AN EXCUSE FOR THUMBSCREWS
This is a non-profit tribute to the works of JK Rowling who, together with her publishers and licensees, owns the characters and situations elaborated herein.
A/N: Spoilers. Thanks to all my reviewers.
Hermione filled the last vial of PepperUp, stoppered it and placed it in the crate next to the others.
Normally Severus would have brewed this year's supply of potions before school started, but last winter had been so mild the infirmary had used much less than expected. The oversupply was beginning to thin now, so he'd dedicated the first two days of Yule break to preparing more.
It was the only one of his responsibilities that he could share with her. Otherwise his days were so filled with teaching, marking, patrolling, supervising detentions, counselling Slytherin students, attending staff meetings and doing paperwork that their interaction would have been restricted to letters and the occasional breakfast together.
That didn't seem enough any more, so he'd been careful to schedule his term-time brewing for occasions she could attend. Her weekends were free and he could normally clear a three or four hour block in advance, though of course his students always took precedence. Fortunately, interruptions were less than on weekdays.
Hermione hadn't appreciated quite how restrictive romance with a boarding-school teacher would be.
Even if he'd been as cheerful and chummy as Charlie Weasley, still holding down the COMC job though he hankered for his dragons, he still wouldn't have been able to hold her hand in public, let alone kiss her. As he was instead both formal and private, she had to be content with a crinkling of the eyes or an upward curl of his thin mouth in the Hall. Even behind closed doors, they were careful not to disarrange hair or clothing further than could be put right in the second or two between hearing a knock and facing the intruder.
They'd been waiting for the extra spare time of holidays with impatient zeal. With only five Hufflepuffs, four Gryffindors and one student each from Slytherin and Ravenclaw staying on there would finally be an opportunity to relax together and engage in conversations more refreshing than "Pass the ashwinder eggs" and "Why didn't you tell me you needed an extra two stalks of alihotsy?"
Thankfully, other areas of her life were showing improvement. Once she'd let her friendship with Severus become known at work, Ricky had moved on, smugly but thoroughly, and even his most ardent supporters had been silenced by the casual comment that somehow Severus could always tell when she was upset and who was to blame. Her friends were unenthusiastic but politely acquiescent, except for Ron. He'd always hated Severus and that wasn't going to change.
Two hard raps on the table summoned a house-elf to take the crate directly to Poppy. Resisting the urge to rub with unwashed hands, Severus scrunched his eyes tight and opened them again.
"What did you do before you had me to help you?" Hermione teased, watching him stretch and yawn.
Severus gave a sigh of exaggerated patience, watching her out the corner of his eye.
"I did it myself, of course." He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers. "And I might add it took no more time and I suffered a good deal less backchat."
"If you'd rather I leave -"
He smirked and snatched her in for a hug as she walked past him to wash her hands.
"One day I might take you at your word," she threatened, giving him a light kiss on the lips before pulling away.
Frowning, he joined her at the sink, but, instead of putting his hands under her stream of water, he slid his arm around her waist and rested his chin on her hair.
"One day I'll ask you to," he murmured, almost too soft for her to hear.
What did that mean, she wondered? She twisted her head to see his face but she couldn't. Before she could ask him to explain, he spoke again, louder this time, releasing her and wetting his hands.
"What would you like to do tomorrow?"
Filing the other question away for further thought, she began to scrub her own wet hands. They had an entire fortnight before she had to return to work, two weeks to spend together with very few intervening calls on his time. She wanted to spend it all with him, but she had old friends too, who also had a claim on her attention.
"Would you mind very much helping me choose an engagement present for Zacharias and Eloise? Or should I nip out by myself? He owled last night to say they've set a date."
"I don't see why the urgency," he prodded, eyes narrow with suspicion. "Wouldn't it make more sense to wait till January when the shops will be emptier?"
"They're having an impromptu party tomorrow night," she admitted, turning off the water and staring at her hands as she dried them. "You're invited, of course."
"Of course," he sneered. "And you thought you'd soften me up for it by starting with the shopping trip, did you?" He wiped his hands on the towel, finger by finger. "Or were you offering to trade one irksome duty for another?"
"Irksome?" she objected her eyes dancing with mischief. "Do you dare to call my company irksome?"
"Not yours," he said dryly. "You know I dislike shopping, but if it comes to a choice -"
She chewed on her lip.
"I was hoping to coax you to both."
He shot her a frowning sideways glance. She shouldn't try to out-Slytherin a Slytherin. She was far too Gryffindor to use such tactics successfully.
"Hmm. Have you forgotten the last time I socialised with your friends?"
The only time. Although they'd attended celebrations and commemorations in common, he'd never approached his former students and most of them had avoided him. That hadn't been an option at her ill-starred surprise birthday party.
