Reception

With all the years between us

(I know your heart)

You know I'd never lie

Let other people judge us

With all their own assumptions

You know with me you never have to hide

We could pretend, we could pretend

But that never suited us somehow

~ Heather Dale, For Guinevere

---

Sunday, September 13, 2009

"Are you ashamed?"

"Of what?"

"Of going to Diagon Alley with me."

"Why ever should I?"

"Then why are you suggesting a Muggle hotel?"

"I thought, after what happened with Blaise, that you wouldn't like to stop at the Leaky Cauldron. Actually, I thought you didn't want to accompany me at all."

"Mrs. Longbottom offered you a room for free. Why should you pay for a room in another hotel?"

"I was suggesting it for you. At the Leaky Cauldron there could be anybody, and they –"

"I have the right to go wherever I want."

She smiled. "I also thought you wanted to watch the final."

"Why would I? There's only Federer playing."

---

Previously

Time ran very fast after the incident in the library. The selection was approaching. Every spare moment was used to revise. Sometimes the thought returned, like the sting of a bee, and, if not engaged in a debate, it would go away after a while.

The news of her new location went around, maybe not as fast, but in a steady progression.

Informing her mother was the first unavoidable step, and it ran actually smoother than expected.

"Will you renew your contract with Mrs. Neill?" her mother asked.

"Uhm... no, Mum. I'll go somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Ehm... do you remember Molly's curse?"

"Oh, Hermione, honestly. Still with that rambling story?"

"Once more, it was all true, Mum. But it's over now."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going out with a person. I'm going to move to his house for the next two weeks, at least."

"What's his name?"

"You know him, Mum. He's Severus Snape."

"The one you saw..."

"Yes."

Mrs. Granger stood silent for a long while and then said simply, "Whatever method you choose, magical or normal, just don't forget to use protections, Hermione."

"No, Mum."

"Good."

And that was it.

---

Mrs. Peewit, on the contrary, scared the hell out of her.

"You are shining, dear," she told Hermione when she went up to sign her contract for September. "Am I right in supposing it is because you are going out with someone?"

"Ehr..."

"Don't deny it, dear! I've seen the two of you walking together to and from the library. I kept a watch over you, actually."

"Ah, really?" tittered Hermione, beyond embarrassment.

"Indeed. I did because, you see, I happen to know who your partner really is."

"Do you?" Hermione squeaked. Oh, Merlin, maybe Mrs. Peewit is a squib, or she had a less than agreeable encounter with some Death Eaters, or...

"He is Leslie Prince! I knew that sometimes things like this had to happen, that writers had to go out with their fans. This is a librarian's dream come true!"

Hermione coughed nervously.

"My dear, I cannot say how happy I am for you!" Mrs Peewit went on, beaming. "You are so lucky!"

I suppose I am.

---

Just a couple of nights before leaving Haworth Road, Hedwig II returned to her window with a new letter from Harry.

Dear Hermione,

How are you? The kids ask about you sometimes, and Ginny and I would be happy if you showed up one of these days. Soon, Jamie and Albus will return to the kindergarten. Lily's cut her last tooth one week ago.

I know you were interested, so here is the big news: the Hogwarts board decided that the DADA job would be bestowed on Dumbledore's portrait. I think this is the best solution ever, as the jinx will never concern a painting. And it will be a great benefit for the students. I almost want to get back to school just to follow Dumbledore's lessons.

Good luck with your selection.

Love,

Harry

Feeling in a wicked disposition, Hermione grabbed a quill and replied on the back of Harry's parchment:

Dear Harry,

I'm glad to hear that you are all fine. Yes, one day I'll pay you another visit. At the moment, I'm busy packing my stuff. I'm going to move in soon with our last DADA teacher. We don't like talking about Dumbledore that much, so forgive me if I don't rejoice.

Speaking of which, can you tell me why do we draw 600 Galleons a year as a war pension and Severus 60? One zero slipped in spelling? Could you please ask Kingsley next time you meet him? That would be lovely.

Hugs,

Hermione

PS. Unconsciously, Severus hugs you too.

PPS. Tell Ginny her Contraceptive charm is still the best.

Hermione re-read the last sentence and then thought she could persuade the owl, with a couple more biscuits, to bring a note to her apothecary in Diagon Alley before returning to Godric's Hollow.

She got no reply from Harry, but the batch of Procreobstans (the effect of which lasted a fortnight) arrived, as expected, the following day.

---

The incident with Blaise happened on Sunday, August 30.

