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The Last 24 Hours of Severus Snape	By : CryingCinderella Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 17388 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I make any money from writing these stories.

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A/N: Thank you all for your continued support, I love seeing the feedback, knowing what you think, how it made you feel.

It took every ounce of strength and self restraint that she possessed simply not to fling herself upon the floor beside him and throw her arms around him. It would have been beyond inappropriate and undignified; he deserved better than a pathetic weeping woman. She had somehow failed him; failed to save his life and now his last twenty four hours, though a bit more than that as it was only nearing the midnight marker ending the day of Tuesday, had been granted to her. Hermione bit her lower lip, drew in a breath and then stepped over to where he had fallen. “Can you stand, Severus?” she asked, her tone neutral, gentle but not coddling.

            He made no response and had it not been for the slight tremble of his figure she would have assumed the fall had struck him dead. The stench from the prison cell lingered in the filthy robes, and no doubt were marinated into his skin and hair from neglect over the past month. She steeled her nerves and then slowly knelt down on the floor beside him. “I think the first thing we need to get you is a bath and fresh robes,” she said and then hesitantly reached her hand out to him.

            Like a split branch caught in the high winds of a storm his emaciated arm shot forth from the lump of rags clutching firmly around her wrist with what was clearly the only energy he had left in him. His fingers were pointy and painful, skin stretched so tautly over his skin that she swore she could see them as they dug into her flesh. Hermione had gasped when he’d grabbed her, but gazed firmly at him then, seeing his face fully for the first time since she’d discovered his incarceration.

            His face was sunk, a coarse growth of scraggly hair covered his chin and jaw, his eyes ringed with dark bags, his lips chapped and broken, crusted with bits of dried skin and blood. His hair was matted to his face, clumped against his scalp, filthier than she had ever seen a human’s hair be. She choked back a sob as he lifted his head and brought his eyes, red and watery from being kept in the dank air of the prison, to meet her gaze.

            The voice that issued from his broken lips grated against her ear like sharp gravel, a far cry from the smooth velvety voice that would have once brought a shiver of a different sort to her body. It was evident that he had not spoken in weeks; the scratch and difficultly in adding any volume to his words clearly indicating disuse. She pressed her lips together to keep from sobbing out; he deserved better than pity.

            “Want a toothbrush…and the loo…” he rasped.

            Hermione nodded her head, keeping her lips pressed together, not trusting herself enough to speak in that moment. She knew that beyond one of the doors lay a washroom, complete with a shower, a bathtub, sink, and a separate water closet with a toilet. Kingsley had informed her that while they were not state of the art they would have to do and she could adjust them as necessary with transfigurations and spells providing they would not somehow create a means with which he could escape. She knew beyond the other door lay a bed, a sofa, fireplace and table should he wish to write a final statement and have a final meal.

            It only took a moment to discern that the room he needed was behind the left door. She’d slipped into the bathroom, surprised to find that it was not as cramped as she had imagined. While it was pristinely white and very sterile it was a good deal larger than the simple waiting room into which they’d been thrust. The water closet with the toilet was directly across from the door that led in. On the left of the door flush against the wall was a rather deep bathtub, raised up off the floor on odd little brass feet that upon closer inspection she identified to be little Griffon feet. Beside the water closet was a sink and a mirror and on the left wall was a shower stall, a shelf between it and the sink with carefully secured toiletries.

            She wasn’t certain that he was going to be able to move to the washroom on his own, given his state, but was surprised to see him, haggard as he was, leaning against the frame of the door as she reached into the invisible shield that guarded the toiletries. Turning to face him she nodded to the door that led to the toilet and then set a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste as well as a reel of floss on the edge of the sink. “You can’t touch the toiletries, but whatever you need, I’m happy to pull from the shelf for you so that you can use them,” she said, not able to bring her eyes to meet him.

