Becoming
Chapter Nine
by snarkypants
"Give me your hand and I'll give you undeniable proof of my interest," he murmured in her ear, and she giggled a little.
And gave him her hand.
It was one of those moments of crystalline clarity, where the surrounding rumbles and noises of the ancient castle, the combined movements and voices of hundreds of people and creatures, faded away to nothing. Her head filled with only the sounds of the fire, of his breathing, of the pulse of her blood.
Her hand trembled as she reached for him. His larger, warmer hand closed around hers and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He didn't move for several heart-stopping moments; his taut stillness brought to mind a great cat before it leapt on its prey, she thought, shivering. He didn't place her hand squarely over his crotch, as his teasing words had led her to believe.
He tugged her forward until she stood almost literally under his nose. She didn't have to crane her neck to see his face as he watched her intently. His eyes were hidden in shadow and he breathed through parted lips. Just the scent of his breath reminded her of their previous kisses, of the taste of his mouth and the cool, marble smoothness of his teeth against the tip of her tongue.
"Severus," she whispered, the peaked bow of her upper lip brushing his. "I want this. I want you."
"You'll have it, then," he murmured. His lips were thinner and firmer than Ron's had been. He steered her backwards, slowly, until the backs of her knees hit the green settee. He supported her down, instead of allowing her to fall; her head was spinning so dizzily she couldn't have caught herself.
She reclined against the rolled arm of the settee, and he stretched himself on top of her, settling in the cradle of her hips and skirts and open thighs. He positioned himself and pressed.
She shivered and wriggled closer, rocking her hips against him. He grunted and pressed himself even more firmly against her, and she met him, raising her hips a scant bit to repeat the delicious sensation.
"You like that, don't you?" he asked against her lips.
"Yes," she breathed.
"This is just a taster," he said.
"A taster?"
"Yes; I would rather not be hurried, and as you said, you have an early morning tomorrow."
"Oh, right, I do," she said.
"You don't have the time tonight, but tomorrow… tomorrow you will have time. You will return to my rooms…"
"Ahmmmm… no, you'll come to me…"
"Very well, I'll come to you. And then I will undress you…" He mouthed the lobe of her ear.
"Ooohhhh… How will you do it?"
"I presume that fasteners of some sort will be involved," he said, almost lazily.
She gave him a look. "I meant, in what manner? Slowly?"
He returned her look with an incongruously innocent expression. "Oh, the quicker, the better, I'd say."
"The better for whom?"
"Why, for me, of course. What did you think?"
She laughed. "You horrid man," she said, and she kissed him.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Hermione said as a scowling Blithe stomped out of the Great Hall after breakfast. "You're in a fine mood today."
"I hate my life," Blithe said in a sullen monotone.
"Would you care to elaborate, or must I guess?"
"They're saying I'm a harbinger of death or a banshee or something," Blithe mumbled.
"Who are 'they'?"
"Fourth year boys." She scowled even more ferociously, but Hermione saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.
"Why would they say that?" Hermione asked, tilting her daughter's down turned face up with a gentle finger under her chin.
"I don't want to talk about it," Blithe said, looking away.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Mum! God!" Blithe shook off her mother's touch and stood at the foot of the stairs with her arms crossed and her shoulders hunched.
Hermione looked briefly heavenward. It seemed that today's outing would be one of those.
Fabian ambled in from the Great Hall at about that time. He raised an eyebrow at his sister. "What's her problem?" he asked Hermione.
"She doesn't want to talk about it," Hermione said.
Fabian rolled his eyes. "What's the plan, Mum?"
"We Floo to Grandma and Granddad's house from the Three Broomsticks, and Grandma will give us a lift to the hospital."
Blithe's shoulders heaved and she sighed dramatically.
"Do you have a problem with those arrangements, Blithe?" Hermione asked with an edge to her voice.
"No. But why do we have to walk all the way to Hogsmeade? Can't you Apparate us?" Blithe whined.
"Not from inside the grounds, and not both of you at once, no."
"I could stay behind this time," Blithe suggested, oh-so-helpfully.
