In Puris Naturalibus

She had a headache. It was a slight twinge that raced up the column of her neck and bloomed across the back of her head. It was born of distributor requests, lack of caffeine, and poor posture. So why was she looking at her Liquid Sunshine instead of her headache solution?

Swearing fiercely, Hermione unwarded an office cabinet and delicately placed the last of her supply of Liquid Sunshine away. If Severus thought he had poured all of her potion down the drain, he thought wrong. With glaring clarity, she realized how overstocked her home and office were with the amber-colored salvation. He was right. She hated him for it, but he was right.

This couldn't be healthy. Wanted. Desired. But not healthy. Probably not. Still, she couldn't bring herself to pour them out. After all, they were really frickin' expensive, and Hermione hated wasting good Galleons.

It couldn't possibly be withdrawal. No, certainly not. That would mean she had formed some type of dependence on the drug. That would mean Severus had been right. No, she couldn't allow him the satisfaction of gloating.

'Life with Snape' hadn't returned entirely to normal since their last blow up. Relations were stilted, and she was prone to prattle on and on about work to avoid real conversation, but they were at least on friendly terms. Friendly terms being a relative expression.

She still hadn't forgiven him completely for dumping her Liquid Sunshine. Or the bigger issue...prying into her life. But they were both making concessions with each other, which, according to the self-help relationship book she'd been reading, was perfectly healthy and normal for any new marriage. The experts said that they both had to set boundaries, clearly communicate expectations, and be willing to compromise. Advice was easy for experts to give, but in practical exercise... with Severus Snape... Pfift! What did experts know?

When she arrived at the prison, Hermione counted the doors to her right and left in the cellblock as she made her way towards his door. Her own hollow footsteps echoing loudly off of the stone walls didn't help the creepy feeling that tickled her spine. Ever since learning what was warehoused behind each cell door, she knew she wasn't alone. The empty lurking presence of soul-sucked bodies were what nightmares and Boggarts were made of. Hermione tightened her claw-like hold on Severus' birthday meal as she held her chin up high and tried not to think... no, not to think of who... no, what was behind each door.

There had to be hundreds of them. Nameless, faceless Ministry victims. Processed for justice and the Ministry's combating-terrorism campaign. True, crime was down. Knockturn Alley was the new posh shopping district, but this...?

This had to be a crime in itself.

And Severus?

Should be on his knees in indebted prayer, thanking God for his merciful blessing. He had to be one of the only wizards who received a trial. A media circus of a show trial, but at least it was justice before the Wizengamot instead of a Ministerial Decree from the 'Ad-hoc Special Inquiry of the Sub-department on Practitioners of Illicit Magic.'

Pausing right before Severus' door, Hermione politely knocked. This time. Not that she might not sneak up to his door for a peek next time. There was a distinct level of satisfaction that came from sneaking up to his open jailer's slot for a little look-see, but that required wearing soft trainers and not loudly clacking heels. Then again, there was also the potential she'd catch him taking time out for a 'personal moment,' and that was something she was certain she didn't want to see.

He tiredly called for her entry, and Hermione tapped his code into the door frame for admission. She'd been given the password into his cell long ago by the boys...not that they minded escorting her, but rather, they let her come and go as she pleased. Which was really fine with them as long as she continued to ply them with goodies and stop every now and then to inquire about how they were getting on. That, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that his password was the same as his prisoner number. Idiots.

With a mischievous smirk, Hermione budged open the door and held her arms up to show a large paper bag emitting heavenly smells. "Special delivery for the birthday boy!"

"Madam, if you dare ever refer to me as the birthday boy again, I'll put you over my knee, and you certainly won't like it. I assure you, I am all man. Feel free to give it a squeeze if you have any doubt."

"Such drama, Severus," she responded, rolling her eyes. Not that she didn't color up satisfactorily.

The special birthday meal for the special birthday man was obligingly devoured by both, and Hermione drew out pints of slightly melting ice cream for dessert. True birthday cake would have been a bitch to pick up en route and really would have taken actual planning and time she didn't have.

"No," he chided, bringing her attention back to the serious matter at hand. "If ice cream were meant to have chunks, it would be named ice chunky. As it is named ice cream, it is meant to be creamy. To throw chunks into the confection is an insult to all self-respecting ice creameries out there."

"Wrong answer."

Severus' head shot up as she made an odd noise like some kind of buzzer, but then she was prone to oddities.

