Disclaimer: I own nothing regarding Harry Potter, that belongs to JK Rowling etc.

A/N: My first attempt at a SS/HG fic, so sorry if it's a little amateur. Also I apologise if you think that Snape is too OOC. Anyway, let me know what you think.

Of Birthdays and Bats

The musty scent of damp seemed to make the paint-flaking walls of the flat more oppressive. Hermione sat in the one armchair facing a wide window that was marred by years of dirt and smudges, as she looked out from the grubby flat she rented in Diagon Alley. People expected the 'brains' of the Golden Trio to live in a comfortable cottage somewhere with a sprawling garden while she soaked up a never-ending supply of financial gratitude from the Ministry. No, things were different from what people expected the post-war life of Hermione Granger to be.

She pulled her thin cardigan a little tighter around herself and as she did three rather battered looking cards shuffled on her lap. Each card displayed empty words of congratulations for having survived yet another year. Hermione glanced down at them, their enchanted pictures of balloons and birthday cakes squeaking out tired decrees of "Happy Birthday!" and other meaningless phrases. She continued to look down and once again peeked inside the cards. Untidy, hurried scrawls of Dear Hermione and Love from [insert name of friend who bothered to send her something] greeted her with a stab of bitterness.

Hermione chewed on the corner of her lip and stood up, letting Harry, Ron and Ginny's birthday cards fall to the floor. What was the point of birthday cards anyway? People never wrote more than what they felt was required. Very rarely did anyone even bother to say something other than attempt to personalize a cheap printed message. In many ways she felt like cards were just a polite way of saying to someone: "Hello! We were once very close but have now drifted apart. I was reminded it was your birthday by someone else and felt obliged to buy you something. But as I never see you and have no idea what you like, I am giving you this generic piece of paper that I bought for a couple of knuts. I expect you to do at least this when I have my next birthday."

There was no point crying over it. At least people had bothered to send her cards, she shouldn't be so ungrateful. There were so many people after the war that had no one to send them anything. Still, there was a selfish part that ached to be crowded by friends and well wishers; it was the part of her that wanted nothing more than to retreat back into a childish world of sugar-free birthday cakes and her mother's muggle birthday parties.

She could probably have secured a job doing anything she wanted after the war. She'd gone back to Hogwarts and graduated but after she left the security of those walls Hermione had felt as if she were adrift in a world so huge it paralyzed her with fear. And so she had rented a cheap apartment above the apothecary she worked as a stock assistant for and tried very hard not to think about the things that she should have been doing. Quite frankly after everything that had happened she didn't want a job that required her to have large responsibilities.

Hermione picked idly at the skin on her finger. She should go out and celebrate her birthday, not sit around like a sap while she waited for some friend to turn up and make her feel wanted. There was no one there, they all had their own lives now. Maybe she should walk down to the Leaky Cauldron and get a firewhiskey, see if there was anyone she recognized. At least she would be out in society rather than cramped in a stuffy flat with nothing to do.

Wiping a few rogue tears from her face roughly, Hermione closed her front door behind her and exited onto the cobbled street of Diagon Alley. Witches and Wizards avoided her eyes or smiled faintly at her; people seemed uneasy of such a living reminder of the war. Under her slightly frizzy hair that was drawn up into a messy ponytail her chocolate brown eyes darted around as she walked down to the pub. Some masochistic part of her brain had struck up a funeral-march paced rendition of Happy Birthday and it made the lonely ache in the pit of her stomach worse.

On entering the Leaky Cauldron and buying a triple firewhiskey, Hermione sat herself in a corner and let her mind drift in the comforting drone of other peoples' conversations. If she was honest with herself she hadn't made enough effort with Harry, Ron, and Ginny to have expected anything more than a couple of well-intentioned cards. She kept having to remind herself not to take out her bitterness on people that had tried to reach out to her so many times, only to give up when they tired of the proverbial burns she kept giving them.

Hermione still wasn't entirely sure what had made her distance herself from them. She pondered these thoughts as she raised the glass to her lips and indulged in the spicy burn of the whiskey. Her eyes flitted around the room resting briefly on faces before darting elsewhere; there was almost a sense of hopeful urgency as she looked for a familiar face.

The world being what it was seemed to have taken it upon itself to humor her. A familiar haughty profile jumped out at her from the crowd. The silhouette of the person so mismatched with the relaxed and slightly scruffy occupants that it was almost laughable. Of course she knew that if this person happened to see her she would probably be in for a verbal assassination like no other.

"Miss Granger?" Hermione groaned inwardly as black-clad figure loomed over her slightly.

"Professor Snape…" She replied exasperatedly as she clutched at her glass.

"What are you doing here?" Snape asked raising his eyebrows at her and regarding her with his dark and glittering eyes that resembled obsidian reflecting a pale flame.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," She intoned.

"May I have a seat?" He asked. Hermione nearly dropped the glass of firewhiskey that was halfway to her mouth.

"Excuse me?" Had the Severus Snape just asked her, know-it-all mudblood Granger, if he could sit with her? Maybe Tom had slipped a little something extra into her firewhiskey…

"You heard," He replied and sat down opposite her.

