A/N: This story went from sitting in my drive for years, to getting 2 chapters in a very short amount of time. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time out to read it, and leave comments. I'll probably be in need of another beta at this rate, so if anyone is interested/willing in being subjected to my bad grammar and odd word choices, feel free to drop me a message.
As always, not my world or characters. I'm just playing in the sandbox.
Hermione sat on one of the benches outside The Red Lion, a Muggle pub not far from one of the main entrances to the Ministry of Magic. Her hair brushed back smartly from her face, contained in a sharp bun, a stray quill shoved through it. One earbud in her ear, connected to a cheap off brand small Muggle digital music player shoved unceremoniously into her jacket pocket. A book balanced on her crossed thigh, her foot jingling a nervous tremor as she waited for him.
Terror danced around her twitching foot, in her gut, and behind her eyes. Fear of him. Of what he wanted. Of what could possibly come of this. He may have been a secret romantic sop, but he was an incredibly dangerous man. A man no one else knew, as far as she was aware, was still alive. She'd resolved to find out the answer to that question at the very least.
It would do her no good to look like a twitching terrified forest creature. She began a series of arithmatic equations in her head, desperate to follow the numbers and imaginary vectors instead of letting the anxiety take her. Get a grip, Granger. Breathe.
She seemed to be reminding herself of that a lot, lately.
A shadow cast across her book and she looked up. She slammed the fear down. He was no ghost, and she was not afraid.
Clad in smart black slacks, a white Muggle dress shirt, a black tie, and a simple tailored black jacket, Severus Snape looked down at her. The corner of his lip twitched as she raised an eyebrow in surprise. The effect of seeing a dead man, alive, was even more striking in the light of day. All monochrome and slim hips, the sheen of his raven hair different than she remembered. He looked-good. Healthy. Like someone had finally managed to get him to sit still and eat. Like he had taken several long hot showers. Like he finally caught up on several years of sleep. Not like a dead man. He was by no means traditionally handsome, what with that ridiculous aquiline nose and those unfortunate teeth.
"You seem to have improved your notion of what a discreet meeting means," he said mildly.
She smiled at the memory. Of course meeting in the shadiest of establishments for her super secret club of academic rebels was a great way to be discreet, her younger self thought. Nobody but creepy adult people doing creepy adult things go there, of course it will be safe for a group of school children.
"I like to think I've learned something, sir," she said; taking the earbud out her ear and shoving it into her pocket, before closing the book on her thigh.
"One should hope so," he said, taking a seat next to her. Long legs crossed at the ankles.
She glanced at him as he spoke. Those unfortunate teeth seemed only slightly less so. Being the daughter of dentists was always a strange thing. "How can I help you, Pro-sir?" The old title pure reflex. Too many ingrained habits. Too many old triggers.
"I won't waste your precious bureaucratic issued break time with the minutiae. I need to know if I can go back." His gaze fixed somewhere off in the distance, watching the Muggle tourists and office workers pound the pavement.
"I'm sorry-what?" she stammered.
"Is it worthwhile for me to be alive in our world, Ms. Granger." It was flat, neutral. Cloaked in years worth of Occlumency and spycraft. He might have asked her if it was going to rain that afternoon.
She watched his face for a moment, desperate to find some kind of tell. A giveaway. Something that would explain his sudden re-emergence and this strange request.
"I do not think I need to emphasize that no one should know of our meeting? Not even your two little friends?"
"Of course not, sir. I didn't think it pertinent that they know how we met, in any case."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I doubt they would believe you were drinking alone anyway."
She looked off to the sea of people walking along the sidewalk. A tour group crossed the street, the little white flag on a pole the beacon in the distance to the stragglers in the back. "Isn't this more of a philosophical question, sir?"
"To a point. Public sentiment is mixed, and I am unsure if it is worth my time. I have managed to carve out a comfortable existence elsewhere, but there are things being able to move about freely here would make easier. I need to know if it is worthwhile. You will figure out the probability percentage."
She stole another quick glance at him before crossing her arms across her chest, bottom lip once again victim to her nervous habits. "That will be quite a bit of work, sir. You will need to be present for some of the calculations to provide context and variables."
"You can work at The Loft. I will be in town for another week. That should be sufficient time. The address is under the 2nd layer of enchantments on the card I gave you."
Questions tumbled in her head, but she knew by now who she was dealing with. Incessant questions would only lead her down a path that was further from all the answers she wanted. She hadn't even noticed the second layer of work on the card. "I can be there tonight."
A short nod of acknowledgment, before he rose to his feet again. His movements not quite as fluid as she remembered. "Tonight, then." He stepped into an oncoming group of Muggle tourists, and was gone. Too quick for her to follow even if she tried.
Tonight, then. Her head buzzed with it all the way back to her desk. The house elf initiative would have to wait. She silently apologized to all of them.
The Loft, as it turned out, was a converted warehouse. Seven floors, each with its own private residence. She took the large freight elevator to the top floor, tapping her wand to the gate. In mechanical obedience, it slid away to reveal a minimalist dream. Concrete and red brick walls, natural light filtered in through a set of filthy skylights. It smelled familiar; of wood smoke and brass. It smelled like the potions labs at Hogwarts.
