A/N- This is something that I've held onto for a while with the hopes that I could expand (and that still might happen!), but I want to get it off of my mental queue so that I can better focus on other things. It will be completed in four chapters (really!), and I'll be posting every couple of days until it's all up. As always, comments and concrit are gladly welcomed.

Huge thanks to Nate and Lolly, who beta'd my commas into submission. Any remaining mistakes are mine. The title comes from the lovely Ray Lamontagne song of the same name.

Happy New Year to everyone!

3 February 2001

The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade

"Tallywacker."

"John Thomas."

"Purple Parsnip."

"Pork Sword."

"Trouser Snake."

"Wedding Tackle."

"Enormous...ly Satisfying."

Hermione couldn't help but let out a burst of laughter at her companion's smug offering. "That's a fail, Headmaster, on the grounds that 'enormously satisfying' is not only a subjective opinion but an adverb to boot. As the rules were adjectives only, I do believe that I've won this round. Up you go to the bar, sir..."

His mouth twitched, and Hermione couldn't help but notice that the man had an absurdly perfect cupid's bow to go along with a rather lush bottom lip; a fact, she reckoned, that had been hidden from her for years because of his habit of going thin-lipped with displeasure at any opportunity.

Honestly, she mused, the world gone warm and soft and somehow curiously intimate thanks to the haze of marvellous scotch, Severus Snape is sex on a stick, and he hasn't a ruddy clue!

The Headmaster sat opposite of her, an elbow propped on the table and one leg casually thrown over the other, smirk ever present. Oh, Snape hadn't transformed into some Hollywood manly ideal. Among other traits, his face was still a touch too long, his nose much too big, and his hair a fine, limp mess - but the humour shining out his of magpie-dark eyes, his intelligence and wit... hell, the sheer bloody amount of charisma the man had leaking out of every pore created a package that was simply devastating to her.

He reached for his drink, and Hermione's attention was drawn to the graceful line of hand and wrist. The sleeve of his blue jumper slid down his arm a tad, and she was treated to the alluring sight of his wrist bone, just there, peeking out and begging to be kissed. She longed to run her mouth over that exposed connection of bone and sinew, to taste the pale skin and feel the flex of those clever fingers under her tongue...

I've gone absolutely barking, Hermione thought, sincerely hoping that the evening's drinking had not wholly destroyed her poker face, but I can't really bring myself to be bothered. This is the nicest night I've had in years, and I don't care if it's because I'm pissed. I'm going to bloody well enjoy this!

Across the table, a dark brow went up, and Hermione was treated to a challenging smile. "I wouldn't be so quick to declare victory, Mistress Granger. At the moment, we are merely tied. You must come up with one further adjective in order to win."

One more...? Oh, bollocks, I've got to come up with another adjective for penis! Think, Granger, think!

"Pocket Javelin!" she shouted, perhaps a touch too enthusiastically. "Tockley! Jag! I've done it! I've beaten you!"

The hubbub of the barroom abruptly died down at the sound of her voice, a dozen nosey heads swivelling in their direction. Hermione felt herself turning beet red at the attention, and buried her face in her hands.

"Oi, 'Ermione... why are you talking about pricks like that? And whaddya mean you're beatin' the Headmaster?"

The resulting shocked silence made Hermione want to open up a sinkhole and disappear well into the summer term. It was Rosmerta who finally stepped in to save her. "Ask no questions, Hagrid, and you'll hear no lies. And on that disquieting note, it's time for the final call, ladies and gents. Pay up and shove off unless you're staying for the lock-in."

Pomona gave a diabolical cackle at that, raising a half-full glass. "The birthday shenanigans have hardly started, my lovies. I've already bought a cask of Kilkerran. No need to go anywhere!"

Cheers rang out, and a ragged chorus of 'For She's a Jolly Good Fellow' started up as activity in the room slowly returned to normal.

"Oh, cock," she moaned softly, and the Headmaster chuckled, the sound rippling over her skin like the finest silk.

"If memory serves, we've already used that one."

Hermione did not immediately reply, choosing instead to thump her forehead repeatedly on the table. "Do you think that they're all drunk enough to forget that bit in the morning?"

"Pomona, perhaps. She's certainly well on her way to oblivion. Unfortunately, I can promise you that not only will Minerva and Rolanda remember, but they'll repeatedly bring it up at the most inopportune moments for the next twenty to thirty years."

