Chapter Three
Had he been anyone else, she would have apparated straight to his home and apologized, proprieties be damned. However, he was not and she had no idea where he lived or the slightest idea of how to find out where his residence might be. He was dead, after all.
Instead, she rose early the next morning, apparating straight to the post office in Diagon Alley. She explained to the postmaster that she needed to send an owl to a friend whose address she had misplaced.
"Not to worry, Miss," the postmaster assured her. "Our owls are trained to find any living witch or wizard in the British Isles, even without an address."
Hermione selected express delivery. She counted out seven sickles, pausing before handing them to the postmaster. "Better make it two," she said, digging through her change purse for additional silver coins. "My friend goes by two different names." The postmaster nodded noncommittally and pointed her toward two rather large eagle owls. She slid a letter into each of their carriers, one addressed to 'Severus Snape' and the second to 'Severus Price.' "Please find him," she whispered to the owls before departing the post office.
As she strolled down the nearly empty street – it was not quite eight in the morning, and most of the shops had not yet opened – she contemplated her next move. How did one go about finding someone who had gone to such great lengths to be invisible?
"Hermione? Hermione!" Hearing her name, she snapped out of her reverie. She cupped her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and saw a figure hurrying toward her from the far end of Diagon Alley.
"Harry?" she asked, squinting. "Is that you?" She stopped and waited for her best friend to catch up with her.
"Well, isn't this luck?" Harry said by way of greeting. He fell into step with her. "What brings you to Diagon Alley so early in the morning?" He glanced at her outfit; she was dressed in jeans, a thick sweater, trainers and a puffy coat. "Clearly you've had time to go home and change since ending your date." He smirked. "Unless you've got your beaded bag in your pocket?"
"Don't smirk; it doesn't suit your face." Hermione punched his arm good-naturedly. "And to answer your initial question, the post office."
"So early?"
Hermione shrugged. "Christmas shopping is wearing me out. I have lost my patience for standing in long queues. I was up already, so I figured, why put it off?" She frowned. "Wait, what are you doing in Diagon Alley at this hour?"
"I might have had too much to drink last night, and bunked on George's pull-out." Harry grinned sheepishly.
"What does your lovely wife think of this arrangement?"
"Fortunately, she is in South America through the next week with Harpies. She need never know."
Hermione felt a twinge of guilt. She had not realized Ginny was out of town. She had not been spending enough time with her friends as of late.
Harry seemed to be thinking along the same vein. He laced his arm through hers. "As long as we're both up and about, let's get breakfast."
They decided to head to the Leaky Cauldron. Over the summer Hannah Abbott, one of their Hogwarts classmates, had purchased it off old Tom and had spent the past several months renovating the premises and updating the menu. Hermione had not had a chance to stop in herself, but she had heard from several Ministry colleagues that food was excellent.
The Leaky Cauldron was surprisingly full for eight in the morning. "Wow," Hermione commented. "It's packed."
Harry scanned the room. "There's a couple of seats free at the end of the bar," he said. "Come; let's grab them before someone else does."
They hurried over. "'Morning Hannah," Harry greeted the proprietress.
Hannah was fiddling with the valves on a large copper machine. "Good morning, Harry," she replied automatically. She gave the copper machine a firm jab with her wand, causing it to expel a cloud of steam. Hannah sighed, shook her head, and then glanced over at them. She lit up when she saw Hermione. "Hermione! How nice to see you! It's been a while – you haven't been in since I've taken over, have you?"
Hermione smiled warmly at her former classmate. "The place looks great," she said, looking around. It was no longer dark and drab; Hannah had lightened the décor and added several homey touches including several flowering plants Hermione suspected might have come from Neville Longbottom's personal stores.
"Thank you," Hannah replied. "It took some work, but I think it looks alright."
"It's fantastic," corrected Harry. "And the food is even better. Two breakfast specials, please, Hannah."
"Coming right up," Hannah replied, tapping her wand against the counter. "I'll fetch your coffees. How do you take it, Hermione?"
"Black, thank you."
"So," Harry said, drawing out the word. "How was your date with the mystery man?"
Hermione shrugged. "It was nice."
"Nice?" Harry laughed. "Poor bloke, it must have been dreadful."
Hermione shook her head. "No. I am being serious. It was very nice. He took me to see Aida at the Royal Opera, and then for a late supper at an authentic Italian bistro."
"Then…?" Harry prompted. Hannah returned with their coffees. Hermione gratefully accepted her mug and took a fortifying sip.
