Chapter 12: In Which We Have Dinner

By the time Hermione had gotten the chicken and rolls into the oven, she was feeling better. Not healed, she wasn't sure that would ever really happen, but better. Whatever else George had to say, he was right that Ron would not still be pining over her. Could she love him and love someone else? Was her heart so small there was only room for one man there? She didn't know, but she was more willing to find out than she had ever been before.

She dunked the haricot vert in ice water to stop their cooking. Right before serving she'd give them a quick toss in a hot pan with shallot butter, but for now they were better off cold. All that was left was set the table, three wand swishes and that was done, and get dressed.

Like most muggle-born witches, Hermione didn't have much use for robes around the house. She was more comfortable in jeans, trainers, and some sort of shirt. Tonight she had opted for comfy clothes, comfy food, and hopefully a comfy evening. Maybe nothing would set her heart afire, but it was also likely nothing would be stomping it into ashes either. She pulled on her favourite jeans, a white cotton button down shirt, and her woolly socks. She looked at herself critically in the mirror when she finished her makeup. No, the poets will not be writing of my beauty tonight, but they also won't be running away in horror either.

It was good enough. Time to wait for Snape.

"Severus," she said his name out loud, and it hit her, she had never, not once in fourteen years, said his first name. It felt odd to her tongue. "Severus." Her voice rolling over the syllables was almost obscene, too intimate. He was Snape. Professor Snape if you were feeling particularly respectful. Greasy Git if you weren't. And, unless she was about to be rescued by another well-intentioned twit, he was knocking on her door.

She opened the door and found him standing patiently, holding a box that she hoped contained something yummy. "Come in."

"Hello." He handed her the box while scanning the room intently; tension releasing when he saw it was safe. Old habits die hard.

A living room that flowed into a dining room met his gaze. The furniture was had clean modern lines, without looking stark or harsh. The color palette was mostly browns livened up with violet and green accessories. Unlike most Wizarding homes, hers was equipped with all the mod cons. She liked TV as well as books and enjoyed good music. So her living room was equipped for all three. His eyes lit up when he saw the CD player.

"I was hoping you'd have one of those."

"You're a muggle music fan?" The idea that Snape might like music, let alone muggle music had never occurred to Hermione.

"Oh yes," he walked towards her collection of CDs to see what she had. "My father was a muggle, so were all of my cousins, and our home was located in a muggle neighborhood." He looked at her CDs in silence, seeing they were mostly pieces from the 90's with a little 70's, 80's, and a few newer disks. They tended toward rock, with a smattering of well-chosen grunge, and a few bits of pop. On the lower shelf sat the classical collection, which he didn't know enough about to form an opinion on. "An acceptable collection, I was hoping to see no sign of Spice Girls in your home."

"Perish the thought! Since you know your way around a CD player, why don't you put something on?" She was pleased to see he was comfortable with muggle technology. That would make things easier if there were to be any long term plans.

Severus sat on the floor in front of her CD rack and began to really look through it. He decided to go with Derek and the Dominos, The Layla Sessions. It was hard to go wrong with Eric Clapton on the guitar. And, not owning that CD himself, he was looking forward to seeing what was on it.

Bluesy music began to wind through Hermione's home. Severus looked up at her, "I grew up with this kind of music; how did you find it?"

"One of the friends I made in America is an ex-pat. He's a huge fan of all Brit-Rock older than 1990, and he took it upon himself to fill in the bits I had missed courtesy of being too young. I couldn't really get into the punk or hard metal stuff, but a lot of the smoother music has now found a home in my collection. I've also found that quite a bit of American rock from the 90's has a similar sound profile to what I liked about 70's." She paused to listen to the guitar work, not one of her favourite CDs, but it would do. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes. What are you serving?"

"Follow me, and I'll show you your options." She held out her hand to help him stand up. He took it and levered himself off of the floor. His hand was warmer than she had expected and smoother. She held it a second longer than necessary, enjoying the contact, before releasing it and turning towards the kitchen. "I didn't know what you drank, so I've got lots of options…"

He inhaled deeply as they stepped into her kitchen. "Smells good, roast chicken?"

"Yes. I was going for comfort food."

"If this tastes as good as it smells, it will be beyond comfort and into sublime." He smiled at her. She smiled back.

"Nice compliment."

"Thank you. I've been trying to think of good ones all day." This time she laughed.

She gestured to the drinks lining her counter. "I've got beer, ale, wine, and water. Pop and iced tea are in the fridge."

"Pop?"

"Pepsi. Pop is an Americanism that got stuck in my vocabulary. They all called it pop, as in soda pop, although I understand that's common usage only it the bit of the country I was in. I can't seem to get the word out of my mind, so I end up explaining it to everyone I offer the beverage to."

He looked at the drinks on the counter and selected an ale. She decided to go with iced tea, another Americanism, but one that she was hoping would catch on in Britain as soon as possible.

She picked up the box he had brought. "Does this go in the fridge?"

"Yes."

She held it gently, trying to guess by feel what might be in it. "Can I look, or is it a surprise?"

"By all means, look."

She opened the box to see the pale, creamy yellow top of a lemon tart. He thought he heard her whisper something like, "Oohh lovely!" but wasn't quite sure. She noticed that the box had no bakery sticker on it. "Did you make it?"

