The Man Who Lived on Spinner's End

Chapter 4: The Man Who Lived on Spinner's End

The neighborhood was the sort that Hermione tended to avoid: run-down, although probably not dangerous. It was solidly working class, yet it spoke more now of 'out of work' than 'securely employed'. Her upper middle class upbringing helped her to understand the reason for neighborhoods such as this, yet it failed to grant them a spot within her comfort zone.

Hermione paused in front of the shabby little house to double-check the address. This was it. She reminded herself that she was a Gryffindor and therefore possessed of great courage, then turned into the path that led to the door. There was a small, well-kept garden on her left, a remarkable contrast to the neglected house. The reason for the orderly garden, to Hermione's practiced eye, was obvious: the plants growing there were not merely decorative, but were used in various potions. Snape might care little about his dwelling, but the garden was certainly tended with care. She climbed the few crumbling steps to the door and knocked.

After a few moments, the door opened abruptly, and Hermione found herself face-to-face with a young woman whose stringy brown hair and pimpled face made for a less than stellar first impression. It was unexpected; Hermione had been certain that Severus Snape himself would answer the door.

"May I help you?"

"My name is Hermione Granger-Weasley. I have an appointment with Professor Snape."

"Professor!" the woman repeated, giggling. "Wait here."

She disappeared into the house, leaving Hermione to wonder as to her identity. Surely the woman, who was all of nineteen or twenty, couldn't be Snapes's wife, could she? Physical appearances aside, she didn't look the type to command the attention of a man like Snape. In fact, the harder she tried, the less Hermione could imagine what sort of woman would command Severus Snape's attention.

"Yes?"

The one-word query was almost growled at her. Hermione started, just as a figure loomed out of the darkness and into the doorway.

Except for the instantly recognizable scowl, Severus Snape looked little like the man she remembered from her days at Hogwarts. A stained brown leather apron covered a dingy white shirt, its sleeves rolled up over the elbows. Dirty trainers peeked out from the worn bottoms of black trousers that had clearly seen better days. It was a startling change from the teacher who was always so impeccably dressed. But more incredibly still, the greasy Snape mane – a trademark of the man himself – had been chopped to a variety of lengths by an apparently blind barber. Hermione tried not to stare.

"Professor Snape," she ventured tentatively. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Madam Granger-Weasley." The cold voice, at least, seemed unchanged.

Hermione had hyphenated her surnames since her marriage, yet they had never sounded as ridiculous as when they rolled off Severus Snape's tongue. "May I come in?" she asked politely.

Wordlessly, Snape stepped back and gestured her into the house.

The parlor was small, its furnishings old and threadbare. It was only the walls of overloaded bookcases, catching Hermione's eye immediately, that lent any saving grace to the atmosphere.

"Am I too early for our appointment? I seem to have caught you in the midst of working." She wrenched her eyes away from the books.

"You're exactly on time, as I'm sure you are aware." The voice dripped with cold indifference.

Hermione gestured towards the sofa. "May I?"

Snape looked as if the idea was nearly unbearable, yet he nodded.

"I appreciate your taking the time to speak to me, Professor. Do you have any questions about what I'm trying to do?" she asked, settling her briefcase on her lap.

"You're writing a book about the war. What would I not understand about that?" he asked in disdain, sitting down in a somewhat rickety-looking side chair.

It was remarkable, Hermione thought, this ability of Snape's to inject sarcasm into just about any sentence. She ignored him and busied herself by removing a handful of parchments from her bag and smoothing them out with extreme care. "As I mentioned in my letter, I find it offensive that no one has written about the war, and I've taken it upon myself to do so. I am attempting to talk to everyone who played a role so that the story is as complete as possible."

"Everyone? Surely you're aware that 'everyone' is not alive," Snape drawled. "How do you plan to deal with that problem?"

Bastard, Hermione thought viciously. It was no wonder that she had saved this encounter until the last.

"Perhaps I misspoke," she said stiffly. "I am talking to survivors, as you know quite well."

"I believe that I already told you in my reply to your letter... I will not grant an interview. Not to you, nor to anyone else."

"Yes, sir, I'm aware of that. I was hoping that, possibly, you had changed your mind." Hermione had held out faint hope that Snape would relent. There were alternatives, but hearing him tell the story from his point of view would have been ideal. On the other hand, she was beginning to believe that the less time she spent with the man, the better.

Snape shifted in his chair. "If you are that desperate to learn the sordid details of my life, I suggest that you read the transcripts from my trial. They are public record."