"Ice cream," she stated confidently, pausing only to lick at her dribbling spoon, "is named for its content, not its consistency. It is iced cream, but then, adding flavorings to the so-named cream does not change what it is any more than different cores change the essence of a wand. This isn't potionry, you know."

Severus sharply angled an accusatory spoon towards her. "Ah, therein lies the fallacy of your argument. Different cores dramatically change the nature of wands. There is a hierarchy inherent to wands. Have you not noticed that most idiot Hufflepuffs carry common unicorn hairs? The sort anyone walking about a forest could find lying about? Or picked up on Slytherin's tendency to much superior dragon heartstrings? Surely, you've not forgotten the wand Potter carries? Or its mate? In which case, I must reassert the hierarchy of ice cream. Chunks are for fools and charlatans; it is the Hufflepuff of ice creams. Clearly, creamy ice cream is for those with refined palates." For good measure, Severus had a heaping spoonful to add credence to his argument.

"Fine! Bad analogy. Excuse me. If that's how you really feel about it, I'll only bring you vanilla from now on, as it is obviously the 'purest' of all the creamy ice creams. Only, that would mean no more mint chocolate chip."

The icy glare he shot her was enough to make her spoon pause in mid-air.

"What?" she countered obnoxiously. "It has chunks."

"The chocolate shavings in mint chocolate chip are observably not real chunks, as they do not hinder the smooth quality of the ice cream. Clearly, mint chocolate chip is a superior ice cream. Not like that... that..."

"Chunky Monkey."

Severus shook his head before quietly muttering, "Even the name is low brow."

"Low brow? Perhaps. Here's an idea for you, Severus, if you detest chunky ice cream so much. Why don't you get a bunch of creamy ice cream friends together, and you can gang up on all the low brow chunky ice cream eaters? Then you can purify the world, and everyone will be convinced of your ice cream supremacy."

She inspected him with dispassionate eyes as his chin dropped to hide the humiliation burning in his cheeks.

Severus didn't want to play anymore. The fun banter had seemed almost like flirting until she, he, one of them, had cocked it all up and brought up that. Hermione had no idea how vulnerable he was, that with a few stray, careless comments, the festering sore was torn wide open. He thought it might have been healing, the fibers knitting back together as the nightmares had started disappearing. He no longer saw dead blue eyes staring him down, empty and lifeless except for a hint of accusation, before they fell. Endlessly fell. The accusation in them gripping him by his neck until he woke himself screaming.

He felt himself balling up inside. Preparing for winter. He could go days, weeks, even years without the warmth of life in his veins.

Hermione watched as the smallest orphan tear begin to well up in the corner of his eye. It was from dust motes in the air. Obviously, she had been remiss in keeping up with all the household charms and cleaning. Absolutely. Without a doubt.

An ugly garish cup was forced under his nose, and Severus nearly crossed his eyes to see it before pitching his head back.

"Try it."

"I said, 'Try it!'"

She paused while he examined the contents. His eyes critically cataloging the sweet like a Potions Master. "Damn it! Just try the fucking stuff, and then you can tell me how nasty it is."

Watching his non-reaction, Hermione felt a small sense of panic. His curtains were drawn, the shutters firmly latched. Reaching in with her spoon, she swirled it in the sticky sweet cream and held it to his lips. They parted, and as he savored it, she watched his eyes darting back and forth beneath his thin eyelids.

"The banana is too sugary," he mumbled, turning the ice cream around in his mouth.

"And?"

Sitting forward, so close that she was nearly sitting in his lap, Hermione could hear the crunch from his jaw as he worked the bits of walnut and dark chocolate.

"The crunch creates a nice contrast to the smooth. I like that the chocolate is slightly bitter." He opened his eyes to the vision of his Hermione, her smile spilling warmth back into his veins. There wasn't a trace of malice in her eyes. No accusation in their honeyed brown flecks. Just eternal spring. The call for life to return to the earth. And he felt himself waking up.

"So the chunks are okay?" she asked, fidgeting with a loose curl.

"The chunks are the best part," he affirmed.

Digging her spoon in his abandoned cup, Hermione noisily slurped a bite of his ice cream before pronouncing it good, too.

She left him shortly thereafter with sticky lips and a satisfied belly. And something more... a promise. He couldn't put his finger on just what that promise was, but it was warm and spread through his body like love.