            Hermione watched him struggle on his feet, weak and frail, moving into the water closet, the door shutting behind him. She forced her hand against her mouth and bit the back of her hand. She would not cry for him in his state. He deserved better, she had to remind herself. He was a dignified hero who had sacrificed everything. Shaking her head as if to clear it she straightened up and smoothed her hands down the front of her robes, trying not to listen as he relieved himself.

            When the door to the closet opened slowly she expected him to be clinging to it for support. She had not expected to hear him calling to her. Closing her eyes and wrapping her arms firmly around her chest for a moment she stepped toward the door. “Yes, Severus?” she asked.

            “Towel…or robe…” his voice rasped as if it pained him to speak.

            Taking a quick glance around the bathroom she frowned. There was a stack of standard issue towels but no robes. Drawing one from the top of the pile she performed a simple transfiguration and created a bathrobe of plush terrycloth material. She reached her hand around the door and handed it to him, the brush of his pointed fingertips felt as if the hand of a skeleton were raking across her palm and she tried not to shudder. It was another moment before he appeared from within the water closet, shuffling slowly over to the sink.

            She watched quietly as he washed his hands, donned now in the transfigured robe that fell loosely open around his otherwise naked body. Taking a wash cloth from the stack near the towels she transfigured it into a tie for his robe, offering it to him. “It will help you keep warm, you must be cold,” she said. When he did not take it, she stepped toward him, not having to step far to close the space between them in the small bathroom. Hermione carefully wrapped the tie around his waist, trying not to notice how each of his ribs seemed to protrude through his skin, which was so pale it was nearly translucent. He had never been a broad man, always tall and slender, even when he’d stood trial he had looked only slightly underweight. But standing before her as he did, he looked little more than a skeleton reanimated.

            “There,” she said tying it loosely around his front, concealing his privates and most of his abdomen. It afforded him modesty and at least it wasn’t the filthy tattered black rags that he’d been kept in for the thirty one days of his incarceration. “The toothpaste is there, with the brush, and if you’d like floss,” she stepped back from him, nodding toward the sink. “And I can get you mouthwash too.”

            There was little more to do in that moment other than observe him. His hands shook as he drew up the toothbrush, squirting a great glob of the white paste onto the bristles before poking it into his mouth. Despite his weakened state and trembling hand he worked the brush in his mouth with vigor. Severus brushed his teeth for a good long while, spitting mouthful after mouthful of toothpaste into the sink, running the water to quickly clear it away. He ignored the floss but after he’d nearly emptied the entire tube of toothpaste he set the brush down on the sink’s edge and turned to her, gesturing at her.

            “Mouthwash?” she asked and he nodded. Hermione turned to the little shelf protected by the ward that would not allow him to access the items upon it. She plucked up a small bottle of minty green mouthwash and then handed it to him, watching as he depleted the bottle with his rinsing process in nearly no time flat. When he nodded to her again she assumed he was nodding his thanks. At least his breath would be fresher, she thought as she watched him run a trembling hand through his matted hair. “I think…a bath,” she said nodding to the tub before her. “I’m able to cast a concealment charm, keep your— to give you a bit more modesty,” she offered.

            Severus turned his head slowly to her. “I need a shave,” he said, his voice, still gravely and rough, but not as harsh as it had first been, a slight hint of his soft timbre returning to it.

            Hermione turned to gaze at the shelf, scanning her eyes over each of the items there carefully. But she could not find a razor. Pausing for a moment she drew her wand and attempted to summon one, but she received little more than a red spark of protest from the tip of her wand. Eyeing the stool beneath the sink she moved toward him and pulled it out. “Sit here,” she said. “And I will go and see if I can get you a razor,” she said.

            As she departed the bathroom she watched him ease his body down onto the stool, clutching at his chin as if tugging at the coarse growth would clear it from his face. While she hadn’t immediately thought of him needing a shave she was glad he had requested it as he looked worse for the ware with the wiry scraggly growth upon his face. In all her life of knowing him the man had never even worn so much as a five o’clock shadow upon his face and to see him then with a beard that looked like it belong on hobo from the seedy pubs in Knockturne Alley, it made her sick.

