Author's Note: This fanfic (my 50th published fic, can you believe it?!) was my very first creation for a fest—the SSHG Giftfest over on lj, to be exact. My recipient was alienor77310 and I tried to meet as many of the prompts as I could! Typical disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended.
A few thank yous...to ThornedHuntress and Worrywart for name suggestions, KLT for her lightning-fast and wonderful beta work, and Nylex for the use of the spell Volvebatur from the fic "perfection". I probably perverted that spell into something different than originally intended, so for that I apologize. Some plot inspiration was derived from the film "The Ugly Truth", which I do not own. And to Alienor: thank you for providing a good prompt for this newbie's first fest—I hope you enjoy this fic!
Warnings, etc.: EWE, AU in that Snape is alive post-war, some foul language, Ron-bashing, mention of a threesome, masturbation in public, unmitigated smut at the end.
Chapter 1
"Have you seen the projections for this term?" Padma Patil whispered to Hermione as she brought over a vial of salamander blood.
"Do I want to?" Hermione whispered morosely back, adding the blood and stirring thrice counter-clockwise. She waited for the amalgamation to fade from navy to cerulean before levitating a lid on top and banking the flames. She turned to Padma and rested one hip against the lab table, crossing her arms. "We've got five minutes before that needs attending to, and roughly four and a half minutes until Emmerson comes by to 'share the news'," she sighed. "So how bad is it?"
Padma tilted her head and gave her customary frown-smile—an endearing trait Hermione had noticed whenever Padma had bad news to deliver but wanted to put a positive spin on it. "It's not great, I'll admit, but I think if this," she pointed at the simmering cauldron, "works like you think it will, then we can turn things around. Here, I used Geminio to make a copy of the report for you."
Hermione took the proffered parchment and scanned it quickly. Her brows furrowed as the Arithmancy confirmed the sense of foreboding she'd had all last week. "Even if you're right and our project is a success, we're still a long way from solvent," she muttered. She felt her shoulders slump, but the sound of her manager's footsteps brought her chin up. She straightened her spine and tried to look as confident as she wished she felt. "Right on time," she murmured to a grinning Padma.
"Hermione. Padma. Have you seen the projections?" Emmerson J. Smytherson blinked several times in rapid succession. He had been Hermione's manager for a little over a year now and was poised to become the head of the company. He was also possibly the most incompetent, bumbling idiot Hermione had ever met. Usually she dealt with him by speaking far, far above his comprehension level.
"Emmerson. Good morning. Yes, we have seen them, and I know they don't look promising, but I think it's really too soon to put much stock into the bottom line. Only look here, at the axis where seasonal frivolity crosses with annual cost-of-living wage increases—why, this point is conservative, at best. Really, if anything, we ought to account for—"
Emmerson cleared his throat. "I know you girls are working hard on your...special project," he cut in, using his best no-nonsense boss voice. Even after multiple meetings and explanations, he still had no idea what they were trying to achieve. Hermione barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "But there's a lot of pressure from the higher-ups. Now, I don't expect you two to worry your pretty little heads about it, but suffice it to say that I need to see some drastic improvements or else—well, we just don't want to think about it with the holiday season just around the corner, do we? No, we don't." He coughed primly into his fist. "Um, Hermione, the thing is—our primary investor group is really looking for some tangible results. You've been working yourself to the bone, my dear girl, and I think it's time we admitted we need a little help, yes?" He nodded encouragingly at her. Hermione just narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms again.
"Mr. Smytherson, if I might jump in here," Padma interjected. "Hermione and I are really close. Just this morning we successfully matched one component of the Engorgio charm to a Swelling Solution—"
Their manager giggled nervously. "You girls and your shop talk," he tittered. "Look, I've got to get to a director's meeting, but I just wanted to let you know in person..."
"What?" Hermione felt real panic. Would they actually fire her? The smartest witch of her age and one-third of the saviors of the Wizarding world? Not that she actually put any stock in those titles, mind you...although it didn't make them any less true. "What do you need to let us know in person, Emmerson?"
He began to back towards the door, his shiny loafers that weren't at all suited to working in a Potions company scuffing along the floor. "We're bringing in another expert," he said in a rush. "Not that we don't have faith in you, because here at Hollings & Harnsworth our employees are our most prized ingredient, but I think it will beneficial to get a new set of eyes on this." He gave a little wave before scuttling through the door and into the safety of the hallway.
