The Tale of the Nightshirt
Mercury Rising


Dinner was rather stilted, conversation occurring in awkward fits and starts. Snape was attempting to deal with his mortification and, as a consequence, was taciturn, though manners kept him from being a completely surly git. Hermione, for her part, was realizing the down-side of having Snape see her as a woman: she was seeing him as a man. (Instead of a professor, a very different entity.)

In fact, an entirely different entity.

Oh, he hadn't changed. She knew that. He was still a snarky, homely man, but sitting across from him at the dinner table, she began to notice… things.

---

His hands. Hermione had never really looked at them before. But now she noticed that they were large hands, and sinewy, rather like daVinci's 'David.' Long fingers, moving with deft precision as he manipulated his utensils. Would they manipulate her with that same dexterity? What would they be like to the touch? Smooth and well-tended as valued instruments? Or calloused and scarred from accidents and labour? How would they feel as they trailed down her body and…?

Hermione flushed and refocused her attention on her plate. Food. Yes. Food was good. Necessary. Prosaic. Certainly nothing suggestive of sex, except… Damn.

---

He'd noticed Hermione's high colour during dinner and attributed it to frustration at his continued presence. After all, he wasn't a pleasant conversationalist by any standard, and this mess had begun with him staring at her legs. She'd very nice ones, honestly, but he doubted he was someone she wanted looking. Even if it was her own bloody fault he had. Women were like that. Why else the black eye?

But they were nice legs. Come to think of it, the breasts weren't half-bad, either. Nor her hands as she…

Damn. Focus, man. Eat quickly and get the hell out.

---

Hermione took full advantage of the silence, putting her mind to work in its usual methodical way, and had come to a conclusion by the time she'd stacked the dishes on the kitchen counter.

Severus hovered uneasily near the door. He didn't need to be a complete prat nowadays and wanted to take his leave properly. "Hm. I appreciate the dinner, Miss Granger…" For the sake of his sanity, he did not thank her again for his, hm, nap. He wasn't babbling, but he couldn't seem to find an end.

Hermione found it for him as her lips claimed his.

---

Across the Bows


Much later, Hermione would swear Severus leapt an entire foot upwards— before springing five feet back.

"What in…?" Not quite a scream, but there was no mistaking his shock.

Hermione tried not to feel hurt. "You seemed… interested," she explained quietly.

"Feeling charitable, then, Miss Granger?" Snape sneered. "Or just desperate?"

Her face froze. Snape tensed, but didn't expect the solid fist to his solar plexus— or to be tossed bodily out the front door by Hermione's reactivated wards. As an afterthought, Hermione snatched her nightshirt and flung it out after him. She'd never want to wear it again anyway.

---

'Charity'! 'Desperate'! For the first time, Hermione understood the phrase 'seeing red'. She swore. She threw small, fragile objects. She kicked the furniture. She paid no notice to the tears streaming down her cheeks.

But it couldn't last forever. Hermione finally broke down and sobbed in sheer humiliation. 'Desperate…' She must have been, to even consider Snape, of all people…! But she had been honest.

And he had been cruel. Deliberately, unequivocally cruel.

He'd meant to wound, just as he had when she was a child. But she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of knowing he'd succeeded.

---

Living well is the best revenge, they say. Hermione was prepared to do so— to a point. After all, it wouldn't do to have anything Pro— that man could point to and say, "She did that because of what I said."

So when Hermione dressed the next day, she wore make-up, but only to polish her features a bit— not unusual for her. Her robes were work-casual, but altered just enough to flatter her figure a little more. She'd learned that feminine armour was not to be disdained.

It was a damned confident woman who left her flat that morning.

---

Snape was nearly always at the Ministry; his orders kept him stalking— he never ran —through every corridor as he delivered messages and packages deemed too sensitive to be trusted to magically-propelled methods.

It was work a half-witted, adolescent troll could have managed. But as they would hardly have trusted him to brew potions for general consumption, he was reduced to glorified messenger boy while working out the term of his 'probation'. Ludicrous, but it beat Azkaban.

It also meant that he saw her when she arrived, cheeks rosy, chest rising and falling rapidly due to a Muggle-like commute.

Hell.

---

He could have had her, the night before. He might not be terribly experienced, but he'd been able to read the offer she'd made in her kiss. He'd had the opportunity to spend the night with a young, willing, fairly good-looking witch. Whatever her reasons.

And he'd fucked it up. The first opportunity in… a long time… to get laid, and he'd fucked it up. Royally.

Idiot.

Watching her as she dashed through the hall, oblivious to his presence, he could imagine that flushed face above him, those full breasts bare and moving just that way as she…

Bloody idiot.