Chapter 3
The first time Severus Snape saw Hermione Granger after New Year's Eve was at the Ministry, and he was a different person.
The Muggle whose identity he assumed that morning was a short, fair-haired man with pudgy features and a beer belly. Severus had brushed past him for a moment in a bookshop on the Charing Cross road and pocketed the sparse hairs that had fallen to the shoulders of the Muggle's coat. It was a simple procedure, and one that he had to undertake once every month now that he was required to attend probation meetings with the supercilious wanker in charge of his parole in the very heart of the Ministry itself.
He walked stiffly through the dark-tiled Atrium towards the lifts at the end of the cavernous space on legs that were too stubby, flexing his upper arms inside a jacket that was too tight across the shoulders, his current level of physical discomfort enhancing the sense of psychological unease that he felt while walking through the place.
The bright golden statues of the Fountain of Magical Brethren loomed over him as he approached the lifts at the end of the hallway, and his lips twisted into a sneer at the sight. Order is restored, he thought sourly, allowing his eyes to rest for a moment on the wizard's supercilious expression in the centre of the triumphant scene.
The fountain was a reconstruction of the old one, a nearly perfect copy. The simpering witch still fluttered her eyelashes at the tall, handsome wizard who was so confidently thrusting his wand towards the sky. About them, the figures of the centaur, goblin, and elf gambolled and grovelled, grateful for the mighty wizard's protection. The cheerful tinkling of the magical jets of water into the fountain enhanced the ghastly sight.
Snape's upper lip drew back in a snarl.
At least Thickness' statue hadn't been so fucking hypocritical. The expression on the elf's face in particular drew his eye, and suddenly, he was reminded of that ludicrous campaign that Granger had initiated at school before the war. He wondered what had come of it, what had become of Granger's idealism and her commitment to the cause. He pictured her at Hogwarts now, studying for her NEWTs whilst earnestly knitting endless supplies of socks, her concentration focused, her fingers moving the yarn dextrously between the needles while reciting her latest essay to a dictaquill. He snorted at his own imagination, shoving his pudgy hands into his pockets and feeling the wand jab again at his wrist.
He stomped past the fountain towards the lifts, determined to get the whole humiliating business of reporting in over and done with again as quickly as possible.
It was quarter to eleven, and the Atrium was comparatively quiet for a weekday. A few Ministry officials and workers were milling about before the lifts, some chatting animatedly to each other. One wizard was tapping his foot on the shining marble beneath his feet, checking his fob watch and hissing slightly between his teeth. Beside the impatient wizard, two female members of the Wizengamot stood regally still, court papers clutched firmly to their ample bosoms. Severus' eyes rested upon them. Their dull cherry vestments seemed almost like the colour of old blood in the diminished light of the elevator alcoves. He wondered who was in the dock this morning and squinted more closely at the papers. As he did so, one suddenly turned about, catching his eye, her own eyebrow arched in a question. Severus blinked and looked away, the sudden memory of his own trial causing him to flush and clench his fists reflexively. He felt his wand digging uncomfortably into the skin of his arm and shivered. Come on, come on... where's the bloody lift?
After a few more seconds, a sharp ting! announced its arrival, and Severus shuffled into the small space after the others, shouldering his way past the uniformed lift attendant and turning to face outwards towards the Atrium. He hated these bloody lifts. Hated the Ministry, hated the terms of his parole, hated—
"Wait, please!"
Snape startled. That voice! Automatically, he thrust out his hand, wincing as the metal of the closing cage door struck his outstretched wrist. The lift attendant reached forward and pulled the cage door back, shaking his head at Snape's impetuosity. Behind him, Severus heard a groan from the impatient wizard, but gave it no attention as a young witch had come into view around one of the dark-tiled columns running awkwardly towards him.
It was hard to see her face because she was balancing a messy bundle of manuscripts in her arms on top of a large leather-bound book, but he was sure it was Granger.
Her hair was still in the crazy bouffant mess he remembered from the churchyard, although her clothes were different. In the place of the awful sweater and ragged jeans, she was wearing a long blue coat and smart trousers. A pair of spectacles were propped up on her head, keeping her unruly mane at bay to a degree, but she was puffing a long curl away from her cheek as she walked hurriedly along towards him.
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" she called breathlessly, and he knew it was her.
