Because their conversation leads to a question that requires one of Snape's books to answer, they return to the library. Ebarossa gestures between the tables. "Your place or mine?"
Hermione indicates hers. "This one, if you wouldn't mind. I'm used to it."
He nods—so formal, like Snape, she thinks again—and waits while she gets the book they need.
The answer they find leads to another question, and another book, until Hermione is startled to hear Padma's voice asking, "Lock up for me?"
Hermione looks up. "Of course," she says, then turns to Ebarossa. "I had no idea it was so late. I'm afraid we've missed dinner."
"Can we order from the elves and continue our conversation?" he asks.
"Absolutely. But not here, of course."
"Different your place or mine?"
She bites her lip and hopes she isn't blushing. "How about the kitchens?"
"As you wish." He starts putting away his books.
She does the same, except one that she puts in her bag to finish reading in bed later.
"You haven't added any of your notes to the margins," he observes, flipping through the pages of the last book.
"I would never!" she gasps. "Honestly."
"Snape wrote all over them," he points out as they leave the library.
"They were his books." She locks the door with the spell Padma uses. "He could do as he liked with them."
"Have you found his notes useful?"
"Are you mad? I couldn't have done a fraction of the work I have without them."
"Don't you think your notes might be as useful to other scholars?"
"Possibly, but I'm not half the theorist he was. Not in Potions anyway." She stops short as the staircase they were about to step on moves away. "Besides, they're not mine to write in."
"He left them for your use, did he not?"
"For my use, yes, but not to me, as my possessions. They belong to Hogwarts."
"Books are merely vehicles for conveying ideas. The ideas inside them are what's important."
"I don't think my ideas are worth writing in Snape's books."
"I do. They are."
"But they're not your books either," she objects as they reach the painting that covers the door to the kitchen.
Ebarossa's only response is an enigmatic look as he reaches out to tickle the painted pear.
"How did you know to do that?" Hermione asks.
He waits for her to enter first, then follows. "Call it a lucky guess."
"Missy Professor Granger!" an ancient elf cries in delight. "And Master—"
"Good evening," he cuts in. "Professor Granger and I seem to have missed dinner. Would you be so kind as to bring us some of the leftovers?"
"Of course, Master," the elf replies with a knowing wink, and pops away.
"Why doesn't she call you Professor Weasley?" he asks.
"I have no idea, but none of the elves do. It drives Ron batty." Hermione hasn't told anyone else this, but she likes it, and when she and Ron are arguing, will call an elf for tea just so he can hear the elf say the name she wanted to keep when they married.
"Witches don't do that, Mione," Ron argued at the time. "And Mum would go spare."
The elf returns with two plates of roast beef with potatoes and vegetables, a bottle of red wine, and two goblets.
Hermione is starving, and has to restrain herself from bolting her food in front of this brilliant man who seems far more interested in their conversation than he is in dinner. He's picked up the thread of their conversation from where Padma interrupted them, and as soon as the edge has been taken off her hunger, she's back in the thick of it as well.
How long has it been since she's been able to talk to anyone like this? At Charms or Potions conferences, occasionally, but there are as many, if not more, social climbers like Slughorn and Cresswell as there are genuine scholars at those things. Her visits to Filius used to sustain her, but since he passed away three years ago, she's felt the loss keenly. There's her best former apprentice, a brilliant Ravenclaw who graduated Hogwarts a decade ago, but since she moved to New Zealand, they rarely talk in person. Occasionally there will be a sixth or seventh year student—at the moment it's her son—intelligent and interested enough to take the edge off her intellectual isolation, but the past several hours with Ebarossa have revived her the way water and sunlight will resuscitate a moribund plant.
The last of the wine glows crimson in the candlelight as Hermione watches Ebarossa bring the glass to his lips and drink. Her eyes follow his hand as he sets the goblet down. His hands remind her of Snape's, elegant and well-formed, with long, dexterous fingers. She only assumes his are dexterous. She hasn't seen him prepare ingredients, but she will tomorrow, when they have plans to brew together.