It was a pity he'd met the youngest male Weasley coming down the stairs as he went up them that night. The Bones girl had been unable to dissuade her hotheaded boyfriend from greeting him honestly and the encounter had gone downhill from there.
"Filthy Death Eater," young Weasley had spat. "I bet you miss kissing old Snake-face's slimy a-"
The girl's yell of warning had almost obliterated the last word, but it had been unmistakable. Only the thought of Hermione's distress at a quarrel had blunted Snape's sharp response.
"You should be grateful, Mr Weasley, that I've spent the last twenty years restraining myself from hexing dunderheaded children." He should have stopped there, but habit overcame him. "Though perhaps in your case I should have made an exception."
"Stay away from her, she's too good for you!" the younger man had continued, ignoring his companion's anguished wail of "Ro-on!"
"I have never ascertained any evidence of a functioning mind inside your empty head. I shall therefore ignore your kind advice." He'd nodded politely as he'd swept past the gibbering boy, hand discreetly poised near his wand just in case. "Good evening, Miss Bones."
"Good evening, Professor Snape." She'd given him a rather stern look, adding, "You'll have to do better than that, you know. Ron may have started it – no, be quiet, Ron! – but if you really care about Hermione you won't talk to her friends like that. Or do you want her to be left without any?"
At that moment, they'd noticed that Hermione's front door was open and Potter was observing the scene. He didn't speak, but his scowling green eyes and tight-lipped mouth hinted that he'd heard it all. Snape's pale cheeks had flushed brick-red as he'd stood straight-backed and stiff-shouldered.
"I will endeavour not to drive Hermione's friends away," he'd said through gritted teeth.
It would have been easier to bear if Weasley's voice hadn't been audible in the background just before the door had closed behind him. "That was brilliant, Sue. You told off that greasy git just right! About time too!"
Then Severus had found himself facing a roomful of her friends looking him over with scowling hostility. He hadn't realised she was having a party. A quick scan of the room confirmed her absence from it.
"Good evening," he'd said since it was too late to retreat, receiving in return scattered replies of "Good evening, Professor."
"I think we're a little past that, don't you? You've probably been calling me Snape behind my back for years," he'd sniped rather bitterly. "You might as well call me it to my face."
"Is that an invitation to use the other names we've called you behind your back?" This had come from a sneering mouth that had matched his own.
His lips had thinned and his eyes had flashed as he'd considered his reply. He'd reminded himself that both policy and affection required polite forbearance. She liked these annoying people.
"For Hermione's sake, I'll pretend that comment went unsaid, Mr Smith. Just this once."
At that moment, Hermione had appeared at the kitchen door, pale-cheeked and slightly pink around the eyelids, but smiling at him. His smile in reply had lifted the room temperature from absolute zero to just above freezing point.
"Severus, I didn't think I'd see you today!" she'd exclaimed, hands outstretched in welcome.
"That was evident." He'd crossed the room to join her. "Thank you for not inviting me to the party."
"It was a surprise," Ginny Weasley had cut in.
A surprise? So were Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Some people liked not knowing what they were about to taste. He'd wondered whether this one was closer to slug pellet or slug. Another thought better left unsaid.
"I'm afraid I can't stay," he'd substituted an innocuous escape route. "If I might have a word?"
Longbottom had bolted out of the kitchen at that, to allow them their privacy. Snape had quietly followed Hermione through the door, closing it behind him and leaning against it as she'd turned to find out his purpose.
"I missed you," he'd admitted. It was a mild expression for the fierceness of wanting that had possessed him since their last meeting's kiss-that-almost-was. This time, he was determined to change 'almost' to 'absolutely'.
Torn between reproach and laughter, she'd let him pull her, soft and warm and willing, into his arms, but she'd exacted payment soon after by dragging him out to trade dagger glances and social smiles with the obstreperous occupants of the other room for another twenty-five minutes before she'd let him leave. He'd taken the hostile silence with him.
All this passed through his mind in a moment.
"Are you sure you want to inflict us on each other again?" he muttered, knowing already the pointlessness of the question. She was a Gryffindor; of course she'd keep knocking their heads together till she'd knocked her version of sense into at least some of them.
She sighed. She hadn't forgotten that chilly atmosphere and awkward formality either.
"I hope you've learnt some better manners since then," she said acidly. "Maybe I should have made you compose laudatory poems in their honour."
He blenched and blustered.
"You're an aggravating, irritating, little wretch."
"And you're still the nastiest, most disagreeable man I've ever met." She was only half in jest. "Our children are sure to be the horridest in the history of the universe!"
