Caribbean Cookery, or How Severus Snape Glared the Ceviche into Submission

by Toodleoo

Lush green hills extended as far as the eye could see, pouring themselves into the blue waters below. In the distance, a radio blared the rhythmic sounds of soca and calypso, but the calls of the tropical birds outside the balcony were much more present to Hermione's ears.

This was the best gift Harry had ever gotten her—a week's stay at a Caribbean resort and an International Portkey with her name on it. She'd refused initially, arguing that it was too much, but when he countered with all the years of humdrum gift certificates to Flourish and Blott's, she began to see reason. He really did owe her, didn't he? Ginny helped her pack her bags, sending her off with reassurances that she'd love the place ('We've stayed there once before, and it's top of the line, Hermione!') and ludicrous assertions about the magic of the islands ('So go get yourself laid, darling!').

Hermione nearly choked on her tea.

And now here she was, unpacking the two bikinis, three dresses, one pair of trousers, one shirt, and two pairs of shoes in the colonial dresser in her luxury suite. They barely took up a drawer, but Hermione consoled herself that she could purchase anything she might need in a pinch, and that this holiday was more about remembering how to let her hair down and go with the flow than about planning everything in advance.

She didn't even close the balcony doors as she stripped down to nothing. Why bother? It wasn't as though anyone was there to observe her wobbly bits. Instead, she began moving around the room, swept up in the music from a few balconies over, dancing the awkward steps of an Englishwoman whose propriety had kept her from ever learning how to make the most of her body.

When a colorful bird flew straight into one of her windows with a squawk, Hermione took it as a sign to go. She donned a black string bikini, and then threw on a yellow linen sundress and sandals. Her bag was packed with a little cash, some sunglasses, and a notebook for jotting down her thoughts.

It was time to explore.

It really was a strange and beautiful island, filled with abandoned sugar cane fields and overgrown forests, punctuated by a few small towns and harbors littered with ramshackle boats and biplanes to connect with the outside world. The rum flowed as freely as the sunlight, and as long as Hermione avoided the daily cruise ship docking in the capital city, she was pleased to note that this didn't even remotely feel like a tourist destination.

Some people were good at vacations. The sunbathers, the beach nappers, the magazine readers. They knew how to sit around and do nothing, and they could busy themselves with nothingness for hours—even days—on end.

Hermione was not one of those people.

On day one, the morning's jeep ride around the island's perimeter was followed by lunch in town, a trip to the local historical society, and a tour of the colonial governor's home. She returned to her suite at the plantation resort exhausted and content.

On day two, she took the back country trails up to a waterfall in the interior, following the advice of the resort concierge. It was a flat hike, but along the way, she gorged herself on the sweet skinip fruit she pulled down from the trees around her. That afternoon, she pulled up a lounge chair at the white sand beach, determined to snooze in the sun and get a bit of sun on her fair skin.

She tried.

She really did.

Thirty minutes later, she picked herself up and walked back to the main building of the resort. If she couldn't relax on her own, she might as well get a little liquid assistance. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon, but she was on vacation, wasn't she? She could have a drink in the afternoon.

When she approached the bar, all she saw was a crowd of—well, of mostly women—ogling the man shaking their cocktails in time to the music blaring from the radio. Long black hair, dressed in one of those heinously ugly shirts covered in hibiscus flowers.

Hermione snorted to herself, trying to picture one of her countrymen in a similar getup. What would Harry or Seamus or—God forbid, Neville—look like dressed as a long-haired hooligan with a tan? No, these islanders were a different breed altogether.

Of course, Ginny had encouraged her to sow her wild oats, and who better to proposition that some muscular young thing who saw a rotating crowd of tourists? He'd probably bedded dozens of women before her.

If only she could work up the nerve.

The idea of a holiday fling was lovely, but Hermione didn't actually think her oats were wild enough to approach a stranger for some hanky-panky. Her oats were likely as well-regulated as the rest of her.

She sighed. It really was time for that drink.

When the crowd cleared, she scooted up to the bar, cleared her throat loudly, and waited for the man to turn around.

What she found was the last thing she ever expected.

'You!'

She took a deep breath.

It was Severus Snape. She knew that nose anywhere. Severus Up-and-Left-England-Right-After-the-Battle Snape. Severus Couldn't-Be-Arsed-to-Receive-His-Medals Snape.