            Tapping her wand tip to the main door she was immediately grabbed by two guards and yanked through the door, tumbling over herself, landing on her ass. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted, quickly pulling herself to her feet.

            “Sorry, Miss Granger, standard procedure,” one of the guards said with a nod, lowering his wand. She hadn’t even realized in her tumble that they were both in a stance aimed to hex her.

            Hermione grunted and then smoothed her hands down the front of her robes. “Whatever,” she said. “I need to request a razor, the patient has requested a shave of his beard and there is no razor available on the shelf of toiletries.” The silence that the guards gave her only infuriated her. “Did I not speak clearly? Or do you just enjoy wasting time? He doesn’t have much of it left in case you’ve forgotten,” she snarled. “Or perhaps it’s just that you don’t care.”

            The slightly larger of the two guards looked at his partner and shrugged his shoulders. “I mean they’re going to have to shave him anyhow, what’s the harm?”

            The other guard shook his head. “Need to clear it with the minister— it’s a weapon if he turns it on himself or on her…” the guard shook his head again.

            Hermione looked from one to the other, perplexed by his comment about them shaving him. Was that a time honored prison tradition alongside the last meal of a man sentenced to death? A final shave? She did not let the thought plague her for but a moment. “I’ll shave him— I’ll take the chance, I’ve already waived whatever it is the minister said I’ve waived, and I’ll be responsible,” she said. “Just get me a razor, not something dull that I might nick him with either, a proper razor and hot lather,” she said.

            The guards exchanged a glance between them and then they both shrugged. “Alright,” they said in unison. The larger of the two departed and returned a few minutes later with a straight razor and a canister of heated shaving foam. “Here,” he said and then took the precautions to allow her back into the room.

            With a sigh Hermione walked back into the washroom, noting that he was exactly where she had left him, sitting on the stool, if a little slumped forward, leaning slightly against the sink. Though she wasn’t sure why she expected him to be anywhere else, she was relieved nonetheless that all in all nothing had changed in her brief absence. “I am sorry to inform you that it is against the rules for prisoners to possess or use a razor,” she said. “However, I have convinced them that as you will not be the one doing the shave, and that you are in my charge here…” she trailed off and then set the canister of hot foam as well as the blade on the edge of the sink.

            Severus studied both instruments for a moment and then looked at her, his eyes less red than they had previously been. His hair was still a mess, and she was certain he was still filthy, but he looked just the tiniest bit less pathetic in that moment, his eyes meeting hers with an uncertainty, as if mulling it over. And after a moment he nodded his head. “I cannot stand the feeling of a beard,” he said.

            She could not imagine how humiliating it was for him to accept that he would not be allowed to perform some of his own toiletries; and it occurred to her then that not only was it humiliating but potentially dangerous as she had never shaved anyone before, let alone a man’s angular face. Hermione paused a moment. “Let’s get you rinsed off, and then we can tackle giving you a shave,” she said nodding behind her to the shower stall.

            It was difficult not to let the surprise show in her eyes when he simply nodded and stood from the stool, shuffling past her. She turned her back to him as she heard the robe flutter to the floor and the water start up. It was then and only then when she was certain that he could not see her face that she let silent tears slide down her cheeks. The shower itself had no closure; not a door or curtain to give him privacy. Hermione waved her wand over the seat of the stool, adding a simple cushioning charm to it so that when he finished in the shower it would feel easier on his frail frame. With another wave of her wand she summoned the robe she’d made for him and cast a few simple cleansing charms on it so that it would be fresh when he finished rinsing off.

            The soft grunting sounds worried her at first. “Are you alright?” she asked.

            “Body aches,” he muttered, his gravelly voice nearly drowned out by the spray of the water.

