Hey! We're actually early this week. Kind of!
We know, it's a miracle, right?! Regardless, thank you to everyone who's been keeping up with us, even with our unpredictably, chaotic schedule at times. To those of you who are subscribed to either our account or this fic - you will have a lot less of a problem. Though to anyone who doesn't have a proper AO3 account in order to be alerted, we're extra sorry 🙏 We should warn you that this is a bit of a filthy one, in certain parts 👀 Please let us know what you think!
And, in case anyone wants to read as they listen along to what our lovey duo hear, here are the links for the two songs we reference:
(1). 'So This Is Love', Ilene Woods - /mnxupEXxrTI
(2). 'You Belong to Me', Jo Stafford - /zQfF84ackMM
All the thanks go to our beta Marilynn aka hizqueen4life! You are our lord and savior.
Cover art, as ever, by OpalChalice - Enjoy! Comments of any sort are always appreciated!
~ Kristina & Abby
The Ties That Bind
No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind so fast, as love can do with a single thread. – Robert Burton
Chapter XII: The Homecoming, Part III – Bippity Boppity Boo
Bind up thy words that they run not riot, and grow wanton, and gather up sins for themselves in too much talking. Let them be rather confined, and held back within their own banks. An overflowing river quickly gathers mud. – Saint Ambrose
~•~
Friday, 28th November, 2003 – Evening; a bit later…
After a substantial strand of beaded seconds had been strung, in which the young woman had beheld her husband in dumbfounded wonder, coupled with a stout batch of silence, Hermione blinked before exhaling a rush of air that had been 'squatting' in unanxious residency within her lungs all the while. The risk of apprehension, or worse, be damned.
"Touché…" she quipped shortly once the wave of shudders finished it's undulated trek down her spine and settled heavily below her solar plexus, more to appease herself out of silence rather than to truly respond . Had he turned off the timer or had her own pulse drowned out the sound so efficiently that it had become as insubstantial as a whisper. Holy Hera, did she need another drink.
Accomplishing his voyage to the kitchen counter, 'Professor Snape' set the glasses down before turning to silence the insistent timer that had just saved them both from…. well , what could have easily qualified to be the intro of a hastily devolving porno film. Whether a 'soft' or a 'hard' one, he couldn't yet say. Oh no, no, no, that was not a wise train of thought, Severus .
In an effort to divert his awareness from that vulgar trajectory, he concentrated on his tasks in his role as 'Chef'. And the most paramount chore that needed doing was retrieving the Wellington from the bloody oven – at the very least so as to allow him room to stick his head in it, in its stead. And so, grabbing a dishrag from the handle of the oven's door, Severus pulled it open to remove what was a perfectly done Beef Wellington roast.
"Well, that couldn't have come out any better," he murmured with a self-congratulatory smirk of fulfilment, setting the baking sheet down on top of the stovetop for it to rest. "I fear I haven't much for a proper side-veg save for some frozen string beans," he admitted with a hint of self-scolding. "Far too focused on the bit that required actual aptitude . Not that it was taxing, mind you. But puff-pastry, you see, requires the dedicated scrutiny one must adhere to when brewing the likes of Polyjuice Potion ," he stole a side-eye glance at her before adding satirically, "Much as you know through trial and error…"
He promptly discovered that he was on the margin of entering the loathsome, not to mention telling , border of babble and was in severe danger of crossing it should he say any more. He abruptly clenched his molars against one another in an expedited effort to thwart the occurrence. Clearly his shocked anxiety from the heightened flirtation that had freshly been exchanged between them had finally galloped its way into his frontal lobe. (Though, that erroneous 'label' would place their little parley into the 'soft' category – one which unwarranted intuition postered might be as deprecatory a fate to his wife as it would be to him).
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
"Ah. That does sound like a very familiar problem," Hermione remarked with a self-effacing grin, often the victim of the very same quagmire of being so concentrated on a complex task that she accidentally forwent pursuing any 'trivial' one that also needed doing. The statement had escaped her throat, however, with far more air than she would have liked to expend, prodding her to forcibly clear it of any further signs of 'flustered residue' – or so she dearly hoped. The florid of her cheeks, though, was a consequence which she could not so easily combat.
But breathy deliveries and rosy cheeks could go jump in the Black Lake for all she cared, for she was without any concrete idea what the bloody hell had just happened. Or , more to the crux, what the bloody hell could have happened had they not been forced out of their compulsive trance with such incongruous intervention – and that was a predicament that Hermione Jean Granger-Snape was never fond of finding herself in. To 'not know' was a posture that she did not have a subscription for, nor was it one she was about to sign up for.
Had they been overcome by some form of long-dormant magic in the house that had suddenly awoken by some means, or for some reason? Or were the past few days, the consumption of booze on an empty stomach, and a history of familiarity that had, so far, spanned over a decade, simply finally combined themselves to create a cocktail that reaped recklessness and hazy boundaries? Whatever it was, it was beginning to happen with increasing frequency – with reason or not. However, the most prominent question that all of this amounted to producing – and that she very likely should try to answer – was whether or not she liked that it was occurring.
The mysterious allure the man held over her was assuredly– or at least in part – magical in nature. That was not up for debate. But why? And how? And from where? And for how much longer? Nevertheless, with that cemented theory in mind, and such a succession of currently unanswerable questions, it stood to reason that she should be nothing but frustrated by it. And though she certainly was, she also, very much wasn't. At least, not in any form she would have anticipated. If anything, it seemed, the increasingly literal 'hot-and-cold' persona of their... exchanges was keeping her all the more riveted to him. Or by him. Or for him… Merlin's balls .
Or, was she merely proceeding to get to know the, previously, elusive spy in the process of this whole debacle, and thereby, becoming closer to him? And through becoming closer to him, also, becoming attracted to him?
"Well, perhaps not when it comes to cooking – that certainly is not one of my inherent skills – however, the inability to have any fun without a challenge is definitely an ideal I share. Regardless, frozen string beans are perfectly fine by me. The roast smells heavenly enough on its own."
"Yes, Miss Granger, I did deduce that fact on the basis of some of your more questionable performances in my classroom… However, good ," Severus replied shortly but affably as he pushed the sleeves of his turtleneck up to the base of his elbows, flicking his hair out of his face as he did so. He then reached for a cooling rack, which he had placed on 'standby' prior to her arrival, and transferred the delicate log of puff-pastry-encased fillet, sauteed mushrooms, and prosciutto from the sheet onto it with dexterous care.
