December 6th
"Darling!"
Snape was sure he could hear the exclamation points as Ms Patil squealed when Hermione entered the room ahead of him.
So far, he was regretting the expresso he had drunk on meeting Hermione earlier - or, at least, wished he had had the foresight to order it decaffeinated. A heightened state of senses was, emphatically, not the right state in which to enter Ms Patil's current domain.
The place was pink. Very, very, pink. If someone had deliberately set out to create the complete opposite to the Hogwarts' dungeons, this would be the result; it was not out of the question that such had been the intent, of course. The offices of Ms Magic were covered in every imaginable shade of pink, and then a few more shades that Snape was fairly certain he would never have imagined. Everything was pink and soft - cushioned, even to the walls. He wondered whether the effect was the result of charms, or whether some hapless fool had been employed to decorate it in this way.
The exception to the rule of pink was the staff; they all appeared to wear unrelieved black. That should have made Snape feel considerably more comfortable, but it was a style of black dressing that he had no real acquaintance with. In general it was over-tailored or under-endowed with fabric - he tried not to wince at the particularly short robes worn by a woman who, frankly, had no business exposing such legs to the rest of the population. At least, not without a warning. Pallid and pasty, as only English legs could be. She could at least have tried a tanning charm, thought Snape idly, trying to distract himself from the moment. Possibly even a toning charm.
Whoever she was, she of the ill-advised robes, she had been a Hogwarts pupil. Hufflepuff, he thought, although he couldn't recall her - but she clearly remembered him, watching him with horror and fear. It frankly amused him - and it was a quick way to tell which of the staff were English, for they all mirrored her expression. The others simply stared at him - the room had gone quiet when he walked in. No doubt all wondering what their worst nightmare was doing, walking into their office.
He followed Hermione, and the exclamation points, into the small room that served as the editor's office. Closing the door, he heard a babble of noise break out behind him. No doubt the Hogwarts alumni were enlightening the rest of the staff as to precisely who, and what, he was. Wildly exaggerated, of course.
The silence had passed into this room now; Ms Patil was staring at him, open-mouthed, clearly caught entirely speechless - she had obviously been expecting the wunderkind to follow Hermione.
A vision in pink, just as her staff wore black, and with an over-made up face, she was still recognizably the disinterested dunderhead he had taught for seven years. Unfortunately, she regained her voice all too rapidly.
"Hermione? Why is Professor Snape with you?" The exclamation points had been replaced by question marks.
XXXXXXXXX
A few explanations later the exclamation points were beginning to edge their way back into the conversation. As Hermione had predicted, Ms Patil had swallowed their concocted reason for Snape's presence without comment or question - for some reason, once she had established that he wasn't there to present any kind of impediment to the Ms Magic skincare range that she was clearly determined to have made, she simply ignored him and addressed Hermione.
"Right," she announced after a while, dismissing the explanations once they had established that work would commence. She paced the room, with a DictoQuill scribbling on a parchment on her desk as she spoke. Snape found it interesting that she felt the need to record every conversation so minutely.
"I need haircare products - shampoo, conditioner, mask, oils - for four basic hair types," she said, rapidly, her rate of conversation speeding back up now that she had regained her equilibrium. She still shot the odd, nervous, glance at Snape but on the whole had apparently decided to ignore him as a necessary evil. Not much different from her attitude in class, as he recalled. "We'll need dry, normal, oily and dandruff; we need to be able to claim that it's comprehensive. Also facial products - cleanser, toner, face mask, moisturiser, intensive moisturiser. Dry, normal and oily skin, plus combination skin products."
"Would you prefer a foaming cleanser or a milk type?"
Snape almost smiled at Hermione's bitten-off acid tone; the list of requirements had been rattled off almost without breath and certainly without any pretence at social niceties. Ms Patil knew what she wanted, and she was obviously not inclined to pretty up the demands; he rather thought that she believed that Hermione's supposed poverty was enough to compel her acquiescence.
"Both," came the short reply in the middle of his musings. "And I'll need the prototypes for the board meeting just before Christmas. There won't be any problem with that, will there?" If ever a question had expected the answer no, this was it. "I can let you have a small advance on the fee for ingredients for testing - in fact, I'll set up an account at the apothecary in Diagon Alley for you. Just get whatever you need from there."
