C'mon, like you weren't all thinking it.

Title: Lupin's Symposium

Author: Sandra

Category: HG/RL

Spoilers: Harry Potter and The: Philosopher's Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban, Goblet of Fire.

Rating: NC-17, eventually.

Summary: Seems dear, old Professor Lupin is in heat. Hermione is intrigued. Only scientifically, of course. Hopefully, her homework won't suffer. Too much.

Disclaimer: Of course not; Snape would replace Harry as the title character, otherwise.

Author's Note: Because I can't sleep.

Feedback: Well, duh.

Etc: No, I have no shame. Don't bother whining. I'm European—Student/Teacher, May/December scandals are like candy. Best when not found on the floor. Er, or something.

In the spirit of Plato, I suppose we should all learn some kind of lesson here. But, y'know, it's late, so let's just pretend we did.

Setting: Year Six.

"And what is good, Phaedrus? And what is not good? Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?"

—Plato, from Symposium

Voldemort was dead.

Hogsmeade brimmed with youth. Florean Fortescue, surrendering to capitalism, moved his Ice Cream Parlor from its spot in Diagon Alley to a location near The Hog's Head. Temporarily, of course. Plump, dimpled witches circled the Honeyduke's Candy Shop, pushing their food carts with glee. Pumpkin tarts ran for double their worth.

The Potions Hut stocked up on Pepper-Up Potion and various indigestion remedies.

Zonko's was sold out, but kept its doors open. Hufflepuffs, third year and up, held a fireworks display right next to the Ravenclaw bonfire. Weasleys' Wizards Wheezes, which had celebrated its grand opening the previous month, greeted its victims with complimentary mint humbugs. Madam Pomfrey patrolled the parameter with a healthy amount of Skele-Gro.

Albus Dumbledore, hero to some, headmaster to others, strolled the streets merrily, his pet phoenix perched atop his shoulder. Severus Snape, scowling with distaste, kept them company.

The Three Broomsticks, maintaining its selective clientele list, accommodated to the ever-increasing number of Gryffindors. Neville Longbottom was caught playing a particularly flashy round of Exploding Snap—during which, terms such as 'property damage' and 'mangled beyond recognition' were heard—but lost no points. His house had, after all, won the House Cup for the sixth year running.

Foaming tankards of hot butterbeer infused the inn with the damp aroma of butterscotch, causing a stray house-elf to walk into a lit fireplace. Without using Floo Powder.

Harry Potter, Boy Who Was Still Living, dangled from the ceiling, looking for an imaginary Snitch. Ron Weasley, team's newest Keeper, guarded the furnace, which had conveniently been placed next to the self-refilling goblets of red currant rum. Even Ginny Weasley, who'd at least tried to go about with some semblance of dignity, managed to break an embarrassing number of utensils.

Amidst this celebratory chaos, a small group of professors stumbled across the threshold.

The room—what was left of it—fell silent.

"Oi, Harry," said Hagrid, the half giant, misty-eyed. "S'no way to wreck t'place."

Professor McGonagall nodded sternly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Of course not, Mr. Hagrid," she said as Harry plopped to the floor. "You've neglected that part of the inn," she pointed casually. "Now, get to it, and do be thorough this time." Her lips curled upwards, "After all, you must know how I abhor taking points from my own house."

The room erupted in cheers. Ron Weasley swayed and raised his goblet to toast his professors. Harry continued chasing the invisible Snitch and Neville set fire to Dean Thomas' robes.

Remus Lupin, who'd never felt so edgy before, scratched his eyebrow anxiously. He was happy, yes. Extremely happy. This appeared to be the best time of his life, after all. Without missing a single cliché, he'd had it all.

However, so much raunchiness in one place made him want to jump out of his skin. And into someone else's.

Skin, bed, same difference.

He needed something to calm him. A nice, cold swim in the lake. Little wrestling match with the resident giant squid. A session of listening to Snape list his grievances about the procurement of the Wolfsbane Potion. Writing his memoirs, a la Gilderoy Lockheart.

Sex.

No. Cold swim and a long—long—study session.

Unfortunately, this ritual was wearing thin. He'd already compiled unnecessary syllabuses, for several years to come. Come. Yes, he would like to, thank you.

No. Mind over matter.

Calming effect, calming effect.

Squared away in a secluded corner, sat a girl. One Hermione Granger, immersed in a book she must have memorized by now.

Great! Innocent, studious, absolutely no threat. A perfect reminder to keep him well-behaved until he went and attacked his library.

Lupin smiled with relief and strode over, cautious to avoid Colin Creevey, who was sleeping happily on the floor, Muggle camera clutched in his stubby hands.

"Oi, Moony," said a slurred voice behind Lupin. "Where'y going? We just got 'ere."

Sirius Black, flanked by Professors Figg and Flitwick, wore the happiest, goofiest grin Lupin had ever seen. Sirius latched onto Figg's robes, grinning wildly. Even though he'd probably forgotten he had asked any questions, Remus Lupin answered him anyway.

"Oh. Just visiting a friend," he said oddly. If you'd kindly get out of my way, that is. Er. No, no. It's just Hermione. Miss Granger. No hurry. None, whatsoever.

He glanced at the ceiling. Sirius needed a distraction. Obviously. Lupin—strangely—was happy to oblige. He opened his mouth, pointing at the ceiling, "You'd—er, better get Harry down before he breaks somethi—" Harry went flying through a red curtain. "—Never mind."

Sirius chortled loudly, stumbling to untangle Harry from the curtains' vicious grip. He gave a delirious compliment and Harry laughed. A minor BANG! went off somewhere near the barrels of Ogden's Old Firewhisky.

Lupin tried very hard to keep a straight face. It felt even better than the good old days. Except for the fact that he was slightly horny—so, all right, not much changed. Damn moon.

Go! Discuss the similarities between Caligula and Tiberius. Discuss it to death.

Discuss it until she begs for more—

"Ah, Remus!" shouted someone. Lupin froze. Cornelius Fudge stood behind him, carrying a golden dish full of stoat sandwiches. Lupin's fingers itched. Just let me get to the bloody table already, he thought.

"Your friend, Sirius," began Fudge, winking at a passing seventh-year. (Lupin scowled.) "Where is he?"

"Why?" asked Lupin warily.

"He's stolen my date," said Fudge with a leer.

"Well, why do you think he turns into a dog?" muttered Lupin. Then, louder, prying Fudge's fingers off his arm, he said, "Maybe you ought to look in the Forbidden Forest. Whomping Willow. It's where he usually takes his—er, other people's dates."

"Always the scallywag, bless him," slurred Fudge.

Lupin escaped.

Who knew? Cornelius Fudge worked just as well as a cold swim.

Now, then.

Finally. A little peace and quiet. He'd just sit with the industrious Miss Granger—where he was most certainly safe—put in his fifteen minutes, and be on his way. As long as he could avoid Professor Sinistra, who'd always fancied him, he could survive yet another—episode.

He had to do something about—

Now his chest itched. Something tugged behind his navel—like when traveling via portkey, but slightly, well, less innocent. Not even the visual of Fudge with a date—whoever the unlucky fool had been—could squash this annoying craving.

It's just the wolf, he told himself. He'll go away soon. Here, have some chocolate.

He glanced at Hermione. He wouldn't know later what possessed him, but he put a good dose of stealth into his step, and crept up behind her. Skulking in the shadows just behind her, he looked down and blinked. She was reading, that much he'd noticed from afar, but—

Wicked With Werewolves - Mating Habits of Today's Werewolf.

A tasty chill went up his spine. Why on Earth would she be rea—

Ah, yes. Brain like a sponge. In a good way, of course.

He cleared his throat, stepped closer and tilted his head politely. He was planning on merely saying a quick, noncommittal "Hello, Hermione," and then letting her reciprocate in kind. However, that scratch of an itch noticed her bare shoulders and—

"Oh my, visiting the Queen in London, are we?" asked Lupin with a grin.

Hermione Granger, who'd indeed been dressed rather peculiarly, looked up. Her eyebrows shot up briefly, like she'd been caught doing something horrid, then she smiled warmly.

"Professor Lupin," she greeted. Her cheeks were pink. Look at that, thought Lupin with interest, she's got no shirt under those robes. He coughed, felt his ears go red, cursed inwardly, then managed to look at her.

She stared behind him for a while, her eyes narrowing with bemusement. "Have you been here long?" she asked, still focused on some invisible spot behind him.

"No, we just came in. Or, well, staggered in, in Sirius' case," he replied quietly. There it went, lower and lower, below his navel, that twinge of—

"I see," said Hermione, a small smile playing about her lips. "Is that Mr. Black there, snogging Professor McGonagall?"

Lupin quickly turned around. He flushed and turned his attention back to Hermione, who—he'd just noticed—was a girl and had used the word snogging when she really shouldn't have.

Lupin scraped his nails against his forearm. Not exactly on target, but it would do, he concluded.

