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Severus approached the table laden with food in the staff room with interest. The house elves had been making the same old stodgy brownies for nigh on twenty years, and that was the first thing he noticed was different. Todays were a pale caramel colour and looked somewhat chunkier than normal.
He hesitated only a moment before loading his plate with an assortment of offerings and retreating to his usual shadowed corner before the meeting could begin. He picked at the brownie and grimaced. It didn’t taste bad, precisely, but the texture was highly offensive. The caramel melted, thick and gooey, drowning his tongue, while chunks of some sort of nut tried to choke him.
Whoever had convinced the house elves to attempt innovation—and he shot a glare at Granger, certain she was the culprit—had made a grave error.
He set the plate aside, but as Minerva began to drone on about the necessity of adding the lavatories to the patrol routes due to a marked increase in students brewing illegal potions in toilets—again, he scowled in Granger’s direction, for inspiring students to even greater heights of idiocy—he found his gaze drifting back to the remaining sweets. Perhaps it was only the brownies that were an abysmal failure.
He sampled a forkful of carrot cake and lifted his eyebrows in mild, but pleased, surprise. Light and airy, with a thick layer of cream cheese icing. He took another bite and began to eye the rest of the plate with renewed consideration.
The sponge cake proved dry to the point of inedibility. A coconut biscuit offered a satisfying crunch, though the taste was somewhat cloying. And then he picked up a lemon tart.
He bit into it. He failed, utterly, to suppress the low sound of pleasure that escaped him.
He froze, colour rising unhelpfully in his cheeks, and cast a swift glance about the room, hoping no one had noticed. And no one had, apart from Granger. She was watching him with unmistakeable relish. He glared. In response, the infuriating girl smiled and picked up her own lemon tart, taking a bite and then closing her eyes to savour it.
He ignored her, knowing the futility of attempting to intimidate her. Instead, he returned his attention to the tart.
It tasted exactly like the ones his grandmother had made when he was a child. It tasted like happiness. Like warmth, and love, and safety.
The memories flowed through him unbidden. Himself perched on a stool in the kitchen, dusted with flour, his grandmother laughing softly as she corrected his clumsy efforts to knead dough. His father, always gentled by her presence, accepting a freshly baked biscuit with his tea and ruffling Severus’ hair in absent approval.
The lemon tarts had been his father’s favourite. Severus himself hadn’t been so fond of them at the time, too sour for his juvenile palate, and yet he could never forget.
The taste sat heavy on his tongue, laden with remembrance, sharp and aching.
His grandmother, Becky Snape, had loved him. The only person who ever truly had. Even his mother had never managed that feat, already worn thin by the time he could form memories, merely offering him a pale imitation of affection when anyone was around to see and judge her.
But his grandmother had been constant. Kind words, and warm smiles, and soft hugs. The only gentle voice of his childhood.
He missed her, with a sudden, terrible feeling of loss that welled up in him, leaving him cold. It had been too long since he’d felt anything like that.
He set the tart down at once, jaw tightening, before he could put the final nail in the coffin of his reputation by betraying an emotion other than disdain in the middle of a staff meeting.
After a period of pacing in his quarters that evening, Severus came to the reluctant conclusion that he would have to acquire the recipe for the lemon tarts.
He approached the house elves first, only to be informed they had not been permitted to cater the last staff meeting. They seemed quite perturbed about it too, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Severus scowled. He ought to have realised the food had not come from the kitchens. It had been far too varied in quality, and significantly different to their usual fare.
He sought out Minerva next.
“The food for the last staff meeting?” she repeated, clearly surprised by his question. “It came from Hermione’s bake sale. Her Muggle Studies classes prepared a selection of dishes and sold them in Hogsmeade over the weekend to raise funds for an upcoming excursion, We purchased their leftovers.”
He grimaced. “You mean to tell me that I consumed food made by a student?”
Minerva only laughed at his outrage. “There wasn’t anything wrong with the food.”
“You cannot possibly know that,” he asserted. “There should have been a warning, at the very least. This is a flagrant health hazard, they could easily have poisoned us all.”
“Don’t be absurd, Severus. The students aren’t trying to poison us.”