Snape eyed Patil; back-tracking on the advance was interesting. Did she not trust Hermione with the money? She had grown into a peculiar woman, in many ways: for all that she covered herself and her surroundings in pink, she was anything but the embodiment of that colour. Determined to have her own way, careless of others. Maybe not so different from the Hogwarts pupil after all. There was also something in her tone of voice as she handed them on the prototype date; she was worried about something and Snape wondered just how important this project was to her. And what capital he could make out of that importance. Details together added up to an insecurity that could be exploited - recording the conversation, the somewhat bullying tone, and the unwillingness to trust. It was ... interesting; it was also definitely at odds with the pink fluffy image that she painstakingly created.
Patil busied herself behind her desk, shuffling papers importantly and reaching for Floo powder, presumably to catch up on calls to other hapless individuals.
"I'll need samples of each, with the recipes. Oh, and we'll need lip balm, eye cream, and two types of hand cream - for normal and dry skin," she added as an afterthought.
"The rights to the recipes will not be available, unless you choose to pay an additional fee for those. You can have a licence only. The ... lip balm and so on will have to wait. It will take all the available time simply to reproduce the products you initially requested." Snape thought that, against his better wishes, he should bring himself into the rather one-way conversation. The range of products she had mentioned would take quite enough time to deal with and, besides, he had no potions recipes immediately available to deal with these new requests.
Whilst the concoctions would hardly tax his abilities, or Hermione's, he had had quite enough of Patil's steamroller mentality. He was also unimpressed by the idea that they should simply turn over the recipes for the rather meagre amount discussed; never mind that there was nothing particularly secret or unusual in the ingredients or processes. Besides, he disliked the concept of someone having things all their own way, particularly when that someone was a rather foolish young woman. Hermione seemed oddly silent and, as he risked a quick look at her, it was hard to tell whether she was smothering fury or laughter.
"We will also not be able to produce the products in commercial quantities, as you originally requested. We both have other things to do with our time. You can have prototypes and recipes, but no more." Other things to do - that was putting it mildly. Cleaning the laboratory with a toothbrush. Re-alphabetising the library. Anything but churn out cosmetics.
Ms Patil blinked at him, and Snape thought again that she had managed to tune him out of the meeting entirely. His interruption to her monologue was obviously not particularly welcome. She stared briefly at him, then shrugged.
"Fine, we'll make arrangements for bulk reproduction. Right, that should be it. I'll hand you over to my assistant, she'll show you around the offices." Hell, did they have to? Snape winced inwardly at the thought of more pink. "She'll show you the mock-ups we done for the packaging as well. Let me know if you want anything changed." And I'll make sure nothing is altered, added Snape to himself.
December 7th
Hermione watched Severus Snape as he sniffed suspiciously at the contents of his glass. He gave an experimental poke with the decorated plastic stirrer, thoughtfully supplied by the bartender. Crushed ice slid melodically against glass. He withdrew the stirrer from the mix and the small pieces of green plant floating on the surface of the concoction drifted to a slow standstill.
"Remind me again exactly what this is," he said.
"It's a mint julep."
Hermione, having no need of any form of prior analysis, was two thirds of the way down her own glass.
"And why exactly do I wish to add sugar and flavouring to an otherwise perfectly acceptable bourbon?"
The immediate answer was, of course, because it tasted good. The intermediate answer - the OWL level response, if you will - was that some experiences were just better when viewed through specific chemical filters.
On the whole, Parvati had dealt better with the concept of Snape than might have been expected, insofar as you could call simply refusing to admit the existence of a fact "dealing with it". In fact, she had always been able to dismiss any information she preferred the world not to contain; the need to study for examinations, for example. Add to that a tendency to single-mindedly pursue an objective, be it a boyfriend or a new set of robes and ten years of fashion journalism, and you had fluffy pinkness distilled into a form of direct ruthlessness that was slightly disturbing.
Although Pavarti's instinctive startle reaction to Snape's abrupt intrusion into her slightly panicked stream of consciousness had proved to be an unexpectedly sharp accent in an otherwise monorose afternoon.
