3
The sudden light made Hermione whimper as it hit her dilated eyes. It was a muggle streetlight, which made sense, because they were, in fact, on a muggle street.
Snape did not put her down until he reached the doorway of a small, dilapidated building with boarded up windows, and even then, he shifted her only enough to place one hand against the peeling wood and cheap paint. The door swung open, and he picked her up again.
It was London, as far as she could tell, and a nasty neighborhood. There were a few sirens in the background. That was as much as she could gather before Snape kicked the door open and walked in.
It was a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. The windows, covered roughly with planks from the outside, showed the street, although they were all hung with opaque black curtains and one of them showed the night sky. After roughly fifteen years in the wizard world, things like that didn't surprise her too much. But the clean, elegant, almost fashionable apartment seemed as out of place housed in the neighborhood as it did housing the tall man whose home, apparently, it was.
He put her down without a great deal of gentleness on a red leather couch and she looked around. It was filled with the kind of antique furniture owned by the sort of people who never buy antiques, only inherit them. The walls were lined with books, and so were a few of the smaller tables and a couple empty corners.
Aside from the books, it could have been a guest room. Aside from the small globes of glowing light in the ceiling, it could have been a muggle home.
Hermione managed to slow her breathing by method of staring everywhere except the person to whom the place presumably belonged. Bookshelves. End tables. A red leather armchair to match the comfortable couch she was sitting on. Her own arms, one of which was rather spectacularly bruised, and bleeding a little bit where Draco had dug his nails in. Well, no, that wasn't exactly helping her to calm down.
*Furniture. Nice furniture.*
At last, she looked back to her host, who was leaning against a wall with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. She noticed that he wasn't wearing wizards robes, but a long black trenchcoat and black trousers underneath.
"My house," he said simply. "Do you want something?"
"And I'm here because...?" She trailed off weakly.
"Didn't know where yours was."
"You could have asked me?"
"Draco was tailing us, remember? Probably a bad idea to give me directions, don't you think?"
*Good to see that even after those awkward teen years he's still perfectly skilled at making me feel stupid,* Hermione thought dully. Although he did have a point. The idea of Draco knowing where her home was was highly distasteful.
"Yes...Did you create this place?" she asked.
"No. It's simply a convenient location. Muggle London, absolutely unfindable."
"All the luxuries of home, I suppose."
He sneered. "I can simply hope you will be unable to find it again. This area is dangerous enough that I don't think you would have a chance to come for a third visit."
"I can take care of myself," said Hermione, who had suddenly thought of the 'kiss on the third date' rule and was trying, violently, to banish it from her mind.
"Yes, you proved that tonight remarkably well." He straightened up. "You've been relying on backup too long. You don't know how to handle yourself. And, I will remind you, you underestimated Draco rather badly."
"We have a team keeping tabs on him."
"How long's it been since you saw them, then?"
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, then saw that he was serious. Her forehead, on its own volition, sunk into her hands and she moaned. "He would have killed me."
"Certainly. Or, well, eventually."
She felt sick. She looked up. "You saved my life."
"Deal with it.""The Ministry...they're..."
"Useless?" he filled in for her. "I could have told you that twenty years ago. The fact that Sirius Black, bastard though he may have been, was found innocent seventeen years too late. The fact that Lucius Malfoy could buy his way out of anything and was never actually convicted. Nothing has changed except a disgraceful amount of complacency where there was one useless terror."
She sighed. "I suppose Lucius is still behind all this."
He looked at her blankly. "No. Lucius is dead."
"No one proved that!"
"Quite dead."
"Vanished, yes, we all know that, but that makes it all so much worse if he's operating behind the scenes..."
"Dead as dead can be, Miss Granger."
Something was starting to sink in. "How can you be sure?"
He gave her a look that asked her if she wanted him to state the obvious. "I am quite justified in my knowledge. More so than anyone else, I believe."
Hermione blanched. "Ugh."
"After all that fuss about pure blood, it seemed appropriate. Thought I might as well find out." He snickered.
"Good God!" she exclaimed reproachfully.
"I cannot help what I am, Miss Granger," he said carefully, trying, she thought, not to look too amused. "Nor, at the time, did I want to...Do you want something?"
Hermione consulted her watch. It was 4 am. "Do you have any food?"
He gave another cruel little laugh. "I have water, and I have alcohol."
She pounced gratefully on the latter. "Alcohol," she said firmly, "would be just fine."
Some time later, Hermione's fear of Snape-the-vampire was giving way to an uneasy amity, and quite a lot of liquor.
He had returned from a small journey into the next room with an armful of bottles; red wine, brandy, vodka and whiskey and a couple of glasses. Serious connoisseurs probably wouldn't use the same glass for peach schnapps and Southern Comfort, but Hermione was more interested in oblivion than experience.
At some point, she vaguely remembered Snape taking the glass from her tight clutches and gathering the much-lightened bottles, muttering something about alcohol poisoning.
Even more vaguely, she remembered being bundled onto the leather couch again, somewhat more carefully than the first time, and the lights dimming slowly into complete darkness.
The silence which, judging by this neighborhood should have been disturbed by sirens and screams and gunshots and, at the very least, braking glass, was interrupted only by the soft rustle of pages that was Snape reading Plato in complete darkness, and Hermione's breathing.
She wouldn't have been able to sleep, after the evening's adventure, but Hermione was unused to alcohol and Snape had been quite accurate in his dosing. She slept. Through the last shreds of the night and through the morning into the early afternoon, and if she had nightmares, at least she didn't remember them.
She slept.