He rolled his eyes. 'Yes, me, Miss Granger.'

Severus Refused-to-Answer-the-Owls-Hermione-Had-Sent-Wishing-Him-Well Snape.

Severus Fucking Snape.

Immediately, the desire to smack the smug look of his face swept over Hermione. She was no longer a sixteen-year-old child, and he would do well to remember that.

'What are you doing here?' she asked.

'Presently?' he asked, his expression neutral and bored as he held out a bowl full of raw scallops and some chopped vegetables. Gods, the man was actually relaxed. 'Making ceviche. When I'm through with that, I'll likely pour myself a drink. Unless, of course, one of my faithful patrons requires a cocktail before I get on with it.'

'You're a... a... a... barkeeper?.' she asked, attempting to keep the disappointment and judgment out of her tone. She had expected so much more from a man of his intelligence.

'Always an observant little thing.' he said, his voice immediately sharp and pointy like the birds of paradise in the vases around him.

She looked again, truly drinking him in this time. Gone was the pale and sickly professor of her youth, and in his place was this man. A man who looked at ease with his place in the world, comfortable with his aloha shirt open, revealing a well-toned and well-tanned body beneath. His shorts hung low on his hips, revealing a lovely v-shaped crease beneath his stunning abs.

Gods, she thought to herself, what has happened to Professor Snape?

'He wrote off England for good and found a better life for himself,' Snape replied.

'I said that aloud, did I?' Hermione asked, running her fingers through her long curls in nervousness. This was mortifying.

'Leaving the herds of snot-nosed, prepubescent whingers to the likes of Slughorn and Minerva was the best choice I ever made,' he explained. He started pouring all sorts of things in his shaker: rum, honey, and some kind of juice she couldn't identify. 'For that matter, it was the first unfettered choice I ever made in my whole fucking life.'

Hermione nodded. 'How long have you been here?'

'Ten years, give or take,' Snape replied. He poured the concoction into two glasses, ground black pepper over them, and topped them off with club soda. After passing one to her, he picked up the other. 'Drink up, Miss Granger. I presume Potter sent you, although I haven't the foggiest idea why he didn't bother to mention my presence.'

Oh, yes, Hermione thought. Why had Harry sent her? Had Snape kept in touch with Harry over the years?

'I can almost see the wheels turning in your brain, Granger,' Snape replied. He leaned over the bar, and with one deft finger, raised the bottom of her glass to her lips. 'I had some things I needed to get rid of a few years back, so I sent them to Potter. Things that didn't belong to me.'

Hermione nodded, taking a sip. It was delicious, all spice and sweetness, just a tad sour at the finish.

'I didn't count on Potter's time as an Auror,' he said, pausing to drink. He knocked back the whole thing like it was water. 'That little fuck put a trace on the parrot I'd used, and the following month, I was treated to a visit from him and the missus.'

'Oh, gods,' Hermione replied. 'Harry wasn't too pushy, was he? He can get a tad obsessive.'

'No more so than the chit who sent me an owl a month for the first year after the war was done.'

She blushed. 'In my defence, I was nineteen and riddled with guilt for leaving you in the Shack that night.'

Snape lifted a panel and stepped out from behind the bar to join her on the other side, grabbing the bowl of raw seafood and a bottle of top shelf rum.

'Can you do that?' Hermione asked. 'Just leave your post unattended?'

He raised one eyebrow as he examined her. 'I own the resort, so I can do whatever the hell I please.'

Her eyes opened wide, and she bit her tongue.

'Potter asked a few questions, I gave a few answers, and that was that,' Snape said. He steered her away from the bar, down a cobblestone path that wound its way through some gardens.

She followed.

'Perhaps you can tell me what you're doing here, if Potter didn't send you.'

They'd now arrived at a cluster of chairs just a few feet off the path. Tucked away from sight behind a few flowering bushes that Hermione couldn't identify, Snape sat down the rum and the scallops on a table between them, and he gestured for them both to sit.

Hermione settled in, curling her legs up beneath her on her chair. She nursed the sweet drink he'd made for her earlier as she watched him nearly kill himself ingesting raw seafood. Using his fingers, he plucked a scallop from the bowl.

She smacked it out of his hand before he'd had the chance to pop it into his mouth. 'You forgot to cook it!' she cried, standing over him.