All in all, Hermione had found the whole day more than a little disorientating and somehow, a return to Oxford to mull over things in her own rooms, had not seemed nearly as appealing as a drink and maybe supper in London. She hadn't quite laid out the entire scheme to Snape himself, but he was oddly unresisting as she pulled him into the Wine Bar, as typical of its kind as the earlier coffee shop had been.
This one was all dark wood floors and polished brass fittings and heaving with the pre-theatre crowd, catching a cocktail before heading off to the next West End sensation, recounting anecdotes in voices calculated to be just penetrating enough to reach the nearby tables.
Under ordinary circumstances Snape would have said something cutting a long time ago. Then again, under ordinary circumstances she would not have been sitting in a wine bar watching him silently subject a harmless cocktail to the sort of treatment she associated with one of Neville Longbottom's more avant-garde potion attempts. The lack of open contempt for their surroundings was one more disconcerting thing in a disconcerting day.
"It won't hurt you," she ventured, wondering if humour would lighten the subtle tension.
"I beg your pardon?"
That was odd. Since when had Severus Snape been absent minded?
"The drink," she amplified. "It won't hurt you."
He scowled at her.
"This place is not sufficiently interesting to be dangerous."
That was better. Relief made her smile slightly, and brought a nagging sense that if she were going to prolong their meeting she had better raise the subject now.
"Are you going back to Hogwarts tonight?"
He looked somewhat surprised at the question.
"Of course. The classroom cannot spare me for an indefinite length of time."
Hermione took a deep breath and concentrated on making her tone as casual as possible.
"I don't suppose you'd be interested in getting something to eat before you go back. I know a nice little place round the corner that might be able to fit us in."
He put the glass down slowly. Damn, she thought, he's going to refuse. Of course, he just wants to be away from this as soon as possible. For a moment she thought he wasn't even going to answer, but then he shrugged carelessly.
"I suppose there are some practical details that need to be worked out and now would be as convenient a time as any to do that. And as Ms Patil's empire building has undoubtedly caused me to miss dinner, it will save me getting something upon my return."
The response was grudging in a way that only Snape could achieve, but Hermione remembered enough of him to know that if he had truly objected he would simply have said no and left.
"Well, we can go as soon as you've finished your drink."
XXXXXXXXXX
Both the noise and population levels of the restaurant were significantly lower than in the wine bar. Snape had, in the end, never progressed beyond a small sip of his julep, pronouncing it far too sweet and an insult to a good bourbon. Hermione had finished hers and her nerves, if not settled, were at least mildly sedated for the time being. The dining area was arranged into small rooms, none with more than a handful of tables, giving an intimate air. Although it, too, was busy with early diners, a table had somehow materialised, with an ease that made Hermione suspect that the maitre d' had some magical blood in her background. An infinitesimal relaxation in the set of Snape's shoulders told Hermione that he was much happier in this setting and he had unbent far enough to order a bottle of a decent white wine, which he was now sipping as an accompaniment to his mushroom risotto.
She sliced into a delicately cooked scallop.
"So," she tried, "how are you?"
Small talk was not one of Snape's strengths, but to simply launch into a work plan seemed curiously out of keeping with the surroundings.
"I still teach at Hogwarts," he answered, as if that covered everything, which in a way it probably did.
She couldn't think of a follow-up that didn't strike her as too personal. Which was ironic when she thought about it; there had been a time when nothing had been 'too personal', when everything had been open, naked. Which was probably why she shied away from anything that smacked of that now; why she didn't want to do or say anything that could be seen as presuming on their past association.
She took a sip of wine; it was dry, with a hint of apples. A good choice and she told him so. Conversation about the wine was followed by some bland enquiries after old staff members and equally perfunctory questions concerning the health of her old friends. Snape seemed as relieved as she was when the main course arrived giving them a legitimate excuse for their concentration to be elsewhere.
There was only so much arrangement of her food and plates that could be done, before Hermione had to look up, if only to transfer some vegetables to her plate. As she did so Snape was neatly attacking his skate wing, deftly running the knife between the cartilage and the flesh, lifting the sweet flesh with the flat of the blade and transferring it to his fork. Another jolt of memory hit her; the strong careful hands, skinning and slicing all manner of strange ingredients; competent and confident, muscles knowing the actions so well that sight was almost superfluous. And the odd sensation that she could nearly feel the movements, knew how the knife would rest on the joint of his finger, knew how much pressure would be needed to cut just deep enough...