Hermione gazed up at him pleadingly. "Would blackmail help, do you think?"

The Headmaster shook his head gravely. "Not in the least. Consider it punishment for being such a victory-obsessed know-it-all..."

"If we are returning to the comfort of annoying sobriquets, then I do believe that it's insufferable know-it-all, thank you very much."

He was quiet for a moment, something unreadable flickering through his eyes. "Oh, I don't know about that. I seemed to have suffered through your company well enough tonight to disprove that part of your ridiculous moniker." He gave her a light tap on the jaw before standing. "Chin up, Granger. Shall I buy you that drink before I go?"

"You're leaving?" she asked, feeling some of the wonderful haze burn away.

His regard swept over the room, resting on each of the Hogwarts faculty members in turn. "With this many teachers spending the night in Hogsmeade, I dare not leave the care of the Castle solely to Filius and the part-time staff. Merlin knows what sort of mischief would unfold... besides which," he told her dryly, gesturing towards the rowdy scrum containing Pomona, Minerva, Rolanda and Vector, "...they need to blow off a bit of steam, and that is quite difficult for them to do with their boss in situ, as it were."

"Oh," Hermione said, biting her lip and giving the situation some thought. "I'll go back with you if you don't mind. I'm not nearly as drunk as they are, and I don't care to catch up. Plus, no amount of transfiguration can make those benches comfortable. And the smell come morning..."

The Headmaster gave her a shallow bow, some of his charm fading into the usual routine of niceties. "As you wish."

They walked to the bar together, and he slid a hefty pile of Galleons towards Rosmerta. "This should cover my tab and be enough for a final round."

The buxom barkeep gave them a knowing grin but said nothing further. Face afire again, Hermione likewise paid her tab. She doesn't think that we're... I mean, I do fancy him, but it's definitely a one-sided attraction. Right?

Truth be told, this was the first time in the nearly two years she'd been a member of staff that Hermione had interacted with the Headmaster in such a friendly fashion. Indeed, she had only seen him this relaxed a handful of times, and it had never failed to spark her interest. That he shared a particular fondness for vulgar colloquial language had been a pleasant surprise; that she had been able to bait him into a literal battle of words had been...

Bliss. It was pure bliss. And I'll be a daft moo if I try to make this any more than it is.

"Is anyone else amongst this ungrateful lot of masochists returning to the Castle?" the Headmaster bellowed, the hubbub coming to a sudden halt. Scowl firmly in place, he waited for several beats before continuing. "No? Right, then... this is for the morning," he intoned, thumping a bag full of vials of Sober-Up onto the gleaming counter. "And I'll remind you all that I will not be excusing anyone from rounds tomorrow no matter the reason. I also expect to see all of your cheerful faces at supper - on time. Understood?"

After receiving the appropriate affirmatives, Snape looked to Pomona. "Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Pomona, and have another round on me."

Pomona gave him a cheeky salute. "Many thanks, Headmaster."

With a swirl of black wool, Snape started for the door, and Hermione hurriedly threw herself into motion after him. They had almost made it to safety when Rolanda gave a shout.

"Granger! What in the name of Merlin's blue balls are you doing leaving the party this early?"

So much for slinking away unnoticed...

Taking a deep breath, she turned to face the flying instructor. "If you remember, Hooch, I could hardly look you or Vector in the eye for over a month the last time I stayed at one of these bacchanals. I shudder to think what might happen if I stayed this go around."

"And here I thought you were a Gryffindor..." the other woman teased.

"Oh, I am. I've just learned when to retreat from the field when outmatched. Good night all," she said with brisk finality, shrugging on her cloak. "Happy birthday, Pomona."

Raucous laughter followed them outside into the snow, the cold air an assault after the humid warmth of the Three Broomsticks.

"Do I want to know?"

She glanced up at the tall figure at her side. "Let's just say that I've learned more about alternative uses of Devil's Snare than I've ever cared to."

"Gods don't remind me..." Snape groaned, making a face. "I swear, those two positively delight in torturing others with their depravity. When I first started teaching, I got 'accidentally' locked in a closet with them and honestly thought I would expire from sheer embarrassment..."

