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“So, that’s what you are…”
Hermione prods the potion with her wand. The brew separates into three rings of varying viscosity before merging again. She stirs clockwise and the steam swirls up in tight coils.
“So, that’s what you are…,” Hermione murmurs to herself.
She makes a note on her parchment—nervous tissue restorative draught, stage four—before turning up the flame. If she is correct, it will need to boil for precisely six minutes until it takes on a deep cobalt color. She moves to her cutting board to slice her fresh ingredients. A glimpse of movement catches her eye.
“Good evening, Severus,” she says.
“Evening, Granger,” he returns stiffly.
She keeps her eyes on her work. The hair along the back of her neck rises, and her flushed face has nothing to do with her cauldron. She takes a steadying breath before she begins to slice. Eventually she falls back into the rhythm of the work.
By the time the potion is ready to be removed from the flame, she’s nearly forgotten his presence. Nearly. Hermione snuffs the flame and decants the potion into several vials. She carefully puts in the stoppers before adding her labels.
“Here you are, Sir.” She offers him a vial as well as her notes.
His fingers brush hers at the hand off and goose bumps rise over her arms. She watches him as he studies one of the vials. His expression is frustratingly unreadable.
“I am not responsible for determining your results.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you staring at me so anxiously.”
Hermione scoffs. “Your opinion is infinitely more valuable than some Ministry bloke.”
Surprise flickers in his dark eyes but he doesn’t comment. He puts the vial into a padded box and then shrinks it down before summoning a house elf to send it off. Then he cleans the room with a sweep of his wand. Hermione gapes at him.
“What now?”
She gestures at the room. “You cleaned. With magic.”
“That is accurate.”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she protests. “Don’t pretend you haven’t been emphasizing Muggle methods.”
He smirks. “It is a rite of passage. Masters assign some sort of menial sticking point for their apprentices.”
“And you chose Muggle methods for cleaning?” Her throat catches with a hint of hurt.
His brow furrows slightly. “You struck me as a witch who enjoyed doing some domestic tasks by hand.”
“Oh.” Her voice softens at the realization he intended kindness.
“Was I incorrect?”
“No one enjoys scraping out charred bat spleen,” she mutters in lieu of answering.
He snorts.
“Are you sure you’re Severus Snape? Taking it easy on me doesn’t sound like you.”
She expects him to scoff. Perhaps the faint twitch of his lips when he’s amused. Instead, his lips purse as if he’s tasted something sour. He sets his shoulders as if bracing himself.
“I was going to treat you to a celebratory dinner if you were interested, however I don’t want to throw your world too far off its axis.”
“No, I’d love to.” Why does she sound so breathy?
“Very well.” He’s stiff again. “Are you amenable to side-along?”
“Of course.”
He offers her his arm. The familiar darkness compresses her, but they land far more softly than she’s come to expect. She keeps her hand in the crook of his arm and allows him to lead her. They’re in a wizarding hamlet that she doesn’t recognize, but he moves confidently. They stop at a cross street.
“If we go to the left, there are more international options—Thai, Indian, a new French bistro—to the right, is traditionally British, a chippy and a pub most notably.”
Hermione weighs her options. “Perhaps dinner at the bistro and then I’ll buy your first round at the pub?”
“As you wish.”
Over the course of her apprenticeship, their discussions have been primarily focused upon her mastery—potions, procedures, and occasionally a spirited discussion on the headline article of Potions Quarterly. It was rare to entice Severus into discussions of a more personal nature, often requiring her to bait him in some way and usually ensuring he’d abruptly cut off the conversation once he realized what she’d done. The resulting coldness for the next day or so was worth the reward of chipping away at his exterior.
Dinner was nothing like that. Conversation flowed freely between them though she noticed a careful herding back around to her with most personal inquiries. They debated and deferred in equal measure. It was something of a shock when the bill was presented and yet there was indeed a bowl of mousse before her, practically licked clean.
“Are you still interested in the pub?” His gaze flicked towards her second glass of wine.
“At least a round, if you’d like?”
She resisted the urge to fidget or chew her lip. It wouldn’t do for him to see how much she didn’t want the night to end. It was important to remember that he was only being kind. They were friends. Friendly? He offers her his arm and she accepts with a smile. Their walk to the pub is quiet, but comfortable. Severus gestures to a table and then asks for her drink of choice.
“No, no, I said first round is on me, remember?”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue the point. “Just a lager then.”
Hermione saunters up to the barmaid. The woman’s eyes widen briefly, but she takes her order without comment. Her relief is short-lived as a man slides onto the stool just beside her, his hand grazing her hip as he does so.
“Sorry, love,” he says cheerily. “Must be hitting stronger tonight.”
She hums in noncommittal acknowledgement. It’s possible, she supposes, though the sheer number of open barstools lends some doubt to his claim. The barmaid places Severus’ lager and her own bramble down on the counter. Before Hermione can grab either, the man’s hand slides over hers.
“You’re Hermione Granger, aintcha?”
“That’s me.” She makes to pull her hands back, but his grip tightens slightly.
“Thought so. But then I thought to myself what would the Hermione Granger be doing with someone like Severus Snape.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I know what those papers say and all,” the man continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But I know it’s rubbish. Ain’t that right?”
He directs the next comment over her shoulder. Hermione turns slightly, surprised to find Severus now behind her. He doesn’t acknowledge the bloke, his eyes are focused on her; there’s concern and something else lingering in his gaze.
“Are you alright?”
The man scoffs. “’Course she is now that she’s found better company to keep.”
Then he stands, sliding his hand over her lower back. Hermione stiffens and moves towards Severus instinctively. The man’s hand catches her belt loop and holds her back.
“Come now, love, you can’t honestly want to spend your evening with Snivellus when you’ve a real man, right here.”
When it came to herself, Hermione often found herself conforming to supposedly proper social convention: subtle deflection and nonconfrontational avoidance, primarily. Her mother never believed in making a scene. With these lessons ingrained, it took a lot to prompt Hermione to lash out on her own behalf.
The threshold for people she cared about, however, was much lower.
And when it hit? She was her father’s daughter.
A quiet sort of rage simmering in her gut, she turns back to the man with a saccharine sweet smile. He returns her grin, releasing her. Hermione swings. Draco Malfoy feels it in Wiltshire. The man yelps in pain, free hand twitching for his wand. It goes flying across the room, which she attributes to Severus.
“Severus Snape,” she growls, “is a thousand times the man you could ever hope to be, you absolute wanker. I highly suggest you learn to handle your alcohol before you end up on the wrong end of a witch’s wand and lose your bollocks alongside what’s left of your dignity.”
As someone in the crowd whistles approvingly—as she realizes that there is a crowd, mortification floods through her. She throws down several coins and flees the establishment.
“Are you always so… passionate?”
Hermione stops short. “He had absolutely no right to speak of you that way!”
“He’s not alone in his sentiments.”
“Well he’s an idiot. Anyone who thinks like that is an idiot. You are a brave and incredible man, Severus! Honestly getting to know you has been the best part of my—”
Severus kisses her. Her anger fades into a smoldering heat as she returns the kiss. When they break apart her eyes are wide.
“I’m not usually so forward,” he says in an unsure voice that doesn’t suit him at all. Then his lips twitch. “Should I fear for my bollocks?”
“Hmm, that depends. Are you going to continue being an arse or are you going to kiss me again?”
He claims her lips once more.