"Er—I'm certain she's got something in her eye, and he's merely trying to help," said Lupin uneasily. Hermione simply smirked and began leafing through the book. Lupin remembered what it was, and quickly sat down opposite her.

Handsome silver platters littered the table, full to bursting with vanilla biscuits. As Hermione was completely engrossed in her—er, manual—Lupin helped himself. He began nibbling, remembering his manners, but—

Hermione shifted. Her robe, which had already slipped awfully low on her shoulders, slid lower. Lupin narrowed his eyes. When did they change the dress code at Hogwarts? And why hadn't he been notified?

His nibbling turned into frantic gnawing, and soon, the biscuit begged for mercy.

Hermione hadn't noticed. She'd barely looked up from her precious book. He wanted—very, very badly—to ask why in Merlin's name she'd be even remotely interested in reading such, er, extracurricular volumes, but didn't quite see a way to broach the subject without seeming old and creepy.

"You don't seem very thrilled to be here, Professor," she said suddenly, with an odd, amused grin.

He squirmed. "While I do appreciate the situation," he said slowly, "and everyone's need to celebrate, I've some, er, matters to take care of."

Hermione looked up, frowned, flipped to the back of her textbook, tracing her fingers over a tattered parchment.

A lunar chart. Lupin was startled.

"Ah," was all she said. Lupin squirmed again. "Three more days."

Lupin nodded, then started. Was her—was her foot touching his? Her foot seemed to be touching his. It did. Her foot—his. He—he hadn't imagined it, had he?

"Er—you don't seem to be enjoying yourself, either, Miss Granger," he said uncomfortably.

She fingered a highlighted paragraph, and paused to look at him. "Though Harry and Ron seem to have forgotten, we are still required to take our exams next week," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Ah," he coughed. He was imagining it. That couldn't have been—

There it went again.

Up, slowly. Like a tickle, dipping behind his ankle, until he was grateful he was wearing loose-fitting robes.

He looked at her with a bewildered look. She was eyeing him mysteriously, lowering her eyes as he caught her looking.

Was he really—why was she—I'm never drinking again.

"Yes, well. Er—the point is," he croaked out, "that you never lose your interest in learning."

She beamed. He swallowed.

He left her to her reading, trying to ignore the urge to ask what exactly she'd been doing with her foot and if she could possibly do it again, when—

"Eep!" squeaked someone. Ginny Weasley came running. She skidded to a halt.

"Where is he? Where is he? Ron'll kill me if I've lost him!"

Hermione remained calm, like she had three years ago, in the Shrieking Shack. Shack. Shacking up. Shrieking. Er.

"Who'd you lose?"

"Oh, I bloody well hope I didn't lose anyone!" shouted a red-faced Ginny. She looked around frantically.

"All right, then, what are you looking for, Ginny?" asked Hermione soothingly.

A ferret darted out from underneath their table and Lupin jumped.

"There he is!" shrieked Ginny. She caught the ferret by the tail and jogged off, muttering, "Ron would've killed me if I'd lost Draco."

Lupin composed himself and sat back down, watching intently as Hermione laughed softly to herself.

Of course you were imagining it, you git. Had he really stooped so low as to be aroused by a ferret?

Well, it wasn't that, it was the concept of Hermione coming onto him, which was by far more disturbing than—

He jumped and fidgeted as Hermione closed her book. She lowered it on the table, and fixed her eyes on Lupin.

She looked remarkably calm as she asked, "So, Professor, since I can't learn everything from a book, would you mind terribly if I asked for a more...hands-on lesson?"

Very little blood made it to his brain.

Author's Note: Many thanks to all you happy reviewers. I half expected to be, you know, lynched.

Remus Lupin looked as if he were about to catch fire.

The implications—

"Er, you can't possibly be serious," he sputtered. Hermione looked entirely too innocent.

A small, wily grin curled her lips. "Last I checked, I was Hermione. Sirius—if you're so desperate to find him—is snogging—" here she leaned forward (Lupin noticed how obstructing school robes were, and made a mental note to speak to Dumbledore) to catch a glimpse of Sirius, "—er, I do hope that's not Professor Snape."

Lupin blanched. He hadn't planned on breaking his neck, but that's what almost happened.

He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of such an abomination, and saw nothing but Harry's Firebolt swatting Hagrid upside the head.

"You've obviously lost your sense of humor since the last time we talked, Professor," smiled Hermione, fingering her book.

Lupin frowned, rubbed his neck and opened his mouth to retaliate, but—

"I apologize," said Hermione, "this isn't very conductive to my lesson."

Ah, yes. Lesson.

Small fingers closed around his shoulder. Hermione had scooted closer. Lupin swallowed.

"About that—" mumbled Lupin.

"—I only asked because I fear this book," she pointed at the volume, "like so many recent editions, seems horrendously outdated and inaccurate."

Lupin hadn't been paying attention.

"For instance, this picture here—" Hermione gently opened the book. Her chest swelled with every page she turned; a slow exhale of breath as she fingered the hardcovers. And he'd been having ideas. Lots of ideas.

Remus Lupin flushed.

He wanted to attribute it to embarrassment. In reality, the cause was much less civilized and a lot more primal.

Down, boy.

Once his brain received enough oxygen to formulate a coherent thought, Lupin glanced at the page she was pointing at.

That—that—no!

It was a picture page. A Joy Of Sex type of picture page. Moving picture page.

With illustrated footnotes and all.

"Hermione, how—why—no, where did you find this, er, book?" shouted Lupin uncomfortably.

"Oh, haven't you heard?" asked Hermione, voice laced with honey. "Gilderoy Lockheart's ex-girlfriend has apparently taken to writing, as well. A sort of vendetta, if you will."

Lupin wasn't listening. He kept staring—rather guiltily, at that—at the page.

Did—did that girl (the one on the left, being so...er, happily groped) look a little like Hermione?

Lupin cocked his head and stared for a full minute, uninterrupted.

Boy. That werewolf sure looks happy, thought Lupin.

When he lifted his head again, an odd expression lingering around his eyes, he found that Hermione hadn't been paying attention to him at all. She was talking to a sixth-year Gryffindor, who Lupin thought spent entirely too much time staring at Hermione's chest.

With a scowl, Lupin conjured up a bottle of butterbeer. Hermione was still chatting with the boy.

The girl in the picture squealed. Lupin jumped and fidgeted with his robes. He glanced at the scene and—

Oh, my.

Lupin closed his mouth. Er.

All right, now. Look up, slowly, scout the situation.

The boy Hermione had been talking to had suddenly been attacked by a fifth-year Gryffindor girl, who complained of being neglected. Hermione's attention was divided between the two. Good, good. Two birds with one stone.

Time to get rid of this book.

It was wrong, yes, but it would have been much worse to be so turned on by it to jump poor, defenseless Miss Granger.

So. The book had to die.

Lupin took one last look at the (extremely) happy werewolf in the picture. His fingers itched.

Innocently, he glanced at Hermione. She was busy answering the Gryffindors' questions ("What have you done with your hair, Hermione? I absolutely adore it!").

Think quickly, Lupin.

With a subtle flick of his wand, he sent Wicked With Werewolves - Mating Habits of Today's Werewolf flying off the table. It flew past an unsuspecting Neville Longbottom, and was headed straight for the furnace, but Ron, bless his little heart, swung his broom as if defending a goal post.

Lupin's eyes widened as the book ricocheted, and began flying back toward him.

Ron took another mouthful of red currant rum and grinned drunkenly. "Hundred points for Gryffindor!"

This can't be happening, thought Lupin, sucking on his butterbeer bottle.

The book landed atop the table, in almost the same exact spot it had been before Lupin attempted to destroy it. As if mocking him, it flipped open to the picture page. The girl winked and waved. The werewolf growled possessively and dragged her out of view.

Remus Lupin was running out of time.

And self-control.

"Oh, my, it looks as if Harry is about to incinerate the last barrel of Single Malt Whiskey," said the girl Hermione had been talking to with horror. She made to leave, dragging the boy with her.

Er. No.

The book was still not disposed of. Lupin was still in danger of humping Hermione Granger.

Hurry. Hurry.

Lupin gave a low growl, and pushed the book to the floor. It landed with a whiny thud, but Hermione hadn't noticed. Lupin adopted an inconspicuous expression.

Hermione turned back to him, and smiled apologetically. "I don't think Harry will be allowed back here anytime soon." She put a hand to her forehead, as if saying "It's hot in here, isn't it?" Lupin privately agreed.

And before he knew what was happening, Hermione Granger took off her robe.

Lupin shut his eyes tightly, half-expecting to find her sitting there, naked.

He squinted and was disappointed to see her wearing—

She was wearing—well, it was an article of clothing, he knew that much. He just wasn't sure what it was.

"So, if we could get back to my—" said Hermione, then stopped. She looked around, and frowned. "Where'd it go?" she asked, the crease in her forehead deepening.

