I'm a cis lady, but I really really wanted to see what it would be like if Severus was a trans* lesbian lady. So that's what happened in this fic. Any transphobic comments will be used to make toast for my trans friends. Any latent transphobia on my part, please apprise me. I have had this on my hard drive for a while now and am posting because maybe if enough ppl respond I will write more. But if not, no biggie.

Hermione Granger was rarely in need of potions knowledge as a worker in the Policy, Advocacy, and Education division of the Ministry of Magic. However, one day in the fall of 2003, she happened to be curious about something in particular that was potions-related.

There was a public health epidemic of mental health malaises, particularly PTSD, after the end of the wizarding world war. Being a proud Muggleborn, she was one of the few people who had a name for what was happening. People were having flashbacks, nightmares, and other trauma reactions even years after the end of the war. She had been working industriously on this problem since her graduation in 1999, and people were just finally starting to take it seriously. For the most part.

It hadn't been easy. For the past several years, people had dismissed her efforts as trying to get people to try wonky unintelligent Muggle methods. As it happened, some of those who were affected were suffering enough to be desperate. And most of them had good results with the treatment plans that Hermione had coordinated.

But medication was a tricky thing with wizards. They didn't trust anything that was inherently chemical, sans magical properties. Neuro-receptors, hormones, serotonin, dopamine... These words were toxic in themselves to the wizards of the wizarding world, and this extended from the least educated shop sweeper to the most sophisticated of healers. No one was willing to consider the idea that maybe the Muggles had got something right all on their own.

So, Hermione was frustrated, and angry, and thinking about giving up on trying to get wizards to consider medications for their mental health issues. Not that she could altogether blame them, given how Muggle cancer treatment (among other practical treatments for other issues) was truly laughable compared to the wizarding world's. Honestly, of all the things she'd have guessed wizards could do better than Muggles, she'd have guessed mental health would be at the top of the heap, simply because Muggles had such a poor understanding of it. But unfortunately wizards' understanding of brain receptors, hormones, and neurochemicals simply paled against the plodding efforts of Muggle psychiatric scientists, somehow. Development and innovation could be uneven sometimes, even in unequally matched civilizations.

Wizarding healers were blinded by their skills in legilimency and occulmency, and thought any problem could be solved by reasoning away some putrid pile of decaying ideas in the brain. Anything else was a problem that couldn't be solved. Muggles had the advantage of numbers, and a lack of any answers that were satisfying at all. So where wizards had stopped thinking of ways to mend brains beyond memory, Muggles had been tinkering with peoples' minds for the past few centuries. Remarkably, they'd been throwing spaghetti on the wall for so many years that they'd found some strands that stuck, and made at least made some progress in the departments of psychiatric medications and psychosocial interventions.

So as it happened, in the fall of 2003, Hermione was looking for some new insight on potions. She wanted to find a way to combine a highly effective psychiatric medication, sertraline (first debuted in 1991), within some more culturally-acceptable potion to address depression.

She had gone to all of the major potions supply stores throughout wizarding Britain (well, it wasn't that hard, since there weren't more than three) and found nothing that she needed - most potions masters had neither any knowledge nor any desire to work on adapting a Muggle medication into a potion. The two masters she found in Scotland were no better. In Wales' single potions shop, they were helpful, but referred her to a master who was trained in Jungian psychoanalysis and knew nothing about actual science.

So she was in Paris, Beauxbatons territory. And altogether, she was frustrated with what she had found there, too.

Those that were willing to listen to her claimed to not have expertise enough to deal with Muggle medications and neurochemicals. But most weren't willing to listen to her, same as in the U.K.

But someone blessedly told her to look on a winding side street there in Paris, where a new potions shop had opened a few months past. The owners were supposedly... (after an artistic hesitation)...'Progressive.'

Hermione knew not to get her hopes up, though. She, in fact, felt dismayed as she looked at the slightly dingy storefront, covered from floor to ceiling with Muggle posters advertising homeopathic remedies and natural supplements. Here she was going to have a repeat experience with the Jungian psychoanalyst, she knew.

Her annoyance rose as she realized that she wasn't even in the wizarding part of town anymore. She was on a plainly Muggle thoroughfare.

But out of a sense of duty, she walked in anyway, or at least tried. She found the door locked. She had to ring a doorbell.

A startlingly effusive woman answered the door, looking at Hermione hungrily. "Yes," she murmured, jangling her dozen chakra bracelets, "may I help you?"

Hermione nodded concisely and began her practiced spiel, which she fully expected to fall on unreceptive ears.

"My name is Hermione Granger, and I am from the British Ministry of Magic. I am interested in finding someone to partner with me in developing a new integrative intervention for mental health that can address unmet needs in the wizarding community."

"Integrative," the woman replied, intrigued. "That's just what we do. Please, come in."

