![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
christmasspiritChristmas 1998. Hermione sleeps with Severus after all... (Seriously??? Probably not. 😆)
Just a bit of fluff.
Another of my 'Drabble' fails 😉, written with oodles of love forerexen. ❤️ Happy Birthday, hun! 🎂🥳🎉🎁 Hope it's a good one. ❤️😘
Originally Published: 2021-04-27 on LJ / DW
Chapter: 2 / 2
Words: 8.4 k, story complete
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Characters: Severus Snape (Potions Master, Head of Slytherin, Deputy Headmaster), Hermione Granger (Transfiguration Apprentice), Sunny (Severus' loyal little House Elf), Mentioned: Ron Weasley (8G, Least Said...), Minerva McGonagall (Headmistress), Arthur Weasley (Acting Leader of the Order of the Phoenix), Kingsley Shacklebolt (Minister of Magic), Harry Potter (8G)
THIS STORY HAS TWO CHAPTERS.
THIS IS THE SECOND CHAPTER.
SCROLL DOWN AND READ THE OTHER PART FIRST. (LJ / DW)
Some time later, long enough for the flames to have nearly burnt themselves out, Hermione wakes, groggy, momentarily confused by her surroundings and position, only to discover her firm pillow is the unyielding chest of the Potions Master of her dreams - quietly and unperturbedly reading a book in the darkened room by the light of a Lumos cast by his suspended wand, which only serves to make him impossibly dreamier - and she'd apparently fallen asleep on him. Literally. Another book closed by his other side on the couch soon has her wondering just how long she was out. With these realisations come a few more, and rapidly mortification sets in, the worry he'll be offended - how could he not be? - she hasn't the faintest idea how to apologise sufficiently for this. How rude. Still trying to formulate something, however inadequate, one hand shoots up to her mouth to check for telltale traces of drool, it would just figure, as her eyes scan his chest for the same, holy cricket.
Her thoughts all too clear, Severus watches her with some amusement, not that anyone else could tell, of course. Her evident embarrassment, the momentary flicker of relief at finding nothing, seeing it almost immediately crushed by the obvious guilt, firstly, he believes, for having felt that relief, and secondly and more overwhelmingly - surely that would be the moment her eyes widened - for having nodded off in the first place... It all proves rather diverting.
"I'm glad you enjoyed the story of my adventures in the Fnords," he drawls, silently brightening the Lumos, and her mortification increases with the surety she's completely ruined her chances here.
"Oh, Severus, I am so sorry, not at all, I just..." she flounders as he watches her impassively, his face as stoic as ever. "I am so sorry..." she wails more than a touch plaintively, growing a little desperate with her inability to convey how much she regrets dozing off.
He manages to suppress a smirk. "You were clearly exhausted, Hermione." His tone is gentle and sounds so forgiving and she begins to hope, and with that hope relaxes enough to notice a few things more, like how at some point he'd apparently moved his arm so she rested tucked in against his side. Doubtlessly the limb was falling asleep beneath her weight... That arm is presently lying across the back of the couch behind her, and while she's disappointed he hadn't taken the opportunity to hold her - she tries not to read anything into that - she's relieved to see he isn't removing it now that she's awake. She struggles to shove her wild mop of hair out of her face - it never, but never behaves as she'd like - and snaking his free hand around from behind her, Severus corrals some of the unrulier strands and tucks them behind her ear. She smiles at him so beatifically in thanks, her desperation from a moment before all but forgotten... It's touching, really, how little that takes.
"I imagine the adrenaline rush battling the Whiz-bangs earlier exhausted your reserves," he generously provides her with a reasonably valid excuse. She can't help thinking kissing him for the first time was an even bigger adrenaline rush. Fittingly, she blushes, and he believes he can follow her thoughts. They're rather nice. "Don't fret, Hermione," he reassures her, closing his book with a snap and laying it to the other. "You obviously needed the rest." The fingers of his left hand again shift more of the hair from her face, and for a moment she can't decide if she wants to nuzzle into them or his chest to her right. That too appeals to him. Not having wanted to take advantage of a sleeping witch, he now finally allows his arm to rest on her shoulders, the way she beams up at him when he does so... Merlin. Not that her reaction should have been in any question, obviously, after all the Legilimency earlier in the evening had revealed of her thoughts and feelings about him, quite, but it's very different to see the reaction in person, as it were.
"It's the first good sleep I've had in days," she admits, stifling a yawn. From the way she'd slept, he'd suspected as much. "I think after all the years of constantly having people around me, I'm having some difficulty settling into my new room." Naturally she'd been assigned quarters of her own when she graduated and entered the apprenticeship programme. He's used to the isolation, but he can see where it might be challenging for some.
"Do you think you're awake enough that I should light the sconces, or are you going to go back to sleep?" There's no reproach there. It seems to be a genuine offer... Of sorts.
She hesitates a moment and then asks, "Would it be too much of an imposition... Would you mind letting me stay the night here with you?"
He looks at her, considering, trying to anticipate his response to having his privacy further encroached upon while weighing the potential cost of a refusal. As curmudgeonly as he's wont to be - exceedingly - he can't help thinking about some of the things the witch had envisioned in what she'd deemed their impossible future together. Disturbingly they've begun to worm their way under his skin and take root, and he finds himself growing increasingly curious about what it would, what it could be like... If he just said 'yes'.
"So to be clear," he snarks, "I'm to be your ersatz Miss Brown." It's the quirked eyebrow that does it. She laughs.
"Oh yes, absolutely. I look at you and the first thing I think of is Lavender," she laughs some more, reaching across his lap and taking his free hand in hers and squeezing it. He finds himself smiling in return and squeezing back. Funnily enough, he can't recall seeing the erstwhile roommate in question in Hermione's thoughts once when Minerva had forced him to look earlier. No, what he'd seen had held a great deal more appeal.
And so he comes to a decision. "Will you need me to give you something to sleep in?"
Brightening, she replies immediately, "If you wouldn't mind?" with only the briefest of guilty looks towards her beaded bag which naturally still contains everything she'd require for a year's journey and then some. Eventually he'll come to realise what she carries in that bag of hers, and that she'd no need of his shirt, she'd simply wanted it, but by then things will be sufficiently advanced between them that he'll find the thought touching.
Severus rises, lighting only a single sconce as he does so, dousing his Lumos and stowing his wand in its sheath as he crosses towards the furthest door on the left and enters the room beyond. She takes the low lighting as an indication that he means to retire as well. He doesn't need long to select the softest of his shirts for her. On consideration, he applies a charm rendering it softer yet. Sunny is virtuoso with starch and Pressing Spells, but presumably those aren't the qualities one seeks in a nightshirt.
Hermione battles with herself only briefly, trying to decide if it's too much of a liberty to take a look at what must undoubtedly be his bedroom unasked. On the other hand, she suspects the bathroom is located off the room, so perhaps it isn't too great a presumption either. She follows him to the doorway where she remains, a little shyly awaiting an invitation, almost like the vampires of lore. Not quite expecting to see her there, framed in the entry, softly lit by flickering flames, he stands there by his wardrobe for a moment regarding her, still trying to decide what they're doing here. This isn't remotely how he'd expected his day to end.
"May I join you, or would you prefer I sleep on the couch?" She asks when he doesn't say anything.
"That wouldn't be very gracious of me, leaving you to the couch," he replies, but it isn't quite the answer she's looking for.
"Would you object to keeping me company in your bed then?" She's not some little girl who doesn't know what she wants. She's spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating every eventuality. The only thing she isn't sure about is what he wants.
"I thought you weren't going to sleep with me tonight?" He's not teasing her. He doesn't even seem to be fishing... much. Despite having had such an embarrassing insight into everything she believes to know and feels about him - a considerable advantage by any measure, she'd think - he doesn't seem much more sure about how to proceed here than she does.
"A careless euphemism," she waves the objection away in mock imperiousness, the twinkling of her eyes more than giving it away were he unsure. "Allow me to correct it: I won't be having sex with you. Tonight. I would however very much like to sleep with you. If you wouldn't mind that is."
He leaves her waiting another beat or two as he makes up his mind, for all her outward composure, her stomach doing gymnastics in the interval. "I suppose I may as well get used to it..." he drawls, finally teasing, and she rewards him with the biggest of smiles. It had been a foregone conclusion from the moment he'd returned her kiss, really, and that so publicly. If he hadn't meant to pursue this, he shouldn't have done so, and certainly not made such a display of it, but she'd been so bloody tempting, and with her thoughts still swirling so freshly in his mind... For one thing, he's now genuinely interested in seeing what could come of it, and for another, at this point his pride would scarcely allow him not to at least make an honest attempt of it. Which isn't to say he was above bottling things even at this stage... And he strongly suspects his natural caution, his sense of propriety, his thrice damned reserve is all too likely to do so.
"I think you should, yes," she answers as confidently as possible as she walks into his room, the slight skip of happiness to her step belying the cool she attempts to project. For someone who couldn't have known he'd have company this evening it's remarkably tidy. The room is warm and light and quite to her liking, a hearth to her left, a wardrobe to her right, and a magnificent bed holds pride of place, nestled between two night tables in its centre. Her smile is once again a bit shy as she takes the proffered shirt from him, asking, "The bathroom, I take it, is through there?" indicating the only other door in the room, beside the intricately ornamented wardrobe.
He nods. "Do you need anything else? Shall I have an elf fetch something for you?"
Again she looks at her bag, this time shaking her head, "I think I have what I need in here."
"Do you usually carry your toothbrush with you every where you go, or had you plans for the evening?" He asks, teasing once more, deeming it highly unlikely the offspring of two dentists hadn't accepted his offer of a toothbrush otherwise.
"Almost everything else in here," she hefts the bag in illustration and gross understatement, "is something of a carryover from last year when we were on the run, but yes, I may have made a habit of taking my toothbrush with me most places." Her smile is bittersweet at the thought of her parents.
