The Ties That Bind

by TheHalfBloodPrincesses46

Five years after the second wizarding war, the ministry narrowly pushes through legislation to enforce new couplings in the wake of a reduced magical population. Meanwhile disgraced war hero Severus Snape is facing a bittersweet conclusion to his delayed trial. In the wake of being selected for matchmaking, can Hermione Granger change both their fates in a single, calculated blow?

16. Chapter 15: The Homecoming, Part 6

Hey, we're back again!

We know the biweekly updates are occasionally tedious, but this one is another double-event to finish out their evening which continues to be...eventful 😂 Yes, we know our timeline is the most extended, wordy thing imaginable, but with words, as with most of the best things, we do like to hope it's the more the merrier.

And if you've stuck around this long, the next chapter should be quite a treat...

A special thanks to our very busy beta Marilynn aka hizqueen4life! Thank you for managing us 😅

Cover art by OpalChalice - Enjoy! Comments are always appreciated! ?

~ Kristina & Abby

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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

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Chapter XV: The Homecoming, Part VI – Of Flyting and Falling

If I were the rain. . . that binds together the Earth and the Sky, whom in all eternity will never mingle. . . Would I be able to bind two hearts together? — Tite Kubo

~•~

Saturday, 29th November, 2003 – Midnight

"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."

~•~

The witch's words, which were paradoxically as discombobulating as they were revelatory, and her mirrored inertia of literal and figurative forwardness that seemed to be encapsulating them, had enthusiastically coupled to encourage a mutual hyper-fixation on the other as the rest of the world spun, separately, and insignificantly by. All of which proved to collectively apprehend Severus Snape's mental capacity in a profoundly engrossed method that he was uncertain he'd ever experienced in quite the same way before. But then, just as he was about to immerse himself into an analysis of what her combined behaviour could possibly indicate – which in reality would take only a mere, span of seconds, yet to his erudite brain would give him a substantial amount of time to hypothesise – he was sourly intruded upon by the appearance of Nyx in his peripheral vision. An appearance that was both scornful and disconcerting for she was rushing towards his person at a tempo that could easily prove to be deleterious for either party.

Just as Hermione was about to question her sanity once again, or at least the ABV of the wine they'd just imbibed, her attention was also snatched by the rapid, inbound ingress of the large black bird, followed with capering speed by a clearly re-animated Crookshanks, heartily chasing after her. The sudden cacophony of sounds launched the witch upright with a start and a curse, her brows ascending skyward as she watched the duo run immediately between Severus and herself. This resulted in a literal slicing of the tension that had grown so acute betwixt them, that she wasn't entirely certain if she were thankful for, or frustrated by, their haphazard intrusion. Likely, the answer was a bit of each.

"Crookshanks!" she hissed sharply, crossing to the feline, only to bend over and ensnare the orange menace mid-leap before he could continue on his crusade, resulting in a yowl of startled protest. "Could you not be a barbarian, please?! We're guests! "

Having gingerly grabbed Nyx out of the air once she'd entered a proximity within which he could do so, Severus, too, scolded the avian for her antics, and, likely, for having incited the incident. His censorious remarks, however, quickly faded and he once again pressed his lips ever so faintly to the bird's temple before re-centring his attention to the two 'lions' before him. He chuckled in practised silence at the admonishments Hermione was bestowing upon her cat, and even more so at Crook's obviously unimpressed and incensed face. He certainly appeared quite perturbed that he'd been held hostage and that his antics had been hijacked from him before they could fully culminate.

"It's quite alright. I'm sure she started the bloody thing. As I've said before, she can be a right terror when she fancies. And seeing as she doesn't look to be truly agitated, and her heart rate isn't suggesting active distress, or anxiety, I actually think they might have been playing," he rumbled out lowly, eminently obliged that the interval had occurred. And thus, had presented a chance in which their concentration had been forced to abscond from one another in exchange for its focus to be transmitted to the other living creatures present in the house.

"Oh, likely so," Hermione agreed, insisting on giving her furry companion a stern look before she heaved a small sigh and permitted the frisky feline to leap back down to the floor where liberty awaited. Upon doing so, she then bent to allot him a hasty scratch behind his ears and a soft coo of 'maternal' affection.

She did, nevertheless feel the urge to impart one final 'parental' directive for his heeding, "Fine, you may go on and play, however don't you dare go and break anything, young man."

Then, upon brushing the tangerine hairs from her jumper cautiously, given her continued lack of a bra, (not that she'd expected it to majestically reappear), the young woman took a moment to watch her 'distraction', alongside that of Severus', meander and flap away as giddy as two toddlers receiving an unexpected extension on their playdate. Thus, the witch and the wizard were, once again, left alone in each other's company. Their prior conversation's last words still suspended over their heads, hauntingly permeating the air.

"So…where were we?" she questioned him with a persistent savoir vivre, as she paced back towards the couch to reoccupy her seat, noting with question his unduly-stiff figure do the same.

Severus' gait was, indeed, laboured, but it was not due to any tightening of his joints from 'older age', nor even from residual anxiety of the moment which had just occurred. No, the 'stiff' gait of his legs was the byproduct of an even stiffer appendage, and which was, thankfully, enveloped by the obdurate textile of his trousers. Also, thankfully , it wasn't a full 'stiffy' either, for if it had been, surely even the denim of his onyx jeans would have failed to conceal that substantive 'affliction'.

Yes, given the tenebrous lighting, the adroit angling of his hips, and her own credible, internal diversions, the wizard was able to walk both himself and his cock's rearing head back to the chair with relatively – at the risk of beating a dead horse – stiff ease.

He sat down gingerly, issuing an implied grimace as his cock and balls were acquainted to the constrictioning fibre of his trousers, by proxy of the cotton ones of his pants, creating a friction against his manhood that was as disagreeably grating as it was congenial for the taction it supplied.

"Er, I believe we were at the most gruelling particularity of fabricating the evolution of our falling in 'love', Miss Granger."

"Ah, yes, that," Hermione articulated with a petite chuckle, clocking that he was travelling the path of least resistance by completely rebelling at her final insinuation – temporarily, at least.

Thank fuck, she lauded him silently as she recrossed her legs with purpose.

Requiring the express reassembly of her scrambled mind in order to adequately recommence their conversation, the witch, first, settled herself into her seat before attempting to unbind the rigid knot her thoughts had so kindly entwined themselves into. She eradicated, at least, one distraction, even as she continued to toil with the other, by slipping her left hand snugly beneath her stockinged knees to ensconce her ring's recurring throb from her immediate notice.

"Well, if we start off with the 'saviour scenario', it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out a trajectory. It's quite the classic 'beginning', really, and it's certainly enough to create a foundation of intrigue, at least for myself within the narrative. Plus, we all know I'm far too obnoxious to have let you pop out of nowhere, defend me, only to then have vanished back into obscurity without having pestered you, on some level great enough, that it made you stay put for a time," she remarked to him confidently, successfully adverting their scrutiny to the preceding discourse of their fictitious confrontation with the chauvinistic muggle before Severus could reconcile his decision to deflect and, instead, elect to confront the veiled meaning of her prior verbal offering.

Willing his own mind to cooperate in its endeavour to harness his curiosity on their preliminary 'backstory' anew, whilst also privately condemning his corporeal turgescence in order to best it via remorseful scolding alone, Snape did his utmost to centre his frontal lobe on the art of listening as he received her words, one by one. He felt as if he were, without warning, intellectually stunted, having to mind each noun, verb, turn of phrase with calculated administration in order to coherently fathom what it was they meant when congregated together as a whole entity. His usually sharp, agile, perceptive mind was, thanks to his redispersed blood flow at his cock's seizure, now, felt as though it had been deliquesced into a, offensively, shallow puddle of libido-appeasing hormones and carnally-driven testosterone.

Eros' penis-pump is this how the average, neanderthal of a man, walking round everyday, has to wrestle with his insatiable salacity? It's bloody torture! In the spirit of the action, 'fuck that'.

"Yes, I'm certain you'd be able to come up with some sort of guilt-inducing grounds by which I'd be forced to remain in your company for a time. Likely out of professed fear of some such similar incident occurring again at what would have been the locale of your accommodations and nature for your business there. Merlin's tits, you likely would have talked me into allowing you to stay with me. Or rather, you talked me into talking myself into insisting that you do so…" he trailed off, his hand coming up to support the weight of his chin as he looked distantly to the left for a moment before issuing a rather sardonic snort and an eye roll at the 'probability'.

"Nevertheless, something like that would certainly bound to have happened, so why don't we just go with that, then, hm? What I'm most anxious to cover, and sufficiently sort out is again , the overall 'journey' of our 'falling in love'. How's that meant to have gone, Miss Granger? Do enlighten me?" he grunted in sceptical challenge.

"Well, to begin with, I'd imagine it would have been more of a...practical interaction. Since you'd have been so isolated and cut off from the world, and your home, it, clearly, would have been beneficial to have had a link with someone who knew that you were alive and who could have kept that a secret – enter me. Obviously my having been there for your death, and the larger point of having been the one that saved your life in our scenario, of course, only helps to justify that I would have been the likely candidate out of any other individual that might have been privy. All of which I would have revealed to you slowly but surely, no doubt. And since I would have been your only connection to our world proper, and given what my mental state would have been – and what it surely was – at the time we're talking about, honestly, you would have been just as much of an escape from it for me, as I was a tie to it for you. You might say that we would have been one another's 'life preservers'. Almost, quite literally."

She did not immediately offer an explanation for that semi-theoretical supposition. In a perfect world, she wouldn't have had to. But she knew it was likely going to be a point he would find worth pressing upon, or, if not, silently set aside for later pressing. Best to beat him to the punch, she decided, and grant him a succinct breakdown of precisely what she was referring to.

"I would have still been suffering through the thrilling aftermath of having just dumped a fellow war hero, as well as my involvement in abolishing what was, quite literally, slavery , so regardless of which side of the narrow, political spectrums one might have fallen on, I was, at the time, also remarkably …unpopular . It also would have – and did – explain the shite accommodations, I figure."

"Ah, yes, yes of course," Severus answered in turn with a certitude of awkward interfaces adjoining his words, hiring far more pauses than he might usually have employed, or rather, executed in the manner he usually enforced. Also avoiding contact with her eyes as his own remained rather fixed on a particularly loose thread of xanthous colouring that was fraying off on the right arm of his chair. He watched, with almost absurd intent, the breadth of time it would take for his large digits to unweave the filament free. A somewhat pusillanimous undertaking at the given time, to be sure. However, he felt vaguely confident that between the vino, the caliginous lighting, the created tension of their 'fireside chat' just moments before, and the tender quality to the subjects being broached now, perhaps, she'd be none the wiser. Or at worst, only obliquely cognisant of the apprehensive activity.

"You certainly had much on your plate at that time. In reality, I mean," he began, his mind wandering ever so briefly to how well he had known that to be true, before his consciousness slammed the lid on that proverbial chest of memories with a resonance that physically startled him.

No, none of that.

"At the start I was going to protest avidly and find fault in your little setup, as I don't see how someone like myself, and my… situation …could be anything but more of a burden on you than you'd already had had. What, with a sulking Mr. Weasley inevitably swinging on a pendulum which only had the ability, much less the maturity, to sway between the sentiments of ruthlessly 'trying-to-win-you-back', or ardently aiming, and surely failing, to rub 'just-look-what-you-gave-up' in your face, paired with the absolute dunderheads that are the populous that ever conceived, much less condoned , that Elves should be the subjects of our slavery… Oi . Well, bless you, Miss Granger, to be sure..." his words evaporated yet again, like water droplets unfortunate enough to land on a heating vent. This time, however, he did integrate a rather errant flicking of his, formerly, preoccupied hand into the air for final emphasis, in addition to also utilising it to break the frenzied fixation altogether.

