Chapter 4 - Good Morning, Sunshine
Severus Snape awoke to three distinctly uncomfortable facts.
Uncomfortable fact one: he was not in his bed.
Uncomfortable fact two: he was in a Muggle home.
Uncomfortable fact three: he had an erection.
He sighed loudly.
The first uncomfortable fact - waking up somewhere other than his own bed - was far too reminiscent of his years of being a Death Eater, apparating blindly whenever Voldemort called. He hated that momentary disorientation of opening his eyes to a completely unfamiliar scene. The instincts honed over years of deadly espionage kicked in before he could remember that he was not in any danger this morning but was in someone's home, with the end result being an unpleasant and unnecessary surge of adrenaline that jolted his cardiac system. Surely, he was getting too old for this.
The second uncomfortable fact - waking in a Muggle home -- wasn't uncomfortable because the home in question was Muggle; it was the fact that before he could sip his daily life-giving and impossibly strong cup of tea, he would have to wait the extra minutes it took to boil water without magic. This was rendered slightly less critical by the high levels of epinephrine still coursing through him, thanks to uncomfortable fact number one. Perhaps by the time he dressed and got downstairs, his heart would have stopped beating so wildly as to make caffeine an unwise addition to an already overtaxed nervous system.
The third uncomfortable fact was simply going to have to remain uncomfortable. While his body's confirmation that he was a fully- functional red-blooded male was not in and of itself particularly problematic, the rather hard evidence of his healthy physiology was the result of an explicit dream he'd had about a student. Well, a former student anyway, but the fact remained that Severus Snape did not perv after the children he taught, even after they were no longer under his tutelage. So there was no way he was going to take the matter in hand, as it were. While dreams were beyond his control, he simply did not fantasize about children. He thought that last bit somewhat more forcefully than necessary, in an attempt to quell the very vivid memory of the woman who'd opened the door last night and been featured in his dream. That had definitely not been the figure of a child.
Sighing again, he threw the covers aside and rose to begin the day.
Hermione sat at the kitchen table, her tea having gone cold hours ago. She'd been up since 3, trying to calm herself after waking from a nightmare. In her dream, she'd woken on the final day of the school year, only to discover that she had attended the wrong classes all year long. She found herself sitting for exams in subjects she'd never studied. Every test question was completely incomprehensible to her and dealt with issues she'd never even imagined.
It wasn't so much the actual dream that upset her; she'd had it often enough to know what it meant. It was the underlying fear that had driven her most of her life; the fear of not knowing, of failing to have all the right answers. For as long as she could remember - and for as long as she'd had this same dream - she'd been terrified of not excelling. Perhaps it was because she was the only child of two intelligent and driven parents with the highest of expectations. Perhaps she felt somehow that she needed to overcompensate for her rather unremarkable outward appearance. Or perhaps, she sighed, she was mental, as Ron used to say.
She heard the floorboards creak upstairs and suddenly remembered that she had a guest. Well, she snorted to herself, "guest" might have been overstating it; it would have been more accurate to say that she wasn't alone in the house.
Professor Dumbledore had heaped mountains of guilt on her, all but promising if any harm came to the Potions Master it would be entirely Hermione's fault for not taking him in. As such, she hadn't really had much choice in the matter. Of course, being Snape, he had hardly behaved as a guest, being intentionally late for supper.
No sooner had that last thought crossed her mind than she felt a twinge of shame. She hadn't exactly been the ideal hostess herself, having had nothing on hand to eat but frozen dinners and the few ingredients he'd been able to use for his improvised supper. At least she had an excuse for that: the Headmaster hadn't given her but a few hours' warning of Snape's impending visit. Most of that time had been spent helping Dumbledore set up the needed protective and anti-magic wards. The few minutes that had been left before his expected arrival were spent feverishly cleaning the house.
She wondered irritably at her reaction to Snape last night. His imperious attitude in purposely being late for dinner was annoying but that was quintessential Snape: he would never tolerate being dictated to. Her resulting petulant behavior towards a respected teacher wasn't something she was proud of but it wasn't entirely surprising, given his own rudeness.
