Hey Everyone. We are late again ? I think it's safe to say, at this rate, that you will just never know whether you get us every week or every other week. At least you will always be surprised! But we did, at least write a one shot and post it last week, so we weren't completely idle. It's a future-leaning au with lots of family fluff and a little bit of dirty talk, because they're incapable of being entirely wholesome ? You can find it right here - Happy Birthday, 'Daddy'
As for this chapter, well, more magical and just as many non-magical shenanigans, more literary and Disney references, and more flirting in French. We hope you enjoy ?
All the thanks go to our beta Marilynn aka hizqueen4life! Your patience is astounding.
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 XIII: The Homecoming, Part IV – The Unsung Hero(ine)
Habitual caution ties and binds us; it is as if we were dressed always in clothes and shoes that were several sizes too small. - Laura Huxley
~•~
Friday, 28th November, 2003 – Evening; a bit later still…
"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?
~•~
Hermione was, for a moment, fully occupied in assuring herself that she wasn't delusional and had , in fact, put on a bra. It only took a few, discreet manoeuvres to verify that the one she knew she had put on that morning, somehow, now, was no longer on her person. An entire undergarment had quite literally vanished off of her body. But when? And more importantly, how?! Surely she should have noticed it's absconding the instant it had occurred? And yet she hadn't, had she? Had she charmed it off of herself, unintentionally? Hmm. It was quite possible, she supposed. After all, her magic had been going rather... haywire recently. And her left hand had virtually gone tingly with the amount of nerve loss it seemed to be suffering from how fiercely inflamed her wedding band had become, surely a sign of some magical mayhem.
However, fuck the bloody ring for the moment. Her real concern should be whether or not Severus had noticed this latest development?
Likely, not, she weakly tried to assure herself, though her conviction did grow stronger as she thought about it with more intent. For, she reminded herself with confidence, he had been staring off into the nether for quite some time, just now. And therefore, his attention couldn't have been on her physical self… Correct?
Though, that vexation was quickly usurped by a sudden flash of light from the entryway of the kitchen, and she was abruptly reminded of the initial disturbance that had prompted her to notice this newest development. A crack and a flash. Well, that verified what the culprit of the mysterious sounds of late was, for only an instrument of photography was likely to make such a combination of clamours. Though why Neil's ridiculous camera had decided to start snapping away of its own accord, much less free-floating its way across the house, Hermione had no rightful idea. But there the oversized contraption was, hovering at an odd angle, still producing that previously-incomprehensible, metallic, scraping sound. Wizards did enjoy abusing Victorian technology, did they not?
"Oh, not you, Severus – that! Bloody thing looks absolutely cursed…" She observed, decidedly on edge as the camera froze mid-air before them and began to emit an even queerer, whirring clatter, that seemed menacingly out of character, even for it, at this point.
Granted, it really shouldn't be doing anything. Not only had it been tossed to the ground in frantic terror, it also hadn't shown any signs prior to its disposal of ever having been bewitched, in and of itself. Save, of course, for the bewitchment all magical-folk's cameras had instilled in them. Neil had wielded it as his sword, yes, but a weapon only via his hand had it ever exhibited signs to be. Bloody hell, she was surprised the ancient heap of ingot worked at all, much less of its own volition.
Severus' usually adeptly precocious mind was at an ephemeral standstill of the grievously inglorious variety. Well, at the very least for him , a man who considered himself far above the base, egregious desires and requirements of the human, male anatomy. Or so he had considered himself to be champion of until he'd been entangled in this matrimonial mess with her . Hermione Fucking Granger. And, for the time, he was utterly stumped as to how he might escape being imprisoned by his own body. By his own bloody cock , to be accurately specific. Whose crafty, accomplice of Libido could quite potentially compose a master plan that would be his downfall. That is, of course, if he permitted himself to be enchanted by their siren songs. Or, rather, by whatever the fuck had been transpiring around the pair since they'd wed. For it hadn't just commenced at, and in, his house, to be sure – even if the abode, now, was bringing 'it' to an apparent crescendo, or worse, merely the overture .
Regardless, he could muse and sulk and research and bemoan that ineffable subject at a later time when the witch was far away from his physical person, and back in London Town. For now, the requisite was crystalline in its limpidity. He desperately needed to get the cog that had jammed, or broken off, in the magnificent 'industrious machine' that was his mind mended and fixed, or, replaced all together. And he needed to sort that mechanical failure out now , as something was brewing within this camera, and who the bloody hell was to say that it didn't have the potential to be menacing, or nefarious in its desires against, or for , them.
So, whilst he was at first, grateful, for the distraction of the chaotically charmed 'apparatus', (which in his stupor at it had also gifted him an ample amount of time to remove his fucking hand from his fucking cock – imbecile to have ever condoned that maneuver Severus, conscious of it or not), Snape now discovered his supervisory defense instincts hastily propelling themselves to the forefront of his brain.
"Hermione. Don't. Move ," he hissed softly between woven teeth as he swallowed and brought his right hand up to aid his mouth in a wandless, verbal charm that would cover them with a shield of fortification, when the floating beast of metal almost mockingly, beat him in the draw.
Indeed, for before he could promulgate the first syllable of the charm, the ensorcelled camera began spewing out what Severus could only, speedily , conclude to be physical, polaroid - like images at each of their persons, and subsequently, onto the table, as well.
Aside from jerking back in shock at the sudden 'attack', Hermione found herself frozen for a good breath or two as she processed what had to be one of the most unexpected outcomes of the 'Possessed-Camera-Debacle'. A wizard attempting to recreate polaroid technology, is that what was happening here? The camera, having apparently exhausted itself, dropped with a somewhat slowly-induced thunk onto the kitchen floor. Once she'd blinked out of her dumbfounded daze, she angled her head as she glanced down at the discarded array of photos that had landed directly on, and around, her plate.
"What the bloody fuck did he do to this camera," she muttered aloud, finally viewing what had to be some of the pictures that Neil, himself had taken earlier during their little 'performance'. Though, upon a more scrupulous detailing of some of the images, there did seem to be some taken very recently, she swiftly assessed.
She attempted to scan all of them quickly. Chair, wall, certainly at least one violently blurry one from outside the window when the animals, likely, launched their attack, a couple taken in the kitchen, by the sink, and lastly, a few taken during their 'dinner date'. She plucked one of the said dining scenes up and raised a probing brow.
"Well, I'm not sure what it was attempting to capture, but a photo of us eating dinner together seems a bit too mundane to make the front page… Unless, they're really setting it up to mimic a bizarre, rom-com poster. Or have we just shifted from Cinderella to Lady and the Tramp ?"
"Well, either our dear mate, Neil is an even larger imbecile than I originally gave him credit for, or , he's actually a bloody genius of espionage who masterminded this hoodwinking scheme of covertly persuading us to contraband the camera so that it might transfigure itself into a bloody 60s Polaroid to capture our most private, intimate moments, only to then, for some reason, throw them in our face. Though, if that was his endgame that would mark him as being more the former, for what bloody good are the photos in our hands instead of his …" Severus 'monologued' with fluid utterance, over pronouncing his consonants lest she were unable to keep up with the rare employment of speaking at the precise velocity of his inner mind's workings. A feat which his pedestrian, public persona always took great care to be reticently monosyllabic and taciturn about when he did choose to grace others with his perspectives.
