Chapter Text
She had arrived.
She looked up at the grand doors, which were open just enough to allow at most two people to pass through at once. Hermione had received her flower-shaped invitation a week ago. The long, sun-yellow petals of the Chinese ashflower had unfurled to reveal the message inside, informing her that she had been officially invited to the tournament. One of the most prestigious competitions in England, where aspiring tea makers could showcase their skills before the country's finest masters.
Her joy had been boundless, and a few days later, she had been standing at her front door, suitcase in one hand and a bag in the other, ready to set off. Each year, the tournament was held in a different location, and this time, Warwick Castle — nestled in the bend of the River Avon in Warwickshire — was awaiting the competitors, judges, and audience.
It wasn’t as colossal as her old school, Hogwarts, but the castle stretched far along the riverbank. Its aged walls, dotted with windows, and towering spires reached skyward, embracing vast gardens. Upon entering the foyer, there were three possible paths — right and left into the castle, or straight ahead into the gardens.
A tall woman in a blue robe smiled at her.
"Welcome to the 37th Ashflower Tournament. Congratulations on your invitation! May I have your name?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Ms. Granger, your room will be to the left. Please pick up a map from the corner."
"How many people per room?"
"Guests are accommodated in pairs."
She followed the woman's instructions and took a parchment with her name on it from the designated table. It displayed a floor plan of the castle, with various colors marking the competition areas and a red blotch indicating her room number: 29.
The corridor was long and winding, its monotony broken only by a few paintings adorning the stone walls. She found the right oak door near the end.
The room was dimly lit, its large window overlooking the river concealed by dark green velvet curtains. Two single beds were positioned on opposite sides of the space, with an ornate rug between them softening her footsteps. On one side, books and notes — already placed there by someone — were neatly stacked on the desk, and a long black robe lay draped across the bed.
Hermione sat down on her own bed, a restless mix of curiosity and excitement stirring inside her. She knew that tonight was only the welcoming banquet — tomorrow, the competition would begin.
Perhaps a cup of tea would do her good.
She drew back the heavy curtains, allowing the warm afternoon light to flood the room. The atmosphere changed in an instant — the dark shadows retreated into the corners, revealing the green wallpaper and the landscape paintings adorning the walls.
Walking over to her bag, she retrieved her lacquered tea box, crafted from Dijon walnut. Its only embellishments were the worn metal handles.
Some say that even a lifetime is not enough to truly understand tea. She, too, had yet to master all the possible ingredients and their effects. She took out a set of plain porcelain teacups, each with an elegantly curved handle. It was often said that the choice of cup influenced the experience just as much as the brew itself, but Hermione’s collection was too modest to be selective.
Still, this cup suited almost anything.
She settled on a white tea. While she set water to heat in the fireplace, she sifted through the compartments of her tea box, gathering additional ingredients beyond the tea leaves — apple pieces, peach, and marigold petals.
White tea is made from the youngest leaves of the tea plant, lightly oxidized and dried before being blended with other botanicals. In Hermione’s blend, the delicate tea leaves were complemented by the vibrant natural sweetness of peach and apple pieces, nestled among the deep orange petals of marigold. The tea was meant to soothe both body and soul.
The preparation was a ritual in itself. Silently and with full concentration, she poured the near-boiling water over the leaves, letting them steep for two to three minutes. The fresh, delicate scent of peach blossoms curled into her senses. Even that alone made her feel her heartbeat slow, her thoughts fade, and a deep calm settle over her. The feeling intensified as she took her first sip, the comforting warmth spreading through her stomach.
Until she finished Hogwarts, Hermione had never imagined she would find beauty in brewing tea. She had excelled in chemistry, cooking, and herbology at her private school, yet she had never truly felt outstanding in any of them.
Then, one day at university, she crossed paths with a professor from Mahoutokoro, introduced to her by her thesis advisor. The man embodied elegance — serene, composed, every movement a carefully orchestrated piece of art. Their conversation lasted only as long as it took them to finish a cup of tea while discussing her dissertation. Hermione was surprised by the effect the tea had on her. At first, she only wanted to read a little about how to elevate such a simple, everyday drink. But before she knew it, she was collecting book after book, ingredient after ingredient.
