Allies in Unexpected Places

Chapter 6: Allies in Unexpected Places

Hermione dropped her overnight bag just inside the front door of the flat, the sound echoing through the empty rooms. She shut the door behind her and sagged against it and wondered dully if there was anything as depressing as a house that was no longer a home. Reminders of Ron were everywhere here: photographs, his favorite chair, his special coffee mug. These things had been present for the six months of their separation, yet they'd never been as glaringly obvious as they were right now. The question Now what? beat a repetitious pattern in Hermione's head, but to answer it required thought, and thought was something she wished to avoid just now. What did one do after deciding to get a divorce? Wash the dishes? Go to the movies? Do a bit of laundry?

She kicked off her shoes and wandered to the bathroom, seized by a sudden need to dispense with whatever grime had accumulated during her brief trip to France. When Hermione had washed her face and blotted it dry, she paused to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Was this what a divorced woman looked like? Her parents had been married for thirty-four years; what would they say when they learned that their perfect daughter was getting divorced? Both Julia and Lawrence Granger adored Ron and all the Weasleys. Her mum had been thrilled when Hermione married into such a large family; it helped make up for the diminutive Granger line, Julia confided once. Telling Mum about the separation had been difficult enough. The thought of announcing a divorce was positively chilling.

The bleak mirror image stared back at her. "It's times like this I wish I drank," she muttered with a vicious stab of anger.

The occasions that she'd uttered those words, usually during a particularly horrendous stretch at work, Hermione had always meant it tongue-in-cheek. She had never developed much of a taste for alcohol. At special events, Hermione had been known to drink a glass of wine, but she had never been anywhere near what one might call 'drunk'. Wasting time by living life in a stupor had never struck her as something to be desired. And yet, if she'd ever been tempted to drink herself to distraction, this was the day for it. Throwing caution to the winds, Hermione headed to the kitchen. There, she rummaged through the refrigerator for the wine left from – when?

Doesn't matter. What do I have to lose? I'm a big girl, I can do this if I choose... Hermione grabbed the bottle and a glass and settled herself on the sofa in the lounge.

Three glasses later, she tried to decide whether or not she was drunk. Definitely relaxed, Hermione decided. Definitely. And thoughts of Ron were at the fringe of her consciousness now, not tearing at her heart as they'd done earlier. She was in the midst of congratulating herself on her experiment in self-anesthetizing when there was a knocking at the front door.

She shot bolt upright in panic, and immediately the room swam and her stomach began to churn. What if it was one of her parents? Or Molly, or Arthur? Hermione stumbled unsteadily to her feet, then lurched from one piece of furniture to another, clutching at them for support in order to cross the room. She recalled all too clearly now why she never bothered to drink to excess.

"This was not one of my better ideas," Hermione muttered aloud, then called out, "Who is it?"

"Severus Snape."

Snape? She fumbled for the lock, found it, turned it, and stared in amazement at the figure standing before her.

"Professor Snape?"

"That's Mister Snape to you, Granger. May I come in?"

She started to say No, this is a terrible time, but her voice failed her and Snape took the hesitation as a yes. He strode in the room, gave the flat the briefest of appraising glances, and turned to face Hermione once more.

"I'm returning the summary notes you left with me," he said coolly.

"Now?" she blurted.

That earned her a withering scowl. "As I have them in my pocket, the answer to that would be 'yes'."

"Of course. Thank you."

Snape hesitated, as if still questioning what he was about to do. Then he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the rolled-up parchment she had left with him, and handed it to her.

Hermione unrolled the parchment and glanced over it, and immediately an eerie sense of déjà vu settled over her. How many times had she had homework returned to her, covered in the same red scrawl? Immediately, she was engulfed in memories of schooldays and of Ron, and the air seemed to vanish instantly from her lungs.

"This is just what – ah – I needed." She tried to smile, yet it felt horribly out of place. Hermione had a hunch that she resembled a ghastly, grinning jack-o-lantern just now.

Snape peered at her closely. "Are you drunk?"

The simple inquiry broke the dam. Hermione was suddenly aware of two things, the first being that she was making a fool of herself, and the second, that she was about to vomit in front of Severus Snape. She gulped for air.

"Excuse me – I – I'm going to be ill –"

As if shot from a cannon, Hermione dropped the parchments and bolted for the bathroom, arriving just in time. She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and retched, emptying the contents of her stomach. That done, she sat back on her heels and took in great shuddering breaths, her eyes shut and sweat beading on her forehead.