"Actually," he adjourned, glancing over his shoulder at her, "would you mind taking the role of sous-chef, Miss Granger? By grabbing the infelicitous items from the freezer and heating them up for us? As I'm sure you could predict, I'm rather fastidious with enforcing that my meals be served at the appropriate temperature at which they were designed to be tasted."
Despite a trace of impatience in her stare at his offhanded critique, Hermione nevertheless found herself watching the man with rampant curiosity as he displayed his ability for all-consuming precision. That was, until, his request registered in her frontal lobe and presented itself in the form of a brief, if slightly delayed, chuckle.
"Shockingly not surprised at all. But yes, I can give it my best," she agreed, moving towards the freezer in order to locate the bag. Once they were securely obtained, she turned round to eye both levels of the weathered, chipped, cream cabinets before making an abrupt presumption as to which would most likely contain the instrument she was on the hunt for.
"Pans in the lower cupboard, then?" she hoped to substantiate as she walked to the countertop at the other side of the sink, setting the frigid bag down before glancing over to his person, who was still stooped over the roast in consumption of his own activity. She caught herself biting her bottom lip as she forced down a smile of genuine adoration for the man as he was then. Perfectly in his own world and completely of, and in, himself. It was lovely to behold.
Realising the idiotic and desultory maneuver of asking someone who did not reside in the house to find, on their own, such an innocuous instrument that had the potential to reside anywhere, Severus abandoned his appraisal of his handiwork and crossed over to meet her figure, above which, ironically, just so happened to be the abode of the desired items in conference.
"Sorry, no, though, that would make far more sense than up here. Given that most are of these are of the cast-iron variety, their locale is really just a fucking lawsuit waiting to happen…." he chastised with a mild roll of his eyes as he reached around her figure to gain access to the aforementioned shelf, which was situated just above her head and to the right. After flicking the door open with dexterous flair, Severus hastily found the desired pan and arrested its cumbersion, weighty shape with his preponderant hand. In doing so, however, his front was now hugging the length of her back, and his idle paw had seen fit to take possession of her left hip. Assumably, in the name of 'needing balance'. He immediately felt his cheeks flush and his blood hastened at their new vicinity. Damn it.
An exasperated curse escaped his lips as he adopted some much-needed leverage in order to tame the pan down to their level, hitting the tabletop with a soft 'thud'. He took a moment to assess the item, reviewing it with his sedulous eyes as his hand tilted it back and forth under the fluorescence of the overhead lighting fixture to look for any inferior areas of grime.
"Ah... yes, I may have had some trouble reaching that without knocking myself out," she admitted with another rallied flutter of amusement, freezing in her trapped position as she became all too aware of their heightened proximity.
And it was a damned good thing she'd realised it so soon, for she already felt tempted to lean backwards against his warm, cushioned yet firm, chest….and was that the scent of sandalwood and dried ink, she detected…? Bugger all! Knock it off, 'Mione! Although, she did warrant her eyes the luxury of continuing to study his hand's angling of the pan – little attention paid to the latter, and much paid to prior, however.
"Ah, Jupiter's analbeads . It appears whoever used this last failed to wash up properly. And it surely wasn't me," he commented with fundamental establishment as he was the Potions Master. The care for cast-iron, pewter, etc. cauldrons had been his bloody pastime at points of his life. And he did a damn good job of it servicing them too. "Odd though, for certainly no one has been in here in ages…." he frowned in hesitantly distributed concentration as he filtered through what other variables could explain the occurrence away. Or worstly, those that could not even so.
"Are you absolutely certain that it wasn't you? Or do you perhaps have ghosts you've failed to introduce me to?" she attempted to jest to lighten the wanton mood that was swiftly infiltrating her inner core.
Severus eyed her as accurately as he was able in their present position, which only proved to press his body closer to her backside, something he did his best to limit through the applied pressure of her left hip with his adjoining hand. Meanwhile, its 'brother' had set the soiled pan down, which finally granted the man access to take a welcomed step backward. The already sanctioned bulge in his trousers of his 'at ease' commanding officer, he feared, might be starting to gain some reinforcements in the form of increased blood flow.
"Yes. I'm positive , Miss Granger. It needs to be scrubbed. You did imply that you wanted 'extra credit' just a bit ago, did you not?" he volleyed back at her with a smirk of victory. "Go on, then. Surely you recall one of your very first lessons with me….? 'How to Clean Your Cauldron Properly'?"
Permitting her posture to settle once he – rather regrettably – broke their immediate contact, Hermione turnt halfway round to quirk her brow at him for his infuriatingly apt, and apropos, recollection.
"I do, yes. However, my cauldron at the time was pewter , if you recall, Professor . Therefore a new set of instructions may be required," she returned with a certain amount of delectation, and perhaps, provocation , as she plucked up the weighty skillet and moved towards the sink.
"First test, passed , it seems. Though let's see you make a try without any teacher's aid, first. I'm not speaking to Mr. Weasley, after all?" Severus murmured drolly, domesticating the upwards twitch of his pursed lips as he fought to hide his proud commendation of her former observation, shifting his weight onto his left leg, and therefore his hip, to rest the brunt of his weight into the side of the counter as he attended the genesis of her true 'trial'.
After being sure to shoot him a subtle glare for that comparison, Hermione approached the basin with a sweeping glance of inspection as to its 'contents'. After all, she must, technically, have everything she needed to perform the assignment in full, and correctly, before her, or else he would surely have made a note of needing some extra, latent tool.
"You'd best be thrilled I'm not. For if I were, I'd simply wait until you looked away and ' Scourgify' everything like he used to do in class," she let slip with a bit of a larkish scoff as she reached for the taps.
"Now what, Miss Granger? Do keep in mind the differences in metal that you so astutely pointed out," the ex-professor added with a wry tutt, crossing his arms over his chest and hooking his thumbs in front as he so often posed when desiring to appear particularly cavilling.
"Hmm," she hummed, turning on the tap for the hot water as it was a relatively obvious first step before starting the next one of rinsing out the pan to see what impact that, in itself, would have – very little it seemed. Naturally . There was, however, a scrubbing sponge on the edge of the basin, which she interrupted her efforts in order to grab – after rolling up her sleeves – to employ for use. Albeit gently, at first.
"Well, I know you aren't meant to use any kind of soap on it, that's common knowledge. Too absorbent, yes?" she glanced at him briefly in all his discerning contemplation to verify that bit of information. "Though this seems a bit… tedious ."
"Correct, cast iron's beauty is that it holds all of the flavours of prior preparations. It has an uncanny ability to preserve the oils, fats, spices, etc. of the meats and such it's held in its past. One might think that that amalgamation could prove to have less than appealing results, however, I do believe that most would argue it only ever enhances the piquency of what one may be basting in it," he lectured to her ad hocly as his tongue darted out to dampen his drying lips from his edifying prattle.