“I’d be less concerned if they were! Merlin, I have seen those cretins brew. They are far more likely to poison us through sheer incompetence and appalling hygiene practices than through intent.”
She snorted, but then said placatingly, “Hermione was supervising them.”
He scoffed derisively to let her know just what he thought of that. Minerva’s eyes narrowed, and he turned on his heel and strode away, unwilling to endure yet another scolding on the respect he ought to show their newest colleague, and Minerva’s favourite student.
He set off in search of Hermione Granger, or as he preferred to refer to her, the insufferable know-it-all, the prissy princess of Gryffindor, the malfunctioning brain of the Golden Trio.
“Granger,” he barked. “Which student was responsible for the lemon tarts Minerva foisted upon as at the last staff meeting?”
She blinked at him, clearly taken aback. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Lemon tarts. The discarded leftovers from your ill-advised bake sale that she apparently deemed fit for staff consumption, despite having been pawed over by half the student body. Who made them?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you want to know?”
“That is none of your concern.”
She shrugged, nonchalant. “Well I don’t see that the provenance of the lemon tarts should be any of your concern.”
He glared at her.
She smiled, bright, infuriating, and with entirely too much self-satisfaction.
He attempted to suppress his irritation. The woman was completely insufferable. She could keep her secrets, however. He would find answers elsewhere.
He only made it through one student interrogation before he realised the futility of his inquiries. He began with Judith Yates, the only one of his seventh year Slytherins taking Granger’s ridiculous class, and she told him the who of the situation immediately.
“The lemon tarts were very nice,” she said demurely. “Professor Granger made those herself, sir. She said it was a family recipe.”
Severus frowned to himself. How Granger’s family recipe could taste exactly like the tarts his grandmother had made he could not readily answer. And a far more pressing concern was how in blazes he was going to convince her to part with it.
He refused to accept impossibility however, and approached her after the next staff meeting.
“Granger. A word.”
“Will it be a polite one this time?” she asked curiously.
“Yes,” he hissed.
She eyed him sceptically.
“I have been informed you were responsible for the lemon tarts.”
She stared at him for a long moment but said nothing.
“May I…” He paused, and then bitterly forced out the next word, “Please, have the recipe?”
“No.”
“No?” he asked flatly.
“No,” she repeated.
He considered her for a moment.
“Don’t even think about it,” she threatened.
“Think about what?” he asked innocently.
“Legilimency.”
“I wouldn’t,” he lied. “I do require the recipe, however.”
“Why? Is it a matter of national security? Will my tarts prevent the rise of the next Dark Lord?”
He felt a muscle twitching in his jaw. Merlin, he hated her.
“I’m not afraid of you, Snape. And you’ve made it abundantly clear that we aren’t friends. We aren’t even cordial colleagues. I have no incentive to give you my family recipe and you won’t ever intimidate me into it.”
“What do you want,” he spat.
He tensed as visions entered his mind of the bushy-haired harridan invading his personal library and getting her grubby paws all over his books.
“I want to know why.”
He countered quickly, “You may have access to my library on Monday evenings, provided you do not speak to me.”
Her lips twitched. “I want to know why. But I’ll take library access too, since you so kindly suggested it.”
“Unacceptable,” he growled. “Library access or nothing.”
“Nothing then, and no tarts for you,” she said, with complete and maddening unconcern.
He glared. “You cannot be serious. You were begging for access to my library two years ago when you joined the staff.”
Her expression snapped into disgust, finally shattering the polite façade. “Yes,” she hissed. “And when I offered to trade for it you made some rather vile insinuations and then insulted my appearance. Should I do the same and inform you how little I wish to fuck you, no matter how eager you are to get your greasy hands on my tarts?”
He grimaced, casting his mind back to the exchange in question, sure she was exaggerating. He’d refused to allow her to borrow a book. Naturally. She had, rather foolishly, implied a trade.
And he had informed her that he received sufficient solicitations for sex from women of actual attractiveness and was therefore not so desperate as to risk his collection around her sticky fingers.
“Did you really think reminding me of that would put me in a more charitable mood? Fuck off, Snape.”
He winced as she stalked off. He could admit, in retrospect, that those particular insults had been ill-advised.
