Part 2, Chapter 2: All I Want for Christmas is ...

Part 2, Chapter 2: All I Want for Christmas Is ...

Hermione could not prevent the whimper she uttered when she saw his face, and she fell back from the door, her wand hand pointed at the floor and her other hand over her mouth. Her brain felt as if it were steeped in treacle, incapable of processing the information with which it had just been presented. How could it be? It was not possible for Severus Snape to be standing on her doorstep – he was dead; everyone had told her so, over and over again.

"Dammit, Hermione! Let me in!"

From the other side of the door, the voice spoke again, though not loudly enough for her to clearly hear him. She thought she heard him swear fluently, and then the Muggle locks began to twist and the wards she had placed fell as if they had been cast by a firstie. The door swung open and Severus Snape swept into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

"Stupid girl! Why didn't you open up?"

There he stood, displacing air in the front hall of her parents' house, yet he could not possibly be there. He advanced upon her and she levelled her wand at his chest. He stopped in his tracks.

"Who are you?" she demanded shrilly.

"Oh, for the love of Merlin," he snarled, crossing his arms across his chest and rolling his eyes. "You know bloody well who I am."

"Prove it." She jabbed her wand for emphasis and silvery sparks flew. He eyed the wand and took one step back.

"How shall I prove it, you impossible girl?"

"Tell me something only he would know."

His eyes narrowed. "You earned eleven O.W.L.s and scored Outstanding in all but one subject."

She sniffed. "That is a matter of public record."

"You can bake biscuits but you can't hold your drink."

Now she rolled her eyes. "That wouldn't be hard to find out."

He took a step towards her. "You are in possession of the hand-carved faerie-tale chess set my grandfather left to me," he stated, shrugging out of his cloak and hanging it on the coat stand, "and you gave me this jumper for Christmas three years ago."

Hermione drew in a ragged breath, her eyes riveted to his black cashmere jumper, and her wand clattered to the floor as she swayed on her feet.

"Oh no you don't!" Snape said, scooping her up, pivoting and carrying her into the kitchen, where he thrust her into a chair and ruthlessly pushed her head between her knees.

Hermione opened her eyes to look at the kitchen floor tile and saw his black boots, worn and a touch shabby, but impossibly dear, within her line of vision. Slowly, she raised her head and he squatted down on his haunches before her so that they were eye to eye.

"Where have you been?" It was not at all what she had been longing to say to him, yet it was information which she needed to know.

"At Durmstrang, oddly enough."

Hermione blinked once. "But – why?"

Snape stood. "I will be happy to share the tales of my adventures and to hear yours, but I think we need tea. Are the tea things still in the same place?"

Hermione nodded, and Snape strode to the cupboards, taking down the china teapot and a tin of Earl Grey tea. Eschewing the electric stove top, he filled the kettle with water and touched it with his wand, quickly eliciting steam. When he had filled the teapot with the tea leaves and boiling water, he took mugs from a shelf and loaded the tray with precise efficiency. He moved with an economy of motion and a great deal of assurance for a man who had spent one week at the Granger home, three years ago, yet he remembered down to the teaspoons where everything was kept.

"Shall we go into the sitting room?" he asked, pausing in the middle of the kitchen with the tray in his hands.

Hermione stood and led the way into the next room, feeling as if she were experiencing a dream from which she would soon awaken. As she sat down on the sofa before the fireplace, she chuckled.

"What is amusing?" Snape inquired with the lift of a brow.

"Only I would have a dream about sitting down to tea with someone," she said.

Snape seated himself at her side. "Does this seem dream-like?"

Hermione watched as he poured tea into a mug and stirred in two sugars, then handed the mug to her. "You remember how I take my tea," she whispered.

"I remember everything, Hermione," he said firmly, looking into her eyes. "Why does this seem like a dream?"

"Because you're dead," she said conversationally, averting her eyes. "One only drinks tea with dead people in one's dreams."

