Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, but the local tidbits are, right down to the amusing phone number on the pavement.

A/N: This is the gift for the 100th reviewer of 'As Is', the wonderful Sassyluv. She wanted a mixture of angst and romance, going with a beautiful song by The Calling named 'Chasing the Sun'. Here there be fluff and very light scents of citrus.

'Corniche' = foreshore.

Anyone with google, please search for images of Salalah (Oman). It is a heavenly place and it has been my pleasure to write the following. Enjoy.

'Alif Layla wa Layla'

One Thousand and One Nights

Muscat, 2008

She was seated three rows in front of him in the lecture theatre, shelling pistachios. He took the aisle seat, he always did; old habits die hard, and from the way her head turned slightly to the side when she registered that someone was watching, she was of the same mind. Her fingers, now long and slim, moved methodically: a thumb nail eased the shell open, an index finger slotted in to pull it apart to reveal the nut underneath, a rich combination of pinks and greens.

There were two small piles on the small folding desk attached to her chair. One with a tissue underneath for the shells, and another with a plastic bowl for the finished product. Not one nut had been popped into her mouth, and he found that he was fast losing his focus from the very ordinary lecture on supposedly revolutionary uses of sea salt. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his own table, wincing when the chair creaked under the adjustment of the weight of his six foot frame.

As he looked at her, Severus wondered whether there was anything about Hermione that hadn't changed. Her hair was short, for one, a mess of curls that ended at her shoulders rather than the middle of her back as it'd been when he'd last seen her almost ten years ago. It was still a fascinating mixture of copper and brown and gold, and it was a relief to see that she hadn't bothered with any products to try and tame it. It was wild... and as he stared at it some more, he thought that he rather liked wild.

She was still a tiny thing, but there were curves at her breasts and waist that gave her the body of the thirty year old woman that she was. Certainly nothing to complain about there, given his own fifty years. Enclosed in a modern set of black robes, she looked suited to her environment thanks to the long black chiffon scarf that was settled over her shoulders, ready to be pulled loosely over her head.

How would she look in it? Severus gave up the entirety of his attention to her as she moved through the pile of nuts, and pondered whether she'd look like the native women of this hot and humid Gulf country - long slender necks draped in black, straight noses and teasing eyes that'd followed him as he walked on the local corniche the night before. Robes that looked like those that he wore; he'd dispensed of them only an hour after arriving, favouring instead a white dress shirt and black trousers to move through the local population without calling attention to the fact that he was dressed like their women.

And what women they were. If he were a history teacher, or even, Merlin forbid, a Muggle Studies Professor, he would've taken the chance to examine the women. They flocked together like gulls, congregating shyly in the souq or the sea side, sometimes in groups of black on the grass in village parks or with bright headscarves in modern shopping centres. Some looped their scarves to cover the ends of their hair and linked their arms with coquettish smiles directed at, to his monumental surprise, him. Others wrapped their hair securely and navigated the city streets with commanding ease - his favourite (and somewhat hilarious) moment was when a woman swathed in black with only kohl rimmed eyes showing dropped a small piece of paper on the ground in front of him. Bending to pick it up, he called up his rudimentary Arabic skills to find a phone number - a shocked jerk of his chin left him looking at dancing, laughing eyes before she disappeared around the corner ahead.

Severus had never been desired - not truly, not in the way he'd wanted. He knew his faults well enough; the look of women that met him for the first time was almost always the same as they catalogued his shortcomings internally while exchanging polite greetings. The list was the usual: hair too limp, nose too big, skin too fair, body too slim, eyes too unsettling. Not so here. He drank up the attention like their tangy, sweet juices of lemon and mint, understanding that it was the lure of the foreign that gave him status here. Still, it was welcome, even if he did nothing about it.

The week long conference was a welcome reprieve from his position at St. Mungo's. The place was always busy, teeming with patients and a seemingly never ending stream of employees. His own office and laboratory were havens of peace and quiet, but the chaos was always there, only a corridor away. When he'd heard about the funded trip to Oman, he leapt at the chance - just as he'd done for the previous conferences in Tokyo, Auckland and Algiers.

