Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

8: Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner

The sun shone right into Hermione's eyes when she woke up. For one blissful, peaceful moment she didn't have a clue where she was and what had happened. She thought she was in her hotel room in Venice; she could almost hear the Vaporettos crossing the Canal Grande, could hear the seagulls. In her half sleep-half dream state, she knew that she would be in the library very soon again; that beautiful library where it was quiet and safe. No sightseeing, no people, and no men, most of all. Just books. Silent, harmless, friendly books, without hands and eyes, without a voice, and they never tried to invite her for a coffee.

Hermione smiled in her sleep, thinking of the Venice library.

Then, she stirred and felt an arm under her head. It wasn't her arm – her arms were both in front of her. Ripping her eyes open, she stared disbelievingly at the stranger's arm – and froze.

"No," she whispered in horror. "No, no, no! I never fall asleep with one of them. Never! I always leave, I don't... I... one night, and then I go!" She wanted to scream with frustration, but reined herself in just in time as she needed to prevent the man behind her – whoever he was – from waking up.

She had to leave. Now. She had to be gone before the guy woke up and wanted to talk and have another go and maybe even try and kiss her. She couldn't cope with that; she didn't allow kisses, and they never understood that.

Inadvertently, her gaze fell on the hand that belonged to the arm her head was lying on.

Her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

Impossible!

Light as a feather, she touched a finger, a knuckle, the inside of the wrist. She knew this hand better than her own. One night, she had studied that hand from every possible angle, had caressed it, had kissed each fingertip, had aroused the man who this hand belonged to by simply stroking along the palm. This was Severus's hand – strong, long-fingered, potion-stained – and if this was his hand, it was his arm, which would possibly be attached to his body, and therefore – conclusion – he was lying behind her, and she was pressing her bottom into his lap.

"I'm snuggled up to... to Severus," Hermione managed to vocalise, still very quietly. "And I'm naked. And... he is naked as well!"

Oh, Gods. Oh, Merlin. What have I done? she thought, half in panic and not daring to say that aloud.

Unfortunately, that was the moment when, like an avalanche, the events of last night engulfed her, and her panic deepened. Obviously, she had to get out of here. Immediately. Not only because she had just appeared on his doorstep after three years of silence, or because she had eaten in his kitchen without even looking at him. Not because she had shouted at him, had insulted him, had slapped him. Most of all she had to leave because she had as good as raped him, and although he deserved to suffer from her wrath, he certainly didn't deserve to be used like a whore in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley.

Especially not because she had told him at some point last night that she loved him. "If you love someone, you don't treat that someone like shit." A whisper in the sunlit room, not more. "I of all people should now that. How could I... how on earth could I have been so daft and so cruel?"

Well, if she was honest with herself, she knew why. She had changed in the past years, and not every change had been a good one.

Why did I come here after all these years? she mused, pressing her nose to the inside of his elbow, inhaling his faint, sleep-warm scent she remembered so well. "Because I bloody love him! Damn!"

He smelled of earth and rain, naturally, but underneath was the unique scent of his skin, impossible to describe and equally impossible to forget. She loved this fragrance, and she nearly choked at the big lump in her throat. There was no way she would ever smell him again, given what she had done last night.

And why, for Merlin's sake, did she feel so light despite the disgust she felt welling up inside her? Light and free and not at all hateful anymore. She felt as if the storm had washed away the past years, the anger, the loathing, and the bitterness. Had left only her younger, innocent self.

Ridiculous. Last time, he had messed it up. This time, she had. Great.

Carefully, Hermione turned round to put some distance between their bodies. His arm hung sleepily over her waist, but she managed to slip away without waking him. She wriggled and moved her shoulders, slowly shoving her bottom farther away. She lifted her head off his arm and had just managed to sit up when her gaze fell on his face, open and unguarded in his sleep.

A sudden rush of emotions overwhelmed her.

He was lying on his side, one arm now stretched out over the sheets, the other under his head. The duvet had slipped down to his waist and revealed his shoulders and chest. He was breathing slowly and deeply. His long, raven-black hair was cast across the pillow; a few strands were covering his face.

On his shoulder and across his chest she could see the marks her nails had left last night

Longing. Sweet, overwhelming, unbearable longing mixed with stabbing guilt, relief, and sadness. The rush of emotions strangled her and threatened to make her cry. Again. Hadn't she cried enough last night?

Joy crept along, and happiness. She hadn't felt most of those emotions in years, had buried them somewhere deep in her heart. That she was bursting with them right now gave her hope that she wasn't emotionally broken for good. And they scared her immensely as well. She had to go, she had to leave before he woke, just like last time.