            “I’ll get you a muscle relaxant,” she said and then stepped out of the washroom back into the main room. With a wave of her wand an assortment of vials appeared on a shelf, which also materialized, before her eyes. “Well,” she said aloud to herself. She browsed through them, selecting up a few good potion. She would do everything she could to restore his body, bring him to a decent level of comfort. She would not deny him anything he asked of her. Tucking the various vials into the pocket of her robes she stepped back from the shelf, watching as it disappeared. “Right then, “she said stepping back into the washroom, keeping her eyes down to give him what little privacy she could.

            The water stopped a moment after she’d re-entered. “Robe,” he said. Hermione picked the robe up from the stool and walked over to him, keeping her eyes to the side as she handed him the freshly cleaned garment.

            “Here,” she said. “Start with this,” she whispered pulling a vial from her pocket, a thick blue liquid slowly slopping about inside. “It should help ease the sting you feel when speaking, I’m guessing that’s why you’re responding so simply,” she said. Waiting until he’d slipped into the robe she watched him take the vial from her hand and carefully bring it up under his nose. He inhaled and then nodded his head, tipping it back, sputtering as he did. “Oh!” she cried, not having expected him to begin to choke on the potion. “Here let me—”

            “I’m fine,” he said after another few coughs. Clearing his throat he swallowed hard and then softly said, “This particular potion is known for its accuracy and speed not its wonderful flavor.” His voice sounded almost normal, hardly a scratch to the rich velvety timbre that belonged to Severus Snape.

            “Alright,” she said and then nodded to the stool. “I can give you that shave now, if you’d like, Severus,” she said. It had become a habit; saying his name, using his name. From the moment she had learned of his survival and imminent impending doom facing charges at the Ministry; the moment she had become his counsel, he had always been, Severus, though he had never addressed her as anything other than Miss Granger, and even then it was seldom, though he did not complain of her use of his given name.

            Severus nodded slowly still drained of his energies, his body shaking a bit as he moved to sit back on the stool, groaning a bit as he sank into the seat of it, the charmed cushion far less harsh than the original wooden surface. Hermione stood in front of him, stepping back after a moment to shrug out of her robe. There was a peg on the wall beside the shower where she hung it, leaving her arms more room to freely move about. She wore a simple blouse, no buttons or frills in a soft green, and a pair of plain black trousers. “My wand will work for anything you wish,” she said. “Providing it is not escape,” she added solemnly. “If it’s within my capability to provide it for you, I shall, and if not I’ll find someone else who can,” she said and picked up the razor.

            He said nothing, keeping his eyes on her, but after a moment he nodded his head. “They did not allow you at the trial,” he said a subtle question though posed more as a statement.

            Hermione flinched. “I was not informed of the trial, Severus, I would not have missed a chance to defend you— I did not miss the chance to defend you, the minister reconvened the Wizengamot just before you were transferred here. Unfortunately their vote remained the same,” she said, swallowing hard.

            Again he nodded, a simple gesture, one of a man who was already resigned to his fate. And if he wasn’t going to make a big deal over it, then she certainly could not spill tears over it. “They have given me carte blanche, essentially,” she said after a moment’s pause, “To stay here with you until Thursday morning, and have extended against their recommendation and invitation to be witness, should you wish to not be alone.”

            It was by far the hardest thing she’d ever had to say. I’m here to watch you die. And she felt a great pain welling up in her chest but bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out at the injustice of it all. Above all she had to maintain a strong face for him; anything he wanted and she was certain the last thing he would want was her collapsing at his feet in tears. Hermione gazed at him, waiting to see if he would say more.

            “The curse then,” he said, his voice, though his own once more, resigned.

            “No.” Hermione paused a moment, placing the razor back on the sink’s edge. “It is a muggle device, Merlin knows why that’s the route they’ve chosen, but it’s called the Electric chair, I’m afraid I’m not familiar with it, when we’re finished tidying you up, I’ll see what I can’t learn about it,” she added.

