Chapter Text
When Severus awakes on his forty-first birthday it was with a sense of trepidation. Not, as some might assume, because he was an ostracized man who continued to live despite the odds continually stacked against him, but because of Hermione Granger, Second Year Apprentice. Not his, of course, Merlin forbid, yet even so the blasted girl had ordained to throw him a fortieth birthday party the year before.
It was ostentatious.
It was loud.
It was filled with lukewarm acquaintances and lackluster rivals.
He ranked it somewhere between his thirty-ninth (spent in a healing ward, enduring another month of physical therapy) and his twenty-second (rueing the fact that he continued to exist in a world in which Lily did not.)
The only thing she’d gotten right was the whiskey which he absconded with immediately after ensuring she had no question—quite a feat for her incessant brain—as to how much he did not like her surprise.
Minerva had required him to go to therapy.
Granger had offered a strained apology and decreased her proximity.
Following both, a mutual respect bloomed between the young apprentice and himself. And so today he awoke worried that she was going to spectacularly ruin it all.
He wasn’t going to yell, of course. Not this time. The therapy hadn’t been a complete wash after all.
Granger is late to breakfast. He perches tersely in his chair, offering curt nods in response to the birthday well wishes of the staff that bothered. Of the old guard, only Pomona and Minerva had an offering, a sapling of a hard to source potions ingredient and an obscure tome respectively. Abernathy, the new Defense mistress, had offered him a cupcake which he’d been about to refuse until Minerva glared at him in reproof.
“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, inwardly grimacing at the undoubtedly gritty icing.
He was quite particular about his frostings. Based off the way Minerva is looking at him, he’ll be unable to leave without first taking a bite. Just as he reaches to do so, the chair beside him slides out.
“Good morning.”
Severus turns to find Granger slipping into the seat beside him. He returns the greeting, staring at her for a moment with expectation but she says nothing further. A quick survey of her person does not indicate the presence of any sort of package, not even a card. Perhaps he’d worried for nothing. This morning was nothing like last year. He ignores the strange hollowness that results from that thought as owl post arrives.
There are short missives from Draco and Narcissa as well as Potter. No gifts. Granger makes a small tsking sound as she looks at her own mail, a moderate parcel. She looks up to find him watching her and smiles ruefully.
“You enjoy butterscotch , don’t you?”
“On occasion,” he says blandly. She needn’t know that as a boy he’d scrounge up his every pence to purchase a bit of the sweet.
She offers him a box from the parcel. “Care to take half? George’s gratitude can be a bit exuberant.”
“A gift from a Weasley.” He arches a dubious brow.
“Prank free, I assure you. I assisted with an arithmancy matrix on a new product and this is his work around to my refusal of payment.”
“Should anything happen to me after consuming these, I hold you personally responsible,” he says as he accepts box.
“Understood.” Her face is solemn but her eyes glint with amusement. Then she spies his cupcake. “Ooo, cupcake for breakfast? I shouldn’t!”
Despite her own protest, she snatches the cupcake from the table and takes a considerable bite. She makes a small noise of pleasure but then freezes. Unwilling to turn and receive some sort of reproof for not stopping her, he assumes she’s receiving scandalized looks from both Abernathy and Minerva. Granger wipes the icing from her lip sheepishly.
“I’m sorry—did I take the last one?”
Abernathy clears her throat. “That was Severus’ birthday cupcake.”
Granger’s eyes widen comically. Severus narrows his gaze. To Abernathy, she might seem genuinely contrite, but he’s taught far too long to not recognize faux guilt when he sees it. She avoids his gaze.
“Oh of course it was,” she groans. “That was so thoughtful of you to exert such effort for him. I’m sorry I ruined it.”
Abernathy flushes. “I-It was no trouble at all. I just like baking.”
Oh Merlin, it had been an overture.
Severus begins mentally calculating how best to disabuse the girl of the notion. He has barely spared her a thought since she came on staff—on what grounds could she be infatuated? He scowls. Lily. Another witch ensnared by the romanticized version of him. He relaxes slightly. He just needed to be himself then, and she’d realize that he was not the tragic figure the Prophet painted him to be but a bitter arse best left alone.