Fabian gave his sister an incredulous look. "Not go and see Granddad?" Blithe turned away from him, and he advanced on her for the kill. "Awwww, what's the matter, ickle Bwivey, got a spot or somefing? You're a self-centred tw—"
Hermione smacked both of them on the back of the head, much as Molly still did to Fred and George. "Enough, both of you! Outside."
A few passing second year Ravenclaws giggled.
Blithe looked daggers at her brother and flounced out of the building without giving her mother so much as a passing glance.
Fabian made a grotesque face behind Blithe's back, and the Ravenclaw girls shrieked with giggles. He grinned at them–where did he learn that cocky expression anyway?—and fairly swaggered out the door.
Hermione closed her eyes and counted to ten under her breath.
"… At least I'm not a poof."
"Go stuff your bra," Fabian snarled. "Oh, whoops, too late!"
Blithe gasped and crossed her arms over her chest. "And what are you looking at my chest for, anyway, perv?"
Fabian snorted. "Kinda hard to miss it; you should have taken the tissues out of the boxes first."
"You… fairy!"
"Pirate's dream!"
"Shirt-lifter!"
"Shirt-stuffer!"
"Bum-stuffer!" Blithe's lips twitched as she delivered this, which should have been the most crushing of all blows.
Fabian looked at her for just a second too long, and then they both broke down, cackling madly and staggering into each other on the path.
"I am so glad I was an only child," Hermione said to no one in particular.
"Wish I was," Blithe said, trying to give her twin a pissed-off look and failing utterly.
"At least you're the only stupid child," Fabian said, smirking. He ducked as Blithe swung at him and missed.
"But I'm not the only one who fancies boy-ees," Blithe said in a sing-song voice.
"Oh, shut it, both of you," Hermione said. "I thought you were winding down, for heaven's sake. Blithe, you walk in front." She let her daughter get ten feet in front of her, and then she started walking. "Fabian, you walk behind me." He fell in step about ten feet behind her. "I don't want to hear another word out of either of you, unless it's 'We love you, Mummy.'"
"We love you, Mummy," they both sang dutifully.
Charles Granger opened his eyes; he had an uncanny ability to look completely alert and awake even though barely awakened from a deep, and in this case, medicated, sleep.
"Where's your mum?" he asked; his voice was slurred and indistinct, which made his watchful expression appear even odder.
"She went to the canteen with the twins; they were starving."
"They've grown so tall since I saw them last," he said. "Blithe is growing into quite the beauty, isn't she?"
"Yes, she is," Hermione said.
"Just like her mother." Her father smiled at her, and patted her hand.
"I'd say that she resembles her grandmothers and her aunt more than she does me," Hermione said with a wry smile.
He nodded. "She's got your nose and your chin, though, and she holds her mouth the same way you do." He yawned.
"Do you want me to leave you alone for a bit?"
"No, sweetheart," he said. "I'm glad that the rest of them are gone for the moment; I've been working on something with my solicitor, and I wanted to tell you about it."
"Oh, Dad, shouldn't you talk about this with Mum?"
"She's well aware of it; this concerns you." He pushed the button to raise the bed so he could sit up and face his daughter. "Your mum will get all of my estate, of course," he said, and Hermione nodded. "But after she's gone, it goes to you and the twins."
"We don't need it, Dad. Tell her to buy a cottage in Italy, or something."
"Oh, she'll have ample funds to enjoy a comfortable retirement. With plenty left for you to inherit. Now, I know that Ron left you well off, and I'm very glad of it. Not least because it means I'll be able to make my own plans for your inheritance without feeling guilty about it.
"All of the assets remaining after your mother dies will be kept in trust for you and your descendants, in a proper bank, in pounds and pence."
Hermione looked at her father quizzically, but he made an impatient gesture, preventing her from speaking.
"Just in case that world of yours goes all to smash again, I want to make sure that you and my grandchildren, or even my great-grandchildren, have a way of getting out. Ready, liquid cash, useable anywhere in the world; you won't have to change currency, and you won't have to go to Diagon Alley, or make a large withdrawal from the goblins." He grimaced, and coughed thickly. "Given your family's notoriety, if you get another dark wizard coming after Harry and his lot, you'll be right in the thick of it. I won't be alive, but I can still do something to keep you safe."
