“beyond wandpoint” 090 by gingerbred
Mar. 23rd, 2019 01:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 12c Wednesday - Counterpoint and Clothing”
Hermione and Severus, Sunny
Originally Published: 2018-10-06 on AO3
Chapter: 090
When Hermione enters their lounge in her sleepwear... Monday it had been inadvertent. Fair enough. But Wednesday... Wednesday it's deliberate. And that's a whole different matter.
Of course, when he gets around to thinking about that, that will be perfectly clear, and that dawns on her - a little late - with a start, and she stops right where she is. He knew, he could feel precisely when she woke. She's found time to brush her teeth and hair, and even apply Madam Pomfrey's Charm on her unruly mop; it still needs work, but it's a far sight better than anything she could achieve without a bucket of Sleekeazy's and a couple hours' work. And it's readily apparent. Conspicuous. So, yes, that will be all too obvious. Fortunately, he isn't thinking about that just now.
She may just have given him too many other things to think about.
Unaware of this, she just stands there, facing him. More than a little uncertainly now. Of course, the fact he's Occluding to within an inch of his life means he picks up on absolutely nothing going on with her. It can be a mixed blessing.
It's possible she's still offended by his 'Why on earth would I wish to start with you?' The fact she's quoted that to herself a couple of times this morning would seem to confirm it. It's also conceivable, in the face of his repeated... rejection - and that's a very loaded word that may not be entirely fair in their situation, but sometimes it's hard to remain objective - it's conceivable she wants to get a rise out of him, um, possibly somewhat literally. And in light of what feels like near universal rejection these last few days, it's becoming increasingly important to find... some measure of acceptance. She's also very eager to just feel herself again. It's difficult, especially when she's not admitting just how much Friday had affected her, to put her finger on what needs to change, and she's a bit desperate to prove to herself and everyone else that she's untouched by Friday.
She may as well boil the ocean.
The very fact she's posing in a decidedly revealing ensemble in front of the Professor is a damn good indication she's completely wrong about that, she'd never have dreamt of doing such a thing a week ago. That should definitely tell her something - a couple of things even - no matter how wilfully deaf she chooses to be.
Severus, still unable to tear his eyes away, simply extends an arm behind him as he rises and Summons the red throw from the window seat. It seems this is becoming a thing.
Hermione recognises the blanket and the response from Monday, and automatically takes a step back, away from him, which serves to stop him from Banishing the blanket towards her. It wouldn't have been the politest of responses - at least marginally better than throwing it in her face, to be sure - but then he had no wish to approach her clad only in... whatever that was. And he's still highly uncomfortable with the thought he'd carried her to bed in that... thing. No, there is no chance, none at all, that he's getting anywhere near her.
He stands there, still holding the blanket. "Miss Granger, might I suggest a robe?" She doesn't respond. Of course she doesn't. "Should you not find yourself in possession of one..." His right hand lifts the blanket suggestively, not suggestively, well, he's suggesting she cover up alright. Oh, for fuck's sake...
It feels... confrontational. Admittedly, he isn't finding her sudden appearance, scantily clad in their lounge exactly nonconfrontational, and he's responding to that. Possibly in kind. Hopefully only that.
Hermione, however, has had a lot of confrontations the past few days. As difficult as those days have been for Severus - and they were, no question - he doesn't get anywhere near as much grief from people as she does. They may think their piece, but - generally - they tend to leave him alone. (Hagrid and Minerva had been - very - notable exceptions.) Hermione, on the other hand, has been the recipient of an absolute outpouring of public... opinion. It's left her rather quick to anger, to fight back. Possibly too much so, but then, it's been a difficult week. And it's only Wednesday.
It triggers her fight or flight response, and at the moment that seems to be set steadily to 'fight'. It feels like she's spent the best part of the past two days fighting almost everyone she knows. Why should the Professor be any different?
"Whatever for?" She fires back. "You've seen me in less." Severus looks blank - as well he might; it was probably his best option, in fact - and she prompts, ridiculously, as though that were necessary, and he hasn't been desperately trying to forget it, "Friday night?"