She pulled her attention back to her own dinner, and took another sip of wine to moisten a mouth gone suddenly dry.
"So," she said, with forced brightness, trying to shake off that eerie doubled feeling, "how are we going produce Pavarti's shopping list then? Owl post? Regular conferences by Floo? She does seem to be very anxious to get everything sorted out."
She wondered what Snape had made of the new Pavarti - she would reserve judgment on any question of "improved" for the moment. Her thoughts were temporarily diverted and she had drawn breath to ask his opinion, when he spoke across her, answering her initial query.
"We will first need to assemble all that remains of the notes of that period - I presume that you have kept adequate notes?"
That was a nasty question. The initial notes had been Snape's, and he had left them in her rooms after - well, just after. She still had them, bundled with a very grubby copy of Hogwarts: A History; she had had no real expectation of needing either again, but they were part of her past that she couldn't bring herself to part with. But would he have expected her to keep them, as a scholar might, or would he expect her to have disposed of them as things from childhood no longer needed?
"I still have some of them," she temporised. Snape's expression was unreadable.
"Then we first need to establish exactly what we do have. Then I suppose we need to devise some base preparations and work out how they are to be modified to each specification. Then a working plan needs to be formulated."
"This is going to take some time," Hermione mused.
"Then I suggest you lose no time in getting started," he replied. "If Miss Patil is correct, and she needs this to be ready before Christmas, then you appear to have your work cut out."
She would have her work cut out? All thoughts of deconstructing Pavarti's behaviour left her mind.
"I thought you were going to be helping me?"
He gave her a supercilious look. She was bizarrely relieved that he hadn't lost the ability to make her want to hit him.
"I have teaching commitments for another week. You, I apprehend, have already begun the somewhat longer vacation enjoyed by those in higher education. Therefore, it is inevitable that this task will lie with you."
She gritted her teeth.
"Well, I'm going to have to be in fairly close contact with you if I have to collate all the notes and then make up a plan. To make a plan I have to know what you are, and aren't, willing to do."
He arched an eyebrow.
"How would you define 'fairly close contact', Hermione?"
Damn it, was he referring to the last time they were in 'fairly close contact'? Was he making fun of that? Could he be taking part in this simply to exact some kind of obscure revenge over what happened in her final year? The thought made her throat go taut with fury and unwanted tears pricked at her eyes.
If you want me to back down over this Professor Snape, then you have a surprise coming.
She drew a controlled, careful breath, met his gaze and aimed for her sweetest tone.
"I would have said daily, Severus."
"Daily?"
"At least."
"I have full teaching responsibilities until the end of term. I cannot guarantee to answer owls or be available reliably on the Floo until then."
Really?
"Well, I'm going to need at least that much input from you, if I'm to guarantee accurate reproduction of your work", she stressed the last part, "so if you can't manage that, perhaps you would be kind enough to explain to Parvati that we can't do it after all?"
His face clouded, and she knew she'd scored some kind of point.
"The only answer to this dilemma that I can see is for you to come to Hogwarts, so that we can work together directly. If that is unacceptable to you, then perhaps you should be the one to break the news to Ms Patil."
That was clearly a challenge.
"Unacceptable?" she managed. "How could you think that, Severus? It would be a pleasure to come back to the school. Given that I've ceased teaching for Christmas, as you say, I could be there tomorrow. Would that be too soon?"
To her surprise, he looked away.
"I'll tell the headmaster and the house elves when I get back tonight. Should I pass on any special request?"
The sudden seeming withdrawal shook her a little, and she shook her head.
"No, nothing special," she said in a more natural tone. "I'll aim to arrive tomorrow evening, about dinnertime. If there's a problem, owl me."
A curt nod of the head was her only reply.
Hermione was uncomfortably aware that the business proposition had somehow turned into a personal issue between them; a series of escalating dares almost.
She was pleased to be going back to Hogwarts, of course she was; Christmas had always been her favourite time of year at the school. But she couldn't help wishing that the invitation had been able to be more openly offered and accepted. Stifling a sigh, she continued eating her meal.