"No, we're busy," came an unseen voice from inside, androgynous but leaning towards masculine, and unmistakably reminiscent in Hermione's mind of Severus Snape. She felt her face go pale, but she swallowed. That wasn't possible, of course, it had to be coincidence. Severus Snape had practically died in Hermione's arms five years ago.

The woman at the door shook her head at the voice. "Ignore her. She's just… how do you say… crabby," the woman murmured gushingly, with too-careful enunciation that betrayed her affected familiarity with the English language, "come in, sweetheart."

And Hermione did come in. The place was surprisingly light, despite the lack of sun from the front window. A magically created skylight filled the room with a comforting brightness. Muggle Fairy lights danced on ugly white cords, draped around the perimeter of the room, which was small but airy. Himalayan salt lamps were strategically placed on every available surface.

The woman who had let Hermione in smiled, and ushered the younger witch to an incredibly decadent plush armchair in the center of the room, the color of glass. There were four of them there, nested together like baby bluebirds around an oval coffee table of clear, flawless quartz.

"Merci, Madame," Hermione said courteously, signaling she knew French. even though just like any Parisian accustomed to dealing with the public, the woman would never stoop to Hermione's broken efforts. Much easier to let the woman courageously, defiantly speak English. She - like the rest of Paris - didn't much like to share their language with bumbling tourists.

"J'ai dit non, Cosette," came the silken voice from the other room, practically whining. "Si tu plait?"

"My darling," said Cosette, not budging an inch, "do come out already. It's not as though she will care." She looked steadily at Hermione, beaming a perfect, gleaming smile.

The murmurs that came afterwards were sharp and very vulgar French curse words, and Hermione understood less than half of them. But soon a woman came out of the back room.

She was anemic, fiercely lean, with suspiciously-perky breasts and over-dyed auburn hair the color of raspberry wine. The effect was completed by a dark green turtleneck, black corduroy trousers (artfully tailored to emphasize her barely-existent curves), manicured eyebrows, and a set of glasses so bookish that they seemed ornamental. But it wasn't enough - it all did a poor job of masking the familiarity of the gaunt face, with its dark eyes that looked vacantly at Hermione, as indifferently as if she'd been a thumbtack.

"Bonjour," said the woman, her civility a gauze-thin covering on her razor of a temper, "may I help you?"

"Severus Snape!" Hermione said without thinking, then covered her mouth with a gasp of self reproach.

She didn't doubt it to look now; this was indeed the person who had once taught her potions at Hogwarts. But how?

For his - her? - part, Snape flicked their spectacles up their nose, and, looking over the rim, examined Hermione from head to toe, trying to gauge how to respond. Deciding that, indeed, the jig was up, Snape removed the spectacles and glared concurrently at Cosette and Hermione.

"It's Severine, now, Miss Granger. In case it isn't *quite* clear, I prefer the opposite pronoun, these days." The words felt like they'd slapped onto a painting, wielded by a stern brush flicking itself across the canvas.

After a few tense moments, Severine continued, "As you might imagine, Miss Granger, this is extremely inconvenient. I was hoping you, of all people, would be compassionate enough to let me retain my dignity."

"No. I... I'm sorry," Hermione said, feeling like she'd fallen into a vat of questions. She failed to think of anything to say, and she gestured helplessly at the chairs in front of her.

Snape carefully seated ...herself. Hermione tried hard not to stumble over the pronoun.

Cosette, on her part, wrapped herself around Snape, sitting her plump, wide arse on her lap, and began toying with Severine's hair. It was, actually, a very pretty color, if a bit dry.

"Well?" Snape asked finally, steepling her fingers and sinking deep into the chair, one arm protectively (possessively?) around Cosette's ample lap. "What are you here for? Presumably not to gape at me and my fiancee, am I correct?"

"No," Hermione said finally, taking a deep breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "I just... I mean..." She tried to reorient herself to this new version of reality.

Snape rolled her eyes and pinched Cosette's right love handle. Yes, there was definitely a kind of possessiveness there.

"Oh, please dear," murmured Cosette, fluttering and muffling a squeal, "be nice to her, would you?"

Snape blinked at Hermione evenly. "I suppose. I never thought this would happen this way," she said, as if commenting on the weather, "someone just toddling in here."

"That what would happen this way?" Hermione was comfortable asking questions when there was something already being talked about. She wasn't always very good at articulating the unarticulatable.

Snape's smile was feral and bright. "That my old life would make an entrance."

Hermione mentally groaned - Snape, she'd forgotten, made everyone work in their conversations with him, in the past.

"So," Hermione said, "how did you think it would happen?"

"Oh, you know," Snape said with sarcasm, "the old fifty year reunion. James Potter's gotten fat, Remus Lupin has killed himself, Sirus Black is bankrupt, Peter Pettigrew is married to his third wife, and Severus Snape is a tranny. Always was such a slimy greaseball. Always knew he wasn't a real man. Did he have to get his dick cut off? What kind of person does that?"

Hermione swallowed. "You don't know that's how they would have reacted."

