Work Text:
Ways to Charm
Hermione woke on the morning after and stretched languidly. Only when she saw that Severus had already risen from the bed did she give in to a wide grin and soft laughter. She felt like rolling around and throwing up her feet like a child. Her giddy mood had nothing to do with them being on holiday. Severus had been … wonderful. But then her problems with Ron had never been in the bedroom, once she’d trained him right.
Hermione had first thrown herself into Ron’s arms and kissed him because he had said he cared about the house-elves. Months later she had found his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches wedged between Quidditch Through The Ages and his old texts, possibly the only books Ron Weasley had ever owned—or wanted to. When she had come to way number five, it had read, “Agree with and promote your witch’s pet causes” and suddenly she had understood why Ron had become so nice to her, whilst never really being kind. At least not if kindness meant him giving up Quidditch for her birthday or pub crawling with the boys on weekends or so much as picking up his socks.
The story of their first kiss had been honed and polished by her like a stone worn smooth from constant rubbing—her touchstone, her worry bead, her rosary—whenever Ron would frustrate her. She would tell herself he was sweet and that he cared and that boys after all didn’t mature as fast. She would blame herself when their disagreements came to screams and sulks—after all Ron was trying, he was growing. She just hadn’t known what he had been “trying” on her.
With one glance at a book her sweetest memory had become a leaden weight to toss away. She should perhaps have been warned that Ron’s words so thrilled her, leading to that kiss. Exactly because the reaction had come from hearing words so out of character for Ron as to be reason to suspect Polyjuice.
The difference with Severus was that whilst she and Ron had bickered, Severus and she argued. It was the difference between continually being hit by a Bludger and what she imagined was the thrill Harry felt in chasing after the snitch. Ron would get this stubborn look on his face and not budge from his point, or a crafty look and just concede (Rule Number Six: “Never argue with your witch, especially if it’s her moon time”). If Severus never conceded without debating every last point, he at least always allowed her to pursue her line of argument unimpeded.
The first time she and Severus had kissed was after one of those arguments which ended up with books pulled out of shelves, fingers pointed at pages, computations on parchments, and finally finishing in the laboratory, each making a different brew. It turned out she had been right to think wormwood would stabilise Strengthening Potion, but Severus had been right to think that to compensate you’d have to extend the brewing time. She had thrown herself into his arms, but he at least had started the kiss—firm, but far too brief.
So here she was now trying again, gone off on holiday to Wiltshire, sharing a cottage with a wizard who she could be sure wouldn’t condescend to be “nice,” lying in bed and knowing that whatever took place there couldn’t be enough.
Hearing the sound of water running, she climbed out of bed and padded over to join Severus in the bathroom.
As soon as she approached the sink, Hermione saw Severus raising the straight razor to his lathered cheek. Yesterday, when Hermione had first seen Severus using his blade, she had itched to snatch it away. The mirror they shared had reflected his amused glint at her reaction. Then he had nicked himself. The sight of the blood running down his neck had brought back to her a much stronger, meatier smell, and the image of him lying on the Shrieking Shack floor.
She averted her eyes and grabbed her toothbrush. She smeared toothpaste onto her toothbrush, brushing vigorously, letting the mint drive away the imagined odour of his blood. When she glanced back up, she saw the sleek edge of the blade scrape away bristles and lather, revealing a length of puffy white scar tissue in the stretch of bared throat.
His smirk finally goaded her into speech.
“You enjoy making me squirm, don’t you?”
An odd look flickered over his face and he stilled a moment then rinsed the lather off the blade. “I rather enjoy speculating why it bothers you so much, and wondering when you would say something. Is it the sight of a dangerous weapon in my hands?”
“Rather it’s seeing something so sharp at your throat.”
“Ah.”
She waited for a mulish look to cross his face, for him to tell her she was a silly little girl and he’d do as he pleased.
The next day, the blade was gone, a safety razor in its place.
She later joked to Ginny that she fell in love with Severus for his book collection, but truth to tell, it had more to do with learning that even if Severus wasn’t “nice,” he could be kind.
The End
