Concordia Discors

Valentine's Day was a callous, cruel joke invented by high-maintenance women and Honeydukes. Or at least Severus was convinced that it was a Honeydukes conspiracy to choke 'love and mush' down the throats of all wizards just to part them from their hard-earned Galleons. It had to be.

Most would believe that the 'great greasy git' of Hogwarts' dungeons would never celebrate Valentine's Day, just because he had a slight tendency to zap every nauseating cherub enspelled to zoom around the castle dropping glitter on decent law-abiding people's heads. The things fell to the floor and twitched like flies with broken wings for hours. And Severus was rather proud of himself.

However, the truth was that Severus rather liked Valentine's Day very much. He just preferred to observe the holiday in the traditional manner and fuck. He wasn't entirely certain just who this Saint guy was, but Lupercalia was in fact worth celebrating, repeatedly, and with as many willing witches as possible.

All in all, it was pretty damn comical that a Roman fertility rite consecrated to a she-wolf got the entire female population swooning the world over. Even funnier was that greeting cards and love-struck teenagers adopted the arrow-shot heart as the symbol of the holiday.

Since the dawn of time and early crude drawings of man, the heart symbolized the feminine body. Any man who's ever had the delight of viewing a naked woman's thighs spread before has seen that particular heart shape. (A point which Severus wanted to write on many an essay when brainless twits insisted on using a heart as a punctuation symbol.) To further the joke, or perhaps to add insult to injury, the arrow piercing this 'heart' is not an arrow at all. It is the combination of the two runes Fehu and Tiwaz. The arrowhead Tiwaz symbolizes 'to conquer' and Fehu, which is mistaken for arrow fletching, means 'many times.' It does not take a genius to understand early man's lewd humor. And yet, witches think it sweet.

Oh yes, how utterly adorable.

The question was: would his witch think it sweet? Hermione wasn't a giggling, stupid, swooning female, and she wasn't an ice queen, either. But would the witch pout and get her knickers in a twist if he didn't make some effort to be romantic, or would she laugh in his face at the suggestion, given their relationship? Would she even care? And furthermore, did he really want her to?

Severus took a long mental pause and slowly exhaled. He did. She was more than just the 'provider of pickled walnuts.' The witch was agreeable as a wife, even for a life-long confirmed bachelor. No, that wasn't it, either. He'd never go so far as to confess that when he was with her, he forgot he was in Azkaban or some other such claptrap. She'd laugh in his face if he ever said anything of the like to her.

And though he'd never stoop to writing her sonnets, or calling her by some nauseating endearment, he did feel genuinely affectionate toward the witch. Marginally tender, even.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding?

He was falling like a mewling onion-eyed boy for the impertinent wench, and she knew it.

As for her gift, Severus decided that when in doubt, err on the side of caution. Especially when females are concerned. Even more so when females who are responsible for one's care and upkeep are concerned. He opted for a small gesture. When he sent his solicitor, Mr. Ffoulkes, to pick up the contents of his mother's jewelry box for Christmas, he'd given her a small silver bracelet. And as far as he could tell, Hermione wore it every day. For Valentine's, he opted to give her a pair of pearl-drop earrings. They were small, of undeniably high quality, and seemed to be middle ground as far as gift giving went.

There was a matching pearl necklace, but Severus wasn't certain he could give that with a straight face on Valentine's Day. It was best to save that for her birthday.

When Hermione did show up early that evening, it was with a passable Bordeaux, take-out from Northern Italy, and a genuine smile on her face. Severus was just thankful she didn't show up dressed in harlot red or garish pink, but then Hermione did seem to be more clever than the average witch. He handed her the earrings with a sheepish smile.

"They're an heirloom," he explained, hoping that would cover the fact his gift seemed a bit unimpressive. He bit back the fact that his Grandmother would have had an utter conniption if she knew a common Mudblood wore her jewelry. He almost wished the old bat were alive to hear it.

"They're lovely, Severus!" Hermione smiled, quickly donning the pair. He looked closely for any sign to suggest she was being disingenuous and found none. "Thank you, you didn't have to, you know."