The night before had been awkward. She had just moved in, and among packing and unpacking – and Merlin knew how much stuff and books she could pack in one suitcase – it was understandable that she had overlooked all the implications. Severus had already slipped a finger in the waistband of her jeans when she remembered and gasped. He froze.

"What's happening? What have I done?"

"Sorry," she hastened to say, "sorry. There's nothing wrong." She grabbed his hand. "I simply forgot to tell you that I have my menses. I'm sorry."

His eyes darkened (how could they? But sometimes they darkened) and he asked, "Does it hurt?"

"No, no. I don't have painful menses, thankfully. Besides, it's the third day. But I don't know if... ah, ah, I mean, it's only... kind of weird, you know?"

"May I just hug you?"

"Eh? Of course, there's nothing..."

He had held her, then, and murmured, "Az got vil shtrofn an apikoyres git er im a frum vayb" against her hair, and she hadn't ask what that meant because she had kissed him.

In the morning, they were awakened by a crackling of flames in the main room and a haughty voice calling, "Professor?"

"Oh, fucking fuck."

"Mmh? What's up?" she mumbled in her sleep.

"Stay here and don't make a sound," he whispered back. "Ward yourself in, if you prefer, but don't worry. It's only my idiotic successor. I'll be back soon." He slipped in a pair of trousers and a shirt before leaving the room.

"Zabini! For Merlin's beard, can't you even inform me when you are going to pay your visits?" His voice hissed from the main room.

"If I inform you, Professor, you would make yourself unreachable."

"And what should you deduce from that? And isn't there really any treat I can give you to make you stop calling me by that title?"

"You will always be a professor for me, sir. In truth, you should come back to Hogwarts and teach, no matter what. You should still be the headmaster, sir. I also believe that, with the opportune cures–"

"I am not moribund! Stop treating me as one! Zabini, you have been repeating to me this same litany of bullshit for ten years. What have I always replied to you?"

"To tell you what I wanted and to bugger off. But I think---"

"Then?"

"Well, Professor, if you..."

"Zabini, tell me what has led you here today and bugger off. You are much less welcome now than ever."

"Professor, the new school year is going to start in two days, as usual, and I came now because I'll later have less time to talk with you about our projects."

"Yours, not mine; I don't want to have anything to do with your bungles."

"True, Professor, I'm the potioneer, but without your suggestions, I wouldn't get such results."

"Fawning will get you nowhere, here. Any suggestion, including the one I'm giving now, is offered with the intention of making you leave sooner. I'm only obliged listening to you, whenever you have the indecency of Flooing into my house uninvited, because I am prevented from hexing you away."

"With all due respect, Professor, I believe that if you followed the Ministry programme for magic-deprived wizards–"

"Do you know where you can stick that blasted respect of yours, Blaise? I was peacefully sleeping with my Ministerial programme in my bed before you woke me up!"

"Forgive me, Professor, for waking you, but I was impatient to show you this. I spent all summer working on the refining the Elixir to Induce Euphoria for lithium-allergic patients affected by bipolar disorder, and I brought you a sample."

"Bring it to St. Mungo's, you loafer! What use do I have for all those vials you bring here?"

"But you contributed to perfecting them, Professor! Your name should be – but – sniff – is that true? I can sense magic performed here. Oh, Professor, have you finally recovered?"

"The magic you sense comes from your own bloody lithium-free potion! And spare me these melodramatic tantrums, Zabini, would you. The last time you sensed magic here it was actually a clogged sink."

"A clogged sink, Professor? But you can't really appreciate this kind of empty, worthless excuse of a life? In this Muggle environment?"

At this point, Hermione couldn't help herself anymore. She got up and peeped out into the main room. "Hi, Blaise." She greeted him with a radiant smile. "How long has it been? Forgive my attire..." kitten-decorated pyjamas didn't seem very appropriate to welcome guests, unwanted as they might be "but pray tell me, what is worthless?"

Jaw dropped, Blaise gaped at her as if she was a Martian getting out of a spaceship.

With the same cheery smile, Hermione continued, "Can't you even tell a lady's magic from a man's, Blaise? And have you ever considered asking Severus if you were disturbing him, or other people in the house?"

"Granger," Blaise muttered at last. Snape's neck was scarlet, and his face was blotted with red as well.

"In person. Oh, Blaise, one last question – do you know that it's seven in the morning on a Sunday?"

She reached out for him and patted him on the shoulder, directing him toward the mantelpiece.

