Vita Contin Git. Vive Com Eo

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything recognizable to the HP-Universe, JK Rowling does. I'm not making any money off the writing of this fanfic.

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Severus lounged idly in his armchair, skimming through another Muggle classic. This one was little more than some bodice-ripping twaddle set against the French Revolution. In his mind's eye, he could easily picture Lucius as the main protagonist, foppishly declaring 'Odds Fish!' and ensuring not a single strand of his perfect coiffure was out of place. The protagonist was a charitable sort, but only bothered himself to aid the distressed aristocracy. He completely ignored the plight of the hungry begging masses. That sounded about right for Lucius.

He paused every now and again to covertly glance at the set of dress robes lying on the bed, almost afraid to properly acknowledge their existence. Relations with Hermione had gotten considerably more comfortable, and he was certain that by her gift she intended to spend New Year's celebrating with him... he just wasn't certain that was the best course of action.

Her visits were becoming a monumental bother.

He was now absolutely convinced the Gods themselves were taking the mickey out of him by sending a fresh, curvy witch to taunt him. She even smelled good. Never overly perfumed, or dusted with girly products, she just smelled... good. Normal. Divine. Which was a damned good thing, because there was nothing worse than licking a woman's collarbone only to taste her perfume. Not that Hermione would allow such a thing. Of course not. She was much better than he and would never stoop to allow any licking of collarbones, much less soiling of loins.

The buck-toothed, pudgy ugly-duckling had grown up and matured into a vivacious assertive witch that pushed all his buttons, and he was a man who had many buttons. Despite all that, Severus wanted her. He'd never wanked so much in all five years of his imprisonment as he had in the last few weeks. Not that it was saying much. He'd hardly bother to touch 'it' and was beginning to believe 'its' days were over. Packed up and retired to Majorca to die an obscure slow death. Now, footsteps rattling in the hallway were cause for a twitch.

Pathetic.

And now, dress robes and, no doubt, champagne were on the agenda for the evening.

Perfect.

As the sky lazily darkened, Severus threw down the novel and picked up the robes. Tasteful. Well-cut. Expensive. He felt the soft gabardine wool and wondered if it was a cashmere blend. The tactile fabric begged to be touched. He couldn't allow himself the fantasy that her generosity stemmed from a deeper desire to touch him and be touched by him. No. It had to be all her assistant's doing. Hermione would never permit him such liberties.

Later, a solitary clacking sound sent his heart hammering wildly beneath his breast. Severus' eyelids fluttered shut as he focused on the tinny quality of the sound. Heels. Definitely heels. Fantasies of strappy, impractical Italian stilettos and cherry red-painted toenails swam before his eyes before a soft knock returned him to his thrice damned existence.

Hermione had considerately taken to knocking when she was unaccompanied by a guard. Gone were the days of ugly barking orders and wands pressed against his jugular. After all, he was Hermione Granger-bringer-of-beer-and-pizza's husband.

"Severus?"

"I'd open the door for you, Vixen, but alas, that'd defeat the purpose of prison. However, please do come in."

The wards shimmered as the door swung open, and Severus kept his eyes downcast, scanning the floor, anticipating the first reveal of some wickedly inappropriate four-inch heels.

Severus bit the inside of his lip as she casually strode in, no doubt unaware of her affect. Hermione had the arches of a goddess; her delicate feet could turn any pampered pure-blood princess utterly beastly with envy.

Her strappy black stilettos with a single rhinestone band across her clear-painted toenails displayed her arches perfectly. They were not four-inch, come-fuck-me heels, but as his eyes traveled hungrily up her calves, they were enough. Severus eventually settled on her face and tried his best not to look like some malmsey-nosed simpleton.

Hermione quickly brushed through the door and shivered. Even though she'd only been briefly out in the near gale-force arctic winds, it had left her carefully pinned-up curls all askew, her cheeks tinted in a bright flush, and her cold nose slightly dripping. She was hoping for a more stunning and dramatic entrance, rather than looking like some hard-done, street-wandering strumpet.

