Part Two - May I just say that the characters in this story are the property of JK Rowling, and that I make no money from this story. I just make friends and hopefully people smile from it.

They Apparated just outside his house at Spinner's End, and Severus allowed himself the indulgence of holding her a second longer than strictly necessary. Instead of pushing him away, she relaxed against him for a second longer than strictly expected. "Thank you," she said, looking strangely uncertain. Her bravado and snark seemed to diminish with each passing second. It took a long time to compose herself enough to look up at him. When she finally did, and stepped back, she brushed her tangled nest of hair from her face. Severus sighed inwardly. Time for my brush-off as well. He decided to put her out of his misery.

He pointedly looked down at the stubby front garden. "Well, since it appears you are none the worse for wear, and I have matters to attend—"

"Oh. I see," she replied, looking disappointed and hurt. Her expression grew shuttered, and she turned away. "Sorry, but when you mentioned tea, you invited me to join you. But if you've changed your mind—"

Shocked, he blurted quickly, "I haven't! I did. It's just that—" She gave him a wary look, and defeated, he added, "Fuck's sake, Granger, I'm a hopeless mess at this sort of thing. You're going to have to get used to it if you're going to put up with me."

He froze, horrified at what he'd just said, and yet he knew as sure as Galleons were gold he was prepared at that precise moment to do anything, up to and including making a fool of himself yet again, to keep her from leaving. Come back, he prayed. Don't make me beg, Hermione, because I'm fairly certain I will at this point.

And, as if the gods truly did answer prayers, Hermione gave him a smile that made the sun look like a lazy git, and said, "You know, I have a feeling putting up with you might be fun. Hard work, but fun."

He felt his knees grow weak. "You have no idea."

"My aunt and uncle had a place similar to this."

"They have my condolences."

They decided that a cup of tea was indeed the first order of business, and Severus had led her into his front room, where they waited for the kettle to boil. Strictly speaking, he could have boiled the water magically, of course, but that would have only speeded up a process he was in no hurry to expedite. Hermione seemed content for the moment to 'put up with him,' and it was pleasant having company who was neither trying to kill him nor turning up their nose at his tatty old Muggle house.

Hermione gave him a look he could only describe as wistful. "Seriously, they owned a two-up, two-down just like this. In Didsbury."

"Oh, the posh part of town," he smirked.

The kettle whistled, and Severus excused himself to make tea. He returned to find Hermione looking around his bookshelves as if touring a museum, not his grotty little end of terrace. Nervously, he gabbled, "I would advise you not to look too closely. The place is mostly held up with patching charms, bad memories and sheer pig-headedness." He held out the crazed mug. "Your tea, Madam Secretary."

She nodded her thanks, and continued looking around. "Have you always lived in Manchester?"

"My dad's family have. He and my mother moved to this house shortly after I was born." He grimaced. "This part of town was always considered the least desirable. It's not called 'Shitter's End' for nothing." His mood soured as he looked morosely around the dingy front room. "I keep saying I'll do something with the place, but it's never seemed worth the effort..."

She shook her head. "Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Severus. You were smarter than you realise, keeping all the original features like the hardwood floors and the sash windows. Those are the things people want now." She gave the room an appraising look.

"These old houses all have good bones, you know. Nice sized rooms, high ceilings. I bet you could get a decent price if you decided to sell. Retro is in."

"You'll pardon me if I remain unconvinced. I've lived here for almost forty-five years, and Spinner's End has never been 'in'."

She huffed a silent laugh, then gave her tea a tentative sip. "Oh, this is wonderful," she sighed contentedly. She gave him a sideways glance. "But then again, I expect nothing less from a Potions Master."

He accepted the compliment with a slight bow. "Naturally. Tea is one of the first brews I ever concocted. My mother always said a cup of tea always tastes better when someone else makes it for you."

Hermione laughed. "I think there's something to that! I used to love the way the house-elves made tea at Hogwarts. I know, I'm not supposed to admit that," she added, rolling her lovely eyes. "But I'm sure you'll keep my secret."

"My word of honour as a Slytherin," he purred, ignoring her skeptical smirk. Discretion being the better part of valour, he hastily changed the subject. "Elf-made tea was my go-to balm for comforting first years."