" Or , they were intended to be kept inside until he'd opened it, but he broke the bloody thing," Hermione followed up as a latter response, somewhere in the middle of his two options, or co-existing alongside them, though which certainly gave their intrusive new acquaintance less credit. She chuckled, reaching for her wine glass with her ever-pulsing, left hand and downed what remained to calm her nerves before dismissively tossing the photo she had been holding to his side of the table to show him. She then retrieved an alternative one for diverse perusal. It was relatively the same dinner 'scene', though had a slightly different angle, focusing more towards Severus' portion of the table for whatever reason.
"Touché, Wife," Severus volleyed in return as his own digits reached to grasp a specific photo from the haphazardly discharged trio of scenes before them, which varied from the predicted one of their 'parlour charade' to two others which had both clearly been taken in the kitchen, and of which, were obviously far tamer and more 'domestic' in their nature by design of the activities shown to be in practice.
Indeed, his choice of photo had been quite deliberate. Her sardonic remark regarding the 'romantic prosaicness' of the 'Dinner for Two' scene that she'd so promptly discovered – the image of which his eyes had yet to properly study as they'd calculatedly rushed past them upon their introduction to their discord – had induced a sudden hunger in him to hunt out his own, novel one with which he might be able to 'best' hers. The accompaniment of a witty retort and an apropos reference of his own, might just ensure his achieving a victory in.
And his search had proven quite fruitful, for as mentioned just prior, the wizard's fingers had seized upon a photo that was, yes, 'romantic' in nature, but far from what one would define as traditional or idyllic. After all, their posture at the kitchen sink, from a certain angle could assuredly be classified as physically intimate, sexually so. Merlin, it had become a bloody trope by this point ever since the damned movie Ghost had come out in 1990.
Emitting a snicker of competitive 'surmounting' as he finally picked up her thrown offer upon the proffering his own to her hand, Severus decided to hire that very reference for his cunning riposte, murmuring with sly recollection, "Well, I believe I'd, just this once , rather have my likeness trapped in a Disney scene that cast me as mangy canine who, at least, 'gets the girl' in the end, than that of the murdered spirit of a banker whose quest for avengement, not to mention the seemingly unhealthily , and co- dependently, besottedment with his widowed wife, anchors him to earth until his killer is caught. For I think we can both agree that the latter is just a little bit too close to home in terms of the public's perception of my life's personal , enamoured history. If not in reality , itself … However, that's neither here nor there at the moment."
He hastily added the last statement as he wanted nothing more than to side-step any and all mention of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in his mind, in his house, and most of all, in Hermione's company. Out of respect and courtesy, of course. Surely not because he cared for the girl – woman – in any significant way…
Hermione distantly acknowledged the nature, or at least location, of the photo as he handed it off to her, and she added the second dinner photo to his side of the table, but was far more distracted by his words – namely the concept of such a very specific film reference coming out of his mouth – to fully take in its contents just yet. Instead, she arched her brow in playful astoundment, attempting to picture the man sitting down to watch the movie in question and failing to hide another small laugh at the image that formulated in her head. Even if she could barely fathom the happenstance 'on paper'. For whilst she'd definitely labelled him a romantic, in almost every other sense of the word, she hadn't ever combined the notion with the modern media's interpretation of the sentiment.
"Are you making a Ghost reference right now? You are full of surprises, Husband. Though your house has certainly been behaving 'on brand' this evening…." She jested, clocking, though, politely disregarding, the hasty 'finale' to his self-deprecation in lieu of the more interesting inquiry that had preceded it. "Was that a personal choice or was there some coercion involved?"
Severus licked his lips and twirled the picture she had proffered to him in his hand, though it continued to remain visually disregarded for the time being, as he proceeded to answer her inevitable query at the citing of such an uncharacteristic film to be admitted into his filmography archive.
" Yes , I am. I had the grave misfortune of being imprisoned by Minerva one evening right after it came out on video and forced to watch the wretched thing. She only managed to goad me into it with the promise of the guaranteed consumption of much fire-whiskey via a drinking game she had invented for just the occasion. She likely knew I'd drink myself into a stupor within the first five minutes if there weren't the imposed protocol of a 'rulebook.'"
"Ah well, that makes sense. Though colour me surprised it wasn't Dumbledore," Hermione remarked with a lopsided grin, though it did certainly sound like Minerva's innocuously sadistic sense of humour. "Drink every time you roll your eyes?" she guessed cheekily.
However, before she could properly receive any response he gave, her pupils made the mistake of drifting south to the photo in her hands. Quickly thereafter she froze, laughter dying on her lips and her brows narrowing in absolute dumbfoundedness at the picture she saw reflected back at her. Oh, no. What in the bloody hell is this? For what she saw captured on this particular image was completely impossible – namely because it had never actually happened.
They were stood at the sink, his front plastered to her back, just as it had actually transpired. And, as suggestive an image that was in itself, it had been fairly benign in its practical execution. 'Benign' but for what her mind's eye had corrupted the scenario into, of course – which, to her bewildered dismay, was precisely what was being projected onto the portrait before her.
The camera had presumably been stationed at an angle behind them at some unbeknownst period during her 'hallucination', for it had managed to capture the burial of his left hand beneath her skirt. An action of which, again, she knew had never faithfully occurred. The details of this tangible daydream were so defined that, upon further inspection, she could see the motions of his hand delving beneath her knickers, his knees bending slightly to compensate for the angle. Hell, she could even see her head falling backward, and his own leaning forward as his lips, no doubt, were pressing against her ear husking those naughty words to her, just as she had so virtually 'experienced' at the time within it. Case in point, their 'position', and its intent , were clearly discernible despite no longer being opposite from the possessed device. Every second she observed the looped image, the more incriminating the details became, until her banded digit surged and she was forced out of her daze.
Her eyes anxiously moored to her husband's face with invested curiosity as she compared it to what she had witnessed – or had not witnessed – within it prior. Before he'd handed her the photo his countenance was entirely casual in comparison to the visage of absolute horror which it currently held as his eyes surveyed the seemingly-innocuous photos she'd just provided to him. This led her towards a quick, albeit murky, hypothesis. Either they were both mad , or, he had, somehow , failed to see the indecorous scene in the image now before her, just as she could detect nothing that would lead to his, currently shocked, response to those she had found.
Severus, meanwhile, had no urge or interest to look anywhere other than at the scandalous photo which his right hand, whose knuckles were now a ghoulish shade of white, was so intensely still embracing. 'Urge' and 'interest', however, were rather incorrect for they were unrestrictedly misleading. He actually had every desire to look anywhere but at the image, for the longer he did so, the greater his consternation became that Hermione had, potentially , perceived the pornographic scene before him just moments ago when she had had ownership of the thing. Indeed, for the the last happenstance his blood pressure, or his bloody nervous system, needed at the current, paralysing moment was for any category of confirmation in the affirmative of that trepidation. For if he were to be greeted by it, he knew not how he would even surmount the beginning of a reaction.
For how the bloody hell could he , Severus Snape, her former professor, adult protector, and guardian, who had touted many reservations to accept her sacrificial offer of marriage, suddenly explain – let alone justify, or proclaim condemnation – of the lewd fantasy his mind had so conjured upon becoming beguiled by the imagined sight of her without a bra on. If his mind could plunge with such eager momentum down the gutter from the lack of such an article of clothing, he daren't think where his mind might have gone had it been a more intimate one. Well, actually, and even more to his own detriment, he likely didn't have to concern himself with fearing to try, for he was already most certain that it would have gone precisely to the same place. Which was not a favourable sign.