The locking charm that Hermione cast hit the doorknob with a clank a few seconds after.
Hermione dropped her bag onto the credenza in her entryway with a heavy thud, nearly tripping over Crookshanks as she unwound her scarf and removed her jacket. After hanging her assorted outerwear in their proper spots and toeing off her boots, she bent to pick up her ginger-furred companion.
"I missed you too," she cooed as she nuzzled Crooks' ears. The half-Kneazle purred happily. Hermione didn't know where he'd gone off to while she had been on her extended camping trip a few years ago. All she knew was not two minutes after the exhausted group of Weasleys plus Harry and Hermione Flooed back into the Burrow following the final battle, there the cat had been, head-butting Ron out of the way to get to Hermione. It had been a happy reunion and completely unexpected.
Now she and Crookshanks were living in a plain but serviceable flat in London, not too far but just far enough from Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. While Hermione appreciated the boys' offer to live with them, she'd had enough of that in the tent, thank you very much. And she liked having her things set about just so, anyway; living on her own suited her tastes quite well for now. Flipping on the wireless, Hermione hummed along as she deposited Crooks in his bed and began to prepare dinner. Her day had only gotten more tedious after Emmerson's announcement, as every single lower-level staff member had wanted reassurance from Hermione personally that their jobs were safe.
She helped herself to a glass of spiced Butterbeer as she cooked some pasta the Muggle way. The boys always teased her about the concoction, but she swore the Butterbeer was much improved by the rich flavors in the sweetener. Fifteen minutes and one burned Italian loaf of bread later she was sitting down to eat. Hermione pulled a scientific journal at random from her stack of mail and began to read while she methodically shoveled in her pasta.
Emmerson had sent a company-wide newsletter out later in the afternoon, no doubt from the safety of his secluded office. He was scant with the details, but the gist of it had been that a Potions practitioner was going to temporarily join the staff on a consulting basis. And his first task would be "assisting" Hermione with her project. Hermione caught herself grinding her teeth again and forced her jaw to relax. Padma had tried to point out that maybe it was for the best—after all, while she and Hermione were both competent enough in Potions, their real aptitudes were in Charms. Still, Hermione fumed every time she thought of some puffed-up Potions popinjay weighing in on her work.
Since the defeat of Voldemort, she had completed her NEWTs and an apprenticeship with top marks in record time, and obtained a job at the large Hollings & Harnsworth Laboratories Corporation, where she was paid to research the applications and practical uses of mixing Charms and Potions. She was on-track to become the youngest stakeholder in the well-known firm, and the only witch to have achieved such status. Potions had always been and was still a boys' club, but Hermione hadn't spent the better part of her lifetime wrangling two of the most incorrigible specimens for nothing.
And here she was getting herself riled up again. In all likelihood, she would be able to steamroll—er, persuade—this new addition to the team the same way she did with Emmerson and the others. The thought cheered her immensely. She finished off her dinner and took a long drink of her Butterbeer. Crookshanks leapt to the table and ambled over to her plate, sniffing delicately. He preferred when she cooked alfredo sauce, but he was known to clean her plate when she made red sauces as well. He settled down to lap at the remainder of her meal and his movements knocked her neat stack of journals sideways.
She righted the pile but not before the top one fell open to the Editor's Page, where readers were invited to contribute their thoughts on past articles. She scanned the notes quickly, checking that no one was trying to move in on her corner of the market. Towards the bottom, a particularly scathing letter to one of the authors caught her eye.
"You, sir, would not know a high-caliber doxy if it bit you on your voluminous arse, though I daresay such an event would be the highlight of your month."
Hermione's brows rose at the writer's impertinence. It sounded as though he had a personal acquaintance with—and vendetta against—the article's author. She noted the publication date and title of the offending article and quickly dug through the stack on her table. Once she located the correct volume, she flipped it open to the one that had caused such a strong reaction. Surprisingly, the author's hypothesis wasn't half-bad. As she read, she absent-mindedly began to make notes on her napkin. Before too long, she ran out of space.
Blinking while she brought her thoughts back to her surroundings, she made the decision to write a letter herself. Levitating the journals, her napkin and a quill, she grabbed the remainder of her Butterbeer and headed upstairs to her office.