Hermione's brows flexed in minute observation of his hand's determined compulsion, although it did not retain her attention for longer than a few, spare seconds. Instead, it was essential that she recognise his words orally, and their prevailing fidelity. For the man was absolutely correct, even if his initial denouement was flawed.

"Yes, precisely, I was surrounded by idiots. Therefore, all the more reason I'd be desirous to interact with a person with any semblance of wit, no?" she challenged with intrinsic viridity.

"All things considered, it should be easy enough to assimilate the notion that two lonely outcasts, with similarly-aligned traumatic pasts, lacking in much needed intellectual stimulation, would have found an innate form of companionship within each other's company. And that, Professor, makes for an excellent breeding-ground for romance. Some might even say the best."

"Yes, Miss Granger, true enough, we do appear to have those things in common, as ironic a fate as that may be. But I hardly think those fundamentals alone, or together even, would fully market my person to you, nor would they surely sell my plethora of unpleasant attributes and characteristics, which coalesce to form the anchorite that is your former Potions Professor, to you either. Do you think them to be truly formidable enough to win you over, let alone convince the minds of half the public that you were won – if not more?" he countered diplomatically enough as his lips tensed forwards in covert insecurity, though inwardly his brain was performing mental calisthenics as it warred to conceive the undercurrents of what sounded like a cloaked layer of fondness for him on her behalf. Fondness that was not only in this fabled chronicle they were composing, but also in and of reality itself. Meaning, that her locution, her phraseology, her diction, bloody hell, even her vocal modulation were all suggestive of a personal wish that their invented fantasy now, had been the actual truth of her reality then.

Or so he felt that it could be.

This titillating tidbit of a postulation, was too appetising to refuse a bite of. So bite, he did.

"Yet you do sound as if you've thought all those points out in your head before. Are we certain about Lockhart being your only faculty crush, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's visage promptly crimsoned at his candid questioning, even if it was dosed with an ample prescription of ribbing. Nevertheless, she bit the inside of her cheek, lest she open her mouth in denotative defence prematurely. Before she could properly settle upon an answer – if one should even be devised to be given – she paused to wonder if, perhaps, she should be fretful about his mucking round inside of her head after all. Not that there was any full confirmation to that plaint, to be clear. However, she had certainly incriminated herself enough, despite her cursory ignorance, to warrant its suspicion.

Best to go for the technical truth as it were.

"Ha. I don't even think that I could give an answer to that query that would be worth a sickle. My entire adolescence is a blur of test scores, near-death experiences – amended by the bouts of twisting time, and a determination to spite everyone on my ability to be responsible for fifty things at once, including two puerile, juvenile boys. So, if my hormones were introduced into the 'mise-en scene' at any time, who the bloody hell knows who they were directed at, or when," she replied as nonchalantly as she could muster. She did have some help in that venture as it was an answer that would have been, more or less, the correct one merely a week ago. Even if she had just spent a considerable amount of time reviewing her adolescence, and the rather epiphanic influence that the man had clandestinely had on her sexual awakening.

Oy, she had had a crush on him, hadn't she? Even if manifested only subconsciously. But the most paramount question to answer of all, now, was whether it had ever, actually gone away?!

"Regardless, Husband, and back to your maiden concern of public doubt, if we were going for some, expedited version of the process, say 'love-at-second-sight', once I'd caught up with you after the battle, and once our former academic relationship had long been expired, then I could see there being more of a demand for such rationale. But, establishing an augmentation of love, with a gradual trajectory, as we've so incongruously just constructed, I don't believe necessitates as much justification as you seem to believe it to demand," she offered softly, gesturing with her free hand. "Friendship usually always blossoms from acquaintance, and love from friendship. As long as we can defend how we progressed from an institutional relationship to a platonic one, I really don't think we need to worry about the next stage of it on the amorous 'evolutionary chart'."

Letting out a chortle that could only be classified as woefully and pessimistically cynical, adjusting his weight to his right side to allow freedom for his ankle to cross squarely on his knee, Severus shot her a look of derisive amusement at the notion.

"Oh, yes, Miss Granger, just that little issue to remedy," he began with a mordant scoff, "Look, the rest of it all is sound, I'll grant you that. But that's literally the topic of concern that I've been banging on about this entire time. And which, you, seemingly, keep trying to fully evade answering. Or, which you seem to believe has an easy fix. Still, I'll uncharacteristically award you credit where credit is due. But do be prepared for a bit of monologuing, as this is an adversity that I'm quite distressed about, for what are, hopefully, obvious motivations," he halted his speech to await a clear indication from her that she was prepared to listen for a time.

Upon receiving it, in the style of an eagerly curious bobbing of her head, Severus then licked his lips to supply them with enough lubrication needed to espout his speech, clearing his baritone voice before he began its commencement.

"I suppose, so far, it could be said that we've addressed the age difference dispute adequately enough. That does mean you must make a point to express your, apparent, 'preference' publicly at some time, sooner rather than later, for my sake – and, regardless of the quantity, if and when we may be asked to impart this contrived backstory. Not to mention, then, also be prepared to justify it, despite how 'invalidly limited' you, yourself think your romantic past to be. Yet, lucky for you, again , it appears that we've gone over that defence, as well, nevertheless… As for the remaining , and perhaps most glaringly obvious 'bone of contention', in relation to the former status of our interpersonal relationship, is the controversy of our sudden, physical , attraction to one another. And even if we manage to troubleshoot that item – especially on your end, as men lusting after younger women is an unfortunate donnée that we could thrust upon me if we must, though I'd really, rather not – how the bloody fuck, even with that established , am I meant to legitimise my inaugural decision to start fucking an ex-student of mine? Morally , speaking, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's lips twisted pensively, striving to coerce her, habitually lissome, mind to craft a reply that would appropriately enforce her perspective on the affair, without being overly direct, or too tediously repetitive.

"Age difference is a point of…hesitation for some, of course, but it's really less of a problem than you seem to think it to be – amongst wizards, especially, as you should know. Once one lives over a century, on average, I think it ceases to be much of a liability – so long as one is within legal parameters, and addresses the vital matters of maturity and power imbalance, accordingly. And whilst, yes, my being your former student does add a bit of spice to it, shall we say, considering the limited schooling options, along with the length of your tenure at Hogwarts, you'd frankly have to travel a vast distance in order to locate a witch that hasn't been under your tutelage at some point in recent time. Paradoxically, in this 'scenario', you did just that, and still 'fate' brought me to you. The only other exception being, of course, if you had found a contemporary, or someone older. Which, if you were the average, pedestrian male looking for a romantic connection, could be an argument. However, clearly, in this case, any connection between 'us' would arise out of happenstance. Merely the contradictive serendipity of someone possessing qualities you could foreseeably be attracted to falling into your existence with no rhyme or reason, in an otherwise inconvenient age bracket," she paused to take a much-needed breath and to lick her chapped lips wet.

"Therefore, I could only see 'morality' becoming an issue if it had started as some sort of deliberate venture on your part to have sought out a former student whom you then started shagging , but as we've done away with that distress more so than not, again , I wouldn't pay it any heed. One of the primary reasons we even conjured up this elaborate backstory, as I've already mentioned, is to explain how 'we' could have naturally developed without an immediate physical component involved. However, if you're so troubled about the viability of casting yourself as the romantic lead here, I think you've truly underestimated the abundance of individuals who ' suddenly' developed an attraction to you the instant the truth of it all came out – or rather, admitted that they'd had one all along, of which I know there were many ," the witch elaborated stubbornly, already seeing the predictable scepticism begin to sour his Cimmerian features.

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of having to prod such a basic reality into his quite hardened head. Honestly, were all of the man's mirrors eroded with dust? Or did he just need to wear spectacles?

"You know, being miraculously unpleasant was really the only 'defence' you ever had from your outward appeal, and yes, I do mean your looks , Husband – as obscure as you suspect them to be. And the 'Triple Agent/War Hero card' entirely ruined that for you, as I'm sure you'll be quite put out to discover. But all the same, you, yourself have said from the beginning that our shagging would never occur just for the sake of it. Attachment – and affection – would be a prerequisite to the event. Therefore, again , that problem is easily eradicated as we've already discussed those things. I think we can both agree that it would've been an intellectual connection that would've drawn us towards one another, first and foremost. And which would have laid the foundation for an emotional one, that then would have led us to the physical one. And I'm sure, given just how stubborn we each are, there'd be an entirely separate period of denial included within all of those that would have had to have run its course before anything, actually, sexual were to have happened. Though, by and large, with enough build up, these things would have advanced from being a 'decision', at some point, and instead, have turned into, well, an inevitability. "

After closing her determined monologue, Hermione inhaled a discrete gulp of air, rather wishing she still had something left on which to sip. Wine wouldn't have been the most impactful solution to her parched throat, but it would, nevertheless, have provided her with an alternate underpinning for the flush that had engulfed her façade yet again. Occasionally, her want to be right did undercut all other precedency, didn't it? At least she'd felt like she'd succeeded. She only prayed that it had come across as logistic instead of defensive. Yet, amidst those two potentials, her greater fear was that it might have, slightly, strayed into the realm of ardour.

Nevertheless, that was an insinuation that she had no intention of proliferating. Regardless of what his response might be, it was far too complex and troubling an idea to focus on at the present time. Therefore her attention resettled on awaiting his processing of the deluge of information she'd just prattled, and then, subsequently, for his imminent response.

"Well, you've certainly gone through the gamut of every and all grades of subjects I might have taken issue with," the Potions Master complimented aloud, running his tongue across his upper teeth before grinding them fleetingly. It wasn't that the facts and suppositions she had just given weren't believable, or even quite likely. What he was truly perturbed by was more that they were far too likely. And he wasn't referring to their fabricated backstory, either.

Therefore, both significantly comforted and exponentially agitated by the ease with which she reposted his roster of discords, Severus Snape amended his position in his armchair in recognisable discomposure. For the umpteenth time, he could not piece together whether he was enthused by her tone and prospect, or fully terrified . But, as with every time, he rapidly reconciled, it was likely a moiety of both .

"I suppose you want me to be swayed by that bounty of arguments, Miss Granger?" He respired finally, his left hand running up and down his thigh in absentminded edginess.

She shrugged, essentially agreeing, if only modestly so. That had been the overall intention of her prattling. If she had failed to do so after that extensive diatribe, she didn't exactly have much to fall back on, now did she? Though something told her that he was being rather extemporaneous in his adamancy, more so than truly taking grievance with any of her argued particulars.

"Is there any point you particularly disagree with?" Hermione pressed, a bit uneasily the longer she sat under his careful scrutiny.

"Mmm, no, not particularly," he began languidly with a rhythmic drumming of his forefingers on the arm of the chair, "I'm more impressed by just how quickly you've managed to prattle those counterpoints off. Once again, Miss Granger, should I be concerned? "

"Concerned about what, my being able to counter your logic so easily, or , just the fact that I'm not too affronted by the scenario to do so?" she asked with a playful knitting of her brows, knowing the answer was likely some marriage of the two, and yet avidly interested in which was disturbing him the most.

Flexing his jaw tightly, his molars pressing into each other in beguiled amusement at her rejoinder of a quip, Severus swallowed the lump of admonition he'd been masticating throughout her admirable speech and chose to apostrophise her clever remark head on.

