Hey, Everyone! We're back! Finally!
We were, once again, delayed. Life happens, shit happens, however, we are so, so, so, SO, sorry!
We know we keep leaving everyone waiting, and we're trying to make this less of a sporadic pain. We swear That being said, we have updated our summary with the far looser definition of a 'schedule', which we have been trying to adhere to, so, hopefully, we'll perfect it soon. And once this 'evening' in the timeline is done with, we'll be going back to slightly shorter chapters, which should help quite a bit with our posting and, overall, fic timeline: (Of, Part 1) 😏
We say as we give you another 20+ pages, right now 😂
However, we figured it was necessary after making you wait so long after that last cliffhanger. There's still another 'sub-chapter' coming for this section, though, and it will be far more fun, we think. This one is... exposition heavy, but hopefully still entertaining.
If you've stuck with us this long and haven't been deterred by our dramatics and our horribly spaced out posting, we are forever grateful!
As always, thanks goes out to our wonderful beta Marilynn aka hizqueen4life! Thank you for putting up with us 😅
Cover art by OpalChalice - Enjoy!
Comments are always appreciated! And it was also our dear Abby's birthday yesterday, so wish her well, and forgive our delay! 😉
~ 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 XIV: The Homecoming, Part V – Of Facts and Fables
Courage to strengthen, fire to blind, music to daze, iron to bind. – Robert Jordan.
~•~
Friday, 28th November, 2003 – Night
Previously: "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 had any clear memories of the most traumatising and painful moment of his life. He had 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 had been Harry Potter's eyes.
And for now, Hermione Granger-Snape, had, judiciously, decided to keep it that way.
~•~
"Ah," Hermione forced herself to reply in distant acknowledgment of his suggestion, frowning down at her empty glass with a pensive blink.
Well that wasn't obvious at all.
The witch's 'cognitive game' was already suboptimal thanks to previous events , and it certainly couldn't afford to become any more rattled by her own behavioural self-sabotage. Why the bloody hell had she just gulped down her wine in such a suspicious manner before even attempting to reply? 'Actions spoke louder than words', as the proverb proclaimed. And that little demonstration was a physiological leitmotif that had been in rotation since the bloody ancients had composed it.
If she didn't come up with a cohesive response soon, he would invariably conclude that she was disturbed by the suggestion on some front. Which would then lead him to ponder why that might be the case. That wouldn't do at all. Her secret had already been jeopardised enough.
And so, clearing her parched throat, Severus' saviour briskly submitted a comment that, with any luck, would be construed as contemplative agreement. And which could also assist in befogging any discernment he might have made from her actions by re-focusing the attention back on himself.
"That's certainly an option. Could feasibly work quite well, I'd say. Though, you don't seem terribly convinced of your own proposition, Husband…?"
The former 'Master of Espionage' had, indeed, discerned much from the impromptu quaffing of her vino, for the operation, itself, had been effectuated with such obvious fervour that it would be near farcical to neglect. And he had also taken note of her manipulation of counter-questioning, digesting it with an illusive upturning of his portside brow, lest she descry his incited interest. A 'spook' tactic if he ever knew one, in all senses of the word, really – even if it was heinously patent. Though, he'd be a shite former triple-agent if he failed to advert that her innate officiousness lended her quite the convenient guise on that front. And therefore, was actually quite a cunning tactic to rent – if, of course, there even was any tactic to be wary of.
However, Severus Snape would put every galleon to his name on his aptitude for intuitiveness and his prowess of acumen over those of any other paladin. Spiderlad – or whatever his dreadfully fatuous name was – and his 'Spidey Senses', along with that redhead of his, could kindly perform a nose-dive off the bloody Brooklyn Bridge sans his web-shooters. Severus had the comic book hero prodigiously beat. And therefore, if his own 'Bat Senses' were of the calibre he so presumed them to be, Miss Granger was definitely harbouring something surreptitious.
"Well, I'd rather be unconvinced at such a rash commendation than have had my tongue so jettisoned away with. 'Cat got your tongue', Miss Granger? Forgive me, I must have missed Crooks' entrance into the room…" he darted his tongue across his lower lips in a serpentine fashion and a soft chuckle emerged from the confines of his throat.
Hermione became stoic, eyeing him with a renewed wave of trepidation. Of course he was far too observant to miss her upheaval. Shite . Though being uneasy about what was surely a universally ghastly experience couldn't be that atypical, could it?
Her lips twitched slightly at his remark, though she couldn't muster the ease needed to display a more committed show of amusement.
"Well, it isn't the 'rashest' thing you could have suggested, let's not get carried away, Professor. And it would have its charms – my being the one who saved your life, and therefore, who gave our 'Odyssey' of a romance the chance to even commence… A deserving feministic twist, one could even say. Why shouldn't I get to be the 'knight in shining armour' of our fake tale? Well, at least its beginning. Would rather adequately reflect reality as well…" The young woman felt her face flush briefly in mild perturbation and she hastily extrapolated upon her statement, clarifying, "Meaning, my idea to exploit the marriage law and use it in your favour."
She gave him a warm smile to make up for any tocsin that might be shining in her eyes at her near slip. Get it together, 'Mione.
Severus cocked his head to a forty-five degree angle, and, with a click of his tongue to the cavernous roof of his mouth, silently began to cerebrate on the defensive, albeit civil, complexion of her protracted response.
"Either that wine has just hit your vascular system, Miss Granger, or I'd say you're covering up for something… Jealous of those male mates of yours — Potter in particular, always getting the credit? Yes, I do understand that affectivity quite well," he hypothesised as a hardened knitting of his lips espoused his acrimonious declaration. He presumed his axiom to be quite astute, as it was founded on the dozen or so instances, alone, that he was closely conversant with when the boy surely would have failed to subsist had it not been for her intervention, not to mention his .
Though something persisted in being atypical regarding the quiddity of her reaction, despite his rationale. However, he dithered, everyone who outlived the war had walked away with their own battle scars and war-inherited turmoils. Trauma associated with the event was certainly not out of the question. So, perhaps that was it. The endowed complexity that was so common a phenomenon when it came to the many ricked mantles of PTSD.
To be sure, the former wine-guzzling affair required little, if any, further internal debate. However, he took a mental note to muse on it at a later time. Or, even, perhaps, attempt to apply some strategically placed pressure on her in relation to the subject. Though, another potential 'perpetrator' was becoming exceedingly visible to him, having been trespassed by the various shadows of the demon himself for over a lifetime: if not the former musings, more likely than not, it was the reliable habit of 'war-induced' guilt. Or worse for the poor girl, both – as he was acquainted with the couple all too well, himself.
Perhaps , she had considered that it would have been most merciful for Mr. Potter to permit the release of his soul into the portentously starry sky that gruesome night rather than conceivably curse the man to an existence fraught with outrage, ridicule, and contempt from the world he had sacrificed everything to rescue. Either believing his life to be regretfully unsavable, or, perhaps, out of a nature of kindness that only a Gryffindor's valorous roar could know and produce. That it would have been the nobler choice, the one he would have encouraged, and that would have been more humane for him . For them . For their fractured world.
Regardless, he certified that it would still, soundly, fall under the harrowing effects of contrition. Still, one never knew, did one?
"But, yes, it would have a certain 'charm', you are correct. And I am anything if not a feminist, as I hope you've deduced, so I obviously have no qualm there. My only hesitancy is that, it perhaps presents too…" he paused to masticate on his inner, right cheek, "well, to borrow a stodgier lexeme, 'sappy' as a course of action. Or rather, it's too 'idyllic' to have actually occurred."
