Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes	By : CryingCinderella Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 131968 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I make any money from writing these stories.

Chapter List
- 18
- 19
- 20
A/N: Onward! Not sure if I want to spend that much more time on the Love Tunnels…or on the yet-to-be-named sexy-dueling-wands (seriously I feel like Ellie Greenwich right now, “we’ll come up with lyrics later…” and thus became “Da Doo Ron Ron”…) I digress… Unfortunately, nothing is ever quite so simple, so I assure you that it will get darker before the light, assuming there is any light to be had. This is Hermione and Severus we’re talking about here. Both severely damaged, suffering from their own issues, PTSD of varying degrees, emotional traumas, and then some. So we’ll simply have to wait and see. The joke convention is coming soon. Unlikely to happen in this chapter, a few more things need to get underway before that happens. Thank you all very, very much for not giving up hope, and for holding the torch of this story’s return! A special thanks to OracleObscured, that thoughtful and extremely articulate review was a kick in the coffee (that’s a me thing, but I assure you it’s a good saying!) and I felt really happy to hear someone was enjoying it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it! (Truthfully, had to do a little re-reading/skimming of my own, just to take stock on which products I’d already covered— and I had a really cool idea for one…that turns out I’d called something else and used already! #facepalm) I hope this next chapter is satisfying; it’s not as long as the last one, but it’s moving! Thank you all again and double thanks to all the reviews! Always curious to know what’s on your minds! Hopefully nobody will be smothering anybody with pillows! Please enjoy!

                The night had wound on, seemingly endless with Love Tunnel after Love Tunnel. And when all was said and done, Hermione had grown no better at dueling. George had even forced her to give Severus the wand she had been using just so that both could be tested equally. She was even slightly sore as they were dressing, preparing to depart for Spinner’s End. The purple and pink Love Tunnel, or Love Slip as George was considering renaming them, had behaved much the same as the pink one had, though Severus had noted it had more of a zapping sensation than a pulsing one. The purple one seemed to be a mere mock-up of an alternate color and had had no effect whatever. She had not been overly pleased with the black Tunnel Sleeve, which they’d wrapped around Severus and then pressed in at her back door. While she was still adjusting to anal penetration and no longer clenching at his size, she could not feel the benefit of rough ridges lining his shaft and had been blessedly relieved when Severus had said it was uncomfortable on him as well. Whether or not it had been true or if he was merely trying to more quickly put her out of her misery, she hadn’t been sure.
                When they were both standing out on the street in front of the joke shop, she turned to him somewhat expectantly. But before she could speak he shook his head. “Go home, Hermione.”
                She wasn’t one to follow orders like some forlorn pup, heeling to its master. But he was severe in his tone without cruelty, firm in his delivery without malice, and she was still so surprised when he deigned to use her given name rather than her surname that she found herself obediently nodding and with a loud pop, disapparated to Spinner’s End. Her thoughts had been jumbled ever so slightly, and though thankfully she hadn’t splinched herself, she had landed around the back on the tiny patio rather than out on the street at the front of the house. So much the better, for as she walked around to the front of the house she was met with a most startling and unpleasant sight.
                Crouched down in a huddled ball in front of the front door was Nigel. Hermione quickly contemplated disapparating, but the pop of her apparition had startled him and as he looked frantically around for the source of the noise, his eyes landed on her. He tried his best to sneer, but she could see that he had been crying. “Severus isn’t home,” she said, moving toward him. She did not wish to be near him but wanted to go into the house.
                “I can bloody see that, thanks,” he spat, doing his best to cover his tears.
                “What are you doing here? It’s nearly half three in the morning,” she frowned.
                “S’pose I ask you the same thing, you— you— witch,” he whined.
                Hermione bit her tongue. She was in no mood for his antics. “I live here,” she said hotly but kept her temper in check. This silenced him for a moment. When he said nothing and showed no signs of standing, she rolled her eyes and groaned a sigh. “Shouldn’t you be at your job? The porno shop?” she asked.
                Nigel shrugged. “I got the sack,” he muttered.
                “Oh,” she said and then bit her bottom lip, unable to help it. “Sorry.” The last thing she wanted to do was invite the whelp inside, but it was against her upbringing not to offer a spot of tea in times of true crisis, even if the victim of the crisis was a sworn enemy. “I was just about to put the kettle on,” she lied. Hermione had had no intent of putting the kettle on. She had wanted to go in, take a bath, leave Severus a long note inviting him to come to her bed for sleeping purposes when he arrived from wherever, and then crawl into said bed and fall asleep waiting for him.
                “So?” he sniffed.
                “So, you twat, do you want to come in and have a cuppa while you wait or are you going to sit out here like a ninny and cry the night through?” She huffed. Hermione was not a fan of coarse language but it seemed to be the only thing that really got through to Nigel. Her words and tone seemed to startle him to action.
                “You sound like him,” he muttered and shakily pulled himself to his feet.
                Hermione was careful with her muttered spell to open the door, jiggling the handle loudly to appear as if she’d been fumbling with the key. She was grateful that precious little inside Severus’ house could be readily identified as out of the ordinary to any muggle. He lived a simple life. And after all, he had been to Severus’ house before, and although Severus wasn’t present, she supposed there was no harm in bringing him inside. She trudged into the kitchen and Nigel followed, not saying a word as he watched her put the kettle on.
                “Have you been waiting long?” she asked. Hermione loathed small talk. Though she could talk to anyone about anything, usually, making idle chit-chat annoyed her as much as her incessant need to talk through her feelings annoyed Severus. Yet there she stood, making tea, and trying to create a small surface layer of conversation between herself and the annoying lover-whelp-boy that Severus had all but chased off the morning before.
                “No,” he said defensively. It was obvious he was lying.
                Hermione wished more than anything that Severus would return home rather quickly. She hadn’t been able to ask where he was going; she had assumed he’d pop off to the porn shop in an attempt to find the boy and speak with him, and perhaps when he didn’t find him there— as unbeknownst to Severus the lad was right there in his own kitchen— that he would seek him out at his residence and then come home. She really didn’t know, but wherever it was that Severus was, she longed for him to return. So she fixed tea in silence, carefully observing Nigel as she did. He did not sit, though she hadn’t offered him a chair, and when she placed the tea service down on the table, she noted that he filled his tiny cup with four sugar cubes and a bit of cream.
                “I don’t know when he’s going to return,” she said truthfully.
                Nigel said nothing. He sipped his tea quietly and for a while there was silence. Then he spoke. “How did you come to live here?”
                She was startled by the question and had to check her urge to tell him that it was none of his business. It was indeed none of his business but beyond that it involved circumstances which she could not explain. There was no explaining that her job with the Ministry of Magic had fizzled into a dismal failure and had black-listed her and left her all but penniless, forcing her to take up a job as an adult-novelty tester, which was what brought her to Severus’ door in the first place. There was also no explaining to him, or really to herself, why she was still residing with him. George had been paying both herself and Severus well; she’d been paid well enough that should could have at the least procured a squalid flat somewhere in Diagon Alley, and yet there she stayed. And surely Severus knew as much, as he understood well her situation of financial destitution. Yet he had not sent her packing. “I think that’s an explanation best left for Severus,” she said coldly.
                Nigel scoffed. “So you don’t undo his lies, you mean.”
                Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. He was a trying little thing that was readily grating upon her last nerve and he’d only been in her presence a handful of minutes. “So that he can explain his benevolence better than I could,” she said tersely. “I was in a bad situation and Severus was kind to me,” she said. It surprised her to realize that this much was true. Not because she had not expected kindness from Severus Snape, though if truth be told it was not a personality trait that she readily contributed to him, but rather because she had overthought so much of everything that had gone into the situation in which they were currently living.
                “Oh,” he muttered.