By the time she emerges from the bathroom, he's in his pyjamas. Or at least, his pyjama bottoms. She gets the sense the undershirt he's wearing isn't usually part of the ensemble, it's white in stark contrast to the trouser's black. She assumes he's wearing the top for her benefit, more's the pity.
He stands there staring at her a bit dumbly. If he had thought her attractive before - and he had, hang it, or they wouldn't be stood here together in his bedroom now - seeing the witch in nothing but his shirt makes her unimaginably more so. It's hard to picture her any more attractive, in fact, and then, unbidden, his traitorous brain supplies just such circumstances: with her hair freshly tousled post-sex. He decides his brain is not helping matters here and begins to list potions ingredients. The tone of his reaction doesn't escape Hermione who smiling one of her magnificent smiles and with a slight saunter he could swear she hadn't displayed before prowls towards the bed. No, he's done for. Perhaps not tonight, but it's only a matter of time. The end result really hasn't been in question since their kiss. Which leaves him wondering if he might get another...
"Do you have a side?" She asks, but he simply stands there blinking, trying to decide if her legs were always that long, or if his shirt is shorter than he'd thought - that does seem unlikely - or if the little minx had shrunk it, which, no, he's clearly doing her an injustice, but those creamy legs of hers appear to go on for miles... Extremely difficult to reconcile in one of her height, really, he's still trying to do the maths on that count, which - as fundamentals go - is presumably slightly more appropriate than standing there thinking about licking the alphabet. It's safer anyway.
"Of the bed?" She soon feels pressed to add to help him along.
Frankly he no longer recalls. He just shakes his head, still staring. He gives himself another shake, finally nearly freeing himself of her spell, excuses himself to the bathroom and begins his nightly ablutions with noticeably more care than usual. Just one of many things he wouldn't ordinarily feel the need to do, he stands there studiously examining the Glamour masking the scars on his neck. He certainly isn't given to sleeping with it, and yet, so strangely, he will be tonight.
Still thinking about their kiss - honestly, how could he not? - he brushes his teeth so thoroughly that in order not to embarrass himself further yet, he's forced to apply a series of Styptic Flicks, a definite first and clearly not how the Spell was intended.
He's an idiot.
There's something funny about the realisation he's nervous. It's been quite a while, too long since he'd been with someone - for fuck's sake, there was a bleeding war on - and as a matter of fact he's never had anyone back to his quarters at the school. He's always valued his privacy far too much for that. Which makes him wonder why he'd made the exception. Well he knows why he'd made the exception. Her orderly mind with all the reasons he should so tidily, so overwhelmingly presented, and just like that she'd reeled him in. And if that hadn't done it, her kiss had. Which, Merlin...
Or her willingness to risk embarrassing herself in front of everyone just to help him out of the Magical Mistletoe trap and the otherwise all too humiliating and protracted demonstration to all and sundry that the damnable thing entailed that he simply wasn't worth helping as far as anyone else was concerned. Cheers. Twelve hours he'd have stood there proving just that, and she'd chanced his potential all too public rejection to save him from it. The courage that took. And had he persisted in his idiocy and done so? Mulishly refused? Certainly within the realm of the probable. She'd have been stuck there with him just as long. All because she thought he was worth the risk... Or the way having effectively laid her cards so bravely on the table, she'd then left the decision completely up to him...
Or possibly the way she'd stubbornly championed his cause this past summer, battling alongside Minerva, Arthur, Kingsley and... yes, Potter, of all people, first helping to get him exonerated and then fighting fiercely until he'd been awarded the Order of Merlin, first class. Not that he'd wanted it at the time - nor the attendant abuse he received as a result - but it seems a good deal nicer now where it thrones on his bookshelf... And the stipend certainly hadn't hurt. He can joke all he likes, but he knows he owes his freedom to those five individuals. With his luck, it would have been a Dementor's kiss otherwise...
He shivers and then has to shake that thought off as well. Those are spectres from darker times and there are completely different kisses in his future, if he can just not make a complete hash of things - hardly a given - and if only he can stop being such a morose imbecile and claim them. He deserves a spot of happiness. Having steeled his nerve as much as is probably possible - he's frightfully out of practice at this sort of thing - he washes his face, rinses one last time and returns to the bedroom...
... to find the little witch curled up fast asleep on the bed.
He's an idiot of the first water.
She hadn't even crawled under the covers, clearly waiting for him.
He really is a first rate fool.
With a sigh, he Mobilicorpuses the woman so he can pull back the duvet beneath her, lowering her gently onto the bed and tucking her in with all the care he can muster before Noxing the sconce, circling around to the other side of the bed and then clambering in after and lying down beside her.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling he can only rudimentarily make out in the dark, he's not at all sure why he thought this would be restful. It's anything but. The witch, on the other hand, is sleeping all the more peacefully, cheers. She rolls over and seeks his warmth and tucks herself in at his side so perfectly, he could almost think she were made for the express purpose. There was something or another about creation and women and ribs; he understands now where the inspiration might have come from. Her arm curls across his chest, clinging to him in a way he knows he could come to enjoy very much. At the moment he wishes it had been preceded by some conscious decisions, but then he knows - he knows - that there's no danger of reading too much into it. He knows this is exactly what she wanted. The only reason she wasn't - consciously - acting on those impulses is she was waiting to see what he wanted beforehand.
That is... That's not simply rare, that might just be unique. He spends a very long time trying to recall when anyone has ever cared about what he wanted. Certainly not if it weren't transactional.
He isn't used to having choices... Options...
Not of course, that he thinks this is optional at this point.
He'd have to be the greatest fool... ah, but then he'd established that he was, hadn't he...
He's saved from further similarly foolish thoughts when Hermione moans in her sleep. It's faint at first and then rapidly grows louder. Soft cries of 'No!' quickly becoming screams as the witch begins thrashing, and yet still doesn't wake. He's seen things like this before. He doesn't think, he scoops her up and holds her, clutching her to his chest and soothing her as best he can. He hasn't much experience with that sort of thing and he's extremely gratified when that works, because he'd begun to question the wisdom of the move almost immediately. He's hardly a person people seek comfort from. She barely wakes, her eyes mere slits, open just enough to recognise him, whisper 'Severus', and then drop back off to sleep. He cradles her as she does, and has the strange sense that it's only possible because he does, which... Has he ever comforted someone before?
Ruefully he considers that her inability to sleep isn't as simple as issues with her new quarters, and the problem certainly isn't primarily that she has the room to herself. He knows a thing or two about being haunted. He's no stranger to nightmares either. The war left its mark on many.
Once he's certain she's fast asleep, he arranges her gently beside him again, taking care to ensure she's tucked under the covers. This time he remains there lying on his side watching her instead of the ceiling, he tells himself because she's easier to see. He's always been a fantastic liar. An arc of his hand, and he's Summoned the embers from the living room's hearth to Banish them to the fireplace behind him with a second sweep, so ingrained it's practically one movement, a single circle. He can claim it's for their residual warmth, but if it allows him to better watch her as she rests... She looks peaceful again now. That's also a reaction he isn't accustomed to. He tucks her stray lock behind her ear and moves closer, curling behind her to spoon her as she sleeps. As if sensing him, she squirms back into his chest, innocently wriggling her bum against in him in a way that ensures he won't sleep any time soon, and so perfectly curling into him as if she were made for this too. He allows his right arm to encircle her, holding her tight. He tells himself it's to ward off any more nightmares; why should he begin telling the truth now?
Her left hand is pillowing her cheek and his right seeks it, hoping to hold it as she sleeps. It's not precisely a conscious goal, but he feels the need to be closer to her still, and that seems the last available option before he feels he'd be pushing an envelope they have yet to define. He happens upon her arm first, naturally enough, and follows it upwards in search of her hand, already half anticipating the softness of her cheek. But before he can reach his destination his fingers discover something damp. Thinking at first she'd been crying in her sleep, he Summons his wand and casts a faint Lumos. What he thinks he sees by the light of it soon has him making it brighter. He could swear...
The brighter Lumos confirms his fears. His fingertips are covered in blood. A moment later he's ascertained the source, her left arm is bleeding, enough so that the sleeve of the shirt she's wearing is soaked through with it. It's far from a bloodbath, but equally it isn't trivial either. He isn't... good with blood any more - far too many very, very bad memories - but he's far from useless. A number of Imperviuses, belated, ensure Sunny won't have more work than necessary tomorrow. Cautiously pulling up the sleeve - all the more so as he doesn't wish to wake her like this - he can soon see the obscenity carved into her arm, seeping blood now as it quite obviously hadn't before. Bellatrix' work. No question. He'd heard rumours, but nothing definite, and this is the first time he's seen it himself. He wonders if he should have, if this was something she wouldn't have chosen to share, and here he's stupidly stumbled upon it... He's quite certain she hasn't asked Poppy or anyone else for help with it though. They would have consulted him after all. He's the expert.
It was done with a cursed knife if he's any judge, and sadly he is. He suspects the bleeding is tied to the nightmare, possibly exacerbated by the moon, now waxing. That's common enough. If it's this bad a good week out... The days to come won't be pleasant. Mulling it over, dependant on the curse, there's also a chance it's worse when she's happier, which... Leaves him very oddly conflicted.
And unexpectedly feeling rather... protective.
Whether he was ever meant to have seen the slur or not, having uncovered it, there's no choice but to see to her injury, and so he does. They can talk about this in the morning, they will talk about this in the morning, but for the moment, a Tergeo to clean the wounds and remove the blood, a Styptic Flick prevents further bleeding, immediately followed by Dittany which knits the scars back together, at least for the moment, and finally a bit of Pain Reliever for good measure that his fingers gently massage into her flesh. He lingers there, telling himself it's medicinal and therefore appropriate. He seems determined to lie to himself about absolutely everything tonight, doesn't he?
