“beyond wandpoint” 031 by gingerbred
“11 09l Sunday - The Wedding Dinner”
Severus and Hermione, Sunny
Originally Published: 2017-12-04 on AO3
Chapter: 031
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Dinner comes and goes, and Madam Pomfrey is kind enough to bring Hermione a tray of food. She tucks in with little relish, idly thinking as she pokes at it listlessly that this is her wedding dinner. Exceedingly mushy peas and mash. A leg of rubbery chicken. The food at Hogwarts is usually quite good, and she’s wondering if the mediocrity of the meal is a coincidence, an omen or simply imagined, entirely a subconscious projection on her part.
Severus rouses a little at the smell of food. He blinks about as his eyes struggle to focus and then spots the young woman, somehow still seated beside him. He can feel her nervousness lapping in waves across the bond, her unrelenting shame, lovely, and barely conscious though he is, he fights to Occlude against it. It shouldn't be this difficult, he can Occlude reasonably well, stunningly well actually, through the Cruciatus, for Merlin's sake. He wonders why this is proving so difficult and decides it's the accumulated toll of the weekend's events getting to him. He's gravely underestimating how invasive the bond's link is, but will soon have to reevaluate it in the days to come.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Hermione tries for an upbeat tone. The Calming Draught is still in effect, and it certainly makes a difference. "Would you like something to eat?" She offers him her tray, which he eyes with about as much glee as she had, and then she thinks the better of it and pulls it back. That garners her a raised eyebrow. He hasn't eaten since Friday; he's hungry enough to reach for it even if it isn't particularly appetising. But given that, she's convinced overly salted, rubbery chicken might not be the best way for him to start out. She calls out for Madam Pomfrey, who appears almost immediately, slightly put out, but a polite request for food for the Professor soon has the Matron bustling about happily.
"I'll be right back with something suitable."
Apparently that would be gruel.
He tucks in with little relish, idly thinking as he pokes at it grumpily that this is his wedding dinner. Splendid. Gruel. He's hardly an optimist, but he had dared to envision that his wedding feast, were he one day to marry, would consist of, or at least include, solid foods, and that the food, whatever form it took, would at least be... edible. The food at Hogwarts is usually very good, for school meals, and he’s deliberating if this is some kind of omen, or a subconscious projection on his part, or if he's just being typically difficult.
He pokes at it some more. The best he can say in its defence is that it doesn't possess the temerity to poke back. Small mercies. Although he's feeling well enough now to possibly be able to defend himself against it. Fucking hell. He's not even being particularly facetious. He thinks with a shudder about how helpless he'd been Friday night.
In a fit of pique he'll immediately regret, he snatches up the bowl from his tray and dashes it against the far wall. It's satisfying for all of half a second until the witch next to him jumps, not surprisingly completely startled. He can feel her discomfort through the bond despite his Occluding, and he pulls himself together and reaches for his wand and soon Vanishes the mess and Banishes the now empty tray to the kitchens.
And then he apologises. Yet again. "I beg your pardon, Miss Granger. It's been... a trying weekend."
"No worries, Sir. I feel much the same way about their porridge. I'd probably have done the same had I dared." She gives him a soft, tentative smile which he finds himself returning, thankful that she seems willing to overlook the childish outburst.
When she follows up by offering him some of her chicken once more, he decides he could almost come to like her. He's easy that way when he's hungry. Or maybe that's 'thoroughly cantankerous'. It's one or the other; he's not sure which.
He reaches for the proffered drumstick eagerly, pausing to eye her only for a second wondering if she'll pull it away again. She chuckles when she recognises the reason for the moment of hesitation and smiles more broadly, "It's all yours. Please, help yourself."
At which he takes a bite with some gusto.
That coincides with her, "But I fear it's not very good either."
His expression signals his complete agreement. He places the drumstick back with some annoyance on what now seems to have become their communal plate. "No, it's really not." His lips press together tightly.
She has only a moment to wonder what he's thinking before he seems to take a decision. He grabs his wand, flicks the door shut, and calls "Sunny!" A soft crack of Apparition later, the small house elf from Friday evening, absurdly in what seem to be miniature black robes, appears on the far side of the bed.
"Master of Potions, Sir?" he, presumably Sunny, enquires.
"What are the chances of you scrounging up two reasonable dinners for us?"
"Sunny is most happy to help Sir. Sir wants dinners, Sir has dinners." The elf pauses and then can't seem to restrain himself any more. Indicating Hermione, perhaps recognising their rings or, Severus thinks, maybe it's some other arcane house elf magic, Sunny prompts, "Who is lady, Sir?"
Severus' lips press together more tightly than before, but he manages a reasonably civil sounding, "My bondmate."
Sunny can hardly contain his glee. "Mistress of Potions!"
As that is quite clearly not a title she has earned, Hermione immediately corrects him gently, "Not yet, I'm afraid. Maybe some day."
Severus wonders briefly why her answer pleases him, and then decides it's because it pays respect to the years he spent learning his trade. He's known some... spouses of Potions Masters or Mistresses over the years to avail themselves of the title, as though the simple fact of marriage could equate with all his hard work. He... approves.
That approval lasts until Sunny speaks again, "Then Mistress of Master of Potions!"
"No!" Hermione and Severus both cry out in unison. Severus pales, simply mortified, Hermione on the other hand goes a very becoming shade of pink. Her hair still has that soft waterfall break over her face which Severus endeavours to ignore. When she feels she can finally safely meet his eyes, she raises her head and faces Severus, and with a faint huff of laughter asks, "Do you have any suggestions for him?"
"I think a simple 'Mistress' will suffice, Sunny. Thank you." The elf nods solemnly and Apparates away, probably to fetch them some grub, as the tray between them has now disappeared as well. Severus turns to Hermione, inclines his head deferentially and adds, "At least until you've completed your own apprenticeship."
"That seems more than fair." She bites her lip and then continues, "I take it Sunny is the previously mentioned house elf."
Severus nods, "He's been with me for years. I'm reasonably sure he's saved my life on more than one occasion, and his continued presence is not up for discussion, we are clear?"
"Quite, Sir." Her head bobs somewhat nervously, but she goes on, "I hardly imagined you'd permit me to come in and turn everything topsy-turvy, and you were very clear in advance." She swallows, but it's a matter of a deeply held personal conviction, so she asks, "You said he was remunerated?"
The woman and her damned house elf rights cause... "In a culturally correct fashion. Yes."
"Culturally correct..." She hasn't a clue.
"You wouldn't give your working dog Galleons or pounds; you'd feed him something healthy, brush his coat, play ball. Your loyal Alsatian guard dog who prevents a spot of B&E, or the sheep-herding border collie who never fails to 'come by', you'd reward him with the occasional meaty bone, but he'd have precious little use for money."
