Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
A/N: It just took some time to find my muse. And I out-sourced to one of my old school RP Partners- JJ (I've been helping her with her OFC/Sev pairing where she's been crediting me) so it only seemed fair to nod my hat to her.

It was the most emotion she’d seen radiating across his face since he had been surrendered into her custody. And it frightened her. Not because he was angry but because she believed that he realized now he was truly dying; and not just realized it but was letting his fear wash to the surface. No longer in control was that resigned man who had simply accepted his fate. The way in which he clutched her chin told her so. But he was determined not to cry, despite the water she could see welling up in her eyes, so she forced herself to hold back her tears. She would not strip him of that dignity; he did not need a simpering woman at his feet coddling him with hallow words of comfort. He needed to feel.

            She would have given him anything; she supposed going outside was out of the question but if he wanted it— if he needed it to feel alive she would find a way. Fate was particularly cruel to him; letting him die an agonizing death at the snake bite of a madman’s pet only to barely survive and then be tossed to the wolves once more. Though this fate seemed far more cruel and inhumane somehow. Hermione brought both hands to his cheeks and held a steady gaze as if somehow silently talking them both down from crying.

            A moment passed before he pulled his face back from her and pushed her own away. And then he was standing; pacing. It unnerved her to watch for just moments ago he’d been so ridiculous, bouncing up and down on the bed slamming her with a pillow. And now he truly was a caged animal just waiting for the moment of slaughter to arrive. When the fateful question came she frowned.

            “How much time remains?” he asked, and she could hear it in his voice; that sharp uncertain edge of a man about to die, a man who knew his time was numbered, and not by months or weeks or even days, but by hours.

            Hermione rose quickly from the bed dashed into the foyer and slapped her wand against the wall. “Time piece,” she said. Within a moment a derelict, but functioning, old watch on a fob chain fell into her hands. She returned to the room clutching it in her palm. “Twenty-three hours,” She said. “Should I hang this? Do you want to—”

            “No,” he said and then ran both hands through his hair. “No, Hermione, don’t hang it, I don’t need a visible ticking reminder,” he started to growl and then sighed. “Just keep it with you,” he whispered.

            “Anything you wish,” she said and then walked over to slip the watch into her robe pocket. “What do you want, Severus?” she asked, coming to stand behind him, but not yet ready or certain that she should touch him.

            For a moment he was silent, his back expanding and shrinking with the slow deep breaths he drew. He was trying to calm himself and so she silently did the same, not wanting to be worked up to the point that a request or an emotional outburst from him would set her off into hysterics. She needed to be strong for him; anything he wanted and he had expressed that above all he wanted her company. And for her to be comfortable as his company. Hermione vowed to herself to hold it together if for nothing else so that he would not walk to his death thinking he had forced her hand in staying with him.

            When he turned to face her he looked stricken but only for a moment and then his features softened, falling into a mask of neutrality that did little to quell the anxiety bubbling within her. His eyes held a flicker of emotion for a moment; haunted or distraught but as quickly as she’d seen it was as quickly as it vanished, replaced once more by the cool black shields that guarded his soul. He looked normal. Or as normal as he had looked before; resigned; his momentary outburst snuffed out.

            Her voice was shaky but she did her best to push through her offer without stammering. “Anything you want, Severus, I can give you anything.” Her offer hung in there air for several moments, the fire that was crackling in the hearth the only distracting sound to her ear. When he finally did speak her brow furrowed and she tried to process his request. “What?” she asked.

            “I need to make something,” he said again, elongating his words as if speaking them more slowly would help her to understand.

            Hermione continued to frown as she puzzled over the simple desire. “Make what?” she asked finally. “Make a last will or final speech or make—” she drew in a shaky breath and calmed her voice. “You’ll have to be more specific, Severus.”

            She watched his features carefully, the way his lips curled slightly as he parted them to speak, the way his eyes creased just at the corners. “I wish to paint,” he said.

            Before she could help herself she’d blurted out the first thing that had come to mind. “I didn’t know you painted.”

            This earned her a soft snort; a simple yet surprising sound that seemed to lighten the mood a good shade or two. “I imagine, Hermione Granger, there are a great deal of things you do not know about me,” he said and then slowly moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “I wish to paint you,” he added.

            As if his request hadn’t been bizarre enough to hear him add that he wanted her to be the model was enough to make her whole body flush. She couldn’t keep the crimson color from her cheeks, but did her best to ignore it as she nodded her head to him. She didn’t utter aloud that she would make a terrible model and she silently wondered if he intended to paint her naked. Though she supposed after his intimate viewing of her in the bathtub that hardly mattered, he’d seen all she had to offer; the marking on her breast which he had complimented, the way she kept herself, which he had also complimented.

            With this in mind she stepped back into the little foyer to gather supplies. She noted while she was requesting paints that he had slipped into the bathroom and closed the door. Hermione frowned but tried not to think too much of it. When the magic wall had granted her an easel, canvas, a good assortment of paints, a palette, and several brushes she returned to the larger room and began to set them up near the foot of the bed so that if he wanted to sit he could. She made a note to ask him if he wanted a stool, thinking perhaps it might do better than the mattress.

            “While you appear to be off to the right start, Hermione, I believe you’ve misunderstood me or I’ve not made myself clear.” His voice behind her startled her and while she didn’t cry out in surprise she did jump slightly, bumping the easel and nearly knocking the canvas off of it.

            “Sorry?” she said turning to face him as she steadied the canvas upon the easel frame.