What? Her mouth stayed open as her brain replayed her own words. She hadn't said what she thought she'd said, had she? His frozen stare confirmed the terrifying truth that she had indeed said exactly that. And it was too late to take it back.
Children. The world went still as that one word with all its implicit demand of everything, every day, ever after, hung between them. Black eyes sought brown and held.
"You want children?" he asked hesitatingly.
She chewed on her lip a long time before answering, having taken herself as much by surprise as him.
"I've never thought about it before. I suppose I must," she muttered. "I wouldn't have said it otherwise."
His intent face gave nothing away. They were still standing by the sink, turned towards each other in an endless frozen moment.
"How many?"
Eyes still locked on his, she tried to speak through the nervous lump in her throat.
"One, perhaps."
His eyes narrowed under heavy brows.
"You said children. That's plural."
The words tumbled out with unconsidered speed.
"Yes, but – All I know is I definitely don't want a Weasley brood. That wouldn't suit me at all. I can't imagine I could possibly want more than two."
There was another long, difficult silence then.
"When?"
"Some time in the future." She shrugged. "Definitely not yet."
Her eyes implored. He examined her carefully.
"You want my children?" He sounded incredulous.
Her lips quivered into a smile.
"Why would I want anyone else's?"
He frowned down at her, brows knit and jaw tight. Impatient with their forced abstinence, he'd been trembling on the edge of a declaration for weeks, but hadn't been able to find the right words. Maybe he didn't need them. One of the first lessons he'd learnt as a spy had been to recognise an opening and jump in to fill it.
"The horridest children in the history of the universe and you want them?" he mocked.
One corner of his mouth tilted upwards and his fingers lifted to trace the line of her cheek and jaw, pushing up her chin to the exact correct angle.
"I suppose we'll learn to tolerate them," he answered for her.
It was several minutes before he spoke again. All his precautions and apprehensions about possible student interruptions forgotten, he concentrated on getting his message across with utmost thoroughness and she reciprocated with admirable enthusiasm.
"We could always ask Filch to babysit. I'm sure he'd love an excuse to bring out the thumbscrews," he said, once he was quite sure she understood.
She was giggling into the crook of his neck. He pushed her impossible hair out of his mouth and nose, one gentle hand holding it flat against her nape. Her hand moved up to run through his hair. The roots were even stickier than the lank, black strands she'd occasionally pushed away from his face.
"Uggh, what do you put in your hair, axle grease?"
His other arm wrapped more tightly around her as he stretched over to whisper in her ear.
"How long have you been waiting to ask me that?" he murmured.
"About ten years I think. Since the first time I walked into your classroom," she admitted, pressing closer.
"You were so eager to please me," he reminisced. It had been impossible then; now it was as easy as breathing. Easier - both of them were finding breathing quite difficult at this moment.
"And all you wanted to do was squash me," she reminded him. But not at all in the way he was squashing her now.
"Let's not wait any longer," he said. "The Ministry will be open at 9 a.m. tomorrow." Once they were married, they'd be able to seek privacy at the twist of a key in the door. There might still be interruptions, but the nights at least would be their own.
"But you still haven't even met my parents!"
She hadn't been able to set up a time that suited everyone. Her parents opened the surgery too early for breakfast to be an option and he'd always claimed on weekends to be too busy to leave the school-grounds. She'd suspected an excuse, but hadn't wanted to push something that didn't seem immediately urgent. Now though, she'd have to insist.
"Always easier to get forgiveness than permission," he urged.
"Severus, I can't. I promised mum I'd let them meet you first. How about we go over now and invite them to the wedding? We can still get married first thing."
His face darkened with doubt.
"They probably won't like me."
She twisted to look up into his eyes, a twinkle in her own.
"You faced Voldemort how many times and you're afraid of my parents?"
She realised her mistake at once, feeling his stiffening in his limbs even before she saw it in his face. She reached an apologetic hand to his cheek and rubbed gently across it, letting her forefinger drift lightly over his lips. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, then buried his head in her hair. Her arms slid around him again and she waited.
"I was afraid then too," he murmured at last.
Mingled regret and pride burned in her chest. As a child, she'd admired his strength and apparently fearless courage in repeatedly outfacing Voldemort. That had been illusory. Age had taught her to value instead his ability to show her his weakness, to admit his fear. For one more susceptible to humiliation and rejection than physical pain, that took far greater courage than concealment did.
"Of course you were," she exclaimed. "Who wouldn't be?"
The silence that followed was filled with the inarticulate reassurances and caresses he hadn't yet learnt to expect. That was all right. He'd have a lifetime to learn.
A/N Just an epilogue to go. Sorry if you were holding out for more; the story's gotta stop where the story's gotta stop.