"Yes, Professor, I am aware of how cast iron works, ta. A simple, 'yes', would have sufficed," she intruded patiently, casting her eyes north though her lips twitched wryly. Her hands, meanwhile, arduously continued to scrub a particularly stubborn spot on the pan with the assistance of the hot water tap.
"Though there has to be a more efficient method than this, surely?"
"Obviously . And you seemed so sure of yourself, Miss Granger… Pity . I suppose no extra credit for you," Severus clicked his tongue against his teeth before crossing over to stand behind her once more. And, once again, as he did so, it felt as if an indiscernible link was tethering their physical beings against one another as if their souls themselves relied on its bind, for he found that he'd pressed himself far closer against her than needed in order to ameliorate her error.
"Salt , Wife, always use salt. Kosher, preferably," he husked against her nearest ear as his right arm wrapped alongside hers to take the pan out her hand and clutch it with gentlemanly force as his left stretched to corral a glass jar of the white mineral before passing it to her, now-liberated fingers, to bear. "If you want any credit at all, at least open the bloody thing for me? I'm not about to do all of your 'detention's' labour for you…"
"Yes, Sir ," Hermione replied with undeniably indecent amusement at his choice to sustain his play at injunction, unnecessary or impractical as it may have been. Before taking the jar from his hand, she flexed her fingers antsily against the pang that she could, by this point, trace to their physical contact with certainly – not that it explained the reasons for it when they were apart , however, that was a postulation for another time.
She then shifted her weight back against him, inhabiting the narrow span of space between his body and the edge of the counter to more easily wipe her hand on her skirt – though it should be noted that she, perhaps , made a less than valiant effort to fully return to her former position once she had discarded of the lid.
"Just pour it in, then?" she asked, tilting her head towards the shoulder that he had originally leant over to inspect her toil from.
"Charm the pan to a warm, but not hot , temperature, first, and then proceed to distribute approximately two hundred fifty millilitres* into the pan," he directed pragmatically, his left hand throbbing with a sudden burst of heat as he felt her shape lean into his as she dried her hand. He cleared his throat with a curt cough as the small of her back ironed against his groin and he made note to shift his pelvis backwards in retreat.
"And then, Miss Granger, you scrub . Though, this time, please use the folded corner of a dishtowel. Far more conducive to the round edges, care of the textile, and elbow grease, yes?"
"How very precise," Hermione murmured, hyper-aware of every movement his taller figure now made at her back, venturing to disregard the swell of fervidity collecting at the base of her spine. 'Warm ' should hardly be an issue.
She placed her hand just in front of his own on the handle, for the merit of directing her efforts, and murmured a charm that spiked the temperature of the pan higher than she had ever intended, initially. Briefly frazzled, she speedily manoeuvred to rectify the mishap by lightening her grasp. Without fail, the pan cooled immediately. She shot her husband a brief look of apology for nearly scalding him before eyeballing the appropriate amount of salt. At least precision took focus on something other than feeling (or was it, hoping? ) like she was about to be bent over the bloody, fucking sink and get mercilessly pounded into by his domineering person – er, where had that come from? Oy, Nevermind.
Calling over the only dishcloth she had seen in the kitchen thus far, Hermione abandoned the salt to catch the fabric as it shot over to her with a startling amount of velocity. She then, with much intended care, to counter the object's violent arrival, gingerly wet it.
Right, let's calm it down, Hermione. Perhaps cutting back on the wandless magic this evening would be wise….
"Merlin, Miss Granger, do be cautious and settle down, some? I'm not sure I could handle your suddenly becoming a 'Longbottom' with regards to your magical ability," Severus remarked with risible reservedness as his right hand steadied her person upon her ensnarement of the fabric.
"Oh, very amusing, Professor Snape," she scoffed lightly, turning her flushed face back toward the sink to clear her throat. "Just a bit of a power regulation issue, nothing more."
She shook off the odd disruption and began to do as he'd instructed, keeping her hold of the pan alongside his, and scrubbing it in a circular pattern with the grains of salt, finding herself leaning forwards as her progress processed. It was certainly more impactful than her last attempt, as expected, Hermione did not fail to mark.
"Hmm, not bad," She commented contentedly in self-satisfaction as her mouth curled into a half crescent, shaking her head to get the hair out of her eyes as her hands were very much hired out.
"Almost , Miss Granger, almost," the ever emendation-happy former professor remarked into her ear, his grip on her side tightening as he extended his paw round her 'slaving' figure to increase the water flow of the tap to abet her in her pursuit.
"A bit more water and a tad more 'sweat of the brow' and I do believe we should be —" just as he was about to finish his statement, it was as if a magical entity— quite literally , it seemed — had taken possession of the water pressure, for though he had only turnt the knob a fraction of a degree to the right, the potency of the water's force was so great that it ricocheted off of the bottom of the pan and straight at Hermione's lower abdomen in a matter of milliseconds. Luckily, for his humility, and for her comfort, 'great' was a relative term, however, it did get her adequately moist enough to comment on.
"My sincerest apologies, Miss Granger, it seems as though I've gotten you rather wet…"
Hermione had nearly forgotten this particular breed of magic's ineffable skillset of making her bloody hallucinate, regardless of the level of awkwardness of the given scenario. Indeed, for just as the spray of hot water had hit her, influencing her to instinctually flinch backwards – and therefore, into Severus' chest – the man had had to go and say that! And as such, she was instantaneously reminded of precisely how little agency she had had over her own mind the past couple of days. Because that was far from all she'd heard him say. Not, for that matter, all that she'd felt him do .
"Or should I say 'drenched…?' Perhaps, even more so than you, inevitably, were earlier when you were 'riding' me? I bet I could push your sodden knickers aside, and slide right into you, no matter my girth, so dripping with your sex's juices you must be for your old Professor, Miss Granger, hm? Now then… shall I let my fingers be the bookie and check for my winnings? Even collect them, perchance?"
His hand, which had been gripping her hip in a rather non-committal way, suddenly tightened and began to wander around her pelvis, the insufficient fabric of her skirt gathering into his grasp until it shifted entirely beneath it and his words reached their ultimate conclusion, seeming to echo through her mind. Whether what was happening beneath her skirt was doing so in reality, or in some bizarre, waking-dream, she knew for certain that the falling of her head against his shoulder, and the wordless encouragement as she bared her throat to the breath that was tangible against her flesh, were very much present in either realm. Emphasis on the former.
