Chapter 2: The Morning After the Night Before

Chapter 2: The Morning After the Night Before

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Hermione awoke with a shiver, alone. She was sprawled naked across the sheets of an unfamiliar bed with her hair over her eyes, a dry mouth, and the worst hangover she could ever remember experiencing since the Victory Party of 1998.

It was dark in the room, but a greenish glimmer from some sort of liquid lamp on the side table lit the room with a dullish glow, and a bright shaft of pale light from the crack in the doorway told her that it was morning.

She shut her eyes again. It took a moment for her to assemble her scattered wits. When the blurred memories of the past few hours returned, a nauseous adrenaline rush in her stomach and a cringing sense of dread joined her pounding headache in competing for attention.

In time to each painful thump of her pulse, her mind began to replay some key scenes before her closed eyes.

She saw herself dressed in plain robes and sensible shoes, sitting alone in the Three Broomsticks (as usual), waiting for her solitary supper to be brought to her table, a large glass of elf-made wine before her.

The pub was full and rowdy, and as usual, Hermione was sitting alone at a quiet table, shrinking back into the shadows.

Oh... no...

The next image that shimmered into her beleaguered mind was her surprise at seeing her ex-Professor and now colleague approach her lonely seat. That was soon supplanted by her pleasure at his attention, her invitation for him to sit down.

More wine... and a Firewhisky for him.

He had been his usual self – sharp tongued and snaggle toothed. Scathing in his condemnation of the latest generation of students who were blundering about in his classroom, witty and scornful in his assessment of the Ministry's latest attempts to rehabilitate ex-Death Eaters and their families, thoughtful and engaged in describing his private research into targeted healing potions.

She remembered the puddle of warmth she'd felt when his fingers had brushed against hers as he sketched out the design of the newly built Muggle Museum of Transport in Glasgow (of all places!), the thrill of excitement as he carelessly suggested that she might join him in a visit there.

She next saw herself order a brandy to keep up with his Firewhiskies.

Then another.

Now a sardonic eyebrow swam to the forefront of her memory, a twitch of his expressive lips sending a shiver of anticipation through her as she watched him in the flickering lamplight of the pub, not believing how attractive and dashing he had suddenly become.

The ring of the last orders bell brought a whispered suggestion that he join her in her quarters for a nightcap. His gallant acceptance of her invitation had made her giddy with expectation and delight.

As the images began to speed up and coalesce into a moving memory of what happened next, Hermione groaned a little on the bed. Slowly she dragged her left hand up to her face to brush away the hair from her eyes as she recalled the cool rush of the evening's air as they left the pub, arm in unsteady arm.

They hadn't made it to her quarters. The dungeons had been closer with fewer stairs.

She shivered again as the breeze from her left raised fresh goose bumps on her skin. The door to his living room was ajar. She pulled the rumpled sheet over herself reflexively and pushed herself more fully upright on the bed, casting her eyes about for her clothing in the poor light.

A sudden, disorientating memory, of her shucking off her robes in enthusiastic haste in his living room while pulling at his clothing at the same time, caused her to shut her eyes in cringing embarrassment.

Was it too much to hope that her wand would have followed her into the bedroom...?

She looked hopefully about her.

No chance.

However, on the bedside table beside the lamp, she did notice a small phial of milky liquid with a parchment propped carefully against it.

It said, "Drink Me, Professor" in a perfect, flowing script.

With no further thought, Hermione flopped over towards the edge of the bed, grabbed the bottle and pulled off the stopper with her teeth.

She sniffed the contents. Hyssop... peppermint... cloves.... Thank Nimue!

She downed it in one grateful gulp, feeling the restorative potion wash through her system.

However, as the throbbing in her head and the sickness in her stomach abated, a new, horrible clarity settled upon her.

She suddenly remembered absolutely everything in appallingly specific detail.

A deep flush rose through the base of her chest to her hairline.

She replayed his expressions, his actions from the night before. Her actions. His... Oh, bloody hell. Had she really begged him to...? Had she howled? Oh, Merlin – she had bitten him!

She had to get out of there!

Tentatively, she strained her ears to hear if there were any noises from the adjoining room.

It was obviously morning, but she had no idea of the time – there was no clock in the room, and her watch had clearly gone the same way as everything else she had been wearing. An absurd hope sprung within her. Perhaps he had left her alone? Had he gone to breakfast... gone for a walk... allowed her to creep away from her shameful, wanton behaviour of the previous evening and lick her wounds in private....

As if on cue, a muffled thump and a quiet curse drifted through the open door.

There was another scuffling noise and a scuffed step on a flagstone floor... then the sound of a throat being cleared on the opposite side of the door.

"Miss...Prof...Gran...Hermione?"

With a small but heartfelt groan, Hermione allowed her head to fall back to the rumpled sheets.

She was going to have to go out and face him.

*

On the other side of the door, Severus Snape heard her heartfelt whimper at his words and understood that the woman in his bedchamber was regretting their liaison.

He scowled.

Of course.

Realising that he was fiddling with his neck again, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown and turned back to the heavy sludge that passed for coffee according to house-elves at Hogwarts.

