"London, summer '92
I think I've changed a lot since then, do you?
Ideas that I'd held for years, emotional baggage hopes and fears
Seen somehow in a different light, not as wrong, but not as right
As they seemed before,
Was I different then?
Have I changed?
And will I change again?"
"Flip-side" – Everything But the Girl
Heat. Scorching heat. And Ice. Freezing cold flesh. Those were the first impressions Severus was treated to upon waking the next morning. It took a few seconds for him to begin to explore the sensations.
Heat along his front, or some parts of it. His chest, his upper thighs, half of his neck, part of his face... and an unbearable chill everywhere else. He shuddered convulsively, surprised that the motion caused something soft and feather-like to tickle against his nose.
Opening his eyes proved too difficult. It was like there were thousands of grains of sand in them and it was far too bright besides—whose fucking idea was that anyway? Light. Awful thing.
He went to turn over but was unable to, finally becoming aware that where he was comfortably warm, he was also trapped under something... he couldn't open his eyes, but he did raise a hand from where it rested on the floor along the sofa to explore what was on top of him.
Soft... and cold. Skin—that was skin. Nice, soft skin. The skin on top of him moved, seeming to react to his cold fingers. His other hand moved to examine the feathery nuisance he'd felt on his face—hair. A lot of hair, he moved a hunk of it away from his face, inhaling, and with it, smelling a faint hint of spices.
Whatever was on top of him moaned plaintively in discomfort and shifted closer to him, burrowing into his neck, though there was nothing to prevent the cold air from touching and chilling his shoulders, or, what he now realized was someone's back, underneath his hand.
He willed his brain to wake up, he knew the answer was in there... but it was reacting sluggishly, feeling like the ruined sludge at the bottom of one of Longbottom's cauldrons.
'Come on...'
He fought to open his eyes, battling the headache that was threatening with every attempt—brown corkscrews. One of his hands was buried in a curly brown mop. It was brushing his face, and neck, and the top of his chest.
He craned his head down, suddenly knowing what, or whom, he would find. It had taken a few moments, but slowly, so slowly, it began to return to him...
There she was.
Snape gulped. Paralyzed. That was the word. He was paralyzed. What did he do? What had they done?
'Don't be a fool, you know what you did.' A mocking voice crooned to him.
'Pedantic bastard, obviously I know what we did,' He sniped back to himself.
'What do I do now?'
Would Hermione wake up and start screaming? Would she remember? Had she been more drunk than he'd thought? He certainly had been... but he couldn't deny that this is what he clearly wanted. Was this... was this what she would have wanted?
He felt frozen with terror. He couldn't get up without confronting her, and inevitably she would wake on her own, and if she didn't it would be worse: for his mother was oftentimes an early riser.
He gulped, the motion of it convulsive, and used the hand he had on her back to rub lightly at her shoulder blade, hoping it would be enough to rouse her... And also desperately hoping that she would understand or at least not panic.
He had hoped for this... On some level. He could admit that to himself now in the cold light of day. But not drunk, on Christmas. Rather, in better, more lucid circumstances. Preferably with a warm bed and not covered in what appeared to be yesterday's flannel shirt. She'd probably be horrified... And he'd probably never hope to make a go of it with her properly now, not after this. This was his last chance.
In that spirit he rested his nearest cheek on the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair and dropping feather-light kisses noiselessly amongst the ringlets that crowded his face. They might be the last ones he ever got to bestow on her.
Slowly, she began to stir, he felt her small nose against his throat where she'd pressed her face, wriggling back and forth and likely coming to the same slow awareness of the events that had transpired as he had moments earlier.
He finally knew she must have woken fully when he felt a small gasp, and her tensing on top of him.
Severus kept up the slow movement of his hand on her shoulder, feeling like he was trying to calm a spooked horse.
She didn't scream, however. Or immediately try and confront him. After several beats, she let out a long stream of a breath that she had gasped in when she'd woken properly, and he felt her forcibly relax her torso again, melting against him.
