7.

He was in the middle of making tea and preparing breakfast when he felt the first twinge on his wards. It was so gentle, like a curious prod, that he almost dismissed it. He paused, hand going to the wand sticking out of his dressing gown, waiting to see if the pulse in magical energy would come again.

It did.

His suspicions were confirmed when the prod came in stronger, more like a deliberate jab. Someone was trying to breach his wards. He smirked as he quickly belted his house robe and palmed his wand. He was going to make them regret the day they were born.

Quickly, he slipped downstairs and into the shop proper. Using the near darkness of the early morning he slid behind one of the many shelves in his shop and peered at the large glass panel in the middle of the front door. What he saw almost made him drop his wand.

Hermione Granger stood out front his store, wand in hand, and a look of fierce determination on her face.

Without another thought, he strode to the door and yanked it open.

"Merlin's pants, woman, what are you doing?"

Her wand arm, which had been raised to cast yet another spell at his wards, dropped at the sight of him. "Trying to get your attention," she told him.

"Well, you've got it. Now answer my question!" he snapped.

He was not a morning person.

"I need to speak to you."

That much was patently obvious but as he eyed her up and down he realised something was wrong. It was as if someone had gone and switched the woman from the day before with her complete opposite. Hermione still wore expensive robes, but they were the same ones from the day before and they looked as if they had been rolled into a ball sometime between taking them off and putting them back on. She wore no make-up, her hair was a mess, and she had the distinct look of someone barely fighting off the urge to flee. He stepped back and motioned her into the shop.

"This way," he said, closing the door behind her. He led the way through to the back of the store and to the staircase that was cleverly hidden into the wall. He listened to her light footsteps follow him up and into his personal living space. His eyes swept around the room quickly, looking for anything that might embarrass him, but he was a fastidious man most of the time and his quarters were kept clean.

"I was making tea. Would you like some?"

"Uhm, sure."

His flat was mostly open concept: the living room bled right into the kitchen with no walls. It was only the bedroom and bathroom that were kept behind closed doors. He walked straight across the space and into the kitchen. It featured a nice, large window that unfortunately looked over the roof of the store next to his but it let in plenty of natural light which he liked. Reaching for the pot and a mug, he poured her a cup. "Milk and two sugars?"

"No, just the milk please," she said from behind him.

"Is there anything about you that hasn't changed?" he asked, stirring the milk in and turning around with it. His tone was a bit more accusatory than he had intended but Hermione didn't look like she'd noticed. She accepted her tea and shrugged delicately.

"Have you eaten?"

She shook her head silently, holding her mug in two hands as if she were trying to steal its warmth. He turned back towards the counter, glad to have something to do with his hands. Without a word, he picked up where he had left off with the making of his breakfast but doubling the ingredients.

She was silent while he moved about the kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl and beating them with a fork. He felt her eyes on him and it made his skin crawl with awareness. His mind jumped through all the possible reasons she could be there, but nothing seemed to really fit. Questions flew to the tip of his tongue, things he'd wanted to know for years, but he filed them away until he could think of one that hopefully wouldn't send her scampering for the exit immediately.

"Why did you get your Mastery of Potions but not use it?" He turned around when there was no answer forthcoming and found her standing in the middle of his kitchen, exactly where she had been when he'd passed her the cup of tea, staring at him. "Well?"

"How do you know about that?" she asked quietly.

"They publish the list of new Masters or Mistresses in Potions Quarterly. It's not a terribly long list, and your name tends to stand out," he said, watching her carefully.

She gave him a pathetic half-smile and a nod of her head. "Yes, I suppose so."

When she didn't continue he felt his ire beginning to rise. Hadn't she said she wanted to talk to him? So why was he the one doing all the talking?

"I was proud of you," he told her abruptly, turning back around. Grabbing a wooden spoon, he poured the beaten eggs into a pan and began to scramble them.

"Was?"

"I've kept up with your...career. I suppose you can call it that. I thought you'd do more with your life."

