesting but not quite appealing.
"Sorry I haven't got a pallid bust of Pallas for you to perch on," said McGonagall, indicating instead an overstuffed velvet chair. The bird hopped towards it, stood in front of it, and smoothly transformed back into a man physically capable of actually sitting in it. He noticed that the cinnamon smelled better when he was in this shape.
"What are you on about?" he said, trying out of habit to conceal his glee.
"From a Muggle poet. Edgar Allan Poe. Actually, they say he was a Muggle, but I have my reasons for doubting that. He was a thoroughly misunderstood man all around. He wrote quite a beautiful and maddening piece of doggerel about everlasting love and the symbolism of ravens. You probably ought to read it someday." She regarded him sternly at first but there was happy pride in her eyes and a twitch of a grin in her mouth. Snape noted with slight annoyance that her tartan flannel robe barely hid a long nightgown covered in little red hearts--no doubt a concession to Dumbledore's insistance on observing the dreaded imminent Valentine's Day. But for once his mood was fine.
"Do that again," said McGonagall the taskmaster, poised to observe and appraise. Snape sighed, shuddered, and shrank.
She studied him with an analytical eye, pinching random feathers between bony fingers as though she were a judge at a pedigree show. "Very good. Very good feather quality. Size is excellent--a little large maybe, but not so much it would be noticed. Talk to me."
"Crrrraaahk."
"Oh, very good. Now, you *do* understand everything and essentially think like yourself, correct?"
"Crrrrrrrr."
He meant it as an affirmative. "But not too much like yourself. You know you need to monitor your thoughts a bit at first, of course. At least until you're very well used to this state--you can knock yourself back into your true form if you're not careful with that in the early stages."
The raven nodded in a very humanlike way.
Minerva smiled again. "You look wonderful, Severus. You've done an excellent job. And I don't think the tinge of the Slytherin colors at the neck are terribly noticeable." She went to the window and unlatched it again, holding it wide open as a chill wind blew in. "Now go and practice flying."
Snape flew out of the window and spent most of the rest of the night doing exactly that, briefly for a time forgetting his troubles and the way they were about to increase on the following morn, the fourteenth.
***
The day could hardly be called uneventful. There was a near-constant flurrying of whispers about the lunch tables and the hallways, and the stream of owls delivering red and pink envelopes was a downright traffic hazard in the halls. Only a week before had Dumbledore announced that there would be a Valentine's Day dance, and he had hoped that the frenzy of date-finding, asking, hoping, rejecting and accepting had been crammed into such a narrow time window that the emotions involved wouldn't have time to peak into their potential fevered pitch. But, as they are wont to do, teenagers had only packed their endemic intensity into the available space, which was not exactly large enough to accomodate it. By the day of the blessed event, there was a whispered buzz about large hidden stockpiles of Unrequited Love Potions--there were said to be two varieties native to Hogwarts, one brewed by Madam Pomfrey, the other by Professor Snape, and the intelligences that rule the gene pool of student rumors seemed unclear on which one cured the condition and which one caused it. The live fat cupids that hovered stupidly over the tables at the great dinner feast aiming dull arrows willy-nilly did nothing to help matters, nor did the thousands of red roses that Professor Sprout had ordered strewn everywhere (hoping, perhaps, to take some of the sting from the students who never received them as gifts from anyone).
Even the faculty table wasn't immune--a triumphant Madam Hooch, her face covered in lipstick, positively sashayed into the Great Hall. The returned Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Remus Lupin, had at his feet a large black dog wearing a big red bow around his neck. He slipped the dog the choicest meat scraps every chance he got; in return the dog inspired an epidemic of snickering by humping Lupin's leg. Fawkes, too, seemed to be in the spirit, nibbling Dumbledore's ear between courses. And when a breed of owl native to France swept into the hall and dropped a large red envelope on Hagrid's plate, he opened it, grinned widely, flushed bright red and burst into tears of joy, and then fainted dead away; no one could miss the thud, which rattled every goblet in the Great Hall. Valentineless, Snape idly picked a stray red rose to pieces and ignored its tiny screams, dreaming only of when he could get free of this simpering crowd to fly again.
Between dinner and the ball, he got his chance. Never one to waste much time primping, he simply changed into a nice set of a black velvet cloak and robe belted with a silver serpent, strode to the window, and transformed. The previous night's flying hadn't been very satisfactory; he imagined he probably still looked awkward in a fashion no natural-hatched raven would. Hoping to confer with McGonagall before she too got into the gooey holiday spirit, he set his course for Gryffindor Tower.