Mrs. Granger-Snape was immediately inclined to disagree with that diction, though that was more due to her own cloudy, personal motivations than anything concrete. Thus, she wisely decided to address her spasmodic, inner thoughts prior to breaking her newfound 'vow of silence'. After all, Severus clearly didn't – and shouldn't – conceive that he was actually, quite correct . Or rather, that his hypothetical 'suggestion' that she should be his redeemer in their 'fairytale' was no cleverly spun fable, but was pure, actual non-fiction.
He wouldn't have broached the subject in such a lackadaisical fashion were he acquainted with the reality of it, that was assuredly so. Hermione would go so far as to say that, if he had been privy to such insight, his lips would have then remained as tightly buttoned as his frockcoat on the matter for as lengthy a time as possible, probably until the fucking grave . And most damning of all, he would neve r have accepted her offer to 'rescue' him a second time through this entire marriage scheme, if he knew she were to 'blame' for his salvaged, and continued, corporeality on this plane.
And so, taking a sharp, subtle breath, she promptly seized any stringent strands of logic that she could grasp to utilise in her campaign of 'Damage Control'.
"Well, 'sappiness' is popular – even, dare I say, expected in bards of romance. And, it would solve a few other issues to boot. The most prominent of them being my prior and full knowledge of your survival, and where you likely vanished off to…"
Severus, also deeply entrenched in their shared habit of introspective rumination, had been chambering the many addled and broken remnants of his memories from that night, having no particular desire to delve too deeply into that minefield of traumas, both past and present. However, he studied the witch before him, the various, brilliant gears in her head steadily, if not precipitately grinding away whatever thoughts were racing in her at the, now seemingly, overly-sentimental suggestion. Even if she was kind enough to entertain the notion, and even justify it, as she had just done, it still likely had been a misjudgement to even propound, much less excogitate with any true air of meditation. Not even delving into the many other ways such an unsound suggestion could be weighed, measured, and found wanting by the public at large.
"I, ruefully, fear that you might just have a point with your first statement, Miss Granger. Your second, however, is clear enough in its validity that it requires no adulation on my part. However, I wonder if we might meet a predicament with the general citizenry maintaining the conviction that Mr. Potter was the only one with me that night. After all, the way he carried on about it afterwards, doing all of those interviews banging on about how no magic folk had dare harangue, or bloody kill me, after all I did for our world, and him, and was so heavily featured in articles which reported no mention of you or Mr. Weasley. I might have been on the run, Miss Granger, but I wasn't ignorant of the news. I had my means, rest assured. However, and, worst of all, that is the truth of the abhorrent event. I should know as I was also present at the time," he countered dryly before respiring a nettled sigh at the newfound hindrance to the conceptualisation.
"I'm fully aware that you were…incapacitated, Professor, but I was there too," Hermione amended, perhaps a fraction too hurriedly, for someone who wished to keep from divulging her involvement. Hadn't she just told herself it was better – even vital – that he continued to be an unlettered student in the subject?
It was innately foolish to be bristled by her particular absence within his memory, anyway – he had been on the brink of death. Frankly surpassing the threshold… Just thinking about it in retrospect made her heart sink. Perhaps the fact that the poor man could hardly remember anything was for the best, and not just for her benefit. Hell, it would serve her best, now, if he had thought her to have been on another bloody continent at the time! But the media cutting her out of the narrative was an entirely different predicament, and one she wasn't sure how she felt about just now.
After all, she had instructed Harry to take sole responsibility for the heroic feat. He had tried first, after all. Well, in the 'muggle sense' of the endeavour, and had, with inevitability due to the fatalistic nature of the injuries, failed. Venom was a tricky complication, after all. It could be said that she had merely overtaken the efforts Harry had fallen short of performing – a prosaic and perennial occurrence. And in doing so, she had conjured up an 'eleventh hour' magical solution. Righting a wrong, rectifying an aberration. So it had been his idea, in 'a way…' Besides, if anyone needed the theoretical 'points' in Severus' favour at the time when it had first become relevant, it had been the formerly 'loathed' 'Boy Who Lived'.
Though before Hermione could delve any further into that fraughtful enigma, she came to a daunting revelation that sent her scattered thoughts to a screeching halt: she was currently staring into the eyes of a cognoscente Legilimens, meditating with reckless abandon over controversies that she desperately wanted to keep him oblivious to.
Would he actually be inclined to pry in such a method? Hermione didn't believe so. He seemed too much a gentleman, in the broader sense, and she would certainly have been aware, if he had ever tried. Wouldn't she?
She was no expert in Occlumency, by any means, but she had built up an elementary resistance, dating back to their wartime crusade. Though it was nothing that would stand up against the Severus Snape. For, if he resolutely wanted to, her ex-professor could read the deceptively facile, disconcertingly scandalous, 'pages' of her mind with no effort at all.
Therefore, the unsung heroine hastened back to her earlier argument, dearly wishing that she was accurate in her assumption that her husband was not the brand of man to infiltrate his wife's innermost thoughts without consent.
"Though, of course, 'the hero of the hour' would take precedence in everyone's minds after the fact. And at the time it was technically aiding and abetting a known criminal. Harry had the impenetrable, 'I-killed-Voldemort' armour, so we thought it best to leave him with that argument. But, as I was present , it could be a radical revelation – and provide fodder for our romantic enterprise. Besides, it's not as if Ronald or Harry would protest once I had a few choice words with them and justified its need. They both owe me a thousand times over. And I say again, Husband, 'sappy' is always handsomely received by 'the commonwealth'. Though with or without sentiment, sitting back and watching someone die when there is an alternative is the furthest thing from my idea of a good time. All of that stated, we should keep it."
Severus hoisted his free hand up in the air, palm stretched wide, vulnerably exposed to her, in a showmanship of civil surrender given her impassioned response as a flash of coltish gravitas passed over his eyes like the beam from a lighthouse's lantern casting its orb over the reflective sea during a pass.
"Yes, yes, of course you were there, too. Do forgive me, it must have escaped my memory, as I was expiring, that the three of you were, at one time, physically incapable of doing anything independently from one another," he established, his lips wiggling in refined self-amusement as his quip before he took a hearty gulp of his wine to more equate the contents of his glass with her, now, depleted one, still regarding her raptly over its pellucid frame before adding in a more benevolent tone of proffered recompense.
"And, if you fancy it appropriate and even advantageous, as it seems you do, we can certainly endorse it if you'd like. Though, I must admit, I'm somewhat touched that you two came with him. Finally managed to convince Mr. Weasley that I wasn't actually the 'baddie' in the final hour of my life?" he chuckled sourly though the anguish in his eyes at the recollection of all those years' character assasination, of his integrity and person being so unjustly painted by so many students, faculty, let alone the world, reflected itself beneath the sardonic cadence of his tone. Severus' Brokkr-hammered* armour had momentarily cracked. Cracked enough to allow a deceptively ossified layer of unmitigated woe to hiccup from within the very chakra whose title so paradoxically signified the opposite conception: his anahata* .
Hermione granted him a predominantly indulgent once-over at his initial snark, but was far too relieved that he appeared accepting of her suggestion without argument to trouble herself with any form of mirrored retaliation. In fact, she was ebulliently eager to leap as far past the subject as her proverbial legs could carry her. Though she was hindered in her rapid want to exit the conversation by his final inquiry, and the undeniable pathos within it. She presented him with a grieved grin, deciding it decent to show him some compassion by filling-in, at least one, omission for the unbemoaned chevalier's memory.