If her thoughts had been less explicit, he feels certain he'd be entertaining fewer unchaste thoughts of his own, although with the warmth of the witch pressed against him, that may not be true either.
But eventually her peace proves contagious. Slowly but surely, his breathing begins to match hers, his chest rising and falling in pace with her own. His eyelids start to grow heavy, and finally he nods off as well. For all it was so late before sleep claimed him and he'd had so little, this is some of the first good rest he's had outside of St. Mungo's, and there it was most likely down to a regimen of Potions and Charms. This? All natural. It has much to recommend it, much like the witch in his arms, in fact. It's incredibly strange to think he can have more of this, much, much more of this, if only he asks. It's a comforting thought of his own to fall asleep to. This could be his everyday life, if he just has the courage to claim it...
Severus wakes to the sound of voices, a thing that happens absolutely never within these walls. Sunny isn't much given to speaking to himself, at least not so the Potions Master could hear, and this is clearly a conversation. Severus' wand is in his hand before he's fully awake, which says something as that's very nearly instantaneous. At the first sign of threat, he's loaded for bear. The past several years were certainly formative.
Fortunately he has the opportunity to stow the wand without embarrassing himself further as he identifies the voices before they threaten to enter the room.
Hermione has apparently made the acquaintance of his house elf Sunny, and the two are conducting an argument of sorts in his lounge, directly in front of the door to his bedroom, cheers, which someone has so considerately left ajar. Hermione, presumably, in a failed effort not to disturb him, too right, but to be fair, in all likelihood she hadn't anticipated the elf's presence. Lovely.
"This is not for Missy," Sunny is stubbornly insisting. Severus knows that tone all too well and silently wishes the witch best of luck.
"No, it's not for me, it's from me, and I, um, wanted it back," she's clearly trying to reason with the little creature, an endeavour he expects won't be crowned with much success.
"Missy can't have it. It's for the Master," and there's the mulish tone Severus knows so well. Summoning a glass of water from the bathroom, he sits up in bed to eavesdrop on the exchange in his lounge more comfortably.
They engage in another equally fruitless round of that before Hermione tries something different.
"I was thinking we could replace it with a nice breakfast instead? Something to celebrate the day?" And right about there, Severus becomes slightly uneasy. He can practically hear the elf beaming from here. "Not, of course, that I want to put you to any trouble. Whatever they're having in the Great Hall would be fine..." Hermione tries to walk it back, but the elf is off and running.
"A meal! A special meal!" For fuck's sake, Sunny sounds absolutely gleeful. They're doomed. "Mistress wants a special meal!" And that's the moment he begins to worry about this 'Mistress' rubbish. What happened to 'Missy'? Experience shows Severus won't be able to do anything about that either. Once the elf gets something into his little head... No, he's making suggestions and listing ingredients, and Severus just wants to pull the blanket back over his head. He slips down further into the bed and settles for pulling them up to his shoulders as it's - very marginally - more dignified. Hermione, however, although clearly a bit uncomfortable with potentially inconveniencing the little elf - words fail - has no problem whatsoever engaging with his rampant enthusiasm for his task - despite the hour - and the two seem to come to a satisfactory arrangement between them, including the elf giving her whatever it was she'd wanted from him in the first place. Merlin's beard. Severus should probably be paying more attention, as that was clearly a better result and that a good deal faster than anything he's able to achieve, but the two of them are far too relentlessly cheerful, and snuggling his way under the duvet and deeper into his pillow was very obviously the better choice.
Bollocks.
The door to his bedroom swings open and Hermione bounds in and clocking his conscious state leaps onto the bed - he's quite certain that was a leap, and that's the way he'll recount it in the future, ta muchly - scrambling up his length, thankfully not crushing his gangly limbs or more sensitive body parts in the process.
Good gods, she's worse than Sunny.
That thought immediately yields to more charitable ones as she kisses him quite thoroughly, and Severus seriously debates the exceedingly obvious advantages of converting to this morning person nonsense.
Merlin.
He may have just reached for her and pulled her in for more.
And still more.
Briefly he finds himself wondering if her moratorium on sex had extended to the morning. Heavens, if she keeps this up, he just might ask.
They pause to come up for air, and he silently revises his list, Hermione in nothing but his shirtsleeves with sleep tousled hair now climbs to second place on the list of most attractive Hermiones behind the still presumptive champion, Hermione in his shirt post-sex, whom he now very decidedly wishes to meet.
"Happy Christmas, Severus," she wishes him with a markedly more gentle - and fleeting - kiss. He lies there blinking for a bit, surprised to discover he'd completely forgotten the day. The witch clearly isn't good for his cognitive faculties.
"Happy Christmas, Hermione," he wishes her back, finally recalling his manners, and sits up in bed once more, half carrying her with him as he rights himself. It makes her giggle the way he so casually shifts her, and he thinks he could become very used to the feel of her pressed against him like that. Once he's seated, she climbs off him to sit facing him right by his side, smiling at him in the warmest manner possible. He's trying to recall waking to a lovelier sight or in a nicer fashion and coming up empty. It leaves him unaccustomedly sentimental, and he regards her with a bit of wonder as he tucks one of her curls back behind her ear.
"What did you want from Sunny?" He asks, attempting to gloss over the somewhat maudlin response.
"Your present," she answers with a ready smile. "The elves apparently retrieved it from my room and delivered it last night, and I was trying to intercept it."
And just like that, all mawkishness yields to feelings of guilt. "Forgive me, Hermione. I didn't get you anything..."
Unexpectedly she greets that admission with a laugh, "And I didn't get you what I'd now like to give you. That's sort of the point." She'd gifts for all the faculty members who had gone the extra mile to allow her to complete her N.E.W.T.s early. Well, late, obviously - it should have been last year, of course - but earlier than the coming June at any rate. Except a somewhat impersonal gift of Ogden's doesn't seem quite the right note on which to begin their fledgling relationship.
She kisses him, smiling against his lips. There's clearly no resentment here. One or the other of them deepens the kiss, and soon she's clutched against him, both finally left panting, wringing for air.
Merlin.
She laughs again, and this time he finds himself joining in, he's not even sure why. Relief, possibly, that she's this unproblematic, although he's still sat there trying to come up with potential gift ideas. Fishing a little - her kisses may have put some ideas in his head - he now asks, "And what would you like to give me?"
His tone is slightly suggestive, gods she's a horrible influence, but somewhat seriously she replies, "I don't quite know yet." She takes a page from his book and tucks some of his hair behind an ear, and looking him deep in the eyes continues, "I'd like to give it some thought, if that's alright with you?"
"I certainly don't feel the need to create unnecessary stress marking the day." He never has. "At least not like that..." he adds, the suggestive note returning. She really is the worst sort of influence.
Luckily she finds it amusing and laughs again, her nose wrinkling in delight.
"Forgive me, Severus, I didn't mean to pry, but beside our Christmas presents," the 'our' earns her a raised brow, but he supposes it's only natural the elves would have brought hers here, "there also appears to be a pile of women's knickers on the dining table that I'm quite certain wasn't there last night." It does seem the sort of thing she'd have noticed...
"Ah." His lips press together tightly in what she suspects is annoyance. "Minerva will have had them unpacked to check for curses. Don't touch them," he recommends.
"It was the furthest thing from my mind," she assures him with a chuckle.
"They're from 'well-wishers'," she raises her brow at that, but then no one is sending her their underthings, or if they are, Professor McGona... Minerva must be intercepting them. "They have... strange ways of observing special occasions. It's safe to assume half are cursed," he further explains.
"I thought you said Minerva had them checked?"
"I find they rather routinely underestimate the creativity people can bring to bear on a problem when properly motivated." His lips are tight again, and Hermione is furious that this is how his years of sacrifice are repaid.
Once she thinks she has her voice sufficiently under control she asks, "And the other half?"
His lips become tighter yet, "Apparently sincere in their gifting."
"Oh."
"Hmm," he agrees. "I'll have Sunny remove them."
She considers this. If this were the standard procedure, she feels certain the elf she'd met would have seen to it already. "What do you usually do with them?" She asks with a bit of a grin.
"Check for curses, of course," she could swear there's a hint of indignation that anyone could think otherwise and her smile broadens at the visual of him carefully studying the racy garments for traces of Dark Magic. "One can learn a thing or two that way..."
"I imagine you can..." There's a faintly teasing note, but he remains serious.
"It helps to more accurately understand what you're up against."
Her smile vanishes and she takes his hand. "People are idiots. Don't spare them a second thought. They have no idea what they owe you."
"They don't owe me a thing," he objects stubbornly. "I didn't do it for them..."
"Another figure of speech," she shakes her head. "But you certainly deserve better from them than this."
She hesitates to mention it, but maybe he needs to know, and anyway, as she couldn't make rhyme nor reason of it, it seems wisest... "There were also some... old, grey men's... pants with the rest?" Yes, he can see why that might sound more like a question.
"Gryffindors," he answers, absolutely positive; she's been at the school more than long enough for that to serve as sufficient explanation, no elucidation required. When he first began teaching here upon completing his mastery, some of the seventh year students evidently still recollected his... encounter with the Marauders at the Black Lake after their O.W.L.s. In a failed attempt to put his back up, they'd taken to leaving particularly ratty, grey pants secreted in places about the castle for him to stumble across. As far as he was able to ascertain, the culprits had always been Moggies. The trick had been to act puzzled when he discovered them, and within a year it had ceased, all but forgotten as none were left in the school who had seen the inciting incident. Rather predictably, anyone they'd told refused to believe the story in light of the utter non-response on his part. He finds a degree of humour in the notion that the inclination to prank instructors meant the malefactors also weren't considered particularly trustworthy.
But it would seem they've decided to resuscitate this particular jape once word of the knicker mailings made the rounds.
How charming.
Actually, two decades on, it borders on funny they'd still recall it. Fleetingly, almost automatically, he hopes he made the responsible students' N.E.W.T. year especially hellacious.