            Just a silent nod, his hair heavy on both sides of his face, clumped and matted, filthy despite the shower. “Here,” she said and drew her wand. “Scourgify,” she whispered watching her wand go to work scrubbing bubbles shooting out from the tip, attacking his hair. With another few flicks of her wrist she began to de-mat the clumps and untangle his locks. What felt like ages later his hair was once again hanging easily around his face, a good bit longer than she had recalled ever seeing him wear it, but at least it was somewhat presentable.

            “I might request when you finish my shave, if you ever start it, that you trim my hair, I am not accustomed to keeping it this long,” he admitted.

            Hermione blushed slightly at his words. “I don’t mean to stall, Severus, but I’ve never shaved a man’s beard before, and I’m not keen on nicking you,” she said.

            His chuckled startled her; her wand clattering to the floor as it fell from her fingers. She gazed at him with wide eyes and noted that despite his still broken appearance he was almost smiling. “I shall be dead in a day’s time what difference will it make if you slit my throat now let alone such a simple thing as a nick?” he asked and then shook his head, his bony hand reaching out and touching her hand. “You are a very thoughtful witch, Hermione.”

            Her whole being froze in that moment. It shocked her to the core to hear her name. Not only because he had used her given name, and never in all her years of being in the man’s company had he ever done so, but it occurred to her that he must have done so because he truly believed himself to be dying. She hadn’t accepted it; refused to think that each step she was taking in cleaning him up was to prepare him to die. She wasn’t sure how her mind was justifying it but she refused to acknowledge her failure that was slowly costing him his life.

            “Now please,” his voice startled her back to life, as if his voice had managed to both stop and restart her heart within just seconds of each of his words. “I shan’t be cross if you nick me, I doubt I’ll even notice that it hurts,” he said. “Of all the times I have nicked myself over the years when having a morning shave…and one does nick themselves a good deal when they are rushing to ensure that a class of dunderheads does not blow themselves to kingdom come whilst unsupervised…I shall not hold it against you, seeing it is your first attempt. Be so fortunate that you do not have facial hair to contend with.”

            So many words tumbled forth from his mouth then; and she was certain she’d heard some sort of estranged humor in what he spoke, reflection, perhaps nostalgia, but again, just as when he had spoken her name, it was there clear as day; resignation. He was accepting the fact that he was going to die. That he was being forcibly put to death for unjust reasons and there was nothing further to be done for it. It took all she had not to fall apart then and there.

            Picking up the razor once more, she gripped it and then sighed, setting it back down. “I suppose lathering you up first might help,” she said, squashing the feelings that threatened to overtake her in that moment. She was a woman of the law; driven and passionate with a short-fused temper and she had done well to keep her emotions in check when dealing with clients and other members of legal counsel, even with the Wizengamot and the Minister, but Severus Snape seemed to be her undoing. “Just a moment,” she said. “I think one of the scourgifying bubbles got into my eye,” she said with a gracious nervous laugh and then stepped back away from him, moving into the main room, through the door and into the other room.

            She slumped against the door as she pulled it shut behind her. “Muffliato,” she whimpered before bursting into a full flood of tears. Her chest was heaving, her body trembling as she wrapped her arms tightly around her body trying to squeeze herself into a calmer state. Hermione cried hard; tears pouring down her cheeks. She sat that way for several moments until she’d managed to squeeze herself tight enough that she felt somewhat dizzy. “I have to be strong for him,” she whispered aloud, needing to hear it somewhere other than inside her head.

            With a quick glamour charm she cleared the tears from her eyes and the redness from the tip of her nose before returning the washroom once more. “Bugger they do sting,” she said with a forced smile. Severus said nothing, though he did fold his hands in his lap, gazing at her expectantly. “Alright, let me just get the foam,” she said and then reached over for the can. Depressing the nozzle she held out her hand and caught a large pile of the enchanted hot foam. “Ooh, it’s very warm,” she said.