It makes perfect sense, and so naturally she can't bring herself to admit it. It smacks too much of defeats from days past, and a grievous oversight, or ten, on her part. So she goes in a completely different direction. A noncommittal shrug is as far as she seems able to acknowledge the sense of what he says, and instead responds "I don't have much experience with dogs, except to wave in passing at the neighbour's. I've only ever had cat of my own."
"A cat... of course you do." A vague memory from Grimmauld Place comes to mind. Damn and damn again. "And it will need to move in... of course it will." He's pinching his brow. All in all, he's still incredibly slow. He's having a very hard time shaking off the effects of the weekend. How could he have forgotten the half-kneazle?
He's resolved not to sigh. He gives his head a fatalistic nod and says, "Just what I always wanted and never knew I needed... a pet."
Hermione would feel guilty about inconveniencing him yet again, except the statement tickles her too much to do so. Instead, she releases a sardonic huff of amusement and interjects, "I should have thought the 'bondmate' part of this weekend's surprises was worse."
He just blinks in response and remains silent. She's right of course, but he'd been battling not to think of it. And in a rush, it strikes him, she represents a living, breathing embodiment of a guarantee that he'll never, ever be loved. Ever.
If he were to survive, which he won't, but it's nice to dream, no one will ever be able to become closer to him. Having presumed the impossibility of survival, he further imagines an almost equally improbable person inclined to feel some manner of affection for him. It's admittedly incredibly vague as there is no such creature, never has been, it's more of a concept frankly, but still... And then he tries to come to terms with the fact the Fidelity Vow will prohibit it.
He has a moment of shock at the realisation of it, and his face goes slack. It's terribly stupid, really, as he had been the one to try to explain the significance of the Vow to her. Although, to be fair, the near complete unlikelihood of his survival means she's probably not similarly damned. The Protection Vow all but assures she'll outlive him. But somehow he had failed to apply the same logic of the Vow's restrictions to himself.
It's almost impossible not to hate her viewed in that light.
And then she starts, seeming to feel that all too clearly through their bond. He feels her responding moment of blind panic and Occludes severely.
The flare of burning hatred she was certain she had just felt coming from him is replaced almost as quickly as it occurred by... nothing. There's no better way to describe it than as a void. Just as cold as she imagines space is, and every bit as much of a vacuum. It's not pleasant, but on balance, it's preferable to blistering hatred, of that she's sure.
Every doubt she had about... this from earlier comes crashing back, as though rushing to fill that void. The Draught is still helping, and it's not nearly as bad as before. The sensation is less intense, and much less of a surprise, but she's reminded again how revolted he was at this solution, at having her for a bondmate, and her shame intensifies. She feels sick.
The tension is broken when two trays suddenly appear, one hovering in front of each of them. Silently, Hermione pushes hers away from her a little. It's a soup, still not solid food, but at least it smells delicious. Severus gloats that this is now her moment for childish responses, refusing what promises to be a good meal out of spite, until it becomes obvious she was just making room to get to her feet and does. Without a single word and keeping her face downcast, unwilling to meet the Professor's eyes, she makes to take her tray and leave the little room. In the wake of his intense reaction before, it seems prudent.
And just as suddenly as the trays appeared, he realises that, her leaving, his eating alone, both of them eating separately, solitarily, would be even more depressing a dinner, regardless the fare, than the gruel he'd unceremoniously chucked at the wall.
So he asks her to stay. "Please don't leave."
Despite the intense shame she evidently feels, shame, no doubt, for having been bonded to him, the shame that never seems to stop buffeting him through their bond, shame that's wearing him down with its unwavering, inexorable presence... she's been nothing but deferential and polite.
He can't apologise. Not for his feelings. It would mean admitting things he has no intention of ever giving voice to. And he's not truly sorry for the sentiment; he feels completely justified in that. But he is sorry for the hurt it apparently inflicted. And he can try to convince her to remain.
When she still doesn't turn to face him but hesitates at the door, he repeats the request and expands on it.
"Please, Miss Granger. There's no need to leave. Join me, wouldn't you?" She turns to face him, and he waves one of his elegant hands at her chair in invitation. When she then proceeds to return, albeit slowly, to take a seat, Severus ventures to tease, "At the very least because if Poppy sights you out there with different and, dare I even say palatable, food, she might become suspicious of my closed door and investigate." When she grins a little in response, he keeps it up, "It wouldn't do to have her come confiscating my hard blagged dinner."
"You know me too well, Sir. I'd hate to see an elf's hard work be for naught." He raises an eyebrow as though affronted. "Or yours," she hastens to add, but her accompanying smile would seem to indicate they're fine. And just like that, somehow it's... alright.
The trays themselves aren't at all the same as the ones they'd had before. The last trays had been utilitarian. These are not. They're more decorative than useful, somehow, lacking a lip to keep things from spilling. Presumably there are Charms to sort that. She battles the urge to test that. But with these much larger, dark wooden slabs hovering in front of one, they impart a feeling of dignity the other trays seemed to rob the user of. It's a little like sitting at a well appointed table. In sections. Odd, but not unpleasant.
The table linens and cloth serviettes go a ways towards creating that impression. The tableware appears to actually be silver. A cruet with delicate crystal and silver pepper pot and saltcellar materialises beside her, floating unneeded between them, as the dish will prove to be perfectly flavoured. Candlesticks, too, suddenly appear, hovering around them, their tapers casting a soft light as a couple of the room's sconces flicker and then extinguish.
It all makes the meal seem somehow more grand than the usual fare. Small crystal vases appear on each of their trays, each holding a decorative nosegay, asters, presumably what was still blooming at the moment, dotted with thistle seed-heads amidst sprigs of evergreens, with a cornflower in his small arrangement.
Severus stares at it for a moment and snorts a little derisively. With a small flick of a finger, he vanishes the cornflower. Taking it all in, looking about demonstratively, he quips, "I feel underdressed."
She gives him a shy smile, raises her wand and enquires, "May I?" which explains nothing of her intent.
Severus couldn't begin to explain why he trusts her, especially as he'd only just offended her moments ago, but he nods and she flicks her wand and transfigures his hospital gown black. He raises an eyebrow, but makes no other move to stop her, and so she flicks and waves again, and suddenly he's sporting a collar and then a row of highly polished, purely decorative little black buttons appears down the front. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever, and the short-sleeved garment is still very clearly recognisable for what it is, but it seems... appropriate somehow, sat here as they are in the Infirmary after all.
It occurs to him to be relieved she's no longer in formal togs either. She's changed out of the dress robes she was wearing before and back into her ubiquitous jeans. That relief holds until his glance at her reveals... far too much of her exposed beneath the blanket she's once again wrapped in, or so he thinks for a fleeting moment, until a closer look, which he won't even begin to try justifying, leads to the discovery that her top is lined. Small mercies. It looks like ravenous moths have eaten half of it, possibly more. Decoratively. He assumes this is lace, he just isn't sure why it's permitted. He finds himself once again willing the blanket to more thoroughly... blanket her. It appears this might become a regular phenomenon.