"Almost definitely not cursed," he offers, endeavouring to be optimistic, but it was also probably true. For one thing, the senders were very unlikely to know any curses that would have made it past Minerva's team of examiners. And for another, the pants themselves were rather the point, no additional curses required. They can get stuffed, he thinks. The chances any of them have a lovely witch in their beds or an Order of Merlin - first class - on their shelves are virtually nil. It does occur to him, however, that if Hermione fails to recognise the pants' significance, then Potter hadn't put the contents of his memories about quite as thoroughly as he'd always feared. He may have done the lad an injustice...
She's beginning to understand why he'd kept such a low profile in the dungeons all term. She squeezes his hand supportively, and there's a great deal of affection in her look. Drinking it in, he's soon forgotten the unwanted gifts, and by the time they emerge from the bedroom, Sunny will indeed have removed them to his office, just in case he still feels the need to examine them. The elf sort of hopes this time the Potions Master might be able to let it go.
There's the sound of an elfen throat clearing at the door. Sunny stands there in his black robes, like some miniature, pointy-eared version of the Potions Master in his finest, with two ridiculously overladen trays, quietly demanding their attention. The elf is too obvious, really. There was no earthly reason he couldn't have left those trays suspended somewhere and gone about his business.
"Thank you, Sunny," Severus acknowledges, welcoming him in, and the elf progresses slowly into the room with the trays having clearly decided they're to breakfast in bed. Hmm. Severus didn't used to partake of meals in his bed. He generally ate at his desk, eschewing his dining table as too absurd when dining alone. As he always dined alone when dining in quarters here, it went essentially unused. He had it because he'd thought he should when he'd occupied the flat seventeen years prior, and as it helped make sense of the open-plan space, he'd kept it. Taking his meals in bed was a fairly new development, something that had come with the increasingly frequent Infirmary stays the last several years had dictated. He tended not to continue doing so when he needn't, the connotations not entirely pleasant, but it was no longer as utterly foreign as it had once been.
But this... doing so in company, this is a novelty.
Hermione crawls up next to him and he pulls the blankets aside meaning to make more room for the tray. She's grinning at him almost as broadly as the house elf, quite pleased to have arranged this, when she suddenly spots the bloodstain on his chest. "Severus, what happened??" As everyone, much to his annoyance, is all too aware of the extent of the abuse he'd suffered in the not so distant past, she apparently seems to think one of his old wounds could be seeping rather like her scars. He breaks it to her reluctantly, indicating the stained sleeve of her left arm. She has to lift the arm and rotate it slightly outwards in order to see it.
"Holy cricket!" she cries, in what would be an endearing fashion were the reason for it less sad. "I forgot the Impervius!" And that was a wail again. Before she can launch into the slew of apologies he now is almost certain will follow, he waves it off.
"It's of no consequence, Hermione. And Sunny is quite good with blood. He has practice," he shrugs.
The witch looks appalled, "Severus, that's... not... comforting."
Hmm, yes, when she puts it that way, as someone rather confusingly invested in his wellbeing, he can perhaps see how it's not. "Ah, well then conceivably it would be more so if I said he'll welcome the opportunity so as not to become rusty," he smiles a mite sheepishly for the gaffe.
Sunny, taking the most theatrically extreme pains to arrange their trays - how unusually slow he is this morning - quietly and furiously nods his agreement, clearly struggling not to join in with a rush of reassurances of his own. If he bites his lip any harder, there will soon be more blood yet.
"That's... yes, that's better," as it implies he hadn't had use of it lately, she returns the smile, although she's still nervously glancing at the bedding, trying to assess the extent of the damage her arm had caused.
"Well, that's settled then. Believe me, he'll probably find it a better Christmas gift than my own." The elf has the decency to look a mite guilty at that, but he's undeniably eyeing the bloodstained bedclothes with some enthusiasm. Severus, unperturbed by both the situation and elf's reaction, withdraws a small package from his night table and presents it with a "Happy Christmas, Sunny." It's greeted with a flood of 'thank you, Master's and 'Sir is too kind's.
The house elf unpacks it immediately and proudly extends a shiny object of deepest black nestled on a jeweller's cushion of emerald green velvet for Hermione to see. When she doesn't seem to immediately appreciate the small disc properly - humans, but his jumbled exclamations do little for clarification - he holds it up to his chest and she realises it's another button.
"Jet," Severus supplies.
"Aha," Hermione doesn't quite follow.
Amidst a final flurry of 'thank you's the elf vanishes, and Hermione is left looking a little blankly after him.
"A button?" she asks failing to understand how that gave rise to this level of excitement. But then elves are confusing creatures.
"For his robes."
"Well, yes, but..."
"Jet isn't common anymore, and he values it."
"Clearly," she agrees with a soft laugh.
"It's hand-carved..." Severus stretches languidly and yawns. With an intricately detailed ninety degree arc, she'd noticed. Unusual, but she can't quite appreciate its significance either.
"I imagine the carving makes it even more special..." she leads, waiting for the explanation to follow.
"While he undoubtedly appreciates the artistry, it's more relevant that it depicts a quarter of a serpent's curve." She shakes her head, still not understanding. "He gets one every year, and every year it changes the design of the buttons on his robes taken as a whole. He'll spend a little time deciding how to rearrange them, and then remove them all, and then reattach them in the new order, having to mend the old buttonholes and create an entirely new set while he's about it."
She looks horrified at the very idea. It's practically monstrous.
He laughs, "I think you fundamentally fail to understand house elves. I believe the gift itself matters virtually not at all. This will keep him sensibly occupied for quite some time, that's easily half the present right there. The other being the physical proof that someone thought of him and found him deserving of some token of acknowledgment, and that I don't hesitate to have it clearly recognisable whom he serves." Not that that wasn't obvious at a glance, the elf in his diminutive Potions Master robes, but she still looks a bit confused. "No one who is unsatisfied with an elf's service would ever permit them to wear a family crest, say." She immediately recalls Dobby's shabby state, and it makes more sense. "The jet, the craftsmanship, the added ornamentation for his uniform, they're simply bonuses."
"That's very kind of you," she tells him sincerely, which only succeeds in embarrassing him. As long as he'd merely been explaining elves to her, it had been nothing more than a sort of lesson, now it all feels too much like a boast.
"He deserves it," Severus replies in something of a grumble. She wishes that he wouldn't respond this way to praise. It probably can't be helped in the short term, but she means to see it doesn't remain this way.
"Anyway," Severus continues, intent on downplaying the decency of his gesture, "he's probably just as happy with the bloodstained sheets. They'll likewise keep him busy and tacitly acknowledge his nearly unsurpassed laundering skills." The elf had rather looked like all his Christmasses had come at once.
Hermione, however, looks decidedly less so, and, blushing, is back to examining the streaks on his chest, the sleeve of the shirt she's wearing, the duvet and the sheets almost as if on a scheduled rotation. She glances at one and proceeds to the next, looking increasingly uncomfortable by the moment. Brilliant.
He's an arse.
"We should take a look at your arm," he starts gently, and she only pinks further. "Hermione, please stop, the stains don't matter." He takes her hand and begins softly playing with her fingers. She finds the gesture reaffirming. "If Sunny truly were incapable of removing them, something I don't believe for an instant, then we would simply Transfigure the clothing, or Glamour it, or we could Conjure new things outright.
"What matters here is your arm. It needs treatment." She's avoiding his gaze awkwardly, but she hasn't withdrawn her hand. If he was using that to help gauge how she's doing with the clearly unwelcome topic, well, he's efficient that way.
"I'm sorry, I saw it briefly last night while trying to determine what was wrong. I wasn't trying to... I don't want to..." He changes course, "Would you mind, terribly, showing it to me so I can examine it better? Now that it's light?" And if that allows her to tell herself he hadn't been able to see it properly last night if she'd rather that were the case, it should be her right.
Silently she rolls up the sleeve of his shirt and extends her arm for him to see, her head resolutely turned away from the sight.
"Impervius keeps it from making a mess," she finally replies, visibly subdued. She'd Imperviused all her things long ago such that she hadn't realised just how much of a mess the scars were inclined to make. "A Tergeo, a general-purpose Healing Charm, and Dittany do for the rest." He nods, her approach to treatment was much like his own. "Blood Replenisher every now and again as required." That alone was reason enough to treat the damn thing, silly woman, but he just shakes his head.
"The Healing Charm won't do much for you the Dittany doesn't, unfortunately. I'd like to try a Vulnera Sanetur when it next opens, I believe that in all likelihood that will necessitate waking you, however, which in the midst of..."
She begins to smile as he speaks. It's clearly shy, there's all manner of hesitancy there, but it's a smile nevertheless. "I believe that would necessitate me sleeping in your presence?" It's something of a question.
"Ah. I took that for a given..." He replies simply, as if somehow that's become the most natural thing in the world. It really rather has. She nibbles her lip considering it and finally starts looking more and more her generally optimistic self. He's pleased to see its return.
"I'm not having sex with you tonight," she cheerily informs him.
"Ah. Yes. No. Of course not," he chuckles, retaking her hand and interlacing his fingers with hers. "I wouldn't have expected anything else." He lifts her hand and gives it a soft kiss before suggesting they see to their breakfast. Stasis Charms have kept it perfectly warm. Sunny is a treasure.
"There's a chance the scar tissue contains Ichor Malus, and that's what's keeping it from healing properly, we'll have to experiment to see. If the Vulnera Sanetur proves insufficient, I have means for extracting the Ichor..." And so they begin planning their treatment programme for the coming days as they enjoy a leisurely Christmas brunch in Severus' quite marvellous bed, and as both reflect on it later, they'd have to agree it had been their single best holiday to date.
And fortunately, it's just the first of many.
Portrait of Sunny in his work robes provided by the ever wonderfulmywitch. ❤️
The story is mirrored on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
Other works by gingerbred can be found on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
ADDITIONAL STAND ALONE ONE SHOTS PLANNED FOR THIS UNIVERSE.