"Well, you likely don't recall, however, you appeared to be more than aware that we were lurking about. And, being the prince of a man that you are, pun very much meant, you obviously preserved that information, despite the likelihood that it would have kept you alive longer to do otherwise. Leaving Voldemort none the wiser. Your loyalties were, thankfully, a bit difficult to deny by that point, even to Ronald "
Before her recondite husband could be given a chance to offer a rejoinder, however, Hermione made an effort to hasten the evolution of their discord along, lest they spend any more anxiety-filled minutes on the fucking subject, by inducing the process of conversational 'natural selection', i.e. ensuring it went extinct and exchanging it for a 'fitter' one. And, blessedly, in the process, also reducing her blood pressure, which she feared had become dangerously high by this fracture in time.
Leaning forward to place her glass on the nearest surface as an adequate 'full stop' to that maudlin subject, the witch contrived what could be the next, more complex order of business that they should reprioritise their focus towards, murmuring gently, "All right, that one's sorted. Now for the more labyrinthine section. Should we have run into each other, again, at some future date? Or, shall one of us have sought the other out wittingly?"
She suspected which way his preferences would likely lean, but it was a valid inquiry to make nonetheless. After all, the choice could lend itself toward the 'theme' of their fictional selves' following interactions, and what sort of dynamic might arise from it.
Removing his oral appendage from the cathedral ceiling of his orifice, where it had landed upon his sonantal stumble, Snape cocked his glass in his hand to witness precisely how much vino remained from his former intake, before lifting it to his procumbent lips yet again to drain the remaining pool of red nectar in full.
"Fancy a final nightcap? I believe I have the last third of a rather good bottle floating round here somewhere that really should be consumed," he insisted more than queried, though made a vague attempt to lift his tonation at the end of the sentence, nevertheless.
It was poor etiquette to abandon a lady without refreshment for too long, after all. He then stood and extended his hand out to retrieve her wine glass from where she had just stationed it on the table, socketing the stem of his own between the ring and forefinger of his dominant hand. Why not one, final pour? She seemed unusually anxious as he had so ardently noted, and after all, she had already astutely pointed out that it was still relatively early. And furthermore, the continued intricacies of the conversation surely more than warranted it. And then some.
"Well, I don't think I'd have been in any position, nor would I have had much logical reason, or want , to have sought you out – I mean no affront, simply stating the facts. Therefore, either, you would have had to have ensured that I'd continued to survive by seeking me out, or , we would have had to 'run into one another', as you so formally suggested. What. Think. You? "
"Oh, yes, please," Hermione agreed as she plucked her empty glass back up and handed it off to him, her tone pregnant with solaced gratitude. Merlin forbid she be too encompassed by paranoia. She did need to be able to think . And thinking was precisely what she needed to be doing. Or at the very least, contemplating. They needed a realistic, yet also compelling background that couldn't be immediately spotted as a falsehood, yet that would also keep 'the rabblement' occupied and, ideally, enthralled .
"Hmm. Well, realistically I would have found a way to check in on you from a secure distance, if and when I had felt the need to do so. As such, yes, the former 'run in' choice seems wisest. And likely would read less… contrived, in the long run if we 'happened' upon each other incidentally. After a substantial period of time had passed, of course," she articulated musingly.
"Though where would be the next, vital question?"
"Merlin, I suppose it likely matters more than one might think," he reflected with a resigned sigh as he verbally 'Accioed' the bottle of pinot noir he bedded on the countertop in the kitchen, catching it deftly with his left hand before pouring them each a select amount, his large fingers maintaining their purchase of the two glasses at once still. An impressive feat in and of itself, but one that, for him, was no hardship. He, with private and querying vigilance, caught her gaze eyeing their dexterity and a warmth issued from his ring once. How. Very. Intriguing .
"Have you always been mesmerised by my mammoth hands, Miss Granger? Or do you just have a 'hand kink' I'm unaware of?" he teased with acute playfulness, his inquisition no more serious than the unlikely likelihood that such a thing could be true. Well, at the very least for the first statement. Who could say about the second. It certainly was common enough. But not with regards to his person, surely.
Blinking her focus away from the impressive manoeuvre, Hermione's cheeks coloured at her preoccupation having been so blatantly spotted. Though Bacchus bless, he didn't seem to realise the extent of his accuracy. Nevertheless, she figured there was little to do but give him a slightly sheepish shrug of admittance. Well, partial admittance, anyway.
"You have always been imposingly adroit," she replied with a deceptively nonchalant tone, technically not answering either question directly but inferring a potentially positive response to both. Though before he could interrogate her any further, she once again danced back towards their main subject matter. Oy, this was on the precipice of becoming a dangerous habit. She prayed he ceased to heed it.
"Any suggestions on a locale that might be viable?"
"Hades, I don't know…what about Prague? " Severus supplied with a raising of his brow, determining it wiser for the moment to refrain from commenting on her implementation of counter-questioning for the second time, and instead, supplied her glass to her hand before he crossed back down to his armchair to deposit his 'old bones' into its hold with much gratification. His tongue cascaded over his lips before he took a sip of his wine and cleared his throat. "What, no good?"
She bit her lip and hummed, pondering over the potential of the suggestion, and also its inevitable misgivings. Namely that she had never, in fact, been there herself. Not a horribly difficult thing to overcome, but certainly a glaring opportunity for 'plot holes', should someone get a bit too inquisitive about their tale.
"Well, were you in Prague at all, during your 'time away'?" Hermione questioned, taking the glass from his fingers with an added murmur of thanks. Surely at least one of them would have had to have been truly present to seriously consider the achievability.
"Maybe for a day or so," he answered in turn, harnessing his eyes at the instance of her slight cheek, "it all became a blur, after a while, as I'm sure you can imagine." Bloody girl was quite the tart when sauced up, wasn't she? A side-effect of the condition that was certainly worth remembering for future occasions, and one of which, he dared fear, made his loins ache. Damn their, apparent, compatibility.
"Hm. Yes, I'm sure. But as I've never been, and you were only there for a couple of days at most, it might be more challenging to 'sell' should anyone try and put their 'deerstalker on', so to say. Maybe we should employ a location where you occupied for a greater length of time?" she advanced, with an off-hand pitching of her brows as she took a minute sip from her glass, her opposing hand flexing antsily into the cushion of the couch as it flashed with another wave of buzzing warmth. "Might be more conducive towards continued contact if you were in one place long enough to visit."
"I mostly stationed myself in Constanța with occasional stints in Bucharest for the sake of variance, depending, and a weekend in Pokrovskoye, Siberia for… personal reasons. So, unless you have a secretive fancy for Romania, that certainly won't help, we might have to go the route of most fiction," he answered with quick succession as he crossed his legs and peered at her over the curvature of his glass as he took a petite sip of Pinot, himself.
"Actually, believe it or not that...might just work out perfectly," Hermione replied with a rather pleased look of wonderment. The odds might be in their favour after all. Though she had to wonder what 'personal reasons' could have led him to such a specifically desolate location. She was, inevitably, going to pry, though whether he would answer was another matter.
"Believe it or not, I spent about a week in Romania a couple of years ago. So the timing wouldn't be too terrible… "
"Oh? What on earth for, Miss Granger? Seems far too desolate and cold a place for you ," he teasingly queried with his face twisting into a wry look of bemused expectation as he brought his glass down and rested his forearm on the chair lightly. His mighty forefinger tapped the side of it in eager anticipation of her answer.
"It was for the Ministry. I was primarily working in the Magical Creatures division and was sent to oversee the transfer of another previously shackled Ukrainian Ironbelly over to someone who would ensure that it was released somewhere safe and further away from the nearby populous. How an individual managed to incarcerate a dragon of its breed without being noticed, or fucking burnt to a crisp, surpasses the lengths of my own bloody comprehension – Gringotts' goblins exclusively excluded," she replied with a smirk and a dismissive wave given the previous discussion of that very topic, resituating her glass in her hand tactfully.