"What do you mean?"

He turned around to find her frowning at him. With a few quick strides, he walked into the sitting room and picked up the magazine that Pomona had found in his office. Without a word he walked back and handed it to her.

"You have Vogue in your house, Severus?" she looked up at him, a small, genuine smile on her face. She was teasing him, but he couldn't find it in him to reciprocate. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"I never thought I'd see the day that Hermione Granger wasted herself on looking pretty," he said flatly.

The smile dropped from her face like a stone in water. "You know nothing about me," she spat, her demeanor changing suddenly. He blinked at the change but did not step back. "Yes, I've changed, Severus. I changed everything about myself because I couldn't stand who I was anymore. Who the fuck are you to judge me?"

She shoved the cup of tea into his chest, sloshing the hot liquid all over both of their hands and his clothes, and threw the magazine on the floor.

"Hermione—"

"This was a mistake," she said, more to herself than to him. "I don't know what I was thinking."

Wrenching his door open, she practically threw herself through it, slamming it hard behind her.

8.

Apparating to the top step of Grimmauld Place, Hermione's anger carried her through the front door and up into her temporary bedroom. She passed no one on her way up, most of them probably being in the basement kitchen, and for that she was grateful. Whipping her wand out, she cast a Silencing spell at all four walls, ceiling and floor before squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a scream of anger. After a second of indecision, she marched over to the bed, grabbed a pillow and shoved her face in it only to scream once more. When she had worn herself out, and her throat felt a little raw, she dropped the pillow and collapsed onto the bed.

"That was not one of your best thought out plans, Hermione," she murmured to herself, looking up at the ceiling.

What had she been thinking? Or better yet, why hadn't she been thinking?

With a huff, she forced herself up and entered the bathroom for a much needed shower. She looked at herself in the mirror and grimaced. She was a hot mess, as the Americans would say. Going over there looking like she'd just rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing she saw—the fact that that was exactly what she had done was neither here nor there—had been another mistake. If there was one thing her profession had taught her it was that looking good was a power that both men and women could and should wield. Was it shallow? Perhaps a bit, but knowing that she looked good gave her confidence.

"I could use with a dose of that," she told her reflection morosely.

Once in the shower, she scrubbed herself furiously, being rougher than necessary. In her mind she verbally eviscerated Severus Snape; she sat him down and told him right off, making him feel ashamed for being such a prick. It was a sweet image, if unrealistic.

Her anger was beginning to fade when she got out of the shower, wrapping a thick towel around her body and dripping on the floor. "Fuck," she muttered, realising that she had left her wand on the bed and she'd have to drip all the way over to it. "Oh, well."

She opened the door, the cool air of the room hitting her hot skin, and stopped dead on the threshold.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

Severus stood up from the bed and took a step towards her. "I came to speak to you."

"Who let you in?" she asked incredulously, ignoring his statement.

"Potter did," he said mildly, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

"He just let you in and told you to go on up to my room?"

"I told him that I needed to speak to you," he said again, his eyes dipping down to the towel she wore. She clutched the ends a bit tighter and glared at him.

"I'm not interested in what you have to say. I've reached my quota of listening to people tell me I'm a failure for the day, thank you."

"I never said you were a failure," he corrected quietly. "I said you were wasting yourself."

"Oh, you know what? Screw you." Her anger resurfaced alarmingly fast and she stomped past him, leaving a trail of wet foot prints, to snatch up her wand. With two quick spells she had dried her body and Transfigured her towel into a bathrobe. "I'm on the cover of magazines, Severus! I'm on Vogue for Christ's sake. I know that means nothing to you, but in the Muggle world, it's a big deal. I'm beautiful, and I make good money. Most people would call that a success!" she bit out.

"None of that matters, and you know it!" he countered, his voice rising slightly. "You're a brilliant witch, Hermione, but you spend your life playing dress-up!"