When that, naturally, once again fails to yield results, he nods instead at the outcome of her Transfigurations to his gown and intones sombrely, "That makes all the difference," to which she laughs in response. Severus also couldn't explain if pressured, but he knows for a fact she's not laughing at him. It's a happy laugh, appreciating their situation. Pleasant enough.
A fair deal happier with the spread as well, they attack their meals with a vigour previously absent, even if it is only soup, and it is in fact good. Incredibly good. Delicious, even.
Additionally, the meal would seem to be served in courses, for just as they finish a truly mouth watering barley soup for starters, the next course appears. Roasted quail, not too dry and certainly not rubbery, with sides that make them long for more. It would also appear their plates are not quite the same. She has far more gravy for the fowl and more of the candied orange relish served along side. The veg and potatoes differ. Severus suspects Sunny is keeping an eye on his diet, given his weakened state. And yet he greatly appreciates the hints of flavour provided.
For her, there are baby potatoes with rosemary and oven roasted garlic she cautiously pushes to the side, drizzled generously with olive oil and peppers he suspects his stomach couldn't quite tolerate yet and freshly ground sea salt and cracked pepper. Spring onions that have no counterpart on his plate, and green beans amandine that seem to have lots of bite left in them, but the flash of envy he feels is quickly squelched by his own sides.
For him, duchess potatoes piped into appetising little swirls that have been adequately spiced, kissed regrettably with only faint touches of cheddar and chives, but oven browned to perfection. Baby snow peas, only just tossed with a hint of butter, salt and pepper. Although he can clearly recognise where Sunny has curtailed the spicing and fat, as compromises go, it's well done. In fact, he may even like the snow peas more... But it's also a far more refined offering than the gruel, and he's... he's very grateful.
"Well blagged, Sir," Hermione says in obvious appreciation for the meal, as though the little hums of pleasure she keeps making hadn't made that abundantly clear. She'd be embarrassed if she realised what she was doing. As it is, they serve to make Severus smirk in a bit of harmless amusement. They're both in complete accord as to the quality of the meal, and he... likes that she appreciates Sunny's efforts.
"Sunny's a treasure," he's inclined to agree.
Considering that she hadn't wished to eat the garlic, although it was excellent as flavourings go, she decides that the differences in their meals probably aren't entirely about suiting their individual tastes and so she enquires.
She's observant, he has to give her that. "I expect that Sunny's version of gruel." She looks scandalised at the suggestion and he chuckles, "No, no. The meal's fantastic. I think he's just worried about what I'm eating... all considered. He probably wants to start me off gradually. Several of the other house elves confuse flavour with heat. It's all chillies or pap. There's a world of delectable spice out there most seem to never have heard of."
"Does he prepare it himself?"
"He's never said, and I shouldn't like to give him ideas; I'd be lost without him. But when he has a hand involved in fetching meals, they are always, without exception, better than anything else on offer."
"In that case I'm surprised you ever eat in the Great Hall."
"Only because it's required as a Head of House. And if you pay close attention, you'll notice I don't always eat while there," he explains with a faint smirk.
She had in fact noticed that he sometimes just sat there watching them, and had wondered if he had gastric issues. It wouldn't have surprised her given the work he does for the Order. Now she pictures him going back to his quarters to eat a far better meal all alone. She's glad he at least has a good cook, but it seems a lonely existence.
They take a few more bites and then Hermione works up the courage to ask something else. "Do you think we could have a spot of wine with dinner?"
He's surprised at her cheek, but readily agrees, "I suppose a drop couldn't hurt." He's no sooner said as much than a wine glass appears on each of their trays, containing just a splash. He has to chuckle again, this time at Sunny's antics. The elf and the witch seem roughly equally cheeky.
He's about to savour a sip when precisely that cheeky witch raises her glass. "A toast, Sir? To many happy years." He freezes, unsure how to respond. He's not entirely certain it isn't a cruel joke. But she thaws him a little, encouraging, "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be happy. Come on, for luck." She raises her glass to him again. Looking rather like some shy wild animal, cornered, he finally raises his glass hesitantly to clink to hers.
"Cheers," she chirps, evidently mollified.
"Cheers," he manages back, thoroughly unclear as to why.
The wine is as good as their meals. Sunny really is a treasure.
"It's a good vintage," he says appraisingly, appreciating the elf all the more.
"Juice of the grape," Miss Granger somewhat nonsensically replies, examining her glass. "Fitting, really."
Based on the strange smile she's sporting, he knows he's going to regret this, "How so?"
"Grape," she answers, as though that explained a single thing. His eyebrows encourage her to continue. "It's our portmanteau."
"Our... portmanteau..."
"Well, or 'Snanger' I suppose, but that's not a thing. Has the clear advantage of being distinctive, though... With 'Grape', you'd really never know..." There's a look on his face that has her backtracking. "Portmanteau, you know, Sir, it's..." The look is not improving. Apparently she finds a shred of clue in her glass she keeps studying and completely reverses course, "Could we just pretend I never said anything?"
"Believe me, I am," he answers dryly, but when he sees her face begin to fall, Merlin knows he can feel her nervousness, he relents a little and throws her a lifeline, "If you'd care to join me in doing so, the more the merrier." That wins him a smile, and he can feel her relax again through their bond. Obviously the preferable result.
"Expect to be doing a lot of that then?" She asks with a hesitant smile. Again, his brow prompts her. "Pretending I hadn't spoken?"
"I was considering making it my default approach."
"For the next one hundred and twenty years?" She laughs.
"I'm very imaginative. More than equipped for the task," he answers serenely, choosing not to focus on his unlikelihood of surviving even another year, just for the moment. It occurs to Hermione how she'd thought of herself as imaginative not too long ago, and in precisely what context, and she finds herself biting her lower lip and turning distinctly pink at the memory and the thought of just how imaginative he might be as well...
He couldn't begin to explain her response if he tried.
"One hundred and twenty years?" He asks instead.
"I was rounding. Up, unfortunately. Although you can hardly complain about a dozen decades, more or less. The Ministry of Divine Health reports the life expectancy of the average witch or wizard to be 137¾ years." Of course she knows the fraction. He needs to learn to encourage her imprecision, or this will become tedious quickly. He tries not to snort at the sentiment.
He bites back his first impolite reply. And then his second, and opts for the more neutral, "You are aware I am older than you?"
"Yes, but that's the average wizard. You're hardly average."
It's the strangest thing. She's earnest and sincere. He feels it. This isn't meant to flatter. To ingratiate. It's a statement of fact, just as plainly as the '137¾ years' was. Without the bond, he'd have taken it for a ploy. He gives her a measuring look and then answers, "I believe I can safely say that is something we have in common."
