Chapter Text
The doorbell rings overhead; a sound he hears day in and out now.
Severus nods—politely, yet still aloof—at the two customers that walk in. They cheerfully grin in return before heading directly for the back of his store.
Beyond the windows of the bookshop, there is cobblestone and an array of orange-brown leaves from the deciduous trees shedding for the season. The street corner is an ideal location—neither too close nor too far away from the local university campus. Certainly, there are more students than he would prefer lingering in his shop and taking up space in the browsing area. They lounge all over the sofa and armchair, leaving water stains on the coffee table.
He really should have thought it through before getting in furniture.
With the start of the school year having only lapsed, he has seen more than his fair share of customers seeking out textbooks for their courses. Eventually, there will be fewer looking for non-fiction, and more students and professors alike looking for something to procrastinate with, and later in the year, gifts for the holidays.
The last few months of the year are always busier than those that proceed, so much so that Severus briefly wonders if it would be worthwhile to hire some seasonal help.
His brow immediately furrows at the thought.
Perhaps not, he thinks as the two laughing youths make their way back to the counter with their purchases. The amount he has to converse with them at present already satisfies his quota for interactions with students. His days of hand-holding teenagers are long behind him.
“Ready?” he asks, bored.
They nod as one. The young woman blushes and tries to hold her book out of reach and the young man she is with tries to snatch it from her; no doubt in an attempt to endear himself to her. Severus has to resist the urge to snort and roll his eyes.
“We’ll pay together,” the boy says with a charming smile.
“Twenty Galleons,” Severus says tightly, punching the figure into his register.
Once the money has been handed over, Severus waves his wand and the books are wrapped in brown paper, neatly tied together with jute rope. The young witch smiles and tucks the parcel away in the satchel she has slung over her shoulder and they make their way back to the door.
“Thanks, mate,” the younger wizard calls out as they exit.
The doorbell chiming wasn’t loud enough to drown out his voice, and Severus narrows his eyes at their backs as they retreat. Had they remained any longer, he wasn’t so certain he could have stopped himself from jinxing the buffoon. A heavy sigh escapes him as he turns his attention back to the crossword puzzle from the paper, scrawling in the boxes just as the doorbell chimes. Reigning in his instant annoyance, Severus looks up in time to see the new customer who enters, only for the quill to drop from his hand in shock.
“Granger.”
The name leaves him before his mind has a chance to catch up with his mouth. Silently cursing himself, he snaps his mouth closed before he says anything else. It’s been years—five, in fact—since the last time he saw her halo of untamed brown curls, but she has barely changed.
“Hello, Prof—sorry—Mister Snape.” Her hasty correction is followed by the instant flushing of her cheeks.
When he opened up shop this morning, she was the last person he expected would come through the doors. And yet there Granger stands, gazing at him expectantly with large brown eyes that shine with recognition.
“To what do I owe this unexpected…pleasure?” he asks, nearly choking on his words at the end.
She smiles despite his tone. “This is a lovely store—the little a-frame sign outside made it look inviting.”
Severus makes a mental note to make the sign fifty per cent less inviting before he puts it out the following day. “How fortuitous,” he drawls.
Granger chuckles. “I know you don’t mean that, but I would agree,” she quips back, shifting the bag strap looped over her shoulder. “If I hadn’t seen with my own eyes, I would never have believed you’d open a bookshop—it makes sense though.”
His eyes track her movements as she walks deeper into the store, looking around as she does. “Why do you say that?”
“You seem like the sort of person who’d like books,” she replies.
One of his eyebrows lifts. “Rather presumptuous of you.”
“I’ve been told that before,” she says as she wanders down one of the small aisles. “You’ve got a great selection.”
A strange sensation radiates through his chest at the compliment and Severus immediately represses the feeling. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says as she reappears from the back of the store.
“Which one?”
“Why are you here ?”
Granger stops in front of the counter opposite him. “I attend the University of Edinburgh. It’s my last year—I study Charms.”
“A Mastery?”
She nods. “I’m going to be working at Hogwarts next year with Filius Flitwick to learn the ropes before he retires, and then I’ll be the Charms Professor.”
He can’t imagine anything worse than returning to teaching. He’d hated it from the moment Albus had hired him, but there was no other option for him at the time. As he gazes at her, he supposed Granger might not be so ill-suited to the job as he was. She might even be good at it.
“Filius is an expert in the field—you will be lucky to learn from him.”