Lupin tried very hard not to look like a culprit.

Or a pervert.

"Oh!" said Hermione, and Lupin jumped. "There it is."

With one, amazingly fluid movement, she was out of her chair and on her way to retrieve the pesky book.

Lupin tried not to look as Hermione Granger knelt and reached for—

Oi. No. Don't bend over, for Merli—

Oh, my.

Hip hugging, indeed. And a thin panty line overlapping the small of her back. Satin and lace, or cotton. Maybe both. White.

Add a pink feather boa, and voilà, instant sex bunny. Temptation on Muggle platforms that needed their own little disclaimer, with a silver buckle that could fillet a salmon in a second or less.

What? No, Lupin. No.

"What's gotten into you Hermione? (Wish it were me.)" said Lupin, but it came out as, "Er—gttiyherme."

Hermione tilted her head inquiringly as she returned to her seat. "What was that, Professor?"

Lupin noticed that Dean Thomas, sans his burning robes, was staring at them intently. As was Seamus Finnigan. And Neville Longbottom, for that matter. And, oi.

Sirius Black. Lupin could have sworn he'd seen little trickles of drool hanging from the corners of their mouths.

Lupin frowned.

Hey. Only one of us is allowed to be old and creepy today.

Working here, people, keep it moving. Honestly!

Lupin cleared his throat and glanced at Hermione. "Aren't you—er—cold?" he asked tactfully.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "No, Professor Lupin, I'm quite hot."

It was said innocently, but Lupin's mind twisted the context like a housewife converts Lord of the Rings to porn.

He growled low in his throat.

"But thank you for your concern," said Hermione kindly.

She looked around, then scooted closer to Lupin. Lupin didn't complain. In fact, he congratulated the young Miss Granger on a well-executed move.

She, for her part, wrapped her little hands around Lupin's butterbeer bottle (Lupin squirmed most uncomfortably), and asked, in an unsure, conspiratorial voice, "So, how's about it? Will you take me?"

For breakfast, lunch and, if there were no schedule complications, dinner. Lupin shifted.

All right, I give. You win.

Lightning-quick, he grabbed her wrist, planning on grabbing a lot more.

"—as a student?" finished Hermione, and Lupin blinked. He let go of her wrist with a sheepish smile.

"Er—of course," he said, "but I'm not quite sure what it is that I could...teach you."

Aside from avoiding werewolves when they're horny, that is.

Hermione took a sip of his butterbeer. She hadn't swallowed; was just rolling it around with her pink tongue. Lupin watched, transfixed. A sudden epiphany crashed over him. He could leave. He'd put in his fifteen minutes. He was done. The giant squid awaited.

Right. Good. He would just stand up and—

"Well," began Hermione slowly, grazing her fingers against the bottle (up and down, up and down, up and—) absentmindedly.

Lupin's brain shut down. It was a miracle he was still breathing. For a brief moment, a nagging prick of foreboding stabbed at him. Like when you hit the brakes, but the car behind you doesn't.

Shut up and run, Lupin. Danger here. No insurance on your person.

"Well," repeated Hermione, "I'm certain you are aware of my aspirations to write and teach once I leave Hogwarts—"

Lupin hadn't known. He apparently knew her bra size, but anything else—

"A noble profession," muttered Lupin. Hermione stopped stroking the bottle, and beamed at him.

"I think so, yes," she said and moved even closer. Lupin wondered where he began and she ended.

"Very...rewarding," he said, but it sounded suggestive even to his own ears.

Hermione watched him with an odd expression.

"But you know what they say," continued Lupin, "all work and no play—"

Was he flirting? Goodness. No, no, of course not. He was teaching. That's what they paid him for, after all.

"—makes Hermione a dull girl. Yes, so I've heard," finished Hermione with a scowl. Lupin eyed her curiously.

Whatever she was thinking, she shook it off. Like she wanted to be taken seriously.

In that outfit? Good luck.

"I just need a good, hands-on lesson, Professor," she said firmly. "You know, like the one you gave Harry."

Lupin gaped. He never—

Oh.

An actual lesson.

"I want to know everything. No matter how small a detail, or how tedious the subject. Whether it's how to summon a pillow or cure a snake bite."

Lupin tried not to look so disappointed.

"And I want to do it the old fashioned way," Hermione was saying.

Everything above Lupin's waist clamored for blood, but the blood stubbornly refused to move from its cozy spot. Warm and hungry, Lupin tried not to leer. Or, well, at least not be obvious about it. Can't mix business with pleasure.

Well, not today.

"—and what better person to start with?" continued Hermione, caressing his bottle.

She looked up at him, through thick eyelashes, and said, in her sweetest voice, "This book. I'd like it if you could tell me if I'm correct in assuming page 319 is absolutely erroneous, and whether the entire Defense Chapter is riddled with inaccuracies and—"

Lupin's eyes strayed to the picture page again. Okay, that was it. No more. She had to have known what happened to werewolves before a full moon. She had to.

"May I ask a question, Miss Granger?" asked Lupin slyly, brushing aside any ethical thought that may have been brave enough to voice its concerns.

Hermione looked intently at him. The picture page beneath her fingers trembled against the breeze. The girl and the werewolf were still gone. Muffled giggles and growls remained.

"What exactly do you think is so erroneous about page 319?"

Hermione looked taken aback. She gave him a pointed look, flipped open to said page, and shoved the chapter header into his face.

Werewolves In Heat stared at him, bold and underlined.

"Well, if it were true, you—you, Professor Lupin—wouldn't be sitting here with me right now," said Hermione coolly, "you'd be out there, doing this." She flipped back to the picture page.

Lupin grinned.

A wild chill shot down his spine.

So, she didn't know. Well. That just wouldn't do. He'd make sure she actually deserved the title of a know-it-all.

He stood up—once again, extremely grateful for wizards' fashion—and offered her his hand.

"You're right, Hermione," he said silkily.

Hermione's eyes widened. There were two bright patches of pink on her cheeks.

"Er—Professor?"

She wanted a hands-on lesson, thought Lupin, she's certainly going to get one.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" asked Lupin innocently as she accepted his hand. He wrapped his fingers around her little hand, and walked her away from the table, and towards the shadowy stairs.

Hermione was—uncharacteristically—quiet.

Lupin still wore a grin.

One step, two, three. Up against the wall, and spread them.

"Er, Professor, this isn't exactly what I meant when I—"

Lupin was never this grateful to have someone else to blame. The wolf made me do it. The wolf, I tell you.

"You asked for a lesson, Miss Granger," whispered Lupin, letting go of her hand. "I'm merely attempting to debunk your theory and educate you on the finer points of—"

He trailed off, distracted by the rise and fall of her chest. He still hadn't learned what it was that she was wearing. Oh, well. Wouldn't be wearing it soon, anyway.

"Finer points of?" asked Hermione, watching him with wild eyes.

"Er—I forgot," said Lupin, and slammed her into the wall. She blinked at him, and stiffened under his hands.

He dug his fingers into her hips and pressed his lips to hers.

It was a wet, achy slide of lips until he couldn't tell where his ended and hers began.

"Professor," mumbled Hermione. Lupin traced his fingers upwards, nibbling on her lips as he had on that biscuit. Hot, needy, itchy.

He crushed his groin against hers. She mumbled incoherently. Lupin grinned.

"Um, Professor," said Hermione as he pinned her arms above her. Another wet slide of lips, and he thought he felt her respond—

"Er, Moony," said a voice behind them. "I didn't know we were allowed to do that. I'll read the small print next time."

"This—this isn't what it looks like, Mr. Black," muttered Hermione, her cheeks pink.

Lupin groaned and buried his head in Hermione's shoulder.

Author's Note: Must. Resist. Threesome.

Reviews funnier than the fic. Thank you. Also, kudos to my brother, for inspiring most of Black's lines.

Warning: Getting progressively sillier.

One more chapter, and we'll let Lupin live happily ever after. But first—

To paraphrase a certain Pope John, men are like wine. Some turn to vinegar, but the best improve with age.

As Hermione Granger, the perfect candidate for Head Girl (no pun intended), contemplated this particular sentiment, Professor Lupin was busy breathing into her shoulder.

He sighed, groaned, mumbled incoherently and—

Did he just—lick her neck?

Hermione squirmed.

Professor Lupin gritted his teeth, glanced wistfully at Hermione's earlobe, then lifted his head to glare at Mr. Black.

"Naff off, Padfoot," he said calmly, his voice grating against her spine like crushed velvet. He looked awfully peeved, noted Hermione. Like he found it physically impossible to move from his snug little—

Ah, yes.

Footnote on page 320.

Never scoff at a book, Hermione. Books hold grudges forever. And a day. They're always right. They're books.

Padfoot—Mr. Black observed them both for a long moment. Hermione watched—mildly panicky—as his gaze lingered on her lips. He tilted his head inquiringly, his eyebrows twitching contemplatively.

Oh, dear.