Still, she so much wanted to kiss him. She so very much needed him to take her into his arms. "Should have thought about that last night, girl," she murmured. "Had you kissed him instead of straddling him, there might be a chance."

With one finger, she pushed the long, black strands out of his face, carefully avoiding touching him. There was a smile on his lips. A happy, delighted smile, and she could do nothing but smile as well. She had missed him so much; she had tried to find him, a little bit of him in each man she had bedded in the last three years – and had failed. She had searched for someone who could make her smile like he could, whose lips curved like his. Instead, she had found nothing but meaningless sex.

Her sole reason for visiting him had been to end her obsession with him and to tell him a few things. Attacking him had not been on her agenda, knocking him to the ground, ripping his clothes into pieces and taking him as if he were a callboy. Certainly he would throw her out as soon as he was awake. How could he not?

But... hadn't she thought so last night already, and hadn't he taken her into his bed instead?

Hermione wrapped her arms around her body and stared down at the sleeping man. There was a leaf in his hair and some grass. On the floor were dirty footprints, and on his pale skin she could see the bites she had left. She had even grabbed him hard enough to bruise him, and still he had held her close all night.

She had to go.

"If I had stayed three years ago, things might have ended differently," she whispered to herself. "If I go now, I will never find out if he..." Her voice faded.

Last night he had told her that he had only wanted to protect her. He had made a decision for both of them – a wrong decision, no doubt of that – but not out of cruelty, or because he didn't care for her. He had shut the door in her face because he had believed it was in her best interest.

She had called him a bastard for that decision.

Damn.

She had woken in his arms. She hadn't slept that well once in the last three years. And he had said that his bedroom was warded. He had warned her not to leave.

"Not warned. Begged. He carried me up here last night, into his room, into his bed. He has cradled me all night like I cradled him back then."

People said she was intelligent. If that was true, she needed to act accordingly. She needed to admit to herself that he quite obviously didn't want her to go.

More confused than ever and with hope bubbling inside her like boiling water, Hermione swallowed hard and forced herself to turn her eyes away from the man who had haunted her dreams for years. She took in the white painted walls instead, the light wooden planks on the floor, the low, sloped ceiling under the roof, the small window through which the sun shone.

And on the windowsill, in a crystal vase, she saw a rose, glowing in the sunlight in colours of bright orange and yellow. Her eyes widened when she recognised the flower, and she knew with absolute certainty that she couldn't leave now. She needed to talk to him properly. They needed to talk. Finally.

A happy grin crossed her face. The rose had once been the reason for her to stay. It could very well trigger the same decision again.

It was her rose on the windowsill, the one she had given him on Valentine's Day when she had been in her last year at Hogwarts. The one that had stood on his desk in the dungeons the night the boys had laced his tea. The rose she had picked from her father's greenhouse as a gift for her professor. That he had kept it, had preserved it, had caused a butterfly to beat its wings in her belly back then, and that she saw it in his bedroom now told her everything she needed to know.

From out of nowhere, the butterflies had found her once more, gracefully flying maddening circles inside her head, her heart, her whole body, and she had to bite her lips to not cry out loud. She had thought she would never feel like that again, so light and wonderful and happy.

But there still was the problem of the kiss he hadn't given her and she hadn't given him.

Well. Yet.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to wait until he woke up. And until he did, she could watch him sleep.

He stirred, and she hoped he would wake up soon. He looked surprisingly young in his sleep, and she remembered how she had lingered in his rooms after their night together had ended. She nearly had slipped into bed with him, and she smiled at the memory because, well, now she finally had slept with him in one bed, in his arms.

"Idiot," she breathed. "I am an idiot for not having done that the first time I had the opportunity. He might have been angry, but certainly it wouldn't have been that easy for him to throw me out. Not with me naked in his arms."

He moaned, and Hermione frowned. The smile was gone from his lips, apparently wiped off by something unpleasant he saw in his dreams. From one moment to the next he got restless and pressed his head deeper into the pillow. His breath sped up; then he reached out with his arm. His long fingers stretched as if trying to catch something. Or someone.

Another moan emerged from his lips. "No," he whispered, pleaded in his sleep. "Don't!"

Hermione had to take the blanket, had to wrap it round her shoulders whilst she watched him dreaming – it scared her to see him like that, and it made her feel cold and lonely. It might have started as a pleasant dream, but it had turned into something nasty. Her own dreams were unpleasant, to say the least, and she was always glad when they were over – she should wake him. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch his shoulders when his searching hand fell back to the sheets, his shoulders dropped in resignation, and he let out a long, beaten sigh.