Severus slept heavily...the biological response to carbohydrates and a sugar crash...but his dreams were peaceful. The well-earned rest of the sick and healing.

When he awoke, the pink light of dawn cast a faint glow on his cell. He found himself curled up with the robes he hadn't removed bunched around his shoulders, but otherwise no worse for wear. He closed his eyes again, blotting out the first rays of what was inevitably bound to be a glorious day. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, millions of people, wizard and Muggle alike, would wake to this morning. Some would discount the blessing of the day with barely a nod in Helios' direction as the mindless masses trudged to a bleak and colorless office. Some would see the sky, marvel at the beauty of life, and stretch like a flower towards it. He wondered how his Hermione would greet the day.

He knew for a fact that her schedule was packed, and she would barely have a moment to spare for herself. But she was not among the drab and dreary caught in the cogs of man's infernal machines. Out there, she might breathe in deeply between meetings and conference calls (he still had not gotten a clear picture of what one was), and she would take a moment to thank the Gods for nourishing the world again.

Hermione.

His sunshine days and diamond-sparkling nights were spent with Hermione. He still didn't know if she was a gift or a test. The Gods were rarely forgiving or merciful, but if he had found their favor, surely she belonged to him.

Beneath his lids, Severus concentrated on the sounds of Azkaban. Rarely was there ever any real noise in the prison, and when there was, it sounded overly loud and rang like lightning claps on the ears. But the ancient fortress had a distinct cadence. The wind never ceased in its assault, as if it were offended by the free-standing object in its flat playground. He could always count on the sound of the water to lull him to sleep.

On peaceful days, it lapped at the structure, tickling its sides and accepting its presence. When the sea was fierce with anger and the wind wanted to play rough, Azkaban was pitched between the two. The water battered the rock face in a fit of temper that it could not capsize the prison as it could so easily toss about unfortunate ships.

His ears picked up on the gentle waves. He couldn't hear any shuffling in the distance, which was often Mulciber, Strathmore, and Cooley, his guards, rumbling about in the checkpoint area. He would never deign to refer to them as the boys. They were not his friends, nor would they ever be.

It appeared, for the moment, that he was entirely alone. Severus cracked an eye and peered speculatively at the door. Making up his mind, he bolted upright with the skill and ease of a man accustomed to waking thusly. His sleep-wrinkled robes were thrown in the hamper Hermione had provided.

Severus doffed the rest of his clothing and added them to the dirty pile. Soon, he'd have to remind the witch he was running out of changes of clean clothing. A novel thought, considering he had spent nearly five years in the same grubby and threadbare set of robes. He toed off his slippers and hastily jumped on top of his bed covers, one eye still suspiciously on the cell door. He wasn't certain if he'd be pleased or mortified if Hermione caught him.

Severus snaked his hand down to his cock and stroked it a bit. Lazily, his eyes closed again as his well-practiced touch coaxed an arousal. He pinched and teased the head a little, loving the rasp of friction on his most sensitive spot. His fingers laced around his thickening cock, plying it to attention with a small amount of wrist action, to touch every inch.

Severus palmed his hardened member, sliding flesh against flesh and caressing the engorged mushroom head. He knew at any given minute she could catch him. He imagined Hermione tiptoeing up to his cell door in her grubby trainers and watching him through the jailer's slot. His eyes rolled back in his head...

Hermione's eyes went wide, and her mouth made a slack jawed 'O' to see her stoic husband give in to the needs of his flesh. With growing hunger, she watched him cupping his balls, rolling them slightly around as he corkscrewed his fist across his shaft.

"Please," Hermione hoarsely pleaded. "I need you within me, Severus." It was the slight trickle of tears from her eyes that was his undoing as he obliged his love and drove into her hot channel.

That was all the inspiration Severus needed to come. His thick, salty essences coated his palm and shot across his belly.

Hermione was not at the jailer's slot watching. And, dear gods, with his luck, it would be Strathmore out there, painting the door with his spunk. Life was patently unfair. With a grimace, Severus muttered 'Accio bog paper,' the one wandless spell he had mastered quite well in the dank gilded cell, and cleaned himself off. Perhaps it was best she hadn't seen him with his trousers down. She'd probably never return.

A/N:

Chapter title: In Puris Naturalibus - Completely naked

Special thanks to Annie Talbot and Christev20 for fixing the formatting issues. Ya'll rock.