                She was at odds with what else to say or do, really. All of his brash bravado that he’d been squealing with that morning was nowhere to be found. She still didn’t care for him but she also couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. That did not, however, mean that she was keen on keeping him around. But Severus was nowhere to be found either, and dawn would soon be on the rise. She’d finished a third cup of tea before giving in and finally coming to a decision. “Look, I’m sorry you got the sack…” she let her words linger, hoping to imply that this sack was not only from the pornography shop but from Severus as well. Though she pitied him, she had enough of a struggle dealing with Severus on her own; she did not need Nigel in the mix as well. “And you can wait if you like…but he does this sometimes…” she lied. “Out all night…I’ve learned not to wait up.” There was a pang of guilt in her stomach. She wasn’t a very practiced liar. Severus saw through her immediately. But Nigel, thankfully, was not as well-versed in detecting untruths as Severus. She eyed him warily and then glanced once more at the darkness that lay beyond the window.
                “Can I have some paper?” he asked.
                “What?” she said. “Oh…um, I suppose so.” Hermione hadn’t the slightest clue where Severus would keep paper, let alone a pen. She had parchment in her bedroom, but it was rolled parchment with a feather quill and ink bottle. “I’ve got some in my room, just a minute,” she said and moved quickly out of the kitchen. Two hasty transfigurations created an ordinary muggle-looking sheet of paper and an ink-pen from her parchment scroll and quill. “Here,” she said and then she nodded at him. “I’m turning in…you can see yourself out,” she said firmly.
                Nigel said nothing but started scribbling a most messy chicken scratch down onto the paper. Hermione lingered for a moment and then disappeared down the hallway. “Muffliato,” she whispered, and stood there, waiting to see if he would really leave once he’d finished writing whatever it was that he was writing. It took a bit less time than Hermione had anticipated and within just a few minutes, Nigel was moving toward the front door, unable to see or hear Hermione. When she was certain he was gone, she disenchanted herself and walked into the kitchen. The paper was folded over with ‘Sevvy’ scribbled across it. She bit her lip. Hermione picked up the parchment, running it through her fingers once, and then again.
                It wasn’t hers to read. But she desperately wanted to know what was inside. Taking the parchment into her room, she closed the door and laid down on her bed. Hermione laid there for several moments holding the folded-over letter. The burning need to see what Nigel had written was great. But what of it? Severus would read it and surely would be furious if he knew she had read it. What if the boy had come to his senses and was saying goodbye? She sighed heavily. She needed a hot bath to help clear her head. Tucking the letter inside one of her bedside books without having peaked at its contents, Hermione stepped out into the hallway and across into the bathroom.
                The water was scalding; it felt just right to Hermione. Everything about her ached. Sex in the workshop had been thoroughly demanding, despite all of their rest periods in-between each of the Love Tunnels. Truthfully they hadn’t been very restful for her as she continuously fell victim to the various enchantments of the dueling wands. And she was still quite unsettled from the rough shower sex that morning. It was all starting to blur together. Hadn’t they spent the night together before? After she’d stormed out of the workshop and he’d all but drug her home? All of that was still going on; the touching of the scars, the sleeping together in both senses of the words, the encounter with Nigel, her encounter with Charlie. It was all a bit much to take in.
                She hadn’t exactly nodded off in the tub, but she’d drifted, and thankfully she had not drifted down beneath the water. But her eyes opened fully at one point, meaning she’d closed them at some other, realizing that she was being watched. “Oh!” she cried, splashing a bit, as she uprighted herself in the tub, feeling the chill of the room against her skin as she pulled herself up out of the water. Severus stood there, offering her a towel. Hermione took it and said nothing, wrapping herself gingerly in it before stepping from the tub. “Have you been watching me long?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
                “Long enough,” he muttered. “Go to sleep.”
                “I was…and then you woke me with your watching,” she said, unable to hold back her yawn any longer.
                Severus’ face was mild; there was almost a smile on his lips at her words. “Go to sleep. In your bed,” he said and nodded toward the bathroom door. Hermione stepped toward him but was quickly pushed off. “No,” he said, his voice firm but not cruel. It was still a tone to which she was attempting to adjust. “I’m having a shower— an actual shower for the purpose of cleansing myself and nothing more— and then I’m going to sleep.” He narrowed his eyes at her when she didn’t budge. “In my bed. Alone.”
                “You could come to my bed,” she offered, trying to seem coy, but knowing it was brazen.
                Severus snorted. He turned around and began to fiddle with the tap, resetting it for a shower. “I think not.”
                “I’m too tired to fuck,” she admitted.
                This gave him pause, to which he laughed after a moment’s contemplation, all the while keeping his back to her. “Inconceivable,” he mocked and began to strip his garments. “Go to your bed, Hermione,” he repeated. “I’m having a shower.”
                “But you’ll join me?” she asked once more. She was answered with the shower curtain being drawn sharply closed in front of her face. Hermione’s blood boiled. Or it would have had she had any energy left in her. If she hadn’t been so bloody exhausted, she would have torn the curtain back and stomped into the shower, carrying on the heated fight until one of them was flinging the other against the wall. Just the thought of being thrust back onto anything with him pounding into her made her twinge, reminding her of how sore and truly worn out her body was. A part of her wondered if she was reaching her peak of sexual tolerance. It was something both George and Severus had mentioned early on, though rather much in passing, and she wondered if it was now happening.
                But she was too tired to think even on that. Begrudgingly, she tugged her towel around her more tightly, slipped out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, and all but fell into her bed. She hadn’t even bothered putting on a dressing gown or undoing her towel. With her head halfway pressed into the pillow, and her body stretched crosswise over the bed, Hermione quickly drifted off into a deep sleep; Severus, Nigel, and the note forgotten in favor of her weary, worn-out body.
                Hermione was dead to the world for all intents and purposes. She slept soundly, at least more soundly than she could remember sleeping since long before the war. Not that it had been a pleasant sleep, dreamless as best she could recall, and without having taken a drought for such effect. Her body was grateful, though still protesting when she felt the need to stir her stumps and stretch from the bed. Only as she raised her arms up, extending her legs out, she bumped into heaviness and warmth. There was a duvet atop her body, which she had most certainly not draped over herself when she’d collapsed into slumber. And more importantly, there was a body quite close to her body and mostly naked from the feel of it. Twisting her head back over her neck and shifting as delicately as she could, she forced her eyes opening, peering at him.
                “Don’t bother, I’m awake,” he muttered, though his eyes were closed.
                She frowned, staring at his face, twisted halfway into the pillow, his hair asunder. She could just see the coarse curls of his chest peeking out from beneath the duvet, and assumed, like herself, that he was naked or only covered with a towel. It did not take much shifting and gentle wriggling about to confirm her suspicions.
                “You’re like a Flobberworm, wriggling and writhing about, can’t you ever just be still?” he growled, eyes still closed.
                “Sorry,” she muttered, but shifted again.
                Severus drew his arms up, grabbed hold of her, and pushed her onto her right side, forcing her to face the door of her room. She was jostled about and then pulled firmly back against his body, her back braced into his torso, as he draped one arm and one heavy leg over her figure. “Be still,” he yawned.
                It was a warm, enveloping spoon. The man radiated heat like the sun itself and it set her body tingling, despite the weary sensation that still coursed through her. She tried not to shift, but couldn’t help it as she felt the firm rod of his cock mashed just against the split in her cheeks. She bit her lip, stifling a whimper. “Mm,” she mumbled, arching her back slightly.
                Severus moved his hand and slapped the back of her thigh. “Stop,” he grumbled. “It will pass, I deal with this every morning, and I’ve not the energy to dispel it into you,” he yawned once more.
