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Grape Juice Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 7905 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
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A/N: Oracle – Thank you for being the FIRST to review and always being open to new things. I’m glad you liked the funny parts and I appreciate the heads up about edits. ‘Me too. Self taught.’ – cracked me up. What’s eating Severus Grape – is that another movie we have to add to the list? I’m interested to see where this goes too. Also, I wonder if you have noticed that the word ‘pitched’ is your ‘where’s wally/waldo’ of my stories :)

Lovey_Reader – Lovely to see you back. You must be getting tired of reviewing my stuff but I never get tired of reading your reviews. I’m glad you enjoyed the humour again. The Boggart magic thing has quite a bit of artistic license added to it but I thought the premise was fun. Thanks again.

Anon – I’m glad you weren’t too put off by the first paragraph to continue. I do enjoy trying to change things up each time. I couldn’t write two stories with a similar plot or it would bore me to tears. A lot of this is about challenging myself to write my way into and out of situations – I find that the most fun. I appreciate your thoughts.

Anon – Good questions. Hopefully this chapter will answer some of them. I’m glad that you’re not committed either way. I will be interested to hear what direction your thoughts go in. I appreciate your feedback.

Chapter 2 – Grape to see you

Severus’s cock woke up before he did. In fact, when he opened one bleary eye to see it staring up at him, he began wishing that he felt even a fraction as perky. Upon returning home, he’d thrown back an indeterminable number of firewhiskys trying, unsuccessfully, to erase all memory of the evening’s events. He’d also forgotten to take his hangover potion and now had a possessed bludger thumping around inside his skull, and a tongue that felt and tasted like a fungus had taken hold. In this state, there was usually only one thing that could make him feel better. Having passed out the previous evening, he’d failed in all attempts to 'flog the flobberworm', so now he relaxed, closed his hand around his deprived shaft . . . and winced.

No, he hadn’t been slipped a knob-rot potion at the Leaky Cauldron. This time it was his hand—the knuckles swollen and sore. Then he remembered. He’d run into Neville Longbottom’s face. Rubbing his pale palms over his bristly cheeks, he felt an unpleasant heaviness in his chest—was it guilt? He wasn’t proud of hitting a former student, even if it was Longbottom. But he’d been caught off-guard and half-cut. He needed to have a word with Lupin. The boy shouldn’t have been left unsupervised.

He sighed heavily. The morning was turning out worse than usual. Which was saying a lot considering the typical level of misery he managed to indulge in on a daily basis. Every day he woke up surprised that he was still alive. And even more surprised that he was still at Hogwarts. Why did they keep him there? Old time’s sake? Too many sterling memories? Dazzling personality?

McGonagall had been good to him. Too good really. He didn’t deserve it. Of course he still taught, he could do that standing on his head. And he could still brew, but not so easily with the DT’s. Firewhisky had become his closest friend and confidant. And it had turned him into a bigger bastard than he’d ever thought possible. No one wanted to share his company. In fact, apart from his drinking buddies, the ‘conversation’ he’d had with the bushy-haired babbler the previous evening was the longest he’d had in . . . well, it had to be . . . years.

And here he was, again. Thinking of her. Surprisingly, he didn’t immediately think about fucking her. He thought about strange things. Like her fingernails, caked with the memories of paintings past. And her eyes, all bright and trusting. Of course, if she’d known it was him, there wouldn’t have been a chance in hell that she’d have spoken to him, kindly or otherwise.

Or touched him. She liked to touch. She was extremely touchy. Maybe that’s why she liked painting—the textures. He imagined her running her fingers through slicks of oils and acrylics and food. Shit. Not that. His unresolved erection was already frustratingly painful. He didn’t need to think of . . .

“Severus, are you up?”

Fuck! He dragged the sheet over himself as Professor McGonagall’s face appeared in his bedroom fireplace.

“Minerva, I’ve asked you on multiple occasions to use the lounge floo,” he sighed, too tired to be angry.

“You didn’t answer the lounge floo so I came to this one,” she replied primly. “You have a class starting in eight minutes. I suggest you ready yourself.”

He nodded and waited. She remained looking at him. “Anything else?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Not especially.”

“Don’t let me keep you then.”

Without replying, she disappeared.

She seemed to quite enjoy catching him out, naked, and often hung around longer than required. He really hoped she didn’t have feelings for him. Although, she had been kinder to him than anyone else in the recent past. Holding his wand casually, he flicked out spells until he was clean, shaved, dressed and had downed a double shot of coffee. His eyes betrayed his poor state of health but no student would ever dare look him in the eye these days, so he needn’t worry.

She’d looked him in the eyes. At least she’d tried to. He’d managed to hide himself away under that ridiculous hat, in the sad and sorry gloom of his watering hole. He suddenly felt ashamed of his life, what he thought he cherished. Which was, admittedly, only the drink.

He wanted to see her again. But she wanted to see Mrs Grape. She liked Mrs Grape. She didn’t like him. Maybe she’d left a message. Most likely she hadn’t. It was only hours before that he’d seen her. Maybe she’d never leave a message.