Without Albus around to encourage Severus to pretend wilful blindness towards his favoured students Severus was no longer forced to pretend ignorance to the fact she had, on occasion, helped herself to his stores. He did not regret calling her a thief. Implying she had been offering to prostitute herself though had perhaps been a tad excessive.
Minerva had been incandescent with rage, and he was certain it was the closest he’d ever come to actually being fired. Granger, in response, had adopted an icy politeness and taken to speaking to him only when absolutely necessary.
Until some months ago when she had changed tactics entirely. Now she smiled condescendingly at him, treating his glares and scowls as one might treat a toddler throwing a tantrum. Indulgent and superior.
She mocked him. Teased him. Met every barb with amusement rather than offence. His cutting words had become a source of entertainment. And the most infuriating part was that it was his own tactic, used against him.
No. The most infuriating part was what she knew. All his humiliating secrets, laid bare before Potter by necessity, now fodder for Granger’s amusement.
And he had no weapons against her. No armour, and no defence.
And now she had something he wanted.
The Firewhiskey was to blame.
A handful of the staff had adjourned to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate surviving another week of dunderheads, and a few too many drinks with Filius had left him feeling maudlin, and unfortunately uninhibited.
On the walk back to the castle he spotted Granger and Longbottom lagging slightly behind the others, and his drink addled mind decided it would be wise to approach her.
He glared at Longbottom until the boy scurried off, properly cowed, and met Granger’s amused gaze.
“If I agree to your previous offer and explain my reasoning, you will provide the recipe, and you will not discuss the matter with anyone else.”
She grinned wickedly at him. “I’m afraid the previous offer has expired. Currently on offer is that you tell me why, a proper explanation of why mind you, and you grant me library access Monday through Thursday evenings, as well as Saturdays. Oh, and that you see to my comfort in your quarters. I want to be cosy! I’m not going down to the dungeons only to be told I have to sit on a rickety old splintery chair in a draughty corridor or something.”
He clenched his jaw. He should have accepted her terms a week ago before giving her time to think it over. “And you will not discuss—”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Fine.”
They walked on, the only sound the gravel crunching beneath their feet as he braced himself for another humiliation. Eventually, he said, “When I was younger my grandmother used to make lemon tarts identical to the ones you produced. Your recipe resembles hers. That is why I require it.”
“Not good enough,” said Granger.
He stopped short. “What do you mean, not good enough?”
“Not good enough,” she repeated in a sing-song voice and then giggled. “You’re really determined about this, or you wouldn’t be so desperate as to make deals with me. And I want to know why. What did she mean to you? Why do you care so much about her bloody tarts? A proper explanation, if you please,” she commanded imperiously.
He clenched his hands into fists. “She was the only person in my life who has ever loved me,” he snapped. “Does that please you?”
“What about Eileen?”
“How do you even know about her?” he asked, thrown.
“She was captain of the Gobstones team,” said Granger, as though that explained anything at all.
He tilted his head back to look up at the stars briefly. “My mother was… tired. Always so tired. She scarcely had the energy to rise from bed most days. She didn’t have the capacity to care for herself, let alone me. Becky Snape was the only one who ever did. And we used to bake together. Not just lemon tarts, either, but all of the family recipes.”
“You don’t remember the recipes?”
“I was eight when she died,” he said without emotion. “She left me her recipe book but my father burned it when I received my Hogwarts letter.”
Granger made a small, horrified sound.
“He said she wouldn’t have left it to me had she known I would turn out to be a freak…” he paused, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. “I remember none of them. I have attempted to recreate them, unsuccessfully. And yet your tarts... are identical. And it would mean a lot to me to have at least one of her recipes. So, now you know. Satisfied?”
“Yes... I mean, no! You can have the recipe, but no, I don’t feel satisfied by hearing about your utterly vile father. And he was wrong,” she said fiercely. “She would have wanted you to have it, even with your magic.”
“Lovely,” he said coolly. “I can rest easy now that I have received your unsolicited opinion on the matter. Had I known sooner that the insufferable know-it-all possessed insight into the wishes of the deceased I might have consulted you sooner. Do you also happen to have access to Merlin’s thoughts? Perhaps you could resolve the issue of adaptable Animagus forms whilst you’re at it.”
