Hermione Granger finds that disappearing from her own life is surprisingly easy. She has no one to call and inform, and upon being newly fired from her job is spared the trouble of quitting. She writes a note to her landlord and packs her meager wardrobe into a single suitcase—skirts and button-ups she bought in the late nineties, some denim. Before exiting her flat for the final time, she removes her wand from a crevice beneath her floorboards.
It feels smaller in her hands since last she held it. She's almost overcome by the urge to cast a spell then and there, but Hermione is afraid—it's been so long since she gave up magic, she's terrified the talent might have gone. All through her years at Hogwarts she'd had nightmares of waking up Muggle one morning, as if her identity as a witch was some kind of fluke—just a temporary gift—and now nature had been corrected. She'd had visions of trudging from the castle in disgrace, how she'd take the train back to King's Cross in a cloud of shame, heading home to live out the rest of her ordinary Muggle life with the knowledge of what she'd had and lost.
She'll try later, Hermione reasons, and slips her wand into the suitcase.
Snape's home reminds her a bit of his classroom. She can still conjure up the memories—wet, heavy air; a smell of smoke and rainwater. When she knocks on the door he stands aside without a word to let her in, pointing her directly to the spare bedroom: a spartan space with a twin bed tucked beneath the single window and a chest of drawers leaning against the adjacent wall. The dark curtains are drawn shut, as in every other room—no decoration on the bare gray walls. Seeing that her host has abruptly departed, Hermione lets her bag drop to the floor with an unsuppressed sigh and throws the drapes wide open. It's a gloomy day—thick storm clouds curdle the horizon—but she'd still rather see the outside world, even through a pane of glass.
The house is small and simple: living room, two bedrooms, kitchen, bath. She walks back the way she came, feeling guiltily nosy as she familiarizes herself with her new home. The living room walls are lined with old oak shelves, which are in turn crammed with books—mostly potions, biology, nature, she notices as she skims their titles—but every now and then a Muggle novel as well, or a slim copy of a play. Unthinkingly she touches a beautiful old black leather-bound copy of Shakespeare's collected works, peeking over her shoulder to ensure she still isn't being watched. It's strange to imagine Severus Snape bent over Hamlet, or Romeo and Juliet. For all her childhood concern with academics Hermione never wondered much about her teachers beyond their classrooms, what they did for pleasure. She opens the Shakespeare and runs her fingers along its title page, reading the name inscribed in top right corner: Tobias Snape.
Growing braver, she traipses back toward her bedroom and sees his open across the hall. It's equally sparse, the only differences being a slightly bigger bed and a large mahogany wardrobe in lieu of the dresser in hers, its door secured with a heavy brass lock. But where did he go? And where will they be brewing this potion? She checks the kitchen again—no, not a cauldron in sight—and returns to the living room, stumped.
As if in answer to her question, one of the bookshelves before her slides open, revealing Snape at the top of a dark set of stairs.
"We'll work downstairs," he says, and promptly turns back around. Recovering from her surprise, Hermione follows nervously behind. Her eyes strain in the shifting light of the single candle he holds, one hand sliding along the grimy stone wall to steady her descent.
"Hope you're not afraid of the dark, Granger," he says, and this—this is how she remembers this classroom, truly—the windowless walls, the cavernous feel, the bone-deep chill of the very air filling her lungs with each inhale. Only a few more dim candles flicker to illuminate the space, a rough-hewn cellar as big as the entire house above them. A massive worktable is pressed against the far wall, laden with glinting knives, small glass vials, and various ingredients. A cluster of canisters and barrels rests on the floor to the right. On the adjacent wall, more shelves bow under the weight of the most complete home storeroom Hermione has ever seen. It's hard to make out the labels in the dark, but she can see through some of the clear glass jars: the various body parts of animals and insects, pickled and dried and diced. And in the center of the room, one enormous pewter cauldron, dinged here and there from years of use, gleams in candlelight. Snape looks at her silently and, as if remembering something, turns back to the room and conjures a second three-legged stool beside the first.
