Chapter 11 - the Date

Snape Apparated directly to Spinner's End. He had some promising new potions simmering in the basement that he wanted to check on before returning to the office. Or so he had told Priscilla after leaving Marion's. What he really was doing was stalling, and that had been the first plausible excuse to pop into his mind when she had asked him when he was getting back.

It wasn't a complete lie. The potions could do with a check-up. But they would also be totally fine without it.

He unbuttoned a couple of buttons in his shirt, quickly stepped out of his dragon hide boots and let out a little sigh. As far as he was concerned, the subject of Hermione was closed. But no matter how clear he tried to make it, Priscilla always seemed to find a way to reopen it. Like a piranha fish, sinking its teeth into a particularly tasty piece of meat.

He walked into the living room, lost in thought.

Maybe I'll just tell her that one of the potions have gone completely awry and needs my full attention for the next twenty-four hours. He frowned, hearing her concerned, inquiring voice in his head. No, it's nothing serious, I can handle it by myself, no need for you to come by, I'll see you later this week—

His imaginary conversation with Priscilla was cut off abruptly by the fire grate, roaring to life. Snape reached for his wand reflexively, putting it away almost immediately when a familiar face appeared amongst the flames.

"Good," Hermione said, sounding out of breath. "You're here."

"Well, yes." He smirked. "I live here."

"Right," she said, losing momentum for a second.

Snape took a seat in one of the chairs facing the fire. "The question is, where are you? Am I right in assuming that Marion's does not have a fire grate connected to the Floo?"

Hermione let out a nervous laugh. "Excellent deduction," she said, a little dryly. "I'm home, actually. Look ..." She paused, her eyes swiveling across the room, focusing on something on her side of the fire. "I've changed my mind about next Thursday."

Snape felt his stomach drop, almost letting a selection of curse words slip through his lips.

"I was thinking that ... maybewecouldgoouttonight?" The words rushed out of Hermione's mouth, getting tangled up in each other.

"What?" Snape said, leaning forward, wondering if he had heard her right.

"Unless you have other plans, of course," she continued, not slowing down. "Never mind, I shouldn't have—"

"No," he said quickly, almost getting out of the chair. "No other plans. Tonight's fine. More than fine." He cringed inwardly. More than fine?

"Good." She sounded relieved. "Great. I get off at six-thirty. Come over by seven and I'll take you out. I mean, we'll go out. I-I know a place." A crimson color that most certainly wasn't due to the fire, spread across Hermione's cheeks. "I've got to rush back to work," she said, pulling away.

Snape stared at the small pile of smoking ashes. Then he reached for a piece of paper, penning down a short note, telling Priscilla he would work from home the reminder of the day.

"Come on in, it's open!" Hermione's voice rang out from inside the apartment.

It was five to seven and Snape had been standing outside her door for a good ten minutes before he had been able to work up the courage to knock.

He had showered. Washed his hair. Shaved. Changed clothes thrice before deciding on a black shirt and black pants. His preparations had been immaculate. All he had to do now was leave it to his delightful personality to win her over once and for all.

As soon as he heard her voice through the door, his nervousness disappeared and increased at the same time. It shouldn't even be possible, he thought as he gingerly opened the door and stepped inside, stopping momentarily in the hallway. A warm atmosphere embraced him as he looked around. A fire was lit in the fire grate. A nasal male voice, coming from a Muggle device he wasn't familiar with, was singing something about a seemingly confused Mr Jones.

He slowly moved a few steps further in. Hermione's apartment seemed to have everything his house lacked. That infamous, undefinable factor. Something that he wouldn't be able to recreate no matter how many plants or — he snorted quietly — dogs he bought. He curiously perused a bookshelf, recognizing quite a few Muggle classics amongst an impressive number of textbooks and tomes.

Hermione poked her head out of the bathroom, a little whiff of vanilla and apple blossoms hitting his nostrils.

"I'll be ready in a second. Have some wine," she said, nodding towards an open bottle of red wine on the kitchen counter, shooting him a little smile before disappearing again. "There are glasses in the top counter, over the dishwasher!"

Dishwasher? Snape walked into the small kitchen. He had never seen a dishwasher before. Even though his father was a Muggle, and he had been brought up around Muggle appliances, they had been to poor to afford one. As a grown man Snape had never seen the need; he almost always found magic superior to any Muggle invention.

He threw the white box another suspicious glance before opening the cabinet, reaching for a glass, uncorking the bottle and pouring himself a healthy amount.

