The Yellow Blanket

A/N: Thank you so much to Thesporkwielder for the prompt and to OpalJade for beta reading and cheerleading.

When he opens the door, she is surprised. She doesn't know what she expected, but it was not this. His flat is but a single room, furniture marking the divides between sleeping, eating and sitting. It was clearly a vacation home...not anywhere that someone meant to actually live...and yet, when she gives it some thought, she cannot imagine Snape needing or wanting more room than this.

Everything is gently worn, and she is taken aback by the femininity of it, but he catches her gaze as it travels over the room and says, "I have no particular interest in interior design, Hermione. It came this way. It serves me well enough."

And that seems true, that this would serve. There is a strange, indefinable sense of home about the place, and she can see how he would like the bare-bones practicality of it. And the close comfort, too.

He has turned on a single light above the kitchen counter, and it casts a warm shadow over the flat. She goes to sit on his sofa while he pours the drinks. There is a television on a dresser across from her, and she is surprised all over again.

"You have a telly," she says.

He crosses toward her, a glass of whisky in each hand, and smiles a bit sheepishly as he sits. "Sometimes, in the dark, it reminds me of a fireplace. The wall seemed too empty when I took it away."

They sit in silence, and Hermione sips her drink nervously. She thought it would all happen rather naturally after they'd made it upstairs, and she does not know how to proceed.

Snape is sitting at an odd angle, his knees serving as a barrier between them. He clears his throat, and it is loud in the silence.

"I will not deny that I feel it too," Snape says. "Whatever brought you up here. And perhaps I was... improprietous, taking your hand before."

"Severus..."

"You must realize that neither of us has seen another witch or wizard in many years. Naturally, we feel drawn together. Surely it would be the same if you had run in to Longbottom..."

"I love Neville," she says, "but please do not suggest such a thing again."

"Lupin, then."

"Lupin is dead."

He pales instantly, as if she'd hit him. "I did not...I had not heard that."

"I'm sorry that I blurted it out that way. It was unkind of me."

"He'd just had a child, had he not?"

"Yes, Teddie. He would be almost four now. Tonks' mother looks after him."

"Good God, Nymphadora, too?"

"Severus, I'm mangling this terribly. I'm sorry."

"No, I want to know. It is not fair that you should have to know these things while I do not."

"I'm not sure it's an issue of fairness. And I don't think I'd like to spend the evening listing the dead, if you don't mind."

"What I am trying to say is..."

"I know what you're trying to say. And I concede that you may even be right. But I cannot tell you how often I have thought, during these last two days, how glad I am that it is you I have found after all this time. I want to do this. And it's been a very long time since I've wanted anything at all."

Snape says nothing. He is still pale, and his face is twisted with indecision.

"Tell me my fortune," Hermione says.

"Pardon?"

She puts her glass down on the coffee table. "Tell me my fortune," she says again.

He gives her a long, unreadable look and takes her wand hand in his. Gently, he lifts it toward the light, and leans in toward it, his long, pale fingers splaying hers, and she thinks he really will inspect her palm.

Hermione is frozen as his lips meet the inside of her wrist. The look on his face is such a heady mixture of reverence and lust that her blood surges in response; she feels the flush everywhere, so quick and furious that she is almost light headed. Slowly, he drags his mouth over her skin, and by the time has reached the inside of her elbow, she cannot bear not to touch him, and her hand curls around to lock her fingers in his hair. Their eyes meet, and her lips part in anticipation. There is a moment in which it seems he might pull away, but then he takes her face in both hands and brings her mouth almost violently to his. She has to scramble up onto her knees to meet him properly, but that is what he seems to need, for her to come to him, and she does. The kiss deepens, and she can taste ice cream and whisky in his mouth, sweet and heavy as his tongue meets hers.

They break apart, and she opens her eyes to see him shocked and needy, staring back at her. She leans back, and he follows her down, covering her body with his. She can feel his hands traveling up her thighs, rucking her dress up around her middle to give him room to settle on his knees. And then his mouth is back, warm and probing and good, and she forgets everything but the kissing, swiping his lips with her tongue, feeling the controlled desperation as he nips her bottom lip.

She lifts her hips slightly, and he drives his into hers, his chin lifting and a soft sound escaping the depths of his throat. She pushes herself up onto her elbows to reach the exposed flesh of his neck. Her tongue traces the curve of his Adam's apple, her lips running rough over the beginnings of stubble, over the scar. One of his hands seizes her head once more, burying itself in her hair, and he holds her to him as she kisses the soft underside of his jaw.

When she falls back, he sits on his heels and begins to touch her, smoothing his hands over her bare legs.

