Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not to me. I'm just having a bit of fun, and I'm making no money in the process.


For as long as Severus could remember, his hair had been black.

The darkness of his hair was a constant of the universe, conveniently matching his eyes and wardrobe and aptly expressing his mood. There were many things Severus disliked about his hair, but the colour wasn't one of them.

Therefore, it was a shock when he glimpsed a white hair in the mirror—an unwelcome reminder of advancing age, standing out like a beacon against a uniform field of blackness.

Severus swore, plucking the offensive hair out before Hermione could notice it and realise that she'd married an old man.



The good news was that plucking had removed the unwanted intruder.

The bad news was that it had returned and brought reinforcements with it.

For every hair plucked, two more sprang up in the same location. Eventually, there was no denying the existence of a white forelock. It stood out against Severus' hair like a bolt of lightening splitting the night sky, making him look strange and freakish and, above all, old.

It was too much to pluck and proved stubbornly resistant to the usual Charms. Still, Severus was determined to be streak-free, for Hermione's sake.

He would succeed.



For as long as Hermione had known him, Severus' hair had been limp.

Finely textured and prone to wilting, her husband's hair was described as 'lank' by tactful souls and 'greasy' by the rest. It didn't bother her; she knew Severus' hair was clean.

Still, the recent state of his hair was testing even Hermione's tolerance. He left grease stains everywhere, and when she ran her fingers through his hair, they glistened afterward.

Reluctant to raise the matter directly—Severus was horribly sensitive about his appearance—Hermione decided that an investigation was warranted.

The pillows couldn't stand much more of the assault.



The culprit was located in the back of the under-sink cupboard, hidden behind a fortress of loo roll. It was an oily, viscous, black liquid, contained in one of Severus' laboratory bottles and ominously labelled Prototype 9.

After a few tests on the sample, Hermione couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream. Instead, she marched it out to the study and set it on Severus' desk.

"Explain," she said.

Severus blushed, but admitted nothing. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Hermione glared. "I already know what it is. I just want to know why you're using it!"



"You'd rather dye your hair with this grease than let me see your white streak?"

"The formula isn't perfected yet!" Severus snapped.

"Not even close," Hermione snorted. "I knew you had white hairs, and I never cared!"

"How could you know? I eliminated all traces—"

"From your head, yes." She looked pointedly at his groin. "However, other locations…"

His blush returned.

Hermione relented. "I don't care about hair colour; I'll still love you when we're both old and grey and toothless." She paused. "But if you ever leave the pillowcases looking like used fish and chips wrappers again, it's over."