SEVEN: The Potions Storeroom

"Hello?"

What a foolish thing to do. It wasn't as if he could answer, were he still alive. Her heart wrenched in her chest at the thought that he had not survived in her absence. She hadn't slept or taken time to eat in too long—so long ago it seemed impossible to remember—but she couldn't pause. His life was at stake. She had to reach him in time...

The Shrieking Shack was as terrifying as it had been when she was a third year. The place creaked with every step. She tread lightly, her wand at the ready, just in case an errant Death Eater was lying in wait.

When she reached the correct room, she immediately dropped to her knees beside him, fingers desperately searching out a pulse. It was there, but faint, dreadfully faint.

He could die right here while I watched.

The thought sickened her. "Hold on, Professor," she murmured, digging around in her pockets for the potions that she'd picked up before leaving Hogwarts at a dead sprint. Hands shaking, she uncorked a vial and poured it down his throat, watching in dismay as the slow trickle of blood seeped from his wounds.

"I have to move you," she whispered, reaching out to brush the inky-black hair back from his face, so pale and still. She couldn't do anything on the dusty floor of this terrifying place; it would be healthier, easier, to heal him at the castle. "I have to get you to Hogwarts."

Strong fingers closed around her wrist in a vice-like grip, and she screamed, trying to wrench herself away, but he was strong for a man almost dead. Midnight eyes stared up at her out of the face of a corpse.

"I'm dead whatever you do, Granger."

Hermione woke up with a soft yelp, starting upright and staring around her wildly. She half-expected to see an emaciated Snape lying at her feet, but there was no such vision. She was on her couch, in her sitting room, Crookshanks stretching leisurely in front of the hearth; she must have dozed off halfway through the in-depth treatise currently open in her lap. It involved the after-effects of the Unforgivable Curses—those which were not fatal—and especially the Cruciatus Curse, which had left a lasting effect on many war veterans.

Feeling slightly ill, she scanned the words, trying to chase the dream-image from her mind. His words haunted her. He'd said no such thing at the actual event, of course—nor had he shown any real signs of life until a few hours later—but her dreams regularly featured this, a twisting of the reality that had been.

A shudder gripped through her. She played with the charms on the bracelet Harry had sent her, thinking, and finally decided to put the treatise away. Obviously, it had had a hand in her nightmare. She ignored the sensible voice in her head that told her, in no uncertain terms, that the treatise had hardly been the cause; she'd been having that nightmare for years.

She closed the text and pulled out her letter from Harry, the one he'd written her on her birthday. It was short—he had never been particularly loquacious—but heartfelt. That was the wonderful thing about her best friend. The missives he wrote her were always heartfelt.

Dear Hermione,

Happy birthday! I'll have you know that no, I did not just send you some sentimental trinket to mark the occasion. I know that you haven't been sleeping well, and I hope this will help. It's charmed with a spell we've been working on in the department for war veterans particularly, as we've noticed a distinct interruption of everyone's sleep patterns since Voldemort fell. It certainly isn't foolproof, but it should help, Hermione, and I hope you use it.

It's busy as ever here, but honestly, I'm driving everyone bonkers with how distracted I've been. I keep accidentally setting things on fire or making champagne burst from the nearest inkwell. I'm always thinking about being home with Ginny when my mind ought to be safely at the office, but it's difficult. It seems like she's always uncomfortable, even when she's lying through her teeth about it. Albus Severus is going to be one hell of a kid, I can tell you that. Ginny keeps threatening—in her most pained moments, I'm sure—that he's a Slytherin, but I suppose I'd be all right with that.

How is everything at Hogwarts? Did you convey my message to Professor Snape? Did he chuck you out of his office for it? I'm sorry if he did. I'm honestly at my wit's end with the blighter. You'd think that a person who's been ignored, by and large, his entire life, would enjoy a present or two, but all I get is howlers. And you'd think he might enjoy some company, so I keep inviting him to tea. I won't have any quills left if the barrage continues.

Take care of yourself, Hermione, and stay in touch. I'll be up to visit soon.

Love,

Harry

Hermione sighed. She'd have to tell him in her next letter that it certainly wasn't foolproof. Her nightmares had not changed in frequency since she'd received his gift, nor had she managed to get more sleep. It was quite pretty, though, and she enjoyed the random, tinkling music the charms made as they brushed against one another.