Granger looked at him haughtily. “I do love offering unsolicited opinions on things, and here’s another for you. Becky Snape might not have cared about you being a ‘freak’, but I doubt she’d be particularly proud of the way you treat people.”
He glared at her as she gave an indignant huff and stumbled off to catch up to the rest of the group. Longbottom turned, concern plain on his face, but whatever he said only caused Granger to toss her head back and laugh.
The sound struck him like a blow and he felt his heart lurch. She was laughing at him.
He slowed, then stopped altogether, the world tilting unpleasantly. The Firewhisky he’d drunk seemed to slosh around in his stomach.
Granger was right.
Insufferable, overbearing, meddlesome. But not wrong.
Becky Snape had been kind. She had preached kindness and understanding to others, always. And yet she had been the only one to ever extend it to him. In her absence the world had become a cruel, uncaring place, and over time he had found it harder and harder to recall her lessons.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, swaying on the path, midway between Hogsmeade and the castle. Long enough for the others to vanish entirely, leaving him behind in the dark where he belonged. By the time he finally forced himself to move the night air had seeped into his bones.
He was cold.
He had been cold for a very long time.
And even when he sank into a chair before the fire in his chambers, the flames could do nothing to thaw him.
He didn’t go to breakfast the following morning, but he made an appearance for lunch.
Granger followed him down to the dungeons afterwards, without a word. He halted in his office, spinning sharply to confront her.
She said nothing, simply holding a sheaf of parchment out for him.
He glanced over the recipe with a critical eye.
When he looked up, she said, “Now, how about that library?”
He closed his eyes briefly, summoning what remained of his patience. He should have anticipated she would be down here immediately, bright-eyed and bushy-haired, to try his will to live. He was probably fortunate she had not chosen to hammer on his door at the crack of dawn.
“I will verify the recipe before granting you access.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. You are not making excuses and putting me off. I know you don’t believe for a second that I would give you a fake recipe, and pretending otherwise is just petty.”
He grunted. “Fine. Have at it then. Don’t come crying to me if any of the books hex your fingers though, I can assure you I will not be sympathetic.”
“Aww, you mean you won’t be kissing by boo-boos better? Pity.”
He rolled his eyes and opened the door to his quarters.
She swept past him, looking around his sitting room with open interest before settling on his bookshelves with something like reverence.
A sense of surreality washed over him.
What had he done? One bite of a blasted lemon tart, and now this catastrophe. Granger, in his rooms, five days a week.
He was never drinking again.
“Where do you usually sit?” she asked.
“Our agreement included your silence,” he snapped.
Granger laughed. It was a light, tinkling sound that boded ill for his sanity. “That was not included in the conditions of our agreement last night, Snapey.”
He was going to sink into the floor, to be swallowed up by the stones of Hogwarts and not have to endure the impossible suffering that was existing as a human being. Any moment now.
He needed to leave, to escape Granger and her humiliating mockery. But leaving her unattended in his quarters was unthinkable. He dithered.
She walked along his shelves, fingers hovering inches away from the spines of his books, clearly itching to touch them. Then, with sudden decisiveness, she plucked one from its rightful place. He stared at the gap she left behind her.
She carried it with her as she sauntered into his sitting area and took a seat. In his chair.
“That is my chair,” he said sharply.
She looked up at him and sighed in annoyance. “That was why I bloody asked.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
“Fine. But I’d just like to point out that if I were being petty, I would claim that I’m already comfortable here, which was a condition of our agreement. It wouldn’t kill you to not be so nasty all the time.”
“It might,” he muttered.
She ignored him and relocated to the other armchair. And then she proceeded to completely ignore him as she delved into his book.
It should have been a relief, but the little sounds of her disturbed him so greatly that he spent the whole time on edge. The soft rasp of turning pages. The quiet rhythm of her breathing. The small, unconscious noises she made when something caught her interest, little murmurs she did not even seem aware of.
But all of them set his teeth on edge.
As did her ease in his presence. He hated that she could so easily ignore him, while unsettling him so thoroughly.
All of this for a lemon tart. He had not even had the foresight to set a limit. She now had permanent access to his library. He couldn’t escape her. Ever.
Two months passed, and he grew accustomed to her intrusions into his domain. It helped that she was as predictable as clockwork. The same times every day, except Saturdays, when she only followed him down from the Great Hall. If he skipped breakfast, she did not appear until the afternoon.