Just when she thought she couldn't be embarrassed any further, Hermione heard footsteps coming closer.

"I'm – fine," she gasped, hoping to deter Snape from coming in. "I'll be out in – in – any time now –"

A shadow loomed over her.

"Idiot girl. Why, in the name of Merlin, are you drunk at two o'clock in the afternoon?" Snape took a flannel from a towel rack near the sink and turned on the cold water tap. He soaked the face cloth for a few seconds, then wrung it out vigorously and handed it to her.

"Thank you," Hermione mumbled, wiping her face with the flannel while Snape filled up a nearby cup with cold water. When he passed the cup to her, she rinsed her mouth, spit the water into the toilet, then took a long, slow drink.

"Better?" Snape asked finally.

Hermione nodded. "I'm so sorry about this. I've just returned from France," she offered by way of explanation.

There was a pause, and then, "I was under the impression that French cooking was better than that."

Had Severus Snape just made a joke? Hermione raised her head to stare at him, regretting it when the motion sent her equilibrium spinning once more. "I went to France to see Ron." She swallowed, then added, "We've decided to get a divorce."

"I see." Snape's expression was enigmatically blank.

There was no hint of sympathy in his voice, but neither was there blatant condescension. It surprised Hermione; the Snape she knew from Hogwarts would have been unable to pass up a chance to insult Ron Weasley. She struggled to her feet, noting that while Snape had been thoughtful enough to provide her with the face cloth and glass of water, he evidently drew the line at offering her a hand in getting up off the floor.

"I'm afraid that the reality of it all struck me rather hard when I got home," Hermione told him, pushing damp strands of hair out of her face. "I drink hardly at all, you see. I thought that maybe, just once, I deserved to get totally, completely drunk."

"Well," he said dryly, "you accomplished it."

"Yes, well, the more fool I. You can be sure that I'll never try it again. And I do apologize that you had to be here to see it."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "I was a Head of House, Granger. I've seen more than my share of vomit among the Slytherins. Not to mention the times in class when a second year – and there's always one – decides that slicing into a Pufferfish eyeball for a Swelling Solution is not his or her cup of tea. Nor the times when someone used one of your brothers-in-law's products to get out of class."

The Puking Pastilles, Hermione remembered and smiled in spite of herself. And the Swelling Solution – they'd worked on that the day she'd stolen the Polyjuice ingredients from Snape's private stock.

"You're feeling better, then?" Snape inquired, spotting the smile at once.

"Much."

"Your relief is only temporary, I'm afraid. There'll be hell to pay in the morning."

"Thanks for the encouragement," she said wryly. "Would you care to return to the lounge, or shall we continue our conversation here in the loo?"

Snape grimaced at her sarcasm, but turned on his heel and exited the room. Hermione followed, wondering why he was allowed to indulge in sarcasm but find it distasteful when used by others. She paused when Snape stooped to pick up the parchments that she'd dropped on the floor, inwardly grateful that he was the one to retrieve them. Bending over was something she didn't want to tackle just now.

"Here," he said, offering them to her. "I'll consider assisting you if anything there needs clarification."

"Thank you. I truly appreciate your help."

Snape nodded, then left the flat without a word.

Hermione unrolled the parchments. It soon became obvious that her mind could process very little in her current state, but she absorbed enough to see that reading the parchment was almost like looking through a window into Severus Snape's soul. No doubt the man harbored volumes more information, but for an intensely private man, what he'd written was quite revealing. Most of the comments were simple enough: Yes, Very much so, Not relevant. Others were pure Snape – snide remarks disguised as feedback:

"Your conclusion is so blatantly obvious that any idiot should have picked up on it."

"Are you mad? Of course Dumbledore intended that."

Eventually, the words began to blur. Without bothering to remove her clothes, Hermione crawled into bed and soon fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Some time during the night, Hermione managed to peel off her clothes and find a nightgown. She didn't feel too bad, she decided; perhaps Snape was wrong. But the next morning, when she opened her eyes, Hermione awoke to a massive headache. There was no point in complaining: she had it coming to her, she decided, a painful souvenir of her lone attempt at altered states of consciousness. And brewing anything to counter the hangover required a lot more time and energy than she was capable of expending just now. Hermione was on the verge of Flooing the Ministry and telling them that she'd be in late, when she heard someone knock on her front door.

Her first thought was, Again?, closely followed by At six in the morning? No one, not ever her mother, would call at that hour. Hermione pulled her dressing gown about her, grateful that she had to deal only with a headache this time and not a spinning room.