She needed something to do, preferably hard work with her hands, the kind that dulled the assault of thoughts from her mind. She tapped her quill against her lips, thinking. Her storeroom hadn't yet been organized with the onslaught of students and lessons. Slughorn certainly hadn't bothered to organize the place before he retired, though truthfully, she wasn't certain that she knew the best system of managing all of those ingredients—there was an instinctual aspect to Potions that she…didn't lack, not exactly, but her instincts were thin on the ground.

She was halfway to her bedroom for a change of clothes when the fireplace trilled. Crookshanks hissed in reaction.

"Coming!" she called, hurrying over to kneel by the hearth and fastening her dressing gown around her. "What is it?"

Minerva's face appeared in the green flames. Crookshanks mrowed in greeting, daring to bat at the flames.

"Good morning," she said briskly; Hermione suspected she'd been up for hours already, and looked guiltily at the clock on her mantle. Only half-past nine. She thought it might have been after four when she'd fallen asleep the night before. "Would you join me for breakfast in my office? I feel we've hardly gotten to catch up since you arrived," Minerva continued.

Though she'd rather not—already exhausted by a hard week of student interaction, not to mention last night's adventures—Hermione said, "Of course. Just give me a few minutes to neaten up."

Minerva vanished with a nod, and the fire went out. Frowning, Hermione turned back to her bedroom, caught sight of her hair in the mirror, and let out a low groan.

Nevertheless—ten minutes later she stepped from the Floo in Minerva's office, her favourite dark blue robes immaculate, her hair contained in a high bun, the purplish bruising under her eyes lightened by a dab of concealer.

"Excellent." Minerva was not given to displays of affection, but her smile was fond enough, and something loosened in Hermione's chest at how familiar it was, how welcome. "Had a bit of a lie-in?"

"Got caught up in a book last night," Hermione admitted sheepishly. "I underestimated how much willpower it would take to not return to devouring the library. I don't think I've ever seen another collection like it." She sat; the chair in front of the Headmistress's desk was more comfortable than any that had ever resided in Minerva's office while Hermione was a student.

Her old mentor sat, too, and poured them both a steaming cup of tea. There was something about the tea here, Hermione thought, that was like coming home.

"You have plenty of time to take it all in," Minerva said. "How were your first two weeks of classes?"

"Good," Hermione said, which wasn't a lie. "Uneventful, really."

"I heard you quarrelled with Severus over house points."

"From who?" Hermione couldn't quite keep the note of indignation from her voice. "It wasn't a quarrel, we were perfectly civil—"

"I'm sure you were. Miss Boivin came to me after you informed her that the points were justly docked. She seemed to think that Severus had scared you ought of coming to me."

"That little—" Scowling, Hermione took a gulp of tea. "They were justly docked."

"I happen to agree with you." Minerva was smiling faintly now. "I only bring it up because I am…relieved…that the two of you were able to come to a solution together. I worried that appointing you as Head of Gryffindor would be one insult too far for Severus."

"We're fine," Hermione said, mollified, and didn't add, But you ought to have told him I was coming.

For a moment, they did not speak. Hermione nibbled on a pastry; Minerva sipped her tea; it was not unlike their occasional meetings during Hermione's sixth year.

"How are you, Hermione?" Minerva asked at last, in the gentlest voice she possessed. "I know this year has been hard on you."

She didn't meet Minerva's gaze; her eyes rose up, instead, to consider the slumbering portrait of Albus Dumbledore. She wondered if he was faking.

"It's behind me," she said, and didn't need to elaborate on what it was. "I'm glad for the change of scenery, though. It feels almost like a fresh start. Silly, I guess, but Hogwarts was my fresh start as a girl. It seems like it could be again."

Minerva seemed to understand; at any rate, she did not question Hermione further, and they lapsed into talk about an article in September's Transfiguration Monthly instead, which they both felt had quite missed the mark.

If Severus had been a different sort of man, he would have been humming tunelessly under his breath.

As far as Saturdays went, this one had proven to be very fine indeed. He'd had a particularly delicious cup of coffee that morning, one which he suspected Winky was responsible for. She had been assigned specifically to his care during the year after the war, and had formed an attachment to him that he couldn't seem to shake—not that he minded. He had enjoyed hundreds of very delicious meals during that year, and still called her to his quarters when he simply couldn't stomach the Great Hall. She knew exactly how particular he was about his coffee, and as soon as he got too comfortable with a certain blend, she went in search of a fresh one.