He considered using this, but some part of him balked. It would be churlish to deliberately avoid her when she was polite enough to allow him a presumed lie in on the days he didn’t make it to the Great Hall until lunch.
And she would realise he was deliberately avoiding her and would probably demand entrance every Saturday morning in response.
Instead, he slowly, reluctantly, began to converse with her. It had begun with small things. An offer of tea. A request for a blanket as the weather grew cooler. But, somehow, it had devolved into actual conversation. Always academic. But conversation, still.
With the insufferable know-it-all.
She asked questions about the notes he’d left in the margins of his books, and he answered them. He tried not to feel flattered by her interest, but somehow found himself talking all the same. A part of him had missed this.
Not a friend. He could never be friends with Granger. But someone to talk to. That was all it was.
And then, one Monday, she joined him in his usual corner during the afternoon staff meeting.
She tried to hand him a small white paper box.
He eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”
“A gift,” she said, unperturbed by his response.
He pulled out his wand to check for hexes. Finding none, he accepted it and flipped open the lid. Inside was a—“scone?”
“Try it,” she urged, watching with unmistakable anticipation.
“And turn into a canary? I think not.”
She looked amused. “It won’t turn you into a canary.”
He raised a brow. “A bat, then?”
She laughed.
He stilled, caught off guard. It was not mocking this time, not at his expense. He felt an unwelcome flicker of warmth in his chest at the realisation he had made Granger genuinely laugh.
He reached into the box and carefully lifted the scone, examining it. He sniffed it delicately.
“Blackberry jam?”
“Mmhmm.”
He bit into it.
The scone crumbled in his mouth, soft and buttery. The jam was sharp against his tongue, the slight bitterness of it tempered by the smooth richness of the cream.
And he was suddenly transported to the kitchen of Spinner’s End, back when it had been bright and cheerful, filled with warmth. His fingers stained purple from picking blackberries, and his grandmother holding him up so he could stir a pot of bubbling jam.
It was the same. Exactly the same.
He closed his eyes, trembling, as he tried to process the fact that Granger had found another of his family recipes. Minerva called the meeting to attention before he’d recovered, and he sat there, an intense need to know burning through him. The meeting was interminable, as always, and when it was over he turned to her.
Granger was already looking at him, practically vibrating with anticipation.
She asked eagerly, “Was it right?”
“How?” he asked simultaneously.
She beamed, eyes glittering. “Our grandmas were friends!” she crowed.
“What?”
“My grandma lived in Manchester. She went to school with Rebekkah Harris, who later married Howard Snape. They used to exchange recipes.”
He looked down at the half eaten scone still pinched delicately between his fingers. He’d been holding it through the entire meeting.
A hollowness opened with him, empty and gnawing. He had no leverage. Nothing to bargain. He had foolishly given her everything she’d wanted from him for a single recipe, never considering she might possess more.
Stupid fool.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
She blinked at him in confusion. “What? Nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated bitterly. “Revenge at last I suppose. Is that not what I told you once? That I wanted nothing from you?”
The sweetness lingering on his tongue turned bitter as the implications settled. The cruelty of it. To give him one taste, to deliberately ignite his hope, only to ruthlessly quash it.
She pressed her lips into a thin line and yanked open her little bag. She yanked a book out of it, thrusting it into his lap. A brief glance revealed a handwritten recipe book, the cover decorated with carefully coloured sketches of cakes and tarts.
“My grandma remembers you,” she said, voice sharp. “She said Becky used to talk about you all the time. That she was so proud of you. And she asked me to bring you round for tea next weekend, if you’d like.”
She stood abruptly, and he looked at her uncomprehending.
“And this,” she said, gesturing angrily towards the book, “is an early Christmas present. From both of us. Merry fucking Christmas, Snape!”
He did not respond. Couldn’t respond. He watched her leave, the door banging closed behind her with dramatic finality.
His gaze dropped to the book. Guilt churned in his gut. A gift.
He placed the half-eaten scone carefully back into the box and carried it, along with the book, down to his quarters.
Granger didn’t follow him after dinner that night. Good. He’d finally driven her off.