This was shaping up to be the best yet, not that he would admit it. Seeing Hermione was completely unexpected, yet he was already feeling that much more interested in the remainder of the conference. Would she stay for the whole week? There was a two day guided trip to the mountain city of Salalah afterwards - would she go? And the portkey to the frankincense trees in two days (his entire motivation for coming to the country) - would she be taking it with him?

Again she turned her head to the side, just far enough for him to catch a slight smile at the corner of her mouth before she looked down at the carpet, then back at the front. She knew he was there, then.

The lecture finished soon after. His breath caught when she stood and moved out of the row, standing to face the exit and by extension, him. She didn't look at him once, only raised her thin scarf to cover the back of her hair, her face bare of makeup save a very faint line of local kohl around her eyes. She must've run into the hawkers in the souq, he thought with a smirk; she looked sinfully enticing. Her pistachios were clutched in one hand, the tissue in the other. She walked with a confidence he hadn't ever seen, and the only indication that she gave him was a crooked smile before her eyes flashed back to the direction she was heading in as she followed the flow of witches and wizards out the door.

It barely took him one second to throw off the desk and follow her into the sun.

He found her sitting on a bench on the corniche. Two shy young local men were standing close by, speaking with her about something or other. He stayed away for the moment, remembering the news in the Daily Prophet about her divorce two years earlier - it was only when she turned her head away, tired of the game, that he strolled to the bench and sat down, accepting her overly familiar greeting that had the young men hurrying away.

They exchanged no words. The humidity was stifling, like his laboratory in the middle of the day in summer. He used his basic language skills to buy two bottles of water from the ice chest of a man that spoke Hindi instead of the Arabic he was trying to use, and handed one to her. Their fingers brushed.

Much later he lay in bed, clothed only in crisp white sheets. His pale fingers travelled lower then lower still until they reached their destination - for the first time, he encircled his length not with the image of inner walls and clenching thighs, but instead another hotel room, another set of white sheets. A wild haired woman, naked in her bed as her own fingers searched and entered, writhing under the power of her own touch, the only sound she made being his name; over and over again. He came forcefully, too shocked and spent to even mutter a cleansing charm - all he could think of in his addled brain was to stumble over to the bathroom and squirt the bidet over the now stiff seed on his thighs.

He hissed at the cool water, then returned to bed. It was early still, but he was a fool to think he could focus on anything other than the chance of seeing her again.

~0~

"I would sell my soul for some iced water," Hermione remarked, one of her small hands cupping her eyes as she squinted into the distance, the air playing tricks on them as it made a show of pretending there was an abundance of water in the distance. A trick of the desert; if not for wands, Severus mused, they could have been in trouble.

He pointed his wand at a handkerchief from his pocket to cool it, then handed it to her, gesturing for her to wipe her forehead. The ice he created melted in his palm, resisting his carefully cast cooling charm. He used the water in his hand to smooth his hair back.

They had Apparated to the frankincense trees, skiving off the lecture about the importance of effective communication between Apprentice and Master. Severus was not interested, having never taken on an apprentice, and Hermione was in research, not practice and did not have plans to qualify for a Potions Mistress. The small difference in their station was refreshing; he had no desire to feel that she was looking for his approval. She already had it, but certainly not in the ways she might have imagined.

Dressed in long linen pants and a light blue thigh length kaftan, she was beauty personified. Her curls were frizzing about her head, and she wore a new gold bracelet on her right wrist, a light, floral piece with tiny coloured gems in the petals. She told him of the gold shops in the souq, of overly happy sellers and laughing older women who tried to persuade her to meet their sons. Her face looked younger and at ease as she retold her little stories; he chuckled along with her and pretended that his company contributed to her lighthearted smile.

Severus watched as she reached slim fingers out to let them trail along the thin branches. They were standing close together, peering at the resin. His own white shirt was damp and stuck to the slick skin of his back, while he'd had enough sense to transfigure his black dress pants to grey linen. He couldn't stop looking at the damp curls at her forehead - would they be in the same disarray if she was naked in his arms? Would she come to him with the same passion that she showed to the frankincense trees?

Would she want to come to him?

