Author's Note: And now for something completely different! Those who follow me over at LiveJournal have heard rumors (started by me) that the following Thing exists. I'm sorry. No, maybe I'm not.

At first, he chalked it up to the exploding cauldron. Close to two gallons of incipient hair removal crème had aerosolized, and that was bound to do a number on your lungs, even with masterfully swift deployment of Bubble-head Charms. In fact, he was slyly pleased when a calming [or at least a procrastinatory] post-lesson cuppa burned on its way down, and he realized that his throat actually felt a bit raw. If he spun this the right way, Minerva could perhaps be convinced that adding 'relevant and useful' potions to the curriculum was going to cost her in extra Staff sick days. Hit 'em where it hurts, right in the budget.

He tapped his quill against the arch of his nose, gave an experimental cough – yes, that did sort of twinge in an unpleasant way – and jotted the particulars of today's Experiments in Better Education down in his daybook. He was building a case. He had columns of data, and graphs, and a colour-coded chart and everything. (Colour-coding hadn't been his own idea, but he could recognize a good thing when he saw it - it made a world of difference in delineating the data in a way that was both aesthetically pleasing and as impactful as a bludger.)

That this exercise also helped to delay the onslaught of Second-Year essays was only an added benefit.

By dinner, 'slyly pleased' had transitioned to 'a bit concerned'. That experimental cough had started a tickle, and a throat-soothing lozenge had only briefly masked the symptom. This was worrying: none of the gases evolved during that particular stage of brewing were apt to have persistent effects; moreover, he'd been taking healthy swigs of several likely antidotes, in a cocktail that certainly wouldn't win any bartending awards. Paranoia, yes, but a lifetime of cloak-and-dagger with danger at every corner, not to mention the very evident perils of teaching, had driven home the lesson that paranoia improved lifespans. His own, in particular. No matter how awful an antidote tasted, it was surely better than coughing up bits of your lungs. Or, for that matter, dying from snakebite. Just to draw perfectly random examples.

So, by process of elimination, coupled with the accumulating evidence that this was getting worse in spite of the antidotes, it was beginning to seem likely that he'd managed to contract a virus from one of the little blighters. This was, needless to say, highly disappointing in that honesty might compel him to exclude this incident from his cost-benefits analysis. Might. Well, alright, probably would, because it was going to have to stand up to the review of at least two Gryffindors, one of whom was going to be highly motivated to discredit his legitimate data, and the other of whom was endowed with an inflated sense of virtuous integrity… well, when anyone of consequence happened to be looking. He knew differently, but as he didn't enjoy kipping on the sofa, he generally hesitated to put this knowledge about much.

With a regretful sigh, he tapped his daybook with his wand, and the entry flickered into the sullen orange of 'suspected outlier'. Pity, that. On the other hand, it did give him an excuse to head up to the infirmary and try to cadge some Pepper-Up off of Poppy.

"You don't sound symptomatic to me," the cruel harridan proclaimed, after assaulting his chest and back with a cold stethoscope. "Come back if it gets worse, but I'm not doling out potions that you don't need."

They had sort of mutually co-discovered that he had a neurologic sensitivity to the products of a chemical reaction between Ephedra extract and the half-dozen other ingredients that formed the proprietary base of what was otherwise a fairly standard cold remedy. Co-discovering anything with Poppy Pomfrey was a crying shame, largely because where he was concerned, she considered herself some sort of AA sponsor. Which was plainly ridiculous, because he wasn't addicted – how could you be? Pepper-Up was nastiness distilled, and he should know, having distilled his fair share of nasty. Still, the edgy, heightened perceptions, three to six hours of monomania, and the way things sort of glowed-at-their-edges combined into pretty decent compensation for literally blowing steam out your ears.

He essayed a hopeful sniffle (well, in all fairness, his nose was beginning to drip), but Pomfrey was not to be moved. A tissue and a hard-eyed glare, followed by a snide remark about the efficacy of nasal lavages weren't quite the flavour of compassion he'd been angling for.

He certainly could have brewed his own Pepper-Up, but the Board of Governors were right bastards about going over supply lists, budget and expenditure tables, and any little extras that had been ear-marked as personal research. Since he had to fight tooth and nail for every last line item, he'd long ago decided to save his energy for more interesting ingredients. The kind that didn't also happen to be obvious precursors to Muggle street drugs. Because you just really couldn't supplement your income that way, and still expect to retain a job teaching. And, well, if he didn't exactly like teaching, he had gotten settled into it the way you do with a ratty old chair, the kind that has an arse groove in just the right spot, and no, he didn't think the study's décor would be substantially improved by new furniture, or at least some that wasn't fraying at the seams and leaking stuffing on occasion. Hermione had Opinions about his chair, and he had consequently dug in. You couldn't afford to give any ground, because the instant you did, it would be a wardrobe update, a haircut, five to six servings of veg, and an ominous visit to her parents' practise.