"Then we went for a walk in Covenant Gardens to see the Christmas Lights," she continued. She sighed. "And at the very moment I believe he intended to kiss me, I managed to ask a very personal question that seemed to put him off the idea entirely."
Harry furrowed his brow. "What did you ask?"
Hermione took another sip of her coffee. "It's not important; all you need to know is that I managed to blurt out the exact wrong thing at the precise wrong moment."
Hannah mercifully chose that moment to return with their food. As promised, it looked delicious. Hermione found she was suddenly ravenous. They dug into in. Unfortunately, it did not deter Harry from his line of questioning.
"Who is he, Hermione?" Harry pressed. "Why the big secret?"
"It's not a big secret," Hermione insisted, lying through her teeth. "It's just that," Professor Snape's words about acquaintances versus intimates echoed through her mind. As his students, they were acquaintances, not familiars. They did not know him. "You don't know him," she finished.
However, she desperately wished to.
"He wasn't at Hogwarts with us?"
"No, he was not a student with us at Hogwarts," she answered carefully. "He's a bit older."
"Do you like him?"
Very much, she thought. She nodded.
"Does he like you?"
"I thought he did."
"Can you apologize and move on?"
"I'm trying," she said with a sad smile. "Hence my early morning trip to the post office."
After breakfast, Hermione returned to her flat. She immersed herself in busy work; tiding up, wrapping the presents she had purchased the previous week, diving back into the never-ending books on arcane ownership laws. At half two in the afternoon her mother called, wanting to know the details of her non-date date.
"We had a wonderful time, Mum." She reported. She raved about the performance and described every delectable dish they had sampled at the bistro. This go around, she left out their disastrous walk in Covenant Garden entirely.
"Have you made plans to see one another again?"
Hermione suppressed a sigh. "Not yet," she admitted. "But I told you -,"
"Yes, yes," her mother answered dismissively. "You're just friends."
If that.
Around five, the two eagle owls Hermione had hired that morning tapped at her window. Both carried their letters, unopened and marked with 'Return to Sender' in familiar, spikey handwriting.
Over the next week, Hermione buried herself in work. It was unavoidable; she had only five business days to submit her rebuttal on the house-elf legislation before Ministry shut down for the next three weeks.
Still… she could not stop thinking about him. Every evening, despite the throngs of tourists flocking to London for the holiday season, she ate her meals out at various Muggle restaurants and pubs throughout the city, hoping his trusty guidebook might lead him back to her. She need not have bothered. Not once did he appear.
The Sunday before Christmas, Hermione spent the day finishing her shopping with her mother. They transverse the city, moving from the Southbank Winter Center to the more fashionable stores on High, Bond and Oxford streets. Disappointingly, they did not run into him.
He is avoiding me, she thought sadly, as she and her mother rummaged through the men's section of Selfridges. Despite that, she still found herself purchasing an impossibly soft hunter green cashmere sweater that she thought would like quite elegant on his slender frame. She bought it in a size medium. If she never saw him again… well, it would probably fit Harry.
The night before Christmas Eve, the Granger family revived an old tradition they had established long before Hermione had gone away to Hogwarts; they went to see the Nutcracker. Hermione spent a full ten minutes trying to decide whether to bring his Christmas gift along. Ultimately, she shrunk the package and slipped it into her pocket – just in case.
When he failed to appear during intermission, she found herself quite out of sorts.
"What's wrong, Poppet?" her father asked her as they exited the theatre after the show. "Didn't you enjoy the performance?"
"It was wonderful," she said automatically. "Beautiful as always." She sighed. "I just thought -,"
"Say, isn't that your friend, Mr. Prince?" Her mother interrupted, tapping her daughter's shoulder. Hermione looked up. There he was, not five yards from them. "Mr. Prince!" Her mother called before she could stop her.
They locked eyes for what felt like an eternity. Forgive me, she begged silently. Please.
He broke their gaze and turned to address her mother, who had closed the small distance between them. "Good evening, Dr. Granger," he said politely. He looked at Hermione's father. "Dr. Granger." He reached past Hermione to shake her father's outstretched hand.
"Did you just come from the theatre?" Her father asked.
"Yes," he said. "It was my first time seeing this particular ballet."
"Indeed?" Her mother asked with real interest. "What did you think?"
He tilted his head slightly as if giving the matter real thought. "The soloist was exceptional." He turned to Hermione, who was disappointed to find his expression guarded as ever. "Which part was your favorite, Miss Granger?"
"The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy," she said, without any real conviction. It seemed ridiculous that she was standing on a street corner, having this conversation with him. They had a million other things to discuss.
