Severus shut off the shower tap, and mounted the steps out of his sunken bathtub. He cursorily dried his hair with one bleach-white towel and wrapped another around his hips. Then he stared critically into the mirror as his hands completed the familiar task of dismantling his enchanted safety razor, cleaning it, inserting a fresh blade and reassembling it. He scowled as he noticed a white hair amongst the black at his parting, and unceremoniously plucked it out. He refused to go grey before Minerva McGonagall. Of course, Minerva's jet black hair could be the result of Transfiguration, Potions, or even something as mundane as Muggle hair dyes, but, so far, he'd never caught any of the tell-tale signs.

He focused for an instant on the reflection of the slight, young woman under his bedclothes, who was just stretching into wakefulness.

The greys were probably her fault, anyway. He'd never had a grey hair until she had invited herself into his life, his rooms, his bed. Her and her hair.

He would ask her, if not for the hair.

It wasn't the fact that her natural state tended to suggest she had more need of a topiarist than a hairdresser. After all, what sort of Potions Master would he be if he had not been able to remedy that? Not that she had given him much choice when she had threatened to cut the whole tangled and matted mess from her head after one of their more energetic nights. And while his lawyer had not been happy at having to create shell company within shell company within shell company to guard the true identity of the patent holder — a Potion Master could not expect respect from his peers if he stooped to the level of producing cosmetics — it was now the third best-selling brand of wizarding shampoo worldwide.

As for passing the dreaded furze bush genes on to their unborn child, well, what was remedy for the mother would surely be remedy for the infant, if it were to be so unfortunate. It could just as easily inherit his own sleek locks. That would be more problematic. After all, she might have learned that she could entice him into a second shower after classes with the right inducement. An infant was unlikely to fall for the blandishments of lacy lingerie and massage oils, which naturally then led to the washing off of the massage oils before they dressed for dinner. He would admit that he did have fewer headaches these days.

He had even learned to cope with the fact that her now-gently curling tresses clung to every item he owned with a tenacity only matched by their former owner. They would find their way onto robes that hadn't left his wardrobe since laundry day, inside his books like kinked bookmarks, even inside sealed jars of Potion ingredients. They clogged the plumbing given half a chance, and those left by her grumpy, orange-fluffed familiar were little better. Still, a regular Evanesco in the direction of the drain, and an Accio or two each day to draw the loose ones from their hiding places generally sufficed. He'd even been known to occasionally leave one stray hair on his robes deliberately when he was meeting Lucius for drinks. It was petty, but he saw no reason not to remind the blond that while he may not have an army of house-elves (of his own) or a nouveau-riche manor house, he did have a beautiful lover twenty years his junior.

If those were the only problems, he would ask her.

She probably didn't even realise, yet. However, his regular orders of dark chocolate from Honeyduke's and red wine from Madam Rosmerta had both arrived two days ago and were yet to be touched. If he were to ask, it should be now, before she knew, before she came to the conclusion he was asking for propriety's sake.

But, it was the damned hair.

He heard her coming up behind him, bare feet padding almost noiselessly on the slate-tiled floor. He could picture her, before her arms even wrapped around his waist and she leant around him to meet his gaze in the mirror, with her sleep-mussed curls dark against the whiteness of one of the many shirts she had purloined from him to protect her from the cool dungeon nights. The stolen garments looked better on her in any case, the hem reaching to just above her knees at the front, but offering tantalising glimpses of thigh from side on and verging on the indecent when she bent over. They satisfied his possessive streak far better than fripperies of satin or lace, marking her as his... or him and all his worldly goods as hers. And he was. Hers. For as long as she would have him.

"Did I forget again?" she asked, her tone soft and remorseful as she nodded toward the razor, which she had left clogged with shaving foam and what he fervently hoped was leg hair.

Severus set the razor down and turned to face her. As always, the warmth in her eyes took his breath away as effectively as a punch in the solar plexus. He would never understand how this amazing woman had ever come to love such a sorry creature as him. "I'll buy you one of your own..." he promised, lowering his head to inhale the familiar scent of her shampoo. "As a wedding present."