Just a bit of fluff.
Another of my 'Drabble' fails 😉, written with oodles of love for
erexen. ❤️ Happy Birthday, hun! 🎂🥳🎉🎁 Hope it's a good one. ❤️😘Originally Published: 2021-04-27 on LJ / DW
Chapter: 2 / 2
Words: 8.4 k, story complete
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Characters: Severus Snape (Potions Master, Head of Slytherin, Deputy Headmaster), Hermione Granger (Transfiguration Apprentice), Sunny (Severus' loyal little House Elf), Mentioned: Ron Weasley (8G, Least Said...), Minerva McGonagall (Headmistress), Arthur Weasley (Acting Leader of the Order of the Phoenix), Kingsley Shacklebolt (Minister of Magic), Harry Potter (8G)
THIS STORY HAS TWO CHAPTERS.
THIS IS THE SECOND CHAPTER.
SCROLL DOWN AND READ THE OTHER PART FIRST. (LJ / DW)
Friday, 25 December, 1998.
Some time later, long enough for the flames to have nearly burnt themselves out, Hermione wakes, groggy, momentarily confused by her surroundings and position, only to discover her firm pillow is the unyielding chest of the Potions Master of her dreams - quietly and unperturbedly reading a book in the darkened room by the light of a Lumos cast by his suspended wand, which only serves to make him impossibly dreamier - and she'd apparently fallen asleep on him. Literally. Another book closed by his other side on the couch soon has her wondering just how long she was out. With these realisations come a few more, and rapidly mortification sets in, the worry he'll be offended - how could he not be? - she hasn't the faintest idea how to apologise sufficiently for this. How rude. Still trying to formulate something, however inadequate, one hand shoots up to her mouth to check for telltale traces of drool, it would just figure, as her eyes scan his chest for the same, holy cricket.
Her thoughts all too clear, Severus watches her with some amusement, not that anyone else could tell, of course. Her evident embarrassment, the momentary flicker of relief at finding nothing, seeing it almost immediately crushed by the obvious guilt, firstly, he believes, for having felt that relief, and secondly and more overwhelmingly - surely that would be the moment her eyes widened - for having nodded off in the first place... It all proves rather diverting.
"I'm glad you enjoyed the story of my adventures in the Fnords," he drawls, silently brightening the Lumos, and her mortification increases with the surety she's completely ruined her chances here.
"Oh, Severus, I am so sorry, not at all, I just..." she flounders as he watches her impassively, his face as stoic as ever. "I am so sorry..." she wails more than a touch plaintively, growing a little desperate with her inability to convey how much she regrets dozing off.
He manages to suppress a smirk. "You were clearly exhausted, Hermione." His tone is gentle and sounds so forgiving and she begins to hope, and with that hope relaxes enough to notice a few things more, like how at some point he'd apparently moved his arm so she rested tucked in against his side. Doubtlessly the limb was falling asleep beneath her weight... That arm is presently lying across the back of the couch behind her, and while she's disappointed he hadn't taken the opportunity to hold her - she tries not to read anything into that - she's relieved to see he isn't removing it now that she's awake. She struggles to shove her wild mop of hair out of her face - it never, but never behaves as she'd like - and snaking his free hand around from behind her, Severus corrals some of the unrulier strands and tucks them behind her ear. She smiles at him so beatifically in thanks, her desperation from a moment before all but forgotten... It's touching, really, how little that takes.
"I imagine the adrenaline rush battling the Whiz-bangs earlier exhausted your reserves," he generously provides her with a reasonably valid excuse. She can't help thinking kissing him for the first time was an even bigger adrenaline rush. Fittingly, she blushes, and he believes he can follow her thoughts. They're rather nice. "Don't fret, Hermione," he reassures her, closing his book with a snap and laying it to the other. "You obviously needed the rest." The fingers of his left hand again shift more of the hair from her face, and for a moment she can't decide if she wants to nuzzle into them or his chest to her right. That too appeals to him. Not having wanted to take advantage of a sleeping witch, he now finally allows his arm to rest on her shoulders, the way she beams up at him when he does so... Merlin. Not that her reaction should have been in any question, obviously, after all the Legilimency earlier in the evening had revealed of her thoughts and feelings about him, quite, but it's very different to see the reaction in person, as it were.
"It's the first good sleep I've had in days," she admits, stifling a yawn. From the way she'd slept, he'd suspected as much. "I think after all the years of constantly having people around me, I'm having some difficulty settling into my new room." Naturally she'd been assigned quarters of her own when she graduated and entered the apprenticeship programme. He's used to the isolation, but he can see where it might be challenging for some.
"Do you think you're awake enough that I should light the sconces, or are you going to go back to sleep?" There's no reproach there. It seems to be a genuine offer... Of sorts.
She hesitates a moment and then asks, "Would it be too much of an imposition... Would you mind letting me stay the night here with you?"
He looks at her, considering, trying to anticipate his response to having his privacy further encroached upon while weighing the potential cost of a refusal. As curmudgeonly as he's wont to be - exceedingly - he can't help thinking about some of the things the witch had envisioned in what she'd deemed their impossible future together. Disturbingly they've begun to worm their way under his skin and take root, and he finds himself growing increasingly curious about what it would, what it could be like... If he just said 'yes'.
"So to be clear," he snarks, "I'm to be your ersatz Miss Brown." It's the quirked eyebrow that does it. She laughs.
"Oh yes, absolutely. I look at you and the first thing I think of is Lavender," she laughs some more, reaching across his lap and taking his free hand in hers and squeezing it. He finds himself smiling in return and squeezing back. Funnily enough, he can't recall seeing the erstwhile roommate in question in Hermione's thoughts once when Minerva had forced him to look earlier. No, what he'd seen had held a great deal more appeal.
And so he comes to a decision. "Will you need me to give you something to sleep in?"
Brightening, she replies immediately, "If you wouldn't mind?" with only the briefest of guilty looks towards her beaded bag which naturally still contains everything she'd require for a year's journey and then some. Eventually he'll come to realise what she carries in that bag of hers, and that she'd no need of his shirt, she'd simply wanted it, but by then things will be sufficiently advanced between them that he'll find the thought touching.
Severus rises, lighting only a single sconce as he does so, dousing his Lumos and stowing his wand in its sheath as he crosses towards the furthest door on the left and enters the room beyond. She takes the low lighting as an indication that he means to retire as well. He doesn't need long to select the softest of his shirts for her. On consideration, he applies a charm rendering it softer yet. Sunny is virtuoso with starch and Pressing Spells, but presumably those aren't the qualities one seeks in a nightshirt.
Hermione battles with herself only briefly, trying to decide if it's too much of a liberty to take a look at what must undoubtedly be his bedroom unasked. On the other hand, she suspects the bathroom is located off the room, so perhaps it isn't too great a presumption either. She follows him to the doorway where she remains, a little shyly awaiting an invitation, almost like the vampires of lore. Not quite expecting to see her there, framed in the entry, softly lit by flickering flames, he stands there by his wardrobe for a moment regarding her, still trying to decide what they're doing here. This isn't remotely how he'd expected his day to end.
"May I join you, or would you prefer I sleep on the couch?" She asks when he doesn't say anything.
"That wouldn't be very gracious of me, leaving you to the couch," he replies, but it isn't quite the answer she's looking for.
"Would you object to keeping me company in your bed then?" She's not some little girl who doesn't know what she wants. She's spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating every eventuality. The only thing she isn't sure about is what he wants.
"I thought you weren't going to sleep with me tonight?" He's not teasing her. He doesn't even seem to be fishing... much. Despite having had such an embarrassing insight into everything she believes to know and feels about him - a considerable advantage by any measure, she'd think - he doesn't seem much more sure about how to proceed here than she does.
"A careless euphemism," she waves the objection away in mock imperiousness, the twinkling of her eyes more than giving it away were he unsure. "Allow me to correct it: I won't be having sex with you. Tonight. I would however very much like to sleep with you. If you wouldn't mind that is."
He leaves her waiting another beat or two as he makes up his mind, for all her outward composure, her stomach doing gymnastics in the interval. "I suppose I may as well get used to it..." he drawls, finally teasing, and she rewards him with the biggest of smiles. It had been a foregone conclusion from the moment he'd returned her kiss, really, and that so publicly. If he hadn't meant to pursue this, he shouldn't have done so, and certainly not made such a display of it, but she'd been so bloody tempting, and with her thoughts still swirling so freshly in his mind... For one thing, he's now genuinely interested in seeing what could come of it, and for another, at this point his pride would scarcely allow him not to at least make an honest attempt of it. Which isn't to say he was above bottling things even at this stage... And he strongly suspects his natural caution, his sense of propriety, his thrice damned reserve is all too likely to do so.
"I think you should, yes," she answers as confidently as possible as she walks into his room, the slight skip of happiness to her step belying the cool she attempts to project. For someone who couldn't have known he'd have company this evening it's remarkably tidy. The room is warm and light and quite to her liking, a hearth to her left, a wardrobe to her right, and a magnificent bed holds pride of place, nestled between two night tables in its centre. Her smile is once again a bit shy as she takes the proffered shirt from him, asking, "The bathroom, I take it, is through there?" indicating the only other door in the room, beside the intricately ornamented wardrobe.
He nods. "Do you need anything else? Shall I have an elf fetch something for you?"
Again she looks at her bag, this time shaking her head, "I think I have what I need in here."
"Do you usually carry your toothbrush with you every where you go, or had you plans for the evening?" He asks, teasing once more, deeming it highly unlikely the offspring of two dentists hadn't accepted his offer of a toothbrush otherwise.
"Almost everything else in here," she hefts the bag in illustration and gross understatement, "is something of a carryover from last year when we were on the run, but yes, I may have made a habit of taking my toothbrush with me most places." Her smile is bittersweet at the thought of her parents.