December 8th
The wind still bit through Hogsmeade station, and through the clothes of anyone foolish enough to stand on the platform; Snape wondered, not for the first time, why he had decided to come down to meet the train this evening. Certainly Hermione wouldn't be expecting him to do so, and the weather was miserable enough to discourage any such actions. The carriages, and the thestrals, were on hand to ferry passengers to the school when necessary, so he could not claim that his presence was necessary even to avoid Hermione having to walk alone up to school this evening.
Thankfully for his sanity, though, Snape could legitimately claim that he had needed a walk this evening and that this was as reasonable a destination as any. The third-years were being rather more than usually idiotic with the onset of the Christmas season and this afternoon's class had made more than the habitual level of errors; he had spent a not inconsiderable time simply fire-fighting. Literally. Once the lesson was over, and the addle-pated generation dispatched, he had followed them out of the classroom and then taken himself on out into the school grounds. On evenings like this, a walk around the lake was his usual method of de-stressing, but the squid had recently taken to playing games - another one infected by Christmas, if such a thing was possible - and Snape was not inclined to receive another dunking. The first had been uncomfortable, not to mention embarrassing. December was not a reasonable month in which to have to be subjected to such things - although, he thought idly, watching a railway light turn red, there really was no month in which it would be reasonable.
A light in the distance grew brighter; the train was a half-mile or so away down the track and pulling closer. A minute or so later, steam billowed across the platform and enveloped Snape; he stepped forward a little to avoid the cloud and waited as shapes and forms descended from the train. A surprising number of people left at the station; Snape's unspoken curiosity was answered by the parcels they carried. Diagon Alley had undoubtedly made some profits today.
Hermione was one of the last to alight from the train; she carried no parcels and only one small bag - the benefits, no doubt, of perfection of the Reductio spell. Snape moved forwards again, to intercept her, as she walked towards the exit.
"Hermione? Miss Granger-" he corrected himself rapidly. She turned, startled by his voice.
"Professor?"
He hurried on before she could ask what he was doing. "I had ... business in Hogsmeade this afternoon, Miss Granger. This seemed the quickest route back to school in time for dinner. Shall we go?"
Hermione nodded. "Good evening, Professor," she added to the nod, and followed him as he swept through the station hall into the roadway outside. One carriage waited still, and they climbed into it, arranging themselves on opposite sides.
The ride back to Hogwarts was quite; a stilted attempt at conversation had died almost before it began. Snape thought Hermione seemed tired, and knew that he definitely was tired. Too tired to make silly small talk - he would never be so inclined, in fact, and rather wondered why it was even crossing his mind now - he settled himself into his seat and concentrated instead on a particular problem he had encountered in some research a short while ago.
A short while later he realised, with a start, that they had arrived at the school. Hermione had cleared her throat to get his attention - perhaps more than once, by the odd expression on her face - and opened the door onto the steps leading up into the school. He gestured for her to proceed him, and followed her down from the carriage and then, a step behind, up into the school entrance.
His earlier thought that she looked tired was confirmed by her hastily-covered yawn and a slightly gravelled request for the location of her rooms. "Up all night, Miss Granger?" he drawled, baiting her slightly. If she had been up all night, he would lay odds that she had been working rather than carousing, but she was being entirely too quiet. A little prod to the ego would not go amiss, particularly if she planned to attend dinner this evening.
He got a baleful glare, but no more, for his trouble; he was about to point her in the direction of Gryffindor's guest quarters when McGonagall saved him the words. He wondered afterwards what it was that had taken her so long to arrive and rescue her former protégée from his clutches. Hermione smothered another yawn before they had rounded the corner of the corridor.
Later, under the storm-laden night sky of the dining hall, Snape scowled at his plate; the stew and vegetables were unexceptional, the din from the students was unearthly and his dinner companion was unbearable. Unfortunately, the man had done the unthinkable and survived more than one year as a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher; Snape had been hoping with more vigour than usual that Peregine Queroz would be dispatched from the post as all the others had been, either by fate or by design.