            Hermione slowly placed her foam covered palm against his cheek, to the highest point where his beard had grown upward meeting his sideburns, and she began to rub slow circles down across his face, over his jaw and under his chin. The coarse bristles of his beard scraped her hand. It was like trying gently massage a pad of steel wool, but she did not stop until she’d worked the foam thickly up over the other side of his face. “There,” she said and then turned to rinse her hands in the sink.

            “I have never been fond of whiskers,” he said, the gratitude heavy in his voice as he spoke. “And while I’m sure it won’t matter what I look like in a few days time, I should like to enjoy the last few hours I have without a dreadful prickly briar patch upon my face.”

            She nodded her head in agreement. “Of course,” she said. Hermione picked up the razor and unfolded it so that the gleaming sharp blade faced outward. “When I’ve finished, you should wash your hair, have a soak in the tub, and then we can get you into something comfortable, there’s a sofa and a bed in the next room, actual furniture, with a fireplace, and a table,” she said carefully placing the blade against his skin.

            “Perhaps a soak in the tub,” he said thoughtfully, contemplating what she said. “Though I should not think my arms will tolerate much washing of anything let alone my hair,” he said.

            “I’ll do it.” Immediately her face flushed, and she bit her lower lip.

            “Alright,” he said, surprising her yet again with his words. “I would appreciate that.”

            “Severus, stop talking so that I can do this, please,” she said with a soft smile leaning close to him as she placed the blade at the back of his jaw just in front of his ear. She pressed it against his skin, firmly but not enough to stab directly into his skin and ever so slowly she scraped the blade forward. The sharp sound of metal clearing hair from a man’s face filled the air. She clinked the razor blade on the edge of the sink and then rinsed it clean beneath the water, gazing at the small swath of freshly shaven skin she’d left in the wake of his beard. “Alright,” she said. “Not too bad, just the rest to go,” she added.

            Hermione shaved his face in silence, making slow deliberate passes with the razor, each long stroke ending with her tapping the excess foam into the sink and then splashing the blade under the running faucet. She was careful not to go over any area more than twice and was extra careful as she shaved his upper lip and curved the blade beneath his chin. It seemed like ages before she’d finally gotten all of the scraggly mess that had been allowed to grow rampant over his face. The razor clattered into the sink as she released it and then grabbed a washcloth and wet it. Slow smooth strokes over his face to wipe the remaining little streaks of foam from his skin and then she nodded to him. “There,” she said.

            Severus’s hands were slow and a bit shaky as they came up to touch his face. He placed his fingertips on his cheek bones and slowly stroked down the length of his face, feeling his jaw, his lip, up the sides and under his chin. He nodded his head after a moment then turned his eyes up to her. “Thank you,” he said.

            Hermione picked up the razor and can of foam and placed them on the warded shelf. Immediately they vanished. “You’re welcome,” she said with her back turned, knowing that if she looked him in the eye she would lose it completely. “You do look better without the beard,” she said.

            “I tend to agree,” he said, coughing slightly. “Water please,” he said, his words soft.

            “Of course.” Hermione summoned a glass and filled it at the sink handing it to him. He pressed it to his lips and drank slowly as if trying to savor and remember forever what water tasted like. She bit her lower lip again; each gesture and action reminding her more that time was slowly slipping by. Already she knew it had to be the wee hours of Wednesday morning if not early hours wherein the sun would be approaching. “Bath?” she asked.

            Severus nodded. “Are there bubbles?”

            She was fortunate that she had turned back around as he had asked his question. She was overcome with the dual desire to both laugh and cry. She hardly pictured Severus Snape as a man who would take a bubble bath, which made her want to laugh. But the fact that he was requesting to do so because in a day’s time he would never take another bath, bubbles or not, made her long to sob. “Let- let me see,” she said catching herself again with a harsh bite to her bottom lip.

            Hermione carefully scanned the assorted bottles on the toiletry shelf. “Um, I think I can manage to make proper bath bubbles with this,” she said plucking a bottle of vanilla body wash from its place. A few muttered spells and flicks of her wand and the contents of the bottle thickened considerably. “Yes, yes, Severus, there are bubbles, vanilla bath bubbles, extra bubbly,” she said and walked over to the tub. “How would you like your bath?” she asked.