Her early blends had been strange, too intense. It took time to understand what paired well together, what should and shouldn’t be mixed. Since then, not a single day had passed without tea, without discovering another layer of its elusive magic. Because that’s what it was — magic, speaking to both body and soul in quiet whispers.
Sitting in her room, bathed in the last golden rays of sunlight, she felt a rare moment of simple happiness — just existing, just breathing. She was here at the Ashflower Tournament, ready to show what she was capable of.
She could hardly wish for more.
Oh, that wasn’t true. She did have a dream — to open a teahouse one day. Not a large one, she didn’t want to attract crowds. But something small and special? That, she would love.
She rose from the table, leaving behind only the empty teacup. Stretching briefly, she walked over to her suitcase to retrieve her evening attire.
Heading toward the bathroom, she intended to wash away the dust of her journey. The hot water burned her skin in a soothing way, but the moment she stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around herself, excitement began seeping back into her veins. She didn’t even know who the other competitors would be — or the judges. Tonight would be the first time everyone met.
In high spirits, she stepped out of the bathroom — only to freeze in place the moment she crossed the threshold.
A man stood beside the table, holding one of the plain teacups, turning it over in his hand as if examining it. Only when he heard her approach did he lift his gaze to her.
She had never expected to see him again — certainly not here.
It seemed as though time had barely met him. His skin remained pale and sallow, his posture rigidly straight. The expression on his face reminded her of a raven — sharp, severe, watchful. His dark robes did nothing to soften his appearance; he looked just as stern as he had within the walls of Hogwarts, back when he taught chemistry.
Then, something changed. His face shifted ever so slightly, his gaze dropping lower.
"Granger," he cleared his throat, his voice rough.
Hermione snapped back to reality, suddenly all too aware that she was standing there in nothing but a towel. "Excuse me, I—uhm…" She hurried past him toward her bed, reaching for her clothes — only to freeze, her hand hovering just above the fabric. "You… what are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here, Granger?" They spoke at the same time.
Hermione pressed her lips together, the peaceful calm that had settled over her now completely gone. She stood there, practically bare, while tension crackled through the small room like an electric charge. "I was invited to compete in the tournament," she said, lifting her chin. "But I could ask you the same thing. This is my room! What are you doing here?" She met his gaze head-on. She was no longer a student, and Snape was no longer her professor.
"I highly doubt that," he replied smoothly. "This is my room," he remarked contemptuously.
He placed the empty teacup back onto the table and stepped toward her. Instinctively, Hermione shifted out of his path.
"I'm certain it isn't," she argued.
"As I said, it is mine."
"I think you’re lost, you must have mistaken the room number," Hermione said, shaking her head. As the man approached the bed, she stepped toward the table, both of them waving their maps at each other and showing them. However, neither had made a mistake — the number 29 appeared beneath both of their names.
"This is a mistake," Snape muttered, shaking his head as his long hair swirled. "I can’t be assigned to a room with a competitor."
"Are you one of the judges?" Hermione asked, surprised. She knew that Snape had once won the Ashflower Tournament, but since she hadn’t heard anything about him, before or after finishing Hogwarts, it hadn’t even crossed her mind that he could be a judge.
"I didn’t ask for a roommate," he said through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto hers, searching for some sort of answer.
He just didn't think she wanted to be in a room with him, did he?! For a brief moment, Hermione felt a sense of smug satisfaction at the thought that things hadn’t turned out as Snape had planned, but it only lasted for an instant. She most certainly didn’t want to share a room with him.
"It’s certainly a mistake," she said, forcing the words out with barely concealed disdain.
For Hermione, Snape was the one person she could never quite place. He had tormented Harry for years, yet had done things during Voldemort's reign that few others dared to. Was he a good man or a bad one? Probably neither — he fell somewhere in a gray area.
"May I ask, Granger, that you get dressed?"
Snape’s words pulled Hermione out of her thoughts.
"Oh, sorry," she blurted, her face turning red as the warmth crept all the way to her ears. "Of course."
She turned back to her bed, quickly scooping up her blue dress and carefully avoiding stepping too close to him as she hurried toward the bathroom.
A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she shut the door behind her. It wasn’t just the awkward situation she had found herself in — it was the fact that Severus Snape was one of the judges. The man didn’t exactly offer an objective opinion, and the two of them had never gotten along, even if he had always been the one who knew everything in class.
