No… That couldn't be right.

Hermione frowned at the mouldy parchment, squinting over the stains marring the ancient skin. The smudge of fingers, of ale, of other substances she did not want to think about...all of them hiding the long-faded ink.

But what she thought she'd read couldn't be right.

Everything, from whispers begun in the Second Year to the mortifyingly direct talks from Madam Pomphrey, said that magic was not altered or turned or...or expanded by the act of intercourse. Of union. Of sex. It just...wasn't.

Yet...the codex she'd uncovered on a mooching expedition in the attics of Grimmauld Place was saying just that.

That the first chosen partner, the first with whom a witch or wizard found orgasm affected the tone and power of their magic. And each successive...act built on this first...awakening.

The quality of her first lover was becoming vital. Fuck. More than fuck. Literally.

Hermione drew a trembling finger across the line of runes that glowed over the parchment. Each one was true and working. It was a translation spell wrested from Madam Pince herself and it had never failed her before.

She sank back against the beam that stretched up into the shadowed blackness of the second attic and a thin veil of grey dust puffed and drifted down. Motes caught in the soft blue flames flickering in conjured jars. A whisper of a spell cleared the air and Hermione closed her eyes. Her world had turned in the chilled silence of the drafty attic. If...if this were true then it changed...everything. Everything.

Her belly soured. Had something in her magic pulled her towards the mess of trunks stacked in a dark attic corner? She had no truck with divination, but the need to hide herself away in the cramped space —alone— had been an itch under her skin for days. Weeks…

Hermione pulled in a tight breath.

An itch there ever since Ron had begun pushing to take their battle-fuelled kiss...further.

The war was over. Voldemort had been a lump of decaying flesh pushed through the veil, the bodies of his Death Eaters following him into that void. They had won and they were free. Free to live life how they pleased. And it was pleasing Ronald Weasley to try every method he knew to get into her knickers.

She snorted. Every method.

Romance in the form of flowers and chocolates and 'kissing books' as he'd called them with a smirk and a hint that they should follow their example. Oh, Ron… She wondered if he'd flicked through the pages and what he'd read, because her experience was —she was sure— vastly different from his.

They were wizarding romances...with a magic that tailored the story to the reader. Ron had not come off well compared to the dark and powerful wizard that had swept in to bring pleasure to a bright and inquisitive young witch more than ready to explore her freed sexuality.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. The shadow of that impossible hero had chased into her dreams. Brilliant and powerful and wanting a clever but oh-so-plain heroine? How likely was that?

When the books obviously didn't work —not that she'd shared their content with him— then Ron dragged in their friends. A persistent Ginny, smug at catching Harry. Harry himself, his face beetroot as he tried to press Ron's case for sex. Molly stuck them together every chance she could. Arthur scuttled from any room they entered to give them...privacy.

It was bloody relentless.

And the itch was there, that he had a plan, a plan that involved a meeting of the Order in a few day's time. Something he planned to ask her…

A twitch and a shiver pushed over her skin. No. Perhaps it hadn't been this book. Perhaps her magic had simply screamed for some time away by herself, without the manipulation of presents or people. Or dangerous and unwanted questions. And their answers.

But she had found it. A book that changed everything. An ancient —8th century Byzantine— codex filled with the lost knowledge that first pleasures shadowed or brightened the magical core. It was inflammatory stuff. It ignored blood in favour of ability and power —an anathema to purebloods. Though it slighted the less magically able, those who would be ignored, no matter how pleasant or kind or honourable or —or skilled in the art of sex, in favour of a powerful —but wicked— wizard.

Hermione's face grew hot. All her thoughts had been spiralling into him since she cracked open the first of Ron's books. The spells caught within the pages had dragged her own forbidden wants to the surface. A dark and wicked and powerful wizard? Yes, there was one, wasn't there?

Severus Snape.

She closed her eyes and winced. Guilt collided with the want that tightened her belly. It was so very wrong for her to ache for him. But she did. Had. For too long. Since that long-limbed stalk across the duelling strip in the Second Year, something about him had...stirred her.

Initially, Hermione had thought it was anger at his shaming of Lockhart. And well, she tried not to think about her shallow crush when the too-pretty wizard turned out to be an absolute fraud. But her...unease over Professor Snape had bubbled under the surface for years after.

She finally admitted her...interest in him when finding the proof that he was a soldier for the Light made up one of her patronus memories. A schoolgirl crush that would not fade.

And now...this.

Hermione drew in a long breath as she stared down at the flickering page.

If...if she found her first pleasures with Ron, who would she become? He was clever and brave and funny...but had to be nagged into completing necessary things. Was petty. Could hold a grudge almost as well as his mother. And his magic, his magic was…mediocre.

Oh, she knew she was no catch. Bossy and plain and quite often overbearing and picky. But this wasn't about her faults. Well, it was. In a way. How would she change and who would she become with Ron? More easy going, perhaps? But her magic? Gods, her magic touched by his would dim.

Her heart squeezed. Her own magic had been screaming that at her for weeks. It was a horrible thought. Horrible. But true.

Not that Severus Snape would offer her an improved personality. Sharp and brittle man that he was. But his magic. Merlin, his magic was a thing of rare beauty. She'd overheard drunken speculation by Remus and Kingsley only a few nights before that Snape was now very probably the most powerful wizard in the British Isles. And he wasn't even forty.

How would her own magic bloom under his touch?

She closed her eyes and the tight pain in her chest sharpened. It was moot. How likely was it that Severus Snape would agree to making...to having sex with her? Her of all people. Witches. Whatever…

Not likely at all.

Fuck.

She stared at the page again, the sour need of her own ambitions there in her belly. She wanted to be the best. To be…extraordinary. Not —gods— not mediocre. Not some witch sucked into the maw of the Ministry and becoming grey and bland and…and ordinary. A soulless witch. Settled and dull. It was no false modesty to admit that she was bloody clever and that magic fell to her well and easy. She could not sacrifice that gift to a no doubt unsatisfying fumble with Ron. Added was the fact that she knew that she couldn't fall into a relationship with him. He wanted a mother, someone to coddle and nag him. She…

She wanted the wizard from those bloody books. Dark and powerful, wicked and sensual.

The runes shifted and a single word jumped out at her.

Exchange.

Hermione blinked. Exchange. Yes, the more experienced witch or wizard opened a virgin's magical powers…but there was a trade. The gift, the…shine, for want of a better word. A wry smile pulled at her mouth. A honing and polishing of the other witch or wizard's own talents.

She stilled. Severus Snape was the most powerful wizard in the British Isles and not yet forty. Great Merlin, did he already know this secret? Had he gifted himself and been similarly gifted by others?

Her heart thumped, a hard pulse in her chest and Hermione pressed her fist to her ribs. If he knew. If he was already…practising. Gods, gods. She had a chance. Before the meeting. Before she finally had to deal with Ron...

In a flurry of limbs and magic, the book was stowed away and warded to within an inch of its life. No one would find it again but her. She scrambled out of the attic and dashed to her rooms. Yes, she was going to pull up the ladder and tell no one of her discovery. No one but Snape. She'd always been ambitious. Plain but ambitious. Skeeter's words did describe her perfectly. Why sacrifice her newly found advantage?

And well, she didn't want the competition for a certain dark potions master.

This will be complete in 4 chapters. Just finishing the fourth now.