Zorba The Geek or Tipping Isn't Just A City In China

AN: Mich: Sorry for the delay - all my fault, as I've been sick and lazy. Unfortunately, I can no longer blame this wacky story of drugs. I suppose I will have to blame the booze.

Zambi: Michie let me write most of this chapter I think because she was upset that I "blamed" her for most of last chapter. The joke will be on her, however, as all of the dear readers will come back asking that she continue writing without my help. As to the question of when the hockey season will continue again, the answer is: *sniff* I don't know! I miss my Duckies! And I'm sure Mich misses the Maple Leafs.

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As the first rays of dawn entered his room, Snape awoke blissfully, feeling content for the first time in ages. He felt warm and slightly drunk, though he knew he had not imbibed in the past month at least. Not even to celebrate the graduation of The-Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Die-And-Be-Done-With-It.

He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so well, even with the help of a sleeping potion and wondered in his hazy half-asleep mind if Hermione might be willing to spend every night in his bed, if it meant he would wake this well-rested.

It really was remarkable how warm the girl was, how the feel of her body pressed against his back and the sleep-heavy weight of her arm draped around his waist was a comfort. Her hair had gotten tangled under his head at some point during the night and just the slightest shift of his head buried his nose in her soft curls, taking in the subtle scent of her: lemons and tangerines, heat and Hermione.

He had never realized how wonderful she smelt. She was intoxicating. His eyes felt heavy; his body lethargic. There was something wrong here, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was. He drifted off to sleep again, allowing his body to sink more firmly back into Hermione's, smiling as she murmured his name in her sleep.

It was several hours later before he awoke again, and when he did it wasn't with the sleepy contentment of his initial awakening at dawn – it was with the sudden gut-wrenching realization that his hand was caressing something it most definitely should not be. He was afraid to open his eyes and look, because he knew the soft breast his hand was currently squeezing did not belong to him.

In his sleep, he had somehow managed to get his hand up Hermione's rather skimpy tank top. He could feel the soft material pressing against the back of it and could feel the stiff poke of a nipple into his palm, almost as if it was branding him. She was murmuring in her sleep again, her hand reaching behind her to caress his hipbone. Her hair was all around them, drifting over his chest and against his face, enveloping them in her delicious scent. She was writhing slightly in her sleep and her cotton-clad bottom was firmly pressed into the juncture of his thighs, nestling against his length. He groaned silently to himself, even as his body over-rode his mind momentarily and his hips twitched. He could feel the cleft of her ass through her underwear and sighed involuntarily as his body cradled itself against her.

He knew – with the clarity that had eluded him earlier this morning – this was wrong. It was not good. She had no right to press against him like she did it regularly and his body had no right reacting as if the feel of her flesh against his own was welcome. It wasn't welcome...or, it shouldn't have been. He wondered briefly if perhaps Hermione's madness was catching, because the old Snape – the one from yesterday – would have already jumped from the bed and stalked calmly and coldly from the room. She had somehow – in the space of less than 24 hours – bewitched him. He found himself oddly reluctant to remove himself from her heat. Even her fingers, alternately gripping and tracing his hipbone, felt wonderful. He never realized how sensitive his skin was. His. Skin. Was...his skin...

Merlin's balls, he was naked. And Hermione – well, she was barely clothed.

A million thoughts began coursing through his head at once. The first response was completely inappropriate, but naturally expected. The second thought was to make an excuse and run into the bathroom for a cold shower right away. Knowing that it wouldn't do-Hermione was every bit the doting wife with him whether he wanted her to be or not-he began to formulate a plan to remove himself from this predicament before it grew too awkward. Hadn't he fallen asleep with a towel on? Where was it?

It was time to get wise, and he knew it. He taught potions to complete idiots every day, spied for Dumbledore, and managed to keep Harry bloody Potter alive for seven years. Surely finding a way to get out of bed and away from the lovely girl who currently had herself wrapped around him should be a piece of cake.

