Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. In other words, I don’t own J.K.R.’s characters. Please don’t sue me; I’m not worth it anyway. Once I’m done, I’ll buy them dinner, several good bottles of wine and put them back where I found them.
AN: This is a warning for fluff and nonsense, don’t come running to me claiming the bunny bit you. My many thanks go to agnes_grey and Serpentine.
Snape dismissed his last class of the day with an impatient wave of his hand. He barked instructions at their rapidly retreating backs. ‘Two feet on Allium Sativum, its uses, properties and variants in medicinal potions by Friday; I also require its modern uses to be contrasted and compared with its ancient ones. In addition, I expect you to have read the Ebers Papyrus by the same day. Oh, and Mr Wynter.’
A fashionably-scruffy boy with the looks of a young Adonis and the charm to match turned, reluctantly, to face Snape. ‘Sir,’ Wynter drawled insolently, in the studied, bored tone of the recalcitrant student everywhere.
‘Do feel free to attempt to apply a modicum of your own original thought to this essay. It would be a novel experience to read something of yours that does not rely on Miss Khan’s expertise, or upon tracts of text directly copied from the Potions textbook. I am quite familiar with it, after all I did write it, and plagiarism is such an ugly word,’ Snape commented, his tone dripping with rich and mellifluous sarcasm.
Wynter scowled. The prospect of having to think for himself, rather than rely on his charm to influence his girlfriend, was deeply unappealing.
‘Who knows, Wynter? What passes for your mind might actually welcome the singular, innovative experience of neurones firing in creative thought. That is, if there are any remaining that have not atrophied through disuse.’
‘Sir,’ the boy said sullenly. He left as quickly as possible, slamming the door behind him.
‘Ten points from Ravenclaw for an uninspired fit of pique, Mr Wynter,’ Snape said quietly.
He sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sometimes, he sympathised with Filch. He pulled a scrap of parchment towards him and wrote the details of Wynter’s detention down. He summoned a house-elf, and then dispatched it with instructions to deliver the note. He glanced at the first of the second years’ essays and groaned aloud as he read the name. Wynter’s brother: equally as intelligent and equally as lazy as his sibling. He reached for the red ink. If he was fortunate, he could be done in an hour. Then, he would go home to his new wife, to Hermione. His hand stilled, and Snape actually smiled. He rolled her name around in his thoughts, his mind’s voice caressing each syllable of her name. His smile grew, and his eyes lost focus as he thought of her. He still could not quite believe that she had actually married him.
His smile took on a saccharine aspect that would have convinced any casual onlooker that the Potions Master was possessed, and had him or her running for the Infirmary, shouting for Madam Pomfrey at the top of his or her voice. Snape pulled his mind back to the task in hand with some difficulty, as he had started to reminisce about their wedding night. Applying himself, Snape started to fairly rip through the essays, grading them in record time.
Earlier than he had hoped he walked into their living-room and stopped in surprise. She was already home from work. She had shed her outer robe and was wearing his favourite dress. She was bent over, her head hidden behind the sofa. Presumably, she was picking something up from the floor.
Severus took the opportunity to admire his wife’s very shapely bum and the glimpse of creamy thigh that was revealed to him. They were two of his favourite parts of Hermione. That was apart from her mind, her face, her laugh, her breasts, her, well, her everything. Snape wasn’t too discriminating when it came to his wife. He was an equal opportunity admirer, but he did adore the way she shivered when he ran his hands over her cheeks. As he gazed at her, his obvious admiration began to tent the front of his trousers.
Stealthily, he crept towards her. It would be a pity to waste such an excellent opportunity. Rubbing his erection against her bum, he reached around and gently caressed her breasts. In a voice as calculatingly seductive as he could make it, and that was usually enough to make her go weak at the knees, he breathed, ‘Surprise.’
His wife screamed and lurched forward and away from him, pushing him backward at the same time. He fell and lay sprawled in an inelegant heap on the floor. Looking up, he saw Hermione coming out of their bedroom with some dresses draped over her arm. A very shocked Ginevra Potter nee Weasley turned around and stared at Snape, her attention drawn to his rapidly diminishing appreciation.
‘Ginny? Severus? What’s going on?’ Hermione asked, looking from the one to the other.
‘Buggering, shitty-shit, fuck,’ was the inelegant, non-informative answer from her husband. In a matter of seconds Snape had fled from the scene of his crime, his pale countenance a burning red.
‘Ginny?’ Hermione queried, puzzled.
Much later, Severus crept back into their quarters. He had fortified himself with several large firewhiskys; in preparation for the humiliating confrontation that he knew was his inevitable doom.
The living-room was dark. Not a chink of light flooded the floor beneath their bedroom door. She was asleep, or she had left him. Agitated, he started back, rather unsteadily, towards the front door. A softly whispered ‘Lumos,’ stopped him and made him blink against the brilliant light that flared up.
‘Where, in the name of Paracelsus, do you think you are going, Severus Snape?’ Hermione asked. Her tone could have frozen the bits off one of Michelangelo’s statues.