He sat in his quarters, listening to the crackling of the fire, to the faint groaning of the stones of the castle, to the silence. It was unbearably loud.
The house elves sent him two cups of tea. The second cup sat untouched on the tray, ominous and accusing. He’d set the recipe book on the coffee table but soon moved it. He couldn’t bring himself to read it yet. But it didn’t fit anywhere. Not on the mantle, not tucked amongst his collection, and certainly not on Granger’s chair.
It was out of place in his quarters. Ominous and accusing.
He gave up and went to bed, which proved no better. He felt out of place too. His mind circled back to the things he had said to her, and he could only conclude that he would have deserved it. If she really had been so nasty as to taunt him with the fact that she had Becky Snape’s recipe for blackberry jam, only to maliciously withhold it from him, he would have had only himself to blame.
And yet, instead of that, instead of what he deserved, she had simply given him everything. And then invited him to tea. Insufferable witch.
Each night that week his mood sank further as Granger departed the great hall in the direction of her own rooms. His stomach turned sour, and he despised that he didn’t know why. He hadn’t wanted Granger in his library at all, ever! And now he was moping because she wasn’t there? It was ridiculous.
But then on Friday he was so stunned by the realisation she was following him that he halted abruptly in the corridor. He turned to look at her.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I need to know if you’re coming for tea tomorrow.”
He stared at her blankly, his thoughts sluggish.
“With my grandma. She’s expecting you.”
“I am… still invited?”
“Yes,” she said, as though it were obvious.
“But you are angry with me.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to deprive my grandma of your delightful company,” she said dryly. “Are you coming or not?”
“Coming,” he said decisively.
“Fine. Meet me in the entrance hall at one.”
She turned to go back the way she came.
“Giving up already? You’ve scarcely scratched the surface of my collection.”
She looked back at him, surprised, and then assessing.
He withstood her scrutiny, uncomfortable, and unsure why he’d spoken.
“Alright,” she said warily.
He set off again, her steps echoing quietly behind him.
She selected the same book she’d been reading before and he carefully looked away as she noticed he’d left her bookmark in place. He had, on occasion, moved them. Entirely by accident, naturally.
Their tea arrived. He levitated her cup over to her.
And then, he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
She looked at him over the top of her book. He avoided her gaze. The room suddenly felt too warm.
He waited for her to look away but he could feel her eyes on him, stubborn, demanding acknowledgement. Eventually, he looked back. Her bright eyes pierced him, and she offered him a small, tight smile.
“Thank you for apologising. This time.” She smiled wryly. “I forgive you.”
He winced. This time. He’d never apologised before, not for any of it, and yet… she still forgave him. It shouldn’t have mattered, but warmth washed over him all the same.
He set aside the dense volume he’d been reading on ingredient toxicity and finally picked up the recipe book.
The following day, he followed Granger out of the great hall after lunch. They made their way down to the gates, stepping out into the light snowfall. She offered her arm.
He hesitated briefly before taking it.
It was only a necessity, she had to touch him to apparate. But the warmth of her radiated through the layers between them, tingling over his skin.
He wasn’t prepared, not for any of it.
Not for Granger’s inexplicable kindness. Not for the bright little cottage they arrived it. Not for the elderly little woman who opened the door, breaming.
“Well,” she exclaimed, delighted, “You must be little Severus!”
He stared at her blankly.
Granger’s laughter vibrated through him as she finally released his arm and stepped forward into the house. She shot a look at him over her shoulder, eyes alight with humour. “Don’t stand out there in the cold, little Severus. Come inside.”
He stepped forward.
While Granger bustled off to prepare tea, her grandmother said kindly, “That silly girl forgets that I have a name. You’re welcome to call me Gran too if you like, but Doris will do in a pinch.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you Doris.”
“Well sit down, I’m too old to have you looming over me like that,” she said with a chuckle.
Granger returned with the tea tray.
“So, you work at that school with my darling granddaughter then. What do you teach?”
His panic did not appear on his face as he said, “Chemistry.”
“They teach chemistry at a wizard school?” she asked, with obvious surprise.
“He teaches Potions,” Granger supplied, setting down the tray. “Sorry, I should have mentioned. Gran knows everything.”
“You should have,” he said sternly.
