Pay attention to this chapter; something is revealed here that won't be detailed for a few more chapters. Blink and you'll miss it. And, also, the story begins to earn its M rating as of this chapter. If there are any mistakes in this, forgive me – my eyesight has announced that it is buggered for the moment, and I will blame that ;-)

Who will be the 300th reviewer? I don't mind re guest or logged in reviewer, but please, if you don't have an account, create one and tell me what it is so we can message each other. Otherwise there is no way for me to get in touch with you. I'm watching the review count as best I can, but if I miss it, please let me know. If you'd like an example, 'Hour Follows Hour' and 'One Thousand and One Nights' were both written as gifts for readers of other stories.

Chapter 9

With your hands on my shoulders
A meaningless movement
A movie script ending
And the patrons are leaving, leaving
Death Cab for Cutie

Severus was a patient man, though even that in itself was an understatement. A lifetime of waiting, first for Hogwarts and then for Lily, then for forgiveness and afterwards redemption, for the end of the war and then for Hermione… He was well practiced in understanding when something was hopeless or helpless, worth waiting for or worth forgetting. True, such lessons had taken years and much pain before they were taken on, but he liked to believe now that he was perceptive enough to not be surprised by many things.

The evening found him shrinking a set of essays together and carefully easing them into his right coat pocket. A wave of his hand extinguished the candles in his office, and he tapped his wand on the door as he left to reset the wards. He was eager to return to his wife; having chewed on the thought for most of the afternoon, he was no longer unsettled by the idea that he wished simply to see her, and not just to check up on her. It was the calm before the storm; her parents would more than likely visit tomorrow, and the Weasleys would no doubt come this week. Potter, too, though Severus decided not to look for a damn to give tonight.

It would be advantageous to establish a Floo connection to the cottage at some point in time, he mused as he began the walk up towards the Entrance Hall, but it might just be better to leave it. He preferred the short night time walk to the cottage; it almost seemed closer to the castle than it was to the village, given its position on the very outskirts.

Apparating was also an option, but not something he wished to advertise. Technically, he still retained many privileges from his short stint as Headmaster and could be at work and back in a flash if he so desired. Still, there was time for that, when Minerva eventually came around.

Severus was inclined to think that the moment would come sooner, rather than later, when he came upon Argus standing at the closed doors with the Headmistress looking thoughtful at his side. They were an amusing pair – the drawn, shabby man and the woman who often had a broomstick lodged far up her backside but still managed to shock everyone by having a laugh with the caretaker now and then.

"Headmistress, Argus," Severus greeted them both, inclining his head as he fastened a thicker cloak around his shoulders.

"Good evening, Severus," Minerva replied delicately. "Is there a particular reason you wish to encroach on Argus' time?"

He opened his mouth to issue a stern rebuke, intending to tell her that it was none of her damn business, when Argus blew his nose and chortled.

"Now see 'ere, 'eadmistress, s'nothing you need to know about. 'Tis a man's lot to take care of 'is woman, and sometimes only a Squib knows just what t' do, eh?"

"You say 'lot' like it is a burden," Minerva sniffed, glancing over at Severus as if to ascertain whether the black haired wizard shared such a sentiment with the caretaker.

Barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes, Severus couldn't stop a sneer as he drawled, "The cottage requires some… work, and I intend to ensure that it is done so that my wife can live comfortably. Good evening to you, Headmistress. Argus?"

"Right, right," Filch agreed, nodding quickly and shuffling out into the night, leaving the Headmistress and the Professor standing awkwardly at the door.

"You're going to fix the place up, are you?" she clarified in a determinedly bland voice. "Make it comfortable for her? Safe?"

Severus stayed silent, leaving it to her to put the pieces together. He was not in the mood to offer her some honey tongued excuse, yet nor was he about to offer up that he wanted to sort out the hot water so that his wife could have a warm bath before bed. None of her ruddy business, indeed. The only thing that stopped him from scowling at her was that the Headmistress would more than likely be on speaking terms with Hermione's mother, and he, for the moment anyway, certainly wasn't – one old harpy at his throat was better than two.