Severus waved that off. Of course the witch expected a gift. Every witch expected their man to give a token of esteem on Valentine's. It was de rigueur. The token just varied from witch to witch. Some weren't so easily placated, and Severus was quite thankful that Hermione seemed pleased by the gesture. At least, he didn't have to buy her a stable full of white quarter horses just to get her to stop sulking. Lucius hadn't been able to get Narcissa out of her boudoir for a week when she was less than pleased by his token.

Hermione pulled out dinner, and they tucked in.

"I was almost expecting you to cook tonight," he murmured absentmindedly between forkfulls of crispy aubergine, before realizing most witches would take the comment as an insult, and he was actually expected to be nice on Valentine's Day.

Fortunately, Hermione took the comment with a small chuckle. "I can't cook to save my life."

"And yet you had a talent for Potions. I wonder why that is?"

Hermione looked up sharply at her ex-professor, stunned. Did he really admit that she had a talent for Potions? Clearly, Azkaban had gotten to him. In response to the question, she merely shrugged. "I don't know, sometimes I think I'm cursed in that respect. It doesn't matter whether I proof my yeast or not, every bread I attempt turns out like one of Hagrid's rock cakes. All my sauces seem to separate. And nothing turns out like the pictures in the cookbooks. Harry thinks I'm subconsciously trying to boil my ingredients down into mini Potions projects."

Severus smirked. "Are you?"

"Hm? Oh, I don't know. I think maybe I'm a disaster in the kitchen because I really don't care. I mean, I can heat things up just fine and make noodles, but I guess I'm not interested in cooking, really. There's no magic in it."

"Ah, and there I'd disagree with you. There is a sublime enchantment to a gently simmering pot, be it Amortentia or Coddle stew; both can be equally seductive if you fully engage your senses, Hermione."

I would if he were standing behind me purring instructions, she mused. Hermione's eyes widened as her logical brain processed her most illogical thoughts. Down girl! This is Snape we're talking about.

Rapidly changing the topic, Hermione busied herself clearing away the remains of dinner and settled to the head of his sleigh bed. The bed really had become more of a couch over the weeks, as they'd face each other propped up, typically with reports scattered over every available surface.

Severus dutifully refilled her wine glass as she opened up a large heart-shaped box of Honeydukes truffles in the center of the bed. He couldn't help but smirk. Practical witch or not, Hermione was most definitely a typical woman. She couldn't pass up an excuse to indulge in chocolate. There had to be something to the Honeydukes conspiracy theory.

Hermione tossed him a pillow, and Severus relaxed against the footboard, wine glass in one hand and decadent chocolate in the other. Who was he to complain if the witch caved to silly holiday traditions?

Together, they rested their eyes and sipped the heady wine.

"Last quarter reports should be out soon," he said softly.

Hermione stretched like a cat and adjusted the mountain of pillows before nodding. "Which reminds me, I have something for you."

"Oh? You got a Valentine for moi?"

"Ha!" she feebly mocked. "You hate Valentines. No, I have a check for you. You may not get paid, but you certainly earned a bonus from the Natural Scentsations Enchanted Air Freshener. I think we're going to soundly trounce our sales projections."

"Thank you."

They sat in comfortable peace for a while, enjoying the beautiful, deep garnet hue of the wine, and the act of doing absolutely nothing before Severus interrupted the silence.

"I don't hate Valentine's Day."

That really wasn't the sort of declaration Hermione expected from her evil, snarky ex-professor, who took great relish in trampling upon all things heartfelt and romantic for no other reason than a) he was a big bully, and b) he could. "Oh, this should be good, please clarify that statement."

"I hate the commercialization of it."

"Oh," she replied softly. "I suppose I can agree with you on that, then."

Severus snorted and taunted, "I'll alert the presses," but at the same time, he absently picked up her foot and began to rub her arches. Hermione's jaw might have dropped from the sheer absurdity of the situation, but she couldn't quite be certain she wouldn't drool all over herself.

Her eyes drifted shut as the comfortable combination of good wine, sinful chocolate, and Severus' talented hands combined for a moment of pure hedonistic bliss. With her eyes closed, Hermione focused on the sensual massage and the welcome presence of a man, allowing herself to forget for the moment that she was quite literally in bed with Severus Snape, unrepentant sodding Death Eater.