Unfortunately, it was turning into a situation where the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. Actually, he couldn't even admit that his spirit was willing, but rather, the logic center of his mind was reminding him that for proprieties' sake, he must get up and dress himself, and by all means NOT look at his mostly-nude student no matter how tempting it was.

In his panic, his hand clenched convulsively against her breast, eliciting an earthier groan from her. His brain stilled and his heart started pounding – that groan had traveled straight to his balls. Good lord – the chit was going to kill him – he was going to die of a heart attack right here in this bed. He could picture the obituary now: 'He died with a smile'.

Gingerly, he slid his hand free of her shirt, trying to ignore the way his fingers involuntarily teased her nipple as they slid by it. The skin on her stomach was very soft and he realized he was memorizing its suppleness against his palm. Her hipbone was well padded, not bony like his own, and his mind flashed him a quick mental picture of his hands sinking into the soft flesh there as they made love. He had never imagined that this minx of a girl – one-third of the banes of his existence – would feel so...right...against him.

Oh so slowly he angled his hips away from her, his legs shifting under the thin covers as he gingerly moved towards the edge of the bed. Her hair trailed across him like electric silk, flaying his nerve endings with their softness. Had he ever realized how supple and sensuous those bushy curls of hers were?

Finally, after agonizing moments, he was free of her. He still couldn't see the towel he had gone to bed wearing last night, but he managed to wrap a loose sheet around himself for proprieties sake. He allowed his gaze to linger on her still-sleeping form, noting the rapid flutter beneath her eyelids; the sweet curve of her lips as she whispered his name again. Closing his eyes against the delicious warmth seeping through him at the sound of her voice, he choked back on his natural response to whisper her name back to her and return to her side.

Instead, he turned reluctantly on his heel and headed for the bathroom. A cold - very cold – shower was in order. He needed to clear his head and figure out how he was going to avoid sleeping in the same bed as her again this evening. He didn't think his resolve not to touch her would last long if this kept up.

"All right, old boy," he mumbled to himself. "Get a grip here-it's no good turning all Touchy McGropy on Miss Grang-er-Hermione. Oh, dear lord, I'm starting to sound like those half-wits! I've been teaching them for so long, their abhorable slang is beginning to rub off on me. And when did I start talking to myself? It's the first sign of insanity, and I am not interested in farm animals in the least!"

He pulled the faucet handle roughly, and cold water immediately came pouring out of the showerhead. After his warm awakening, partial arousal, and heated tantrum, the cold water felt like needles against his skin, and he did what any man would have done in his situation.

"Oh holy fuck!" he yelled, jumping out of the shower cubicle. Wet feet hit marble tiles, causing his legs to veer wildly out of control and his arms to pinwheel, desperately seeking something to grasp. He slipped around for a few seconds before his feet finally lost their traction, crashing down onto the unforgiving floor with a grunt as his boney ass protested sharply.

"Severus? Severus, are you all right?" Hermione's worried voice put an image of her eyebrows pulling together in a concerned manner into his head.

"I'm bloody fine," he spat, standing more steadily and throwing a towel on the floor. "Just bloody terrific."

He turned off the shower and pulled on a robe from the closet. It was white. WHITE!

"Bloody great," he sulked, making a silent vow to kill Albus Dumbledore when they returned to Hogwarts. He was still grumbling and rubbing his butt when Hermione burst into the bathroom, wand in hand, looking like an avenging banshee.

"What happened?" she demanded. Her hair was huge, tousled and swirling around her small face, which was marked on one side with lines from her pillow. She was still wearing the bloody camisole and the breasts he had been trying so hard to forget where pressed against the soft cotton, looking – as if it were possible – even better than they had felt. His hands twitch with the sudden desire to touch them again, when she was aware he was doing it.

His gaze drifted downwards, noting her slightly curved belly and the flare of her hips, where two tiny white bows appeared to be the only thing holding her panties on. It would be so simple to reach out and pull on those dainty strings. Her legs weren't long, but they were pleasantly shaped; her thighs weren't as skinny as he had thought they might be and he was assaulted by the mental image of himself sinking into their softness.

"Severus..."

