Chapter Text
Severus made his way back across the crowded, smoky bar towards Countess Catherine Kensington, his mind a turbulent sea of concern for Hermione and a simmering, unfamiliar anger. Catherine watched his approach, her sapphire eyes narrowed, a knowing, almost feline smile playing on her perfectly painted lips. She looked, as always, as if she could see straight through him, past the carefully constructed walls to the disquiet churning within.
"Severus, darling," she purred as he reached her, "you took your sweet time. Was your little stray lamb in need of rescuing?"
He sighed, not wanting to get into a lengthy explanation, especially not with Catherine, who had an uncanny ability to dissect his motivations. "Catherine, my apologies for leaving you alone for so long. Miss Granger was… unwell. I needed to ascertain the situation."
She looked up at him then, her expression softening with an unexpected, genuine understanding. "Severus," she said, her voice losing its teasing edge, "it's quite alright. Truly. The girl over there," she gestured discreetly with her chin towards Hermione's shadowed table, "is clearly distraught… and from the looks of those empty glasses, trying very determinedly to drown a significant amount of pain. It also seems," Catherine’s gaze sharpened, becoming unnervingly perceptive, "that you care a great deal about her."
Severus let out another weary sigh, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He didn't want to have this conversation, not here, not now, not with Catherine. "You know she's a valued member of my team, Catherine. I couldn't simply ignore her when she's so clearly distressed and making a public spectacle of herself."
"No, Severus," Catherine said, her knowing smile returning, gentler this time. "It's more than that. You care for her, truly care, more than just as a colleague, more than as a boss protecting his subordinate. I can see it written all over your face, even when you try so desperately to hide it. It’s in your body language, the way your shoulders tense when you even glance in her direction."
Severus didn't like how easily, how effortlessly, the woman could still read him after all these years. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of admitting it, not out loud, but she was, of course, infuriatingly correct. He let out a small, annoyed huff but said nothing further, his gaze flicking worriedly back towards Hermione.
Catherine, sensing his internal conflict, placed a delicate hand on his arm. "Severus," she said softly, "how about a rain check for our evening? It’s been… an illuminating start, but perhaps not the relaxed reunion we both envisioned."
He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her unexpected offer.
"It's perfectly obvious you are deeply worried about… your colleague," Catherine continued, her eyes kind. "Go to her. Make sure she makes it home alright. We can catch up another time, when the skies are clearer, for both of us."
Severus looked genuinely surprised at how understanding, how gracious, Catherine was being. She leaned over, pressing another light, friendly kiss to his cheek. "Until next time, Severus. Take care." And with that, with a final, enigmatic smile, she turned and, with the effortless grace of a queen, disappeared out of the bar and into the darkness of Diagon Alley.
Severus took a moment to compose himself, then, his resolve solidified, he turned and made his way back towards Hermione's table. As he approached, his blood ran cold. A group of three young, leering wizards had circled her, their intentions all too clear. One of them, a particularly loutish-looking individual with shifty eyes, had pulled up a chair far too close to hers, his arm slung familiarly over the back of her seat. The man now had a hand on her knee, his fingers trailing dangerously, possessively high up her bare thigh, inching towards the delicate seam of her dress.
Hermione, her head lolling slightly, was trying to bat the man’s invasive hand away, her slurred words a mixture of confused protest and weak demands for him to stop. "No… get off… don't touch…" But she was far too drunk, too disoriented, to effectively force his hand off her, her struggles only seeming to amuse him and his equally unsavory companions.
Severus saw her struggle, saw the predatory gleam in the man's eyes, and a white-hot, possessive fury unlike anything he had felt in years bubbled up in his chest, eclipsing all other thoughts. He quickened his pace, his long strides eating up the distance between them with frightening speed. How dare some stranger try to manhandle her, especially a clearly inebriated, vulnerable woman.
Just as the lout’s questing fingers were making their way under the hem of her dress, Snape reached them. With a snarl, he snatched the man up by the collar of his cheap robes, yanking him roughly away from Hermione. "I believe," Snape bit out, his voice a low, menacing growl that promised violence, "the lady asked you to stop !" He punctuated the last word by shoving the man hard, sending him stumbling backwards.
The man, regaining his footing, grinned insolently at Severus, clearly mistaking him for some interfering old busybody. He puffed out his chest and got right in Snape’s face. "Oi, mate, you got it all wrong, yeah? She's been beggin' for me to touch her, ain't ya, darlin'?" he leered at Hermione. "In fact, we were all just about to head back to my place for a bit o' fun, innit that right, fellas?"
The other two wizards, equally odious, smirked and nodded in eager agreement.
"Appreciate your concern, ol' man," the first wizard continued, dismissing Snape with a wave of his hand, "but the lady is more than alright with me. You can just move along now, before you get hurt."
"I. Think. Not!" Severus said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone that should have warned the idiot.
