A/N: This chapter contains some sexually explicit content. My battery on the laptop is about to finish, so you can expect my usual review replies for the last chapter to come in a few hours. Feel free to check out the new completed Christmas story named 'Delicate' for something to read until the next chapter.

Chapter 16

So please, please, please
let me, let me, let me
let me get what I want
this time.

The Smiths

Severus awoke to a flood of sensation. His feet were cold; he must have kicked the blanket off during the night. His mouth was dry and the skin of his neck itched. The air was filled with an unfamiliar combination of scents: grass carried in through the window from the cool morning wind, an unassuming note of talcum powder, frangipani oil, and the faint tang of sweat.

His nose twitched and he tossed his head. The itch on his neck intensified; it seemed to move and he groaned, mumbling unintelligibly as the tickling sensation ghosted over his nipples.

And then he remembered.

With remembrance came the option to open his eyes and watch his wife, who was obviously intent on waking him in the best way she could possibly think of. The itch came from her wild, morning hair that was slowly being dragged ever downwards over his skin. He sighed, almost overcome with the thrilling thought that perhaps, just perhaps, it might become common practice to wake beside his wife, to feel the warmth of her body so close to his own.

Would time deal him such favourable cards? Possibly, if he could only play them right…

The steady strokes of her tongue on his chest paused. "I know you're awake."

"No I'm not," he replied, grinning when she gently tapped his morning erection. Her action was accompanied by a mock huff as he wriggled his hips in a very obvious invitation. "Really – I am dead to the world, desperately awaiting the – oh. Oh. Well, by all means, wife – ah!"

…

The second time Severus' eyes opened some hours later, it was to see his wife standing over him with hair still damp from her shower, her mouth twisted into a smug and entirely becoming smile.

Answering his unspoken question, she cast a Tempus and grinned some more when he raised two surprised eyebrows.

"Nine in the morning? Christ," he muttered, "I haven't slept in so late in years."

"Never, I'd wager," Hermione countered, her tone laced with self-satisfaction. "What on earth happened, to make my husband so unusually… idle?"

"Ah." He hid a smile. "I see that you require reminding. Fair enough."

…

"Must you follow me into the shower?"

"Is that a trick question, husband?"

"No. I intend to wash. Not to…"

"To what?"

"Don't give me that look. You and I are both well aware that your innocent doe eyes are merely a front for your terribly wanton habits."

"Habits that you seem to enjoy, very much."

"And if I do?"

"There's nothing wrong with that. I'm flattered. I'm simply surprised that a man would turn down a shower with his naked wife."

"I'm not twenty. I need some time to recover, but – oh."

"Is this aiding your recovery?"

"It might do. If you… if you… ah…"

"Don't you worry. I will get around to washing you. When I'm done, of course."

"Mmm, yes. Go on then, you voracious witch. Have at it."

"'Have at it'? That's a bit trite."

"Excuse me for not being able to concen-ah!-trate enough for some other – shite! – honey-tongued expression."

…

"Oh – is all of this for me?"

"Who else would I cook for, Hermione?"

"You cooked? You baked this fish?"

"Do you see anyone else in the room? Don't answer that. I gave Tink the day off."

"But you can only make soups!"

"Obviously that is incorrect."

"Severus?"

"What, wife? I baked the fish – would you stop the questions long enough to eat it?"

"Just one more, husband. Oh, I do like the way you smile when I say that."

"Spit it out."

"Did you learn how to cook this for me?"

"No."

"So the cookbook over there has nothing to do with –"

"Eat, wife."

"Thank you, Severus. It's all so lovely."

"Eat."

…

"This is nice."

"What is?"

"Sitting like this: together, reading. I like it."

"Do you now?"

"I think you do, too."

"I might do."

"There's just one thing, though… Budge over, will you?"

"There's barely enough room for me on this couch, Hermione…"

"There. Now there's room for both of us."

"Must you sit so close?"

"Yes."

…

"I admit that this is… not unpleasant."

"You can say it. It's easy. Like this: 'I like you in my lap, Hermione.' Or, 'I like it when you cuddle me and read, Hermione.'"

"I have a cramp in my thigh from your arse, Hermione."

"Should I go back to the other chair?"

