Seven Preposterous Things

If all the good people were clever,
And all clever people were good,
The world would be nicer than ever
We thought that it possibly could.

But somehow 'tis seldom or never
The two hit it off as they should,
The good are so harsh to the clever,
The clever, so rude to the good!

--Elizabeth Wordsworth - Clever and Good

"Fuck me if I know which one is good and which is clever."
--The Writer


Sunday morning arrived, and so did Severus Snape - melodramatically late from work and even drunker than was his custom. Pity none of his housemates were awake to witness it, unless you counted Millicent, and since she didn't give the proverbial two shits how drunk he was, or how late he came in, he bloody well wasn't going to count her, thank you very much.

"She's still in bed. Asleep," Millicent said, sipping her tea, toast crumbs down the front of her dressing gown and jam on the lapel, not even affording him the opportunity to inquire. When did Bulstrode start leaving her hair loose?

He could have made the effort and strung a few words together in Millicent's direction, but he lacked the motivation to apply his limited attention to the task. Given the state of his body and soul, the best he could manage was to turn abruptly and half-stumble, half-shuffle to his bed where he threw off whatever clothing seemed most constrictive in his hazy estimation. Having accomplished a partial disrobing, he curled himself around the large black fuzzy object that had set anchor on the middle of his bed.

Whack. Whack the cat. As he drifted off to sleep he wondered vaguely if it were possible to steal a cat. As soon as he awoke, he would steal Bulstrode's cat; it was very comfy.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione was weeding the garden beside Millie and Draco when she thought to ask after Snape. She hadn't seen him since he'd turned tail in the kitchen the afternoon before, but she'd had other things on her mind.

"Snape ought to be up by now," she said, pulling at a particularly persistent root.

"If he isn't dead of alcohol poisoning," Millie said, not displaying much concern. "He staggered in some time after dawn, looking and smelling like the hind end of a sick cat. Someone ought to go see to him at some point today. The garbage man comes in the morning, and I'd hate to have a rotting corpse stinking up the rubbish bin all week."

Hermione rolled her eyes; sometimes the vaunted Slytherin sense of humour was less than tasteful.

It was strange to let herself into his room. She hadn't actually been in his room before. Old habits were hard to break, she supposed. Some part of her still thought of him as her Potions master. Not that any of his behaviour had gone toward making himself familiar either.

Familiar was the word for it, though. He was on his bed, snoring, one naked white foot peeking out of the twisted bedclothes, though he appeared to still be wearing his jacket. On second look, he was shirtless, and the jacket was wrapped around his shoulders. Despite the persistent warm weather, her ersatz husband had taken to wearing a decidedly decrepit leather jacket. She supposed it had usurped the place of his swirling black wizard's robes. It was his way, apparently, to find one costume and stick to it day in and day out, whether he lived as Muggle or Wizard. She hadn't seen him in anything other than blue jean trousers and a short sleeved black shirt in the months since they'd left England.

Both the leather jacket and the swirling black robes were costumes. Both visual shorthand that fairly screamed protective colouring.

He shifted, throwing his left arm over his head exposing the shiny white scar Millie had given him. The horrible gouge where his Dark Mark had been cut out no longer sickened or intrigued her; it was what it was.

Much the same way Severus Snape himself was what he was.

Mostly, down deep, what he was she found fascinating: the most amazing synthesis of Muggle and Magical thoughts and abilities. The half blood prince appellation was truer than he doubtless realised. He was magnificent, both magically and intellectually. It was this quality both Voldemort and Dumbledore recognised and exploited. With the scaly skin of neuroses stripped away, Severus Snape was breathtaking.

His sleeping face was somehow different to the one he wore when he knew people were looking. Without a grimace, smirk or sneer he seemed dear in a way that gave Hermione a wealth of silly, tender feelings.

She was fully aware they were ridiculous. Snape himself would laugh at her, were he awake.

Or perhaps not. No matter what turns life took, Severus Snape got the shit end of the stick. He'd been losing so very long perhaps he had no idea how to do anything else.