"You wouldn't sell your soul," he said finally. "Let us return. Water calls."

She shot him a crooked grin. The air was thick with heat, from the humid air and his own thudding heart.

"Well, all right," she answered. "Will you have lunch with me?"

"I do not particularly care for such... frivolous activities," said Severus, testing to see if she could detect the humour.

She did not disappoint.

"Yes," she said slowly, beginning to walk and then addressing him over her shoulder, "I've heard that about you."

~0~

They sat on the floor in a bland looking restaurant located at the poorer end of the city. Hermione had found out about it on an Internet forum, and he had eyed her curiously when the waiter directed them down the hallway. The restaurant was divided into many little curtained off 'rooms' and the laughter and chatter of families ensconced within could be heard as they were ushered into their own private corner. The smiling man closed the curtain with a flourish when they ordered, and he was blessed with her laugh.

"You look so affronted, Severus," she said quietly, looking at how he was sitting stiffly on the reed mat.

"I am! Why do they not wish for us to see the other patrons? Are we to eat food so terrible that our reactions should not be seen?"

More laughter ensued, a little gurgle that went straight to his heart.

"No, you grumpy sod," she chastised. "It's, you know, for the women. The ones that cover their faces. They can eat in privacy. I read that-"

"Here we go," he muttered, voice lacking any venom and traced with something suspiciously like tenderness. She swatted a hand at his knee and paused when the waiter cleared his throat outside, making a show of slowly opening the curtain.

"To give me time to cover," she whispered conspiratorially, then shuffled back slightly to make room for the platter of boiled lamb and fragrant rice that was set between them. He sipped at a fruit cocktail eagerly, watching when she finished half of her fresh strawberry juice in one long drink and stuck her head out of the curtains to call the retreating waiter back so he would bring her another. Her charms were instantaneous - another juice, mango this time, was brought for her by a red cheeked teenaged boy in a starched white dress shirt.

"Anyway," she began once the curtains were closed and they could make a mockery of themselves in private by scooping the rice up with their hands, "I read that the traditional areas are more conservative, but have the better food. Entertainment wise, the main city is best of course. But this is also good, yes?"

He considered the question. The fruit cocktail juice was laced with honey and cream, and something that tasted like rose water. The rice and meat, his nose detected, were spiced with cardamom, dried limes, pepper and a subtle added mix that he couldn't pinpoint, though would have been a readymade assortment for the dish. The witch on the other side of the platter was devouring it with enthusiasm that was easily recognised, stopping to glance at him from under her lashes while he composed his thoughts.

"Yes," he said simply. "This is good."

~0~

Two days later they had dinner in a hotel near the water. She'd taken his hand and jerked him through a Side-Along, and he had absolutely no idea where they actually were. They talked of the official trip they'd taken that morning to the frankincense trees and he showed her notes that he'd made about ideas to utilise the scent to improve Calming draughts.

"Come on," she whispered when they finished their lightly fried fish. He took her proffered hand and let her take him away again.

They appeared on a beach. He was glad that he'd taken to wearing sandals instead of his dress shoes; she went barefoot. Their feet made soft indents in the sand as they walked towards a small light - he'd given up his trust and handed it to her, and so he felt no sense of forbearing when she motioned him to move quicker until they were both jogging towards the light.

It was a young man, dressed in traditional clothes. There was a wand in his hand and when he saw them, he beckoned them forward with a finger over his lips. Hermione stood close to him, and he could feel her long sleeved, loose silk blouse as the slow, warm wind blew around them. The man extinguished the light with a foreign incantation and Severus was painfully aware of how his senses heightened under the light of the moon, taking in the smell of her hair and the salt air clinging to her skin.

The guide uttered a few words that he didn't understand, and Hermione gripped his arm, nails slightly digging into the sleeve of his grey cotton shirt. She nudged his side with her elbow, then kept her arm beside his body. When he looked down at her, she was staring at the sand and so he did, too.

The turtles emerged and he surprised himself with a low chortle of amusement; she looked at him quizzically, he told her they reminded him of first years entering the Great Hall for the first time. She did not laugh, but her eyes were dancing in the moonlight. He told himself it was enough.