He had never had sexual feelings for the witch at any other time before, obviously . He had spent most of his time attempting to ignore or harangue her when he wasn't keeping an inquisitively diligent eye out for – and on – her, and her wretched male 'companions'.
So. Why . The. Bloody. Hell. Had. They. Been. Starting. To. Form. Since. The . Wedding… ? That was the question .
Hermione brushed off her own flustered disbelief in lieu of studying him, discreetly, for a moment. Whilst she had looked to him for any breed of signal of reverse verification for her clearly distorted senses, his focus remained steadfastly downward with nothing but progressing levels of perturbation tainting his features. Clearly, he was having a very similar experience as she had just had. Perhaps, even worse? The appendages of her subordinate hand tensed into the newly-conjured tablecloth, her second to last one's ornament scorching them all in what she could only assume was endorsement. Yet, despite his distress, she selfishly felt an immediate level of reassurance that she may not be the only one sitting at this table witnessing reality-disrupting fantasies. What his might consist of, however, was going to be something that haunted her curiosity for quite some time… Though his diversion would only last so long, and if his physiognomy were anything to go by, she was destined to take the lead of easing them around this, potentially crippling, obstacle lest the entire rest of the night suffer for it.
"Well, no need to look too traumatised, the angle can't be that bad," she managed to tease as casually as she could effectuate, clearing her throat and tossing her photo down as she scanned the other pictures from earlier that were without doubt of Neil's doing and not that of his autonomous and/or broken camera. And as if Providence had suddenly intervened the very moment she so needed it to, her eyes suddenly landed on one that would surely aid her in her objective of digression. It was of an extremely shaky variety that perfectly captured the moment of Nyx and Crooks' joint attack. Surely, she thought, which would serve as an exceptional palate cleanser. One could only pray.
"Though if the whole romantic dinner façade is that distressing, this one certainly deserves a frame."
Although it took what felt like several minutes to truly hear her words, as if he were underwater and being called to from the surface, Severus, eventually, comprehended her words. He also, finally – and with valued abruptness – clocked the searing sensation of his wedding ring as it pulsed obstinately around his digit. Markedly a sensation that had been transpiring throughout his stupefaction. These two factors in tandem, thankfully, ultimately prompted the ripping of his formerly immotile pupils from the obscene image of her gyrating against the length of his cock to meet the fawn-coloured retinas of his wife. A wave of deeply saturated relief washed across the anxious shores of his inner mental sermon, and he found himself daring to wag his brows in amusement at the panic he had been so consumed with just milliseconds before. But not enough to fully promote the action.
Regardless, her words rang cogently to his agent's ear. The byproduct message, furtive in its unrecognised nature to the speaker, herself, was delivered unto him with such a level of gratitude and welcoming that he was shameful that he could not thank her for it without exposing his scabrous secret. So. The witch had not been privy to the observing of his fantasy when she had looked upon this very photo before. Despite that it was presently being shown to his own eyes without any dispute. Unless, perchance, his wine had been laced somehow and he had been tripping on some sort of hallucinogenic this entire time… Though that seemed unlikely. But then again, everything that they had been bombarded with so far this evening, had as well.
Merlin's ballsack, he needed to endorse the changing of the subject that she had so blissfully happened to proffer and he needed to do so forthwith.
"Er, apologies, I was just trying to calculate the approximate angle from which the bloody thing took this particular one and my focus was usurped by how, er, how veritably derelict I look in your company. What did you just say about this next one…?" he queried politely as he clandestinely dropped the vulgar one in his hand to reach for the one, now blessedly, in question.
"The conspirators in action," she summarised with an allayed smirk and subtle relaxing of her shoulders, as she handed off the photo to him and subtly began to collect all of the others within her reach into an overly precise stack in what would, to an attentive eye, be a clear reveal of her restlessness. Though apparently whatever aberration had been haunting him, he was just as willing as she was to disregard it for the time being – or until kingdom come.
"I think you're going to need to start charming your locks."
"As I mentioned, I usually always do, of course, and they are quite impenetrable," Severus remarked dryly as he glanced at the photo and sniggered at the contortion of turmoil that Neil's profile was twisted into as his cherished crow and her castigator of a cat wreaked their havoc on his person. "Well, regardless of whatever the bloody fuck is going on, which, lets hope has died down for good, I suppose we at least have one photo that we can frame as commemoration of our first weekend together has husband and wife. And, for my sake, it isn't even one of us ," he added with a contorted smirk as his large hand swayed the 'polaroid' of their familiars in demonstrative reference.
"Here, here," Hermione agreed, finally feeling an allowance to finish the last bite of food on her plate after a considerable delay of, likely, magical intervention of some undisclosed breed. At least, she could feel her bloody fingers again, though her ring was still anything but cool to the touch. Carefully laying the stack of photos aside – the conspicuously mystifying of them markedly falling to the bottom – she then laid her fork down and expelled a thoughtful hum. "Well, I'm not entirely sure 'success' is the right word, but it certainly hasn't been a failure. The Beef Wellington was absolutely delicious, at the very least. And that photo is quite a beneficial 'consequence' of having to deal with Neil, I'd agree."
"Yes, quite so. Our bagarre with the bloody little urchin yielded at least one good thing. Though, I must admit, with apparent alacrity due to the 'consequence' of drink, no doubt. I did rather enjoy bullying him a bit. Shocking, I know. However, I meant, for once, unlike how I 'quote/unquote' bullied you students, this time doing so out of a chivalrous necessity to defend an honour. I suppose I could get used to being the 'knight in black' versus the 'bat-flying baddie', at certain, opportune times," he mused wistfully, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest as he researched her facade's inaugural antiphons with ventured application.
The witch grinned at the 'admittance', as well as at his interesting choice of archetypes to go about comparing himself to. Appropriate, but also rather amusing to envision, certainly.
"Ah, so you've decided you like playing the ' hero' after all. Or, at least, actually getting the credit for it," she chided him lightly, though certainty in his defence, considering heroism wasn't exactly a new development for him.
"Though, please don't suddenly start endearing yourself to the role of 'Prince Charming' on me now, whatever is haunting your house will feel far too vindicated. As you so wisely noted at the start of the meal, Husband, I'm no 'Cinderella', and I certainly don't ever fancy on becoming her, especially by proxy," Hermione couldn't defy adding, subduing a laugh as she pulled her napkin from her lap and folded it beside her plate.
The Potions Master scowled at her lourfully as his thumbs came up to hook at the pits of his arms before a scoff of indignation erupted from the back of his throat as he vocally derided her ribbing comment with rapid dismissal.
"That is one dramatis personae that I can certify I will never, ever have a curiosity to inhabit, Miss Granger. Rest assured," he gifted her a small smirk of finality on the subject before slinging his napkin on his cleaned plate and pushed his chair back to stand and clear the table, advocating his proposal for their evening's next activity as he did so.
"Right, well. I'll do the washing up once you've retired for the evening. Until then, I suppose we should go over some details of our 'romantic history'. After all, we might as well take agency for whatever backstory we might be allowed to concoct. I'd like to think they'd at least refer to us for some ideas, rather than totally author the thing for us. Though, perhaps that's being too optimistic when it comes to the new order. Well, regardless, at the potentiality that they do consult us, we should likely have something prepared."
"Ah, yes. That would be a wise discussion to commence," Hermione agreed, as she dabbed her lips and stood as well, striving to leave her place as organised as possible to aid him in his future efforts of clean–up, his overly-courteous insistence of doing it himself, ironically, shading him with even further 'Prince Charming' qualities.
