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Severus has never scrubbed so many potatoes in his life. This is what he gets for being polite instead of simply walking away when Johan’s grandmother asked for Severus’s help in the kitchen. There is a strange, salad-spinneresque contraption named Ingrid to aid him in the task, but the whole thing would be much easier if he could use magic. A flick of his wand, a whisper of the spell Molly Weasley taught him, and that would be that.
It would be overkill to cast the potato scrubbing spell and then Obliviate Johan’s gran. Best not.
Shifting on the teak kitchen chair, he unloads the clean potatoes. Why is it so bloody hot here? He moved to Sweden to escape the heat. Johan swore up and down that rain on midsommarafton is tradition. The sky looks clear from where Severus sits and sweats with his potatoes.
Johan’s grandmother examines his work and gives a satisfied nod that brings thoughts of Molly Weasley swooping back. Severus goes for weeks—months, sometimes—without so much as a passing thought about his former life. It feels jarring to have two in such quick succession.
A crowd is gathered in the very-much-not-rainy garden, their conversation flowing in through the open window. Severus knows almost no Swedish. He catches the occasional word here and there, but none of it makes sense without context.
A feminine voice clashes with the others. She talks slowly, repeating words and stumbling over certain sounds. The cadence is not quite right, though it’s miles better than he could manage. Searching the crowd, Severus finds the source. Her wild brown curls are crowned with a wreath of daisies, bluebells, and field bindweed. A gust of wind travels over the water, making her skirt flutter around her knees. Wrinkling her nose, she laughs at her own faltering attempts at Swedish.
Something about her smile is familiar. Something about her laugh makes Severus’s stomach swoop.
She is lovely.
“Jag ska ta lite vatten,” Hermione says slowly, making sure to tilt the a sound in vatten just right.
Ellinor smiles. “Okay, no worries.”
Hermione adores her friends, she really does, but she hates how they reply to her in English. Her Swedish learning would go so much faster if people stopped talking to her in English. The breeze from the lake feels cool on her skin as she walks around the house towards the front door. Toeing off her sandals inside the door, she heads for the kitchen. It’s an uncommonly hot day - the previous year the rain had poured down from morning to night and everyone wore jumpers.
She passes Johan’s gran in the doorway to the kitchen, carrying a big pot of scrubbed potatoes. Hermione smiles. Her first midsommar there, she was given the task of scrubbing the potatoes. As soon as Johan’s grandmother wasn’t looking, she’d used magic to make the task easier.
Taking a glass from the dishrack, Hermione fills it with tap water and drinks deeply. There’s movement in the corner of her eye, and she glances over. And freezes.
So does Snape, one hand still on the handle of the Ingrid.
She lowers her glass, turns towards him. “Fancy meeting you here, Professor.”
She’s not sure why she isn’t more surprised, why she’s greeting him like an old friend when she’s thought him dead for the past fifteen years. Perhaps it’s shock. Yes, that seems most likely. It must also be the shock that makes her notice that he looks good - better than he did all those years ago. She can’t quite put her finger on how, but he looks more relaxed than he ever did.
Snape snorts. “It seems a cruel irony, Granger. And I haven’t been anyone’s professor in a long time. It’s Severus.”
What she wouldn’t give to see the look on Harry and Ron’s faces right now. “In that case, please call me Hermione.” She sticks her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing here, at a Muggle midsommar celebration in Sweden of all places?”
His brow quirks. “Aren’t you going to ask me the same?”
They’re interrupted by Johan’s gran entering the kitchen again, followed by Johan.
He smiles widely. “Severus, I was just wondering where you were. We have plenty of potatoes, come join us.”
Hermione takes the opportunity to flee.
How Severus ends up sitting next to Hermione during lunch is a mystery, but he decides it must be Johan’s fault, somehow.
Severus’s elbow brushes Granger’s—Hermione’s—as he lowers himself onto the bench. Lovely—he can’t get the word out of his head. Before he knew who she was, he thought she was lovely.
Johan warned him ahead of time about the drinking songs (a mandatory activity, apparently), but nothing can quite prepare him for Hermione’s singing voice. She is not skilled by any means, but she is loud and enthusiastic, with all of the unrestrained joy of contagious laughter. And there is that word again: lovely. The snaps burns his throat as he tries to swallow the thought along with it.
“So,” Hermione says, spearing an expertly washed potato with her fork, “where have you been living all this time? I’m guessing it hasn’t been Sweden.”
“I’m sure you cannot possibly be referring to my impeccable pronunciation.”
She smirks. “Obviously not.”
There’s no harm in telling her. “I was in the Dominican Republic. It turns out I am too English for that much hot weather.”
Her laugh is like her singing voice, threatening to make him join her.
“Are you too English for gubbröra?” she asks.
“That depends. What is it?”
Hermione gestures at a greyish-yellowish lumpy substance. “I think it translates as old man’s mix? Spiced-cured ansjovis and eggs.”
He is, it turns out, far too English. So is she, he suspects. She doesn’t even try it.