~0~

The things he wanted to do to this woman, he could not even bring himself to say out loud. He could barely even think them. At the very least, he wanted to taste her skin - to run his tongue along her body, stopping to taste the sweet, sour essence at the juncture of her thighs before continuing to see whether the salty air of the coastal city clung to her belly, too. Or did her skin carry the heady taste of the date molasses that were drizzled in thick, shining rivulets over the desert plates that she ordered each night?

The first day that he'd seen her again after so many years, her eyes had seen through him. They were like orbs of brown sugar, and met his gaze like oil on water - they settled on him, but did not take him in.

Now she walked beside him with smiles that seemed like they were for him alone.

She came with him to Salalah, to the mountain town covered in green trees and lush landscapes. It was hot everywhere else in the country, so hot that the air was drenched with humidity. And the sun... the sun burned with a ferociousness that often left him breathless. But here in the mountains, it was cool and he walked into the concealed Ministry house with a strong sense of satisfaction. He was alone for now - none of his team had elected to stay past the official dates of the conference.

She had.

She was going to stay in a hotel near the centre of town, but under the pretence of privacy, he lured her with all the innocence he could muster when all he could think of was how it would feel to kiss her, to feel her tongue slide into his mouth.

Hermione was almost twenty years his junior and it felt like it barely mattered at all. He was a man, she was a woman, and she had a heaviness to her that separated her from the girl she'd been. He, too, was different, he supposed. His hair was longer, and he wore it tied back most days. His skin was still fair but it was healthier, no longer sallow. He'd fixed his teeth in a flash of vanity after the end of the War, though he didn't think she was the type of woman to care about such things.

"Are you going to take me to your bed tonight?"

Her low question had his head snapping up from his book. They were sitting on the flat roof of the house, on one of the higher mountains. The view dropped down, down, down into the valley below.

"Should I?" he asked, letting the book fall closed. Transfiguration of Potions could wait. He had forgiven himself many things, but bollocksing this up was not something that he could fathom.

"I don't know," she said honestly, running a small hand through her hair.

The intensity of his desire unnerved him - it was simmering under his skin and as he looked at her in the other chair with the coffee table between them, an unopened bottle of rum sitting on it, he decided that she'd never looked so lovely. Her hair had been tied up haphazardly and tendrils had escaped to frame her face. The black singlet and linen pants she wore barely clung to her, but already he was thinking of them in a pile on the floor.

Severus was and is a careful man, used to being alone. He wanted Hermione, yes, and he wanted to take her to his bed. But the white line was still there on the ring finger of her left hand; even the relentless sun of the Arabian Gulf still hadn't removed the physical reminder that she'd once been married.

And it was that that had him opening the book once again. Because he did not wish to simply take her to his bed - he wished to wake up to her in the morning, to kiss the freckles on her nose, to sit with her like this, reading at the end of the day. At the end of every day.

Gathering his courage, he spoke in an equally low tone, "Would it mean anything to you?"

He did not mean to be cutting or unkind - her thoughtful look showed how well she understood him. And in turn, in his own way, he understood her. She was afraid; he would tread carefully.

"I don't know," she said again, staring out unseeingly into the trees.

"Then no."

"Would you want it to mean something?"

He turned from the book he wasn't really reading and met her gaze for the second time. Could he truly answer that question? He was almost tempted to Occlude, but shied away from it; he hadn't done it in almost ten years, why start now?

"Only a fool would not wish for such a thing," he said, placing his hands in his lap and staring straight ahead, away from her. He did not miss her next words.

"Are you a fool then, Severus?"

Letting go of a breath, he stood and opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Some things were better left unsaid.

He walked back inside.

~0~

The mist clung to the house when he returned from a small indulgence; he'd visited remnants of the old Spice Trail, to remind himself that there were things bigger than he. Things bigger than wanting Hermione Granger, who he'd known since she was a bright little girl, and now knew as a mysterious, unsettling woman.