                It was such a strange sound; the sound of a yawn crawling out of Severus Snape’s mouth, but it was not an unpleasant sound. It made him sound human; it made him sound normal. Despite the very genuine and normal sounding yawns, Hermione’s body could not relax enough to enjoy being spooned so closely to him with his cock pressing into her backside. She wriggled a bit more, certain that her body would combust into flames. But with every shift in her body came a lazy swat of his hand and the occasional barked command to cease, as if his words and slaps could force her body to behave. A bit of time passed, and she noted, somewhere absently, that he no longer felt hard, his cock was no longer pressing dangerously at her backside, threatening to penetrate her of its own accord.
                She could not glean the hour; though she knew it was well past noon just given the brightness in the room. But she was comfortable, surprisingly. And so too was he, if the deep, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against hers was any indication. He was an inferno of body heat; Hermione found that surprisingly comfortable. The duvet had slipped ever so slightly down from where he’d pulled it up over her shoulder and that bit of her body was chilly, but otherwise she was completely warmed. It took a moment of fidgeting and slithering her body this way and that, accompanied by half-sleepy swats of his hand, but she managed to roll over onto her opposite side, pressing her chest against his, curling up against his body.
                “Severus,” she whispered, nuzzling her nose against the thicket of hair on his chest.
                “Nobody’s home,” he mumbled.
                She snorted softly. “I see.” She pressed her lips ever so gently against his skin.
                “Let me sleep, Hermione,” he growled, forcing one eye open to gaze down at her.
                It was quite the sight, and it made her giggle slightly; seeing him glaring through one eye at her, pressed so closely to her, she felt giddy. “Do you—”
                “So help me Merlin, if you do not let me sleep…” he growled. Severus had trailed his hand up along her back and tangled his fingers into her hair. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he grumbled.
                Hermione wanted to sigh; his fingers were idly stroking at her tresses and it felt lovely. It felt familiar, like the comforting touch of a lover. She tried not to think about it and yet it was all she could think about. Far from her mind was the uncomfortable encounter with Nigel when she’d returned home that morning, and even further still was the letter he’d left for Severus. The letter that she had not read but instead had tucked away between the pages of a book on her nightstand. That was far from her mind too. Severus was on her mind. He had appeared in her bed, naked after his shower and slept there for some time as well. He had not pushed her off, he who had been so averse to touch; he had pulled her closer to him, though she realized full well that he would justify his actions as a means to keep her still in the bed.
                Her mind was consumed. It was difficult not to feel warmed, both inside and out, when pressed against his body. He was breathing; not like before, the deep and restful breaths of someone who was at ease in their sleep. His breaths were shallow and delicate, like a man wanting to lie very still without being noticed. She chanced a glance upward, catching his eyes. There was a curious thing floating in those dark, fathomless orbs. It wasn’t the usual contempt or consternation staring her down, or even the lusty unbridled passion that she evoked in him; this was something altogether different.
                The intensity of his gaze, though not harsh, was still felt keenly and after a moment she could stare into his eyes no longer. As her eyes flicked downward, she felt her breath hitch in her throat. Just at the side of his neck, mostly hidden by his hair, though still quite visible, were the puncture wounds that had marked his almost-death. He was unmasked; his glamour was down. There was a surge of feelings welling inside of her as she thought about this. She closed her eyes for just a moment, trying to recollect whether or not he’d been unglamoured when he’d woken her in the bathtub. She could not recall seeing the punctures on his neck, but more notably would have seen his mark. Hermione could picture him clearly; she had seen no sign of his mark.
                He had dropped his glamour after she’d gone to bed, and was exposed to her now. Hermione drew in a sharp breath as he felt the pad of his thumb gently stroking the swell of her arse. She felt guilty. She had remained glamoured; she was constantly hidden from him in that small regard, though she seemed to often expect him to be fully available to her. With a shaky breath she muttered, feeling the rippling tingle of magic shimmer over her skin. Though the duvet and his hand covered her ass, she knew the small tattoo would be visible if he so chose to see it. So too was the mark on her arm; it was an ever-present reminder of how the world saw her.
                He had felt her drop her glamour too, if the way he pulled her slightly closer was any indication. Hermione longed to sob. Before she had been filled with bravado and determination; she had something to prove when she had shown him her marks. But this was different. This was a new bridge of trust that she had never crossed with anyone, let alone with him, and it broke something inside of her. A wave of feeling flushed through her and she couldn’t help the tears as they streaked down her cheeks. He did not move to brush them aside, but she felt the heated breath of his nose just at the side of her face. There was silence between them, just breathing; his breath falling gently on her cheek and hers into the crook of his neck.
                Warm, comforting breaths lulled her off into a hazy slumber and before long she felt her body being pulled back from sleep. Hermione blinked several times as she felt the room’s chill creep over her. “What—” she yawned, stretching her arms out. He was no longer curled beside her, holding her. “What time is it?” she asked.
                Severus had not gone far, just to the edge of the bed, sitting up with his back facing her. “Dark,” he nodded to the window. “Likely half six or perhaps seven,” he said with a simple shrug. “No urgent owls from Mr. Weasley…so either we’ve the night off or he’s not expecting us until far later.”
                “Right,” Hermione shook her limbs, feeling rested and yet sluggish. “I’m starving,” she said after a moment, feeling a gentle rumbling in her stomach.
                Severus nodded. “Sustenance would be wise.”
                Hermione leaned up onto her knees and hovered over his shoulder. He tensed but only briefly when she leaned herself against his back and pressed her lips to the corner of his jaw. “I can cook us something if you like,” she offered.
                He said nothing, but turned his head to the side, meeting her eyes. Then he shook his head and slipped out from under her. “I shall be back in an hour’s time, I can bring food if you can wait that long,” he said. Without any further explanation, he strode from the room. Hermione didn’t know what to make of it. A part of her longed to tear after him, insisting that he stay in and have whatever she could manage to concoct in the kitchen. There was a niggling fear that he was going out to hunt for Nigel; this thought made her mind snap cold. She hadn’t given him the letter. Jumping up from the bed, and oddly bothering to drape herself in a robe, Hermione snatched up the parchment from the bedside book and burst into the hallway. But quicker than lightening, he had vanished. She checked his room and the bathroom and everywhere else she could think of just to be sure, but Severus had gone.
                Hermione sighed. In her fingers once more was clutched the letter; the letter that she had chosen not to read but was now sorely tempted to do so. But first she needed to eat something. She hadn’t been to the shops as of late and found the pantry to be somewhat bereft of most things edible. She settled for eggs and sausages that she quickly warmed and the last of a glass of orange juice; if he brought home food so much the better, she could put it away for later. She let the letter fall to the table, leaving its untidy scrawl facing up as she chewed her food. What on earth could Nigel have said? Meet me at midnight tonight on the bridge. Leave your tarty witch and run away with me. She rolled her eyes just thinking about it. Whatever it was that he had or hadn’t said, she was proud of herself for not stooping so low as to read it, though it would have been quite easy to do so and would have readily sated her curiosity in the process.
                An owl’s tapping at the window startled her she knocked into her glass as she stood to address the bird at the window. It was a large feathered raven; she recognized it as one that Severus often used. Hermione frowned. Tied to its leg was a singular rolled sheaf of parchment, his spidery handwriting immediately recognizable as she undid the bit of twine wrapped around it. The bird clucked and nipped at her finger. “Ow,” she said and tapped it on the beak. “You can eat what’s on my plate. Shoo.” With an indignant caw, the raven swooped in and landed on the table, planting its feet in the puddle of orange juice that Hermione had spilled in her haste to permit the bird entry.