"I've already done that."

"Then I don't know what more I can do for you." Snape placed his hands on the arms of the chair, as if preparing to rise in dismissal.

Hermione remained firmly planted on the sofa. "While I suspect that you are a book in your own right, Professor Snape, I'm not the one to write it," she snapped. "And I completely understand your desire for privacy. If you choose not to be interviewed, I will not force the issue. That is your prerogative. I do, however, have another request for you."

A suspicious scowl. "A request?"

"I've talked to forty people thus far, gathering information about the war from various points of view. When I looked back at all the data, an amazing pattern began to appear."

"And what would that be, Madam Granger-Weasley?" Snape asked in a bored tone.

There was the ridiculous sounding name again. Hermione made herself look Snape directly in the eyes. "You are the center of it all."

"Excuse me?" Snape blinked.

"Everything hinged on you, Professor. You were the key, not Harry. Oh, Harry was the instrument needed to vanquish Voldemort, but without the role you played, it could never have taken place."

Severus Snape regarded Hermione for a long moment, the fingers of one hand drumming an uneven staccato on the chair arm. "You don't say," he said dispassionately.

"I do say, Professor."

A flash of pure annoyance crossed his face. "Quite obviously, I am no longer teaching. Please do not refer to me by that title."

"I'll stop calling you 'professor' if you'll stop calling me 'Madam Granger-Weasley'," Hermione retorted.

"I believe that's how you signed your letter."

He had a point; Hermione chose to ignore that and move back onto the topic at hand. "You worked as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. You provided Voldemort and his followers with enough shreds of information to lead them to believe that you were still on their side. You made an Unbreakable Vow to Albus Dumbledore to end his life when the situation required it, sparing Draco Malfoy in the process. You essentially gave up seventeen years of your life to fight Voldemort, working at a job you hated. You –"

"Enough!" Snape snapped, the scowl more pronounced than ever. "I did what I had to do. It was a question of survival, nothing more. You make it sound as though I were a martyr for the cause. I guarantee you, there was not a single moment that I was guided by selfless, humanitarian thoughts, so kindly don't depict me in that light. Nothing could be further from the truth."

"Which brings me to why I'm here." Hermione handed three sheaves of parchments to Snape.

"What's this?" He glared at them as though they might erupt into flames at any moment.

"The summary of my interviews thus far. I would appreciate it if you would review it and make comments in the margins."

"You would appreciate that, would you? And what if I don't wish to do that, Madam – Granger?"

"Then we are finished," Hermione agreed flatly. "But if you're the linchpin of the war, as I believe you to be, then your input is extremely valuable."

Snape studied her, his eyes narrowed appraisingly.

"You want my opinion, nothing more?"

"Yes, sir."

He hesitated, frowning as though thrown by this turn of events. Hermione decided that it was time to play her trump card.

"This project means a great deal to me. I find it odious that we gave so much to the war effort, only to receive so little recognition. It's certainly not about medals or citations of valor. It's about being acknowledged for the roles we played. Why should the history books not be updated immediately? Why should recognized war heroes be discounted to the point where they are forced to work in menial positions? A friend of mine fought valiantly during the war, yet she has been continually rebuffed by the Ministry in an attempt to obtain a better-paying position."

"And does your friend deserve this better-paying position?"

Snape was hunting for holes in her story. Hermione chose her words carefully.

"She is working far below her potential, all because someone is holding an old wartime grudge against her."

It was a lie, of course. She wanted Snape to take the bait, to consider what he might gain by being portrayed in a different light. Cooperate with her, and he might be able to shed the role of pariah. Regarded with greater esteem by the wizarding world, Snape the Hero could look forward to a brighter future.

All it would take was a little cooperation.

Severus Snape observed Hermione through narrowed eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing, then: "Fine. Leave the parchments."

Hermione congratulated herself for making a copy of the summary before leaving her house. Knowing Snape, she wouldn't put it past him to toss the parchments into the fireplace before the front door had closed behind her. "Thank you, sir. I would like to pick up your comments in a week, if that is satisfactory to you."

"There is no need. I will send them in the post."

In other words, Hermione thought, so I don't have to let you back in my house again.

"Thank you. I truly appreciate it."

Snape's only response was a grunt. Hermione cast around for something pleasant to say, now that negotiations were over.

"I understand that you make potions for my brothers-in-law."

"Yes." His tone implied, What of it?

"You have quite a library here," she said, trying another tack.

