Chapter Two

On Sunday morning, Hermione woke to feel a way she had not felt in some time. Excited. She was going to see him today.

Hermione slid out of bed and set about making it. How odd it was, she mused, that she felt – fluttery – about seeing her surly old teacher. Yet – he had not been that way the last few times they had crossed paths. He had been – dare she think it – downright pleasant.

Had it been Harry or Ron with plans to meet him, they would have been alarmed at his new demeanor. Of course, they would have been even more disconcerted at finding out that he was, in fact, alive.

How was it, again, that she was meeting him for some light shopping, an art exhibition, and Indian food? She shook her head at the absolute absurdity of the situation and began to get dressed.

She knew what Harry and Ron would say if she had told them. They would insist she was crazy, or that she was meeting someone dangerous who was wearing his face. However, she did not think so. Maybe she was being naïve, but she was sure it was really him. Somehow, Professor Severus Snape was alive. Moreover, he was meeting her at Camden Market.

Hermione glanced at herself in the mirror. She was dressed casually; jeans, an oversized navy and white jumper, leather knee-high boots. She added a brown leather coat– spelled to keep her warmer than it appeared – and after a moment's hesitation, her Gryffindor house scarf. Perfect. She tucked her wand into a hidden pocket in the coat's lining and Disapparated.

They had not set a time to meet or even selected a location, but Hermione was not worried. His last gift from Albus Dumbledore seemed most determined to help him find her, and she was happy to allow it to do so. It added a sense of mystery and intrigue to the whole affair.

He arrived about half an hour after she, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, while she was sampling cheeses at a cheesemonger's stall.

"Try this one," she said by way of greeting. Before he could object, she popped a small piece of triple crème brie into his mouth. "It's good, no?"

He stared down his nose at her. Was he going to reprimand her for tossing the cheese into his mouth, right here, in front of people? He did not, for, in fact, he looked rather amused at her audacity. He chewed the sample thoughtfully. "Yes, it's quite good, Miss Granger," he replied after a brief pause. He glanced over her shoulder at the slate signs propped against the various wheels of cheese. "Have you tried the Stilton?"

"No, not yet," she said, turning back to the cheesemonger to request samples of the cheese in question. The proprietor cut them each a slice. She was going to hand it to him until she saw that he opened his mouth just so. She grinned and slipped the cheese between his lips.

"That one is good, too," he said. Ever so casually, he rested a hand on her shoulder as he leaned forward to regard the display. "What else did you like?"

She could not help but feel the slightest bit of delight at his touch. Wait… did she fancy him? Or had it been that long since a man, other than her father, had touched her in such a familiar, intimate way?

She shook her head the tiniest bit to clear it and pointed to a rich white cheddar flecked with cranberries. "That one was different."

He cocked his brow. "Does different mean good?"

She elbowed him good-naturedly. "Yes, of course!" She gestured to one of the Goudas. "That one there, the Old Amsterdam, is also one of my favorites."

He pulled a large note from his pocket. "We'll take three hundred grams of each," he told the cheesemonger, indicating the cheeses she recommended, plus the Stilton and the Brie. He also asked for a couple of baguettes.

"Don't you want to try the cheeses first?" she asked him.

He shook his head, patting the inside pocket of his coat, where she knew he kept his travel guide. "It's not necessary. You are my arbiter of good taste, remember?"

Touché.

They spent the next two hours weaving their way through the market stalls, stopping now and again to see, taste, or touch the various wares. By the time they finished, they were both laden with her bags. She had completed most of her Christmas shopping list.

He, on the other hand, had bought only two more items besides the cheese. A book – she had not managed to see the cover before the bookseller wrapped it for him – and a silver bangle bracelet with a delicate fleur-de-lis pattern etched upon it. He did not volunteer for whom the gifts were for, and she was polite enough not to inquire.

"Are you still up for the exhibit at the National Gallery?" he asked, as they set her wares down one of the tables overlooking the canal. Wordlessly and wandlessly, he shrunk all of the packages until they fit easily in her pocket.

"Yes." Her stomach rumbled, and she blushed. "Do you mind if we grabbed something to eat first?"

He held up the cheese bag. "I've been waiting for you to say the word." They sat down. He pulled out a utility knife and a clean handkerchief from his pocket and busied himself slicing up the baguettes. She unwrapped the cheeses.