The answering smile is something to which he's quite unaccustomed.
"We should have kept your tray," he announces, trying to distract from her smile. Her enquiring glance has him continue, "It was a beginner's mistake, letting it go. The trick is to Evanesco most, but not all, of the food, and then spread the rest artfully about the plate." He nods sagely.
"Well that's one mistake I made this weekend then. I guess Banishing the tray might have helped though?"
"Honestly? Not really." He chuckles. "Poppy's Charms probably let her know exactly what you've eaten anyway. And if not them, one of her Diagnostic Spells definitely will. It's just nice to pretend to have some effect on what happens here."
Hermione's still trying to accept that he likes teasing. And then she wonders how much truth was really in that last statement. She's beginning to suspect that's how he hides things: in the open, buried under wry humour.
The meal is followed by dessert, a very generous slice of gateau for her, a much smaller, and probably healthier, sad bit of Battenburg for him. Atypically, it's terribly dry, and the marzipan seems a good deal more of a suggestion than a reality, and his envy returns. It's rather ironic, given the praise he just had for the elf's efforts at food sourcing.
When she takes a bite of hers, the unadulterated pleasure on her face brings his envy back in force. That is until she lets out an absolutely scandalous moan. In a flash, he's uncomfortably reminded of the witch's responses under the Potion Friday night, and swallows.
"Sorry, Sir." She apologises, and he's initially unsure for what. She gestures to his plate and then hers, "I could save you some. For later?"
He blinks in surprise. "No, don't be silly. Enjoy your afters." But he continues to watch her eating. "I suppose I can have him serve some up when I'm adequately recovered."
"I'd seriously recommend it," she hums. He'd gathered that much from watching her. On the other hand, there's something nice about a woman who isn't afraid to be seen to enjoy food. He decides to just enjoy her dessert vicariously, watching her till she's finished, except then she stops again to offer him some.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like a bite?" She extends her fork with a bit of the confection balanced on the end. He just stares at it, unsure how to proceed. "Come on," she encourages once more, "It's tradition."
"What is, precisely?" He questions, unable to take his eyes from the bite of dessert.
She blushes a little, but with a reasonable facsimile of dignity states, "Sharing cake." He finally looks up to meet her eyes, and she blushes some more, but still cheerily holds out her fork. "Go on. I won't tell anyone. Live a little." He still doesn't budge, so she tries again, "And I won't tell Sunny. Come on, open up."
And then he finds himself doing so. She tries not to laugh that promising not to report him to the elf seems to have done the trick, particularly as the elf seems to be keeping an eye on them anyway. As Severus' lips close on the fork, he can't believe she talked him round, he finds himself thinking his sweet tooth will be the death of him, but this is probably the exchange between them that is the least difficult to justify this weekend.
Merlin, that stuff is phenomenal. He may have said as much out loud, because she's cheerfully agreeing, "I know, isn't it just?" In a flash of panic, he wonders if he moaned like she did. There's no way of knowing... But he's reasonably certain his eyes shut with appreciation, now that he thinks about it. Making a fool of himself for a morsel of her afters...
And then she slides her chair and tray closer and transfigures a second dessert fork from her unused teaspoon which she offers him and asks if he'd care to join her in the rest. She needn't ask twice. He's prepared to make a complete tit of himself, if need be, for more. Fortunately that proves unnecessary.
It's bliss.
They sit there peacefully, enjoying the feeling that follows an excellent meal, without being overly stuffed, and the trays disappear again from sight.
"Not a soul," he says out of the blue, but she somehow knows he's talking about not telling someone, anyone, they'd shared the cake.
That earns him a ready smile. "I wouldn't dream of it. I promised. And I don't think I even can. That would be one of the benefits of the Loyalty Vow for you right there."
"Clearly worth the effort of bonding for that alone then." He replies in his drawl, but the bond lets her know there's no bite to it. "Actually, we should probably test that. Try telling the next person who comes in."
"But if you give me permission, it's hardly disloyal, is it?"
"You may be right. Damn. Alright, belay that order," he quips. "Tell no one. I'll need to devise some tests for this. Perhaps next weekend. Does that sound acceptable?"
"Consider me at your disposal. I find my calendar fairly open at present." She's left wondering if she's now supposed to try anyway or not. She's not sure she has the nerve to try, unless she's sure he wants her to. But if she's sure then her objection holds... It seems a dubious way to start things off if she's wrong about it. And she's not in a rush. There's no reason not to wait until next weekend. She decides to err on the side of caution.
Feeling suitably fortified, Severus acknowledges it's probably time to deal with the minutiae of her relocation. "You should probably return to the tower and gather some things. Then meet me back here when you're done." He can't quite bring himself to say he'll take her home after. She knows it's implied, and might actually be more comfortable leaving it that way, too.
"For the moment, I'd recommend that you take only what you'll need for the next several days, a week on the outside," he suggests. "I imagine it will simplify things for you greatly if you can avoid returning for necessities for a few days. At least until the news has been announced and everyone has had time to settle. You can have Sunny assist you, if you'd like."
"Thank you, that's very kind, but I actually have most of the things I want here already. Although I guess Sunny could probably go and get a few items of clothing I'd still need, and Crooks and the remaining bits and bobs all on his own."
"Crooks?"
"Crookshanks. My half-kneazle," she answers helpfully.
"Why are your things here?" He asks, zeroing on the thing that seems very wrong.
"The house elves brought them to me," she supplies, rather uselessly. "Polly and Winky," she adds even less helpfully.
"I had assumed," he drawls, eyebrow raised. "But why was it necessary?" When she doesn't answer, he prods, "Did you sustain further injuries Friday beyond your lip?" He's trying to examine her left arm, now hidden again by the blanket and top she's wearing. He'd had the impression it might have been bandaged beneath her blouse before. Her robes, however, had revealed it as unharmed, and he can't quite make sense of it.
"No, Sir. I..." she swallows, and then with a half shrug sort of blurts, "I stayed here with you."
He's at a complete loss for an answer, so he just stares at her for a little while. Finally he settles on, "That seems highly inappropriate."
"Madam Pomfrey said much the same initially," she responds with a touch of humour, "until I pointed out we were supposed to be bonded."
"When did you decide to do this thing?" There's an undercurrent to his question, or perhaps it's the bond, that strongly encourages her not to answer. Wisely, she heeds it. She's now almost positive there's a Chizpurfle close by. She's certain she can hear its claws clicking in the ensuing silence.
"But I hadn't even been asked yet!" He objects forcefully.
There's something about his indignation that strikes her involuntarily as... cute and almost makes her recklessly want to laugh. Almost. Fortunately, she proves able to fight the impulse with some success.
"No worries, Sir. We protected your modesty," she reassures him in a way that now has him worried about a bunch of things that hadn't even occurred to him yet.