After several tense moments she spoke:
"I'm guessing you're awake..." It was a whisper, her breath tickled his throat where her face was still pressed.
It figured she'd be the first one to say something. He might have been brave for a Slytherin, but she would always be the consummate Gryffindor.
"I am." he kept his voice low, and finally he stilled his hand on her back, feeling the loss immediately. He couldn't justify the liberty he'd taken in doing so now, given that he didn't know how she was feeling in the aftermath.
"Here." He reached up the hand that had been tangled in her hair and felt around for his new cardigan, pulling it from its place on the back of the sofa and helping her tuck it underneath her breastbone between them.
She rose carefully, pulling the jumper with her and carefully covered herself with it, her eyes darting anywhere but his face, before she pulled the flannel they'd covered themselves with from her back and used it to cover her lower extremities.
What followed were several uncomfortable moments of them both endeavouring to extract themselves from each other with as much dignity and modesty as possible (and with no small amount of irony at that), and before long he was sitting with one of the pillows he'd thrown aside in his lap, as they both summoned to themselves the clothes that were too far away to reach easily.
They dressed in tense silence, though he dared a few cautious glances at her, not to leer, but simply to try and assess her mood. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. This couldn't be good, no, this—
"I... Er... I've got to work this morning..." She said finally. They were both dressed now. His cardigan back around his own shoulders, and his shirt, which smelled faintly of her, now back clothing his own frame. Her eyes finally met his. She looked unsure, but, to his relief, not completely horrified. "And I have to go home to feed my cat..."
He let out a deep breath. So that was it then. They weren't going to discuss it further—
"But I can come back when I'm done..." she sucked one of her cheeks in so that it hollowed and she seemed to be chewing on it with her molars, if the cant of her jaw was any indication. "I figure... I figure this merits a discussion."
He let out the breath he didn't know he was holding in, his face possibly betraying him, though he didn't feel in any state to obfuscate at the moment. "I'd say so."
They stood in unison and he waited as she collected her outerwear and her bag, gratified when she went to gather the iPod to settle into the bottom of it. She looked mildly outrageous, with her hair mussed from the night before and his mother's abominable pink scarf wrapped like a constrictor around her neck, but he still wanted to remember her like this. Before it inevitably fell apart when she came back in a few hours to talk. Like a silent wraith, he escorted her to the front door.
He wasn't sure what to say, so he went with the first thing that came to mind. "They've got you working on Boxing Day then?"
Hermione gave a soft smile as she turned. She wasn't sure how she felt about that morning, though she knew that the evening before she'd been eager to take advantage of the total disinhibition she'd been benefiting from. She only hoped he wasn't regretting it.
His face betrayed nothing, however, and he had been avoiding her eyes most of the morning. She felt a sad twinge. That probably didn't bode well for her.
"We give out presents from the Department on Boxing Day, just something little. It won't take long. I just have to stop by the office and pick them up and then I make my normal rounds."
"Ah."
She turned to the door when his hand suddenly seized her upper arm. She looked back over her shoulder with a bit of alarm and for the first time that morning he seemed fully alert and like he was about to say something that was more than awkward small talk.
"I know you said you'd be back later, but I wanted to ask now..." Snape's ears pinked and this time it seemed to cover his whole face. He was clearly embarrassed over something.
"I'll be back later, whatever you're going to ask won't keep?" she prompted.
"I'm afraid not." He cleared his throat but avoided looking at her, instead inspecting the snow-covered stoop through the window. "Do I need to go back to my place and get you something," he asked, his voice halting as he gestured with one pale hand in the vicinity of her belly, "a potion or...?"
It took a moment for the knut to drop and she flushed up to her hair. This was a conversation she usually had before intercourse... "No! No, I'm good. Thanks, Severus."
"You're...?"
"I have this..." she gestured in a vague 'T' shape with her two hands over her abdomen, "It's... It's a muggle method." She finished lamely.