"Well, Miss Granger, as you can imagine, the answer to that invariable question would be, both . Which seems, to me, to be the theme of the night. Amongst others… However, you've proved your arguments and you've upheld them well. A very good debater, indeed."

He rotated his lofted ankle and scrutinised her person, his eyes wandered the length of her figure as inconspicuously as possibility would allow and potential would endure. As expected, she upheld the status of being as emphatically captivating against the illuminations of the flames as she had been when they'd first been invoked. Even more so, really, as she had just bested him in a mental game of chess that he had not only initiated, but had also striven to win.

Or, perhaps, it was just the opposite . Perhaps – and this would be of the utmost besetment – he hadn't assayed to defeat her in the match at all. Perhaps , he'd coveted the chance for her to prove him entirely inaccurate on as many factions as she could manage to from the start… Oi, that was an examination for another time, if at all. Ad interim, he was more than resigned to blame it on the alcohol. Yes, that was it. The. Alcohol.

And so, upon having answered her cunning tart of a question, Severus then raised his hands up in amiable defeat, "Fine, fine. You've got me, Miss Granger. I've said you've stumped me on both, have I not? Therefore, I shall demur no more. Indutiae? "

Hermione, too, snickered before reserving a grin at having, evidently, been victorious with the succession of incentives she had so sparred him with, though to what extent she couldn't fully be sure. She was rather proud that she'd governed to retain all of her wits, even if her sense of self-preservation had suffered at their conquest. She had, amongst other things, made the escalating, and magically-infuriating, attraction she'd felt towards him abundantly clear. Or, certainly with enough inference to justify any anxiety of it within her.

It had all been for the best, it seemed. For it had been more than beneficial in terms of persuasion , if nothing else. Even if she had had to willfully sacrifice every ounce of subtlety in order to triumph over him.

Still, upon reflection, and much to her consternation, it could reason to be that her predominant intent, had actually been to gain not only his approval , but also his admiration , for this entire duration of time. A choice which, thus far, appeared to have been executed capably, even if it could still prove to be a source of turmoil should it lose its novelty.

"Well, thank you. Quite an honour. Any other 'plot holes' that need filling? Or shall we simply pray that they catch us on a day when we're feeling especially clever?"

That was markedly a joke, but even as an addendum she wouldn't be shocked if he preferred to endorse that 'offer'. It was the most psychologically stimulating option, to be sure. And as they both thoroughly enjoyed a proper test, it was bound to appeal to his sense of competitiveness, at least in relation to his academic senses and his mental agility therewithin. That would not be the wisest course of action should that opportunity ever arise. Right?

"None that I can think of, provisionally. And since you're suggesting it," he paused temporarily, arching his lips north at an adagio pace for the sake of larkish histrionics, before, finally, ratifying them open in order to proceed with saying, "I'm of the opinion that the chance to test our adroitness in such a circumstance would not be unwise. In fact, it would likely be an incredibly good practice, and one that we should encourage to take part in for the rest of our lives. Together , at least. With our luck they'll be after us even when we're 'six feet under'. However, I would like to be cremated , just so you know."

"Well, you certainly aren't wrong," Hermione found herself agreeing with a soft hiking of her brows, chewing on her lower lip as she measured the bizarre reality of what lay ahead of them. They had, essentially, just vowed to sell half-truths and terminological inexactitudes with more aplomb and moxie than any shoddy journalist could dream of. And , they were going to have to do it with some amount of relish, if not quite a bit. Ceaselessly, really, until 'death did they part'. But that was, she supposed, a moral argument for another day. Or rather, a day that had long passed.

"It will make it more complex to 'sync up' should they try and pester us separately, or Hades forbid, actually quiz us, but I imagine that would be the fun part of the challenge.'

"Precisely, Miss Granger," he commented with a private smile. "Besides, if we were ever to come into a particularly perplexing quagmire of it all, I could always, simply, just, Read. Your. Mind ?" he shrugged breezily before adding posthaste, "An option to keep open, perchance? I'd offer to tutor you to possess the same prowess should you ever need it for me , however, I rather fancy having the upper hand in that department," he winked before pursing his lips into a thin,fine line.

Stop. Flirting. Now, man!

"Yes, I suppose you do have that advantage over me, and therefore, we may as well put it to use," she returned with a wry smirk of reluctant acceptance, though internally she was reminded of her earlier apprehension about that very aptitude of his. Oh, the irony was palpable.

For, the very impression of his infiltrating her thoughts was, at once, quite intriguing , and yet, synchronously, candidly terrifying – for the things she had pondered and done could be wrested by him with far too much facility than she even hazard to linger upon. However, she did have to admit that it would, querulously, be quite utilitarian for him to be able to do so should the need and time ever arise. For a cornucopia of reasons, if not for that singular one, alone.

"I do have some… elementary education in the practice, self-inflicted I'm afraid, but I'm certainly not adept. Still, a solid Idea. And definitely one which I reckon will be inevitably , necessary to exploit."

"Well, we'll inevitably see if that time should, at any period, present itself. And perhaps if you behave yourself, I'll reconsider my stance on schooling you in the discipline," Severus pressed his tongue against the aft of his upper teeth and smirked ever so marginally at his galI, before culminating the discord with, "However, for the present, I say we put that all to bed and move the bloody fuck on, yes?"

"Well, firstly, Husband, I feel the need to remind you of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's famously coined phrase, that, 'Well-behaved women seldom make history'," she narrowed her eyes at his pleased figure, with an undeniable glint of playful badinage.

"So do keep those words in mind. I don't believe I've ever been particularly well-behaved since you've known me. And if I'm addressing our fictional selves , and our romance therein, I dare say it would be detrimental to your 'love' for me to be anything other than what I've always been. And that is a witch who doesn't play by the bloody rules. Who knows them, is cleverer than them, and therefore, who bests them much to everyone's benefit. Much like yourself, my darling spouse," she ceased her speech for a time or two to observe the slow, rumble of a deep chuckle emit from the back of his velvety throat before joining in with his humoured person herself.

Once their joint laughter had begun to subside, Hermione blithely agreed to his aforementioned recommendation, "But yes, yes let's, indeed, move on. ….What precisely are we moving on to ?"

Just as Severus was on the verge of proposing that they should likely progress to how they should prepare to handle the ineluctable questions that they'd receive about their intimate life , the hands of his mother's moribund clock struck twelve and began to 'sing' the deceptively dark nursery rhyme concerning the 1665 resurgence of the Great Plague, 'Ring Around the Rosie' as it heralded in the stroke of midnight, and, ironically, a new day.

"Ah, well, it seems Father Time believes that we should also be put to bed," he began wistfully as his orbs flew to the clock upon hearing its 'ballad'. Perhaps, we should retire for the night, Miss Granger? Before any other reporters show up, or my mother awakes, or the camera becomes repossessed, or worse a fate, the house charms us into Minnie and Mickey Fucking Mouse… Unless, of course, you'd rather stay down here a bit longer. I don't mean to rush you," his face warmed at the mention of indirectly inviting her to stay put for a time.

Even if he had advisedly phrased in an agency that was placing the deciding responsibility on her , it, nevertheless, could easily be interpreted as a sentimental gesture of his own camouflaged enthusiasm for her to sojourn in his society for longer. He speedily averted his eyes to the fire and pursed his lips as he awaited her reply. Gods, his flesh suddenly felt like he'd been bitten by a colony of fire ants, so inflamed and irritated had it become. He was confined within a boiling anatomy of hormones, testosterone, nerves, anxieties, and humiliations, none of which he had any control over, nor even cared to confront with any degree of impendency.

Hermione was potentially going to protest at first, however, after eyeing the peculiar clock with a brow arched in sardonic wariness, the witch was hastily overtaken by a yawn which she sheepishly undertook to stifle. Her hand rose to cover her mouth demurely. Was she actually tired, or had her body merely fallen prey to the power of suggestion? Realistically, the former, however, there was an inerrant aura about him that was absolutely mesmerising to be in the presence of, and the concept of adjourning from it, even after this length of time, was one that made her chest ache in mournful dejection.

"Merlin , my apologies, I haven't slept terribly well lately. I normally might argue, as I'm sure you can guess; Father Time and I do not have the best history, but possibly, in this case, he has some sense," she jested as a self-effacing titter flanked its side.

"Not to worry, Miss Granger," Severus began as he, too, abruptly felt the wings of fatigue begin to flap against his eyelids, swallowing her yawn after its influence had travelled to his side of the fireplace, "I too, am, finally, feeling rather knackered, myself. To be fair to us both, we've had quite the forty-eight hours." he returned lightly, standing to his feet woodenly before indulging in a faint stretching of his upper torso.

"It has been quite an experience , hasn't it?" she agreed earnestly with a gentle smile of charity, both amused and bewildered by the actual length of time. Somehow, the extent of their 'marriage' felt both ages long, and yet, concurrently, as if it had happened within the blink of an eye.

"Well, I suppose I should go and get situated. We can always continue plotting in the morning," she added, as she finally stood, adjusting the black scarf which still hung round her neck and that had, with its wearing, introduced an additional amount of tepidity to her core. Though, to give it its due acclaim, it had, primarily, accomplished its job of protecting her modesty – from a distance, anyway.

"Yes, quite so," he replied as he waited for her to stand before reluctantly glancing to the side entryway where the stairs loomed obtrusively just outside the occupied room. He was remiss to admit it – well, more than remiss, to be honest – for all that it implied, indicated, and foretold, however, Severus Snape found himself to be enormously adverse to the prospect of her departure from his presence.

So much so, that he inaugurated the utterance of the following proposition before having ever sieved its intimations, much less having ever accredited its emittance, "Right. Well, I suppose I should walk up with you. Er, the bath taps are inclined to be quite tetchy at times, so I should likely demonstrate how to properly fuss with them. I've tried all the charms I know, and even some I've invented, and, alas, they stand firm in their resolution to remain impudent. I suppose there are some things that even magic can't sort," he snickered absently.

Most damning of all, it should be known, that his little 'taps tale' was precisely that: a bloody, blatant, bold-faced lie . Indeed, for the taps of his tub functioned perfectly well, even if the house's veins and bones were becoming senescent as time matured. Fuck. He'd have to remember to subtly charm them to disobey before she could have a chance to distinguish otherwise. Just one last magical effort on his part to shield her from one last deceit.

"Ah, yes, that might be wise," she agreed briskly, without halt or hesitation, apparently quite willing to accept any palliation in order to extend their exchange. Even if insisting that she'd, likely, be able to decipher the issue on her own in order to spare him the journey was the meteoric instinct she'd intended to favour.

"Though, to be fair, your house does seem to have its own… determined character."

"So, it seems, Miss Granger. Not that I've ever experienced such phenomenons before today. So my predicilation is to deduce that you must be the cause of it all," he drolled airily with a low snicker, placing his left hand on the small of her back before abashedly retreating as he muttered a quiet decree of apology at the physical intrusion.

"No need, I don't think we should really be too concerned about personal space at this point," she giggled slightly, determining that it would be more conducive for them to become as accustomed to it as possible now, given the inevitable expectation of public appearance in the near future. She stopped short of making that specific correlation aloud, instead, shifting her care to his 'accusation'.

"I could resent that, but I don't believe that you're entirely incorrect. I can only assume, based on all of the evidence, that you have a rather meddlesome manifestation of some kind that either absolutely despises me, or likes me entirely too much. "

"Well, let us hope, for each of our sakes, that it is the latter, Miss Granger," Severus answered, tentatively placing his right hand to the divet of her back again before ushering her forward with his left, following her form out of the room and to the foot of the stairs as she lead.

