Hilltop Cottage

They ate in a charged silence that was broken intermittently by the clinking of metal spoons on china bowls. They had often sat opposite each other like this, eating and talking about this and that, but they both seemed aware that this time was different.

Severus had opened the wine, but Hermione sipped only lightly at hers. Her brain was already a little addled by the events of the past few hours, not to mention that he was still here, sitting so close that she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. And she did want to.

It felt magnetic, the way she was being pulled towards him. She played with her soup, her head bowed as she thought about him. It was strange how his age, their past as student and professor, and even the war seemed to pale into insignificance. None of it mattered to her at this moment. He was just the man she was suddenly yearning for.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Severus said quietly, leaning back in his chair and draining his wine glass delicately. His movements could be graceful at times, when he was relaxed and not thinking about it. He was watching her intently, and his eyes were dark and smouldering pools of emotion that had never been set free.

Hermione shuddered slightly as she stared into his eyes. Her next words could unleash something that she might not be able to control, but perhaps that was what she wanted? She had been in control for far too long. Throwing down the gauntlet suddenly seemed like the best idea she’d had in ages.

‘I was thinking… about you,’ she said softly, not breaking her gaze.

Severus paled slightly. He hadn’t expected her to be quite so open, but then what else would she be? Whatever thoughts she had been mulling over, she obviously wasn’t going to keep them hidden forever. It wasn’t in her nature. He hadn’t even begun to work on his response before she started to talk again.

‘I don’t think we can ignore what’s happening, Severus. Do you?’ She smiled shyly at him, a light blush grazing her cheeks. She took a sip of wine, and her tongue licked a stray drop from the lip of the glass as Severus watched, enthralled.

‘Indeed. It would be… foolish… to pretend,’ he replied. His eyes were on her lips, and as she smiled widely at him, he lifted his eyes to hers.

‘It would be a leap of faith, though,’ Hermione mused, twirling the stem of her glass between her finger and thumb. ‘I would hate to lose your friendship.’

‘It is a risk,’ he replied quietly, pouring more wine into her glass and refilling his own.

‘Is it worth taking, do you think?’ Hermione looked at him a little warily.

Severus pondered her question carefully. He valued Hermione’s friendship more than anything he had in his life. Possessions, money, and property – none of them were important when compared with what she had given him. Her acceptance of him was everything. She didn’t expect him to apologise for his past or justify his life in any way. He was just Severus, she was just Hermione, and it was what it was.

He took a breath before speaking because she was staring up at him with such a beseeching gaze. Would he disappoint her with his answer?

‘I cannot be anything but what I am, Hermione. You must know that,’ he said softly. He reached across the table and took her hand, holding it lightly by the fingertips and letting them rest on his palm. He ran his thumb along them gently and noticed the remnants of soil beneath her fingertips. ‘Our friendship has been a great surprise to me. A welcome one, but a surprise all the same. To change the nature of that friendship would indeed be a leap of faith. I haven’t entertained the idea of a relationship for many, many years.’ He caught her gaze solemnly.

‘So you think we should stay as we are, then?’ Hermione looked a little crestfallen, and she pulled her hand away from his quickly.

Severus frowned slightly at her abrupt reaction. Was this what he would have to expect? Emotional, changeable and all moods in between, aimed in his direction? He was aware of her volatile nature. Would he be on the receiving end if he put a foot wrong? He had been through enough conflict in his life.

‘We are so very different, Hermione,’ he sighed. ‘And while I find the idea tempting, I fear you would regret it, sooner or later.’

Hermione grabbed his hand in hers and squeezed firmly, forcing Severus to look at her. Her eyes were bright, sparkling slightly from the combination of wine and the reflection of light from the small candles dotted about the room. She ran her tongue over her lip slightly and sat forward in her chair, causing the front of her dress to slip down further. While he was sure it wasn’t done on purpose, Severus couldn’t help but stare down her cleavage at her softly rounded breasts, cupped in white lace. He felt his mouth go dry as Hermione linked her fingers through his, and as he raised his gaze slowly upwards again, he felt simultaneously perverted and encouraged by the quirk on her lips.

‘I won’t know if it’s something I’ll regret, unless we try,’ she said softly.

Her eyes were serious and held a depth of meaning that Severus recognised in an instant. With a growing certainty, he realised he was on a speeding train, Hermione was driving, and she wouldn’t let him get off until they reached their destination.

She smiled at him and whispered a breathy ‘Please,’ and Severus felt his willpower collapse around him.

Clumsily, because Hermione was still holding his hand in a vice-like grip, he stood and walked around to her side of the table, pulling her to her feet slowly. There was a pause as he stared down at her. He was looking at her lips and wondering how the hell he was meant to kiss her. Hermione laughed slightly and stepped closer, and he could feel her body heat. He bent his face to hers awkwardly, and as she moved her face up to him, his mouth met the side of hers, missing her lips roughly. He banged his nose against her cheek, and Hermione caught hold of the front of his shirt as she wobbled slightly, balanced between him and the chair behind her. She laughed again, and in embarrassment, Severus took a step back, pulling away from her.

Hermione said quietly. ‘I’m not very good at this, Severus. You have to give me a chance.’

Her face had taken on a look of despair, and Severus relaxed when he realised she hadn’t noticed his own lack of prowess, but was more concerned about her own. He smiled at her gently.