The sudden light made Hermione whimper as it hit her dilated eyes. It was a muggle streetlight, which made sense, because they were, in fact, on a muggle street.
Snape did not put her down until he reached the doorway of a small, dilapidated building with boarded up windows, and even then, he shifted her only enough to place one hand against the peeling wood and cheap paint. The door swung open, and he picked her up again.
It was London, as far as she could tell, and a nasty neighborhood. There were a few sirens in the background. That was as much as she could gather before Snape kicked the door open and walked in.
It was a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. The windows, covered roughly with planks from the outside, showed the street, although they were all hung with opaque black curtains and one of them showed the night sky. After roughly fifteen years in the wizard world, things like that didn't surprise her too much. But the clean, elegant, almost fashionable apartment seemed as out of place housed in the neighborhood as it did housing the tall man whose home, apparently, it was.
He put her down without a great deal of gentleness on a red leather couch and she looked around. It was filled with the kind of antique furniture owned by the sort of people who never buy antiques, only inherit them. The walls were lined with books, and so were a few of the smaller tables and a couple empty corners.
Aside from the books, it could have been a guest room. Aside from the small globes of glowing light in the ceiling, it could have been a muggle home.
Hermione managed to slow her breathing by method of staring everywhere except the person to whom the place presumably belonged. Bookshelves. End tables. A red leather armchair to match the comfortable couch she was sitting on. Her own arms, one of which was rather spectacularly bruised, and bleeding a little bit where Draco had dug his nails in. Well, no, that wasn't exactly helping her to calm down.
*Furniture. Nice furniture.*
At last, she looked back to her host, who was leaning against a wall with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. She noticed that he wasn't wearing wizards robes, but a long black trenchcoat and black trousers underneath.
"My house," he said simply. "Do you want something?"
"And I'm here because...?" She trailed off weakly.
"Didn't know where yours was."
"You could have asked me?"
"Draco was tailing us, remember? Probably a bad idea to give me directions, don't you think?"
*Good to see that even after those awkward teen years he's still perfectly skilled at making me feel stupid,* Hermione thought dully. Although he did have a point. The idea of Draco knowing where her home was was highly distasteful.
"Yes...Did you create this place?" she asked.
"No. It's simply a convenient location. Muggle London, absolutely unfindable."
"All the luxuries of home, I suppose."
He sneered. "I can simply hope you will be unable to find it again. This area is dangerous enough that I don't think you would have a chance to come for a third visit."
"I can take care of myself," said Hermione, who had suddenly thought of the 'kiss on the third date' rule and was trying, violently, to banish it from her mind.
"Yes, you proved that tonight remarkably well." He straightened up. "You've been relying on backup too long. You don't know how to handle yourself. And, I will remind you, you underestimated Draco rather badly."
"We have a team keeping tabs on him."
"How long's it been since you saw them, then?"
Hermione opened her mouth to retort, then saw that he was serious. Her forehead, on its own volition, sunk into her hands and she moaned. "He would have killed me."
"Certainly. Or, well, eventually."
She felt sick. She looked up. "You saved my life."
"Deal with it.""The Ministry...they're..."
"Useless?" he filled in for her. "I could have told you that twenty years ago. The fact that Sirius Black, bastard though he may have been, was found innocent seventeen years too late. The fact that Lucius Malfoy could buy his way out of anything and was never actually convicted. Nothing has changed except a disgraceful amount of complacency where there was one useless terror."
She sighed. "I suppose Lucius is still behind all this."
He looked at her blankly. "No. Lucius is dead."
"No one proved that!"
"Quite dead."
"Vanished, yes, we all know that, but that makes it all so much worse if he's operating behind the scenes..."
"Dead as dead can be, Miss Granger."
Something was starting to sink in. "How can you be sure?"
He gave her a look that asked her if she wanted him to state the obvious. "I am quite justified in my knowledge. More so than anyone else, I believe."
Hermione blanched. "Ugh."
"After all that fuss about pure blood, it seemed appropriate. Thought I might as well find out." He snickered.
"Good God!" she exclaimed reproachfully.
"I cannot help what I am, Miss Granger," he said carefully, trying, she thought, not to look too amused. "Nor, at the time, did I want to...Do you want something?"
Hermione consulted her watch. It was 4 am. "Do you have any food?"
He gave another cruel little laugh. "I have water, and I have alcohol."
She pounced gratefully on the latter. "Alcohol," she said firmly, "would be just fine."
Some time later, Hermione's fear of Snape-the-vampire was giving way to an uneasy amity, and quite a lot of liquor.
He had returned from a small journey into the next room with an armful of bottles; red wine, brandy, vodka and whiskey and a couple of glasses. Serious connoisseurs probably wouldn't use the same glass for peach schnapps and Southern Comfort, but Hermione was more interested in oblivion than experience.
At some point, she vaguely remembered Snape taking the glass from her tight clutches and gathering the much-lightened bottles, muttering something about alcohol poisoning.
Even more vaguely, she remembered being bundled onto the leather couch again, somewhat more carefully than the first time, and the lights dimming slowly into complete darkness.
The silence which, judging by this neighborhood should have been disturbed by sirens and screams and gunshots and, at the very least, braking glass, was interrupted only by the soft rustle of pages that was Snape reading Plato in complete darkness, and Hermione's breathing.
She wouldn't have been able to sleep, after the evening's adventure, but Hermione was unused to alcohol and Snape had been quite accurate in his dosing. She slept. Through the last shreds of the night and through the morning into the early afternoon, and if she had nightmares, at least she didn't remember them.
She slept.