Author's note: Reviews give me life, and will probably keep this story alive.
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The fire was warm on her face but her hands couldn't seem to stop shaking, as though cold. If she had to choose a name for the predominant emotion that blazed within her as she sat in front of Professor Slughorn and to the right of Professor Snape, she would have chosen anger; and yet anger seemed not a good enough word for the way she couldn't look in Professor Snape's direction and couldn't say a word in the middle of Professor Slughorn's instructions.
"You'll have to work at the base of the tower, I'm afraid," Slughorn was saying. "We've set up a sort of laboratory at the base of one of the north towers. You might be aware that Professor Snape here had to vacate the dungeons during his time as headmaster, and of course now I'm in his suites. You'll report there every morning at around eight—if that's all right with you, Professor Snape?—and work on your theoretical coursework in the evenings.
"I've already discussed the potion extensively with Professor Snape, though it's only this morning that he's agreed to work with me. I'm afraid the bulk of castle repairs is still my job to oversee, however, so you'll have to do most of the work without me. At the moment the curse-breakers can't make head nor tail of whatever is poisoning Harry Potter from the inside."
"You've mentioned they worked with phoenix tears at one point." It was the first time Professor Snape had spoken since they had left the front steps of the castle and ensconced themselves in Professor Slughorn's office. Hermione kept looking straight ahead at a point behind her master's shoulder.
"It produced a temporary improvement, which was marked by a decrease in pain and increase in overall appetite and well-being. The effect was transient, however. But it might be something to start on. We haven't yet resorted to unicorn blood, but that might be an option worth looking into." Slughorn wiped a hand over tired eyes. "I'll want a report from you, Hermione, by this time next week. In the meantime, she's all yours, Professor Snape." To her horror, he stood and went round the desk to pop into the next room, presumably to call on a house-elf through a portrait.
Silence stretched between Hermione and the person who had been Max Helter.
It was broken, a stretch of eternity later, by a soft "Miss Granger—Hermione—"
"That will do." She darted her eyes at him sideways only for a moment, before she resumed staring at the wall ahead. She had never before spoken so sharply to him—to either of the hims she had met—and in her own ears, her voice sounded foreign. "It's Miss Granger to you, Professor Snape."
Thankfully at that moment, Professor Slughorn returned and dismissed them; walking ahead and not bothering to hide her disgust, Hermione was left to return to her rooms to contemplate what awaited her as Professor Snape's assistant.
I will never speak to him again, she thought. Her footsteps echoed in the hallway—brisk and angry. I will only speak when necessary, and maybe not even then. How dare he throw himself in my path again.
/ \ / \ / \
It transpired that Professor Snape had been allowed to take his meals in his tower to the north of the castle. Hermione sat down to lunch with both relief that she didn't have to see him and his ugly, brooding face, but disappointment that she had missed another opportunity to show him her contempt. How dare he fix himself in the same castle as she? Common decency, she thought, would have dictated that he move as far away as possible from a girl he had taken advantage of.
But then there was Harry. He was still in and out of sleep, with an unpredictable fever pattern and a steadily dwindling appetite. The worry that had gnawed at her day and night was somewhat assuaged by the fact that she was now allowed to be part of the solution. Had she not kept the boys alive for the last seven years? She would do so again, Professor Snape or no Professor Snape.
Harry seemed cheerful when she next saw him, although she could tell that he had no appetite for the meal he had been given on his tray. "I like your hair," was the first thing he said to her upon her entering, and she almost put a hand to her newly-shorn head but aborted the self-conscious gesture.
"Professor Snape came to see me before dinner," he said. Hermione watched him play with the mashed potatoes.
"He doesn't take dinner with us."
"That's just as well. I suppose Professor McGonagall wanted to spare him the discomfort. He always seemed like he would prefer to be a recluse if people would let him. Anyway, everyone still remembers what it was like when he was Headmaster."
She snorted. She both wanted and didn't want to talk about Professor Snape. She decided to go with, "So what did you talk about?"