He bravely opted to try the cheddar with cranberries first. "What do you think?" she asked, watching him chew pensively.

"Well… it's certainly different." He swallowed, and for a moment, she worried that he had not liked it. Then he speared another piece of it with his knife and popped it into his mouth. "Different can mean good," he conceded.

By the time they had finished eating, the sky had turned overcast. "Do you want to walk or Apparate?" He asked her.

"I love it when the weather's like this," she admitted.

"Then let's walk. We can always duck into an alley and use a drying spell if we must."

They fell into step easily as they companionably made their way across the city. They talked more about the shows, operas, ballets and movies they had seen and books they had read. He had been soaking up Muggle culture like a man on a mission. She said as much.

"I am a man on a mission," he replied. "For the first time in my miserable existence, I am quite determined to enjoy myself."

A short while later, as they wandered through the exhibition, he surprised her by asking after her friends. "Do you still see Potter and Weasley?"

"Of course," she replied. "We all work at the Ministry. They're both Aurors now."

"Indeed," he said, raising his brow. "Though that wasn't what I meant. Do you still spend time together socially?"

"Yes," she said, hesitating ever so slightly. "Admittedly, less so than before. They have their lives, and I have mine."

"Did you fall out with them?"

"No," she answered – perhaps a hair too quickly. "After what we went through… well, I think it's fair to say that our friendship is permanently bonded." She shrugged. "But, people grow up. They pursuit careers, romances, outside interests." She paused in front of Millais' Ophelia. On loan from the Tate, it was one of her favorite paintings. "They'd never venture into Muggle London like this."

"No?"

She shook her head. "Neither of them has ever expressed any interest in the arts. Ron's never really had the opportunity to be exposed to it, and Harry…well, the little he was exposed to have been tainted by some very unpleasant memories." She glanced at him. "What about you?

"Me?" He smirked. "I've certainly have not kept up with Potter and Weasley."

She rolled her eyes. "Ha-ha."

He was still smirking, clearly very pleased with himself. "Obviously I enjoy the arts, or my guidebook wouldn't have me following you around the city."

"I didn't mean that. I meant is it something you were much exposed to as a child? We – my parents and I – always spent a great deal of time visiting museums, taking in shows, attending the opera. It was something I missed dearly while at Hogwarts." She gestured to the Ophelia. "None of the art hanging in the castle is quite like her."

"I completely disagree," he contended. "There's a painting that's very much her likeness outside of Aurora's – that's Professor Sinistra to you – office." He examined the painting. "Although I prefer this one, she seems less mouthy." Seeing her serious expression, he shook his head. "I grew up in a poorer part of the Midlands. My cultural experiences consisted of observing the local lads play football, and watching my father and his drunken compatriots bet on the horses."

She was dying to know more. She started to formulate a follow-up, but he very quickly and effectively shut her down by taking her arm in his. "Come," he said. "There's a Rosetti in the collection I'd very much like to see in person."

Over dinner, she tried again to get him to open up. "What are you working on?"

He tore off a small piece of naan and dipped it into his rasam soup. "What do you mean?"

"You told my father that you had switched careers, and were trying writing. What are you writing?"

He nodded. "So I did." He popped the fluffy bread into his mouth and chewed. "This is excellent, by the way, are you sure you won't try some?"

"I have my mulligatawny," she said, gesturing to her bowl. "Don't change the subject."

"Suit yourself," he said, taking another hearty spoonful. He closed his eyes, savoring. When he opened them again, she was still watching him. "Oh, all right," he grumbled. "I'm working on a series of potions textbooks. The ones currently on the market leave a lot to be desired."

Her mind's eye flashed to her sixth year when Harry and the Half-Blood Prince's book – Professor Snape's book – kept besting her in Potions class. "True," she agreed.

"You sound disappointed," he remarked.

"Not at all," she replied. "There is a great need for more precise texts. I'm sure we'll see a reduction in cauldrons melting, at the very least."

"Not if your pal Longbottom keeps trying his hand at brewing."

"I assure you, he's given it up entirely." She raised her brow. "Though he might not have been such a disaster if you hadn't scared him so."

He raised his hands in front of his chest. "Me?"

