Work Text:
Hermione held up a hand mirror, peering at her upper lip. Severus walked in unnoticed.
"What on earth is the problem, woman? One of the dunderheads hex your nose?"
Hermione jumped, then turned to him, resolutely.
"Severus, tell me honestly," she stuck her chin out at him. "Am I growing a moustache?"
He sat down, exasperatedly. "What is it with witches of a Certain Age? As if it wasn't bad enough having Pomona asking for something to improve the whiskers on her wart, or Irma--"
He checked himself at her wide-eyed look. "So you're not trying to grow one, then?"