            “I said I wished to paint you.”

            “Did I not get the right paints? A larger canvas perhaps?” she asked, still thoroughly confused by his words.

            He stepped closer to her, pausing only when he stood just in front of her, his eyes gazing down into hers. It was then that she noticed he’d removed his shirt in the bathroom and now wore only the jeans she had given him. His pale skin was a stark contrast to the dimly lit room, even more so with the slight smattering of fine inky black curls that crossed his chest. She had of course noted them when he was naked before her in the tub, but they seemed so much closer now. He gently touched two fingers under her chin tipping her head up just slightly. “I wish to paint you.”

            Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat as she inhaled. It dawned on her in that moment that he meant exactly what he had said in the most literal sense of the words. She felt a shiver course through her body, making every nerve stand on end as she held his gaze, refusing to look away. Slowly she nodded her head, gently pulling back from his fingertips. “Right,” she said and then turned to look at the easel and canvas she’d gathered.

            “You can transfigure the canvas into a tarp,” he said. “Something for you to stand on…the paint selection and brushes are fine, but I won’t need the easel,” he said and then moved over to where she had gathered the various containers of paints. They were oil based and would glide over her smooth skin with a thick shine. This caused him to smile ever so slightly. “Your body is idyllic for such work…the smooth unmarred planes of your flesh…the curves…” his voice was slow and deliberate as he spoke, carefully removing the lids of various containers of paint, beginning to mix some on the palette. “And water please,” he added.

            She had stood there for a moment just watching him. Those slender meticulous fingers that she had so often watched with fascination in potions class were now at work; the same perfection as they glided about over the brushes, selecting just the right one with care only this was to be a visual artistic masterpiece and she was to become the art. It sent another shiver; this one violent, up her spine and then she snapped out of her transfixed haze. “Of course,” she said and then moved over to him. With a wave of her wand she banished the easel. Levitating the canvas she slowly began to transfigure it until it was draped over the floor like a tarp. A second swish of her wand had the easel transfigured into a stool.

            From the bathroom she fetched a pail of water and sat it beside the various paints that she had brought for him. And then she felt herself blushing once more. “Severus,” she said, pausing a moment to draw in a steady breath. “This is going to be a stupid question, but…” her voice trailed off as she still couldn’t believe she was about to ask it. She already knew the answer but had to hear it for herself before he was commanding her to action. “I need to take off my clothes, don’t I?” she asked, looking away.

            Severus looked up from the paints he was mixing; a rich velvety shade of blue black that could have rivaled the night sky on a clear evening in December. “Yes, Hermione,” he said simply without a hint of torment or ridicule in his voice. Somehow that simple answer had been more mortifying than if he’d chastised her for the stupidity of her question. She could already feel the blush in her cheeks; the way it warmed her face, creeping slowly down her neck and below the line of her tank top. Closing her eyes for a brief moment she drew in a breath and then nodded.

            It was several more moments before she began to undress, though if he minded he said nothing. And just a few more moments after that she found herself standing completely naked before him on the makeshift tarp. Tempting as it was to draw her arms up across her breasts and cross her legs to hide her pubic mound she remained with her arms dangling naturally at her side, her legs just slightly separated from one another.

            “Spread your legs just a bit,” he said coming over to stand in front of her. “Feet shoulder width apart,” his voice was a velvet whisper that tickled her ear as he spoke. This caused her a visible shudder, shaking her whole frame. And she noted the slight smirk that drew over his lips at this, unable to check yet another blush as it flooded her cheeks. “Don’t be nervous, Hermione, it is only paint.”

            She was certain it was not the paint that was making her nervous; nothing about paint had ever set her nerves on edge to the point of visibly trembling, not until Severus Snape had picked up a paintbrush with the intent of using her very naked body as a human canvas. Her eyes skimmed the paints he’d mixed; the rich velvety black with hints of indigo, a vibrant gold that appears to have a shine of its own, and several other colors; greens and reds and whites. And then he was sitting on the wooden stool, it had appeared right in front of her. His voice broke her nerves as he gazed up at her. “Ready? Please try to hold still,” he added, leaning down and selecting a slender brush before dipping it into the golden yellow concoction.

            Hermione’s body was rigidly stiff with nerves. Her chest was rising and falling uneasily as she watching him draw the paintbrush up between her legs. She shivered slightly as the paint made first contact with her skin, deep between her legs in the juncture of flesh where her thigh joined her torso. Slowly he drew the paintbrush upward, tracing around the outline of her pubic mound before gliding outward toward her hip and slowly up the side of her body, nudging her arm upward and away from her side. “Keep them up,” he said softly, re-dipping his brush in the golden paint and continuing the line all the way up into her armpit.

            Severus dipped the brush again and repeated this motion only on the other side of her thigh, two mostly symmetrical golden lines climbing their way up her body from between her legs. And then she giggled, unable to help herself as he began to trace a circle around her naval with the gold. “It tickles,” she said, trying to suck her stomach back away from the chilly paint and sweeping motions of the brush.

            He paused; his brush midair as he gazed up at her. “Oh?” he said, a bit of a blank expression upon his face as he spoke. Hermione flushed, and bowed her head slightly, shaking it as if to dismiss her foolish comment. “I shall try to be gentler,” he said and then continued to trace the gold around her navel until he’d created a ring a good two inches thick. The water was splashed as he set the slender brush down and drew up a larger one, dipping it into the rich indigo black. Starting just at the top of her naval, careful not to bleed the colors he stroked the brush upward, painting a wide swath of the deep rich color straight up from the center of her stomach continuing in one fluid motion straight up over her sternum and under her throat until he pulled his brush away at the tip of her jaw. “Lovely,” he muttered.