No, what bothered Hermione most about last night was being surprised. One of the advantages of studying as much as she did was that very little caught her unawares. In over-preparing for every exam, report, debate and dissertation, she was almost invariably able to anticipate questions and challenges. Being surprised was tantamount to being unprepared, and Hermione Granger did not tolerate being unprepared.
First, she had been shocked at Snape's lack of snide commentary about her home and her appearance. Then came his unexpectedly and nearly sensitive reaction to the revelation that she hadn't taken over her parents' room. His prowess in the kitchen (especially compared to her own lack of culinary experience) was the final shock of the evening. No wonder she'd had her "failure dream," as she'd come to call it.
Now she was faced with entertaining this man who had, in one night, upset her emotional apple cart sufficiently to bring back childhood nightmares. How long was it going to take until Snape was no longer at risk from Death Eaters? With no floo, no owls and no Daily Prophet, she was completely in the dark as to what progress, if any, was being made in rounding up the rogue supporters of the now-defeated Dark Lord. More horrifyingly, what on Earth was she going to do with him during the day?
The answer to that question came to her as she opened the refrigerator door - they were definitely going to have to buy some groceries.
She heard the water in the bathroom start and giggled; it had been a long- held belief that the man never showered. Hermione always suspected that Snape's greasy appearance had more to do with the number of hot cauldrons he worked with, combined with a desire to foster an unappealing image and a possible propensity to be naturally oily, as opposed to a failure to attend to personal hygiene. For Heaven's sake, given the amount of time he spent hovering near them in class, the students' noses would have noticed long ago if he neglected to attend to his personal hygiene.
Hermione had defended Snape a number of times on issues such as this, especially when the charges were ridiculous and easily refuted. The myth that Snape was a vampire, for example, was a story she consistently protested, pointing out that the man never missed a Quidditch match (held in the daylight, thank you very much) and was never absent from the Head Table when shrimp scampi in all its garlic-filled glory was served.
Of course, she'd only made the garlic point once to Ron and Harry. After making her observation, they had teased her mercilessly, accusing her of planning to marry the man since she was tracking his favorite foods. No amount of explaining that she had simply been trying to confirm or deny the vampire rumor would shut the boys up. From that day forward, she steadfastly refused to note what the Potions Master ate or drank.
The water stopped running upstairs. Deciding to make at least some amends for last night, Hermione began assembling the tea things so that Snape could at least enjoy a cuppa without having to wait for the water to boil. Panicking for a moment when she realized that she didn't know if he preferred tea or coffee, she shrugged; since there wasn't any coffee in the house, his only options were tea or hot water.
She set the kettle on the stove to boil, grabbed the teapot from the drain board where she'd left it and pulled out the only two tins of tea she had, hoping that at least one of the blends would be acceptable to him. Realizing that he'd used the last of the milk the prior evening, she also hoped he took his tea black.
Hermione turned from the stove to find Severus standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her. His hair, still wet from the shower, hung even more limply than usual around his pale face; One tear-shaped droplet of water dangled from a strand of hair, threatening to fall onto his shirt. She was startled to see him there, as she hadn't heard him come down the stairs. She was even more shocked to see him without his frock coat.
In all her years at Hogwarts, Hermione had never seen Professor Snape not dressed in formal outfits. Even during the final battle, he'd been completely shrouded in his Death Eater's robes. The lack of such covering this morning sent her heart pounding, with a profound appreciation for the unexpectedly tantalizing modesty of his traditional Edwardian attire. Now that he was unbuttoned, even if it was only the very top button of his immaculately pressed white linen shirt, there was enough contrast from his standard uniform to give her an intimate understanding of the word "swoon."
For his part, Snape was caught off-guard by the woman at the stove. Her fair complexion seemed to have been drained of the little natural color it usually had and there were dark circles under her eyes. The fact that she hadn't been sleeping well - or much - was painfully apparent.
Given the tenuous peace he hoped they'd achieved by the end of the prior evening, he was loath to say anything that would put her on the defensive. It wasn't that he was suddenly concerned with her feelings; he simply didn't want to start his as yet un-caffeinated day by sniping with a visibly brittle Hermione Granger.