"Who is it?"

"Severus Snape."

Hermione opened the door, frankly surprised that the man would darken her doorstep twice in sixteen hours.

"Good morning," she said, squinting against the sunlight that poured in from the hallway windows. It sent a fresh wave of pain across her forehead.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Snape asked, looking as if he already knew the answer.

Hermione winced. "I've been better, thank you."

Snape withdrew a vial from his pocket and handed it to her. "I thought you might need this. It's Ogden's Morning After Draught."

She was confused. "Ogden's? The same people who make the firewhiskey?"

He nodded. "A rather smart business move on their part. I suggest you take it with a cup of black coffee."

It occurred to Hermione then: Snape was actually being kind. She never would have believed it possible.

"Please come in. I was just about to make some coffee."

Snape hesitated, then crossed the threshold.

"Have a seat," Hermione told him, then hurried into the kitchen. She filled the coffee maker with water and measured out the grounds, and as soon as the appliance began to burble its intent, Hermione returned to the lounge. She found Snape sitting stiffly on the sofa, his eyes darting from her overflowing bookshelves to the now-aged Crookshanks, who matched Snape stare for stare from his perch on top of her telly.

"The coffee will be ready shortly," Hermione told him.

"You use a Muggle coffee device?" he asked, clearly surprised.

"Yes. I know it's slower, but I prefer the taste." Hermione seated herself in the armchair next to the sofa. She couldn't help but notice – now that the surprise of his arrival had worn off – that Snape's apparel today was a great improvement over the threadbare, messy clothing he'd worn at his house. It was reminiscent of his elegant attire at Hogwarts; outside of the hair, which still stuck out at odd angles and lengths, he looked more like the Severus Snape of old. It also occurred to her that she'd been too drunk to notice what he'd worn the day before.

Her eyes lingered on him a moment too long.

"Do you still find my hair that fascinating?" Snape snapped.

"No," she blurted. "It's just that – I'm not accustomed to seeing it in that style." Or lack thereof...

An awkward silence descended. Hermione hunted around for a topic of conversation while the coffee pot chugged away. "I understand that you have your own potions business. You make the potions required for products that Fred and George Weasley sell."

"Ah, yes. Explosives and illness-inducing elixirs. It's quite the professional challenge."

"But you have other customers, don't you?" Hermione inquired.

"Yes. Fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, primarily."

She understood Snape's scorn. Anybody who had left Hogwarts with a N.E.W.T. in Potions could do the work he was doing now.

"That's a waste of your skills." Hermione meant it to be encouraging and complimentary, yet it came out sounding rather condescending.

"What you're saying is that it's beneath me, and of course it is," Snape retorted in his that should be obvious to anybody tone. "I do what I do to make a living. And before you ask why that is – because I know you will – I have been blacklisted since the end of the war. I am no longer welcome in the first circles of the Potions world."

"That's grossly unfair," she said quietly.

"I killed Albus Dumbledore. No one is willing to let that slip by unnoticed."

"But –"

"Get off your soapbox, Granger. I am viewed as untrustworthy and immoral. Why should I possibly be welcomed with open arms?"

"But -"

"I made my own bed and now I am lying in it. It's as simple as that. And if you say 'but' one more time, I shall take back your precious parchment," Snape muttered, nodding toward the parchments that sat on the coffee table in front of them.

"You were exonerated after the war trials," Hermione pointed out.

"Kindly do not use that word. I was vindicated, perhaps, but not exonerated. That, I'm afraid, I could never be." There was the briefest flash of pain in Snape's eyes, and then it was gone.

His words dropped into a pool of awkward silence.

"I'll check the coffee," Hermione said, climbing to her feet. "I believe it's almost ready."

Snape rose as well. "Never mind the coffee. I should be on my way. I just thought you might find the Ogden's useful."

"I will. Thank you."

"Please let me know if the information on the parchments requires further clarification. I'm quite sure that you will have further questions."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Why?"

"Because you always have questions, Granger." There was the briefest hint of a crooked smile which vanished almost as quickly as it arrived. "I must warn you, however, that there is one issue that I will refuse to discuss. So if you have decided to ask me how it felt when I murdered Albus Dumbledore, then you can think again."

The question hadn't been on the list of issues Hermione wanted to discuss with Snape. She wasn't sure that she wanted to hear the answer.

Snape walked towards the door and paused, his hand on the doorknob.

"Consider yourself fortunate that you were on the side of the light, Miss Granger. Lord Voldemort did not care for people who asked questions."