Moreover, a kiss to finish…
Apparently, he was not interested in either. "If you'll excuse me, Drs. Granger. I fear it's later than I anticipated, and I have somewhere to be."
Her mother looked disappointed. "Oh, are you sure? We were going to have a late supper at the Russian Tea Room. Are you positive we can't entice you to join?"
He bowed his head in a move that, had he not been actively avoiding her, would have appeared to be most charming. "Regretfully, I must decline."
"Another time, then?" Her mother pressed.
He gave her mother a warm smile and a sort of half nod. "Happy Christmas," he called to them, before seemingly melting into the darkness.
Hermione stuck a hand in her pocket. The bow on his gift – so expertly tied by the Muggle gift wrapper at Selfridges – scratched her hand.
In the years since restoring her parents' memories and returning them to England, Hermione had formed a new tradition of spending Christmas Eve with her parents, before journeying to the Burrow to spend Christmas Day with Harry, Ron and the rest of the Weasley clan. Normally, she adored this time of year. This year, she was having a truly difficult time enjoying herself.
Stop it; she scolded herself before entering the Burrow. He is just a man. Yes, he is a man whose company you enjoy – whom you were starting to fancy like mad – but you cannot – will not – allow him to ruin your holidays.
Plastering a wide smile on her face, she knocked on the door.
Molly Weasley answered the door. "Hermione!" she exclaimed, pulling Hermione into a warm mama bear hug. "I was wondering how long your pep talk was going to take," Molly whispered into her ear. Hermione pulled back, horrified that Molly had seen her. Molly smiled kindly. "Don't worry dear, only I saw. I will have you know, sometimes, I need to give myself a firm talking to as well. Nothing to be embarrassed by." She stepped back and took an appraising look at Hermione. "You look good, dear. I'm glad you've decided to join us for Christmas day."
"Thanks for having me, Molly," Hermione said sincerely. She pulled out a bottle of elf-made wine and handed it to her hostess. "Happy Christmas."
"Thank you, dear, how thoughtful," she said, tucking the bottle under her arm. "Come in, come in, it's freezing out there." She ushered Hermione inside. "Look, everyone, Hermione's here!"
Hermione spent the next several minutes exchanging greetings and hugs with various members of the Weasley family. Eventually, she found herself seated on the sofa next to Ginny and facing Harry, who sat on an ottoman.
"How was South America?" she asked Ginny.
"Fabulous," Ginny enthused. "Do you know its summer down there right now? It was such a treat to leave the cold and the snow behind for two whole weeks." She rolled up the sleeves of her turquoise Weasley jumper. "Look, I got a tan!"
"Did your team win?"
"About half the matches. The teams from the Amazon play rough."
"Did you have any time to tour at all?"
"A bit." Ginny grinned. "I might have remembered a bit more of the trip if they hadn't taken us on quite so many tequila tastings."
Though she was not looking at him, Hermione could feel Harry's eyes on her. "Why are you staring at me, Harry? Have I got something on my nose?"
"What? No. I just… I haven't seen you in the past week and a half," he said, emphasizing the last four words. "I was just wondering how are things?"
Hermione gave him a look that clearly said not now. "Unchanged." Arthur, who chose that moment to invite the family to gather around the table for Christmas lunch, saved her from further explanation.
Judiciously, Hermione chose a seat at the far end of the table, beside Charlie and across from Bill and Fleur. Harry, with his pitying glances, sat at the opposite end with Ginny, Ron and Ron's latest girlfriend, Siobhan Templeton, a Hufflepuff from Ginny's year.
"Hermione!" Charlie greeted her merrily. "Sitting with the big kids this year?"
Hermione laughed. "I thought I mind find more stimulating conversation down here." She teased.
"We can't promise stimulating conversation," Bill said with a grin. "But we have stronger alcohol." He pulled a bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey out of his pocket and poured four generous measures, passing one each to his wife, brother, and Hermione. He raised the final one in the air. "To Christmas?"
"To Christmas!" The quartet clinked their glasses and downed their shots.
The meal passed pleasantly. Hermione always enjoyed Bill and Charlie – they were both lively and talkative, and had interesting jobs and tons of adventurous – if slightly elaborated – stories to tell. As for Fleur – well, Hermione was quite sure that without Fleur's ministrations, she would not be alive to sit here now, at this very table. Fleur was especially fun when she had a few drinks in her, and she had been drinking liberally all evening.
"It is the first Christmas in five years I am not pregnant or nursing. Bill, fill the glasses!" She cried repeatedly in her heavily accented English. By pudding, Fleur needed a lie-down. Bill carried her upstairs to tuck her into his childhood bed.
