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'Hermione dear, there's a vicar at the door for you.'
Hermione barely looked up, but Mrs Eddington was well used to that. Besides, this paragraph on the uses of nanotech in medicine just had to be finished.
'What's that?' she said finally, placing her finger in the spine of the book to keep her place.
Crookshanks jumped down from his perch on the sofa to waltz out of the room, tail held high.
'A vicar, dear. At the door.' Something must have registered on her face as Mrs Eddington continued on. 'Asked for you by name and everything. Do you think he'll be wanting tea?'
Puzzled, Hermione set her book to one side and, pulling her cardigan around her, followed her familiar out into the hall to see why on earth a vicar of all things had come to call. Had she accidentally signed up to a book drive, some sort of committee? She could have sworn she'd never given out her phone number, let alone her actual place of residence.
What use is a Fidelius if one was that slapdash with form filling?
Her heart skipped. Unless they had found her through her doctor; she had used her real details there. The NHS was the only authority left that she had any respect for, but perhaps that had been a mistake.
For goodness sake, Hermione Jean! This is why you shouldn't be your own secret keeper!
She padded on socked feet across to the front door, left open as it was, just a crack.
Hermione shook her head. Mrs Eddington was a squib who she had managed to, let's say, convince that Hermione was her Muggle lodger, and the older woman had taken to her role with aplomb. Hermione appreciated living under the radar, but it seemed that she would need to have another word with her about basic precautions.
Constant vigilance, indeed.
Pulling the door open all the way, she saw Crooks winding around a man's ankles, depositing hair all over his black jeans. Well, she supposed that vicars could wear jeans these days.
The man's hands were clenched into fists that he released to their full extent at her arrival, the tendons tensed in sharp relief, before being squeezed tightly shut.
Those hands.
'Miss Granger, kindly remove this animal from my person. I am here to talk with you, not it.'
That voice.
Her eyes snapped to his face. Chin length black hair, strong features set in a scowl.
The scowl.
She looked down at his feet, his hands and back to his face. He raised a disconcertingly elegant brow at her that absolutely did not have her blushing.
The eyebrow.
'You're not a vicar,' she blurted.
'Quite. Perhaps my attempts at Muggle attire are a little too...chaste to be deemed de rigueur?'
Chaste? Oh Merlin, she was definitely blushing now.
That was a question, though. He was asking her a question, wasn't he?
She gawped up at him, standing in her doorway looking distinctly out of place, looming over her even from a careful distance, like someone had finally taught him about personal space. She shook her head. He had asked about his clothes.
Well, that was an invite if ever she'd heard one.
Hermione raked him over with analytical detachment, and he had the cheek to press his lips together and hold his hands away from his body for inspection.
She held her chin up in defiance, and crossed her arms over her chest. Hermione may have been decked out in leggings and a ratty old cardigan, but this was her house. She had bought it, and he was the interloper. No stern ex-professor could wry-look her into submission. Not anymore, anyway.
Hermione chuffed out a breath and catalogued his failings.
Hmm. Though his boots were clearly dragon hide, with the afor mentioned jeans they worked well enough. It was his jacket. His jacket was something else. High necked, with an inordinate number of buttons, the thick black tweed was completely incongruous next to his jeans.
Almost like he had transfigured a frock coat, the fit close to his body like it was tailored to him specifically.
Beau Brummell, meet the new millennium.
And his cravat, an actual white cravat under a high collar. No wonder Mrs Eddington thought he was a vicar.
That peak of snowy white did break up the uniform black rather nicely, though.
Hermione swallowed. No, no, it was a practical choice to cover up his scar. Nothing else. Nothing untoward here. The Professor was no Mr Darcy, after all.
Perhaps if you undid a few buttons...
His cough alerted her to the fact that she had said that out loud and her eyes went wide.
'Give me a minute,' she squeaked before spinning around on the spot and slamming the door behind her, her heart beating wild in her chest.
What on earth was he doing here? Why was Severus Snape on her doorstep? How did he find her?
Hands, voice, smirk, eyebrow.
Her breath was coming in short pants, the heat of her neck in need of a cooling charm, the prickling beginnings of a tingle...
His buttons. Her uniform. Illicit thoughts of crackling torches in a cold dungeon at night, the swish of fabric against the hem of her skirt, the heat of a firm chest against her back. The scent of herbs and smoke in the chill air as a hand trailed up her throat...
Oh, Merlin.
'Miss Granger. A word if you please.'
That voice.