He just swallows and stares at her in disbelief in response. He may need to beg Albus for an Obliviate after all. Although on consideration, the statement was true of Monday morning as well, he'd seen more of her then, too, for the second it took him to Transfigure her... outfit. And doesn't he wish that weren't the case...
"And there was a lot less to see then than with the typical Muggle bathing suit." She finishes strongly, completely convinced of the truth of what she's saying and stubbornly refusing to see anything wrong in her behaviour or to even entertain the notion of checking to see if maybe there is. If she did so, that would only mean something is off. Could be off. And it clearly isn't. It can't be. So this is normal, the new normal, and perfectly defensible. And she's exactly the woman to do so.
It just leaves Severus battling not to think of the bloody black bikini that had come to haunt his dreams.
He sighs, setting the blanket on his desk. He realises the problem won't solve itself, when do they ever, and he has to speak to her about this. He stands there, crossing his arms, trying to find a way to phrase this, selecting and discarding a number of approaches and finally opting for plain soldier. "But more suggestive," he answers quietly, almost neutrally, which has the effect of actually reaching her in the way anything more aggressive wouldn't have.
It knocks her a little off kilter.
"Well, what does it matter? We're married," she rejoins, shooting for glib and missing it wildly. She's panicking a little, and it's a coping mechanism, but he's Occluding too much to notice.
"Cause and effect, Miss Granger! That's not a mitigating circumstance, that's a miserable consequence! Had the first not occurred, the second would not have followed."
And he does sound miserable, she has to give him that. She's realised this was a misstep. Not the full breadth and depth of that misstep, but at least that it was. It's a start. "Well, it's hardly your punishment for having seen me in such a state."
"No, it's for not having the boys in my House better under control," he sinks back into his chair, now a vision of misery, and she takes pity, turning to Summon the blanket Madam Pomfrey had given them from the couch. She drapes it over her shoulders (trying not to think of when and where she last saw it), and swears she can see the relief on his face.
It riles her a little. The more standoffish he behaves, after last night of all things, the more it leaves her feeling she had taken advantage of his... incapacitation. That's an extremely bitter pill for some all too glaring reasons. And having extended an olive branch in covering up, she now feels she's compromised too much, bent too far, and she ignores both his claim and state entirely, attacking instead.
"You were the one to tell me I should make an effort to demonstrate just how untroubled I am by Friday's... events." And who knows, if she could prove to everyone she wasn't affected, perhaps she'll come to believe it more, too. "This is something I actually haven't got a problem with and here you're trying to convince me I should. The last thing I need is people forcing their wishes on me, still more limitations, and certainly not just to accommodate other's sensibilities."
That sits. Merlin knows, she's been victimised enough, and he feels more than a little guilty about it. The idea he should be forcing her into that role... leaves him highly discomfited. He withdraws some, considering the reproach.
She's not comfortable in her own skin yet, she knows that, she senses it - how could she be? - but this is something that genuinely doesn't bother her (after all, how many hours of her life has she spent in public in a bathing suit without a second thought?), and it feels like someone is trying to give her yet another complex about something she isn't currently bothered by and she could use that like a hole in the head. Well, another hole in the head. Eyes, mouths, ears, nostrils... Heads really do have quite a number of holes when one reflects on it...
But the fact he seems to be thinking about what she said, that he doesn't appear moved to attack her for her charge, soon has her calming a little and trying to consider his position. It's not that he doesn't have a right to his feelings, or that she can't understand that he might wish to maintain some... formalities between them (she begins to blush faintly at the thought of the past night) and some adherence to etiquette in their, his home. Because that's what it was, what it had been until just a few days ago. His home. And she's invaded and seems to be causing one problem after another for him.