Hermione began to dress, the soft fabric of the blue dress rustling quietly as she pulled it on. For the evening, she had chosen an off-shoulder dress with kimono sleeves and a straight skirt that fell gently, the muslin blue adorned with tiny flowers scattered across it, becoming denser toward the hem. She pinned her hair into a simple bun — not too tight, so as not to make her appearance overly formal.
Looking into the mirror, she felt like a different person.
Carefully, she opened the bathroom door and stepped forward. She had expected Snape to have left by now to resolve the mix-up. However, he was sitting at the table, staring intently at a piece of paper with his piercing gaze. Why was it that Snape couldn’t perform even the simplest task without making it seem so uncomfortable?
Slowly, the man lifted his head, and the features of his face stiffened as he saw Hermione in all her glory. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he pressed his lips into a thin line instead.
"I thought you had..." The woman spoke as she walked across the room. Her dress fluttered around her with every step, as light as a cloud.
"I did. They said they would see what they can do about our situation. They asked for patience today, as the many guests make it difficult to resolve." Snape's voice grew sharper and more somber.
Hermione almost groaned. She had to spend an entire evening with the man? Was Snape even capable of sleeping? She could only imagine him watching her all night while she slept, which already made her stomach twist in knots. She wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the evening because Snape would surely comment on it, or even if he didn’t, he’d be judging her based on it. How wonderful! The excitement she had been feeling earlier now turned into nervousness.
"You should drink your tea."
"Pardon?" She turned toward him, confused.
"You look restless. Your tea," Snape began to explain. "White, with peach and marigold, right? Perhaps even apple, that gave the peach blossom its base, am I right?"
Hermione's eyebrow shot up. She hadn’t thought Snape would be so good at identifying the ingredients.
"Yes," she replied curtly. "Indeed, but..."
For several seconds, they stood in silence, staring at each other as if that was the only task in the world. Hermione assessed the man's features: his dark gaze, how he measured her, the tension hiding in his fingers as he tapped on the table, the sense of something lurking at the corner of his mouth, making her unsure of what Snape's next words would be. She had long been prepared for him to mock the simplicity and horribleness of the tea she had brewed.
Suddenly, Snape stood up from the table, wordlessly walked to his suitcase, and retrieved his own tea box. Hermione furrowed her brow as she watched him take several herbs from the black wooden drawers, carefully closing his hand around them, not squeezing too tightly to avoid crushing the leaves or flowers.
It was only when he poured the nearly boiling water over the leaves and berries that Hermione recognized from the scent that Snape had prepared a Darjeeling black tea. The deep color and musky, muscatel fragrance gave it away. Though Darjeeling was known for having non-black tea varieties as well, as the tea plant was harvested multiple times a year, the scent of each was similar. Now that she looked more closely at the ingredients, she noticed orange and grapefruit peels — the former aiding digestion and the latter supporting proper heart function. She also saw quince pieces and hibiscus, both plants known for their health-boosting and strengthening properties, including their ability to ease anxiety and invigorate the body. Snape’s tea was much fuller and more complex than the one Hermione had made.
The man poured the drink into small, handleless cups and silently handed one to Hermione.
"Thank you," the woman whispered as she studied the amber-colored surface. Taking a sip, the flavors exploded on her tongue — spicy and sweet, citrusy and floral — all at once. Yet no flavor overwhelmed the other; instead, they blended seamlessly together, like lovers entwined. The tea was smooth and filled her with a sense of fullness, as if everything in the world had suddenly fallen into place. The troubles and problems seemed distant, and all the emotions felt emptied. For a moment, Hermione felt as if she were floating a few inches above the rug. Then, as the effect of the sip wore off, she returned to herself, and the room’s contours sharply defined themselves for a second, with colors surrounding her more vividly than before.
Snape turned his back to her and sat down at the table, not asking or saying anything.
Hermione clutched the small cup, drinking its contents entirely until she felt reenergized.
"It’s about time we go..." She remarked, breaking the silence, but the man didn’t respond. Because of this, Hermione set the cup down on the table, grabbed her map, and checked where the opening ceremony would be.
Not long after, she left the room, and Snape only glanced up from his book just enough to acknowledge that the woman had finished the tea.