But the young man, fueled by alcohol and arrogance, simply sneered and then, with shocking speed, sucker-punched Snape hard in the mouth. Snape’s head snapped to the side with the force of the blow, but he didn’t so much as stagger, his feet remaining firmly planted.
Hermione let out a shriek of pure, terrified worry. "Severus! No! Don't hurt him!" she cried out, her voice slurred but filled with genuine alarm for Snape's safety.
She tried to stand, to somehow come to his aid, but her legs, uncooperative and numb from the alcohol, buckled beneath her. She sank back down into her chair in a helpless, frustrated heap.
One of the other men in the group, the one who had seemed slightly less aggressive, suddenly looked on in abject horror at hearing Hermione's shriek, his eyes widening as he focused on Snape’s face. "Severus!?" he stammered, his bravado vanishing. "As in… Severus Snape !? THE Severus Snape? Head of the DMF? Ex-Death Eater? Potions Master from Hell?"
The two wizards looked at each other, their faces paling rapidly with dawning, horrified realization, before simultaneously scrambling away, practically tripping over each other in their haste to flee the bar, leaving their unfortunate, and now very isolated, friend to fend for himself.
Severus slowly turned his head, looking directly at the man who had just punched him. He touched his fingers gingerly to his rapidly swelling lip, then looked at the smear of blood on their tips. A slow, terrifying, utterly predatory smile spread across his face. "My turn," Severus said, his voice a soft, taunting purr that promised retribution.
With that, he moved. It wasn't flashy wand-work; it was brutal, efficient, Muggle-style violence. He landed a devastating blow to the man’s jaw, then another to his gut, doubling him over.
"Don't," punch . "You," punch . "Ever," punch . "Touch," punch . "Her," punch . "Again!" He punctuated the final word with a savage uppercut that sent the man sprawling to the floor. Snape stood over him for a moment, panting with anger, before turning his back on the groaning, defeated lout, who quickly scrambled away, whimpering.
Severus stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, slowly regaining his bearings, the adrenaline beginning to ebb. He turned to Hermione, who was looking at him with wide, worried eyes, a mixture of fear, relief, and something else he couldn't quite decipher.
She tried standing again, determined to go to him, and wobbled precariously. He was there in an instant, catching her effortlessly before she could fall, pulling her trembling body against his, steadying her.
"Severus," she whispered, her voice thick with concern and unshed tears, "are you okay? Your lip… I was so worried when he hit you." Her hand, small and shaking, reached up to cup his jaw, her thumb gently, almost reverently, brushing over his split, bleeding lip.
He leaned into her touch, a shudder running through him at the unexpected tenderness of her concern. He took her much smaller hand in his, his fingers lacing through hers. "I'm fine, Hermione. A mere scratch." His gaze hardened as he looked down at her. "But are you alright? That man… he shouldn't have been touching you in that manner." His voice was dark, possessive.
"I'm okay now, Severus," she said, a faint blush staining her cheeks despite her inebriation. "Thank you. For… for helping me."
"Let's get you home, Hermione, alright?" he said softly, his anger receding, replaced by a deep, protective concern. "I'm going to Apparate us directly to your flat. Hold on to me tightly, now."
She nodded, her head feeling too heavy to lift. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, burying her face into the familiar, comforting scent of his robes and his skin. Finally, he heard a muffled, "Ready," from her.
With that, they were gone from the noisy, smoky pub, reappearing with a soft pop on the front doorstep of Hermione's small London flat.
Hermione fumbled with the key, her coordination shot. Waves of dizziness and nausea washed over her from the potent combination of Firewhiskey and Side-Along Apparition. Severus had just managed to get her inside the doorway, his arm still securely around her waist, when she lurched forward, her body convulsing, and hurled the entire contents of her stomach onto her doormat.
He held her steady, his expression a mixture of concern and resignation, and with a swift, non-verbal flick of his wand, vanished the vomit away. "It's alright, Hermione," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle as he guided her shaking form to the small sofa in her den, carefully sitting her down. He conjured a sturdy bucket and placed it beside her, just in the nick of time. She leaned over it, her body wracked with another wave of violent retching, throwing up more and more until she was left dry heaving, tears of misery and humiliation streaming down her face.
She was so utterly embarrassed. She couldn't believe it. Severus Snape, the Severus Snape, was here, in her flat, on her sofa, rubbing her back soothingly and watching her puke her guts
out. She had imagined many, many scenarios of them on her sofa before, over the years, but never, not even in her most bizarre nightmares, one quite like this.
"Hermione," he asked, his voice calm amidst her distress, "do you have any Anti-Nausea Potion in the flat?"
All she could manage to do was nod weakly, and get out, between heaves, "B…bathroom… cabinet…" while vaguely pointing down the small hall.