"I'm not playing—"

"Why are you running?" he demanded, his eyes intent upon her. Her breath caught in her throat and she paused for a second, feeling off kilter. This was the moment and she knew it, but the words refused to form on her lips. Instead, she found lies spewing forth.

"I'm not running from anything," she told him, her hands shaking. "Even if I were, why would you care?"

He took a step forward, his face furious and his hands balled into fists. "How dare you question me?"

"Is your memory really that short, Severus?" she asked, her tone flat.

"I had no choice!" he bellowed. The words seemed to explode out of him, as if he had been holding them in for a very long time. "You think I wanted to hurt you? You think it didn't eat me up inside? That it doesn't still?" He let out an incoherent sound of rage, almost a growl. "You have no idea about the things I had to do to maintain my cover, the blood that's on my hands, but you know what?" He took a step forward, making her back up as he towered over her, his face inches from hers. "You know what bothers me the most? The sight of you on the floor in front of me, screaming your throat raw. Out of everything I've done, that was the worst."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look into his dark irises. Hot tears splashed onto her cheeks, running down and off her chin. Her breath stuttered in her chest and, instinctively, she clutched the cloth that covered her abdomen.

"I was p-pregnant," she whispered.

He was so close that she heard his sharp intake of breath and she opened her eyes. His face, always pale before, looked like chalk.

"Pregnant?" he echoed, his voice just as soft as hers. "Then?"

She nodded miserably. "I miscarried at Shell Cottage."

"Oh, Merlin," he breathed, his eyes falling shut as he straightened and covered his face with one hand. For several long moments all she could hear was his breathing, deep and fast, until finally, "I don't...I'm not...I have no words for this."

Sniffing wetly, Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed heavily. "There's nothing to be said. It's been done for a long time." Looking down, she fiddled with the belt of her Transfigured bathrobe. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand drop, but she didn't turn to face him.

"Is this why you left so abruptly?" he asked. "Why you avoided me, wouldn't come within two feet of me? Why you never spoke to me? No explanations, no anything?" His voice rose with each question, his anger becoming more and more evident. She stood up and glared at him.

"What would you have had me say, Severus?" she demanded, trying not to cry again. "'I was pregnant with your baby, and I think you killed it while you tortured me on the Malfoy's floor'? What would that have achieved?"

He clenched his jaw tightly together. "At least I would have understood," he ground out. "At least I would have known why you..."

Hermione swiped at her face, dashing fresh tears away, and felt a pang of guilt. "I couldn't, Severus. I just...I couldn't. I didn't want to talk about it to anyone, not just you. Harry and Ron didn't find out until years later." She took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to calm herself. "I couldn't talk about it because talking about it would have made it all the more real. I wanted to forget."

Severus turned away from her and began pacing the floor at the foot of her bed. She watched him go back and forth, back and forth, his robes swishing around his legs with every stride. Part of her wished he would leave so she could crawl into the bed and cry and sleep until it was time for her to go home. She watched him until he stopped, turning abruptly and staring at her, his dark eyes pinning her where she stood.

"Is that what your job gives you? Does it help you forget?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

With a sigh, Hermione sat on the bed once more. "It did once, I suppose. But then again, I was so busy with school and modeling that I didn't have the time to think, so maybe it was never the job and it was just the fast pace."

"Why do you do it then?"

Hermione huffed a laugh, a tired, sad laugh, and ran a hand over her face. "I don't know, really. I sort of fell into it at first. It was a stroke of luck that my agency liked me enough to even take me on. I still had my wild, frizzy hair then." She smiled at the memory. "I don't know what they saw in me, to be honest."

"You have always been beautiful, Hermione," he said quietly. She looked up at him but he turned away from her, walking over to the window on the far wall. "Are you happy there, then? In America?"

"No," she murmured.

He nodded to himself, still looking out the window. "Then come home."

"It's not that easy."

"Yes, it is," he said. "Just come home, Hermione. Come...back."