He looked up just as Hermione came out of the bathroom. She was wearing a blue dress with a thin black belt around her waist, and had tied her hair into a bun, making her look older, sophisticated. Snape felt his heartbeat quicken as his eyes fell upon a familiar diamond necklace around her neck. The diamond necklace he had given her.

He took a sip of his wine. "You look extraordinary, Hermione," he said slowly, his eyes locking with hers. In return, she shot him an odd look, like she couldn't decide on whether she liked being the object of his appreciation or not. But then she gave him a small smile, breaking their gaze to smooth out a couple of invisible wrinkles on the front of her dress.

"So," Snape said, walking past her into the living room, lazily picking up a book from the coffee table. He flipped it over and pretended to read the back. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, trying not to sound too curious, or anxious.

This was new to him, not being in charge, not knowing where they were going, and it bothered him. It was like having a persistent itch right between the shoulder blades, impossible to reach. He pretended not to care, however, and was doing quite a convincing job of it.

"I thought we'd try that place, the Three Witches." Hermione had followed close behind and was now standing next to him, distractedly tilting her head to the side so she could put in an earring.

Snape coughed, almost dropping the book. "The Three—" He stopped, put the book back on the table and turned towards Hermione. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said, furrowing her brows. "Why?"

"Have you been there before?"

"Well, no," she admitted.

Snape smirked, swiftly draining the last dregs of his wine. "It's nothing like the Three Broomsticks, to give you a reference point," he said as he walked over to the fireplace.

Hermione gave him a quizzical look. "What's that supposed to ... What aren't you telling me, Severus?"

Snape quickly grabbed a handful of Floo powder from a ceramic pot on the mantel piece and tossed it into the fire grate. "Nothing."

Green flames erupted and he stepped inside. "You're in for a treat," he said, shooting her a little smile before calling out the destination.

The Three Witches was a family-owned restaurant and nightclub, located right across the street of the Ministry of Magic's telephone booth, and run by three foul-mouthed sisters in their seventies.

In it's heyday, the Three Witches had been quite spectacular, attracting not only the average witch and wizard, but also a fair share of celebrities. Nowadays, the Three Witches was mainly frequented by lost tourists, magical folks passing through town and—because they serve the cheapest beer in London—poor students.

Hermione and Snape Floo'd to the Ministry of Magic, and then took the magical elevator up to street level. The entrance to the Three Witches had been cleverly hidden inside a small tobacco shop, only visible to creatures of the wizarding world. An unsuspecting Muggle would see a small, narrow alleyway in between two brick houses, and if anyone would come too close, they would immediately remember something they had forgotten and hurry off.

Snape stopped to hold the door open, and they both slipped inside. The clerk, a grumpy man with beady eyes and a poorly made toupee, glared at them from behind a newspaper stand in the back of the room.

Snape nodded towards him, earning him only a grunt in response.

"Are you of age, girl?" the man snarled at Hermione as soon as they approached the counter. "You don't look like you're of age."

"I most certainly are," Hermione said, slightly taken aback by his brusque demeanor.

"If anything happens to her, you're responsible." The man pointed a nicotine-stained finger at Snape. "I've had enough of little chits who can't hold their liquor, passing out in the bathrooms."

Hermione's cheeks flushed red, her eyes lighting up with anger. "How dare you? What kind of pathetic—"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you," the man barked, placing both hands on the counter. He leaned forward, enunciating his words, "In or out?"

"In, thank you," Snape said urgently, ushering Hermione past the clerk, through a door behind the counter and down a flight of stairs.

"I see a table over there," Hermione called to Snape as they elbowed their way across the room.

A live band was propped up on a small stage in a corner, at the moment encouraging the small crowd before them to hit them with requests.

"We'll play anything," a thinly built woman, with an untamed mane of black hair, said into the microphone. "Come on now, don't be shy."

"All I Need is Some Liquid Luck!," a heavily intoxicated goblin shouted from the bar on the far left, waving his jug of beer.

The woman laughed, then shouted, "Good one!" and turned to the band. A chord was struck and her voice cut throughout the crowd, low and raspy.

"I've been waiting since I was born for a moment like this,
A chance to dance, a chance to live, a chance to kiss ...
You."

Snape regarded the stage and the woman, instantly recognizing her. She had been his student, and not that long ago. In his House, as a matter of a fact. She had created quite a stir when she had decided, against her parents wishes, if he remembered correctly, to drop out of school to pursue a career in music. He racked his brain for her name. Alana Witter.