"Mostly he wanted to know specific symptoms I had. He's no Healer but he said he's been asked to work on a potion for me. He was very civil."
"He has no right to be anything else." Her hackles seemed perpetually raised. She was ready at any moment to lash out. "You have to tell me if he's ever anything but decent to you, Harry."
Harry stopped playing with his food, looking puzzled. "Why would he be anything else? I think we made our peace, though how that happened when I was half-sedated is still a mystery to me."
I think it has more to do with how he wants to look kind for my sake, she thought, before she quashed the thought as horrendously self-absorbed. She couldn't help it. There was no cheerfulness to be had as long as Professor Snape was in her thoughts. There was also no semblance of truth; a man she thought she had known—a man whose mannerisms and turns of phrase had become, to her, old friends—was a man that she really didn't know after all. She had no way to know what he was thinking, and had no way of knowing if she really wanted to know.
She looked at Harry. Harry whom she loved most in the world; Harry who was familiar, predictable, both angry and sweet. It would be the work of a moment to brush her hand across his forehead or to straighten the wrinkled collar of his pyjamas; she restrained herself only at the last moment. Why couldn't she have loved someone like Harry? But he belonged to Ginny, and always would. Not for Hermione the sweet, uncomplicated, easily expressed love of her peers. She had somehow landed herself in something sordid with a man twice her age and everything that had been good about it—everything that had been charming and fascinating—had become, in the span of moments, something too embarrassing and dark to ever talk about.
Why was everything always about Snape anyway?
"I've been tasked to help figure out a potion for you, Harry," she said tentatively. She did squeeze his hand then—mostly for comfort, but also partly because she couldn't stand to see Harry make another mashed potato tower and flood it with gravy.
"I know," Harry said. "Snape mentioned that. I know that if anyone can do it, it would be the two of you."
It was repulsive to be grouped with him in such a way. She said nothing, and soon bid Harry goodnight.
/ \ / \ / \
Hermione hadn't expected the labs to look like this. The laboratory at the bottom of what was apparently Snape's exclusive tower was, rather than cold and covered in stone, warm and paneled in beautiful wood. One of the windows was of a beautiful stained glass of a woodland scene. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that, when she wasn't directly looking at the glass, the leaves in the scene would move as though in a breeze, and various fauna would hop across the picture.
Had she been with any master other than Professor Snape—who was standing awkwardly by the door—she would have exclaimed over the beauty of the room, not to mentioned the enchanted window. The laboratory was fitted with most everything a Potions master would need, and the rows of cauldrons gleamed in one corner, obviously cared for. But she could hardly enjoy the place. She refused to feel awkward; she was not the one who had deceived the other; she had nothing to be ashamed of. Let him squirm.
"Please take a seat, Miss Granger," he said. Hermione, he had once called her. He had once held her in his arms. She sat at one of the benches, as far away from him as possible. Apparently aware of her desire for distance, he chose one of the cushioned chairs near the door. He wasn't looking at her directly when he began, business-like, "I have already come up with a few ideas for the base of the potion, and from there we can work systematically to test hypotheses about what and when to add. We are fortunate to have an almost unlimited supply of phoenix tears thanks to Fawkes, and it makes sense that they form the base. Please feel free to tell me any ideas you may have."
She looked at him then, disdainful, quiet. She shrugged. "I can't think of any at the moment." She did in fact have some ideas, such as the importance of testing dittany, but she kept them to herself. She would bring them up at another, more opportune time, or undertake an experiment herself.
He nodded. "Very well." And they began.
He instructed her, but no more than he needed to. They began with a list of ingredients that Snape had listed and thankfully already procured, and so worked quietly. The quiet was oppressive at first, but as Hermione became more absorbed in her task, she could finally take her concentration off the deep, ready anger that simmered beneath the surface and notice things about the room and about her new master that she hadn't noticed before.