                George requires us at ten. Apparate to the café at Horizont and Diagon Alley at half eight if you like, otherwise report to the shop just before ten. ~S
                Hermione felt somewhat guilty that she had made herself the sausage and eggs, though she hadn’t really eaten the sausages, they were always a bit too hot when they first came off the skillet, and eggs were hardly a filling meal, all things considered. She sighed and turned to see the large ebony bird picking at the last bit of egg on her plate; both sausages had vanished. It was then that she noticed how the spilled puddle of juice had seeped over the letter Nigel had written for Severus. “Damn,” she muttered and shooed the raven from the table. The letter was soaked through, ink running down the front. “Damn!” she cried. With a heavy sigh she picked up the dripping parchment and unfolded it, laying it out on the kitchen counter. The words were muddied with juice, illegible and impossible to read, not that she had intended to read them anyhow. Whatever Nigel had written was no more. And seeing no way of saving the letter, Hermione pitched it into the bin.
                She glanced at the clock he kept in the kitchen. She could ready herself and still make it to the little café Severus had mentioned. The juice-ruined note from Nigel had put her off of her meal, not that the raven had left her anything to finish. In no time she found herself sliding into one of Ginny’s casual dresses that Molly had insisted on sending along when she had cleaned out the closet during one of Hermione’s visits. It was a deep green affair, and while the forest color did not look nearly so striking on Hermione as it did on Ginny, she hadn’t had to do much altering to make it fit. The sleeves were fitted and three-quarter, the scoop of th neck designed for someone exactly like herself; someone who possessed far too little cleavage. The material was soft, but not too thin; it fell comfortably around her waist and fluted out at her knee. It looked dressier than anything she’d previously worn to the workshop for working, but not so extraordinary as to turn heads on the street.
                Another few moments were spent fiddling with her hair; at last she decided to twist it up, though looking in the mirror she shuddered, seeing the dagger mark still exposed. Hermione quickly muttered a glamour to conceal the wound once more. It was the scar she acknowledged the least. After Bellatrix had carved those unforgiving words of permanency into her forearm, Hermione had gone numb, certain that she would die at the poisoned dagger of that madwoman. She almost hadn’t felt her pushing the searing hot point into her throat, dragging it down, blood flowing quickly from her skin. She had no recollection at all what had happened thereafter, only that she had been returned to Harry and Dobby had somehow rescued them, losing his life in the process.
                Hermione placed a trembling hand against her neck, touching now what she could no longer see. Her fingers slide down her neck, down her arm, and cupped her forearm. Even though the glamour hid it, she could still see the words mudblood clear as day, etched into her skin. With a shuddering breath, she forced herself to swallow, and to finish fiddling with her hair. For a moment she thought she looked pretty. A quick flick of her wand cleaned the remnants of her bird-stolen meal, and she was out of Spinner’s End, ready to meet Severus for a meal.
                The loud pop that accompanied apparition and disapparation disturbed no one as she arrived in Diagon Alley. She meandered over to the small café that he had indicated, surprised to see him already seated, a menu in hand. Hermione crept up beside him, but he looked up and nodded curtly to her before she could surprise him. “Hello,” she said, when she failed to catch him off-guard, though she supposed she hadn’t actually expected to catch him off his guard, especially not in a public setting.
                Severus only nodded, gesturing to the seat just opposite him. The café table was small, their knees would bump when she sat down across from him, but Hermione didn’t mind. It felt very strange to be exposed with him in public in this fashion. Though truthfully, as the shops were all but closing up, the only real foot traffic to be seen was that heading over into Knockturn Alley. She was handed the menu and after a moment, decided that a light soufflé and smattering of greens would suffice. A house-elf appeared but a moment after she’d set the menu down, took their orders, blinked away, and reappeared with a tray teetering on top of its head.
                They ate mostly in silence; Hermione was somewhat surprised to see that he had opted for a similar dish. She felt better once she’d eaten. “Severus,” she started with great trepidation. “About last night—”
                He raised a hand to silence her. “I do not wish to discuss it.”
                “But, you should—”
                “Let it alone, Hermione.” He said.
                It silenced her. He’d only just stared formally using her given name, and still with the greatest of precautions and only when they were utterly alone. And although the street with scarcely populated, they were out together in public, so hearing her given name put a halt to anything further she had meant to say to him. When he stood abruptly from the café table, she frowned. “Is there time for tea?”
                Severus sighed, though his face was passive. “Will you not beleaguer me with questions all through it if there is?”
                A slip of a smile crossed her lips. Though there was plenty to be said and much she longed to ask him, and truly a bit that she needed to inform him, she was content that he was conceding to spend a bit more time with her, knowing full well that they were in for a night of working intimately together with George. She tried not to think of what sexual horrors lay in wait and instead followed him up into Horizont Alley. She was not familiar with this bit of the shoppes, despite having frequented Diagon Alley innumerable times before. She was surprised when he paused just outside of a little shop whose signage was almost completely illegible, so faded from sun and weather that it looked to be little more than a hunk of wood hanging on rusted chain looping over the door.
                He held the door open for her and then ushered in behind her. “Sorry we’re just about to close up,” said a rather rotund witch from behind the counter. Hermione took note of this witch; it really was looking to be a fact that all witches in teashops were squatty, frumpy figures.
                “We’ve no need for anything elaborate,” said Severus with a curt nod. “Just after dinners,” he added and then gestured to the small table near the cluttered shop window. The witch behind the counter made an audible sigh, but then set to bustling about with a tea service. Hermione looked uncertain but Severus rolled his eyes at her expression. “If she were closed up, the door would have been locked, and if she were unable to serve us, she would have said as much.”
                Hermione shook her head and took a seat. “Yes, but I feel it must be an awful imposition…walking in as you’re trying to close up for the night…”
                Severus gave a slightly derisive snort. “If the proprietor truly felt that way, they would keep earlier hours like the rest of the shops,” he said.
                It did not take long for the little witch to bring them tea. It was, as Severus had said, nothing elaborate. A pot, two cups with saucers, cream, honey, sugar, and lemon, as well as a few biscuits, none of which appeared to be fresh. There were no scones or sandwiches, no slabs of cake, just a simple service for after dinner. They took their tea in silence, though Hermione was burning with questions and the need to discuss the events of the previous night. Her face once again gave her away because midway through their tea, Severus sighed.
                “I will say this once. You will listen. And that will be all,” he said sharply. “Understood?”
                So engrossed in the prospect of hearing what had happened once he’d left her to go home she nodded, completely forgetting that she needed to tell him of Nigel and the letter, the letter which she’d accidentally ruined and had to toss in the bin. But he was speaking, in rather hushed tones, and all of those thoughts flew out of her mind.
                “I went to a nightclub,” he said as if he reporting nothing out of the ordinary. “And no, you’ve never been. It’s for males only…more of a bathhouse than anything else, really.” It was strange to hear him speak in such vivid detail. To anyone else listening, Severus Snape could have been describing an average evening, but to Hermione, hearing each word fall deliberately from his lips was like reading the deep secrets of a sacred text lost to the ages. Each word was calculated with precision, she knew, and that he was divulging as much as he did, spoke volumes to her. Another test of trust perhaps. He’d appeared before her unglamoured, and now he was revealing his previous night’s encounters without holding back. She clung to his every word.
                “I stayed a while. Encountered a few men that I know… some of whom also know Nigel. None of them had seen him there as of late,” he said with a dismissive shrug, though she could sense he was withholding something. Was it jealousy? Was it bitterness? Was it concern? She was too affixed on his enigmatic experience and trying to decipher it to even think to mention that Nigel had been hanging around the door of his house all evening waiting for him to come home. “I left there and dipped into a dive bar that I have frequented before. I did not stay long,” he confessed, his voice sounding somewhat sullen.
                Had he gone there seeking Nigel as well? Had he encountered the men with whom the little whelp was slumming it, as Hermione had heard him say? She couldn’t tell from what little he did explain of his time in the dodgy pub. But still she watched his lips as if they were pouring divinity directly to her ear. “I popped round to his shop, but it was shut up for the morning. Resigned, I returned home.” He swallowed the remains of his teacup. “If he does not wish to be seen, so be it.”