His shoulders finally relaxed from the rigid way in which he'd been holding himself. "Ah, I'd heard of such things," his voice sounded relieved. "I suppose I'll speak to you later this afternoon then."
Hermione flashed him a small smile, hoping to be reassuring. "This afternoon," she nodded, turning to finally leave and to make her way toward her office building.
For all of her effort in holding her head up (quite a feat when the wind was doing its level best to whip painfully at her face), it still felt a bit like a walk of shame.
She'd had her bit of fun while in University, that was true—but it had never been while drunk, and it had always been with someone she was at least ostensibly seeing in a somewhat formal capacity. Not that any of it had ever been particularly mind-blowing.
It was hard to remember the evening before, though she did have some general impressions. She didn't know how Snape felt about it at all, but she'd thought it had been quite good, all things considered.
Maybe it was because she was drunk. Or maybe it was because it had been a few years.
'Maybe it's because it was Snape.' A treacherous, and slightly lascivious, voice murmured in the back of her head.
She frowned and urged herself to walk faster, the brick of the office building quickly coming into view before her eyes.
She let herself into the office, waving half-heartedly at her coworkers and exchanging pleasant words about the holiday with them while they collected the satchels they each had to deliver to their respective clients.
Shifting through them for a moment, she found the one meant for Mary Forsythe and breathed out a sorrowful sigh. To give it to Martin or to leave it... that was a pretty dilemma.
Not to mention, she wasn't sure how she felt about seeing Martin at all, or rather, how he'd feel about seeing her...
Mary had been buried over the weekend in a private family funeral. She wasn't expected to attend, and Martin certainly hadn't invited her. A small, guilty part of her felt utterly relieved that he hadn't. It felt awful that she should get to enjoy her Christmas while Martin Forsythe had had to bury the love of his life... as much as she imagined he didn't want to see her, she owed him a visit this morning.
She gathered up her courage and began her rounds, dropping off the small tokens from the Department of WOE to the clients she wasn't dreading quite so much and wishing each of them a Happy Christmas as she did so.
The gift this year was a care package of sorts. Not unlike a muggle gift basket, though compacted in space—they would expand when opened into a small smorgasbord of cured meats, cheeses, baked goods, and non-alcoholic juices from British wizarding farms.
Hermione approached Martin's home second to last, feeling no small amount of trepidation as she did so.
'Here goes nothing...' She thought as she raised her fist to knock at the door.
Who knew that her upcoming conversation with Snape about their evening spent together would be the lesser of two evils in terms of the day's promised allotment of awkward conversations? She snorted out an amused huff, the air in front of her coming out in a puff of cloudy vapour.
After a fashion, the door swung inward, and she met a rather reserved Martin Forsythe at the threshold.
He regarded her gravely, but not unkindly, and for the first time in months offered her a small smile. "Good morrow, young lady."
"And to you, Mr. Forsythe." She said, offering the barest of smiles in return.
"None of that now, Hermione," he sighed and opened the door further, gesturing that she should come inside. "Won't you join me for a moment?"
"Of course, Martin." Hermione stepped across the threshold and followed the old man to the kitchen, noticing a few odd things as she went.
For one, Martin Forsythe was clothed in voluminous black velvet robes, quite unlike himself really, and was wearing his best clothes underneath. He wore the Forsythe signet ring on one hand, as was usual for him, but wore another signet of a different metal on his other hand.
The house had changed too. It took her a moment to realize that it had reverted to the ubiquitous set up that was rather the default for the Department's dispensation. All of the personal touches, portraits, trinkets, rugs, furniture, had been removed. By the door sat a small stack of leather travel luggage and a worn attaché case.
She joined the elderly man in the kitchen and he looked at her with a sheepish grin. "I think you can surmise that I'm not long for this place— I've decided to go back to the manse. I was only really here for Mary, after all."
