Day 6
The roses were still as fragrant as ever, cupped in a little vase in her kitchen. Hermione bent to smell them between breakfast tasks. She had no idea if Snape would join her- he seemed to be on his own schedule as far as meals- but she made two spinach omelettes nonetheless. Her breadmaker dinged and she pulled the loaf out, moaning at the smell.
"Ms. Granger." His voice was in complaint-mode; she could sense it already.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "What now, Snape?"
"I must insist that you wear proper clothing during my stay. That… ensemble… is entirely inappropriate."
Good Gods, not again with the clothing. She knew she wasn't indecent, with her silk shorts and lace-trimmed top. It was a bit warm for a robe was all.
"I am merely wearing what I'd wear if you weren't here. Which was your request, if you'll recall." She sliced open the golden loaf, admiring the swirls of steam that reached out, ignoring her subconscious thought rising to the surface: Liar. Since when have you worn silk just for yourself?
"Then dress as though I am here. Speak as though I am not." He sneered. "Frankly, no one needs to see such… exposure."
"Gods, Snape! I'm wearing pajamas! What did women wear to bed in your time, turtleneck kitchen dresses?"
"I'm simply requesting a smidgen of decorum."
Hermione spread butter on a hunk of bread and placed it on the plate, next to the omelette. "Here." She flicked the plate toward him with her wand. "I'll take my breakfast upstairs so you won't have to deal with my apparently repulsive bedclothes during your meal."
Hermione shoved her omelette into her mouth in bed. Where on earth does he get off, anyhow? As though he's easy on the eyes. Well, he's not not easy on the eyes, is he? Not anymore, now that I'm grown and can see beyond the summary of 'greasy old man.' Snape wasn't old anymore, not to her. But still. Where on earth does he get off? And how would the likes of Snape get off, anyway? Would he groan or roll his eyes back or- No. No. Stop it!
She brushed at her abdomen, as though that would, in any way, help with the heat that blossomed there.
She wanted to get out. Needed to. But she couldn't leave him alone, per the Wizengamot-ordained agreement. It was bullshit, as everyone knew, though rare, returns from the veil weren't unheard of. Everyone knew the bastard was, indeed, Snape. Not some imposter. And this wasn't the work of any curses, either- he'd been through all the checks and protocols. Not a trace of dark magic was detected. No, this was the work of the larger universe, which decided Snape had some unfinished business in the living word. The least any of them could do was to allow the man to figure it out in peace. But no, they'd insisted on a monitoring period, just "to be sure." Bloody Rita Skeeter and her riling up the public with fear.
"It has to be you, Hermione," Harry had said. "We've got the baby, and you-"
Have no one was left unsaid, though true. Now that Hugo was enrolled in Hogwarts, she really was devastatingly alone most of the day, most of the year. She suspected Harry had her take Snape at least in part due to the pitiful circumstances of her life, but he'd insisted the public would be much more at ease if the brightest witch, one of the Golden Trio, would declare Snape good, and true, and-
Sexy.
No, no, no! She shoved her plate to the side. That was exactly why she had to get out!
So to the garden it was. She stood and began shoving her little, pretty, decorum-less night-things off. Then she reached into a creaky dresser draw and grabbed the tiniest garments she owned. Take that, she thought, tying the little strips of pink nylon on.
x
Of course, Hermione didn't have the guts to walk about the house in a string bikini, but she shed her translucent white cover the second she was outside. She was mildly disappointed Snape was in his room for her swimsuit and see-through-cover's debut, but what was a woman to do?
Prance about outside in just the bikini, of course. So what if the butterfly bushes that needed a trim were just beyond his bedroom window? It was simply a coincidence.
After doing a great deal of bending and cutting on the bushes, Hermione dragged a reclining lawn chair between the little lavender rows and faced it toward the sun, which was sadly away from the house. She was hoping to give Mr. Snape a little more of a show, (he deserved it, the prude!) but it would be too obvious to face the windows now. Instead, she leaned back and a wicked idea came upon her. She grabbed her gardening bag and pulled out a mirror, (Hermione'd learned long ago it was generally a good idea to leave life-savers in just about every bag she owned), discreetly checking the windows with it. Yes! He was there, his looming dark form right upon the back door glass. Hermione dropped the bag and undid her top, making a great show of tossing it to the ground. Back still turned to the house, she leaned on the chair and sighed. So what if she hadn't sunbathed topless in a decade? She was deeply in need of some rays, and there was no time like the present.
x
The Dark Prince, as the papers loved to call him, was nowhere to be found when she crept back inside. He didn't appear from his guest room before or after her shower, nor while she cooked dinner. Hermione sat down, alone, with a pesto panini sandwich and some crisps. Her face burned as she wondered what his reaction was when- if- he saw her bare back after she shed the top. She had resecured it before turning 'round again (she didn't want to give him that much of a show), but… did he widen his eyes? Did he cough or choke on his breath? Did he hate it? Or worse, did he love it?
Damnit! Why, why, why did she tease him like that? What on earth was wrong with her? Surely she wasn't attracted to the man.
Hermione groaned and buried her face in her hands. Okay, fine, damnit. Damnit, damnit. Yes. He was… alluring. Especially when he'd worked himself into a tizzy over her clothes… or lack thereof. She secretly hoped his outer repulsion at seeing her body was hiding some form of inner attraction. Or desire.
Regardless, thinking of her fun-in-the-sun adventure was mortifying now that the sun had set.
It must be the fact that she hadn't entertained a man in… Gods, had it been six years already? Six years since she'd… well, there was that one kiss with Blaise Zabini last New Year's, but she'd hexed his hands away (nearly clean off, he'd yelped) when he'd reached under her dress and that, fortunately, was that.
Desperate. She'd been desperate for some sexual attention. And it must've been so obvious!
Oh, dear. There was no way she could face him now. Throwing the last bite of her sandwich back, she grabbed a bag and filled it with food. She was going to be camping in the ol' bedroom for the next day and half or so. Just until she stopped imagining him gazing upon her back, perhaps the side-curve of her breast as she reached for her top. Just until she stopped imagining Snape watching her with a rather large erection.