Thirty-four minutes and three drafts later, Hermione had a response that she was pleased with. She rolled up the parchment and made a quick Floo call to the nearest owl post, waiting by the window for a courier. When the little brown owl arrived, the bird and Crookshanks eyed one another disinterestedly. Hermione tied the parchment to its leg and tucked a few Knuts into the pouch on its chest. "This is going to the main offices of Potions, Potions," she told the tiny bird. It dipped its head in acknowledgement and flew back into the dusky evening.
"Well, that was fun," Hermione said to Crookshanks, padding out of the room and into her bathroom. She decided a nice bath was in order after the day she'd had, so a swish of her wand started the water while she attempted to pile her curls up on her head. She was just kicking off her pyjama bottoms when a tap-tap at her window caught her attention. "Who might that be?" she asked no one in particular.
Opening the sash, Hermione frowned when the same little owl swooped into the room and extended its leg to her. "Back so soon?" she murmured, removing the parchment. Perhaps it hadn't been able to find the correct office? Unrolling the parchment, she saw that it was not, in fact, her letter contained within.
"Dear 'Defending Daniel',
I should say thank you for your letter to Potions, Potions, but that would suggest I was in any way appreciative of your comments, which I was not. Daniel Dunphy is an imbecile who should not be allowed within fifty kilometres of a laboratory, and anyone who gives credence to his ramblings is as daft as he.
-B. Uggeroff"
"Ugh!" Hermione glared at the letter, aghast. Of all the rude—storming from the bathroom, she plopped herself down at her desk and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards her. "Dear Mr. B. Uggeroff—which, by the way, is a terrible pseudonym—First of all, I clearly submitted my article to the publisher of Potions, Potions, not to you. How it came into your possession I have no idea. Secondly, I found Mr. Dunphy's posits on the relative uses of mundane Muggle-based ingredients on Wizard-made potions to be quite fascinating! And I will have you know I am not daft. It might behoove you to know that I am one of the premiere researchers at a highly-acclaimed corporation. I suggest in future you forward any misguided mail you receive to the proper recipient, and keep your snide remarks to yourself. Sincerely, H. Granger."
Nodding decisively, Hermione retied the scroll on the owl's leg and watched it fly off. Cool air against her legs eventually brought her mind back to the present and she marched back into her bathroom. She was just sliding one foot into the deliciously hot water when the same owl appeared at her sill again.
"Oh, honestly!" Hermione gestured the creature into her home and watched as it flew towards her office. Draining the tub and pulling on her clothing, Hermione dashed after it. "What does he have to say now?" she questioned out loud. Crookshanks and the owl were watching her timidly. Ripping the new letter open, Hermione's eyes ran quickly over the memo, sticking on phrases like petulant child and swotty brainiac before landing at the final insult: "You sound to me like a prissy miss barely out of the schoolroom. Perhaps you ought to stand aside and let your superiors do the difficult thinking." This time he'd signed it Kismy R. Suh, with a snarky note that asked, "Is that more to your liking?"
Hermione practically growled. This note mentioned that he was the publisher for Potions, Potions, so Hermione focused her ire on that fact as she furiously scrawled, "So you resort to sending letters to the editor for your own journal? How pathetic. Even if such an act is a poor attempt to drum up business through controversy rather than plain old loneliness (which I'd bet my Galleons on), I still must ask you—if you feel that research such as Mr. Dunphy's is so dismal, why accept it for your illustrious journal at all? (And I do hope you know, Mr. R. Suh, that I am employing sarcasm when referring to your periodical as illustrious.)"
Hermione felt a great deal of satisfaction as she addressed the letter to Mr. Arse himself in large print on the front. "Let's see what he has to say to that!" she crowed, grinning fiercely at Crookshanks. In response, her half-Kneazle disappeared under the sofa. Hermione drummed her fingers on her desk, waiting, then Summoned another Butterbeer and a plate of biscuits from her kitchen. If she was going to correspond with the insolent man all evening, she would need sustenance. "Bring it on, Mr. Arse," she muttered to herself.
It was well past four in the morning when Hermione jerked awake, bolting up from her desk before she realized where she was. Judging by the growing pool of ink on her carpet and the scratchy feeling of parchment on her cheek, she'd fallen asleep at her desk some time ago. She tripped over something on the floor, making a loud clanking sound, and after lighting her wand with a Lumos, she amended her thoughts. It had been some time ago and at least—she counted—five Butterbeers ago. Oh dear.
