Birthday

One-shot.

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“So, Professor Snape,” a slightly intoxicated Hermione asked when he opened the door to his chambers, “do you have enough brandy in your cupboard to get me completely sodding drunk?”

As expected, he raised an eyebrow at her. “I imagine something could be arranged, Professor Granger.” He stepped back from the doorway so she could enter the room. “Although why you have decided to come here for your libations admittedly escapes me, as I understood you spent your Friday nights in Hogsmeade with Madam Pince and Minerva.”

She nodded, making herself at home in the surprisingly soft armchair before the fire as he crossed the room and poured her a substantial drink. “Tonight, Professor Snape, I intend to be morose over my passed youth.” He handed her a delicate snifter and she lifted it to her lips. “Tomorrow is my thirty-fifth birthday.”

“Hmm, Happy Birthday then, Professor,” he murmured, taking his own glass off the side table and raising it to her before downing it and pouring himself several fingers more of what appeared to be firewhiskey. He caressed the rim of the glass with a finger and regarded her thoughtfully. “I’m still waiting for that moment of clarity when I understand why you have chosen to spend your last evening as a 34-year-old in my dungeons.”

“Well, you do have the sobering and hangover potions close by.” He raised the eyebrow again, waiting, sipping his drink.

“Oh, all right,” Hermione sighed. “I’m here because I’m not thrilled about this milestone and I don’t want to be cheerful or cheered up and you’re the only person here who dislikes me enough not to try to make me feel better. Happy now?”

He smirked at her and sat down in the chair opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him and resting his head back. “Perfectly.”

She rolled her eyes. “Plus there’s no point in trying to feel sorry for yourself about turning 35 when your companions are perfectly content spinsters in their 90s.”

“Indeed,” he snorted. “Spinsters, eh? I suppose Minerva does have an affinity for cats.”

“She would hate the designation, I suppose. And in truth it’s not entirely appropriate. She’s rarely without male companionship when she wants it.”

Snape held up a hand and looked slightly pained. “Stop right there, Miss Granger. We shall not pursue that line of conversation, as Minerva is almost a mother to me and there is absolutely nothing I want to know about Irma Pince’s personal life. I prefer to think that she shrinks herself to the size of a figurine and lives on a shelf in the Restricted Section.”

Hermione giggled. “Well, I suppose in Irma’s case she is firmly on the shelf…”

Snape groaned and gave her that pained expression again, walking over to retrieve the bottle and topping off her drink, which she had been downing quite liberally. She sipped it more carefully, watching him thoughtfully as he returned the bottle to the cabinet and moved languidly toward his chair.

“Why did you never marry, Professor?” He looked up at her, slightly shocked at the question. “I mean, Voldemort's been dead for 17 years.”

He looked pensive for a moment, sipping his drink as if trying to decide how—or whether—to answer her, then shrugged. “Lack of opportunity, I suppose, really.”

She furrowed her brow. “What? I don’t understand that.” He looked askance and she rushed to clarify. “I mean, I’ve never known you to date anyone…but you had scads of women chasing you after the war.”

“All of them far more interested in the Order of Merlin – whether its stipend or the social contacts it could procure – than in Severus Snape,” he pointed out, and she nodded, slightly discomfited by the sound of his given name. Had she ever heard him refer to himself by name before? She wondered how long he’d been drinking before she arrived…

“I suppose…” his voice trailed off as he thought and she waited tensely through the silence, stunned at the thought that she was really having this discussion with him. He stretched out again before speaking, the casual posture betraying how relaxed his inhibitions were. “Well, you’ve been the recipient of my temper often enough to know how little patience I have. I suppose I simply never thought that readily available and free sex was worth the constant presence of a dunderheaded female in my private chambers.” Hermione bit back a chuckle. “And truly intelligent and worthy women tend to have their pick of far more handsome men than I.” He sipped his firewhiskey and inhaled slightly to enjoy the burn. “So…lack of opportunity.”

Hermione was studying him pensively. “You’re not unattractive, you know. You’re really quite dashing. You sound like you think you couldn’t compete for the affection of the women you’d want.”

He leveled an icy gaze at her. “Miss Granger, it is only your longstanding position as a valued colleague that is preventing me from throwing you out after that remark – that and the fact that I know you had a shot of firewhiskey before you came down here so you’re too drunk to control your blasted Gryffindor tongue.”

She raised her hands in defense. “Sorry, sorry.” She met his eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you mad, although only you would get mad at a compliment, which is what it was, you batty old man.” He glared at her and she rolled her eyes. “It’s just that what you said really did surprise me—I’ve never known you to sound the least bit insecure about anything.”