Hermione looked down at her hands as her eyes filled with tears. "Dad—" she began, but he cut her off.
"I should never have let you go to that damned school. You would have done just fine at the local comprehensive. But no, you get a letter from some posh public school in Scotland, and off you go. Fine pair of liberals, your mother and I. Then come to find out you'd been on the front lines of a war, and you never finished school, to say nothing of A-levels. My daughter, a war hero, and I've never even fired a gun." He shook his head. "I should have burnt that letter when I had the chance."
"Dad, say what you want, but I remember having to see psychiatrists whenever I unconsciously started a fire. You and Mum were going spare; the school was telling you that I was disturbed. And then I got my letter, and Professor Dumbledore came to visit, and suddenly everything that was wrong with me made sense." She leaned closer to him. "You didn't do the wrong thing by letting me go, Dad. It's where I was supposed to be."
"You never told us," he said. "You never said anything about death or war or leaving school after Professor Dumbledore was murdered."
She hunched her shoulders, unconsciously shrinking herself. "I was afraid you'd drag me back home," she said in a sad but steady voice. "I couldn't just let Harry and Ron face it all without me."
"How would you feel if Fabian and Blithe did that to you?"
"I would lock them in the deepest dungeon in Britain," she said without hesitation.
Charles Granger laughed mirthlessly. "I hope you never have to."
It was a subdued trio that returned to Hogwarts that evening. The twins didn't bicker; seeing their grandfather had sparked something like a truce.
With a surge of pride, Hermione had watched her children alternate between joking with their grandfather and talking seriously with their grandmother. No matter how badly they argued, no matter how cross, sullen, and short-tempered they might be at times, these were good kids. They were solicitous with Helen Granger, and upbeat with Charles, and kept the adults amused by acting out bits of classic Muggle comedy routines and telling jokes learned from their uncles.
Blithe had surprised Hermione by refusing to cry until they had returned to The Three Broomsticks. Fabian made snuffling noises during the walk, and knuckled tears away from his cheeks from time to time.
By the time they crossed the castle threshold, they were red-eyed and silent. With mumbled 'night, Mum's, they walked up the stairs to their respective common rooms.
Her first order of business had been to bathe; she could smell hospital on herself, and it made her feel anxious. Snape's impending visit also made her feel anxious, but in an entirely unrelated way.
She looked at her body appraisingly as she stepped from the bath.
She wasn't fat, but 'slender' seemed like too reedy a term for her shape. She had a little round pooch of a tummy, where the muscle tone had never quite returned after the twins; the ghosts of stretch marks lingered around her navel, a corona of faint pinkish-silver streaks. Her bum was high and solid from years of vigorous walking and her breasts were full and pear-shaped, although her nipples didn't point up perkily any longer, and hadn't for nearly fourteen years.
Her legs were sturdy and strong, also from walking, but, honestly, they had always been the very worst part of her figure; Wizarding robes hid a multitude of sins and one could always count on hemlines staying put at the instep. She had somehow inherited her father's knees, and miniskirts would never figure in her wardrobe.
She wondered briefly if Severus were standing in front of his mirror, looking at himself from the side and the rear, sucking in his belly, wondering whether he would pass muster, and she laughed. In her (admittedly limited) experience, males had a tendency to view their reflections with approval, and as long as there was nothing obviously revolting about their outward appearance, they generally considered themselves ready for action.
It didn't seem quite fair, until she remembered being a young mother with baby sick on her blouse, tangled and un-brushed hair and coffee breath, and Ron becoming inexplicably switched-on at the mere sight of her. When she had protested, claiming her dishevelled state, he had put her at ease rather quickly.
"I love your hair like that; you look like you just got out of bed after a good shag."
"I've got really foul breath," she had protested.
"Charm it away; or don't, and we'll pretend it's an early morning go and we haven't got any babies to wake us up." He had waggled his eyebrows at her and kissed her thoroughly, coffee breath notwithstanding.
"And the baby sick?"
Ron retrieved his wand and waved it at her blouse, making it, and the rest of her clothes, disappear. "What baby sick?"
She had squeaked and giggled as he embraced her, and he murmured in her ear, "You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
"You're mad," she said, softly, as she didn't want to wake the babies.