            It was hard not to shiver as she watched him work; slowly loading up the brush with the rich dark color once more, using her torso to create an hourglass in the center of her figure; her breasts marking the outline the shape itself narrowing between them. He filled the indigo in up over the top swell of her breasts in an upward sweeping motion, using the firm line of her collarbone as the upper boundary of the hourglass shape, the edge of the golden ring of her navel as the lower. She had no idea what he was painting— if anything at all, but she did know that he was focused.

            Severus Snape in all the years she’d spent in his classroom, had never been anything save for meticulous and thorough. She tried to relax as she watched him set the large brush down and picked up a thin fine pointed brush, thinner than the one he had used to paint the gold lines. He had dipped it in the bright white paint and she inhaled sharply, quickly forcing her lips shut as he dotted the paint at the center of her left nipple, slowly drawing a spiral that was growing outward around her breast until it bled through into the indigo paint.

            Despite her nerves it was fascinating to watch him work. Silent and concentrated, he was lost in his work, mimicking the white spiral on her right breast before setting the brush down and simply staring at her painted chest as if waiting for inspiration to strike him. She could feel her body warming under his gaze; never before had anyone stared at her body while she was naked. Even when he’d looked her over in the bath it had been an appreciative glance, a sweeping stare for an instant. This seemed to drag on; his eyes heavy, the glittering black of his irises seeming far away for a moment before he looked up and met her gaze.

            She tried not to blush, but Hermione found it difficult to keep looking into his eyes without doing so. “Does this bother you?” he asked, sitting back with his arms slowly crossing low over his chest.

            “No,” she shook her head, giving herself an excuse to look away.

            “If it does I can stop,” he offered.

            Hermione tried to calm her blush. It would do neither of them any good for him to think he’d upset her somehow or was making her uncomfortable. She could hear his words echoing over and over in her mind; I wish for you to be comfortable in my company. Focusing on that she let her facial muscles relax a bit, trying to ease the heat from her cheeks. “I’m fine, just a little chilly,” she said.

            “You needn’t lie, Hermione,” he said, continuing simply to stare at her.

            “I’m sorry,” she whispered and then turned her gaze back to him. “I’ve just never had someone see me naked for so long.”

            Severus nodded his head. “You are a beautiful witch, Hermione, surely there are those who given the chance would have seen you in all your glory.” He leaned forward slightly and then stood from the stool, pushing it back. “I want to do your legs,” he said and then knelt down at her feet, picking up a wide brush, roughly the size of the one he’d used to paint the rich indigo hourglass in the center of her torso. She watched him, debating between the deep shade of crimson and the rich dark green he’d mixed on the pallet.

            He was slow and deliberate as he dipped the brush tip into the green; it reminded her of pine, or perhaps some other evergreen tree. Severus placed the tip of the brush at the top of her right hip, stroking it slowly on an angle curving in toward her sex. “Part your legs just a little bit more,” he said and Hermione complied, standing now in an A-frame. She felt the smooth bristles of the brush loaded with the thick oil based paint glide easily around the back of her leg. He paused only a moment to reload the brush, connecting the line around the back of her thigh and circling it around to the front, lower like a slow spinning ribbon that was working its way down her leg.

            She closed her eyes; counting each pause he made to add more paint to the brush. Slow languid strokes laid the thick green ribbon of paint all the way down, over her kneecap and calf until it had wound down around her ankle and he painted a final swath across the top of her foot. Already the air had begun to dry the little golden lines and ring around her navel. Hermione glanced down at him, watching him on his knees as he mixed more of the green color, having used it all on her right leg. Again those meticulous fingers caught her eye. Even in the face of death he was concentrated; his long slender fingers swirling the brush around in deliberate clockwise circles, blending the black with the green until it was the same dark shade he had used just moments ago.

            Like a serpent, she thought, watching once more as he slowly coiled the brush round and around her leg until he had reached her foot, a green ribbon now encircling her flesh. His gaze was once more upon her, and this time she met him, trying to keep from appearing flushed. “Your skin is radiant,” he commented.

            “You’ll have to stop saying such things, Severus,” her voice a soft whisper, tinged with embarrassment. “I’m not used to compliments.”

            That rich timbre of his voice resounded once again as he chuckled. A sound that she regrettably realized she would never tire of hearing; though she knew that it was only a matter of hours before his voice would be silenced forever. And then he was speaking. “You should let me speak my mind,” he said with a faded smile.

            It flowed unspoken between them. He knew that he would not have long to speak it, and regardless of how she blushed and flushed at his compliments, she would let him speak them. They unnerved her deeply for many reasons. She had never believed herself to be a particularly attractive woman and the fact that they were coming from a man whom she had always held in the highest authoritative regard did little to make her accept them as truth. He had always been the professor; the surly man who had taught her and protected her. But in all of her experience with the man she had never been able to see him for what he was at his most basic; a man.

            Hermione squeaked; a shrill noise that escaped her throat before she could press her lips together and stop it. He’d picked up a paintbrush, this one dipped in a soft lilac shade, and he had held it between her legs, stroking it firmly up her lips and over the curls of her pubic mound. It was cold and had been just a little more than surprising. Her eyes were wide as she saw the corners of his lips tugging into the slightest hint of a smirk. The bastard did it on purpose, her mind snarked. She scolded her mind silently, after all it might not have been a smirk and just an involuntary muscular response. But then the brush was there once more, painting strokes of lavender over her curls, crossing outward over the golden lines.