Though, she supposed, his culled 'Dark Knight' persona would easily be want to perform the same duties as well, at least so far as she could assume given her interactions with 'him'. Of which, she dared to say – realised by him or not – had been a perfect representation of his private, intrinsic self. Bloody hell, no wonder Minerva was so fond of his companionship. Let alone his friendship. He was a fucking good one to have. And his husbandry, well, that stood on an entirely different pedestal. And one of which she was more than grateful to be spoilt by, and honoured to behold.
In this scenario, however, given recent developments with her undergarments, she decided that leaving him to execute the washing up might just be for the best. Still, 'Civility' would be remiss if she lapsed to offer her assistance on some level, if not out of mere politeness, certainly out of thankfulness.
"I'm more than willing to help with the tidying up, particularly as you did almost all the work."
"Thank you, but it's fine, Miss Granger. Now that I have my wand back I might as well exploit it a bit. Certainly will make such a 'daunting' task far less so," he answered with congenial avowal. Frankly, giving himself something concrete, and mundane – for he would assuredly execute the chore the muggle way – hopefully, would guarantee him some respite from his carnal thoughts, and provide some physical distraction for his overly-active libido.
"Now then, shall we finish off the bottle? Or have we indulged enough?"
Hermione hummed in faux-contemplation before finally grinning as she gave a left-leaning shrug of her shoulders, flippantly concordant.
"It's still early, why not?" she agreed, figuring that in this particular case, it might turn out to be more of an asset than an obstruction. After all, between them they had quite a few things that needed assuaging from their present deliberations, and alcohol was certainly an effective way to accomplish that goal. On the other hand, given everything else that had happened so far, staying a bit sober would probably be wise overall. But surely that could be accomplished as long as she slowed her ingestion from here on out.
However, no sooner had she vacated her chair did a certain orange ball of fluff attempt to claim it behind her, this time sans his new 'partner in crime.' She watched in amused mortification as he began licking her plate clean in a stand of silent outrage at the abhorrent deferment of his own supper. Shaking her head, the witch reached to abdicate him from her usurped 'throne'.
"Oh stop it, you. I'm fully aware that I have yet to set up your food and water."
Severus' gaze was arrested by the pair, the feline proving, yet again, to be a healthy source of mirthful entertainment for them, even if at the detrimental 'headache' of his mother.
"Don't fret about the setting up of the bowls, Miss Granger. My apologies, I've seem to have completely forgotten to mention that I previously arranged both a water and food bowl for him upstairs in my — your — room. Food bowl needs filling, of course, but he does have everything he needs up there."
"Oh... Well, thank you ," she responded with muted surprise and appreciation, hefting the large cat further into her grasp.
That also answered the previously undiscussed sleeping situation, though she wasn't nearly as taken aback by that bit of chivalry after everything else she'd been exposed to in his acting as 'host' since she'd arrived. As a bonus, she supposed this gave her the opportunity to remedy the 'vanishing bra' conundrum before he did take notice. She only hoped that she'd remembered to pack another. Surely…
"I'll just go upstairs quickly and 'see to him' then, the obnoxious 'prince' that he is. Won't be a moment," she assured her husband as she journeyed with Crookshanks to the corridor to reach the staircase.
"As you wish," Severus responded with a tight-lipped smile and a curt nod, as he reached for their plates. "I'll meet you in the sitting room accordingly."
Upon giving him a return smile and nod of thanks, Hermione then made her way with the feline to the corridor. She passed the portrait of her mother-in-law , now shrouded and silent, with tentative steps, despite the lack of need, before rounding the bannister to encounter the tower of cherry-wood stairs. There was an aged lightswitch on the wall to her left that appeared to have been seldom touched, yet, as she pressed one of the buttons with cumbersome experimentation given that both of her limbs had been drafted in order to hold – nay, contain – Crooks, the entryway and stairwell were suddenly awash with a dim, but passable, illumination. Well, at least she could confirm that whatever magical lighting incident had plagued them before in the kitchen, seemingly wasn't due to faulty or antiquated electrical wiring within the walls, as the kitchen shared its same length.
Muttering phrases of affirmation to the feline of his soon-to-be delivered dinner, Hermione thus ascended the stairs, the timeworn wood creaking lightly in protest, passing a scaling row of wax-covered sconces. Upon reaching the landing, there was one open door directly to her right which she approached with caution. Rather than searching for yet another switch, she murmured a charm, 'igniting' a lamp in the nearest corner of what was clearly his bedroom. Thus, revealing it's contents to her in full. Her lips twitched as Ginny's words from what felt both like yesterday, and a year ago rang in her mind's ear:
"Do be sure to tell me if his bed is actually a coffin or just covered in black satin sheets?"
The answer was a resounding, no . She prayed Gin wouldn't be too beside herself, bloody chit.
Indeed, for there certainly was no coffin present, or even in existence, nor did it appear that he had the tasteless, gaudy sense to shroud his naked form in sable silk as he slept – naked? – why the bloody fuck had she assumed that he slept in the nude? Not to mention the principled fact that she should not be thinking of him in that way, or any way near it! Had her brain entirely lapsed in recalling the lewd images of her fantasy that had just been displayed to her eyes, let alone his, perhaps, if they'd been given more time?! Oh, and, of course, the fact that her bra wasn't the only undergarment that could use a change. Perhaps, Hermione, you shouldn't encourage your erotic thirst.
Right, critical, analytical, clinical thinking were the only types to be sponsored. At least, blessedly, her ring had started to cool. Though with its mollification, the opportunity to employ it for a hasty, waywardly impromptu 'solo-sesh' on his bed— in which, he could, very plausibly sleep naked — to quell her hormones for a time before returning downstairs, safely, and regrettably, out of the question.
So, no coffin, no silk, or even satin, sheets. Just a normal bed. Well, actually, it was quite a large bed, looking somewhat redoubtable as it sat there, stoic, centred against the northern wall. It appeared to be an antique, though was well and neatly dressed with dark bedding, yes, though seemingly of the cotton variety, or perhaps, even a wool combination. Two, small tables bookended the ornate, mahogany-cloured bed frame, the one nearest to the door in custody of a thick novel whose spine, regretfully, was turned away from her. Next to it lay the mooring where he no doubt laid his 'infamous' wand, the indent visible in the ornate, cushioned material; ready, it seemed to hex any intruder that might burst through the door.
She chuckled to herself as she noted, with appreciative appropriateness, the fact that his 'side' of the bed was, of course , and naturally , the one closest to the door. He was a bloody spy, after all. She could only assume that sleeping with both eyes open, and a hand always at the ready to grab his adjacently 'slumbering' instrument of magic was a state that he'd never truly be able to forfeit, retired or not. Ever the 'Dark Knight', it seemed. Well, at least she knew which side would be hers. There was also a small fireplace, yet more books lined on shelves that seemed of a cheaper grade than the bed, a worn armchair whose yellow and green, golden threads and tassels had long since faded, a closet to the left, a small dresser – which matched the design and quality of wood of the bed, and, lastly, a door, which she greatly suspected lead to the master loo.
Well, there was that 'Pandora's box' opened.
However, all of those domestic details were, momentarily, eclipsed by the simple, and quite winsome, fact that the man had not been fibbing about his catering to Crookshanks' needs as well as he had her own. For, without fail, on the opposite wall from the bed, not far from the hearth, there sat two bowls and an elder, but functional, litter box.