He looked proudly at it. "Yes I did, unless it's terrible, in which case I got it from a bakery around the corner." She chuckled and cleared a space in the refrigerator for the tart. Finally she settled it, and turned to him.

"You bake?"

"Yes, but not often. I prefer cooking to baking. Cooking allows for more improvisation. Baking requires stricter attention to set rules."

She inclined her head to indicate agreement with his understanding of the culinary arts. "I thought you were all about rules."

"Only when dealing with young Gryffindors." He looked puzzled for a moment. "Didn't Potter show you my old Potions book?"

"Yes."

"Did you see much evidence of rule following there?"

"No. That's probably why I couldn't figure out who it belonged to." She glanced at the timer on the oven. "Dinner will be ready in a moment."

He leaned against her dishwasher, sipping his drink and watched her levitate the chicken and rolls to cooling racks. She heated a cast iron fry pan while speaking, "We're having roast chicken, rolls, and haricot vert. I just need to finish off the haricot vert."

"Would you like me to carve the chicken?"

"Yes, please."

She tossed the vert in the hot shallot butter and watched him handle the chicken. He picked up the carving knife, held it for a second to get a feel for its balance, and then began to cut. His strokes were sure and clean. Here was a man, no, a wizard, who had the manual dexterity to disassemble a chicken by knife. She found herself smiling, thrilled at the display of skill. He looked up and saw her smile.

"Never seen a man cut a chicken before?"

"The last time I saw someone other than me go after a chicken with a knife... Well, let's just say the results were suitable for pot pie, not serving on a platter."

He grinned at her words, tidily slicing the breast.

She plated dinner and led him back to her table. "Here's to fine food and conversation."

He raised his glass to her toast. "So, what have you been up to since we last met?"

"The worst two hours of my career at Hogwarts. I got to teach the seventh years about sex, relationships, and marriage. According to Minerva the reason a single, never-married woman got the job was 'you're closer to their age, maybe they'll listen to you."

"Ah yes, page three of the 'Albus Dumbledore Handbook for Making Young Teacher's Hate You.' That would be how I ended up teaching ballroom dance during my third year as an instructor. Let me just say, I have done many, many unpleasant things during my stay at Hogwarts, and trying to get a group of fidgety fourth years to rumba was the least pleasant." He smiled to show he was joking, and she smiled back at the idea of him teaching ballroom dance.

"At least that's probably good fodder for funny stories. Today's class was just absolutely heartbreaking. Imagine me in a room with nineteen girls, only five of which have the brains to not get married within minutes of getting out of Hogwarts. Something like five of them are pregnant, another bunch will be in the next few weeks, and right now their biggest concern is who will have the fluffiest meringue of a dress."

"Ouch."

"Indeed. How about you? What have you been up to? Better yet, what do you do these days?"

"I'm a Potions Master."

"I thought that was your position at Hogwarts."

"No, Potions Master is a title indicating an advanced level of training. Slughorn teaches potions, and he's very good at it, but he didn't do the extra work to become a Master. I think I'm the only one on this island. There's about eight more on the continent.

"Most of what I do these days is consulting. People send me formulas that don't quiet work, and I fix them. My most recent job has been trying to get a time delay potion that's versatile enough to work with any, or at least most, other potions."

Hermione nodded, grasping the issue quickly. "And the biggest problem with that idea is creating a formula that will do what needs to be done in a predictable manner."

"Exactly, a time delay can be created for any potion, the problem with this one is that it has to work for every potion."

"Are you close?"

He grinned ruefully. "No, but I've at least gotten to the point where I know what the error in the formula I've been given is, and how to begin setting up the problem so I can work on finding a solution."

"So where do you work?" she asked, fork paused en route to her mouth.

"Out of my home. I have a small but very well stocked lab."

She chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds and then began to ask him about the specifics of the problem. The conversation consumed them, magical ideas, ingredients, and laws bounced back and forth. It was during a pause that Hermione noticed the food was gone, the music had ended, and two hours had gone by.

"How about we move to the couch and put a dent in that tart you made?"

He stood up and stretched. "Sounds good."

"What would you like to drink with it? If you want coffee I can make some…" Her voice grew softer as she vanished into the kitchen, the dishes hovering behind her. She returned a moment later, tart, forks, plates, and serving knife in tow. A small bottle of a yellow liquid cupped in her hands. "I just remembered I have this. One of Fleur's cousins from the France/Spain border makes it. It's kind of like Limoncello, but not quite so sweet and heavy. It should be perfect with the tart."

She served the dessert while watching him settle on her sofa. He looked at ease, comfortable in her home and presence. He watched her watching him, his face warm and animated. She handed him his drink and plate, and sat on the other end of the couch. She sighed at the taste of the tart, while he appreciated the liqueur.

It was the ease in his face that made her wonder. She had never imagined that he could look this way. Who was this sitting on her couch? As Harry said, this wasn't stress relief, this was a new personality.

She took a sip of her drink while trying to figure out a nice way to ask her question; failing that she took another sip trying to think of a less insulting way; failing that as well she took one more sip for extra courage.

"This has been a wonderful evening, and I don't think I've enjoyed a conversation more than the one we've been having in a very long time, but I've got to know: what happened to the Snape the Greasy Git, Bat of the Dungeons, Evil Sodding Bastard, whose only joy in life was taking points from Gryffindors?