She shed her wool pea coat and straightened her black Muggle wrap dress. Hermione knew her hair was a sight without needing to examine a mirror, but let the tumbling mop of curls be. To properly fix the now haphazard chignon would take hours. Why bother, after all...she risked another round of character assassination from Severus if she appeared too vain.

Hastily flicking through her blue beaded cocktail bag, Hermione pulled forth two bottles of champagne and held them up proudly.

"I thought we'd celebrate the New Year in a bit of style."

Severus solemnly nodded his approval, his throat too dry to endeavor speech without sounding like an artless boy lusting after a pretty girl way out of his league.

"Do you think two bottles will be enough for us? I left the case with the boys, but I'm sure they won't mind if I nick another bottle off them."

Hermione turned her back to rummage again, this time for flutes, while Severus stared at her calves, his brain befuddled by the way one knee was bent in a kick as she leaned over the bed. Did she bend that knee when soundly kissed?

"Ah!" Hermione exclaimed in triumph as she inspected two wrapped crystal flutes. "Why don't you see about uncorking one while I put the ticker up?"

Severus paused to watch her mutter an incantation, and with a well-practiced swish and flick, the GMT hovered in front of the wall in large, bright green numbers.

Severus peeled back the foil and netting and tapped the cork with his index finger. An audible 'pop' filled the chamber, and the cork bounced off the bookshelf. The bubbly managed to remain in the bottle.

"Severus! Was that...?" She smiled brightly at his smug grin. "I didn't know you could do magic here!"

He bit back the involuntary instinct to grind his teeth as she reminded him of his near helpless state and plastered an attempt at a charming smile on his face. For some reason he heard his mother's admonishments to 'be good, behave, be nice' ringing in his ears and remembered he was trying to be charming. Civil, even.

"Small things, Vixen, only small things. I can do only a handful of spells wandlessly, and there are dampening fields on this cell, but I've managed to learn a few tricks."

"Well, I'm impressed," she beamed. And she was. Maybe there was something to the flying rumors after all.

"Magic is like any other skill," he chuffed. "It withers with neglect and flourishes when nurtured."

"Well, I'll drink to that," she replied, lifting her glass. "Here's to nurturing. Relationships, business ventures, magic... everything. The world can always use a bit of nurturing."

"To nurturing," he echoed softly.

Severus took in the contented look that passed her features when the first tickle hit her palate. He needed to rein himself in, stop being so weak, and berated himself for having impure thoughts about his wife. Oh, irony of ironies.

"So, any resolutions this year?" he offhandedly asked, comfortably sliding into his armchair as Hermione lounged on the bed.

"I think," she tentatively began, "that this will be the year I finally let Hopper go. I've kept that sycophant on far too long. I am going to find a bigger warehouse for our operations... And I think I'm going to have another look at that Time-Turner research. I might have shelved that prematurely just because there hasn't been a known mechanicmancer living in the last two centuries. And you?" she asked with a note of trepidation in her voice. She wasn't sure if it was considered bad form to ask a man serving a life sentence what his plans for the future were.

Severus sighed. He was hoping for a normal evening. Something to eat, something to drink, hopefully a bit of stimulating conversation and good company, but all she wanted to talk about was work. All she ever wanted to talk about was work. It had become the crux of their relationship. Of course. Hermione was so blasted single-minded.

He could recite nearly verbatim the findings of the latest market research, the new contract negotiations with distributors...hell, Severus could describe in great detail last quarter's raw materials receipts, but he only had the vaguest idea about how she lived. Where she lived. If she still hung around those lip-strumming dolts Weasley and Potter.

When not talking in a clinical and detached way about work, Hermione was skittish like a kitten around him. She didn't trust him, not really. And that was most likely his fault. If he was ever to hope that she'd look at him as anything more than a threat, a curiosity, a Death Eater, or vile ex-professor, she needed to see him as a man. Maybe then she'd honestly open up to him.