He's back to blinking owlishly, but he's saved the embarrassment of a response by a knock at the door.
Severus and Hermione, Sunny
Originally Published: 2017-12-04 on AO3
Chapter: 031
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Dinner comes and goes, and Madam Pomfrey is kind enough to bring Hermione a tray of food. She tucks in with little relish, idly thinking as she pokes at it listlessly that this is her wedding dinner. Exceedingly mushy peas and mash. A leg of rubbery chicken. The food at Hogwarts is usually quite good, and she’s wondering if the mediocrity of the meal is a coincidence, an omen or simply imagined, entirely a subconscious projection on her part.
Severus rouses a little at the smell of food. He blinks about as his eyes struggle to focus and then spots the young woman, somehow still seated beside him. He can feel her nervousness lapping in waves across the bond, her unrelenting shame, lovely, and barely conscious though he is, he fights to Occlude against it. It shouldn't be this difficult, he can Occlude reasonably well, stunningly well actually, through the Cruciatus, for Merlin's sake. He wonders why this is proving so difficult and decides it's the accumulated toll of the weekend's events getting to him. He's gravely underestimating how invasive the bond's link is, but will soon have to reevaluate it in the days to come.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Hermione tries for an upbeat tone. The Calming Draught is still in effect, and it certainly makes a difference. "Would you like something to eat?" She offers him her tray, which he eyes with about as much glee as she had, and then she thinks the better of it and pulls it back. That garners her a raised eyebrow. He hasn't eaten since Friday; he's hungry enough to reach for it even if it isn't particularly appetising. But given that, she's convinced overly salted, rubbery chicken might not be the best way for him to start out. She calls out for Madam Pomfrey, who appears almost immediately, slightly put out, but a polite request for food for the Professor soon has the Matron bustling about happily.
"I'll be right back with something suitable."
Apparently that would be gruel.
He tucks in with little relish, idly thinking as he pokes at it grumpily that this is his wedding dinner. Splendid. Gruel. He's hardly an optimist, but he had dared to envision that his wedding feast, were he one day to marry, would consist of, or at least include, solid foods, and that the food, whatever form it took, would at least be... edible. The food at Hogwarts is usually very good, for school meals, and he’s deliberating if this is some kind of omen, or a subconscious projection on his part, or if he's just being typically difficult.
He pokes at it some more. The best he can say in its defence is that it doesn't possess the temerity to poke back. Small mercies. Although he's feeling well enough now to possibly be able to defend himself against it. Fucking hell. He's not even being particularly facetious. He thinks with a shudder about how helpless he'd been Friday night.
In a fit of pique he'll immediately regret, he snatches up the bowl from his tray and dashes it against the far wall. It's satisfying for all of half a second until the witch next to him jumps, not surprisingly completely startled. He can feel her discomfort through the bond despite his Occluding, and he pulls himself together and reaches for his wand and soon Vanishes the mess and Banishes the now empty tray to the kitchens.
And then he apologises. Yet again. "I beg your pardon, Miss Granger. It's been... a trying weekend."
"No worries, Sir. I feel much the same way about their porridge. I'd probably have done the same had I dared." She gives him a soft, tentative smile which he finds himself returning, thankful that she seems willing to overlook the childish outburst.
When she follows up by offering him some of her chicken once more, he decides he could almost come to like her. He's easy that way when he's hungry. Or maybe that's 'thoroughly cantankerous'. It's one or the other; he's not sure which.
He reaches for the proffered drumstick eagerly, pausing to eye her only for a second wondering if she'll pull it away again. She chuckles when she recognises the reason for the moment of hesitation and smiles more broadly, "It's all yours. Please, help yourself."
At which he takes a bite with some gusto.
That coincides with her, "But I fear it's not very good either."
His expression signals his complete agreement. He places the drumstick back with some annoyance on what now seems to have become their communal plate. "No, it's really not." His lips press together tightly.
She has only a moment to wonder what he's thinking before he seems to take a decision. He grabs his wand, flicks the door shut, and calls "Sunny!" A soft crack of Apparition later, the small house elf from Friday evening, absurdly in what seem to be miniature black robes, appears on the far side of the bed.
"Master of Potions, Sir?" he, presumably Sunny, enquires.
"What are the chances of you scrounging up two reasonable dinners for us?"
"Sunny is most happy to help Sir. Sir wants dinners, Sir has dinners." The elf pauses and then can't seem to restrain himself any more. Indicating Hermione, perhaps recognising their rings or, Severus thinks, maybe it's some other arcane house elf magic, Sunny prompts, "Who is lady, Sir?"
Severus' lips press together more tightly than before, but he manages a reasonably civil sounding, "My bondmate."
Sunny can hardly contain his glee. "Mistress of Potions!"
As that is quite clearly not a title she has earned, Hermione immediately corrects him gently, "Not yet, I'm afraid. Maybe some day."
Severus wonders briefly why her answer pleases him, and then decides it's because it pays respect to the years he spent learning his trade. He's known some... spouses of Potions Masters or Mistresses over the years to avail themselves of the title, as though the simple fact of marriage could equate with all his hard work. He... approves.
That approval lasts until Sunny speaks again, "Then Mistress of Master of Potions!"
"No!" Hermione and Severus both cry out in unison. Severus pales, simply mortified, Hermione on the other hand goes a very becoming shade of pink. Her hair still has that soft waterfall break over her face which Severus endeavours to ignore. When she feels she can finally safely meet his eyes, she raises her head and faces Severus, and with a faint huff of laughter asks, "Do you have any suggestions for him?"
"I think a simple 'Mistress' will suffice, Sunny. Thank you." The elf nods solemnly and Apparates away, probably to fetch them some grub, as the tray between them has now disappeared as well. Severus turns to Hermione, inclines his head deferentially and adds, "At least until you've completed your own apprenticeship."
"That seems more than fair." She bites her lip and then continues, "I take it Sunny is the previously mentioned house elf."
Severus nods, "He's been with me for years. I'm reasonably sure he's saved my life on more than one occasion, and his continued presence is not up for discussion, we are clear?"
"Quite, Sir." Her head bobs somewhat nervously, but she goes on, "I hardly imagined you'd permit me to come in and turn everything topsy-turvy, and you were very clear in advance." She swallows, but it's a matter of a deeply held personal conviction, so she asks, "You said he was remunerated?"
The woman and her damned house elf rights cause... "In a culturally correct fashion. Yes."
"Culturally correct..." She hasn't a clue.
"You wouldn't give your working dog Galleons or pounds; you'd feed him something healthy, brush his coat, play ball. Your loyal Alsatian guard dog who prevents a spot of B&E, or the sheep-herding border collie who never fails to 'come by', you'd reward him with the occasional meaty bone, but he'd have precious little use for money."