He barked out a laugh. 'You've never had ceviche before, have you?'

She shook her head. 'Shockingly, the slave labour at Hogwarts never got creative with their cookery.'

'Later on in life, then?' Snape asked. She didn't reply. He picked up another scallop from the bowl and held it out for her to examine. 'Does this look raw to you?'

Well, now that he mentioned it, no, it didn't. It was a perfectly opaque little mollusk, dripping with lemon juice and diced onions and cucumbers.

'How'd you do it, then?' she asked. She knew full well that those scallops were raw down at the bar.

'I glared them into submission,' he replied. 'One of my many unusual talents. It's not as showy as broom-less flight, but it's much more practical for daily life, particularly when one lives near the sea.'

Hermione looked at it askance.

Snape popped the scallop into his mouth, taking the time to lick his fingers when he was through. Then he picked up another and held it out to her. 'Give it a try, Granger. Unwind whatever coil has you bound so tightly, and learn to live a little.'

Accepting his challenge, she reached out to take it.

He pulled back. 'Ah, ah, ah,' he said, taunting her just a bit, 'allow me.'

Was Snape flirting with her, or just messing with her head? It was hard to tell. Regardless, Hermione wasn't about to back down. She opened her mouth, ready to accept the proffered treat.

He placed the piece on the tip of her tongue, careful not to touch her mouth.

Closing her eyes, Hermione let the flavours wash over her, the sweet, buttery scallop and the tartness of the citrus, the heat of the raw onion. It was marvelous. Feeling bold, she smiled at Severus and opened her mouth again. 'I'd like another, please.'

He obliged.

This time, when he laid the food on her tongue, she closed her lips around him. Swallowing the ceviche whole, she then focussed her attention on his lovely fingers, sucking them deeper into her mouth and licking off all the lemon juice before releasing him.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Severus Snape on fire.

If you had asked Hermione about it later, she would said that Severus climbed over the table, driven by his desperation to claim her. If you would have asked Severus about it, he would have told people that Little Miss Granger climbed his body like a lizard climbing a tree.

Regardless of who was right, the pair found themselves wound tightly around one another, all lips and skin and heat as they kissed. It was when Hermione realised that her dress was off and Severus was suckling on her nipple through her bikini top that she pulled away.

He looked forlorn. 'Too fast?'

She shook her head. 'Too public. I'm guessing that the resort's owner has a posh suite somewhere on the grounds?'

Grinning a crooked smile, Severus grabbed only the woman before Apparating to his cottage. All that Hermione saw was the bed, covered in crisp white linens. She pushed his aloha shirt off his tanned shoulders and reached for the button on his shorts, awkwardly losing her balance as Severus stripped her of her bikini.

They were frantic, falling onto the bed. There Severus guided her onto her back, settling in above her with his lips attached to her neck. That was going to show in the morning. He was hot and slick with sweat, and when he pulled back for a moment, the look on his face was one of surprise and gratitude.

'Are you sure about this, Hermione?' he asked.

She reached down to take him in hand, guiding him into place. 'More than anything,' she said, a broad grin on her face. She cradled his cheek in her palm and kissed him once more. 'I'm unwinding.' She giggled. ' Learn to live a little, Severus.'

The next morning, Hermione woke alone in a strange bed. This wasn't her bed at home. It wasn't even her room at the resort. The last thing she remembered was about fourteen hours of debauchery with a man she hadn't spoken to in years before passing out after their fourth or fifth round of making love. Honestly, she had no idea she was that flexible, or that any man could play her body as well as Severus had.

After the confusion cleared, she sat up, looking around for either Severus or for her dress.

She found neither.

Donning his floral shirt, she headed out to the rest of the cottage, not knowing what to expect.

There, in the kitchen, was the man himself, wearing only his orange shorts from the day before. He was wielding a pan of sausages and eggs on the stove and had set the table on the balcony for two.

'Good morning, Severus.'

He let out a low whistle. 'Fuck me,' he said, his eyes taking in the sight of Hermione in his tacky shirt.

'After breakfast,' Hermione said, feeling cheeky. 'I've worked up quite an appetite.'

She came up behind him in the kitchen, winding her arms around his torso. 'I don't know what's going to happen at the end of the week,' she said, 'but the next time I owl you...?'

'Yes?' he asked.

She kissed him at the base of his neck. 'I expect a damn reply.'

FIN.