"You are so soft," he says, with something like wonder.

She smiles. Thank you doesn't seem quite the right response, though she recognizes it as a compliment as he cannot seem to stop touching her. His hands drift to her waist, his fingers dipping for a moment beneath the waistband of her knickers, brushing the secret skin of her belly. Desire clenches her muscles tight, and she pulls him back down over her, her mouth seeking his greedily.

She can feel his hardness pressing against her, and he pulls her knee up, driving himself against the hot cradle of her thighs.

"We are wearing an obscene amount of clothing," she whispers when she can bear to wrench her mouth from his, nudging her sandal against his boot.

"Indeed. And my knees may never forgive me for this," he answers, and she can feel his smile warm against her cheek.

"Far be it from me to create a rift between you and your knees," she says and begins to wiggle out from beneath him. The friction is delicious, and she stops for a moment to kiss him thoroughly before taking his hand and pulling him from the couch.

***

He leads her to his bed, feeling too tall now that they are standing. The heat that had flushed his skin and brought sweat to his temples is cooling without her body pressed up against his, and he wants to kiss her again, but is not sure where to begin. It has been longer than he cares to think about since he has touched a woman this way, much longer than Ocean Isle in any case.

Fortunately for him, Hermione takes a step toward him and lifts the bottom of his tee shirt, drawing it up, exposing his skin. He takes over the removal of the garment as she runs her hands over his chest, over his shoulders, caressing his arms with her soft, gentle touch. She runs her face over his bare skin, and the tickle of her hair raises gooseflesh down his arms. She smoothes it away.

Her small hands reach for the fastening of his trousers, but he nudges her gently away and attends to it himself. The thought of her hands brushing him...ah, God.

She turns around...surely she is not so modest; after all, the undressing was her idea...and lifts her hair.

"Will you unzip me?"

His hands tremble. The zipper is tiny, miniscule in his fingertips, and he draws it down slowly, relishing the smooth line of her spine, the warm shadow in the curves of her back. He pushes the straps from her shoulders, and the dress falls so quickly; he has hardly a second to appreciate her unveiling. She steps out of the pool around her feet and climbs onto his narrow bed, sliding beneath the thin yellow quilt, pulling him along.

The bed was hardly made for one; they are tucked together, sharp places and hollows, belly to belly, to fit. Her hands roam over his back as he nuzzles deep into her neck. She lifts her leg, raising it over his hip and edges in closer. Her hair is everywhere, in his mouth, tickling his ears; he feels he is drowning deliciously in a cloud of her warm fragrance.

"Is your wand handy?" she whispers.

"Are you feeling..."

"No, no, I feel wonderful. I just... I want these gone." She pushes at the fabric of his pants. "And I don't want to get up again."

He rolls back, reaching blindly toward the nightstand, feeling her thigh drag along his aching cock. She moves against him slightly, and he groans, vanishing both their underthings and turning off the kitchen light with an impatient flick.

"I think," she whispers, pulling him toward the center of the bed and straddling his hips, "this will work best."

The crazy quilt pools around her as she rises up, planting her hands flat against his chest. Moonlight streams in from the window above the bed, illuminating her breasts, her tight brown nipples. He reaches up to cradle them gently, and she leans into his palms. She is all light and gorgeous dark, her collarbones, the undersides of her breasts, her navel, her stomach taut and smooth before him.

She rises slightly as she reaches between her legs to take him into her hand. He closes his eyes because to look at her as she does this would be too much. He feels the firm pressure of her grip as it slides up and down his length and then the heat radiating off of her, the smooth wet yield of her as she drags him through her lips, rubs him gently against her clit. Her hips move, and he gasps, the breath catching in his throat as she lowers herself onto him.

For a moment he imagines that he is outside the window looking in, though they are much too far above the street for anyone to see her. She rides him, and as if from the outside, he sees her head thrown back, sees his own fingers digging into her hips as he brings her down, down to where they are fully joined. The sight of her this way...her slightly opened mouth, the flush of her chest, her hair riotous in the moonlight...to imagine himself peering in at her so privately nearly breaks him, and he whispers, "Give me a moment, Hermione. I'm very close."

She wiggles her bum, and he hisses, "Wench," through clenched teeth. She smiles smugly before lowering herself down on top of him. He holds her for a moment, enjoying the feeling of her breath against his neck before gently beginning to thrust into her. She moves with him, and this is almost worse...or horribly better...than before... the sweat-eased slide of her skin against his...

"We have to turn over," he says.