"But I can feel it slipping from my fingers,
I'm too slow, too fast, to shy, too scared, to tell ...
You."

Hermione had stopped short in front of him.

"All I need is some Liquid Luck,
What I wouldn't do for some Liquid Luck."

Snape scowled. Such a voice. Such a waste. He placed a hand on the small of Hermione's back and nodded towards the table, casting a sideways glance at her as they sat down on plastic chairs, at a rickety table for two.

He folded his hands across the table and leaned forward. "Were you expecting white linen and professional waiters?"

Hermione shot him an annoyed look. "I honestly don't know what I was expecting. But this is nothing like it was described in Wicked Wizard Establishments - A Complete Guide."

Snape let out a short laugh, overcome with a sudden rush of affection towards the woman sitting opposite him. "You actually used a guide to—"

"Severus Snape!" a short, plump witch in a polkadot blouse shrieked happily. "As I live and breathe!"

"Elvira," Snape said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He had been prepared for this encounter, and was actually a little glad to see her again.

"I thought you'd left us for good, old boy." Elvira smacked him on the shoulder and laughed, a harsh, barking laughter. "Where in seven hells have you been?"

"Abroad," he answered, his voice almost impossibly low.

"Always the chatty one," she snorted, nodding her head towards Hermione. "And who's this pretty lady?"

"My ... date," Snape answered, hastily casting a glance across the table.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Hermione said to the witch, holding out her hand.

"Heavens, no, I'm sorry, love, I'm forgetting my manners." She pushed some hair out her eyes and held out her hand, shaking Hermione's enthusiastically.

"I'm Elvira Kaufmann. Owner, manager, waiter and cleaning lady of this place," she said and smiled broadly. "I haven't seen this fellow—" She pointed a finger in Snape's direction. "For a long, long time. He was one of our regulars, you know. Every Friday he would sit on the same stool in the bar, grumpy and miserable. Fitting right in with the rest of us, I suppose," she said, and laughed. "And then one Friday, gone. Poff. Just like that." Something clouded Elvira's expression for a second.

"But now you're back!" she said smilingly. "And I'm going to get you both something special." She fished up a quill from a pocket and quickly scribbled something on a floating notepad, pushing hair out of her face at the same time.

"On the house," she said, winking at Hermione.

"Oh," Hermione said. "That's very kind of you but—"

"No buts, love," Elvira cut off. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Wait!" Hermione called out, making Elvira spin on her heel.

"Yes?" The older witch walked back to the table. "Did you want something else, dear?"

"No, I just-did you say your last name was Kaufmann?"

"That's right," Elvira said.

"Are you by any chance related to Fanny Kaufmann?"

"Fanny?" Elvira furrowed her brows. "Why, yes, of course. She's my older sister," she said. "Do you know her?"

"I've only met her once. But I love her work," Hermione said quickly.

"Oh, her work. I see." Elvira placed her quill behind her ear. "We're four sisters, actually. Me, Fanny, Hedda and Ruth. And Fanny ... Well, she's not ... quite like the rest of us, if you will." She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. "Everyone in the family has been involved in this place, one way or the other. Pitching in, working either on the floor or at the office. Everyone except Fanny, that is. Never interested in the business, you know." Elvira pursed her lips.

"Always miserable when she was here, always sneaking off, hiding in a corner somewhere, her nose buried in a book. After a while we just let her, it was easier that way. Not that it's anything wrong with books, I'm just not much of a reader myself, to be honest." At this she threw Snape an affectionate glance.

"But it worked out for the best anyway," she continued. "She's doing quite well in her field, from what I understand, experimenting with herbs and Merlin-knows-what." Elvira laughed. "I can't tell the difference between monkswood and thyme to save my life."

"That's actually really easy," Hermione piped up. "Monkswood has these little purple flowers growing on the—"

"This is all extremely interesting, but could I suggest that we continue this some other time?" Snape drawled, knowing that once Elvira got started, there was no stopping her. Before they knew it, she would pull up a chair and join them for the rest of the evening. And that was definitely not part of his plans.

Elvira, however, took the blunt dismissal on the chin and smiled cheekily, making Snape wonder if she had read his thoughts. "Of course, love," she said. "I'll leave you two alone."

The evening sped by. Elvira returned with marvelous hamburgers, strawberry milkshakes, beer, chips and two shots of something green and quite slimy. Snape had downed his in one go, but Hermione had only tasted it reluctantly, putting it down almost instantly with a disgusted shriek.