"Yeah, but I love you," he said, and pulled her down to the bed, on top of him…
And he had loved her, which at least partly explained his attachment to her naked body, whether properly depilated, groomed and exfoliated or not. He had accepted her post-baby and then incipient-middle-aged figures, just as she had accepted his growing collection of curse scars and the little ruffle of fat that had begun to accumulate around his waist.
To think that once she had taken that acceptance for granted.
Tonight, unless things went very much awry, she would be disrobing before a new lover, one who wouldn't look at her with eyes accustomed to seeing her beauty. He was a sharp, critical man, and although he had become a friend to her, although he had kissed her and touched her intimately, she was apprehensive and vulnerable.
At precisely nine, there was a single sharp rap on her door.
She smoothed her hair and her robes, and walked so quickly to let him in that she might as well have sprinted.
Severus Snape stood at her door, looking so profoundly awkward and uncomfortable that she wanted to kiss him.
"Professor Weasley," he said, nodding curtly. "I am returning your book." He stuck his arm out; he was holding a green leather-bound book she had never seen before.
"Oh. Oh! Yes, I've been looking for that one." She took it from him, giving the spine a quizzical look. "Erm, did you enjoy it?"
He looked briefly flummoxed. "Ye-es. Very much." He raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, would you care to come in for a moment?"
"Thank you," he said, and stepped into the room. He passed closer to her than strictly necessary, and whispered from the corner of his mouth, "Close the door."
She let the heavy wooden door swing shut with a bang.
He withdrew his wand and pointed at the door. "May I?" he asked. She shrugged, and he cast Locking and Silencing Spells.
"Are you expecting company?" she asked.
"Sprout has been lurking in the corridor for at least five minutes."
"You've been in the corridor for five minutes?"
"Give me a little credit; I have a map. I also made a damned good show of not knowing where your rooms were." He snorted. "'Did you enjoy the book, Professor Snape?'" he trilled. "I thought we were going to have a cosy little book club meeting in your corridor."
"You threw me for a loop," she said. "I wasn't expecting you to come with gifts; it's not quite to my taste, though."
He took the book from her hand and read the title. "A Fungus Among Us: Deadly Mushrooms for Fun and Profit." He looked back at her face. "What's not to like? It's a classic."
"I'll wait for the movie."
He snorted a laugh at that, reminding her anew that he had grown up in a partly-Muggle household; Ron wouldn't have appreciated the joke.
"Actually, it's not a book at all," he said, and pointed his wand at the book. "Finite Incantatem," he said, and the green leather bubbled into a shiny, clear, green conical shape before it settled into a bottle of wine. "It's no fine vintage, just vin ordinaire, but I thought you might enjoy it with your dinner sometime."
"Thank you; this is more to my taste than poisonous mushrooms," she said, taking the proffered bottle. "Would you like a glass now?" she asked.
"No, thank you," he said.
"Would you like to sit down?" she asked, chewing on her bottom lip.
"Yes, thank you," he said.
She guided him towards the red settee in her sitting area, and he sat with a look of faint amusement on his face.
She sat next to him—not too close—and smiled. "I suppose they're part of the standard staff furnishings, right? With colours chosen according to former House affiliation?"
"Yes," he said, and cleared his throat. "Your visit with your family… I presume it went well."
She sighed. "Yes, as well as could be expected. The twins got to spend time with their grandparents, so everyone was pleased with that."
"I'm glad to hear it," he said.
She nodded and twisted her hands together. "How was the outing to Hogsmeade?"
"Uneventful."
"Ah. Good," she said, and with that, an uncomfortable silence fell.
Hermione chewed at her bottom lip.
Severus didn't fidget at all; he glanced all about the room, seemingly taking in details about her personal items. His gaze lingered longest over her bookcase.
Hermione took a deep breath and started speaking. "Oh, Severus, this is so awkward."
He stiffened, and his mien grew blank. "Oh?" he asked frostily.
"I… we… I don't know how to pick up where we left off. We were—and now, of course, we can't just go right into the bedroom, but this conversation is… it's awful."
His expression cleared somewhat. "Really? I thought I was doing quite well," he deadpanned. "Come here."
She scooted over until they sat hip to hip and looked up expectantly, lips pursed.