                Hermione only nodded. That was the moment her lips should have moved, her mouth should have parted, and her voice should have sounded.
‘He came to Spinners End. I found him hunched at the front door waiting for you when I returned home. I invited him in for tea, it was surprisingly civil. He left you a note, no I didn’t read it, and actually forgot about it entirely until you’d left earlier this evening. You left so quickly I didn’t have a chance to pull it out and give it to you. Then your bloody raven came and spilled juice all over it. The ink was ruined. I didn’t have proper paper for him to write on and did a quick transfiguration with one of my ink quills. I must not have sealed it in my haste. So the juice made the ink run and note a word was legible. I tossed it in the bin. But he came round. He came about looking for you.’
That was what she said. In her head. Hermione stared down into her teacup. When she parted her lips to speak she caught sight of him waving his hand to silence her before she could begin. “I was only going to say we should settle up and head on, I’ll get the bill if you like,” she offered.
                Severus stared at her for a moment and then he shook his head. He stood from the table, paid the witch, and then held the door for her, waiting for her to exit the tiny, cluttered tea shop. They walked in silence, a quiet that Hermione would have described as companionable had she been asked, not too closely together but close enough that it was understood that they were in each other’s company. They were equal parts surprised to see the note on the door from George when they let themselves into the workshop. He would be late, but get comfortable, and they would get started just as soon as he’d arrived.
                It was becoming a routine; Severus helped her out of her clothing and into her robe while he quickly disrobed himself. This evening he took to standing at the foot of the bed rather than sitting upon its edge. Hermione slipped over to stand beside him. In a move that was bold, even by her standards, she let her fingers brush his and slowly glide up his arm until the clutched his forearm. He tensed tremendously. “Thank you,” she whispered.
                Though he remained tense he did not jerk away. “What for,” he said without look at her.
                Hermione subtly squeezed his flesh. She waited for a moment, squeezed it again and then let her fingers slide down his forearm, settling over his hand once more. “For tea,” she said with a simple, subtle shrug. He said nothing, but she swore that his fingers twitched ever so slightly, his pinky brushing against the webbing between her pinky and ring fingers. Hermione tried very hard not to smile.
                “Right! Oi! Hello! Sorry!” George called. He announced his presence from somewhere unseen inside the joke shop.
                It was Hermione who pulled her hand away, spinning around and half expecting George to have appeared before them. But she could only just make out his heavy feet on the wooden stairs as they ascended to the workshop. They’d left the door open, creating a lovely echo for when he’d arrived. He zipped through the door, balancing a world of things in his arms. “Posters!” he cried. “Among other things,” he said and all but collapsed atop his armful of things as he leaned over the already crowded work bench. “Have a look!”
                George took a long cardboard tube out from under his arm, but Hermione could plainly see what he was about to unfurl from within. There was a stack of papers a foot high bound in jute, but the array of color and movement was eye-catching and dizzying. It only took him a moment to uncap the tube, shake out its singular content, and unroll the enormous poster onto the surface of the workbench. Hermione stared. A bold black background, which glistened with glitter, was outlined in a fluorescent amethyst that almost glowed ultra-violet. In big letters that looked like the show-bulbs outside of an old-fashioned strip joint were printed the words:
SEXXXPLORATION
with
The Serpent Master
&
Lorem L’amour
                Just above the enormous lettering in the shop’s iconic font were printed the words, “Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.” But what was ever so slightly more disturbing was the tawdry images that accompanied ththe wayward words. The girl she knew she had seen before; it was a more fleshed out rendering of the naughty sketched girl inside the ledger. She had seen the girl on the page with the magical scarves they’d used for various bondage instances. Only this girl looked real and disturbingly similar to Hermione by way of her chestnut curls and delicate shoulders. The breasts were far bigger and sat bolt upright, completely exposed and her legs were far more tone than Hermione’s own legs; the buxom buttocks on the woman was absurd, barely contained in a too-scandalous-for-words pair of knickers. Partially obscuring the girl’s face was a mask, only it wasn’t a mask so much as it was face paint; it swirled in vivacious colors of green and silver, amethyst and black, glistening like the background of the poster.
                The girl’s breasts were popping out of the extremely transparent lingerie, and her robust and pouty lips were pursed as if she were prepared to suck something between them. This seemed fitting given the long, thick, and purposefully phallic serpent that the male image on the poster was holding. He, looking like Severus’ naked body to the letter, stood tall, a mask of equally disturbing beauty obscuring his facial features as well, and his chest was completely exposed. He wore skintight black leather down his legs, his muscles bulging through the fabric, particularly the placket in his crotch.
                “Well what do you think?” asked George, clearly pleased with the enormous poster. There were other bits and bobs here and there and both male and female model were moving, mostly gyrating and swiveling their hips about. But Hermione could hardly pay any attention to anything except the enormous breasts and buttocks of the female on the page.
                “I don’t— George— I don’t—”
                “Oh, good god, Hermione, don’t tell me you don’t like that name. You’ve no idea how hard I had to fight to get it changed from Vixxxy. They were quite fussed that I was making a last minute change and on short notice it’s the best I could come up with!” he whined.
                “No— it’s just— I don’t—”
                “It means Sexy Lover,” George said.
                “How clever,” Severus drawled. “An alliterative combination of Latin and French, intelligence and passion, calculation and seduction. Fitting for what’s being marketed,” he said.
                “I thought so too!” George cried with great enthusiasm. “And the detail, man oh man do they know how to make these things work! This is our personal mock-up, which we get to hang at the exhibition hall entrance. There’s going to be a 40-foot one hanging in the main lobby and back lobby of the conference center. The coordinators say our three clinics are the most requested and that they’ll likely need to book our Friday evening session in the grand ballroom to accommodate everyone who’s requested to attend!” he was all but frothing at the mouth with excitement. “I mean the main stage is one thing— but the grand ballroom! Holy hell that’s a far bigger turnout than we ever could have hoped for! Who cares how the Saturday afternoon and Sunday brunch sessions go!” he squealed.
                “Indeed,” muttered Severus. He eyed Hermione warily. “Miss Granger?”
                “Hmm?” she turned her eyes to him, panic clearly present, though she couldn’t bring herself to say so.
                “And you’re alright with it, Severus?” George asked, completely oblivious to the unspoken conversation that Hermione and Severus were having with their eyes.
                “I’ve little opinion on the name I’ve been assigned. Presumably the facial masking on the poster will be similar to what we’ll be wearing for the protection of our identities?” he asked.
                “Yes. Oh. OH! Yeah! They came earlier today, actually!” George jumped up. “I took them upstairs and put them away.” He bounded toward the door leading to the stairs up to his flat. “Expensive and custom fit, but worth every bloody knut,” he said. “Hold on!” and before either one of them could stop him, he’d raced out of the workshop.
                Hermione looked frantically at Severus. “What,” he said with a hint of exasperation in his voice.
                “Severus, I don’t look anything like that!” she cried.
                He snorted. “And you think I do?”
                “Actually, yes…you do, to be honest,” she muttered, feeling her face tinge slightly scarlet as she did. “But look at her— those breasts— they’re enormous! Not to mention they defy gravity in ways that magic can’t even explain. And her arse is ridiculous! It’s like she’s wearing balloons in her knickers!” her voice was frantic on the verge of panicked tears as she spoke. “People are going to be expecting to see— see— that!” she gestured at the poster. “And they’ll get— they’ll get this!” she all but sobbed, throwing her hands up in the air.