“Realism is not insecurity, Miss Granger.”

“And self-deprecation is not realism,” she retorted.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not being self-deprecating or insecure, Miss Granger. You did ask and for some absurd reason I’m indulging your curiosity. Consider it your birthday present.” She snorted and he smirked slightly. “I’m not married because most women simply aren’t attracted to the combination of my eccentric appearance and my challenging temperament. The rare ones who find me interesting tend to imagine that love will transform me into a man of generous and affectionate spirit.” Hermione snorted again, trying not to laugh outright at his droll assessment. “And I can’t say I’ve ever met a woman who actually was attracted to me because of my personality…”

He expected another laugh at that, but Hermione only murmured a soft hum, somehow both inquisitive and affirmative. She was watching him intently, over the rim of her glass and he found the scrutiny oddly disconcerting.

“More brandy, Professor Granger?” he said, rising and stepping to the cabinet to refill his glass.

“Mmmm, yes, please,” she commented, and he brought the bottle over and spashed another generous portion into her snifter. ‘You know, Sev old boy, she is probably drunk enough,’ he thought to himself, but squelched the voice of his conscience and returned the bottle to the cabinet.

She was still watching him when he returned to his seat, and he was still disconcerted by it.

“You must be thinking terribly hard, Professor Granger, to be quiet for so long.”

She smiled indulgently at him. “I was thinking that those women who were attracted to you but wanted to change your personality couldn’t really have been all that intelligent after all.”

He sighed. “Perhaps. But I imagine that it is more…well.” He didn’t seem to know how to verbalize his thought, which she found even more strange than having this conversation with him. “Being attracted to me is a bit perverse, isn’t it?” She opened her mouth to protest and he cut her off, smirking. “Not that I have anything against a little perversion, mind you.” She rolled her eyes at him yet again but allowed him to continue. “I suppose what I’m saying is that while there are of course women who find me physically attractive, and even a few who tolerate my grouchiness enough to be intrigued by an affair with me, what most women really want in the end is an affectionate, domesticated husband who will take care of them and their children and give them all the little joys of family life.”

He looked over at Hermione, who now just looked intrigued by what he was saying. “And while I would not object to having a family, I’m not domesticated. I’ll never be particularly affectionate. Although I am protective in my own way, I would expect a woman to take care of herself on an ordinary basis. I could possibly be persuaded to go to Honeydukes for chocolate when she’s experiencing her lunar-induced anxiety attacks,” Hermione laughed aloud at that description, “I can’t imagine that I could also be persuaded to cosset her. I suspect we would fight and bicker more than the average woman could stand. And I suspect she would be dissatisfied with the fact that I almost never—this particular conversation notwithstanding and entirely a testament to why alcohol is a vice—willingly discuss anything more intimate than the latest issue of Ars Alchemica.”

Hermione smiled.

“Add to that the fact that I am, no matter how reformed, still a dark wizard, and the result is that while plenty of women are attracted to the idea of me, very few are up to taking on the reality of a lifetime with me.”

Snape furrowed his brow slightly, staring into the fire with his glass resting against his chest. She saw him breathe in the whiskey and smiled slightly, curling sideways in the chair and relaxing.

Her voice was soft. “The more fool they, I say.” He turned his head, brow still furrowed, and she held her glass out, raising it so he could see the reflection of the firelight through the amber liquid. “You’re like this brandy, Severus.” She saw him start at the unfamiliar sound of his first name and she smiled faintly.“A lifetime might be just long enough to comprehend your complexity.”

She saw him swallow, still looking confused. “That’s very poetic, Miss Granger, but complexity is really just a polite word for difficult.” She smiled again; he had abandoned the confessional mode and reverted to his usual dry tone.

“Difficult things are so much more satisfying, Severus, to those who have the capacity to comprehend them.” He was looking down now, at the empty glass resting against his hand or perhaps at the fringe around his elegant rug. Hermione realized she really was making him uncomfortable and brightened her tone. “Besides, I think your personality is only difficult because it’s so brutally honest. You’ve never lied to me, not once in over twenty years. I’m bossy but I often wish I could care as little as you do whether people think I’m nice.” He snorted and she closed her eyes, voicing her thought without being completely aware of it. “If you liked me even a little bit I would pursue you relentlessly.”

She opened her eyes at Snape’s quick intake of breath and saw him walking over to the potions cabinet. “I believe, Miss Granger, that you have had too much to drink…”

She interrupted him. “Then give me a sobering potion and I’ll tell you it’s true.” She laughed. “Hell, give me veritaserum. I’m not lying to make you feel better. You didn’t sound like you’re sitting up at night sobbing over it.”