Her smile broadens. “I think so too.”
For a beat, the only thing his mind offers up is that she is rather pretty—a sentiment that he discards as swiftly. Before he can linger on the thought for too long, she pushes her wild hair back over her shoulder, and the movement breaks the awkward tension he feels.
“I’d best leave you to your crossword,” she says with a hint of teasing, “the third one across is atypical.”
His eyes flick down at the neglected parchment before him. She is correct, of course. As he looks up to respond, Severus catches sight of the ends of her mane as she exits, irritation rising within him. The witch had caught him off guard—a feeling he isn’t fond of in the least.
Even more vexing, his mind still harkens back to the exchange long after she has left.
After her first visit, Severus should have assumed he’d be seeing Granger again.
The week following her discovery of his store, he kept looking up every time someone entered, expecting her to walk through. When she didn’t make a second appearance, he successfully fooled himself into thinking she would leave him alone.
She didn’t.
The next week she strolled in after her class had concluded on Monday afternoon. She spent some time browsing, asking inane questions, and sat around reading on the sofa quietly before purchasing her book and leaving. There were two other unscheduled visits throughout the week, though she blessedly didn’t return to the store on the weekend.
Merlin grants small mercies.
Just as he’d begun to think she had perhaps had her fill of the store the week before, the doorbell chiming overhead sends a sinking feeling right to his gut. When he finally allows his eyes to move up, his instinct is confirmed. Her curls appear less wild today—tamed into a long plait that hangs down her back. Dressed warmly in a black coat, he doesn’t even try to contain his snort at the sight of her garish maroon and yellow striped scarf.
She looks down to where his eyes linger and grins. “A bit much, I know,” she says, indicating the scarf, “but Molly gave it to me last Christmas, and the warming charms she weaves through her knitting are incredible. I couldn’t buy a better one.”
“Quite,” he drawls. Severus knows all too well how fair a hand Molly Weasley is at household and haberdashery charms—he’d taught her some of the spells himself.
“Busy day?” Granger asks, unwinding the scarf to stuff it into her book bag.
He lets his eyes travel around the empty store before returning them to her. “As you can see, I’m run off my feet.”
She rolls her eyes. “All right, no need to be so snarky.”
“There is every need.”
The eye roll he receives in response is predictable—expected. He draws a lot of satisfaction from gaining a reaction from her—not something Severus wishes to examine too closely. He can’t seem to stop himself from watching her as she wanders the aisles until something catches her eye and she slides it off the shelf, carrying it with her to the sofa to read. It isn’t until much later—when his frustration is threatening to boil over—that she finally brings it to the counter and pays for it, smiling and waving at him on her way out.
And so it goes.
Every other day Granger turns up wearing her ridiculous scarf, her absurd hair usually in a braid or just barely kept off her face with some manner of hair clip, eyes bright with excitement that he has never seen in another at the very thought of being able to inhale the written word.
Severus thought he loved books, but she was on another level entirely.
She always brings with her an unflappable attitude—though Severus certainly does his best to ruffle her feathers. Part of him wonders why he does it. He gains nothing from the snarky banter he engages her with—merely invites conversation that he does not with any other customer.
It’s just because she’s familiar, he thinks in a vain attempt to explain it away.
“I’d like to pay for these.”
The impatiently spoken words jolt Severus from his musings, his thin lips curling into a frown as he looks down his nose at the customer before him. An older gentleman—perhaps a professor, or even an older student. It is only then he notices something of a queue has formed in the time he has been ruminating on the vexing witch taking up far too much space in his brain these days. Even when she isn’t there, she unsettles him.
“Eight Galleons,” he tells the man before him who hands over the payment with an aggravated huff, tucking the book under his arm and marching out of the store before Severus can wrap it.
“Wanker,” he mutters under his breath as the next customer steps up to take the older wizard’s place.
It carries on like this for most of the day, the numbers dwindling during the lunch hour before picking up again shortly after. He hasn’t had a chance to think of Granger for most of the day, until the witch in question wafts through the door with her usual amount of exuberance, coming to a stop when she sees how packed the shop is.
“Has it been like this all day?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“You need help,” Granger continues, gesturing around.
“I’m fine.”
“Mister Sn—”
“Severus is fine,” he snaps, tired of hearing her call him that. His father—Tobias—was Mr Snape. He is not.
“Fine, Severus, then,” she says a little softer. “Let me help you out this afternoon.”
