1. Of canaries and cranberry biscuits
All and everything Potter could go ahead and well and truly fuck itself.
Severus Snape rubbed his chest where Potter had abused his coat, sending a silent apology to Dumbledore's ghost for his earlier disrespect. He'd never been able to stay his big mouth around Potter. Why, he had no idea. He'd always kept perfectly cool around the Dark Lord.
All other differences aside.
He picked up the three books and one tumbler that were the most recent victims of the Snape-Potter feud. The tumbler was fractured, and he threw it in the wastebasket. One of the books though, held his attention. He hadn't seen it for a long time. It was a biography of Merlin that had once belonged to his mother. It was worn, like everything else he owned, and not rare. He only kept it for its cover, where Eileen Prince's signature was engraved with spiky letters. He traced the writing with a finger.
Potter's mother was also dead, she too by tragic circumstances. It was his fault of course, but it was never a good idea to dwell on that.
He busied himself with eating a sandwich and doing the dishes simultaneously, a bad habit brought on by years of living alone, until another disturbing thought surfaced in his mind, unbidden.
Did the mysterious mission Potter needed help with have anything to do with her?
Why had he not thought of that before? It was after all she who had been the one to contact him in Potter's stead. She was never pushy about it, but would it not be typical of Dumbledore's successor to secure his compliance by using the woman he…
Well that, apparently, was a discussion for another day. But the thought had given him pause. Perhaps he ought to seek out Potter and attempt another conversation? Perhaps. But not yet. He was too agitated now.
But something else was also gnawing at his frazzled nerves. Yes, he'd been upset at the time but he was positive that Potter had called her 'My Hermione'.
Were she and Potter an item?
It stood to reason if they were. He shouldn't even feel disappointed. Potter was rich, powerful and handsome, and to be painfully honest, not all that stupid either. He ought to be a catch for many a young woman. And Hermione… well, who wouldn't want her?
To hell with all things Potter and his flamboyant magic and youthful body. Why was it that a Potter always got in the way of his…
He growled aloud. He must not do this.
This was exactly how one's heart got broken.
Before he could work himself into a state, he went to the bathroom on the first floor and sampled a large dose of the Draught of Peace. He felt weary these days. Not like himself. Was he just getting old? Or was his magic acting up again? He counted breaths as his heartbeat settled into a quieter, more even rhythm.
Over the sink was a small crackled mirror, greying with corrosion and age. A tired, ugly face stared at him, the discomforting resemblance to Tobias Snape only growing as the years went by. He swore there and then to never shorten his hair or grow a beard.
Severus unbuttoned his frock coat and shirt as he walked down to the kitchen table, the creaking of the stairs seeming loud in the otherwise quiet house. He dropped his clothes onto one of the chairs and sat down on the other in nothing but his trousers and a greying old T-shirt.
Potter had conveniently forgotten his firewhiskey on the table, which actually went quite a while in mending the disturbance his visit had wrought. Severus reached for the packet of fags and the lighter that he'd left on the windowsill, and filled Potter's glass, which had somehow escaped his fit of housecleaning, to the brim.
"Cheers, you royal pain in the arse."
He next entertained himself with drinking and smoking under the pretence of redeeming Potter until he heard a sound that belonged to spring and sun and warmth. He looked up from his drink.
It was the music of a bright and yellow canary, flying about in merry circles around his darkened living room, its mild trills filling his house like laughter. As he watched it, the bird floated towards him, and settled on his left shoulder, looking up expectantly with round, lively eyes. A small note appeared in its beak.
The magic was beautiful and clever, and he knew at once that it belonged to Hermione. He carefully collected the note with his big fingers, slightly saddened when the little canary vanished in a puff of feathers.
His eyesight had always been marginal and Hermione's miniscule and efficient handwriting was very nearly unintelligible to him. He quite vividly recalled her essays from Hogwarts. At times, her never-ending scrolls had even contained shorthand. They had been the bane of his existence back then. Barring everything Potter. Naturally. But he digressed.
Squinting, he deciphered the note.
Dear Severus,
I'm terribly sorry I left in such a hurry earlier today. If you are feeling in the mood for company, I'll make it up to you with tea.
I'll be waiting outside your house.