            Her arms were getting heavy, but she did not complain as she watched him work. Switching brushes, blending colors— filling in the spaces of flesh upon her legs between the green ribbons of paint with gold and white as if trying to paint intricate striped stocking on her skin. His crawled around her figure, a wide brush stroking in circles around her buttocks; the same spiral pattern he had used on her nipples, with lines running up either side of her spine. Then a wider brush very much like the one he’d used on her legs began to stroke thick lines filling in the plane of her back, all save for her spine.

            The fingers that pushed her hair forward over her shoulders made her tense but only for a moment. She could see the tips of her locks sticking in the semi-wet paint of her chest, her eyes closing as she tried to steady her racing heart once more. It was such a bizarrely intimate experience and while there was nothing particularly sexual about it she couldn’t help but feel her body heating. She knew he was once again standing as he worked a brush over the edges of her shoulder blades, sweeping paint up over her shoulders, down to the indigo edge of the hourglass at her collarbone. Long, languid strokes pulled down the length of her arms as he gently extended them outward away from her body. They were red; deep crimson as if the brush were a knife and the strokes left in its wake was her blood.

            Hermione bit her lower lip when he’d stooped to pluck up a slender brush, again the fine tip dipped in the white. She noted the little flecks of color that had gotten onto his hands as he worked her body over; a freckle of the indigo having splattered back somehow against his chest, and a few smudges of the crimson lined the insides of his arm. There were little dabbles of green on the legs of the jeans he wore and a single smear of gold just at the waistband of the denim. He looked like an artist, his hair hanging freely around his shoulders, his face etched with concentration as he held his hand under her palm. “Spread your fingers,” he whispered.

            And she did, without even thinking, without blushing or bowing her head to look away, though her heart still raced wildly inside her chest. He pressed the tip of the brush between the webbing of her fingers and began to stroke outward, slowly at first, and then more rapidly, paint flinging back onto the tops of her hands, flecking the crimson streaks with white dots like snow falling on freshly spilled blood. When he’d finished one hand he moved in front of her and gently rested her other hand atop his own hand, brush beginning to stroke between her fingers once more.

            Hermione allowed herself to gaze at his face. She refused to acknowledge it as staring though that was essentially what she was doing. His eyelids were hooded, the long delicate black lashes curling upward slightly. His face in that moment did not seem so hard. Even the lines that creased around his lips and dented at the corners of his eyes seemed diminished as she watched him work. A wave of sorrow swept through her, forcing her to look away. He looked innocent. He was innocent. An innocent man being condemned to death. She must have shuddered because she felt his fingers close around the underside of her forearm, one of the only places on her body now left unpainted.

            “Hermione?” his eyes searched hers, questioning.

            “I think you stroked a ticklish spot,” she lied. But if he knew it was a lie he said nothing and for that she was grateful. “You’re incredible with a brush,” she added.

            Severus only nodded, setting the slim detailing brush down on the pallet. He took a step back and then motioned for her to spin around. Slowly, Hermione spun in a circle, careful not to let her thighs touch as she did. She could feel his eyes on her; the way his gaze was sweeping over her figure as if looking for mistakes he might have made. When she turned to face him once more he looked sad. Not as if he was on the edge of breaking, but just forlorn. And a twang of pain shot through her heart.

            “Did you miss a spot?” she asked.

            He shook his head slowly. “No,” he stepped forward and then pulled the stool close to her hip, sitting the can of indigo paint on top of it. “But if you’ll permit I’d like to continue.”

            “Oh,” she bowed her head slightly. She had assumed that he’d finished and felt foolish for having vocalized her opinion. “I’m sorry, I thought you were finished.”

            “I was,” he said with a slight shrug. “And it is perfect,” he paused a moment and then gazed down into the paint. “Not to sound conceited,” he added and then slowly lowered his index finger into the thick paint. He held his finger up, now covered in the paint, thick drops of midnight sky slipping down the almost ghostly white digit as he brought it slowly up to her face. “Close your eyes.”

            It made her tense but she closed her eyes as he requested and then she could feel his finger, coated in paint, stroking slowly beneath her right eye, following the contour of her cheekbone. He traced his finger up around the side of her eye and through her eyebrow and down the side of her nose. “I feel like you’re painting me up for war, or maybe some sort of tribal goddess,” she said, keeping her eyes closed, heightening the sensation of his finger as he lifted it and moved it to trace around her left eye socket.

            “The latter,” he said and then he pulled his finger away from her face. “Open your eyes.”

            She was met with the intense black gaze of his eyes but she didn’t flinch or shy away. She could only imagine what she looked like with the heavy indigo circles framing her eyes on top of all the other intricate designs he had painted on her body. Hermione watched as he bent over and shook his hand in the water bucket, cleaning his finger. He shook his hand dry before dipping both hands halfway down to his knuckles into the bright white paint. She watched as it ran down his fingers, making them look as if his bones were exposed.

            “Should I—” but she closed her eyes before she could fully ask the question as he placed his paint covered finger on her forehead and stroked them down her face, smearing white through the indigo circles, all the way down her cheeks to her jaw. “Oh,” she muttered, and then scrunched her eyes tightly to clear any stray paint that might have dripped down onto her eyelids. Hermione squinted her eyelids before opening them fully.