He leaned in close enough to kiss her; she closed her eyes, and felt the ghost of a touch against her mouth. And then she sensed that he had leaned back, away from her.
She opened her eyes in surprise.
"Why," he asked, "can't we just go right into the bedroom?"
She thought for a moment. "I don't know." She grinned foolishly at him, and he kissed her, hard and hot and oddly unexpected.
He took her face in his hands, and kissed her almost leisurely, exploring the taste and texture of her mouth. His uneven front teeth caught rather pleasantly at her lower lip, punctuating and extending each kiss.
She smelled his shampoo, and knew that he had taken special care with his appearance tonight, which made her feel almost unbearably tender towards this man. She ended a kiss by sucking at his lower lip and noisily breaking the suction, and then pushed herself to her feet with her hands on his chest.
She stood rather shakily, her gaze locked on him, and smiled. "Come on, then," she said, and turned towards her bedroom, still watching him over her shoulder.
"Slow down," he said. "Why do I get the impression that you're going to disrobe and dive under the covers? I want to see you."
Her hands froze on the front clasps of her robes.
He came up behind her, and covered her hands with his own. "Let me." He pulled at the clasp, and it came free with a pop.
The next clasp opened, exposing a wider slice of skin. He traced a fingertip from the pulse beating wildly in her throat down to the next clasp. Pop… pop… pop…
He freed her breasts from her robes and cradled them tenderly in his hands, brushing his thumbs over her nipples. "You use charms on your robes, don't you?"
"Um, what?" she asked.
"Brassiere charms; you use them, don't you?"
"Y-yes, I do," she said, lost in sensation despite her self-consciousness.
"Pity," he said.
That got her attention. "Why do you say that?"
"They give the breast a very hard look. Very solid and monolithic."
"Oh. That's bad?" she asked.
He shrugged. "It's not my preference. This, however…" He raised one breast and touched the softness on top; her flesh rippled under his touch. "This is just as it should be," he said.
"Easy for you to say," she said with some asperity. "You don't have to heave them about all day."
"I could, but it might prove awkward, having me draped over you like this while you teach. It would make for interesting staff meetings, though." He flicked the pad of his thumb against her nipple as he spoke, and she shivered.
It really was difficult to think while he touched her and nibbled at her neck; his beard tickled very pleasantly. He released her breasts slowly, sensitive to their weight. "Who would have thought it," she said drowsily. "Severus Snape, a breast man."
"Surely you figured that out," he said, opening a clasp over her belly. "You, serving up nipples on purple silk like petits fours."
Her brow creased. "What are you—oh! That night… you were…"
"Painfully and hopelessly aroused? Absolutely."
"I thought you were mortified."
"Only by my raging erection."
Her mouth went dry. "Raging?" she asked, arching a brow at him even though he couldn't see it.
"Raging," he confirmed, taking her hand, pulling it behind her back and pressing it hard against him.
"Oh," she whimpered.
"Like that, do you?" he asked.
"Yes," she breathed. "I want to see you, Severus."
"And so you shall," he said, but he didn't move.
"Now would be good," she said, squeezing him more aggressively.
He shuddered and stepped back. "Take off your robes and lie down," he murmured in her ear.
She nodded mutely, and shrugged out of her robes; she hadn't donned any undergarments beyond a pretty pair of lacy black knickers, and she heard his low intake of breath. She stepped around him, kicked off her bejewelled Egyptian slippers, and crawled to the middle of the bed, where she stretched out on top of the coverlet. She wanted to display herself to him in the best possible way, so she lay on her side, enhancing the hourglass curve of her waist and hips.
His gaze travelled up and down and over the lines of her body as he unfastened his old-fashioned robes. Under them, he wore only snowy white y-fronts; she had always found that style of men's pants a bit ridiculous, but she didn't have the slightest desire to laugh.
She liked what she saw; she hadn't expected rippling abdominal muscles or bronzed skin. He looked like what he was: a middle-aged, British academic.
He didn't run to fat like the Weasleys did in middle age. He was thin, and black hair liberally peppered his pale chest, forearms and legs; the contrast made his skin appear even more pallid than it was. The Dark Mark glowered from his left forearm, and the symbol still sent a frisson of fear through her; she wondered briefly if her continued arousal in the face of this fear made her a deeply disturbed person or not.