Once, as a very young child, she had seen a man in a lift, a Muggle, with the words "Born to Lose" tattooed on his arm. For years she'd wondered what sort of person put that sort of a mark, indelibly, on themselves. Now she was fairly certain she knew the answer: Severus Snape.

At that moment, his hair was as horrible as ever, he smelled, badly, and she would have given anything to know how to approach him.

Gingerly, she sat herself at the edge of his bed. He failed to awaken, but instead tossed restlessly, kicking off a good portion of his sheets.

Pity welled up in her. Was it pity? She was honestly unsure.

She knew for a fact she pitied Neville. She'd long pitied poor Harry, even before he died. It didn't make her nipples hard to contemplate either of them.

No, this was something else; it was strange to admit, but she had never been so enthralled by a male as she had by Severus Snape. She was even able to put her finger on the cause: the frustrating, impossible man's brain. Every time he asked her another strange yet penetrating question about her chemistry books, his tangled hair pulled over his face but his black eyes staring hard, her pulse raced more than it did when other men stuck their tongue in her ear.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he groaned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, his smallest finger held apart from the others, as she had long observed was his habit.

"What are you doing in my room?" he asked, and she supposed it was a fair and obvious question.

She didn't answer him. She didn't actually have a good reason; instead she repeated her embarrassing thoughts aloud.

"Whenyouaskmeaboutmyschoolworkitdoesmoreformethanwhenotherwizardssticktheirtongueinmyear."

Snape blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"When you..." Hermione began slowly, imagining he had missed her point in the jumble of words that had rushed out of her mouth.

"I got that part," he interrupted, wincing. "I think."

"I've thought it through. I've had wizards, you know, but none of them were satisfactory in the long term. I think that's because they weren't intellectually stimulating," she said, desperately hoping he wouldn't choose to humiliate her. She wouldn't be held responsible for her actions if he did.

His eyes widened dramatically. He looked horrified beyond measure. She'd never seen him look quite like that before.

"What are you proposing?" he stammered.

Hermione brushed her hair out of her face and composed herself. "That we become lovers; it's quite straightforward really."

"So you can toss me aside and be on your merry way once you've had your fill?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as he spoke, apparently recovering quickly from the shock.

"Of course not," she said indignantly. "I don't understand you at all, Severus Snape."

"I will not be used and cast aside," he bellowed.

"Why do you assume I'm going to cast you aside?" she asked, surprised.

"You cast aside every other male to fall prey to your charms; why should I assume I will be any different?" he asked.

Hermione stared at him. "Look, I don't understand what you expect me to..." she stopped abruptly mid-sentence as, for once, he looked her straight in the eye.

Her skin prickled. Each individual hair standing upright and afraid. A cold chill raced up her spine and her cheeks went painfully hot.

She watched as he breathed slowly, very slowly, through parted lips, his white hands curled to fists.

She knew exactly what he wanted from her: commitment, love.

The terrifying part was that this strange, infuriating and intriguing wizard was quite possibly the only one she'd met in her life who was capable of drawing her orderly cart of a mind into the slick-sided ravine of love.

Had things been different, were she less concerned with offending his renowned sensitivity, at least initially, she might have insisted he shower and brush his teeth first. As it stood, sheer magical magnetism held sway, and she dived in and kissed him.

His breath was rancid, but his lips were soft.

It was, overall, rather strange. He acquiesced, clearly. His lips parted wider in response to hers, and when she moved her hands toward his bare chest he eagerly, and prematurely, took down his trousers.

On the other hand, he was definitively submissive. As she kissed him, magic sending sparks that were practically Catherine wheels shooting off the ends of her hair, it occurred to her that really, when it came down to it, he was always someone's whipped dog. Voldemort's. Dumbledore's.

His hands came to her breasts, but he was alternately too tentative or too rough. He really hadn't done this much at all, had he? Perhaps Millie was right and he really was a virgin. It wasn't that horrid an idea. It only meant he needed a bit of practice. She could give him that. The important part, the magic, was so strong between the two of them; she'd never experienced as much palpable magic from sexual contact before.