It was only when her body gave an involuntary jolt as his hand seemingly reached the throbbing slit of her thighs, and the mark on her neck gave a sudden twinge as though it had been aggravated anew, did Hermione's eyes widen in sudden realisation of what had just transpired – or rather, what had not transpired. At least not in 'reality' . She coughed up a breathless curse that she dearly hoped would fit the scenario, whatever the fuck that was meant to be.
Oh no! No, no. Bad! Bad brain. It was haunting enough when this delusional shite happened when he was across the room, but being right here? What the actual fuck was she trying to do herself?!
"Mm. Yes, so you did," she voiced hastily with a forced chuckle as she awkwardly righted her posture and tried to regain the use of her faculties in a manner that would be neither obvious nor damning. "Er, no harm done, I shan't melt."
A poorly timed Oz joke, but it was something, at least. She'd heard of being possessed by ghosts, but this was like being hijacked by Eros himself, and she was beginning to think she'd prefer the bloody spiritual option.
And if her knickers weren't 'drenched' before, they bloody certainly were now. Fuck. What a day to have worn lace. 'Dunderhead', as he might have said.
"Fuck ," Severus hissed as his left hand flew from her hip and he shook it to the side, foolishly attempting to run the errand of cooling it down through the adverse action. "Apologies…" he muttered though proffered no further illumination on the subject.
"Anyway, very amusing reference, Ms. Witch of the West, but we should likely get this veg going," he encouraged, commanding the pan from her grip and rinsing it once more as his left hand returned to her hip and gave a small squeeze of puckish apology. Lastly, he inspected their joint effort, and with an air of finality, displayed the pan to her whilst still settled around her for the moment.
Hermione exhaled quietly in relief, having been holding her breath in fear that he would have noticed anything amiss about her behaviour. But – likely the only time she would hold such a sentiment – bless that fucking ring . At least his had chosen an opportune moment to go haywire, for once.
She had noticed they were both cursed with defiant wedding bands before he left London, of course, though even when she was in physical contact with him long enough to feel his response, it was still hard to pin down a precise pattern for how the matching set seemed to differ. Or maybe she was typically just too distracted.
"We certainly should, yes," she swiftly agreed, eager to move past her mental revolt.
"VoilĂ , ma petite femme," he rumbled against her ear, just before he unhinged himself from her backside and crossed over to the oven. "Why don't you have a seat and pour yourself another drink, hm? Consider it your 'extra credit' reward?" he felicitated with some dryness for the sake of his 'character's trope'.
Her eyes narrowed playfully at him in a side-glance, the teasing manoeuvre being extremely ill-timed to say the least as she wasn't sure how much more moisture could physically accumulate between her thighs.
"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur," she husked back with a fraction of sardonic melody, expelling a subtle sigh as he shifted away from her. Though now she was faced with an altogether alternative predicament – sitting down . It felt like a very ill-advised move given the current state of her knickers, at least for her skirt's sake. And, perhaps also, the chair's … So, as she wasn't especially fond of the idea of literally marking his furniture, quite yet with her 'essence' (if he was even 'into that') she paced back over to the oven with the aim of insisting she perform the 'sous-chef' duties that had previously been assigned to her.
"Very kind of you, but … what about your adherence to the habit of 'fastidiousness'? Besides, it seems I now must prove that I'm not completely hopeless, for the sake of my own ego if nothing else."
"Well, if you insist, Miss Granger, so be it. I suppose I trust you to prove successful," Severus winked ( why had he winked?) before striding over to the resting entrée to begin the exploit of carving the oblong tenderloin. Grabbing a long, silver knife, a family heirloom from his father's mother's side, from a nearby drawer, Severus then charmed over a muggle cooking whetstone. He dragged the blade of the instrument over and across the hard stone with punctilious agility, angling it just so every other stroke so as to hone the edge of the family 'artefact' to exact cutting precision. He hardly needed to be quite so meticulous about it, especially given the density of the dish, however he could be said to be guilty of maintaining a small affinity for unnecessary showmanship from time to time.
However, despite his occasional leniency towards the anthemic, the execution did require a certain degree of delicacy. And as such, he gingerly slid the knife through the meat with precision to maintain its structural hold as well as achieve the exact thickness of cut that would exemplify its flavours most pronouncedly as he continued his dialogue with his witch.
"However, with regards to my aforementioned 'fastidiousness' , Beef Wellington only needs roughly ten minutes to rest adequately before the chef can begin to prepare it for serving. Which, I believe, it almost has been. Do remind me never to delegate you to do the washing up, Miss Granger. What should have taken two minutes, Wife, we collectively, made into eight, it seems."
Hermione's brow went crooked as her eyes lingered to watch his 'presentation' before immediately confirming that she needed to redistribute her attention to the abandoned pan on the stove, lest she be forced to go upstairs and change. Why every mundane action the man did with his bloody hands was now addictively fascinating to her libido, she didn't know, but it was beginning to grate on her nerves. All right, she was very well aware as to why, truthfully. But he wasn't even doing anything suggestive! The forearms she supposed also made sense – she'd scarcely ever seen his wrists much less past that — a pedestrian trick of the mind, if nothing else, tantamount to indecency in the Victorian sense. Either way, she had a duty to perform. So as intriguing as the sharp, methodical strikes were to observe, her attention quickly centred elsewhere.
"Well, you did make it into a test. Now then, I assume you have a spice cupboard. Is it any easier to reach than your cockwa– cookware ?" she just about choked on her speedy correction, clearing her throat and praying it sounded like a stutter versus a Freudian slip. Regardless, she quickly occupied herself with emptying the bag into the pan as she awaited his reply.
"You say that, Miss Granger, as if there were ever a 'test' you didn't trip over yourself in eagerness to participate in. I was merely being sentient of my current 'audience' and her predilection for competition. But, yes. Of course I do. Being who and what I am, I've actually donated an entire pantry to such a thing. Sometimes I need a crossover when brewing etc. But I'm rather certain you'll find at least a fraction of every known spice under the sun," he pursed his lips in both arrogance and discomfiture. "To your right, the second pantry door on the wall."
"Mm. Noted. But still a more time consuming choice on your part," Hermione countered, not about to take all the blame, even in such a trivial play at an argument.
Finding a wooden spoon in a container near the stovetop, she started to heat up the pan – this particular bit of cookery should be relatively simple and straightforward, after all. Nothing she wasn't familiar with, just so long as she could keep herself attentive. Only after she'd so absently taken in his words and had paced to the cupboard in question, did she find herself blinking in mild surprise at its vastness.
"You were... not exaggerating."