Johan’s explanations once again prove inadequate when it’s time to dance around the maypole. Holding Hermione’s soft hand—why is he next to her again?—and moving in a circle is fine, even if he worries about his hand being sweaty. Hopping like a frog, on the other hand… The only word for it is undignified. But it does bring out more of Hermione’s laughter.
“I find I have had quite enough of making a fool of myself,” Severus says a short time later, when the games start.
“I haven’t.” Hermione grins. “But we can go sit and talk for a bit, if you want?”
He does.
They talk for hours.
While their companions and the celebrants from the village play dizzy bat and egg-and-spoon race, Hermione and Severus sit in the shade underneath an ash tree. It’s still almost unbearably hot, and Hermione lifts her hair up from her neck to allow the breeze to cool her down.
“I can’t wait to go swimming tonight,” she says, bowing her head to encourage the breeze down the back of her dress. “I’m boiling.”
Snape clears his throat. “Swimming?”
She peers up at him and grins. “Didn’t Johan tell you? It’s a midsommar tradition: the midnight swim in the buff.” She chuckles. “I’ve no idea how Swedish witches and wizards celebrate midsommar but I’m sure there’s naked swimming involved.”
“I thought I’d humiliated myself enough for one day without adding nudity into the mix,” he grumbles.
Hermione flushes. The notion of seeing him naked isn’t as unappealing as she would have thought. In fact, it’s not unappealing at all. Quite the opposite. “You don’t have to, of course, but it’s quite magical. You get over the naked part quickly.”
Severus looks as though he wants to disagree with her.
Over by the lottery stand, Johan motions that it’s time for dinner.
Hermione drops her hair and makes to stand. Severus’s hand appears in front of her. He’s already risen, body blocking the sun. She wets her lips. His hands are elegant, with long, bony fingers. It was warm in hers when they danced around the maypole. She takes his hand, lets him pull her to her feet. She hopes her hand isn’t too sweaty. Her skirt swishes against his trousers when she stands. Regretfully, Severus drops her hand as they walk back towards the group.
It is not Johan’s fault that Severus ends up sitting next to Granger at dinner.
The two of them go quiet—a stark contrast to when they were alone. Not as if the magic of their earlier conversation has evaporated, but as if it has shifted into something else. Something made up of sidelong glances.
Strange how they hadn’t touched on magic much at all so far—much less their shared history. Earlier, they talked about his life in the Dominican Republic, their mutual love of Delicatobollar, what little Swedish he had managed to pick up. She tried to help with his pronunciation and failed as miserably as Johan had.
He didn’t ask whether she was single, though he had thought it very hard. Much harder than he should have. She revealed it casually, bringing up her cat (yes, the same one—and yes, he was still alive) and mentioning that he was her only companion here apart from the friends she’d made.
It is bizarre, how it feels like they have simultaneously known each other for decades and are meeting for the first time.
Now, she gives him another one of those glances. The clouds have moved in, so the sun isn’t beating mercilessly down on them now, but it’s still muggy. A slight whiff of petrichor in the air is the only warning they get before Johan’s promised downpour arrives in spectacular fashion. Grabbing food in between laughs and shouts, everyone runs towards the house. By the time they all crowd in, Severus’s hair and shoulders are soaked. Hermione laughs, wringing out her long curls.
“It’s tradition,” she says. “Makes you feel right at home, doesn’t it?”
“This part does bear a striking resemblance to the British summer, yes.”
They accept towels from Johan, sitting by a window together and looking out at the rain as they attempt to dry themselves. Severus casts a mild version of a drying charm on himself when no one is looking—just enough so the water no longer drips down his hair.
“Oh, no fair,” Hermione says with a laugh. “If I did that, I’d look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.”
The flower crown is drooping, falling petals sticking to her cheeks. She pulls it off, sets it aside.
“If someone had told me you were going to be here,” she says, “I would have expected you to avoid me the whole time.”
He chuckles. “Is that why you ran off as soon as you could when we were in the kitchen?”
She sticks her nose in the air. “I did no such thing.”
He doesn’t argue. They both know the truth.
“Speaking of running off,” Hermione says. “If the rain lets up, are you going to go swimming later?”
Her gaze holds his, like a dare. Even though the wilted flower crown has been discarded, his imagination provides a vision of her standing in the water, wearing nothing else but those flowers.
“Are you?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Then so will I.”
She is in a heightened state of anticipation for the rest of the evening, and it makes her skin hum when Severus’s fingers brush against hers as they play cards. The rain eventually lets up, leaving the grass and leaves glinting in the golden sunlight. The air smells fresh, of flowers and salt from the coast and Severus’s cologne.
“I can’t remember the last time I went swimming,” Severus says as they near the lake.
“Wild swimming isn’t really common in Britain, is it?” Hermione adjusts the grip on her towel. “Here people take every chance they get to swim in lakes during the summer.”
He snorts. “Strange people, Swedes.”
She laughs. He said the same thing when the fermented herring was brought out at lunch. Her first midsummer here she was duped into trying it, and it’s the single worst experience of her existence. Thankfully, she intervened before they could inflict the same thing on Severus.