"Yes, that would be ideal , but now I'm slightly concerned that it won't let me leave," Hermione agreed jovially, beginning to climb the narrow staircase ahead of him. All the while lilting as much to the starboard side as she was able to in the circumstances to afford him easier passage. At least she had been up earlier, and wouldn't be stalled with indecision the moment she reached the summit of the stairs, though she had yet to truly 'inspect' the loo.

Severus made a staunch decision to keep his eyes diverged fervently south on the creaking, derelict floorboards that comprised the top of the stairs as they ascended in a singular fashion. He also ensured that there was a breath of air between their figures so that an accidental collision into her backside would be, virtually, implausible. However, as he began to follow her lead he quickly realised that he might have miscalculated the amount of space they required to bypass contiguity, and instead, had given them far too much. And with the superfluous span of space he had reserved for them, he consequently – very much in the negative affiliation of the word – had bequeathed himself with a far worse calamity. Indeed, for his eyes now had a perfect vista of her derrière. One which was only enhanced and endeared to him by the alluring gesticulations of her muscles as her glutes and rearward thighs flexed tautly upon mounting each and every step.

Placing his left fingertips against the wall to hold some of his weight, as his right hand took stern command of the railing as he continued to tread on her heels, Severus swallowed as he stole one, narrow glance to the hem of her skirt. He was immediately rewarded, yet at the same time, internally condemned as he'd caught a glimpse of the circuiture of where her arse met her thigh, putting on full display not only the black ribbon of material that made up the top of her sheer, stockings, but also, and most baleful of all, the cut of her obsidian-lace knickers that appeared to run above the arc of her cheek.

Hera's strap-on, Merlin's ballsack, Hades' buttplug, and Eros' penis-pump, please gods, grant me enough self-discipline and serenity to NOT pop a fucking boner at this time and space. I beg of you!

He threw his eyes south, swallowing the boulder in his throat down before desultorily remarking, "Do mind your ass, Miss Granger – I mean your path – please mind your path . The left side of the stair just before the top one has a tendency to fuckle – I mean – buckle , now and then…."

Well, that went fucking well, hadn't it?. Where the bloody fuck was his wand? And more vitally, how easily could he 'Avada' himself with it?

"Apologies, Miss Granger. The wine has certainly gotten to me, it seems…" Gods, what pathetic excuse that sounded aloud.

Hermione abruptly slowed her pace, if not nearly halted her upward trek, as she realised much too late precisely just how far behind her Severus, indeed, was. And therefore, what that likely meant for his sightline. Partnering that with his Freudian slips, the inexorable humour could not be lost on her, and as such, she desperately tried, and failed , to commandeer a laugh. At least, she had the advantage of being able to face forwards so her amusement at his blunders wasn't horribly flagrant.

Perhaps even a hint of feigned offence would be 'expected' in response to a man so blatantly looking up her skirt, but the only thing that arose other than entertainment at his verbal reaction was an odd sense of pride that she'd gotten him to fumble his perpetually, over-analysed words yet again – even if they had been anything but volitional. As for how to retort them, well, she should, probably, be generous and pretend not to have noticed. Although that sounded dreadfully dull when she had been given so much manna from heaven, therefore, she resolved that she'd have to make mention of it in some capacity, at least. After all, she'd already exposed herself by chuckling, she might as well reach for the punchline.

Calypso's cunt, perhaps drinking hadn't been the brightest idea after all.

"Noted ," she managed to grunt out intelligibly, before clearing her throat, implementing her next turn of phrase with blasé acclaim, "Do catch up, Professor , these stairs are a tad too steep for my having made this wardrobe choice."

"So I've, regretfully, noticed," he mumbled incoherently to himself before, too, unclogging his throat of self-inflicted chagrin to answer her properly with, "As you wish, Miss Granger. Though do hurry up yourself, I'm far too old and far too tipsy to chance my balance on these bloody stairs for much longer."

"Whatever you say, Husband," she conceded, hopping up the last few stairs with gusto before halting on the upper landing to wait for his emergence behind her. Probably not the most cautious of manoeuvres given what had just transpired, however, it got the job done with an amount of expediency even he, surely, would appreciate. "I'm sure you can manage, you're not nearly old enough for that sort of talk, but in the event of an accident, I'm really not sober enough to explain this properly to any authorities."

"Ah, yes, Merlin forbid they think you'd pushed me for the inheritance, yet the joke would firmly be on you, Wife, as I've yet to revise my will," he husked lowly, throwing his weight up the final stair, strategically landing himself toe-to-toe with her upon doing so. His redoubtable six-foot-one-inch stature loomed sinisterly over her delicate, shorter one, and he found his breath hitching at just how utterly, erotically pleasing he found that fact to be. He'd noticed it before, of course, but never quite like this, never after so much… build up of tensions and fluids.

Oi, not helping, Severus.

Hermione froze, her face tilted upwards to better meet his eyes in such close quarters, and attempted the rather absurd enterprise of swallowing with some degree of ambiguity as he was only a few whispers away from her. A rather sad show of it, indeed, by her ear. And her left hand gave a sudden twitch as a flare of heat overtook it once again, as if punctuating her failure.

"What a scandal that would be," she managed to utter breathlessly beneath his looming height, barely cognizant of his precise words. No, her attention was invariably drawn to the voice that spoke them, and the diligence with which it stoked the fire that had been burning steadily in her lower abdomen all evening, sending sparks of aching sensation straight to her clit every time it thrummed over her ears. What an irksome skill to possess – and inevitably abuse . Even if he was, more likely than not, unaware of it. For once…

The left corner of Severus mouth quivered north at her remark, his arms, which had fallen to his sides as rigidly as a soldier at attention, subduedly flexed their hands, his left one in particular as its banded digit pulsed with a fresh new wave of conflagration. Bloody fuck, what were these ornaments about? What was the correlation? There had to be one. And he was damned if he wasn't going to find out.

"More like what a poor legacy I would leave. Abandoning my spouse with nothing to her name of mine, no heir to carry on the beloved family title of 'Snape', and worst yet, my wife, now free to remarry whatever man she saw truly fit. And thus, fashioning me into a cuckold from the grave," he gibed her gingerly, although he'd be a right prevaricator if he tried to deny that a minuscule part of him, carefully compartmentalised away, was rather curious as to just how precise she thought his spurious study to be.

Hermione's lips extended into an uneven, and altogether doubtful half-smirk, having managed to gather enough attentiveness to ingest what he'd said this go round, and was slightly perplexed by it. Or rather, what he might expect from her response.

"Oh, I don't know, Husband, I think that's highly underestimating the appeal of abusing the 'potentially-homicidal widow' rumours in order to frighten off hopeful suitors until kingdom come," she responded with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Though I say we do try to circumvent all that by keeping you alive. At least, for the time being?"

"Well, I'll be sure to sleep with one eye open lest you ever have an epiphany and find this arranged union no longer convenient. I wouldn't want to provoke any unrecognised 'potential-homicidal' tendencies that could be lying dormant within you, Miss Granger," the former headmaster purred with a lilt of mild precaution interwoven in his chaffing as he glowered over her inertly, allowing a few seconds of silence to pass before adding smartly, "Especially given the few points I purposefully docked on your OWL score for the sake of checking your academic ego…"

The longer he continued to glower down at her, the warmer she became. So much so, that with swift speed, the black muffler became excessively uncomfortable around her neck. She was tempted to remove it entirely, yet was too caught in his stare to effectuate the motion. She was not distracted enough to miss that last confession, however, and her eyes widened with affronted protest, howbeit lightly exaggerated. She had no intention of acquiescing genuinely to his incensing of her, particularly as that was his evident intention.

"Oh, that is just petty," she admonished lightly. "And not at all necessary, I was humbled enough the moment someone else started teaching the bloody class and my success rate plummeted."

"I always did envy Slughorn that privilege ," he sneered with a tartish cadency to his tone, though much to his displeasure identified that he had gifted her yet another wink in afterthought.

Stheno's hairspray get a a fucking grip, man!

"Right, you can badger me about that at another time, Miss Granger. Now then, at the risk of setting too romantic a scene with all of that talk, shall we to the loo?" Severus advanced with a quirk of his brow as his pupils darted to the left at the end of the hallway where the privy door lay slightly ajar.

"That might come in handy, yes," she agreed, finally unlocking her fixed stance, her left hand freeing the flare of her skirt which it had clutched to dull the heat of its most recent disruption, only to then, rise to unwind the scarf from around her neck insouciantly. "I would like to see what I'm dealing with in terms of the 'tap situation'. Lead on, Professor."

They had begun this evening glibly, if keenly playing into their roles, and as it had worked, relatively well, overall – an overabundance of sexual frustration not withstanding. Therefore, it looked to be the only way to continue, irrespective of the proliferation of lines they were blurring, the longer the act continued. Carnal vexation be damned.

"Yes, we don't want you getting any wetter than you already have done, Miss Granger," Severus commented absently, his mind far too intent on the task of reaching the loo before her so that he could obtain enough time to charm the taps broken before she, too, arrived at their destination to pay any heed or worry to the brazen duplicity his phrasing contained.

Hermione paused her subsequent stride, feeling an obnoxious amount of blood escalating to her cheeks for the umpteenth time that evening. But for all that, Severus failed to so much as flinch at the double entendre. Nor, it seemed, did his characteristically acerbic tonality play any part in the remark whatsoever. No, putatively, this time, only she was thinking sordid thoughts. A very lamentable omen, indeed.

"How unfortunate that would be," she agreed with a languid air of dryness, as she continued forth at his lead towards the latrine.

Severus forwent according her a reply to her return, for he entered the toilet room just as she had uttered her remark, doggedly fixing his attention onto charming the taps of the porcelain tub 'broken'. Well, in reality, he'd simply charmed them 'off', thereby preventing all water flow to cease until he slyly reversed the spell. A feat, which blessedly, he could perpetrate without wand nor words as it was a simple enough conquest to finalise with even nonverbal magic. Quite competently, if he might add.

"Right, Miss Granger, come here, I shan't bite you. I'm not a werewolf, after all. Granted some people do have their suspicions about my being a vampire, " he prattled mindlessly, glancing over his shoulder to note her distance.

"So I've heard . It would put an interesting spin on your lurking about in Romania," Hermione teased lightly as she finally landed in the doorway of the small space, stepping into it almost tentatively before granting herself a delicately attentive browse. The loo was certainly aged, but freshly cleaned, yet quite minimal in adornment. However, deciding to reserve any further analysis of his toothpaste, cologne, shampoo, and other toiletries, for another time, her eyes promptly attached themselves to his hands and their journey to the taps in the bathtub.

Yet in her effort to sidle up beside him in order to study his demonstrative show of whatever trick or fiddlement was required to make the taps obey her command properly, something abruptly ensnared her foot mid-stride. Something that surely hadn't been there the instant before she'd stepped forward. And yet, the undisclosed anomaly halted her momentum as expeditiously as if someone had stuck their leg out in her path with deliberate malice. The young woman cursed roughly, intrinsically shooting her hand outwards to catch herself the only solid thing ahead of her: the puzzled figure of her husband .

Having already been 'toppled' by the large quantity of drink he had consumed that evening, Severus, had no plans to be surmounted by any other force in addition. Indeed, for the wizard vehemently loathed being outmatched by anyone save Minerva at poker or perhaps, in the 'olden days' Albus with charades. Nevertheless, his usually static, stone-like figure was far more malleable with the inordinate amount of alcohol that was gracing his circulation, and as such, he greeted his spouse's weight with far less obstinance than he otherwise would have. Quite so, for his arms annexed her form to his as swiftly as if he were a hell-bent Seeker within arm's length of the languished-for, game-winning golden orb with wings.