She looks up from his hands to his eyes, and realizes he's caught her staring. He's looking at her with an intensity that unnerves her, and for the briefest moment, his eyes look darker. She blinks, and sees that they're just as she remembered. She swallows. It's the wine, obviously. She's not used to a second glass.
"It's late," she says, getting to her feet and fumbling for her bag. "I'd better get back to my rooms."
He stands as well. "I'll walk you."
"That isn't necessary. I've lived in this castle since I was eleven years old. You're the newcomer. I should be walking you."
"Unnecessary. I have an excellent sense of direction."
Hermione walks toward her apartments, and Ebarossa keeps pace with her. She steals a glance at him, noticing the way he walks, graceful, like a large feline predator.
When he stops walking, she opens her mouth to ask why, but he silences her with a raised hand. Staring at a tapestry, he casts a nonverbal Hominem Revelio, and the outline of two people appears behind the hanging.
"Out," he orders, and two students emerge from behind the tapestry. The girl's blue tie is undone, and she's quickly buttoning the top buttons of her blouse. The boy looks at them with an expression that's two thirds embarrassed and one third smug.
"Hugo," Hermione says, hands on her hips. "Honestly!"
"Hi, Mum," he replies, then holds out his hand to the visiting professor. "Hello, sir. Welcome to Hogwarts."
"As I'm not sure where that's been, I think I'll pass," Ebarossa sneers.
The girl emits a strangled cry and runs off down the hallway.
"Five points from Ravenclaw," Hermione calls after her, then glares at her less than properly contrite son. "And ten from Ravenclaw for you."
"That's not fair," Hugo protests. "Nott only lost five."
"Nott isn't making a member of staff look bad in front of an eminent colleague."
"Speaking of which," Hugo says, looking at Ebarossa, assessing. "How about we make it five and a detention with you, sir?"
"You wish to chop flobberworms, Mr. Weasley?" Ebarossa asks.
"No, I want to brew with you. I've been reading your articles for years. I'd like to try—"
"Mr. Weasley," Ebarossa interrupts. "Detention is for punishment, not private tutoring."
"How about if I do ingredient prep in exchange for tutoring?" Hugo suggests.
Ebarossa looks at Hermione as if to say, seriously?
"Go to bed, Hugo," Hermoine says. "Sorry about that," she says to Ebarossa after her son has loped off down the corridor.
"Were you that shameless when you were in school?" he asks as they continue walking.
"I'd never have dared to ask Snape for private tutoring. Though I'd have given just about anything to have it."
"And the getting caught in alcoves after hours?"
She averts her eyes, and doesn't tell him that no one she went to school with wanted to snog her behind tapestries.
"Is your son worth the time it would take to give him private tutoring?" he asks.
"As his mother, I imagine I'm completely biased, but yes, he is. He's much better at Potions than I was at his age."
"Then I shall consider it."
"Thank you. I'd be grateful." She indicates a door. "This is my stop."
"Good night, then, Hermione."
"Good night, Steven," she says, and opens the door. She casts a low Lumos and frowns at the beer bottles and crisps left on the coffee table. So, the prodigal husband has returned.
"Where have you been?" Ron demands when she reaches the bedroom. He's sitting up in bed, one of the red folders his case files come in on his lap.
"Asks the man who hasn't been home in days."
"I told you where I was. Where were you?"
"In the library till it closed, then in the kitchens for a late dinner."
He looks at her long and hard. His Auror look.
"Ask Padma if you don't believe me. She asked me to lock up for her," she says. When he keeps looking at her, she storms to the fireplace and thows in Floo powder. "Do I really need to embarrass all three of us?" She glares at him, trembling, half in anger and half in uneasiness about her lie by omission.
Ron looks from Hermione to the green flames and back again. "No."
She's thinks the bathroom door has already slammed behind her when she mutters, "Arsehole," but she can't be sure.