Tale of the Nightshirt
A Touch of the Blues



Hermione paused uncertainly at the foot of the stairs. Where should she go? Back to the kitchen? She certainly didn’t want to be (accused of) snooping. Hearing noises, she decided to follow them; he was the only other person in the house— wasn’t he?

An open door disclosed another flight of stairs… then an absolutely beautiful potions laboratory.

And a Master at work.

Back and forth; forward, back. A handful here, a spoonful there. Dicing with quick, exact strokes. Stirring swiftly, lips counting silently. The heavy thrill of magic over all.

A beautiful dance, choreographed by the potion, brilliantly executed.

---

He knew she was there. The rustle of her robes, the pale round of her face as she hovered in the doorway. The indefinable air of her that plucked at his senses.

His nerves vibrated along his spine, humming with that awareness. Only his pride— the one thing he had managed to keep intact over the years —kept his hands steady and his attention on the delicate brewing. Snape would be damned before he let anything cause him to make a mistake with such a difficult potion.

So, naturally, he mucked up the simple burn salve in the next cauldron.

---

Hermione would never have expected Severus Snape to make a brewing mistake, and so her reflexes were perhaps not what they could have been. Severus’s own were all they could have been, but after decades of brewing alone, he had a slightly different priority: to wit, the other, more volatile potion. And— perhaps —he had a subconscious expectation that Hermione Granger could take care of herself.

Both sets of expectations were proved wrong as the salve erupted like a miniature Vesuvius.

And the result was both witch and wizard deep-dyed a vivid shade of indigo blue from head to toe.

---

Hermione probably would have been able to handle surprise or shock or concern, even pain or panic. But the expression on his face was pure, unadulterated Snape: deeply annoyed disgust. And at the sight of it, she simply couldn’t help herself.

Hermione began to giggle. Her giggles evolved into full laughter. Laughter…

…froze into tense silence. Severus’s disgust had twisted into flashes of mortification, anger— hurt? —at the sound of her amusement. And just as quickly they were replaced by a stony mask she was all too familiar with.

He said nothing, merely began to tidy up the extensive mess.

---

“Leave it.” The sharp command stung, and Hermione’s wand involuntarily jerked back before she could help. Silence reigned as Severus briskly spun the viscous liquid back into the cauldron for disposal and completed the final steps of his experiment.

He ignored his indigo hands— and the woman who had retreated to sit on the stairs.

Only when he had finished did she again come forward, around the table to take his hand. “Severus,” she said, and he started at the name, “Severus, we’re both blue. Blueberry blue.” Her fingers brushed over his cheek and gently brought him to face her.

---

Hermione wondered if apologies carried any weight with Severus. Did they ring hollow with insincerity, or have all the more impact from never having been applied to him? She was sorry; she’d made him feel the fool— no matter her intentions —and after a lifetime of the same…

But still… the situation wasn’t without humour. After all, “Severus, we’re both blue. Blueberry blue.” Like Third-Year students after Potions class mid-year.

An apology? No. Nor any excuses. But perhaps the chance for her to feel the fool. Again.

Her hands framed his face as she leaned over to kiss him gently.

---

For several moments, Severus’s brain simply refused to process the pressure of Hermione’s lips against his, semi-coherent thought re-engaging only when she pulled back from her tentative gesture. So close to him… so…

“You are indeed blue,” he remarked, pushing back an errant indigo curl.

“Very blue,” she agreed with a tiny flash of startlingly white teeth. “Almost purple.”

“A stupid mistake.”

She shook her head. “I should’ve known better than to distract you.”

“You are very distracting,” he agreed gravely, thumb tracing soft lips.

Hermione couldn’t help it; she dimpled, her deep flush masked by her indigo complexion.

---

It was strange, almost absurd, how natural she looked in his library. But then, 'Hermione' and 'books' were nearly synonymous, so perhaps it wasn't as odd as it felt to see her, head leaning to one side, surrounded by his stacks of texts, hair glinting wildly in the firelight. Bare feet tucked up like a child's, peeking from the hem of her robes.

The last witch to sit there had been ramrod stiff with bitter resentment. Eileen Prince, with the same fierce pride she'd passed down to her son— and the same abysmal judgment when it came to bridge-burning choices.

---

What would Hermione have done? Severus asked himself. Disowned, ostracized from magical society, shackled to a man she despised, no viable Muggle skills… and a young boy to raise.

Hermione… would have done what his mother had been too proud to do— learned everything she could about the Muggle world until she knew they could survive. Then taken her son and left.

He couldn’t hate Eileen; she’d done her best for him, giving him all she had left— a name and heritage to be proud of.

But… as a small, unhappy boy, he’d have wished for a mother like Hermione.

---

Snape choked on his tea, and began cursing quietly at a mind that was apparently as treacherous as Dumbledore’s. It wasn’t enough to be having sexual fantasies about a woman young enough to be his daughter, no. It seemed he needed to imagine saccharine domesticity as well.

Now he knew what celibacy accomplished: a mind drunk on the memory of— what? Two kisses? —to the point where it leapt forward of its own accord to damn foolish nonsense. He’d not even slept with the girl yet.

He wanted to. But what did he want besides?

What else did she want?

---

Mm, déjà vu… or was that ‘déjà senti’? Hermione revelled in the cypress scent and the warmth, wriggling to take advantage of… the… softness…

That wasn’t soft. And that wasn’t the wall she was tucked against. And now that she thought about it, that was an impressive snore sounding in her ear and a hand definitely not her own tucked just under her breast— a position oddly both intimate and chaste.

Though that could hardly be called ‘chaste’ by any stretch of the imagination.

Still, what a lovely way to awaken, feeling both coddled and desired— and by Severus Snape.

---

In a case like this, does one bless or curse indulging one’s bloody melodramatic streak? Severus wasn’t entirely sure. Certainly, the benefits shouldn’t be discounted; the feel of Granger in his arms— in my bed —the knowing that she was looked-after. The delusions that she’d be there again in nights to come.

But then, it might have been better not to know what he was missing. And he’d neglected to remember certain biological facts, especially considering that she was now snugged tight against him, and when she woke…

He’d probably be lucky if a right hook was all he got.

---

AN: Finally, the nightshirt returns! (In a manner of speaking, since I wasn't actually able to work the shirt in this time, to my disappointment.) Still, I've managed a decent-sized chunk this time, which I hope has managed to please. Let's see… the first drabble owes its visual to a scene from another Rickman film, Blow Dry (enjoyable Brit crack-film). And as for the next to last drabble… Um, yes, please. *grin*

If so inclined, please leave a token in the review box. (Since, not being JKR, I don't get paid in actual coin of the realm. ^_^)