He was mulling it over and—

"Is this why you give 'em chocolate?" asked Mr. Black, looking entirely too amused. Incidentally, his eyes continued to stray to Hermione's bare shoulders.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Professor Lupin finally let go of her.

Cold, thought Hermione, as an icy breeze assaulted her. No more man-mountain to shield her. Drat.

Cold, she realized, as Mr. Black's gaze dropped to her chest. Flushing, she brought her arms across her breasts, and found an interesting spot on the floor.

Professor Lupin stood there—lost, indignant without knowing quite why, that graying mane of his flying in all directions. Slightly retro, in that Rogaine commercial way (while Kevin Sorbo had still been the poster boy).

And a scar.

All right, maybe not. But it never hurts to accessorize.

"What are you on about?" asked Professor Lupin angrily.

Mr. Black spoke as if he were addressing a squad of poker-playing Dementors.

"Chocolate," he said as if it were obvious.

Professor Lupin narrowed his eyes, confused. Hermione cleared her throat, and resisted the urge to raise her hand like she routinely did in class.

"Um, it's an aphrodisiac, Professor," she said as unobtrusively as possible.

The double-take was amusing, in a wholly inappropriate way.

Professor Lupin's eyes widened. He glanced at Hermione ("I would never!"), then fixed Mr. Black with a death glare that could rival Lucius Malfoy's.

"Five points for Gryffindor," grinned Mr. Black, watching her oddly. A thrill ran down her spine.

All right. Options, front and center.

Avada Kedavra. No, too depressing. Madam Rosmerta had too much to clean already.

Good old fashioned hit and run? Pull a Halle Berry? I had nothing to do with it, honest, officer.

"You're not allowed to give out points, Sirius," said Professor Lupin moodily, his lips thinning.

Mr. Black gave an arrogant, unruffled snort. "And you're not allowed to shag students," he said, raising an evil eyebrow.

Hermione swallowed. How long would it take to burrow her way to China?

Professor Lupin had the decency to flush. He growled low in his throat, and continued bickering with an extremely entertained Mr. Black.

An Invisibility Cloak. My kingdom for an Invisibility Cloak. Damn Harry and his accidental disasters.

Hermione gave an inward sigh.

The stairway behind her was an appealing blur.

Careful now, Granger.

Maybe you could just—quietly—just a little further—the steps—

A hand, steady and rather strong, grabbed her wrist. Professor Lupin hadn't even looked at her. He'd just reached for her hand and poof, just like that—Hermione Granger was rooted to her mortifying spot.

Impressive.

"Contrary to popular belief—I—I don't specialize in this sort of thing," said Professor Lupin furiously.

Um.

Pansy Parkinson. Of the Slytherin fame. Is this why she kept insisting Professor Lupin tutor her every thirty days or so? Ow. No. Ick. Ew. Bad. Horrible, simply disg—

Professor Lupin's hand seemed to have swallowed Hermione's. Somehow, she found herself standing closer to him, awkwardly wrapped up and snuggled into the crook of his shoulder.

Absentmindedly, he'd been stroking Hermione's arms. His hands were cold, noticed Hermione through a haze of tasty chills.

You know what cold hands mean, don't you? Don't you? Sex. Cold hands equal sex. He wants sex. Professor Lupin wants—

Huh. Percy Weasley's hands had always been cold. Interesting.

"I've never done this before," continued Professor Lupin defensively as he tucked Hermione closer into him.

"Well, what do you want? A medal?" asked Mr. Black with a wicked grin. Black hair, brown eyes and a horrible fashion sense. Yet somehow—

Professor Lupin might have flushed, but his skin was already a warm color. So. Hermione had no trouble pretending this was merely a normal, everyday conversation. About professors snogging students. Professors snogging Hermione.

"You haven't hexed her, have you?" asked Mr. Black after a while. His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

Oh, no. No. Stay where you are, don't come closer—

Um. Um. Eldeflower wine. On his breath. And his breath on her cheek.

His gaze dipped lower, lower—

"Er—" he sputtered, fixing his eyes on her neck, then her collarbone, then—

That was it, then. Lavender Brown was going down. In a senseless violence kind of way. No Sappho.

Never again, Hermione. You stay away from Lavender Brown. Burn her closet. No, burn Lavender.

"Oi," complained Professor Lupin. A wild streak of almost golden hair fell across his eyes. Hermione tilted her head and tried not to sigh. And then, something was tugging at her, pulling her away from Mr. Black.

"I doubt Miss Granger appreciates your Philistine behavior," Professor Lupin was saying. One of his hands came to rest on her behind.

Like affection, only not.

"I don't hear her complaining," shrugged Mr. Black, grinning.

Well—

Hermione Granger, who'd sworn to never, ever, ever, borrow another book from Madame Pince's special stash, blushed to the tips of her toes.

Why hadn't Hogwarts, A History covered this specific quagmire?

Well, there you are, Granger. Hell's frozen over. Ron Weasley has been proven right. You can't learn it all from a book.

The hand on her behind slid upwards.

No, no, stay where you are—

All right. There's not bad, either.

The small of her back felt practically inflamed. Like she'd overdosed on Pepper-Up potion. Dr. Pepper and Seven Up. Nifty.

"At least I have an excuse," said Professor Lupin, with a hint of condescending ire.

Mr. Black looked up incredulously. "Oh, yes, please, and what were you planning to say? Do forgive me, Dumbledore, I've been slipped last year's lunar chart instead of this year's?—At least I'm drunk."

"Are you really? I couldn't tell," snapped Professor Lupin.

"Well, what about that famous self-control of yours?" asked Mr. Black.

"Been there, done that, am selling the t-shirt," said Lupin grumpily. "Besides, I don't criticize your educational system."

"Probably because I haven't got one yet," replied Mr. Black. "But rest assured, I'll make sure to consult you when I start feeling randy."

And they stood there, bickering. Laurel & Hardy, sans the obesity.

Hermione had been half-way to a successful escape plan, when Mr. Black asked, "Perhaps we should ask Miss Granger, as she is somewhat directly involved?"

Somewhat?

Both men stared at her.

This was—it was—

Oh, my.

Not something you'd tell your sweet, dentist mother about.

"Er—I must admit I'm not quite sure what the question is," she said slowly.

Professor Lupin eyed her oddly. One of his eyebrows was arched ever so slightly.

Oh. Oh! Oh, God.

A small, mind-numbingly sexy smile played about his lips. "I've attempted to explain about our, er, experiment."

Hermione blinked.

"Er...our experiment, yes."

Well. That sounded altogether unconvincing.

"Yes," urged Professor Lupin, "you've a tentative hypothesis to be tested and accepted or rejected in favor of an alternative, don't you, Miss Granger? I'm merely serving to illustrate a well-known, yet unproved assumption."

Ah.

All right. Be logical about this, Granger. This is a man, not a boy. You know how boys are. They play knight in shining armor until you forget to do your hair and put on makeup. Then, you find your dashing Prince Charming watching gay porn in the attic. Middle-age crisis, he'd say, and you'd develop a beautiful relationship with the bottle.

It happened to Cinderella.

(After all, what straight man would obsess over a shoe that much?)

Hermione Granger, who was certainly not a foolish, ordinary girl, glanced up.

Sirius Black stared expectantly.

Professor Lupin, who'd most likely hate her next week, watched her with a boyish expression.

"Er—in the name of science," said Hermione bravely, "I suppose I should be willing to try everything once."

Professor Lupin grinned triumphantly.

Quickly, he pulled her closer.

Hermione gave a small whimper, and looked up at—at a curious-looking Mr. Black.

Oh, no.

No.

He wasn't going to—

He was.

"Well, then," said Mr. Black lazily, "if that's the case, let me help you along. I certainly wouldn't want to hinder your learning experience."

And with that, he bent his head lower, obviously intent on a quick—in Marauders terms—kiss.

Hermione felt Professor Lupin tense up, and just as she was about to protest, a shrill, half-hoarse voice filled the narrow hallway.

"Get your red-hot jam tarts, your red-hot jam tarts right here," said a plump, dimpled witch. She parked her food cart behind Mr. Black, and cocked her head.

"Oh," she said coolly, "I see you're getting your own."

Hermione flushed.

Mr. Black turned to snipe at the witch and—

A sly, peculiarly reserved grin. Professor Lupin's. Hermione's hand was clutched in his. And then—

Off they went. Dashing up the stairs. On, Prancer, on Vixen.

Well, you've always had a thing for the lunatic fringe, Hermione reminded herself. Professor Lockheart hadn't exactly been Mr. Sense and Sensibility. Nor was he this...this—

Damn it.

"I am terribly sorry about all this," said Professor Lupin as he dragged her up the stairs, away from Mr. Black. Somehow, he sounded rather unapologetic.

"Oh, it's quite all right, Professor," mumbled Hermione, throwing wary glances over her shoulder.

One foot in front of the other, breathe in, breathe out. Pace yourself. Take notes, this may be on the exam.