"Please, when you arrive back to Hogwarts, give my love to Neville," she asked sweetly.

"Remind me to ward the fireplace later," she told Severus with a yawn as soon as Blaise Flooed away.

---

With September 1st and the ending of summer opening times, Hermione's work shifts passed from three-ten p.m. to twelve-six. The library was running at full capacity now, and all seats were occupied by readers. Severus stopped accompanying her there.

"It's early enough to come back by yourself, when you finish working," he said. "There," he added, pointing her to a bike that had always stood propped against the western wall of the house and that had probably seen Grindelwald's war. "You can take it, if you want to go for a ride instead of Apparating or waiting for the bus."

On August 31, the US Open started. Within a few days, Severus would stay up late to watch the matches on the decrepit television perched on the chest of drawers in his bedroom. After suffering the noise in silence for a while, eventually Hermione would cast a Muffliato and a Delumos on it and return to her pillow.

At least, Quidditch matches weren't broadcast on TV!

But it gave her a comforting sense of familiarity that they would share his bedroom also for such mundane habits, and sometimes she would stay awake with him if he told her that there was a good match on.

---

One evening, the phone rang. There was only one telephone in the house, in the main room, and Severus, busy with the oven, asked her to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Severus?" croaked a voice on the other side of the phone.

"Tell them to hang on!" bellowed Snape from the kitchen.

"Please excuse him: he's busy at the moment, but will arrive in a minute," said Hermione at the receiver.

"You are Severus' shiksa," said the voice, and it wasn't a question.

"I'm Hermione Granger, and you must be Severus' father. Nice to talk with you, sir."

An unidentifiable swearing came from the kitchen.

"Humph. Severus was always fond of shiksas and... how do you say? Madbloods?"

Should I cry? Laugh? Shut off? "We say Muggle-born, sir."

"Oy vey. He's just like his grandfather, the one who married a witch."

Hermione considered reminding Mr. Snape he had married a witch as well, but he was already going on. "Severus always had this schmaltzy nature. He was a weak boy and remained soppy ever since. All those books, no active participation in society, no interest in public welfare. Never understood anything about politics. But this doesn't mean you should take advantage of the fact that he lives in the clouds, is that clear to you – what was your name? He is too delicate for all the women's devilments, so don't mess up with him. And now shut up and call him at the phone. This is a long-distance call."

Luckily, Severus arrived, and Hermione robotically handed him the receiver.

"It's your father."

"I got it. What the hell did he tell you?"

As Hermione shook her head, Severus shouted in the receiver, "What kind of meshugas were you telling her? Why did you call? What's happened with Nancy this time?"

Hermione walked back to the kitchen, where she distractedly heard bits of a half-hour long complaint about Federer, and the general decadence of tennis players after the eighties.

---

The Boddingtons had gone visiting their son and grandchildren in France. Hermione suspected Severus had bought them the tickets, or had somehow taken other measures not to be disturbed by them at the present.

---

Monday, September 14, 2009

Hermione obtained two days of leave from Mrs. Peewit. It was awfully easy, in fact, as easy as lying.

"It's my first month anniversary with Mr. Prince," she told her. "He would like to take me to London for an extended weekend."

When Mrs. Peewit went mawkish, it felt like cheating.

When she Flooed with Severus to the Leaky Cauldron, holding his hand to allow him to ride along, it almost felt like she had said the truth. If only it wasn't for the selection.

---

"Thompson."

The thirty-something man behind the bar of the Leaky Cauldron was staring at them like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Thompson, even if your results in a Potions classroom were abysmal, I believe it may be within your reach to give us the key for our room. It's just there, behind your head, if you manage to turn it."

"Please, Mr. Thompson. I'd like to go upstairs as well."

All the clientele of the pub had been gaping at Hermione and Severus since they had come out of the fireplace, hand in hand, both in Muggle clothes, and had dusted each other after the ride. Mr. Thompson looked like a first-year who had irritated Peeves.

Luckily, Hannah Abbott came out of a 'staff only' door, her growing belly more noticeable now than in July under a salmon-coloured robe.

"Professor," she greeted Snape, somewhat sheepishly.

"Mrs. Longbottom," nodded Snape in reply.

"Russell, give them the key for room 11, and continue the check in, please," said Hannah.

Eventually, Russell Thompson took the key from the hook and pulled out a registration form that Severus began to fill in.

"So," said Hannah, turning to Hermione. She kissed her on both cheeks before taking her by the hand and carrying her away to a private parlour down a narrow passage. With a click of fingers, Hannah lighted a flame in the fireplace and sat in one of the armchairs, inviting Hermione to sit opposite to her.