He was wearing work robes of the deepest black, such as he had worn when she had first met him (as himself) at the Burrow. As Max she had been used to him wearing waistcoats and trousers. She noticed that he looked worn; wearing Max's face, he had had the appearance of good health, but now, though immaculately groomed, he looked like he hadn't slept for days. She wondered if Polyjuice could fake a look of health. For a moment she felt concern, but it was swiftly replaced with disdain. He was a grown man, for goodness' sake, and there was no longer a war on. If he wanted to flagellate himself by getting no sleep it was no business of hers.
He was so very thin. Max had had broad shoulders and had been beautifully built for his age; she remembered thinking the words "fine specimen" when she first saw him. Severus Snape was whip-thin and always looked like he could benefit from a second helping. And that hooked nose! She felt that shudder of embarrassment again, that she should have fallen for a man so lacking.
They experimented first of all with a base of phoenix tears and a number of other anti-inflammatory ingredients, with the assumption that Harry's illness kept him in a chronic systemic inflammatory state. They had no way of testing for any positive results since they couldn't replicate Harry's unknowable curse, but could at least test safety in animal models, which Professor Snape said they would undertake in the next weeks.
The light behind the enchanted window began to dim and when Hermione looked up at the clock, she was surprised that it was time for dinner. This was, it seemed, one thing that had not changed: she hardly noticed the time passing when she was with Professor Snape.
Around them the rebuilding of Hogwarts was still ongoing, and a bell alerted those scattered around the turrets that it was time to lay down their wands and gather to rest. Professor Snape had excluded himself from those gatherings, and while bottling a sample of their last attempt at a potion, Hermione looked for the words to ask for permission to go to dinner, while not sounding like she was asking for permission.
He beat her to it, of course. "You may go, if you like, Miss Granger. We will start again in the morning." But he made no move to stop his own stirring at his cauldron—timed, precise movements that Hermione envied. She realized then that he would spend the rest of the night alone, perhaps working. It was his fault. He would always be alone. It was not her problem. She excused herself with a curt "I'll go ahead, Professor," and she was gone.
That was not to be the last time she saw him for the night, however. The staff liked to gather for tea near the Headmistress' office after dinner, and after a day of near-silence with a man she abhorred, Hermione decided to take up Professor Slughorn on a long-standing invitation to join them to shake off the oppressive feelings. She was surprised to find Professor Snape already there, deep in quiet conversation with Pomona Sprout.
She was determined to pay him no mind. The secret lay between them like an open wound. She would do her best to act like his presence didn't bother her but chose to sit as far away as possible, near a window and beside Professor McGonagall. The older woman was watching the rest of the room with what looked to Hermione like satisfaction after a hard day's work. They began to talk about curricula and castle repairs. Hermione, who was determined not to listen, nonetheless heard what Snape and Professor Sprout were discussing at the other end of the room. She didn't notice that, despite herself, she had already lent the conversation half an ear.
"They advertised him as half a man and half an elephant," Professor Sprout was saying. "How positively grotesque."
Professor Snape was silent for a moment, before responding with "I suppose 'grotesque' is one way to put it—"
"Oh, I didn't mean his appearance, although this book describes it in almost gruesome detail. I meant the way he was treated. He had to escape from a workhouse you know and decided the best way to make a living was to join a traveling exhibit." There was some silence and then, "Such a pity. He was said to be quite a sensitive man, you know. Wrote poetry and all that."
"Who is this that you're talking about?" Professor Flitwick called from across the room. To her wonder Hermione noticed that Snape appeared to flinch a little at this, as though dismayed that he had been drawn into a conversation with the rest of the room. Her wonder wasn't at Snape's reaction but at the fact that she still knew the movement of his features enough to notice it.
"It's this book I'm reading," Sprout said. "It's a biography about the Elephant Man. I suppose a lot of you have heard of him."
"Poor man. Didn't he go to live at an institution for the blind?" Professor McGonagall contributed from beside Hermione.