“It wouldn’t be the first time you acted brashly, Granger. At least my clothing remains singe free this time.”
Her cheeks color slightly but she smirks as she rises. “Have a good day, Severus.”
It is only as he’s walking down to his dungeons, sucking on a butterscotch, that he realizes: Granger never wished him a happy birthday.
oOo
It is during the morning break that he comes across her again. She is sitting at the table nearest her favorite stained glass window; at least, he surmises it is so given how often she stares at its depiction wistfully. Before her is a sheaf of parchment and an inkwell. As he watches, she taps her lip with the tip of the quill, skims through two texts, and then carefully dips the quill into the bottle of red ink. There is barely a sound as the quill brushes against the parchment.
He’d once thought she was overindulgent in her grading, assuming the mininarratives were the same sort of guidance she’d provided Longbottom in his classroom years ago. After peeking over her shoulder a time or two, however, he’d learned she wrote thoughtful questions, encouraging the students to think not just about the text but beyond it. Once she’d learned to articulate original thought, conversing had become much more palatable.
“Oh, hello, Severus, I was about to come looking for you.”
He tenses. Perhaps his gift had just arrived? Or she did have the penchant for homemade things and a reputation for being sidetracked.
“To what do I owe the misfortune?”
“Always so theatrical,” she says with a roll of her eyes though her lips twitch. “I have a few side projects for which I require freshly harvested ingredients. I thought I’d see if you had need of ingredients as well and might then accompany me into the forest so I need not bother Hagrid.”
“As it so happens, several of my magical being products have been depleted. Too many careless first years, I suppose,” he muses aloud. “I do prefer to harvest my own when possible. Are you on duty over lunch?”
“No, I’m available.”
“I’ll be going then and you may join me.”
“How magnanimous of you,” she notes drily. “See you then, Severus.”
oOo
Granger is waiting in the Great Hall. Rather than wearing a traveling cloak, she’s changed into Muggle wear. He averts his eyes from the cinched waist of her peacoat in favor of studying her obviously homemade hat and scarf. Instead of looking embarrassed as she might have the year prior, she smirks and reaches into her bag.
“Would you like one?” She holds out a length of deep green material. “I’ve been experimenting with charming the yarn. This recent batch accommodates sensory needs.”
His eyes narrow suspiciously at the specification. Granger prattles on.
“Teddy’s only two so he’ll hopefully grow out of it but he swears that all scarves are too scratchy so the enchantment is meant to soothe the skin beneath. However, this one,” she fingers her own scarf regretfully, “becomes coarse if the temperature gets too cold.”
“Then why keep it?”
“I can get lost in my activities,” she admits sheepishly. “It keeps me aware of the changes in the environment. A happy accident.”
“And this one’s flaw,” he asks, gesturing to the green one he’s yet to grab. She shrugs.
“Theoretically none. I haven’t had occasion to wear it much yet. I favor neutrals. You can be my tester, if you like?”
He takes the scarf then, bracing for it to rub his scars in all the wrong ways. To his surprise it feels like a warm salve has been smoothed over his skin. Granger is watching him curiously and he shrugs.
“It’ll do.”
Rather than seeming perturbed by his lackluster response, she smiles softly. “Ready to go then?”
Usually Severus prefers his solitude for tasks. Whenever he’s been partnered off in the past, he’s ended up subjected to meaningless chatter, errant spell casting, overwhelming odor—be it the body’s natural musk or an overdosing of potions meant to disguise it, and on occasion an actual assassination attempt (those Dumbledore wrote off while the Dark Lord was always mildly amused). Granger is silent. Not in an awkward way that begs to be broken but with a sureness that makes known that she’ll speak when she has something to say. Her wandwork, sparsely needed for warning back the occasionally wayward flora and fauna, is quick and concise. She, strangely and yet utterly unsurprisingly, smells of a library—parchment, ink, and a subtle underscore of coffee. He suspects Minerva would think he had deserved it should she try to off him. While he thinks it entirely unlikely, he remains highly attuned to her cadence as they walk on through the woods.