********************

Gods, how much I hate that dream, Severus Snape thought, not fully asleep anymore, but not yet awake either. He hated it, no matter how often he dreamed it. It was ridiculous, really, to become so distraught by such a small, unimportant thing as a dream; a dream he hadn't had for quite a while now, but that was nevertheless destroying him, slowly but surely.

He dreamed of her. Always of her, of the girl, of Hermione. And it wasn't even a proper dream, but merely a small scene, a picture his stupid mind repeatedly painted shortly before he woke up. It didn't last longer than a few moments. Still, it was worse than all the dreams he occasionally had about the Dark Lord and his time as a Death Eater.

This dream always started off nice; she was lying in his arms, safely snuggled up to him, her warm, soft body pressed tightly against his bony frame. He could feel her crazy hair tickling his cheek. He heard her slow, even breathing. He smelled the mingled fragrances of their night of passion. It always made him smile, dreaming of her.

But then, he would try to pull her closer, and she would turn into dust and smoke. A chill claimed his heart, making it stop beating when he realised that she was nothing but a dream once more, that she wasn't real, that she would vanish again right in front of his eyes.

That was the moment when the dream turned into a nightmare.

Always, always he would reach out for her, trying to stop her from leaving him. He would beg, plead even. He would try to reach for her hand. Useless. Always useless. He would wake up, involuntarily, and would open his burning eyes once more to a bed he had shared with no one.

There, he could feel the sheets under his shivering body. Sunlight warmed his face. He was nearly awake now, and he sighed, deep and forlorn. He hated this dream. It showed him in most brilliant pictures what he had lost. Or to be precise, what he had never had to begin with.

Fighting the feeling of loss and loneliness, Snape opened his eyes to the day.

For a moment, as it happened sometimes, he couldn't see more than a blur, which was partly caused by the sunbeams that needled him. Then he shifted, turned his head, and wiped his hand over his face as if to rub off the last memories of the dream. Stretching out his shoulders, trying to relax the muscles that had tightened whilst he had tried to hold back nothing but empty hopes, he grabbed the duvet in order to cover himself better. He was shivering. Happens when you sleep naked, he thought and froze only a second later.

He never slept naked. Sleeping naked reminded him of a certain night, a certain evening when he had last woken up naked. That day had turned into a disaster. No need to remember it.

Well, time to get up and face the rest of the summer break. He had the vague feeling that he hadn't done the washing up last night after Remus had left.

Remus. Hmmm, Remus hadn't been in his house last night, actually. He had cancelled the dinner appointment with the werewolf because someone else had appeared at his door...

"Good morning."

Snape, although he was so nicely thwarted in his attempt to remember last night's events, literally shot up in bed, didn't manage to free his legs which were entangled in the duvet, fought for a moment, lost the fight and landed, bottom first, on the floor.

"What the..." he began; then finally his eyes decided to fully wake up as well, and he stared, thunderstruck, at the witch who sat in his bed as naked as he, only with part of the duvet around her shoulders.

Hermione looked down on him, her expression a mixture of amusement, shame, longing, and guilt. Then her lips curved into a smile. Obviously, the sight of him sitting on the floor, hair tousled from sleep and mouth hanging open, was a silly sight indeed.

"You are not really here!" he accused her, impatiently wiping black strands out of his face.

She blushed slightly. "I'm sorry, but I am. You carried me to bed last night. You... well, you actually forbade me to leave. So I stayed."

For once in his life, Snape didn't even try to hold back the smile that spread on his lips. Sitting naked on the cool floor of his bedroom after he had fallen out of his own bed, after he had had quite a nasty little dream, he could do nothing but grin widely at the girl, the woman, the witch who looked down at him. He couldn't believe that she was really here, and then he remembered that he really had a visitor last night.

Her.

"You've called me a bastard," he stated and finally managed to get up. Still naked, he stood in front of the bed, glaring at her.

She raised her chin. "I have because you are."

"Hmmm." Snape nodded. "You have a point there," he agreed and sat down next to her.

They had eaten together. Then she had shouted. Then they had been in his garden, in the rain, during the storm.

Where she had taken him, just like that, with her eyes closed and her jaws set, with determination and no tenderness at all, with something close to brutality.

He remembered her tears and her apologies. He had carried her to his bed, had cradled her in his arms. Naturally, he had dreamed of her as he had feared she would be gone in the morning. But she wasn't. She sat on his bed, and maybe he would manage not to mess this up for a change.

He half turned to her. "A bastard. Yes, I'm afraid I can't deny it," he said. "But just in case it doesn't bother you too much – do you think you could have breakfast with me and... talk?"