"Back to you?" she asked quietly.

He turned around then to look at her, his eyes bright with emotion. "Yes."

"Who are you, and what have you done with the real Severus Snape?" she asked, only half joking.

"A joke. Lovely," he muttered, turning back to the window.

"I'm not trying to be cruel, Severus," she said, standing up and joining him at the window. "I guess you've changed, too."

"Of course, I have."

She sighed slightly and looked out the window. There wasn't much to see but the dirty rooftops of old London homes. "How do you know it would work between us, Severus? We came together during a war; that changes things, drastically."

"Yes, it does," he agreed. "You are thinking of us as two people brought together by the sense of impending doom, rather than any compatibility." He looked down at her, one half of his face brightly illuminated by the light outside. "I would disagree with you there. The war forced me to acknowledge that there were many things about you that I admire, aspects of your character that I had not known existed before, or perhaps you had not developed them yet, I do not know."

"Liking my 'character' as you put it, doesn't make for a relationship," she pointed out.

"You are being deliberately obtuse."

"I'm not. I just..." She reached out to him, her fingertips brushing against the familiar wool of his black robes. "I don't want you to realise you've made a mistake, that there's nothing here," she gestured between the two of us.

He captured her hand in his, holding it firmly. "I am not an overly demonstrative man, Hermione, you know this. But you must know that there's something here for me." He pulled on her hand gently, drawing her closer. "I need to know if...if you can forgive me."

He did not pull again, but Hermione found herself leaning forward until she was almost slumped against him. Her forehead pressed against the scratchy wool covering his chest and she inhaled him. It was as if her mind had played tricks on her; she remembered his scent differently. She squeezed his hand. "Truly, Severus, it was not your fault," she whispered.

"But you blame me nonetheless," he said flatly.

"I did," she corrected. "For a long time, I did. By the time I realised it was misplaced..." Trailing off, she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

The brush of gentle fingers on her head, sliding over the soft, straight locks and down to the nape of her neck broke through her jumbled thoughts. "I am so sorry," he whispered, his voice thick.

"Me, too." Slipping her arms around his waist, she stepped closer until their bodies were aligned, thighs to chest, her head tucked under his chin. He returned the embrace immediately, and she could hear his heart beating erratically under her cheek. His shoulders twitched, and he sucked in a great, shuddering breath. She realised suddenly that Severus Snape was trying not to cry and tears sprung to her eyes in response. Hermione tightened her hold on him, thinking that she'd like nothing more than to stay there for as long as it took to fix the ache in her chest. With that in mind she pulled back a bit, enough to disengage and make him turn away from her so that she could not see his face. Grasping his hand, she gently guided him over to the bed and crawled into it. He stood awkwardly beside it, one hand over his eyes and his hair obscuring the rest.

"Please, come here."

She didn't wait for him to lie down. The moment he sat on the edge of the bed she reached out and pulled him back. It was a bit awkward, he was much larger than her and traditionally their roles ought to have been reversed, but she wrapped her arms around his body from behind, curling her form around him. They lay there for a long time, long enough for her bare legs to get cold, but neither of them moved nor spoke. Hermione understood the need for silence; she'd had a long time to process what had happened to them but Severus...he had just found out that he would have been the father of a toddler had it not been for the war. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was blaming himself, exactly as she had.

When he finally moved, it was to roll over and take her in his arms. She caught a glimpse of his face, wet and pale.

"I know we have a lot of things to talk about," she murmured to his chest, "but can it wait? Maybe until tomorrow? I just want to stay here right now."

"I believe I can manage that," he said, his voice rough. She felt him pause, his arms tightening on her ever so slightly, before he began to speak again. "I do not have much to offer you," he told her quietly. "I have my shop, my potions, and two old biddies who insist on invading my privacy every now and then."

Hermione smiled softly and pressed her face to his neck. "I think you have much more than that."

She felt his kiss against her hair, and the ache, right below her heart, eased just a little bit.

End