"I rarely do," Severus answered with a distracted hum as he finished plating the main course before covering the remainder of it with some aluminium foil to keep it warm should either party want seconds. He then halted, and glanced over at her, raising a curious, critical brow at her progress before being unable to restrain himself from overseeing her actions properly and strode over to her.
He crossed his arms over his chest in consideration, "What exactly are you doing, Miss Granger? Please don't tell me you're actually going to attempt to meliorate frozen veg? Good bloody luck."
Having collected a small array of things from the cupboard, Hermione gave him an apathetic shrug as she began the process of dashing and stirring the spices into the pan. Only then did she go about countering his innate scepticism with some simple logic of her own.
"As someone who often takes advantage of the frozen aisle, Husband, a lot more can be done with its goods than you, or any other 'Jacque PĂ©pin', might think. And as you certainly have all the options in order to improve upon them, why not allow me to 'try' to do so?"
"Well, I'm fond of seeing where this might go. I'll bite my tongue and do my best not to reiterate my prior point on your potions-making prowesses," he smirked at the irony as he had just, indirectly, done so with his remark, pushing his weight off of the counterside to gather a better view.
"I'm not promising a miracle, just a minor improvement," she disclaimed, in the likely advent that he was as rigorous a food critic as he'd been an academic professor. "If all else fails at least they certainly smell more appetising."
Though before she could finish speaking, Hermione picked up on two very curious sounds – a sharp crackling noise swiftly followed by a shutter of metal scraping against metal – which she was unable to link to anything Severus was currently engaged with. She cocked her head up, and abruptly turned it to the side, looking behind her in search of anything that could be to blame. Nothing. Nothing at all.
Even Crooks, who had previously been occupied sniffing her husband's feet, had also allayed his actions to investigate as his head, too, craned over his shoulder at the invisible anatomy. Though before she could open her mouth to speak on it, Nyx suddenly made a boisterous entrance, flapping her wings in self-made spectacle as she raced towards her master. Sensing her question might be answered for her, Hermione paused her intent to pose another enquiry.
"Yes, quite so," Severus lauded with a bonhomous look as he was about to comment further on the potential need for future 'cooking lessons' when he was unceremoniously bombarded by his avian familiar, which caused him to nearly stumble into the bloody kitchen table.
"Shh, shh, my girl, what is it?" Severus purred lowly, employing his lowest register of cadence as he knew it was the one she was, qw21not only most responsive to, but also most conciliated by, as his large hands came to enshroud the bird's body before coming to cradle her against his chest.
The crow gave another croak of persistence before clicking her beak in defiance with a dull snap. However, despite her valiant efforts to remain alert, she seemed to relax until her only signs of protest were the flutter of her wings against his hold. Though even as she physically calmed, her head did continue to jerk in keen scrutiny at the direction from which she'd come.
"Now then, what's got you all fussied, dear? Hm? You've had quite the remarkable day… You aren't highest on my favourite list you know, but I suppose I have yet to commend you for your valiant bravery earlier. Though, do keep that orange tangerine-faced feline in line? I don't fully trust the lad, or his owner…. " he murmured against her feathers, pecking the top of her head gently before opening up his arms for her to, once again, have free will now that she was more tranquil.
Crookshanks, feeling discontented by his new companion receiving all of the attention by their lesser, human familiars – not to mention his supper being so abhorrently late – decided to exercise his boredom by hopping upon a nearby chair, then moved to occupy the table proper. Now, assuredly being in eyesight of the plebeians before him, he took it upon himself to let out a titter of pointed expectation. In the process of attempting to garner the sole focus of the room, however, he discovered an errant wine cork and swiftly pawed it off of the table. He followed it, stalwartly, back to the floor, but not without kicking over a salt shaker in the process, with a deliberate-looking flare.
Even with the addition of the light jab, Hermione still found herself taking in the sentimental scene with a nigh-on distracting amount of appreciation and fondness. It was charmingly paternal in a way, something she knew he was inherently capable of but had never quite seen presented to her in such a blunt fashion. So much so that it took her a moment to register Crook's intervening demand for attention. Though before she could get a word of protest in, her focus was annexed by the the even more striking sight of the corvid landing upon the linoleum across from Crookshanks, skip-hopping her way over to partake in some sort of incomprehensible exchange, and then taking air, only to perch solidly atop the feline's unfurled back. The orange cat seemed surprisingly undisturbed, beginning to pace away with the bird in tow.
"Well…one doesn't see that every day," she remarked, dual-fold, though her eyes remained glued to the animals' actions, even as her hand began to reflexively stir the pan once again.
"I do believe we may each want to sleep with one eye open, Miss Granger," he drawled darkly. "They are far too cosy with one another, far too quickly, methinks. Some mischief of further trickery is surely afoot…." he lamented in mock dramatics as he offered her a serving plate for the beans and grabbed their plates to set on the table.
"Wine?" he asked casually, suddenly starting at how… serene this all was, their settling into a 'domestic life'. He was in the midst of reflecting to his inner-self how it almost made him uneasy, even if he was finding that it did succour his previous panic and turmoil over his newfound destiny, when every immediate light in the kitchen began to pulsate with flickering levels of brightness. Indeed, they spasmodically demoed flashes of intense lustre only to plummet to a dull hum of the bulb, effectively casting the kitchen in a moody twilight 'stratosphere'.
"Why not? Yes, thank you," Hermione chuckled and took the plate from his outstretched hand casually, beginning to transfer the beans to it, though found herself pausing in perplexity as the lights began to pulse and flare.
Her initial instinct was to presume faulty wiring – the house was quite old – and she would have felt safe, within that presumption , had she not picked up a glint of effulgence in her peripheral vision. Surely enough she had been correct, for her head swung round just in time to catch sight of a silver candelabra settling resolutely on the kitchen table behind her husband. She blinked before swallowing.
" Severus ...did you do that, or do we need to have another chat about ghosts?"
"I did not do that, no , Miss Granger…" the called upon Wizard answered with wary hesitancy as his dark pupils darted round the room from each light fixture to the next before sedulously lodging on the phosphorescence source composed of fire.
"Hmm. Well, we know it isn't a poltergeist, or the tablecloth would be on fire," Hermione attempted to joke at the wizard's befuddled response, despite a creeping hint of unease beginning to take room and board in her chest. She cautiously shifted past him to lay the plate of dressed beans upon the table, giving the entire surface a suspicious side-eye as she realised, quite resolutely, that there hadn't been a tablecloth set prior to this.
Severus' eyes became pointed, the flat ridge of his brows gathering to deepen its plica, as he gauged the newfound article with acute confoundment before ploddingly opening his mouth to react, "Fucking hell… Did Peeves floo here? Are we certain that that's not possible?" he muttered with a dry, ruminative grunt.