                Severus took both of her wrists in his hands and pulled them down. Her robe was hanging open, her breasts— though not ample like the ones on the poster— were exposed. He glanced down her body, eyes lingering on her denuded sex before sweeping slowly back up her figure and landing on her face. “And what is wrong with… this?” he asked. “You look as a woman is meant to look. Natural…save for the lack of pubic hair,” he said plainly.
                He would not call her beautiful; Hermione had not expected anything of the sort. But saying that she looked as a woman was meant to look was an undoing in its own right. She longed to throw herself forward into his arms, to rest her head against his chest, to take umbrage in his embrace and weep quietly until her feelings of inadequacy passed. But she could do no such thing no matter how much she wanted to, no matter how much she desperately yearned to, it wasn’t allowed. It wouldn’t be allowed. So instead she settled for letting his fingers firmly grip her wrists. He had held her firmly before but this was different somehow. It was not like when he’d gripped her in their sexual encounters, which was a different kind of firm with an intensity to it that frightened her. And it was not reprimanding, she had felt that before as well. This was a reassuring sort of firm, yet another thing she had no experience with and struggled to describe.
                But the moment passed and he released her hands. “No one will recognize you,” he added as if half reading her mind. “That’s what those ridiculous masks are for,” he paused. “I shall examine them more closely in a moments time, but I conject that they are not dissimilar to a different type of mask used to more fully disguise the identity of the wearer, and I assure you, those masks do their job well.”
                Hermione swallowed hard. She knew he was referring to the Death Eater mask that he had worn for countless years in service of two masters. She did not want to think about it. Her discomfort was palpable and she was surprised yet again to feel his hands on her, this time cupping her cheeks and tilting her face up to look at him. “I…”
                “You need to settle yourself down. He’ll return in a moment and expect you ready to work. As will I,” he said somewhat sharply.
                It was vexing. Hermione felt she existed in a permanent state of vexation; Severus and his hot-and-cold temperament toward her. Tender kindness and caring in the veil and guise of work and preparedness. She couldn’t untangle it and her desire to understand it waned with each passing encounter. She nodded, dumb and silent, before stepping back from his touch. “I need a moment,” she whispered more for her own benefit than for his. Hermione closed her eyes, attempting to calm herself internally, and after a few deep, careful breaths, she felt a little bit better.
                George had astonishing timing for he returned to the workshop just then, holding two exquisite looking black boxes. They were fancy. Hermione tried not to think of how expensive they were, let alone how uncomfortable they might be. George Weasley was beaming with pride, as if he were offering up his first born set of twins rather than simple illusions. Severus took one box, leaving Hermione to take the other. She opened it with caution, half-expecting the thing to jump out of the box and attack her face. The mask looked surprisingly ordinary. Hermione frowned. It was little more than a simple bit of cloth, hers was green and purple with silver lining. She peered over at Severus who had lifted his mask from the box. His was the same but with harsher black accents streaked throughout.
                Prodding her finger at the mask she was surprised to feel that it was quite delicate and not at all molded as she had anticipated. Gingerly lifting it from the box, Hermione held it in her hands, the line of her frown creasing further as she examined it. His sudden presence behind her startled her. “Here,” he said, bringing his hands over her shoulders and deftly taking her mask between his fingers. Hermione had thought he was going to affix it to her face, though she could see no discernable means by which he was meant to do so. He delicately placed her mask back into its box and turned her around so that she was facing him. “Look,” he said. Holding his own mask up. He held it in front of his face and leaned slightly forward, as if peering down into a pensieve. The mask seemed to shimmer for a moment before adhering to his skin. It molded perfectly to the contours of his face and yet made his face unrecognizable in a most enchanting fashion. “It’s enchanted,” he explained. “Now put yours on.” He instructed.
                Hermione lifted the mask once more, mirroring as he had done, gently leaning her face into it. There was a momentary tingle and then it vanished. “Is it on?” she asked. “Oh dear. Did you take yours off?”
                Severus shook his head. “A far better enchantment than I had anticipated,” he said. “Well done, Mr. Weasley.”
                “Don’t thank me, thank Marvellas & Masquadas, or the witches and wizards thereof,” he said with a grin. “I just placed the order.”
                Hermione shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she frowned. “It doesn’t feel like it’s there and you’ve taken yours off— or have you? I…” she sighed.
                “I have not, Miss Granger.” He said. “These masks appear to be enchanted so that our faces are obscured in a tantalizing fashion, protecting our identity, but when worn together, we can still each other’s faces plainly.”
                “Oh. Hmm, that is actually rather clever,” she admitted. “And they feel fairly weightless…you can’t tell it’s on…are you sure it’s on?”
                “Oh yeah, Hermione, they look great. You two look hot,” said George, not bothering to hide how turned on he was by the masks, though she was 100% certain it was not because of how she looked wearing it.
                “Lovely,” she muttered, realizing just how much she sounded like Severus in that instance. “Er…should we wear them this evening? To get used to them? Make sure they don’t malfunction somehow or get in the way? Or slip off?”
                George chuckled. “None of that is going to happen. It’s guaranteed. But yes, if you feel better wearing them through tonight’s testing, knock your socks off,” he grinned. “I’m positive we’re going to work with the Week of Whips with the Sexy Silks for the Friday night Erotica HotSpot,” George snickered when Hermione looked aghast. “Don’t look at me, I don’t pick the names of these sessions…but since that’s the big bang as it were I figure we better head out hard. We won’t demonstrate all seven of the whips, mind you, nor all the silks, we need to entice them but encourage them to buy them. And like I said, I definitely want to feature that Wonder Water on Saturday afternoon. Still think the Lover’s Picnic— with some adjustments of course— would be wise for closing on Sunday. And there is a chance we may be asked to do a midnight thing on Saturday…still have to work out the details for that, but we’ve got plenty we can feature and that’s a quick-spot…just a five-minute demo slot so that would really just have to be one thing…” George trailed off, half muttering to himself as he started to work through the itinerary of what all the conference would entail.
                Hermione was only half-listening. She’d known all along, once he’d accepted the invitation to display, that the convention was what they were working toward. It just seemed that it was never coming. And now it was finally here. Her mind was reeling. If she could manage to get through it, what would happen then? Would he still need them on in the shop? Would he part ways with them as business associates, sending them their royalties check as promised on a weekly basis? But more importantly, what would happen with Severus? Surely he would expect her to move out, find a place of her own, and whatever it was they were in the middle of perpetually not having, would come to an end. It nearly made her sick to think on it.
                “If you’re quite ready to get started, Mr. Weasley, I suggest we do so, otherwise, let us have some air whilst you gas on with yourself about the convention itinerary,” said Severus, spying Hermione’s wavering gait.
                George hardly heard him, but waved them off. It was like watching an episode of mania at times when it came to George Weasley and how readily he could get wrapped up in whatever it was he was prattling on about. But Hermione was not focused on that, she was focused on Severus, who was ushering her out of the workshop, down the stairs through the joke shop, and out into the cool night air of Diagon Alley. “Are you going to be this way until we’re on stage and you vomit as if you’ve swallowed one of Mr. Weasley’s infamous Puking Pastilles?” he asked.
                Hermione was hot; she was angry with herself for letting her emotions have total rule of her in the shop. She was angry with him for being so coarse. She was angry at George for being so giddy ridiculous over the whole affair. But above all of the anger she was frightened. Not only was she frightened of performing in front of hundreds of people, which was quickly approaching a much higher number, and the great fear of being recognized, but she was afraid of what would happen in the aftermath. But it was impossible to articulate all of that and already she could feel the pinpricks welling up behind her eyes. “Just leave me alone a minute,” she huffed.
                “Very unlike you,” he said but took a step back. “Do I need to scan you for traces of Flinge?” he asked, voice on edge.
                “No you bloody well don’t!” she snapped. “I just— I can’t do this!” she all but bit his head off.