The man was everything that Snape was not, that Snape tried very assiduously not to be. And, at the moment, he was apparently entirely taken up with Hermione - not that she was sitting near them; it was far too early in her visit for McGonagall to have relinquished her company, and she was sitting between Minerva and Dumbledore, clearly catching up with the gossip and news, if the liveliness of the conversation that he could not quite hear was any guide. Queroz was not even trying to hide the fact that he was attempting to listen in on the conversation; it was scant consolation that he had not yet asked Snape for any information about Hermione - he had, instead, got what little he could from Madam Hooch. Snape had had to cough once or twice, to disguise amusement at the terse replies she had given - Hermione's prowess at Quidditch was not quite the stuff of legend. Queroz had turned, with a quizzical look, after one cough. Snape had glared back at him; he had taken too much time and effort to discourage the conversation of the man to attract it now. Thereafter, he kept his amusement to himself, beyond even a cough.
As Hermione rose to leave the table - earlier than usual, she was definitely tired - Queroz rose as well and subtly moved to intercept her; Snape could not hear the words, but the intent was unmistakable. Hermione smiled at the conversation, and Snape's perpetual scowl deepened; she was here to work, not to be distracted by the local idiot. On cue, Hagrid entered the hall and Hermione tore herself away from Queroz to greet him. Uncertain which was the worse option, Snape stole away from the table quietly, leaving by the small door behind High Table which led away from the noise and confusion and into the quietly damp corridors of the dungeons.
Next morning, a brilliantly lit day with the low winter sun tinting the Highlands heather golden, a pot of coffee was gurgling quietly on the stove in Snape's rooms when a double rap on the door disturbed the peace. He recognised the knock, for all that he had not heard it in a decade, and not on that door. Reluctant simply to call for her to enter, he crossed the room, dodging a stack of books balanced rather precariously near an armchair, and opened the heavy oak door.
Hermione stood in the corridor, clutching a dog-eared pile of papers and looking oddly nervous. "Miss Granger," he said by way of greeting, holding the door open to admit her. She walked through the door, looking around the room, a strange expression on her face. Snape supposed he would look much the same if he were to be invited to the Head Girl's room - an extremely unlikely event. He waved Hermione to a seat by the fire; she settled down, dropping the papers on to the floor beside her.
"Coffee?" he enquired. She nodded; he recalled, without wanting to recall, that she was no more communicative before caffeine than he was. He handed her a mug full of coffee; she took it and turned the mug around, apparently re-familiarising herself with it before taking a sip. As the steam drifted upwards, she closed her eyes and smiled.
When she opened her eyes and looked at him, the smile disappeared and she sighed gently. Not, despite everything, a response he enjoyed creating.
Hermione reached for the papers and held them out to him as she settled the mug on the arm of the chair, precariously balanced.
"These are the recipes I have," she said, ticking them off on her fingers as she launched into the conversation. "A couple of cleansers - yarrow and chamomile - the yarrow and comfrey moisturiser, the rosemary and cedar conditioner and the elderflower bath foam. I don't think you passed on all of the recipes at the end; there wasn't really enough time between then and NEWTS for me to need more. I assume you have more - this can't be all that you made."
"No, Miss Granger, that's not exactly an exhaustive list. Here, take this -" he strode over to a
shelf and selected a book from it, "it'll give you some ideas to go on. I have classes today, and you have time, so you can start the process. There's a small - you know where my private laboratory is." He caught himself as he spoke, mentally admonishing himself for walking on eggshells in conversation now. There was no point in pretending that they had no past beyond student and teacher, although he was equally unprepared to acknowledge it directly. To pretend that she did not know that he had a private lab was, frankly, silly - and he preferred not to tend towards the silly, where he could avoid it.
Hermione nodded, glancing towards the door that led to the labs. "Just one thing," she said. He raised an eyebrow in enquiry. "Test subjects?" she asked. He frowned and she added, "we'll need to test the new recipes, surely?"
"I have every confidence in your ability to produce a safe concoction, Miss Granger," he said drily. It would hardly tax the abilities of a first year, let alone someone with her grades.
"It's not the safety I'm concerned with, Professor, it's the efficacy," came the equally dry response. "We need to know that it works, not just that it's safe. I suppose we can test them on ourselves - see what the results are. Thank you for the coffee."
At that, she headed for the lab, leaving Snape staring at her. Test the recipes ... she wanted him to test recipes? No.