"Do what you want upstairs, but in this room, I'm in charge. You'll come to find it's where I spend most of my time. In fact, it is unlikely I'll need much assistance, seeing as the Ministry insisted on your presence rather than—"
"Hold on—" Hermione interrupts, and he surprises her by falling silent, though it seems unlikely it's out of deference of her desire to speak and more likely surprise that she dared to interrupt him. She clears her throat.
"You didn't manipulate me into coming all the way out here just to tell me you won't need my help bringing my best friend back to life."
He looks down at her, the constant movement of the candlelight casting strange shadows across his face.
"If we're going to do this—really do this—I want to be involved every step of the way…" Hermione sets her chin, growing more confident as she continues. It's been years since she spoke with this kind of authority. She'd forgotten how good it felt.
"I keep long hours," Snape responds haltingly. The light flickers across his features, creating ghostly shadows. "Sometimes go without meals. The experiment always comes first. If you think you'll be able to keep up—"
"That's not a question," Hermione says firmly, and in that moment she sees a flicker of something in his eyes that almost resembles respect—but the light moves again, and when she looks closer it is gone.
They waste no time. Hermione goes upstairs to unpack, leaving Snape to pull his research and notes together so she can play catch-up. When they rejoin at the worktable an hour later, Snape explains he has made ten variations of the potion already—a year spent on each one since Harry's death.
"The finished product, if successful, would be poured across Potter's grave in Godric's Hollow on the night of a full moon."
Unbidden Hermione's mind conjures a vision of Harry's decayed, reanimated corpse, ripping through the soil and roots that stand in the way of night air. She shakes her head slightly to rid herself of the image and looks up again to see Snape watching her closely, having abruptly ceased his explanation.
"You saw that, didn't you?" she asks him.
He regards her silently, unresponsive. She can't tell if he's considering whether to lie, but doesn't give him the chance.
"If we're going to be working together," she continues, "you're going to stay out of my head, Severus Snape. If you don't trust me, I'm happy to leave right now. But I think I'm owed some measure of privacy if I'm staying in your home. And I think there's a part of you that knows you can't do this by yourself."
Still nothing.
"I do know how to keep you out," she adds. "But I hope it wouldn't come to that."
His eyes flicker rapidly back and forth, micro-movements, like he's reading her. "Fine," he says shortly. "I suppose I would expect the same measure of privacy," and this selfish context irks her, but she says nothing, as she has begun to understand she should pick her battles now. There will be little space between them in the coming months.
They outline a plan. The Ministry has allowed Snape a single year for his final attempt before they shutter the project forever. Twelve months to research, refine the recipe, gather and prepare ingredients, and to brew different variations in hopes that one will work. He is willing to go until time runs out, to work around the clock, and expects the same of her. They will sequester themselves on Spinner's End for the year in its entirety. It is better to limit contact with the outside world, Snape says, better that no one knows what they are attempting, lest their work fall into the wrong hands. It is naive to think that the Ministry has truly rounded up every Death Eater—after all, Hermione notes wryly, there's one sitting right in front of her. The task will be grueling, sleepless, and unrewarding, he warns. In all likelihood they will fail, and then a year of their lives will have amounted to nothing.
He relays all of this flatly and eyes her one last time.
"Are you certain you're up for this? If you leave, you can't come back."
But where would she go?
When she was a girl, Hermione had technically lived with all her teachers. She remembers McGonagall bursting into the common room in her tartan dressing gown when there was an emergency, or a party too loud; Trelawney wandering the halls once in a state of apparent intoxication before being ushered away by another teacher, Lavender and Parvati unsure what to say. Even in that vast castle, they'd still managed to witness the men and women who taught them in occasional moments of vulnerability. This made Hermione miss the boundaries of primary school sometimes—the ability to go home, true privacy. The day Dumbledore died she hid behind the curtains of her four-poster for hours, crying for the realization that her teachers were not the pinnacles she'd held them up as, but, in fact, sometimes even more powerless than she.