He was not able to look away as she approached, staring at her virtually open mouthed. What on earth is she doing here? She should be at school, knitting socks, or organising study groups, or... She caught his eye and tentatively smiled politely at him, slightly confused and embarrassed by his intense attention. He felt himself begin to flush and grow angry. Was she embarrassed to see him? Ashamed to admit their acquaintance? He felt himself scowl defensively and saw her eyes grow wide in surprise and confusion.
Suddenly, he remembered the Polyjuice. Of course, she would not recognise him! He looked away from her sharply and clenched his fingers into fists. Idiot... idiot! What was the matter with him? He shuffled backwards, making a space for her to enter.
"Department of Mysteries, please," she said to the attendant, and the lift sprang into life, rocketing backwards before plunging down.
She stumbled slightly against him, and a few of the manuscripts slipped. She cried out sharply, and without thinking, he put out his hand to catch the falling parchments and steady the heavy folio in her arms.
"Let me," he said, clasping the parchments to his chest. Let me carry your books for you, he thought absurdly in a sing-song cadence and felt stupid. She blushed prettily and hefted the heavy leather tome carefully in her arms, lowering it so that her arms could hang down. "Thanks," she said. "It's too delicate for a Shrinking Charm... and it's so heavy!"
The lift slowed to a stop.
"Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," the attendant intoned in a deep voice.
Snape and Hermione shifted to the side as a number of passengers sidled off the lift.
Now the space was less crowded, and they could move a little further apart. They stood awkwardly looking anywhere other than at each other as the elevator shuddered into movement again.
Snape grasped the rolled parchments to his chest and tried to think of a sensible question that a perfect stranger might ask to a woman he had just met. He gestured towards the book in her arms. "You need that for your work here?" he managed. Why did this bloody Muggle have to have such a squeaky voice?
She nodded and darted a look at the other occupants of the lift. "I've just picked it up from the British Museum," she whispered confidentially.
"But... shouldn't you still be at Hogwarts?" he blurted out.
Perhaps it was the way that he had said it, perhaps it was the intensity of his expression, or the assumption that she would be attending that Wizarding school and not another... but he saw her eyes widen with a sudden, terrible recognition.
"Oh, my God," she breathed. "Professor?"
He looked steadily at her, although his heart was racing. He was acutely conscious of the other members of the lift carriage. How the hell could she see through this disguise? She met his regard, her eyes widening as each slow second ticked past.
The lift slowed again, jolting to a stop.
"Basement Level Six, Department of Magical Transport!" The attendant called as the lift cage doors opened before them.
Conversations carried on around them.
A group of wizards from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, judging from their official robes, pushed forward into the elevator, all discussing loudly their experiences at the conference they had recently attended. There had been a great deal of magical cooperation between the French Delegation and their own, apparently.
The lift jolted and resumed its journey.
Detaching one hand from the book for a moment, she reached over to his jacket lapel and pulled him closer to her. The rolled parchments crumpled between them.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed in a furious whisper. "I thought you said you were emigrating!"
Indeed he had. In the car, during the long drive from Wiltshire to London, he had told her many things. Flushed with the extraordinary effects of the Redemption Charm, he had jabbered on at her about setting up his own business, getting far away from Ministry controls, finding his way to some out-of-the-way place where the British Aurors would not care to follow him. He had even shown her the Muggle ticket he had purchased for the ferry crossing.
Best not to tell her, then, about the three miserable days he had spent in a hostel in Dover when he realised that the Ministry's parole extended to physically preventing him from leaving the bounds of the country. Every time he had approached the harbour with the intent of boarding a ship, he'd found himself doubled over in agony, retching up his guts at the prospect of leaving. On the third day, he had resorted to magic, trying to break the bonds that tied him... but to no avail.
The smug Ministry Howler that had arrived less than an hour later reminded him once more that the Trace had been activated and asked what his business was on the South Coast.
So his plans had changed.
He frowned. "I have an appointment," he murmured shortly. "And I'll thank you to keep your voice down. The purpose of a disguise, after all, is to remain anonymous."
"I can't believe you are here in London! Do you live here now? What are you doing for work—?"
He raised his hand to forestall any further questions, glowering at her. But she smiled impishly at him, and he realised to his surprise that she appeared to be genuinely pleased to see him.
"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," the attendant announced as the lift slowed to a stop once again.
Severus twitched. His floor. He made to offer her parchments back to her and saw her eyes widening as she understood.
"Will you be long?" she asked, her voice slightly muffled by the papers, her brown eyes wide. He felt a sudden, odd twist in his gut.