Severus walked quickly down the hallway and found the bathroom relatively easily. He opened the cabinet and began to plunder through its contents, pointedly ignoring her more personal, feminine items, until he finally located a small, half-empty vial of the distinctive turquoise potion.
He returned to where Hermione sat, slumped and miserable, and unstoppered the vial. He knelt before her, gently tilting her chin up. "Here, Hermione. Drink this. Slowly." He held it to her lips and carefully, patiently, coaxed her to drink the potion, which she did, whimpering slightly. The effects were almost instant, thank Merlin. The violent heaving subsided, though she still looked pale and wretched.
"I'm afraid a Hangover Potion will be of no use until tomorrow morning," he said softly, stroking a stray, damp curl from her forehead. "But the Anti-Nausea will at least stop the vomiting." He looked at her more closely then, his expression worried. He could see the faint gleam of a cold sweat on her skin, her breaths still shallow and uneven. Merlin, had she really drunk herself to the borderline of alcohol poisoning over Lucius fucking Malfoy? he thought with a fresh surge of anger directed at the other man. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he couldn't leave her alone tonight. Not like this. He had to keep an eye on her, to make sure she kept breathing, to ensure she was safe.
"Hermione," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "I'm going to help you to bed now, alright?" He stood up. "Do you think you can walk?"
She took his offered hand as he helped her to stand. However, when she finally tried to take a tentative step, her legs crumpled beneath her as if they were made of wet parchment. She would have collapsed entirely if he weren't there, his strong arms instantly catching her, holding her securely against him.
"Right," he said, his voice a low rumble near her ear. "It seems I'm going to carry you, then. Alright?" His gaze met hers, seeking her consent even in her inebriated state. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her head lolling against his shoulder. And with that, he scooped her up effortlessly into his surprisingly strong arms, her light weight no burden at all. He carried her carefully down the short hallway to her bedroom and laid her gently, reverently, on the bed.
"Severus…" she murmured, her eyes fluttering open slightly, "would you… would you mind getting my nightgown? From the dresser? Top left drawer, please." Even in her current state, she may be incredibly drunk, but she knew, with a clarity that transcended the haze, that she would be in absolute agony if she slept in this tight, restrictive dress.
He located the drawer and pulled out a confection of white silk – a simple nightgown with thin straps that looked to be about knee length. He handed it to her silently and then, with commendable propriety, made his way to walk out of the room, intending to give her some privacy to change.
Until her small, weak voice stopped him at the door.
"Severus… wait." He turned back. "I… I think I may need some help… please," she whispered, her cheeks turning a beet red, even in her drunken state, "getting out of this dress." She struggled feebly with the zipper at her back, her fingers clumsy and uncooperative.
He turned and looked at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. This was… a dangerous territory. "What if," he suggested, his voice carefully neutral, "I simply turn around, and I vanish the dress for you. Would that suffice?"
Even in her drunken haze, she looked affronted, a spark of her usual Hermione-ness flaring. "NO!" she exclaimed, her voice surprisingly strong. "That's my favorite little black dress! Please don't vanish it! It was… it was expensive."
"Just… just please help me stand up again," she pleaded, her eyes large and imploring, "so I can try and get it off." She gave him a look so full of vulnerable, drunken appeal that it melted his remaining resolve.
"Fine," he said with a sigh that was more resignation than annoyance. He walked back to the bed and carefully helped her to the edge, where she slid off, using him as her primary support to hold her upright. His hands, large and warm, held her waist tightly, keeping her securely on her unsteady feet.
"Uhhh, Severus…" she mumbled, her head resting against his chest for a moment, "could you… could you unzip me, please?"
He raised a questioning eyebrow, his blood, which had been relatively calm, now beginning to leave his brain and head decidedly south, straight to his groin. No, he told himself sternly. He must not enjoy this. He was here to help her, to care for her, not to oogle her like some… some common lecher. He felt no better than that cretin from the bar. After taking a deep, steadying breath, he carefully turned her around so that her back was to him, and she was now facing the bed.
She was effectively pinned between him and the bed, her soft bottom brushing against his thighs, and boy, did it feel amazing to her, even in her current state. If only the circumstances were different, she sighed to herself, a wistful, drunken thought.
She felt his cool, long fingers fumbling for a moment at the top of her zipper, then the slow, deliberate pull as he unzipped the dress all the way down to the top of her bum, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The dress loosened, revealing her matching black lace bra
and panty set. She heard his sharp, almost ragged intake of breath, and she couldn't suppress a small, triumphant, if slightly wobbly, smile to herself.
She leaned forward, bracing herself on the bed, and drunkenly, clumsily, shimmied out of the dress, letting it pool in a silken heap on the floor around her feet. She could hear his breathing becoming heavier, more labored, behind her, and it thrilled her, even now, knowing she had caused that reaction in him. She tried to straighten up, intending to undo her bra, but her balance was still precarious. She lost her footing and pitched forward, falling face-first onto the soft duvet of her bed. In doing so, her silk-and-lace clad bum ground directly, and with considerable pressure, against the crotch of Severus Snape.