She cradled his hot, dark head in her hand and pressed her cheek to his, running a trail of kisses from his lips to his ear. She looked into his eyes, hoping for some sort of confirmation, some glimpse of triumph or recognition, but all she saw was fear.

She well understood he risked a great deal by their involvement, and she next to nothing; what he needed was reassurance.

She had always been an impulsive witch. Once a Gryffindor always a Gryffindor, after all. She let the words fly from her mouth; not only were they the ones she knew he longed to hear, they were also scrupulously true.

"You know I fancy you," she whispered in his ear.

The next thirty seconds or so were rather muddled. Severus Snape went even more still, if such a thing were possible, then struggled with the mad twists of bedding and clothes, threw Hermione to the floor with a resounding thump and retreated to the far corner of the room clutching a greying sheet to his body.

Sitting on the floor amidst the uncleared filth, it took Hermione a few moments to realise two things: firstly, the balled sheet of notebook paper in Snape's singular hand appeared to have an oddly medieval-looking illustration of cellular respiration, and, secondly, somehow in the tussle, he had ejaculated all over the front of her blouse.

"And now my humiliation is complete," Snape snarled.

"Severus," Hermione said, dusting herself off as she rose from the floor. "It's fine. Why don't you let me...?"

"Get out," Snape said imperiously. "Leave this room at once."

"This is no way to resolve..." Hermione said, coming closer.

"I said get out," he screamed. Here was her old school master, red faced and in a mindless rage, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory once again.

"Severus," she said, moving near enough to touch him. With all the care she knew how to take, she laid her hand on his stubbled face. She drew her thumb over his soft lips and high hard cheekbones. He shuddered in response. "I'm not upset with you, Severus, I'm certain we could...." she said.

"It's every witch's fondest dream, to find an ill-favoured, penniless wizard, to ejaculate on her clothing," Severus said with quiet menace. "I told you to get out. In my life I have made it a rule not to strike females but at the moment I find myself tempted to make an exception."

Hermione knew full well he would die before he would raise his hand to her. The thought came to her again that this was the Severus Snape who had taught her for six years, this miserable terrified creature. It simply took an adult's eye to see.

Hermione started to speak, explain that none of this was necessary, she was just as willing to be his lover as ever. If anything, this new tangle in his web had ensnared her more firmly.

He had taught her. Now she could teach him, not that she'd lay it out like that; she was well acquainted enough with his ego to never frame it in those terms, but...

"Exit this room, now, Miss Granger, while I still have some scant shred of dignity," he said stonily. He drew himself up to his full height and suddenly it was almost as if he were clothed in invisible professorial robes. Composure unwrinkled his brow and narrowed his black eyes.

"I don't want to humiliate you," she said.

"Too late for that, I'm afraid," he said smoothly, "please go."

Hermione didn't know what to do other than comply.

She thought perhaps he would come round on his own, eventually. She fully expected it when he avoided her for the rest of the day.

Monday morning, he drove her to class in silence.

Tuesday and Wednesday, as well. It came to simply be the way of things; Severus Snape did not speak to her.

If he was intent on fouling things up, he certainly was going about it the right way. Sitting in class barely listening to the lecture, Hermione determined then and there, this time the sod was not going to have his way.

It was Halloween when Hermione finally dropped her penny; though it might be more accurate to say she hurled said penny at Severus Snape's head.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air smelled of sweaty human bodies, cigarettes, and alcohol as Hermione entered through the doors of Severus' place of employment and was seized by an uncontrollable fit of sneezing.

Severus, to his credit, flinched only minutely at her unexpected appearance before leaning across the bar and asking with a frown, "Are you coming down with something?"

"No," she answered, rubbing her eyes with her fists, "it's just the ‘eau de bar'."

"Firstly, this is not a bar, it is a musical venue. Secondly, you must realise eau de bar translates literally as bar water..." he said, waspish as ever. And he called her pedantic.