            He was once again dipping his hands in the water bucket, clearing them of the paint before picking up the bucket of gold. “You’ll want to keep your eyes closed,” he whispered as he lifted the bucket up toward her.

            “Severus what are you—”

            “Shh,” he pressed his finger to her lips, and immediately she closed them. Despite the water and the paint his finger was surprisingly warm and it made her shiver just slightly.

            “Sorry,” she murmured.

            “Keep your eyes closed,” he repeated his words to her moving his fingers up to gently press against her eyelids. Hermione closed her eyes, trying not to tremble at his touch. It was strong despite how just hours ago he had been so frail. “Lips too, I do not imagine paint tastes pleasant.”

            Before she could ponder or even ask what he meant by that the bucket of bright gold paint was pouring down over her hair; flowing down over her face and back, spilling down her body. It was thick and chilly and it made her whole body stiffen tensely. And then she cried out, a bit of the paint splashing against her tongue, as his fingers began to thread into her hair. Hermione gasped as he tugged his hands through the strands, spreading the shimmery gold into her tresses. His hands moved down to the tips of her hair and then he rested his palms against the back of her shoulders.

            “What did you do that for?” she asked, her voice pinched with surprise. She could feel dribbles of the gold paint streaming down her body, wondering if the color was bleeding into the rest or simply covering over it. But he was silent, still dragging his hands down her back. And then around her waist and slowly up her torso, over her breasts, upward along the sides of her neck until he was cupping her cheek. “Have you ruined your painting?” she asked, blinking and trying very hard not to shudder. He was standing so very close to her, still touching her, and despite all the paint she still felt incredibly naked.

            Severus stepped back, trailing his fingers along her face until she was out of his arm’s reach. And then he bent and picked up the smaller bucket of crimson paint, dipping his whole hand into it, and smearing it suddenly against her chest. It made no sense. He had worked so very carefully to paint some incredible thing on her body and now he was simply throwing paint all over her. But she tried hard not to think about it, whatever he wanted, even if it didn’t make sense.

            Within moments she was covered in colors all leaking down over her body, blending and bleeding with all of the other colors. And his hands; his hands were everywhere. Touching her. Caressing her; stroking up and down the full length of her body. He was spreading paint everywhere, drawing swirls and circles and swivels against her flesh in the colors. She couldn’t help herself as her chest arched forward into his touch; her spine curving as he ran both hands down her torso, stroking his thumbs in big sweeping circles around the tops of her thighs.

            There was more paint; thick colors that were blinding her sight, and she could feel her breathing coming in soft short gasps; his hands once again roaming her body; blending everything until practically every inch of her was covered in paint. And then he pulled his hands back, gazing at her. She was blinking, unable to see through the globs of paint that had fallen into her eyes and she raised her hand to try and wipe her eyes, but paused realizing that her hands were covered with paint. A soft cloth was against her eyes, moving slowly across each one and then she could see. He was holding his shirt the one he’d left discarded in the bathroom, now stained with colored paint.

            She smiled at him. “Satisfied?” she asked, her breath still a little shallow.

            Severus nodded, his lips drawing slowly into a smile. He walked a solid circle around her, and then stood in front of her once more. She noticed then that he was liberally coated in paint from his elbows down. Many of the colors had splattered against his chest, flecks of white and red and green having dripped into his hair in the process. And then she was giggling. She couldn’t help it. He looked utterly ridiculous; like some modern Warhol or Van Gogh.

            One of his thin black eyebrows quirked up onto his forehead and she giggled a bit louder, still slightly breathless. Severus shook his head. “My masterpiece giggles,” he said and then started to wipe his hands on the shirt, only a bit of the paint coming off. He sighed and then looked at her. “Are you alright, Hermione?” he asked.

            She was still panting slightly. Hermione nodded her head. “Yes…just a bit…well…I don’t know, exactly,” she said.

            “Ah, that will be the paint blocking your pores, but there’s no reason to be alarmed, we just need to wash you off,” he said. “The strip of your spine I’d left unpainted must have been covered when I stopped using the paintbrushes.”

            Hermione nodded her head. “You’re sure all this will wash off?” she asked, her voice soft and breathy, feeling just a little light-headed. She watched him nod and then she gazed down at her feet, which were covered in a good dozen colors or so. “Alright,” she said and stepped out into the main room and then into the bathroom, Severus close behind.

            “I wish to watch you,” he said.

            “What?” she asked a bit startled, having paused just outside of the shower. Hermione was dripping from the crown of her head down to the space between her toes with paint. “Watch me?”

            “Unless it will make you uncomfortable,” he amended.

            She turned back to the shower, which had no closure, and then she stepped into it. “It does not make me uncomfortable, Severus,” she said, gazing at him as her paint caked hand reached for the water, turning it on. Immediately a stream of hot pulsing water began to pour down over her and she did her best not to jump at feeling it. A river of rainbow water began to slide down her body, swirling quickly around her feet before being sucked down the drain.

            His eyes watched her intently, standing there just watching wave after wave of colors pour down her body as she began to spin around in the water, using her hands to scrub at her skin. The paint weighed her hair down, tinting her skin as the thicker globs washed away, gold and red streaks still staining her locks. River after river of colored water ran down her body, swirling like a rainbow tornado down the drain.

            Hermione could feel most of her skin finally paint free after several long scrubs. The water was still hot and pouring down hard, though she was certain she would not get all of the color out of her hair. When she opened her eyes and looked out at him she smiled. He was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest; paint now staining his torso as well. “I think perhaps you should join me.” She gasped in surprise at her own words, clapping her hand over her mouth. “I mean you should come wash off,” she blushed and bowed her head.