Hermione stepped away from the stove and awkwardly motioned to the teapot and mug. "There's either Earl Grey or Irish Breakfast tea; I can go to the store later and pick up whatever you prefer. I'm sorry, there isn't any coffee."
He interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. Resisting the temptation to tell her to stop her incessant babbling at least until he'd had his tea, he said simply, "Tea is fine, thank you."
'Damn,' Hermione thought, 'there's another response I wasn't expecting.'
She risked trespassing on his tolerance with one more comment: "I'll leave you to it then, and I'll go take a shower. If you like, we can go out for breakfast."
Remembering what little he could find to eat last night, he nearly pointed out that the only other choice was starvation, but continuing to hold on to a relatively neutral demeanor, he simply nodded.
Before he could snap at her or surprise her yet again, she turned and went upstairs. She grabbed a pair of jeans, a cotton button-down shirt and clean underthings from her dresser and went into the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she did a double-take at her wan reflection and shook her head. 'No wonder he wasn't snarky this morning,' she thought, 'I look like one of Verdi's consumptive sopranos.'
Years of experience as Head of Slytherin had taught him that women were slow to complete bathing and dressing; he guessed that he would have at least an hour before Hermione would be ready to go. Given the rather unusual luxury of completely unscheduled time, he allowed himself to get lost in the ritual of preparing his tea.
There were six chairs set around the oak table in the breakfast area of the kitchen. Out of habit, he chose the seat tucked in the corner nearest the kitchen counter, giving him the best view of the room, the entry hall and the yard. Settling into the chair, he took a sip from the oversized mug that held his steaming tea, brewed so strongly that it resembled coffee. He took a few moments to feel its warmth unfurl through him, breathed an appreciative sigh, and then dragged the newspapers that had been sitting on the table to him. He noted with a bemused expression that Hermione subscribed to both the Daily Telegraph and the Independent; leave it to Gryffindor's former know-it-all to get both the conservative and liberal slants on Muggle world events. Picking up the Independent, he scanned the lead stories.
He'd not yet finished the first section of the paper before Hermione came down the stairs, putting her wallet into a knapsack. The shock evident on his face made her a little nervous and she wondered if she'd forgotten to wash the toothpaste residue from her mouth.
Quickly gathering himself, he folded the paper, cast a wry glance at his still-full mug and said, "Miss Granger, in all my years of dealing with young women, I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of unexpectedly being the laggard. Are you typically so quick to get ready or is this a special occasion?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow at his question, refusing to point out his tardiness last night and tried to match his almost teasing tone. "Twenty minutes is about the longest I can stand to spend on my morning routine; 15 is probably closer to average. There's no hurry, though, finish your tea. We'll go whenever you're ready. I'll just check my e-mail in the other room"
Snape's curiosity was piqued when she mentioned e-mail. He prided himself on being fairly well-versed in the Muggle world but most of his knowledge came through reading. The opportunity to actually see a computer in use intrigued him. As curious as he was, however, he was sure that it just as impolite to look over someone's shoulder as they read their electronic mail as it was to do so with the more traditional parchment and quill variety. Making a mental note to ask Hermione to show him the computer later, he finished his tea, walked to the sink and rinsed his mug.
Hermione met him in the entry and said, "Ready to go? There's a coffee shop not far from here where we can have a bite to eat. It's on the way to the market so I can go on from there and you can come back here."
"Actually," he said, a guarded look on his face, "I'd like to accompany you to the market if I may." He looked as though he wanted to say more but chose not to. Hermione blushed and then for the first time since he'd arrived, she grinned at him.
"Given my ability in the kitchen, it probably would be for the best if you did come along. Perhaps you wouldn't mind teaching me a little about cooking something other than frozen dinners?" She tried not to look too embarrassed, hoping he would hear the inferred apology.
"It would be my pleasure, Miss Granger." He opened the door for her and she chastised herself for worrying that a Slytherin wouldn't be able to pick up on a subtle message. "Shall we?"