Love, Hermione
There was an odd, tickling sensation in his stomach. Did he have indigestion?
He glanced at the table. Potter's bottle was more than half-empty but luckily, he'd always been able to hold his whiskey. He took after Mother rather than Father in that respect.
Light footsteps brought him to the door, a new spring in his heart.
Hermione stood on the steps of number 32, Spinner's End for the second time that Monday, having charmed the portkey'd quill from earlier that day into a message for Severus.
She felt both nervous and excited, and wished with all of her heart that he would forgive her for bringing the full force of Harry Potter down on his poor abused head. Hopefully, he hadn't decided to get himself royally pissed. She knew it was a habit of his to drink if he was feeling low, having smelled the hangover on him a couple of times in the bookstore.
If he were drunk, she'd probably be unwelcome, which would be a big shame. She'd put on a skirt, spent an entire half-hour trying to tame her hair, and under her arm was a tin of cranberry biscuits. She'd baked them herself, with much fuss, knowing they were his mortal weakness.
The door opened and he smiled at her. Smiled. He had taken off his heavy coat, and was instead wearing a soft shirt that allowed her to make out the shape of his body. Her heart did a backflip and fainted.
"Are you not angry?"
He waved her off. "Potter has always been able to rile me up. I rile him up as well. It's become habit by now."
She couldn't hide her grin even if she had wanted to. "Not Harry. Angry with me, you berk!"
He beckoned her inside the dark, now familiar hallway. "Of course not. What's that you got there?"
She held up the tin. "I made biscuits."
His eyebrows went up. "For me?"
"Of course." She removed her coat. "It's cranberry."
"Mother used to make those." He murmured, smelling the tin. "With sugar on top. They were lovely."
"I know. I felt so bad about before." She took his hand and led him into the living room. "I consider you one of my closest friends, you know. It was wrong of me not to back you up against Harry."
He had stopped. She looked up and to her astonishment, saw that his eyes were slightly glassy. He quickly turned away, muttering about 'needing some air' and fled out onto the back porch.
She couldn't help but take pleasure from his reaction.
When he finished, she had set the small living room table with tea and biscuits, easily having picked her way in the small kitchen.
"You shouldn't smoke so much. It's not good for you."
He grunted, settling into the chair that was moulded to his shape.
She slowly walked the perimeter of his shelves as they drank their tea, scanning the titles. "You have so many books." She came to a halt just beside his chair. "How come they are all magical?"
He looked up at her, leaning back. "They mostly belonged to my mother. She was a witch. My father was muggle but he didn't read. That is," he amended, "what he read was not worth keeping."
It was odd to look down on him, being as he was so much taller than her when they stood. She knew from before that his irises were brown, but up close, she could see that there were tiny specks of an almost black in them, close to the pupils and along the rim. He had heavy eyelids and his eyes were not large or striking but very expressive. The scars on his throat were white.
"Father worked at the Mill. That's the large chimney down the road."
She suddenly wanted to reach out and touch his hair. Would the silver feel just as soft as the black would?
"He didn't like books or words… Preferred to express himself physically, I suppose." Severus reached for a biscuit.
She watched him take a bite, catching a glimpse of his teeth. They were not dirty, merely discoloured. Awfully crooked and chipped though. Had he ever seen a dentist? His left maxillary first premolar was missing entirely. Had someone once given him a right hook punch? Her parents, bless their souls, would have had a field day with him. She hummed to herself. They gave him character, those teeth.
"Why are you staring?" Suddenly, Severus, was eying her suspiciously. "Do I have something on my face?"
"It's nothing," Oh, pants. Now she was blushing. "Your teeth are nice." Gads! What was wrong with her? Insipid.
"My teeth are what?" He seemed stunned, then alarmed. "Are you quite all right?" He leaned over, placing the back of his hand on her forehead before glancing at his wristwatch, clearly confused. "It's nearly twelve. Perhaps you ought to go home and lie down?"
Laughing shrilly, she hid her face in her wild hair. At least it was making itself useful. "Yes, I'd better go."
They both started for the door and on impulse, she turned and embraced his waist in a tight hug, squeezing from him a startled 'oof'.
"Goodnight, Severus." She quickly let go and hurried out into the night, carrying in her heart the scent of cigarettes and firewhiskey.