“Dreiandre moss.” His tone makes it a question.
Granger finishes carefully scraping it from the rock on which it grows before she answers. “When we were on the run, I discovered several mosses which responded to magical resonance. By my calculations, dreiandre moss might be one as well.”
“To what end?”
“Possibly nothing of substance. Possibly a solution to a potion’s side effects. Who knows?”
“You were not one to deviate from the texts.”
She shrugs. “People change. Now, I experience when it strikes my fancy and I’ve the time. It should come as no surprise to you that I enjoy knowledge for knowledge’s sake.”
He huffs a laugh. Whatever else has surprised him today, that revelation has not. Silence falls between them again as they continue. They stop as needed, gathering side by side. He enjoys the quiet rhythm and the subtle sound of companionship. Contrary to belief, he doesn’t enjoy isolation, it is merely a safeguard against obnoxiousness. It is when they harvest holly bark that she breaks the silence.
“You scrape with the grain.”
She says it like it confirms a theory.
“How else should one do it?”
“Most men I’ve seen gather simply tear it in strips.”
“I am not most men.”
“You most certainly are not,” she agrees quietly. Then, almost tentatively, “Do you subscribe to Amateur Alchemy?”
When they return to the castle, satchels full to bursting of ingredients, they’ve shifted from exchanging thoughts on potioneering to a spirited debate about the classifications of dark magic. To his surprise, she’s far less self-righteous than expected. He finds himself wondering just what she endured during the war to change her so but can’t bring himself to ask. Granger’s hand brushes his wrist lightly.
“Thank you for accompanying me, Severus.”
He inclines his head, repressing the odd impulse to offer his services should she have future need. A one off amicable encounter did not guarantee pleasant future foraging efforts. He begins to unravel his scarf.
“Keep it, if you like, I’ve got plenty.”
“I suppose it saves me a purchase,” he says softly, the closest to gratitude he manages to express.
oOo
It is late and, because Minerva doesn’t mess about with favoritism, he is cursed to spend the final hours of his birthday with one Pomona Sprout. He has been subjected to her delusions about Hufflepuff’s chances for the cup—either one, really, who was she kidding; her verbal processing of whether or not she’d like to take on her own apprentice—if Longbottom came on staff he’d be forced to stay on for the safety of the students; and now, finally, she’s switched to her favorite topic: love lives.
“… and Sybil refused his owling address, claimed the spirits would allow her to contact him if their souls were aligned. I caught her badgering the bloke over a Eyelops for how to send an owl out blind. Can you believe it?”
He makes a noncommittal grunt, usually sufficient, but then her speculative gaze turns on him. It makes him bristle immediately. There is—almost—something pleasing about how Pomona refuses to accept the ‘undying love for Lily’ agenda made popular by Potter’s big mouth. Grief was complicated and he didn’t think he was being overly dramatic by considering his to be even more so. Yes he’d loved Lily as a child. And, yes, the guilt had consumed him, driving him forward in the cause for years, and still lingers somewhere in his bones, aching when the seasons change. But neither of those things negate his ability to appreciate an attractive witch nor his interest in the concept of a life partner. His apparent lack of pursuit of such a person likely contributed to the rumors, but it wasn’t his fault half the witch population of Britain was insufferable and the other half loathed him on principle. Perhaps if he took a sabbatical…
“Severus?”
He refocuses on Pomona. “Pardon?”
“I said you must be enjoying your birthday.”
“Must I?”
“It’s not every day a wizard has two witches competing for his affections.”
“Two,” he repeats, turning to look at her despite himself. Her lips curve into a triumphant grin.
“Surely you must have noticed.”
“Abernathy is impossible not to notice,” he says. “Her lack of subtlety is one of the many reasons I found her poorly qualified for the Defense position.”