"I was drawing a comparison between this aroma and that of a cheap perfume," Hermione answered him. "And would you or would you not say your so-called venue generates more revenue through ticket sales, or alcohol?"

"Alcohol. However..." Snape said.

"However, nothing. An establishment whose primary source of income is alcohol sales is, by definition, a bar," she leapt in, before he could finish his sentence.

"As I've said more than once, by that argument Old Trafford is an open-air blouse shop," Snape said, sneering but not looking her quite in the eye.

Bar, musical venue, or therapeutic centre, Hermione had decided The Gypsy Tea Room was the ideal location for confronting Snape, though technically they weren't in the Gypsy Tea Room but its larger sister, one street over, The Gypsy Ballroom. It was all the same difference to Hermione; Severus couldn't very run away if he was working, and he was more likely to keep his tenuous grasp on his temper if there were strangers watching.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, leaning across the bar in that boneless way of his. "Besides buggering the clear and precise use of language?"

He couldn't make anything easy, could he?

"I'd like to talk," she said, holding level despite her rapidly deflating sense of purpose. The entire business was already going poorly.

"About?" he asked archly, drawing the word out long.

Her answer was derailed by a young man stepping behind the bar beside Severus. He had dark hair, sheared close to his skull, and rippling muscles making a show of themselves under his tight black t-shirt. What would have been a perfect imagine of masculine pulchritude was marred by a pair of ears that stuck out like jug handles.

"Hey, Steve, this your old lady?" he asked, showing off a complete set of perfect white teeth. Seriously, Hermione was sure she could see every tooth in his mouth when he smiled, and she wouldn't be surprised if he had extras.

Severus looked at him, one eyebrow drawn upwards and a crooked frown. "This is my wife," he drawled. "Dear, this is my fellow slave, Carl."

"Well, the boss is watchin' you two jaw while customers wait," the bartender known as Carl said, wiping his hands on his half apron.

Snape's eyes flitted to a portion in the rear of the club and back again, but Hermione was unable to pick out their destination.

"May I resume my occupation, dear?" he said sarcastically.

"Don't mind me," she answered him breezily.

In fact she preferred it.

And so she waited, waited and watched, as he poured drinks all evening and looked at her through slitted eyes.

It wasn't nearly as dull as it sounded. She was more amused than she should have been by the number of Muggles dressed as witches for the holiday. From time to time, he pushed drinks, exactly the kind she preferred, fruity ones with lots of alcohol and little paper umbrellas, toward her. More than that, watching him pour, mix and stir, was like watching the pale shadow of the potions maker. His long hands were graceful with the bottles and the multicoloured liquids glittered in the dim light of the club. Hermione wondered if his magic subtly, or not so subtly, affected the drinks he poured. After all, Millie's cakes were like something elves baked, and Draco's roses grew and bloomed more in three months than Muggle tended flowers did in three years.

Objectively, she'd never had a better tasting mixed drink than the ones served to her by Severus Snape. Magical power like his had to come out somehow. Or perhaps he was simply good at mixing things?

University seemed mundane in comparison. Nonetheless, she enjoyed it. Besides, it gave her something to talk to Severus about, back when he used to speak to her.

Suddenly despondent, she laid her chin atop her fist propped up on the table and sighed heavily. She was drunk, and she had every suspicion the bastard had liquored her up on purpose.

"I'm quite on the brink of falling in love with you, you know," she said to his back. The club was loud, and she doubted he heard.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, turning around.

"I seem to be falling in love with you, contrary to my best judgment," she shouted, cupping her hands to form a primitive megaphone.

Severus looked rather unsettled, which made her feel a bit better. Stephen, though, she needed to remember he was Stephen Liston at work. And she was Jane. If she had a pen she would have written their names together inside a heart on her frayed wet napkin.

What had he done to her drink?

She turned it over in her head; it wasn't really feasible of him to really do something to her drink. He didn't have any proper potions ingredients that she knew of, and even if he did, it would be highly unlikely he had stashed them away at the bar, just in case she turned up. Besides all that was the fact that no one despised love potions like Severus Snape, though he was by no means above a drop of Veritaserum in a captive's tea from time to time. Not to mention it would be a stupid mistake to do outright magic; they could get caught.