Hesitantly, Hermione pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms round her shins. Thoughtfully, she looked at him. Even more hesitantly, she reached out to touch his lips, tracing them, and under the light touch the corner of his mouth curved again. "There it is," she murmured. "This smile – I've been looking for this smile all over the bloody planet, and all the time it was here. You should have told me that I couldn't find this smile anywhere else but in your bed!"

The smile in question deepened. "Where else?" he asked. "You are the only one who can make me smile like that." With a swift gesture, he discarded the blankets and sheets and pillows to the floor, wiped them off his bed until nothing was left but the naked girl he had missed so much in the past years, ever since he had thrown her out of his rooms. Cupping Hermione's cheek and leaning in to kiss her was the most natural thing to do.

A moment before their lips touched, he stopped himself. "Do you really want this?" he whispered, his breath warming her skin. "This kiss? Me?"

She just wrapped her arms around him and pulled him as close as possible. Their lips touched, briefly. "More than anything," she whispered back and again brushed his lips with hers. Then her grip tightened, and his arms found their way around her slender waist.

Gently, tentatively, he deepened the kiss, parting her lips with his tongue, and she welcomed him, returning his kiss with a hunger he actually had expected as he felt the same hunger claiming him. Her hands tightened behind his neck, and his hand moved to her wild hair, burying his fingers in the crazy mass, holding her close.

One kiss, just a simple little kiss, and not only last night was forgotten, but the past three years as well. Her anger melted for good, her sorrow, the wall around her heart vanished under the kiss. The loneliness they both had suffered from was gone whilst their tongues danced together, whilst they shared their breath. One kiss, the tender touch of skin to skin, and they both knew that this was a beginning, not an end.

She pulled him back onto the mattress, and he followed, still kissing, still breathing with her.

Not breaking the kiss, he slipped on top of her, his hard cock brushing her hip, her thigh, searching for her entrance that would be as wet and waiting as he hoped, as he was sure, as he knew.

She grabbed him tighter, pulled him closer, one hand behind his neck, the other clutched on his bum. With a fierce move of her hips, she managed to get some space between them for a brief moment so she could open her legs, then her hand searched and found his cock, guiding it where she wanted it.

He took her with one gentle push as soon as he felt her heat and her wetness. Waiting was not an option; the word 'foreplay' had not only fled his mind, but apparently hers as well, as all he wanted was to be inside her, to feel her, to move with her, to come with her.

With her legs wrapped around his waist, he slowly began to move. After endless moments, he finally broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. "There is something I wanted to tell you," he breathed and moved his hips, slipping in and out of her for her and his pleasure.

"What would that be?" she murmured, her eyes not leaving his face, her back arching to meet his tender thrusts.

"I wanted to tell you back then. I wanted to tell you..."

"Yes?"

"... that you have touched my heart and my soul..."

"I have?"

"Of course! And I wanted you to stay with me." Carefully, he increased the speed and felt her whole body arching up against his. The moans came out of both their mouths, and it wasn't really that easy to speak, to form a sentence that made sense. But he had to tell her. "I wished..." he rasped and brought one hand under her bum to press her closer to his groin, "you would have been there when I woke up. I... have... enjoyed that night more than I... than I... Gods, Hermione, do I really have to tell you right now that I love you?"

"'Now' is the perfect moment, Severus," Hermione said and reached up to claim his mouth. She kissed him deeply, stole the words from his lips. Then she tightened her grip on his bum, and he understood that she desired a change of position. With a swift move, he rolled onto his back and pulled her with him so that she now was on top of him.

Her hands landed on his chest, and his hands stroked her hips and her thighs. Slowly, maddeningly slow, she rotated her pelvis, driving his length deeper inside her, making him close his eyes and whimper with desire.

Her moans were not soft, but loud now, and her fingers moved tenderly up to his shoulders. He first whispered her name, then bit it out through gritted teeth, then shouted it out when he came, deep inside her, feeling her orgasm wash over him at the same moment he spilled his seed in her dark heat. Simultaneously and with a long wail, she hissed syllables in his ear, still shuddering from the climax she had brought on for both of them, then captured his face in her palms. She stared at him with wide, amber eyes as they both felt his cock going soft, but not yet slipping out of her. "Severus," she said. "Severus," and kissed him again.

********************

It took them a while before they had caught their breath again. The sun was still shining into his bedroom, but it was way past morning when he finally propped his head up on his elbow and looked down at Hermione. Gently, he began to brush her hair out of her face, then traced her lips, her cheeks, the thin bone that shaped the bridge of her nose. After a while, his fingertips wandered down to her throat, rested for a moment at the pulse, and finally went down to her bellybutton where he started to draw circles. "Good morning," he said, and laughed once more when her stomach answered with a low, loud rumble.