Moreover, it was a very nice day. The windows were full of sunshine, and that was unusual in late September. He suspected that a vast majority of the improvement in his colouring—for his skin no longer seemed so sallow, but rather, simply pale, even healthy, Salazar forbid—was due to sunlight. He had spent far too much of his life cramped in dungeons. His afternoon and evening walks around the grounds seemed to have rendered a great improvement in his overall health.

Even Granger's absence in the Great Hall that morning had not vexed him. He hoped that it meant she'd used Occlumency to her benefit and caught up on the sleep she sorely needed. Receiving answers—however few—had driven his curiosity to boiling point the night before, but now, in the light of day, the urgency had tapered off. He could sit and enjoy an old, massive tome containing an obscure history of the hybrid discipline of Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts without interruption.

Other interruptions, however, could not be avoided. Three sharp raps sounded at his door. He got to his feet with reluctance; by the time he reached his office door, he'd smoothed out his scowl.

It was Granger, hair barely contained in a bun atop her head. "Good afternoon," she said, with the impression of forced cheer, and held out a scroll to him. "Minerva asked me to drop this off on my way back to the dungeons. She's nailed down the patrol schedules for the next few weeks."

He broke the wax seal and opened the scroll while she hovered outside his door, clearly debating whether she should run for it, and he immediately saw why: Minerva had paired them together for the foreseeable future, three nights per week.

He did not react, for he was sure that she expected him to, and only rolled the scroll back up. "Was there something else?"

She hesitated. "I suppose it could wait."

"Why don't we identify it before you draw more conclusions?" He leaned against the doorjamb, frowning down at her.

She met his eye and forged ahead. "The Potions storeroom...well, Slughorn left it in poor condition, in his haste to retire, I think. You've been a Master for decades. I was just wondering if you might assist me with the re-organization of the place." Her expression was woefully hopeful. "I haven't had the privilege of dealing with such a large stock of ingredients before."

For a few seconds, he debated the issue, his book and cup of tea calling to him from his sitting room. Finally, though, he closed the office door behind him, raised his wards, and gestured for her to lead the way.

Her features brightened right before she turned away.

There was a cauldron, softly simmering, on Granger's desk as they entered her office. "It's for Ginny," she commented, when she saw him cast it a lingering look. "She's pregnant again, and it's constant misery, compared to last time."

"Ah." He smirked. "And which combination of the deceased will this one be named after?"

A look of unease passed over her features before they smoothed again. "I don't think they've decided yet," she said lightly, turning to the storage room. "But it's a boy, so they have quite a few options."

He was about to wonder aloud why she was lying about this, of all things, when he was distracted by the light throwing his former Potions storeroom into sharp relief. "Poor condition?" he growled. "Poor condition! It's reprehensible! What did the old codger do to it? We're going to have to take everything out…"

The boomslang skin was situated too close to the crocodile hearts; the ginger was stored across the room from the lemongrass; the hellebore, lacewing flies, and moonstone were stored too close the ground, not close enough, or too near the ceiling. It was an utter disaster. Once, he'd reserved the sensation of horror for the moment he stepped back into the Order's protection, scarcely able to believe he had lied his way through another meeting with the Dark Lord and lived; now, it seemed, horror got trotted out for poorly organized Potions storerooms.

Granger shot him an apologetic look. "I know. I've done a bit of moving the last few weeks, but it's really a day's work."

Severus pulled off his robes, left them hanging on the coat rack in her office, and began rolling up his sleeves. "Less, if shared."

She flushed a dull pink. "I'm sorry. It's Saturday, I shouldn't have asked—forget it."

"No, no," he said, a little amused at how well she'd manipulated him—and without trying, it seemed. Seeing the disorder of the place, he could not bring himself to leave. "My leisure time can wait."

She hung up her robes, too, and after a second's hesitation, pushed back the sleeves of her shirt to the elbows. She bent to twiddle with the radio on her desk, quickly bypassed Celestina Warbeck, and settled on a different station; he didn't recognize the music.

Glancing his way, she took a deep breath. "Well, shall we?"

He led the way into the storeroom and pulled down a few jars at the very back; she followed suit, carting out the dismembered newts.

They worked quickly, speaking now and then to argue the correct replacement of an ingredient, but otherwise, he was surprised by how easily they worked together. She did not once bump into him on accident; she relented when it was clear that his expertise won out over hers; and she did not chatter, did not speak unless necessary. She did hum under her breath whenever a song came on the radio that she knew, but he didn't find it irritating. She had a pleasant enough voice, even when she missed the correct note, snorted, and picked up the tune again a few seconds later.