She smiled, her eyes lighting up in surprise. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but I'm having a hard time picturing Severus Snape handing a homesick eleven-year-old a cup of tea and saying, 'There, there, dear'."

He uttered a harsh bark of laughter. "I'll have you know I was considered a very good Head of House in that respect. A cup of tea, a hanky to dry their eyes, a lullaby to soothe them." He leaned toward her conspiratorially. "The occasional bribe to keep it to themselves, followed by the gentle threat of a beneficent Obliviate."

She chuckled. "At least you didn't let something like petty morals get in the way of administering comfort." She mimicked a lisping, gormless first year. "'Thank you for the tea and sympathy. What did you say your name was again?'"

"And they say rewards are few and far between in teaching. Another young mind warped for life. You're welcome."

Her laughter was a lovely thing. Severus leaned back and took a sip from his own mug. He was pleased with himself. He was enjoying her company; it was comfortable, effortless. She seemed as content as he to rest in the silence and drink her tea. He cast about for something to say to keep her from simply finishing her brew and leaving. He had to give her a reason to stay; otherwise it would be only a matter of minutes before she sat the mug down on his chipped coffee table and started her goodbyes.

"I suppose I could scare up some biscuits to go with your tea," he said, and mentally rolled his eyes. He sounded like Filius Flitwick, for Merlin's sake.

Instead of laughing at him, she reached over and squeezed his knee companionably. "Grand idea. You made the tea, I'll go fetch the bickkies."

"They're in the Quality Street tin on top of the fridge."

"Of course they are," she replied with a mischievous grin, and headed toward the kitchen. Severus closed his eyes. His leg tingled pleasantly where she'd touched him, and he cursed himself for allowing his thoughts to take a downward drift.

"Holy hell!"

He sprung from his seat, wand at the ready, and flew into the kitchen, expecting to find her cowering under the influence of another Boggart. Instead, he found Hermione turning in circles in the kitchen, looking around in surprised delight.

"What the fuck?" he blurted, looking around, trying to discover what was sending her into raptures. She was pointing at the cabinets.

"Severus, you have an English Rose kitchen!" She exclaimed excitedly, almost clapping her hands in excitement. "These are like gold dust now. People are paying a fortune to have these restored and fitted in their kitchens. Pardon the pun, but you really are sitting on a potential money spinner."

Severus looked around his dead ordinary kitchen, with its aluminium countertops and curved drawers. To him it was nothing special, just his mother's old kitchen. It was a little battered now, but still solid. Like all things people grow up with, it was neither offending nor pleasing to him. It was just drawers, cabinets and countertops. His dad had hated it. "Bloody tin kitchen," he'd said, every time his beer can clanged on the metal surface.

"But Mum loved it," he murmured softly, marveling at a forgotten memory.

"Pardon?" Hermione was looking at him quizzically, and he realised he'd spoken aloud. He bit his lip, remembering the countless times he'd watched Eileen peeling potatoes on the gleaming counter, or making him a sandwich for lunch, or pouring him a glass of milk with that extra spoonful of Nesquick he received as reward for being a good boy. In those days, she kept it spotless and gleaming, as if she expected company every day. None ever came.

The counter had been his dressing table during his childhood. He would sit perched on the edge while his mother tied his shoes, and they would giggle because the steel surface was cold on his backside. He frowned. No, that wasn't the reason; it wasn't the cold that made him giggle. It was Eileen, who would hug him and tickle him. "This is the best place for hugs and tickles!" she would say, placing a zerbert on his neck, and he would laugh and laugh and...

During the good years, when the mills were running steady and his dad was their head of house and acted like one, there would be baskets of Christmas fruit and nuts and candy perched on the side of the breakfast nook, their bright colours reflected in the counter's mirror-like surface. He remembered little Muggle rituals, like being allowed to fill the tea dispenser so he could collect the little cards hiding at the bottom of the empty tea boxes. Eileen kept the cards wrapped in an elastic band in one of the drawers. She would let him play with them in the summer, when it was too hot and the air too foul to play outside. He would come inside on summer days and lay his cheek against the metal countertop, the only really cool place in the house.