Hermione hesitated a moment, her mouth opening and closing once before she decided on what to say. "Martin, I... I hope you'll accept my apologies. And my condolences. I can't begin to conceive of how unimaginably horrible it must have been—"
He waved away her apology like it was mere air. "No, no, Hermione. It is I who am sorry. I knew that Mary was far beyond my help, and, like a fool, I just wanted... I wanted to hold on as long as I could. Mary and I have children who would have missed me had I been there when she... She..."
She swallowed gravely before venturing to finish the sentence. "Self-immolated."
"Yes." He looked on the verge of tears but valiantly pulled himself together and stiffened his upper lip. "It is a tragedy to lose a matriarch, but to lose me as well... It would have been a lot for our children and grandchildren... hell, for the great-grandchildren to stomach all at once. There is much still for me to do for my family's affairs. It would have been the height of selfishness for me to have parted from my duties to them. I... I owe you my gratitude."
He stared at the table for a moment, seemingly emptied by the admission. "Mary was far more comfortable with the female nurses than she was with me taking care of her, after all. You know what she used to accuse me of when she was in a state."
Hermione only nodded, her face sympathetic.
"In any case, I'm for Essex. I'll be having Plinko drop by for the bags, he's my head elf, and I should be all clear by this evening. I'm glad you stopped by, Hermione. If I hadn't seen you I'd have sent you an owl, but I'm afraid I can't stay in Waldweirness a moment longer." He finished, his voice filled with regret.
"I understand, Martin." She sighed. "This isn't the cheeriest place at the best of times, and given the nature of the service we offer few end up leaving... I'm grateful that you're one of the ones who will," she said with a smile. "On behalf of the Department I've also brought by a small token for the season, though perhaps it would be too much of a stretch to suggest that you have a 'happy holiday,'" she finished with wry humour as she handed him the wrapped package from the Ministry.
Martin barked out a laugh. "Quite, young lady."
He escorted her to the door, and then bowed to her in a formal goodbye, before they both wished each other well, and parted forevermore.
Bittersweet. Hermione reflected as she walked up an alley to her last stop before going to feed Crooks. It was terribly bittersweet... But she was genuinely glad that Martin was leaving for the warm embrace of his family and ancestral home. What she had said earlier was true: few ever left Waldweirness once they had been granted asylum within its walls. Martin had seemed, in a sense, relieved. Perhaps he had been grieving his wife the whole time, even if he only donned his black mourning-robes now that she'd properly passed.
The last house on her itinerary was a bit of a special stop, even if she didn't expect it to last long at all. She'd asked for a bit of something different for Christopher. He wouldn't appreciate any meats or cheeses, but a basket of some of his favourite muggle junk foods she was happy to provide out of her own pocket.
Christopher didn't invite her in, which was just as well. He regarded her with evident confusion, as she normally came on Fridays, and indeed, had been there just a few days before.
As was normal, Hermione spoke for him.
"It was Christmas yesterday, Christopher. I suppose your family visited?" She didn't truly expect an answer, so she was surprised when he gave a grunt of acknowledgement and a sort of swiveling nod, his eyes firmly affixed on the entrance mat.
"Marvelous! I hope they brought you something good," she beamed at him as she set about unshrinking the basket she'd made up and set it at his feet.
"Frogs." He said. Christopher kept an impressive collection of Chocolate Frog cards. They were his most prized possessions. He didn't let anyone near them and kept them in pristine condition, and in order, stuck with spell-o-tape around his house.
"That sounds perfect. Anyway, this basket is from the Department. We wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas too."
He stooped and withdrew the stuffed bear Hermione had purchased on a whim and stuck in amongst the sweets. "Silly."
He was being strangely talkative that day. Hermione tried to evaluate his features. They were often pinched in a grimace, but he seemed more relaxed than usual. In that spirit, she decided to try her luck. "What's silly, Christopher?"
"Silly old bear..." he muttered squeezing the teddy against his ribs with his elbow. He didn't look at her again but picked up the basket and made his way into the house without another word, closing the door in her face.