And though it could certainly be stated that, for the majority of his time on this planet, Severus's reflexes had always been to harbour and safeguard those around him before himself, there was something decidedly, and utterly, cardinal in the manoeuvring he effected to ensure that his body would bear the brunt of their combined weight upon the mooring of their fall. Indeed, for an absolutely primal facet erupted within him. A congenital instinct to protect her against, garrison her in, shield her from, any being or instrument that dared to think of assaulting even one, singular molecule of her anatomy. Yes, he would foil, vanquish, slaughter anything in her path that had any iota of malcontent towards her or that wished her any injury or offence of any kind. No one, and nothing would ever transgress against her person without meeting the end of his wand, the tip of his tongue, or even, as this sudden surge of neanderthalic testosterone appeared to imply, the impact of his body.

Oxymoronically, of course, Severus had no dragon to slay, no ogre to club, not even a troll's riddle to solve in defence of her honour. No, Severus foe, as the case stood to be, was the clawed, ceramic tub that was hungrily waiting to take them both ineluctably hostage.

"Fuck Zeus' cock on a bed of Gorgon's!" he swore violently, as he committed his daily act of heroism, closing his eyes as he braced his brain for the inevitable shock of their collision.

Hermione expelled a vocalisation that expeditiously transformed into a yelp from the cushioning charm she had designed to enact once she'd found herself durably cocooned by Severus' body, his arms having been securely wrapped around her waist – well, his still-falling body, but she was indubiously safer nevertheless. Her panic was certainly dampened by the unexpectedly consolatory embrace, for it was supremely atypical for the witch to perceive herself as the protect ed party, instead of as the functioning protect or . Which was a role that she had so often indentured to have been cast in. She could scarcely recall a time when she hadn't been the true, chief defensive envoy, whether it was in aegis of her friends – namely Harry's reckless arse, her dear parents, or, oracularly, the man who was now so persistently, dare she say instinctively, fortifying her from nothing more than her own clumsiness. Or so she could only resort to concluding, for the meantime.

Willing that her impromptu incantation would have some fulfilment, Hermione closed her eyes to the world around her lest its viscerality aggregate their landing, as if shutting one away might have a discouraging effect on the other's pertinacity. She then doughtily braced herself for the impending crash before they landed in an entangled heap into the basin. A blessedly muted heap, she noted with relief, for whilst she was ever grateful for his quick sheltering, the last thing she wanted was to supply the man with a concussion.

"Fuck," she gasped upon the accident, irrespective of the charm's assist, lifting her head from his the pillow of his chest to guarantee that her body ceased to be smothering him. Unfortunately for her mortification, her premier, desultory venture to disentangle herself from her ex-professor was quite unprofitable, even with his grip to steady her. In fact, their ravelled limbs with the slippery porcelain, alas, triggered her to collapse shortly, and ingloriously, back into his breast, a fraction of her skirt falling further askance in the process. Upon berthing on his physique again , Hermione peered up to scour his features as she meekly flashed him an apologetic wince.

"Gods, I'm so sorry, Severus! Are you all right?"

"Don't. Move. Miss. Granger! " Snape hissed between clenched teeth, his fingers, which were still conservationally grappled around her waist, flexed in counsel for the witch to fervently obey his edict. "Your knee is about half-a-bloody-centimetre away from the ministry's inability to enforce the incumbent 'procreation act' on us. And as this is the second time I've ' conveniently' found it at that location today, I'm beginning to grow worried that you are actively trying to take that 'chance'."

"Oh... Um, apologies. Again, " Hermione responded with a flustered wince, reaching her hands upward, to grasp onto the edge of the, irritatingly-deep, bathtub in an effort to pull her body up and away without moving her knee from its precarious position. Or, avoid propelling it forward any further.

However, just as she was preparing to inquire if he was absolutely positive that his house had never expressed such a bizarre sense of humour in the past, something truly bedevilled occurred: the showerhead above them suddenly, and wickedly, spurted to life, raining a jet of ice-cold water straight down upon them. With a pipe of shock, Hermione lost all semblance of hold on the rim, and half-scrambled, half-slid back down atop him.

Severus let out a slew of profanities as the water issued forth from the shower tap, drenching them with its slew of polar water as inconsiderately, and vengefully , as if they had just crossed it impudently. Closing his eyes to evade the runoff that was flowing from her hovering outline, as her closer proximity to the aqua's 'spring' served as a mild barrier between his own and its onslaught, he squeezed her sides again, stammering between consumed bullets of water, "Charm it...off, Woman! I…can't…talk…"

Hermione's shoulders scrunched against the liquid bombardment as she turned her head partially towards her intended target, and shouted four different incantations should three of them founder. And yet, not a one of them did a bloody, fucking thing. Wandless magic could be fickle, but fuck all, this was simply abnormal . Short of blasting the bloody thing to oblivion, or freezing it and risking the bursting of a pipe, she'd found herself at a sheer loss as to what to do. As ever, a state of being that Hermione Jean Granger-Snape was not familiar with inhabiting for such a spot of time. On top of that vexation, the glacial water was decidedly unprosperous for her already strained cognitive process.

"Not . Working . Forgive me…in advance," she spat, grabbing onto the perimeter of the vessel in an endeavour to pull herself up once again, likely digging her elbow into his abdomen in the process, as she tackled the effort to attain access to the water tap without nearly kneeing him in the groin for a third time.

"Bloody… fuck," he grunted before ejecting a mouthful of water into the washbasin as he did his damnedest to acute both of their bodies up, and to the right, so as to initiate the avoidance of the tap's waterfall for the benefit of both their respiratory systems as well as their internal temperatures.

"Can…you…stand…safely, Miss Granger…to turn…the fucking…thing off… manually , then?"

"Maybe?" she squeaked, flanking her legs strategically round his sides so as to allow her to support her weight from the bottom of the basin as opposed to launching herself up from his delicate, pelvis area. After that had been gauchely consummated, Hermione shifted her weight forward and onto her knees, turning round slightly to face the origin of the spray, all the while dodging the harshest part of the jet with as much agility as she could utilise given her cumbersome position. She then angled her hips to better twist her abdomen so that her hands could reach the taps with far greater ease to begin to execute her husband's desperate request.

Barely keeping her equilibrium as she did so, the witch jostled the unfamiliar conduit for a moment until the water began to dissipate, then shoved it all the way to the side that was deemed to be the most effective. In the process, however, she slid back down landing staunchly into Severus' lap. She did not outrightly apologise, however, or even try to scramble out of it for the sake of courtesy. No, she was far too exhausted and cold to think about engaging her muscles yet again, or to fancy the thought of absconding from the only source of heat she had in her vicinity.

"Shite . Well, that was bracing. "

Watching her with an anchored and spasmodic eye, the potions master witnessed her successfully put an end to their being flooded with a small sigh of thanks and a short exhalel of gratitude as she slid back into the confines of the tub. Curiously, she anchored herself precisely over the very area he had so cautioned her to avoid with her knee. This time, however, he'd much prefer that it were her patella in that locale. Quite so, for despite the frigidity of the water's touch, Severus was acutely aware of the torrid heat source of her pelvic-fucking-floor . He willed his cock to stay still with every fibre of his being. Thank fuck, it seemed to work. If she could only avoid moving a fucking muscle that would also be quite beneficial for his current quandary for he knew that any sort of grinding to occur from their stated propinquity would be the lifeforce for his cock, and therefore, the death of him.

"Right. That was….a treat," he snarled sardonically, flicking his head to the left in the hopes of manoeuvring his drenched locks out of his face, his hands falling to her hips without thinking of the very suggestive position they were now fully emulating.

Cowgirl, anyone? Shame it wasn't reversed. Eh, no matter, he was more of a tit man anyway… Severus! Control. Your. Libido!

Hermione swallowed and looked down at his dripping façade whilst she fought another shudder, trying but, presently, failing to gather the motivation to stand. They were both utterly soaked through. Unsurprisingly, her skirt was now plastered to her thighs and her jumper definitely no better. His clothes and form had governed to escape being quite as sodden as hers simply by her having been in the way of the deluge. Therefore, her insistence on staying steadfast in her positioning was completely justified. By no means did she have any ulterior motives. None at all.

No, not even the fact that she had found herself, quite by accident, with her weight snugly and unrepentantly perched atop what was undeniably his cock. Considering the biting temperature of the water they'd just been attacked by, that was….a notable fact, as there wasn't much to 'gird her loins' from its presence save his waterlogged black denim, and her equally sopping excuse for knickers. Clearly, the man didn't suffer much from the despised predicament of male 'shrinkage'.

Perhaps it was that very tangible realisation keeping her from freezing completely more so than his person was alone. But who was to say? Regardless of her unhealthy ruminations on his cock-size, under 'duress' or not, she still found herself shivering now and then atop him. Something she worried he'd be less than thankful for, all things considered.

"Does your loo normally have such a Peeves-like disposition or am I just special?" Hermione snarked with a lift of pitch towards the end of her question, though any coquettish style to her tone was abruptly ravaged by the exponential chattering of her teeth.

"Only glutinous doors, sometimes-rusty knobs, and the occasional 'colic-y' tap, but even then usually only the kitchen ones, as we know – er, and the showerhead, of course," he began in a deep drawl almost boredly, if haphazardly modified his remark lest his lie be ultimately be exposed.

Meanwhile his mighty hands had lifted with the considerate aim of pushing her hair out of her face as well, before he continued, "But nothing on this grandiose of a scale... Positive that there's no chance the bloody ghoul hitched a ride with you via the floo some-bloody-how?" he jested with a cracked smile.

Hermione expired a shaky chuckle, unthinkingly leaning closer to him and into his touch like a very cold moth to a flame, when she really should have been jumbling out of the tub as fast as she could for the already mentioned, sordid reasons. Besides, the shower could very possibly oppose them again, perhaps even choosing to scald them instead.

"Decidedly not. He'd have given himself up by now, no doubt. The bloody bastard can't ever resist laughing and taking ownership of his own mischief," she reminded him, clearing her throat of mirth and forcing her attention away from her husband and toward the floor just outside of the tub, both in preparation for her inevitable departure, and to see if there was anything at all to blame for her loss of balance in the first place. Much to her disquietude, she saw absolutely nothing .

"Quite so," Severus supported a sharp inhale and upward tossing of his pupils as his hands intuitively came to rest on her upper arms, running them up and down in a labour to heat her extremities, "and given that I'm about to contend that we decamp from this ice bath and get you in something dry, the ghost-of-a-pest would surely never miss this opportunity to bestow the moniker of 'Snaddy' , or some other such paternally dreadful nonsense, on me."

A hum of gratitude departed her lips at his diligence of ebbing her chill, his touch incongruously efficacious even if his hands weren't the toastiest instruments with which to use for thawing either. All the better, as soon as the unforeseen sobriquet was absorbed by her ears, all focus on her icicle of a body evaporated, and instead, something just short of a cackle, and quite a clamorous one at that, burst forth from her lips in unceremonious delivery.

She fleetly crafted an effort to dispel it, stilling herself resolutely lest the gnawing desire to gyrate her pearl of nerves along his bulge inundated her completely. She'd already been failing suitably enough to remain stationary on his hips thus far. Though the look of concerted exertion on his face to remain totally impassive towards that factuality did, perhaps somewhat cruelly, cause a smirk of delectation to smugly, and briefly , taint her features.