What the bloody hell was going on in the house? Between his rings, this seemingly 'magical' haunting, if he should name it that, the rambunctious and misbehaviour of their creatures, as well as, finally, the incessant, intransigent shadowing of the press, it was a wonder that they were of sound mind at all. And all of those transgressions were on top of the supreme one of their being bloody, fucking married to one another.
Bollocks , he really needed that wine.
"Unless he's suddenly learnt the skill of silence since we left, it seems unlikely ," she immediately replied with a soft, if brief attempt at a laugh. Though the description seemed insufficient for the full nature of this particular entity as it was not only mute, but also remarkably covert . Poltergeists were typically anything but subtle, were they not? As for the intentions behind it, she could only guess.
"At least it seems to be relatively harmless, so far."
"I suppose so, though that somewhat remains to be seen… Perhaps it's time for that glass of wine?" he proposed, not expecting an answer as he turnt round to grab two stemmed glasses. After pouring the Bacchanalian delight into their 'goblets' and bringing the pair over to join their plates, Severus eyed her before sitting down and muttered rather drolly, "I assume you don't require assistance with your chair?"
"I think I've got it handled," she assured him, her eyes taking an upward turn though so did her lips as she pointedly sat herself down with cautious ease, smoothing down her skirt in the procedure. So much had occurred since the moment she'd arrived, that it wasn't until she found herself sat with sustenance in front of her that her appetite became overtly apparent.
"Right, well, I'd hope so," he commented as he, too, sat, taking a sip of wine with one hand as his other placed his napkin on his lap before passing her the serving dish of beans. The plate of which, he suddenly noticed, seemed a shade or two off-colour from the original – as the only adequate one he owned – now taking on a sheet-white hue versus that of its original eggshell. He decided against commenting on it, however, for he, likely, was simply misremembering…. Surely?
"Well, a toast to our first meal together, I suppose," he proffered as he raised his glass up in tribute before adding, "whilst I am rather desirous of the 'power-play' the Great Hall's staff table elicits, I suppose such a device in this circumstance would be a relatively…. antediluvian ."
After situating her napkin as well, Hermione raised her own glass to greet that of his, her lips curving into an ironic smile. Merlin, had it really just been over an hour since she'd gotten there? And, had he actually, finally , managed to strain the limits of even her rather extensive vocabulary with that remark? Hera's tit, so it seemed.
"Well, cheers to its, ostensibly , imminent success. Although, for my sake, Professor , I hope your 'dirty talk' doesn't ring quite as meretricious as your dinner conversation or I'll have to store a dictionary by my side of the bed," she couldn't resist pricking him lightly with a crafty smirk through her made-up eyelashes as she set her glass down lightly. Though, immediately after the joke had left her lips did she began to scrutinise why she had even permitted it, in the first place.
"Well, if my 'dirty talk' does prove to be so grandiloquent …." the charcoal-haired wizard began with a satisfactorily sinister tone, he too, suddenly becoming arrested by a sudden surge of randiness just as his ring exuded a particularly conspicuous pulse of heat. "It's something, I suppose, you'll experience, if you so entreat upon it, when the time arises. Though you certainly seem palatable with concern to 'playing along'... Fancy that teacher's pet roleplay, do you?"
Bypassing the urge to back off of her response – though it was a bit too late for that, regardless – Hermione merely issued a contemplative 'hmph' of abject consideration, the fingers of her left hand drumming on the newfound tablecloth, before abruptly tensing as a new ripple of torridity overcame them.
"Well, the 'dirty talk' remark was a joke , mind you. However, as for that rather accusatory question, I think the answer would depend on how literally you take your roleplays. You would be the one to find an excuse to make me write lines, methinks," she threw back with an inescapable chortle at how purely ridiculous it felt to be locked in such a lascivious exchange with Severus fucking Snape, frivolous or not.
His thumb fingered his burning ring as he stared across at her dumbly – though only for a moment – before his eyes flashed with a thought of undeniable precocity and he retaliated by subscribing to her notion, rumbling, "You know, Miss Granger, that is quite the good idea . Perhaps I'll quill that down and save it for our consummation night, hm? I do have an affinity with being unnecessarily unprincipled with my punishments..."
"Oh, I'm not too sure about that . I don't think you're as cruel as you'd like to paint yourself. I've seen people treat their children with less regard than you've just shown your crow, and need I remind you of the numerous compliments that you so eloquently rattled off your tongue as easily as if you were listing the bloody alphabet? I don't think I know of another man alive who could have done so with such poetic finesse," she countered with almost exasperated humour in her tone, despite every word being entirely veracious. "In fact, Husband, I could almost accuse you of being remarkably sweet ."
"Let's not get absurdly cocky, now, Miss Granger. Perhaps, after all I've gone through thus far in my life, an animal is the closest living thing I'm able to conceive actually giving such physical or emotional affection? You are, after all, married to the dourest wizard that's surely ever lived. Not to mention the most antisocial. Nyx is a welcome respite from the drudgery that is the human population. And with regards to my 'accolades' of your person earlier, while merited on most fronts," he winked, (Merlin's cockring, why had he winked?! Again?!), "I'm sure I'll turn on a dime a number of times before it's all over; or, before I die," he countered with a small smirk, though his sudden demoralising take wasn't exactly a jest. It could very easily occur – and perhaps, Merlin-willing it would, at this point.
Hermione countered with a small chuckle, finally bringing the glass of the godly juice to her lips, though found herself letting the glass linger there, undrunk, as she took in the delayed realisation that he hadn't disclaimed any of his earlier words. Her mind, in all of its realism, had simply expected him to do so – in contradiction to her own previous commendation, it was what most men would have done in his position. Unless they were actively trying to get into her knickers, granted, but that seemed a rather moot point with one's own spouse, arranged, or no. Nevertheless, even passively 'doubling down' on his sentiments was a remarkably bold move, in its own way, and she was left a bit stunned by it. And dangerously, encouraged .
"Well," she began with a momentary pause to finally have that sip of wine, and with it, hopefully some improved self-composure, "at least you won't get predictable."
Though no sooner had she finally voiced that response, did something inexplicable – or, suspiciously fortuitous – transpire. Indeed, for what sounded like music had begun to emanate from somewhere within the house. The noise, at first, was almost imperceptible – her ears only just picking up on the familiar-sounding melody as her brows knitted in confusion as she strained internally to name it. Only when a strange wave of unexpected childhood nostalgia overcame her did Hermione recognise, in full, the tune of Ilene Woods' amorously-famous 'So This Is Love'.