By the time she emerges from the bathroom, he's in his pyjamas. Or at least, his pyjama bottoms. She gets the sense the undershirt he's wearing isn't usually part of the ensemble, it's white in stark contrast to the trouser's black. She assumes he's wearing the top for her benefit, more's the pity.
He stands there staring at her a bit dumbly. If he had thought her attractive before - and he had, hang it, or they wouldn't be stood here together in his bedroom now - seeing the witch in nothing but his shirt makes her unimaginably more so. It's hard to picture her any more attractive, in fact, and then, unbidden, his traitorous brain supplies just such circumstances: with her hair freshly tousled post-sex. He decides his brain is not helping matters here and begins to list potions ingredients. The tone of his reaction doesn't escape Hermione who smiling one of her magnificent smiles and with a slight saunter he could swear she hadn't displayed before prowls towards the bed. No, he's done for. Perhaps not tonight, but it's only a matter of time. The end result really hasn't been in question since their kiss. Which leaves him wondering if he might get another...
"Do you have a side?" She asks, but he simply stands there blinking, trying to decide if her legs were always that long, or if his shirt is shorter than he'd thought - that does seem unlikely - or if the little minx had shrunk it, which, no, he's clearly doing her an injustice, but those creamy legs of hers appear to go on for miles... Extremely difficult to reconcile in one of her height, really, he's still trying to do the maths on that count, which - as fundamentals go - is presumably slightly more appropriate than standing there thinking about licking the alphabet. It's safer anyway.
"Of the bed?" She soon feels pressed to add to help him along.
Frankly he no longer recalls. He just shakes his head, still staring. He gives himself another shake, finally nearly freeing himself of her spell, excuses himself to the bathroom and begins his nightly ablutions with noticeably more care than usual. Just one of many things he wouldn't ordinarily feel the need to do, he stands there studiously examining the Glamour masking the scars on his neck. He certainly isn't given to sleeping with it, and yet, so strangely, he will be tonight.
Still thinking about their kiss - honestly, how could he not? - he brushes his teeth so thoroughly that in order not to embarrass himself further yet, he's forced to apply a series of Styptic Flicks, a definite first and clearly not how the Spell was intended.
He's an idiot.
There's something funny about the realisation he's nervous. It's been quite a while, too long since he'd been with someone - for fuck's sake, there was a bleeding war on - and as a matter of fact he's never had anyone back to his quarters at the school. He's always valued his privacy far too much for that. Which makes him wonder why he'd made the exception. Well he knows why he'd made the exception. Her orderly mind with all the reasons he should so tidily, so overwhelmingly presented, and just like that she'd reeled him in. And if that hadn't done it, her kiss had. Which, Merlin...
Or her willingness to risk embarrassing herself in front of everyone just to help him out of the Magical Mistletoe trap and the otherwise all too humiliating and protracted demonstration to all and sundry that the damnable thing entailed that he simply wasn't worth helping as far as anyone else was concerned. Cheers. Twelve hours he'd have stood there proving just that, and she'd chanced his potential all too public rejection to save him from it. The courage that took. And had he persisted in his idiocy and done so? Mulishly refused? Certainly within the realm of the probable. She'd have been stuck there with him just as long. All because she thought he was worth the risk... Or the way having effectively laid her cards so bravely on the table, she'd then left the decision completely up to him...
Or possibly the way she'd stubbornly championed his cause this past summer, battling alongside Minerva, Arthur, Kingsley and... yes, Potter, of all people, first helping to get him exonerated and then fighting fiercely until he'd been awarded the Order of Merlin, first class. Not that he'd wanted it at the time - nor the attendant abuse he received as a result - but it seems a good deal nicer now where it thrones on his bookshelf... And the stipend certainly hadn't hurt. He can joke all he likes, but he knows he owes his freedom to those five individuals. With his luck, it would have been a Dementor's kiss otherwise...
He shivers and then has to shake that thought off as well. Those are spectres from darker times and there are completely different kisses in his future, if he can just not make a complete hash of things - hardly a given - and if only he can stop being such a morose imbecile and claim them. He deserves a spot of happiness. Having steeled his nerve as much as is probably possible - he's frightfully out of practice at this sort of thing - he washes his face, rinses one last time and returns to the bedroom...
... to find the little witch curled up fast asleep on the bed.
He's an idiot of the first water.
She hadn't even crawled under the covers, clearly waiting for him.
He really is a first rate fool.
With a sigh, he Mobilicorpuses the woman so he can pull back the duvet beneath her, lowering her gently onto the bed and tucking her in with all the care he can muster before Noxing the sconce, circling around to the other side of the bed and then clambering in after and lying down beside her.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling he can only rudimentarily make out in the dark, he's not at all sure why he thought this would be restful. It's anything but. The witch, on the other hand, is sleeping all the more peacefully, cheers. She rolls over and seeks his warmth and tucks herself in at his side so perfectly, he could almost think she were made for the express purpose. There was something or another about creation and women and ribs; he understands now where the inspiration might have come from. Her arm curls across his chest, clinging to him in a way he knows he could come to enjoy very much. At the moment he wishes it had been preceded by some conscious decisions, but then he knows - he knows - that there's no danger of reading too much into it. He knows this is exactly what she wanted. The only reason she wasn't - consciously - acting on those impulses is she was waiting to see what he wanted beforehand.
That is... That's not simply rare, that might just be unique. He spends a very long time trying to recall when anyone has ever cared about what he wanted. Certainly not if it weren't transactional.
He isn't used to having choices... Options...
Not of course, that he thinks this is optional at this point.
He'd have to be the greatest fool... ah, but then he'd established that he was, hadn't he...
He's saved from further similarly foolish thoughts when Hermione moans in her sleep. It's faint at first and then rapidly grows louder. Soft cries of 'No!' quickly becoming screams as the witch begins thrashing, and yet still doesn't wake. He's seen things like this before. He doesn't think, he scoops her up and holds her, clutching her to his chest and soothing her as best he can. He hasn't much experience with that sort of thing and he's extremely gratified when that works, because he'd begun to question the wisdom of the move almost immediately. He's hardly a person people seek comfort from. She barely wakes, her eyes mere slits, open just enough to recognise him, whisper 'Severus', and then drop back off to sleep. He cradles her as she does, and has the strange sense that it's only possible because he does, which... Has he ever comforted someone before?
Ruefully he considers that her inability to sleep isn't as simple as issues with her new quarters, and the problem certainly isn't primarily that she has the room to herself. He knows a thing or two about being haunted. He's no stranger to nightmares either. The war left its mark on many.
Once he's certain she's fast asleep, he arranges her gently beside him again, taking care to ensure she's tucked under the covers. This time he remains there lying on his side watching her instead of the ceiling, he tells himself because she's easier to see. He's always been a fantastic liar. An arc of his hand, and he's Summoned the embers from the living room's hearth to Banish them to the fireplace behind him with a second sweep, so ingrained it's practically one movement, a single circle. He can claim it's for their residual warmth, but if it allows him to better watch her as she rests... She looks peaceful again now. That's also a reaction he isn't accustomed to. He tucks her stray lock behind her ear and moves closer, curling behind her to spoon her as she sleeps. As if sensing him, she squirms back into his chest, innocently wriggling her bum against in him in a way that ensures he won't sleep any time soon, and so perfectly curling into him as if she were made for this too. He allows his right arm to encircle her, holding her tight. He tells himself it's to ward off any more nightmares; why should he begin telling the truth now?
Her left hand is pillowing her cheek and his right seeks it, hoping to hold it as she sleeps. It's not precisely a conscious goal, but he feels the need to be closer to her still, and that seems the last available option before he feels he'd be pushing an envelope they have yet to define. He happens upon her arm first, naturally enough, and follows it upwards in search of her hand, already half anticipating the softness of her cheek. But before he can reach his destination his fingers discover something damp. Thinking at first she'd been crying in her sleep, he Summons his wand and casts a faint Lumos. What he thinks he sees by the light of it soon has him making it brighter. He could swear...
The brighter Lumos confirms his fears. His fingertips are covered in blood. A moment later he's ascertained the source, her left arm is bleeding, enough so that the sleeve of the shirt she's wearing is soaked through with it. It's far from a bloodbath, but equally it isn't trivial either. He isn't... good with blood any more - far too many very, very bad memories - but he's far from useless. A number of Imperviuses, belated, ensure Sunny won't have more work than necessary tomorrow. Cautiously pulling up the sleeve - all the more so as he doesn't wish to wake her like this - he can soon see the obscenity carved into her arm, seeping blood now as it quite obviously hadn't before. Bellatrix' work. No question. He'd heard rumours, but nothing definite, and this is the first time he's seen it himself. He wonders if he should have, if this was something she wouldn't have chosen to share, and here he's stupidly stumbled upon it... He's quite certain she hasn't asked Poppy or anyone else for help with it though. They would have consulted him after all. He's the expert.
It was done with a cursed knife if he's any judge, and sadly he is. He suspects the bleeding is tied to the nightmare, possibly exacerbated by the moon, now waxing. That's common enough. If it's this bad a good week out... The days to come won't be pleasant. Mulling it over, dependant on the curse, there's also a chance it's worse when she's happier, which... Leaves him very oddly conflicted.
And unexpectedly feeling rather... protective.
Whether he was ever meant to have seen the slur or not, having uncovered it, there's no choice but to see to her injury, and so he does. They can talk about this in the morning, they will talk about this in the morning, but for the moment, a Tergeo to clean the wounds and remove the blood, a Styptic Flick prevents further bleeding, immediately followed by Dittany which knits the scars back together, at least for the moment, and finally a bit of Pain Reliever for good measure that his fingers gently massage into her flesh. He lingers there, telling himself it's medicinal and therefore appropriate. He seems determined to lie to himself about absolutely everything tonight, doesn't he?
If her thoughts had been less explicit, he feels certain he'd be entertaining fewer unchaste thoughts of his own, although with the warmth of the witch pressed against him, that may not be true either.
