Chapter 8 - Lunch Session No. 1

Severus Snape looked at himself in the mirror and shook his head. He pulled at his cuffs irritably. First the right one. Then the left. Then the right again, before reaching up and adjusting his tie. He grimaced. Why was he even wearing a tie? To a lunch? Who wears a tie to lunch? he thought and shot himself a disgusted look.

"Ahem," the mirror said.

"What?" Snape sneered, glaring at his own reflection.

"Oh, nothing," the mirror grumbled.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Spit it out."

"I've never seen you wear a tie. It makes you look old," the mirror told him bluntly. "And you're already too old for that girl you're trying to impress."

"I am most certainly not trying to impress anyone," Snape said through gritted teeth. "And I'm not old," he added, ripping the tie off as he stalked out of the bathroom.

"Just pointing out the obvious!" the mirror called after him. "Those grey streaks are not exactly doing you a—" Snape spun around and slammed the door shut.

He stood still for a second, swaying on the spot in the middle of the bedroom. Pinching his nose slightly, he drew in a slow breath. He had woken up early, unreasonably early, tossing back and forth in his bed, kicking off his duvet, pounding his pillows, shifting positions. Nothing had persuaded his body into going back to sleep.

He was nervous. And he hated being nervous.

So far in his ... efforts ... to make Hermione Granger his, he had been the one dictating the situations and their outcome; it had been a game played on his side of the court, by his rules.

He had been the one with the leverage, and he had thrived on it.

Snape looked down on the now wrinkled tie in his hand. A Hermione Granger caught off guard was quite harmless. She blushed, was flustered. Averted her eyes. Couldn't think of what to say. He liked that Hermione; it made him want to reach into her hair and twirl a curl around his finger, trace the freckles on her nose, kiss her eyelids, pull her close and keep her safe.

A Hermione Granger prepared and ready for battle was ... lethal. He knew this from her days at Hogwarts, from the Trio's search for Horcruxes, from the war. She possessed a fierce fire just waiting to be lit, a fire that, when it reached her eyes, was so vivid that only a fool would try to stay and fight it.

It made him feel vulnerable, like she was a force of nature and he was a mere observer. And even though it unnerved him, the feeling of not being in control … He liked that Hermione even better.

A sudden shiver went down his spine. That Hermione made him want to—

This. He shook his head fiercely. Is not the time.

She had had four whole days to get ready for this little meeting and would no doubt jump to the chance to interrogate him about the house. And what could he possibly tell her? That he had bought it just to get her attention? Like a school boy with a crush; pulling his love interest's ponytail because he didn't have enough courage to tell her the truth?

Only he had money and just a little more finesse.

No. This time he had no leverage. It was all up to him. His wit and charm—he scoffed—and ability to ... What? Convince her to look beyond the shell that was her ex-professor, the former Death Eater and ex-spy who, more recently, had bribed her into his bed and, as a result of that, destroyed her marriage? A man who also happened to be twenty years her senior?

Nineteen, he muttered. Get your facts straight.

He threw the tie on the bed. This was the chance he had been waiting for. He couldn't afford to screw it up.

And it made him nervous.


Snape glanced around the restaurant. He was sitting at the same table as last time, giving him a good view of the room. It was still quite early, and most of the tables were empty. A young couple was sitting near the door, exchanging intimate glances and holding hands. Snape watched as the man leaned forward, smiling at the woman opposite him, coaxing her into giving him a kiss.

He frowned and looked away, directing his gaze towards the counter. The restaurant itself was ... passable, he supposed. The menu wasn't bad, but not extraordinary in any way. The interior was quite charming, although maybe a little too much on the bohemian side for his liking. The only thing he had a slight problem with was her. The owner. The woman with the ridiculous dragon tattoo, who had questioned him about Hermione and his reasons for wanting to see her.

He scoffed. That tattoo was so poorly executed he thought it was an anteater at first.