She greeted him with a smile and a plate of fruit, then returned to her book. Music played softly through the house. It was an old, traditional dwelling that looked like a box: there was one level to the house, then a flat roof with walls around it. It was here that someone had had a stroke of genius and performed enough solid charmswork that upon reaching the top of the stairs, one noticed that the wall facing the valley had been removed. It was almost like playing house, for it was Severus and Hermione that chose the style of chairs they wanted there, and she was the one to cover the flat roof with a reed mat of many colours. He liked it.

They sat on the mat and talked for hours over a meal he'd brought from town. Oil dripped down her fingers from the fried eggplant she was eating. He wanted to lick the sheen from her sun kissed hands.

~0~

The next afternoon the air was thick with the smell of wild flowers, and rain clouds were hovering above the house. Any minute now the sky would open over the house, beating down on the lands below to encourage more trees, more vegetation. He hurried inside, unmindful of how his clothes clung to him from the strange, foreign mixture of mist and humidity. He'd been for a swim in the ocean, to encourage his desire filled mind to see himself as no bigger than an ant to the entirety of the world - no bigger than a man in the midst of gently flowing waves and water that stretched on and on until it came to shores very different than these.

She was standing with her back to him, a steaming cup of black tea spiced with mint held between her hands. Facing the window, the light cast a shadow on him and in turn filled her form with a beauty that made him hold a hand out to the wall to steady himself. It was one big space, the kitchen, sitting area and library, all rolled together in one. There were no places to hide save his bedroom, and he was sick of spending the evenings in there alone.

"Back already?" Just like the first day of the conference, she turned only slightly so her profile was clear to him. There was a small smile at the corner of her mouth.

"Yes," he supplied unnecessarily. By now he'd memorised the singlet and loose pants - he knew that while it barely clung to her breasts, it fell short enough that the curve of her backside was delightfully visible. He knew that there was a tie at the waist of her pants that would, if opened, cause the loose fitting piece of clothing to fall from her body. And he knew that on this afternoon, she wore no undergarments beneath the singlet; with her back to him, there were no lines that showed the wired material that usually restrained her breasts.

Unbidden, his breath came quicker. His heart began to beat furiously. He wanted her to turn completely around and dare him to look at her but at the same time he wanted to flee. He was furious with himself, angry that he could not control his thoughts. He could not look away.

Hermione walked to one of the bookshelves and picked up another hot cup of tea.

"For you," she said quietly, holding it out to the air beside her as she returned to face the windows that were along the entire back side of the house, much like the roof above. Gathering his nerves, he strode to the outstretched hand and took the cup, fighting the urge to yank his hand away when her fingers brushed his. Her touch burned him more than any boiling liquid could - it was nothing at all, yet his flesh was marked with an iron brand. He began to sip at the subtly spiced tea, resigned to returning to his rooms and a hot shower where he could take his cock in hand and regain some sense of normalcy.

And then it happened.

With all the subtlety she possessed (of which was more than she had ever had as a child), she left him standing at the window and went to the kitchen sink. His eyes closed and a sigh drew out of his mouth when he saw that she was holding the hand that had touched him under a steady stream of cold water.

The burn - the iron heat - the branding - she felt it! It was not magical; there was no incantation, no spell, just a searing heat of desire and longing and need.

He was beside her in a second, reaching over her to turn off the tap and studying her shaking frame for a moment before he pulled her into his awkward embrace. He didn't understand what she wanted, nor what was happening, but comfort her he would; she held his heart in her hands, and burned him like the sun that blinded them in the city.

"I'm scared," she whispered into his grey cotton shirt. He smoothed his left hand over her curls while the other held her firmly. Small hands clutched onto his shirt, and he could feel a spreading dampness on his chest from her tears. "I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared."

"Are you scared of me?" He almost didn't want to hear the answer; he had done terrible things after all, in his time.

"No!" she exclaimed, pulling away and moving her hands to his shoulders. She was so close. He couldn't think, couldn't see anything but her wide brown eyes. "No, I am not scared of you, Severus. I'm scared of me."

"What is there to be scared of, Hermione? For once stop that vibrant mind of yours." He shook his head. Her frizzy curls tickled his neck.

"Don't you see? There is everything to be scared of. Everything is new and I don't know what to do."