                “Hermione, be reasonable—”
                “Stop! Severus, just— stop. I— I— ” she could feel her entire body trembling. She was seized in the clutches of anxiety, desperate for his comforting arms; they were the double-edged sword of damnation that exacerbated and assuaged the problem at hand. She wanted to scream. She wanted to pound her fists against his chest until she beat through his ribs. She wanted to crush her lips against his until they were both swollen and purple with the heat of her kiss. She wanted to run down the alley until she could run no more. Hermione felt all of these things surge up within her at once and she could feel a magical current sparking out of her fingertips. If spontaneous combustion were real, she was certain she was about to experience it.
                “Legilimens!” his voice rasped.
                Hermione was taken so aback, caught so off-guard, that the power of his sudden invasion of her mind sent her physically reeling backward. She lost her footing and collapsed onto the cold cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Frantic thoughts whirred in her mind; everything she’d ever experienced with him, felt about him, felt for him, and all of the fears and emotions that were swarming her in that moment erupted all around her and in the thicket of it she could see him. She could feel him. There was no closing her mind. There was no forcing him out. She was wrecked.
                Glimpses and flashes of everything whipped past her, assailing her like bolts of lightning. Muted and distorted sounds tore at the sides of her ears as memories collided around her. Blinks of moments from her time on the run, snippets of her crying silent tears while Ron finished far too quickly and rolled over snoring, fuzzy renderings of those muggles in Australia all whizzing around in front of her and behind her. Then there was Nigel; there was Severus. The workshop, Spinner’s End, the pending doom of performing at the convention, it was all happening all around her at once and she could feel her heart exploding inside her chest.
                Then there were hands. They were his hands, strong and firm, pulling her upward. He had withdrawn from her mind, and somehow quieted her thoughts in the process. She was panting, half breathless, and felt herself being hoisted up to her feet, being pulled against him. Hermione’s eyes flew open and stared into his eyes, frantically searching for anything on which to ground herself.
                “Breathe,” he said.
                “Why did you— why would you— oh, Gods! Why did you do that?” she sobbed.
                “Stop,” he said and held her firmly, giving her figure a firm shake. “Breathe, Hermione. Or you are liable to faint.”
                His words were commanding; there was a hypnosis to his tone that forced her to obey. She felt the cool rush of air sweeping into her lungs, filling her chest. Then she exhaled. She drew several more steadying breaths in and out, in and out. Hermione nodded her head slowly. “I’m okay. I think.”
                Severus nodded curtly but did not release his iron hold on her arms. She was still drawn quite close to his body. “My apologies for the intrusion but it was necessary,” he said. “And we shall discuss the majority of it later,” he cautioned, his eyes darkening for just a moment. “But we’ve work to do this evening,” he said. “You cannot focus on anything but getting to the convention and through the demonstrations thereof. If it means you require extra practice…extra time acquainting yourself…intimately…then so be it…but no good will come of your melting down into a panic every time you think of what’s to come.” He was stoic. He was solid and firm in his words, his eyes unyielding and for a moment it soothed her more than terrified her. And then the remainder of his words caught up with her. ‘We shall discuss the majority of it later.’ That was a frightening thought, more so than the performance anxiety, though not quite as scary as the aftermath once they left the convention.
                Hermione nodded, somewhat dumbly, and then wriggled slightly. “It’s cold out here,” she muttered.
                “Then get back inside,” he said. She shivered and then leaned into him. “Don’t,” he muttered but she had nuzzled her nose up against his cheek, letting her lips drag slowly against his jaw. She couldn’t help herself. And apparently neither could he. Her lips dragged along his, and then she kissed him. He resisted for but a moment, trying in vain to keep his own lips shut, but her tongue was eager and insistent and his mouth parted for her. She kissed him; he kissed her. They kissed. Hermione shivered, despite the heat from his kiss, despite the warmth growing between her legs, despite how hot she felt being so close to him.
                “Oi! If you two— oh, Merlin! Fuck me, sorry!” George cried.
                Hermione felt nauseous once more. Severus had pulled away from the kiss, though she was shocked when he did not push her entirely off. One arm rose, almost protectively around her figure, pulling her into his torso as if his arms could shield her from view. “Just a moment, Mr. Weasley, we’ll be upstairs presently.”
                If George had any further remarks before disappearing back into the shop, she did not hear them. Hermione was flushed from head to toe, embarrassed, frightened, and yet extremely aroused. “I…”
                The telltale finger was pressed against her lips. “Do not do that again,” he said. “We have work to do.” Severus stepped back from her, nodded toward the shop, and swept off into it.
                Hermione was stunned. Don’t do what? Kiss him? Don’t melt down? Don’t have a panic attack? Her mind was racing; her heart was too. But as Severus said, she had work to do. With haste, she trotted back into the joke shop, with Severus nearly through the workshop door by the time she caught up to him. “Wait,” she whispered, tugging his sleeve before he could enter the workshop. Severus stopped but did not turn to look at her. “Just…” she sighed. “Give me a moment?” she asked. He said nothing. Hermione slipped her trembling fingers up against his forearm, letting them rest there, half expecting him to tense and push her off. But he did not. Instead, he caught her arm in his own hand, turning it up until his thumb was stroking over her forearm. It was ordinary, creamy flesh to the eye. But she knew what was beneath the glamour and so too did he. She closed her eyes and just felt his thumb, slowly stroking the skin of her mark; she let the tension melt into the rhythmic stroking, and with a few steady breaths, she felt herself ready. “Okay,” she whispered and gently shook free of his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
                As she appeared at the top of the stairs, slowly pushing her way into the workshop door, she caught George’s eye for the briefest of seconds. He didn’t say a word about what he’d witnessed outside. Hermione was grateful, though simultaneously dreading what Severus would say about it when they returned home. He had kissed her too. There was no denying that. It wasn’t as if she’d kissed him and he’d simply refused it. He had tried for a moment to resist her, but then he’d given in and he’d kissed her. And then of all things, he’d protected her, drawing his arm around her and shielding her with his body. The back of her mind snickered to think that if he still donned the long black overcoat that had billowed behind him from his days at Hogwarts that she might in fact have gone unseen when he’d made such a gesture.
                She noted somewhat sadly that he was already disrobing and was not assisting her with her own clothes. Though she didn’t need help, Hermione liked the routine. It was a little part of their working together that just felt natural. He took her clothes from her as she undressed, delicately draping them on the hook, and then he helped her into her robe. Clearly after the encounter outside, routine had gone out the window. She hoped that he wouldn’t be overly standoffish or taxing throughout whatever it was George was having them test.
                Hermione watched as George began to uncrate something, Severus taking a mild interest, but perhaps only so that he did not have to look at her. They had kissed before; what of it? But that was different. It had been a kiss of compromise, perhaps. She thought back to the very first time he had kissed her; it had been the night she’d first turned up at Spinner’s End, afraid she’d get the sack because she had no means of comparison for the oral toy thing whose name she’d long since put out of her mind. And he’d kissed her to be cheeky; he’d kissed her to mock her. Or perhaps he’d mocked her to cover that he did long to kiss her and thought perhaps there would not be another opportunity to do so. That seemed a lifetime ago. Her mind raced with the kiss in the workshop that first afternoon; he had called it being caught up in a moment. What if they were just perpetually caught up in a series of unending moments? She wanted out of the woods, if that were the case.
                “Hermione, come have a look at this, would you?” called George. He waved her over.
                She was donned in her robe and made her way toward them. She refused to look at Severus, too afraid of what she might or might not see in his face. George Weasley was holding a little golden box in his hands. Had she been any place else, with anyone else, she could have easily said that it was a box of chocolate truffles. But inside George Weasley’s workshop, standing beside the master-tinker himself and Severus Snape, she knew better. So Hermione was extraordinarily surprised when George undid the slender golden string tied around the top, lifted the lid, and revealed what looked like an ordinary box of nine chocolate truffles.