“She baked you a cupcake,” Pomona counters, as if that somehow balanced the scales. For her bleeding heart it probably did. “Though I suppose you didn’t get to enjoy it thanks to your other champion. I know she’s a Gryffindor, but still it was so brazen.”
“Are you suggesting Granger has affection for me? Have you gone daft?”
“I’m suggesting nothing, you miserable old bat. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
“Perhaps I’d best be off to the optometrist then,” he returns with a roll of his eyes. “That’s a—never mind. I refuse to entertain such a ridiculous train of thought.”
“Are her affections unwanted,” Pomona asks, eyes wide. “You seem far more amenable to her.”
Her words send a prickle along his spine. Had Granger been giving signals? Impossible. She was half his age. Vibrant. And even if she had—he wouldn’t—a pairing between them would be—Severus’ thoughts start to race as if her prying comment was a starting gun. He can feel her eyes on him, searching for the chink to pry him open. As always, he reinforces with barbed wire.
“I was a spy, Pomona. If I seem more fond of Minerva’s own precious lion cub then it’s all the better for me. I’d hardly get anywhere if I failed to play nice.”
“So you don’t care for Hermione?”
“She’s competent and that makes her tolerable,” he says, the words ringing false to his own ears. Pomona doesn’t pick up on it.
“Well I seem to have lost the plot altogether, haven’t I?”
“You always do with these inane matters. Since you refuse to stop, however, allow me to assure you that if I find myself a romantic partner it will not be with a former student half my age.”
Disdain seeps into his voice. It’d be a tough sell of his age and scars, and that was without considering that fact that he’d personally terrorized them all. Pomona makes a noncommittal noise, clearly unconvinced, but thankfully lets the matter drop. They part ways just a few corridors after. Severus continues down to his dungeons whilst she goes outside. A figure lingers outside of his doors. His hand slides towards his wand before he recognizes the silhouette of Granger. She steps towards him as he approaches, a wrapped parcel in her hands.
“Granger,” he greets a bit more tersely than intended, the conversation with Pomona still fresh. “What’s this?”
“You told me if I was compelled to ruin your birthday, I should at least let you attempt to enjoy most of the day first,” she says.
Her voice aims for teasing but misses the mark. There’s a sadness about her. Had she been replaying that comment for the past year? Of course she would.
“Granger, I—“
“It’s alright,” she interrupts. “It was a bit much. I hope this year was far more tol—I hope no one has ruined it for you.”
His brow pulls together at her hesitancy. She fidgets under his gaze for only a moment before her eyes blaze with conviction. Granger crosses the space between them quickly, thrusting the parcel into his hands as she pushes up on her toes to press her lips to his cheek.
“Happy birthday, Severus.”
And then she scurries away.
Severus looks after her, feeling thoroughly confunded. She hadn’t forgotten his birthday at all. He glances at the parcel. Should he feel bad? It wasn’t his fault she’d taken his word quite literally. And she couldn’t be that torn up over them. She’d kissed his cheek after all. One didn’t normally kiss a person with whom they were cross. Did they? While not inexperienced in carnal pleasures, kissing was an intimacy in which he did not indulge. Why had she kissed him? Why had he allowed it?
Realizing he’s standing in the corridor like a fool, Severus moves into his office. As he’s opening his package, Stout the House Elf appears with his night time tea. Except—
“Are those Jaffa cakes?”
“Yes Professor Snape, sir. Professor Granger is having the elves bring your favorites, sir. She is even finding white tea for Stout to bring.”
Severus stares at the tea tray. All of the pieces of the day fall into place with startling clarity: his favorite sweet, disguised as a second thought; a specially enchanted scarf offered up as happenstance; a foraging companion; his favorite muggle cake and an obscure tea he must have mentioned in passing only a time or two—Merlin help him if Britain found out he didn’t take his tea black; and then… this. He squeezes the package in his hands gently, feels the phantom brush of her lips on his cheek.
Severus unwraps the parcel carefully, as if any indelicate move might cause an explosion. It is long and thin, reminding him of a wand box. He lifts the lid and shifts aside the paper. A stirring rod. He lifts it from the packaging. It seems… standard. A bit lackluster when he tallies the rest of the day. Then he spies the note.