He snorted, and the feeling of déjà vu startled a laugh from Hermione. The laugh drew an answering gleam from him, the merest warming of his glance as it rested upon her face, and she reached a hand to him.

"You really are here," she stated, full of wonder.

Awkwardly, he engulfed her hand with his own. "Yes," he answered.

"Tell me everything," she commanded.

Snape took a long drink of his tea, his sombre gaze fixed upon her face. Finally, he began to speak. "Dumbledore knew that those of us who were working from within the Dark Lord's ranks to bring him down would be at risk for arrest and imprisonment after the war. Ill-feeling towards the Death Eaters was so strong that Aurors were inclined to curse first and ask questions later. The conspirators had firm instructions from Dumbledore: the moment the Dark Lord fell, we were to rendezvous at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, near Hagrid's house."

Snape paused to drink some of his tea and Hermione drank in his appearance. He was wearing the black cashmere jumper she had given him on their Christmas together, with plain black trousers and his worn black boots. His exterior had changed very little, though his face appeared somewhat fuller and significantly less sallow, as if he had spent more time out-of-doors and less time in a dungeon. She was close enough now to note the scent of his shaving lotion; he appeared freshly-shaved and his shoulder-length hair, which was combed back straight from his forehead, was clean. She realised, in a dim corner of her mind, that he had gone out of his way to show up on her doorstep newly groomed and that fact spoke volumes to her.

Snape resumed his story. "Minerva McGonagall met us at the edge of the Forest and informed us that we were going to be taken to a place of sanctuary to be kept safe until Dumbledore could arrange for us to return. She held out a Portkey and we ended up at Durmstrang." A twisted smile touched his thin lips. "Trust Dumbledore to kill two birds with one stone. Minerva explained to us that the board of governors there had agreed to offer the collaborating Death Eaters refuge whilst our fate was arranged with the Ministry of Magic in Britain; meanwhile, we were to make ourselves useful."

"Did you teach there?" Hermione said, diverted.

"It's what I do, Hermione. Yes, I taught Advanced Potions. Their Potions teacher is not a master."

"But what about the other Death Eaters? What did they do?"

"There were four of us; the other three were the Malfoys, Lucius and Draco, and Draco's friend, Blaise Zabini. The boys became students; Lucius made himself useful as duelling instructor."

Hermione snorted and Snape raised an eyebrow at her. "I assure you, he is quite competent." When she only shrugged, he continued with his tale. "We were under the impression that the negotiations would take a matter of months, and then we would be back home, resuming our old lives.

"We were, perhaps, a bit naïve in our expectations.

"Dumbledore campaigned tirelessly for our return with a full pardon, but the Ministry was reluctant to discuss it. For the first two years after the war, he was never able to bring the matter before the Wizengamot. Cornelius Fudge blocked discussions of amnesty at every turn, and it was not until Fudge was voted out of office that any progress was made."

"But Dumbledore lied to me!" Hermione cried indignantly. "I contacted him every month!"

Snape's hand, warm and dry, tightened about hers, drawing her eyes to his. "So he told me." The thin lips quirked up on one side. "Except, of course, for the months when you were residing with Mr. Krum," he added.

Hermione's face flooded with colour and then paled, just as quickly. She withdrew her hand from his and leaned forward to place her mug on the table, turning one shoulder slightly to him. "Dumbledore told you about that?"

"No," he said. "But Krum is a Durmstrang alumnus, as well as an international Quidditch celebrity. His doings were luridly reported by the Bulgarian press and avidly discussed by the students and teachers at Durmstrang."

"I didn't live with him," Hermione announced to her knees.

"If you had done, it would have been no one's business but your own," Snape stated.

Hermione felt uncomfortable with the topic of conversation; she couldn't tell Severus that she went with Viktor because he was a black-haired hook-nosed grump, could she? Groping for a change of subject, she said, "How long have you been in England?"