He couldn't help it; a single eyebrow had arched before he realised it, and a mirthful smirk stretched over his lips. "Come now," he said gently, like he was calming a wild filly. "You can do whatever you want to do." He looked down at her hands on his shoulders, staring at the bare ring finger. "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? Whatever you want, you can have."

Severus realised that he hadn't removed his hands from her body when she breathed in deeply. His right hand was still curved around her waist, the left entangled in the ends of her hair. He hadn't meant to keep himself attached to her. Or had he?

"What if..." she began, then paused to swallow. She stared up at him and he fancied that her head tilted to the side. "What if I want to have you?"

This time it was Severus that swallowed and only her hands on his shoulders stopped him from stepping back. That such words could come from her lips was unbelievable. But he wanted it to be true. 'For once,' he begged to whatever or whoever was listening, 'bless me with this.'

"Would it mean anything to you?"

Her fingers dug into his shoulder in response to his breathless question. Brown eyebrows puckered seriously, and a row of white teeth peeked out to bite her lower lip. "Severus, it would mean everything to me. Everything and more." The ferocity of her features meant that he could not hesitate - her honesty floored him, it was addictive. He wanted to hear her say it, over and over.

"Tell me again," he demanded hoarsely, even as her face came closer as she rose up on her toes. The ghost of a smile lit up her face.

"It would mean everything to m-"

He cut her off, pulling her flush against his body as he covered her mouth with his. Oh, Gods... he moaned at the taste of her, of mint and tea and molasses, of salt and sea air and Hermione.

He could let himself love a woman like this; let his heart run away with him, serve it to her on a platter of silver. Perhaps he already had.

Hermione took his hands in hers as she backed them against the kitchen bench, placing them at her waist and pulling up her singlet, exposing her smooth skin to his touch; her mouth never left his.

The Dark Lord's serpent hadn't killed him but this woman, this enchantress... her little mewl when his hands cupped her breasts almost had him undone. He let his hands travel down to cup her arse, huffing out a breath when she jumped into his arms and let him carry her out of the room and down the hall to the white sheets he'd been sleeping in and when she was laid out on his bed, copper curls strewn over his pillow with her arms outstretched, he thought he just might be dreaming all over again.

"Severus?"

He looked down at her, the view leaving him speechless. He managed to croak out a "Yes?"

She rose up in the bed and kneeled on the edge, facing him as her hands made quick work of the long sleeved cotton shirt he was wearing. No buttons - a miracle. He bowed his body so she could slip it over his head.

"Will you let me show you how I want you, Severus?" she asked him, her brown eyes now those of a temptress, a witch who had him ensnared. There was a part of him that wished to be convinced, even though he'd come to be comfortable in his own skin. He didn't nod, but he let her will his eyes to stay connected with hers as her nimble fingers moved to his linen trousers, hooking over the elastic at the waist and pushing, a small hiss leaving her mouth at the knowledge that he'd found it too hot to wear any pants underneath.

Insecurities rose as she freed him then took his length in her little hands, stopping to push and pull so he was lying down on the bed, completely bare to her, scars and all. As if sensing his unease, she stood and eased her limbs out of her clothing, standing nervously before him with teeth chewing on her lower lip. He rose on his elbows, already gasping for breath. Heavy breasts, a tiny waist just begging for his fingers to dig into. A small pouch for her belly, trimmed brown curls below that set his mouth watering. Soft looking thighs and long, long legs; dainty little feet.

"Beautiful," he whispered and it was so, so true. "Perfect, beautiful, enchanting, exquisite, ethereal-"

Her laugh interrupted him and he allowed a rougeish grin that she'd never seen. "I can go on and on and on," he admitted and as she laid down beside him then slithered down his body to take him in her mouth, he let go with a river of adjectives, hell fucking bent on telling this woman, this witch, his Hermione, just how utterly wonderful she was.

Only the need to push himself inside her had him telling her to, "Gods, Hermione - stop... please!"

He hooked his hands under her arms and twisted their bodies until he was lying over her, brushing curls away from her forehead, staring into her eyes.