But eventually her peace proves contagious. Slowly but surely, his breathing begins to match hers, his chest rising and falling in pace with her own. His eyelids start to grow heavy, and finally he nods off as well. For all it was so late before sleep claimed him and he'd had so little, this is some of the first good rest he's had outside of St. Mungo's, and there it was most likely down to a regimen of Potions and Charms. This? All natural. It has much to recommend it, much like the witch in his arms, in fact. It's incredibly strange to think he can have more of this, much, much more of this, if only he asks. It's a comforting thought of his own to fall asleep to. This could be his everyday life, if he just has the courage to claim it...
Severus wakes to the sound of voices, a thing that happens absolutely never within these walls. Sunny isn't much given to speaking to himself, at least not so the Potions Master could hear, and this is clearly a conversation. Severus' wand is in his hand before he's fully awake, which says something as that's very nearly instantaneous. At the first sign of threat, he's loaded for bear. The past several years were certainly formative.
Fortunately he has the opportunity to stow the wand without embarrassing himself further as he identifies the voices before they threaten to enter the room.
Hermione has apparently made the acquaintance of his house elf Sunny, and the two are conducting an argument of sorts in his lounge, directly in front of the door to his bedroom, cheers, which someone has so considerately left ajar. Hermione, presumably, in a failed effort not to disturb him, too right, but to be fair, in all likelihood she hadn't anticipated the elf's presence. Lovely.
"This is not for Missy," Sunny is stubbornly insisting. Severus knows that tone all too well and silently wishes the witch best of luck.
"No, it's not for me, it's from me, and I, um, wanted it back," she's clearly trying to reason with the little creature, an endeavour he expects won't be crowned with much success.
"Missy can't have it. It's for the Master," and there's the mulish tone Severus knows so well. Summoning a glass of water from the bathroom, he sits up in bed to eavesdrop on the exchange in his lounge more comfortably.
They engage in another equally fruitless round of that before Hermione tries something different.
"I was thinking we could replace it with a nice breakfast instead? Something to celebrate the day?" And right about there, Severus becomes slightly uneasy. He can practically hear the elf beaming from here. "Not, of course, that I want to put you to any trouble. Whatever they're having in the Great Hall would be fine..." Hermione tries to walk it back, but the elf is off and running.
"A meal! A special meal!" For fuck's sake, Sunny sounds absolutely gleeful. They're doomed. "Mistress wants a special meal!" And that's the moment he begins to worry about this 'Mistress' rubbish. What happened to 'Missy'? Experience shows Severus won't be able to do anything about that either. Once the elf gets something into his little head... No, he's making suggestions and listing ingredients, and Severus just wants to pull the blanket back over his head. He slips down further into the bed and settles for pulling them up to his shoulders as it's - very marginally - more dignified. Hermione, however, although clearly a bit uncomfortable with potentially inconveniencing the little elf - words fail - has no problem whatsoever engaging with his rampant enthusiasm for his task - despite the hour - and the two seem to come to a satisfactory arrangement between them, including the elf giving her whatever it was she'd wanted from him in the first place. Merlin's beard. Severus should probably be paying more attention, as that was clearly a better result and that a good deal faster than anything he's able to achieve, but the two of them are far too relentlessly cheerful, and snuggling his way under the duvet and deeper into his pillow was very obviously the better choice.
Bollocks.
The door to his bedroom swings open and Hermione bounds in and clocking his conscious state leaps onto the bed - he's quite certain that was a leap, and that's the way he'll recount it in the future, ta muchly - scrambling up his length, thankfully not crushing his gangly limbs or more sensitive body parts in the process.
Good gods, she's worse than Sunny.
That thought immediately yields to more charitable ones as she kisses him quite thoroughly, and Severus seriously debates the exceedingly obvious advantages of converting to this morning person nonsense.
Merlin.
He may have just reached for her and pulled her in for more.
And still more.
Briefly he finds himself wondering if her moratorium on sex had extended to the morning. Heavens, if she keeps this up, he just might ask.
They pause to come up for air, and he silently revises his list, Hermione in nothing but his shirtsleeves with sleep tousled hair now climbs to second place on the list of most attractive Hermiones behind the still presumptive champion, Hermione in his shirt post-sex, whom he now very decidedly wishes to meet.
"Happy Christmas, Severus," she wishes him with a markedly more gentle - and fleeting - kiss. He lies there blinking for a bit, surprised to discover he'd completely forgotten the day. The witch clearly isn't good for his cognitive faculties.
"Happy Christmas, Hermione," he wishes her back, finally recalling his manners, and sits up in bed once more, half carrying her with him as he rights himself. It makes her giggle the way he so casually shifts her, and he thinks he could become very used to the feel of her pressed against him like that. Once he's seated, she climbs off him to sit facing him right by his side, smiling at him in the warmest manner possible. He's trying to recall waking to a lovelier sight or in a nicer fashion and coming up empty. It leaves him unaccustomedly sentimental, and he regards her with a bit of wonder as he tucks one of her curls back behind her ear.
"What did you want from Sunny?" He asks, attempting to gloss over the somewhat maudlin response.
"Your present," she answers with a ready smile. "The elves apparently retrieved it from my room and delivered it last night, and I was trying to intercept it."
And just like that, all mawkishness yields to feelings of guilt. "Forgive me, Hermione. I didn't get you anything..."
Unexpectedly she greets that admission with a laugh, "And I didn't get you what I'd now like to give you. That's sort of the point." She'd gifts for all the faculty members who had gone the extra mile to allow her to complete her N.E.W.T.s early. Well, late, obviously - it should have been last year, of course - but earlier than the coming June at any rate. Except a somewhat impersonal gift of Ogden's doesn't seem quite the right note on which to begin their fledgling relationship.
She kisses him, smiling against his lips. There's clearly no resentment here. One or the other of them deepens the kiss, and soon she's clutched against him, both finally left panting, wringing for air.
Merlin.
She laughs again, and this time he finds himself joining in, he's not even sure why. Relief, possibly, that she's this unproblematic, although he's still sat there trying to come up with potential gift ideas. Fishing a little - her kisses may have put some ideas in his head - he now asks, "And what would you like to give me?"
His tone is slightly suggestive, gods she's a horrible influence, but somewhat seriously she replies, "I don't quite know yet." She takes a page from his book and tucks some of his hair behind an ear, and looking him deep in the eyes continues, "I'd like to give it some thought, if that's alright with you?"
"I certainly don't feel the need to create unnecessary stress marking the day." He never has. "At least not like that..." he adds, the suggestive note returning. She really is the worst sort of influence.
Luckily she finds it amusing and laughs again, her nose wrinkling in delight.
"Forgive me, Severus, I didn't mean to pry, but beside our Christmas presents," the 'our' earns her a raised brow, but he supposes it's only natural the elves would have brought hers here, "there also appears to be a pile of women's knickers on the dining table that I'm quite certain wasn't there last night." It does seem the sort of thing she'd have noticed...
"Ah." His lips press together tightly in what she suspects is annoyance. "Minerva will have had them unpacked to check for curses. Don't touch them," he recommends.
"It was the furthest thing from my mind," she assures him with a chuckle.
"They're from 'well-wishers'," she raises her brow at that, but then no one is sending her their underthings, or if they are, Professor McGona... Minerva must be intercepting them. "They have... strange ways of observing special occasions. It's safe to assume half are cursed," he further explains.
"I thought you said Minerva had them checked?"
"I find they rather routinely underestimate the creativity people can bring to bear on a problem when properly motivated." His lips are tight again, and Hermione is furious that this is how his years of sacrifice are repaid.
Once she thinks she has her voice sufficiently under control she asks, "And the other half?"
His lips become tighter yet, "Apparently sincere in their gifting."
"Oh."
"Hmm," he agrees. "I'll have Sunny remove them."
She considers this. If this were the standard procedure, she feels certain the elf she'd met would have seen to it already. "What do you usually do with them?" She asks with a bit of a grin.
"Check for curses, of course," she could swear there's a hint of indignation that anyone could think otherwise and her smile broadens at the visual of him carefully studying the racy garments for traces of Dark Magic. "One can learn a thing or two that way..."
"I imagine you can..." There's a faintly teasing note, but he remains serious.
"It helps to more accurately understand what you're up against."
Her smile vanishes and she takes his hand. "People are idiots. Don't spare them a second thought. They have no idea what they owe you."
"They don't owe me a thing," he objects stubbornly. "I didn't do it for them..."
"Another figure of speech," she shakes her head. "But you certainly deserve better from them than this."
She hesitates to mention it, but maybe he needs to know, and anyway, as she couldn't make rhyme nor reason of it, it seems wisest... "There were also some... old, grey men's... pants with the rest?" Yes, he can see why that might sound more like a question.
"Gryffindors," he answers, absolutely positive; she's been at the school more than long enough for that to serve as sufficient explanation, no elucidation required. When he first began teaching here upon completing his mastery, some of the seventh year students evidently still recollected his... encounter with the Marauders at the Black Lake after their O.W.L.s. In a failed attempt to put his back up, they'd taken to leaving particularly ratty, grey pants secreted in places about the castle for him to stumble across. As far as he was able to ascertain, the culprits had always been Moggies. The trick had been to act puzzled when he discovered them, and within a year it had ceased, all but forgotten as none were left in the school who had seen the inciting incident. Rather predictably, anyone they'd told refused to believe the story in light of the utter non-response on his part. He finds a degree of humour in the notion that the inclination to prank instructors meant the malefactors also weren't considered particularly trustworthy.
But it would seem they've decided to resuscitate this particular jape once word of the knicker mailings made the rounds.
How charming.
Actually, two decades on, it borders on funny they'd still recall it. Fleetingly, almost automatically, he hopes he made the responsible students' N.E.W.T. year especially hellacious.