Crossing towards her weekend case, of which her husband's former charm had situated at the foot of the bed, she finally let the perturbed and struggling animal down to 'inspect' the room for himself, eyeing the creature for a time as he began his initial inquest of its newfound contents. Though she was soon startled out of her vigil as he let out a yowl of choleric protest upon having reached the void food bowl.
"Yes, yes, it's coming," she cooed at him flatly, moving to retrieve his bag of dry food from her case, first and foremost, and dispense him his allotted amount. Delayed or not, he certainly didn't need to get any bigger round the girth.
Mrs. Granger-Snape then set it aside, and swiftly thereafter retrieved her wand in order to speed along her search. Though, no matter how far she dug through the articles she'd brought, nor how much 'Accio-ing' she did, a second bra ceased to appear. Fuck.
Therefore, it seemed as if her choices were to go without one completely, or, to wear her bloody coat for the remainder of the evening. Neither of which sounded, at all, ideal. For even though her figure wasn't what anyone might sanction as terribly voluptuous , the lack of a brassiere would still, certainly, be noticeable in her current jumper.
Abandoning that calamity of an endeavour, Hermione spared a moment to check on Crooks' bingeing form before scanning the room, vainly, yet again. Her pupils did, however, find themselves falling with finality to his closet. Hmm. Perchance, he would have something, somewhat, usable? Worth a search, at least, she told herself, ignoring the very audible voice in her brain that was admonishing her for using her current quandary as an excuse to snoop .
Granted, anything he owned would, obviously, drown her. However, if the man possessed a bloody turtleneck surely, he might have some kind of button-up jumper, or something akin, that she could steal for the time being. That wouldn't be horribly intrusive, would it?
In the intervening period, Severus had been monopolising his time with comportments and introspections of matters that refused to cultivate – or rather, stimulate – any and all lecherously efficacious chimaeras from his focus, to say nothing of his physiology . Indeed, for his formerly insurmountable imbroglio of having formed a fucking, full-on 'stiffy' as they had been dining, through the agency of his obstreperously wanton psyche, had been proficiently abolished by the hysteria he had experienced at the hands of the Mephistophelian camera.
Thank fuck, too, for if Crooks had chanced to have been fed prior, or had slunk off to nurse his pangs of hunger in punishing sequestration, and thus Hermione had had no reason to abandon him to his own company for a time, the man honestly had no conceptualisation of how he would have emancipated himself from his plight. Save, of course, for some awkwardly, and suspiciously, insisted on encouragement for her to remove herself to the sitting room ahead of him for some reason. Only, of course, to be damned further by the fact that he would have had to remain tenaciously, and rudely, sat as he stalled for her to fully exit, else she catch a glimpse of the salient bulge in his jeans were he to retreat even a fraction from the tabletop's generous obstruction.
Oy , that would not have been a pleasant experience in the slightest, as it, very plausibly, could have eternally landed him in Abbadon , he reflected to himself with a sudden shiver at the alternative prospect of a potential reality. He set the plates in the sink and quickly turnt on the cold water tap to refresh his facial features with its water's cooling touch before drying his hands on the nearby towel. Only the sudden pangs of a torrid set of palpitations issuing from his portside hand influenced him to give momentary pause. He swallowed before extending his forearm to make a fist once or twice as his eyes pointed in baffled consideration. Bloody fucking hell, what was going on?! Oh, sod it!
He then glanced round the room in an effort to tarry himself from his maddening confoundment at the marital decoration, when his pupils mercifully accosted the delinquent formation of the camera, seemingly 'dead', as it lay prostrate on the floor just before the table.
"Fucking bugger of a man. Who the bloody fuck names their child Neil?! Fucking wankers , that's who. And I'll have them know that they produced a bloody tosser as well. Neil – utterly unimaginative, ignorant, and worst of all, monosyllabic ," Severus sneered at the disenfranchised journalist's parents and person, of whom, with any luck for his own sake, was halfway to London, if not there proper.
He crossed over to take mastery of the now anaemic bundle of metal and plastic as he virtuously inspected the thing for any signs of temperament of dark magic, or the likes. Hmph, nothing that he could ascertain from an external study, at least. He made note to dissect the thing the next day before his wife awoke; hopefully, a sufficient 'autopsy' of the contraption would serve to yield some actual intelligence.
And if that endeavour miscarried he'd contact Minerva posthaste. Hades, he would be sure to reach out to her either way. This was a form of 'magic' that he had never yet encountered. For, despite its incentives seemingly correlating with those of a fucking matchmaker, he wasn't about to inanely assume that his fantasy of her bra disappearing (and the ones that had then birthed from it), the camera, the photos, the faucet, the lighting, the music, the discharming the curtains of his mother's portrait, had all been due to a force that was merely, benignly 'playing house' with them. No, that would be beyond idiotic to resign himself to thinking. Something larger was afoot here in their magical realm, and it was now at a point where he could no longer fully turn a blind eye to it. For trouncing his outrageous concupiscence was one thing, but turning Spinner's End into a fucking Disney film with pornographic undertones was an entirely different matter altogether. And one of which he certainly would not condone or abide.
However, until he had liberty the next morning to do either of those things, he, for the moment, sanctioned that the sagest course of action was to incarcerate the bloody machine at the risk of it resurrecting to haunt them again. He glanced around the kitchen, still lit by candlelight and thus still casting an amorous glow to the room, in search of potential places within which he could magically lock it, dismissing each choice with a founded reason of logic before his attention was drawn to the refrigerator. Well, the freezer , to be exact.
An ironically perfect choice. 'Ironic' in that they had just had their first little domestic over the calibre of 'frozen foods' and their place in the home, and 'perfect' as they had just used the last, and only remaining, frozen item in the freezer. Therefore, leaving it barren and free to serve as a makeshift jailhouse. Perhaps, frigid temperature would aid in maintaining the docility of the monstrosity as well. Thus satisfied with his choice, Severus strode to the refrigerator and opened the freezer to place the camera inside of it, slamming the door shut with vigour as he bellowed out a far more secure variation of his own invention on the 'Colloportus' charm. With that nuisance sorted he then crossed to the cabinet where the firewhiskey was held, and prepared to take a swig, or three, to steel his nerves.
Hermione did, indeed, choose to approach Severus' closet, albeit with a certain amount of inherent caution. Knowing him – or rather, his knowing her – she half-expected to be met with some sort of 'anti-snooping' charm. Though as she opened the doors without resistance, sure enough, all that greeted her were a densely packed and monochromatic row of garments.
First and foremost, of course, were various 'copies' of his typical teaching robes, or other very similar ensembles. White and black dress shirts, frock coats, and neatly-pressed black trousers dominated the forefront, followed in quick succession by ebony cloaks of a couple different lengths and materials. By the time she reached that point, she knew she was well and truly prying, rummaging even, but she did have a proper goal in mind.
Pressing onward past some waistcoats and suit jackets of a more modern variety she had no idea if he'd ever worn, she finally began to feel material of a softer, or at least less restrictive variety.
Though amongst the field of black, something decidedly green in the very back caught her eye. Furrowing her brows, Hermione shoved the other jumpers out of her way and exposed the emerald material to the dim light. Sure enough, it was precisely what she had, in great disbelief, suspected: a bloody Slytherin Quidditch jumper! It was of a far more vintage style than those she was familiar with, and the colours were greatly faded, however, it was still unmistakable in its design. And entirely unexpected.