He opens his mouth to refuse her again, but she doesn’t give him a chance. Instead, she rounds the counter and deposits her bag beside him, ignoring what he’s certain is a suitably astonished expression. Her coat and scarf are the next things to come off, and she pushes up the sleeves of her rust-colour knit sweater before wandering into the stacks to help out customers who appeared lost.
Severus snaps his mouth shut, returning his attention to the growing line again, and begins dutifully putting them through.
When five o’clock passes, he drags in the a-frame from the street, closing and locking the front door with a heaving sigh as he flips the hanging sign to ‘Closed.’ Granger is behind the counter pulling her coat and scarf back on as he walks towards her, propping the frame against the front of the counter. Affecting an annoyed countenance, Severus crosses his arms and stares down his nose at her.
“I suppose I should be thanking you,” he says.
“That’s not exactly a thank you, but I’ll take it,” she chuckles.
“I said I was fine.”
“You certainly were not.”
“I would have managed.”
“I’m sure, but look how much smoother it went with my help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“That’s evidently not true.”
“Granger—”
“Call me Hermione.” By now her fists are on her hips and a stubborn expression he is all too familiar with has come over her.
“Hermione—” Severus begins, testing it out. He hates how right it feels to say her name.
“Severus,” she replies, a smile curving her pretty mouth, “give me a job. I’ll be the best employee you’ve ever had.”
“You’d be the only one I’ve ever had.” He drops his arms and they hang at his sides as he considers her request.
“I was made to work in a bookshop,” she says, brown eyes dancing with excitement at the prospect. “I can work on weekends and the odd afternoon after classes—or Mondays. I don’t have classes at all on Mondays.”
“What about your studies?” Really, he’s floundering for an excuse to keep her at arm's length now.
“I have them well in hand.” Her smile is incredibly smug.
He smirks. “How far ahead are you?”
“None of your business!” she answers, flushing. “So, are we in agreement?”
Severus stares at her for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons. On the one hand, she is right—having her there made the afternoon run smoother. On the other hand, he is terrified that having her around will drive him to—what? Up a wall? To distraction? Whichever it is, he isn’t so sure he wants to find out.
Turning his attention back to her, he can see a glimmer of desperation behind her impertinence and his shoulders sag.
“Fine,” he relents, “you get a two-week trial starting Monday. If I change my mind after that, you will cease your badgering.”
Her smile feels like it lights up the entire room. “You won’t regret it.”
With that, she swings her bag over her shoulder and he unlocks the door. She waves on her way out onto the street, and Severus is mortified at how long he stares after her. When he finally comes to his senses, he finishes closing up shop for the day, eyes dropping to look at his hands as he slips the money into the deposit bag for Gringotts.
The sour feeling in his stomach makes him feel like he might regret it already.
He regrets it almost instantly.
The first day Hermione shows up early , greeting him in front of the shop with a smile, bearing two cups of coffee, one of which she passes to him with a far too cheerful expression. Despite the fact the coffee is actually delicious he is still irritated by her, while also confused by her inexplicable allure which he is very much in denial of.
“This is going to be good,” she reassures him as she carries the a-frame outside and sets it up as he organises behind the counter.
“So you’ve been saying.” His eyes track her movements as she tidies up, plumping the cushions on the sofa before flipping the open sign on the door. She almost makes him dizzy as she flits around.
“Have you ever thought about getting a coffee machine for the store?” she asks, coming to a stop across from him.
His lip curls at the thought. “No.”
“It would be so nice though.” Her expression is damn-near wistful.
So much regret, he thinks, even as begins contemplating her ridiculous suggestion for a moment. The last thing he needs is more to clean after closing up for the day. Severus is saved from having to reply when the doorbell chimes and the first customer for the day walk through the door.
He has to repress a snort as Hermione’s eyes gleam as she prepares to pounce on her first victim.
When she breezes in after her class ends two days later, Severus is startled at first when she joins him behind the counter.
Hermione’s arm brushes against him as she removes her coat to reveal a dark teal sweater, and he wonders briefly why she dresses so Muggle when she’s attending a magical college. He’s almost tempted to ask but doesn’t wish to draw attention to the fact that he’s noticed her attire. In fact, he really needs to stop noticing it altogether.
“Task me, Severus,” she says, pushing up her sleeves.
He fights off the shiver her saying his name causes, looking around the store. It’s been a quiet day, and he’s spent the majority of it going over his books. The store, however, has a thin layer of dust likely dragged in by the constant opening of the door and customers tracking it in. Books are like magnets for dust.