Her voice snapped him back to instant reality and he scowled when he realized where his mind had been. Turning his back to her he stalked to the sink and grabbed his toothbrush. "I'm fine," he snarled.

"You don't sound fine. It sounded like you fell."

Snape became very interested in flattening out the end of his toothpaste tube. "That may very well be what it sounded like, but I assure you that I have the balance and agility of a cat. Now if you'll excuse me, I have my teeth to brush."

Snape was suddenly surprised and overtaken when he discovered that Hermione had not recognized, or possibly ignored, his dismissal. "You look horrible in white. It makes you look even paler than you already are," she murmured. Casting a quick spell, she changed his robe to a deep green and grinned at him saucily. "I would have gone with burgundy, but you don't appear to be in the mood for teasing right now. Besides, you look so...sexy...in green."

Snape gaped at her. Sexy in green? Him? Before he could sputter a suitably cutting retort, she turned on the shower and stripped off her camisole. Mesmerized by her smooth white skin, he stood there staring, his toothbrush hanging out of his open mouth until she moved one hand to the tiny white bow at her hip.

Closing his mouth abruptly, Snape turned back around and spit a mouthful of foam into the sink, trying not to look at her reflection in the mirror as she stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain.

"Severus, darling! This water is freezing! No wonder you were yelling..."

Snape gripped the sides of the sink and counted to ten before he turned the cold water faucet on and stuck his head under the stream. She had a tiny mole just below her left shoulder blade. Her skin looked as smooth as silk. Her ass was...delectable. The cold water wasn't working.

Growling as he came up for air, he stalked back into the bedroom, trying to ignore the water dripping wetly down his back. This situation was intolerable. What had he done to deserve a punishment like this? Sure, there was the whole 'Death eater / Spy' thing, but he had reformed. He had paid his dues – for twenty-three fucking years he had been paying them – and for the gods to torment him this way was totally uncalled for. He felt like that poor bastard Tantalus, always longing for something just out of reach. Albus-fucking-lemon-drops-Dumbledore and his bright ideas.

Reaching for his trunk, he popped it open – and stared into it in disbelief. "This has got to be either a very large mistake or some kind of sick joke!" he said in an irritated tone. In his trunk - and he checked it several times to make sure that it was indeed his trunk - were neatly folded white linen shirts and khaki colored pants of the sort that a Muggle would wear. To make matters worse, for his feet there were two pairs of sandals - one dark brown with straps on the heel, the other a light brown with no straps.

Snape slammed the lid of his trunk closed and sat down on it, his head in his hands, cursing Dumbledore in earnest. Where were his black wool trousers and vests and frock coats? Where were his boots, for Merlin's sake? Didn't the old fool know that you never mess with a man and his boots? He knew he could at least charm the colors of the clothes different if he wanted too – no blousy white shirts for him, thank you very much – but he could do nothing about the sandals. One could not create material where there wasn't any.

He was still sitting there, lamenting his fate, when Hermione walked out of the bathroom wearing an indecently short towel wrapped around her. "Severus, I have to tell you that I'm really feeling this bump on my head. It's so odd...I don't remember bumping it at all, yet this spot is very painful."

Snape looked up at her, keeping his eyes firmly affixed above her shoulders, and rubbed his fingers along his lips. "You hit it pretty hard, though I am surprised that you can't remember having done it."

She walked over to her trunk and pulled out some lacy-looking undergarments. "The last time I remember hitting my head was four years ago when I graduated from Hogwarts. Do you remember?"

Snape suddenly felt very hot. "I remember as though it were yesterday," he answered sardonically.

"Poor Nearly Headless Nick - you scolded him so meanly." She pulled a blue skirt and white-eyelet peasant blouse out and laid them on the bed.

Snape was so caught up in wonder over Hermione's words that he didn't notice - much -as she dropped her towel and started dressing right in front of him. She remembered walking into the bar, but thought it happened four years ago rather than the day before? What in the world was going on? He certainly hadn't expected that.

"Severus, aren't you going to get dressed? I'm hungry, and you know how cranky I can be when I'm hungry."