Severus Snape was many things, but stupid wasn't on the list. On consideration, she couldn't quite remember precisely how many drinks she'd had. She was simply drunk, then. She wasn't sure whether that was a relief or not.

Whatever thoughts may have occurred to her after that were lost. Hermione might have passed out directly after her protestations of impending love, or drifted off later but either way she regained consciousness well after closing time in the back seat of Severus' car.

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" the voice of the single worst driver she knew echoed back at her. It wasn't a question.

Hermione could see him in the rear view mirror, watching her right herself and wipe the drool from her chin with the back of her arm. She hoped he found it charming.

"Where? It's got to be..." she asked.

"Four thirty, a.m. which limits our choices to Dennys or the International House of Pancakes," he said. "Despite the inedible quality of the fare, I find either preferable to subjecting myself to the ministrations of Mrs. Bertolli. I would prefer Bellatrix Lestrange to Mrs. Bertolli, were the truth known; at least with dear Bella, one can always hope for death," he said lightly.

"You're chatty," Hermione said, feeling inane as she rubbed her eyes. Frankly, she was too preoccupied with trying to decide whether she hung over or still drunk to bother walking on eggshells.

"Fortunately for both of us, I was able to reach a rare state of equilibrium while you were embracing Morpheus. I have a sufficient amount of drink taken to ease any undue anxiety that might incidentally arise, while retaining full command of my self-possession," he said.

"Sounds lovely," Hermione said. The Severus Snape she knew didn't "retain full command of his self-possession" even when he was stone sober. He was more piss drunk than she was if he thought he was in control.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a rather pathetic pumpkin sitting on their table, its small flame sputtering.

Hermione neatly, if blearily, lifted the little sodden bag from her stained mug. It was already stronger than she liked her tea. The shabby little chain restaurant was reasonably clean and busier than she imagined.

Across from her, Severus was ripping his tea bag open and allowing the leaves to float freely around the cup.

"Tell me, Miss Granger," he asked as though he were her potions master once more, administering an examination. "What, in your esteemed opinion, constitutes, I believe your phrase was ‘falling in love'. Yes, I believe that was it. What does ‘falling in love' mean to you?"

She couldn't complain that he was being indirect.

Hermione blinked. "In my defence, I was very drunk when I said that. I may still be somewhat pissed."

Snape's usual frown deepened. "So you rescind the statement?"

"No," she said, annoyed. "I was merely attempting to explain myself. For the sake of complete clarity, I believe my exact statement was that I am ‘on the brink of falling in love'."

"Which means what, Miss Granger?" Snape said, pursing his thin lips.

Hermione took a gulp of tea, her head swimming. He was probably constitutionally incapable of making anything easy for her.

"People," he pronounced it as though referring to some form of vermin, "use that word to convey a variety of meanings. It interests me to know precisely what you mean when you say you are ‘on the brink of falling in love', ‘in love with me' specifically. I would like very much to know what you meant when you said those words in that order."

"I meant that I fancy you quite a bit, and I could do quite a bit more than that given the opportunity." She pushed her hair out of her face as she said it.

"So, by ‘fall in love', you mean that you desire congress," he said sourly.

"No, I mean I find you appealing on many levels, and you're a bloody tease..." she said tiredly.

"Miss Granger," he said, taking her to task.

"Oh come off it," she said "Stop playing school master. Or is that what this is about?"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, suddenly on the defensive.

"I think I have every right to inquire exactly when you developed a rather untoward interest in a student in your care," Hermione said, calmly bringing her mug to rest on the table.

"I despised you from the first minute you set foot in the great hall," Snape said.

"Oh really," Hermione said, smiling serenely.

"Yes, really. After a certain number of years with children, it becomes possible to look beyond the trappings of age and see the adult they will become. I knew from the moment I saw you..." Snape stopped short, perhaps it was that much vaunted self-possession in action.

"What did you know from the minute you saw me?" she asked.