She nodded slowly, though it was obvious that she didn't agree. Going against his expectations, she motioned for him to leave, the permission for borrowing Argus being silently granted.

"Well, don't let me stop you then," Minerva grumbled. He raised both eyebrows this time and looked at her, but she waved him away briskly as if he were a thirteen year old student again. "Go on now, off with you. And for goodness sake, Apparate with Argus, will you? Spare a thought for his joints, it is uncommonly chilly outside."

She left in a whirl of flowing forest green robes, and Severus shook his head, bemused, when he heard the ghost of a wet sounding sniff reach his ears from the direction that she'd departed in.

"About bloody time," he muttered to himself, and threw open the doors before jogging down the steps and striding off into the darkness, robes and cloak billowing around his body as he headed to the gates where the anti-Apparation wards ended.

"Argus! Come here you old goat; take my arm."

…

With the combination of his wand and Filch's considerable expertise, the plumbing was sorted within an hour or two. All the main work had been outside to the pipes feeding the cottage; Argus had even managed to rig them so they connected to a second, larger pipe much lower down which, it turned out, supplied the castle. The wolfish grin of the caretaker took years off of his face and Severus, too, sported a smirk as he thought of the never ending hot water supply. As it was a staff cottage, the usage would be free to compensate him for having to live off-site but that was usually within Hogsmeade's supply – the castle's was infinitely better and would save him from submitting an application to the Ministry to have usage of the village's water approved. For once, Albus' planning had managed to cover absolutely everything, the barmy sod. Their only main expenses would be actually sorting out the interior of the cottage itself, and food.

He hadn't been inside the house yet, only stopping to poke his head in and announce their presence to Hermione, and she'd come out soon after with a smile for Argus. The two men worked under a cover of almost constant warming charms, courtesy of his wife, though a smell piqued the interest of both when the work was over.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you had a Hogwarts feast in there," Argus said, jerking his chin towards the cottage. All of the lights were on, bathing the front paved courtyard in a warm glow. He couldn't see Hermione – she had disappeared when he'd pushed up his sleeves and tied his hair back to get stuck into the work in earnest, her cheeks blazing red though he couldn't quite work out why. Perhaps it had been a good thing, for Argus pointed out that there were streaks of grit from the work underground on his arms and cheeks that not even a charm would get out properly. She must have left to save him the embarrassment of appearing as sweat and dirt covered as he was.

There were faint sounds coming from the kitchen, though, and he narrowed his eyes, suspicious. A deep breath in and out gave him time to prepare his words; it had been years since he'd done such physical work, and it showed.

"She shouldn't be-" he began, then cut himself off. He was still an intensely private man. Argus seemed to catch on, and brushed away some excess dust from his overalls.

"I'm off, then," the caretaker said, then looked behind Severus, a surprised half smile on his gnarled face. He bobbed his head and said shyly to the ground, "Evening, Madam Snape. Many thanks for yer charms."

Turning, Severus was about to shake his head in amusement but instead his mouth opened slightly, unprepared to see Hermione freshly showered, looking far too lovely standing in the doorway with the light shining around her. She wore a soft looking deep blue long sleeve top, and black pants instead of jeans. Her hair was clipped partly back.

Oh, she was beautiful indeed.

Finally focusing enough to see that she was holding something, he stepped to the side, giving her adequate space to approach Filch. She passed him slowly, her eyes running over his figure still damp with sweat, and he berated himself for having discarded his robes and frock coat earlier. In his shirtsleeves, he must've looked a fright.

"Thank you, Mr. Filch," Hermione said kindly, extending her arm out to display the plastic bag hanging from her thin wrist with some form of package inside. "I'm sorry we've kept you from dinner – you'll like this, I think." She looked back at Severus and tilted her head, a faint smile on her lips. "Molly Weasley's finest," she explained in a quieter voice, like she'd known that he had been concerned about her cooking when she was only just getting used to regularly using her magic again. It wasn't as if she could cook anyway – his wife could burn water, though he wasn't much better. "It was sent over just before you two got here. There's…" she grinned sheepishly, and he found himself short of breath. "There's enough to feed a small army in the fridge, now."