"Don't drool, Granger. It's not flattering."

There was a limit to how much abuse Hermione was willing to take in one sitting, and she'd just reached it. "I'll be on my way, then," she said, standing abruptly. "Thank you for your time, Pro – Mr. Snape."

Suddenly there was a crash from the direction of, Hermione assumed, either the kitchen or Snape's potions lab.

Snape leapt to his feet, cursing. "Idiot girl," he muttered.

Hermione remembered the stringy-haired, pimply-faced woman then. It didn't seem likely that Snape would refer to a wife that way, but she wouldn't put it past him. Just then, the swinging door to her left opened, and the girl backed into the parlor, bearing a tray loaded with a teapot and two cups and saucers.

"That won't be necessary, Nora." Snape made a move toward her.

"But it's polite," Nora said, undaunted. "That's what my mum does when we have company."

Seized by an irrational desire to spite Snape by having a leisurely cup of tea, Hermione sat back down. "I'd love some tea," she said, smiling encouragement at Nora.

The girl took this as approval, even if it didn't come from Severus Snape himself. "Sugar or milk, madam?"

"Neither, thank you." Hermione ignored her host – who looked ready to throttle her – and crossed her legs and rested her hands in her lap, in what her grandmother would have called 'a lady-like position for tea parties and other social events'.

Snape looked mutinous, but for some reason, he allowed Nora to pour two cups of tea.

"I'll take –"

"I know how you take yours," Nora said flatly, not bothering to look up. She held out a cup to Hermione, then to Snape. "Company first," she stated, as if parroting something her mum had taught her.

"Thank you." Snape bit off the words. "You are excused. Please return to the lab and finish what you were doing."

Ah. Not a wife then. Probably.

"Nora is your assistant?" Hermione inquired politely when the girl had gone.

Snape nodded, then, as an afterthought, "She is a Squib, Scrimgeour's great-niece. She is unable to find suitable employment elsewhere."

Hermione wondered if Snape had magnanimously offered Nora the job, or if she'd been foisted upon him from up high. Snape apparently discerned which way her mind was headed.

"I was asked to take her on," he said flatly, putting an abrupt end to any speculation that he was capable of generosity of spirit.

"I'm sure it's very helpful to have an extra hand about," Hermione said, sipping her tea.

Snape grunted. "At least she's less of a menace about the lab than she used to be."

Hermione nodded, thinking that for a man of Snape's intelligence and skill, being saddled with a Squib for an assistant had doubtless been a low blow. She studied him over the rim of her teacup, her eyes resting on the ridiculously shaggy mop of hair. Whatever had possessed him to chop his hair off in that way?

"Are you currently involved in any research, Pro – Mr. Snape?"

"Research is a luxury I'm currently denied," Snape said, with more than a trace of bitterness in his voice. "My work allows me little time for that sort of thing."

She'd overheard Snape once, years earlier at Grimmauld Place, lamenting to Molly Weasley that his idea of paradise was a state-of-the-art potions lab and endless time to do research. His intent at the time, of course, was to decry his minimally adequate facility at Hogwarts and the obligation to teach the endless stream of dunderheads, but the message was clear enough.

"I work for the Department of International Magical Cooperation," Hermione said. "Sometimes, there are foreign potions that the developers are trying to introduce into Britain, but otherwise I don't keep up with the latest in that field."

Snape looked at her then, with something akin to hunger in his eyes. "Foreign potions?"

"Di Locelli in Italy has been trying to market a new hair tonic abroad, but the Ministry is skeptical about the efficacy of his products."

The mention of hair sent Hermione's eyes unintentionally back to Snape's scruffy mane. A faint tinge of pink appeared in his cheeks; the familiar scowl settled over his features.

"Kindly stop staring at my hair, Granger," he snarled.

Hermione blushed. "I beg your pardon. I didn't intend –"

"There was a mishap in the lab. I had no choice but to cut away the damaged hair."

"Of course."

Silence settled in as they both sipped their tea. Hermione kept her eyes riveted upon her cup. She was about to announce her departure when, surprisingly, Snape spoke up.

"How is Mr. Weasley?"

"Ron? He's – ah – in Toulouse, France, managing a Quidditch team."

"I see."

He didn't, of course, and Hermione wasn't about to share the details of their marital woes. If Severus Snape was entitled to his secrets, so was she. She put down her teacup on the table and rose.

"I must be leaving. Please tell Nora that the tea was delicious."

Snape climbed to his feet and nodded. "I will return your parchments within the week."