She snorted. "Come off it. I know Remus told you his boggart took your form in our third year." They both chuckled. "I'm glad you can laugh about it," she said.

"It's taken literally years, but I have been trying not to take myself – and life – so seriously," he said, smiling wryly. "Being a double agent and a school teacher didn't leave much room for healthy stress relief."

"Hence taking in the sights and sounds of London and all its cultural delights?"

"Precisely." She watched him set aside his soup bowl and dig into his main.

"This is so good," he said with relish. "I haven't had authentic Indian food in eons."

"I'm glad it lived up to its hype."

"And then some. Thank your mother for the recommendation."

After dinner, they went for a stroll along the docks, so she could show him the ships. Before she knew it, it was past nine, and time for them to part. Surprisingly – or maybe not –, she did not want to.

"I had a really nice time today," she said, pausing to look out at the water.

"As did I." He stopped, too, and leaned against the railing.

"It was kind of you to endure shopping with me." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "Most people would not have borne it."

He turned to face her. "Most people are fools, then," he answered. He hesitated, studying her, searching for… something. Lifting his hand, he toyed with a stray lock of her hair. His thumb grazed her cheek.

"Professor?" she asked, quizzically.

"You had a bit of rice in your hair," he replied. He held it out, showing it to her, before tossing it to the ground.

Oh. Well, then.

"I… thank you, Professor."

He was still staring at her. "Miss Granger?" he asked.

"Yes?"

He paused. "Aida is playing at the opera for a limited run. I was planning to go see it next Saturday evening. Would you care to join me?"

Yes! Her mind screamed. Scrounging every bit of decorum she possessed, she answered, "Yes, Professor, I'd be honored."

The next week passed in a blur. With the holidays fast approaching, everyone at the Ministry seemed to determine to wrap up their projects before the break began. Hermione herself was elbows deep in archaic laws and red tape that threatened to hold up the house-elf protection laws she had drafted. Saturday could not come fast enough. She desperately needed to be doing something – anything – other than translating documents written in Ancient Runes.

It was a relief when Friday evening arrived. As usual, she Apparated into her parents' backyard garden.

"Hi Poppet," Her father greeted her as she suddenly appeared. He was fiddling with the grill.

"Hey Dad," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Isn't it a bit too cold to be grilling?"

"Nonsense," he disagreed. "We grilled all year-round when we lived in Australia."

"The weather was a little milder in Australia," she pointed out.

"Go on inside. Mum is waiting for you. She's brought you back a little pre-Christmas gift from Paris."

Hermione slid open the glass door leading from the garden to the kitchen. "Mum?" she called, pausing to take off her jacket and hat. She folded them over a kitchen chair.

"Hermione, is that you?"

"Who else calls you Mum?" Hermione replied teasingly. She headed to the sitting room to find her mother standing over the drinks cart, frowning at a thick book. "What are you doing?"

Her mother sighed and tossed the book onto a nearby ottoman. "I was trying to make some fancy cocktail, but the recipe calls for too many ingredients we don't have." She handed Hermione a cocktail shaker. "Rinse this out, and I'll use the other one to make dirty martinis."

Hermione did as she was bid, and upon her return to the sitting room awarded her drink. She made herself comfortable on the sofa.

"Here," her mother tossed her a small green velvet box. "A little something from Paris."

Hermione set her drink down and opened the box. Inside was a silver hair comb with a flower motif of pearls and sapphires. She ran her finger along the delicate design. "Mum, wow. Thank you. It's gorgeous."

"Use it in good health," her mother said, as she always did when she gave a gift. Her mother moved to sit beside her, and Hermione leaned to kiss her cheek. "How is work?" Her mother asked.

"Busy," Hermione replied. It was difficult for her to talk about her job with her parents. They knew so little of the wizarding world, and sometimes, she had difficulty finding a Muggle equivalent to compare her troubles. In general, she allowed them to think she was a barrister. "I drafted new legislation last month," she explained. "It's been through auditing, and now I have to dig through centuries worth of archaic law to defend my stance." She sighed. "It's exhausting."

"Why don't you bring your computer to work?" Her mother suggested. "I bet if you scanned the files, it would be easier to get through them."

"I can't, Mum. You know magic makes electronics go completely haywire."