"Right, we are revisiting that title later, Husband. My apologies but it can't be helped. But, for now, please lend me your hand so that I don't commit any type of preordained bodily injury as I attempt to stand," she requested urbanely as she extended her own out for him to gain.

"I still much prefer the unmodified version of that honorific, I think, but Merlin , please do be careful, Miss Granger. As I'm rather abreast of your disposition for maladroitness, if you culminate in being the one to crack your skull open, since the coroner is apt to find that I've filled you with drink, then I'll be the one accused of having 'homicidal tendencies' – which, need I remind you is a charge that I've only just narrowly escaped with being condemned of. They'll assume that I was hopeful to cover up your 'accidental death' , and altogether, finally throw me away for good ," Severus 'predicted' sternly, raising his left hand to greet her own as he endeavoured to remain as placid as possible as she took purchase of it.

"Oh I'm sure you do, but it's not nearly as fun to say," Hermione teased as she took his hand, warily beginning to prop herself back onto her knees.

With her right hand so locked in his larger mitt's embrace, she dug her other steadfastly into his shoulder. One foot at a time, finding herself now in a hunched position over his lap, she then, even more precariously, flung herself to her feet as her hand moved from his shoulder to the wall upon gaining higher altitude.

"Okay, I'm up and alive, your turn," she reported, keeping a grip of his hand if he himself needed the support now.

"Bloody hell, at least if I break my back, it could easily be mistaken for a geriatric fall. Though why I'd be clothed in the shower is another matter altogether," he proffered with a minute flush of his cheeks before grimacing in sceptical disapproval at her hand's offer yet still proceeded to take it. How much of his person he actually registered with it, patently, debatable.

Severus then hoisted himself north to meet her stood figure, the front of his body brushing alongside hers as faintly though presently as a spirit's ethereal kiss. His hands flew to her sides to steady himself as well as to keep fast her own symmetry within the basin, his breath hitching as his chest made contact with the hardened nubs of her breasts as he did so.

Shite, shite, shite!

"Ladies first?"

Without conscious intent, Hermione's head tilted to follow his rise to his feet until she, too, became hyper-conscious of his taller form towering so immediately over her – and just how incriminating their present 'position' was – or rather, could become. Gods forbid they both had been clad in lighter colours, as the thin knit of her dark, navy jumper, clinging to her like a second skin, wasn't the most opaque article of clothing she owned. And certainly left little to the imagination in terms of the precise silhouette of what lay beneath. It also did nothing to safeguard her haptic senses, as she so rediscovered when his chest whispered against her own, the sparse material covering the peaks of her bosom was no match for the stiffer knit of his turtleneck, and it drew a faint gasp from her lips at the quick spark of sensation.

"Right, yes," she murmured, abjectly blinking out of his captivating stare as a flare of heat accosted her ring finger once more, not to mention places more southern. Thank the gods her knickers already had grounds to be soaked.

She pressed a hand back to his shoulder for aid before reaching her foot over the side of the tub and, ultimately, onto the floor, doing her utmost to mind her skirt in the operation, as its hugging of her thighs could fluently evolve into a furtive mission to thwart her escape.

Severus cleared his throat from what he was forced to identify as a predatory growl of unadulterated lust . Lust that had been bred from nearly firsthand contact with her chest. A chest that he had coveted and fantasised about just earlier that night, and that had baptised him with his first, proper erection he'd ever sprung in her literal presence. Damn his affinity for tits. Or rather, it seemed, her tits.

Thank fuck his wedding band, which was usually always a source of vexing bafflement for him, twitched at the heat that had been sprouting from it since their drenched upper halves had encountered one another. Pressing his digits into the centre of his fisted palm, Severus ground his teeth and coerced his cock to behave and his carnality to quell.

Once his wife was on solid ground with impunity, and also securely away from his ravenous appetite, Severus then promptly followed her example and circumspectly reached one leg and then the other over the wall of the porcelain structure with far more finesse than his spouse. A fact which she duly noted and he greatly esteemed.

"I am an excellent dancer and dueler, as you know. Also a fencer. Ergo, I'm very good on my feet. How else do you think I garnered such a 'Shakespearean stage gait' in the hallways? He drawled vainly, taking a moment to wring the ends of his hair into the drain before finding a fresh towel and swaddled her in it fiercely.

"Right. Let's get you into something dry, yes?"

"So I've noticed. The longer legs certainly don't hurt, either" Hermione tacked on with moderate dryness given her inherent disadvantage in the height department, before murmuring her thanks at the addition of the layer of chambré terrycloth.

"But yes, some clothes that aren't utterly saturated would be lush," she added, absently hoping she'd brought something remotely appropriate. She thought she had, yet she couldn't say for certain. The last five minutes had been disorienting enough, to say the least, and she was still far from being even remotely lukewarm . In fact, the only hot parts of her were at the gathering of her thighs, which seemed to be longing for him as if she were a mare in heat, as well as the blasted, banded digit of her left hand, which she curled further into the towel close to her chest in the hopes that it might make itself useful in that regard.

"Shall we then?" Severus proposed, reaching for another towel that was in a cupboard just above the toilet before running it over the length of his face and hair. He didn't bother with his body as it would be a solidly futile event, and any consideration to perform another stint of nonverbal magic to instantaneously get them dry was a feat he was not willing to chance given how hapless the ramifications of his last strained travail to do so turned out.

"Please, after you, I'd like to be on guard should a floor board spring loose and attempt to throw us through the roof in an effort to wheedle us into complying with my mother's worst fear…."

Hermione regulated a giggle through her trembles, despite the fact such an occurrence was beginning to sound more probable than not as the night wore on.

"I think we'd freeze long before anything was accomplished, at present," she managed to add as she snuck a brief look into the weathered mirror over the sink before beginning to lead the way, on squelching soles, towards the bedroom she had so briefly studied earlier in the evening.

Upon giving the latrine a departing glance of anxious inspection, mentally commenting to himself that he must remember to add this to his list of 'occurances' to relate to Minerva, as well as interrogate his Mother about after Hermione's weekend stay had adjourned, Severus switched the light off and shut the door with a sceptical sigh of mental and physical lassitude.

Right. Now to the bedroom. A room that he had only ever filled the space of alone, save his precious Nyx. His most private space, really. And space that was now to belong to her for a time. His very own wife . And eventually, one day in the not too distant future, would be occupied, and be shared by them both . As a complete, and whole unit – figuratively, and much to his solicitude, quite literally as well.

"I trust you've brought something warm enough to change into, Miss Granger?" Severus questioned lightly as he followed the trail of her soaked footsteps into the room, watching as she rifled through her case in a manner that could only be described as chaotically erratic . He sniggered to himself as her actions only became more volatile before he caught himself preaching with a taunting grin, "You do know that folding your clothes before packing them really does wonders for locating definite pieces of attire, yes?"

Hermione found her case sitting on the end of the bed where she had so left it, first pulling out her wand in order to ignite the small fireplace, both for necessary heat and to confirm that her virtuosities were still, in fact, uncorrupted . She couldn't remember the last time she'd cast a spell and it failed to have any effect whatsoever, much less multiple times .

Thankfully, the flames surged exponentially. She then began to comb one-handedly through her bag, though the farther down she went the more desperation was allotted to the act of the search itself, and, ultimately, presented her with far more questions than she'd already begun to collect. Namely – how had she forgotten so many key items of clothing?! Not only a bra, but now pyjamas, too?! What the bloody hell had she been thinking? Or not-thinking as the case appeared to be. Had the concept of going over to his place really been so disruptive to her focus earlier? Or was there something more criminal afoot? Given the plentitude of tumultuous events of the evening so far, she was beginning to lean towards the latter…

"I had them folded originally, but then – Oh, nevermind! ," she cut herself off before she could remark on her earlier, rabid hunt for undergarments, glancing back at his amusement with an apologetic sigh, "It appears I've forgotten to bring anything proper to sleep in, even though I'm fairly positive I recall placing pyjamas in here… You wouldn't happen to have anything I could borrow, would you?" she inquired with a small wince at the impertinence of the question.

Severus' brows pitched at her, apparent reluctance to make such a presumptuous request, and one that she, no doubt, felt incredibly ponderous in asking of him. Well, that was something to be grateful for, and that might aid them in commandeering a slightly more 'professional' tone to their exchanges going forward, perhaps. Better for the girl – woman – to still have some level of consternation towards him than absolutely none at all, even if he was going to authorise her request.

Still, that no doubt troubled him in and of itself. Just to think that merely three days ago the idea that Hermione Jean Granger would be in his abode at Spinner's End, about to sleep in his bed for the night and had just 'petitioned' for some of his sleepwear, to boot – let alone that she was also his WIFE – would have been a concept too unbelievably harrowing to fully be able to swallow, let alone property digest. Lending her a jumper be damned, for none of those notions would have been ones he ever would have dared to remotely consider, let alone amicably condone.

"I likely have something I could lend you, Miss Granger, though please don't make this a habit. I'm not exactly a man with a myriad of clothing choices," he advised disapprovingly, his tone morbidly arid, as he began to head towards the closet door to the right, on the far wall from the bed.

"Most importantly, however, don't you think for an instant, Miss Granger, about making fun of what I'm about to provide you with. Please," he commented roughly under his breath before entering his closet. He scoured through it a moment, muttering a self-derogatory curse here, and a complaint of unwieldiness there, before pulling out a etiolated and dilapidated, silver and forest green Quidditch jumper, observing it for a moment as a sundry amount of complexly discrepant memories came flooding back through the dam of history in his mind.

"Here."

Despite her relative edginess at having to appeal to him for clothing at all, Hermione found her mouth curling into a crooked smile as she took the jumper from his outstretched hands. The very same jumper, curiously, which she had taken notice of earlier, and had been so very tempted to question him about. A fascinating congruence, yet somehow the otherwise preternatural quirk lost much of its edge among the legion of other phenomena which had plagued her visit. Still, it was an opportunity she could never permit herself to squander; any chance to root out further idiosyncrasies from her husband's inexplicable past was one she had to, and was certainly going to, take.

"Noted. I assure you I am typically more organised than this. But thank you . Wow, I would never have pegged you for having had a Quidditch phase," she added whimsically onto her apology, clearly far too invested in the subject to have a single iota of interest in deriding him for it. Laying the article atop the covers, she approached the fire to carefully toe off her shoes, all the while the epicentre of her focus remaining tenaciously and soundly with him.

"It was for less than a year….And I was, believe it or not, Miss Granger, rather good. But, I'd gotten bullied enough. And the Slytherin Captain personally recruiting me for the job did nothing for his popularity, nor did it mine. If anything, it made it, enigmatically, worse. Besides, and most vitally, it took away from my studies. But hush, only Minerva knows about it. Blackmailed Albus into expunging my name from any of the sparse files it was ever recorded on – all two pages of them," his lips jerked upwards, threatening to emit a roguish grin of private amusement before they slackened and he, instead, endorsed a brief shrug of dismissiveness in the direction of his 'bygone days'. He then pulled his doused turtleneck over his head, charming it to hover in front of the fire to dry before realising in sudden blasphemy that he was before her completely bare chested.

He blushed, and thanked Merlin for the sombre lighting.

"Er, my apologies, Miss Granger, how inappropriate of me," he mumbled through a locked jaw of embarrassment, turning to return to his closet to grab his black dressing gown and cover his partial nakedness.

Hermione did, to her credit, endeavour to glance away, but only after he'd acknowledged it as a mistake on his part, and even then rather half-heartedly, and with a traceable flush to her features despite the chill.

