A/N: First of all, I want to thank you all for your thoughtful and kind reviews. It's so lovely that there are people enjoying what I am creating, even if I started this as an exercise for myself.
Secondly, thank you for your patience-I know it's been a very long time since my last update. This story is not abandoned, but I am finding less and less time to sit down and write uninterrupted recently.
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Chapter 5: Flare
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Hermione wakes with a start, and it takes her a moment to recall where she is. Faint light is filtering through the curtains, illuminating the small bedroom.
She takes a moment before rising to ponder her current circumstances, eyes tracing the path of dust motes suspended in the pink light.
It was with unspoken agreement last night that they had both pulled out their wands to cast a litany of protective enchantments and Muggle-Repelling Charms, but with the Wizarding world's systems in a state of collapse, they will have to call on their Muggle neighbors someday soon; they have little sustenance beyond the meager rations contained in the rucksack.
Hermione rises and pulls on her thick jumper to stave off the chill permeating the dusty bedroom.
She enters the sitting room; Snape is nowhere to be found, but there is a cheery fire crackling in the stove. He can't be far. She has a tiny, fluttering feeling in the back of her mind that he is avoiding her. They had exchanged a few forced words the previous evening, and he had seemed relieved when she finally retired to the bedroom.
The wooden floor creaks its protest under her knit socks as she crosses to the kitchen to seek out breakfast.
She is making tea when she spots him through the window, illuminated by the red-gold morning light, kneeling in the neglected garden. He methodically waves his wand and the weeds are ripped up from the earth, roots dangling as they hang suspended, before vanishing with another flick of his wand.
It is the first time she has really looked at him since that day by the cathedral.
He is wearing a dark, knit jumper. As odd as it is to see him in such casual Muggle clothing, she supposes that he doesn't own any robes anymore. None of them do.
She watches as Snape banishes another assortment of weeds with a lazy flick. He looks well, she realizes, without the aura of stringy neglect that he so often carried during her school years.
She pours herself tea and, after a moment's hesitation, pours another cup for him.
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Hermione rounds the corner of the cottage with tea in hand, approaching him carefully, as if he might fly away if startled.
"Professor," she stops behind him, steam rising from the mugs, "I brought you tea."
Snape is bent over now, a handful of flat, white seeds in his palm. He does not turn around immediately, instead finishing his task and slowly removing his gardening gloves. His narrow shoulders are bony beneath the coarse knit of the jumper.
He eases himself up off of dew-damp ground and turns to face her, his face bathed in morning light. His hair is pulled back, and she realizes that she is staring at the silvery scar on his neck with an embarrassing intensity before she cuts her eyes away.
He takes the proffered cup of tea with a curt nod of thanks. For a moment it is silent as they both stand drinking their tea, their hands wrapped around the warm mugs, avoiding each other's eyes.
"Can I help?" she asks suddenly.
He is silent for so long that she begins to think that he hasn't heard her. Then, quietly, "If you must."
Their mugs balance on the dry stone wall as he shows her how to plant the courgette seeds, carefully spaced and individually pressed into the earth. Then he demonstrates the clever combination of charms which creates a greenhouse effect around the garden. It is comfortable, slipping back into the familiar roles of teacher and student.
There is no need for conversation beyond his instructions.
Afterwards, when they have retrieved their mugs and are making their way back to the front of the cottage, she asks, "How do you know so much about gardening?"
"It was my job," Snape answers simply as she opens the door, taciturn once more now that they have finished their task, "In Dunkeld."
He doesn't elaborate, mutely brushing past her to enter the cottage.
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Hermione finds him standing in front of the fire, facing away from her, hands in pockets. Her eyes fix on the back of his pale neck, the knowledge of the scar across his jugular bright and clear in her mind's eye.
The fire gives a loud pop, and then is quiet. Silence blooms in the warm room, swelling huge and terrible until suddenly-
"I didn't know, Professor."
His shoulders stiffen at her abrupt outburst.
She can feel the tension that has been growing between them since their flight from Dunkeld shift and flare.
She continues, "I would have tried to save you, if I had known you were still alive."
"Would you, Granger?" he speaks softly, turning to face her. His eyes betray not a trace of emotion. "I rather thought you had more important things to worry about at the time."
She doesn't know what to say to that, so she remains silent.
"Why are you here, Miss Granger?"
The question surprises her, and she peers at him wide-eyed, "You-you brought us here, sir."
"Why are you not with your parents? Or your friends?" he asks, enunciating each word clearly, as if speaking to a child.
Her teeth clench as she turns to look at the rug, the fire, anywhere but his dark eyes. Snape waits silently, watching.
"I panicked," she says baldly, "When Diagon Alley was discovered and every issue of the Daily Prophet was available for any Muggle to read..." Here she pauses, wetting her lips, eyes flicking back up to his face, "I knew I would be recognized. I left my parents in Australia and came north."
"Potter and Weasley?" Snape asks slowly, as if he fears the answer.
"I don't know," she confesses. I left them, echoes unsaid.
Snape is looking at her as if he has never seen her before. It is the first time their eyes have met for any real length of time since her Polyjuice wore off last night. She looks away, disgust and self-loathing bubbling up from that old self-inflicted wound.
"It would seem," Snape remarks ultimately, "That we are both in want of an ally."
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