His arms were wiry, his legs sinewy, but he wasn't merely skin and bone. He gave the impression of being quite tough, just not in a street-brawler sort of way. Instead, he reminded her of a long-distance runner: travelling as lightly as possible given his tall frame, but wholly capable of remarkable feats of strength and endurance.
His wasn't a pin-up physique, but she had never particularly cared for that, and his body suited him: angular and austerely beautiful, at least to her. He stood before her, utterly unselfconscious, hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and dragged them down. He kicked his underwear to the side and crawled toward her. The lines of his face appeared more harshly etched than ever, and she shivered.
He dipped his hand into her knickers, and she cried out, rolling her hips impatiently.
"What do you want, Hermione?" he asked, his words a breath across her cheek.
"Mmmm… I want you—Ah! I want you now." She raised her bottom off the mattress and swept her knickers down her legs, tossing them aside.
He kissed her deeply, and drew her hand to him. "Guide me," he said.
"Do you want me?" she whispered as she touched him.
" i Yes /i ," he said through clenched teeth.
"That was incredible," she said breathlessly, enjoying the slow spread of his lazy grin.
"Beyond incredible, I think," he said, kissing her breast. "I won't be up for more for a while yet, possibly not until morning, but I can be at your service for hours, if you wish."
She stretched next to him, and yawned. "I'll regret this later, but I think I'm too tired for another go."
"Sacrilege," he said in a gravely voice. He kissed her and stroked her bottom.
He rolled to his other side, reaching for the blankets to cover them, and she curled up behind him. "What happens now?" she asked sleepily, wrapping her arms around his waist and nuzzling the back of his neck.
"We sleep," he said.
She poked his belly, and he grunted, mostly for effect. "I know that. After sleep."
He sighed loud and deep. "What do you want to happen? Not that I'm offering anything, mind you."
"I like this."
"More of this could be arranged."
She kissed his shoulder. "Good. I guess that's all I want at this point."
He sighed, this time contentedly. "Excellent."
"Why? What were you thinking? That I'd want marriage, even after our talk?"
"It wouldn't be the first time that I went to bed with one woman and woke up with another," he said; she felt rather than saw his shrug.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked archly.
"Speaking figuratively, of course."
"I should hope so."
"I had nightmare visions of phrases like 'long-term commitment'." He reached back to stroke her hip.
"Don't worry. I would have turned you down," she said, and giggled as he shot a disdainful look over his shoulder. "Roll over; your bum is cold."
"Warm it up for me," he growled. She pinched him. "Ouch; not like that."
"Body heat can do only so much; you've got a bony arse."
"You weren't complaining about it earlier."
"I'm not complaining about it now."
He rolled over. "Yours isn't the least bit bony, thank God," he said, sliding his hands around her to cup her bum.
She held him by the arse, as well, stroking his flesh firmly and surely. He winced. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Bruise," he said.
"From where I kicked you the other day?" she asked. He nodded, and she giggled delightedly. "Ah, poor baby," she said, cooing, giving him a solid pat. "Would you like me to kiss it better?"
He looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Yes; as a matter of fact, I would."
She climbed over him, curling herself like a spoon against his back and sliding down. Holding him by the hips, she placed a soft, wet, open-mouthed kiss on the bruise. "Better?"
"Hmmm… not quite," he said.
"Time to turn the other cheek, then," she said, nudging him onto his belly. She traced a line with her tongue to his lower back and then back down to the other side of his bum. She bit him playfully, just to hear him complain, which he obligingly did, and then straddled his backside.
"Aren't you afraid that I'm going to attack you in your vulnerable state?" she taunted softly.
He snorted. "We've all got to go sometime," he said, closing his eyes.
Hermione looked over at the chest of drawers, scanning. "Accio oil," she said. There was a small, meaty slap as the phial connected with her hand.
His shoulders tensed, and he tried to raise himself onto his elbows. "Uh, what exactly did you have in mind?"
"Nothing like you're so luridly imagining, I can assure you," she said, pushing him back down.