For a moment, as the liquid scorched his sensitive throat, he thought he should simply leave her to it. His eyes darted over to where her clothes were laid on the back of his shabby couch. Perhaps he should send them through to her. He could see her wand, carelessly disregarded, and thought that he should perhaps. But then he damned himself for an idiot; the woman was perfectly capable of a simple Accio, after all.

He replaced the empty coffee cup on the table in front of him, and as he straightened up again, he caught a glimpse in the long mirror beside his desk of the purplish bruise in the centre of his chest.

Feeling his cheeks heat at the memory, he straightened his dressing gown, self-consciously pulling the old nightshirt across his chest to cover up the bruising. He should have got changed when he slipped out of bed earlier. As his fingers brushed over the sensitive spot, a small electrical pulse seemed to shoot from the tender area to his lower belly. He winced and shifted his hips, sternly reminding himself that the last thing the recently ravished Miss Granger would want to see when she eventually emerged from his bedchamber would be her erstwhile Potions professor with a bright red face and a raging hard on.

When she emerged... He checked the clock on the wall, then flicked his attention to the small pile of her clothing on his sofa. She was taking a hell of a long time getting up. At this rate, they would both miss breakfast, which would cause no small amount of comment, given how many of their colleagues saw them leave the Three Broomsticks together the previous night.

He took another look at himself in the mirror. The expression that greeted him could be defined as "well shagged". His hair was still disarrayed, his face stubbly, and his lips slightly swollen. He turned his face to the side and saw another purplish bruise on the side of his neck, quite low down near the juncture with his collar bone.

Mmmmm, oh, yes...! A slow smile spread across his face. He remembered being ordered about by a bossy woman. On the carpet. Then the couch. Stumbling through to the bedchamber. 'Put them there, lift that higher, lick this – oh God, harder!' He flexed the muscles in his back slightly with the memory, but then the smile faded. She had been very drunk.

A stab of guilt cut through the haze of recollection. Very, very drunk.

Bollocks.

He cleared his throat again and walked back to the bedroom door.

"Are you alright, Professor Granger?" he asked the silent darkness beyond, cursing how tentative his voice sounded. He cleared his throat again – the bloody snakebite was always at its worst early in the morning.

"Y-yes, thank you," a somewhat strangled voice replied from within.

Silence. His eyes returned to her clothing, expecting her to summon her wand.

More silence.

Then, "I don't suppose you could send my clothes through, could you? I... um... appear to have misplaced my wand...."

*

They entered the Great Hall together, following a heated and lengthy sotto voce argument from the dungeons to the antechamber about whether it was more or less obvious if they went to breakfast together, apart, or not at all.

As it was, nobody paid them the slightest bit of attention as they took their seats at the staff table. The House tables were full of sloppily eating adolescents, chattering away... And food was passed down to them on the High Table without comment by members of staff who were intent on their own conversations. Only Professor Nott appeared to favour them with a broader smile than usual as he offered them tea or coffee.

Severus sat in churning silence. He had no idea what Granger thought of him, what her intentions were, and what might happen next. Aside from the debate about whether to go to breakfast together, separate, or not at all, she had barely spoken to him after emerging from his bedroom, perfectly coiffed and in transfigured robes.

He had almost pushed past her in his embarrassment to get changed himself, pulling on clothes from his wardrobe and running a comb through his disarrayed hair, silently berating himself for listening, all that time, for the entrance door to his chambers to close behind her as she left.

He had heard nothing, however, and had been truly amazed to see her waiting for him on his couch after he shaved and brushed his teeth. She had avoided his eyes and flushed very prettily when he asked after her health, but then she squared her shoulders and offered her hand for him to draw her to her feet, her face unreadable (albeit slightly pink). She had not said anything to him. He hadn't know what to say and so had said nothing either.

His penis twitched firmly again, and he squirmed a little in his chair.

Aside from a few short-lived dalliances and one long-term, hopeless infatuation, he had very little experience with... well... with women. Some parts of his anatomy clearly thought that this was the time to gain more of it and soon. He fidgeted again.

She shifted in her chair, and her left thigh pressed up against his. The contact made him jump.

"Relax," she muttered. "You're making this look obvious."

He stared at her and frowned. "I'm making what look obvious?" he asked in a sibilant whisper, reaching for the brown sauce bottle in front of her.

"You keep staring at me," she hissed. "And wriggling."

He froze in place. "I am not wriggling, woman," he whispered back, a scowl hot and heavy on his features.

Hermione snorted, putting her hand up to her nose, and then she schooled her features back quickly into a polite expression. "I thought last night you agreed that we should keep... um... this quiet," she breathed.

"There's a 'this'?" he responded stupidly and forgot to keep his voice down.

She rolled her eyes a little. "I don't know!" she hissed at him, shooting a quick look at the other professors on the High Table who all seemed thankfully oblivious. He watched her eyes darting around the Great Hall, which was now emptying rapidly as the students rushed back to their common rooms before lessons.

He would have to go soon too before the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins ruined his Monday irrevocably.

But then she looked back at him and slowly smiled. "I hope there's a 'this'," she said quietly. "I am not in the habit of one night stands."

Severus looked down into her plain but earnest features and felt something odd lurch in his chest at the expression on her face.

Perhaps 'this' was not going to explode in his face after all.

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Thanks and hugs to beaweasely2, Clairvoyant and nagandsev. The characters are not mine but the mighty JKR's.