***
Hermione was furious. Or disappointed. Or furious. Or disappointed. No Valentines. Not a one. The day's owls had brought her only three more acceptances to prestigious universities--nice enough, but she already had seventeen of those. For once, just for one day, she craved to be appreciated as something other than a disembodied brain. And _he_, that red-headed pillock, that insensitive oaf, her longtime inept makeout partner, her committed--nay, obligated--date for the Valentine's Ball, had been so certain of her affections, and so thoughtless, so utterly committed to taking her for granted, there had been....nothing.
Yes, she thought, it was possible he planned to surprise her with something at the ball. But that morning at breakfast, when he'd seen the decorations, she saw that look creep across his face, that oh-shit look--but then it passed, as if it weren't that important; in fact Harry had looked far more worried and guilty for Ron than Ron had the decency to be for himself.
So when she slammed and locked the door to the prefect's bathroom, she emphatically wanted to be alone. She was well aware that the alleged fun of dressing up and discussing prospects with the other girls was supposed to be part of the experience, but she wanted no part of their excited babbling or melodramatic unhappiness, whatever the case. She only wanted to steam, quite literally. Tossing the deep maroon dress robes she planned to change into on the floor angrily, she invoked the hot water in the luxurious marble tub, calling up the light sandalwood and slightly musky rose scent to mingle together in the bubblebath, set down her makeup case, and got ready to disrobe.
She regarded herself critically in the full-length mirror, standing there naked under her long crimson silk bathrobe (and whatever had she been thinking with that indulgence? Who had she fantasized about impressing? No one but herself, and she was well over it by now). I'm not that bad, am I? she thought miserably. I really, really don't think I'm ugly exactly. I mean, I'm not ravishing. But Pansy Parkinson IS in fact ugly, she's flat-chested and she's got a face like a diseased pug, and SHE got roses.
Well, she thought, letting the robe drop slowly and analyzing her own curves from every possible angle, I will appreciate myself, if no one else will. Sliding into the piping hot, scented water, she smeared creamy liquid soap across her belly and breasts as the foam rose up to her collarbone. She let out a long, luxurious sigh as the stress seemed to flow out of her skin. With a bit of a wicked smile, under the water she gently pinched one of her own nipples and felt sensation start to heat within her. Someday I'll have to teach him what feels good, she thought nastily, and that was her last thought of Ron for quite a while. By the time her hand had worked its way between her thighs, his image was long gone, replaced by the faceless, unknown demon lovers of her imagination, the ones her body eagerly rose to meet with no compunction. Helpless and wanton she gave herself up to their thorough, lascivious attentions. It mattered not at all that the fingers frigging the swollen bud between the moist folds underwater were her own, except in that of course they knew exactly where to go and when, unless the creatures (herself!) decided to tease her, to bring herself close to the brink and then hold back. She let herself indulge in little whimpers and purrs, not as loud as they might be if she were communicating her pleasure to anyone outside herself, but still given voice and presence. Little wet sounds rose to her ears, tiny splashes of the pressure of her hand picking up speed with its rhythm, as she began to twist and turn, toying with one firm breast as her hips involuntarily rose towards the surface....
***
McGonagall hadn't been in her chambers. No doubt she was conspiring with Dumbledore to produce some exquisitely frilly public embarrassment. Even more disgruntled, the black Snape-bird returned to the sky to practice his aerial maneuvers. As he passed the far side of the tower some three hundred feet up, he saw a dim light in a narrow high window that was rarely lit, and decided to practice a bit of landing. When he came to a bumpy stop on the broad windowsill, he couldn't quite rein in his unusual curiosity.
Too late it hit him--the prefect's bathroom. And there was that seventh-year Gryffindor know-it-all, Granger the Head Girl herself, standing before the mirror in a sweeping red robe, looking almost as surly as he felt. So the wondrous day hasn't been good to her either, Snape thought. What a shock.
He got a shock for real when she suddenly shrugged off the robe. Merlin! he thought, taking in the sudden new view, those creamy roundnesses. Who knew?
Sense or sensibility tried nobly to kick in. You shouldn't be doing this, he told himself.
Doing what? said his evil side, mentally tucking away his new notes on everything Miss Granger concealed under those robes, allowing himself to wonder what it would be like to run his fingers down that groove in her back, gather that perky full breast up in his palm, to take a bite of that perfect plump buttock.
Get out of here, said his rapidly weakening better half. Time to really practice flying.
But it was too late. By then, Hermione had already immersed herself in the steaming water, and was already beginning to touch herself in a nonplatonic fashion.
He knew he should go. But in truth, he had never watched a woman pleasure herself before. The raven part of him was an innately curious creature, and the man part was incapable of providing it any countering motivation. Oh Circe, he moaned inwardly as the girl twisted and turned while her wrist flickered, her flushed pink mouth slighly opening, a patch of brown fuzz just breaking the water's surface as her....