"I will commit unspeakable acts upon your person if you do such a thing, wife."

"Then I propose the following: I'll keep reading in your lap, and you'll commit the unspeakable acts upon my person anyway?"

"If you insist."

…

Helen Granger was Not Impressed, Severus quickly deduced. The woman's lips were pursed to within an inch of their life, and she was dropping small squares of sugar into her tea with sheer single mindedness that seemed rather like that of her daughter.

But Helen was trying, Severus could give her that – and a very short and very, very subtle skirting of her thoughts showed shame and hesitation. He wasn't prone to Legilimency these days, but there were times when it was an instinctive reaction to abnormal behaviour. And Helen Granger turning up at his doorstep with a determined, pleasant smile ten minutes earlier was abnormal indeed.

He shifted on the couch, resisting the urge to roll his shoulders and stretch all of the muscles that, having been on a very long holiday, were now loudly complaining due to such pleasant overuse.

The woman of the hour breezed into the sitting room, a cool beer and a plate of biscuits floating in the air behind her. "Here you are, dad," Hermione trilled, levitating the beer over to Richard as she flopped down on the couch beside her weary husband.

Richard turned his head away to hide a bemused grin. "Thanks, love."

"You're certainly in a good mood," Helen remarked, frowning at the dainty blue cup in her hands. "Are things looking up?"

"What things?" Hermione began to roll her eyes then sighed. "Mum, I –"

"What your mother means to say is," Richard interrupted, shooting the older woman a pointed look, "is that you seem happy and that we are happy to see you happy. But because the Granger women are so unfailingly curious, perhaps you'd care to enlighten your mother and I as to whether there's been any recent developments that are contributing to this… happiness. Your job, perhaps. Or have you gotten further with your research?"

Hermione's father tactfully ignored the way Hermione smiled up at Severus. Helen huffed at the sight, but she soon quietened again. Severus could only assume that since the pair had arrived together, they were obviously keen to present a united front. It was a vast improvement from the couple that had first come to the cottage – from the way Hermione discreetly took his hand and squeezed, she was aware of it, too.

And as Helen Granger seemed to be determined not to give in to her anger and annoyance for a change, Severus decided it was time to do his part. Richard had never been completely opposed to the match between he and Hermione, and as the years went on and Severus' visits to her never ceased, his father in law had been a quiet, steadfast supporter of the wizard.

It had only been in the last year of Hermione's hospitalisation that the Granger marriage appeared to be on the rocks. Before that, it was blindingly clear that Richard and Helen were used to tackling problems together, head on, whereas dealing with an older, often blunt son in law was not something they had prepared for.

He could understand it, in a way. After all, Severus had never prepared for having a passionate harpy for a mother in law.

It was a relief of grand proportions to finally see Helen's passion being directed at something other than him, for a change. Whatever had occurred between the Grangers had meant that she was now apparently determined to give 'it' (Severus had yet to work out what 'it' referred to) a go.

As the conversation around him progressed, Severus watched Hermione's mother. She was an interesting woman – all fire and fortitude. His own wife possessed much of her mother's willpower, yet Richard's influence had thrown composure and a degree of level-headedness into the mix.

It was a heady combination.

That morning, for example, his wife had barely stopped touching him. It was almost like she was trying to make up for the lost years of their marriage, for her lips had traced every single line of his body countless times. And for a man so usually disgruntled by constant attention, Severus found that he was lapping up the elated emotions that he felt while being the object of such a beautiful woman's intense focus.

His mind easily jumped from the morning to the evening before. Severus could still hear Hermione's confession – that he was the one she had always wanted.

How was such a thing even possible?

How could this... this ethereal creature (he winced, confronted finally with the pedestal he must've put her on years ago) have come to have such feelings about him?

Did that mean that she had fancied him? Not just during their marriage, but before?

What had Albus said? That she "would prefer him above all." Above all!

When Hermione Granger was seventeen, her affection had been solid enough for her to volunteer to bond with him in matrimony.

Sweet Circe, when Hermione Granger was seventeen, Severus often had days where the only thing he wished for was a ten foot pole to push her and her questions away with.