Where had his rational self gone? The voice telling him that he was being a sentimental wanker? That it was fucking ridiculous for him to consider seeing her again? And that the idea of dressing up and pretending to be a woman was the stupidest fucking thing he had ever fucking thought of in his whole sorry fucking life? . . . Ahhh there it was. He smiled. But in the mirror, mocking him from across the room, all he saw was an ugly grimace. He wondered, then, if he had ever genuinely smiled in his entire life. And if he would ever, truly, smile again.

***

What am I doing? What am I doing? What are you doing? What are you doing you complete dickhead? He wasn’t really at war with himself. Every voice in his head agreed that he was fucking insane. She’d left a message. She wanted to see him. Well, not him exactly—someone resembling him. And he had agreed for fuck’s sake! And he was going right now, this instant, to make a right twat of himself!

What if she recognised him? What if someone else did? Someone like Lucius Malfoy? His life wouldn’t be worth living. Actually, it already wasn’t worth living. Was it possible to have a life that was less worth living than a life that wasn’t worth living? Okay, that wasn’t helpful. None of this was helpful. He needed a drink. Fuck, he needed a drink. He was already shaking. His pearls were rattling.

They were going to see a movie together. In a muggle cinema. Wasn’t that already a bit strange? A young woman and an elderly woman going to a movie together? Or maybe it wasn’t. It wasn’t a date after all. They were just friends. Weren’t they? He’d said one word to her—‘Grape’. Hardly a strong foundation for any type of relationship.

He rushed along, having transfigured the ridiculous heels into flats—still ridiculous, he found himself skating around on the thin soles with rain sloshing in on every step. He cursed as a gust of wind tried to drag the hat from his head—the one he’d transfigured so that a heavy veil now draped down the front. It looked particularly stupid, and was almost impossible to see through, but he absolutely didn’t want her seeing his face.

Entering the cinema foyer deliberately late, he waited an extra ten minutes before making his way to the theatre door. He’d arranged to meet her inside and knew where she’d be sitting. Waiting. He clenched and unclenched his hands in a nervous gesture from his nervous childhood. He needed a fucking drink. Then his fucking hands would grow up and behave themselves. He released a long breath. Now was the time to pull out. To turn around and return to the blustery solitude of the night where he belonged. He might even be able to rescue the few threads of integrity, normalcy and even sanity, that hadn’t already slithered away down the murky plughole of his, less than optimum, mind.

He couldn’t say what made him do it. Was it simply childish attachment—one he’d never really gotten over? Or the pathetic lure of closeness, someone wanting to be with him, near him, even when they didn’t know it was him? Whatever it was, he suddenly took a deep breath, straightened the lapels on his fitted jacket and pushed through the door.

It was fucking dark. He waited for a bright scene in the film before cautiously making his way down the rows. He saw her almost immediately, her riotous hair a perfect barometer for the wild weather. The seat beside her was empty and slowly, carefully, he sank into it.

“You’re here!” she cried in a loud whisper, drawing disapproving looks from those around them. “I was worried the weather would keep you away.”

He gave her what he hoped looked like a smile from beneath the veil.

“I hope you like this movie,” she leant close to his ear, “it’s supposed to be funny.”

His skin prickled with her warm breath and his arm tingled as her soft body pressed against it.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, grasping his hand in both of hers.

He opened his mouth to draw in air. It was too much physical contact. He hadn’t had any willing contact—well, contact he didn’t have to pay for—for so long. He hoped she couldn’t feel him trembling—and this time it wasn’t just for the bottle.

***

He had no idea what the movie was about. She seemed to like it. She laughed a lot and glanced over at him often. He tried to act like he was enjoying it but he mainly just watched her—her skin painted with flickering hues that cast her in a thousand different frames, shadows, contours and angles. She was a moving work of art . . . And he was a cross-dressing old perv. His heart sank and his chest ached every time reality decided to take a dump in his skirted lap.

Should he leave early? Just rush out? Make up an excuse—that he had to deal with some sort of old woman emergency? Something about a cat, or a cup of tea, or sensible shoes . . .

But the credits were rolling. The movie had finished. And she still held his hand as they stood to leave.

“Let’s grab a cup of tea in the café,” she suggested, tugging on his arm.

While she held him, he would follow.

She hooked her arm through his as they made their way through the foyer, into the adjoining café.

“I didn’t realise how tall you were,” she gazed up at him. “I always wished I was taller growing up. I thought I wanted to be a ballerina,” she said with a rueful grin.

He nodded, although he couldn’t imagine her as a ballerina. They always seemed to have the most perfect hair. Hers might qualify her for a role as a dancing cloud or perhaps some sort of dainty swamp weed. Actually, as he looked at her now, he realised that he couldn’t imagine her with anything other than the freewheeling mop, that often spoke her thoughts before she did. When she was a student, he’d always known from the volume of her hair when she was in a foul mood. He quite enjoyed watching her give the other dunderheads a bollocking. Now she seemed more relaxed. And more lonely. She was clinging to his arm like she didn’t want to let him go.