"Right, I knew that." Her mother sipped her drink. "Have you got any big plans for the weekend?"

Hermione stirred her martini. "Sort of. I'm going to the opera tomorrow evening with a friend."

"Oh?" Her mother trilled approvingly. "A friend-friend or a date-friend?"

Good question. She was not sure how, exactly, to classify her relationship with Professor Snape. Were they even friends? She had barely allowed herself to think about him over the past week, but when she had, her thoughts had been decidedly less friend-friendly, and more along the lines of imagining what might have happened if she had not had rice in her hair. His thumb had felt very nice against her cheek. She blushed.

"Ah!" her mother exclaimed, smiling smugly. "A date-friend, then. Who is he?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I don't think it's a date," she said lamely. "It's a friend who is new to London, and we've spent a bit of time together." What would her parents think of her dating her significantly older former Potions professor?

Her mother made a face. "Fine. Who is your non-date date with?"

Only one way to find out, she thought. Plucking up her Gryffindor courage, she said, "Do you remember my … friend … we met at Romeo and Juliet?"

Her mother narrowed her eyes in thought. "The gentleman in black? Mr. Prince, wasn't it?"

Hermione nodded. "That's the one." She paused, bracing herself for a reaction.

Her mother leaned back against the sofa cushions and took another sip of her drink. "He was polite," she remarked. "Handsome, too." Hermione gave her mom a look, and her mom held up her hands. "Okay, okay, not in the traditional sense, but sort of like that bloke that won the Oscar last year, or was it the year before?" Her mother frowned, clearly searching for the actor's name. "Adrien something. He won for The Pianist."

"Adrien Brody?"

"Yes, that's it." Her mother said nodding. "Your Mr. Prince has a marvelous voice as well. Very rich and commanding, like Alan Rickman. Where did you say you know him from?"

She had not. "There."

"So he's a witch, too?"

"A wizard, yes."

"Do you work with him?" Hermione shook her head. Sensing the problem, Miranda Granger continued airily. "It doesn't bother me that he's a bit older, Hermione. Does it bother you?"

Did it? Not, not really. Truthfully, they had more in common than Hermione had with most of her friends.

"Well, then that's alright. You've always been an old soul."

Hermione awoke the next morning to a knock on her bedroom window by a small tawny barn owl.

"Well, hello," she said, opening the window to let the bird in. It hopped onto the little stand she kept by the sill for such occasions. "Who are you from?" she asked. The bird extended its foot to her, where a note tied with a plain black ribbon. She removed it and handed the bird a couple of treats, which it gobbled down greedily.

She unfurled the note, and saw at once that it was from Professor Snape; after years of writing miles of parchment for him – always returned with tons of comments and critiques – she would know his spiky writing anywhere.

Dear Miss Granger,

It occurs to me that I ought to do the gentlemanly thing and escort you to the theatre from your home. Regrettably, I do not know where you live (in particular – I do recall you mentioning that your flat is in Knightsbridge in general). Assuming my owl has managed to find you, and you are amenable to my plan, what is your address? I await your return.

~ S. Snape ~

PS – Please, do not give the owl more than two treats. Seraphina is a very spoiled little bird and will beg as many off you as you are willing to part with. I assure you, despite her greedy demeanor, she is well fed.

As if the bird knew the contents of the letter, she ducked her head. Hermione tossed her another treat.

"Shhh," she whispered conspiratorially to the owl. "What he doesn't know can't hurt him. If you'll give me just a moment, I'll write a return." She grabbed a quill off her dressing table.

Dear Professor Snape,

My address 33 Lancelot Place, Apt 2C. Come at six?

Hermione

She gave the owl one last treat and a pat on the head before tying her reply to Seraphina's leg. "Off you go," she said, as the owl departed. She watched as it took to the sky. "I wonder where you are headed."

Hermione ate breakfast and did a bit of work – the archaic laws were not going to research themselves, unfortunately. At two, she took a long, leisurely bath and then began to tackle the pressing issue of what to wear.

Her parents had impressed upon her from a young age that one dressed for the opera. "Especially if it's a date." Hermione still was not sure it was, but she was determined to look the part.

After taking longer than she would ever comfortably admit to, she picked out a royal blue velvet dress. It was long and very modest – in the front. The back, on the other hand, plunged almost to her waist and boasted a not insignificant slit. She put it on and examined her reflection.