But then she had married him. And she didn't stop there; no, his wife had cared for him, tended to his regular migraines, given him the reprieve of quiet company when he did not wish to be alone.

It seemed glaringly obvious now that Hermione Snape did not desire friendship, as she had so carefully proposed after they had moved into the cottage.

Severus was unsure as to what it was that she did want; declarations were all well and good, but he had long been a man that focused on actions over words. Her wooing had hinted at her wish for intimacy, and their intimacy… Where did she want them to go from here? Where did he want to go?

"Severus?"

He blinked, returning his concentration back to the sitting room. "My apologies, Helen," he said carefully. "You were saying?" That'd be right – the harridan finally tries to make amends and you're off with your mind settled firmly between Hermione's legs.

"I said," his mother in law said slowly with her fingers laced together tightly, "how has work been going for you? Any noteworthy mishaps?"

Well, fuck me. Pigs are flying.

Hermione squeezed his hand again and Richard's normally careful gaze turned pleading. Taking pity on the man, Severus fixed his stare on the older, nervous woman. With as soft a voice as he could manage, he began with a, "Well, there was this absolute disaster with a fifth year a fortnight ago…"

Such fragile peace might not last in the long run, but the black haired wizard fervently hoped that it would.

…

"Hermione?" Severus called as he entered the cottage. It was close to midnight on Thursday and when she didn't answer, he made his way into the kitchen for a glass of water. He'd been home earlier, but an incident with one of his younger Slytherins had caused Tink to pop in after dinner. It had taken most of the night to calm the second year girl, and while he had long since managed to compartmentalise, he was more than ready for bed.

He climbed the stairs and stopped outside of the main bedroom. By some stroke of miraculous good fortune, Hermione moved all of his things into the room on the Monday after their first night together. At first, Severus had stood stock still, staring at the strange sight that was his austere teaching robes hanging up beside one of her purple cardigans. At any moment, he'd expected an audience to suddenly emerge, laughing and jesting that he had fallen for the ruse.

But there was no ruse. Hermione had waited quietly, her hand on his arm. "Is this…. Is this all right with you, Severus?"

He'd blinked, still flummoxed, but his wife was undeterred. "I'd like to sleep beside you, Severus. I want to wake up beside you. Tell me we can at least try?"

"Try," he'd echoed faintly. "Try." How could he have put into words that seeing the swaths of black crepe beside her dainty clothes was one of the loveliest sights he had ever had the pleasure of looking upon? That it made his chest feel uncomfortably tight; that he could barely breathe with the weight of all-encompassing hope that was swirling and curling through his mind? And that, to see his clothing interspersed with her bright, feminine colours sparked something proprietorial and possessive that was different to anything he'd ever felt before?

He was sharing a wardrobe with his wife – and it was fucking marvelous.

"Yes," he muttered, cracking a small grin. "We can try."

He had taken her that night with all of the passion that had been building within him. Like a siren, she called to him, twisting his needs and desires around her little finger until all he knew was that he wanted her. The bed had not been enough; instead her long creamy legs had hooked around his waist as he thrust inside of her, his weight pinning her to the wall.

No words were spoken. It would have sent him running if she had made declarations or promises – Hermione knew just how to draw him in, how to slowly bring him around to the knowledge that what he had was not going to disappear.

Her gasps and moans had been enough; the salty tang of the sweat on her skin had taunted him until he had given in and licked between her breasts, under her ear, the line of her jaw. Her nails dug into his shoulders and he hissed at a sudden sharp pain – his wife had drawn blood. It stung, but as she threw her head back, her mouth wide in a silent scream, he found that he was reveling in the sting, the harsh reminder of her claim.

To make love to Hermione – and it was making love, for though it was fast and chaotic and fierce, it was still loving – in such a way was freeing.

The young witch had freed him, and he had never even seen her coming.

…

After a quick trip to the loo, Severus returned to the bedroom door and quietly stepped into the room. Chuckling soundlessly at the bundle of blankets and bushy hair on one side of the bed, he padded over and eased out of his robes.

He slid under the blankets and curled his body around the warm, soft form of Hermione. She wore nothing, and still, even after a week of learning her curves, Severus had to stop himself from trailing a suggestive hand along her waist. He fit around her perfectly; cupping a breast, he bent down and breathed in the scent of her hair, of the frangipani oil that clung to her skin.