He found himself chuckling rather heartily at her tale, especially her last remark and raised a glass up in her 'honour'.
"Cheers, cheers, to that," he rumbled lowly, eyeing her as his mind wandered to subjects that were other than the one which they were currently engrossed in. Who would have thought hearing the goodie, noble Miss Granger curse would make the Potions Master so... erogenous.
"Well. Good. Romania, it 'tis, then," he echoed her hand's prior movement with his own before clearing his throat in the hopes of moving the conversation along.
Hermione chuckled as well, pleased she could actually amuse him even if she suspected the wine was partially at fault.
"Indeed. So," the witch continued cautiously over the rim of her glass, unable to suppress her intrigue any further, "that is what led me to a dragon reserve in the Carpathian Mountains. What, may I ask, led you to Siberia of all places?"
Severus adjourned what he was about to say, momentarily flummoxed by her precipitated questioning of the piecemeal of information he had so extraneously — and foolishly — dispensed to her without much consideration.
"Oh, right. Well, if you must know, Miss Granger, I have – well, I had – family there. Quite infamous family, so I wanted to see their hometown with my own eyes," he ultimately revealed, swallowing a small knot in his throat as his pupils shifted to the left.
Her brows knitted briefly, incredulously as she considered his word choice, and what it could mean. Was he referencing someone well known or just memorable in a familial sense? If the former, there were only so many names that came to mind, some more 'wizardly' than others.
"When you say 'infamous', do you mean in a locally prominent way, or, in a historically significant way?" she couldn't keep from inquiring.
"I suppose one would likely say both , Miss Granger. Certainly the only famous or infamous individual from the town. But his 'sorcery' was prominent both far and wide. I'm assuming you're familiar with the self-proclaimed mystic that was Grigori Rasputin ?" Severus asked her with a coy air of professor-like condescension, unable to help himself; especially given the subject matter. Perhaps, what cockiness he did obtain, and enlist, within him was his 'inheritance' from the long-lost, familial kin formerly known as 'The Mad Monk'. Would explain a few habits of his, and then some.
Hermione's formerly condensed brows raised quickly with incredulous startlement, unable to repress a small chuckle at the rather unexpected, but somehow fitting? connection.
"I am quite familiar, yes. That's an…impressive lineage you've got, Husband," she remarked thoughtfully, taking a pull of wine from her glass. "Well, arguably. Or just a very intoxicated one, but it served him well enough, up to a point. Was he properly a wizard or was he just a very effectively manipulative muggle? I've always wondered, but I've never read anything that stated anything distinctive. It would make a lot of sense if he was actually a sorcerer. Or at least a potioneer."
Severus chuckled heartily and raised his glass in the air as if in salute of the late wandering pilgrim of religious frenzy, and took a sip before focusing his eyes on her own with renewed vitality at her introspections. "Always hungry for knowledge, aren't we, Miss Granger? … " he winked as he recrossed his legs pointedly.
"Always," Hermione agreed shamelessly, arching a brow in quickly continued enquiry.
"But yes, actually, he was a wizard in the magical and proper sense of the word. As much as I am one. And, if he continued his studies at Durmstrang, he might even have been quite the rival to my own powers in his own day. Certainly stronger than Voldemort. But again, only if he hadn't sacked his education away during such formative years…" he trailed off, his desire to bear witness to just how inquisitive she might be on the subject out-sparring his erudite avarice to lecture fully and outright on the man that he, himself, was so very captivated by, both on a personal and an academic level, to be sure. A fitting adjective for Grigori, and one he surely would warrant Severus' hiring of in regards to his magnetic hold on people – even from beyond the grave.
"When you say he 'sacked' his education, does that mean he dropped out or was he expelled? And if the latter, why?" Hermione instinctively pressed further, leaning her chin on her fist as she observed him with attentive and undeniable intrigue.
"Again, the answer is a 'bit of both', really," Severus introduced, swirling the plum-coloured liquid round in his glass as his forearm and hand hung idly off of the right arm of the chair in an exaggerated attempt to appear unobtrusive. Though, to redirect her attention to his voluminous hands was, surely, his sought-after effect.
"Well, around the same time that Grindelwald was shitting himself in diapers, my dear, 'Great Uncle Raspy' was more than aware of his imminent expulsion, and as such, took it upon himself to have one final hurrah. Likely, to the influential detriment of the babe that was just mentioned – both chaos-heralding buffoons, however…"
The witch's doe brown eyes did indeed shift, though it was brief, her heedfulness centred with much too rapt attention on how he might finish out the diversion to give too much leeway towards her libido. For the moment anyway. Though their subject of conversation certainly had the rudiments to bring on all sorts of 'lechery' given the nature of Rasputin's notoriety, and she would be remiss not to acknowledge it.
"Oh, dear, what sort of madness did he 'con- cock -t'? Pun only partially intended."
Lips trembling skyward at her self-identifying faux pas, Severus awarded her with a small snicker of amused laudation before his tongue darted out to apply a healthy coating of lubricant with which to ready his lips for further speech.
"Well, towards the middle of his fifth, and final year, he apparently felt that the Christmas festivities were lacking in a proper amount of revelries. Or rather, were lacking for a specific category of 'punctilious' revelry — an orgy… ." He lifted his eyebrows as her mouth countered by falling open low. " Indeed . He Imperioed the entire staff whilst they were having their own holiday party away from the students, and forced them into a bender of Bacchus delight very unforgivably against their will, or, obvious, desire."
"Oh my," she replied, though undeniably enhoused within a slight, scandalised giggle, even if she had the good grace to look disapproving. "That is…very 'on brand'. And definitely worthy of an expulsion. Did any other students have to pay witness to that unholy mess, or was it purely an 'intimidation-through-trauma' tactic?"
"I believe he was the only spectator . And I do mean emphasis on the last word. I believe the only friends he brought were a few bottles of his hometown's finest vodka and some salted jerky. Needless to say, he barely saw dawn before he was on a train home. Likely, just the way he'd planned it," Severus disclosed before taking a drink of his wine as he awaited her likely Promethean response to the final piecemeal of Rasputin's sordid tale of scholastic exile.
"Conveniently having taught himself wandless magic just prior, I presume?" Hermione tossed out with a wry grin as she sipped her wine indulgently, surmising that that little detail had to be part of the endeavour – to varying degrees of success. "What a fascinating farewell. Entirely illegal, and yet he was just young enough to avoid being properly imprisoned for it. Though, as you insinuated, he was probably a bit too full of himself to realise what all he didn't know?" she pushed, leadingly, still ever more curious.
"Quite so. What he lacked in magical knowledge he quickly made up for in his hedonistic habits, as I'm sure you're aware of. He had just enough magical education to get away with being the Mystic he trumpeted himself to be to the Romanov family, Alexandra, specifically, as we all know, and was able to aid her boy, Alexei, and his hemophilia long to get away with it for a time. Muggles are so very eager to believe, as we've seen often enough. Throw a healthy bout of Russian Orthodox Religion into the mix to cast a shadow on the true magic that was going on, and poof, no wonder he was so hard to assassinate?" Severus flew his hands open on either side of his figure to place a physical fullstop to his story, a grin flexing across his face as her eyes lit up with the finality of it.
"Well, we've certainly been gifted a compelling story from it all," Hermione mused appreciatively, realising at length that she had curled herself up into the corner of the couch in eager engrossment of his tale. She cleared her throat lightly.
"So… I suppose we'll need to set our budding 'romance' in Romania. Unless we toss in a consequently shared weekend in Siberia, in his honour. Could come in handy if we ever need a good 'conveniently-snowed-in-together' story."
