At Hermione's house there was a great goings on. All the light blazed and there was a cacophony of merriment wafting into the night.
A party of the Defeat of Voldemort 23 years ago had the remaining Order members gathered to relive old times, and embellish past and present deeds. Job titles were not bandied about in competition, however there was a bit of strutting from some of the 2nd generation.
Years ago there was some article labeling War heroes in either 1st or 2nd generation, by way of Wars fought. Hermione and her school fellows were of the 2nd generation where as Snape and McGonagall were of the 1st generation.
There was an abundance of smiles and picture viewing as photos of children, grand children and great grand children were passed about at lib. There were ever a few photo albums adorning the coffee table in a pile of memories.
Hermione was in her library enjoying a moment of peace in her personal sanctuary from the chaos of family. Smiling, she thought about the definition of family and thought about writing a letter to the muggle word smiths Webster and Merriman as well as the wizarding word smiths Pinglesnout and Chilta Song, respectively, about changing the definition of family.
Some things are thicker than blood.
Walking, drink in hand, to her favorite shelf she ran a hand lovingly over the spines of her favorite literature. Her library was designed to specific layout. Her favorite books were along the 3rd shelf up from the ledge and blossomed outward according to reaching distance from that central shelf.
Although she could Accio any of the tomes off any shelf, this seemed the best placement. The books rotated frequently thanks in part to a nifty bit of spell work on Hermione's part. Emotion, thought pattern, and general like and dislike principles combined with wording and wand work and her library practically provided her with whatever she desired.
Twisting her glass a familiar soft sound of a brush of wood over carpet snapped her attention from her musings and to the door that stood ajar and the dark man standing there.
With a last glance to her book shelf she realized she had her hand on the first book of the set before her. A smile lifted the corner of her mouth as she saw which it was.
She felt him behind her and relaxed a fraction. Somehow, even in the old days, she seemed to relax around him rather than tense like almost everyone else around him did.
Suddenly his voice broke through the veil of silence. A deep thrum of words poured over her in a tumult that suddenly caused a lack of concentration on her part.
"I see you at least have decent selection in literature, Miss Granger."
She did not turn and he did not say more. Letting out a breath she did not realize she was holding she thought she felt his presence had vanished, as if he was never there in truth, but in her avid imaginings. Dreams that kept her drowning in euphoria till she'd wake in a cold sweat, and alone.
Until his fingers ran through her hair. The sensation causing her to lose her ability to remain standing of her own volition.
Her only two choices were at that point to either: fall to the floor in a crumpled heap or: lean back into the hand and hope for support of her dwindling strength from her traitorous legs.
Choosing the latter, she was rewarded by long, lean, strong arms wrapping around her shoulders to clasp over each other in over her collarbone, and his chin resting ever so lightly on top of her head. His breath fanned her nebulous red-brown hair as he took a deep inhale, held it in, then released as if he was finally able to breath again. His body slowly, bit by bit, to untwist, un-tense and finally, relax.
Although she felt his weight shift toward the heavier, she also felt as though she weighed less than gravity could hold onto, and were it not for the man behind her she would surely float away. If she was dreaming, or drunk thank to the remaining twin being in attendance, she never, ever wanted to regain conscience and her cold, wet bed.
His voice vibrated her body as he asked her…something. Her mind was foggy, lazy, slow, as sensations rushed and whirled through her and to her. Feelings, physical and emotional, fought for domination as she was embraced by the one man she ever held worthy.
Worthy of her and she worthy of him.
Her desire for the fire haired Ron died when he left for Quiddich. Harry, well, Harry was Harry.
Severus Snape, now that was a challenge worth taking on. No woman could match his intelligence, his passion, his raw way of dealing with people, places or things. None but her, and what male could ever keep up with her?
None, which is why she bide her time until the day, or night, when he would know, as she knew, the life they were destined for.
"Hermione? Are you alright?"
Shaking her head a bit she tried to remember what he had said but failed.
"I'm sorry, I seem to be lost in my thoughts tonight. What was it you said before?
She tilted her head back onto his shoulder and his chin slowly lowered till it was level with her earlobe. His breath fanned her ear and his voice was soft somehow. It was, weird, and nice…
"I said, Hermione, will you marry me"?
And all the world went black.