𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 II SS/HG ✔️

Midnight Excursions

The Snapes did not sleep close. For a while, Hermione slept so far away from him, her toes poked out over the edge of the mattress. It was her custom to sleep on her side anyway, but the awkward aura kept her muscles stiff most of the night.

Severus slept on his side as well, so their backs were to one another most of the time. But Hermione was used to sleeping on the side of the bed Severus had claimed (which she was fine with—this was his bed, after all).

In her own bed, she would curl to the right—and if she had to guess, Severus usually faced away from his bedroom door when he slept. So, a month into their marriage, the two had—slowly—resumed their normal sleeping positions. She would throw one leg out further, like bouncing a football on her knee. His leg barely strayed from his body; he was all angles, even in sleep.

Hermione would often wake to see they were now facing one another. One time she had been horrified to realize her cold toes were pressed to his ankle.

The fact that Hermione curled further into the middle of the bed, where most of the body heat collected under their shared quilt, could be contributed to the bitter weather this time of year or maybe she was just…used to him, now.

They both refrained from speaking to one another once either of them got in the bed. It was a rule neither had agreed upon but both somehow knew. But one day in October, she woke up and realized her shoulders were not sore. Sure, they didn't sleep like how other married couples might sleep, but Hermione, at least, was not kept fitful all night, afraid to cross over their invisible line down the center of the bed anymore.

She was worried about freezing to death in the dungeons, though. His fireplace was in the sitting room—quite a ways away. No, no one would claim Severus Snape was a cuddler—but you know, that wouldn't be so bad in the winter.

Hermione had burst out laughing at that, in the middle of the library. The shushes she received did not dull her amusement.

Ginny would die if Hermione was somehow able to convince Professor Snape to cuddle at night.

Hermione put her head down in her book. Her shoulders shook but she kept the laugh in, a balloon in her chest. Spooning Severus Snape circled around her brain. Am I spooning or is he spooning?

The witch couldn't take it anymore—she packed up her things and all but ran out of there. As soon as she entered the hallway she began to giggle. Unable to concentrate, Hermione decided to do the washing.

…

Two hours later, Hermione lugged the washing into her bedroom. Hagrid claimed there wasn't a spell Hermione couldn't learn—and it was true. But these domestic spells she just didn't care for. So she laid out all her shirts on the bed, and shoved them onto hangers by hand. She found a rhythm to it with the aid of her charmed Walkman and the Spice Girls.

The spell for wrinkles she mastered immediately. Hermione had an unfortunate habit of taking a book along with her to the washing room. And if it was a good book, she would forget what was in the charmed wringing-machine.

When all the shirts were hung in the armoire, she charmed each one into pressed, sharp lines.

"I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want," she sang under her breath.

Crookshanks moseyed in from Snape's bedroom.

"So tell me what you want, what you really really want," she said, pointing at Crooks.

The cat paused for a moment. Then he sat, lifted his leg, and began to lick it.

"If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends," she said a bit louder.