The lift's doors slowly opened. "That depends on whether I have been a good boy this month or not," he bit out eventually. "Goodbye, Miss Granger."
He stepped out of the lift and into the corridor, unconsciously straightening his jacket sleeves and standing as tall as his borrowed body would allow while watching the lift doors close.
"Wait!" she called out, juggling the items in her arms as the carriage jerked backwards. "Would you like—?" Her voice was lost as the lift whisked her away.
An hour later, Severus stalked blindly out of the Auror Headquarters with his head held rigid and his body stiff. All he wanted was a decent cup of tea and the chance to get away from those patronisingly overbearing, pompous bastards...
"And were you...?"
Her voice startled him, and he spun around to find her sitting on the little bench opposite the lift.
She was still wearing her blue mackintosh, but the book and the parchments were gone. He stopped still, looking at her suspiciously, but she seemed relaxed and pleased to see him again.
He frowned. "Was I what?" he snapped, still pissed off and uncomfortable, having spent the past forty minutes justifying every spell his wand had cast or he had uttered in the past four weeks to a teenager in a suit who had cracked his knuckles and asked impertinent questions about his "whereabouts" and "associates". Two more years, Snape thought. Two more years.
She got to her feet and stood in front of him, their eyes level. "A good boy?" she teased gently.
He flushed hotly, ready to snarl in response, but she put her hand on his and squeezed. Pins and needles skittered under his skin, and he inhaled sharply. Perhaps the Polyjuice was wearing off? The boomslang skin had been almost rotten, but it had been the best he could procure at the time... She dropped his hand quickly, stepping back.
"Umm... would you like a coffee? Or lunch?" she offered. "The Ministry canteen isn't bad, and—"
"Not here," he said sharply.
"Okay," she replied, unruffled by his ill-tempered attitude. "I know somewhere else we can go. Shall I Apparate us?"
They emerged somewhere in Holborn, and he followed her out of the narrow alleyway to a small set of steps cut down into the pavement and surrounded by an ornate cage of Victorian ironwork. Above the entrance was a large sign saying, "Espresso + Food, Grind In, Dine Out".
He hung back, staring, but she grasped the top of the handrail and started to walk down the steps confidently.
"Granger...," he rasped dangerously. "Is this a public convenience?"
She shot him an amused look over her shoulder, rolling her eyes and grinning, clearly delighted by his reaction. "Relax, Professor; I am not going to the toilet with you. Come on – this is one of the best cafés in Central London!"
Snape followed her gingerly down the stairs.
The coffee shop was certainly recognisable as a converted Victorian public convenience. The walls were covered in neat orders of lustrous burgundy, deep green, and white oblong tiles. The old cisterns and urinals were even in place, cleverly adapted to house light fittings and a new oak breakfast bar along the wall. The place was busy; Snape counted more than a dozen patrons sitting or standing at the breakfast bar or at the till. Some were on their own, reading books or newspapers while their coffees cooled, others in small groups, clustered around the one table at the end of the narrow space.
Hermione walked forward towards it, struggling out of her coat and draping it over her arm.
She dug in the pockets of her trousers. "The coffee is great here," she enthused. "And they serve it with little cocoa dusted chocolate drops that are to die for!"
Snape shrugged and nodded, still taken aback by his surroundings. She touched his hand gently again to get his attention, and his skin prickled. He wondered how long it would be before he transformed back into himself.
"Tea. Just black tea," he muttered. "Thank you."
She placed their orders and led him onwards towards the table at the end. He followed her until she flopped down on one of the orange benches that surrounded the table, placing her coat beside her. He saw her arm move slightly and raised his eyebrows as one by one, the other occupants of the table hurriedly finished their drinks and got up to leave.
She looked up at him and blushed. "I thought we could do with some privacy," she said by means of explanation.
"How very thoughtful of you," he replied, sliding into the bench opposite her.
"Well," she said defensively, "It's not for long, and I come here quite a bit."
She fidgeted in her seat, rubbing her hands awkwardly together. "I'm sorry, but this is weird," she blurted. "I can't believe you are here. I mean, I know you are here, but you don't look like you, and..." Her voice trailed off into silence.
"The Ministry allows me to brew certain potions under strict conditions," he said grudgingly. Such as," he waved his hand rather theatrically over his face, "Polyjuice."
She smirked. "I think you underestimate how terrifying you are."
"I think you underestimate how hysterical other people become." He shrugged. "It was my suggestion. I have no desire to be anybody's whipping boy. Anonymity suits me."