"How are you, Hannah? And the baby?" started Hermione.

"Oh, everything's fine, thanks. But we'll have plenty of time to talk about this later. Now you have to tell me everything, Hermione," Hannah replied with huge, curious eyes. "Is that true? Are you living with Professor Snape, now? Zabini told Neville. Harry wrote us, too."

And you'll read it on the Daily Prophet tomorrow, as soon as Rita Skeeter catches us here.

"I am."

"I knew it! I knew it! I suspected that something was brewing – sorry – from your attitude during Neville's party. You had never spoken that badly of Snape, never. And you looked as if you had been trodden on by an Erumpent. I spotted it immediately that you had to suffer for love's afflictions."

"Hannah, there was nothing between us at that time..."

"And you suffered for it, didn't you? I know. It must have been hard for you. You always had this kind of missionary tendency, also at Hogwarts. Oh, Hermione, this is so brave of you. Knowing you, it was obvious that you would try to comfort him once you had met him again. To help that wretched man out of his misery, to make him accept his deprivation... And, with your patient devotion, you were able to break through his desolate, despairing shell. Oh, this is so romantic!" Hannah clapped her hands in admiration.

Hufflepuffs.

I think the only less romantic thing of being with Severus, was being with Ron, at his best. Even during intimate moments, their only exchanges were stupid jokes – Severus had a penchant for puns based on 'nothing' and trifles like that – and sometimes they even indulged in silly childish games, like measuring the respective size of their feet, and then pushing. Hermione had once fallen out of the bed for a match of feet against feet.

She hadn't even stopped laughing then.

"When are you going to marry?" Hannah asked.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, you're thirty and he's what? Sixty? Given his age... I imagine he would like to make up for lost time."

"He's forty-nine and eight months." And I still haven't decided what to give him for his birthday. Damn. "And we have been seeing each other only for a month now, Hannah."

"But you two are living together."

"Yes, but that's only a temporary arrangement, until this issue with my job is settled."

"Sure, you want to look for a new, larger house, I see. Finding a good place can be difficult, nowadays. Will you two stay in the north?"

"Listen, Hannah, there will be no marriage. This is just a little, inconsequential summer flirt."

"Hermione, people don't have summer flirts with Professor Snape. Your devotion–"

"No, no, you are totally misled. Ours is merely a friendship with benefits," she chuckled. "A friendship with benefits minus the friendship makes only benefits." That was a favourite joke between them, currently.

Hannah looked at her as if she had grown a beard. "Forgive me, Hermione, but no woman in her right mind would accept... benefits from Snape unless she's mad about him."

"This is not true!" Hermione almost yelled, slamming her fist on the arm of her chair. Before she could help it, she added, "And you're in no position to talk!" Merlin knows if I love Neville, but... to sleep with him? No way.

Hermione had just been unfair, but Hannah simply laughed. "You are so cute. Always as straightforward as water. And I wouldn't have thought that of him, but he was looking at you as if you were a krapfen. I wish you every blessing."

Hufflepuffs.

---

After dinner, they were back in their room. Hermione was pacing across it in a bundle of nerves. Severus was sitting on the bed, reading the first Daily Prophet in years and looked as relaxed as he could. The Ministry selection was scheduled for the next day at nine in the morning. What would it consist of? What kind of questions was she to expect? Would she have to do a practical demonstration? She had no idea. No information had been given to the candidates. The mode of the interview was secret. Would her name be considered a recommendation? Would it harm or help her? And what if she ripped an early print? Or, worse, a manuscript?

Do you want to rip it?

Then there was the matter with the Emily Brontë. While waiting for a new book to restore, after finishing with Brother Lucretius', Hermione had helped in cataloguing the new additions and filling the visitors' requests. But there were already Jack and Hester for them, and even if the number of visitors had increased, the last two weeks had been quite uneventful. Without a bookbinding task at hands, she felt a bit superfluous.

Isn't it better? Otherwise, you would tear another book.

The fact was, simply, that she loved bookbinding and wanted to be able to return to it, despite the incident. It wouldn't do her any good to avoid restoring books: she had to continue doing it, leaving the repetitive questions in her mind to rot.

You don't have a future in this job, Granger.