"You're home," she mumbled, squirming in his arms. He made to draw back, to let her continue to rest, but she cradled his arm around her and placed a kiss on his hand. Her lips were slightly chapped, dry from always sleeping with her mouth comically open, but the tender action thrilled him regardless.

He whispered his reply into her hair, "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"Is everything all right?"

"It is, wife." Inspired by her affectionate gesture, he kissed the top of her hair. "Sleep."

She wriggled again and he sighed, aware that the battle was lost. "How is she?"

"She'll be fine," he murmured as his fingers began to trace circles on her back. "She's a resilient girl."

"Still!" Hermione's voice grew louder, more indignant, and he shushed her with a smile. "Bullying is never acceptable," the witch proclaimed, giving a breathy harrumph when he pinched her bottom. "Stop that. I hope you took millions of points from those stupid little bitches."

Severus hummed. "Two hundred points, a month's worth of detentions – with me – and letters home to their parents. I'm surprised though, little wife; you seem pleased." He lowered his voice and spoke teasingly into her ear, "Not going to stick up for your Gryffindors, then?"

"Never." Hermione dismissed her former House with a growl. "They threw mud on the poor girl! And then water, charming it to look like blood! Isn't she a cousin to the Zabinis? Her family wasn't even involved! This infantile tit-for-tat is disgusting. I hope that Minerva stood with you."

"Ah," Severus said, the surprised note of his tone still present from the events earlier in the night, "she brought them to me, if you'd believe it. Said that as the girls attacked a member of my House, that I had free rein in deciding what punishments were appropriate."

"Well, that's new. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Mmm. She's… improving. Or she will improve."

The atmosphere changed then, to something delicate yet filled with fire. The transition was as easy as breathing; one moment they were talking, the next she shifted just once and his desire rose.

"You're very optimistic tonight."

Severus pressed his lips to her shoulder. "My wife is naked in my arms, and she is ever so-" His fingers moved from her breast, "-soft." His index finger drew lines through the short curls between her thighs. "And warm." Lower still he moved, grinning into the pillow as she moaned and pushed down against his hand. "And wet. Are you wet for me, Hermione?"

When she nodded, unable to form coherent words to verbalise her assent, Severus gave a hoarse groan, tantalised and aroused from the truth of it. She desired him – craved him, his skin, his touch.

He could not remember a time when a woman had been enamoured with him, in need of him.

"Do you need me, Hermione?" he whispered, barely able to believe it. She ground down on his fingers and he slipped one into her silken, velvet warmth.

She cried out, her pleasure so utterly obvious that he nearly lost his mind. "I do, I do," she chanted, arching her back as she keened. "I need you. Please!"

"Oh, gods, I could make you beg and you'd do it, wouldn't you, witch?" He let his thumb circle her clit, coaxing and calling her to submit to her desires. He wanted to see her lose control, to see her features contort with pleasure as she came, but he was not so strong that he could watch and remain outside of her. She mewled with disappointment when his fingers left her then moaned when he took himself in hand and swirled the head of his cock around her, coating the head.

"Severus! Oh, please – Severus, please- just…"

"What do you want, love?" The endearment escaped his mouth and it hung in the air until she gasped and reached around with one hand to curl her fingers into his arse.

"That! Oh, Severus, that! Please – just please, please love me!"

He bit her shoulder, his teeth sinking into her skin; all to stop himself from shouting the triumph that he was consumed by as soon as he slid into his wife.

By all the gods, she was perfect.

…

"An invitation came yesterday," she said the next morning over breakfast. He had opted to share the meal with her – he'd woken early to leave to take it at the castle, but found himself unable to part from her. He would suffer through a long dinner at Hogwarts instead, as he had to keep two meals a day there in order to have one at home, but he was loath to depart. He dragged it out and, keeping in mind the tale that a watched kettle never boiled, stared hard at the pot while waiting to make his tea. Hermione puttered around him, preparing toast and spreading his beloved Marmite right to the edges of the hard crust that he preferred.

"Oh?" He cursed the kettle when the water boiled anyway and ignored his wife's giggles as he added the tea to let it steep. "For what?"