The window ledge was much narrower than it had been--too narrow. Snape registered what was happening far too late. He had lost himself; he was a clumsy, gangly-limbed, careless man with a guilty conscience, a pulsing erection, and no sense of balance. And he was falling. He yelled in terror and groped for the window, banging his hand against the glass as he clutched helplessly at the sill.
"Accio!" yelled a voice from inside, and seemingly in a blink, a very wet girl half-clad in a robe reached through the open window and grabbed him by the--wing? He had transformed back, almost in time but not quite. Forcefully she swept him back into the room and slammed the window shut. And she was pointing her wand at him.
"Are you really just a bird?" she demanded. "I'm sure I heard a man shouting."
Snape the raven tried to make a humanlike sound, but it didn't come out very convincing. Weren't ravens supposed to be good mimics? Figures I'd be bad at it, he thought ruefully. Minerva will be so delighted I'm putting my new skill to such good use. He knew it was coming, and he flinched as the ice-blue light from her wand poured forth. She stood her ground when she faced her watcher. "Professor!" she said.
"An astute observation," he said. He knew he ought to be more menacing, but it somehow didn't seem fitting in this case. So he simply stood stock-straight as well, refusing to cringe in guilt at least.
"You--you're not registered!" she gasped. This threw him for a loop--ah yes, Muggles do register their sex offenders, don't they? That couldn't be what she meant, could it? Oh--no. Of course.
"As a matter of fact," he said, "I'm quite possibly Britain's newest Animagus at the moment. There hasn't been time to register, nor, frankly, do I see the point. Miss Granger, surely by now you've realized that playing completely by the rules sometimes does even the most well-intentioned wizard much more harm than good."
She raised an eyebrow, unable to see how much this made her resemble Snape himself. "And if you're registered that might get in the way of spying on girls in the bath, mightn't it?" He was caught without a retort, as she had him dead to rights, and the fact that she still hadn't completely closed her robe didn't help him think any more clearly. She took a step forward, head leaning in, fingertip jabbing the air around his chest. "I've been studying up on the process, and you must have had some very unravenlike thoughts to create enough force to jar you out of your transformation even for a moment, Professor!"
Even Snape was appalled to hear himself say dryly, "Perhaps you might do well to divert a little study time to getting yourself out of your present unsatisfied state, Miss Granger. Take it from me that over the long term, sexual frustration will not be good for your health." He was also surprised that he managed to catch the hand sweeping towards his face; that she did not twist out of his grip but instead leaned in closer to give him a good whiff of her warm and perfumed skin and a good stare into her keen, flushed face.
And even Hermione, who was appalled at herself for feeling no sincere offense, no revulsion, and even the most pleasant tingling gloss to her surprisingly mild fear, was shocked to see how deep and bright was the lava-pit of hunger visible through the cracks in his sardonic veneer. Since they were so close to making it horrible, her best option seemed to be to hold nothing back in making it worse still. So she said, in a voice that came out husky, "So, Peeping-Tom, Lover-Boy, I think you might have liked what you saw."
And then even Snape felt pity at the depths of her erotic desperation--how raw the girl must be, if she'd think of coming to him. The briefest flash, that is. But since he assumed his bags were as good as packed already, and that he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, his hands were on her bare shoulders under the robe before he knew it. As if the motion came from outside both of them, there was a swooping and ducking of heads, and damp heat of mouths meeting; for just a second, or two, or three, he let himself savor her taste of mint and spice and spit and sex, let himself swoon into his body's response to her melting towards him.
And then he stepped back with a swirl of his cloak and declared with a vast untruth in his smoky eyes, "I assure you, Miss Granger, I think of you as nothing but a student...for now." But the last part was lost in a corvid croak as he changed, and in the second it took her to collect herself, he had opened the window with his talons and was gone, leaving behind a single oily black feather.
Hermione stood there swaying, stunned and flushed. Then she took a deep breath, picked up the feather and shrugged off her robes once more to resume her bath. As she sank back into the water, she set the feather by the side of the tub, and muttered wryly, "Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken." She indulged in a lewd smile as she picked up where she'd left off with her hand below the water, in that spot of heat and moisture renewed and recharged by his touch. No one was watching now--but she liked to think he might be. And that Valentine's Ball ahead seemed like much less of a dreaded obstacle, now that her favorite incubus in her mind had a known scent, taste, and face.
*fin*
Author's notes: There've been so many great SS/HG tales I've read lately that I'm sure I've unconsciously nodded to many of them in this fic. Chalk it up to influence, but if anyone feels particularly nipped, please let me know. I especially want to let Lara know I love her "Coachwhip" series although I directly contradicted its premise, and tell Riley that I agree with her on what the prefect's bathroom is best used for, and also that Sev is irresistible when he's subject to blackmail.