“Dusting,” he croaks out, clearing his throat when she looks up at him in surprise. “There is dust everywhere.”
She simply smiles and nods. “I’ll take care of it.”
By the time she is done the store is spotless—she is thorough, he’ll give her that much. Her work ethic over the years hasn’t changed a wink.
“It’s good work,” he says in an attempt to be nice.
Hermione chuckles. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know,” she tells him. “I know you aren’t really the sort to hand out compliments, and really, I don’t need them.”
Severus wonders what she means by that, but isn’t afforded the opportunity to ask as she disappears through the door to the stock room and levitates a stack of books to fill a gap he hadn’t even noticed in the display window. Further thought is disrupted when a frantic student rushes in and asks him where he can find a copy of Defensive Magical Theory, and Severus leads him over to the appropriate aisle to peruse.
By the time the young wizard leaves with his purchase, the day is at an end, and in no time he and Hermione are both pulling on their coats to leave. Outside the store, she waits as he locks up with an antique wrought iron key, the wards buzzing around the shop as they fall into place.
“You don’t have to wait,” he huffs, stuffing the key into his pocket.
“I know,” she answers. “Thanks again, Severus.”
He stares after her as she walks away, eyes keenly trained on the soft sway of her hips, apparent despite her thick outerwear. Blinking to clear the brain fog, he turns sharply on his heel and walks in the other direction, even though the Apparition point in this direction is much further away.
Get a grip, he thinks, hands balled into fists at his sides as he Apparates home.
By the end of the second week, he thinks he might be used to having Hermione around.
The store is busy the entire day Saturday—so much so he has barely any time to think. By Sunday, however, it is slower, with people wandering in later after late brunch or their midday pint. He can’t really complain—hungover customers are less careful with their spending and often make more spur-of-the-moment purchases. Every little bit keeps his bookshop afloat and affords him the comfortable living he’s come to enjoy.
A far cry from everything he experienced before the end of the war…
Blinking, a customer plopping books down on the counter stirs him from the dangerous wanderings of his mind, and he silently injects focus into maintaining his Occlumency so there are no further slips.
“Thank you for your purchase,” he says, handing the older witch her wrapped parcel of books.
As she nods and moves away, Hermione saunters over, this time dressed in a mustard knit dress that hugs her entirely too appropriately. The mane of hair he once would have described as unmanageable hangs down her back loosely, and there is a faint flush to her cheeks he might have assumed was rouge if the store wasn’t so warm from all of the people hiding inside from the cold.
“So,” she begins, a little more timidly than she usually addresses him lately. “It’s Sunday.”
He snorts. “Well observed.”
“No need to be a prat,” she huffs, crossing her arms.
Adorable, Severus thinks before sending that thought to join his memories from earlier. “What about it?” he asks.
“It’s been two weeks,” Hermione says, bottom lip caught between her teeth. He can see she is anxious to bring it up.
“It has,” he agrees.
“So?”
“So?” he repeats, unashamed of how much he enjoys making her squirm.
“Severus, don’t toy with me,” she says, exasperated. “We agreed on a two-week trial.”
He sighs, more at himself than her.
He cannot deny that having her around has been a net positive—he has more time to focus on the back-of-house running of the store and inventory since she has been around, without having to worry so much about the cleaning and customers. She is friendly and pretty, and he’s noticed, much to his annoyance, several young male customers flirting with her. Overall, he knows he would be a fool to let her go.
And yet…
Not in a million years would she ever be interested, fool, he reminds himself.
“Your performance has been adequate,” he says, voice tight. “I suppose you can stay on.”
“Really?” Her bright eyes practically sparkle.
“Yes.”
Severus feels the air get knocked from him as he is forced to catch her when she throws her arms around his neck to embrace him. Not since he was a child has he been hugged like this—a memory that he quickly pushes aside in favour of returning to the present. He has no idea what to do with the young witch clinging to him and settles for keeping his embrace neutral. When she pulls away her cheeks are flushed, most likely with embarrassment over what she’s done.
“Sorry,” she hastily apologises. “I’m just pleased and I get a bit huggy—Harry and Ron can’t stand it.”
Don’t pretend you didn’t like it, his mind taunts as he silently mourns the loss of her softness pressed against him.
“It’s nothing,” he says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Now, get back to work.”
She chuckles, and nods, weaving her way back into the aisles to assist a confused-looking customer.