She could feel it then, undeniably – his hot, throbbing, impressive erection pressed hard into her backside. A low, involuntary moan escaped her lips. Gods, how many times, in how many secret, shameful dreams, had she envisioned similar positions with him, similar intimacies? He felt so good, so hard, so… there . She instinctively pushed back further, grinding against him, needing to feel more, her inhibitions completely obliterated by alcohol and burgeoning desire.
She was met with his strong fingers digging almost painfully into her hips, pulling her roughly, almost savagely, back against him, trapping her there. A deep, guttural, animalistic groan escaped him then, a sound so raw, so primal, it sent a fresh wave of pure electricity flowing through Hermione’s already sensitized body. She could feel her panties, already damp, growing positively soaking wet with her arousal.
He could smell it, her delicious, unique arousal, soaking through her lacy panties, her potent feminine juices practically imbedding themselves into the fabric of his own trousers. She began moaning his name then, soft, broken sounds, "Severus… oh, Severus…" almost begging for him to take her, to claim her, when suddenly, his entire body went rigid. His sense of reality, of propriety, of her vulnerability, snapped sharply back into place.
With a sorrowful, almost agonized growl, he pulled her up off the bed so that she was now standing, albeit unsteadily, with her back pressed firmly against his front. His arms wrapped tightly around her, caging her in, both of them panting heavily, their bodies thrumming with unfulfilled need.
He chose his words with extreme care, his voice husky, strained, not wanting to hurt her again, not like last time. "Hermione," he said, his lips brushing her hair. "I… I can't."
He felt her stiffen in his arms, a small, wounded sound escaping her.
"Listen to me, witch!" he said then, his voice suddenly stern, authoritative, tightening his hold on her almost imperceptibly.
His abrupt, almost harsh sternness, paradoxically, caused a fresh hitch in her breathing, a new wave of purely physical arousal to wash over her. Wow, she thought, a dizzy, drunken part of her mind registering the sensation. She really, really liked when he was authoritative. She felt another gush of wetness soak her panties.
He continued, his voice rough but controlled. "You are drunk, Hermione. Very, very drunk. If we were to… to do this, now, like this… I would feel as though I had taken advantage of you. I would feel no better," he growled out, the self-loathing clear in his tone, still holding her tightly, protectively, against him, "than that lecherous, despicable cretin from the bar!"
Even through her significant drunken haze, she was able to realize, with a surprising clarity, that he wasn't rejecting her this time, not because he didn't want her – his body pressed against hers was undeniable proof of that – but because he wouldn't be able to live with himself, with his own conscience, if he felt he had taken advantage of her vulnerability. She was, much to her own surprise, and his profound relief, remarkably understanding.
"I… I understand, Severus," she said, her voice small, still laced with a tad bit of lingering disappointment, but, crucially, not a trace of the raw hurt he had inflicted before.
"I… I still need help getting my bra off, though," she added, after a moment, a mischievous, almost teasing smirk playing on her lips, her head lolling back against his shoulder.
He let out a low, frustrated growl. "Fine!" He supported her around the waist firmly with one arm, his fingers splayed across her soft stomach, and then, with a surprising, almost practiced ease, he reached around with his other hand and undid the clasp of her bra with a single, deft movement.
"You're very good at that, Severus," she said with a sleepy, drunken giggle, as the lace confection fell away.
He let out another frustrated growl and snatched her white silk nightgown from where it lay on the bed. He absolutely could not risk seeing her nearly completely naked, not now, not when his own control was hanging by the thinnest, most frayed of threads. It might just cause his last vestiges of resolve to snap entirely. He quickly, almost roughly, slid the cool silk nightgown on over her head, his hands brushing against her bare skin, still supporting her waist with his other arm. She managed to slip her arms through the thin straps before clumsily, with his help, climbing back onto the bed.
"Thank you… for all your help… this evening, Severus," she murmured, her voice already thick with impending sleep as she finally laid down, her eyes fluttering closed. "And I'm… I'm sorry I ruined your date." With that, she seemed to finally drift off into rhythmic sighs of deep slumber.
He settled into the worn chaise lounge chair in the corner of her small bedroom, his own body aching with an exhaustion that went far beyond mere lack of sleep. He wasn't going to leave her. Not until he felt absolutely confident that she wasn't going to stop breathing in her sleep from the sheer amount of alcohol she had consumed. He stayed there, a silent, grim guardian, watching over her, the lines of his face slowly softening as he observed the peaceful, innocent vulnerability of her sleeping form, until the first, pale rays of dawn began to creep through her window. Only then, did he too, finally, allow himself to doze off, his head slumped uncomfortably against the back of the chair.