Her eyes fluttered open immediately as she realized with a rush of blood to the head that that wasn't quite true anymore. She could no longer pretend he was the bastard traitor that she couldn't be arsed to give a care about. In a time-stopping moment when a chest-deep groan escaped her lips, she knew... her famed intellect had finally acknowledged the messages her body had been desperately trying to send. Those strange tugging urges she didn't have the voice to name. She desired him. She. Her. Hermione Granger, wanted, desired Severus Snape on her own, without the influence of champagne to blame on her obvious lapse in judgment. No more self delusions.

"Shit," she swore beneath her breath, too softly for Severus to even register as he plucked at each toe, manipulating each digit, completely unaware of her personal revelation.

She'd ignored the sensations for weeks. Every time, she told herself she'd berate herself later for feeling them. The small, intimate touches, those innocent brushes of a hand that shot giddy tingles through her body. The feeling of utter and complete contentedness when she relaxed against his chest. How she reflexively squirmed when he was near and Hermione could feel his body warmth penetrating her skin. They were all symptoms and signs of impending disaster. The tightening of her nipples as he cradled her heel might as well have been a bloody horseman of the apocalypse.

"No," he continued, as his fingers deftly kneaded the ball of her foot, "it's a crime what's happened to wizarding traditions. All these ugly, Muggle influences perverting wholesome holidays. It's a statement of fact, Vixen; this isn't some discussion on ice cream where one thing means another. I'm not advocating ridding the world of Muggles or Muggle-borns."

Hermione jerked her foot back, intending to kick him good and hard, and in the purse, if she could reach it, but he caught her foot and shot her a glare.

"Ah ah ah," he chided. "Violence is most unbecoming, Hermione. If you want to debate my point, then do so. Kicking me will only reinforce negative Muggle stereotypes."

"Negative Muggle stereotypes," she gritted out. "You're insulting my people."

"And yet, my argument has merit. You agreed with my assertion that holidays have become commercialized."

Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously before narrowing. "Making a profit is a universal human instinct. Greed is a human instinct. If there are Muggle traditions that have been adopted by wizarding society, then perhaps one could argue that wizarding traditions are not strong enough to stand the test of time. Obviously, wizarding society wants to embrace Muggle traditions. And there's nothing perverse about them."

"Oh what, so a fat, inebriated man breaking and entering into a home in the middle of the night is wholesome?"

"That's just for children."

"You don't find that perverse, then? A fat, inebriated man breaking into a home where children are sleeping?"

"You're purposefully twisting this around. Can you honestly say you've never once written to Santa Claus?"

"That, Vixen, is irrelevant." Severus clenched his jaw to keep from smiling. He picked up her foot and focused on massaging it. By staring at her foot through a curtain of inky black hair, he could hide his amusement. 'Hermione Baiting' was still, by far, his favorite pastime.

"Irrelevant? I should say it's very relevant. You're hedging. I suspect you wrote to him every year, hung stockings, and made sugar cookies. You're probably just angry because he didn't bring you a bike, or a widget, or whatever such nonsense you wanted."

"A puppy," he said with a note of forlorn in his voice. "I always wanted a puppy. A little yellow lab to snuggle up and lick my face."

"Are you frickin' kidding me? Who are you, and what have you done with Severus Snape?"

"What? I was a normal child. Just because I'm a miserable sod now doesn't mean I didn't have a childhood."

"Well then, this is just a classic case of transference. You never got your puppy, and you harbor anger toward Muggles for it."

She wanted to blandly point out he was suffering from chronic depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and possibly survivor's guilt, but figured he wouldn't be too pleased with that estimation; he was a bit of a self-aggrandizing narcissist after all.

"Oh, really, Hermione? Can it possibly be that simple? Thank you for illuminating that for me; I suspect now I can put to bed all my misgivings about the Muggle world encroaching on wizarding traditions and just chuck it all up to childhood disappointment."

"I never said it was the only reason you hate Muggles."

"I never said I hated Muggles."

"You hate our customs, you resent our influence, and you're sore about a Muggle tradition in your childhood."

"I never said I hated Muggles."

"You're a Death Eater, Snape. You never had to say it. I know you hate Muggles just as much as you hate Muggle-borns." His hands tightened painfully around her foot, and Hermione held her breath.

*

A/N:

Chapter title: Concordia Discors – Discordant harmony

Thank you for reading! This chapter has three parts, and I hope you enjoy all of them.