Living on Spinner's End with Severus Snape only magnifies the lack of boundaries even more. Hermione has no common room to escape to now, no castle nooks and crannies to discover and consequently be lost in. She does have the spare bedroom, which she comes to feel intensely grateful for. But the house is cramped and dusty, crowded with the accumulated detritus of a whole life, and Severus has a tendency to let things blend. There are potion ingredients no human would ever willingly consume mixed in with the spices on the shelf over the stove—she finds out the hard way after a bite of soup seasoned with what she thinks is salt, sparking a rare and quickly stifled burst of mirth from her roommate. After that she goes through and labels all the bottles herself with ink and strips of spellotape.
And books. His books are the main offender—given the size of the house she soon discovers that the number of books he owns more than exceeds available shelf space. There are books lining the baseboards in the hallway, books stacked in piles beside the tub in their shared bathroom, books atop the kitchen cupboards and even, occasionally, inside of them. At first this annoys her, and she tries to put them all back in the sitting room, if not on the shelves then near them, at least—Hermione loves books more than most, but everything should have its place. She has always believed this. But the days pass and they always drift away again to the floors, to the end tables, to the kitchen. So she finds herself working around them after a while, dicing ingredients for soup beside a collection of tomes on healing potions, or taking long baths in the company of animagi transformation research studies. She begins to remember the comfort they brought her as a girl. Every now and then a title surprises her—she finds an anthology of poetry, tries to imagine Snape enjoying it—and then opens it up to find certain pages dog-eared, and reads them herself, discovering beauty within. And like this there are good days.
But then there are days it is all she can do to lock herself in her bedroom to keep from breaking out of the house altogether, to keep from setting it on fire, burning it all down with him still inside it. After living alone for close to ten years Severus Snape is decidedly unaccustomed to having a roommate. It isn't an issue of mess, not really—aside from the books he is clean and organized, does his own laundry, generally washes his own bowl after dinner.
No, the problem is more a persistent lack of privacy.
Once he walks in on her in the tub, his eyes wide, the look on his face freezing in her mind for days after she sinks down in the water so the bubbles climb her neck.
Another morning he changes with the door open as she passes by—focused as he is on efficiency, moving from one task to the next—and so she catches an accidental glimpse as she moves from her bedroom to the kitchen. The skin of his chest is white as marble; the muscles of his back contract as he pulls a new shirt over his head.
And they are constantly bumping into each other, especially in the basement brewing room. She becomes acutely aware of his body, his limbs underneath the thick black robes he always wears. The hard bone of his hip when they collide at the counter, chopping ingredients. His long fingers, reaching. She will never forget the surprise she felt when those fingers accidentally brushed hers for the first time at the cauldron, transferring the wooden spoon from her hand to his. How soft his skin was, and warm. She had not expected it. She had always thought that Severus Snape would be rough to the touch, and cold, like his voice, his heart, his mind.
He never asks forgiveness for his intrusions or collisions. It becomes clear he still thinks of the home as his, and she a guest who's been foisted upon him, the Ministry an insistent landlord.
So it strikes Hermione as odd when, despite this lack of solitude, she begins to feel desperately lonely. She examines this feeling in her bedroom at night, while he works unceasingly in the basement, reading a book about regrowing an entire skeleton or preparing lacewing flies, wing by wing. She lived alone for ten years; she is an only child. Why, then, does she feel so lonesome now?
The answer is simple: he doesn't talk to her. Snape doesn't say good morning, or ask if she slept well. He doesn't call attention to the rare sunlight streaming through the windows or comment on another day of rain. He doesn't apologize when they bump into each other for the umpteenth time, or when he walks in on her in the bath. Even when Hermione lived alone, she would go to work and make smalltalk with hundreds of customers a day. One of them even had a crush on her, a sweet ginger-haired Muggle who always ordered an extra chocolate-chip cookie and gave it to her before he left. She'd never realized how much these little interactions mattered to her, until they were all gone. And now she lives with a man who doesn't speak.
A month passes. Their first delivery comes in. Tiny canisters of powder, the ground-up bones of different animals, jars of pickled organs, the wings of so many different insects in jewel-colored vials, tiny rough burlap satchels. They carry everything down to the basement and he begins cataloging the new additions in a black leather notebook, Snape's master manual of all his trials and errors.