"Oh, um, perfectly alright. No need for apologies," she was quick to counter antsily, though not without a stumble or two, hoping it could be blamed on her chattering teeth. "I mean, it is your bedroom, you are allowed to undress in it. Or rather, you don't need my permission. Please, go right ahead. I mean, nevermind. I don't mean to encourage it. Unless you want to. But then, I'd leave…of course…"

For fuck's sake, stop talking!

With the exception of his magnanimous teaching cloaks, it wasn't as if his clothes were ever ill-fitting or even particularly proficient at disguising his form. In fact quite the opposite was true, so why she was yammering foolishly about it she couldn't say. But there was something decidedly unique about witnessing what had, previously, only ever been outlined on display before her, now, in person. It had been a striking enough difference when she'd first seen him in casual clothing, much less without any on his upper half whatsoever.

Within his billowing robes, from a distance, he could be mistaken for slender, but for all his studious disregard for more 'frivolous' pursuits, he was sturdily built, deceptively so. Not in the way that was intended for show, but either by nature or for sheer utility.

Her eyes traced his figure back to the closet before turning from him fully to reapproach his bed, and pray her knickers hadn't vanished out of her bag as well. It was certainly time to supersede the subject before she made too much of an idiot out of herself.

"So , what position did you play?" she pried curiously, instead, as she unfurled the towel from around her body, laying it flat atop the bed so she wouldn't taint the otherwise pristine duvet by dripping all over it as she perched on it, her back towards him, to remove her sodden stockings – though at least, the saturation would be a of a far more innocent variety than it would have been previously, to be sure.

"I was waiting for the other shoe to drop," Severus hummed as he slid off is own soaked shoes in exchange for his house ones, a very fine onyx, velveteen pair of slippers with the Slytherin emblem embroidered proudly onto them, before progressing with,"You might want to prepare to clutch your pearls to your bosom, Miss Granger," he began with a distorted grin of underestimation before he breached forth unto what would assuredly be a jolting divulgence to her unequipped conscience, "I was, quite sourly, a Seeker . And before you state the irony of the other 'chosen boys', including Mr. Potter's damned father, yes, I'm more than vigilant of it."

Hermione's brows shot upwards in a show of astonishment as she stood to deposit her stockings in front of the hearth, even if it were slightly hyperbolic in deference to his latter comment, but surprised she still remained. Yet upon consideration, she was unsure what other answer she expected – he had a keen eye, and if he could fly sans a broom with the amount of speed and aptitude she had witnessed, he could only be aided by one, surely.

"Well, that's indisputably quite the twist. And not what I was expecting at all, which rather speaks to just how intoxicated I must be, for it is quite an oversight now that I'm perpending on it properly. I suppose acuity is something that is indispensable for the job, as well as quick reflexes, so the post does fit you ludicrously well, actually," Hermione remarked, thinking of his catching her with such ease back in the loo as she eyed him, lingering by the fire and fidgeting with incertitude in her still-dripping ensemble. She could have quick-changed, but that seemed a bit too…presumptuous, not to mention, intimate at the moment. "Harry would certainly be stupefied."

"Yes, I did have a frightfully constitutional predisposition for it, despite what the student body presumptively decided; showed them a right thing or two during the handful of games I was recruited to play in – including Mr. Potter Senior I'm chuffed to report. Regardless, I do expect you to keep mum about this little plunder of knowledge, Miss Granger? If I ever betray my covenant to myself, and report its existence to anyone else, least of all your male, jock 'shadows', I'll do so on my own terms and my own timeline, yes? For if I ever do fancy pandering to the delight that would arrive from 'stupefying' Junior with our shared position of physical athletics, I'll absolutely want it to occur in a public setting," Snape glared down his arciform nose at the woman with a look of daring defiance; however his eyes did clasp to a glimmer of self-enjoyment at the odds of following through with such an ostensibly aberrant declaration, nevertheless.

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of stealing that satisfaction from you, but I would definitely like to be a witness to it," she replied with a beam of teeth, shaking her head coyly at the satisfaction she, too, would gain from the to-be incident. "Photos optional?"

The wizard's inexorable countenance fully broke at her unlikely reception to his stipulations, as well as to the contingency itself, not to mention, finally, her subsequent entreaty, noting with wonder that the peripheries of his own orifice burgeoned in mirrored response.

"I pray this shall do for two nights? The jumper I mean. Not the bed . Nor, the room . However, I do pray that they are both satisfactory for you?" he queried with a noticeable number of nuncupative trudges of speech much to his disgruntled dismay, feeling quite like a giraffe calf tottering this way and that as it first is discovering the various motor functionalities of its limbs.

"Oh yes, it's lovely . Or, perfect , rather. I mean to say – it's well-suited to its need," Hermione too bungled her words, as if his own misstep had manifested a brio of its own and had unannouncedly sought to expose her own skittishness at the strangely intimate state of affairs. Meanwhile, Crookshanks had sauntered into the room, pausing in the empty space between his 'mother' and, now, adoptive 'father', to glance to and fro between the couple with an air of primaeval impatience, before continuing on his captious way to what remained of his dinner.

"Your brewing skills do extend to coffee, I hope?" she pried abruptly after the immobilised moment of silence they both had suffered to endure just now had seeped into the crevices of the floorboards, eager to anchor on a new matter of discord. And one which she'd already had a bout of interest in educating herself on already. Just how did the man envigorate himself on the daily? It had been a long-held wonder, to be sure, she reflected to herself as she timorously ran her petite hands through her soiled mane, beginning the arduous process of charming the moisture from it without encouraging it to frizz into a literal one should she error. Which, given how apropos-ly ' schoolgirlish' she'd altogether become in his residence as the night wore on, was quite the noxious likelihood.

"I'm not even going to entertain that question with an answer, Miss Granger," Severus scoffed. "I would like to think it's rather apparent," he pursed his lips into a thin line of robust integrity.

"Now, now, Professor, you could easily be a tea man! Though I rather deduced not," she shot back with an arch of her brow. "Or, more appropriately, I presumed you couldn't have been running on pure spite for this long."

"What a very clever jibe, Wife. Touché. However, I am a Brit, I can't completely disregard our affinity for tea. So, therefore, I relish both beverages . Coffee, however, is indispensable. My 'spite' , after all, must amass its verve from somewhere. Especially after late nights of corridor patrolling with you delinquent Gryffindors always running amuck," he offered her an 'apologetic' wink before flicking his hand to transfer his clothes to hang in front of the downstairs fireplace, where he would surely be headed soon. And the more posthaste the better for he was fervidly worried that their standing amongst each other, still drenched and half-nude could propel a very unfortunate series of events. At least for his own biology.

Hermione gave a coquettishly self-deprecating roll of her eyes, "True enough, Husband," she assented, watching his attire float through the open door and down the top of the stairs as they deposited errant drops in their wake with wistful twisting of her lips as it indicated Severus' imminent departure for the evening. Why the bloody hell did she feel, yet again , as if her chest were caving in on itself at that prospect? The simple prospect of his leaving her? Just to defer himself downstairs. And, almost, right below her. He wouldn't be far. Just out of sight, that was all. And yet, she felt as if shot through the stomach with an arrow laced with fire. Or perhaps , it was through the organ just above and to the left?

"Are you an early riser these days, or more strictly a night owl?" she pressed, in addition, an inquisition that would reap beneficial data to add to her growing database for his person, yes, but also sounded suspiciously like she were counting down the hours he would be out of her viewership for. A, grantedly inflated, reality she would actively attempt to avoid, yet seemed ineludible.

"Usually the latter. Sometimes both, however, depending on certain moods, etc. But after the evening that's accosted us, I'll probably have a bit of a rest. As I recommend you do as well. However, I trust you can work a muggle coffee maker if I'm still.… indisposed in the morning?" he asked with a full drawl and puckish perking of his brows, un-desirous to dwell on the rather affectionately munificent undertone of his frontline remark.

"I'm familiar, yes," she replied with a slight chuckle, a clear understatement to be sure. "Assuming that it doesn't also try to attack me."

The idea that she'd likely be awake before he was had crossed her mind, but she had plenty to read at the very least. Though a full day of interacting with him was bound to be an interesting experience, as this one had been only half of that time – if not less. She could only hope that there might be fewer …hindrances.

Severus cracked a small smirk of mirth before glancing to the left to remark dryly, "Well, if that's the case I suppose I give you permission to call out for me."

"Well, thank you for that, Husband. I suppose even chivalry of your calibre eventually must stand to meet its limits," she snarked back with a parallel grin of her own, brushing her damp curls back from her face discreetly.

The energy of their interaction was surreally comfortable given the circumstances and yet there was an unmistakable tension to it that made her twitchy, thankfully it wasn't horribly noticeable in its timidity. In fact it very much felt as though it should be more uncomfortable than it was, as if the sheer absence of what she expected was almost unsettling in itself.

"Are you certain you wouldn't like any aid in tidying up the kitchen?"

"Absolutely not. T'will give me something to do as I write Minnie a letter of apology. We usually play poker on the weekends. But, well, my dance card is full so…you two can battle it out next weekend," his face was eerily stoic, stilted even before the thick crease, ever present, between his brows tended and then softened. The fact that Minerva herself had greatly endorsed Hermione's staying of the full weekend proper was not a certitude that Severus had any intention to disclose to his wife at any time now, or in the future. No, not at all. The nuanced implications of her doing so were far too plentiful and layered to toss her prodigy. And far too fresh a kill of meat for a lioness to cease to want to feast on.

Hermione's brow twitched upward, entertained and curious, but forwent the urge to pry too deeply into that remark. Unsure if he was anxious to leave but waiting for her permission to do so, (she doubted it, but what did she know, truly?), or if he was, perchance, as reluctant to do so as she was, she tempered her smile and nodded.

"Well, send her my apologies as well. We'll have to coordinate," she teased, glancing back towards the bed as Crooks crossed between them once more and settled directly atop the jumper where she had laid it. Apparently she couldn't wear anything until it was anointed by cat hair.

"As you wish, Miss Granger," Snape answered before his jaw tensed in thought before falling open to add, "Well, I suppose I should bid you adieu for the evening?"

He cursed at himself, internally, for literally phrasing it as a question rather than a defined statement of indifference. Merlin, man, you are drunk, not in anguish over having to depart her presence for the night. Get out. And get on with your evening. In solitude. As you've so insisted over the years that you prefer to exist in.

Hermione's lips curled back into a crooked smile and shrugged, "As you wish. I'll likely read something until I fall asleep – if that's all right?"

She didn't want to 'disturb' any more volumes he didn't want touched, after all. But based on the more casual selection that seemed to adorn the shelf – and a few other various surfaces – in his bedchamber, she made the educated guess that he might be less distraught at the potentiality.

"Yes, of course. By your intonation, Miss Granger, I'm assuming that you've, by the wonder of Merlin's balls, managed to forget to bring some of your own? There are a few by my side of the bed," he flushed at the familiarity of the statement before pushing forth to finish, "including a rather tattered copy of A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy ," he licked his lips and lifted his shoulders in defeated self-jest. "I've informed you that I've very eclectic tastes."

Glancing back at the small table as though needing to confirm their subsistence, Hermione smiled at the familiar but unexpected spine poking out at an angle from the short stack on the bedside table.

"Ah, that will do nicely, thank you. But, let it be known, I did bring books. They're just a bit… academic for my present mood," she described, feeling the need to defend that particular aspect of her 'reputation'. Fighting not to bounce on her heels as a fresh wave of disquiet overcame her, she turned back to his re-robed figure and cleared her throat. Any day now, Hermione….