This apparently wasn't a pleasure trip.
"In some circles, it is considered rude to lurk in freight elevators," he called from somewhere further inside.
Right foot first. An old Muggle superstition. One she hadn't thought about in years. Always step off a train or an elevator right foot first. That way you're always entering...well, on the right foot! Her grandfather's favorite. She tried explaining to him as a young girl the rubbish of such things, much to her parents simultaneous pride and chagrin. She stepped in, right foot first. It couldn't hurt. Anything to keep her footing.
"This is-impressive, sir," she called back, walking further into the space. She noticed a small kitchen set up directly to the right. The lack of walls created a strange flow to the place. No places to hide.
If there had been a living space once, there was no trace of it. He had filled the space with three long metal work tables, each in different stages of brewing.
"To the back, if you please."
And there he was, in all the glory she remembered. Those shirtsleeves rolled back, his hair in a lank curtain hiding his face from her. His back an arch over a massive cauldron as those elegant fingers grasped a stirring rod. A true master at his work. The sight sent that cracked thing in her chest to stirring with every rotation of the rod. Somewhere in it, she forgot to breathe.
He didn't look up from his work, gracious enough to let her enjoy the show for another moment while he finished. He leaned back from the cauldron, his hair falling away from his face. He looked exhausted. Much more like she remembered.
They didn't waste time. Thumbing through the materials, she tried desperately to focus on the task in front of her. Her own metal files marginally askew from the last few days. Frustration sprouted and she promptly dug it from its spot and burned it, eager to try again. And she did. Again, and again, and again.
By the fourth day, she had made no headway. Four nights spent in his workshop, with only three to spare. She growled in frustration and threw her quill across the table. The words rolled in her mouth and she refused to say them. She was going to fail him. Hermione Granger never failed. She wasn't built for it. Every cell in her body was designed from birth for absolute and complete victory in all things. The Princess of Gryffindor. The Brightest Witch of her Age. How was something so simple as a cost-benefit analysis so beyond her? Was she really so heartbroken? Was she suddenly so useless that her easy linear thinking so incapable of working through this?
The problem was complex. Too many variables. Too many players. Even when working with generalities, the strokes were too broad, too varied to boil them down to simple equations using what she knew. This was Masters level Arithmancy. Something she had always wanted, and yet here it was, slipping through her fingers. "I can't…" A white flag. Her voice so small she almost didn't hear herself say it.
"What did I say about mumbling, Ms. Granger," his voice was sharp. The patience he displayed finally at its end.
"I can't." Something bitter and brittle in the words. That cracked thing gasping its death rattle. She realized, distantly, that it was her heart.
"You can't what, Granger. Spit it out." Never afraid to dig the knife a little deeper, even if he didn't know he did it.
"I can't do this!" She gestured manically to the work in front of her. The sheets of parchment, the abacus, the runes, the broken quill. Evidence to verify her failure. "It's too much, and not enough time. I can only get so far with the usual methods, and it isn't enough!" Her breath came in ragged gasps. That cracked and broken heart beat it's last beat, and broke. Shattered into a thousand pieces. She had failed. Failed at so many things.
He sighed. "I am uninterested in your dramatics, Granger." Long fingers pinched the bridge of his nose "You and I both know this shouldn't be a problem for you. Do the job, then get out. If you can't fulfill the need I have for you, I have no use for you."
Of course not. That, of course, didn't make the rejection hurt any less. "I have done everything I know how! The calculations are textbook perfect, and yet every single vector is inconclusive. Or worse, bends backward in some catastrophic destruction."
He smiled then. Something vindictive and predatory. A hand went up to silence her. "The thing you lack and have always lacked, and quite possibly will lack for the rest of your life, is creativity. For as clever as you are, you lack originality. Everything you produce is textbook perfect. Textbook. There isn't a drop of yourself, your soul, in your work." He placed his palms flat on the work table between them. "There is no other Master's work to copy here. No textbook to follow. Finally, after years of being coddled by academia, you are free to do the work you have been craving, and yet you tell me you cannot? You can't deny it. You are all the same, Gryffindors." The word came out like a curse. "Your desires painted in broad, careless strokes all over you."
The agony of it was exquisite. Sharper and more clear than anything she had ever felt before. He cut to the quick, his words a scalpel wielded with master precision. She scrambled to find something. Anything in her mental files to combat with, and came up with nothing but fistfuls of dust. Nothing made sense in this chaos. Why call her then, if he knew. "Was there really no one else, then?" she demanded lamely. "One of two N.E. arithmancers, and yet my best is not good enough for you."
"Apparently not, which comes as something of a disappointment. You've learned absolutely nothing." He backed away, disgust plain on his face.
Nobody taught you how to leave. Nobody taught you how to accept defeat either. Nobody liked a sore loser, so you got better and better at hiding how much it hurt. Hermione never lost. The pain was raw and radiated in every nerve ending. It mixed with an old pain, something rotten and forgotten in that broken cracked space that was once her heart. Years of desperation for him just to see her. To see what she could do. He had finally seen it, and it still wasn't enough.