"I suppose that wasn't you either , then?" she asked Snape with wistful advertency, despite knowing fully well that the chances of his having charmed the music were slim to none, based on the bloody song choice alone.
He didn't ' entirely' seem the Cinderella type. Much less anything so overly-saccharin in tone and context. Perhaps if felines had been more popular with children, especially in the 'cookie-cutter', nuclear family era of the 1950s, where Lassie exemplified the dog as the more heroic species, Lucifer might have been gifted a musical interlude of his own. And though a ballad of gallantry it would never be, it would certainly fit Severus' 'tune' more appropriately. But the vilification of cats within the media of the social hemisphere wasn't the area of focus her mind should be harnessed to in studying at the moment.
"No… Once again, it was not. However, as I was just in the cellar, I believe there is some grizzled musical contraception – fuck, I meant contraption – that is contained within its walls… Surely it's had magic tossed at it once or twice… perhaps… it's… or, maybe…" Severus abruptly halted, lest he dig himself deeper into a pit of Freudian slips and failed excuses. He simply shut his mouth and gave up entirely on trying to denounce the mysterious source of this newborn romantic anomaly. Instead, he twirled his glass of vino gingerly, glancing at the falling legs of the garnet liquid in a strained attempt to appear civilised before finishing it in a singular gulp and setting it down with admonished punctually. Only then did he attempt to reopen his mouth to communicate some iota of knowledge – well, really it was lack of knowledge. Oh, bloody hell, communication , that's what he was, ultimately, attempting to strive for.
"I have no fucking idea what this bloody house's agenda is, Miss Granger, however, I can tell you that I am no Prince Fucking Charming and you are hardly Cinder-bloody-ella. I think that title, on paper, would be more apt to belong to Mr. Potter given the contexts and similarities of each of their lives… Regardless, the fact that my mother even owned this LP is making me somewhat ill, let alone having to hear it in this setting. No offence… However, I am beginning to perceive that the house, or something other – wants to bestow us with the ambience of a bloody proper, romantic date." He grunted ambiguously at this next thought which he then voiced, adding, "Perhaps the ministry's somehow charmed my entire damn house? I suppose stranger things have occurred in this blasted world of ours."
"It's a possibility, though I can't see why they'd bother?" she replied with a rather comedic wince, shaking her head as she began to turn her attention to her plate. "Regardless of what or whom is responsible, they seem quite underqualified. Amatory atmosphere I can comprehend, but I don't see how reminding me of my being a toddler would be very conducive to their intentions."
As though their objections were being actively taken into consideration, the billowy tune faded and shifted, with some disjointedness, into an entirely different song altogether. "You Belong To Me", if she wasn't mistaken. How very compelling a choice. And might she add, revelatory. At least with regards to intention(s). Either the woman of the house or whatever unnamed force was behind this act of collusion, by all appearances, had a penchant for early 1950s love songs. Though despite that similarity, the tone and lyrical content were certainly an improvement. Again, quite a curious choice, however. For the sentiment was undoubtedly that of lovers separated by distance. Perhaps there was some metaphor she was missing...
"Hmm. That's much better . Jo Stafford's version?" she voiced her guess. For while the song was unmistakable, there had been so very many artists who had lent their voices towards the lyrics over the years, that it took a keen ear at times to distinguish them.
"Ah, very astute discrimination, Miss Granger. I'm impressed. Yes, the one and only. Usually considered to be the most popular version of it, in case you were not aware, though, it seems that you likely are. And, I must say that I, for once, agree with the general populous' consensus. And who taught you to appreciate the musical genesis of the '40s and '50s, Miss Granger?" Severus inquired as he began to cut his first piece of meat and glanced across the table at her through the hazy, warm flickerings of the candlelight.
"That would be my mother," Hermione answered, her tone casual but guarded as she too plucked up her knife and fork, decidedly looking down at her plate for a moment as a familiar wave of uneasiness took over her momentarily, but finished her thought nonetheless. "She's always kept quite a collection of records, a lot of them of the 50s love song variety."
There were certain things in her life that didn't make for very good dinner conversation, and her long-running anxiety surrounding her parents' continued obliviation on another continent, for a myriad of reasons, encapsulated many of them. So she saw fit to, with hope not too swiftly, change the subject, proceeding to inquire about his own fondness for her, asking, "I presume, then, that you're also a fan?"
"How could anyone not be? But yes, Miss Granger, I am. My mother, too , shared and influenced her favourite artists of those times to me as well. Fancy. That," Severus murmured, his tone calm and light as he noticed with invested concernment the agitation that was clearly simmering beneath the surface of her tellingly swift remark. Hm, he'd have to probe into that at another time when she seemed more willing.
After all, the state of her parents, wherever they might be, had become his adoptive responsibility the moment they had wed. They were, now, family , the four of them. Not to mention, he marinated for a moment with expected concern of his own, his in-laws . In-laws that were, potentially, very close to his age, to boot. Perhaps younger, perhaps older, perhaps the same — depending upon their age when she had been 'thought up', of course. Which, obviously could very likely be a point of severe, and justified contention. He shuddered as he pondered what the, potentially, inevitably daunting conversation with her father might look like. Another 'affray' with Nagini felt considerably preferable, now that he thought about it.
"Well, that is a way to think about it," Hermione agreed fondly with his initial, rather indisputable, response, allowing herself to relax some once he had, blessedly, foregone the opportunity to pry into the familial topic she had foolishly offered up.
Instead of lingering on that sore spot of a subject, however, the witch focused her analytic brain on her husband once again as she began to take a bite from her plate. Deceptively out of place as the song choice might seem to anyone who didn't properly know him, the man was, quite obviously, a romantic – no matter how greatly that ideal could conflict with the 'outward persona' that he so strictly campaigned. And, it certainly made sense that his musical tastes would be as eclectic as his literary preferences. Something told her that he likely had a hidden stash of all sorts somewhere, and she was curious to locate it. Baroque symphonies or 80s power ballads, who was to say?
Severus found himself enjoying Hermione's company far more than he had been aspiring too, and yet again, far more than he was content with. But why , should certainly be questioned, especially by the man himself. Though, he did know why. Beneath the many doctrines of self-ordained unworthiness, unattractiveness, bachelorhood, self-loathing and punishment, etc – not to mention his love affair with banging on about their age difference and the 'inappropriateness' of their current interpersonal relationship given their former one – he was truly reticent about the whole thing. He was unmitigatedly and categorically terrorised of being happy . And not only happy – perhaps, one day, even in love again. Yes, Mrs. Potter had certainly done a number on his vascular organ. Quite self-imposed as well, to be sure. Nevertheless, the ludicrousness of one Miss Hermione Granger – of the fucking 'Golden Trio', and his former student, perhaps being the one witch that could ever usurp his former (let's admit it) romantic 'obsession' was far too big a dragon to slay. Let alone condone the mere thought of. Indeed, he needed to keep himself at more of a distance henceforth. Yes, that was surely the soundest course of modus operandi. If , that is, he could keep himself to such a vow. Ha.
