Usual disclaimers: I am not JKR. I would have written 7 books on the Slytherins as they are far sexier.
Part 1
How could he have possibly let this slip?
If he were any sort of self-respecting Slytherin he wouldn't have admitted these sorts of things in his post-coital euphoric haze. Then he wouldn't have gotten himself into this situation.
Stupid robes. Stupid Lucius. Stupid hormones.
It was a good thing he had been miserably celibate during the war, or else the outcome could have been quite different. A quick flash of skin would have been all it would have taken for him to sell out the Order.
No, no, this was no good. A Slytherin never admitted culpability unless they were going to be adequately compensated: Sex, amnesty, more sex; any of these were acceptable.
Better to blame Lucius. Lucius and his fashion sense.
Yes, that was much better. Now the fault lay elsewhere.
He was most certainly not responsible for what had transpired simply because Hermione had buttered him up in bed.
"Severus?" she had said one night after he had settled into a comfortable position against her breasts. They were very nice breasts, and he hadn't been thinking of much more than that at the time she had begun her inquisition.
"Hmm?"
"What are those robes you keep in the back of your wardrobe?"
Lovely breasts really. Very pert and the owner didn't object to him using them as pillows.
"Death Eater's," he had mumbled as he rubbed his cheek back and forth against her soft skin.
"Not those – although we'll be having a conversation about why you still have them later – I meant the dress robes with the smart embroidery."
His lust-fogged brain hadn't contemplated the implications of answering the question at the time.
"Tea party robes." Her fingers had been rubbing gentle circles into his scalp. That was really rather pleasant and he had been tuckered out. He needed his rest. Nubile girlfriends twenty years one's junior tended to take a lot out of a man. Hopefully, Hermione didn't mind if he stayed where he was a while longer.
He had fallen asleep without seeing the perplexed, calculating look on Hermione's face.
The ensuing argument the following day had been decidedly less pleasant.
"What are you doing spending every Tuesday night with a man who religiously plotted the deaths of all Muggles and Muggle-borns?"
He thought he had done well in covering his wince. There was no point in questioning how she found out about Lucius' little soirées – she had an underhanded streak that rivaled his own after all – and now he had to focus on covering his arse. He really didn't enjoy the possibility of spending the rest of his life on the couch.
"I realise you dislike Albus more than I do, but perhaps you're stretching things a bit too far."
She glared at him; she was lovely when she was angry. He realised now was probably not the best time to be smiling soppily at her.
"Severus Avernus Snape!"
He did wince at that. Another post-coital confession he was going to be made to regret.
"It's not as though he was ever planning your death, dear."
"Are you forgetting that little incident in my sixth year with the bewitched suit of armor?"
Oh.
That had been rather amusing, truth be told. It had chased her around the castle wielding a large broadsword and had been impervious to most charms. If he remembered correctly, it had taken Flitwick several laps around the Quidditch pitch and thirty minutes of watching counter-charms bounce off the thing before it was finally put down.
They hadn't been able to prove it at the time, but he was pretty sure it had come from Lucius' collection.
Snape stayed quiet. Maybe if he didn't say anything too damning she would take his silence to mean contrition.
Hermione narrowed her eyes and seemed to be trying to come to a decision. She had gotten better at staring her subjects into submission – generally a skill he appreciated having in one's arsenal, so long as it wasn't turned on him. It was undoubtedly a result of teaching Ancient Runes to incompetent students for two years now.
If you can't beat them, scare them into submission.
Her look softened, and for that Snape was grateful. Another few moments and he would have been confessing all his sins - real and imagined.
"If you're not trying to take over the world, what do you and Malfoy and all of your other Death Eater cronies talk about?"
He shifted and tried to formulate an answer that wouldn't leave him hexed and alone tonight.
How does one explain to one's already angry girlfriend that blokes needed to be blokes? They had sports to talk and conquests to gloat over. With all that nasty war business finished it left them with plenty of time to make up for twenty years of lost gossip. Not that they would call it that, mind. They had a reputation to maintain after all.