Did it take another humbling confession on his part to earn her trust? Bare his soul to her scrutiny in the hopes that she might open up similarly? Would he have to rake his soul over the proverbial coals for her to stop viewing him as some sort of menacing threat? Possibly. No. Probably.

She was looking at him expectantly; he could plainly see the apprehension in her eyes. What was the question? Resolutions? No, that would never do. It would be wrong for him to confess he wanted her locked up in with him, and to never leave. That would sound odd. Needy and desperate... perhaps creepy, too.

Severus cleared his throat and plucked the leather-bound Smythson journal from underneath his mattress and handed it to her. "I've been..." he said a bit hoarsely. "I've been composing potions in my head since I was a boy playing in my mum's herb garden."

"Composing?" she interrupted.

From her school days, she vividly recalled the way he captured their (okay, perhaps it was only 'her') imaginations with lyrical speeches on potion brewing, but since stepping into the world of industrial manufacturing, potions were: invented, created, originated, formulated, and occasionally discovered, but never composed.

He frowned. "Yes. I admit composing in one's head is not the best practice, but I am still a Master. I know exactly how components coalesce at different stages and how to coax a desired outcome."

Hermione began flipping through the journal, her fingers and eyes rapidly skimming his randomly jotted thoughts and quilled theories.

"What do you want me to do with this?"

"I was hoping you'd find something of value there. I suppose my New Year's resolution is to create a viable potion, even if in absentia." He waited patiently, even though she couldn't see the subtle nervous shifting of his weight.

"This one looks promising." Thoughtfully, she tapped the outline for a Skele-Gro modification that targeted worn cartilage. "It's not the sort of thing we normally do, but it does have potential. I'll hand it off to Gibson, and you can communicate via weekly progress reports."

"I wouldn't object to testing it out myself. I had my own back and knees in mind when I composed it."

Almost against his will, Severus allowed himself to be lulled into pleasant chatter on Granger Industries. It may have been a 'safe', neutral topic that he was coming to despise, but it was still good to watch her. Her eyes flashed when she seized onto a new idea and narrowed in fury when he challenged her. Ruffling Hermione's pin feathers would never get old.

Oh, she was a delicate brew, this one. Any moment, he could expect sparks, and he loved the roiling boil that heralded her magnificent explosions. Or she could collapse inward on herself, losing all her vibrant color, and congeal into a thick emotional sludge. Any first year knew which mess was harder to clean up.

Hermione pulled a few platters of nibbles from her deceptively small bag and asked Severus to repeat the nifty trick of popping the cork with a tap of his finger. Though she was already a bit buzzed, Hermione felt entirely justified in opening the second bottle; it was simply good manners.

Her eyes already a bit wide and glassy, evidence of being just a hair's breadth on the left side of tipsy, she giggled. "In the immortal words of Minerva McGonagall." Hermione blushed, raising her glass. "Here's looking up your kilt."

Severus raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Then, if I may propose the Slytherin House Toast to Honor."

"Honor? What rubbish."

"Madam, do you doubt the distinguished House of Slytherin's honor?"

"I most certainly do. I defy you to bring me a single honorable Slytherin. You know what? Don't bother. You can't; you'd have better luck finding one of Luna's mythical beasts. An honorable Slytherin is a contradiction in terms; one simply doesn't exist."

"Careful, Gryffindor," he sharply warned, "you find yourself in a serpent's lair. However, as I was saying," he said raising his wrist, "here's to honor. To getting on her. Staying on her. And if you can't come in her, come on her."

Hermione snorted and giggled, not even bothering to feign distaste or shocked sensibilities. "All right, you win." She sucked in a breath. "Apparently, the Slytherin house does have some form of honor."

"I'll cherish those words," he replied dryly.

*

A/N:

Chapter title: Vita Contin Git. Vive Com Eo - Life happens. Live with it

I'd like to credit the toast to honor, but I learned it in college and have no idea where it comes from. Kilt toast comes from my father.

Sweet thanks to the lovely Christev20, who gives so abundantly of her time.