"I could love you, you know. I will love you. I already know it," she said softly while licking her lips, a pure juxtaposition of sin and innocence. In revenge, he bent his head and licked a line from her belly to both of her nipples, his hands clamping down on her waist when she writhed. She tasted of everything he ever thought he could have wanted.

Closing his eyes, he conjured up their week together in his mind, remembering the overwhelming sense of peace that accompanied her presence, the joy that fell over him whenever she smiled at him.

"Perhaps I already do," he admitted.

~0~

London, 2011

The air was warm and sweet in the courtyard of their home at Spinner's End. Hermione had transformed the home as a thank you to his beautiful, haunted mother whose portrait watched over them from the library upstairs. He preferred it the way it was now. It was a different place for a different woman.

Jasmine vines curled around the lattice tacked onto the tops of the fence, and the charmed soil fed the fruit trees near the small shed at the end of the garden. The smell of the limes, lemons and pomegranates that hung from thin branches was heady and intoxicating. He stood in the doorway in his normal white shirtsleeves, leaning against the frame and surveying the beauty that never failed to catch his breath.

She was sitting on one of the chairs they'd transfigured to look like the ones in the house in Salalah. Her legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles, the blue sundress was riding up and exposing the creamy flesh that was her thighs. A broad hat covered her curls. There was a little wooden table beside her chair with an iced glass of lemon and mint juice. She was reading a book of tales he'd bought her in one of the old bookstores in Muscat - a wizarding store that had the two hundred year old volume displayed proudly in the window before he snagged it with a triumphant smile.

"How many times have you read that?" he said softly, letting his voice carry to his wife's ears. She turned her head only slightly to the side, giving him the chance to see her soft profile. A crooked smile at the corner of her mouth beckoned him forward.

"Countless times," she answered with a tinkling laugh, staring up at him. He stuffed his hands in his pockets so as not to snatch her up and rush with her to their bed.

"You can, if you'd like," said Hermione, eyes dancing as she laughed again, aware of where his thoughts had turned.

"I don't want to hurt you," he mumbled. "But your breasts, wife..." he trailed off and knelt beside her, running his tongue over the soft skin that swelled over the cups of the dress. "Will they always look like this?"

"I don't know. We'll find out later. Take me to bed," she demanded in return, taking his hands to help her rise. He felt his smile broadening to a grin when she smoothed his hair back. He turned wordlessly and led her into the house, through the back door and the kitchen, then up the stairs and into their cool white sheets where he undressed his enchantress and ran hands over her swollen belly.

"Beautiful. You will never stop being beautiful to me," he vowed, kissing her stomach and chuckling when the tiny little girl inside it made the skin ripple like waves on the shore.

"Are you talking to me or her?" Hermione asked, a smile in her voice. He looked up at her from where he'd settled his cheek on her thighs while his hands began to tease her.

"Both." His voice was clear and honest - it rang out through the room. "And I love you both, too." He looked at the band of gold on her left hand, peppered with coloured gems to match the floral bracelet she still wore.

Hermione hummed, arching under his touch like a cat. If a woman could purr, then he would have believed that she was doing just that when he let his tongue touch her clit just so. Severus could read his wife like a book, a book that burned and exploded. It still amazed him that this woman could be called his; his own wife, his own love.

"I love you too," she cried between heaving breaths as he brought her to the edge and cruelly left her just before she could finish. She clawed at him, half fighting him off from frustration then let him lie on his side behind her and pull her thigh over his as he entered her ever so slowly, his fingers only lightly brushing over her sensitive breasts. He placed an open mouthed kiss to her shoulder, lapping at her skin that still tasted of sea salt.

For a fleeting moment her book flashed into his mind, the evidence of his victory - he'd waited for one thousand and one nights before asking her to be his wife, wanting to do the right thing by her but at the same time wanting to keep her free as a bird. Every night that he waited he'd crossed off on a little note pad that he still kept in a drawer of his bedside table.

He'd cheated, of course. He'd counted from the moment that he'd booked his tickets to the conference in Muscat, a year before she was shelling pistachios three rows in front of him, so he could shave twelve months off the date he was planning to propose. It was the Slytherin thing to do.

.
.

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fin.