Hermione stood in dazed amazement for several moments on the stoop, quite dumbfounded.
Like Winnie the Pooh? Did he like that story?
She had no way of knowing for certain, but if he was familiar with it, it would come as a bit of a surprise to her. He had come from a pureblooded family...
Then again, they had named their son Christopher. She supposed there were stranger things under the sun than a pureblooded family that was familiar with muggle children's literature.
Having roused herself from her stupor, she made her way out to the gates and apparated home.
The first few moments in her apartment were hectic. She tried to defend herself from her familiar's irritated swiping and came away with several bright red scratches on her hands for her trouble.
"Good to see you too," she growled, giving the half-kneazle feline a cross look.
He meowed at her but it sounded almost more like a barked order, before he stalked over to his empty bowl and plonked his bottom down, his tale bristling dangerously behind him.
"Oh, it's not me you wanted is it? No—you just want your food. You glutton," Hermione said laughingly as she retrieved the paper-wrapped beef from the fridge and a chef's knife.
She finished up feeding him and glanced at the clock. It was just past noon... She grimaced. She really couldn't afford to put this off any longer, but it was terrible not knowing what to expect and having no plan for what she'd say...
"I'm off again Crooks, but I'll be back tonight, I promise." Crookshanks didn't answer. His face was buried in meat and he was too busy chomping and smacking his satisfaction into the bowl to take further notice of her.
Hermione sighed and leaned against her countertop. Taking a few seconds to centre herself before she went to face last night's... What exactly? Mistake? Bad decision? Good shag? Hopefully-not-one-night-stand?
"Here goes nothing." She muttered, before she spun on her heel and apparated into Eileen's small kitchen.
When she'd finished her spin, she came face to face with the owner of the house who looked up from her noon tea with some surprise.
"Back again?" Eileen frowned, "You know you only had to stick around through Christmas, girl."
Hermione thought that she should have felt slighted. At least marginally. But this was Eileen, and rudeness from her didn't quite seem to mean the same thing as it ought to have.
"Ah, Eileen, you sure do know how to make a guest feel wanted," she smirked a bit. It was uncharacteristic of her, but what could she say. Spending time with Snape had rubbed off on her. He had a way of managing his mother that she couldn't help but to admire a bit.
"Well! I never said I didn't want to see you! I just didn't expect it, did I?" Snape's mother huffed, clearly feeling a bit defensive. "Did you come for tea, or—"
"No—more for unfinished business,"
Eileen perked up at this. "Well, you've an impeccable sense of timing, Ms. Granger. I was going to ask if you could arrange for me to be able to take a trip up to Cokeworth in the coming weeks, but I forgot to ask you yesterday."
Hermione frowned and leaned against the counter. "At the risk of sounding a bit insensitive, Eileen, what's in Cokeworth for you now? I didn't think you ever wanted to go back."
"Just to visit, girl." The older woman shrugged, not seeming to be affected by Hermione's questioning. "It's been nigh on thirty years since I left. It's hard not to want to see how the town is faring. I'd ask Severus to take me, but he always hated it there far more than I ever did—I'm afraid he'd refuse."
Hermione shrugged. "It's just as well, really. I can take you after the new year, I suppose. I'll have to get tickets for muggle transportation, mind you, unless you want to apparate—"
Eileen's answering grimace was enough to say that the woman clearly didn't want to use magical means.
"No? Well then two tickets it is," the younger witch declared with finality.
"Two?"
"I'll have to accompany you: you're my ward, even if I know you're capable of going on your own. On paper I'm responsible for your welfare." Hermione explained with as much patience as she could.
"And there were a few other points of order I had to address," Hermione said as she cleared her throat, doing her best to hide her discomfort. "I actually needed to—"
There was a noise from the doorway that had both witches turning their heads. Snape had positioned himself leaning against the wall and was looking at them with a level gaze. "Mam, I need to speak to Granger."