The dance floor was much less crowded and the music had shifted. For the last hour, Alana Witter had resorted to a bar stool, alone, playing slow tunes on an acoustic guitar.

Deciding it was about the right time, Snape held out his hand across the table. Hermione raised a suspicious eyebrow at the gesture, hesitantly placing her hand in his.

"I'm not going to force you this time," he started. "But if you want to ..." He nodded his head towards the dance floor. "Here's your chance."

"Eloquently put, as always," she teased.

"I do my best," Snape said as he slid out of his chair, still holding her hand, and led her to the dance floor.

If there had been any awkwardness between them before, it was long gone. He pulled her closer, and began to move along to the music. It was almost ridiculous how well she fit in his arms.

Their dancing was much more coordinated this time around. As coordinated as it could be, given that Hermione was indeed the worst dancer he had ever encountered. But he didn't care. And it didn't seem like she did either.

Hermione looked up at him. "I still can't believe they're sisters."

Snape smirked. "I can't believe it wasn't mentioned in your book."

"It wasn't the only thing it failed to mention," she scoffed. "The Three Witches has been providing high-class ambiance and professional service for nearly fifty years, and is, undisputedly, one of wizarding London's fine dining gems. It's level of accuracy is clearly quite debatable."

"One might even call it a disgrace to the world of complete guides," said Snape.

Hermione snorted out a laugh, then furrowed her brows in mock thoughtfulness. "We should probably consider contacting the author. Someone might actually get hurt."

Snape opened his mouth to tell her that that would probably be taking things a little too far, when a sudden feeling of having forgotten something came over him. He instinctively reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and immediately felt the papers Priscilla had given him before.

"Damn it." He had been meaning to look them over earlier, but his mind had been elsewhere.

Hermione tensed up in his arms. "What?"

"Nothing. Well, not nothing." He sighed. "I need to drop something off at the office."

"Now?" Hermione shot him a disbelieving look. "It's almost eleven."

"I should've done it this afternoon." He gave her arms a little squeeze. "I'm really sorry."

"Alright," she said, letting go. "If you have to go, you have to go."

"Hermione," Snape said slowly, reeling her into his arms. He liked saying her name, the way it so easily rolled of his tongue. Like he had been saying it all his life. Like it belonged to him.

He looked down into her eyes and put a finger under her chin, tilting her head up. Then he reached down and kissed her gently on the lips.

"This night isn't over until you say so," he whispered.

Hermione decided to accompany Snape to his office. It had been a last minute decision on her part, and as they stood outside the wooden door above the Hog's Head, with Snape pulling out the key and unlocking the door, she still didn't know if she had made the right one.

"So this is where you work?" she asked, stepping inside quickly, but not before casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. She had never been fond of the Hog's Head. Or it's clientele.

"Yes," Snape said, giving her a questioning look, closing the door behind them. "But I work mostly from home."

They walked into the little office space, immediately noticing Priscilla Scott, sitting at a round table in the middle of the room, hunched over what looked like a mountain of papers.

"Are you still here, Priscilla?" Snape asked, startled. "I thought you left hours ago?"

Priscilla looked up, feigning surprise at the sight of them. "Oh. Hello," she said, covering a yawn with her hand as she stretched her long legs, crossing them at the ankles. She then proceeded to wiggle her toes for what felt like a minute. She moved them so slowly back and forth it was almost like they had been frozen stiff and needed to thaw before she could answer the question.

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes, and instead they fell on a pair of discarded black stilettos under the table. Hermione had never owned a pair of stilettos in her entire life. Much less a pair that she felt she could use for work. She suddenly felt very tired. And like she had to visit the ladies' room.

"No, actually. I needed to get some things done, as you know," Priscilla finally said, and then frowned. "But since I never got any response from you on those charts, I've been sort of fumbling in the dark."

"I know," Snape said. "I'm sorry." The tone in his voice, however, said quite the opposite.

"No worries, I've been clearing up some other things. I'm going now," she said off-handedly, gathering the papers in front of her into a pile, before sliding them into an expensive-looking leather bag.

"Is there a restroom I could use?" Hermione asked Snape quietly.

Priscilla looked up, like she suddenly remembered that Hermione was in the room. "I'll show you, I need to go as well," she said briskly, slipping into her shoes.