Severus Snape awoke to three distinctly uncomfortable facts.
Uncomfortable fact one: he was not in his bed.
Uncomfortable fact two: he was in a Muggle home.
Uncomfortable fact three: he had an erection.
He sighed loudly.
The first uncomfortable fact - waking up somewhere other than his own bed - was far too reminiscent of his years of being a Death Eater, apparating blindly whenever Voldemort called. He hated that momentary disorientation of opening his eyes to a completely unfamiliar scene. The instincts honed over years of deadly espionage kicked in before he could remember that he was not in any danger this morning but was in someone's home, with the end result being an unpleasant and unnecessary surge of adrenaline that jolted his cardiac system. Surely, he was getting too old for this.
The second uncomfortable fact - waking in a Muggle home -- wasn't uncomfortable because the home in question was Muggle; it was the fact that before he could sip his daily life-giving and impossibly strong cup of tea, he would have to wait the extra minutes it took to boil water without magic. This was rendered slightly less critical by the high levels of epinephrine still coursing through him, thanks to uncomfortable fact number one. Perhaps by the time he dressed and got downstairs, his heart would have stopped beating so wildly as to make caffeine an unwise addition to an already overtaxed nervous system.
The third uncomfortable fact was simply going to have to remain uncomfortable. While his body's confirmation that he was a fully- functional red-blooded male was not in and of itself particularly problematic, the rather hard evidence of his healthy physiology was the result of an explicit dream he'd had about a student. Well, a former student anyway, but the fact remained that Severus Snape did not perv after the children he taught, even after they were no longer under his tutelage. So there was no way he was going to take the matter in hand, as it were. While dreams were beyond his control, he simply did not fantasize about children. He thought that last bit somewhat more forcefully than necessary, in an attempt to quell the very vivid memory of the woman who'd opened the door last night and been featured in his dream. That had definitely not been the figure of a child.
Sighing again, he threw the covers aside and rose to begin the day.
Hermione sat at the kitchen table, her tea having gone cold hours ago. She'd been up since 3, trying to calm herself after waking from a nightmare. In her dream, she'd woken on the final day of the school year, only to discover that she had attended the wrong classes all year long. She found herself sitting for exams in subjects she'd never studied. Every test question was completely incomprehensible to her and dealt with issues she'd never even imagined.
It wasn't so much the actual dream that upset her; she'd had it often enough to know what it meant. It was the underlying fear that had driven her most of her life; the fear of not knowing, of failing to have all the right answers. For as long as she could remember - and for as long as she'd had this same dream - she'd been terrified of not excelling. Perhaps it was because she was the only child of two intelligent and driven parents with the highest of expectations. Perhaps she felt somehow that she needed to overcompensate for her rather unremarkable outward appearance. Or perhaps, she sighed, she was mental, as Ron used to say.
She heard the floorboards creak upstairs and suddenly remembered that she had a guest. Well, she snorted to herself, "guest" might have been overstating it; it would have been more accurate to say that she wasn't alone in the house.
Professor Dumbledore had heaped mountains of guilt on her, all but promising if any harm came to the Potions Master it would be entirely Hermione's fault for not taking him in. As such, she hadn't really had much choice in the matter. Of course, being Snape, he had hardly behaved as a guest, being intentionally late for supper.
No sooner had that last thought crossed her mind than she felt a twinge of shame. She hadn't exactly been the ideal hostess herself, having had nothing on hand to eat but frozen dinners and the few ingredients he'd been able to use for his improvised supper. At least she had an excuse for that: the Headmaster hadn't given her but a few hours' warning of Snape's impending visit. Most of that time had been spent helping Dumbledore set up the needed protective and anti-magic wards. The few minutes that had been left before his expected arrival were spent feverishly cleaning the house.
She wondered irritably at her reaction to Snape last night. His imperious attitude in purposely being late for dinner was annoying but that was quintessential Snape: he would never tolerate being dictated to. Her resulting petulant behavior towards a respected teacher wasn't something she was proud of but it wasn't entirely surprising, given his own rudeness.