The problem is what they want here seems to be mutually exclusive. Their respective wishes may be diametrically opposed, but surely he has some rights too... Only what he wants, what he'd ask of her, she's thinking... it feels like it might make it harder for her to cope and... She gives up trying to solve it on her own and tries a different tack. "Maybe we can find a compromise," she suggests, more hopefully than confidently. She hasn't really got a concrete suggestion. Maybe he does.
She stands there with that soft blanket wrapped around her, it hangs low and open, exposing rather a lot of her shoulders, her upper arms, her décolletage, her creamy skin... Absently he wonders how a creature he is now fairly certain consists of eighty percent legs can also be twenty percent neck. And distantly he's aware that he knows for a fact she's also in possession of an extremely bushy, detail-filled head. Although perhaps not quite so bushy at the present.
"Mmmhmm," he manages, and shakes it off. But he has also already recognised that there is no compromise. "What do you propose?" He keeps his sarcasm in check, his tone once again almost neutral, he's still too far out of his comfort zone, and his headache certainly isn't helping matters any. He hasn't lived with anyone, shared rooms since the seventies and this... Secretly, he's come to suspect he's not up for the challenge. Not in general, and certainly not on this morning in the particular.
She laughs, because there isn't really a solution. A little cheekily, almost compulsively unwilling to leave a question unanswered, she quips, "I could wear whatever I please as long as I'm Disillusioned."
Well, it's certainly an answer. Somehow the idea that she could possibly be running about starkers at any given time, even if she were Disillusioned, seems even worse - far worse - than that thing she's wearing now. (And doesn't he hate that that was the first thing he thought of...) He may need to develop a very specific Notice-Me-Not to address the issue. Or dress it, as the case may be...
He stops crossing his arms long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose, which has come to feel rather abused of late. Funny that.
Severus hasn't realised it yet, but he's fortunate that his... preoccupation with her clothing, or lack thereof, is keeping him from noticing some of the other... creative alterations to the furnishings he'd undertaken the previous evening. Sadly, that distraction also won't hold; a stay is far from a reprieve. But then, when he does register it, undoubtedly his head won't be in quite the state it's currently in, and he'll be better equipped to face it.
Presumably.
It should improve his day immensely.
He's about to fold, if only to get himself out of the conversation. He'd accepted they might need to speak, but this wasn't quite the conversation he'd expected; it's somehow worse, and he just wants it to end. He simply can't understand how only yesterday she could be suggesting they make their quarters a uniform free area, ostensibly to accommodate him, and then a morning later turn around and try to twist that into... this. It leaves him wondering if this is what she'd intended all along...
Further, it's proving annoying, rather, that she's inexplicably adjusting to their shared flat arrangement better than he is... And then it occurs to him that - very much unlike himself - she has the clear advantage of having last shared quarters with others only days before moving into his. But once he gets past the initial wince that recollecting her student status invariably seems to evoke - he doesn't think he'll ever be comfortable with that - that fact calls something else to mind. And he begins to understand.
She's not trying to be difficult.
She's overcompensating.
And he's unconscionably slow-witted not to have thought of it sooner. He's not entirely sure if her outfit or his hangover is to blame. He decides both are valid excuses by themselves; combined, they'd left him insufficiently equipped for the situation.
He is also very mindful of some of her recent experiences, although he isn't yet as aware of the effects of having had to experience his torture via their bond Monday as he'll come to be. Incontestably that wasn't in the same league as having had to experience them oneself, there's no question, but he is a great deal more used to such treatment, had expected no less, and better able to shake off the effects. She isn't yet. With luck, maybe she'll never be. But she isn't in great shape, and even the things he knows about provide him with sufficient insight, once he stops to consider them, and it dawns on him that she trusts him sufficiently to stand there dressed in a flimsy nightdress, if it can be called that. That and nothing more.
He doesn't know precisely what she's trying to prove. He hopes, very sincerely, that this has nothing at all to do with last night. But she's essentially sharing quarters with a strange man, and still she trusts him. Given what had happened to her, had she chosen to lock and barricade her door against him - not that it would have done much good in the face of the arsenal of Spells he could bring to bear on it, but still - had she done so, he'd have understood perfectly. He might have chosen to be insulted anyway, but it most definitely would have made perfect sense to him. Instead she'd curled up - on the floor - beside him. It's one thing in semi-public, in the Infirmary. But she'd chosen to do so where she had no one more than her ginger beast and a house elf for chaperones.