She peels herself from him slowly, and it is exquisite torture. When she is spread before him, her hair half matted to her neck and half spread over his pillow, he thinks to himself that it doesn't matter what position they are in; he will not last a minute. He enters her slowly, unwilling to be rushed, though once he is fully seated inside, the mad urge to pound into her begins to slither its ways through his veins, and she is not helping with all her squirming and arching and the way her hands have crept to his bum and are pulling him deeper, deeper than he thought he could go, until his balls are flush against her and there is nothing left but to rock with her, to hook her knees over his forearms and lean into it. And the sounds she is making...the little throaty cries...

"Hermione..."

"It feels good, Severus. Come for me...oh, God..."

And he is powerless to disobey, feeling his orgasm twist through him like something alive.

In the dark, they are tangled together, one of his knees caught between both of hers, one arm around her waist and the other smashed between his chest and her back. She has taken the entire pillow, but he doesn't mind, for beneath the yellow blanket beside her, he has never felt more exhausted or more comfortable in his life.

"Can I stay?" she whispers, and he mouths, "Yes," against her shoulder before dropping into sleep.

***

When he wakes, he cannot guess the time, he only knows that it is still dark and that she is awake. Somehow he feels her thinking beside him. He shifts against her, and it feels as though he has released a burst of steam. Merlin, it is hot under this blanket.

"Severus?" she says.

"Mmm."

"What if I don't want a benefactor? What if I want a partner?"

He sighs and tightens his arm around her, despite the sweat that is making her hair stick to his face. He cannot allow her to make foolish decisions based on this. She has barely begun to taste her life, to know what it might mean to be an adult witch. And who knows what she will feel once there is a wand back in her hands, with her NEWTs behind her and the world spread out before her.

"Sleep, Hermione," he says. "We will discuss it in the morning."

"I know what you're going to say," she whispers. "All about how I'll leave here and forget all about you. About how I have my own life to live."

She turns in his arms until she is facing him, and her lips brush over his, back and forth, feather light, until he cannot stand it, and he leans in to kiss her properly. He imagines that he can smell himself on her, the sweet high smell of dried saliva and sweat and sex, the heady aroma of their coupling. She nudges, and he pushes, until they are joined again, the tip of him dipping inside her. And this time he is able to hold on, hold on for her the way he wishes he could hold her here.

He reaches between them, touching her, drawing her response out like molten honey. When she comes, her muscles ripple around him, a hard steady pulse that makes his heart stutter and sends him careening over the edge, defenseless.

***

In the morning, he brings her tea, and she sits in his bed, wrapped in the yellow quilt that he will never be able to look at again. He can feel her eyes on him.

"I should go," she says, "before I lose my nerve."

He nods and zips her into her dress, placing a chaste kiss on the top of her head. He picks up his wand and hands it to her silently. She looks at it, considering her options, it seems.

"Is there anything you need?"

"Need?"

"I have a lot of... magic... this morning."

Ah, yes, of course. But there is no magic for the things he needs, so he lets her go to the sink where she casts a whispered Aguamenti, letting the water pour down the drain.

When she is finished, she sets his wand carefully on the counter and walks to the doorway, where she pauses and looks at him awkwardly for a moment.

"Severus?" she says. "If I were to come back, would you be here?"

How can he answer that? To answer her would be to end his life as he knows it and to begin a life of waiting for things that might never come to pass. Already, when she leaves, he will have to begin the cycle of forgetting again, of unlearning homesickness and loneliness.

The words he will not say choke him. "Remember my offer," he says. "It stands. As soon as you've chosen a career."

She nods at him, her brow slightly furrowed. "I hope you aren't sorry I came."

"Be well, Hermione," he says and closes the door behind her.

***

She flies alone, the keys to her parents' home in Perth tucked into her suitcase with her toiletries. She is glad they did not ask her to stay, but still, the calm that met her news was painful. Her mother cried in an obligatory way. Her father only raised an eyebrow and announced they would be going on to the Netherlands, to visit the Witches Weigh House. Perhaps there are some debts that simply cannot be repaid.

She sleeps through the flight to Los Angeles, and it is not until after she has eaten at a hot dog stand that reminds her of him and then settled into the layover, into the hard blue plastic seat at the gate, that she opens her carryon to hunt up a book.

Inside she finds Severus's yellow quilt, folded into a thick square. Tucked inside is a letter on thick beige paper that calls parchment to mind.

Hermione,

Severus

Hermione shakes the quilt out and pulls it around herself. She fancies she can still smell him in it, spicy and salty and real.

She turns and looks out the massive glass window that separates those waiting from those taking off. Before long, she will cross an ocean, held aloft only by the movement of air over the wings of a hulking machine.

She smiles. She has no idea how he managed to get this into her luggage. But then, the world is full of magic.