No, what bothered Hermione most about last night was being surprised. One of the advantages of studying as much as she did was that very little caught her unawares. In over-preparing for every exam, report, debate and dissertation, she was almost invariably able to anticipate questions and challenges. Being surprised was tantamount to being unprepared, and Hermione Granger did not tolerate being unprepared.
First, she had been shocked at Snape's lack of snide commentary about her home and her appearance. Then came his unexpectedly and nearly sensitive reaction to the revelation that she hadn't taken over her parents' room. His prowess in the kitchen (especially compared to her own lack of culinary experience) was the final shock of the evening. No wonder she'd had her "failure dream," as she'd come to call it.
Now she was faced with entertaining this man who had, in one night, upset her emotional apple cart sufficiently to bring back childhood nightmares. How long was it going to take until Snape was no longer at risk from Death Eaters? With no floo, no owls and no Daily Prophet, she was completely in the dark as to what progress, if any, was being made in rounding up the rogue supporters of the now-defeated Dark Lord. More horrifyingly, what on Earth was she going to do with him during the day?
The answer to that question came to her as she opened the refrigerator door - they were definitely going to have to buy some groceries.
She heard the water in the bathroom start and giggled; it had been a long- held belief that the man never showered. Hermione always suspected that Snape's greasy appearance had more to do with the number of hot cauldrons he worked with, combined with a desire to foster an unappealing image and a possible propensity to be naturally oily, as opposed to a failure to attend to personal hygiene. For Heaven's sake, given the amount of time he spent hovering near them in class, the students' noses would have noticed long ago if he neglected to attend to his personal hygiene.
Hermione had defended Snape a number of times on issues such as this, especially when the charges were ridiculous and easily refuted. The myth that Snape was a vampire, for example, was a story she consistently protested, pointing out that the man never missed a Quidditch match (held in the daylight, thank you very much) and was never absent from the Head Table when shrimp scampi in all its garlic-filled glory was served.
Of course, she'd only made the garlic point once to Ron and Harry. After making her observation, they had teased her mercilessly, accusing her of planning to marry the man since she was tracking his favorite foods. No amount of explaining that she had simply been trying to confirm or deny the vampire rumor would shut the boys up. From that day forward, she steadfastly refused to note what the Potions Master ate or drank.
The water stopped running upstairs. Deciding to make at least some amends for last night, Hermione began assembling the tea things so that Snape could at least enjoy a cuppa without having to wait for the water to boil. Panicking for a moment when she realized that she didn't know if he preferred tea or coffee, she shrugged; since there wasn't any coffee in the house, his only options were tea or hot water.
She set the kettle on the stove to boil, grabbed the teapot from the drain board where she'd left it and pulled out the only two tins of tea she had, hoping that at least one of the blends would be acceptable to him. Realizing that he'd used the last of the milk the prior evening, she also hoped he took his tea black.
Hermione turned from the stove to find Severus standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her. His hair, still wet from the shower, hung even more limply than usual around his pale face; One tear-shaped droplet of water dangled from a strand of hair, threatening to fall onto his shirt. She was startled to see him there, as she hadn't heard him come down the stairs. She was even more shocked to see him without his frock coat.
In all her years at Hogwarts, Hermione had never seen Professor Snape not dressed in formal outfits. Even during the final battle, he'd been completely shrouded in his Death Eater's robes. The lack of such covering this morning sent her heart pounding, with a profound appreciation for the unexpectedly tantalizing modesty of his traditional Edwardian attire. Now that he was unbuttoned, even if it was only the very top button of his immaculately pressed white linen shirt, there was enough contrast from his standard uniform to give her an intimate understanding of the word "swoon."
For his part, Snape was caught off-guard by the woman at the stove. Her fair complexion seemed to have been drained of the little natural color it usually had and there were dark circles under her eyes. The fact that she hadn't been sleeping well - or much - was painfully apparent.
Given the tenuous peace he hoped they'd achieved by the end of the prior evening, he was loath to say anything that would put her on the defensive. It wasn't that he was suddenly concerned with her feelings; he simply didn't want to start his as yet un-caffeinated day by sniping with a visibly brittle Hermione Granger.
