December 25th

The clock struck twenty-five, notes filtering down the to dungeon through some trick of the castle's acoustic - or some special Christmas charm of Dumbledore's - to announce the beginning to this particular day.

Hermione lay with her eyes shut, allowing her other senses to register the feel of the man beside her, now calm, maybe even sleeping a little, after that first explosion of passion. She couldn't quite identify the point in the previous day when she had allowed herself to begin to hope; when he had asked her to go for a walk, perhaps. Or when he hadn't seemed to want her to go back to her room, even to get a coat. Or in the knot garden when their hands had clasped and not released. Or in the conversation, or in the myriad of moments when a verbal sketch was as good as a completed picture. By the time they had returned to his rooms hope had become sufficient certainty for her to stop feeling stupid that she had cast some - precautionary - charms before leaving her rooms. And sometime after that she realised that, far from forgetting, Snape had remembered every single thing in exquisite detail.

Had he changed? She wasn't certain. He was still difficult and defensive, to be sure. He had been through too many years of suspicion and double-dealing to able to abandon that. She gave the roof of the bedroom a wry smile. Not to mention that fact that if he suddenly started to behave like Peregrine Queroz, he wouldn't be Severus Snape any more; it just wouldn't be right. But the obstacles of age and status and Voldemort were no longer there. It could be that this time they had a chance.

She moved a hand fractionally to touch his hair. That was better without a doubt, but she had been too focussed on being annoyed by the man himself to notice the difference. It had taken Parvati's flirting to bring it to her attention - which would more than likely mean that Snape would return to the use of household soap as soon as humanly possible, if only to avoid any repetition of that scene.

Now she was past the uncertainties, she could see the humour in it. She stifled a sudden giggle and the movement drew an indisctinct murmur from Snape. She had disturbed him, or perhaps he hadn't truly been asleep.

She placed a small kiss on his forehead.

"Merry Christmas," she said softly.

He shifted against her, making a noise of enquiry.

"I heard the clock," she explained.

He made another noise, and said something indistinct and derisive, although she did hear the words "Dumbledore" and "idiotic".

She smiled again, and wriggled down against him, so that she could plant a trail of small kisses down the line of his jaw and then up to his mouth. He turned to meet her lips, and for a moment she was lost again in the taste of him as their tongues met.

She felt one of his hands begin to stroke her hip, and she pressed forwards, bringing her leg into closer contact with him. She could feel the stirring against her, telling her that his mouth and hands weren't the only things responding. The caressing hand shifted over the muscles of her back to graze the side of her breast. She made a small sound of pleasure and yielded to the gentle pressure to roll on to her back and allow his hands and mouth free access to her.

He was quick to take advantage. He dropped a kiss in the hollow at the base of her neck and then took one of her nipples into his mouth. She arched into him as he licked and teased and suckled at her, whilst a lazy thumb drew across the tip of the other breast, sending electric shivers down her spine straight to the spot between her legs, already swollen and semi-aroused from their previous efforts. Restlessly, she moved her hips, lost in sensation, not knowing whether she was trying to heighten or release the growing pressure there. His hand moved away from her breast to stroke her belly, just above the edge of her pubic hair. She made a noise in protest as cooler air hit the naked nipple making the sensitive skin react and contract still further. His fingers were tangling in her lower hair now, teasing at the point of the triangle, dipping in and out, getting closer and closer, touching and stroking, now short, now long, now fast now slow. Her hips bucked and arched of their own volition and his mouth continued to work at her nipple. She buried her hands in his hair, pulling his head to her breast, rubbing herself against him, responding to the increasing pressure, and then his fingers found the spot and she threw back her head with a cry as her body turned to molten liquid under him.

As she came back to herself she realised that her hands were still clenched in his hair. Carefully, she released them, massaging his scalp a little as she did so.

"Did I hurt you?" she whispered.

There was a movement that could have been a shrug.

"Maybe a little. It doesn't matter."

She kissed him.

"I'm sorry."

There was a pause.

"It was worth it, though." He sounded pleased with himself. "You seemed to be enjoying it."

Hermione tried not to choke.

"Smug bastard," she hissed with no real heat.

"Yes," came the calm reply. "What of it?"

She couldn't help it; she had to grin. It was just so - so Severus.

"Nothing," she said, and then ducked her head so that she could put her mouth on one of his nipples.

She was rewarded by a gasp and then hands burying themselves in her own hair. Gently, teasing, she lapped at him, feeling the tissue rise to prominence under her tongue. Wetting her thumb, she traced lazy circles round the other one, knowing how sensitive he was to this. She caressed him, but not for too long; if her memory served her well, he reacted quickly to this stimulation, and she had more things in mind.