Then there was the little problem with Severus, namely, where she would stay after the selection. She really had no wish to leave the Yew House, if possible, but she couldn't lean on him that much. Probably he was already fed up with her tendency to interfere with his routine, to monopolise the toilet, to rearrange compulsively the stacks of books in the main room. He hadn't commented when she had invaded his bathroom with her hundreds of hair products, true, but woe betide her if she dared misplace the kitchenware. He didn't look pleased when she had found the cabinet with Blaise's potions in the attic. She had found also a very old cauldron covered with scratches, but polished, a mortar and some empty vials, as old as the cauldron. A bunch of notes in loose sheets was tucked unceremoniously into the cabinet. She couldn't tell to when they dated back. Severus had asked her, quite imperiously, to stop ransacking the attic and she had obeyed, crestfallen. She had also been altogether dispensed from cooking. She wouldn't blame him if he were tired of his demanding guest. Maybe he wanted back his privacy, his habits, and he would be satisfied with meeting each other on weekends. But she didn't really want to go away.

Did you like to rip the page?

She could travel. Unless he preferred so, there was really no need to move out, or so she hoped. Look at Neville and Hannah. She lived at the Leaky Cauldron and him at Hogwarts, returning to London whenever he could. Sometimes she went visiting him at the school. They worked apart, and they were married. Not the most comfortable solution in the world, but they made the best of it. A functioning fireplace was always very convenient.

The Yew House had a fireplace, too.

As long as he isn't bored of me, as long as he wants me there...

"Stop pacing back and forth like a man in a maternity ward. You're getting me anxious. Come here and have a rest."

Hermione turned and saw Severus folding back his newspaper and patting the empty side of the bed at his right.

Sighing, she stepped out of her slippers and nestled at his side, her head on his shoulder, her right arm across his chest, while he began to fiddle with her curls.

"I had another episode," she murmured.

His hand halted for a moment, then resumed twirling her hair distractedly. "What? Images?"

"No, a thought. I did something I shouldn't have; I thought things I wouldn't have." She summarised what had happened in the archives.

"You are simply under stress, Hermione, and it makes easier for the unwanted thoughts to come. All this fuss for the selection... How many books did you study for it?"

"Thirty-seven. Monographs. Some sixty-four articles. Few, I know. I haven't even completed my list. I should have–"

"–Read less, you fool. Anyway. After your selection, a bit of stress will peel off. When did you say this episode occurred?"

"On Monday the 24th."

"And," he scowled for a moment "if I haven't miscalculated, you had your cycle on Thursday the 27th. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"I am privy to the fact that women may be upset by the coming period, even when they don't suffer any physical ailments... mmh... There were potions I brewed for the infirmary, once. Magnesium and hellebore and powdered moonstone and---"

"Thank you, Severus. That's very kind. Maybe next month."

"Maybe this new... arrangement stressed you."

"Moving in with you? No. I feel so at ease there. But probably you felt the pressure."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I know I'm not a sweet company."

He gripped her shoulder. "Why haven't you told me earlier of this attack?"

"I am aware that I should not seek reassurances. I have to face it by myself. I know I'm supposed to not give a damn about the thoughts."

"And are you succeeding in it?"

"In letting the thoughts go? More or less. They come, but I try not replying them."

"Good." He nodded. "Rest, now. You have resisted enough. Try to calm down before your interview. So, where have we got up to?"

"With what?"

"The tale."

"Your tale?" She raised her head, looking at him, and then rested it again on his shoulder. "I don't remember. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle. There was a witch, books, and your Patronus."

"Ah, right. I remember." He brought a finger to his chin. "So, the young witch went to the Southern Oracle, and Uyulala told her that, to retrieve all the books that once belonged to the library, and that went lost after the war, she had to bind a book herself. Because in each word is potentially encapsulated an entire language, as in every sound there is the potential for every kind of music, therefore in any book is mirrored any other book of the world. If she put together the pages for just one book while pronouncing the right spell, the dispersed books would come back.

"The spell was Filo, because in Latin filum, fili means thread. But you also know that philia in ancient Greek means friendship, love, affection; phileo means to love, and philos means dear, beloved. So, I am not sure whether the spell referred to the thread she had to use to stitch the pages together, or to the love she felt for the books and that would allow her to find them again. Probably it implied both meanings, because binding, I am informed, is about shaping a bond."

While he was speaking, Hermione unfastened the first buttons of his shirt and bent on his chest to kiss his sternum, then his nipple on the other side. His nipples, she liked. What did a man feel when someone sucked his nipples? She was under the impression that Severus' nipples were more sensitive than her own were.

" 'But I have no paper,' said the witch.