Everything crumbled. Tears welled in her eyes unbidden and she hated herself in that moment. Worse than she had ever hated anything. She hated it because she had taken worse damage. She had the scars on her forearm to prove it. Her mouth opened. "Teach me, then."
He arched an eyebrow in surprise. "What?"
"Do the job you were supposed to do, then! Teach me how to think differently. Teach. Me."
He barked a mirthless laugh. "It's not a-" and suddenly he stopped. Something stirred in the depths of those pitch eyes and she wanted desperately to dive into them and rip the answers out with her bare hands. "You know not of what you ask of me. Leave. Now."
"No. No, you do not get to barge into my life, make demands of me, tell me I'm not good enough, and then get me to disappear. No no no Snape, this is not how this works. You want this done? Then teach me to think like a master."
She couldn't recall a time when she had ever seen him visibly struggle with anything. A muscle in his neck twitched and some low, barely audible growl rumbled in his chest. She watched as he warred with something beyond temper and anger. Then, just as suddenly, his eyes softened, and he smiled. Some weird and wild thing lost between predatory and nostalgia.
"Twenty-Five years ago, I stood in front of a master, very much like you are now, and demanded the same thing. He said I was all 'graceless desperation and reckless abandon.'"
The words stopped her cold, all that self-righteous self-pity forgotten for the moment. This was something new. Some new, undiscovered species of Severus Snape. The word was shaky in her mouth, a breathless sigh. "Sir?"
He looked at her, then, and she was absolutely certain that no man had ever looked at her in such a way. She had no words for it, this confusing torrent that blew away what was left of her mental files. "It has been a long time, Ms. Granger, since I have been able to correct mistakes in the way I prefer."
"Teach me."
"No further questions. Hands in your lap. Do not speak. Do not move from the chair. If you can follow that order, I will consider it."
She blinked. A small nod her only movement.
He spun on his heel, returning to his work.
Why on earth had she agreed so readily to such a strange request? Maybe it was the look of contentment that washed over him as he gave the order. Maybe it was the way his eyes had shown her something so naked and desperate. This new Snape pushing all of the buttons that sent Hermione into quest mode. That euphoric, desperate mode that left her asleep in the library year after year. That fueled manic episodes of research until she had come across the scrap of information she craved. It was heady, and have mercy she missed it.
She opened her mouth to ask why. He turned around, his face blank as she closed it again, remembering her promise. The answering look of approval in his eyes enough to remind her why. She needed to learn why she couldn't get through a stupid post-N.E.W.T. arithmancy problem. To do what he had come for and repay the damn debt that filled that cracked and broken space in her chest.
In the silence, she fought the urge to fidget, suddenly filled to bursting with questions. What master taught him to think? From as early as his 6th year at Hogwarts, he had obviously been obsessively brilliant. Brilliant in ways that made her ache with jealousy. The Half-Blood Prince's book had been filled with creativity and originality. So what could he have possibly missed? She had a vague idea of what made him graceless and desperate. Lily Potter. That name a taboo, some terrible sacred thing she didn't like to think about. The woman who had inspired such devotion, she turned the tide of the war. Hermione always wondered what kind of woman could wield that kind of power. Though really, she knew it wasn't so much wielding as being. Just as Harry had inspired her own devotion, so did his mother.
Her eyes darted around the room, the prison of her mind too loud and filled with questions. No clock to see how long she had agreed to play this stupid game. The sun having sunk behind the horizon some time ago. Her stomach growled, and she cursed herself. It must have been well after 10:00pm. How long was she expected to sit in this horrible chair? But he stayed at his work. Unidentifiable seconds ticked by, and he didn't so much as acknowledge her there. She hadn't moved. At this point, more out of stubbornness than anything else. The desire for knowledge rendering her desperate.
Her body ached. Her mouth full of cotton. All sense of time disappeared. She floated somewhere in the silence of it. Scared he forgot about her, that he wouldn't teach her, that it was all for nothing. Something filled that cracked and broken place and she cried through clenched teeth. Finally, it seemed, the days were catching up with her. Nowhere to run. No work to drown in. No books to ease the ache of it. She was alone. Alone in this god forsaken loft, with nobody waiting for her at home. She had done it to herself, and she regretted it. If only for how much it actually hurt now that she sat with it. It struck her like a ton of bricks, and she cried against the weight of it. Her body shaking from the effort to do what was asked of her. She couldn't have answered why doing what he had asked was so important, even now.
She had to know. She had to find out where it went.
That wood-smoke and honey voice came at her and she flinched in surprise. "Well done, . I didn't actually think you capable…" His voice trailed off, and her sobs finally broke through. He spun the chair she sat in around and lifted her face with his hands. Through the pain, she registered the callous pads of his fingers and the smell of sage that clung to his skin.
If she could have seen his face though the tears, she would have seen something she had always dreamed of: Pride.