An hour had passed, and then another, without incident, and then—

The sound of glass breaking on stone: as he turned toward her, she swore viciously, holding her injured hand aloft. "There go the frog brains," she grumbled, staring at the mess on the ground rather than examining her alarmingly bloody hand, "I'll have to put in another order—"

He crossed the room, Vanished the mess, and pulled her hand over for examination. She quieted immediately, but she didn't flinch as she had the night before. Her face was pink again.

"No glass," he said. "You were lucky."

Her flush deepened. "Clumsy, you mean."

He didn't answer, too busy closing the wound to reply. She slowly relaxed, as if she'd anticipated a harsh retort and was relieved it had not arrived.

"No lasting damage," he said finally, releasing her.

She'd tipped her head back to look up at him; he only realized then how close they stood together, and that there was no room behind him to back away. The sound of the radio drifted in from her office, the low, warm notes of a ballad just discernible. Her lips had just barely parted, the flush fading from her cheeks, her eyes so dark—

"Sorry," she replied, her voice small.

It was as though the word broke some spell; he turned away, she shifted behind him to move the lacewing flies, and the collar of his shirt felt too tight around his throat. The window in her office was open, but the temperature had risen dramatically in the last few minutes despite the breeze.

He thought: I was surprised by her proximity—that is all. She hummed a few tuneless notes behind him, paused to listen to the new song that had started up, and went on stronger than before.

He thought: She was embarrassed by her clumsiness—that is all. Her humming brightened.

He brushed the beginning of a stray thought away and sorted out the lemongrass, hardly seeing it.

The clock was striking six by the time the storeroom was finished. They stood in the doorway, admiring their handiwork, and then Hermione said regretfully, "We've missed dinner. I'll have Winky bring us something, if you like?"

He hesitated, and she was sure he would brush her off. It had not been a bad day, in her opinion. She did not exactly want company—could not tolerate, for example, another long talk like she'd had with Minerva that morning—but she liked his company even so. Perhaps it was because they'd hardly spoken at all. There was something strangely comfortable about working alongside him, and she didn't want it to end.

She told herself that she was being ridiculous, that it was only that she didn't want to be alone, and he was as close as it came to being by herself without really being alone.

"I suppose it is the least you could do," he said, "considering the free labour you've extracted from me today."

Ignoring the barb, she raised her voice. "Winky!"

The elf appeared with a curtsy, immaculate in her tea-towel toga.

"Yes, Miss," she squeaked.

"Could we get some dinner, possibly? We missed the meal in the Great Hall."

"Certainly, Miss. Right away, Miss. And for Master Severus, too?" Winky asked, leaning around Hermione to look at Snape. Not just look; she was nearly beaming.

And he nodded back at her, as though not surprised at all by her adoring stare. "Yes, Winky. And if you've got any of that coffee I had this morning…"

She was certainly beaming now. "Yes, certainly, Master Severus. Winky knew Sir would like that blend. Winky will remember in the future!"

She popped out of view, presumably scrambling to prepare their dinner. Hermione winced. She still had difficulty with the idea of being served by house elves, but they had better rights now after the time she'd spent in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

"Well," she said, "this way, then."

The passage to her quarters opened, and she remembered that they had once been his quarters, full of his haunting memories, and that perhaps this wasn't such a good idea…

But he appeared indifferent, at the very least, so she thought it safe to go on. She had taken great liberties with these rooms—she had redecorated, re-organized, made it her own. It was not cramped; it gave the appearance of being open and airy, perhaps because she had charmed one entire wall to reflect a view of the grounds and the lake, as though from a great height.

The rest of the walls, of course, were home to her many books, all that she had ever owned; the bookcases didn't cover the walls entirely, however, and she had painted over the stone with a spell that looked like wallpaper. Broad vertical stripes canvassed the place, in alternating muted gold and forest green. She had spent too long in a crimson-red dormitory at Hogwarts, and had decided on something more neutral for her new quarters. The furniture was what she had scavenged or moved from her tiny flat; she had fixed it up, repaired it. It was all comfortable, but well-worn, obviously aged, and slightly mismatched.

She cast an anxious glance at Snape—there was every possibility that he would mock her for her choices of decoration—but he didn't seem on the verge of criticism. Instead, he sank gratefully into the squashy sofa, rubbing his left knee almost absent-mindedly. Winky chose that moment to reappear, bearing two large platters and two cups of coffee, as well as a bottle of wine and two goblets.

"Here you are, Master Severus and Miss Hermione," she squeaked, adeptly laying out the food and drinks on the coffee table in front of Snape. "And Winky is bringing Miss coffee too, but decaffeinated, Miss."

