Hermione was, to say the least, surprised to discover a bottle of fine, aged Merlot sitting in the cupboard when she opened it at dinnertime. She gripped it by the neck and wordlessly displayed it for Professor Snape, who sat at the table awaiting his meal.
"Why on earth would he-"
"Give it here, Miss Granger," Snape commanded, rising quickly from his seat.
He plucked the bottle from her hand and scrutinized it carefully, perhaps checking it over for signs of dark magic. Something on the back of the label caught his eye; Malfoy had apparently scrawled a brief note over it. Hermione could recognize his signature but wasn't able to read it from where she stood. Snape's expression darkened and he let loose with a bitter scoff, placing the bottle down hard on the table.
"What does it say, sir?" Hermione asked, concerned. Snape resumed his seat heavily, arms crossed and brows furrowed.
"See for yourself," he muttered, turning his face from her.
Baffled by his behavior but satisfied that the wine presented no danger, she gingerly picked it back up.
"...Bon anniversaire, mon ami... Enjoy, Lucius," Hermione read aloud. She had begun to take French in school the year before being recruited into Hogwarts and it took her a moment to translate the message. "...Oh! It's your birthday!"
The professor 'harumphed' and rolled his eyes, still refusing to look her way. Hermione grinned widely, determining to celebrate him despite his reticence. She imagined that before this moment he'd had no idea what day it was, given that they'd no way of keeping track of the date.
"Why, happy birthday, Professor! Let's have a glass with dinner, shall we?" Not waiting for an answer and, of course, not receiving one, she immediately went about setting the table with the long-stemmed wine glasses and their meals, which consisted of poached salmon accompanied by boiled fingerling potatoes and small caesar salads. She poured his Merlot first, filling the glass to the brim so that a few drops spilled over the edge.
"Be careful, Miss Granger!" Snape admonished, flattening a hand over his glass. He frowned at her giggled "Oops", watching as she filled up her own glass almost as high. "This isn't juice, silly girl. I don't intend to drink any of it and you shouldn't either. I doubt you've ever so much as imbibed a butterbeer, let alone-"
"Yes, I have," she answered petulantly. Snape looked into her face then, scrutinizing her pointedly.
"Oh? At what time and with whom?" he quested, his tone deceptively soft.
Hermione immediately regretted the admission. In truth she'd only gotten drunk once, last New Year's Eve with Ron and Harry in the Common Room. The two had teased her about her reticence to indulge in the Firewhiskey they'd smuggled in, calling her "prim and proper". To prove them wrong she'd swigged half the bottle and paid for her pride that night and the next morning with the worst bout of vomiting she'd ever had, and a splitting headache to boot. It was not her proudest anecdote and she wasn't interested in sharing it with anyone, let alone Snape.
"I've only had a butterbeer every now and again with the boys-Ron and Harry, that is," she stammered, blushing under his inspection. Then she smiled broadly, raising her glass for a toast. "To your health, Professor!"
"Hmm," he murmured disapprovingly, but lifted his glass to meet hers. He didn't take his eyes off of her face as he brought the wine to his lips.
"-And it doesn't take a genius to comprehend that Wanderley was demoted from chaser to beater, not due to lack of skill but so that the coach's son could get a good starting placement on the team!"
Hermione shook her head, listening with rapt fascination to Snape's every word. He was pacing back and forth before the bed on which she now sat cross-legged, gesticulating animatedly as he spoke. They'd each had a few glasses of wine with dinner, so much so that the bottle was nearly empty. Knowing that they were both a bit tipsy, Hermione forgave Snape's passionate verbal treatise on the highs and lows of the lengthy career of the Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons and forgave herself her sudden newfound interest in the sport. Never before had it been explained to her so clearly, so simply. What a wonderful game... And what a wonderful surprise birthday party.
Several hours later, Hermione and Snape sat across from one another on her bed, he at the edge with his feet on the floor and she in the center with her legs tucked underneath her. Their conversation had turned from international Quidditch teams to Hogwarts Quidditch teams, from Hogwarts traditions to non-magical schooling, from Wizarding values to Muggle ethics, slowing down as their throats grew dry and they began to tire. They each held their final glasses of wine, Snape's already empty as Hermione finished hers in a gulp, tipping it all the way back so as to receive every last drop. Dizzy already, she fell back onto the bed, laughing as she stretched out her hands, fingers searching.
"Help me, Severus, I can't get up."
He took one of her hands and easily pulled her into a seated position, so close to him she could lay her head on his shoulder. Looking up into his face, she found his eyes already on hers. She dimly realized that she'd never before called him by his first name during the day, when the light was on. He hadn't reprimanded her for doing so. Her focus wavered and lowered to their hands, which were clasped against his chest, before rising back up to meet his gaze.
"Severus..." she whispered into the still air, daring to inch closer to him, her breath ghosting onto his face before she delicately pressed her mouth against his.
For a long moment he remained still but just as she had been about to part from him his lips began to move. Their kiss was slow, tentative, sensual. A ball of fire erupted in her chest and spread out to her stomach and limbs, leaving her body tingling with warmth. Her breath quickened along with her heartbeat and at last she reluctantly pulled away from him, struck with the need to obtain his approval before she took any further liberties. Thus far he had only allowed her to kiss him; any time her hands wandered below his shoulders he would either hold them away from his body or worse, remove himself from her entirely. If he were to decide she'd gone too far and stop her, she knew she'd spend the night writhing in an agony of frustration.
"Professor," she spoke his title reverently but with an edge of yearning in her tone that caused his breath to hitch and his grip on her hand to tighten. "May I have your permission to touch you?"
His eyes were solemn but resolute as they locked onto hers. He inhaled a long breath through his nose and parted his lips slowly on the exhale.
"I will permit it." His depthless voice resonated exquisitely throughout the core of her body. He snapped his fingers and with that bit of wordless magic, the light went out and left them blind in the room's blackness.