Suddenly Hermione emerged from what he presumed was the kitchen and all other thoughts disappeared as he took in her appearance. She was wearing black pants and a white shirt, the universal dress code for waiters and waitresses around the globe, and which incidentally—he scowled—was exactly what he was wearing as well. The only thing separating their outfits, literally, was his dragon hide boots and her black apron.

Snape watched her craning her neck, gazing out the room until her eyes landed on him. He smiled. A genuine smile, which was quite rare in his world. Nodding, she made her way across the floor, stopping behind the empty chair in front of him.

He opened his mouth to say hello, but she beat him to it.

"Look," Hermione said, still standing. "I don't—" She bit her lip. "I don't know what you're trying to do here." She looked down. "Or rather ... I think I know what you're trying to do and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with it."

Snape put his elbows on the table. "I'm just asking you to have lunch with me," he said calmly, trying to sound casual even though his heart was pounding. "Just lunch," he repeated and instantly felt like an idiot for trying to talk her into staying.

She shifted her feet. "Fine," she sighed. "But I've only got forty-five minutes." She pulled out the chair and sat down, placing a plastic container on the table.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing towards the container.

"My lunch," she said off-handedly and flipped the lid open like it was the most natural thing in the world to bring your own food to a restaurant.

Snape frowned. "I thought you were going to let me buy you lunch?"

"While I appreciate the thought," she replied curtly. "I don't need you to buy me anything."

"Then I suggest you buy it yourself," he said, unable to keep the frustration from creeping into his voice. "Because that doesn't even look like enough food to feed a mouse."

She shot him an angry look and shrugged. "I'm on a tight budget."

"A million galleons is a tight budget?" he asked, reaching out for his glass of water and taking a sip.

Hermione picked up her fork and speared a piece of potato, ignoring him.

"What?" he pressed, putting down his glass with a little too much force. "Don't tell me you gave it all to Weasley?"

Before Hermione could answer, Rita swooped down on them, her pad and pen ready. She regarded the couple for a moment, curling her lip disapprovingly.

"Is that all you're going to eat?" she asked in her low, almost masculine, voice, nodding towards the pathetic contents in Hermione's container.

"Yes," Hermione said, provocatively biting into another piece of potato. "I am."

Rita frowned and turned to Snape. "And what can I get you?"

"I'll have the pasta," he replied, not even giving her a look, his attention fixed elsewhere. He just wanted her to leave so they could be alone. He looked at Hermione. "I wish you'd let me—"

"Last time I accepted an offer of yours," Hermione interrupted. "It ended in a marathon of misery, so thanks, but no."

Snape felt his mood drop instantly. It's only been ten minutes, and I'm already turning into a bloody self-fulfilling prophecy, he thought.

Rita gave him a triumphant smile before she turned and left for the kitchen, a gesture that made his blood boil. He glared at her back, his wand hand twitching. Five minutes later she was back with his food, clicking her tongue in annoyance at Snape's mere presence and then hurried off.

An uncomfortable, cold silence stretched and wrapped its wings around the couple as they ate their food. Snape had lost his appetite but forced himself to eat just to have something to do.

He chanced a glance at Hermione. She was picking at her food. Snape scowled, noticing how tired she looked. Maybe that was why she was giving him such a hard time. Or maybe you deserve it, a voice in the back of his mind whispered.

He looked at her hands. Her long, delicate fingers. A sudden jolt shot through his chest as his eyes fell on her wedding ring. It was a sad-looking thing, thin and worn, with a diamond in the center that was so small that he had to look twice to even notice it. Why am I not surprised? Weasley probably bought it at a yard sale, he thought to himself.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, looking at him. "I shouldn't have said that. It's just been a lot lately—"

He waved at her dismissively, his mind still on the ring. "I'm a grown man, Hermione. You don't have to lie to make me feel better. If that's how you feel, that's how you feel."

"Oh, right, I just ..." she trailed off and turned to look out the window.

Ten silence-stricken and agonizingly slow minutes later, Snape looked up from his plate, watching the woman in front of him. He couldn't take it any longer.