"Bit late for breakfast," she said, shy in a way as she had no idea how to deal with the situation. Tentatively, she placed her hand on his chest. She had just fucked... no. Wrong word, wrong word entirely. During the past three years she had fucked, last night she had fucked – right now, they had made love, and she was still breathless from the difference it made to come with him instead of leaving him behind, unsatisfied. Or to be left unsatisfied herself.

His heartbeat under her palm pulled her back from her thoughts, and when he put his warm hand on her stomach, she felt her heart flip. "Breakfast for the lady," he growled, bent down and kissed her cheek. "Or lunch. Or dinner. Whatever you wish for – but first I will have a shower and get dressed, if you allow."

She smiled and nestled her shoulders comfortably into the pillows. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We have a lot to talk about. Without wanting to scare you – but I won't leave this house again before my holiday is over, which is in two weeks. And I want a guarantee that I can come back whenever I want. You will not send me away from you ever again, I promise you that! I'd rather turn you into a toad for good and place you in a glass on my desk."

"I feel properly threatened," he answered dryly. "And if you try to leave without telling me when you will be back, I will chain you to the bed."

"Deal," Hermione said. "Now that we have an understanding, go and take a shower. You may even get dressed," she teased, "but only if I can stay in bed and watch. I always wanted to watch you getting dressed."

She was rewarded with the rare sight of a blushing Potions master. Quickly, he got up and closed the door to the bathroom firmly behind him, hearing her chuckle until the splash of the shower drowned every sound.

*******************

It didn't take him long to get clean – the charm he had used last night had taken care of that – but he liked the way the heat of the water relaxed his muscles and lingered under the hard beam. When he found a leaf in the drain, he knew that the charm hadn't worked perfectly. So what? he thought, rinsing out his hair.

Whistling a tuneless little melody, he finally stepped out and dried himself and slipped on some underpants. He was pretty certain that, if he went back into the bedroom naked, they wouldn't have time to think about nourishment for a little while. Smirking, he thought, On the other hand, that wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Goodness, he felt good. Marvellous, in fact – not because she was here with him, in his house and in his bed, but because he knew she would be here the next day as well, and the day after that, and next week, and next month. They had already wasted three years. He had wasted three years, and she had suffered during that time. Time to be together instead of separated.

He opened the door to his bedroom.

She was still lying in his bed, watching his every step when he approached his wardrobe. It made him oddly nervous, but then, she had warned him that she wanted to watch him getting dressed. More quickly than usual he chose his favourite shirt and pulled it on, only to get distracted by the shocked gasp that came from the bed. Alarmed, he spun round.

Hermione sat up, the duvet pulled up to her chin. Her eyes became big, and she stared at him as if he were a ghost. "But, but..." she stammered and pointed at him.

Speechless for a moment, he tried to figure out what was going on. He followed her gaze: it was fixed on his chest. Ah. That.

A small smile curved his lips. Very slowly and deliberately, he said, "It is a shirt. Its function is to cover my torso. It is made of linen, and it will keep me warm in addition. Any questions?"

Faintly, she answered, "It's not black!"

"No. It's grey. Light grey, actually. Didn't you know that there are colours beside black?" Turning, he rummaged in his wardrobe, found one pair of trousers and pulled them on, deliberately extending that simple task.

She pressed her hand to her heart and pretended to hyperventilate. "Jeans!" she gasped. "Blue jeans, stone-washed. You wear blue jeans; you are not the man I thought you were! Tell me something only you and I know, otherwise I must assume you are someone else, and that means I will have to hex you!"

Carefully, he buttoned the fly, well aware of her eyes that followed every move of his hands. Then he came to the bed silently on his bare feet. He pondered what to tell her. "Not that easy," he mused. "As we don't have that many shared memories. But then... ah, yes. I'm certainly one of the few who know about that. Tell me, Hermione, how are Potter and Weasley nowadays? Do they talk to each other at all after their... encounter in the Room of Requirement?"

Laughing with delight, she reached out and took his hand, pulling him next to her. "They do," she answered, wiping a tear of joy out of the corner of her eye. "But they didn't talk to me for nearly half a year, so it was not too bad that I was travelling between England and France most of the time. In the end, they decided that our friendship was more important than your potion, and we sorted things out."

"I'm glad to hear that," Snape said and was somewhat surprised that he really was. He knew that the three of them were very close, and he knew how hard it was to lose a friend.