Stumbling into her bedroom, she collapsed onto her bed without bothering to remove the quilted cover. She typically woke at five thirty to prepare for work, anyway, so she wouldn't be asleep for long. Despite her tiredness, however, she couldn't seem to turn her mind off. She even buried her head under her pillow, but it was no use. For nearly an hour she kept replaying her letters with the mysterious Mr. Arse over and over in her head, unable to determine why he'd gotten under her skin so badly. Her behavior tonight was rather unlike her.
Cringing as the dawn light began to creep past her draperies, Hermione moaned. She supposed she had just been so aggravated with her situation at work that she'd taken it out on an innocent stranger. Well, not totally innocent. He had insulted her multiple times, after all. Hermione grimaced and gave up attempting to sleep. She may as well head into work and brew herself a Pepper-Up before everyone else began to trickle in for the day. And maybe she would even pen a conciliatory note to Mr. Arse… Well. Best not get too carried away.
Hermione didn't bother with her appearance overly much, simply grabbing some slacks and a jumper from her wardrobe before brewing a pot of coffee and braiding her hair. She was at the office quite a bit before six, midway through her Pepper-Up, when Emmerson himself wandered into the lab.
"Oh! Hermione. Good morning," he squeaked. Hermione only nodded as she focused on her brewing. Unfortunately, it seemed that Emmerson was in the mood to talk this morning. "I'm glad you're here early. The directors officially signed on our new expert late last night and he's coming by the office in a bit to meet everyone."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "So soon? But I—" Frantically she glanced down at her clothing. As she'd feared, they didn't even match—olive-green trousers with a pilled scarlet sweater that had definitely seen better days. Damn. "What time will he be here? I think I'll pop home and—"
"No, no, there's no time! He'll be here by seven, they said." Emmerson eyed her speculatively. "I say, dear girl, are you feeling alright?"
"Erm, no, actually," Hermione admitted, glancing at her Pepper-Up potion. "You know, I'm not feeling at all the thing. I might need to take a lie-in—"
"Tomorrow! We need you here today, Hermione. After all, you're the one that will be working most closely with Mr. Uggeroff."
It felt like the world slowed until it came to a complete stop on its axis. "Ugger—Uggeroff?" she whimpered. No. It couldn't be.
"Oh, have you heard of him?" Emmerson beamed, oblivious to her distress. "Bradford Uggeroff is one of the biggest names in Potion-making today. Always works alone, you know. It was quite a coup to get him here," he told her proudly.
Hermione snorted. She doubted very much that Emmerson had had even one iota to do with that achievement. More likely it was Hollings & Harnsworth's wealthy investors that had done the trick. Then her situation reasserted itself and she slumped against her table. "B. Uggeroff. Coming here. To work with me." She recited the information as if in a trance.
"Isn't it splendid?" A bright purple piece of paper came zooming into the lab and Emmerson snatched it out of the air. "He must have arrived!" he exclaimed. "Now, why don't you take a few minutes to freshen up, and then we'll meet you in the large conference room on the third floor?" Emmerson tottered out of the room and Hermione's head fell into her hands.
In the end, Hermione took slightly less than twenty minutes to present herself at the conference room. She'd changed into some of Padma's spare clothing, then changed her mind and switched back to her own clothing. Eight times. Finally she decided that she was who she was and Mr. Arse could just deal with that. She ran a bit of selkie sweat through her hair (in a pinch it was nearly like leave-in conditioner) and nervously made her way to the third floor. The excruciating walk there was spent giving herself a firm pep talk about standing her ground and portraying confidence in herself and her abilities.
Emmerson was waiting for her in the hallway outside the conference room. "There you are! You women, always have to keep us waiting, hmm?" He winked jovially at her and in response Hermione scowled. "Now. Hermione. I do have to warn you that Mr. Uggeroff is not the easiest of people to get along with. Actually, he uses a pseudonym for his work precisely because he has a reputation of...nevermind. I just ask that you keep an open mind and try to remember that we're all on the same team here at Hollings & Harnsworth, okay? Okay!"
With that, he flung the door open, not giving Hermione a chance to ask why he had warned her. Stepping into the conference room behind him, however, Hermione's eyes landed on the stranger at the far end of the table and she knew immediately why.
"You're Mr. Arse?"
"I should have known," Hermione grumbled to no one in particular. "No one else would have called me a 'simpering schoolgirl'." She planted her hands on her hips and glared down the man who hadn't even bothered to stand and shake her hand.