            Severus stepped over toward the shower. “The shower is awfully small,” he said, a subtle observation with no inflection to his voice one way or the other. “If I were to join you would we be pressed close together and I fear that may make you more uncomfortable than my request to simply watch you.”

            Her face flushed a furious shade of red and she tilted her head back into the spray of the water. “It did not make me uncomfortable,” she huffed.

            “It made you defensive, apparently,” he said and then reached his hands into the shower, resting them on her shoulders. He held her gaze as she fidgeted slightly beneath his arms. “If you’re uncomfortable I’d rather you just say it.”

            “I am not uncomfortable.” She snapped and then lifted her head forward, eyes open glaring at him. She gripped his forearms and in one fluid motion pulled him into the shower with her. He had been right, it did press them close together, her naked body against his naked torso, water pouring down over them both. “I’m just not used to having someone watch me,” she said. “At least not like this.”

            The paint that had coated his hands and arms that had been slowly running down over her shoulders was now pouring down over her chest, the paint marks on his own torso bleeding away, pooling in colors around their feet. Severus closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall of the shower. “Hermione…” he said with a heavy sigh.

            “Yes?” she asked, tipping her own head back once more into the spray of the shower. She closed her eyes, trying not to feel his body pressed so closely to hers. They had sat together in the bath and she had held him and he had held her; awkwardly enough, they had even attempted to lay together on the bed. But this was different somehow. And he wasn’t even fully naked, still wearing the jeans she’d acquired for him. Little curls of steam flittered around them in the shower, making the tiny space even warmer than it had been just moments ago.

            Severus opened his eyes. “Your hair is still lightly colored.”

            She laughed, a soft slightly guilty laugh. “I didn’t think it was going to come out, you essentially dyed my hair,” she said with a shrug. “But with paint.”

            His hands cupped her cheeks and then ran slowly up and back into her hair, stroking her locks back into the spray. “We could wash it again,” he offered.

            Hermione shook her head. “It’s fine,” she blinked water back from her eyes. “I don’t want to waste—” she stopped herself, “I mean…”

            Severus chuckled, that rich warm sound that seemed to originate from deep in his chest, it met her ears like rich chocolate and she smiled, that same twinge of pain resounding through her when she thought about how it could be the last time she or anyone would ever hear it. “Waste my time?” he gently pulled his fingers back from her hair. “And if I said that I wished to wash it again?”

            “Do you?”

            Severus shook his head. “No,” he paused for a moment and then placed both of his hands on her shoulders. “Turn around,” his voice was polite, a request without asking. And she did, slowly spinning in the shower, her backside now pressed against him. “I want to…” he pressed his hand against her back, pushing her downward, bending her forward so that all of her hair hung down in front of her face, the spray of the shower washing over her. It was like pastels, the slight tint to the water now sluicing off her as he ran his hands up and down her spine.

            “You want to?” she asked, bent over at the waist, letting her arms dangle down in front of her just like her hair.

            “Just as I am…” he said, stroking his fingers up and down, all over her back.

            “Feels good,” she murmured. She could have fallen asleep for the way he was stroking her body and in that moment she didn’t even care that she was naked. His hands were like little magic wands stroking her skin, melting through her flesh and touching her nerves. It was bliss. And he had said it was what he had wanted to do, so she didn’t question it in the least.

            “Good,” he said, pausing, as he slowly let his hands slide down over the sides of her back, wrapping around her body and pulling her upright, in the process pulling her fully back against him. Her breath caught in her throat as she pressed firmly to him, her head twisting sharply around to face him. “Don’t look so frightened,” he whispered, the water now spraying down on her chest and face, nearly drowning out his words.

            “Surprised,” she said, feeling her heart thudding hard in her chest. “Not frightened, just surprised.”

            “Indeed.” His hands, which were wrapped just around her stomach slid slowly up until he was cupping her breasts, causing another sharp intake of breath. “Nervous?” he asked.

            “Yes,” she said, her voice slightly ragged. She didn’t want to lie, he’d called her out on it once before and there was no sense trying to hide it; he would know that she was nervous.

            “Because?” he asked, gently lifting and lowering her breasts, his fingers firmly squeezing them and then stilling once more.

            Her face colored brightly, a great rival for all of the colors that had been previously painted there. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve had sex and I don’t want to disappoint you,” she confessed a bit breathlessly.

            “And if that’s not what I want?”

            “What?” she asked her brow furrowing. “But you—”

            “Hermione,” he brought his lips gently up against the back of her ear. “To touch a woman as I’m touching you now…is a most incredible thing. Just feeling your heart race, your pulse quicken, the way your breathing becomes erratic…” he exhaled slowly, a deep sigh that again sounded content. “It makes me feel alive.”

            “Oh,” she said, her cheeks blushing even harder than before. Hermione turned her head back into the spray of the water so that he could not see the confusion that was swimming in her eyes.

            “Do not mistake me, you would indeed be a tremendous conquest for any man, the sheer beauty of your body alone leaves me nearly speechless,” he confessed. “But given my age…and your own…and the fact that I have been hard pressed for energy as of late,” he lowered his head, letting his lips brush against the top of her shoulder. “It would exhaust me more than I would care to admit…and I doubt it would last long enough for it to be particularly pleasurable for you,” he added.