Argus mumbled something to do with kindness and thanks, but Severus wasn't really listening. As he had been in the morning, he felt struck dumb by the appearance of his wife. Hermione's gaze turned from Filch to him again, and her kind smile changed to puzzled, giving him the incentive to get a grip of himself. He nodded shortly.

"I'll take you to the gates, Argus," he said, offering the man his arm and walking them out to the tiny fence that bordered the cottage. "It's the least I can do. And," he lowered his voice, "there might be a bottle of something on your desk. Don't say a word."

"Oh no," the caretaker snickered. "You won't 'ear naught from me, Professor." There was a leer in there somewhere but Severus ignored it, knowing that the older man was as socially inept as he was. It took only a few seconds to have them in front of the castle and clap the man on the back, before he was back in front of his wife again.

"I should…" He looked down at his clothes. "I should take a shower."

"Of course," she breathed. "It'll be nice a-and hot now." When she stumbled over the word, her eyes again drifted to his bare arms. They flexed automatically as he clenched his fists, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. He knew he was thin, built almost like a greyhound, though at least he was healthier looking than he had been when they'd first married. And then, leaving him flabbergasted, her pink tongue darted out and wet her lips, moistening first the upper then the lower. He tried ever so hard not to track the movement with his sharp eyes but it was no use. He swallowed, and she stepped back, her cheeks flushed.

Control yourself, man, and occlude for goodness sake. You'll scare the poor girl half to death, you lecherous fool. With that thought, Severus gave a gruff assent to her comment about the shower, and made his way into the house.

…

The bathroom was sparkling clean, but it was warm and filled with steam from Hermione's earlier shower. She must have spent the afternoon while waiting for Poppy cleaning; he wished that she hadn't, he would've done it, but he knew she could manage the scourgify charm and so he made a note to thank her later instead.

He quickly abandoned his initial plan to only take a short wash; the water was heavenly on his sore muscles, washing away the uncomfortable aches as well as the grime and sweat. There were new bottles on the rack that hung from the showerhead; pink, purple and red things that he'd never seen before in his life. Looking around the room through the now sparkling clean glass screen, he scoffed at himself for even checking his surroundings, so unused was he to living with someone else in such close quarters. Sharing a bathroom with a woman was a novel experience; his mother, for example, had been in and out in minutes to save on the water bills, and there'd been one bar of soap and one grey can of shaving cream in the corner for years. Even in his own bathroom in the dungeons, he'd preferred a minimalist approach and used shampoo made using his own cauldrons, and natural soap bars over Muggle concoctions.

Now, he was faced with the dilemma of either not using soap and thus risking a bad odor from not being able to wash thoroughly (he hadn't brought anything with him) or he could use one of Hermione's bottles. Curious, he picked up the red one and accidentally swallowed some of the water trickling down when he read that it was a warming body wash, scented with roses and peaches. Good grief. The next was some sort of conditioner – no thank you – and, thank the man upstairs that must have been listening, at last he rummaged around and found a shampoo.

Abandoning the need to analyse the ingredients, he massaged it into his scalp thoroughly, almost purring as the suds cleaned the sweat that had stuck to the back of his neck. But one breath in with his nose was enough to send him cursing his treacherous body as he felt the blood rushing to his growing erection, the organ responding to the sweet note of frangipanis that now clung to the strands of his black hair. It smelled like her, just like his wife, just like the oil that she used on her fair, soft looking skin.

He rinsed it out immediately but the wave of desire came upon him so suddenly that he groaned softly and turned to place his palms against the side of the stall so the water would cascade down his back instead. No, no, no. He had no business feeling these things. The need for relief was almost painful – his hand strayed downwards and his offending penis was rigid to the touch, but his hand returned to his other while he filled his mind with thoughts of anything else. Anything at all.