Snape knew how cranky she could be, but he had never attributed it to hunger. Perhaps if he had told his class to work on their culinary skills rather than their potion skills, his seven years with the insufferable know-it-all would have passed more smoothly.

But he said none of this. His own words from the previous night came back to him, and he remembered that he had promised himself that he would be a good and doting husband to Hermione during her madness.

Opening the blasted trunk yet again, Snape pulled out a pair of the khaki pants and a white shirt with a heavy heart. He hadn't worn anything but black since he was ten, and he didn't feel like giving up his favorite color, even for Hermione. Still, she would expect him to try to blend with the locals and he knew black was not an option.

"Who packed this bloody trunk?" he groused.

"Albus and Minerva," Hermione answered sweetly as she clasped a beaded necklace around her neck.

"Remind me to thank them."

"Oh, it's not that bad, love! Let's just change the color of this shirt to a lighter green. I think you'll look marvelously sexy in those pants."

Snape didn't want to look marvelously sexy. He wanted to look like a greasy bastard who wore all black and scowled at people. And he certainly wanted to go back to looking like a man who would have walked away when faced with the request that he sleep with an eighteen-year-old half-naked woman.

He turned his back on Hermione and pulled his shorts on, then reached for the hated pants and likewise set them in place. Finally, he removed his robe and buttoned on the now green linen shirt, trying not to stiffen as Hermione smoothed the material down his back. Where her hands touched him, his skin tingled and burned. He was in hell.

"I was right again. Aren't you glad you have such a clever wife?" Hermione asked cheerily as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

Snape sighed and rubbed her arms. "Very glad," he answered flatly.

"All right, so lets go."

He looked back down at the sandals he had been supplied with. No matter what, he would have to expose his long ugly toes and thick yellow toenails to the world. Deciding that the ones with the straps would probably be more practical for walking, he chose those and shoved his feet into them, ignoring Hermione's amused giggle.

"I saw a lovely café down the road when we arrived," Hermione began to prattle. "I'm sure that they'll have breakfast. And then there's a market place down by the beach..."

Snape only hoped that the day would go a lot quicker than the morning seemed to be.

* * * * *

Snape could not discern anything overly special about the small café Hermione and he stopped to eat in. It looked like most Muggle establishments - warm, friendly, and run-down. He was sure that it was owned and operated by two older people who most likely had a slew of children who waited the tables. It was also more than likely packed to the gills with annoying tourists and locals and overrun with seagulls and cockroaches.

At least breakfast was good – yogurt and honey, with a sprinkle of muesli on top – although the tea he was served left something to be desired. Why was it no one outside of England knew how to make a proper cup of hot tea? Hermione chatted happily with anyone who came within 2 meters of them while he ate his food and sulked. After a while, she grabbed his hand and pulled him from the small table, watching him in amusement as he wrestled with the Muggle wallet full of Muggle money Albus had given him. She insisted he leave a generous tip for the waitress who didn't know how to make tea, before grabbing his hand and dragging him down the street towards the market.

On the way, they saw street vendors with shell jewelry and hair ornaments displayed on dilapidated card tables, along with various other sundry goods. Some of the tables were nicer and set up in brightly colored tents or on the porches of cool-looking houses.

As they drew closer to the town, the number of tents increased, and the goods that were sold inside began to vary to include fruits and vegetables and some different sweetmeats that neither of them recognized. It was noisy and smelled. Snape hated it. Hermione – of course – loved every minute of it, cooing over this stall or that, stopping to admire shell jewelry a talented three-year-old could have made.

"Oh Severus! Look at this beautiful skirt!" she would squeal, or, "Isn't this the prettiest piece of coral you ever saw?" She smiled indulgently at him when he scowled at her, and rushed on to the next stall.

They were about halfway through the market when she finally spotted a vendor that had something they were both interested in – books. His feet dragged a little less as she pulled him along when he realized where she was taking him now – one could often find small literary treasures in stalls such as these. Hermione was already eagerly sifting through stacks, a small pile of books growing at her side, chatting happily with the proprietor. Snape kept an eye on her as he moved to the opposite side of the stall and idly began digging. Judging by the covers of the books, it seemed that most were putrid Muggle romances. He hoped Hermione wasn't planning on buying any of those!

