AN: Ah, slow and agonising torture eh? There there, it's going to be ok. Deep cleansing breaths.
Chapter 36: Wednesday evening
They had showered and dressed and he had insisted that they should eat something and they had settled on soup. Afterwards, he had shown her his study. She had squealed with delight and then spent a full hour perusing the books and making a pile that she wanted to please please pretty please with a cherry on top borrow. Of course he'd said yes. She'd picked the top one off of the pile and was now sat in front of his fireplace, engrossed in the original French version of Licornes Extraordinaires. She sighed deeply, then, muttered something under her breath which cause him to look up from his own book.
"Struggling?"
"Hrm. I bet you never thought you'd hear me say this, but there are words I don't understand here. It's specialised vocabulary, I suppose. Not something you learn from reading Le Monde. Very few articles about unicorns in that. It's a muggle newspaper you see. Dad studied in France for a year. Hermione, it's use it or lose it with languages," she imitated and gave him a small smile.
"You miss them," he spoke and closed his book. He walked over to her and stood behind her. Then he leaned down, wrapped his arms around her and leaned his head on top of hers.
"Immensely. But they are well and that's why I did it in the first place."
"It was the only way to keep them safe," he nodded.
"Thank you. I keep telling myself that but I know they'd be angry. They would be upset for not having had any say in the matter. For me deciding for them. Even if it was for their own good."
"You did the right thing, pet. Now, show me the bit you're struggling with." His lips touched the top of her head and she released his hand.
He ended up grabbing his chair and settling down next to her. Occasionally she read out a fragment and asked for his help or his opinion. He gave either freely and found himself fascinated by her own insightful remarks. He also couldn't help mocking her pronunciation. Apparently she did only read French. She allowed his goading and asked him to read bits out to her so she could pick up the sounds. He was doing just that when the floo flashed.
"Severus sodding Snape! Was that French? Fucking hell, man, you sound even sexier in French. If I didn't lean the other way-"
"Hooch?" he asked, looking at the flying instructor's face in the fire. Drunk. Indeed the season to drink yourself to folly, he considered Hermione's carolling.
"We're having our thank-the-gods-they're-finally-gone gathering in the lounge. The usual suspects plus Neville. The boy had a plant to watch over. A plant! Honestly, he needs to get himself a girlfriend. Now, you don't deserve this, you gruff bastard, but out of the goodness of my heart, I'm telling you anyway. Minerva has brought the good stuff. There's a bottle of 60 year old Aberfeldy up here. Oh hi, Hermione. You should come too," winked the brash witch.
He groaned. It was a ruddy waste to let an already plastered Rolanda Hooch at an exquisite single malt. He looked at Hermione and her eyes shone brightly, matching her smile.
"Ah. Tradition," he clarified. "Do you want to go?"
"Please," she beamed.
"Very well. Hooch, don't you dare touch that bottle!" he growled at the fireplace. "Now out of the way, witch, we need to use this floo."
Hooch let out a barking laugh and closed the connection. It took all of 30 seconds for Severus to flash into the staffroom and Hermione followed after him.