There are shouts and laughter as the others run the last bit to the lake, throwing their clothes off and jumping into the water. The pink and purple sky casts dramatic shadows over the trees and small islands in the lake. Hermione glances at Severus. Then, before she can change her mind, she tugs her dress over her head. She is naked underneath - having shimmied out of her knickers and bra in the bathroom shortly before leaving - and the balmy night air feels good on her skin. Without looking back, she runs onto the dock and jumps into the lake.
She surfaces with a gasp, treading water to keep afloat. Laughing, she splashes water in Severus’s direction. “The water is lovely, join me!”
He hesitates for a moment, then nimble fingers reach for the top button on his shirt. It feels too intimate to watch him undress - she hasn’t earned that privilege - so she floats on her back instead. The night is quiet, interspersed with the sounds of blackbirds and sock doves mingling with laughter from her friends a bit further out. There’s a big splash when Severus jumps into the lake. She looks over just as he breaks the water’s surface, gasping and sputtering.
“Fuck, that’s cold!” he runs a hand over his face, pushes back his sodden hair.
“It’s not cold, it’s refreshing,” Hermione laughs.
“Refreshing my arse,” Severus mumbles and swims over to her.
His hand touches her waist, and the air between them becomes heavy. When she moves upright, her legs bump against his. He is so close. Drops of water stick to his lashes, run down his face. She catches one with the pad of her thumb. His eyes ask a question, and she leans forward in response. His lips are surprisingly warm on hers, as is his breath when he sighs. As best she can, she presses her body against his. The water laps around them, and everything’s quiet. His arm is secure around her waist, the other cradling her neck. She never wants it to end.
Eventually, it must end. Mainly because she discovers how difficult it is to be entwined and kissing while trying to keep one's head above water. Getting dressed is easier after a well aimed drying charm, then she takes Severus’s hand and leads him further down the gravel path. She discovered the grassy meadow her first year celebrating midsummer here, when her social energy was drained and she needed to recharge. She hasn’t shown anyone the spot before - not even Jenny, the Muggle she dated two summers ago - and her heart pounds as they spread out their damp towels and sit.
“You were right,” Severus says, leaning his knee against her leg.
She shifts closer, brushes some grass from his trousers. “About what?”
“Midnight swimming is magical.” He smiles, then kisses her.
Hermione melts into his embrace. His mouth is sure on hers, fingers gripping her thigh, and she hasn’t felt like this in years. She isn’t sure who initiates it, but their backs hit the towels. It makes their teeth clash together, and they part with a hiss. With a chuckle, Severus kisses her swiftly before tucking her into his side. A lone blackbird sings for them. She doesn’t know what time it is, nor does she care. His hand tracing patterns on her arm is very distracting. Finally, she plucks up the courage to ask the question she wanted to in the kitchen when he was scrubbing potatoes.
“Why did you let us all think you were dead?”
His touch falters for a second. “It was easier,” he says softly. “I was fairly sure that should we win, I’d end up in Azkaban, and should we lose I would be killed. Neither option filled me with joy, so I left.”
“To be honest, I probably would have done the same thing. I wouldn’t have chosen the Dominican Republic though: I don’t fancy trying to deal with my hair in that humidity.”
He snorts. “I much prefer Sweden.”
“What do you think of your first midsommar?”
The corners of his mouth curl upwards. “It’s not half bad.”
Hermione strokes a hand over his chest. “There’s an old superstition that if you walk barefoot or roll in the dew of the midsummer’s night, it will bring you strength and good health for the rest of the year. But it must be done in silence, or else the magic will be broken.”
Severus quirks an eyebrow. “Roll in the dew, you say?”
Before she can get a word in, he’s kissing her again. She meets him enthusiastically, parts her legs so he can nestle between them. Then she gasps into his mouth when her back makes contact with the ground. The dew is cold against her shoulders. He rolls them again and again, and Hermione can’t stop herself from laughing. She buries her face in the crook of his neck to stifle the sound. His chest heaves, and his laughter makes her stomach swoop.
After the final roll, when she’s once again beneath him and suddenly very aware she’s not wearing anything underneath her dress, he pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.
“When are you going back to England?”
Another stomach swoop. “In a few days.” The gossamer thread of the question hangs between them -- delicate and fragile. She’s nervous as she says, “I could come back to visit, in a while. I’ve got unclaimed holiday days.” She wets her lips. “Or you could come to Britain. You’ve been exonerated: no one will be waiting for you to arrive just to put a magic suppression bracelet on you and haul you off to Azkaban.”
Something shifts in his eyes, and she curses herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”
He moves his thumb over her lips. “I’ll consider it. Knowing I won’t be jailed or executed doesn’t sound bad. Regarding your first offer…” he inhales sharply, as though he’s gearing himself up to say whatever it is he’s going to say. “I would like that very much.”
Her whole body swoops this time, and she can’t stop her wide grin. Then she shivers; the dew is cold against her body.
“We were supposed to do this in silence. We broke the magic.”
He smiles, and she wishes she could bottle it and carry it with her always. “No, we didn’t.”