He glanced at her again, noting the rose flush on her cheeks and the way her eyes sparkled when she caught him looking at her and smiled. Saucy wench even dared wink at him, and – of gods, what now? Was she purposely letting the shoulder of her blouse slide down her arm? And just who the hell did the Zorba-the-Greek running the stall think he was, leering at her in such a fashion?

Snape quit rifling through the books and quickly approached her side, gripping her elbow in a proprietary manner as he deftly slid her shirt collar back up over her shoulder with his other hand. "Is it to much to ask you to keep your clothes on?" he hissed in her ear, "People are staring at you!"

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, and the collar dropped again. "It's a peasant blouse, it's supposed to show-off the shoulders."

"I don't like the way that man is staring at you. He's getting the wrong impression!" Snape growled back. "If you can't keep your shirt on, I'm taking you back to the villa right now."

"What in the world is wrong with you?" she hissed back, jerking her arm out of his grasp angrily. "Are you implying I'm dressed like a...a...slut or something?"

Before Snape could reply, the other man interrupted. "Iz thiz man bothering you, beautiful girl? Perhapz I can be of zervice?" The leer in his voice was unmistakable.

Hermione turned her glare on him, "He's my husband – I think I can handle him myself, thank you very much."

The other man's eyebrows cocked in amusement. "You're huzband, iz he? Where iz your ring, then?"

Hermione looked at her hand, before turning back to Severus in shock. Her eyes were suddenly luminous with tears, "Severus, my ring...your mother's family ring...it's gone! I've lost it!"

His mother's ring? How in the world did she know about that – he kept it safely in his vault at Gringott's.

Hermione was working herself up into a fit, "I'm so sorry – I don't know where it could have gone...did I have it on this morning? Do you remember?"

Damnit. What to do? He couldn't have her panicking in the streets of Greece – Poppy had specifically told him she was supposed to stay calm.

"Hermione...Hermione...calm down," he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. One was still bare, and her skin was warm and soft under his palm. "We're having it cleaned, remember?"

"I don't! I don't remember! Oh, Severus, what's wrong with me?" the irritating girl threw herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Why can't I remember anything?"

"It's the bump on your head," he tried to murmur gently, tentatively running his hands in what he hoped was a soothing manner up and down her back. "Poppy said to expect some memory loss, remember? The ring is safe, I assure you."

"But I feel naked without my wedding ring on," Hermione sniffed into his chest. "I don't remember taking it off – I haven't removed it since we were married, not even when I wanted to! And that man...he doesn't believe you're married to me!"

"He doesn't believe a beautiful young girl like you would saddle yourself with an ugly old bastard like me," Snape replied sardonically.

"You're not ugly or old," Hermione retorted angrily.

Snape laughed softly against the top of her head, "But you don't deny I'm a bastard."

Hermione lifted her head and rested her pointy chin on his chest, "You know what I meant. My hand still feels naked without your ring on it."

"Would you like me to buy you one of those silver and turquoise rings we saw a few stalls back? You could wear it until we returned home." He didn't know what had possessed him to say that, but judging from Hermione's smile it was the right question to ask.

"Really? You'd really do that for me?"

"Isn't that what doting husbands are supposed to do?" he replied sarcastically, but without bite. "I wouldn't want to be remiss in my duties."

Hermione leaned up suddenly on her tip-toes and quickly kissed him, catching him completely off guard. Her lips were very soft against his, and he felt the tip of her tongue against the seam of his mouth before she retreated. "You take your duties very seriously," she whispered breathily. "I have no complaints."

Of its own volition, his hand lifted to tangle gently in her hair, his fingers stroking through the thick curls, before running down her arm and gripping her tiny hand firmly in his own. "Shall we go then, Hermione?"

As they walked away, Snape deftly flicked his wand so that the bookshop's sign read "Zorba The Geek" instead of "Zorba The Greek".

TBC