Severus,
This stirring rod is imbued with the saliva of the Himalayan erfin. As it is your birthday, I’ll spare you the parchment’s worth of details and insist that you take my word on its properties. This rod will counteract any unintentional movements. If, for example, one were to be startled, the rod will not leave the cauldron or cease its motion unless you desire it. While you have proven difficult to catch off guard, I do hope that you will find it useful.
Yours,
Hermione
He stares at the innocuous rod in wonder. Since recovering from Nagini’s bite, he has suffered from errant tremors. On occasion, he’s ruined brews due to his fingers contracting at the wrong moment and disrupting his stirring patterns. He had never said anything. He thought he had hidden it. Granger had seen. Granger had solved it. And even in the note she left him his pride.
Salazar help him, this was no overture. The witch struck fast and true, rattling him to his very core. His assumptions were shattered. His dismissal overturned. Hermione Granger fancied him.
Now what the bloody hell was he to do with that?
oOo
Severus knocks briskly on her door at half nine. He’d have gone there straightaway but felt the conversation was best postponed until her morning coffee. Except she hadn’t been at breakfast. And—he knocks again—she isn’t in her rooms. He runs through the possibilities of where she might be on a Monday morning. He had seen Septima at breakfast so Hermione isn’t teaching her lessons. But lessons were in session so she has to still be in the castle and, regrettably, he had his own classes as well.
By lunch, he still hasn’t seen her. Her spot remains open, taunting him. Perhaps she was taken ill? Too ill to come to the door. Or perhaps she was in the hospital wing. He stands abruptly. Students scatter out of his way as he strides through the halls. Poppy startles as the doors fly open.
“Severus! What’s the matter?”
He quickly catalogues the beds. All empty. She’s just… gone.
“Severus, are you alright?”
He tears his gaze away from the empty sheets. “I was looking for Granger.”
“She’s already gone home for a small respite before the move.” Poppy’s brow pulls together.
“Move,” he parrots back. “Granger has half a year left of her apprenticeship.”
“And she’ll be concluding it in France under joint instruction by Master Bain and Mistress Baudelaire,” comes a third voice. He turns to see Minerva glaring at him from the doorway.
“Bain is a potions master.”
“Indeed.”
“She is pursing a joint mastery.”
“Have you been hit with a redundancy hex?”
He scowls. “She never mentioned considering a joint mastery.”
“I had been encouraging her to ask you,” Minerva says bitterly. “However I’m glad she did not heed my advice. She deserves a master who does not find her merely tolerable.”
“Still taking your evening tea with Pomona I see.”
“No, that came from Granger herself. I do wonder why a former spy would choose to disparage a colleague in an echoing corridor.”
Severus is hit by the feeling of missing a step on the way down. “What Granger overheard without context—and her overreaction to it is hardly my concern.”
“And yet here you are blazing about the castle searching for her. What more could you have to say to the girl?”
“I—it is of no consequence,” he says stiffly. Then, “I cannot believe she would abandon her post over one comment.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Minerva glares at him. “This was in the works for some time. I had been pushing her to pursue a joint mastery. Ideally I wanted you to be her alternate master, but she was reluctant. As I said, she made the proper call.”
“Then all is as it should be. Your cub is off to learn mediocre potions while protecting her delicate sensibilities and I—“
“Remain an insufferable old bastard,” Minerva finishes for him. Her harsh gaze softens slightly. “You don’t feel it yet, but you will.”
“Thank you, Sybil,” he says sardonically before turning on heel and going back to his dungeons.
For the first week, he’s fueled by self-righteousness. She’d overheard a conversation without proper context and overreacted. Or she’d reacted pragmatically. Of course one wouldn’t ask someone who only tolerated them to be their master; it was a very close relationship. That thought creates a moment of tightness in his chest until he remembers Bain is upwards of eighty.
By the end of the week, though, he begins to feel “it.”
The absence of Granger.
Fuck.