Luckily, Hermione held no such Opinions about his teaching at Hogwarts. Lucky, that is, in the sense that it saved him the effort of having to manufacture some kind of split personality disorder, in order to justify leaping to a staunch defense of the old pile. He'd worried, for a while, that her ambitions would ultimately steer her away from the school, but there weren't any signs of that being the case. On the contrary, she showed every indication of being content here, and even enjoying the relative anonymity of being Professor Granger, lone bastion of sensibility in a sea of dunderheads. Sensibility, not sanity. He wouldn't go that far. Not even where she was concerned. Because, heaven help her, she appeared to actually like Hogwarts, whereas sane persons only tolerated it as the lesser evil of several alternatives including but not limited to Azkaban, Albania, America, or working for the Ministry of Magic.

Of course, this wasn't to say that there weren't a plethora of instances in which a cozy gaol cell in the North Sea seemed appealing. When faced with Second-Year essays, say. He rearranged himself in the chair, put his feet up on the ottoman. Getting comfortable, that was the key. And well, then his quill needed recharging, but the ink was run out, so he'd have to pilfer some from Hermione's desk. And it took forever to break through her passwards. Rhymes with what I'd like to do to Severus tonight could be nearly anything.

Being a spy was a lot less James Bond than you'd think. Mostly it consisted of lists. Who was at the meeting, whose Gringott's accounts were showing an unexpected uptick, who was showing signs of being a Muggle sympathizer, and who was responsible for taking out the rubbish at Grimmauld Place and on which night. That sort of thing. He'd liked being a spy. Being in control of the flow of information was the first step to being in control of the entire situation, and it was funny how few people really knew that.

Not that there weren't downsides to it all, but you had to accept that they were just professional hazards: sometimes you were captured and suspended over a frothing tank of laser-equipped sharks, deep in the bowels of the villain's volcanic lair, and sometimes you got mouthed up by an overly-obedient pet snake in a grotty old shack. You win some, you lose some.

Of course, sometimes, you also got caught making lewd lists at your wife's desk, and wondering if anything rhymed with "fellatio". And those times more than made up for the professional hazards.

The newspapers ought to have had a field day when word got out that one Severus Snape, Greasy Git, was tupping one Hermione Granger, Epic Swot. There should have been at least a few editorials on his lack of character, or her lack of taste, and it could have been hinted darkly that perhaps he wasn't such a reformed fellow after all, and you could never trust a Death Eater, and she had best be on guard for coercive potions or Imperius. (Although, given that the Light had won, you'd think the poor reformed Death Eater should be the one to worry, based on precedents.) And yet, the press had largely failed to bite, and his nightmare of having to stifle sniggers and confiscate newspapers, and generally slink about in high dudgeon in response to such an invasion of his privacy, had failed to materialize. In early days, Hermione had given a single waspish interview (the reporter had got past her guard by suggesting the context of his questions would be educational reforms):

MDF: And I understand you've accepted a proposal of marriage from one of your colleagues, Severus Snape?
HG: It was my idea, actually. And it took the better part of nine years to bring him 'round to the notion. But now that I've worn him down, I fully intend to wear him out.

With anyone else, you'd have known they were taking the piss. With Hermione Granger you couldn't tell, because she was so frighteningly earnest in everything she did. Only Weasley seemed to think she might've been joking. The little blighter had sidled up to him once and asked, low and with a Look, "So has she worn you out yet?"

He hadn't answered, because Potter had overhead the sotto voce remark, and opined that it was disgusting, and they ought to be sticking up for Hermione, and Snape deserved punishment, not camaraderie. To which Weasley had rolled his eyes, "Mate, he's shagging Hermione. That's punishment enough for anyone."

Severus Snape thereafter carefully avoided Weasleys of any flavour because he Did Not Want to Know Any Details.

In any event, it had clearly helped matters that she'd positioned herself as the aggressor, as it were. And he wasn't entirely sure she hadn't been, because quite a few very good ideas hadn't originated in his own brain. I.e., a) skiving off staff meetings for the better part of a year or three, in favour of a quiet pint and some decent conversation down in the village, b) hiding out in a Muggle pub when the afore-mentioned sanctuary had been put under surveillance by Longbottom, who suspected nefarious plots, or at least that someone else was having more fun than him; and that plan had worked for ages, you'd think they'd have figured it out sooner than they did, and finally c) that clever adaptation of pint glasses into Foe Glasses, which had given them just enough notice to manage a scrambling apparition to one of Pomona's garden sheds. It wasn't really a spade handle digging into her back, as they'd huddled, desperately muffling bursts of tipsy laughter between whispered expressions of devout thanks that the anti-apparition wards still weren't in fully-working condition. He did take full authorship for d) a quick side-along back to her quarters, which was, on all counts, a better plan than the shed (and never-mind how he knew the precise position of her chaise longue; it was Research for Something) and e) holding his own well enough to elicit a few more devout expressions, and the fateful words, "We should do this again, sometime."