Hermione stared off into the distance. What was he doing tonight? With whom was he celebrating? Was he alone?
Charlie slid a large slice of chocolate mousse pie in front of her. "Sickle for your thoughts?"
Hermione smiled weakly. "I'm not sure my thoughts are worth a whole sickle," she said.
"Does it bother you, seeing them together?" he asked, gesturing toward Ron and Siobhan.
She shook her head. "Not at all. Ron and I ended a long time ago." She picked up a fork and took a small bite of pie. Delicious, as always. Molly was something special in the kitchen. "Siobhan is a nice girl. She is very patient. Loves Quidditch. A much better match for him all around, really."
Charlie did not answer. Instead, he lifted his fork and took a small bite of his own. He chewed thoughtfully, before replying, "The holidays can be hard when you're on your own."
Hermione took another forkful. "You said it, friend."
Hermione headed home around nine in the evening, her pockets filled with shrunken gifts from various Weasleys and packets of Molly's leftovers. She had just finished resizing her presents and putting away the food when she heard a knock at the door.
"Who could it possibly be at this hour?" she asked Crookshanks, her half Kneazle cat. He meowed in response and rolled over on the couch, clearly uninterested. She rolled her eyes. "So glad you're the protective sort."
She made her way over to the door and glanced through the peephole.
It was him.
She opened the door.
"Good evening Miss Granger," he said.
She looked at him. She honestly did not know how to respond. He waited. When almost a minute passed, he sighed. "May I come in?" he asked, uncertainly. She stepped aside, allowing him entrance. Hesitantly, he entered, pushing something into her hands as he did. She looked down. She was now holding a dozen red roses wrapped in cellophane and a gift box.
"I brought those for you," he said awkwardly.
She lifted the bouquet. The roses were perfect, crimson and lush, with an intoxicating scent. "Thank you," she managed. She set the box on the curio by the door and went into the kitchen to find a vase. Coming up short, she transfigured a mug into something more serviceable. She pulled out a kitchen knife, carefully removing the cellophane and trimming the stems before placing them inside.
When she returned to the living room, she saw that he had not moved. "They're beautiful," she said, placing her makeshift vase on the coffee table.
"The gift is for you as well," he said. She nodded but made no move to open it. Instead, she took a seat on the edge of the sofa. "Aren't you going to open it?" He asked. He sounded a bit put out. Well, that was all right. She was a bit put out that he had been avoiding her for nearly two weeks.
"Eventually," she answered. "I have one for you, too." She made no move to retrieve it. "Well?"
"Well?" he repeated. He dared to look confused.
It was her turn to sigh. She reached for her wand and summoned two glasses and a bottle of Firewhiskey. She poured two generous servings and slid one across the coffee table toward where he stood. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice light. He did not respond. She lifted her glass and took a sip before continuing. "You've been avoiding me."
"I saw you not two days ago at the ballet."
"Where you tried to avoid me." She raised her brow. "If not for my mother, you would have succeeded." He did not respond, and she knew she had him there. "Why are you here, Professor Snape?"
He closed his eyes. "I wished to see you, Miss Granger," he conceded.
"Why?"
"To give you your Christmas gift." He sounded… rehearsed.
"Why?"
His eyes flew open. He studied her, looking, again, for… something. "I… missed your company." He sounded pained to admit it.
She snorted. It was quite undignified, but there you have it. "You spurned my company," she retorted accusingly. "If I'm such a poor companion, why seek me out again?"
"I never said you were a poor companion!" He argued. "Good lord, you never cease with the questions, Miss Granger!"
"I only asked one question!" She snapped, jumping to her feet. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Considering I saw you die, it's not such an inconceivable question!"
"Has it never crossed your mind that perhaps you did not see what you thought you saw?" He snarled. They were inches apart.
Sod it, her mind cried. She wanted answers, wanted them badly. However, even more than that – she wanted to kiss him.
"You are so infuriating!" Maybe he said it to her, maybe she to him. Maybe they both said it. It did not much matter. They grabbed for one another, closing the distance between them as their lips met in an angry, bruising kiss.
She felt alive. The last time she could recall kissing anyone with such passion was Ronald, and that was during the Battle of Hogwarts.
"Hermione," he gasped. Was he pulling away? That would not do. She tightened her grip on him, raising her eyes to his.
He was struggling with something. She could see it.
"Please," she whispered, and this time, it seemed to be the right thing to say. His lips came crashing down on hers again. This time, there was no anger. Just… desire.