"I'd like it if you came with me," she said instead, prompting him to arch an eyebrow.

"And what is this event, if I have to agree before even knowing what it is?"

"You're right," Hermione agreed quickly as she spooned sugar into his cup. The smile that she threw towards him was apologetic, but it seemed more of a grimace than anything else. With tense shoulders, Severus poured the tea and sat at the table, murmuring his thanks for the toast.

"Seeing as though I wasn't able to attend the celebrations that marked the three years since the end of the war," she began with, paying too much attention to cutting her toast into squares, "Molly decided to throw a party at the Burrow tomorrow night. To make up for it, I suppose," she added hurriedly when he winced.

"What?" Severus asked shortly, pushing his plate away. He had no appetite.

His barked question sparked her ire and Hermione scowled. "Molly's organised a party for me. For us."

Severus sighed and met her gaze tiredly. Truly, was it too much to ask for some time away from the Weasley family? He was not so much of a bastard as to dismiss Molly's meals and kind words, but the youngest male prat had been a thorn in his side for longer than he cared to think about. And he was no fool either; a party for the both of them? Molly might entertain such idealistic notions but, try as she might, she was not loud enough to drown out the rest of her brood.

Quite simply, all he wanted was some peace and quiet for once.

"I'd rather spend the night with you," he admitted slowly.

Hermione's gaze softened, but the flat line of her lips remained. "We'd be together, Severus. It's just the Burrow."

A speech was being readied, though his wife was quicker. Leaving him stunned, she reached across the table and snagged a bite of his toast. "I'm being obtuse, aren't I?" she mumbled, cheeks pink. "I know it would be a bloody nightmare. I thought I should accept – Ron said something about Molly giving you a hand, and I want her to know how much I appreciate it. I wasn't there… I should have been."

"You were in the hospital, wife. Christ, Hermione!" He stood and tugged on her hand until she rose to her feet. "Do you think you've failed? Is that what this is all about? No one is going to give you a mark."

"I don't know what 'this' is all about," she replied, burrowing into his chest with an audible groan. "It just felt like it was something normal people do. Normal married people. Don't normal married people go to garden parties and spend half of the time gossiping about everyone else there?"

"Probably," he replied easily, chuckling at her smile. "I was unaware that we are a normal married couple, however."

"We're married! And not deformed."

"It was a marriage of convenience," he shot back, testing her. She did not disappoint.

Brown eyes flashed and his young wife twisted her mouth into a dark expression that should have made him assemble his own features into something more serious, but instead made him laugh even harder.

"Stop that!" scolded Hermione, swatting his bicep as he drew her into his chest. "Bugger what everyone else thinks – we are married; it doesn't matter how it came about. Not anymore."

"No?"

"No!"

"Hm." Severus busied his hands in her hair, lightly tugging and twisting the curls. Like a cat, she rubbed her cheek on his shirt. As he often had, he decided that her optimism was endearing. It was nice to have someone batting for him for a change. And if she was determined to think well of their marriage, who was he to argue with her? Far be it from him to change something that, despite all odds, seemed to be… at least functioning.

"We will attend," he announced, relaxing further as she wound her arms around his middle and squeezed. "And we will put up with the miscreants for one hour, and then you may decide whether the potion we left on requires our presence or not."

"Ha! I always thought that was an excuse."

"You are my wife," Severus said imperiously, delighting in her little laugh. "You may use my excuses if you wish."

"As long as I use them to come home to you?"

"Ah, the point is to use them in a manner that benefits you, my dear." Again, the endearment slipped out unbidden, but from the way his heart leapt at her fond sigh, Severus realised that he did not mind at all. "Does it benefit you? To return here to me?"

"To return home to you?" she pressed, looking up at him and tucking his hair behind his ears. Her eyes, framed by short black lashes, gleamed. There was an emotion swimming in them that he could not name, nor did he wish to try – for Severus was certain that whatever nameless emotion was causing her to blush and smile, was bursting inside him as well.

"To return home to your husband," he confirmed, his voice a low murmur as he considered the phrasing.

Home.

Was this his home? He looked around the kitchen, then at the woman in his arms.

Yes, he thought. This could be home.