Day 8
Hermione needed a project.
She'd deep cleaned her bathroom, organized her closet, and watched half of Luke Cage's season two. She'd snacked on bread and cheese and chocolates for the last day and a half, wishing she'd thought to grab some fruit for her bedroom camp-out.
And now she was bored out of her mind.
"Oh! I know!" She flicked her wand and heaps of containers slid out from under her bed. She blew dust off of one carved wooden box and opened it, releasing knitting needles and yarn. Yes, it was a wedding gift from her former mother-in-law. Yes, at the time, she'd thought it a sexist message regarding Hermione's lack of homemaking skills. But now, she couldn't have been more grateful for it. I think I'll make some socks, Hermione thought, shoving the boxes back under the bed. Or a hat! Or, ooh, a vest!
Thirty minutes later, Hermione threw the needles down. "Fuck," she said, shivering. "Why the hell is it so bloody cold?" She placed a hand on her forehead. She didn't feel like she had a fever. Her whole body in chills now, she walked to the dresser and pulled out her favorite frumpy flannel pajamas. After pulling up wool socks, she walked downstairs to see what the hell was going on with the thermostat.
It was late, later than she'd realized, nearly ten. She laughed, thinking of what an old lady she'd become, in the middle of her thirties, no less, thinking ten was late.
Looking around as she reached the bottom of the staircase, she saw no signs of Snape. Good, she thought. She ran to the thermostat and was aghast to see that it still said 25 degrees Celsius. In what universe? she thought, wrapping her arms around herself as her teeth chattered.
It was then that she heard the breathing. Heavy breathing. Oh Gods. Either Snape was dying or… she almost didn't want to think about it, but the idea of him wanking sent another shiver up her spine. Shit, she ought to just go upstairs and leave the bloke to his devices. But the breathing seemed just around the corner. She ought to just make sure he wasn't dying, yeah?
She rounded the wall and froze.
Snape wasn't dying. Nor wanking. No, he was just doing a series of intense push-ups in the middle of her living room.
He wore a short sleeved black t-shirt, and his arm muscles were all bulgy. He was sweating. Considering how bloody cold it was, that indicated he'd been at it for a good long while.
Hermione decided not to disrupt the man's workout. However, she was dying for some fruit, wasn't she? She cast a silencing spell over her feet and walked toward the kitchen. She pulled a basket of strawberries out of the fridge, then poured herself a glass of of whiskey. Sitting on the kitchen table, where she could observe Snape's body, pumping up and down, she bit into a strawberry.
"Ms. Granger," he said between breaths, causing her to nearly fall off the table. "It appears as though you have a problem with… voyeurism."
Hermione snorted, the whiskey already warming her up. In addition to observing his neck muscles as he pushed himself up… and down... on her wood floors, he was likely referring to her little topless escapade the other day, maybe even implying this sort of thing was a fetish of hers. And maybe it was. Who knew? Either way, she was already at the bottom of her glass, well on her way to tipsy, and so she said, "I'm just enjoying strawberries and spirits. When your finished, you may join me, if you like."
He didn't respond to that, merely holding his firm, lean body in a plank for what seemed like ages. Hermione felt exhausted by just watching him. And yet… she couldn't stop.
He lifted himself up sometime in the middle of Hermione's third drink. "Thank you for your invitation. I will join you, if you are still willing, after my shower." He did a weird little bow and disappeared into his room.
Bloody hell. Without his long, sweeping coat, Hermione was able to take a long look at the man's arse. And it was good. Firm-looking, not too rounded, nor too flat. She imagined grabbing it as he pumped right into- er. She flushed and pushed herself off the table, floating the food and drink- along with an additional glass- to the sofa.
Oh, hell. Three and a half whiskeys in, she really couldn't deny it any longer. She wanted this man. A man who couldn't possibly be more disgusted with her bare skin.
"Ms. Granger. I see your wardrobe, though remarkably hideous, has improved in nearly every capacity."
Case in point.
Though, gods, that was an awfully quick shower, wasn't it? She shook her head. Or maybe you're just too drunk to keep a handle on time.
Snape took a seat on the arm chair, reaching to pour his glass. He shook his head when Hermione gestured to the strawberries.
Hermione narrowed her eyes as his words registered. "It's you, isn't it? You made it a fucking ice storm in here so I'd have to cover up."
Snape only raised an eyebrow in response, taking a long sip of whiskey.
Hermione rolled her eyes and bit another strawberry. Yup, she certainly had a good shot with this one. A fellow who'd withstand freezing temperatures inside a home so he wouldn't have to withstand the sight of her knees. You know how to pick 'em, she told herself. Or, to her vagina, rather.
"So." Hermione leaned back, pulling her knees to her chest. "How are things?"
"I'd much rather drink in companionable silence, if you don't mind."
Hermione did mind. She sort of had this clit-based need to hear him speak some more, but she didn't know how to go about doing it without pissing him off. Instead, she cracked her knuckles and folded and unfolded her hands a couple of times.
Snape gave a sharp sigh. "Go on, then."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
"You want to ask, just like the rest of them."
She made a face as she sipped her whiskey. It was even more bitter at that moment, thanks to the contrast with the strawberries. "I don't know what you mean."
Snape did not look amused. "You want to know what it was like to be dead. That's what you practically desperate to ask, wasn't it, fidgeting like a bloody school girl."
Hermione grimaced. A school girl? Jesus Christ, she wasn't going to lay this fellow at all, was she? And what did he say, again? Oh, right. She shook her head. "Never occured to me. Honestly. An experience like that. It seems like it would be none of my business."
Snape looked at her with an expression she'd never seen on his face. If she had to wager a descriptor, she'd go with 'curiosity.' Like he'd never really looked at her before. And she had no bloody idea of what to say, so she bit the strawberry again. It was a particularly juicy one, and she felt it bead up a bit on her lip, which she licked, she hoped, discreetly. But no- not discreetly enough. Because Snape's eyes were on her mouth, and he very nearly dropped his glass, covering the whole act up with a great deal of coughing.
"Do you need some water?" Hermione asked, with concern in her voice. But she was thirty five and knew by now when a man was poorly pretending he hadn't been watching her lips and tongue.
Snape waved her off and sipped his drink some more. But his cheeks were still a little pink, she noted.
Hermione decided to quit while she was ahead. "Well, I'm off," she said, wishing she was wearing something a bit more intriguing than reindeer flannels. "Change the temperature back, would you? Or else I'll get frostbite on all my bits. And that certainly wouldn't do, would it?"
Snape's eyes widened just a touch. Just enough for Hermione to smile. "Good night," she said cheerily, making her way to the stairs.