"I haven't finished the book yet, so I don't know," Sprout said. "Oh don't spoil the ending Minerva, let me find out for myself."
"Isn't this that poor deformed fellow who lived at the London Hospital? Why would he go to an institution for the blind?" Flitwick said.
"It was thought that maybe he could find love with a woman who couldn't see his face," Sprout said, and there was a short silence. Hermione looked at Snape quietly sitting, and to Hermione he looked uncomfortable to be involved in conversation with the whole room. She wondered then why he had bothered to come. As far as she knew he had been allowed to take all meals at his tower, and she had supposed those meals to include tea. Why bother sitting in a room where everybody had once hated you while you were forced to play the tyrant? Was it to do with her? Oh, no, not that self-absorbed train of thought again. She decided to focus on her tea and on her conversation with Professor McGonagall. The night soon ended, and with it all thoughts of the elephant man.
/ \ / \ / \
In the mornings she woke and reported to Professor Snape's tower, and at night she busied herself both with her coursework and with half-frantic research about Harry's potion. It was small consolation that she was working with what she knew to be the most brilliant mind in the field. It was as he had said to her so long ago when he had worn a different face; with more knowledge came the facility for innovation, and even while living and breathing in her contempt for him she could acknowledge his greatness—he was systematic and thorough, and worked with an intellectual integrity that amazed her.
He was careful with her. He always stayed at a comfortable distance and said no more than he was supposed to, never again after that first attempt at calling her Hermione. She had no idea what he was thinking now, but she supposed that he had taken her derisive words as the one necessary signal that no more was to be said between them. There were to be no more comfortable afternoons and no more exchanges of books and opinions. It struck her at times how odd that should be, when nothing had changed but his face. And yet it was not his face but the entirety of him that had changed in her eyes, and that betrayal was still the silent rhythm accompanying their every workday.
She sometimes wished that he would say something, so that she could have the opportunity to shoot him down for it; but he said so little that she was hardly able to express the contempt that was screaming to be expressed. It was like working with a robot, so emotionless and distant did he seem. It felt like she was following a list of directions written on a chalkboard that did all the thinking for her—nothing more. She came instead to memorize the sound of him working; the sound of his stirring rod against the edges of the cauldron or the quick strokes his knife made against the chopping board.
Into this almost comfortable pattern of a life came an errand. One morning Hermione was surprised to find Madam Pomfrey inside the potions laboratory, fitting in perfectly between a houseplant and what she had come to think of as Snape's chair. Since deciding that she wanted to be a healer, Hermione had come to see Madam Pomfrey as a sort of mentor, and always looked forward to meeting with her to talk about Harry. Hermione greeted her a good morning and asked what she was doing there.
"We've got an errand to run, my girl," Madam Pomfrey said cheerfully. She gestured to a pile of baskets beside her chair.
"Are we going to gather ingredients?"
"Right you are. Professor Snape is gathering more baskets of his own. You know we can't transport them in anything that's been tampered with magically, so he asked for my help in carrying the ingredients."
"That sounds wonderful. Where are we going?"
But before Madam Pomfrey could answer Snape himself came through the door, carrying an armload of baskets. Had he been anyone else she would have offered to help, but Snape always looked so forbidding and self-sufficient that she didn't dare. There was also the fact that she sometimes felt she would rather have died than show him any bit of kindness or solicitude.
They made their way through the castle (Hermione having picked up some baskets from Pomfrey's pile) and through the gates. Pomfrey gestured to Hermione before disappearing in a pop. Hermione realized with quickly dawning horror that she would have to go through Side-along apparation with Professor Snape.
He looked at her awkwardly and balanced his load of baskets on one arm. He darted his eyes away from her horrified ones and held out one elbow.
"If you will, Miss Granger," he said quietly; and in a moment they were gone. Her hand was as light as possible on his arm. It struck her then that he smelled the same as Max had; and when she closed her eyes and felt his arm supporting hers, the feeling was the same, too—warm and safe.