Eileen furrowed her brow, clearly confused at the change that had seemingly overcome her two houseguests. "Then speak, Severus. I've never known you to mince words before," she almost whined as she rolled her black eyes.
"Er... That is..." Hermione began, feeling suddenly helpless. "I think..."
"I think Granger would be more comfortable having this conversation outside." Snape finished for her, interpreting her distress correctly.
"Yes. Quite." Hermione could feel herself blushing, but she tried to keep her expression neutral, feeling quite sure that she wasn't really succeeding.
Eileen regarded them both with a look of clear suspicion. Then, after several beats, she seemed to make up her mind about something, and she instead looked at them with a far more shrewd, yet openly amused, glance before snorting and curling her lip. "Scamper off then," she made a shooing motion with her hands.
Hermione dared a look back behind her at the woman as she followed Snape to the front door and saw the older witch watching them leave with a raised eyebrow and an entertained smirk.
Snape took a few moments at a mirror by the door to change his appearance before he led them outside, standing stiffly to her left as they both faced outward toward the street, backs against the door.
It didn't seem he was having any easier of a time of looking at her than she was looking at him.
There were several moments of dreadful silence before Snape finally cleared his throat.
"Miss Granger, I—"
"Hermione." The witch corrected firmly. He could try all he wanted to put distance between them, but that she would stick firm on. "You had an easy enough time saying it last night, so I don't know why this afternoon should be any different." She glanced at him sideways, from beneath her lashes, catching his wince.
Snape was silent for a moment more, seeming to have forgotten the direction he'd initially started out in. "I'm sorry for how I behaved last night. I will... I would understand if it is the case that you feel taken advantage of—"
"I don't." Hermione bit out, feeling rather uncharitable. She couldn't find it in herself to hate what had happened, only that they'd both been drunk when it had. How would she ever know now whether it was the alcohol or something real which had driven their actions?
"You're quite sure?"
The witch sighed, feeling rather tired of the dance they were performing even as it hadn't reached the five-minute mark yet. "I can't say I know what the limit on your alcohol tolerance is, Severus, but it seems to me that you exceeded it yourself last night. Who's to say you shouldn't be feeling taken advantage of—"
"I wasn't! I don't." It was uncharacteristically defensive of him, but Hermione frowned all the same. "I don't... I can't find it in me to regret the outcome last night, Hermione. But I do regret my actions,"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand the distinction you're drawing," she said with a soft amused huff of breath, the air she expelled clouding the space in front of her mouth. "But for the record, I don't regret it either, alright?"
When she looked back up at him it was to see him staring at her, comically wide-eyed. Hermione found herself wishing he was wearing his own face if only so she could say that she'd finally managed to see what he looked like dumbstruck.
After a moment, she saw him swallow. "Good. I'm... glad." He drew a hand through the sandy brown hair, looking unsatisfied when it passed through too quickly, unlike it would have had he had his own mid-back length style. "I wish to reassure you that I would not have taken such liberties with youhad I not been... Well... Off my arse, frankly. I promise it won't happen again." Snape finished, his face twisting into a sort of grimace.
Hermione merely stared at him, her face blank of expression.
'So that's it then... There wasn't anything more to it for him.'
She stuffed down the rising tide of blistering disappointment and hurt she felt, doing her level best to put on the face she'd had to wear when delivering the very worst news to her clients. A professional, soft smile. Sympathetic. Attendant to the needs of others while obscuring the hell beneath the surface of her eyes.
Then she nodded at him, and it was all she could do to not feel as if she'd signed off on the death certificate for the hopes she'd been indulging for a month or more.
It shouldn't have hurt as badly as it did.
"I'm thinking of a mental free-fall, a partial total memory recall
Like what of the future, what of the past?
What of the present will last?
And say I did forget and revert to the old days, forget this hurt
Am I better off or in reverse, untaught by experience and therefore worse?"
"Flip-side" (reprise) – Everything But the Girl
A/N (at time of writing): No baby yet. I did finish this chapter on Severus' birthday, though.