"Almost a month and virtually under house arrest. Dumbledore was adamant that we remain out of sight until the case had been decided before the Wizengamot. He was fully prepared to spirit us away into hiding again if he could not prevail upon the others to grant us a full pardon."

Hermione turned to face him. She wanted to tell him not to think of Viktor, that she hadn't cared about Viktor, but she couldn't bring herself to say those words. What if he did not want to hear that?

But what if he did?

"I came to the Ministry – I tried to find out if you were there," she said, looking into his face.

He smirked and drank some tea. "Shacklebolt told me."

"He lied to me, too!"

"Dumbledore's orders," Snape murmured.

"I can't believe they didn't tell me!" she stormed. "As if I would say or do anything to jeopardize you."

"Perhaps it did not occur to either of them that you would have a particular interest in my welfare."

Her chin came up a fraction. "I was in the courtroom today."

Now he did smile, a miraculous lightening of his features that was gone in an instant. "Yes, I saw you."

"No one wished to speak with Hermione Granger," she said flatly.

A strange expression of gratification touched his eyes. "Did that rankle?"

She turned her face away and shrugged, the picture of scorned womanhood. One long, tapered finger touched her chin and turned her face back to him.

"It was not the time for a reunion or a personal conversation, Hermione," he said, the sound of her name on his lips, spoken in a confiding tone, sending a shiver skittering along her spinal column.

Hermione closed her eyes and tilted her head, pressing her cheek into his palm. "And now?"

Again, his voice insinuated itself into her consciousness, coating her senses like chocolate caramel. "Why do you think I'm here, silly girl?"

Hermione opened her eyes and looked at him. He was regarding her with slightly narrowed eyes, his nostrils flared, a faint sneer pulling at his thin lips. She was confused, for he looked both disdainful and intense – which part of that was for her? "Why are you here, Severus?"

His hand released her cheek, his eyes were cast down at his mug, and he took another sip of tea. "The Wizengamot cleared me, and the Ministry threw me out. I thought I might be able to get a cup of tea if I came to see you."

Hermione smiled. "Well, last time you had a letter from Dumbledore to get your foot in the door."

He seemed to look about the sitting room for the first time. "Is that ... is that supposed to be a tree?" he asked, indicating the Grangers' artificial Christmas tree.

Hermione nodded, and Snape sniffed. "The one I procured for you was much nicer," he announced.

"But you haven't been here to denude the local parks," she pointed out, her heart lifting. Did he remember – think fondly? – of their previous Christmas together?

"I'm starving," she announced, standing. "Come to the kitchen; I'll make sandwiches."

Snape followed her with their tea tray and made himself useful.

Over their informal meal, Hermione related the tale of her career at St. Mungo's, making light of the solitary nature of her existence. Snape watched her carefully, noting the gaps in her history. What had happened to Hermione Granger, the lynch-pin of the Harry Potter Trio? Where were her so-called best friends in her times of trouble and loneliness? He lowered his head, so that his hair fell forward to cover his face.

"Why am I not hearing more of Potter and Weasley?" he inquired.

"They are busy with their own lives – and I haven't encouraged them to spend a great deal of time with me. Our lives are quite different, now. We have very little in common."

She rose and carried their dishes to the sink; he watched her, noting that she did not look physically as well as he would have liked. The glowing complexion and shining hair he remembered were dulled and slightly unkempt, but to him, she was loveliness personified, all the same.

"Let's take our coffee in by the fire," Hermione suggested, and he followed her, thankful that her parents were away for the weekend. Finding common ground with her again was going to be tricky; it would have been all but impossible under the watchful eyes of her family.

He attended to the fire before joining her on the sofa, noting her approval of his presumption. It appeared that she wanted him to feel at home – but she was such a kind creature; he ought not to read too much into that. Before picking up his coffee, his eyes took inventory of the room, searching out an innocuous topic of conversation. For the first time, he spied a box on the floor beneath the coffee table. Tilting his head, he wondered what it might be. Hermione noticed the direction of his gaze and she leaned down to move the box, but Snape was quicker.