"I see you're still wearing your ring," he heard himself say. It sounded like an accusation, even to his own ears, but he couldn't stop himself. "I thought you and Weasley had ... parted ways."

Surprise flitted across Hermione's features, her eyes darting to her right ring finger. "We have."

"Then why are you trying to make it look like you haven't?" he asked, trying to sound less annoyed than he actually was, his pulse quickening. "I'm quite sure that insufferable idiot has had no problem moving on." He felt a rush of anger at the thought of the youngest Weasley male.

That little prick. To imagine that he had her and just—

"Don't talk about him like that," Hermione said in clipped notes. "You don't know him."

"I beg to differ. You forget that I was his teacher for six long years," he drawled. "And as far as I remember, his academic achievements were abysmal." Snape brushed invisible lint from his shirt. "His work-related achievements seems to follow the same pattern."

She didn't answer, so he continued.

"And to think that he could've been an Auror, had he not been so unbelievably ... incompetent. But stupidity knows no—"

"He did his best, you know," she cut off hotly. "But we hit a really rough patch and—"

"You're defending him now?" he snapped. "How very big of you seeing as he tossed you out, leaving you to fend for yourself—"

"That's not—"

"Didn't you have to beg his father to help you find somewhere else to live?"

"Enough!" Hermione slammed down her fork. "Why is it that you know everything about me? Where I live, what I eat, who I'm talking to? My divorce isn't public news, and yet you know exactly the when and where and how of it!" she hissed.

Snape slumped back in his chair, momentarily shaken. He had said too much, gone too far, and he knew it. He looked away from her, biting back the urge to tell her that the only reason the whole of wizarding Britain wasn't aware of their break up was because of him. Instead he said, "That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "You're behaving like a complete arse."

"Again, I don't agree," he said. But I am, he thought, panicking slightly. What the hell am I doing?

They lapsed into a prickly silence. Hermione stabbing a bean repeatedly, while Snape was racking his brain for a way, any way, to get back in her good graces.

"Are you enjoying the house?" she suddenly spat out, red spots appearing on her cheeks and neck.

He flinched. He had been expecting this, and yet he could think of nothing to say. "What? No, I—"

"I'm so naive," she said, glaring at him. "I actually thought you had some sort of valid reason for buying it." She shook her head. "But it's quite obvious now that you bought it just to hurt me."

He winced inwardly. "No, look, I would never—"

"Seems our time's up," Hermione cut off, nodding stiffly towards a small clock on the wall behind the counter. She practically bolted from her chair and started clearing away her things.

Snape looked down on what was left of his cold pasta. He felt hollow. Empty. And like a failure. He had lost control and now he was paying for it. He looked up at her, and felt his chest constrict painfully. Hermione's cheeks were still a light shade of crimson. A couple of locks had fallen out of her loose ponytail, framing her face, bouncing around as she forced down the lid on her container.

Maybe he had hoped for too much. Maybe he was too old. Maybe his bloody mirror was right.

Suddenly he felt his breath hitch, and he sat up straighter. Sticking up from the pocket of her apron was the pen he had given her a couple of days ago. His pen.

It could mean nothing, he thought hurriedly. But it could also mean everything.

Hermione turned to him and blew away a strand of hair from her face. "I'm going," she said flatly. "Enjoy the rest of your meal."

"Wait", Snape said, stopping her in her tracks. "This was a complete disaster." He ran a hand through his hair. "I was ... out of line."

"That's putting it mildly," she replied.

"Let's try again," he said, reaching out and taking her hand. "I'll come back next Thursday, and we can pretend like this lunch never happened." He quirked his lips, but they felt stiff and odd.

"Please?" he added reluctantly. He despised begging. Had never begged anyone for anything in his whole life. Willingly, he added and pushed a few dark thoughts to the back of his mind. But he was indeed begging now.

"This is a restaurant. I can hardly stop you from eating here," Hermione said, sliding her hand out of his grip. "But don't expect me to join you."

And with that she turned around and disappeared into the kitchen.