She trusts him.
Not many do.
He keeps coming back to it, there's something... touching about her trust.
And with understanding comes renewed patience. As evenly as possible, he asks, "Would you have walked around the Tower dressed like that?"
His tone is pitch perfect; it's not an attack, simply an enquiry. Goodness, he could be asking the time. Once again, that enables her to hear him. With all the fighting and abuse in the past few days, she's sort of stopped listening to people quite as much. For the most part, that had been useful. Advisable. Sometimes, that makes things worse. Not that listening now makes her feel any better, but in a real sense, it still helps.
He's right, of course. Absolutely. She wouldn't have, even if it were allowed, which it isn't. She blanches, her creamy complexion turning a disturbing shade of pale, and then there's a slight rosy blotchiness starting at her cheeks and working its way down her chest as she begins to blush on top of that response.
But Hermione's beginning to panic, because if he's right - and he is - then there are a whole slew of questions that need asking and answering about 'why', and a lot of the things she's sensed but has tried very hard, and fairly successfully, not to think about are threatening to come crashing down on her...
"Miss Granger," Severus tries to shake her out of it. But her eyes have begun to tear up, and soon the first teardrops begin to fall. "Miss Granger!" He tries a little more firmly, and she raises her eyes to meet his, and there's a more than passing resemblance to a trapped animal about her. He's not pleased with his options, but faced with the imminent threat of a sobbing witch or taking action...
He stands with a barely suppressed sigh and crosses to her, half wishing he had fewer qualms about employing a Stupefy, and slowly reaches out to tuck her more thoroughly into the blanket. He leaves his hands on her now covered shoulders and softens his voice again, but it's deep and steady, sure, and it leaves her no room for doubt. "It will be alright. There's no need whatsoever to worry. We'll work things out, and it will all be quite alright." He's not sure he believes it, or that he actually wants another project, in fact, he's quite sure he doesn't, but the relief that blooms across her face is nearly immediate. She brightens almost instantly.
And it's something else.
She's looking at him like...
She's looking at him like people look towards Albus. Like he magically has all the answers, and she believes him. (Which is complete poppycock.) Like what he says must be so. (Which is utter, unmitigated balderdash. If that were the case, someone would have demanded he turn in his Slytherin scarf decades ago. What rot...) But he couldn't begin to count the number of times he's watched people look at Albus like that, and he'd sat there silently taking them for fools. And honestly, as he'd just pulled the assertion that everything would be fine out of his arse, that rather leaves the witch in exactly that category. Believing in empty promises and claims...
And yet there's something about her placing her faith in him that leaves him a little unwilling to disappoint her... At least not immediately. That it must come inevitably is another matter, but perhaps they can maintain the fiction until she's a little more recovered and better able to master her problems on her own.
If only for what the bond conveys, it would unquestionably be the wisest course of action.
Naturally.
And of course it had been quite the return on that little bit of effort on his part. That seems... efficient.
Sniffling faintly, she begins trying to knuckle away the tear tracks. Without relinquishing his left hand's hold on her shoulder, he fumbles with his right in his robe pocket for the handkerchief that seems to have gone missing, and as he remembers when and why turns to look at her. She smiles slightly - it may be watery, but it is a faint smile - as she clocks the gesture and points towards the nearest end table. He turns his head to discover his handkerchief lying folded beneath the pot of Scar Scarcefying Salve, which she probably shouldn't be drawing attention towards. But she's lucky and he assumes Sunny has simply been tidying again, particularly in light of the accuracy with which the thing's been folded and arranged. He Summons it wandlessly with his right hand - the Accio goes so smoothly, the Salve doesn't do more than spin in place on the table as the cloth square is pulled from under it - and silently hands the handkerchief to her once more.