"Lovely to see you, too, Miss Granger, as always," Severus Snape sneered. "In fact, I believe the last time we met, you left me bleeding heavily on the floor of—"
"We thought you were working for Voldemort," Hermione hissed, oblivious to the gasps of shock from the other men in the room. "You would have done the same."
"Actually, had our situations been reversed," he said as he rose slowly from his seat, "I would have made sure to finish you off before I exited the edifice."
His glower was no less intimidating than she remembered from school, but Hermione stood her ground. This was, after all, her place of employment, and her project. Her contract stipulated that all her work remained her own intellectual property until such time as it was independently verified and published, and that was a long way from occurring. So she could pack up her cauldron and take her ideas somewhere else if she wished.
Perhaps it was that knowledge that made her a bit reckless, or perhaps it was her extreme exhaustion from last night's verbal sparring with this man, but something made her blurt out, "Pity I didn't do so, then."
The board of directors broke into an uproar. Shouts of "I say!" and "Now, now, be nice!" filled the air as Hermione and Professor Snape stared one another down. Beside her, Emmerson half-fainted into a chair with a groan. Hermione stabbed her wand in his direction and a cool cloth and smelling salts fell into his lap. Her former professor's eyes glinted in the office lighting and then, ever so slowly, one brow quirked in—was that amusement?
Hermione stiffened her shoulders and announced, "I will not subject my research to his views of how it should be conducted. Whatever arrangement you gentlemen devise, please leave me out of it. If you need me, I'll be in the lab."
She marched out with her head held high, half expecting Emmerson to chase her down and beg her to return. He did not, however, and Hermione was grateful. Right now she needed to compose herself and figure out what to do with moving forward. It was quite clear to her that there would be no genuine cooperation between herself and Professor Snape; hell, at this point she couldn't even count on cool civility from the sour man. Mr. Arse turned out to be exactly that, she thought darkly.
Striding into the lab, she angrily swiped a crystal vial to the floor, shattering it. Then her practical side kicked in and she cast a quick Reparo. It wouldn't do for someone to step on the shards and those particular vials cost nine Sickles for four of them, and she preferred not to waste her supply stipend simply because she'd temporarily allowed her emotions to get the better of her.
It will not happen again, she chanted to herself as she stormed around her workstation, reorganizing and re-categorizing everything while she calmed down. Gradually, regret over her harsh words and shame about her uncharacteristic outburst began to creep in. She did respect the man, certainly. He had had to sacrifice so much—if it had been her serving a duplicitous role all those years, she might've been a bit cranky, too, she supposed. She resolved to do better; to model the behavior that she would like to see from him. And that meant no more criticizing words or angry shouting, even if he deserved it. After the third alphabetization of her reference manuals, she heard the door creak open, and she steeled herself in case it was Emmerson—or worse, Snape.
Thankfully, it was neither. "You're alphabetizing. What's wrong?" Padma asked as she approached Hermione cautiously. Then her eyes widened and her voice dropped to a hush. "Oh, no. They didn't fire you, did they?"
"No," Hermione growled. "Although I'm beginning to wish they had." She crammed the last book, Book of Potions by Zygmunt Budge, into place before letting her shoulders slump in defeat. "They hired Snape," she wailed.
Padma's eyes grew even rounder. "Professor Snape? Son of a bludger, that's going to su—"
"Language, Miss Patil." The scold entered the room a scant second before its speaker did. Hermione groaned—of course she hadn't thought to lock the door.
Or flee.
"I'm sorry, sir," Padma squeaked, eyes widening as she took in the appearance of their former professor.
Professor Snape hobbled fully into the lab, followed closely by Emmerson. At least her boss had the grace to look abashed. Hermione's eyes were drawn, however, to the dark figure doing his best to sweep around despite his reliance on a thin black cane. Evidently, he had lost some of the function of his left leg, for it tended to droop and drag whenever it attempted to keep up with the right. Mentally Hermione reviewed the injuries she knew he'd sustained and compared them to the probable side effects of Nagini's venom—
He caught her staring and Hermione blushed. To cover the awkward moment, she gestured to the lab in an invitation for him to look around. She pulled nervously at the hem of her jumper and tried not to notice the way his progress was slowed by the affected limb. Certainly, she took a moment to mourn the graceful stride he'd employed in her school days. It had been one of his defining traits, and it didn't take much effort to dredge up sympathy for the man who had clearly made a large adjustment to his lifestyle.