            Severus stood slowly from the stool, fumbling for a moment with the loose tie around his robe. It was difficult to watch him; a man of such grace such refined movements reduced to fumbling and trembling because of neglect and Merlin and obscenely inhumane conditions. She couldn’t turn her eyes fast enough when she shrugged out of the robe revealing his emaciated frame to her. She had caught a glance of his ribs before, but seeing him fully now; she was going to draw blood for as hard as she was going to have to bite down on her lip.

            “How does one have a bath?” he asked.

            She had been nearly on the edge of tears but his question had been so strange that for that moment all other thoughts vacated her head and she spoke before she could stop herself. “You’ve never taken a bath?”

            “No, I have not,” he said rather plainly as if most people had in fact never taken a bath. “Tends to be somewhat of a feminine luxury, I suppose,” he said. “Though now is as good a time as any…consider it part of a very limited…what’s the phrase? Pail list? Bin list? No, bucket list.”

            Hermione put her hand over her eyes. She wasn’t going to survive to his execution because of the emotional turmoil erupting within her; his botched attempt at phrasing bucket list mingled with the gut-wrenching agony that the man had never before taken an actual sit down bath and thought it worthy of being on his bucket list. “Severus,” she said drawing in a shaky breath that was torn halfway between laughter and tears. She exhaled, pinched her thigh with her other hand and then turned her face to him. “How do you take your showers?” she asked.

            He frowned at her. “Alone, I suppose?” it wasn’t a question he had often given much thought. “I cannot say that I have ever found myself in the position to invite another into the shower for any reason.”

            “No!” she said the word flying immediately from her lips her face tinting bright red in that moment. “No no, I meant, oh goodness,” she said exhaling slowly. “Do you run them hot or just tepid?”

            Severus, who looked a bit more like himself cleanly shaven, moved over to where she stood in front of the bath. It was thankfully high enough that it just blocked her view of everything from the waist down. “No one enjoys a cold shower and I cannot see the purpose in taking a shower other than hot, so hot,” he said.

            Hermione turned on the water, magically plugging the stopper. She watched as the water began to fill the deep tub, and then she shook the bottle of bubbles before dumping the whole of it into the water. A thick layer of bubbles immediately began to spread across the surface, piling up into bubble mountains, an errant bubble drifting upward before popping. “You can get in as it fills,” she said. “It’s comfortably hot,” she said. “That’s how I generally set my showers, steamy enough to make you melt into the water so that you can let your body relax.”

            Severus nodded to her and braced himself on the edge of the tub, slowly lifting one leg and then the other into the water. He hissed as he sank down against the back wall of the tub, his shoulders resting just back against the walls bringing his head just above the curved lip of the tub as his legs settled against its bottom. She could hardly see him through all the bubbles but apparently he had need or want to see her as he brushed a pile of them away from his face. “I have a request that I would like to make,” he said.

            “Anything,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.

            His face softened and smiled shaking his head. “You are indeed accommodating,” he laughed softly. “And you’ve not even heard my request.”

            “I already told you, Severus, anything you want, anything you wish, so long as it isn’t a wish to escape your sentencing, and by Merlin I’ll do it no questions asked, I’ll get whatever it is you need, whatever you want, you can have anything.”

            There was silent moment after she spoke; the only sound was the running water filling the tub. She reached to turn the faucet off, tapping it with her wand to ensure the water would stay comfortably hot no matter how long he chose to linger in the tub. Hermione turned her eyes to him, brushing a particularly high mound of bubbles back from where they had gathered, leaning one hip against the lip of the tub looking down at him. “What is your request, Severus?”

            He lowered his head for a moment, gazing into his lap, and then slowly lifted his chin until his eyes met hers once more. “I would like to request that you join me in this bubble bath.”



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The Last 24 Hours of Severus Snape