I do hope it's on the exam.

There. Corridor. Another stairway. Next floor. Doors. Dozens of numbered doors.

"Pick one," murmured Lupin into her hair. How does he do that? That low, rumbling—

He lowered his head, slumped to graze his teeth over her jaw. Hungry. And it was extremely contagious.

Hermione felt dizzy.

"That one!" she said a little too enthusiastically.

He looked up briefly, then grinned down at her.

Er—

"Yes, yes, that one does seem perfect for conducting an experiment such as this," he said, and rushed for the door.

The rooms probably all looked about the same, but Hermione wasn't ready to complain. After all, she didn't want to lose House points.

In. Dimmed lights, scent of lime and old fireworks. Unoccupied.

"Oh dear," said Professor Lupin innocently, "I'm afraid this is all moving so very fast." He shot her a brilliant grin.

Hermione leaned against the door for support.

"It's all right, Professor. I've seen glaciers move faster."

Uh.

Did she—did she just hit on a teacher?

There had to be some kind of penalty for hitting on a professor. Like for hitting on a priest, perhaps?

Down on your knees and give me twenty enthusiastic—

Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a—

—pound of flesh.

Oh, dear.

There went Professor Lupin's robes.

He'd flung them aside carelessly, and was now standing there, in the middle of the room, wearing—

Skin. He had pretty skin. Pretty. And half-naked. And pretty.

Hermione Granger, who was vaguely aware Professor Lupin had less taste in pants than Harry Potter's uncle, coughed violently.

Look. The floor is pretty, too. There. A pumpkin tart wrapper and, if you concentrate dead hard (oh, hard), there's the carpet (Slytherin green), and further to the left, beneath that ugly painting, the bed—

"Claustrarius!" she heard herself say. The door locked behind her. Er.

"Twenty points for Gryffindor," said Professor Lupin, watching her with dark, warm eyes.

"I do admire your attentiveness to detail," he continued craftily. He took one step, two, and there he was, staring down at her.

Hermione wondered what the speed limit was for this particular lesson.

"Thank you, Professor," she mumbled, taking a small step back. Well.

At least she'd earned twenty five points for her house. Er, Professor McGonagall ought to approve—

Goodness. Professor Lupin was burning up. His skin was borderline hot, like he'd been running a fever. He touched his forehead to hers, pressing his palms into the wall behind her.

Hermione stared at his lips.

He smelled of chamomile. Nice, warm scent that bypassed her nose and shot straight to that little spot between her chest and stomach. Made her feel sleepy, but not quite.

"I'm afraid I haven't handled this as well as I would have liked to," said Professor Lupin in a low, labored voice.

Oh. What was—his hand—oh, a little to the left, please.

"Er, I suppose we could have put a memory charm on Mr. Black," suggested Hermione helpfully. She arched her back, trying not to think about the picture page. That girl sure had been gone a long time.

Lucky wench.

Professor Lupin cocked his head, and watched her with an odd, calculating look. And then he laughed, but in that strained, husky manner.

"That's not quite what I meant," he said, trailing his fingers up her arm.

Predictably, Hermione shivered.

"Oh," she replied weakly, and watched as Professor Lupin's lips parted invitingly.

One hand still pushing against the wall, he nudged her hips with his.

A light, rumbling growl rose up from his throat. "Tea, Miss Granger?"

His index finger paused near her collarbone.

Tickle, but not really. Annoying. Want more. Now.

Hermione found her voice. Eventually. "Er, would tea be detrimental to the lesson?"

Professor Lupin grinned. "Most certainly."

His other hand finally left the wall. And zeroed in on Hermione's hip. Lower, lower, then up, lightly. Short, blunt nails skimmed the waistline of her pants (Lavender Brown's pants). Ah.

"Then no, thank you," said Hermione. Was that a whimper? Silly. Do you care?

"Excellent," mumbled Professor Lupin. He bent slightly, hooked an arm behind her knees and—

Up she went.

"Five points for Gryffindor," said Professor Lupin as he carried her off.

Yes, indeed. Professor McGonagall will be proud, thought Hermione, taking advantage of her brain while it still cooperated.

And then said brain noted that she, Hermione Granger, a Hogwarts prefect, a role model to dozens of brainy little girls, was nestled in a professor's arms. About to be ravished because of her brain—

Oh, no. No.

Put me down. Put me down. Put me—

There was the bed. Professor Lupin tightened his grip on her. Long fingers. He had long fingers. Some of them too long, apparently. Digging into her flesh, brushing against her breast.

Nerve endings, Professor. Damn it.

She dared a glance at him. He was eyeing the bed. Then, a sly, obviously impatient grin slowly spread over his lips. And a growl, starting deep in his chest.

I see.

Put me down. Put me down. Put me—

His face went lower, lower, lower, until he'd covered her mouth, tongue darting out to lick at the corner of her lips.

Oh God.

Throw me down. Throw me down.

And he did.

Author's Note: Well, my summer sucked. But how are you?

Onto the reviews.

Lord no, Hermione will not end up pregnant. I'd rather she be inflicted with a nasty case of rabies than children.

Thank you all for reviewing. You've made this experiment a wonderful (albeit adorably kinky) experience.

Mandatory Warning: Mild NC-17, yadda, blah, moo, go away if you're underage in your part of the world, blahbetty blah blah.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that orgasm has six stages.

Hermione Granger, who was relatively certain she was well past the asthmatic stage ("Ah, ah, ah!"), tugged at Professor Lupin's ugly pants.

Insane.

He was insane. Crazy, batty, unbalanced, nuts, screwy, off his dot. Balmy, harebrained, loony, silly, beyond the realm of reason, absurd. Bats in his belfry. Lost his marbles. Sold his bloody buttons.

And was pressing all of hers, quite deliciously at that.

The professor in question paused to shoot Hermione a slightly reticent look, but was promptly distracted by, well, obviously—Hermione's breasts.

Feel free to leave your knees and elbows untucked at all times, thought Hermione bemusedly.

Once bemusement became bored and decided to make way for coherence, Hermione Granger couldn't help but compare and contrast. After all, life was one big assignment, and good marks and better observations were exceedingly important.

Viktor who? kept flitting through her addled mind. All similarities were unintended and purely coincidental.

Viktor had been...er. Awkward? Confused? Possibly thinking about the Golden Snitch?

Insert coin into slot, get soda. Whee! Simple as that, Herm-oh-ninny.

But this—

Phase two was geographical in nature. There! Yes, right there—a little to the left and—

Professor Lupin seemed to know just where to go, without having to stop at a supermarket to ask for directions.

"Mrhmr rmmh," said one of them. Hermione wasn't sure which (though she suspected it wasn't Professor Lupin, as he had his mouth full). Apparently, her vocal chords had joined a union and were working independent from her brain. Not that her brain complained. Most of the sex stuff takes place there anyway.

Right. Anyway.

Hermione squirmed. The bed rocked. The floor creaked. And the ceiling, well, the ceiling was there, too.

This was so very wrong. Being in a creepy green room quite reminiscent of a Slytherin setting, in a marginally creepy situation with—

Professor Lupin was usually so much more practical and reasonable, sensible and—

—his mouth closed around her nipple—

—pretty.

Remember what Ron said? (God, do not think about Ron Weasley now, Granger.)

'Looks like one good hex could finish him off.'

Hex, sex, same difference.

So.

You should stop. If not for morality's sake, then—

And while Professor—professor!—Lupin's lips played with her nipples, Hermione watched him. As all new material, he was rather fascinating. He still looked feverish. But intent and focused. His eyes were sleepy slits under those bushy eyebrows and he wore that Boy-Look of Concentration. Same one girls get sometimes. When they're oddly fascinated with Jell-O and aren't quite sure why.

No. It would take more than one, erm, hex, to finish him off. So.

Before she knew what she was doing, Hermione'd began running her hands through his hair. There. At his nape—lovely, lovely nape—was a small elastic band.

Hmm.

With a slow tug, she pulled it off and—

Oh, dear God.

Professor Lupin with his hair down. No ponytail.

Oh, yes. Rodin's Thinker, only, well—sexy. Dark gold and rich brown peppered with gray and the eyes.

"What's the matter?" he asked, his voice muffled by her flesh.

Hermione's bellybutton tickled.

Aside from the obvious? she said, but it came out as, "Hveyanlv?"

Surprisingly, she felt his lips curl up into a satisfied little smile against her skin. "Should've had the tea," he deadpanned, and slid his fingers around her wrists.

Mmm. With sugar. Two lumps. Or twelve. Oh, happy diabetes awaited her somewhere down the road. But that was okay because you can never have too much sugar. Or too much—

Oh.

There went his hands. Locking hers. Up. Above her head. Over the hills and far away.

Below her chest—deep within—there was a hot, greedy itch, like a long, unending string of pure want. Avarice and all those tasty Dante vices.

Which, logically, must have been stage three, where one turns into a stockbroker or an Americanized Hugh Grant. More! More!