Hermione continued to watch through narrowed eyes as Snape surveyed the room, then began making his way from table to table, inspecting everything. Occasionally he would pick up an ingredient and sniff it, or twirl a solution around in its beaker before holding it up to the light. Hermione scoffed when he made a show of dipping one pinky finger into a simmering potion and tasting it. Finally he stopped in front of her workstation.
"I can see you require a refresher course in proper laboratory cleanliness," he stated. Hermione clenched her hands into fists but did not respond. He eyed her jumper disdainfully. "And perhaps also a reminder about appropriate brewing attire." He shook his head, saying to Emmerson, "Things here are more dire than I was led to believe. I shall have to temporarily relocate my own lab here rather than assist Miss Granger via correspondence like we discussed."
"You are not going to assist me!" Hermione practically yelled. Everyone ignored her, however.
"See to it that the staff is trained in laboratory procedure as per the Borage method," Snape instructed Emmerson, who was nodding rapidly. Then Professor Snape turned and addressed Hermione again. "And for the love of Dumbledore, Miss Granger, do something about that hair of yours. I won't have it falling into potions and ruining the delicate balance."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "My hair is not an issue! My lab is not an issue. How I run things in my own arena is entirely up to me, and that includes how I choose to style—or not style—my hair. In fact," now she was warming to her subject, "people like my hair."
Professor Snape snorted. "People, you say? Allow me to venture a guess—young Mr. Weasley?" Hermione remained mute and Professor Snape sneered at her. "If that imbecile does indeed enjoy your hair in addition to whatever other assets you believe you possess, then why, pray tell, are you still Miss Granger and not Mrs. Ronald Weasley?"
Hermione's throat constricted at this most personal insult and to her horror, she felt tears welling in her eyes. Since she was unable to come up with a suitable retort, she settled for glaring at Professor Snape instead. He leaned closer and murmured, in a voice so soft only she could hear him, "I toppled off your pedestal rather quickly, didn't I? Take heed, Miss Granger; I'm still the same unpleasant man I was before the war."
Never one to be cowed, however, Hermione stiffened her shoulders and whispered back, "Fair warning to you, then: I'm not the same approval-seeking girl I was, and I won't let you trample all over my research."
Professor Snape's eyes roamed her face intently for a moment and then he sketched her an over-exaggerated bow that she felt was laced with sarcasm. He turned and made his way painstakingly to the door, beckoning for Emmerson as he did so. "Personal and professional shortcomings aside, I do so look forward to taking this laboratory in hand."
He glanced back at Hermione's gasp and bared his crooked teeth in a mockery of a grin before disappearing through the door. Hermione could hear him, still giving directions to Emmerson as they moved further down the hallway.
The next week passed in a blur. Professor Snape made good on his word and invaded her laboratory space, filling nearly three quarters of the room with his own possessions. His sour personality filled the entire building and seemed to sink into every available nook and cranny. He spent a great deal of time watching her with that inscrutable black gaze and criticizing everything she did. Sometimes she thought he was even using Legilimency to criticize the things that she thought about doing before she could actually do them. It was maddening.
To make matters worse, she and Ron had barely seen one another in quite some time, thanks to her work schedule and his Auror training. They had managed to squeeze in dinner together the night before, which should have made her happy. But Ron had seemed distant and distracted, and Hermione was too stressed from work to make much of an effort, either. Dinner had been a dismal affair and then Ron had Disapparated without even kissing her goodbye.
So this morning Hermione was already in a foul temper by the time she arrived at the office. She hadn't slept well so she was up before dawn and hoping to get a few hours' work in before Snape arrived. Stepping into the lab, however, her hopes were dashed—the man was already immersed in something. He glanced up but did not otherwise acknowledge her when she entered, so she chose to ignore him as well. They spent the next two hours in relatively companionable silence, which was more than she could say for their previous days together.
It was creeping up on ten o'clock when the tenuous peace between them was shattered by the noisy arrival of Ron. The door banged open and he raced in, skidding to a stop when his eyes found Professor Snape. "Hermione! I came as soon as I heard. What's he doing here?"
Hermione frowned. "He works here. Ron, I told you all about it last night!" She grabbed his arm and towed him to the far corner, away from Snape's prying eyes and annoyingly smug smirk. She whispered, "What are you doing here? You never come to my office."