Hermione realised only after the fact, that they had lapsed into a strangely comfortable silence whilst they both had begun to eat rather furiously. Sans a couple of stray comments and compliments tossed between them for the food itself, as well as a brief pause on her part to stretch, rolling her shoulders as she settled fully into the chair and taking a long pull from her glass shortly thereafter. Aside from when she had been so briefly sat on him , this had been the first time she'd sat down all evening - not that she should be actively recalling the first time presently. And besides the act of sitting, she also couldn't recall the last time she'd done any eating that day, much less anything of actual quality. As such there was no feigning of enthusiasm necessary on her part, for any aspect of her contentment. Even her own 'meagre' contribution to the meal felt adequately enjoyable as she tried it.
So lost in thought was the Potions Master that he barely even realised that he had been staring at her blankly for the past minute, his fork paused, speared into its final bite on his plate as he had been doing so.
Luckily, for the 'Professor', his 'student' apparently had been equally compelled by her meal as well as her own inner thoughts, as he, himself had been thus far. And, remained to be so, as it seemed. Thus, sanctioning his person a few spare moments in which to research her in profound awe, and intrigue.
He observed his wife with both the mischief of a cat toying with a mouse as well as with the absolute reverence that the courtly poet would have as he sought to record just how uniquely his furtive lover lifted a goblet of mead to her lips – so varied from any other; after all, no one person ever picks up a glass like their neighbour, and gods bless humanity for the myriad medley of that – or, the puckish grin of her reddened lips whilst she gazed at him through her heavy lashes as he dashed a script or two from the corner of the room…. However , that was an entirely different era altogether. Obviously. Though, if everything went well, exceedingly so – the drink in him speaking now, of course – her penchant for roleplay surely spilt over into the historical faction? And let's not get started on the literary level….?
He shook his head, and swallowed the lustful lump in his throat that easily dropped past his navel, landing, confrontationally, at his core as he re-engaged his eyes to her figure, and, as such, her behaviour .
She was stretching. Right. So what of it? A completely normative, human exercise that all engage in sporadically throughout the day. Why then, why the fuck, did he suddenly have the privileged view of witnessing her chest without any support beneath her jumper? A jumper, 'whose' knit was just sparse enough to gift his eyes a glimpse of the blush of her nipples, as well as displaying their augmented 'state'.
What the bloody fuck was happening? Surely he would've noticed that sooner. He narrowed his pupils at her, however, they only perpetrated on her chest all the more. And the further he wondered, the more his inner mind foundered at what it could create. With such gusto and imagination….
She had a glass of wine in her hand…. What. If. It. Spilt? Causing her jumper to be stained – red wine is horrid for that, and as they seemed to be having a 'muggle dinner-making fest' of it – and she simply disengaged herself from it entirely and sat before him topless?
Fuck. What he wouldn't give to see that. Well, now on the subject….if she were, he'd certainly be fond of her, ha, well, fondling herself…. Oh, yes, that would be quite, quite exquisite. Watching the coy, little smirk on those ruby, red lips of her petite mouth – one fantasy at a time, Man – her hands coming up to each breast, only to circle both of her peaks tauntingly, before, upon his instruction of course, pinching them until they became as erect as could be… He would compel her to shift her pelvic floor forwards to shimmy it against the seat of the chair and then ask her, cheekily and with much bravado, if, perhaps, her clit was just as pronounced as the tips of her Vesuvian 'alps'.
Shite, he was getting hard…. Fuck it. He was overcome with the need to indulge. And indulge he would.
Yes, the dregs of wine in her glass were just enough, that if he chose to grab it and trickle it across her chest, it would emulate the 'spill' of the substantial nectar of Dionysus, and surely give him reason to lap up the deific 'ambrosia' lest it go to waste. And therein, give his mouth excuse to suckle and lap at her enamelled chest until he was in thirsty want of more. Merlin, after that imbibing was concluded, he would anticipatorily lift her onto his lap, run his tongue around the lesser hills shrouding her centred peaks, as his hand snaked down to finally expose his throbbing, erect cock to her cunt. Ah yes, that white-hot core of her essential self that he so ached to know. He would paint himself with her own 'wine' as he fomented her to shift her centre back and forth across his length until he was gilded with her juices. Upon which, he would instruct her with 'severe sincerity' to only pause once his head was against her bundle of screaming nerves. And then, he would gaze upon her and take purchase of her left tit as his cock's head mimicked his tongue's work above….
Severus' hand was now firmly on his jeans – why the bloody fuck had he worn jeans? Oh yes, for this very reason alone… A barrier. Well, barriers be damned.
He swallowed the other numerous erotic scenes that involved his cock's tip circling her mounds or his cum dripping across them or, better yet, between the valley of her breasts and into her southern hemisphere for he was more than ready to receive pleasure. Even, if at his own hand.
And reach his hand down to his jeans zipper, he did, slowly tugging it south as he winced at how aroused his obstinate appendage had become. But, Merlin, did it need attention. And so, snaking his hand around his own 'serpent' – bollocks he was tipsy – Severus then began to untuck himself from his pants and jeans in the hopes of satisfying himself to all that he had been envisioning.
Hermione, coming out of her own contemplation and noticing that her husband appeared to be so lost in thought that he looked like he'd just been petrified, was about to say something to grasp his attention, when that bloody crackling sound occurred once again . Though, this time, it was much louder and far more startling, despite Nyx's failing to sound the alarm. Though, that same noise was swiftly followed by a different ruckus, of a far less discernible variety.
"Severus? What the hell is that?" She asked with audible concern. However, as she shuffled her chair back to peer into the sitting room with reflexive curiosity, a whole new issue made itself known to her, leading her to almost forget what she'd been so worried about to start with..
Where the fuck had her bra vanished to?
"What is what? I've done nothing," the man who was narrowly walking a trapeze of his own mind's accord stated as he realised, with both avid relief, and dawning concern, that his cock was, in fact, not out. Though his right hand was cupping himself under the table, to be sure.
Shite. Well, better than the alternative.
He married his brows as he glanced across at her just before he saw the flash of what could only be a bulb out of the corner of his eyes.
Oh, Merlin. What fresh Hades was this?
*A/N: 250 Milliliters is equivocal to 1 Cup/8 fluid ounces