Like Lovers Do
by Dien Alcyone
Who: A Snape/Hooch piece. With a minor character death.
What: Weren't you listening? A Snape/Hooch romance. Alcohol. Rain. Antics. Self-blame. Sex.
Why: Pick one: Damn plot-elf wouldn't leave me alone. I'm captain of this SHIP and there isn't enough fic for it. I wanted to annoy my faithful readers by working on something other than SoH or Discipline.
Where: FF.N, Astronomy Tower, my site, ask if you want it
When (to review): At all times of the night and day
How: With liberal amounts of liquor, and inspiration/ideas from:
Tess's proposed first name for Professor Sprout, which is Salvia.
Harry Potter Lexicon for frequent reference stuff.
Discussion on FA for my preferred first name/background etc., for Madam Hooch.
Zoë Wanamaker for my mental image of M. Hooch.
JKR for Ultimate Original Mental Image of Hooch, and for making a world for me to play in.
Line from H2G2. Go, Ford Prefect!Yes, there WILL be a sequel to this, someday. It just needs to sit down and write itself. Yes, they DO become Hogwarts' funniest couple...
Rating: R, I imagine.
The very first thing he was aware of was the noise. It was steady, constant, timeless, soothing. The endless and primeval drumming of rain, somewhere overhead. There is nothing quite like waking up to the sound of rain hitting the roof, while you are peacefully content in bed, and know you don't have to get up anytime soon. Still, something about that nagged him, because with his quarters underground in the dungeons, it had been some time since he'd woken to the sound of raindrops.
The next thing he was aware of was the warmth. Warm heavy soft blankets and covers, a warm bed underneath, a warm body pressed against his own. Skin. Warm. Bare. Pleasantly solid. Pleasantly soft and curvy in other areas. He was vaguely aware that there was something extraordinarily important about these facts but could not for the life of him tie the sensory input he was receiving into one coherent conclusion.
The third thing Severus Snape was aware of was the headache.
It was nowhere near as bad as he'd feared last night, when the amounts of liquor consumed had exceeded the bounds of ridiculosity. It was entirely possible that a lifetime of dealing with mind-and-body-altering substances had given him a remarkable immunity to the aftereffects of drink. Perhaps. Whatever the reasons, he was surprisingly well-off, a minor headache and slight nasty taste in his mouth being the only symptoms of what should be, by rights, a colossal hangover.
He shifted slightly and tried to convince his brain that thought might be a valid course of action. It proved recalcitrant, so he consulted his eyes instead, willing them to open.
They did so, and promptly fed in an image of a comfortable, cosy bedroom. Grey washed-out light filtered in through a window that looked out on the Quidditch pitch, though the view was obscured by the steadily falling rain. But he wasn't looking at the room so much as he was the incredibly messy and rumpled head resting against his chest. Short grey hair stuck out wildly and randomly, oddly reminiscent of a dandelion head that had gotten itself flattened in some places and electrocuted in others.
"Oh fuck," he breathed very very softly, and quickly formulated several escape plans worthy of a Death Eater spy.
None of them were practical; especially considering the degree of inter-twined-ness the two bodies-- the two very naked bodies, he realized-- had managed to achieve.
How to get out of here without waking Hooch. That was the question. Damn. Damn. Damn.
For one moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and drop his head back into the pillow. The hoped-for lack of memory had not materialized, and he was left with a horribly clear recollection of everything that had transpired the night before (with the exception of a dialogue on the music of John Lennon that was blurry and vague). What in the name of Merlin's unmentionables had possessed him and Hooch to... to do... to get... Snape squeezed his eyes shut and heard himself make a soft whimpering noise.
The one single solitary bright spot in the whole thing was that it was Saturday morning. No classes.
The figure that was more-or-less in his arms stirred slightly, the face nuzzling-- nuzzling!-- his throat. He bit his lip and told himself fiercely that the only way to make the situation worse would be to respond to said nuzzling, and he was not going to do that. Not even if his brain was gleefully reminding him just how good certain aspects of the night before had been.
"Fuck," he murmured again, staring at the ceiling for inspiration or a divine miracle, whichever was available.
Peregrin Hooch shifted again, making a low moaning sound that he correctly interpreted as waking to misery.
"H-- Peregrin?" he whispered in dread. Time to face the music. Morning-after-awkwardness.
"Bloody fucking pig don't fucking shout," she hissed weakly, one hand leaving his hip to clutch at her forehead. "God. Damn. Fucking noise...."
"Sorry," he said as softly as it was possible to speak, understanding that his hangover tolerance was not shared by her. Slowly, he disentangled limbs and bodies until they were no longer touching, then edged out of the bed.
Clothes. He needed clothes. Badly. A hunt revealed, scattered around the room, socks-- no good-- shirt-- marginally better-- ohthankgod. Boxers. He grabbed the pair and pulled them on, then his shirt. He didn't bother with the line of buttons, glancing instead at Hooch, now curled up in a fetal position on the bed, one hand clutching her head, the other her stomach.
"Be right back," he said in the same barely-legible whisper, and tiptoed out of the room. He thought he heard her growl, as he left, "Don't stomp..."
The first order of business was the kitchen. He found it without difficulty, not bothering to glance out the windows at the grey and rainy day outside, and quickly proceeded to make a simple but potent hangover remedy with the ingredients there. Most of the staff didn't bother with a kitchen or cooking at all, preferring to rely on the elves, but perhaps her distance from the castle proper made Hooch want to make her own food or something. Or perhaps her two years with her Muggle husband had taught her the joys of cooking. Whatever. The reasons were not so important as the fact that she had all that needed for the potion.
It came together quickly and he helped himself to a swallow of the finished liquid, knowing it would banish the headache. Then, carefully holding the remaining cupful, he made a very quiet way back to the room where the unfortunate woman agonized.
"I have a hangover remedy here."
"Can you sit up a bit?"
"Swallow. That's it."
"Gods! That tastes disgusting!"
"Don't knock it. It works."
"... urg... my head... oh, that's better. *sigh*"
Silence ensued. Snape stood next to the bed and held the cup, looking away from Hooch. Hooch blinked, chewed her lower lip, and pulled the sheets around her. Snape cleared his throat.
"Right. Uh, so, um, that is..."
"Yes. I mean. Eh. Ah..."
"Of course. ... so."
"Right. Right. Took the words right out of my mouth."
"Er.... I should be mm well going I think."
"Right probably best."
"Eh.... I, ah, well, talk to you later Hooch," he managed in one breath, and fled the bedroom, pausing only to grab the rest of his clothes along the way. He finished dressing in the living room, tried to make himself look as presentable as he could under the circumstances, and cast the Umbrellus Charm.
Thinking up new and inventive ways to murder Albus Dumbledore and get away with it, he headed back out into the rain.
"Here comes the rain again
"Falling on my head like a memory
"Falling on my head like a new emotion
"I want to walk in the open wind
"I want to talk like lovers do..."