Hermione gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Actually, they meet every now and then in a quiet hotel in the countryside and spend an afternoon and a night together." Her voice sounded slightly bored. Snape's head, though, shot round, and his eyes nearly fell out of their sockets.

"They...?"

"... decided that the potion had only shown them the obvious – that they really, really like each other." Hermione finished the sentence. "They are both married, of course, but Ginny and Lavender don't mind them sharing a moment every now and then."

"Goodness," Snape murmured. "Certainly something I didn't expect."

"Well, I never expected to see you wearing Muggle clothes," she teased, entranced by the sight of Severus in jeans and a shirt. For many years she had actually believed he even slept in his robes. And now she had to realise that there was a side of him she hadn't thought about – his private side, his appearance, his likes and dislikes when he was not at Hogwarts.

With one fingertip, she traced the seam on his sleeve. "You look good in a shirt that's not black," she stated.

"Well," he said, quite amused at her still surprised expression, "did you honestly think I would bother with robes outside school? As you know, they are damn uncomfortable." He sat on the bed and adored the shimmer on her still naked skin.

"Of course I assumed you wouldn't wear robes at home. But I thought your private clothes would be black. Last night they were, and you certainly didn't wear jeans," she grumbled and placed her hand on his leg. "You wore black as you are supposed to."

How hot her hand was through the fabric of his trousers. If he wasn't careful, he wouldn't be wearing his clothes for much longer. "Last night I was expecting Remus. He possibly would die of a heart attack if he ever saw me in these clothes."

She grinned and ran her fingers through the ink black strands that covered, as usual, half his face. "I know exactly how he would feel," she agreed. "He would feel as stupid as I'm feeling right now, for assuming your wardrobe contained nothing but black garments."

Then something else crossed her mind. "Erm... Severus," she said. "I know I said I don't care if there's someone else, but... but if there is..."

A small smile curved his lips. "There isn't."

Her smile was nothing but pure relief. "But why not?" she pressed. "Surely there are women who are interested in you. I know you were bound to me, but..."

"Present tense," he cast in, his smile getting bigger. "I am bound to you. Still. Since I never bothered to make a potion to reverse the effect. What for? I didn't want anyone else."

After a while he began to laugh as she stared at him without saying a word. That was certainly something she hadn't expected. "Had I known that it is that easy to make you speechless, I would have tried it years ago." Finally deciding that it was time for something to eat, Snape got up and headed for the door.

Her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "Just wait a second," she said, and pulled him back onto the bed again. Intently, she looked at him as if she was trying to think of something that had momentarily slipped her mind.

Hermione leaned forward and blew on the spot between his shoulder and his neck. Then, she deeply breathed in, trying to catch the scent of his skin once more. It had changed, was laced with the smell of soap and aftershave, but still uniquely him. "I love your fragrance," she murmured. "Come to think of it – in my last year, you never smelled of potions as you used to in the years before. You always smelled... nice. And then you had your teeth straightened as well – I never really thought about it, but now, with those clothes, it is striking how much you have changed. How... why? Why have you been horrible for so long?"

With his pale hands he cupped her face. Carefully, he turned her head, staring intently into her eyes. "I heard you were the brightest witch of your age," he mused. "But obviously, it was a rumour. What a shame."

"Right," she snapped, but her eyes sparkled playfully because of this little riddle and because she feared she would burst with happiness at any moment. "Are you telling me that your appearance at school was nothing but an act?"

"I'm mildly impressed," he grumbled. "Maybe you are – relatively – bright. Now, tell me, why would I make myself as unlikeable as possible? What would I gain from being scary, terrifying, and ugly? From being the greasy git?"

"I can't imagine why you did it," she confessed. "All I know is that you changed after Voldemort had been turned into dust."

Snape stepped over to the side table and picked up a leather throng. Pulling back his hair into a ponytail, he tied it at the nape of his neck and opened the door, now getting really hungry himself.

"Whose eyes would linger longer than necessary on someone who had a more than slightly disgusting look and smelled of acid most of the time?" he asked over his shoulder. "People avoided me – my colleagues, my fellow Death Eaters, my students. Especially my students. Children are far too curious, as you should know yourself. You were the most curious of them all. When the Dark Lord was alive, I made sure that no one wanted to stay anywhere near me; not even him. Most importantly not him. I made sure he and everyone else saw a man who didn't care about personal hygiene, who looked as if he didn't own a toothbrush or a bottle of shampoo, who might even have been infectious in some sort of way. Small effort, huge result – I could do what I had to do unobserved. I could move unseen. The Dark Lord himself fell for it – he treasured me but didn't like me near him. I was a little safer, my secrets were a little safer. It wasn't easy, believe me. But now it is over and I can brush my teeth whenever I want to. And you better take a shower yourself. There's grass between your breasts." With that he cast her a mischievous smile and went for the kitchen.

