Chapter 26: In Which We Have Breakfast

Snape awoke to a strange sensation. There was something warm and fuzzy pressed against his back. He lay very still, trying to figure out what it was by touch and sound alone. This is bloody useless! He opened his eyes and saw, in the dim light, that he was where thought he should be, in his room, but he was looking at the wrong side of it. He should be on the other side of the bed.

Hermione. She's on my side of the bed. He smiled as memories of the night before raced through his mind. He rolled over, and wrapped an arm around her. Her back had been pressed against his, her hair between them. The warm, fuzzy mystery solved, he looked up to see that it was only a few minutes past four. He closed his eyes, nuzzled her neck, and went back to sleep.

When Hermione awoke the light was brighter. She looked around, remembered why she was where she was, smiled, and studied the arm wrapped around her chest, the left hand resting against her collar bone. She stoked his hand with her chin. His arm muscles were well defined under pale skin sprinkled lightly with fine black hairs. A few freckles showed that he had spent at least some time in the sun.

She kissed his index finger and slowly, gently began the task of scooting out of bed without waking him up. After a few moments of slow motion acrobatics, she was standing next to his bed, and he was sprawled in the middle, lying on his stomach, breathing deeply. She spent a few moments gazing at the planes of his back. The way his hair rested against his face. The gentle curve of his bum under the blankets. He's so pretty. Who would have thought it? Who would have thought I would ever get to know it?

She padded quietly into the bathroom and shut the door. Last night in the dark she hadn't really noticed much beyond the fact that the loo was where she thought it would be. In the light she saw it was clean enough for surgery, and he had apparently purchased a toothbrush for her. She picked up the red brush and went to work on her teeth. The last thing she wanted was a bad case of morning after breath.

Having finished her teeth she peeked outside and saw he was still sleeping. Not much for mornings are you? She turned on the water, waited for it to warm up, and stepped under the spray. While the water beat down on her she investigated the toiletries. The soap was a plain white bar. Next to it was a tube, an unlabeled bottle, a bottle of conditioner, and his razor. She sniffed at the tube and identified it as his shaving lotion. That meant the unlabeled bottle must be shampoo. Does he make his own? He must, probably the same with the soap and lotion. She couldn't really imagine him buying shampoo and then pouring it into another bottle. Well, maybe if he had a properly black bottle. She looked at the black shower curtain, and remembered the black towels and bathmats. Where does he shop? Who sells all black shower curtains?

She was lathering her hair when it occurred to her that he must have specially bought the conditioner for her as well. That's sweet. He certainly put some thought into this. She stepped out, wrapped a towel around herself, and began her morning hair routine. After it was mostly dry, she decided to skip the lengthy straightening charms, and just braid it.

She looked at the end of the braid and realised she didn't have anything to secure it with. Then something a little more important sprang to mind: I don't have any real clothes.

Well, you can apparate home, change, and come back. You can transfigure his towel into something else. You can walk out there in said towel and hope he offers you a shirt or something. Men usually think you look cute in their clothing.

She quietly opened the shower door and found the room empty. A black and gray flannel dressing gown lay on the bed, and cooking sounds were coming from downstairs. She wrapped the gown around herself and walked to the kitchen. Sizzling sounds and lovely fried smells greeted her. She inhaled deeply, aware of how hungry she was. I hope it's a proper fry up. Haven't had one of those in years.

She stopped quietly at the door of his kitchen, wanting to watch him work, herself unobserved. He was standing before the stove, looking deliciously rumpled, wearing only a pair of black drawstring trousers. His hands were moving competently, flipping bacon in the fry pan, while a knife cut thick slices of bread.

"Good morning." She walked over, put her arms around him, and placed a kiss on his shoulder. "That smells excellent."

"I'm glad to hear it." He set the fork he was flipping the bacon with down, turned in her arms, and kissed her on the lips.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Very. I'm usually up just after six, so I must have been pretty tired to sleep in until nine."

He smiled smugly. "I hope to have many chances to tire you out in the future."

She grinned back. "If you'll cook me breakfast like this, you can tire me out any night you chose. So, can I help with anything?"

"There are strawberries in the fridge that need a wash, and the tea needs to be brewed," he said while going back to the cooker, this time to tend the eggs.

She looked around his kitchen, saw the tea pot, and filled it with water. She didn't see anything that looked like tea. "Tea would be?"

"Pantry." He jerked his head in the direction of a small closed door. "You can't miss it."

She opened the door. There's an understatement. He's got to have fifteen kinds of tea in here. She began picking up jars and smelling their contents. "Do you have a favourite?"

"I think the third from the left goes well with this kind of food." She put the jar she was holding down, and grabbed the one he had indicated. Two quick spells later and the tea was sitting in the pot, holding at the proper steeping temperature. While she washed the strawberries, he plated breakfast.

"It's a pleasant day. Would you like to eat in the garden?"

"Sounds good. Lead the way." She followed him, carrying the strawberries and tea. He placed the plates on the outside table and ducked back into the house. He returned with cutlery and a very soft and worn looking v-neck jumper.

"I usually eat out here," he said while slipping the jumper over his head. His hand automatically went to push the sleeves up, and then stopped mid-motion. Hermione, who had been blissfully unaware of what he was doing, noticed the way he stopped moving. He looked slightly chagrined, and she noticed his left hand on his right arm.

"It's okay. I know it's there; you don't have to hide it."

"I usually don't think about it. There's usually no one to see it, and I don't like my sleeves to get in the way."

Hermione took his hand, and gently twisted his arm so she could see the Dark Mark clearly. Her fingers traced over it. "Did it hurt much?"

"When I got it? When it fired? Now?"

"Yes."

"Not as much as you would think. It was quite painful when I got it, but that was the point. People can talk about loyalty all they want, but when you let someone burn their mark into your skin that goes quite a way further than words. Unlike a regular burn it stopped hurting in a matter of hours. When it fired it sort of pulsed warmly and would get more intense the longer you waited to respond. After he died, when it was scarring over, it was a bit itchy. Now, I don't feel it at all."

They continued to talk lightly throughout breakfast. As Hermione nibbled the last of the strawberries, he asked, "What are your plans for the rest of today?"

"I've got an exciting day of paper grading, rounds, and test question writing planned. I'm on duty from noon to midnight, so I have to head off soon. It wouldn't do for me to show up in last night's outfit."

"Yes, I imagine you might get some stern words from Minerva should you show up like that."

"Professor Granger!" Hermione mimicked the sound of an appalled Scottish woman. Then she shook her head. "I shouldn't do things like that. It's not kind to mock people."

"It's not, but sometimes it's worth it. We don't always have to follow the advice of our better angels." She was standing up, gathering her now empty plate and silverware. "Tomorrow then?" Snape asked.

"You really want to come?" Hermione asked.

He thought about how to answer that while they carried the remnants of breakfast back to his kitchen. "Want may not be the correct word. I feel like I should go."

"Slughorn said you used to play Quiddich."

Snape looked puzzled. "Yes."

"Bring your broom. There's always a game of some sort going on at the Burrow. If all else fails, you can get in the air and clobber a bludger." While he set the dishes to washing, she returned to the bedroom for her clothing. After a kiss good-bye and a somewhat serious mental debate on Hermione's part about taking Snape back to bed and showing up for work late, she stepped into the floo, and returned home.