Sometime turned into Quite a Lot of the Time, and then into All the Time and when he finally realised that the waters had grown deep and serious, he'd also gotten to know her well enough to calculate very accurate odds as to the likelihood of his survival if he backed out. It hadn't stopped him trying, two or three or fifteen times, but it had to be said that he hadn't put a great deal of effort into the show, because underneath it all, he was a firm believer in Bayesian statistics.

And then, well, sex was nice. Very nice. Nicer than he'd ever expected, and Hermione was so thoroughly the antithesis of her predecessor in his affections that he didn't feel the slightest bit awkward about any of it. Those few times he'd tried to kiss Lily he'd been worried that his dinner might still be on his breath, or he'd get the angle wrong (and with a nose like a battle-axe, well, fretting was warranted), or most prosaically, that he'd just be utter shite at it – and of course, anxiety probably guaranteed that outcome. Trying to kiss Lily was like approaching a statuesque goddess – or a statue, full stop. Her pert cupid's bow was unyielding when he had pressed a chaste caress onto it, and the creamy perfection of her porcelain cheek had never pinked when he'd ghosted his lips across her flesh. Oh, she had smiled and kissed him back, but it had been a charitable benediction, utterly unlike the wild whoops of laughter and panting giggles Hermione emitted as she squirmed across his body and laved his cock and sucked his nipples and snarled profane commands in his ear with her legs locked tight around his waist.

Hermione wasn't perfect. Not by a long shot. She drank and she swore, she could argue her point with footnotes and bibliographic references, she habitually reeked of her experiments, she gave only perfunctory attention to her appearance, she ate toast in bed, she left her socks and knickers wherever they fell (which locations were often rather inventive), she snored, she [carefully] read at the table, she nagged him constantly to eat better and to sleep regular hours, she routinely pilfered his library, she was Right to the point he'd mostly given up trying to have an opinion purely in self-defence, and she connived, schemed, and held grudges so well that if anyone had told him the Hat had wanted to put her in Slytherin, he wouldn't have even blinked.

In fact, she was so completely and profoundly imperfect that he didn't have the slightest trouble believing her, when she gripped his chin in her fingers, stared him straight in the eye, and said, "Severus, I love you more than anything. More than books, even."

He'd scoffed at her assertion, naturally, but that was just for form. That a display of disbelief elicited a mind-blowing shag, complete with expert application of some rather advanced techniques from a book (of course she had a book - several, even) she'd made a study of… well, that was a side benefit. And that said application had rendered him soppy and romantic and wont to cuddle in tight against her - sweat, drying semen, and unshaved legs notwithstanding… well, post-coital haze probably made her believe him, when he murmured the words I love you too, beyond all reason into her rats'-nest hair.

He'd been just closing his eyes when she'd sprung the trap: "Good. I'm glad we've got that sorted. How do you feel about a civil ceremony, mid-August, say?"

Well, it didn't conflict with classes, and they'd surely have their lessons prepped by then. It was a measure of how thoroughly under her power he was, that his first inclination was to consider scheduling. Later, he'd considered that it wasn't quite ethical of her to have held him to verbal contracts made in post-ejaculatory lassitude, but she'd given him a steady gaze across the rim of her teacup and inquired as to whether he saw any absurdity in the Head of Slytherin trying to invoke an argument rooted in questions of ethics.

She had a point. He desisted.

"It's 'camouflage'."

"What is?"

"My passward."

"But that doesn't rhyme with… with anything!"

"It rhymes with 'massage', and your mind is clearly in the gutter this evening." She leaned over his shoulder to peruse the list. "Not that I consider that a bad thing. Hmm. We could do number three and number twelve at the same time, you know. Maybe progress into number seven. Er, about number twenty-nine, though, did you put that on for the sake of thoroughness?"

"Er, yes?" He'd read some of her books, too.

"I'm only wondering. Because I didn't think… well, that you would really like that. Though I'd be game to try it. If you wanted. Because I'm all for experimenting. Try anything once, right? Or thrice, because you need at least three replicates for statistics." She smiled brightly at him.

He sneezed.

Shite.

A second sneeze dashed any remaining vestige of his hopes and dreams, and he saw Number 29 recede into the horizon of No, followed by Numbers 12, 3, and 7, as Hermione's brows knit into a concerned grimace of terror, and she uttered a phrase dire enough to freeze any man's gonads, "You're coming down with something, aren't you."

Perhaps you had to know her, to get the full effect.