Guiding them toward a dimly-lit table in the far corner, he pulled a seat out for her and she finally released him. Is that what a woman would do, pull out another woman’s seat? He was getting confused. He couldn’t even really remember what a man would do.

“Tea?” she asked, shuffling her seat forward and sliding a menu over to peruse it.

He needed coffee but wasn’t prepared to resort to some elaborate game of charades to explain. He was left with taking his seat, nodding again, and wondering how long it would be before he was forced to actually say something.

What would he do then? He could pretend to be mute. Although he’d already said one word to her which, unfortunately eliminated that option. He could run away. Or, slightly more dramatically, he could kill himself. There was a pile of forks on a bench nearby. Perhaps he should grab one just in case he was asked a question and needed to stab himself to death to avoid responding.

“You’re very quiet,” Hermione broke into his thoughts.

Fuck, here it goes.

“I like that,” she smiled. “Most people feel the need to talk constantly. To fill in those awkward silences. But you don’t. You always seem so relaxed and content with yourself.”

Absolutely. That was him. So relaxed that he was looking to puncture himself into a pulp so that he didn’t need to open his mouth.

“I’m afraid I’m one of those people—the talkers,” she continued. “I don’t think I ever used to be this bad, but when you spend all day cooped up in an office or daubing canvases, and rarely get to meet anyone, except at the takeaway shop where no one really wants to talk to you, you start going a bit crazy—getting desperate for conversation. About anything. And the chances of interesting conversation are virtually nil. No one wants to talk about books or ideas or complicated magical theories. Or philosophy. Or science. Or even art.”

He knew exactly what she meant. He’d given up on stimulating conversation years before and certainly his drinking buddies had little to contribute apart from slurred discourse around fucking and hangovers.

“Although, I’m haven’t been doing as much painting these past couple of days,” she admitted. “I think I might have a pinched nerve in my back or something because every time I lift my arm it hurts. I tried rubbing the spot but it’s almost impossible to reach.”

She lifted her elbow to point down her back and turned to show him. “Somewhere down there.”

Why was she showing him?

“Your hands are so much bigger than mine. And they look stronger. I wondered if you could just give it a quick rub. Would that be okay? I get so unhappy when I can’t paint and I’d hate for it to get worse.”

Was this another fork stabbing opportunity? Or did he just need to tear out the door, leaving one of his stupid flats behind like Cinderella’s ugly step sister.

She was watching him. Pleadingly.

For fuck’s sake! Sighing, he shuffled his seat around behind her and proceeded to gently press the muscles down the sides of her vertebrae. Within seconds, after a jolt and a grimace, he had isolated the problem to her upper thoracic spine and began kneading his strong thumbs into the knotted muscles.

“Oh Gods!” she groaned, melting under his hands as her head pitched forward.

He applied a little more pressure. “That’s it!” she hissed through gritted teeth, breathing heavily through the obvious pain. She closed her eyes as he worked from her spine, up to her neck and across to her shoulder.

“I think I’m obsessed with your hands,” she moaned.

He felt a twitch down below and willed her to stop talking. And stop moaning.

“I used to have a teacher when I was at school who had the most amazing hands.” She groaned as she hit another tender spot. “I’d watch them when he wasn’t looking.”

Fucking Lupin, no doubt. As if he needed another reason to hate the bastard.

“My potions professor. You should have seen him brewing. It was like watching an . . . ow!”

He dug his fingers into her. Trying to make her stop.

“I . . . think that’ll be enough now.” She pulled away and gave an apologetic smile. “It feels a lot better but it’s getting a little tender.”

He sat awkwardly, staring at her, before shuffling his seat in and taking a gulp of the scalding tea, forgetting it wasn’t firewhisky.

“Fuck!”

Hermione jumped. “Wow, you have a really deep voice,” she said, apparently unconcerned by the expletive.

“Cold,” he croaked.

“You have a cold? Oh, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed his hand again. “And here I am dragging you out in this weather. You should have told me. I’d hate for it to get worse.”

He shrugged as his burnt tongue turned unpleasantly fat and floury.

“Actually,” her face brightened, “I have an excellent cold potion at home. You could come around to my place now and I could give it to you.”

He felt like he might have actually torn a muscle in his haste to shake his head. It was too much. Her eyes, and her moaning, and her soft body, and her clutching hands and her offers. He stood up, needing to leave. To turn and go. Now!

But, instead, he suddenly bent over and kissed her hand. It was probably the creepiest thing he had ever done. And for someone who had haunted the dungeons like a giant greasy bat for the past two decades, that was a pretty big call. But his mind no longer knew who he was and he needed to kiss her. He couldn’t look at her as he turned to leave.

“Mrs Grape! Wait!”

But he was out. Gone. Away. The Grape getaway.
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Grape Juice *Complete*

Grape Juice Complete