"And what do you do for a living?"
"I work in a Muggle market, selling jokes." She laughed out loud this time, a deep guffaw, and he found the corners of his lips twitch in response.
"You ordered a tea and a coffee?" The busy waitress deposited the cups and saucers with practiced ease, then slid two little bowls of small chocolates beside the drinks. Hermione smiled her thanks. Severus pushed his away in distaste.
"No?" Hermione lifted an eyebrow, and her lips twitched upwards again. "More for me!"
Snape pulled what he hoped looked like a disdainful face and leaned forward to add sugar to his tea.
"So," he said, readying himself to ask her what she was doing at the Ministry.
"So." Hermione took a sip from her coffee and replaced the cup in its saucer.
He arched an eyebrow.
"You got the job, then," he observed, thinking of the letter she had held so protectively in her hand during their meeting in the graveyard and of the others that had been written to him over the past months as well.
She flushed. "Yes. I'm not allowed to tell you what I'm doing, but it is very exciting. Lots of research and... and I feel that I could really make a difference."
"And... Weasley?" he said, flicking a pointed look at her unmistakably bare ring finger.
"He works here too. In a different department."
She took a sip from her coffee and replaced the cup carefully on its saucer. "Ron and I are trying again... together," she added.
He said nothing, surprised by how much that admission irritated him.
"Molly still behaves as if I am about to explode," she continued, then flashed a wicked grin. "I quite like that, actually."
"I took my NEWTs early." She shrugged. "After... after New Year's Eve... I didn't want to just follow the rules, so I asked Minerva if I could have special dispensation to sit them in late January. That meant I could come and work here."
Snape coughed, unused to making such conversation. "What did you…," he began.
"Afraid I did better than you, Professor?" She grinned slyly.
Snape bristled at her assumption that he'd give toss about what grades she had achieved, but she laughed and laid her fingers unselfconsciously on the back of his hand for a moment. The contact felt strange on his transformed skin.
"I'm kidding – I'm sorry," she chuckled. "I did alright. But it all seems such a long time ago now."
"Why won't you reply to Professor Peverell's letters?" she asked, fixing him with a sharp look. Snape startled.
How the hell do you know about the letters? he thought in surprise. "I do reply to them," he huffed eventually.
She gave him a look.
"I mean," she clarified, "why won't you reply more than writing, 'fuck off, Peverell,' at the bottom of them? You don't even read them."
"How do you know I don't read them?" he countered, trying to cover his discomfort by fiddling with the sugar bowl.
"Because I wrote the last three," she replied calmly. "You sent the owl straight back with 'fuck off, Peverell' written on each of them. I was rather offended..."
Snape squirmed slightly in his seat.
"Until I remembered it was you," she finished, popping one of the tiny chocolates into her mouth and closing her eyes in a moment of silent rapture.
"So you're investigating the early Christian Church," he said, keeping his tone light and conversational. "I had no idea the Department of Mysteries was interested in magical history."
Hermione's eyes opened immediately.
Snape steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. "That was the Estienne edition of the Historia Ecclesiatica, wasn't it? The first edition? Published in 1443?"
"How did you—?" She frowned, "You git! Did you use Legilimency on me?"
Severus grinned and shook his head slightly. "It was written on the spine of the book you were carrying. I merely used my powers of observation," he said smugly. Until I remembered it was you. Cheeky cow.
She said nothing, but her lips were pressed together tightly. "And the parchments that you had such difficulty hanging on to," he continued, enjoying the game. "A series of diagrams based around conic sections...?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I told you, Professor. I can't talk about it... any of it, outside the Department."
She made an exasperated noise and flapped her hand at him. "Professor Peverell has invited you to come, and I have for that matter, forty-seven times, and all we get is 'fuck off'! Why are you so reluctant to meet him?"
Snape dropped his hands in front of him and leaned forward "Why do you think for a moment I would want to come to the Ministry voluntarily?" he snarled. "I have a life to lead... and a parole to keep."
"I thought you might be interested," she said, studiously not looking at him. "The opportunity to snoop about the Department. See what we are working on. Find out why I might be researching Muggle physics and early Christian history."
"Another coffee for you and your daughter, sir?" the waitress asked, bustling about them, collecting empty dishes.
Snape jumped and sat back, flashing a quick, sharp look at the Muggle. Had she overheard anything? he wondered, and then he flushed at the implication of the woman's words.