It makes perfect sense, and so naturally she can't bring herself to admit it. It smacks too much of defeats from days past, and a grievous oversight, or ten, on her part. So she goes in a completely different direction. A noncommittal shrug is as far as she seems able to acknowledge the sense of what he says, and instead responds "I don't have much experience with dogs, except to wave in passing at the neighbour's. I've only ever had cat of my own."
"A cat... of course you do." A vague memory from Grimmauld Place comes to mind. Damn and damn again. "And it will need to move in... of course it will." He's pinching his brow. All in all, he's still incredibly slow. He's having a very hard time shaking off the effects of the weekend. How could he have forgotten the half-kneazle?
He's resolved not to sigh. He gives his head a fatalistic nod and says, "Just what I always wanted and never knew I needed... a pet."
Hermione would feel guilty about inconveniencing him yet again, except the statement tickles her too much to do so. Instead, she releases a sardonic huff of amusement and interjects, "I should have thought the 'bondmate' part of this weekend's surprises was worse."
He just blinks in response and remains silent. She's right of course, but he'd been battling not to think of it. And in a rush, it strikes him, she represents a living, breathing embodiment of a guarantee that he'll never, ever be loved. Ever.
If he were to survive, which he won't, but it's nice to dream, no one will ever be able to become closer to him. Having presumed the impossibility of survival, he further imagines an almost equally improbable person inclined to feel some manner of affection for him. It's admittedly incredibly vague as there is no such creature, never has been, it's more of a concept frankly, but still... And then he tries to come to terms with the fact the Fidelity Vow will prohibit it.
He has a moment of shock at the realisation of it, and his face goes slack. It's terribly stupid, really, as he had been the one to try to explain the significance of the Vow to her. Although, to be fair, the near complete unlikelihood of his survival means she's probably not similarly damned. The Protection Vow all but assures she'll outlive him. But somehow he had failed to apply the same logic of the Vow's restrictions to himself.
It's almost impossible not to hate her viewed in that light.
And then she starts, seeming to feel that all too clearly through their bond. He feels her responding moment of blind panic and Occludes severely.
The flare of burning hatred she was certain she had just felt coming from him is replaced almost as quickly as it occurred by... nothing. There's no better way to describe it than as a void. Just as cold as she imagines space is, and every bit as much of a vacuum. It's not pleasant, but on balance, it's preferable to blistering hatred, of that she's sure.
Every doubt she had about... this from earlier comes crashing back, as though rushing to fill that void. The Draught is still helping, and it's not nearly as bad as before. The sensation is less intense, and much less of a surprise, but she's reminded again how revolted he was at this solution, at having her for a bondmate, and her shame intensifies. She feels sick.
The tension is broken when two trays suddenly appear, one hovering in front of each of them. Silently, Hermione pushes hers away from her a little. It's a soup, still not solid food, but at least it smells delicious. Severus gloats that this is now her moment for childish responses, refusing what promises to be a good meal out of spite, until it becomes obvious she was just making room to get to her feet and does. Without a single word and keeping her face downcast, unwilling to meet the Professor's eyes, she makes to take her tray and leave the little room. In the wake of his intense reaction before, it seems prudent.
And just as suddenly as the trays appeared, he realises that, her leaving, his eating alone, both of them eating separately, solitarily, would be even more depressing a dinner, regardless the fare, than the gruel he'd unceremoniously chucked at the wall.
So he asks her to stay. "Please don't leave."
Despite the intense shame she evidently feels, shame, no doubt, for having been bonded to him, the shame that never seems to stop buffeting him through their bond, shame that's wearing him down with its unwavering, inexorable presence... she's been nothing but deferential and polite.
He can't apologise. Not for his feelings. It would mean admitting things he has no intention of ever giving voice to. And he's not truly sorry for the sentiment; he feels completely justified in that. But he is sorry for the hurt it apparently inflicted. And he can try to convince her to remain.
When she still doesn't turn to face him but hesitates at the door, he repeats the request and expands on it.
"Please, Miss Granger. There's no need to leave. Join me, wouldn't you?" She turns to face him, and he waves one of his elegant hands at her chair in invitation. When she then proceeds to return, albeit slowly, to take a seat, Severus ventures to tease, "At the very least because if Poppy sights you out there with different and, dare I even say palatable, food, she might become suspicious of my closed door and investigate." When she grins a little in response, he keeps it up, "It wouldn't do to have her come confiscating my hard blagged dinner."
"You know me too well, Sir. I'd hate to see an elf's hard work be for naught." He raises an eyebrow as though affronted. "Or yours," she hastens to add, but her accompanying smile would seem to indicate they're fine. And just like that, somehow it's... alright.
The trays themselves aren't at all the same as the ones they'd had before. The last trays had been utilitarian. These are not. They're more decorative than useful, somehow, lacking a lip to keep things from spilling. Presumably there are Charms to sort that. She battles the urge to test that. But with these much larger, dark wooden slabs hovering in front of one, they impart a feeling of dignity the other trays seemed to rob the user of. It's a little like sitting at a well appointed table. In sections. Odd, but not unpleasant.
The table linens and cloth serviettes go a ways towards creating that impression. The tableware appears to actually be silver. A cruet with delicate crystal and silver pepper pot and saltcellar materialises beside her, floating unneeded between them, as the dish will prove to be perfectly flavoured. Candlesticks, too, suddenly appear, hovering around them, their tapers casting a soft light as a couple of the room's sconces flicker and then extinguish.
It all makes the meal seem somehow more grand than the usual fare. Small crystal vases appear on each of their trays, each holding a decorative nosegay, asters, presumably what was still blooming at the moment, dotted with thistle seed-heads amidst sprigs of evergreens, with a cornflower in his small arrangement.
Severus stares at it for a moment and snorts a little derisively. With a small flick of a finger, he vanishes the cornflower. Taking it all in, looking about demonstratively, he quips, "I feel underdressed."
She gives him a shy smile, raises her wand and enquires, "May I?" which explains nothing of her intent.
Severus couldn't begin to explain why he trusts her, especially as he'd only just offended her moments ago, but he nods and she flicks her wand and transfigures his hospital gown black. He raises an eyebrow, but makes no other move to stop her, and so she flicks and waves again, and suddenly he's sporting a collar and then a row of highly polished, purely decorative little black buttons appears down the front. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever, and the short-sleeved garment is still very clearly recognisable for what it is, but it seems... appropriate somehow, sat here as they are in the Infirmary after all.
It occurs to him to be relieved she's no longer in formal togs either. She's changed out of the dress robes she was wearing before and back into her ubiquitous jeans. That relief holds until his glance at her reveals... far too much of her exposed beneath the blanket she's once again wrapped in, or so he thinks for a fleeting moment, until a closer look, which he won't even begin to try justifying, leads to the discovery that her top is lined. Small mercies. It looks like ravenous moths have eaten half of it, possibly more. Decoratively. He assumes this is lace, he just isn't sure why it's permitted. He finds himself once again willing the blanket to more thoroughly... blanket her. It appears this might become a regular phenomenon.