To get to the restroom, they had to leave the office, walk down a flight of stairs and into the crowded and noisy bar. "I've told Severus a gazillion times that we need to find somewhere else—" Priscilla started.

"Hey, pretty lady, get over here!" a bald man called out from a corner. "Let me see those long legs up close!"

"Not in this lifetime, you freak!" Priscilla yelled back angrily.

"What's gotten your knickers in a knot?" he continued, "I know it's not me, but I'll bloody well give it a shot!"

The man and his friends were barking with laughter when the door to the restroom closed behind the two women.

Hermione cast a side-ways glance at Priscilla and noticed how a couple of red dots had appeared on her neck. She couldn't help but feeling a little better. And then she instantly felt ashamed of herself.

She scanned the tiny room quickly, counting to four stalls and chose the one farthest from the door. Once she was done, she walked out and took her time washing her hands. Ten minutes went by, and then another five.

In any other situation, Hermione would have gladly left Priscilla behind, but as it was, she didn't feel comfortable walking out into the bar completely alone.

Suddenly, one of the doors swung open, and Priscilla stepped out, her face impassive, but her eyes burning with a seldom seen ferocity.

"Hermione," she said, and when she said it, it sounded like steel hitting on steel. "Can I call you Hermione?"

"I suppose so," Hermione said hesitantly.

Priscilla washed her hands quickly, then turned to look Hermione square in the face. "Do you really think that you two have a future?"

"I'm sorry?" Hermione said, taken aback. "What do you—"

"You and Severus," Priscilla cut off. "I've been wanting to get a couple of things off my chest for a long time, and I think I'm doing you a favor by telling you this."

Hermione didn't answer, but merely nodded, feeling her throat dry up.

"He bought you," Priscilla continued mercilessly. "I don't know what you're imagining is going to happen, or what little fairytales you write in your pink little diary at night, but you can't honestly think that he's serious about you?"

At that point Hermione stopped breathing. Or at least that's what it felt like. She must've resumed breathing, obviously, but when she thought about it afterwards she couldn't remember when it had occurred.

"He's playing around, and has been ever since I met him." Priscilla stopped to examine her hair in the mirror. "I'm only telling you this because he's been distracted lately, neglecting our business, neglecting clients, high-profile clients. Neglecting me. And that's something I can't tolerate."

Priscilla looked Hermione up and down, dislike evident in her face. "You're the distraction. And this relationship of yours is unhealthy and you need end it. For both your sakes."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

Hermione felt like she had been stabbed in the chest. Not only because it seemed like Priscilla knew everything about her and Snape, but also because of the way she put words to Hermione's own fears and doubts.

She had been bought, no matter how she tried to romanticize it in her head.

"If this is about you and him ..." Hermione couldn't finish the sentence. She felt dizzy.

Priscilla snorted. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, before walking out, leaving Hermione in the bathroom.

When Hermione met up with Snape outside the entrance to the Hog's Head a couple of minutes later, he was slightly agitated.

"What took you so long? I've been waiting forever."

"I'm sorry." Hermione looked down on her hands. "It was a long queue."

Silently, they started walking down the street. Hermione could feel Snape's gaze on her. She tried to keep a straight a face, knowing that her facade would shatter into a million pieces the moment she looked him in the eyes. So she didn't. Instead she focused on a dot in the distance, and when they had reached that dot, she chose another one. And another one.

After a couple of hundred meters, Snape sensed that there was something wrong.

"Hermione, stop," he said, and then gently pulled her into his embrace, kissing the top of her head. "I didn't mean to sound irritated." He searched her eyes, and there was no place for her to hide.

The hollow feeling in her gut had spread like rot through her system, and yet her heart leaped when he said her name. She breathed in his scent, and held on to him as tightly as her crushed confidence would allow.

"Can I ask you something?" Snape said, his baritone rumbling in his chest, ricocheting into hers, creating ripples in her heart. "Do you think there's any chance ... for us?" he continued. "And I don't mean right away, I know it's early in the game. I just ... want to know."

He bought you.

Priscilla's words were playing on repeat in her head. She couldn't unhear them, and she couldn't undo the damage they had already done.

"I'm-I'm not sure," Hermione said, and knew that she needed to create space, to push away.

So she did. And when she no longer could feel his heartbeat hammering a symphony in synchrony with hers. When she no longer could feel his warmth, or his scent, or his breath on her temple. When there was enough space between them, she looked straight into his concerned, obsidian eyes and drew in a shuddering breath.

"It's just ... From where we started ... We've got nowhere to go."

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