"Give me that!" Hermione cried, abandoning her coffee mug on the table.

Snape raised an eyebrow at her, a truly wicked smile teasing the corners of his mouth. "Oh, I don't think I can do that," he said, turning swiftly to dodge her lunging grasp, so that she collided with his cashmere-clad back. Holy mother of Merlin, the girl isn't wearing a brassiere, his senses were quick to report as her soft flesh came into contact with his bony shoulder blades.

"Severus, don't tease!"

He stood and smirked at her. "What on earth has brought about such a protest?" he wondered aloud, reaching into the box and removing the first item his hand encountered. He withdrew a box of teabags. "Liquorice tea," he murmured.

He noticed that Hermione had subsided, a blush staining her cheeks a fiery red as she stared at the floor. Satisfied that she would not try to wrest his prize from him, he sat beside her again, placing the teabags on the coffee table. "What else?" He dipped his hand into the box again, emerging with a bottle of the fine old cognac Dumbledore gave him every Christmas; in turn, he pulled out the bottle of shampoo she had once forced him to use and the copy of The Little Prince, which they had read together on that Christmas night so long ago. From the bottom of the box, he picked up four Galleons, one by one. He spread the items out on the table, studying them with a frown upon his face. The obvious reason for the odd collection was at the forefront of his mind, but it was entirely too important for him to make assumptions.

"Do you mean to explain yourself?" he inquired quietly.

Hermione stared stonily at the floor. "No."

"Why do you have these things gathered together, Hermione?"

She lifted her eyes to his face. "I can't stop you from mocking me, Severus, but I don't have to willingly assist you to do so."

Tenderly, he reached his fingertips to brush a tendril of hair from her forehead. "Do these things have a ... sentimental value for you?"

Her chin came up a fraction. "Yes."

He nodded and took his fingers from her face, though he longed to touch her. "I see," he murmured, picking up his coffee and beginning to drink.

Hermione watched him indignantly as he sipped his coffee and gazed into the fire. "Is that all you have to say?" she demanded.

He flicked a cool glance at her, successfully hiding the elation he felt. "If you're not going to drink your coffee, you might read to me," he said.

"Read?" she sputtered, gathering steam for a tirade.

He picked up the book from the coffee table and thrust it into her hands. "Yes – and then I will read to you."

Hermione's hands closed over the copy of The Little Prince. She had read it alone on each of the last two Christmases as part of her ritual, and she had meant to do so again this weekend. She looked at him, established on the sofa with his long legs thrust out before him and crossed at the ankles, and he met her gaze without turning away. He was so hard to read, and she was undoubtedly out of practice, but he was clearly settled in and prepared to stay a while.

When he lifted his arm so that she could sit closely enough for both of them to see the illustrations, she slid in next to him as if she belonged there, and opening the book, she began to read.

The fire was burning low when Severus read the last words of the story to Hermione. The golden glow of the firelight showed the tracks of the tears which had trickled down her cheeks as he read of the Little Prince returning to his rose. Severus closed the book and put it aside, his eyes fastened on Hermione's face. As if she felt his regard, Hermione turned her head and looked up at him.

"That's so sad and so beautiful at the same time," she said.

"Of course," Severus said carefully, "we don't know what happened when he returned to his planet and saw the rose again."

"It was a joyful reunion," she stated certainly. "She had missed him awfully, and he had come to know that of all the roses in the garden, he loved her for she was unique in all the world."

Looking down into her eyes, the windows of a soul so certain of the course of love, he said, "Let's test your theory," and bent his head to press a kiss to her lips.

Her head fell back, resting on his arm where it laid along the back of the sofa, and she returned the pressure of his lips. He lifted his head again, his eyes anxiously searching her face for her response to being kissed by her former teacher. Her eyes opened slowly and he saw the smouldering in her gaze.

"Don't stop," she said huskily, reaching to stroke his face. "I've been waiting a long time for that kiss."