And, oh my, Professor Lupin's hands should be illegal. His wand, wherever he'd been hiding it, too.

Her pants? Gone. Her, erm, shirt? Not a trace of it. Hermione briefly entertained thoughts of Professor Lupin transfiguring Lavender Brown's pants into a pair of ugly, old overalls, but quickly dismissed it as irrelevant as she was getting progressively more—naked.

And then, her panties just—weren't.

Oh, dear. Exposed like an American politician; naked, bare, stripped, undressed, disrobed (which was a stretch, as her robe had probably already been found by Professor McGonagall and a search party was forming).

And—

And then, with a tiny cmthwack, her panties were back again. Sticking to her body in a purely Mugglelicious manner.

Professor Lupin, feverish-looking, looked up, grinned and said, in a low rumble, "Manual labor should take precedence over magic if experiment is to be successful."

Hermione promptly died, waved to God, then returned to find his lips on her collarbone (lips and tongue and teeth and save me), and his hands slipping her panties off.

Oh, my.

Of course, as these symposiums often go, someone had to serve as a moral center, and since it so obviously wasn't going to be Professor Lupin—

"Professor, I was thi—"

His hand slipped between her thighs.

"Yes?"

"Oh," breathed Hermione studiously, "nothing."

And then she squirmed. Professor Lupin licked the inside of her thigh and an irrationally tasty tremor shot through her entire body. She hit her head against the pillow, hair spilling everywhere, biting her lip.

"Maybe we should—" began Hermione valiantly.

Professor Lupin slid her left leg over his shoulder, running his hand over her thigh, leaning in closer, closer, closer—

"Hmm?"

"Oh, God, nothing!"

"Very well," he mumbled, peppering her stomach with tiny little butterfly kisses. Well, if by butterfly kisses one is actually thinking of a Discovery Channel type of mating documentary.

And then, just as Hermione managed to clear her head again, his tongue dipped into her bellybutton and his finger—

Oh, God. God.

The next stage had to have been religious as Hermione Granger had never thought about God as much as she did right then.

At one point, Professor Lupin did look up, with a slightly apologetic glance (having felt compelled to say something relatively mushy and promptly being told by the wolf to, respectively, shut up), then resumed with the touching and the tasting and the—

Oh, well. Why not make his job (which was still merely teaching for the sake of teaching, of course) easier?

There's a good girl, Hermione.

She slid her other leg over his shoulder and he looked up, slightly startled.

And then he grinned. "The point is," said Professor Lupin huskily, "to always keep your mind about you."

Mind. Check. No. Not here. Will page at front desk later.

Of course, while Hermione used this split second to ponder, Professor Lupin took advantage of her distraction, and raised himself up, his stomach brushing against hers. So. Hermione Granger had no other choice but to wrap her legs around his, well—buttocks.

"At this point, I must remind you how wrong you were in regards to your assumptions—" began Professor Lupin silkily, and then—

He was pressing against her.

"And I do so hate being wrong," she said and froze.

And what is good, Phaedrus? And what is not good? Need we ask anyone to tell us these things? Need we take into consideration all the moral precepts—

Oh, do shut up.

"Experiment beginning at 19:02," said Hermione shakily, staring at the ceiling and holding onto Professor Lupin's shoulders like she were a Titanic reject.

"Duly noted," he whispered, looking slightly reluctant. But then—

"Oh, God."

Whoever said it, was completely right. Oh, God, indeed.

Firstly, stretching. And an unclassified sort of pain; a scratch, an organic equivalent to an ice-pack. Secondly, everywhere.

Professor Lupin stopped, watching. Hermione exhaled, loosened her death-grip on his shoulders, then gingerly nudged his hips with hers.

And then, her brain frizzed out. An overload of sensations she couldn't keep track off. Slick and wet and oh so full. Stretching and pushing and pulsing and more. Cornucopia of Dr. Seuss beats and rhythms—mm mh hmm, hm hm hmmm.

Pressure, need for release, need to—it was building up quickly, mostly because Professor Lupin kept staring at her. As if the roles were reversed and she were the instigator; he the innocent bystander.

And this had to have been that suicidal stage. I'm dying. I'm dying.

His thrusts were—as unexpected as it might have been for a werewolf in heat—controlled. Slow but deep, then shallow and quicker. His hair tickled her breastbone, so she smiled that satisfied little smile you just know Metatron would be making fun of.

Through a haze of sensations, inarticulate little noises filtered in. Him mumbling, her mentioning homework, and the bed squeaking most irritably. But it didn't matter, because Hermione Granger was entering that last, delicious (and slightly dangerous) stage where one turns homicidal.

If you stop, I'll kill you. And your little dog, too.

Oh, dog. Sirius Black. Oh, God, no.

"Profe—" she begun but—

Everything around her was pulsing, thrumming and nothing mattered but making him go deeper, faster, harder—

And then—

Oh, God.

It was a minor shift, barely a different angle and yet—he was—it was—her front walls—tickle—didn't-know-that-existed-oh-god-thank-you-thank-you-so-very-much.

Hermione's lips parted. She arched her back, digging her nails into his skin. Professor Lupin's arms were pressing into the mattress. The mattress, for its part, was banging against the wooden headboard. And the wooden headboard, well, the wooden headboard was there, too.

Just a little deeper, just a little bit more and—

She'd be gone. To that little happy place. And if she were lucky, she'd never have to come back. Ever.

"Hermione."

His voice was low, barely a whisper. Short, ragged breathing, and tightly shut eyes. Wisps of wild hair flying about, occasionally sticking to sweaty skin. Fingers digging into flesh. Her forearms were smarting, but it was a nice, hot, greedy kind of pain.

"This," said Professor Lupin, but Hermione could only mumble incoherently, crushing her lips to his. He groaned, his hands sliding from the sheets onto her skin. His body entirely covered hers. White sheets tangled themselves around his feet. The curtains (which went unnoticed until that point due to, erm, the room randomly changing as it was a Friday) fluttered madly in the breeze.

Rhythmic, better, more.

"Can't," continued Lupin in a peculiar, strangled voice.

"Professor," said Hermione, but it came out as a series of quick, almost panicky chants. His hips, they—deeper. An almost-cramp rushed through her body, pausing specifically near her calves. Don'tstopdon'tstopdon'tstop.

His thrusts were quicker, deeper, less controlled. Good.

And just when Hermione was considering locking Professor Lupin in her closet never to let him out again—

His hand traveled lower.

Between their bodies, down her stomach, below her bellybutton, lower, frantic and determined and God, not there.

Fingers. And tugging. And fingers.

Briefly, she wondered what her obituary would say, and whether the cleaning lady would be surprised to find Hermione's (spontaneously combusted) remains.

She might have screamed. They might have heard her in India. A Gibranian butterfly might have died and Voldemort might have risen again. Hermione didn't care. If Mr. Black walked in right now, she would have given him a goofy, dazed grin and said, "We need more chocolate over here, Snuffles."

And then, the white spots before her eyes cleared. Tiny tremors still ran through her fingertips and she could barely feel anything below her waist. Slowly, her muscles relaxed. Everything was so, well, complete.

Everything except—

Oh, my.

Professor Lupin, he—

Oh, dear.

No.

He couldn't.

It wouldn't be—

No.

He was staring at her, grinning. His face was flushed, eyes dark. An odd smile curled his lips upwards. Barely a hint of teeth; straight and white and every dentist's fantasy.

Mum'd be proud.

("Hello, Hermione. Have a good year, did you?"

"Oh, you know how it is, Mum. The evil dark lord is dead, and I've slept with a professor. Pass the toast, please."

"Goodness, Hermione! Certainly not that Snape fellow!"

"Heavens, no. Mary Sue's already got him in her clutches. The wedding's in June. We're not invited, of course. Mary wants a private ceremony. Harry'll go, of course, since Mary's his long lost twin sister."

"I see. And this professor fellow—?"

"He's got really pretty teeth, Mum."

"Splendid! Marmalade?")

Hermione was giddy. Tired, but giddy and incredibly—

Professor Lupin was still staring. Still wearing that quirky, odd smile. What was he thinking?

Don't forget to tell your friends about our service?

Erm, no.

This experience is going into The Vault, Granger. Under lock and key. Need-to-know basis. And no one needs to know.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi," replied Hermione quietly. A blush spread over her cheeks.

"Hi," said Professor Lupin, and nudged her hips with his.

Oh, dear.

Hermione reddened. He wasn't—he was still—well, this is an experiment, Granger.

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

"Miss Granger," said Professor Lupin as if it took a great deal of effort to just stay like that, without moving. "How many pages are there in that travesty of a book you were reading?"

Book? What book? When was there a—

Oh.

"Wicked With—?" began Hermione carefully, fighting a blush.

This was so wrong. Her body was still trying to calm down. Slightly sore and terribly embarrassed and he was still—

"Yes," said Professor Lupin, sliding his hands away from her hips.