                Hermione gazed at them in quiet astonishment, but quickly shifted her expression to that of questionable concern. Nothing in the workshop was ordinary. Nothing in the workshop was ever as it seemed. With that notion in her mind, she leaned her head slightly forward to examine them more closely. It was unfortunate that at that moment Severus had decided to do at the same thing, bumping his forehead into hers. They didn’t knock heads hard, but it was enough of a bump to make her wince. “Sorry,” she muttered, still refusing to look him in the eye.
                He said nothing. Hermione continued to stare hard at the nine chocolate truffles in the box. They were shaped as one might expect chocolate to be; there were a few square ones, a few round ones, one shaped like a barrel, and for the most part they were all a milky shade of brown, though some were a much richer hue, and the barrel-shaped one was flecked with little orange dots. The scent of chocolate was strong, not so much to be intoxicating or overwhelming, but enough to be noticeable. She asked the obvious. “Chocolates?”
                George grinned. “Yes.” He moved over to the work bench and set the box down. “Not just chocolates, of course,” he said and then pulled at the ledger, flipping a few pages.
                “Of course,” she muttered and rolled her eyes.
                “Mysterious Marvels…” he read from the ledger. “Fred really does boggle the mind at times,” he said with a faded grin. “Anyway, this box of one dozen…” he frowned. “Hmm…clearly we’ve only got nine, but nonetheless…” he shook his head, dipped his quill, and scratched out the incorrect number. “…this box…contains enchanted chocolate delights, each one having a surprising romantic effect on you and your lover. To be shared…” George bent his nose quite close to the ledger. “Aha— love bites…right, so it looks like these will each do…something…”
                “Merlin only knows what,” Hermione muttered beneath her breath, but no one seemed to take notice.
                “And you’re meant to each bite it. So each one…you take a bite, Hermione, and then you, Severus, or vice versa, don’t really suppose it matters who eats their half first,” George said with a shrug.
                “And what exactly are they meant to do, Mr. Weasley? Other than have a surprising romantic effect?” Severus said, sounding rather skeptical.
                George shrugged, again his goofy grin was plastered across his lips. “I have absolutely no idea. This is the only note I could find on them in the ledger, but they smell good, they look nice, and I figured, why not. Who doesn’t like chocolate? And how bad can it be?”
                Hermione and Severus snorted at the same time. This forced her to look at him. Their eyes met briefly, and she could see something behind his obsidian orbs, though again she was uncertain as to what. He looked no different than he did otherwise, stoic and clinical, prepared for work. She dismissed it; Hermione wondered if perhaps she was imagining whatever it was she thought she was seeing in his eyes. But it didn’t matter. She could obsess over it later; she could ruminate on it once they’d returned home. But she didn’t want to think about that either. Thankfully, George seemed fully intent on having them proceed with testing the mystery product, and although there seemed to be little by way of expectations, that mystery was one she was ready to digest, no matter how awkward it became.
                She watched Severus move over to the bed. “Mr. Weasley, a bit warmer in here, if you please,” he said; his voice was dry. Hermione tried to keep her eyes from staring hard at his every move as he shrugged out of his robe entirely before sitting on the bed. As if he’d been expecting her to question this slightly unusual behavior, Severus looked directly at her and spoke. “Since we’ve absolutely no idea what will happen with this product…it stands to reason that we should take every precaution.”
                “That’s smart, Severus,” said George. “Hermione, go ahead and shed your robe, I’ll put a warming charm on,” he said and drew his wand. She was slightly dumbfounded, but complied, moving to sit beside Severus on the bed. She tried not to notice that he was somewhat at attention; she tried not to notice how her nipples stiffened, having nothing whatsoever to do with the slight chill in the room. She kept her head tilted slightly downward, staring at their legs as they hung over the side of the bed. “Okay…so I guess just pick one? And we’ll get started,” said George, offering the box to them.
                Hermione let Severus take the box. She looked at the truffles once more, noticing upon closer inspection that some of them had intricate patterns delicately carved into their chocolate surfaces, some of which even had hints of color in them. When he made no gesture to select one, she pointed to the one in the center. It was a rounded darkish looking chocolate, with little swivels that looked like flames across the top; there were the slightest flecks of red and blue lined in the swivel pattern. “That one, I guess,” she said. She watched George take note of it in the ledger, she watched Severus hand the box back to George, and then she stared wide-eyed at him as he held the truffle up to her lips.
                “Witches first,” he said.
                Hermione felt her face flush slightly. Was he being polite or cheeky? She couldn’t read his expression, though this was nothing new. She tried not to linger too long on the vision before her. Severus seated on the edge of the bed, naked, half-aroused, and holding a very tempting, albeit questionable, piece of chocolate up to her lips. It was the stuff of dreams and if she hadn’t been certain that she was wide-awake at work, she would have assumed as much. A bolder, more certain version of herself would have leaned forward with lust smoldering in her eyes and taken a slow, forceful and wanton bite out of the truffle. But Hermione was not so bold in that moment. He’d invaded her mind; he’d finally done the thing she’d accused him of doing, which up to that point he hadn’t actually done. But that wasn’t what was truly putting her off, if she were honest with herself. The tremendous anxiety of the joke conference and what would become of them after— both personally and with their positions working for George— aside, she feared above all in that moment what he might have glimpsed of Nigel in her mind.
                But she could dwell on that no longer; Severus pressed the chocolate truffle against her lips. “Go on, Miss Granger.”
                There was no more stalling; there was no more waiting. Hermione parted her lips slightly, taking a bite from the truffle, careful not to eat all of it as the notes had said it was meant to be shared. It was spicy— chocolate with heat— it was not unlike a cinnamon or a peppery kick mingling into the rich, satiny dark goodness of cocoa. It was most definitely a dark chocolate and tingled a bit on her tongue, the spice of it lingering as she swallowed it. Hermione had been so intently focused on the flavor, the sensation of the chocolate in her own mouth, that she hadn’t at all noticed Severus finishing the other half of the truffle. When she looked at his face, his lips were still, though the chocolate had vanished.
                “Well?” asked George.
                “It tastes spicy, George,” said Hermione. “A bit like cinnamon or a peppery something, not quite sure what, though,” she confessed. She did not find it unpleasant, quite the opposite in fact, though she had been known to enjoy savory things mixed into her sweets, so rarely did she consume them, her incidences with her period notwithstanding.
                “I would second Miss Granger’s assessment.” Severus said, sounding ever his clinical and calculating self. “A dark cocoa, with rich, cocoa butter fullness, very little milk and sugar, I’m willing to estimate about 80% pure cocao, along with a capsicum of some sort, perhaps a rough shaving of cinnamon bark.”
                “Lovely,” said George, not glancing up from his notebook. “Is it doing anything, other than tasting exotic?”
                “It’s immediate effects are not apparent, Mr. Weasley. Are there notes indicating a delayed response of sorts?” he queried.
                “Um…” George flipped the ledger round, squinting at the scratch made by his late twin. “Hmm…I don’t think so…”
                Hermione, whose eyes had fallen victim to wandering down the length of Severus’ body, was suddenly alarmed. She shrieked, bouncing herself a bit on the bed as she did. “Severus!” she cried, waving her finger frantically at him.
                George looked up in alarm. “Hermione, what’s— bloody hell!” he cried.
                Hermione skittered backwards, falling off the bed, her arm still frantically waving as her she pointed at his cock. “Severus!” she cried once more. “Your penis is on fire!”

((Thank you all very much for taking the time to read and keep up with this! Hope this little chapter was enjoyable— more to come, most assuredly, with these…chocolates… among other things!))
- 18
- 19
- 20
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Weasley's Wizard Wheezes