Snape snorted. "I certainly can guess. No, that's what their ghosts would say if I ever set foot in Hogwarts again. No one ever changes that much."

Severine seemed to change tactics as she leaned forward, hungry and curious. "Tell me, Granger, whatever will you tell them back at the Ministry, hm?"

Hermione blinked. "I... I honestly don't know. Nothing, I suppose."

"Really?" Snape smirked, not believing her. "Why ever not?"

Hermione didn't have a good response, other than, "It's none of their business, or mine for that matter. So," she said, looking up and flashing a confident smile at the potions master, "what do you know about SSRIs?"

Snape's lips curled, not acknowledging the change of subject. "Really, Granger? You've tamed your obsessive curiosity for the greater good? I'm impressed."

"Certainly," Hermione said, and then with another effort, "Now can we move on to business?"

Snape's smile became a little bit more real. "If you like."

They spent the next half hour studiously avoiding the topic of Snape's unexpected transformation. Cosette went and nibbled some biscuits in the corner, then reluctantly came over to share when Hermione and Snape had sufficiently come to a conclusion.

As it happened, Snape was dubious about Hermione's interesting proposition regarding the new medications, but at least she didn't shut down Hermione upon first hearing.

"It's a bit of a problem, from a crafting perspective," she ultimately concluded, "but impossible? Hardly. It's testament to the weak-willed-ness, lack of ingenuity, and ultimately the cowardice of my colleagues that your search for an accomplished practitioner willing to experiment has been so difficult. Allow me to apologize on their behalf."

"Why do you think they've been this way?" Hermione asked. "It's not as though what I'm asking for is so... unbelievable. I know if I had the expertise and experience of any one of these people..."

Severine shook her head. "Alas, there is your mistake, Miss Granger. You underestimate your own... uniqueness."

Hermione felt weird receiving a compliment from Snape, and she took a deep breath to hide the flushing of her cheeks.

"It's a compliment, girl; say thank you."

That steely vein of Snape's controlling tone did not go unremarked, and Hermione muttered "Thank you," just as Cosette wrapped herself around Snape from behind.

"Sweetheart," Cosette said with a warning ring on her voice. This was enough to curtail Snape's well-practiced scorn, and Snape looked down abashedly.

"Sorry, Miss Granger," Severine said carefully, "You are not my student anymore."

"That isn't exactly a wonderful way of speaking to students, either, dear," said Cosette, and Hermione had the sudden flash in her mind of Cosette Marmet, nine years ago, a brilliant plump senior-level girl from Beauxbatons running amuck with the Weasley twins, cavorting through the halls like a calf let loose from her pen.

Hermione remembered her because she spent so much time in the Gryffindor common room, playing Exploding Snap while dictating essays to her quill, paying an admirable amount of attention to both, never a word or a snap out of place.

Frankly, Hermione had envied her - Cosette was clearly the smartest of the Beauxbatons bunch, and she always looked like she managed to have more fun than all the rest of the fairy dancing svelte classmates put together. Though, from what Hermione gleaned from subtext of partially overheard conversations, Cosette struggled to fit in with her classmates. She had never been proper or ladylike enough. Too portly, too irreverent. Not feminine.

"You came to Hogwarts," Hermione said with a smile towards Cosette. "You spent time with Fred and George."

Her mind immediately went to wondering how Cosette and Snape had ended up together, and as she glanced between them, Snape stared at Hermione with a bland smirk. Severine knew what Hermione was thinking, and gave zero fucks.

Cosette, for her part, nodded. "Poor Fred," she murmured, and smiled gently.

Hermione realized that perhaps the couple before her was not as isolated and shut off from the wizarding world as she had thought.

"So, Granger," Snape said, "I will do some preliminary trials and get back to you later this week. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes," Hermione said, surprised. She hadn't expected any movement on this project for a month at least. "But don't you have, erm, other business?"

Snape shrugged. "My creation of enhanced 'homeopathics' for Muggles is limited to a few days a month of production. The rest of my business comes in the form of boutique cosmetic potions. And Cosette does all the sales while I fester uselessly in the back room packaging purchases from the internet. So, my dear, unless the Times' crosswords prove unusually interesting from this day forward, I will have preliminary results by Friday."

"That's wonderful," Hermione said, meaning it. She then got up and made her excuses.

"I will owl you," Snape said, standing up and striding out of the room. There was a fire in her step, but she looked strange doing so without her old wizarding cloak. It felt like there was something missing.

Then again, Hermione wasn't sure it wasn't an improvement. She wondered if Severine was happy. She certainly never seemed to have been happy as a Hogwarts teacher.

Hermione mused on that, and Cosette walked her out the door. Cosette kissed her, bise-en-bise, with biscuits for the road.

"It's a good thing you've come," said Cosette with a smile as if interpreting Hermione's previous thoughts. "She's sad when she's bored, and I thank you for giving her something worthwhile to do."