When had Professor Severus Snape ever played Quidditch? Merlin, at what time in his life had he even liked the bloody sport? How long had he played for? What position? And did he look as fit as she reckoned he might scowling from his broomstick over the stadium in his official playing kit?
All questions she desperately wanted answers to, but all questions which she had no idea how to even begin finding, let alone asking , information to. Especially, given how much she certainly shouldn't be rifling through his possessions. And she had absolutely already been upstairs much longer than was needed to feed Crooks and 'powder her nose'. So, upon taking a prominent mental note to pry into the subject at some point at a later time, Hermione quickly returned the jumper to the order in which she'd found it, and shut the door once again.
With that idea off the table, she racked her brain for a moment before coming up with a sudden and shockingly simple solution, and promptly cursed at herself for not thinking of it earlier. Digging back into her case, she pulled out one thing she had remembered to bring with validity. The black scarf he had given to her the day before. It wasn't a perfect solution, no, but, she mused as she threw it around her neck and let it hang loose over her chest, it might just do the trick. For now.
Having thrown back what ended up being four small swigs of firewhiskey, Severus, uncharacteristically, wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he returned the bottle to its 'home' and squeezed his eyes shut as he indulged in the sensory of the liquid filling his stomach and coating it with a warm blaze. It was as if he had just sat by a fire within himself. There, that was better.
Merlin, he must get a fucking grip on his cock's dogged determination to upstage his resolve and impregnate — how apropos — his mind with such dirty thoughts that only a school boy would fully relish in. It was unseemly, for him, and to her, more than anything. However , whether he would have to literally take a grip of his cock later that night in order to extricate 'him' for a time, or if their fireside chat based on 'business matters' might deprecate 'his' ardour altogether, remained to be seen. He was colossally pining for the latter. His still - smouldering fingers, fucking crossed
Right, well, if he was going to evade the private humiliation of wanking off with the subject of his desire literally sleeping above him, and in his very bed — with regretfully ample, novel material to choose from as so kindly had been implanted by the hijacking forces that be – Professor Snape would have to commit to ensuring that the latter was both extensively, and exhaustively, endorsed. As such, it was time he poured their wine, and transported himself to the hybrid library/sitting room.
After solving her main issue and checking herself in the slightly discoloured mirror near the door, Hermione glanced around for Crooks only to find him determinedly nuzzling into the bed. Having scarfed down his supper, he had predictably decided that he was in want of a nap after the day's events, and had chosen Severus' pillows as the ideal location. And whilst adorable, admittedly, she would certainly need to remember to eradicate the very ginger cat hair that would surely be left, later.
Having wasted enough time, Hermione left the feline to his own devices, and hurriedly trotted back down the stairs. A proper, adult conversation that required some amount of logic could be a very good idea. 'Adult' as in, mature and rational, not in terms of content… Oy, nevermind.
"Apologies, it took longer to sort him than I'd expected," she called out ahead of herself as she headed into the sitting room, ensuring that the scarf was, in fact, doing it's assigned 'job'.
Severus, who had been sat in his armchair in the corner studying an archaic text on the mediaeval apothecaries, set the book down on the nearby, side table before standing in prudence as she entered the room.
"Such is the nature of such finicky fauna," he rumbled lowly, his tongue darting out to moisten his suddenly chapped lips as his narrowed eyes drank in her form once again. Hm. Odd, she'd donned his scarf during their interlude apart, it'd appeared. A very meticulously and advantageously arranged scarf as well. Oh dear, please for the love of all things unholy, let the wardrobe malfunction of what he had still assumed to be his brain's creation, have not actually transpired… Fuck all, if so. He'd better foxily investigate.
"Cold , Miss Granger?" he inquired with emphasis on the starting word as he raised his left brow skyward on it as well.
"... A bit, yes," Hermione responded with enforced nonchalance, once she'd recovered from her vexingly instantaneous kinetic reaction to his tone of voice. It was as if the low rumble cut through the uneasy static that had apparently been filling her head in his absence, as if she'd cast ' Muffliato' on her own faculties and then, with startling abruptness, her dulled senses returned full-force with a vengeance. Even her marriage token seemed to rekindle anew. Thank the gods she'd employed the scarf.
"I sometimes get a bit of a chill after meals, kind of a silly foible," she dismissed as she approached the hearth area by which he was standing. "Didn't miss anything, I trust?"
Furrowing his brow at her person, and more so at her words, in further scrutiny, Severus swallowed before issuing a hum of consideration. The ex cathedra of his classroom persona interweaving with that of an enigmatic nature, almost as if he were considering calling out a student's – or 'plaything's?' – cunningly crafted ruse. Why he was employing such an ambiguously coy cadence he could not claim, however, he sought to remedy it with his next sentence and amply cleared his throat in order to instigate the process.
"Ah. How. Very. Uniquely…. Inconceivable . You are full of surprises, it seems, Miss Granger. I shall have to keep that little fact in mind for future reference. For now, however, I can easily raise the fire?" he offered with a polite curling of his lips as his left hand twitched at the flare of 'fire' from his ring, yet again , upon his utterance's first word.
"If it wouldn't be inconvenient," she replied, politely doubling down, albeit cautiously, given his rather innately distrustful word choice. It wasn't as though it was an entirely fabricated excuse. It was indeed a fact, just not really a 'condition' she typically felt the need to employ outerwear for. But, there were, in this case, extenuating circumstances.
"Though really I'm sure it will pass soon; it usually does," she added, brushing off the complaint as she approached, briefly pausing on the road to where he stood to examine one of the many walls of books near the hearth.
"Ton vin, ma petite femme," Severus murmured over his shoulder having stepped to the mantleplace where he had set the glasses down before her arrival. Now fully turned around, he lifted up two glasses and compared them with a rather draconian look of inspection as he puckishly made sure that they were comparatively level to one another. "Merlin forbid I don't wine and dine you properly, Wife. I'd be loathed if I stole any of your fair share, after all you'll likely want it in order to get through this conference…"
"Un grand merci, mon mari," Hermione thanked him appropriately, chuckling gently as she turned from where she had been eyeing the shelves to accept the glass from his hand, disrupting her initial attempt at deciphering his organisation tactic – if he even had one – for the many assorted volumes of both wizard and muggle origin.
They didn't seem to be shelved alphabetically by title or author, or even date of origin, but she could definitely pick out the more accessible and most frequented volumes versus those that were left, visibly, most undisturbed. They were cleaner, missing the fine layer of dust that had settled on the uppermost selections, but consequently more worn and handled. Regardless, she would definitely be poking around this room far more in the coming months, but this, likely, was not the best or most opportune time to do so. An abstrusity for another day. Instead, she turned her focus to his final comment with a sceptical quirk of her brow.
"I wouldn't say that. In fact this 'conference' really shouldn't be gruelling at all. If you don't mind a bit of creative strategizing in your after-dinner parlance. I actually quite prefer it, so long as I have an astute mind to do it with, which certainly doesn't seem to be a problem," she corrected, attempting to poke at least a few small holes in his tendency to self-deprecate. It was becoming increasingly difficult to comprehend, though rather than giving him the chance to try to protest, she shifted her attention back to his library, approaching one of the more frequented shelves.
"Particularly given your taste in literature."
"Now, now, Miss Granger, only one third of it is of that category. I, of course, have non-fiction, scholastic, scientific journals, biographies, etcetera, etcetera…" he purred through clipped teeth as he strode the short journey to join her side, bringing his glass to his lips to cover a wicked grin of vainglorious integrity as he effortlessly settled into a pseudo version of his 'professor' self. Likely due to the presence of texts before them. It certainly did install a classroom/academic feel to their dynamic once again. Thankfully, for now, without the former raunchy undertone – or so he hoped to believe.