/ \ / \ / \
The street was the most depressing thing she had ever seen. Rows and rows of old, decrepit brick houses greeted their arrival, and Snape stepped away from her as quickly as possible. Beside her, Madam Pomfrey dusted off her robes and stared pityingly at the surroundings. They began to walk towards the end of the long, horridly dirty street and into a house that was much like the others. It began to dawn on Hermione that this was Snape's home. She wanted to ask what they were doing there; she wanted to ask if she could please be excused; she wanted to say that she wanted nothing to do with his house. But her own determination to keep her mouth shut around Snape kept her from speaking.
Through the door they went, and into a tiny, gloomy sitting room. The walls were completely covered with books that Hermione had no time to ogle, because they went through the rest of the tiny house—the rest of the hovel, a part of Hermione's mind supplied—and into a small backyard.
The backyard stood in stark contrast to the rest of the dreary, lifeless neighborhood. It was green and, a part of Hermione thought, really rather beautiful—lush with overgrown magical plants. Some of the blooms were so bright that she couldn't stare at them too long. At some point the garden must have been carefully tended, as some plants were labelled in Snape's tiny handwriting. Dying and then living life on the run must have put a hamper on Snape's gardening, she thought with an edge of sarcasm. It really was a beautiful little garden, however. How odd that such an ugly man should have been responsible for so much beauty.
They worked quickly and silently, as though Madam Pomfrey had picked up on the fine tension that hummed in the air between Snape and Hermione. Hermione, apart from some sessions in Herbology, had never collected fresh ingredients for a master before, and she spared a moment to admire Snape's quick strokes with a pair of tiny nail scissors. The precision and economy of his movements, which had been quick to stir her esteem while she had been a student breathless with admiration for her teachers, were still the same.
For a moment Severus Snape excused himself and went ahead into the house, leaving the two women alone.
"What are we doing here?" Hermione finally said into the silence. "This is Professor Snape's home, isn't it, Madam Pomfrey?"
"It is," was the whispered response. "He's offered the castle the use of his own ingredients in looking for a cure for Mr Potter."
"But why does it seem we're taking them all? We've virtually taken every useful blossom! Most of the plants are basically bald!"
Madam Pomfrey looked at her oddly then.
"It only makes sense," she said. "Severus won't have any need of them. He won't have any need of the house, either."
Hermione supposed this to mean that Snape would continue to live in the castle and parasitize off Hogwarts' resources for the near future. She shook her head, and shut her mouth as the figure of Snape approached from inside the house. The three of them left soon afterward, and once again went through Snape's tiny hallways and gloomy, book-lined parlor.
As much as the garden had been beautiful, so the house had been ugly and unwelcoming. It was perhaps the most accurate reflection of its master, Hermione thought.
/ \ / \ / \
They arrived at the castle and Hermione was glad to shake off the lifeless gloom that seemed to permeate the atmosphere at Spinner's End, Cokeworth. To her surprise, Snape appeared determined to want to do the inventory and storage for all of the blooms they had gathered, and Hermione was given an unexpected day off. It was to be one of the last of such days, as Snape then appeared to throw himself with gusto into the task of finding a cure for Harry; Hermione could barely keep up, and began to wish for a Time Turner so she could complete her coursework and catch up on her sleep.
Severus Snape might have been a terrible human being, but Severus Snape as a potions master was a wonder to behold. Hermione, though wrapped up in her silent disdain for him, readily acknowledged to herself that she learned more in the next month than she ever had under Slughorn. She kept her head down and worked silently; and her life was filled with silent mornings and afternoons, and visits to Harry, and more learning than she had ever anticipated.
And at night, Hermione tried to sleep; but her sleep was ever interrupted by a dream—a dream that was more of a memory. She replayed over and over again the moment when she had first openly shown her disdain for Professor Snape. "That will do," she had said. She had, for but a moment, watched the breath leave his lungs and the light leave his eyes. She had seen that before, once. It was when he had died.