He heard the tiny thunk of the cork coming loose, and then the swish-swish of her palms rubbing together. He relaxed, and she dug her thumbs into deep trenches on either side of his spine.
He yelped, twisting. "Christ, woman! You are trying to kill me, aren't you?"
"Just relax, Severus."
"Relax, hell! Bloody hurts, doesn't it?"
"I'm very good at this, really. I've taken classes—"
"To dig out my spine with your bare fingers? Bloodthirsty wench…" he muttered.
"Massage. I took classes in massage. It can be very pleasurable."
"So can—agh! the Cruciatus Curse, provided you're not on the receiving end!"
She dropped her hands to his back in defeat; they made a soft slap. She climbed off him, and lay on her back, her hands folded on her belly.
Severus rolled to his back, put his hands behind his head and sighed.
"What were you thinking I would do, sitting on your bum and getting out the oil?" Her voice was tight and strained, as if she were trying to suppress tears.
"I thought you might give me a simple back rub, which might turn into a simple front rub, which I might then return."
"If anyone ever needed a good massage, Severus, it's you. You're wound up tighter than a ten-Sickle Sneakoscope."
"We agreed that you weren't going to try to fix me," he said quietly.
She took a small, startled intake of breath. "I wanted to help you feel—"
"I don't need help and I don't want help. I'm neither a house-elf nor a Longbottom."
She lay there, silently working her jaw for a few stunned moments. "Oh, God, this was a mistake," she whispered, looking at the ceiling before she squeezed her eyes shut. Tears leaked from her eyes and ran into her ears.
He snorted a laugh and put his hand over hers, squeezing. "Don't be so rash, Godric. We were enjoying ourselves, right up until the point you did something I didn't like, and I responded in a way you didn't like."
"But—" she began, as he cut her off.
"Is massage integral to the success of this liaison?"
"Nnnno…"
"Then let it go. You're not going to change my mind; I have taken quite enough injury 'for my own good' for one lifetime, thank you."
She turned her head and looked at him. Silvery tear tracks were drying on her cheeks. "You don't expect me to apologize for trying to do something nice for you, do you?"
"Do you expect me to apologize for refusing it?"
"I suppose not," she said.
"Then we will have to agree to disagree on this point. I will remind you that you did rather a spectacular job of 'doing something nice' for me earlier," he said.
"It wasn't anything special," she said with a tiny smile.
"Not special?" he asked, and clapped his hands over his heart, as if suffering an attack. "You wound me, lady."
"I meant—"
"I know what you meant," he said in a tired, raspy voice. He yawned and rolled to his side, stroking her hair. "Sleep with me," he said softly.
"My bed," she said.
"If you must be nice to me, then let me sleep here with you."
She grumbled an affirmative, and relaxed against him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
A/N: This is the Safe and Sanitized version. The truly naughty version is archived at a child-safe archive, Sycophant Hex; sorry, but it must be so. Same name, same title. Tell 'em snarky sent you.
The bit about Hermione's parents being a 'fine pair of liberals' for not letting Hermione go to the local comprehensive school was inspired by Sphinx's "Letter from Exile One Merciful Morning". A true classic of this 'ship.
Also, the lovely Inell, who posts spectacular Hermione-centric fic at her lj account, wrote the sweetest, sexiest Ron and Hermione first-time fic, called "One Rainy Night." If I were going to write how my Ron and Hermione in "Becoming" first got together, I couldn't do it half as tenderly, awkwardly and beautifully as she did with her story.
No, my Severus doesn't wear black or green silk underwear. Sorry. I can possibly see a twenty-something!Severus wearing them, but only when he was going 'on the pull,' i.e. expecting to have sex. Older!Severus wouldn't think the trouble was worth it; they're not particularly comfortable or supportive, and it's not as if he's going to parade around in his shorts, posing like (God forbid!) Lockhart might. Since he's the only character whose underwear we've seen in canon, I wanted to stick with prosaic Muggle pants, although he would be scrupulous about ensuring that they were never ancient or greying. BTW, 'y-fronts' is Britglish for 'Fruit-of-the-Looms' or 'tighty-whities.'
My dear selened beta'ed this chapter for me, even though she's on vacation. Is that cool or what? She's totally awesome! Thanks, Selene!