The disgruntled expression on his face made her giggle. However, the inattention also caused her to stumbled on an icy patch of pavement, and in a flash, she went flying arse over tit. With a gallant, ill-timed lurch, the Headmaster's arms shot out in an effort to steady her, but he misjudged the distance badly. In a flurry of snow, robes, and limbs, they crashed to the ground together.

For the first several seconds, all Hermione could do was wheeze with shock; thankfully, she had partially landed in a snowbank, and it was more her pride stung than anything serious. Snape hadn't been so lucky, having collapsed to his knees on the hard surface several feet away. She couldn't see his face, obscured as it was by the curtains of his hair.

"Sir? Are you alright?" In another awkward flailing of arms, Hermione righted herself and skidded over to the Headmaster, only just managing not to fall a second time.

"I am either a lot drunker than I thought," he said carefully, "or not drunk at all." Seeing her distress, he added, "Never fear, Granger, I cast a cushioning charm in time."

"Thank goodness. I am so, so, very sorry..."

He gave her a mildly reproving look. "Do you think that this is the first time that I've almost landed face-first in a snow bank after a night out? Besides which, even had I injured myself it would hardly rate on my top ten list of boo-boos."

"Boo-boos, sir?" she parroted, wondering just how drunk she had to be to imagine him using that particular puerile phrase.

That earned her the full professorial glare. "Boo-boos, Mistress Granger, unless you would have me refer to my past injuries as repetitive, horrific, soul-crushing wounds or something equally as poetic?"

"Nope. Boo-boos will work just fine."

"I thought so." He stuck out one of his lovely hands. "Now help me up before I freeze completely to the pavement. That would be a shame indeed."

Feeling quite foolish - not to mention increasingly sober - Hermione tugged him to his feet. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at his boot-clad feet, casting some sort of charm; with an arch of one brow, he looked at her.

"Sticking charm for the icy conditions. Do you want one?"

"If you would," Hermione replied and repressed a shiver at the sensual sensation of his magic gliding over her.

"Shall we?" he asked, voice taking on the clipped impatience that was terribly familiar from her youth.

They set off again, the snow starting to fall harder as they left the village. Each grim step seemed to erase a bit more of the enchanting man that she had drunk with; Hermione could practically see the walls being built up brick by brick. Bugger and blast, Hermione cursed inwardly. I am so not ready to return to the status quo!

"Cupid's kettle drums!" she blurted.

The Headmaster jerked, giving her a bewildered look at the non-sequitur. She could practically see the gears spinning in his head as he tried to work it out, and felt a burst of smugness when he came up blank.

"Euphemism for breasts, dating from the Victorian era. Cupid's kettle drums," she explained challengingly. Please, oh please take the bait...

"You don't give up, do you?" he asked after a moment, a rueful, reluctant sort of humour playing across his countenance.

"No sir, I don't."

She met his gaze then, willing him to see her. Willing him to let her in, if only for the rest of the walk to the Castle. He looked away first, and his body language went as cold and remote as their surroundings. Nearly a minute passed in silence, and Hermione had given it up for a lost cause when he startled her by speaking again.

"You don't need to call me sir. After all, it has been some years since you were in my classroom. Severus will do just as well." Once again, his hair blocked any view of his face, and his voice was carefully formal.

Hermione smiled into the dark, figuring it was progress of sorts. "And whilst I do appreciate it, you needn't always call me Mistress Granger. Hermione is fine. Or Granger, if that's a bit much."

"Not 'Mione?" he queried, the sarcasm making evident that he already knew the answer to the question.

She snorted. "I like 'Mione about as much as you enjoy hearing 'Sevvy', I reckon."

"Hermione it is, then."

The quiet between them became more companionable, and Hermione let herself enjoy the wild winter beauty of the path. Tall firs lined the way, the branches shivering in the swirling breeze; here and there, a skeletal birch or elm stood sentinel. The usual sounds of the countryside were muffled by the snowfall, and rather whimsically it made her feel like she was walking in a snow globe.

"Thrupney bits," Severus said unexpectedly, and Hermione found herself turning in disbelief.

He rolled his eyes at her reaction and repeated pedantically, "Thrupney bits. Cockney rhyming slang for 'tits'. That puts me up by two, I believe."

It was an effort to not break into an utterly barmy smile. "The Girls. Bazongas..."