*********************

Whistling again, he went downstairs, pondering what he could make for breakfast. Or lunch, really. Hmmm. Maybe sausages... or eggs... He was lost in thought and nearly missed the last step as he caught sight of the two men sitting leisurely in his kitchen. Each had pointed a wand at him, and it was lucky Snape was busy catching his balance or otherwise, out of sheer instinct, he would have tried to draw his own wand. And then he would have been stupefied, if not worse. In the last moment before he fell down his own staircase, he managed to get a hold on the wall, steadied himself and approached the two men with two long strides.

"You better stop there, or I will cast a full Body-Bind on you," Remus said pleasantly. There was no humour in his eyes, though. "What do you think, Albus – Polyjuice or Imperius?"

Albus Dumbledore, still Hogwarts' Headmaster, looked sternly at the tall, slender man in front of him. With his summer-sky-blue eyes he took in the bare feet, the jeans, the light grey shirt, and the smile. Naturally, this man wasn't Snape – his Potions master hadn't smiled in years. Dumbledore quickly flicked his wand and murmured, "Finite Incantatem."

Nothing happened. Dumbledore frowned.

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and beat down the urge to shout a hex. With knitted eyebrows, he stared at the men. "Pray tell me what you are doing in my kitchen," he growled. "And in my house."

Dumbledore sighed. "Not the Imperius curse then, as otherwise my counter spell would have freed him. So it must be Polyjuice." Fiercely, he pointed his wand once more at the barefooted man. "Who are you, and where is Severus Snape?" he asked, his voice only mild at the surface, but dangerously angry underneath.

"Albus, you imbecile, what the hell are you talking about?" snapped Snape, becoming impatient. "This is my house, my kitchen, my chairs you placed your idiotic bums on. And I am hungry, I have to do the washing up, and I will throw you out of my house now!" With that, he took a step only to find the two wands now drilled right into his chest.

Remus was most aggressive now. "I had an appointment with Severus last night, but he cancelled in what was literally the last minute – he would never do that, but even if, he would explain it first thing in the morning. He never gets up later than seven. Now it is past noon. Severus always cleans up his kitchen right after meals – in all the years I have come here for dinner, it's always happened like that. And he never, ever would wear Muggle clothes. So: Who. Are. You?"

Snape let out an exasperated sigh. When Hermione had accused him of being someone else, it had been because she just hadn't expected this side of him, and it had been amusing. But this here was ridiculous. "Would you like a cup of hot chocolate, Remus, to calm down your nerves a bit?" he asked acidly. "Topped with cream and a hint of chilli?" One cold night last winter he had prepared this speciality for the werewolf, and Snape doubted that anyone else knew it.

He turned to the Headmaster. "And you, Albus – everyone knows that you are fond of sweets, but how many people know that I provide you with a certain potion that allows your stomach to actually cope with them?"

The two men were silent for a moment, pondering who else knew about their silly little secrets. Snape took the opportunity to get to the sink and started to tidy up his kitchen. "I had a visitor last night. We talked, we ate, and I wasn't in the mood to tidy up." What an understatement, he thought. "I slept in this morning – even I am allowed to do that."

"Your clothes," Remus objected.

Snape slammed his hand into the water. It splashed over the counter. "I grew up wearing Muggle clothes, wolf, since my father was a Muggle. You know that. Don't be so bloody shocked to see me actually wearing something more comfortable than those sodding robes!" All right, he was furious. His eyes were tiny little pools of pure hell, and neither Remus nor Albus seemed to have the slightest wish to discuss the subject of his clothing any longer.

Snape took his wand out, but only to send the clean plates back to where they belonged. They clattered nervously, obviously fearing to be broken at any moment. Instinctively, werewolf and headmaster ducked their heads.

Albus lowered his wand first. Remus followed his example. Both men stared at the Potions master as if he had grown two heads all of a sudden.

"It's most certainly him," Remus said.

"I do agree," added Dumbledore. "Only Severus can make you feel like a first year who has just blown up his classroom." He chuckled. "My dear boy, I must apologise, but if you take the time to see things from our point of view, you will understand that your behaviour – and your appearance – is unusual enough to make us suspicious. We were just worried and decided to make sure you're all right. Sorry for breaking your wards."