Supporting herself on one elbow, as he had done earlier, she trailed her hand away from his chest, down the ribcage and to the top of his balls. Lightly she traced a pattern down the edge of his hips, and then up his inner thigh, circling, but never quite touching him. Instinctively he moved his hips to try and meet her hand, but she evaded him. He was making incoherent noises in the back of his throat somewhere between protest and plea. His hands in her hair were beginning to exert a definite pressure.

Giving in to him, she began to kiss her way down the centre of his body. Positioning herself comfortably, she began to follow the same path with her mouth that her fingers had travelled, dancing around his cock but never quite touching it. He was hard - that was clearly visible, even in the half-light of the now guttering candles - but his hands in her hair, although they were clenching, were never trying to force the direction her head.

No, he wouldn't do that. Not ever. She remembered a ten year old half-conversation about imperio. Enough of this, perhaps.

She moved her head sideways, to the area that he was carefully not pushing her towards, and took him into her mouth. His response was a long drawn out sound that told how much he had been wanting it. He was nearly ready, she could tell by his movements and the salty taste in the back of her throat. Carefully, she worked her way up him, licking and kissing, taking the base of his cock in her hand and cupping his balls with the other. The sounds she heard were now peppered with expletives and invocations, and then, to her surprise, the word 'no', said thickly, and his hands pushing her away.

As she lifted her head, he cupped her chin.

"Not yet," he said, voice heavy.

Dumbly, she nodded, her breath shortening at the sight of the naked desire on his face. It had been so long since anyone had looked at her with such open wanting. Not since her final year in school, to be precise. He moved to kiss her mouth, once, hard, and then moved so that he could kiss her at the top of her legs. Another movement, and he was cupping her hips and her legs parted instinctively to allow him access. Then his mouth was on her, licking and tasting, dipping inside her and moving up to circle her clitoris, sucking and nipping, and her mind ceased to be able to form any kind of coherent thought. His hands were kneading her buttocks and she brought one hand up to her own breast to mimic the movements, playing with her nipple. Her awareness focussed to a point, made up of action and reaction and something within her began to coil tighter and tighter and she knew that the point of release was near.

Some desire to have him with her this time made her put her hands on his head and move him away, hard as it was. He must have understood her inarticulate pushing and pulling, for he came onto his knees and then forward onto his elbows, to kiss her hard on the mouth. She drew her knees up and apart, to cradle him between them.

"Please, Severus, now," she whispered against his mouth.

There was a brief pressure against her and then he was inside her, rocking slowly, delicious friction against her swollen tissue. And then neither of them could stand it any longer and there was just the two of them and heat and need and rhythm and pressure and release.

Afterwards as they lay, still joined, Hermione reached to kiss Snape's shoulder. He tasted of them, sweat and stickiness, and she didn't care.

"You really are very good at this, you know," she said lazily.

There was a slight pause, long enough for her to wonder if anything was wrong.

"I have an excellent memory," he said eventually. "And you were quite right."

"I was?"

"Yes. You don't forget. Although," he added, "I have still never ridden an actual bicycle."

She laughed. She couldn't help it. She buried her head in the crook of his neck as her shoulders shook.

"Remind me to teach you." She sobered suddenly. "Severus," she said uncertainly, knowing there was one thing she had to ask, "last time we couldn't ... continue ... because of what was going on then. Is it different now?"

If this is all we have then so be it. But please say yes. Please.

He was silent for a very long time.

"Hermione," he said eventually. His voice was very guarded. "Circumstances have changed since you were at school but I am not significantly different."

"I came to care for the person you were at school very much," she said softly.

She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing against her.

"I cannot promise that any - relationship - with me would always be easy or pleasant. I am extremely unlikely to turn into a Professor Queroz."

He wasn't saying no, she told herself. He was thinking about it. She tried to stifle the rising hope, picking her way through the minefield of the conversation.

"If I'd wanted a Professor Queroz," she said dryly, "it seems that I could have had the real thing and I didn't notice. I may just have a thing for tall dark difficult men."

"I don't want you to have any illusions about me."

She took a chance.

"I had to dance with Hyacinth Hooch. How many illusions could I have after that?"

He sniffed.

"I had to have my legs waxed." It sounded as if the injury were fresh in his mind.

She snuffled with laughter.

"So?"

"As long as you're certain."

"I'm certain. I know this is only a beginning, but I really am certain."

He moved to kiss her again.

A long time later, after dawn was visible behind the curtains and after Christmas Day breakfast and been and gone without them, she broke away from his embrace to glare at him.

"You still haven't wished me Merry Christmas, you know."

He raised an eyebrow and then smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Hermione."

**********

The moments of happiness - not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination--
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness.

TS Eliot - The Dry Salvages, from The Four Quartets