When that, naturally, once again fails to yield results, he nods instead at the outcome of her Transfigurations to his gown and intones sombrely, "That makes all the difference," to which she laughs in response. Severus also couldn't explain if pressured, but he knows for a fact she's not laughing at him. It's a happy laugh, appreciating their situation. Pleasant enough.
A fair deal happier with the spread as well, they attack their meals with a vigour previously absent, even if it is only soup, and it is in fact good. Incredibly good. Delicious, even.
Additionally, the meal would seem to be served in courses, for just as they finish a truly mouth watering barley soup for starters, the next course appears. Roasted quail, not too dry and certainly not rubbery, with sides that make them long for more. It would also appear their plates are not quite the same. She has far more gravy for the fowl and more of the candied orange relish served along side. The veg and potatoes differ. Severus suspects Sunny is keeping an eye on his diet, given his weakened state. And yet he greatly appreciates the hints of flavour provided.
For her, there are baby potatoes with rosemary and oven roasted garlic she cautiously pushes to the side, drizzled generously with olive oil and peppers he suspects his stomach couldn't quite tolerate yet and freshly ground sea salt and cracked pepper. Spring onions that have no counterpart on his plate, and green beans amandine that seem to have lots of bite left in them, but the flash of envy he feels is quickly squelched by his own sides.
For him, duchess potatoes piped into appetising little swirls that have been adequately spiced, kissed regrettably with only faint touches of cheddar and chives, but oven browned to perfection. Baby snow peas, only just tossed with a hint of butter, salt and pepper. Although he can clearly recognise where Sunny has curtailed the spicing and fat, as compromises go, it's well done. In fact, he may even like the snow peas more... But it's also a far more refined offering than the gruel, and he's... he's very grateful.
"Well blagged, Sir," Hermione says in obvious appreciation for the meal, as though the little hums of pleasure she keeps making hadn't made that abundantly clear. She'd be embarrassed if she realised what she was doing. As it is, they serve to make Severus smirk in a bit of harmless amusement. They're both in complete accord as to the quality of the meal, and he... likes that she appreciates Sunny's efforts.
"Sunny's a treasure," he's inclined to agree.
Considering that she hadn't wished to eat the garlic, although it was excellent as flavourings go, she decides that the differences in their meals probably aren't entirely about suiting their individual tastes and so she enquires.
She's observant, he has to give her that. "I expect that Sunny's version of gruel." She looks scandalised at the suggestion and he chuckles, "No, no. The meal's fantastic. I think he's just worried about what I'm eating... all considered. He probably wants to start me off gradually. Several of the other house elves confuse flavour with heat. It's all chillies or pap. There's a world of delectable spice out there most seem to never have heard of."
"Does he prepare it himself?"
"He's never said, and I shouldn't like to give him ideas; I'd be lost without him. But when he has a hand involved in fetching meals, they are always, without exception, better than anything else on offer."
"In that case I'm surprised you ever eat in the Great Hall."
"Only because it's required as a Head of House. And if you pay close attention, you'll notice I don't always eat while there," he explains with a faint smirk.
She had in fact noticed that he sometimes just sat there watching them, and had wondered if he had gastric issues. It wouldn't have surprised her given the work he does for the Order. Now she pictures him going back to his quarters to eat a far better meal all alone. She's glad he at least has a good cook, but it seems a lonely existence.
They take a few more bites and then Hermione works up the courage to ask something else. "Do you think we could have a spot of wine with dinner?"
He's surprised at her cheek, but readily agrees, "I suppose a drop couldn't hurt." He's no sooner said as much than a wine glass appears on each of their trays, containing just a splash. He has to chuckle again, this time at Sunny's antics. The elf and the witch seem roughly equally cheeky.
He's about to savour a sip when precisely that cheeky witch raises her glass. "A toast, Sir? To many happy years." He freezes, unsure how to respond. He's not entirely certain it isn't a cruel joke. But she thaws him a little, encouraging, "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be happy. Come on, for luck." She raises her glass to him again. Looking rather like some shy wild animal, cornered, he finally raises his glass hesitantly to clink to hers.
"Cheers," she chirps, evidently mollified.
"Cheers," he manages back, thoroughly unclear as to why.
The wine is as good as their meals. Sunny really is a treasure.
"It's a good vintage," he says appraisingly, appreciating the elf all the more.
"Juice of the grape," Miss Granger somewhat nonsensically replies, examining her glass. "Fitting, really."
Based on the strange smile she's sporting, he knows he's going to regret this, "How so?"
"Grape," she answers, as though that explained a single thing. His eyebrows encourage her to continue. "It's our portmanteau."
"Our... portmanteau..."
"Well, or 'Snanger' I suppose, but that's not a thing. Has the clear advantage of being distinctive, though... With 'Grape', you'd really never know..." There's a look on his face that has her backtracking. "Portmanteau, you know, Sir, it's..." The look is not improving. Apparently she finds a shred of clue in her glass she keeps studying and completely reverses course, "Could we just pretend I never said anything?"
"Believe me, I am," he answers dryly, but when he sees her face begin to fall, Merlin knows he can feel her nervousness, he relents a little and throws her a lifeline, "If you'd care to join me in doing so, the more the merrier." That wins him a smile, and he can feel her relax again through their bond. Obviously the preferable result.
"Expect to be doing a lot of that then?" She asks with a hesitant smile. Again, his brow prompts her. "Pretending I hadn't spoken?"
"I was considering making it my default approach."
"For the next one hundred and twenty years?" She laughs.
"I'm very imaginative. More than equipped for the task," he answers serenely, choosing not to focus on his unlikelihood of surviving even another year, just for the moment. It occurs to Hermione how she'd thought of herself as imaginative not too long ago, and in precisely what context, and she finds herself biting her lower lip and turning distinctly pink at the memory and the thought of just how imaginative he might be as well...
He couldn't begin to explain her response if he tried.
"One hundred and twenty years?" He asks instead.
"I was rounding. Up, unfortunately. Although you can hardly complain about a dozen decades, more or less. The Ministry of Divine Health reports the life expectancy of the average witch or wizard to be 137¾ years." Of course she knows the fraction. He needs to learn to encourage her imprecision, or this will become tedious quickly. He tries not to snort at the sentiment.
He bites back his first impolite reply. And then his second, and opts for the more neutral, "You are aware I am older than you?"
"Yes, but that's the average wizard. You're hardly average."
It's the strangest thing. She's earnest and sincere. He feels it. This isn't meant to flatter. To ingratiate. It's a statement of fact, just as plainly as the '137¾ years' was. Without the bond, he'd have taken it for a ploy. He gives her a measuring look and then answers, "I believe I can safely say that is something we have in common."
The answering smile is something to which he's quite unaccustomed.