"Don't those tropes usually always end in the couple fucking in a single bed, or some other such nonsense? You don't really think we would have ended up so 'entangled' on our first rendezvous, Miss Granger? Even in our little fable?" he began with sincere curiosity. "We would need to have been in love on some level before I let you seduce me. I'm not as easy as I look," he continued with jocund cheek married to a quick wink before the echoes of his voice began to die round them, only the memories of his words left to linger in the air between them. Their tenor serving as a warning, or an observation, or, perhaps, even a challenge?
However, it swiftly thereafter dawned on him that obviously he had misunderstood her initial remark, the realisation harshly and humiliatingly smacking him in the face faster than Lucius' hand was likely to dart for the last remaining box of bleach-blonde hair dye when his roots became too unmanageable to cover with that hideous, peacock hat of his.
"Oh, bollocks. My apologies. You simply meant that we could , at some later time, employ my kinship's Siberian winter wonderland to our advantage, correct? I'm assuming by hinting that we may have congressed our first carnal affairs with one another in the aforementioned twin bed, by a roaring fireside, as a raging blizzard blew outside in the very town where Rasputin gave his first wail of a cry on this gods-forsaken earth?" he raised his brows and began to await her confirmation.
Hermione's brow lifted at the inherent challenge to his 'analysis' of her jest, realising with wry amusement that tossing out offhand remarks, no matter how nonchalant or coy, was not an applicable business with her new spouse, if she weren't willing to defend their logic.
"Mm, more or less the joke, yes. And no, I didn't intend for the incident to have been an immediate one. However, if we're talking technicalities on when any shagging would be instigated, depending on what other details we formulate, I agree that it'd take quite a bit of build up, fondness, and possibly even love, yes . Whether it would be directly admitted prior in this alternate narrative, is yet another matter. I would call it 'debatable' given our individual reticence, but not ruling it out," she agreed with teasing, if theoretical vigour, not letting the oddness of discussing each other like third party onlookers disrupt her tone.
"But as for whether we should have 'christened' Siberia for our first time or our tenth, I believe it could easily have gone either way. Once we'd willingly chosen to spend time together once, there's nothing that could've stopped us from flooing or apparating to meet any time afterwards. Situational factors of encouragement never hurt , though, to urge things along. I thought it sounded fitting ."
Unable to keep his tongue tame for long now that it had freed itself so with libations, Severus snarkily added an acerbic afterthought of what would surely be an adverse side of the postulation, humming at her latest remark before uttering his comment in full, as he mildly condescended, "Though, in so doing, we'd also most certainly, let slip my familial relation to 'The Black Monk', and therefore surely guarantee the exponential overflow of the public's already highly-established enchantment with me," he rolled his eyes and scoffed prodigiously at the absurdity of the ironic notion. "As if half our world couldn't loath me any more than they already do… Let's just throw a hereditary connection to yet another dark wizard in the mix. I'm sure our coordinator would love that little easter egg of information? Shall I lead with it when we meet him?"
"I suppose some might find that information controversial, but neither of us are alien to shocking the masses. And, all of that is easily rectified, if we merely were to have claimed 'mum' to have 'been the word' about it all. Whilst I'm flattered you seem keen to confab so willingly with me, Professor , need I remind you of the very iconic habit of speaking that that very prefix elicits in our world? You're not known for being 'chatty' save for when you lecture, let alone for being at all public about your comings and goings – as you, yourself formerly reminded me, I believe. So. No. Need. To. Panic in this hypothetical, Husband," she drawled, finishing off her 'defence' in an puckish mimic of his unmistakable pattern of speech before granting him a wink over the rim of her glass.
Severus's eyes contracted as he contemplated her politic points with reverence before flashing them wide as he settled into a tentative covenant with her logic, though it was assuredly more than percipient.
"You do make a few sound points, Miss Granger," he needled her coyly, momentarily rousing his former scholastic facade for the sake of retaliation of her own effrontery just now, as well as for his pleasure – and perhaps, her own? They had just had a metaphorical tango in the kitchen before making dinner with the very scenario had they not? A reprise could easily be in order, and if only for him, so be it. Make it a curtain call instead.
"Though next time you will most certainly lose the impertinence, address me by my formal, institutional title, and most of all, never , ever impersonate me again. Unless of course, you'd prefer your next detention to involve the flat side of a ruler instead of the bottom of a cauldron? Though, let's please conserve any yearning to mention a weekend trip to Siberia for now, lest it yield to an inadvertent notation of my numinous family relation, yes?"
Hermione's brows shot upward in fabricated astonishment, finding herself fighting the urge to grin despite the seemingly austere tone of his 'threat'. Though she managed to, with effort, condense it to a smirk of subtly obvious scintillation. Well, the alcohol was certainly hitting him, wasn't it? The agile fashion in which he seemed to slip in and out of flirtation with her was both dizzying and enticing, striking as all the more sincere in its spontaneity. And all the more troubling. While it definitely couldn't go unanswered, she needed to tread with some caution. After all, 'sincere' was one thing this wasn't, she noted with misplaced vexation, and they did have an objective.
"Whatever you say, Professor ," she returned with a subdued amount of cheek, though it was far from eradicated, deciding to 'compromise' his protests. "Not sure that's exactly reading as discouragement anymore… Nevertheless, we'll table it. Shall we go back to what makes sense? We have already agreed on the general location and timeline, and that it would take some more practical exchanges to lead into anything…impassioned, yes?"
"Well, I suppose one affair the denizens would be most likely to be invested in – not to mention imbibe the infinitesimal details of – would be how we actually encountered each other post-battle, with my being 'on the run', and all that," he murmured softly, his timbre thickening as he recessed mentally to cogitate upon the various scenarios that would be of the utmost amusement for everyone. Though, mostly, truth be told, with concern for themselves. After all, it was only suitable that they gain some ounce of divertissement from their cockamamie mythos.
"However,'' he speedily added, "that portion of our 'history' will inexorably be usurped by the far more stimulating one of our 'carnal genesis', no doubt. That's what those media heathens and their esurient readers really want 'the scoop' on. How the 'golden girl' fell for her former 'bat of a professor'. How the lovesick misanthrope's obsession with a ghost was finally bested by a bushy, brown-haired, breathing soul. How teacher transitioned to lover, and student to mistress, etcetera, etcetera, need I go on?" he enquired in an indulgent droll tone as he sipped his drink and gazed at the sepia speckles in her retinas, now illuminated with clarity from the fire's climaxing flames. Her orbs were breath-taking in the lighting, that was a certitude. And, a problem.
"Oh, the lot of them will absolutely be chomping at the bit for that 'episode'," the lioness agreed readily, dispensing a philandering smirk to him before placing those very lips to the skirt of her glass to sample its contents so as to limit any and all further flirtations for good.
"All the more reason to remain steadfastly mute on the particulars for as unbearably long a time as possible. Though, we, of course, need to be aware of just what they are. So, let's have a think, shall we?" she proposed, glancing at the steadily ticking clock couched on the mantelpiece in the hopes of centring her concentration as the man before her was being quite the peripheral distraction. "I suppose resolving the manner in which we 'ran into each other' in Romania would be the most sensible place to start? And, hopefully we're sanctioning its right to be witty?'
"Oh, dear gods, yes, Miss Granger. Don't. Be. Thick ," he pronounced in a guttural staccato, swirling the contents of his glass round as he stationed his leather dress shoes squarely on the floorboards beneath him before continuing. "I've just been advocating the very same argument to myself. It's the least we owe ourselves, no?" he remarked back before his eyes, in unbeknownst mirroring of his wife's own ocular actions darted to the left where his mother's arenaceous clock from days of yore willed its ever-thumping 'heartbeat' to persevere. And with each self-coaxed stroke of its second hand, so too, did Severus ordain his misting brain to be, well, clever .