Hermione had always believed that it was almost impossible to have an awkward silence in a very loud atmosphere. She could now say that her hypothesis had been entirely wrong. Her eyes moved everywhere except his eyes, taking in his sharp hawk-like nose and pale scholar's skin. The scar that ran around his neck like a noose was a prominent reminder of his role in the war. She wondered if people treated him with the same distance as her. Then again scar or no scar she'd attempt to put distance between herself and the cantankerous bat of the dungeons. Perhaps it was the absence of the stress from spying but his hair seemed less lank and not at all greasy. Maybe someone introduced him to shampoo, she thought with an internal smile.

She downed the rest of her drink and was just about to stand up and retreat back to the flat when Snape swept away her glass and marched to the bar without another word. Hermione stared, half sitting and half standing, sure that if she moved her jaw might fully unhinge and drop to the floor. "What was it you were drinking Granger?" He said just loud enough for her to hear.

A pathetic squeak left her mouth the first time she tried to speak. The second time was little better but she was almost certain she had managed to convey the word firewhiskey to him.

To her surprise Snape returned with a bottle and two glasses. "Before you open your mouth and subject me to the verbal diarrhea that seems to be inherent in all Gryffindors, I am only here because I wanted a drink and the Headmistress sent me."

"You really know how to make a girl feel wanted," She snapped back before she thought. Hermione berated herself as she saw his eyes narrow slightly and prepared herself for something unpleasant. Instead Snape's lips curled into a smirk that almost looked good-natured.

"So, the Gryffindor princess has developed a bite to match her roar," Snape replied and pushed a glass at her.

"Is this drugged with draught of the living death?" She asked as she sniffed at the glass. "Because if it isn't laced with that or something equally unpleasant I am going to assume that you are Harry or Ron under the effects of the Polyjuice potion playing a very bad joke on me."

"I can assure you it is simply firewhiskey. And without you directing them I doubt that neither Potter or Weasley could brew a simple healing draught, let alone the Polyjuice potion."

"That was almost a compliment," She said as she took a sip of the whiskey.

Snape regarded her and she felt her face heat up under his gaze. No, no, not his gaze, it had to be the whiskey. There was absolutely nothing about the greasy git that would heat her in any way. Although, a rebellious part of her mind said, he is certainly less greasy now.

Still a git, she countered.

"Look, can you get on with whatever dismantling of self esteem or errand you have been sent on so I can get back to my day?" She asked tersely.

"I'm sure you have many pressing engagements," Snape sneered.

"It's my birthday actually," she sniffed.

"I was led to believe that birthdays were a time of celebration."

"What did it look like I was doing?" Hermione said through clenched teeth.

"Sulking actually."

Hermione fought to keep her temper at his words. "Just get on with it," She said.

"As you wish. The Headmistress sent me to offer you a job."

"What?" Hermione spluttered choking on her drink.

"To become an assistant in potions."

"Work with you?"

"Yes." She regarded Snape suspiciously. Was this some sort of cruel joke? "I can understand if you do not want to take the position. I am sure that as one of the Golden Trio working with the 'bat of the dungeons' might ruin your image," He continued with a sneer. Hermione thought that she almost heard some self-depreciation there. "You would start in September."

"Right. Can I think about this?"

Really there was nothing to think about at all. She was being offered a second chance at a career, a chance to actually do something she might enjoy. But if she accepted too quickly Snape would think her much too eager or desperate. Still, it might not be a good idea to work with him if she was going to continue getting these strange thoughts and stomach flutters every time she saw him. Hermione glanced up and caught his eyes briefly. Oh no. No. I do not in any way, shape or form harbor a crush on Severus Snape. As she thought that Hermione suddenly remembered what an accomplished legillimens he was. Crap, I think he knows what I just thought.

"Crap indeed," He replied with a curious expression on his face.

Hermione waited for the ground to show her some mercy and swallow her whole. It was like school again when Ginny worked out she fancied him and had teased her endlessly. How humiliating.

"I will not pretend that I am in anyway… nice. And I certainly do not want you to think that I would enjoy having a bushy haired know-it-all like you working with me. But you would, however much this pains me to say it, be an asset to the school. And I treat my colleagues differently to how I treat my students." Snape said looking at Hermione. She could feel her face heating up even more. She was almost certain that he had looked at her in kindness then.

"Uh, I guess I should be calling you Severus now then?" She asked with a small smirk.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," He replied with a wry smile.

"Right."

"Well I should be going. I'll let Minerva know," He said as he stood up.

"Right, well thank you." In a way she was a little saddened that he was leaving. Even the awkward company had been nicer than the loneliness that was starting to creep back in.

"Enjoy the rest of your birthday," He said awkwardly and jammed something into her hands before stalking away.

What a strange man. She thought to herself as she observed the thing he had left. To her surprise and pleasure it was a small wrapping paper covered box. A present? Hermione opened it curiously and peered into the box. It was a bit of paper. Turning it over she read the fluid script: Be at the Cauldron at seven pm this evening.

S.S.

Under the paper were two tickets to a Royal Shakespeare Company production of Hamlet, her favorite play.

A smile played on her lips as she finished her glass and thought to herself that this wasn't shaping up to be a bad birthday after all.