"We should have kept your tray," he announces, trying to distract from her smile. Her enquiring glance has him continue, "It was a beginner's mistake, letting it go. The trick is to Evanesco most, but not all, of the food, and then spread the rest artfully about the plate." He nods sagely.
"Well that's one mistake I made this weekend then. I guess Banishing the tray might have helped though?"
"Honestly? Not really." He chuckles. "Poppy's Charms probably let her know exactly what you've eaten anyway. And if not them, one of her Diagnostic Spells definitely will. It's just nice to pretend to have some effect on what happens here."
Hermione's still trying to accept that he likes teasing. And then she wonders how much truth was really in that last statement. She's beginning to suspect that's how he hides things: in the open, buried under wry humour.
The meal is followed by dessert, a very generous slice of gateau for her, a much smaller, and probably healthier, sad bit of Battenburg for him. Atypically, it's terribly dry, and the marzipan seems a good deal more of a suggestion than a reality, and his envy returns. It's rather ironic, given the praise he just had for the elf's efforts at food sourcing.
When she takes a bite of hers, the unadulterated pleasure on her face brings his envy back in force. That is until she lets out an absolutely scandalous moan. In a flash, he's uncomfortably reminded of the witch's responses under the Potion Friday night, and swallows.
"Sorry, Sir." She apologises, and he's initially unsure for what. She gestures to his plate and then hers, "I could save you some. For later?"
He blinks in surprise. "No, don't be silly. Enjoy your afters." But he continues to watch her eating. "I suppose I can have him serve some up when I'm adequately recovered."
"I'd seriously recommend it," she hums. He'd gathered that much from watching her. On the other hand, there's something nice about a woman who isn't afraid to be seen to enjoy food. He decides to just enjoy her dessert vicariously, watching her till she's finished, except then she stops again to offer him some.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like a bite?" She extends her fork with a bit of the confection balanced on the end. He just stares at it, unsure how to proceed. "Come on," she encourages once more, "It's tradition."
"What is, precisely?" He questions, unable to take his eyes from the bite of dessert.
She blushes a little, but with a reasonable facsimile of dignity states, "Sharing cake." He finally looks up to meet her eyes, and she blushes some more, but still cheerily holds out her fork. "Go on. I won't tell anyone. Live a little." He still doesn't budge, so she tries again, "And I won't tell Sunny. Come on, open up."
And then he finds himself doing so. She tries not to laugh that promising not to report him to the elf seems to have done the trick, particularly as the elf seems to be keeping an eye on them anyway. As Severus' lips close on the fork, he can't believe she talked him round, he finds himself thinking his sweet tooth will be the death of him, but this is probably the exchange between them that is the least difficult to justify this weekend.
Merlin, that stuff is phenomenal. He may have said as much out loud, because she's cheerfully agreeing, "I know, isn't it just?" In a flash of panic, he wonders if he moaned like she did. There's no way of knowing... But he's reasonably certain his eyes shut with appreciation, now that he thinks about it. Making a fool of himself for a morsel of her afters...
And then she slides her chair and tray closer and transfigures a second dessert fork from her unused teaspoon which she offers him and asks if he'd care to join her in the rest. She needn't ask twice. He's prepared to make a complete tit of himself, if need be, for more. Fortunately that proves unnecessary.
It's bliss.
They sit there peacefully, enjoying the feeling that follows an excellent meal, without being overly stuffed, and the trays disappear again from sight.
"Not a soul," he says out of the blue, but she somehow knows he's talking about not telling someone, anyone, they'd shared the cake.
That earns him a ready smile. "I wouldn't dream of it. I promised. And I don't think I even can. That would be one of the benefits of the Loyalty Vow for you right there."
"Clearly worth the effort of bonding for that alone then." He replies in his drawl, but the bond lets her know there's no bite to it. "Actually, we should probably test that. Try telling the next person who comes in."
"But if you give me permission, it's hardly disloyal, is it?"
"You may be right. Damn. Alright, belay that order," he quips. "Tell no one. I'll need to devise some tests for this. Perhaps next weekend. Does that sound acceptable?"
"Consider me at your disposal. I find my calendar fairly open at present." She's left wondering if she's now supposed to try anyway or not. She's not sure she has the nerve to try, unless she's sure he wants her to. But if she's sure then her objection holds... It seems a dubious way to start things off if she's wrong about it. And she's not in a rush. There's no reason not to wait until next weekend. She decides to err on the side of caution.
Feeling suitably fortified, Severus acknowledges it's probably time to deal with the minutiae of her relocation. "You should probably return to the tower and gather some things. Then meet me back here when you're done." He can't quite bring himself to say he'll take her home after. She knows it's implied, and might actually be more comfortable leaving it that way, too.
"For the moment, I'd recommend that you take only what you'll need for the next several days, a week on the outside," he suggests. "I imagine it will simplify things for you greatly if you can avoid returning for necessities for a few days. At least until the news has been announced and everyone has had time to settle. You can have Sunny assist you, if you'd like."
"Thank you, that's very kind, but I actually have most of the things I want here already. Although I guess Sunny could probably go and get a few items of clothing I'd still need, and Crooks and the remaining bits and bobs all on his own."
"Crooks?"
"Crookshanks. My half-kneazle," she answers helpfully.
"Why are your things here?" He asks, zeroing on the thing that seems very wrong.
"The house elves brought them to me," she supplies, rather uselessly. "Polly and Winky," she adds even less helpfully.
"I had assumed," he drawls, eyebrow raised. "But why was it necessary?" When she doesn't answer, he prods, "Did you sustain further injuries Friday beyond your lip?" He's trying to examine her left arm, now hidden again by the blanket and top she's wearing. He'd had the impression it might have been bandaged beneath her blouse before. Her robes, however, had revealed it as unharmed, and he can't quite make sense of it.
"No, Sir. I..." she swallows, and then with a half shrug sort of blurts, "I stayed here with you."
He's at a complete loss for an answer, so he just stares at her for a little while. Finally he settles on, "That seems highly inappropriate."
"Madam Pomfrey said much the same initially," she responds with a touch of humour, "until I pointed out we were supposed to be bonded."
"When did you decide to do this thing?" There's an undercurrent to his question, or perhaps it's the bond, that strongly encourages her not to answer. Wisely, she heeds it. She's now almost positive there's a Chizpurfle close by. She's certain she can hear its claws clicking in the ensuing silence.
"But I hadn't even been asked yet!" He objects forcefully.
There's something about his indignation that strikes her involuntarily as... cute and almost makes her recklessly want to laugh. Almost. Fortunately, she proves able to fight the impulse with some success.
"No worries, Sir. We protected your modesty," she reassures him in a way that now has him worried about a bunch of things that hadn't even occurred to him yet.
He's back to blinking owlishly, but he's saved the embarrassment of a response by a knock at the door.