"I suppose people usually like a bit of thrill and sentiment. The promise of things to come and to dwell in possibility, and all that?" he drawled, finally having surmounted the inebriant-induced fog that had been obstructing his mental faculties. For what else could be the bloody miscreant? Let alone for whom…
"Yes, certainly," she agreed forthwith, "Something theatrical, to be sure, without being too beyond the realm of possibility – as this does involve our constitutions," the sapient witch commented with fidelity, flicking her hand errantly through the air as her lips conjugated to manufacture a wry hum as she lost herself in her mind's 'pensive' recalling that Romanian business trip.
"Hm, well, to place myself in 'my' own shoes, let's brief ourselves on what were the facts, and then what could be the facts? I was alone in a foreign country, unversed with the native tongue, lodged in a rather dodgy section of Constanța, with limited and indirect instructions. Given all that, I very easily could have…gotten lost, perhaps?"
"Leave it to the upper regiment of the ministry to opt for the cheapest housing accommodations to silently punish anyone willing to renovate their previously abhorrent magical creatures division – even if that someone is their darling, witch paragon. Good to know things there held steadfast in my absence," Severus sneered with ostensibly odious distaste for the governing body as his eyes locked with hers, engendering an abrupt idea of malpractice that might just be predictable enough to work. Most magic folk that weren't absolute 'royalists' were more than aware of the dysfunction the ministry had been under for decades, if not longer.
Though, bless, Kingsley, for it was not his fault that he'd inherited one of the worst administrations in history. A reformation was heartily overdue.
"Do keep in mind my former comment about being an enthusiastic feminist, Miss Granger, however, what if, we play the classic 'damsel in distress' card? We've just laid the foundation for your being the knight first and foremost, mind if I swoop in now?"
"Oh, by all means. It would be cyclical. And as you are someone who clearly isn't fond of being in anyone's debt, it would tie those 'loose threads' up nicely," she mused, her right foot bobbing in the air thoughtfully from where her knees were crossed, eyeing him subtly for any sign of challenge to that evident assertion.
"Now as to what or whom you save me from, in this already established plentitude of hostility, I doubt we have to get intensely detailed there. Though, you'd more than likely execute it with brash anonymity, regardless, if I may be so bold as to assume, Professor."
Merlin, how many times had she just implemented his Hogwarts cognomen in the past five minutes? It, apparently, was becoming a gnawing habit on both their ends to continue prodding at the newly indecorous variant on their former 'roles' as professor and student, with all due persiflage at play. Exactly when it had shifted from an old habit to a proper idée fixe , was vaguely perplexing, however, she construed their little 'foreplay' incident that had unfolded before they'd prepared dinner was, likely, at fault. So far, however, she was in favour.
The ridge of Severus ebony brow reared at her sustained use of his educational moniker, finding himself briefly enquiring if she had suddenly become a fellow maven of Legilimens and had read his mind just now, before purposefully employing it in a sly show of accession to pursue their preceding, academic improv. However, that scenario was one which had no place in his head at the moment, for if he gave it any more heed, the probability of his other 'head's' interference in the 'investigation' would be dubiously high. And so, he volitionally abandoned it.
"Ah, yes, clever as ever, Miss Granger. I'm sure anyone who has had the displeasure of meeting me would derive that to be true. Though in pursuit of being fair to one of my, albeit numerous , derelictions, I'd challenge you to find a soul who'd be able to retain any other form of sentiment if they, too, endured my same, personal history," he replied to her initial observation, turning up his lips in a acrimonious smile, though hastily let them retire as their locution suffused the air. He took a pull from his wine glass and cleared his throat.
"Right, well, I suppose there is the lugubriously obvious choice of your having been verbally 'harassed' by some philistine as you were trying to uncover your way…?"
Hermione released a transparent scoff at just how inadvertently faithful his suggestion was in correlation to an event that had genuinely transpired on that trip. "Well, your popping by would have saved me a couple of risky jinxes, so in a continued effort to marry truth to fiction that route works quite well," she indirectly informed offhandedly, taking another sip from her third, rapidly depleting glass.
"Oh?" Severus asked with a compulsory hiking of his left eyebrow as he balanced his now exhausted glass on the arm of his chair. "Please, do go on. I'm eager to learn if I have another unknown name that I'll need to be marking down in my 'little black book'," he purred ominously, steepling his hands on his lap in a fashion that was so conversely delicate in comparison to his tone that it surely infused his words with a heightened sense of consequence.
She returned his raised brow with one of her own, though the action was derived from flattered intrigue at his implied threat rather than at his curiosity over the details of the unfortunate incident. Upturning her lips in an irresistible predilection to show her thanks, Hermione then made a point of evening out her visage, motivated to grant the story the tone of derision that it so deserved.
"Not too much to tell. Some entitled muggle prick was being a charlatan to me in public, basically. He placed his hands where they didn't belong, and, quickly thereafter conveniently 'slipped', and fell on his drunken twit of an arse. He, also, may or may not have pissed himself," she enlightened him with delusory innocence, fighting to perpetuate a straight face so as to foster her stance of nonchalance. A smirk, however, did emerge over the circumference of her goblet.
"Ha!" he exclaimed with a gruntled smirk as his forefinger traced the circumference of his glassware lethargically. "Well, as much as I'm chuffed by your obvious lack of need for any assistance, least of all a man's, though I think I'd prefer to have the honour of selecting the punishment for the crime for the chimerical version, if you don't mind."
"By all means, please, knock yourself out, figuratively speaking. You do love to swoop, if I may so say," Hermione happily agreed, a drunken giggle on the edge of her lips as she uttered her last word, before she anxiously cleared her throat to finish. "But, yes, seriously, that will do nicely."
Severus presented her with a sceptical glance of confusion, his left brow lifting as his right first tensed and lowered, at her little remark, not to mention the escape of her giggle. Despite his best efforts to remain insouciant to the display, the man so known for his tenebrous disposition, found himself paralleling her chortle with one of his own manufacturing.
"I suppose that could be said of my person, if I was pressed to admit it. Though, I do believe you're getting somewhat drunk , Miss Granger. Tsk, tsk. Now, what would Minerva say?" he quipped with a mordant inflexion to his words.
"Oh, hardly, Professor Snape. Well, perhaps a little. Though I reckon she'd ostensibly declare that I deserve to revel in such activities with greater regularity," the young woman answered his hypothetical question defiantly, though did do her utmost to promote a less affected-sounding speech lest she condemn herself to fall under the entitlement of a lightweight. "As I am the sanctioned 'responsible one', my conversancy with such gaieties, therefore, is somewhat limited. Anyway, that's a tangent for another day."
"Well, Miss Granger, I'm loath to admit it, but your ratiocination for Minnie's being in favour of such merrymaking is compelling. Seeing as she is a fellow veteran of that very same 'post' for her own trio of comrades – though I unquestionably borrowed the title from time to time – she is irrefutably cognisant of the tribulations involved with such an appointment, and therefore, also with their remedies. Some of which, I can disclose with full candour, do, indeed , involve a drink or two. And as such, I'm woefully forced to stand corrected. Might. As. Well. Fuck. Me. Sideways, Miss Granger," Severus jabbered out in swift, succinct instalments, his tone dropping in depth as seamlessly as a setting sun, until one could hardly recall that it had ever been anything other than mesermisingly glottal intonation. And that was in addition to just how thickly course it resounded through the air on a regular, 'daily' basis. Indeed, for the man's voice was, by nature, like draping velour over a steel blade. Now, however, under the influence of a rising wave of ardour, that blade was most certainly a war axe .