Doris interrupted their hostile bristling. “How old are you now, Severus? You were four when I last saw you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen me?”
“Only twice, and a very long time ago.”
“I will be fourty-four next month.”
“Not bad, not bad,” she said approvingly. “Twenty years then.”
“Fourty,” he corrected automatically.
“No, no, I meant between you two. I’m not so senile I can’t do maths. Hermione is twenty-four.”
He felt his eyes widen in alarm. “And just how would that be relevant to anything?”
He turned to glare at Granger. Just what had she been telling her grandmother about him?
She had the decency to blush.
Doris cackled. “Are you single, Severus?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Gran!” Granger objected with a groan. “Please don’t. Severus isn’t interested in me. He’s made that perfectly clear. We aren’t even friends. I only brought him for you.”
Doris looked at him, her friendly expression slightly cooler. “Alright, love, don’t pitch a fit. I concede.”
Granger stood and said briskly, “I’m going to clean the gutters.”
He sat rigidly in his chair. We aren’t even friends echoed in his head. It was true. He didn’t have any friends.
He spent the rest of the afternoon watching through the windows as Granger walked around outside summoning leaves out of the gutters, as Doris told him stories about his grandmother. Becky’s blackberry jam had apparently been rather famous amongst their social circle. Doris boasted that she had been the only one entrusted with the recipe, and had never shared it before.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, she said, “Hermione is a tough girl. She’s had to be, particularly with what your world has put her through. But she’s still fragile in her own way. I can tell you’ve hurt her.”
He said nothing.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate an apology,” Doris prompted.
He said slowly, “It’s been quite a long time. I wouldn’t want to dredge up anything that she’s forgotten.”
“She hasn’t forgotten. Particularly whatever it was you said that made it clear you aren’t interested in her. And why aren’t you? She’s a bright, beautiful, lovely girl. A little excitable at times, and perhaps a little bossy, but her heart’s in the right place.”
“She isn’t interested in me,” he hedged.
“Isn’t she?” she asked, in a way that made his pulse quicken. “And what if she were?”
“She deserves better.”
“Do you know someone better then?” she asked, challenging him. “She’s getting lonely, you know. And I won’t be around forever. I’d like to see her settled.”
He hesitated. She’d lost her chance to have Potter. She’d escaped all the Weasleys. Everyone else was too old, or too stupid, to suit her.
Doris said knowingly, “She’s a very singular girl. And you seem a very singular boy.”
He wanted to scoff at her calling him a boy, but she had enough years on him that he knew it was pointless, so he only said, “Perhaps.”
For some reason this made her smile.
Granger returned, apparently having dispensed her anger in the garden, and helped them polish off a plate of custard creams before they took their leave. And, at some point, somehow, he promised to return the following Saturday.
Granger seemed to forget that he didn’t need to be side-along apparated back and simply took his arm again. They emerged from the blackness of apparition before the gates of Hogwarts. She shifted to pull away but stopped when he refused to release her.
She looked at him, curious.
“I wished to apologise. Properly. Particularly for what I said when you asked about my library.”
Her eyes flashed, her hurt clearly resurfacing.
He pushed himself to continue, “I did not mean it.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “Yes, you did.”
“I did not,” he said firmly. “The mere idea is ridiculous. I knew you intended nothing inappropriate by it, and I should not have implied otherwise. And I should not have said anything about your comparative level of attractiveness. It was uncalled for. And untrue.”
“It was true enough! I was plain to begin with, and after the war I was a wreck. Skin and bones, covered in scars—”
“Untrue,” he cut in, sharper than intended as shame filled him. “You are aesthetically pleasing, and I should never have implied otherwise. I apologise.”
She blinked at him, and then her lips twitched. “Aesthetically pleasing?”
He arched a brow. “Fishing for compliments?”
“And if I am?”
She looked at him, and he felt warm. Too many layers. “Surely you could find a better source for them than a disagreeable old man.”
“They wouldn’t mean as much from anyone else.”
He swallowed nervously. “You are very aesthetically pleasing.”
She laughed. “Thank you.”
He inclined his head, smiling faintly, then gestured towards the gates.
She squeezed his arm.
Warmth seeped into him, radiating from her touch, and he leant into it, seeking more.
She did not let go. And for once, neither did he.