She almost smirks at that. The gesture itself was comforting, even though the hankie doesn't have the advantage of smelling like him as it had yesterday (which only makes sense, really). She could swear the blanket does, though, just a little, and she's wondering if it's that, or the properties Madam Pomfrey had spoken of that were working to calm her. Chances are both, and that the Professor's firm grip on her shoulder is helping as well.
Naturally Sod's Law dictates he stop almost immediately.
"Why don't you take a seat and calm yourself?" He glances at the chairs, the bloody corgi couch, and immediately discards them as options. He wants distance. He's eager, very eager, to return to the safety of his desk - the shrunken desk, the demi-desk, but still - eager to have a desk between them and the reinforcement of the role that will assuredly provide. He gestures towards the window seat, and unhanding her shoulder has already begun a hasty, half backwards retreat in that direction. The witch follows closely on his heels. Toes. Whichever. Both.
He's not even entirely sure she's heard him. Her movements seem almost automatic.
He's moderately pleased when he manages not to stumble up the steps to the reading nook (that has a way of ruining the image he strives for, but would have been quite fitting for the way things have gone of late) and slides into his new - and decidedly less comfortable - desk chair, before she can think to suggest he join her on the window seat.
She looks like a deer caught in Muggle headlamps. A hopeful deer. She sits there staring at him, batting her oversized eyes (he adds five percent eyes to the improbable list of her attributes, knowing full well he's exceeded one hundred; he'll probably deduct it from the neck estimate), dabbing with the kerchief at the tears that had fallen. If he thought he was out of his depth before, he is certain he's out of it now. She curls up on the seat in front of the window to the Black Lake and tucks herself into the blanket. He could swear he just saw her sniffing it, too, which amuses him slightly, relaxing him just a little. They're of the same opinion then, the thing smells wonderful.
They may not quite agree as to why, however.
She looks at him expectantly and he's frankly at a loss. But he's a Potions Master. When at a loss, he goes with what he knows best. "Perhaps you should take your Draught of Peace now?"
"If I do, it will wear off during Arithmancy. I need to wait a while longer."
She's right, of course, and that's... that's irksome. Beyond irksome. And embarrassing, which is probably even more irksome. Splendid. He's being schooled - in his field - by his student... spouse. He is never, ever getting bladdered again.
Or allowing himself to be poisoned.
That undoubtably should help.
Naturally he won't acknowledge the accuracy of her objection. Wild thestrals... "I had meant it when I said you were safe here. We may need to work out some difficulties, it would be naïve to assume otherwise, but the fact remains you should consider these walls a safe harbour. Nothing will happen to you here." She nods, and he moves to tackle the matter at hand. "But for my sake, I would appreciate it, greatly, if you would accord me the same respect as you would anyone else."
She half smirks, that had been her suggestion after all, hadn't it? And she can't quite resist saying so, "I had proposed agreeing to treat one another with mutual respect and civility."
He smirks back. He had thought that word would appeal to her for just that reason, and he much prefers a smirking witch to a crying one. He's also reasonably certain that was an exact quote. She's... reliable that way. He's counting on that cushioning his point. "So can we agree that if you wouldn't wear that in your common room, then perhaps you should save it for your own room here?"
She blinks at the intrinsic rebuke, but the waterworks don't start again, and both are relieved when she's able to just nod in response. So much so that neither is altogether certain which of the two of them exhaled in relief. Probably because it was mutual.
"Well, except for making chambers a uniform free area..." She finally replies. He's not sure he'd ever agreed to it, or even that this was now a question, but as he has no desire to be sat across from a constant reminder of that particular joy of Albus' abysmal bonding plan, he finds himself nodding a mite stiffly and she smiles in response.
They're silent for a moment, neither sure what to say. Severus would be perfectly happy to leave it like that, if she'd just be so kind as to withdraw to her room. He's rarely so lucky.
But he isn't the only one who seeks comfort in well established roles.