She could feel Snape's inquiring look, but ignored him, opting instead to say, "Thank you, Winky."

With a curtsy and a beaming smile at Snape, Winky vanished.

"If I have caffeine after noon I'm up until the break of dawn," Hermione said, settling on the other end of the couch. She didn't bother him with the rest—that it was already hard enough to sleep, anyway—and pulled her hair out of its bun with a sigh. The tightly-bound style had been giving her a headache.

Snape's eyebrows were just slightly furrowed as he pulled the lid off his platter of food; his free hand still dug in around his knee. He caught her watching, and she turned to her own food immediately.

"You are an open book," he said, picking up his knife and fork. He didn't sound irritated, and this being Snape, she thought she'd know if he was.

"Not…totally open," she hedged.

"It was a particularly well-placed curse," he said indifferently. "The Dark Lord saw fit to torture me for several hours the night that he was reborn. I am lucky that Bellatrix was not yet free of Azkaban." The humour in his voice was chilling. "I doubt I would have survived the night. As it was, I walked away with some permanent nerve damage." The furrow between his eyebrows deepened as he spoke. "It acts up after a long day."

When she blinked, she saw the floorboards of the Shrieking Shack, the disturbances in the dust, the dark splatter of blood—

"I can't believe he sent you into that," she said. It did not sound like her voice at all.

He did not need to ask who he was. "He had no choice. We needed a spy."

"That doesn't make it right."

"It was war; there wasn't room for right and wrong. Our only choice had to be to keep people alive. If I had been discovered and killed, the Order would have lost one soldier, rather than the dozens—maybe hundreds—of innocent lives that I saved. It was worth the risk."

"Don't say that," she said. She reached for her goblet and drank deep, hoping to fortify herself, but her head swam.

"I don't see why I shouldn't." He was frowning at her; she could feel the heat of it.

"It's the principle." She forced herself to cut up her food, to pretend the conversation was about the weather or a particularly dry old text. "Stooping to his level, turning war into a math problem that could be solved with one death over here rather than twenty over there…who are we to decide which lives are worth saving and which aren't?"

"I decided what my life was worth." If she wasn't mistaken, his voice had become much colder. "By all means, if you think you know me better than I know myself—"

"Dumbledore decided. Not you."

They needed to talk about this, she thought, had been dancing around it for seven years even when they had hardly spoken; she could feel the knot of it tight in her chest, loosening just a little as the words left her lips.

"You told me yourself that it was more convenient to save my life, because of the information I might have had," he said. "How is that any different?"

She laid her fork and knife down. "I lied."

The couch shifted as his weight moved; when she looked up, he'd turned half toward her, his frown deeper than ever. She did not think this information came as a surprise to him, but that he had not pondered her true motivations very much.

She took a deep breath. "I had no hard evidence that you were still on our side, but I took preliminary measures to keep you alive, anyway. Not for any information you might have had. Just…because."

"Just…because," he repeated.

"It was an instinct. All I could think of was being twelve years old, and being so full of certainty that you meant Harry harm, and in the Shrieking Shack—I didn't feel like that at all." Her hands twisted together in her lap. "I know what you'll say—that I was a fool—and maybe I was, but the only thing I knew right then was that if it had turned out you'd been our ally all along, and I'd have let you die, I couldn't have lived with myself. And if you weren't, well, Voldemort had already attempted to kill you. If you lived long enough to get away, I assumed you'd go to ground, where you couldn't exactly hurt our mission any more than you already had."

She returned to her food, painfully away that Snape sat very still beside her, as though on the verge of bolting. She speared a piece of potato and forced herself to put it in her mouth and chew.

"You were a fool," he said at last.

She nodded, still looking at her plate. The smell of food had started to become appealing again.

"I'm not…ungrateful," he went on.

She didn't dare look up.

"But you had no reason at all to believe…I have never acted like a good man. I wasn't." He shook his head. "I'm not."

"Don't misunderstand me." She pointed her fork at him, narrowed her eyes. "I remember what you said about my teeth. I didn't think you were kind or nice or anything like it, but I thought you might've objected to killing a Mudblood like me for sport. That's all."

Something bloomed in his dark eyes when her lips formed the slur—something pained, angry, like the hot wash of heat as a curse just missed you.

"And it turned out that I was right," she ploughed on.

He had not looked away from her this entire time; now he blinked and turned back to his food, picking up his fork. "You were right," he agreed, and that was that.