The Ministry brought food as well, since they can't leave the house, and a few other miscellaneous things the two of them requested. Upstairs Hermione carefully unpacks cartons of spaghetti, great bags of dried beans, precious round red tomatoes and apples and carrots that smell like the cool, earthy soil she'd almost forgotten. Snape enters the kitchen just as she's pulling out a bouquet of sunflowers, thinking she can't remember ever smelling anything so fresh and sweet.
"I didn't request any flower petals," he says abruptly. It's possibly the third complete sentence he's said to her in the last twenty-four hours.
"I know," Hermione says. "I did."
He scoffs. "The potion has no need—"
"I know," she snaps. "But I'm allowed one pretty thing, aren't I?"
As usual, he doesn't respond, though part of her had hoped her anger might goad a more heightened response from him—something other than the infuriating indifference she has been subject to these last four weeks. Hermione grits her teeth and sinks the flowers into a flask of water in lieu of a vase, having surmised in her first week on Spinner's End that Snape did not own a dedicated vessel for flowers. She steps back and surveys them, feeling her spirits lift ever so slightly. There's only one window in the kitchen. She can see the sun through it, beginning to sink closer to the horizon and casting the petals in a golden light.
She can feel his eyes on her and the flowers, taking in a scene he still doesn't quite understand, and she imagines he's concluded they're frivolous, a distraction from the real work—like all beauty. But she pushes the thought from her mind.
That night he makes dinner. They tend to take turns cooking, and they do generally eat together unless someone's presence is required downstairs. Of course, Hermione soon realizes this fact is a matter of convenience rather than companionship. Their meals are generally silent, save one of them occasionally making some remark about how the day's work has gone, or verbalizing a remembered item on their never-ending to-do list. Hermione can't help thinking back to the laden tables of her youth at Hogwarts—bustling with food and cheer and conversation. Always someone to talk to, should she have the desire. She wonders who Snape talked to then, whether he had at all; she had never looked up at him at the teachers' table, never thought about it during her time at school.
Tonight she puts down the fork and knife, barely having touched her meal, and stares pointedly at him, willing him to look at her. He doesn't notice, fixated as he is on his plate. Unsurprisingly the red sauce he made tonight is delicious, she thinks as she watches him, as sauces are potions in a way, aren't they? And this one: the rich flavors of basil and garlic, fresh tomatoes from the day's delivery, while their produce lasts. He sits across from her at the tiny kitchen table with his head down, dark hair grazing his shoulders.
He finally takes notice of her gaze, assumes a vaguely hostile expression. It strikes Hermione that just as he is not used to talking, he is no longer accustomed to being looked at.
"What is it," he says flatly—barely a question.
"It's been a month. I need you to tell me what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts."
He eyes her briefly over his fork, then puts it down, finally, with an irritated sigh.
"I survived. What more do you require?"
"Where were you when…" Hermione trails off for a moment, her throat tightening, but soldiers on. "When Harry and Voldemort died?"
"Voldemort set the snake on me. Then you three were there. I gave Potter the—" his voice falters for the first time—"the memory. I've never been capable of recalling much after that.
"I've been told a student found me, someone who, for some godforsaken reason, didn't let me die. I think it was Lovegood. The venom was working through my veins at a slower rate—I still don't know why. I may have built up immunity to it over the years during all my work with potions, different kinds of venom. I'll never know for sure. I should have died, though." He clears his throat. "I should be dead. As you told me a month ago."
A silence overtakes them. Hermione watches his eyes flit to the sunflowers between them on the table; he can't seem to look at her.
"They housed me in a private room at St. Mungo's, which assuredly saved my life. There were people who wanted to kill me on both sides. That's still true. Few have ever cared to know my whole story, or, indeed, even believe it when I tell them. I was summoned to the Minister's office after my condition improved. The new Minister, obviously, Shacklebolt. He already knew I'd been a double agent all these years, though I don't think he'd quite forgiven me for Dumbledore's death—most people haven't, or won't. But how could we explain my mission to the world? Would the average person really want to hear me justify the things I'd done undercover? I couldn't just reenter society." He laughs, dryly. "Let alone return to teaching Potions at Hogwarts. My options moving forward were limited. So he presented me with an opportunity." Snape spreads his arms wide. "My final act of penance."