She’d been waiting for him, he thought, in the dark, bugger, He turned to face her. ‘I wassh going to look for you,’ he slurred. The firewhisky had taken its toll on his command of speech.
‘Well, you have found me.’ She stood behind the light she was casting, so he could not see her properly, but he could make out the wand held in her hand very, very clearly.
‘Yessh,’ he slurred again, in confirmation.
He tried to draw himself up and glare at her in his best haughty fashion, but he only succeeded in achieving a drunken squint.
‘I-came-home-you-were-there-early-and-the-dress-do-you-know-your-bum-is-lovely-and-then…’ Severus resorted, rather unwisely, to mime to demonstrate the rest of his actions. ‘Wasn’t-you-didn’t-know.’ His words came out in rush of peat-scented breath.
Oh Merlin’s balls, he thought, that had definitely sounded so much better when he had rehearsed it several firewhiskys ago. For one thing he had been coherent then, and he hadn’t done the mime.
‘Let me get this straight, Severus,’ Hermione stated. ‘You came home?’ Drunken nod. ‘You saw me in a dress?’ Another drunken nod. ‘Bending over?’ Vigorous drunken nod. ‘And that gave you an erection?’ Rather shamefaced grimace of affirmation. ‘Except, it wasn’t me you…appreciated.’ No reaction at all. ‘Ginny was here because she wanted to borrow a dress to surprise Harry, but I don’t think that was quite the surprise she had in mind.’
Her face could have been carved out of stone for all the emotion shown there. Severus hung his head. He was a dead man, he had frotted his wife’s best friend’s arse.
‘She decided against that dress,’ Hermione said, in a tone as dry as the Atacama Desert. Severus had not realised until then just how truly fascinating the pattern on the floor was. Why didn’t she just kill him and get it over with? ‘Or rather, I didn’t feel it would be right to let her borrow it,’ Hermione continued in the same tone. ‘Tell me, Severus, is it just that dress in particular, or is it any dress, on any woman that has this effect on you?’
He mumbled something.
‘Sorry, Severus, I didn’t quite hear you.’ At her tone, one hand of his instinctively moved to cover his groin.
‘That dress. It’s my favourite,’ he admitted, sotto voce.
‘Look at me, Severus.’ He looked up. The light had dimmed, and he saw that she was wearing the arbiter of his fate the, thrice-be-damned, dress. It was poetic justice, he thought, to meet his doom with her wearing it.
‘So, just to recap, you, my husband, find me, your wife, so attractive in this dress that it gives you an erection just to see me bend over?’ She hadn’t killed him yet, so Snape nodded cautiously.
She turned and bent over. Ah, now he understood, she wished to taunt him first before carrying out her sentence. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, he might as well tell the truth. She straightened up and closed the distance between them.
‘I wore this dress for our first date. Did it have the same effect then?’ Returning to gesture as a means of communication he nodded. ‘And the night we first made love, then?’ Nod. ‘Every time I wear it?’ Nod. ‘Then I wonder what effect it would have if I were to do this.’
She slid against him and ran her hands down the back of his thighs. Then, she quite deliberately wrapped one leg around his thigh, slid it down to twine around his calf and pulled him closer. A certain part of him began to sober up with remarkable alacrity. Ah, he thought, so taunting and torture, and then she would deliver the coup de grace.
‘So tell me, Severus,’ she breathed, in a whisper against his chest. ‘Exactly what part of your convoluted, twisted, Slytherin brain thought that I wouldn’t like the fact that this dress has that effect on you, hmm?’
She kissed his nose, his neck and nibbled his ear. What remained of Snape’s ability to reason, between the alcohol and Hermione’s ministrations, finally made the right connections.
‘You’re not angry?’
‘Hardly,’ she whispered, her breath tickling his ear.
‘But I… Mrs Potter.’ He once again repeated the crude mime. Fortunately, this time, his hands were behind Hermione’s back, and so not visible.
‘Shocked, then amused, then slightly envious, then sworn to silence on the subject.’
‘Silence.’ She nibbled her way along his jaw, her hands expertly exploring his back. In response, his body continued its rapid return to functionality, if not total sobriety. ‘So, Severus Snape,’ she emphasised the sibilant sounds of his name. ‘My question to you is this. Exactly just how do you intend to show me how much you like this dress?’
He slid his hands teasingly down the back of the garment in question, until they rested on her bum, where they tortured her unmercifully. She shivered, and he touched his mouth to her ear, his voice was whispered silk against her skin.
‘Repeatedly,’ was his sultry, smouldering reply. ‘And with infinite, inventive, creative, and very attentive variety my wife, starting now.’ With a low, possessive growl he swept her up and strode towards the bedroom.
Long after the dress was past its prime, it still occupied pride of place in Hermione’s wardrobe. Every now and again, she would take it out and hold it against herself. Then, she would smile at the recollection of exactly how well, and just how often, Severus had indeed kept his promise.