The waitress looked at him, polite but busy, both hands holding empty dishes. He cleared his throat. "Yes... yes, please. A coffee and a tea and some more of those chocolate drops that she likes so much. And—"
The waitress turned around.
"And she's not my daughter," he finished lamely, much to Hermione's amusement.
"So what are you really doing for a living?" she asked. "Something to do with potions, I suppose...?"
He tapped the table with a stubby finger.
"Occasionally," he replied, deliberately drawing the word out.
"You run an apothecary somewhere...?"
"No."
"Mail order love potions?"
"Not allowed under my parole."
"Teaching?"
"Absolutely not."
She grinned. "I could tell it wasn't your ideal career."
"Combining volatile and hazardous substances with hormonally charged teenagers? It was a dream come true," he deadpanned.
Her head fell to one side, and her eyes took on a calculating look.
"Umm... Barista?" she hazarded.
"A what?" She smiled. "They make coffee."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Don't you just need to add water to ground coffee beans?"
"Yes. I suppose you do... Perfumer?"
Snort. "No. Flashy nonsense."
"Pharmacist?"
"Muggle potions? You need a licence for that."
"Which you have not got...?"
"Not officially, no."
"Right... Chef."
He shuddered. "No."
"Vintner?"
"Wine making? Interesting suggestion... but no."
"Rat catcher?"
"No poisons," he said flatly.
She tapped a finger on her chin. "Only occasionally potions...? What about the Dark Arts?"
He glowered. "Never. Change the subject."
She sat quietly, watching him poke around in the sugar bowl for another sachet of white sugar.
He flicked the wrap of paper, driving the contents to the bottom of the thin packet. "What about all the secrets? All the mystery? You won't tell me what you are doing, but you'll give me a guided tour...?" he asked, pouring the white grains into his tea cup.
"I can't tell you what I'm doing," she repeated patiently, softly. "It's forbidden. I made an oath. Outside the Department, nothing can be discussed." She leaned forward, her eyes dancing with suppressed knowledge. "But I could show you... I know you're interested..." She waggled her eyebrows.
Of course he was interested.
"I don't want to meet Peverell. Or any other bloody Ministry apparatchik," he said harshly.
"Do I count?" she said, affecting hurt in her voice. "I can meet you on a Saturday if you like. Not many people are there over the weekends. I would really like to ask your advice about, um, whatever it is that I might be doing."
The invitation hung in the air, delicately twirling before his grasp. He thought about the routine of his daily existence, how bored he had become... the look on his parole officer's face at the thought of Snape being invited into the heart of the Department of Mysteries... how she had smiled at him... and bought him tea... and touched him.
His fingers traced a sigil in the spilt tea on the table. "I suppose I could possibly manage a Sunday afternoon," he allowed grudgingly.
She smiled brilliantly back at him, and then her coat chirped beside her. It chirped again, then exploded into a high-pitched pentatonic scale.
Snape scowled. He avoided all methods of Muggle communication, as did most wizards.
Hermione grabbed at the macintosh, muttering something about a missed appointment and quickly silenced the offending mobile phone.
"Sorry. Sorry. Where were we? This Sunday?" She looked at him, her face a mixture of calculation and eagerness. Unaccountably, he was reminded of hand waving and huge teeth.
What the hell are you doing? he asked himself. Before he could say no, however, her mobile telephone began ringing again, and she pulled it out of her coat pocket.
"Bugger it... I'd better get back," she said, flustered. "I'm sorry – it's Ron. I was supposed to meet him for lunch and..." She pulled a face.
Weasley, he thought, and a sudden flutter of irritation shivering through him.
"This Sunday, then, Miss Granger," he said smoothly, careful to place the emphasis just so. "Ten o'clock? At the Marylebone entrance?"
She nodded quickly, struggling to her feet. He stood and indicated that she precede him, but as she squeezed past, she stopped and paused. "You will... be yourself this time, on Sunday?" she asked. "I mean, after all," she continued in a rush, "there won't be anyone about, and Polyjuice is horrible, and—"
He tried to quirk an eyebrow, but his face was unresponsive to the command, the first signs that the potion really was wearing off. He only had minutes before his body began to change back to its true form. It was time to leave.
"I'll consider it," he said, his voice noticeably deeper than a few moments ago. "Now, go."
A/N: Apologies for the slightly late posting! Beaweasley2, Clairvoyant and nagandsev are wonderful and JKR owns everything you recognise. Apart from London. Reviews are much appreciated!