There had been good times, before his dad had become unemployed and drunk and his mother had faded and became colourless and transparent. He'd known love here; not often, and not enough, but it was there, nevertheless. Strange that he'd pushed those feelings away, until all that was left of Spinner's End stood as a monument to his guilt and self-pity and darkness. There had been happy memories here; but the unhappy ones had always seemed more relevant, demanded more attention.

Looking around the dingy room with its wheezing fridge and battered hob, Severus said almost to himself, "My mother loved this kitchen. She once told me it was the reason she wanted this particular house in the first place. The previous owners had installed it back in the fifties, when Spinner's End was still flush and the mills were running. He shook his head sadly. "I'd forgotten how much she cared for it. It was the only thing she could brag about in this hole. 'It's not much, but is has an English Rose kitchen,' she would say." For a moment, he felt like crying. "It was the only thing she was ever really proud of."

A gentle hand touched his cheek, and he turned to find Hermione's face very close to his. Her eyes were tender, and her expression kind and caring without a touch of pity. "I'm quite sure it wasn't the only thing," she said softly.

He looked down, allowing his hair to cover his features while he got himself under control. In a few soft words, the wicked girl had managed to pulp his heart into mush; he ought to hex her for that.

Then he thought he should probably kiss her first. Without pausing to consider his course of action, he drew her into his arms, and her hands slid up his chest to rest lightly on his shoulders.

He weighed his options, and decided to go with the safest. "There's a decent chippy a block from here. Reagan's. I could buy us dinner, if you don't mind eating here."

She smiled and nestled closer, until he could feel her warm breasts pressing against his chest. "I'll spring for the mushy peas."

He laughed and hugged her even closer. She hummed in his ear, and stiffened. "Oh, shit!"

He pulled back, wondering how he'd possibly ruined the moment just by holding her. "Wha—"

"Oh, Severus, I'm so sorry!" She babbled a hasty spell, and he caught the coppery whiff of blood. "I've only gone and bled all over your shirt."

"Where are you hurt?" he said, his voice sounding gruff and harsh with concern.

Hermione looked disgusted. "It's the damn scar! I thought it had stopped bleeding. I've smeared it all over you." Sure enough, there was a red streak which ran down the side of his shirt. Her Tergeo was ineffective. "Dammit! I'll have it specially cleaned for you—"

"Don't be daft! It's only a shirt, Hermione. I much more concerned about your scar. Hold still!" he admonished, as she tried to cover up the mess on her arm. Severus finally made her sit down, and pushed her shirt sleeve up enough to see where the blood was coming from.

"You say it always bleeds, even after all this time?"

She nodded. "Whenever I'm very stressed or upset, yes."

"Why haven't you had a Healer mend it? I'm sure Poppy would be happy to help."

She looked up at him guiltily. "I'm not sure I want to."

He frowned. "I'm not sure I follow you."

"I'm not sure I can explain it. I'm not sure it makes sense to me, either."

He made her look at him, and in her eyes he saw the return of the absolute trust that had given him pause in Malfoy's garden. "Try me."

For a moment, she was silent. "After we were captured and brought to Malfoy Manor, and Bellatrix Lestrange did this," she waved in the direction of her arm, "we escaped to Shell Cottage. Just as Dobby rescued me from that hideous Lestrange woman, she killed him. With the same knife that did this. He died in Harry's arms. I know everyone laughed at me about the House-elves, but dammit—" she looked upward, blinking furiously. "I saw one die to save my life."

She lowered her head, and together they looked at her scar. The jagged letters stood out from her otherwise flawless skin. Even after all the subsequent years, it still looked angry and puckered, as if healed only recently. Hermione continued, "Fleur Weasley tried to heal it, but it wouldn't close completely. She accused me of not allowing it to close properly. Looking back, I think she might've been right."

To his surprise, she reached out to him and touched the side of his neck, where his own battle scar lay hidden beneath his high collar. "I saw this happen, you know. We had to watch while that vile creature almost tore out your throat, and we couldn't do anything to stop it. That's the first time it started bleeding on its own. I kept telling myself, 'Why should I heal when I couldn't save Dobby, or Professor Snape?'"