It looked good. She looked good.

Now to tackle her greatest challenge – her hair.

She would wear it up, she decided. Doing so would show her dress to its greatest effect, and really, was not the point of such a dress to show off, just a little? She applied a liberal amount of Sleekeazy's hair potion and combed it through, twisting her hair up into an elegant chignon. She topped it off with the comb her mother gave her the night before. A pair of pearl earrings and silver heels – spelled to be comfortable despite their precarious height – completed her look. She was ready.

There was a knock at her door. She glanced at the clock – five forty-five. He was early. She slipped her shoes on and went to answer the door.

"Good evening," she said, opening the door. It was not him.

"Blimey!" Ron and Harry stood in her doorway. Hermione glanced over their shoulders to make sure her expected visitor was not behind them. He was not. Good. She ushered them inside.

"Where are you headed?" Harry asked as Ron let out a low wolf whistle.

"What are you doing here?" she asked them.

"We were in the neighborhood and figured we'd treat you to a drink," Harry explained.

"Have you got a date?" Ron asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Well spotted, Ronald," she snapped.

"With whom?" Ron moved behind her to get a better view. "You must really fancy him." She and Ron had tried dating after the war. About two years in, it became increasingly obvious that they simply were not suited to one another. She was extremely proud of both of them that they had been able to call things off amicably and maintain their friendship. That said, she was in no mood to be ogled by him right now, and more importantly, she needed them both gone before her intended evening companion showed up. He would not take kindly to running into them. Especially as he was supposedly deceased.

"Thank you for your generosity, boys," she said as graciously as she could muster. "As you can see, I already have plans. I need you to kindly leave." She took each of them by the arm and propelled them back toward the door.

"Aw, Hermione let us stay and get a look at him," Ron pleaded. "We have to make sure he's good enough for our girl."

"Some other time," she answered airily. She shot Harry a look. He held up his hands.

"C'mon Ron. We had better go. Hermione probably still has some, er, primping to do." He took Ron by the arm and opened the door. "Sorry Hermione, he's already got a few drinks in him."

"Yes, I can see that." She glanced at the clock. It was five to six. "Harry, please."

"We're going." Harry tugged Ron. "C'mon mate, I'll Apparate us." He led Ron through her front door and into the hall. Checking that the coast was clear, he looked back at Hermione. "I'll talk to you tomorrow." They disappeared. Thank Merlin. Two minutes to spare. She shut the door and leaned against it, catching her breath.

Another knock at the door. It had better be him, she thought. She could not take another narrow escape.

It was.

He looked – as her mother would say – dashing. Instead of his usual black on black Muggle ensemble, he wore a well-cut charcoal suit with a white dress shirt. A black wool coat was folded over his arm.

"Good evening Miss Granger," he greeted her. "You look…" he trailed off, staring at her.

Damn. Had her hair come loose? She raised a hand to her chignon. It felt like everything was in order.

"You look very nice," she said.

He swallowed. "You're radiant," he responded. He extended his arm. "Are you ready?"

The evening was everything she had been hoping for… right up until the moment she ruined everything.

He Apparated them to the opera. "I don't care what sort of cushioning charm you put on those shoes, you cannot convince me they are comfortable enough to walk four kilometers in," he had said. Secretly, she was delighted when he gathered her into his arms, close enough to smell his aftershave. Once inside the opera house, they checked their coats, and she took great pleasure in the feeling of his hand against the small of her back as he guided her through the crowded auditorium to their seats.

He had gotten them very good seats; third-row center orchestra. For the first two acts, they both sat very rigid and still. Drinks during intermission served to relax them both. At some point during the third act, he casually placed his arm along the back of her chair; she responded by leaning against it, resting her head against the crook of his shoulder. He brushed his fingertips along her bare ar, which promptly erupted in gooseflesh.

"Are you cold?" he asked her. She shook her head ever so slightly and burrowed closer to him.

As the opera ended, he asked her if she would join him for a late supper. She happily agreed. The retrieved their coats and headed toward a small bistro near the theatre. "They specialize in Milanese cuisine," he told her. He winked. "In honor of Verdi."

"I thought he was born in Busseto," she mused.