Hermione tried to concentrate. Professor Lupin's fingers were gliding toward her neck, dipping to her side, drawing themselves up lightly.

Goosebumps. Delicious, dangerous goosebumps.

"I—I think...478?" whispered Hermione, trying to stare at the ceiling instead.

"I see—" said Professor Lupin with more composure. Hermione swallowed. His body was pressed up against hers.

Did you only just notice? Or, did you think he spent the last fifteen minutes on the other side of the room?

His brow was furrowed in concentration, slightly beaded with perspiration. Hermione wondered how upset Professor Lupin would be if she licked it off.

Erm.

"—And how many do you think we've covered by today's experiment?" he asked, his hand brushing against her breast. Hermione's toes curled.

Er, the entire west wing of the Restricted Section?, she wanted to say.

But instead, as Hermione was neither stupid nor afraid of a challenge, she grinned and said, "Oh, well, I'm not quite certain, Professor, but I do believe we've a good start on the Foreword."

And then, Professor Lupin grinned, almost naughtily.

"I'm inclined to agree, Miss Granger."

Oh, dear.

Foot. Meet mouth. How do you do?

You're digging yourself deeper, Hermione.

Yes, well, so's he.

And he was.

Professor Lupin gave her a cheeky grin she was almost positive she would never see again, then moved. His skin was still burning as he buried his head into her shoulder, dragging his teeth over her collarbone.

For the umpteenth time, Hermione reminded herself how wrong this was.

Wrong. The Butterfield Church's 'Have you read my book? There will be a test! Signed—God' kind of wrong. 'I want to be a cookie in my next life' kind of wrong. Wrong on so many levels. On so many—

Why'd he stop?

What was—

"I do believe there was a page missing," was all she heard before he withdrew, grabbed hold of her waist, and flipped her over. Before she could protest, his mouth was on her shoulder.

"I can see why," said Hermione to no one in particular. The pillow sighed wistfully.

And then—

His hands were cupping her sides, palms grazing over slick flesh, fingers sandwiching themselves between her stomach and the mattress. She wanted desperately to turn around and—

"What are you doing?" she asked as something cold slid down her back.

"I just remembered we're wizards," said Professor Lupin lazily.

There. Coconut and vanilla. Creamy and cold on her back and he was massaging it into her skin.

You are one lucky wench, Hermione.

I know.

"Anything else you want me to conjure up?" asked Professor Lupin, his voice a deep, low rumble. His fingers slipped lower, thumbs smoothing out her dimples.

"Mshlkmi shmh hmm," answered Hermione.

"Perfectly ingenious idea," grinned Professor Lupin, and swooped down to brush her hair aside. He nuzzled her neck, and she felt his teeth—slightly pointy now—scraping and tickling the side of her jaw.

There you go, Granger, dear. Back on the roller coaster, no admission fee. You must be this tall to ride.

Ride?

Well, why not?

And just like that, she turned over. Unfortunately, Professor Lupin, as he hadn't been expecting Hermione to exhibit vigilante-like reflexes, lost his balance and toppled over, his back hitting the mattress, hard. Consequently, he'd landed on his side, very close to the edge of the bed. Hermione, inarguably worried (she would lose House points), reached out, but only succeeded in getting herself twisted in a tangle of limbs. Ultimately, after a short struggle (which was more arousing than humiliating, though the line was very thin), they both tumbled to the floor in a tangle of sheets.

"Uff," grunted Professor Lupin somewhere beneath her.

C'mon. Open your eyes, Granger. It's safe. Promise.

Hermione squinted.

Erm.

Well, you always rather wanted to be on top anyway. Lalalala.

Professor Lupin grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. "19:34, experiment temporarily disrupted."

"Duly noted," said Hermione, shifting. "Attempting to restart experiment at 19:35."

Um.

Certainly, Jane Austen would have been horrified. Hermione Granger, an avid do-gooder, was sitting on her professor's knees, head tilted inquisitively, wondering if she should inquire after Professor Lupin's parents.

("And your parents?"

"Oh, they're—they're well."

"Yes, well. And your sisters?"

"I've none. Could you perhaps...? It is ever so cold.")

Had she a spark of decency left, Hermione wouldn't have looked. She'd, however, forgotten all about decency and all the complications that went with it because there, underneath his jaw, began a most marvelous view. His neck was lovely. His chest even more so. His breathing was erratic, his eyes alive. So, forget Mr. Darcy—Mr. Darcy was never this—

Real. Pulsing and throbbing and looking much more appealing than it had any right to.

So. There it was, looking at her. Some assembly required?

Hermione hesitated.

Oh, for heaven's sake! Touch it. Just guide point A to point B.

Go ahead. It won't bite. Unless you—

No. No magic during sex. Well, no more magic during sex.

"Supervising party wondering if something's gone horribly wrong with experiment?" asked Professor Lupin. Hermione glanced at him. And kept glancing at him until the contagious little twinkle of amusement passed from his features to hers.

"Assisting party apologizing; shifting blame to persistent scent of coconuts. Theorizing said scent strong distraction."

And then, bravely, Hermione's fingers reached out and brushed against—

Professor Lupin was watching her with an odd, almost feral look.

Well, it's his, of course he'll feel a little overprotective about it.

Hermione held her breath, guiding him blindly. And then, her knees almost buckled, so she had no other choice but to straddle him properly.

A low, tingle-inducing growl rose from somewhere deep in his chest. Hermione bit her lip. He was inside her again and it was—

You've turned into such a cliché, Granger, said a tiny voice inside her. Incidentally, it sounded like Malfoy on helium.

All purple prose and high expectations.

Somehow, Hermione managed to keep her eyes focused on Professor Lupin's face. His eyes were closed, a few wild streaks of almost-golden hair plastered to his face and neck. Twice your age. Old enough to know better.

Oh, well, you're young enough to plead insanity, so it all works out.

No. No. This is such a bad idea. Bad idea that—

Professor Lupin opened his eyes.

"Hi," he said warily.

"Hi," answered Hermione.

Fine. A bad idea with a good reason behind it. Um.

You can think of a plausible reason later, Granger. Much later.

So, she moved. Up and down, slowly. Professor Lupin frowned and bumped his head against the floor. She could see his muscles tense.

Any moment now, he'll wake up from that Imperius curse he's probably under and it'll all be over.

So.

Deeper, faster, harder.

His hands were riding high on her hip now. Vaguely, Hermione was aware of silly little noises; grunts and moans and an occasional whimper followed by a growl. Skin slapping skin, sweaty flesh meeting sweaty flesh and all that.

Somewhere along the line, her fingers had started digging into his stomach, nails scarping across corded muscles and—

19, 20, 21.

Concentrate. Keep counting. Possibility of new record high.

Although—

If you lose count, you have to start again.

Good point. All right.

"Hermione," said Professor Lupin rather inarticulately. Hermione ignored him. Her whole body seemed to be either on fire or had already decided to melt without formally notifying her.

To feel him inside, stretching her, scratching against the best of nerve endings—

Her movements became less controlled—erratic, shorter, deeper and mmmm, almost there.

You might just die if you keep going, Granger.

That's quite all right.

Automatically, Hermione arched her head, shoulders, back, shifting and—GOD!

Professor Lupin cried out, sounding both very close and distant at the same time. They were both panting wildly, she was sure of it, and someone was bound to hear them and—

"Close," he murmured, holding her hips in a death-grip.

"Mh hmm."

"Excellent progress," he managed, "Miss Granger."

Miss Granger. Through a haze of half-pleasure, half-pain, half-anticipation (math obviously being inconsequential to the experiment), Hermione smiled up at the ceiling and managed a breathy, "Thank you, Professor."

And there. He was gone. She felt him raise his hips, dig his fingers deeper into her flesh and slam her down onto him. Burying deeper, one last thrust, that happy little stroke that bravely goes where no man has ever gone before.

Carelessly, she slid toward him, hands stretching out, a ring on one of her fingers catching on his right nipple and—

"Hemmmrjh!" he shouted, hips jerking wildly.

And, oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God.

Just a little more, please. To the left and—

Professor. Mating With Werewolves. Pretty skin. And naked. And pretty.

The pressure that had steadily been building up in her breasts and stomach was gone in one, brilliantly abrupt, boom.

Hermione probably screamed.

In an "Evacuate the city, Mr. President!" kind of way.

And just when she was almost certain she could jump out of the window and fly (without a broomstick—no pun intended), a loud crash shot through the room, shaking dust from the ceiling.

"—could be in danger—heard screaming—" someone was saying.

Oh, holy mother of all that is sweet and pure.

The door—off its hinges. And—Professor McGonagall.

Hermione froze.

"—just because You-Know-Who is dead doesn't mean we oughtn't look for missing wizards and—oh."

No one breathed for a full minute.

"Oh, dear," said Professor McGonagall finally, looking faint.