Ron was still glaring at Snape. "It's like I said. George heard from Ginny who heard from Neville who heard from Michael Corner who heard from Padma that Snape was taking over your project, so I came right away."
"Weren't you listening at dinner? I told you Professor Snape was here! Remember? At first I thought he was the man from the letters—well, that is, I thought the man I had been corresponding with was here, I didn't realize it was Snape at the time—"
"Oh, that story? Blimey, Hermione, I tuned out after the first minute. You know my attention span." He flashed her his usual boyish grin, but for some reason this morning, Hermione found it far less endearing and far more obnoxious.
She stiffened. "I see. Thank you for your concern, but there's really nothing you can do." Hermione did her best to shoo away her agitation. After all, she wasn't annoyed with Ron; not really. It was Snape that had her so aggravated. She nodded as if to confirm this to herself. "Ron, are you free right now? We could go grab a cup of—"
"Sorry, Hermione, I've got to get back. Er, I wasn't supposed to leave, technically, and hopefully the trainers won't have noticed I'm gone just yet—"
Hermione sighed. "Ok. Well, I'll see you this weekend at the Burrow?" They had dinner with the Weasleys once a month, at Molly's insistence.
Ron scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck and grimaced. "No, we're on a special mission this weekend. How about dinner on Tuesday? It's our afternoon off—"
But Hermione was already shaking her head. "I've got a presentation to the directors on Tuesday. Maybe—"
She Summoned her datebook and flipped to two weeks ahead, but Ron was going to be heading up WWW that week while George was away at a jokemaker's convention. Hermione had progress report deadlines the two days that Ron suggested for breakfast, and by then it was dinner at the Burrow—next month.
"Right. Well. I'm sure we'll find some time—"
"We can still Floo call—"
Hermione's shoulders slumped when Ron took his leave. Things had been like this for a while now, but only lately was it starting to really bother her. It just felt like they were growing apart, and she couldn't seem to quiet the voice that suggested that if Ron really wanted to see her, he would make time. Shouldn't they be so desperate to see one another that nothing would stand in their way? When death had been an imminent possibility, they'd kissed and sparks had flown. Now, however, it was like they were just ships passing in the dark. There had to be some way to reignite the fire.
She jumped when Snape's voice drifted over. "Trouble in paradise?" he drawled.
"None of your business," Hermione sniped, returning to her work station and shifting her papers around while she tried to regain her focus.
Snape eyed her shrewdly. "I'm surprised, Miss Granger," he purred in that irritating manner he had. It was as if he alone was the possessor of some fantastical bit of information, and all the world was clamoring for him to share it. Hermione gritted her teeth and refused to rise to his bait, instead pulling out a fresh piece of parchment and beginning some Arithmantic equations. Snape continued smoothly, "I cannot believe a person as intelligent and ambitious as you would ever want to tether herself to such an uninspiring flobberworm."
Hermione gasped. "Don't you dare—he is not a flobberworm—we're going to be married!" she finally blurted out.
Two jet black brows rose in surprise. "Are you really? How charming. I was unaware you were engaged. May I offer my felicitations?" His gaze dropped briefly to her left hand, lingering just long enough to make his point.
"Well, we're not actually engaged, officially; that is, we've discussed it and we're in agreement, of course, but so far—" Hermione huffed out a breath and glared at Professor Snape.
"Ah." The single word held a weight of insinuation.
Hermione felt compelled to defend Ron and their relationship, although it was more difficult than usual after their recent conversation. "We're waiting until we're more settled," she finally came up with.
At this, Snape actually laughed. It was a harsh sound, free of humor or warmth. "You mean Mr. Weasley hasn't 'pulled the trigger' yet," he said bluntly. He slunk across the room until he was standing at the edge of her worktable, two pale hands curling over the edge of the black granite. "Do you know why that is, Miss Granger? You're his emergency net, his back-up plan. He finds you boring and undesirable, but you're safe. He'll keep you dangling on his pathetic hook until he finds someone better or gives up and resigns himself to a life of being henpecked by you for the rest of his days. Eventually he'll become resentful, bitter, sullen; surely you know this to be true after all the time you spent together in that blasted tent?"
Tears pricked her eyes as she struggled to form a response to this unexpected and unnecessarily callous attack on her person. Snape's bottomless black eyes watched her sharply, clearly expecting her to argue with his assessment. Instead, she swallowed thickly and whispered, "You have no right to be so insensitive," before grabbing her bag and running from the room.