            She wanted to giggle a bit, but knew that would be beyond inappropriate. His lips on her shoulder felt pleasant and that made her stomach flip-flop just a bit. Hermione turned her head back over her shoulder, gazing up into his eyes. “I’m not so young,” she said with a smile on her lips. “And it’s not about being pleasurable for me,” she added. “If that’s what you wanted I could—”

            His finger was once more pressed against her lips. “No, Hermione,” he said. “The offer is more than generous, and I am sorely tempted to take it,” he said with a wry smile. “But there is far too much time left for me to be so exhausted so soon. I am pleased just to touch you. To touch a woman and truly feel her like this…an extraordinary experience that most men will never have in their whole lives.”

            Hermione leaned her head back slowly, letting her hair rest against his shoulder. “You can touch me all you like,” she said and then closed her eyes. “I said anything and I meant anything.”

            “And touching you doesn’t make you nervous?” he asked, letting his hands slide away from her breasts and slowly down her body.

            She tensed a bit as she felt his hands gliding lower, brushing over her pubic mound. “Not nearly as much as disappointing you for sex,” she said and then opened her eyes gazing up at him. One hand was slowly gliding back up her body, pausing as he cupped her throat, feeling the strong pulse of her heart in both his fingers and his thumb. “Oh!” she cried, feeling his hand slipping between her thighs, his fingers gently stroking through her folds. She forced herself not to clench her thighs, she had offered him anything and she would not go back on that now.

            Again that rich baritone laugh, this time much closer to her ear. “My touch has you on edge…” His voice was a purr against her ear, and she shivered. “Is it intrusive?” he asked, stroking his fingers once again through her folds, feeling the distinctive slickness that was a woman’s arousal.

            “No…” Her breath was heavy as she tried not to squirm. He was just inches from slipping his fingers up inside her every time he stroked her and that was driving her wild. He didn’t want sex, but didn’t seem to mind attempting to finger her. That was confusing but she could hardly deny her own arousal. Was she attracted to him? Was such a thing possible? But she couldn’t think of it as his lips brushed against her ear once more.

            “Will you allow me an intimate question?”

            Hermione didn’t trust herself to speak. She knew that her voice would be shaky at best, her whole body practically trembling, hidden well by the splatter of the water that was still raining down from the showerhead. She nodded.

            “I want to feel you fully,” he whispered, his nose brushing against the side of her cheek. “And if you allow me that— may I taste you?”

            A jolt of shivering electric pleasure shot up through her body. Her mind ground to a halt and her eyes closing for a moment. She knew that her face must have been blood red just from hearing his question. But he was already idly stroking her, how could she deny such a thing? In less than 24 hours he would never feel another woman again. “You may,” she said after a long moment of trying to prepare her voice, though it still quivered when she spoke.

            “Thank you,” his soft whisper sent more tingles up and down her spine as she felt him again stroking her folds, this time one slender finger pausing just at her entrance. Hermione bit her lower lip as she felt him slowly begin to ease his finger into her heat, pushing a little at a time until he’d buried his finger up to the base of his knuckle. “You are tight.” His comment unnerved her; being observational and yet so very erotic at the same time.

            She didn’t know what to say or even if she should say anything at all. Of all the things he could say, it sent her mind into shambles. Hermione, much as she had been during her days at school, had been conservative in her sexual life. While she wasn’t a virgin her partner count was still manageable on one hand. Again her thoughts were disrupted as she felt a second slender digit slide into her, causing her to whimper.

            “Too much?” he asked against her ear.

            “No,” she shook her head. “Just- unexpected.” She bit her lip as he pulled both of his fingers slowly out of slickness, bringing his fingers to his lips. She watched intently; mesmerized as he pressed his fingers into his mouth, drawing them slowly back out. She felt nervous; she’d never had anyone do such a thing as he was doing just then.

            Severus let his fingers fall into the spray, rinsing them thoroughly before gazing into her eyes. “I’ve never done that before,” he admitted, a soft look of curiosity sweeping over his face for a moment, but as quickly as it had appeared was as quickly as it faded, his features once more neutral.

            Hermione didn’t know what to make of it, and she didn’t dare ask. She remained still with her head resting back against his shoulder. It took her a moment before she could think of anything to say. “Did you want anything else?”

            “Many things,” he said, his lips no longer at the back of her ear. This caused her to pull her head up, and she spun around facing him. He was leaning against the wall of the shower, but they were still close enough that they were touching. “But I’ve had enough time in this shower,” he said and then touched her cheek before stepping out, sopping wet, his jeans clinging to his legs.

            “Of course,” she said and reached up to shut off the water. Hermione stepped out of the shower and quickly grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her figure. Her arms were still tinted slightly red and green, and she could only imagine what her hair looked like, but for the most part the paint had washed away. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

            “How much time remains?” he asked.

            It caused her stomach to flip; not the pleasant way it had flipped in the shower just moments ago, not even really flip at all so much as it dropped. She stepped quickly out of the bathroom, and moved through into the other room, digging into her robes to find the time piece. Painting her had taken up a good deal of time. They’d gone from twenty three hours to only 19 remaining. She did the quick calculation in her mind, though she knew night and day time did not matter, but it must have been nearly 11am on Wednesday. Sunrise was slated for seven am the following morning, but they would be arriving one hour prior to prepare him. “Nineteen hours,” she said returning to the bathroom.

            Severus had stripped the wet jeans from his body and donned a towel around his waist. “I would like cotton trousers,” he said.