Dinner sits on two plates between them, growing colder. There are dark circles under his eyes. It's strange imagining anything happening to someone else in the moment she was watching Harry die. Hermione had always felt like the world stopped the second Harry's body fell to the ground. And maybe never started again.
She stands up, begins to clear her place now that her appetite is gone. All she can think about now is how much the sauce looks like blood. She walks to the sink, her back to Snape, confused by these sudden feelings of sympathy.
"I was wrong at the Ministry," she says haltingly. "I was angry, and in shock. You do deserve a normal life, you know. After what you did for our side."
He laughs darkly, like he doesn't believe her.
"That's just what I think."
"I killed the greatest wizard who ever lived."
"It's just what I think."
Out of the corner of her eye she sees him rub a hand across his face, as if he could smooth away the furrows there, the lines of worry. He opens his mouth, seems to change his mind, closes it.
Hermione rinses her dish, turns back for his plate out of habit, but he grabs the edge of it suddenly, holding her in place.
"You've been crying out in your sleep, Granger. Did you know?"
She lets her hand drop. No, but she can imagine. She remembers the dreams she has, certainly. Bits and pieces. Though she can't call them nightmares, really—they're just memories. No changes need to be made by her imagination: the death of her parents at her own hand is still the worst thing she can think of. Not many people can say that—the worst thing you can imagine actually happening to you. The utter feeling of detachment she'd experienced, like her arms and legs and hands were not her own. Watching herself from above as she held her wand up to her parents' faces and did not waver.
He's still looking at her, holding the plate aloft between them; this must be the longest his eyes have ever rested on her before. Hermione realizes she still hasn't answered his question, stutters.
"I-I didn't realize. I'll cast Muffliato—"
"No—no, it isn't… that isn't why—"
She feels a sudden probing this time, like her thoughts are being prodded somehow, rifled unbidden. She grabs the dish and throws it, screaming wordlessly. It shatters.
"I—told—you—to stay out—"
He's on his feet in an instant, eyes flashing.
"Calm down, Granger—"
"I told you—"
His expression is impervious, defiant.
"How am I supposed to know I can trust you if you're keeping secrets?"
She glares, the dish in pieces scattered around them. Her eyes blaze.
"The Ministry trusts me. That should be enough for a former Death Eater, Severus Snape."
And she leaves him to clean up the mess.
She doesn't come out for the rest of the evening. They were supposed to trade off downstairs—it was her turn to restock and continue cataloging—but something in her remains petulant and angry, childlike in a way she hasn't felt in years, and so she stays in her small bare room with its single window, watching the rest of the sunset outside fade into the foggy, inscrutable darkness of night.
At some point there's a shuffling outside her room, which she first assumes is Snape just walking the narrow hallway's length to his bedroom. But then she sees a shadow beneath the door that halts there, lingers for a moment. A bright clink against the wooden floor, then the creak of a few more steps and the final thump of his bedroom door.
Hermione lies in the bed for a moment longer, trying to interest herself in the faint stripes of moonlight falling across the threadbare blanket covering her. She tries to convince herself she's not curious.
She gets up haltingly, walks to the door and opens it as quietly as possible, so he won't know she peeked. His door, as she'd guessed, is closed. At first glance, the hallway appears bare and unremarkable. She almost closes the door with an eyeroll—the time and energy she wasted, getting up!—but then she happens to look down.
Next to her feet rests a speckled ceramic mug full of something warm, smoking gently. Hermione crouches down to look closer: a deep purple color, with small, clear bubbles cresting its surface. She picks it up tentatively, still trying to be quiet, and inhales—yes, the smell of lavender.
A Dreamless Sleep potion.
She spares Snape's closed bedroom door a wondering, curious gaze, then looks back down, feeling—despite everything—her taut, tense muscles slightly relax. Her jaw softens. Some of the pent-up anger vanishes. She retreats into the bedroom, closes the door behind her, climbs back into bed, and downs the contents of the mug in a few great gulps, drifting sweetly in a fleeting feeling of relief before unconsciousness slips over her.