Inverse Function

Inverse Function

Spinner’s End was entirely new to Hermione, and though the outside was dreary with flaking paint and sagging architecture, the inside…

She made a beeline for the books. The narrow rooms were crammed with them: books on shelves, books on tables, books on chairs. In fact, the majority of the furniture seemed to exist solely to have somewhere other than the floor to put books.

And she could only guess what he had upstairs.

Snape leaned against the doorframe, lips twitching. “If, perhaps, you could postpone the orgasm?” he drawled sardonically.

He’d never before realized that even hands could blush.

Snape had steered her firmly into a chair next to the table and, with the authority of hundreds of Potions’ classes, kept her there as he manipulated various utensils and appliances with an ease that was… well, perhaps not so surprising in a Potions Master, but certainly surprising in a man. In Hermione’s experience, men handled food only under pain of utter starvation. Otherwise, they had mothers or wives or house elves or the local take-away.

They did not have well-lit, well-stocked kitchens with dishes that were almost painfully clean.

Nor did they have long, slender fingers that…

Oh, hell.

He had brought her to his home. (Such as it was.) Because of this odd, implacable urge to look after her— a silly whisper in his mind that wanted him to make sure she didn’t… What? Disappear? Kill herself? Something in his brain was being absurdly melodramatic. She might be a little haggard, but he’d managed the same on occasion. And a ghost of a headache reminded him that she was still entirely capable.

So what was he trying to prove? And to whom?

She appeared completely comfortable there at the table, head nestled upon her arms. Comfortable… and asleep.

He indulged himself— and his melodrama. He could make excuses, but what was the point? Snape knew himself well enough to force himself to admit that when he carried Hermione upstairs the ordinary way, it was because he wanted to.

Because she felt good against him. Because she trusted him enough to sleep this deeply. Because her hair teased his nose. Because he could imagine slipping into his bed beside her.

Because neither of them would do so when she was awake.

He eased her shoes off and imagined how she would look just now in that short, grey shirt.

Cypress. The marvellously green scent of cypress. Hermione wriggled a little, burying her nose in her pillow. With undertones of…

Wait.

Her bed didn’t smell of cypress. Nothing she owned smelled of cypress. Her eyes shot open.

The bed was narrow— and otherwise unoccupied. Hermione was grateful for this as her cheeks warmed; she knew where she’d been— and where she must be.

She had fallen asleep. Severus Snape had been making her dinner— in his house —and she’d fallen asleep like a child allowed to stay up too late. And he’d obviously tucked her into bed— like a child.

Very little could dampen Hermione’s curiosity— even mortification merely delayed it slightly. While not so rude as to open drawers or the wardrobe, Hermione investigated the— his —room avidly. A mundane lamp upon a bedside table provided light. Bookshelves again, floor to ceiling, crammed full of all sorts and sizes. What little could be seen of the walls was a deep blue-green, against which the mahogany furniture gleamed. Everything tidied away— was that normal or on her account?

There were no pictures. Nor any memorabilia. Looking about, Hermione came to realize that probably there was nothing he wanted to remember.

I have chosen to minimize the damage.

His parents— who had alternately neglected and abused him, from what little Harry had said. Dumbledore— who had delicately calculated precisely how far he could be trusted and used without breaking. The Malfoys— willing to sacrifice him for their family’s survival.

Lily Evans— who had never tried to understand.

Or forgive.

A lack of photographs was hardly surprising then. After all, even self-flagellation had limits— and this room, comfortable and close, was clearly his sanctuary.

How many people, Hermione wondered, fingers smoothing the pillow, have ever called him Severus? Or even wanted to?

The mind was a treacherous thing; the libido even more so. Severus had finished cooking and settled down with a book in his favourite chair. And despite his best attempts, images of Hermione played through his brain.

The pale length of her legs that night when she’d answered the door— the curves of hip and thigh. In her office when he’d returned the shirt, tight-laced and tautly controlled. In his bed, face framed by masses of dark-honey hair. And he could all too easily see his fingers trailing along her body, changing her complexion from warm ivory to heated crimson.

His mind’s scene shifted, and he was behind her, hands grasping tightly at her waist, face pressed to the base of her neck. One of her hands clasped the back of his head. The other covered his own, encouraging its possessive grip to the point where she would certainly have bruises. And the sounds she made… surely she would be as vocal here…?

Her head turned; he could see the desire in her eyes— for him alone —a brief moment before they closed the distance between them. And he knew how she tasted… Her hand fisted in his hair…

Hermione…

_{ANs: Readers who are paying particularly close attention (and I can't think why you should be) will notice that Snape has been mystically moved back into Spinner's End. I did this for a few reasons, which really don't make a difference one way or the other. In any case, I'll make a retroactive change if I get around to it.}

And I blame Snape entirely for the last two drabbles. And for Occluding me after the last one.

Offerings placed in the review box are, as always, vastly appreciated.