Not needing a second invitation, Severus kissed her again, his arm moving down from the sofa back to pull her closer to him. Kissing was not his forte; he had done little of it in his life and none at all within recent memory. He wanted to thrill her, to taste her, but was unsure of how to proceed. For now, her soft, full lips moved over his own and her free hand came up to run through the strands of his hair.

After a moment, Hermione broke the kiss and moved away from him; for an instant, his courage quailed – dammit, he should be able to kiss her better than this! Without speaking to him, Hermione moved onto her knees at his side, then swung a knee across his lap, settling herself astride his thighs.

"Like this," she said, moving her face within an inch of his and pressing on his lower lip with a fingertip. Instinctively, his mouth opened and she said, "Oh, yes," before she tilted her head and kissed him, slipping her tongue past his lips and into his mouth, bringing with it a taste of her coffee and the spice biscuit she had eaten.

His reaction to the intimacy of her tongue within his mouth was immediate and powerful, one hand tangling in the hair at the back of her head and the other arm closing around her waist in a vise-like grip. His tongue parried with her own, seeking and winning dominance as he darted now into the warmth of her mouth; her purred appreciation, accompanied as it was by her hips grinding in one slow circle against him, went straight to his head and for a space, higher brain function left him. The hand at her waist dropped to her bottom and he gripped one cheek firmly as he thrust once against her in retaliation, his growl eliciting an answering moan from her. Repeatedly he thrust his tongue into her mouth, stroking her tongue, possessing her lips, devouring and bruising.

She twined both hands in his hair, suckling his tongue as if she could not have enough of him within her. His hands went of their own accord to the bottom of her sweatshirt, and in a twinkling, his palms were on the warm, bare flesh of her back, caressing. Once again, she moaned her approval directly into his mouth, and he swallowed her breath as she squirmed over the rock hardness of his erection. Inexorably, the palms of his hands slipped up her sides, over her ribcage, until his questing fingertips encountered her tightly furled nipples.

When his palms closed over her breasts, cupping the globes as perfectly as he had frequently imagined he would, she broke their kiss again, throwing her head back and whimpering, "Severus..."

He murmured an indistinct incantation and her sweatshirt was gone, baring her to his eyes. "...so beautiful," he managed, and then she was doing the unthinkable, arching her back and lacing her fingers in his hair to pull his mouth to her breast. He licked her nipple, tasting her flesh, then covered it with his mouth, sucking and licking simultaneously, whilst one hand teased the other breast, rolling her pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Inflamed, she bucked her hips against him and he was moved to a sound between a growl and a laugh, followed by the murmured incantation again.

Hermione seemed to realise that she had lost her pyjama bottoms when her wand tumbled to the floor on top of the discarded clothing; she protested feebly, incapable of giving a convincing show of reluctance when she was twisting about on his cock as if looking for a way into his trousers. He abandoned her breasts and let a hand drop to her sensible white cotton knickers, gently cupping her mons through the fabric.

She shuddered and pressed against his hand, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Putting his lips to her ear, he said, "If you want to stop now, Hermione, you will have to put me out of the house, because I am past the point of reason."

Her answer was to reach between them and grasp his erection through his trousers, deliberately rubbing her breasts against the luxury of the cashmere jumper. Lifting her head to look at him with her passion-clouded eyes, she said, "If you want to stop now, Severus, you will have to put me in a Full-Body Bind, because I won't be accountable for my actions, otherwise."

Slipping two fingers beneath the elastic at the leg of her knickers, he dipped into her slick folds and pressed gently on her clitoris. She cried out and moved convulsively against the fingers. "Stop, Severus – stop, I'm so close..."

"Why should I stop?" he responded, rushed with the power of holding her pleasure so surely in the palm of his hand.

She tightened her hold on his shaft and squeezed once, startling a groan from him. "Because I want to come the first time with you inside of me," she purred, leaning over to bite the lobe of his ear.

