Once in the drawing room it only took him a few moments to find Sirius's stash of fire whiskey in a receded shelf behind a wall hanging. It hadn't even been locked up. A house full of Weasely children, he scoffed, and several bottles of fire whiskey lying out in the open. Merlin, he hated Sirius. He popped the top off of the decanter and poured himself a healthy measure of liquor.
Throwing it back he remembered Narcissa Malfoy's cracked and desperate voice. She'd begged, begged him to protect her son. He'd made the Unbreakable Vow, and Bellatrix had bound them herself; there would be no way to undo the knots he'd tied tonight. Was it the alcohol or the fear that made his stomach lurch just then? And where the fuck was Dumbledore, he thought. Why now, why when he needed the old man more than ever? Albus's brain worked like a thousand cogs and wheels all humming along in perfect, though sometimes illogical, order. If anyone could find a loophole, a roundabout, anything, it was Albus.
A second, then a third glass, and he settled down into a dusty wing-backed across from the fire. It had been glowing steadily since he'd entered. It was possible Lupin or Dumbledore had used it just a while earlier. Well, they wouldn't need it if they returned, he reasoned, and he put the fire out with a wave of his hand. But he's not coming back, he reminded himself. "You're fucked," he whispered quietly.
"I'm sorry? I didn't hear you."
Snape whipped around in his chair, startled. Hermione Granger was standing there holding two plates heaped with food and a pitcher of something floating at her elbow.
"I'm sorry, but I knocked several times. When you didn't answer… Well, I was going to eat up here anyway. May I join you?" She stood in the doorway with a questioning look towards the shadow she assumed was Professor Snape.
"I thought I told you," he rumbled, "that I was not hungry."
"Then I'll eat your plate too," she said wearily. "I'm starving. I slept nearly all day, missed breakfast and lunch." Without waiting for him to agree or protest, she sat down in the chair across from him, set the plates on the low table between them, and pulled out her wand. She relit the fire he'd just put out (much to his annoyance) and then flicked on the sconces around the room. He looked at her with absolute disgust as she picked up her plate and the fork she'd carried in with it. She looked up as she took her first bite and she stopped before it met her mouth. "It's all right, it's really quite good, Sir." When he the look of revulsion did not remove itself from his face, she said again, "Sirius Black is dead, Professor Snape. You're drinking in his house; you might as well eat now, too."
He wanted to backhand her for her insolence. How dare she speak to him like that? Snape's nostrils flared and he set his jaw. He was about to open his mouth and tell the little chit off when she looked up and smiled tiredly at him. "You look like you've had a rotten day, Sir. Would you like to talk about it?"
What, in the five years they had known each other, would ever make Hermione Granger think that he would ever willingly want to talk to him, he thought. He was torn between storming out of the room and attempting to apparate home - if he could manage without splinching, for the effects of the fire whiskey had certainly begun to hit home - and telling her to go fuck herself because she had no idea what kind of can of worms she was threatening to open. Besides, his swirling mind whispered, she lit that fire again. Made it all hot. Can't think when it's hot. Stupid chit, he thought again. Instantly he flicked his hand again and the fire went out.
"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, I should have asked first, then. It's just that the house gets so cold at night."
Snape, who had been getting progressively warmer and more uncomfortable as the alcohol kicked in, said "I like it cold."
She set her fork down and nodded. "I suppose, what with spending all your time in the dungeons, you must get used to it." Her hands went to her arms. Though covered with the long sleeves of her robes, she was obviously still chilly. Feeling marginally worse about knocking her down the stairs earlier, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at her. "Mitis tepidus amiculum," he said. She looked alarmed for a moment, but then realized that the warmth which came over her then was comforting and not some kind of punishment for speaking out of turn.
"That's so much better, Sir, thank you. I've been trying to work that one out since last winter," she admitted. "But I always set some part of my cloak on fire." She looked as sheepish as Longbottom, he thought.
"And how is it that Hermione Granger could not accomplish something so simple?" he sneered.
She looked a little annoyed at his sarcasm, but, seeing as he could not take house points off or give her detention in the middle of summer, she bristled right back. "I suppose it's my lack of motivation. Most people," she emphasized, "are polite enough to light a fire when it's this cold." She picked up her plate again and began to eat.
He tucked his wand away. "Your attempt at cheek is pitiable. Your quivering lip always gives you away."
"And your stomach gives you away," she said crisply, for it had rumbled as if to punctuate his last insult. "Now eat," she insisted. "Perhaps that will allow the fire whisky to run its course a bit more smoothly."
Snape, who had began to wonder why he ever put his wand away, sneered again. But before he could say another word, she leaned over, pushed the other plate closer, and went back to eating. Finally, when he saw he could not shake her, he reached down and took the plate heaped high with duck and stuffing.
They sat and ate in silence. The occasional clink of a fork or the pouring of pumpkin juice or fire whiskey interrupted the peace. It wasn't until Snape had cleaned his plate and returned it to the table that Hermione spoke again. "Can I get you something else, Sir?"