He snorted again, but she saw him touch the latch on the drawer where he kept the more powerful potions, and she decided she might as well tell the truth on her own as under the influence.

“I’ve been defending you to my friends since I was eleven, Severus, even when you made me cry.” His hands fell away from the drawer, resting against the table beneath the cabinet and he turned slightly so she could just see the edge of his profile, illuminated by the firelight.. “After you…after the incident on the Tower” – she saw him incline his head at her tact and the memories – “I prayed to Merlin and my parents’ muggle God every night that something would happen to explain it away and bring back the Professor Snape who protected us and pushed us and who HAD to be good underneath that snide personality and veneer of darkness, and when you were vindicated I don’t think I’ve ever been as grateful for anything else in my life save Voldemort’s death.” He was gripping the table and leaning over, his back to her now, and she closed her eyes and leaned back into the chair. “I think you’re extraordinary, and I think I can probably attribute every success I’ve ever had to trying to be good enough for you.”

He turned his entire body to her suddenly. “Miss Granger…”

“Oh, don’t get all worked up about it.” She waved her hand at him. “You know I’m only telling you because I’m too drunk to think it through, and you don’t have to let me down easily or any nonsense like that.” She sighed and finished the last drops of her drink, standing up and putting it on the occasional table next to her chair. “I’ve known for years you could barely tolerate me. I suppose I’m here because the only thing I’ve done in my 34 years that makes me really really happy is getting you to be enough of a friend that I could come here.”

“Hermione…” he protested again, and she started at the sound of her first name, looking at him.

“Blimey,” she breathed. “That sounds even better than I imagined it would…” She stared at him, a slightly dazed expression on her face as she rolled the memory of him saying her name around in her mind. “You’d better not say it again. At least not when I’m too intoxicated to control myself.”

He was still watching her, his hands clenched into fists and his expression intense. “You’ve imagined my saying your name?”

“Constantly.” She smiled at him, weaving a little, and he stepped closer to her. “We’re almost friends, but that formality is always there, stopping us from growing any closer…” She reached her arm out toward him and swayed again, and he stepped close enough to hold her steady, catching her by the elbows so her hands rested on his upper arms. “But it never sounded as good in my fantasies as it does when it's really you…”

Her voice drifted off as she gazed at him dazedly. She’d never been this close to him, face to face, and it made her even dizzier. She realized she had forgotten to breathe when he spoke. “You want us to be closer?” he murmured, and she felt his warm breath laced with whiskey against her face.

She nodded, and forced herself to inhale. “How much closer do you want us to be?” he murmured again and that breath raced out of her lungs as her eyes met his. She slid her hands up to his shoulders, stepping toward him so that the swell of her breasts pressed up against his chest. His hands slipped to the small of her back and she panted slightly at the intimate contact.

One of her hands slid down his chest, and she felt his fists clench in reaction. He bent his head toward her, trapping her hand between them. His chest rose and fell underneath her hand as he spoke, and the oddest mixture of nervousness and what seemed to be happiness, of all things, was in his voice as he murmurred in her ear. “And what urges would you cease to control, Miss Granger, if I said your given name again?”

She leaned back so she could see his face, sliding her hand to his cheek. “The urge to offer myself to you, body and soul, heart and mind, for as long as you would have me.”

The arms around her waist tightened, pulling her up and against him. “A sincere offer, Miss Granger?” His open mouth grazed the skin of her shoulder and she gasped. “One you would want me to accept, or one you would regret in the morning when you were sober again?”

“No!” She twisted in his grasp so she could see his face. “No, Severus, never regret. Not if you wanted me even a fraction as much as I want you.”

He groaned at that and lifted her in his arms again, pressing soft kisses against her neck where his mouth had only brushed before and she gasped. He was kissing her! She had wanted him for fifteen years, and she was in his embrace, his arms holding her against him and his mouth roving over her neck and throat. Completely captivated by the feel of his body against hers, she relaxed against him and he stumbled back into his chair, pulling her into his lap.

“I never knew,” he whispered, guiding her head to rest against his chest and curling around her.“I thought you were being generous, befriending your lonely old professor in his bleak dungeons, or just trying to get at my books.” She laughed a little at that and felt his answering chuckle. “I never imagined…”

“Don’t ever say you’re alone for lack of opportunity again, Severus.” She pulled back slightly so she could see him. There was that happiness again, reaching his eyes for the first time she could remember. "I’m your opportunity.”

Intensity and passion replaced the smile in his expression as he held her gaze, breathing raggedly. He slid his hand into the curls at her neck and just before his lips finally reached hers, he whispered, “Hermione.”