He shifted her nearly-naked body back onto the sofa, and he stood with some difficulty, his cock aching. Pulling his wand, he banished the coffee table and Transfigured the hearth rug into a large mattress. Turning back to her, he grasped the bottom of his jumper, pulling it over his head, and began to unbuckle his belt, all the while looking at Hermione with undisguised need written clearly across his face.

He was surprised when she stood and nudged his hands away, releasing the buckle and beginning to unbutton his fly. His cock seemed to leap beneath her touch and he grasped her wrists. "Stop," he commanded. "I want to come the first time inside you, as well," he explained, finishing with the unbuttoning and stepping out of his trousers and his pants in one motion.

He had no time to feel self-conscious, for Hermione stepped out of her knickers and picked up her wand, murmuring the incantation for the contraceptive spell. She then sat on the mattress, scooting to the middle and lying back. "Come to bed, Severus," she said, and he was upon her, kissing her fiercely, one hand between her thighs, one long finger seeking and finding her entrance and slipping inside.

Wantonly, she opened her legs for him, spreading her thighs widely and moving on the finger buried within her. "More," she said, thrusting against him again, her voice uneven with need.

Severus watched her, mesmerised by the beauty of the woman who looked upon him with such shameless desire, begging him for release. He slipped a second finger within her, circling her clitoris with his thumb, and lowered his head to tongue the peak of her breast. Dear God, she was so tight. He rubbed his cock against her hip and she reached for him, the palm of her hand closing over him and moving in a circular motion, spreading his natural lubricant over the sensitive head of his penis.

"Severus, please," she said, and he shifted willingly between her legs, poising himself to enter her. He drank in the vision of the needful goddess reaching for him with her mouth and her arms, beckoning him to join her in paradise. He held himself still over her body as she clamoured for him, luxuriating for an additional instant in her unbridled extremity, then she reached down with her own hand and guided him home.

Hermione could only gasp his name as Severus entered her ready body. He was looking down into her eyes, his own black orbs glittering with intensity as he slowly stroked in and out of her depths, seeming to gauge his movements by her facial reactions. By the third thrust she felt as if every nerve ending in her body was afire. The firelight seemed to limn his body with flame, a red corona shimmering about him as he stroked her very soul with his own, every fibre of her being in contact with his. She moved with him as if theirs was a dance she had learnt in another lifetime, as if they had lived this over and again, existence ad infinitum, until it had become an art form of rapture.

Wrapping her legs about him, Hermione arched her neck and closed her eyes, her mouth panting, her hands gripping his back with such urgency that she had ceased to feel her fingertips.

"Open your eyes," he growled at her, and Hermione did as he asked, allowing him to see her utter abandon. "Look at me when I make you mine," he commanded, thrusting deeper, touching a place within her which had never before been breached. She cried out and lifted her head from the mattress, her eyes wide. "You like that, don't you?" he said, and thrust again, probing her body with his cock as he challenged her mind with his intellect.

"Yes!" she gasped, her nails digging into his back. "Don't stop!"

"You couldn't make me stop, Hermione," he promised her, his voice now pure black silken magic, an extension of the force with which he filled her body. "I'll never stop. You belong to me." The look on his face was of a concentration so acute that she could not have looked away from him if she had wanted to, so completely did he command her attention. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," she gasped as he rocked her, each stroke eliciting twin gasps from them both.

"Now, come for me," he told her, his compelling eyes seeming to draw her very core into his possession. "Show me you're mine, and say my name."

It was like falling over a waterfall, the fire in her blood combusting as he claimed her body and entreated her mind; the conflagration spread from the apex, where his body joined to hers, along every pathway of her body, a rippling detonation that went on and on and on.

Just when she might have slipped out of consciousness, he summoned her back to him by the simple expedient of shouting her name, coming with a blazing concussion of sound and emotion that impacted him as she tumbled through the waterfall again, clinging on for dear life.

In the aftermath, they slept.