"You're not a house elf," he said, though not as rudely as per usual. "You don't have to serve me."
"I'm not, Sir. I'm being nice to you." She had said it so simply that it took Snape several moments to process what she had said. "It's really not as big of a deal as you might think," she said softly. With that she collected the plates and the pitcher and left the room. She returned a while later with two bowls of treacle tart and a large coffee pot and cups trailing behind her as the pitcher had. She handed one bowl to Snape and then poured him a cup. "I'm going to assume, Sir, that whatever it is that's brought you here at such a late hour and in such a foul mood, and which has given you reason to break into Sirius's private stash, is something that probably requires a good strong cup of coffee right about now." When he did not take the proffered cup, she said, "If I've assumed wrong, Sir, I can make some tea, but somehow I don't think I'm wrong."
He glanced up her and took the cup. "What makes you think you can assume anything about me?" he drawled. "Ever the inquisitive little answer-monger. You can't go five minutes without learning something, can you?"
"No. I suppose I can't. But I daresay the alternative is much more distressing. I can't think of anything sadder than someone who doesn't have an interest in learning anything new."
"Perhaps what you should seek, child, is a middle ground."
Hermione wasn't sure if that had been an insult or not, but decided to play it safe and assume that it was benign. "Well, perhaps if my interest was met more often, I would be satiated more often. Perhaps many things pique my interest." She took sip of her coffee and said no more.
Snape picked at his dessert and he slowly began to realize the absurdity of the evening. He should never have answered the door. Narcissa, who he'd known since they were children; Bellatrix, who he'd ravaged one night before her wedding; Wormtail, for whom he had no fondness or interest but with whom he was forced to share his home under orders of the Dark Lord. What a fucking tangled web, he paraphrased, recalling some bit of Muggle literature he'd come across years ago.
"And here we are, adding another strand," he thought with a glance at Granger. Merlin, he'd knocked the girl down a flight of stairs, he reminded himself. And here she was offering him dessert. Where the hell was Lupin, or Molly? And why did Dumbledore have to disappear on the very night he needed him? Why did he have to be in the Hogshead fifteen years ago?
Her interest piqued? he thought. What the hell did that mean? And why did Sirius have to have such small decanters? Where was that other bottle? He looked around.
Hermione shot a look at him, and then nervously went back to her tart.
"You…" he started. "Where's the other bottle?" he asked suspiciously.
"What other bottle?" she said, still not looking up.
"There was a bottle," he sneered. "A full bottle, besides the decanter. Unopened, even."
"Sorry. Didn't see it." She kept her head down.
"Look, you miserable little - "
"Merlin's beard," she hissed, "if you're upset about something, the last thing you'll want to do is keep drinking. If Professor Dumbledore showed up right now, would you want to talk to him after another four or five jigs?"
"You said the Headmaster was not coming back for several weeks," he hissed.
"That's not the point, is it, Sir? Mrs. Weasely certainly wouldn't like to find you here, smashed, then. Have another cup of coffee, Sir," she added, reaching out for his cup.
He didn't answer for a moment, then said, "I haven't finished this one." She said nothing but poured herself another. He contemplated her a moment, then finished off the cup he held. He reached out for another and she poured it.
"I won't ask you again, but if you'd like to talk about something, Sir, I'd be happy to listen. And," she added, seeing the look of disdain cross his face, "I won't repeat any of it, Sir."
"And what do you think my telling you will accomplish? That is, if I even have anything to tell."
Hermione considered this a moment and reasoned, "I suppose nothing, except to make you feel a bit better."
The scoff he'd been internalizing for the last half hour finally broke through and he actually started to laugh a little. He looked away and shook his head. "That really is too bold, Miss Granger."
She set her coffee cup down. "I'm sorry then. I didn't mean to pry, Sir."
"No, of course not. Just like you never mean to pry, with all your questions, and your impossible inquisitiveness… Piqued your interest, I'm sure. More like morbid curiosity. Tell me, Granger, did you perhaps hope to glean the details of some pathetic tale, some sad story of mine, and recount them to your little friends? What bated breath you have for my misery!" he sneered.
This accusation produced the desired affect, and she stood up indignantly. Her hand went to her stomach and the ache her wounds had left there, but that did not detract from her fury. But then, instead of frighteningly running out or bursting into tears, she did something Snape had not expected. "Accio fire whiskey!" she snapped. A dark dusty bottle flew from behind the settee and into her hand. She thrust it at him. "I should banish it, but it's not my responsibility to look after you away. Take it!" she shouted. "Drink it all, for all I care." When he did not reach out for it she set it harshly on the table and they were both surprised it did not shatter. Without stopping to collect the dessert bowls and the coffee things she headed for the door, grumbling something about ungratefulness and something else Snape couldn't make out.
A/N: Snape's spell simply charms Hermione's cloak to become gently warmer.