Hermione considered saying, "It's not what it looks like, Professor McGonagall!" but decided memory charms worked just as well, if not better.

There. Hand holding out a sheet. Professor Lupin's hand. And other parts. Glistening, naked parts. Underneath her. In her.

Professor McGonagall was staring at the floor wildly, muttering under her breath and cleaning her glasses obsessively. Hermione wrapped the sheet around herself and privately thanked God because it quite obviously couldn't get much worse—

"I did try to stop her," said an amused voice, skulking behind Professor McGonagall.

No no no no no.

Sirius Black.

Hermione's cheeks positively burned with humiliation. Professor McGonagall coughed most uncomfortably, Mr. Black cocked an eyebrow and said, in a perfectly innocent voice, "Oh, by all means, don't let us interrupt."

And then Hermione Granger and Professor Lupin quickly scrambled to their feet, and backed into their respective corners.

"Ah," continued Mr. Black, staring at Hermione's makeshift toga, "I see we've moved on to a Roman theme." With a wicked, wholly inappropriate grin, he scanned the room appreciatively, then clasped Professor McGonagall's shoulder.

"Perhaps while we wait for Miss Granger and Professor Lupin to dress, I could tell you all about the Oedipus complex," Mr. Black was saying as he steered Professor McGonagall away from the scene of the crime.

Grinning evilly, he cast one last glance over his shoulder.

Dog.

The door slammed shut behind him.

All. Right. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look at partner in crime. Die of shame. Kill partner in crime. Change name, move to another country. You've always liked the name Bailey. Bailey Sledge. How do you do? Name's Sledge. Bailey Sledge.

Oh, God.

Professor Lupin looked worse than she felt. Well, actually, he looked extremely hot, what with the flushed skin and the tousled hair and the post-coital sheen of sweat and all.

Keep it in your pants, Granger.

"This must never happen again," said Professor Lupin dazedly.

The sex or the getting caught part? she wondered privately.

"No, no, absolutely not," nodded Hermione, flushing. The sheet he'd so inexpertly wrapped around himself was too loose and—

"Certainly not, no," he mumbled, frozen to his spot.

"No, n—erm, could you perhaps cover your—?"

"Wh—oh," quickly, he tugged at the sheet, a deeper, darker shade of red creeping up his neck. "Like I was saying, this should—what?"

"—and the—" Hermione pointed uncomfortably.

"Yes, thank you, now—"

"You know, maybe I should just turn around while you—" as she was saying this, Hermione's own sheet slid lower.

Oh, for crying—

An echo of that werewolf primality etched itself across Professor Lupin's face.

"Or," he inhaled deeply, "perhaps you might assist supervising party with dressing properly?" He arranged his face into an innocent expression. "Extra credit, of course."

You're never getting out of Hogwarts alive, Hermione, darling.

And just when she was ready and willing to blame the wolf, too, Professor McGonagall decided to promptly interfere again.

"Remus! Miss Granger!" came her impatient shriek from somewhere behind the door.

And unfortunately for Hermione Granger and Remus Lupin, said shriek was followed by the sound of Sirius Black laughing his head off.

Best served cold, and all that.

-

Sirius Black, though sufficiently inebriated, paced the length of the demolished room rather steadily. Harry Potter, who was positive he'd finally caught the Golden Snitch, giggled once he realized he was holding a brick. Ron Weasley, freckles hidden by red, rum-induced spots, grinned widely and signaled Harry to pass him the brick.

Harry did.

The brick bounced off Hagrid's head and landed at the bottom of the stairs.

And there, looking flushed and sheepish, stood Professor Lupin and Hermione Granger. Dumbledore, who'd come in after Fawkes, his phoenix, was accused of defiling Fortescue's sacred vanilla batch, raised his eyebrows.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and busied herself with the first thing she could get her hands on. Unfortunately, Wicked With Werewolves - Mating Habits of Today's Werewolf was not exactly her preferred reading material (at least not in public), so she quickly chucked it out of the way. Dumbledore gave her an odd look.

Colin Creevey twitched on the floor as the book whacked him on the head.

Sirius Black, bless him, kneeled, picked the volume up, straightened woozily ("What's the ceiling doing down?"), and walked over to the stairs.

Hermione reddened. Sirius pouted.

"I suppose you'll want this back, eh?" he asked with a grin. Lupin snatched the book away.

Hermione squared her shoulders, and stuck out her chin. "Mr. Black—" she began, but Sirius raised his hands in mock defense.

"No need," he said, grinning wickedly. "You'll probably want to add a page (or twelve) to it."

Hermione blinked. Lupin dropped the book on the ground, inconspicuously, of course, and discreetly nudged it across the floor. Colin Creevey mumbled as it lodged itself between his shoes.

"And, why," continued Sirius, "I can certainly assure you I'm available to assist you with this formidable task. Perhaps we ought to make such programs available for all those interested in extra-curriculum activities."

Lupin opened his mouth indignantly—

"No—Harry—don't!" came a loud squeak.

Harry Potter, Boy Who'd Switched to Contacts, fell atop a sleeping Hagrid, who, half-asleep, half-pissed out of his mind, swatted him away. Harry flew through several thin walls only to land atop a giggling Sirius Black.

The Three Broomsticks, predictably, exploded in a round of cheers.

Professor McGonagall, as she'd sobered up rather abruptly, decided to clean her glasses again.

"I do hope we've all learned a valuable new lesson today," said Professor McGonagall sternly, pushing her glasses back on. She sent a quick, reproaching glare at the stairs. Hermione Granger could have very well blended in with the red carpeting. Dean Thomas wiped away a trickle of drool.

Collectively, the room glanced at the stairs, went silent, spun for a few moments, then came back into focus.

"We shure did, Minnie, you shexy cow! If it feels good, do it!" said Fudge happily, raising his jug and pinching McGonagall's bottom.

"No, Cornelius, that wasn't what I—" squeaked Professor McGonagall, looking about the room with wild eyes.

Dumbledore, standing next to a dazed Professor Snape (who still managed to look rather like a deviled version of Jung's Shadow, albeit in a humorously intoxicated manner), smiled his patented omniscient smile.

"You must admit, Minerva, he has got a point," he said, eyes twinkling.

"He has several, in fact," mumbled Snape. "They're—pink. And perhaps a little green."

The Golden Snitch zoomed past in absolute silence. A fork clattered onto the floor, somewhere.

"Is Poppy around here somewhere?" asked Dumbledore after a moment of complete and utter silence.

The Poppy in question waved her hand weakly, scrambling up from underneath a pile of debris. She brushed off her robes, rubbed her eyes, yawned and zig-zagged towards a swaying Snape.

"What'd he 'ave? Rum? Whiskey? Horse tranquilizer?" hiccuped Madam Pomfrey.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed merrily. "That's just the thing, Poppy. He's only had ice cream."

Madam Pomfrey paled and proclaimed a state of emergency.

Harry Potter, for his part, dropped from the ceiling (again), laughing. Colin Creevey twitched and kicked at the innocent book resting next to him. Ron Weasley picked it up, looked it over with watery eyes, then shrugged.

"What is it?" asked Harry, dangling off his broom.

"I dunno. It's got letters on it," answered Ron, scratching his head.

"Oh," said Harry. "It must be Hermione's, then."

And, so, Harry Potter landed onto the ground and bravely staggered towards Hermione, shoving the book into her hands and smiling drunkenly.

"It's got letters on it," he said before returning to Ron and the 99 bottles of rum.

There were many bright, pink spots spreading across Hermione Granger's cheeks. Professor Lupin didn't seem better off. The book bounced in Hermione's hands. The werewolf on the cover winked cheekily.

Hermione twisted her fingers nervously. Professor Lupin stared off into space.

"So, er..." she cleared her throat.

"Indeed," said Professor Lupin uncomfortably.

Hermione shuffled her feet. Professor Lupin coughed a number of times.

"Tomorrow, then?" asked Hermione suddenly.

Professor Lupin looked up, then blinked. "Er, what?"

"Tomorrow," repeated Hermione, her head lowered. "I think I ought to concentrate on several objectives. I do so hate failing."

If Professor Lupin could've physically answered without slamming her, studious little Miss Granger, into the wall and repeating certain offenses, he didn't show it. Instead, he only grinned in a way that meant the resident giant squid ought to find a new sparring partner.

Hermione hesitated, gripped the book, then grinned innocently.

"Well, then. Research, research," she buzzed, quirking an eyebrow and setting off.

Lupin watched her walk away. Her--shirt?--was on backwards. Well, maybe. And the thin panty line overlapping the small of her back? Gone.

He stuck a hand into his right pocket and felt around until his fingers wrapped around something small and silky-smooth.

Now, then.

Putting his hair back into a messy ponytail, Remus Lupin grinned.

Definitely satin.

Lupin: What? That's it? We want more, woman.

Hermione: No, we don't, Professor. I've finals to prepare for.

Lupin: Exactly.

Hermione: Oh. All right, then.