Snape just said nothing, but it was obvious that he wanted to and just reined himself in with a generous amount of willpower. Finally, after several minutes, he murmured a few spells under his breath and slammed down two mugs of tea in front of the two intruders only a moment later. "I wonder why you didn't simply storm into my bedroom to drag me to Azkaban for the life-threatening crime of not wearing black clothing," he snapped. "Or for sleeping in. And Merlin, for not doing the damn washing up in time!"

"Ah, we tried that – getting upstairs – but the wards on your upper floor are even stronger than the ones on your front door. It took us long enough to get in at all, and so we decided to wait until you came down," Remus said idly, taking a sip of his tea.

Snape paled at the thought. Albus and Remus storming into his bedroom whilst he was making love to Hermione was certainly a most unwelcome picture. Involuntarily, he looked up the stairs. Surely, she was finished having a shower by now?

Albus had followed his look and was just about to ask a question when they heard footsteps above. Footsteps, a door that was opened, and a woman humming not a hundred percent in tune.

Remus cringed. "Surely you didn't give in to her, Severus?" he said, slight horror in his voice. "Please, tell me she didn't catch you in her nasty web!"

Snape stared at his friend, then at the staircase. "What..." he began, but Albus interrupted him.

"Rita Skeeter – she is still after him?" he asked the werewolf, clear disgust in his voice. Then he shot arrows with his blue eyes at Snape. "My dear, dear boy, I truly hope you haven't let this woman into your house no matter what her tricks might have been."

Snape shuddered at the very words. Skeeter – they thought that he had sunken that low? Gods, they really didn't know him at all. "I would never..." he began, but luckily Hermione chose that moment to dance downstairs.

"Severus, I really can't wear my blouse again, it's torn to pieces. I took one of your shirts. I hope you..." She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the men in the kitchen. "...don't mind," she finished with a grin. Looking over to Snape she continued, "Really, you should have told me you were expecting guests. I would have stayed out of sight."

"I didn't expect them. They broke the wards and were, until a minute ago, ready to hex me," he replied. "You can take what you want out of my wardrobe or any other place in my house. And if you hadn't come down voluntarily, I would have dragged you in here. They thought – they honestly thought I allowed Rita Skeeter to get anywhere near me! You, Hermione, certainly will not hide in the bedroom." Glaring at her, his lips curved into a smile when he saw her stunned expression.

"Certainly not Rita Skeeter," Dumbledore commented. "What a pleasant surprise to see you, Miss Granger."

"Ron said you were in Rome," Lupin said, slightly confused.

Hermione laughed. "Ron really can't remember anything that isn't written on his palm. I was in Venice. I came back last night and paid Severus a visit. And I'm starving – is there any chance of breakfast?"

Dumbledore got up and placed one finger under her chin. What he saw in her brown eyes seemed to confirm a suspicion. "You are not unhappy anymore," he stated. "May I hope that we will see you more often from now on?"

She looked at him. A little surprised, she became aware of the fact that she was not angry at him anymore for sending her to Beauxbatons. Back then, she had hoped he would interfere, would forbid Severus to send her away. Today, it didn't matter anymore. "No, I'm not. Being unhappy for too long is a dreadful thing. I couldn't stand it any longer. And I certainly will pay Severus a visit every now and then when he's at Hogwarts."

"Wonderful." Dumbledore nodded. "This here – it began with a potion? A potion that made you... not exactly sick, Severus?"

"Before that," Hermione replied calmly. "Around Valentine's Day."

"So the rose Severus keeps on his desk is yours? I thought so," Dumbledore practically beamed with joy, having unravelled another little bit of this strange tale. "Dear, I wish you had told me, Severus."

"I couldn't, and you know that, Albus." Snape gave him his most fearful look only to see his employer twinkle over his half-moon glasses. "What I never understood, though, is why you haven't fired me."

Dumbledore patted his arm and sat down again. "What for, Severus? For being ill? Miss Granger had told me in no uncertain terms not to interfere in her business. She was of age, obviously very fond of you, and determined to help. You were most devastated at the prospect of not being able to teach her again after that night. Had I forced either of you to tell me the truth, I would have lost you, my dear boy. I was not willing to risk that." Idly, he picked up his mug and took a generous sip of his tea.

Snape was speechless. Dumbledore admitting that he was actually fond of him was nothing less than terrifying. "Sentimental old fool," he snapped, but Dumbledore only laughed, delighted to see his friend happy, possibly for the first time ever.

"How about some toast? Remus asked. "And maybe someone could fill me in on the gossip?"

"Breakfast for four, if you please, my dear boy," Dumbledore ordered. "And then you will tell me when you decided to discard your traditional black."

"None of your business, old man," said Snape and began to make a huge amount of scrambled eggs whilst Hermione set up the table.