            “Cotton trou— oh, like sweatpants?” she asked, but did not wait for an answer. Stepping out into the little foyer she tapped her wand against the white wall, summoning forth a pair of black sweatpants and a pair of black yoga pants for herself. She slipped into them and then summoned a black tank top, sliding into it as well. “Did you want a shirt?” she asked, entering and handing him the sweatpants.

            “No,” he said and took the pants from her, sliding them on before he let the towel fall to the ground. “I would like to sit down and eat something,” he nodded to her. “And I’d like you to join me.”

            “Food,” she said with a gentle smile. “We can do food, whatever you like, you must be hungry I didn’t even think about—”

            “I think you did, though maybe you didn’t,” he shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, if I was hungry before I would have asked you before. But I’m asking you now, so it’s fine.”

            “Right,” she said and then moved toward the little foyer. “What would you have?”

            Severus looked pensive. “I don’t know, what does one typically have for their last meal?”

            Hermione frowned. “Bit early for your last meal, how about just some scones and tea for now? Maybe soup?”

            “Sounds acceptable,” he said. “Perhaps a caffeinated tea, though normally I would not ask for such,” he added. “Savory scones, not sweet, and no soup— though if you would like soup that would be fine.”

            “No soup then,” Hermione turned to the wall and began to touch her wand to it, speaking in a clear decisive tone. “A pot of Earl Grey for two, tea service, and savory scones, an assortment, please.” It was only a moment before a rolling tray slipped through the wall and appeared just at her side, loaded with a large steaming pot of tea, two teacups, the service with honey, lemon, milk, sugar cubes, and little finger sandwiches, and then the plate of scones. She took the cart by the handle and pushed it into the room that was still covered in the mess he’d made with the paints. A quick waved of her wand had it all banished.

            Pulling the cart over to the fireplace she waved her wand and drew the sofa close to it, along with the table, which was a bit too high, but a simple transfiguration lowered it to a more appropriate height. Hermione began setting the service and poured him a cup of tea before climbing to sit on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. “Here,” she said and handed him his cup of tea as he sat down beside her.

            “Thank you,” he said and took the cup, plucking up a single lemon slice and dropping it in. “Lemon?” he asked. She nodded and he dropped a second slice into her cup. “I generally prefer calming non-caffeinated, lavender green or chamomile, but I suspect I will want the extra kick,” he said and took a sip of the hot tea. It was rather pleasant, soothing his throat as he drank it down slowly. “And you, Hermione?”

            She’d just picked up a little cucumber and cream cheese finger sandwich, pausing with a slight look of amusement on her face. “I like flavored tea,” she confessed. “All tea is wonderful, soul comfort, but flavored teas— the way they often capture unique things that you would never imagine could be possessed in liquid form and still taste as hearty or as authentic. There’s a particularly brilliant blend of butterscotch toffee that is warm and inviting and just reminds you of a cold winter’s night cuddled up under a pile of blankets by the fire with a good book—” she stopped short when she realized he was gazing at her intently and that she’d been rambling. “Sorry,” she muttered.

            “Don’t be,” he said and picked up one of the savory scones; some sort of tomato and basil with a lightly crusted cheese on top. “You speak with such enthusiasm when you are passionate about something, it’s the first time all night that you’ve spoken and not sounded as if your words were treading on eggshells.”

            She blushed in shame, bowing her head slightly. “I haven’t meant to—”

            “It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “A dying man whom you thought you were protecting— and you were, I know you’ve done your best— but I can hardly begrudge you for feeling nervous,” he said allowing the familiar smirk she had acquainted herself with during her school days to grace his lips.

            “To your credit, Severus, you don’t exactly make it easy.”

            He chuckled, which was a rather surprising response as far as she was concerned, but he seemed to take her comment lightheartedly. “It’s a rather unusual circumstance, I’ll admit,” he took a bite of the scone and then a hearty swallow, polishing off the first cup of tea. “You. This. But it is not unpleasant. There are certainly worse people that could have been offered up to me,” he said with a bit that teasing smirk still playing on his lips. And then his face grew somber, “Or I could be alone.”

            Hermione reached out and placed her hand on his kneecap. “You’re not alone.”

            Severus nodded and said nothing more. They sat in companionable silence, she eating most of the finger sandwiches while he ate the majority of the scones; tomato basil with cheese, a ham and mustard scone, and two with peppers and bacon. He had drank more of the tea than she had, but it seemed to please him to continuously refill his teacup. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire; every now and then a loud pop would resound as a log split open and was consumed by the flames.

            When he’d finished his tea he sat for several long moments gazing into the fire. “Did you want more tea, Severus?” she asked, putting her hand gently on his shoulder.

            He shook his head. “I feel fuller now,” his words soft but empty.

            “What would you like?”

            “Will you read to me?”

            Hermione nodded her head. She would deny him nothing. “What would you have me read?”

            “I find myself with a desire to read poetry, but I am afraid my eyes will not stand the strain,” Severus turned to her and let his eyes roam over her figure for a brief moment before settling on her face. “They say poetry is meant to be soothing in moments of…moments,” he turned his gaze once more to the fire. “I cannot say that I have a particular preference as I am not well acquainted with the medium, but perhaps, as well read as you are you can make a suggestion.”

            “Of course,” Hermione stood slowly from the little sofa. “I’ll only be a moment while I retrieve a few books,” she said and then left him sitting on the sofa, gazing into the flames, lost quietly in his own thoughts.

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The Last 24 Hours of Severus Snape