"What sort of witch you would become," he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him.

"And what sort of witch is that?" she asked.

His answer was a raised eyebrow.

"You didn't answer me. What sort of witch am I?" she asked. "Never mind, you don't have to answer, because I have another question. First, would you like to be loved, specifically, by me and second, what do you believe love is?"

"You answer first," he said.

"Happily," Hermione said. "I think, I might quite like being loved by you depending how you define the word. I've given the matter some thought..."

"Do tell," Snape said snidely.

"And I have come to the conclusion," she went on undeterred "that love, for me, would require that a man engage me on all levels, emotionally, intellectually, physically."

"What you're looking for is entertainment," he said.

"Don't be insulting," she said.

"What if a man were to fail to meet your expectations? Say he failed to meet your sexual requirements, what then? You'd throw him over for the next shiny object to catch your eye for the high crime of being inadequate in the bedroom?" he said.

"Honestly, I think the sexual aspect would be the easiest to remedy," she said, taking a drink of her tea.

"You do?" he asked. "Your thinking is?"

"It seems obvious to me," she said, warming to the topic, "that if a wizard, if anyone really, is lacking, erotically, if he doesn't have the ability to make love to a witch adequately, it is simply because no one has ever given him a fulfilling sexual experience. Think about it. It is impossible to touch without being touched in return."

Hermione was a bit surprised to see a tinge of pink in Severus' cheeks and waved the approaching waitress toward them.

"Would you care for something to eat?" she asked him. "I am starved."

"The food is horrid."

"You've been here before?"

"I am something of a regular," he said sheepishly.

"What would you recommend?"

"I recommend not eating," he said. "If you choose to ignore my advice, the chips are nearly edible."

"I would like two orders of French fries, and two side orders of toast, please. Oh, and more tea," Hermione said, enunciating clearly to the waitress, then smiling for her to go away.

"Two?" Severus asked.

"One is for you. How would you define love?" she asked.

"I think your interpretation of the word is a perfect example of childish and puerile emotionalism," he said.

"So, you'd prefer to be yoked to someone with whom you had nothing in common whatsoever?" Hermione replied.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Of course not, but I believe that such commonalities are the very beginning of love, not the be all and end all."

"Go on," Hermione said.

"I believe love is a question of a mingling of fates," he said, tension rising.

"I don't believe in fate," Hermione said briskly.

"I'm not talking about Sybill Trelawney's claptrap. What I refer to is a merging of concerns. To find a suitable companion and make their welfare necessary to one's own, to further oneself and to further one's companion being one in the same in such a case, that is love," he said, his eyes fairly glowing with intensity.

"By that definition, you've been in love with me for some time," Hermione said, wondering vaguely where the waitress had got to, she was going to need more tea if she was going to make it through this conversation. "I'm not quite certain what I could do to show similar resolve."

"And why should you?" he said with a strange, dangerous flatness of tone.

Hermione blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The reasons for your appeal are self-evident. What remains to be resolved is an explanation of why a witch such as yourself would give so much as a second glance to a wizard such as myself." He took a drink of his strong, dark tea.

"Well, to start with you saved my life," she said, "which most women tend to find endearing."

Snape waved his hand dismissively.

"You like me," she said.

"Obviously," he said in exasperation.

"Most people don't," she said. "If I hadn't fought that troll in the girl's loo alongside Harry and Ron during first year, my only friend at Hogwarts would have been Neville Longbottom. I thought it would be better when I left school. I mean...I don't know what I mean." Hermione sighed. "Could I get some more tea, please?" she called to the waitress refilling salt at another table a few feet away.

Snape simply stared.

"Before everything that happened," she said, trying to find a way to put it, "in my other life, you know, it always fell flat with wizards when I reached the point of having to have some sort of prolonged conversation. I enjoy talking to you when you'll lower yourself to speak to me."

"And that matters exactly how much?" Snape said, not meeting her eyes but instead toying with a frayed bit of leather at the edge of his sleeve.