" 'Collect as many leaves as you can find in the forest, and those shall be your pages,' replied Uyulala.

" 'I have no thread and no needle to sew them,' said the witch.

" 'Transfigure the nail of your left thumb into a needle and use your hair as thread,' replied the Oracle.

" 'But I have no story to write on the leaves,' said again the witch.

" 'Collect a phrase from each bird of the forest, and that shall be your story," replied Uyulala."

More buttons loosened, her hand travelled further down, stopped to plop a finger in his navel, and then grazed the trail of fine, black hair with her fingertips. She unbuttoned his trousers, unzipped his fly, slipped her hand in his pants, and found his hardness. As she encompassed the delicate head with her palm, she lifted her face up and kissed him, hard.

"There again, it seems that you don't want to listen to the end of this tale," he said when she let his lips free.

In reply, Hermione crouched on her heels and took off her jumper, unhooked her bra, rolled out of her jeans and knickers. She lied down on her back, parted her knees, and stretched her arms toward him.

"Come here," she said, her voice mellow.

He looked down at her body, then back at her eyes, and gently took her glasses off.

"Do you know that we did this for the first time one month ago?" she asked as Severus finished stripping off his shirt.

"I know." Trousers and pants joined the shirt on the back of the chair.

"I'm sorry. I didn't buy you anything to celebrate."

"It looks like we are celebrating."

Severus leant on her and there it was again, the skin, the contact, and the yearning, throbbing in her chest.

"Touch me," she begged, spreading her legs farther.

His nose brushed against the line between her breasts, and his kisses circled one of her breast while one of his hands cupped her other breast. His other hand stroked her down, back and forth, and she felt herself liquefy in the warmth of his touch. She pushed her hips closer to his hand while his shmok pulsed against her thigh. Lacing her legs with his, she rubbed her ankles along his calves, her toes circling the back of his knees. She rolled her knuckles along his neck before tracing the muscles and bones of his back, running her hands down his spine, widening her fingers over his cheeks. One finger glided in the crack between his cheeks, and she squeezed the little, soft triangle of flesh above it.

Eyes closed, she stirred her head, plunging it deeper into the pillow, and Severus' hand left her breast, found her nape, and grasped her hair. He kissed her and her hands flew to his head too, ruffled his hair while trying to pull his face closer, the secret in his mouth closer. She grew languid then. She drew her tongue out and licked his lips, slowly, the upper lip, and then the lower lip. His tongue touched hers, tip to tip, until she caught it between her lips and started to suck it. His mouth closed over hers as their tongues continued to play.

"Severus," she whispered between breaths. "Let me stay with you. At the Yew House. Even if I pass the selection. Please."

He stilled. "You want to stay."

"I'll understand if you don't want me there anymore."

"You thought that I would say no, had you asked it in another context?"

His eyes smothered her, gleaming like fresh oil paint, a flicker of – incredulity? joy? – in their depths.

"I don't know... Maybe you want back your privacy, and that would be perfectly reasonable, I believe."

"Did I give you that impression that I didn't want you there? Because – because I watched the blasted tournament?"

"Oh, no! It's your house; you can do as it pleases you. It is not like you have ignored me altogether, you know." Her smile died on her lips. "But I don't want to be a burden on you."

"Hermione, the house is yours." He cleared his throat. "At your disposal. As I am, right now."

"Really? I can stay?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Summer hasn't ended yet, and you have, after all, to hear the end of the tale."

"I will. Oh, thank you, thank you!"

"There's also a tail, here, that awaits to be taken home."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"Then take it home, sir."

He slid into her, then, and more 'yeses' were repeated until they both fell asleep, sated.

---

A/N

Az got vil shtrofn an apikoyres git er im a frum vayb. Yiddish proverb: When God wants to punish an unbeliever, He gives him a pious wife.

Shiksa - (pronounced shik-seh) non-Jewish girl; maiden. Especially one attracted to a Jewish male.

Oy vey - oh no!, woe is me!; oh!, ouch!

Schmaltzy – shmalts, cooking fat, usually chicken fat, melted or rendered; excessive sentimentality; mush.

Meshugas – (pronounced meh∙shoo∙gaas' / meh∙shi∙gaas') craziness, madness

Krapfen – German for doughnut or cruller

Shmok – vulgar for penis, dick, asshole

Glossary kindly provided you by my fantastic beta, Valady!

"At least Hermione's on Snape's tail" (Harry Potter, age 11, PS/SS 16, UK ed. p. 196)