They all had two sets of robes that had come with the free tattoo. One, far more sinister looking, and made of a sleek black material that resembled snakeskin. It was more for practical considerations than any serpentine fixation the Dark Lord had; blood and dirt never showed and wiped right off. The second set was Lucius' doing. They were of much finer quality and suitable for the more refined pureblood gatherings. They had, as one might imagine, seen far less use while Voldemort had still held their chains. Now that wearing the others was frowned upon – for the obvious reasons – they had ample opportunity to dust the nicer ones off and get their Galleon's worth.
Plus, they went over very well with the ladies.
Though sadly, between Narcissa and Hermione, they rarely had the chance to use them to that effect.
Not ones to let them go to waste, he and Malfoy and Rookwood and Darcy (and whoever else hadn't landed themselves in Azkaban) met once a week to wear their best robes and drink Lucius' brandy.
Or tea, as the case may be.
It gave them the chance to let their hair down and gab... er... talk of manly things (not counting Lucius' unhealthy fixation with tapestries). All of which led him, in one of his more inebriated moments, to think of them as tea parties. That's what they were after all. They put on their prettiest clothes and sat around drinking what have you and chatting in a very civilised manner. Darcy, in particular, had a fancy for biscuits and finger sandwiches. All that was necessary to complete the image were hats. But, alas, wearing them would ruin Lord Malfoy's coiffure.
Snape had decided that peacetime brought out his appreciation of the absurd.
He sighed to himself. Not even under threat of Crucio would he have admitted as much to Lucius. But Hermione's breasts had powers no mortal man could withstand. It was dreadfully unfair to him when he had no defences against them and no way to turn the tables on her.
"Do I ask you what you and the Wonder Twins do on the weekends?" He had sounded snippier than he intended, but he was going to cling to his one… his other little piece of happiness with both hands. Surprisingly, Hermione hadn't taken offense. Warning sirens had begun to sound in his head. She ought to be shouting at him. She ought to be boxing his ears.
"You're right. I'm sorry Severus. You have every right to spend time with your friends and I was wrong to question your motives."
Snape blinked. She couldn't have possibly said that, could she? Isn't that what every wizard hopes he'll hear from his witch? He was getting older; maybe his hearing was going.
He had looked down at Hermione who smoothed his cloak over his shoulders and looked every bit as penitent as he was sure she was not. She smiled and gave him a kiss before excusing herself to deal with a detention.
Something was wrong. Who was this person and what had they done with his Hermione?
He hadn't figured out just how much trouble he was in until today when he left for their Tuesday get-together. He had arrived at Malfoy Manor as usual and was shown into one of the studies by a house-elf.
"Severus!" They had greeted him with more vigour than usual, which immediately put him on his guard.
He was a Slytherin, and suspicion came as naturally to him as, say, hair care did to a Malfoy. It was the way of the universe. Hard coded in his bones. And no amount of peace or evenings free from twinkling headmasters would be able to change that.
That being said, a room full of jolly ex-Death Eaters made him glance around nervously. Hermione's conciliatory attitude the past four days had also done nothing to dissuade him of this sense of impending doom.
He stood in a den of snakes, all of whom were smiling and slapping him on the back, and his mind was unable to process these bizarre sets of circumstances. Dear Gods, he must be dying. That was the only explanation for it. Hermione, love of his life, finally reached the end of her rope and poisoned him.
Well they had a good run, and if he was going to die at least he was wearing his best robes.
And maybe he could even get a drink or two of Lucius' good brandy.
"Congratulations, Severus," came Lucius' insouciant voice. "She gave us the good news."
She? She who? Snape's mind was still contemplating whom he wanted to have give his eulogy to recognise that Lucius was not offering his condolences.
"Didn't think you had it in you, old man."
"Better you than me, mate."
Snape's confusion must have shown on his face because Lucius put a glass in his hand. The rest of the room turned to him with their own raised in a toast.
"To Severus – may he have a long and happy marriage."
Snape had choked on the whiskey as he was graced with another round of cheers.