Severus looked at the sorrow in her eyes. "Hermione," he began, and stopped. How could he tell her the truth? "What happened to the elf, and me, was beyond your control. Don't feel guilty about me. I've eaten enough remorse for the two of us." He pointed to his own scar. "If this taught me anything, it's that I have permission to forgive myself. Now if I can learn to let it go, you must, as well."

He took her arm between his palms, reveling in the silky feel of her peachy flesh, and urged, "Please, let it happen. Let me do this." She nodded hesitantly. He concentrated for a moment and closed his eyes. Almost without conscious thought, he began to chant. It was a low, soft song, called forth from his deepest magic, the magic of his physical being. It sang forth from his cells, his DNA, his genetic tattoo. Magic of bone and flesh and blood and muscle coalesced and grew in power and strength. He sang to coax the magic encased in the very fibres of his tissues, using his voice as a carrier.

As he called forth his healing, he felt her skin respond to it. The scars began to fade, and lost their fresh, raw look. She had done it. She had forgiven herself, and allowed him to heal her. And the old scar deep within him faded, allowing him to heal as well.

Drained, he looked up at her, and the tears of release and self-forgiveness sparkling in her eyes spoke to his magic. "Thank you," she whispered, her face alight with joy. "You are amazing." She took his hands in hers, and kissed them reverently.

Then she took his head in her hands, and kissed him.

Severus felt his breath catch, and she pulled away, her soft, plump bottom lip caressing his. Before she opened her eyes he was dragging her in his arms, returning the kiss, trying to be gentle and not scare the poor girl, but she was so warm and her mouth was sweet with tea and honey and tears, and when her arms slipped around his shoulders he melted against her without a struggle.

He lifted her and placed her on the kitchen counter, and damn, if it wasn't the perfect height for this, too. "I'm beginning to see the benefits of this kitchen," he whispered against her mouth.

"Told you," she answered, sliding her tongue between his lips. He fit perfectly between her thighs, and as he slanted his mouth against hers, she wrapped her legs around his waist and he nearly moaned the house down. They kissed like wild teenagers, like porn stars, like two people who had spent a long time looking for something and were pretty sure they'd just found it.

He reluctantly broke the kiss, afraid that he would pass out from lack of oxygen. Hermione made a soft sound of disappointment, but when she opened her heavy-lidded eyes, a lazy grin of pleasure spread over her face. She stroked his oily hair, and ran her fingertips over the planes of his cheekbones, his brow, across his lips. "You know," she said huskily, "with your hair all mussed and your face all flushed and your mouth wet and swollen like that, you're sex on cracker, Severus."

He was too far gone to do more than laugh breathlessly. Dazedly, he watched as she slipped from the counter and took his hand. "Now, where's this Reagan's?" She pressed her body to his, breast to ankle. "I've got a feeling I'm going to need some sustenance, and I know you are."

"Am I?" he drawled, unable to keep the foolish, undignified smile from playing across his lips.

With a quick kiss, she pulled him toward the door. "Oh, yes. And I'll skip the mushy peas, if you don't mind. They give me awful wind."

They sat on his battered sofa side by side as they ate their cod and chips, which were just as good as he'd boasted, and washed it down with Boddington's, straight from the can. They propped their feet on the coffee table, and watched Muggle telly— some silly thing in which celebrities danced for points. They gradually drew closer, until Hermione was leaning against his shoulder, and when he moved to put his arm around her, she snuggled against his slender chest as naturally as if she did it every day. When the telly grew too tedious, they shut it off and talked. And talked, and argued, and debated, and laughed, and kissed. And talked some more.

At three a.m., when he looked down to ask her a question, he was answered with a soft snore. He levitated her upstairs, and they slept companionably side by side in his boyhood bed, until she woke him in the grey hours of Sunday morning, playing the Trumpet Voluntary with her bottom. When he accused her of farting him awake, she loudly and vehemently declared it was just his imagination.

He teased her mercilessly until she rolled over on top of him. From there, she tickled him until they switched places again, and he pinned her down.

Later, after a light breakfast of tea and toast, she told him she had always loved the sound of his voice, and he whispered something in her ear that drove all the teasing mirth from her face, and replaced it with smoldering, melting arousal. He was barely aware of what he said to her as they undressed one another right there at the kitchen counter and in the end it didn't matter.