And yet, she did kiss you… It was almost his undoing. He moaned, glad for the steady drumming of the water to cover the sound as he remembered the feel of her lips, how her body had fit so well against his if only for one second. He'd never forgotten it despite the years that had passed – could never forget it – and it was so tempting to reach down and stroke himself with the memory of her, tasting so sweet, the way her tongue had traced his lips before slipping into his waiting mouth-

Enough!

Enough, enough, enough. He was panting now, at war with himself. She had been afraid, so utterly terrified, that one small kiss really didn't count - how could it really, when it had happened so quickly that if it wasn't for viewing it in a pensieve over and over again in the weeks afterwards, he would've lost just how it felt to have his wife kissing him.

It had never been repeated, and she had been so quiet straight after, leaving in the blink of an eye. She must've forgotten it by now after everything that had happened. No, no. He had no right to think such things about her. She had made a mistake; it was glaringly obvious, and he would ignore the urges of his body.

But she might not mind… the whisper was just a passing thought, but the frustration and confusion that it inspired in him made it easy for him to locate an innocent looking bottle of shower gel at the end of the mountain of products – forest fragrance, thank Merlin – and scrub his body clean before resolutely turning off the water.

He emerged from the shower and waved a hand at the mirror, staring at himself as the steam from it cleared immediately. With a disgusted snort, he rubbed the towel then tied it firmly around his hips, opened the door and, after checking to make sure she was nowhere near, strode quickly into his bedroom. Poppy had taken over a bag of his most used clothes, and he fished out a clean pair of trousers with a black shirt –

"For fuck's sake!" he growled when the back of his head smacked the ceiling with a dull thud. Not one to swear if he could help it, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, calling out a vague answer to Hermione's muffled call to see if he was all right.

He needed to get it together. They were husband and wife, yes, but they were friends.

Unless she wants – no. Clamping down on any more thoughts, he let the door close firmly shut behind him as he made his way down to dinner.

"Are you- oh!" Hermione squeaked with surprise when he stalked into the room and he stopped, chastened. In his determination to rid himself of the almost all consuming desire, he'd forgotten how hesitant, how timid she could be at times; she was rarely completely sure of herself around him, and of course his blustering entry had done nothing to help it.

"Sorry," he barked gruffly, then rubbed the back of his neck in an uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty. "The hot water works," he said lamely.

"Yes," she agreed with a smile. She had been standing in the middle of the dusty room, surveying it with a considering eye. "Shall we go upstairs?"

"Upstairs? Why?"

"Well…" Hermione looked around and returned to meet his gaze, one thin eyebrow arched. "There's nowhere to sit. St Mungo's brought over my bedroom furniture when you were out, and that small couch came with it. And I haven't gotten around to-"

"Oh, don't," he objected immediately, holding up a hand. "I'll bring a house-elf over for a few days." Heading off her small frown, he continued with, "The elf I had when I was Headmaster has been… disappointed with the lack of work now that I have returned to the simpler quarters in the dungeons. She'd love to come over for a day or two. And you're not a housekeeper, wife. The whole point of this exercise is to work out what your future holds, is it not?"

She looked at him then down at the floor. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Right." He went into the brown and yellow kitchen and found two containers sitting on the bench along with a vase full of lilacs. Figuring that Poppy must've brought them, he inspected the petals and found them to be of a quality almost like – give it a rest, man.

One quick flick of his wand removed the stasis charm, and the scent of Molly's steaming lasagne had his mouth watering. He returned to the bare sitting room with a container in each hand and followed Hermione up the stairs, avoiding the temptation to watch how her hips swayed naturally as she climbed.

"Have a look," she said shyly. "Poppy and I did it up this afternoon."

And with that, he entered the bedroom behind her, and sat down in the room of white provincial furniture and lilac overtones, finding peace in the familiar setting.

After she took the first bite, he gathered his wits and said, "Tell me what you have decided thus far, wife."