"Well, goodnight, Husband."

"Goodnight, Wife. And do, please, sleep well."

He issued her a curt nod before inhaling sharply, turning speedily on his heel, lest he linger any longer, to round the side of the door which he had creaked open moments prior, only to then shut it tightly, and soundly behind him.

Severus Snape relinquished a languid sigh of both rallied relief and remissable regret. Irony and her nymphs did adore bringing things in twos – and especially with alliteration. He wanted her. Badly. On so many levels, it felt. A sentiment which bitterly needed to be suppressed, at all costs. Bloody fuck . How was he ever going to succumb to sleep without her by his side?

Only after the door was decidedly closed, and she was left alone in the flickering firelight did Hermione's shoulders slump, a wave of tension orphaning her body. It was equal parts solace and dejection, and though she could breathe with far more ease, she still felt curiously deflated as she took a far more sober look around the room in which she was going to be spending her impendingly restless night. A night that she wondered, how on Demeter's green earth, she'd ever be able to endure without him?

And with those final, sombre sentiments, Hermione and Severus Snape's rings ached.

~•~

Meanwhile at the Ministry…

Concurrently in London, the Minister for Magic was having his own late night impasse, as he was disgruntledly sat at his desk long after he should have been at home, and in bed. There were two men in his office, one of whom he knew, lamentably, fairly well, and the other he could never recall as ever having met before this instant of disruption. And whilst the aforementioned individual was one who he had critical misgivings toward, the latter was a man that, upon first inspection, was rather uniquely commersative to the uneasy pit that this midnight assembly was eliciting within him.

"Do excuse me, gentlemen, but just what is this 'emergency' exactly?" Kingsley queried pointedly, his eyes narrowing in vexed 'amusement' as he enunciated the subject of his statement with prosecution.

The elder of the two men, a Mr. H. Blewitt, (Kingsley had never bothered to enquire what the 'H' stood for), cleared his throat and bowed his balding head.

"Apologies, Minister, that may have been a misstep of vocabulary on my part, nevertheless, there is a certain level of urgency in the matter, you see…" Blewitt trailed his speech off though his beady eyes remained ever-fixated with those of Kingsley's, lest the man cease to realise the impromptu importance of the affair.

"Urgency for whom ?" Kingsley pressed, interrupting his unambiguous preface to what would surely be an odyssey of a ramble in the hopes that it would encourage the bigot of a man to 'cut to Hecuba', as the idiom from Hamlet so went. The extempore meeting was given little context, merely announced as an 'emergency' with regards to the freshly bound Mr. and Mrs. Severus Snape and their public appearance(s). A truth the minister already knew to be erroneous, for if there were any kind of authentic disaster involved, he would be the first to know. And nothing regarding public image , sans a full-on violation of the statute of secrecy – (which he would also be the first to know of) – should require meeting after midnight when an entire year of publicity had already been heartily designed.

"As far as I've gathered from the contract, so long as the legalities were ironed out successfully, this entire affair becomes nothing more than a media matter, from here on out, until the time of consummation. So why the bloody hell am I here?"

"Why, urgency for both the Wizengamot, and the Ministry as a whole, of course," Blewitt replied to the minister's initial inquiry, with a substantial amount of self- imposed self- importance . "We believe it's best to get a…head start, as it were. Or rather, a hindsight start. Perhaps, unbeknownst to you Minister, as you have far more important matters to tend to than this, er, trifle, we are in need of quite a bit more damage control for their little antics than we originally had assumed. The public are going, well, a bit mad for them it seems. And as such, it is of paramount importance that we have the iron fist in this, and not them. Isn't that right, Mr. Demian?"

Kingsley, however, held a hand up and swiftly interjected.

"So, as I understand it, you – as the present spokesman for the Wizengamot – are admitting, with full transparency, to the ridiculous level of thoughtless arrogance that was muddying 'your' judgement when this agreement was constructed? In addition to severely underestimating the parties you have intended to use as your chess pieces, as well as of the population you sought to manipulate via employing them? And now, due to your impeccable incompetency, joined with the fact that the couple in question are bright enough to holdtight to what little control they do have over their situation, you not only need my assistance again, but also feel the need to involve this poor gentleman here, to clean up your mess?"

The Minister arched a brow, as his dark eyes left Blewitt and focused in on the so-entitled 'Demian' with analytic intent.

"Yes , Minister, precisely that ," Maxwell Sydney Demian – known simply by his surname professionally and, mostly, 'personally' – chimed in to assist, swallowing a throaty chuckle at the man's admonishment of Blewitt and at his own good fortune of timing as he stepped forward to offer Kingsley a modest bow of authoritative esteem before taking a step back to continue his abbreviated (for him), dexterous, advice.

"You see, the populous at this time are quite torn not only over the character of our dear Severus Snape, but also over Ms. Granger's well-being with regards to what, some feel, was a great 'sacrifice'. At least, those that err on the side of…' disapproval' , shall we say, of the match – let alone the law ..." he muttered the last bit under his breath though made an effort to keep the words from Blewitt's ears and charm them into Kingsley's.

He then went quiet to allow the two men to properly process his debut words, licking his chapped lips from finally having spoken after having remained passive for so long a duration. He only carried on once he'd been given a curt nod from the Minister to do so, at this point in time completely ignoring the agitated, reddening face of his superior.

"They, along with their opposition, meaning those who are in favour of the legis – er, union," he'd managed to catch the slip of his personal judgement of that recently enforced 'legislation' not a moment to soon, "in addition to the other demographic who have been gleefully foddered by the recent gossip-monger tabloids, and who now have an abundance of potentially questionable evidence to support their investment in the couple, have all together made it quite difficult for either the real party, let alone the Ministry, to dictate what the actual fuck is going on. Not to mention, for any party to discern how the bloody hell the pair 'genuinely' – and I do mean that to be in quotes – feel about one another, or the situation, as a whole."

Demian glanced between the two men of power, the one to his left a fatuous, power-hungry plonker with the face of a barnacled toad, whom he resented almost as much as his own father, and then to the stoic, firm, percipient, and perspicuous person of Kingsley, whom he very much assumed, and hoped, had read between the lines that he had just delivered.

"Cerridwen's cunt, my apologies to you both, that was rather verbose of me," he mentioned out of propriety before hastily adding an apology for his cursing, which was much needed based on the flash of horror that ran across Blewitt's face. His school days in France were very much catching up to him. Bah, c'est la vie.

"Excusez mon ' français' ; les avantages d'une éducation classique, vous voyez" the slender man flashed a Lilliputian smirk of personal amusement to them both before, finally, latching his mouth shut.

Blewitt frowned in grave indignation, but did not, presently, make a comment at Demian's impropriety, disparaging or not. Instead he directed his attention quickly back to Kingsley.

"In short , whilst they're each currently under the same roof, a bit of gauging is in order. A test , if you will. We've arranged for a small magazine spread. An exposè , if you will. Nothing absurd , of course, but there will be photos taken and a brief taste of a properly structured interview. With Mr. Demian providing some input, of course."

Kingsley's focus, which had centred on Demian during his prolix, but telling, explanation, shifted briefly and begrudgingly back to Blewitt with all the lack of enthusiasm his twelve-hour day could muster. After acknowledging his words, he swiftly swivelled back towards the slightly younger man. He had yet to procure a full grasp on his person. Which made him all the more interesting, and somewhat more worrisome than 'the devil he knew'. Though, again, as he had experienced from the start of the discord, there was an aura about the man that he very much favoured.

"So you, essentially, want to test them, by what? Shoving them in front of a camera at the crack of dawn? Forgive me, but that seems to a certain degree counter productive. As well as foolish."

"Oh, Merlin, not the crack of dawn surely," Demian chuckled easily despite his lower status of power in the room.

"I've been briefed on their proclivities and habits, and have been studiously educating myself on their unique attributes as well – including those of sleep . And whilst Miss Granger must get up for work during the week, she certainly is derisory of it. As for Severus, well, with his newfound freedom from the scrupulous thumbs of a third party, I more than want to honour his private appetency to obtain a lie-in when he can, therefore I shall certainly not hinder that either. I can promise you, I won't be barging in until after noon . However, the dual imperative nature of this media stunt should be known ..."

He paused to roll his eyes at his own penchant for phonetic pleonastica when given the opportunity, "I'm quite an expert at body language and chemistry, Minister. The photoshoot, whilst extremely beneficial for our propaganda purposes, really, to me, is far more of a ploy so as to allow me to observe them both individually, and, most of all, interpersonally . I've also independently designed aspects of the interview, to boot. A bit odd within the industry itself, granted, but as this is Ministry-oriented I think we may even be able to pull the wool over our dour veteran's intelligent eyes."

Kingsley's brows furrowed in nothing short of apprehension yet again, despite his initial fondness for the man. One must always be cautious in affinity, however. Especially after the time of Voldemort's terrorisim. So perhaps a bit of testing of his own was in order.

"Do you frequently research the sleeping patterns of our most significant witches and wizards 'on the daily' as part of your post?" he pressed with clandestine dubiety, his eyes darting to his clearly disdained, nearly cherry-coloured, compatriot, as aforementioned, the concept felt, at best, intrusive, and at worst, nearly nefarious.

Before the coordinator could speak, however, Blewitt, who had been baring his teeth in disapproval ever since the word 'propaganda' had disembarked from Demian's mouth – no matter how accurate, deported a bold, and likely unwise, scoff of condescension towards the Minister.

"Come now, Kingsley. His job is best performed when he knows everything that can be known about his clients."

"That is, regrettably for their privilege of privacy, true , kind of you to point out, Sir," Demian piped up in gramercy, eager to retrieve some favour back with his boss so close in proximity to his side. "But no, I'm not spying, spying. I've merely been taking... notes."

"Right, I see," Kingsley answered in turn, flashing the conservative gogga-of-a-wizard a scolding look before retracing his stare back to Maxwell. At length, and with a discrete exhale of fortitude into his steepled palms, the minister gave a passive wave of assent.

"Fair enough, I suppose. You are free to do what you feel is necessary in so much as you have laid out here. However, as I am the one who is predisposed to any complaints they may come to have, please do, take into account that your goal seems to be to garner their willing cooperation? Cross too many boundaries, and I doubt that this will go well for you. But, of course, you should know that already," he modulated with ginger sobriety to both men standing before him, glancing between them to verify that they each received his words with some degree of discernment.

It was unclear whether Blewitt ignored the challenge or if he were simply as unmindful as he was misinformed, though his lips readily curled upward in triumph all the same.

"Thank you greatly, Minister , for your cooperation."

"Yes, our gratitude, Minister. I shall report back to you both tomorrow night after the first day's shoot has finished. Until then," Demian lent forward in another show of respect to Kingsley before following Blewitt's gravely perturbed, bloated face out of the ornate double doors.

Well, he certainly was going to have to substantiate himself to Kingsley, wasn't he? Luckily, however, for Maxwell S. Demian, that had never been a serious issue of contention. Indeed, for the man was a 'Renaissance' one if ever there had been one. He did take pleasure in his cunningness and aptitude for 'moral manipulation'. So much so that he was an ironic fan of Machiavellian theory. At least, to a very particular degree.

And in the nature of endorsing Niccolo at the moment, a certain quote on the very pleasure he so took joy in bathing in leapt forth to his frontal lobe as his footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous lobby, the mollusc that was Blewitt slogging to keep apace just behind him:

"It is double pleasure to deceive the deceiver."

Just who the coordinator was in the process of deceiving, however, remained adamantly to be seen.