"Near there," he replied. "Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger," he teased. "Aida, at least according to Verdi, premiered in Milan."

She looked at him quizzically, and he explained. "It actually premiered in Cairo, but Verdi was very displeased with the performance – too many aristocrats, no peasants. He was from the school of thought that believed opera was for the people."

The bistro was small, dark, and very intimate. He asked the hostess for the booth in the back and led Hermione through the restaurant in a matter that suggested he had been there before.

As they slid into the booth, he asked her if she was familiar with Milanese cuisine. She admitted she was not. "Would you mind if I ordered a selection of dishes then? We can share." She nodded encouragingly, and to her great surprise, he proceeded to give their waiter their order. In fluent Italian.

She waited until the waiter left and stared at him. "How do you know Italian?"

He shrugged modestly. "I lived in the Lombardy region for the past two years, before I returned to England. It was a… what is the term… adapt or perish... situation."

He had lived in Italy. It was all so mind-boggling.

"Hey," he said, tapping his pinky against the side of her hand. "Why do you look so distraught?"

"I don't know anything about you," she replied.

He frowned. "What do you mean? You know what kind of books I read, what I do, the music I prefer…"

"I don't know anything important."

"I have to disagree. I think those are of great importance." The waiter returned with a bottle of red wine. He opened the cork and poured a small measure into his glass. Professor Snape swirled it around and sniffed it before taking a sip. "Excellent," he declared. "Please leave the bottle." The waiter did so and departed again. He looked at her. "Miss Granger, we're just getting to know one another. It takes time to build a foundation."

She sighed. "We've known one another for more than a decade."

He chuckled. "Technically, yes. In actuality, we were mere acquaintances, professor and student - the insufferable know-it-all and the greasy git in the dungeons."

"I never called you that." However, Ron and Harry certainly had on several occasions.

"I know," he nodded. "We are just getting to know one another as equals. I am not an easy person to get on with, and even now, I am in great need of your patience. After so many years operating in the shadows, I have a tremendously difficult time opening up to other people."

They both knew it to be true. He poured her a glass of wine and topped off his own. "To friendship?"

She clinked her glass against his. "To friendship."

The meal was incredible. The waiter brought dish after dish; creamy golden risotto, pappardelle with mushrooms, cabbage and pork stew, ossobuco and polenta, and scaloppini and prosciutto in a zesty lemon and parsley sauce. She declared the last to be her favorite. He commented that he was taking notes for next time.

"Dessert?" he asked her, as their plates were cleared.

She patted her stomach. "I'm not sure I have any more room. This dress was already pretty form-fitting."

He smirked. "I know. That's what I like about it." He signaled the waiter. "Let's get a little something sweet to go. We can take a brief walk, and maybe your appetite will return. I hear cold winter air aids in digestion."

She rolled her eyes. "I'd love to see the journal article you read that in." They got to their feet and bundled up into their coats.

They decided to head toward Covent Gardens. Most, if not all, of the shops, would be closed already, but the Christmas lights were up, and seeing them was something she always enjoyed. They walked along a bit until they found an empty bench and sat down.

"Did you enjoy the opera?" he asked her.

"Immensely," she answered. "Thank you for inviting me." She smiled at him. "I think I might prefer formally being in your company to just casually bumping into you at intermission drinks."

A smile played on his lips. He put an arm around her and drew her closer. "You're an excellent companion."

"Am I?" She rested her head against his shoulder.

He turned his head slightly, his nose grazing her ear. "Yes," he whispered. She shivered. "Are you cold?"

She turned to look at him. "No."

He stared into her eyes. She desperately wanted him to kiss her. He started to close the distance between them when suddenly, she heard herself ask the question she had been holding back from the moment he had re-emerged into her life. "How are you still alive?"

He fell back as if he had been burnt. He stood abruptly, moving away from her. "Not tonight, Miss Granger," he said briskly.

She jumped to her feet. "Severus, please," she begged. She had meant, please don't leave. He turned a ghastly shade of green and turned away from her. She reached out a hand to stop him but was too late. He Disapparated and she was alone, clutching at the empty air beside her.

She sighed. "Congratulations, Granger," she said aloud, knocking the pastry box he had left on the bench to the ground. "You've managed to muck that up spectacularly."