Hermione is used to being the one to rebuke others, she's also accustomed to taking care of her friends - much like certain house elves of her acquaintance - whether they want her to or not. With no one else to direct her deeply ingrained habits towards, Severus becomes the focus for some of that energy. He should be overjoyed.
"Were you planning on going to breakfast?" She asks, channeling Luna once again. He promptly decides she's never been hungover, and then has to go back to trying to ignore her youth. He also incorrectly assumes she was hoping for an escort out of the dungeons. He truly had had no intention of eating, and certainly none of facing the rarely paralleled cacophony of the Great Hall. Strangely, he has no desire to explain what should be the all too obvious reasons why.
"I had planned on taking my breakfast here," he answers instead. And naturally that breakfast would have consisted of nothing. He isn't particularly inclined to mention that either. She looks crestfallen, because this will undoubtedly interfere with her plans to have Sunny bring her her breakfast here. He misinterprets the reason for it as nervousness at the thought of having to make her way alone past all the Slytherins, failing to recognise they're far less of an issue at the moment than the table full of Gryffindors she'd then be required to join. One might think he'd be naturally predisposed to consider them problematic, but oddly he neglects to do so in this particular instance...
"I'm sure I could rustle up something for us to eat if you wouldn't mind the company?" She sounds terribly hopeful again, and he feels caught in his... equivocation.
"I thought your cooking was worse than Hagrid's?" He tries to put her off.
And fails.
She merely smiles, "Oh, it is. I wasn't planning on cooking."
He now has visions of her plating up the Kneazle's, half-Kneazle's kippers. Somehow it isn't that appealing. His lips thin to a fine line at the thought, "Thank you just the same." Beginning to resign himself to the inevitable, in a last ditch effort he suggests, "I could have Sunny bring us something instead?"
Her smile broadens and he decides he's doomed. He doesn't know why he'd hoped that might scare her off. He might have been banking too much on her Elven Rights scheme. He gives up. He calls for Sunny, who typically appears almost as soon as he's called in his neatly pressed robes, and asks Miss Granger what she'd like. She asks Severus if she might have orange juice, and while he can understand the desire for anything other than pumpkin juice, can he ever, he finds her breakfast order exceptionally modest. They're offering her whatever she'd like, and she simply orders what they're having in the Great Hall with a side of orange juice, and seems to find it decadent at that. Severus has also accepted there's no way to do this without a Potion or three to settle his stomach and head, and in for a penny... He orders a fry-up.
"Sunny, I'll have two poached eggs, please, some back bacon, two bangers, fried mushrooms, grilled tomatoes and tattie scones. I'd like the orange juice, as well, and tea, naturally. Miss Granger, are you sure I can't tempt you?"
Her doe eyes, now wide as saucers, answer that before her mouth does, and he asks Sunny to bring them two orders.
"With milk," Miss Granger pipes up. Elf and Professor turn to face her, and Hermione clarifies, a little shyly, "In the tea. If you don't mind."
"For breakfast? That should go without saying," Severus answers with a small smirk. For half a moment she looks like she wants to debate that, but given they're both taking it the same way, she lets it go. His smirk broadens in recognition of that surrender. Turning to the elf again, he doesn't even get to finish his, "Thank you, Sunny," before the madly grinning elf disappears. Severus can only imagine what's pleased him now.
Looking at the witch curled there in the blanket that's once again slipped to reveal what he now knows are extremely soft shoulders he asks, "Would you perhaps care to use the time to find something... more suitable to wear?"
She blushes terrifically and leaps from the seat, leaving the blanket behind and hurrying past him with a, "I'll be right back..."
Apparently they'll need to work on that. And he may need to work on a Notice-Me-Not after all.
(no subject)
Date: 2022-02-02 08:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2022-02-05 05:31 pm (UTC)Severus tickled a couple of finished stories out of me on christmasspirit.livejournal.com and gingerbredshaus.livejournal.com; on the first the index is up to date, on the latter unfortunately not so much... (*adds to to do list*)