"You know what I'm saying. Don't play coy," Hermione said waiving her hand in mimicry of him. "Beside all that, you're brilliant when you aren't busy being nasty. Not just intellectually, I'm referring to magic, grace: a perfect synthesis of power and understanding. You are absolutely glorious when you don't spoil it by being a cunt. I suppose the simplest way to put it is that I like you."

She didn't know when she'd seen Snape look so very uncomfortable, though she wasn't sure if it was from the insult or the compliment.

"So," she said, watching the waitress approach with their order, "I've taken a small step toward marrying our fortunes; I've ordered for you in a restaurant. The next question is whether you are really so uninterested in sex."

Snape blanched visibly, but said nothing.

"You said you weren't a virgin, I'm willing to assume you were telling the truth," Hermione said, as the waitress shoved the steaming plates onto their table.

Snape looked from the waitress to Hermione and back again.

The waitress looked so bored as to be practically inanimate. Hermione busied herself for a moment piling her chips atop one of her slices of toast then dousing the entire business with a generous pouring of catsup before carefully lowering the top slice of bread.

"Catsup?" she offered. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable, but I think we should discuss this. I am more than willing, I am eager to commit to forming a serious, long-term alliance, but you have to make concessions as well. Discussing uncomfortable subjects is at the top of the list."

"Are you interested in anything other than sex?" he said, sullen.

"As a matter of fact I am," she said. "I would also expect you to talk to me about your past and, occasionally, your feelings."

"Do you require that I enjoy these discussions?" he said, tearing a piece of toast in half.

"That is entirely up to you," she said cheerfully.

"Anything else? Would you like me to juggle as well?" he said, shoving a piece of bread into his mouth and chewing with a great show of annoyance.

"Can you juggle?" she asked.

"Under duress," he said. "Do you really think I'm magnificent?"

"If I didn't, would I go through this much trouble on your account? You are quite a pain in the arse," she said, biting into her food.

"Point taken," Snape nodded. "Turn about being fair play, may I ask you uncomfortable questions from time to time?"

"Absolutely," she said swallowing a mouthful of tea. "For the record, before you torture yourself wondering, I have slept with a grand total of 22 wizards since fourth year, but none of them excite me half as much as you do."

"I have had six women," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

"All Muggles?" she asked, his curt nod confirming her suspicion.

"Any of them more than once?" she asked and was rewarded with an unambiguous shake of the head. She could well imagine how these encounters must have gone. He would have been magnetic, and perhaps even suave, until it came to the act itself, leaving some poor Muggle to wonder what sort of train wreck she'd been a party to.

She looked across the table. His eyes hadn't left his plate in some time, and by the look of him, he was doing some sort of deep breathing exercise. She took the opportunity to look him over. He blended quite seamlessly into the Muggle world, but Muggle or Wizard there was an inherent feeling of intensity that radiated from him. She knew he was not exactly the happy-go-lucky sort, and it gave her a certain amount of both thrill and trepidation, not unlike the day she'd received her Hogwarts letter. Whatever else he might be, there was no way a romance with Severus Snape could help but be a great adventure.

"We're agreed, I will do my best to meet your definition of love, and you..." she said.

"By your definition, I have been smitten since Pomfrey fixed your teeth fourth year," Snape said, not looking up.

Hermione had no idea how she was supposed to respond to that. Her best solution was to extend her hand to him across the table. She wasn't sure he even saw it until he locked it quickly between both of his. Looking up at her suddenly, he caught her in that black-eyed gaze of his. How could Muggles not believe in the existence of magic when it poured off Severus Snape like smoke?

"Under the circumstances, I do not believe it would be unreasonable of me to ask for a kiss," he said. It could have been light but no, he hissed the words as if he still expected to be rejected, or worse, mocked.

Hermione was taken aback by the simplicity of the request.

"Not here, of course," he added hastily, "later, in the car."

Then it was Hermione's turn to nod.

As it turned out, after a few awkward moments and minor adjustments, snogging Snape in a parked car wasn't half-bad.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: Special Thanks to Shiv for not allowing this story to run aground on the shore of my literary indolence.