"Yes, Professor, so I see," she shot back with a playful rejoinder, scanning the immediate row in front of her with a crooked smile, brushing against his arm inadvertently as she bent to inspect a couple of familiar looking books, the scarf hanging over her shoulders swaying.
"Everything from Asiatic Anti-Venoms to Fifteenth Century Fiends and then straight on through to Byron's Works. Even… Broken Balls : When Fortunes Turn Foul ," she listed, an ample amount of laughter in her tone as she emphasised the inadvertent double entendre. She was thankful she'd dropped divination when she did, but was ever fond of recalling that title showing up on a proper reading list. Though she supposed he did have a history regarding certain prophecies.
"What can I say? I'm an eclectic man when it comes to most everything… Save, my wardrobe, my wardrobe's colours, facial expressions — though, for as stoic as is my default, and whilst I certainly have a few 'go-tos' on reserve, I'd actually argue I'm quite heterogeneous in that 'ministry' — see anything that you particularly fancy?" he drawled gutturally, having glanced over at her now wandering form, finding her flawlessly where he, for some instinctive reason, most expected she'd gravitate towards. The section of his bibliotheca displaying his Bildungsroman's.
"Well aren't we self-aware..." she ribbed fondly, taking a draw from her glass as she pushed up onto her tiptoes and brushed some dust from a clearly less-travelled shelf to inspect purely for curiosity's sake. Though she then shifted her focus back to the row directly in front of her, rubbing the prickling palm of her left hand against her skirt as she hummed. There were indeed a great many familiar titles there, she noted, and turned towards him with mild amusement.
"I fancy quite a few things, actually. We have a lot of books in common, truth be told."
"Such as?" He questioned offhandedly as he glanced at her through the rim of his own glass which he, also, partook a portion of from. He marked with keen pledge to memory the oscillation of her left hand, lead by her index finger and wondered with burgeoning aplomb if she, too, was servant to her wedding ring's habitual cries
He turned towards her as he lowered his glass to cradle between his forefingers stiffly as he stationed himself to heed her response. He was, admittedly, quite curious to learn just how compatible their literary tastes of that category stood to be.
"Well, a lot of the classics certainly, though you do seem to have much nicer editions," she replied, setting her glass down on the mantle. She inspected a few different volumes, sliding them from their moored positions just far enough to get a good glimpse of their covers. Great Expectations , Demian , and The Awakening most notably amongst them, and also present in her own collection. However, she halted in shock, and with an anxious breath of awe and deep-rooted investment, as her eyes fixed their focus on an aged, yet very decoratively attractive copy of Jane Eyre . Her hand demonstratively extracted it from its narrow bed and turned it to its back tentatively before beginning to study its spine with diligence.
Severus' eyes instantly narrowed on the vertebrae of the novel she had so portentously selected. He felt the rush of blood to his temples as its pressure rose, the pulsing sensation inducing an immediate headache of woeful proportion. No. Not that book. Not that story. Not. That. Romance . Certainly not. For it was far too personal, far too stationed in the abode that was his identity, contained within his heart – nay, within his soul.
And most of all, Hades, far too them . Just as his mind's eye had painted them when he, himself had chosen it just a few days ago. His damned cock twitched at the memory, and he emanated a low hiss through his front, clenched teeth.
Quickly, man, think of a justifiable, understandable vindication. Ah, yes, obviously. It was a fucking first edition.
And so, resorting to his default mode of defence and fortification, he aptly transited into his professional temperament.
"Put. That. Down . Now. Miss Granger."
Hermione's brows shot upward in sudden startlement, pausing her inspection to eye him with wary curiosity.
There was an instinctive note of panic that resounded in her that had more to do with her inner adolescent connecting his displeasure to her own intrinsic failure, despite having dealt with far worse in her time since such a correlation rooted itself into her subconscious. Though even outside of that, she realised, she simply did not want to upset him. In any way, manner, or form. Though upon scanning his features with caution and seeing something more akin to anxiety in his stern visage than outright anger or ire, Hermione couldn't help but feel a sudden wave of appreciation at what was clearly a protective stance over the novel, more so than any caution of concern for his opinion of her person. Predictably, the man had a titanic reverence and much cared for his library. And, recognising the existence of justification within his, albeit intense, upsurge at her, she truthfully should not have touched what wasn't hers without his specified consent. And as such, she speedily, and affably, offered the book back to him, only with a hint of exaggerated homage as a sheepish half-smile rested upon her lips.
"Apologies, Husband. Pardon my innate excitement. It's quite exquisite. A favourite of yours, I assume?"
"Yes, Miss Granger, quite a favourite. And a first edition, to boot," he remarked with dry delivery, taking custody of the novel from her proffering hands before he brushed her to the side gently to slide the book into its assigned, slotted dwelling where she had so carelessly – er, in truth, inadvertently – removed it without his permission. Whilst he felt a sinking feeling of remorse and attrition for his outburst at her, he did not show it in full just yet. Though he did have the chivalry to extend an apology, which was surely genuine in its tone despite his disposition.
"Apologies for the 'bark', Miss Granger. It's obviously immensely expensive and as my mother gifted it to me in her will, of great importance and sentiment."
Hermione's lips pursed into a small 'O' of almost silent astonishment, though fraught with avid engrossment at this admission of original intel. Quite a fascinating and, in truth, revealing anecdote towards both mother and son, in a way. The fact that his mother had loved the work so much as to either acquire, or even, had she been given it, hold onto it for so many years despite its worth said something about her. What she valued, what she related to, or wanted for herself, at the very least. And she could easily see how Severus could easily fall in her footsteps. It spoke of a constitution lingering somewhere between tragic romanticism and headstrong perseverance, much like the themes of the novel itself.
"Well, no wonder you're so protective," she agreed with a resounding understanding, plucking up her glass once again.
"Though, for your future comfort, I do promise – not that it's exactly a wonder to hear from me, I hope, but I would never mistreat a book. Especially not one of that age and significance. I have a small collection of antique texts too, but sadly not th at one… It's one of my favourites as well."
"However, for the sake of rounding out the 'Disney reference trifecta' we seem to have started this evening, it should be noted that the true moral of Beauty and the Beast is that the way to any woman's heart is free-reign access to your library," she couldn't resist, for some insufferable reason, to hint bluntly in jest.
Mostly .
Severus' chest tightened as what felt like was a bonfire surging upwards from his pelvic core at her coquettish words and her cryptic glance, whilst his ring hammered with a white-hot vengeance of an echoing call. Or had it initiated it? It was difficult to say, and irrelevant to try to place in the current blink of time.
For all that he coveted in this uniquely singular moment of superlative bliss with her – a moment, mind one, that would never again occur in any hue of the same shade as long as they lived – was to press his nose against the curvature of her ear, inhale her juniper locks and her amber-honey skin once more, and press his coy lips into its cavity to murmur all of the carnally dark, tantalising things he had in store for her one day. And, in such a manner of sinisterly sweet elocution – that his witch would have no better biological reaction than to cream her knickers in full for him. Upon which, he sincerely prayed that the magical intervention of the thwarting of her undergarments of yore, would rear its head and influence the happenstance once again. And if he were lucky , that they might just materialise in his pocket….