Hermione stepped away from the stove and awkwardly motioned to the teapot and mug. "There's either Earl Grey or Irish Breakfast tea; I can go to the store later and pick up whatever you prefer. I'm sorry, there isn't any coffee."
He interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. Resisting the temptation to tell her to stop her incessant babbling at least until he'd had his tea, he said simply, "Tea is fine, thank you."
'Damn,' Hermione thought, 'there's another response I wasn't expecting.'
She risked trespassing on his tolerance with one more comment: "I'll leave you to it then, and I'll go take a shower. If you like, we can go out for breakfast."
Remembering what little he could find to eat last night, he nearly pointed out that the only other choice was starvation, but continuing to hold on to a relatively neutral demeanor, he simply nodded.
Before he could snap at her or surprise her yet again, she turned and went upstairs. She grabbed a pair of jeans, a cotton button-down shirt and clean underthings from her dresser and went into the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she did a double-take at her wan reflection and shook her head. 'No wonder he wasn't snarky this morning,' she thought, 'I look like one of Verdi's consumptive sopranos.'
Years of experience as Head of Slytherin had taught him that women were slow to complete bathing and dressing; he guessed that he would have at least an hour before Hermione would be ready to go. Given the rather unusual luxury of completely unscheduled time, he allowed himself to get lost in the ritual of preparing his tea.
There were six chairs set around the oak table in the breakfast area of the kitchen. Out of habit, he chose the seat tucked in the corner nearest the kitchen counter, giving him the best view of the room, the entry hall and the yard. Settling into the chair, he took a sip from the oversized mug that held his steaming tea, brewed so strongly that it resembled coffee. He took a few moments to feel its warmth unfurl through him, breathed an appreciative sigh, and then dragged the newspapers that had been sitting on the table to him. He noted with a bemused expression that Hermione subscribed to both the Daily Telegraph and the Independent; leave it to Gryffindor's former know-it-all to get both the conservative and liberal slants on Muggle world events. Picking up the Independent, he scanned the lead stories.
He'd not yet finished the first section of the paper before Hermione came down the stairs, putting her wallet into a knapsack. The shock evident on his face made her a little nervous and she wondered if she'd forgotten to wash the toothpaste residue from her mouth.
Quickly gathering himself, he folded the paper, cast a wry glance at his still-full mug and said, "Miss Granger, in all my years of dealing with young women, I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of unexpectedly being the laggard. Are you typically so quick to get ready or is this a special occasion?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow at his question, refusing to point out his tardiness last night and tried to match his almost teasing tone. "Twenty minutes is about the longest I can stand to spend on my morning routine; 15 is probably closer to average. There's no hurry, though, finish your tea. We'll go whenever you're ready. I'll just check my e-mail in the other room"
Snape's curiosity was piqued when she mentioned e-mail. He prided himself on being fairly well-versed in the Muggle world but most of his knowledge came through reading. The opportunity to actually see a computer in use intrigued him. As curious as he was, however, he was sure that it just as impolite to look over someone's shoulder as they read their electronic mail as it was to do so with the more traditional parchment and quill variety. Making a mental note to ask Hermione to show him the computer later, he finished his tea, walked to the sink and rinsed his mug.
Hermione met him in the entry and said, "Ready to go? There's a coffee shop not far from here where we can have a bite to eat. It's on the way to the market so I can go on from there and you can come back here."
"Actually," he said, a guarded look on his face, "I'd like to accompany you to the market if I may." He looked as though he wanted to say more but chose not to. Hermione blushed and then for the first time since he'd arrived, she grinned at him.
"Given my ability in the kitchen, it probably would be for the best if you did come along. Perhaps you wouldn't mind teaching me a little about cooking something other than frozen dinners?" She tried not to look too embarrassed, hoping he would hear the inferred apology.
"It would be my pleasure, Miss Granger." He opened the door for her and she chastised herself for worrying that a Slytherin wouldn't be able to pick up on a subtle message. "Shall we?"