"Almost definitely not cursed," he offers, endeavouring to be optimistic, but it was also probably true. For one thing, the senders were very unlikely to know any curses that would have made it past Minerva's team of examiners. And for another, the pants themselves were rather the point, no additional curses required. They can get stuffed, he thinks. The chances any of them have a lovely witch in their beds or an Order of Merlin - first class - on their shelves are virtually nil. It does occur to him, however, that if Hermione fails to recognise the pants' significance, then Potter hadn't put the contents of his memories about quite as thoroughly as he'd always feared. He may have done the lad an injustice...
She's beginning to understand why he'd kept such a low profile in the dungeons all term. She squeezes his hand supportively, and there's a great deal of affection in her look. Drinking it in, he's soon forgotten the unwanted gifts, and by the time they emerge from the bedroom, Sunny will indeed have removed them to his office, just in case he still feels the need to examine them. The elf sort of hopes this time the Potions Master might be able to let it go.
There's the sound of an elfen throat clearing at the door. Sunny stands there in his black robes, like some miniature, pointy-eared version of the Potions Master in his finest, with two ridiculously overladen trays, quietly demanding their attention. The elf is too obvious, really. There was no earthly reason he couldn't have left those trays suspended somewhere and gone about his business.
"Thank you, Sunny," Severus acknowledges, welcoming him in, and the elf progresses slowly into the room with the trays having clearly decided they're to breakfast in bed. Hmm. Severus didn't used to partake of meals in his bed. He generally ate at his desk, eschewing his dining table as too absurd when dining alone. As he always dined alone when dining in quarters here, it went essentially unused. He had it because he'd thought he should when he'd occupied the flat seventeen years prior, and as it helped make sense of the open-plan space, he'd kept it. Taking his meals in bed was a fairly new development, something that had come with the increasingly frequent Infirmary stays the last several years had dictated. He tended not to continue doing so when he needn't, the connotations not entirely pleasant, but it was no longer as utterly foreign as it had once been.
But this... doing so in company, this is a novelty.
Hermione crawls up next to him and he pulls the blankets aside meaning to make more room for the tray. She's grinning at him almost as broadly as the house elf, quite pleased to have arranged this, when she suddenly spots the bloodstain on his chest. "Severus, what happened??" As everyone, much to his annoyance, is all too aware of the extent of the abuse he'd suffered in the not so distant past, she apparently seems to think one of his old wounds could be seeping rather like her scars. He breaks it to her reluctantly, indicating the stained sleeve of her left arm. She has to lift the arm and rotate it slightly outwards in order to see it.
"Holy cricket!" she cries, in what would be an endearing fashion were the reason for it less sad. "I forgot the Impervius!" And that was a wail again. Before she can launch into the slew of apologies he now is almost certain will follow, he waves it off.
"It's of no consequence, Hermione. And Sunny is quite good with blood. He has practice," he shrugs.
The witch looks appalled, "Severus, that's... not... comforting."
Hmm, yes, when she puts it that way, as someone rather confusingly invested in his wellbeing, he can perhaps see how it's not. "Ah, well then conceivably it would be more so if I said he'll welcome the opportunity so as not to become rusty," he smiles a mite sheepishly for the gaffe.
Sunny, taking the most theatrically extreme pains to arrange their trays - how unusually slow he is this morning - quietly and furiously nods his agreement, clearly struggling not to join in with a rush of reassurances of his own. If he bites his lip any harder, there will soon be more blood yet.
"That's... yes, that's better," as it implies he hadn't had use of it lately, she returns the smile, although she's still nervously glancing at the bedding, trying to assess the extent of the damage her arm had caused.
"Well, that's settled then. Believe me, he'll probably find it a better Christmas gift than my own." The elf has the decency to look a mite guilty at that, but he's undeniably eyeing the bloodstained bedclothes with some enthusiasm. Severus, unperturbed by both the situation and elf's reaction, withdraws a small package from his night table and presents it with a "Happy Christmas, Sunny." It's greeted with a flood of 'thank you, Master's and 'Sir is too kind's.
The house elf unpacks it immediately and proudly extends a shiny object of deepest black nestled on a jeweller's cushion of emerald green velvet for Hermione to see. When she doesn't seem to immediately appreciate the small disc properly - humans, but his jumbled exclamations do little for clarification - he holds it up to his chest and she realises it's another button.
"Jet," Severus supplies.
"Aha," Hermione doesn't quite follow.
Amidst a final flurry of 'thank you's the elf vanishes, and Hermione is left looking a little blankly after him.
"A button?" she asks failing to understand how that gave rise to this level of excitement. But then elves are confusing creatures.
"For his robes."
"Well, yes, but..."
"Jet isn't common anymore, and he values it."
"Clearly," she agrees with a soft laugh.
"It's hand-carved..." Severus stretches languidly and yawns. With an intricately detailed ninety degree arc, she'd noticed. Unusual, but she can't quite appreciate its significance either.
"I imagine the carving makes it even more special..." she leads, waiting for the explanation to follow.
"While he undoubtedly appreciates the artistry, it's more relevant that it depicts a quarter of a serpent's curve." She shakes her head, still not understanding. "He gets one every year, and every year it changes the design of the buttons on his robes taken as a whole. He'll spend a little time deciding how to rearrange them, and then remove them all, and then reattach them in the new order, having to mend the old buttonholes and create an entirely new set while he's about it."
She looks horrified at the very idea. It's practically monstrous.
He laughs, "I think you fundamentally fail to understand house elves. I believe the gift itself matters virtually not at all. This will keep him sensibly occupied for quite some time, that's easily half the present right there. The other being the physical proof that someone thought of him and found him deserving of some token of acknowledgment, and that I don't hesitate to have it clearly recognisable whom he serves." Not that that wasn't obvious at a glance, the elf in his diminutive Potions Master robes, but she still looks a bit confused. "No one who is unsatisfied with an elf's service would ever permit them to wear a family crest, say." She immediately recalls Dobby's shabby state, and it makes more sense. "The jet, the craftsmanship, the added ornamentation for his uniform, they're simply bonuses."
"That's very kind of you," she tells him sincerely, which only succeeds in embarrassing him. As long as he'd merely been explaining elves to her, it had been nothing more than a sort of lesson, now it all feels too much like a boast.
"He deserves it," Severus replies in something of a grumble. She wishes that he wouldn't respond this way to praise. It probably can't be helped in the short term, but she means to see it doesn't remain this way.
"Anyway," Severus continues, intent on downplaying the decency of his gesture, "he's probably just as happy with the bloodstained sheets. They'll likewise keep him busy and tacitly acknowledge his nearly unsurpassed laundering skills." The elf had rather looked like all his Christmasses had come at once.
Hermione, however, looks decidedly less so, and, blushing, is back to examining the streaks on his chest, the sleeve of the shirt she's wearing, the duvet and the sheets almost as if on a scheduled rotation. She glances at one and proceeds to the next, looking increasingly uncomfortable by the moment. Brilliant.
He's an arse.
"We should take a look at your arm," he starts gently, and she only pinks further. "Hermione, please stop, the stains don't matter." He takes her hand and begins softly playing with her fingers. She finds the gesture reaffirming. "If Sunny truly were incapable of removing them, something I don't believe for an instant, then we would simply Transfigure the clothing, or Glamour it, or we could Conjure new things outright.
"What matters here is your arm. It needs treatment." She's avoiding his gaze awkwardly, but she hasn't withdrawn her hand. If he was using that to help gauge how she's doing with the clearly unwelcome topic, well, he's efficient that way.
"I'm sorry, I saw it briefly last night while trying to determine what was wrong. I wasn't trying to... I don't want to..." He changes course, "Would you mind, terribly, showing it to me so I can examine it better? Now that it's light?" And if that allows her to tell herself he hadn't been able to see it properly last night if she'd rather that were the case, it should be her right.
Silently she rolls up the sleeve of his shirt and extends her arm for him to see, her head resolutely turned away from the sight.
"Impervius keeps it from making a mess," she finally replies, visibly subdued. She'd Imperviused all her things long ago such that she hadn't realised just how much of a mess the scars were inclined to make. "A Tergeo, a general-purpose Healing Charm, and Dittany do for the rest." He nods, her approach to treatment was much like his own. "Blood Replenisher every now and again as required." That alone was reason enough to treat the damn thing, silly woman, but he just shakes his head.
"The Healing Charm won't do much for you the Dittany doesn't, unfortunately. I'd like to try a Vulnera Sanetur when it next opens, I believe that in all likelihood that will necessitate waking you, however, which in the midst of..."
She begins to smile as he speaks. It's clearly shy, there's all manner of hesitancy there, but it's a smile nevertheless. "I believe that would necessitate me sleeping in your presence?" It's something of a question.
"Ah. I took that for a given..." He replies simply, as if somehow that's become the most natural thing in the world. It really rather has. She nibbles her lip considering it and finally starts looking more and more her generally optimistic self. He's pleased to see its return.
"I'm not having sex with you tonight," she cheerily informs him.
"Ah. Yes. No. Of course not," he chuckles, retaking her hand and interlacing his fingers with hers. "I wouldn't have expected anything else." He lifts her hand and gives it a soft kiss before suggesting they see to their breakfast. Stasis Charms have kept it perfectly warm. Sunny is a treasure.
"There's a chance the scar tissue contains Ichor Malus, and that's what's keeping it from healing properly, we'll have to experiment to see. If the Vulnera Sanetur proves insufficient, I have means for extracting the Ichor..." And so they begin planning their treatment programme for the coming days as they enjoy a leisurely Christmas brunch in Severus' quite marvellous bed, and as both reflect on it later, they'd have to agree it had been their single best holiday to date.
And fortunately, it's just the first of many.
A/N:
Portrait of Sunny in his work robes provided by the ever wonderful
mywitch. ❤️The story is mirrored on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
Other works by gingerbred can be found on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
ADDITIONAL STAND ALONE ONE SHOTS PLANNED FOR THIS UNIVERSE.