‘Come here,’ he said, taking her hands in his and pulling her to him. They were on firmer footing, and he smiled again as Hermione slid her hands tentatively to his waist. There was no hesitation this time, and in unison they moved without pause, their lips meeting warmly, pressing into each other. Severus put his hands on Hermione’s lower back, and she gasped slightly, snaking her tongue out and making him groan as she touched his lips with its moist tip.

Suddenly, and it was some small miracle as far as Severus was concerned, they were snogging like a pair of teenagers at the Yule Ball.


***

Hermione awoke the next morning and stretched like a cat that had found a sunny spot. She had slept better than she had in ages, and as she glanced over at her alarm clock, she was heartened to see that it was still early. Pushing back the duvet, she stumbled from the room and into the bathroom. After using the loo, she stood at the sink to wash her hands and glanced at her face in the mirror. Her lips were red and full, almost as if she had taken a punch. She grinned to herself, running her fingertips across her mouth. Her lips still tingled, and she flushed slightly as she recalled the details of the previous evening.

They had eventually made it to the sofa, where Hermione had curled up around Severus cosily, and they had kissed some more. So much more that they’d been so worked up, they had to eventually agree to call it a night. Despite Hermione’s growing desire for him, she wasn’t a girl who would have had sex on the first date. With shame, however, Hermione knew she would have leapt at the chance and at him, if he had offered. But ever the gentleman, Severus had taken his leave, promising to return the next evening for their usual night in front of the television.

With a spring in her step, Hermione washed and dressed for the day. She scrabbled around in her drawer and found her wand and then fished out her witch’s robes, stuffing them unceremoniously into her rucksack. Today, she was going back to the life she had left behind, if only for a few hours. It felt strange and a little exciting, but she was eager to get it over with so she could come home to Severus.

Hopping down the stairs quickly, Hermione grabbed the phone and called Grab-a-Cab to get her to the station in time for the nine o’clock train. If she was quick, she could be home by teatime and still have plenty of time to get ready for Severus later.
By the time the cab arrived, Hermione was waiting by the gate with her rucksack over her shoulder and impatiently pursed lips. To add insult to injury, the driver was Mike the Creep. She plastered a false smile onto her face and climbed into the back seat.

‘Hi, Mike,’ she said politely.

‘Morning, Miss. On your travels again?’ He caught her eye in the rear view mirror, and Hermione nodded.

‘Yes. London, actually.’ She averted her gaze and watched as the hedgerows down the side of the lane sped by.

‘Very nice too. Me and the Missus, we like a good show, you know,’ he said cheerfully, grinning at her.

Hermione smiled at him briefly and then closed her eyes to signal the end of the short chat. She wasn’t going to tell Mike her business. She just wanted to get to the station.

Hermione peered through half-closed eyelids as they entered Market Street and then turned left into Station Road, and with relief and a buzz of anticipation, she stepped from the car, paid Mike his money, and went into the station, buying a return ticket to London Kings Cross.

***

Mike the Creep (who’s name was really Cathcart) was having a nightmare of a day. He couldn’t remember such a busy Thursday, and it irritated him no end. Thursday was chippy day, and the girls at The Crispy Cod were always ready with a bit of banter and some extra scraps of batter for his lunch.

But lunch would probably turn to supper the way things were going. He tried to avoid the hiss and crackle of his radio, and Gladys, the perm-haired harridan on the call desk, was starting to shriek painfully. He had already taken eight calls since the nice Miss Mellor called him out to Hilltop Cottage, and he found himself wending his way up Whittle Bank Road yet again to pick up Mr Horridge, who lived at the bottom end of the lane. As he passed the Mellor house, he saw a tall, dark haired man opening the gate, carrying the largest bunch of chrysanthemums he had ever seen. He shrugged and carried on to the end of the road where old man Horridge was waiting. After seeing him safely strapped in, because the old bloke was so wobbly he had been known to tip sideways around sharp bends, Mike turned the car around and drove slowly back down the street.

As he reached Miss Mellor’s cottage, he stopped and wound his window down. The dark haired chap was knocking loudly on the door and calling some weird name through the letterbox. ‘Poor sod. Better put him out of his misery,’ he thought.

‘She’s not there, mate,’ he yelled loudly.

The tall man turned and stared down his nose in Mike’s direction.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he replied.

‘The young woman. She’s not there, mate.’ Mike pointed a stubby, nicotine-stained finger at the house.

The man walked back down the path, carrying the flowers limply. As he came closer, Mike was shocked at his dark, steely glare and felt tempted to wind his window up and drive quickly away. The man frowned down at him imperiously.

‘Explain,’ he said, his voice low and smooth.

‘I picked her up this morning. She said she was going to London, so I guess you’ve missed her,’ he said carefully.

Puzzled, Mike stared as the man withdrew a long, dark stick from his sleeve and heard him whisper an odd, foreign sounding word like ‘legumes’ or something. Then, he was watching images inside his head, like a film, of him collecting young Miss Mellor and then their little chat in the car. The last thing he saw was the woman walking purposefully into the railway station with her rucksack on her back.

Then the dark haired man was pale and trembling in front of him, and the flowers in his hand were shaking so much that their petals were falling like confetti onto the tarmac. He was still holding the bit of stick, and he pointed it at old man Horridge shakily, whispering, ‘Obliviate.’

He turned to Mike and pointed the stick at him.

But he didn’t remember any of it.

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