And so, taking one step forward to pop her metaphorical bubble of intimate space, Severus grabbed both of her wrists with his grand hands, and tugged her against him, before he proceeded to do just what he had so desired.
"Now, now, ma petite Belle, who said anything about ever wanting your heart …?," he purred into her ear as his nose inhaled sharply into her golden-brown strands, surely enough for her to heed, "Especially, when you're so ob-vi-ous-ly just trying to get into my 'books'?"
A small gasp fled from Hermione's parted lips as he drew her in, her wrists trapped in his expansive grip and her chest flush with his before she knew to expect it, nor how to even respond. The only thing she did know was that her blood had turned molten within her veins, and every hair on her body was standing stalwartly at attention. And that had been before he had even spoken.
Holy Hera, she consummately was not in delirium this time. That fact was absolute in its assiduity. The words may have been chaste in contrast to the filth she had conjured up in her head, but the complexion was entirely akin, and it staggered her breath more swiftly than any fantasy could strive to.
She flexed her wrists in his grip, experiencing with rushed euphoria the tensing of his fingers against her thrumming pulse, which in turn induced a rippling effect of animalistic electricity to every bundle of nerves in her being. Her clit, without fail, being the conquistador with regards to amount, and gifted her a bullish throb of want for an audience. The hickey on her throat, meanwhile, tingled sorely and, much to her distant alarm, the peaks of her breasts tightened against his chest, only the knit fabric of her jumper to dampen the effect, as his scarf had, predictably, having gone askew.
That cat was, more likely than not, out of the bag, as the provincial saying went. Well, so much for attempting modesty. Oh, bloody well. She a far larger task at hand to master – the forming of a fucking sentence in which to respond to him with.
"Just …a jest, husband," she managed to utter breathily before an appropriately literary double-entendre crossed her mind and emerged out of her mouth before she could think better of it. "Though if I am 'your Belle', monsieur, then surely, that would make you 'ma bête noire'. And as such, surely you're fond of 'the 'bête' with two backs'...? So if my heart isn't enough to entice you on its own, consider it collateral for the troth of the other?"
Whilst Severus had the immense craving to let out an ironically fitting 'roar' of lecherous scolding at her weak excuse, the man was wholeheartedly apprehended in the process – thank gods – by the untoward check of his reality. At least, as he had known it to be. For, as much as he was able to defer, his fantasies seemingly had been, though perhaps in some manner influenced by this alien 'force', markedly of his own creation. At least he thought so, however, any notion of discerning anything these days with much sense at all was rightly impossible. And therefore, he was convinced his prior visualisation of the decampment of Hermione's brassier was just that – a concoction of his brain's invention.
So, why then, now, could he feel through two layers of fabric between them, the pointed crests of her subtle mounts and the small hitching of breath in the back of her throat as the rise of his chest elicited attrition against them?!
His eyes, as deep, as black, and as foreboding as the lake of Amsvartnir met hers in addled appetency. He swallowed once, though did not blink. His grip on her wrists remained steadfast as he eschewed the consternation from his mind, instead, now, permitting the telltale signs of wicked amusement to play upon his melanoid features at her impressive cheek. Oh, she was a clever witch, wasn't she? And she was entirely his for the having, for the foreseeable future. Or so he told himself, as his newfound 'beastly' character.
"Bien joué, ma chère, vous avez gagné," he purred, glowering down at her in feral exaltation, wittingly intaking a cavernous breath so that her pebbled summits might be toyed with again, and with them, her vocal chords, before continuing, "I'll draft up a contract then, mademoiselle. Though, do keep in mind that imprisonment for 'forever', is A. Very. Long. Time… Just enough time, methinks, for us to work on widening your 'allusionary catalogue'. "
He abandoned ownership of her person completely, taking a step backwards to reinstate their individual orbs of private territory, before concluding his stunt with a subtle nod and a gesture of his hand, indicatively offering for her to take a seat.
"Right. Now that that's settled, we should likely address the rather necessary elephant in the room of our makeshift backstory, yes?" he questioned pleasantly, his entire demeanour reverting to its former, gallant condition. The only inkling of the waning effervescent buzz of his solar apex revealing itself in the impalpable twitching of his left hand as the band on his finger became awash with calidity.
Hermione lingered rooted to the spot, exhaling an indulgent long and shaky breath, the diffusion trailing into a hint of a whistle as she tried to calm the cacophony of her hammering pulse. Merciful fucking Zeus, what was she getting herself into?
However, she'd be loath to permit the man to feel too satisfied. And so, clearing her throat and placing that interesting exchange on the back burner of her brain, for now, the witch forced her unsteady legs to move until she settled into the sofa, catty-cornered from his, and crossed her thighs tightly together.
"Can never resist a good Shakespearean euphemism. But yes, backstory. That would be a good thing to have," she summarised, in a fairly blatant tizzy.
Oy, Hermione, very informative.
"Well, to begin with, I suppose our interactions would have to predate your trial since you weren't exactly very accessible through most of it…" she elaborated, more specifically.
"Quite so," he lamented with a dry smirk at the seemingly insurmountable challenge that they had before them of devising such a convoluted 'romantic history'. Exceptionally, given all that had transpired over the course of the last few days, let alone when in juxtaposition to those of the bloody past few hours . To be sure, for requiring a 'proper backstory', at this point, almost felt laughable. But yet again, it also felt more than ineffably needed — though he somewhat dreaded to answer the 'why' to that affection.
"Though, I suppose we should likely start even farther back. When so many of our peers fell in battle. Including, almost, myself," he threw back his drink as his left hand osculated with the hidden bite marks of his healed scar. He forced his mind away from the atrocities of that night. Of all that he had witnessed and played a part in. The guilt was inexorable to be sure.
Hermione froze at the, so far, seemingly vague suggestion of that night — the battle — even if the subject matter hit something of a nerve. Though her expression remained forcefully neutral as she swirled the glass of wine in her hand, wishing it were exponentially larger.
"Did you have something in mind?" she asked with seemingly cavalier interest.
Severus noted her expectedly valorous decision to appear indifferent on the subject, and marvelled at her capability to do so. Even after all of this time. Still, much like he, she had been forced to grow up far, far sooner than was fair to any child or young adult. Courage, dissociation etc., really were the same at many times. Bless her. Bless them all .
"Well, just to make it repugnantly maudlin, as far as romantic gestures go — and just for the bloody fuck of it — what if we installed the concept that, you, Miss Granger, had actually been the saviour of my life upon receiving Nagini's bite, in the stead of our, dear, Mr. Potter? And thus, your love for me, for whatever arcane reason, so blossomed?" he posited as he pulled a mildly idiotically but wry-looking expression of 'why not?', with his countenance; the corners of his mouth sinking downwards as his hands raised up as if to then say, 'I don't know' before trying to their stoic nature.
Biting the inside of her cheek in self-restraint, Hermione didn't immediately look up at the remark as she instinctively longed to do. She didn't bawk, or freeze, or even cringe. Instead she took a considerably long moment to gulp down the entirety of her wine, before daring to glance up to see his obviously thoughtful expression. It was, in fact, what she would describe as purely analytical, casual even in its contemplative nature, and far from accusatory. Just as she'd expected.
He couldn't know anything else, of course. He wouldn't have any clear memories of the most traumatising and painful moment of his life. He had a duty, and his entire focus had been dedicated to fulfilling it. And so, fittingly, the last thing Severus Snape remembered looking at before his potential death were Harry Potter's eyes.
And for now, Hermione Granger-Snape, had, judiciously, decided to keep it that way.