Hermione tapped her wedding band against her glass rhythmically, mimicking the previously even heat which had been radiating from it to degrees all evening as it began to tug ever harder at her already conflagrant nerve fibres. How she was meant to elucidate that remark, spoken in that tone, without being transparently flustered, she hadn't the slightest. The previously-established, inebriated portion of her brain immediately stood to attention, joined at a gallop by her libido as cavalry, with the instinctive urge to respond with 'When?' and ' Where?' in response to his satirical invitation , though those rejoinders were completely out of the question.
"A rare occurrence," she simply replied with a clearing of her throat, resisting the urge to empty her glass once again. "Now then, since we know they're going to demandingly expect some particulars, how exactly do you want to have gone about administering this rescue?"
"A nonexistent occurrence, Miss Granger. I always top," he riposted in speedy frankness, neither blinking nor showing any sign that his declaration was anything but a private truth now published.
Severus inwardly remarked upon the deep crimsoning of her cheeks as well as her rather ruffled constitution as she chokingly coughed for a moment before apologising meekly. How very precious of her. He was even counselling himself on whether he risk taunting her on her addlement, when a delayed sensory receptive finally registered through his nerve endings, alerting him to the scorching heat of his ring. He squeezed his left hand tightly and ground his teeth to avoid articulating any profanity that might offend. Besides, until he was absolutely positive her ring was doing the same thing, he did not want to risk revealing that his was in any way acting out of the norm, Hades' butt plug knew what the bloody hell it indicated, and if it was anything remotely damning, in any way, shape, or form, he certainly wanted company within his victimhood.
"Oh, I find that the simplest route with the most direct force of threat is often not only the wisest but also the most... effective . Not to mention requires little to no expenditure on my person," he answered coyly, bringing the elbow of his free arm to rest on the chair's as his forefinger stroked his upward-twitching lips errantly.
Hermione expelled a nervously beguiled chuckle, though strived to refocus on the practical endeavour they needed to sort as hurriedly as she could, praying that any flush still lingering in her would be arraigned on the three glasses of wine she'd swilled down in the last hour. Not that the ongoing topic was exactly helpful in that regard; there was something distractingly charming about his using the air of menace which had been so bound to his name as a way to defend her honour, even formalistically.
"So straight up intimidation, then?" she challenged wryly. "Certainly a simple, and far subtler choice as opposed to the more… prototypically dramatic route. So I'd agree that is indeed wiser."
"Indeed. Perhaps, since I couldn't very well go about hexing muggles and still keep a low profile, I'll be tempted to embellish a 'reluctantly thrown' punch into the narrative, if I feel the interviewer would fancy that. But yes, verbal coercion is inarguably the path to follow. Especially given how sharp my tongue is," he paused briefly in coltish consideration before tacking on playfully, "though if presented the chance to utilise my, apparent, 'possessivity kink', I hope you won't have any objection to my prusual of that option. We might as well troll any future critics of our age difference by prominently showing off my barbarically, archaic age and the 'values' that are associated with it," he winked in half jest.
The lioness bit her lip in vampish contemplation, repressing the dawning of a smirk as an obscure yet, nevertheless, provocative 'libretta' unanticipatedly materialised in her mind's eye.
"Definitely all viable tactics within the larger scene, Professor. All right, then… What if, we borrow from reality by having our chauvinistic idiot be a young, conventionally good-looking, male, egotist, who, when confronted by my possessive, but noble, 'protector'," she paused to extend a hand out to indicate Severus' 'entrance' into the scene, "was far too arrogant to view him as anything remotely akin to a romantic rival? And, instead, brazenly assumed that you were my, oh, I don't know, father, perhaps? And being so well versed with your caustic retaliations to errancy, I can't imagine you'd waste any precious time correcting him when you could otherwise be berating him, leaving him, then, to his would-be, incorrect presumption," she posed roguishly as she intently observed him through her lashes to verify his shared humour in her whimsical innovation.
It was mostly flippant, granted, but that was rather the point – to 'troll' the critics. Especially any that might have a predicted vendetta for their age difference. As that was a censoring that Hermione had absolutely no patience in entertaining for any length of time at any time. It was exasperating enough having to deal with his unnecessarily guilty lamentations about it. And on that reminder, she'd better forestall that anticipation via justification of her proposal posthaste.
"After all, you did make a public declaration of your 'Daddy kink' recently. You can't tell me you wouldn't find some hilarity in literally expounding upon it? Especially when it only would prove the sheer stupidity of other people."
Having been sat in a phlegmatic stasis throughout the proffering of her 'motion', save, perhaps, for a inconspicuous hiking of his left brow at the delivery of the word, 'father', Severus finally animated himself with a sharp, long inhale as he adjusted his seat in his armchair upon hearing her 'closing argument'. His lips, already having been domiciled into a thin, tense line for the duration of his audience, now pushed themselves forward in a lured urge to voice his inceptive impression of her unwonted design.
"It seems to me, Miss Granger, that you're very craftily carving out space to establish the definition of your own kink, here, of preferring 'older men'. And, in so doing, are cunningly advocating for, and protecting , my honour as a member of that congregation, simultaneously?" he hypothesised cannily as the corners of his lips fought to remain impassive.
"That is, if I'm not mistaken, of course… And, I so rarely am," he murmured in a bass finish, his timbre percolating from the back of his throat like molasses oozing lethargically from the spout of a carafe.
Despite his imperious edict, Severus' usually Herculean credence in liaison to his Athenian abilities of cerebral nous, were, in actuality, quite the opposite to what he was currently heralding them to be. Truly, for though the man could literally and figuratively decipher a person – whether through his Sherlockian powers of physical or verbal deduction, or via his proficiency in the Daedalian art that was Legilimency – there appeared to exist a rather galling barricade around the witch that seemed to have been under erection since the day they spoke their 'nuptials'. And one that was growing increasingly cumbersome to climb, let alone surmount.
The magical prodigy that had so dolorously reminded him of himself that he had hardly been able to stand to throw his pupils to her form, let alone bestow the girl with any iota of the coveted estimation that she had at first so yearned for from his pedagogic status when she had been under his tutelage, was now, a grown adult. A woman who had been to Helheim and back, who had bravely, nay staunchly , withstood such heinous tortures and sorrows at an age that rivaled even his own adolescent traumas and tragedies, and who was now, ceremoniously his spouse. His wife. His woman. His witch?
(No, no, no, Severus, not in that way, no. Never. Lust is not love , man. And you certainly need to heel with regards to the former!) Right. Who was now his wife – and yet, the one person whose soul he could not translate at all. Or rather, whose 'translations' were the only ones which made him question if he needed to constantly be referencing the bloody Rosetta Stone to ensure their validity.
And this most recent, playful, little concept of hers, what she may, or may not be archly broadcasting to him between the mountains and valleys of her words, was so vexingly perplexing to him, that, for a millisecond, he considered just how immoral it would be to dip his toe in the ocean of her mind. Of course, that abhorrent violation was only a passing thought. And one that he furiously reproached himself for upon its recognition.