As her eyes roamed over his naked body, her slow, pleased smile returned. "Gods, Severus. You are gorgeous," she said.

"You can't possibly mean that," he said, wanting to believe her.

"Can't I?" she purred, and knelt down. She placed a single kiss on the head of his raging erection, then proceeded to blow the top of his head off.

"You mean it," he moaned, as his head lit up. "Oh gods, you mean it," he howled, and his body burst into a thousand stars.

When he could think again, he pulled her onto her feet and into his arms. "Of course I do," she gasped between his feverish kisses.

Her moan of delight turned into a squeal as he lifted her back onto the cold kitchen surface, and buried his face between her silky thighs, proving just how beautiful she was to him.

They decided to take the Hermione and Severus Show back up to his bedroom, to try it horizontally, and found it was an even bigger hit. It was then he discovered she actually did have dimples on her delectable arse. He kissed each in turn, and she giggled, a sound which turned his groin into molten iron. He was delighted to discover that Hermione was inventive, kinky, up for anything, and very vocal.

She also had a deliciously dirty mind, which resulted in the sharing and performing of several fantasies. And she wasn't shy about asking for seconds.

Later, spooned against her in his tangled sheets, a thoroughly shagged-out Severus sighed contentedly, and rubbed his sleepy old feller between the velvety cheeks of her luscious bum. He knew an erection was a physical impossibility at that precise moment, but a wizard could plan.

Apropos of nothing, Hermione declared, "I'm going to say something positively Hufflepuffian, and you must promise not to laugh."

"The very fact you've asked me to make such a promise is a clear indication that I will be unlikely to keep it," he answered pleasantly, twirling her wild hair in his fingers. "Have your say," he added diffidently, but he could feel his stomach knot. "Go on," he urged, unable to keep the harshness from leeching into his voice.

"I like you."

He turned her until she was facing him. "You... like me?"

She nodded. "Uh huh. I like you a lot. And what's more, I like this bed, and I like you in it. And I like this house, and I like you in it."

"Are you trying to tell me you just want me for my English Rose kitchen?"

"No. Well, yes. I like your kitchen. But most of all, I like you in it."

"So you've said."

"Do you like me?"

"When you aren't talking Hufflepuffian twaddle, yes."

"This isn't twaddle, you prat! I'm trying to make a point."

"Ah, well, that's a mercy anyhow." He was still taken by surprise when she assaulted his ribs, and she still squealed when he pinned her down. He wanted to tease her, but looking down at her pretty face, lying on his lonely sheets, he recalled the previous night, when she had allowed him to heal her, and in turn, heal his own scarred heart.

He stroked her cheek, and added softly, "Yes, I like you, witch. I like you in this house. I like you in this bed, and I'm starting to suspect that I'm not going to like my house or my bed if you aren't in it."

She held him very tenderly, and in the silence, their lovemaking was slow and unbearably erotic.

Two weeks later, she moved in, and two months later, he was repainting the kitchen. Two years later, they married.

Severus faced his mirror, patiently fastening the myriad buttons of his heavy, formal wedding robes. Pushing each button through its hole in a rhythm of muscle memory long embedded in his subconscious, his old litany came to him unbidden: "For Lily...for Lily...for Lily..."

He had not thought of her in over a year. His hands faltered, and dropped to his sides. He stared hard into the thin, sallow face looking back at him.

"Oh, Lily," he whispered, his chest tightening, "I told myself I could never last a day without you. That I would never be happy without you."

He closed his eyes and pictured the woman waiting for him, and smiled. "What a load of bollocks."

After the mead and elf-made wine was drunk, the couple toasted, the guests departed, and it was just the two of them, he impatiently unfastened all those damn buttons, wanting to be as close to her as he could as fast as he could, before she came to her senses and changed her mind. As each button slipped free, his heart sang, "Hurry, hurry, hurry."

Hermione stilled his stumbling fingers, and undressed him, one button at a time. He gradually relaxed beneath her moving hands, and waited in quiet, still contentment. She undressed him with a kiss and a whispered pledge for each and every button.

~Mischief Managed~