Merlin, had he actually, somehow, permitted himself to reach the precipice of inebriation in her presence? Or worse, was he well beyond it? His ironwill resolve to remain fettered, indifferent, and unaffected to the aphrodisia she so confoundedly galvanised in him clearly had been breaking for some time now. Damnit . He'd been far too loose-lipped and saucy-eyed. He only thanked the gods that his cock seemed to be behaving himself for now – more or less. Well, more less rather than more, if he were honest. Bless denim jeans…
"Well, not sure if I've confirmed it directly, but that is more accurate than not. Though it would be universally beneficial for the record, regardless, no? And our two 'proclivities' would go hand-in-hand quite well," she managed to challenge delicately, in deceptively noncommittal agreement to his first accusation, thankfully managing to restrain both her trepidation and her amusement. The larger emotion of relief obscured any hint of their presence with relative ease. Though she was beginning to wonder if the drumming of her pulse, thrummed up in a combined flurry of nerves and arousal that had eclipsed the entire evening, was about to become an audible disruption to the conversation, regardless of her outward discernment at being so openly deduced.
She was pleased to find that he might be tickled by the suggestion. Well, as 'tickled' as Severus Snape ever could be. Though he was steadily proving to her, day by day, that he had just as many layers and facets to him as she had always assumed an individual who authorised the singular wearing of only one type of masque to the world must have . For his ethos, pathos, and logos, though all incredibly brilliant and nuanced within themselves, were all united under, and therefore shaded by, his austere guise of saturnine severity . His bloody given name said it all.
Whilst the former professor made a valiant effort to conceal it, given the extent of his previously expressed bravado, he was genuinely, if not pleasantly, surprised that he was as unrefuted in his suspicions as he had boasted to be. However, her remarks did persist in their bafflement, fascination, and requisite for further inspection, to be sure. And though he was entirely cognisant of her bedevilled articulation, he, nevertheless, was still inclined to prod at the admittance. If only just for his own infomania.
"Well, if you've mentioned that before now I likely thought it to be in jest, Miss Granger. Forgive me, but I'd be a poor student of observation if I didn't remind 'the class' that your romantic history would hardly warrant anyone to think you had an affinity for anything other than jocks or the class clown. In fact, if my senile brain still obliges to any retention at all, the only 'older man' – and even then, hardly – you ever cultivated a brief monomania for was 'GoIdie Locks'. I do hope that your pining, schoolgirl heart wasn't too gutted when your ghastly scrooge of a Potions professor proverbially wiped the floor with him. Oh, wait, that's right. I also did so quite literally," his tongue hissed out in a contumeliously asp-like fashion, directing itself at the wizard who had proved to be one of the most infuriatingly taxing individuals he had ever had the pleasure of making a superlative arse out of.
An unrepentant, almost sinister chuckle reverberated from Hermione's lips at the reminder of that unfortunate incident. And at the concept of ever having harboured an attraction to the self-adoring buffoon. If the 'show' in question – er, duel – don't 'objectify' the man, 'Mione – had accomplished one thing, it was to brand the image of the Potions Master's tall, commanding form within her mind as a figure of power and intensity, and a strangely alluring one at that.
The cut of his long, snug, button-ornamented jacket, and equally secure trousers had certainly been marked in her memory, as well. Maybe it had been puberty, or a full moon, or both, but she could never again fully join in with the sneering contempt everyone had had for their so-called 'large-nosed', 'grouchy git' of a professor after that. Even the once 'Commedia-del-Arte' nature of his frequently-mocked visage had lost its cartoonish impact, and the more statuesque, classical dimensions that struck truer to reality had been, suddenly, revealed beneath. Quite so, for one could say that Professor Snape had gone from being cast as the grotesquely-masqued character of the 'Il Dottore', to taking on the unmasqued role of 'The Lover' Flavio, seemingly, overnight.* Not that she would have used that specific metaphor in second year, but it applied in hindsight, all the same.
The man before her, at least, appeared to remain blissfully – and blessedly – ignorant of the fact that her concentration had been settled on him as the victor rather than his ill-equipped opposition. And had also gone beyond even what she, herself, had been fully willing to take stock of at the time. Or so she'd so recently resurfaced from the dusty confines of her subconscious, when that specific memory had unexpectedly emerged during her recent flirtations with carnal self-pleasure. Not that she had placed it there with any amount of decisiveness, but that resolute duelling-stance of his had certainly made an appearance, phantasmally looming over her in obscene observation.
"Actually, that was arguably my favourite moment from that year. Granted, I was petrified during a portion of it, but nevertheless. Any so-called 'attraction' I may have temporarily had to that counterfeit of a wizard, was fully obliterated the instant he opened his mouth on day one of term. And the 'pixie fiasco' certainly only furthered the nail of that coffin. Therefore, I can assure you, by that point in the year, Severus, he was not the professor from whom I was taking notes," she blathered in unwise admittance, only breaking when she distinguished the intimate insinuation she'd just made. Bollocks! She imprudently cleared her throat, marking that a shift in tone was, now, compulsory.
"As for the rest of it, I didn't have a 'romantic history' at that point. Firstly, when did I have the time for one – 'Turner' or not – what with our constant misadventures and my cherished schoolwork? I didn't even properly 'date' Ron until after the war. And as for the 'jock', well, I contest that Viktor's name on my 'dance card' matters least of all. If you recall, everyone and their bloody familiar wanted a piece of him, and yet, he wouldn't leave me, of all the other eligible students, alone! So if one were looking at it through the most insightful lens, it was clearly a simple, adolescent craving for attention rather than any founded appeal. All-in-all, it's silly to go off of anything from back then. I've distinctly grown up since. As did my taste. Not to mention my knowledge of what I want."
Though his insecure doubts had already been assuaged somewhat in the recent transaction of time, and his nonplussed confusions over things unspoken, her personal intentions, and secretive desires were gradationally augmenting themselves into beliefs, Severus had to discover if those developing avowals were, at all, veracious on any definitive plane. And therefore, he'd cretinously decided, with thanks to his intoxicatedly-uninhibited, novel sense of 'wisdom', to interrogate his wife on those very, audacious accoutrements.
"Once again, Miss Granger, you make incredibly valid points. And once again, I do regrettably stand corrected," Severus cautiously paced as he had been monitoring her innovatively diagrammed rebuttal with germane acumen; despite the dreadful nuisance his ring-finger had become during her declamation, as its degree of febrility had risen monumentally throughout.
However, as Severus was about to finally speak his mind fully, he noted that the marital band almost felt as if it was pulsating in enthusiastic, encouraged, approval.
"Though, as you seem so infallible in your convictions for what was your, self-ordained, 'limited amount of knowledge' then, versus what you advocate your breadth of awareness to be now, with respect to your 'amorous preference(s)', I'd be remiss if I failed to petition for an introduction to them," he fully ceased his parlance at this time, his eyes focusing rigidly as he appraised her person with meticulous devotion before leaning forwards to challenge heartily through enunciated speech:
"And. Just. What. Precisely. Is. It. That. You. 'Want', Witch?"
"Well, I did choose to marry you, didn't I?" Hermione found herself explicating in an attenuated tone of elusive jest, mirroring his body's forward propulsion without being consciously aware she had done so, as though a magnetic pull was bound and determined to eradicate as much distance between them as possible. She stared into his eyes with an inexorable dynamism before intrepidly pressing forward against the backdrop of the crackling inferno, "And whilst the decision has certainly glorified me to the status of a magnanimous 'Good Samaritan' to most, I did tell you initially Husband, that it was anything, if not, personally, congruous."
* In Norse Mythology, Brokkr is a dwarf, a blacksmith, and brother to Eitrie, with whom he helped to create Mjolnir, and other 'godly' weapons.
* Anahata or heart chakra is the fourth primary chakra, according to Hindu Yogic, Shakta and Buddhist Tantric traditions. In Sanskrit, anahata means "unhurt, unstruck, and unbeaten". Anahata is associated with balance, calmness, and serenity.
* If you're interested in theatre history, here's a whole list of the original Comedia-Dell-Arte masks and their archetypes: . /About+Masks/Commedia+dellArte+ #:~:text=In,more