Chapter 2

Lotions and Potions - II

"You're . . . not dead?" Hermione asked over the rim of her mug, about an hour later. She was wrapped in a plaid blanket that smelled of lavender. Her head swam, but from what she could tell, the room was warm and cozy, with books lining the walls and a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. Sipping her tea, she tasted the sweet tang of brandy.

"Neville Longbottom, of all people, came to my rescue after you buggered off," Snape replied from a dark corner of the room. "Did it not occur to you to even bind the wounds?"

Hermione blushed and ducked her head, instantly regretting it as her head throbbed.

"Well, we had, er, other things on our minds."

Snape snorted, moving across the small sitting room to crouch before her, pushing her head down gently and examining the bump on the back of her head.

"I suppose," he sighed. "In any event, Longbottom's grandmother was kind enough to shelter me until I had sufficiently recovered. Apparently, she viewed me as the primary reason for her grandson growing a spine and fulfilling his destiny. She was so grateful, she gave me this cottage. I have anonymity, books, and the royalties from The Late Severus Snape Presents line of cosmetic products." Knees creaking, he rose from the floor and stood before her.

Hermione stared, mouth open.

"You? You're supporting the product line?"

"You're surprised. And not as such - I am hardly in a position to object. I'm dead, remember? Up until an hour ago, Augusta Longbottom was the only person who knew of my existence."

"But . . . why? She hates Slytherins!"

If Hermione's head had not been spinning, she would have noticed the faraway look in Snape's eye.

"She was fond of my mother," he said quietly. "They were cousins. And she was kind to me. She kept my secret; she told Neville that I had died. She protects me now and handles the proceeds from the cosmetics that I developed. Why, exactly, do you object, by the way?"

"Well, it seemed to be to be a desecration!" Hermione protested weakly over the throbbing in her head.

"As opposed to being tossed face down in a mass grave full of Death Eaters? Or tried and sent to Azkaban?" Snape snapped.

"We made sure you were honored!" Hermione harrumphed.

"You were the only one who did, Miss Granger. Potter wept himself silly over the alleged 'romance' with his mother and then promptly shagged Miss Weasley. The Potter attraction to red-haired harridans apparently breeds true. As for the rest of your friends ..." Snape shrugged.

"But ..." Hermione chewed her lower lip. Questions bubbled to her mind and immediately vanished. What does one ask a recently resurrected hero, anyway? she wondered.

"The question is, Miss Granger," Snape's voice jerked her from her reverie, "what am I going to do with you?"

Hermione looked up to find him standing before her, arms akimbo, feet planted firmly, hip-width apart.

It might have been the concussion, or it might have been whatever it was that Snape had put in the tea, but at that moment, Hermione's head cleared.

And also at that moment, she noticed he was wearing black socks, blue denims, a grey cable-knit jumper, and beneath that, a white t-shirt. The collar on the jumper hid the massive scaring on his neck, and his hair, longer than it used to be, fell in a silky curtain about his shoulders.

Silky curtain?

Holy Merlin, his hair was clean.

"Miss Granger, I asked you a question. Surely the slight concussion you sustained has not deprived you of the power of speech?"

"N-no, sir."

"Then answer my question - what should I do with you?"

"I-I don't know, sir," Hermione stuttered. Would he Obliviate her? Stun her? Torture her?

"Well, you can't stay here. I will have your word, by the way, that you won't reveal this to any one of your little friends. Only Augusta knows, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"O-of course, would you like a wand oath?" Hermione dug in her sleeve for her wand.

"That will not be necessary," Snape snapped. "Just your word."

"I promise not to reveal your existence. But can I come and see you?"

"Good God, girl, why?"

"Just to make sure you're ... still around."

"Your concern is touching. No."

"Why not?"

"I see your stubbornness has not changed. I said no. Leave me be. I have no interest in reassuring you that I still live."

"Well, yes, but . . ."

"But what, Miss Granger?"

Hermione paused. She could think of nothing to say.

"Well . . . you should be able to Apparate. On your way." Hermione stood unsteadily; this was not the Snape she remembered.

Snape stalked across the room and jerked open the door.

"Well?" he snapped irritably. "Were you waiting for an embossed invitation?"

Still a bit dizzy, Hermione stumbled from the cozy cottage at the edge of Long Higgleton. Taking a deep breath, she Apparated very carefully to her London flat.

Sitting in the darkened living room, she drew a pillow to her chest. Something about the entire encounter with Snape had seemed off. He had seemed less irritable, for Snape, that is. He was also less frightening and intimidating, and at the same time, he was at peace, confident.

Having thought all that, however, Hermione was still flummoxed; it wasn't just the encounter that was off - it was Snape himself.

Despite the fact that the grouchy git is supposed to be dead, you mean?

Mentally telling herself to shut up, Hermione worried and picked at the problem until she fell asleep, fully clothed, on her sofa.

Waking on the morning of Christmas Eve with the imprint of the fabric in her cheek did nothing to lighten her mood or put her in the Christmas spirit. Dread of having to talk to Mrs Longbottom didn't help, either.

The idea that she, the august Mrs Longbottom, might have a solution to Snape's odd behavior did. For the first time in a while, Hermione began to hum as she stumbled off to her shower, waving her wand in a desultory fashion at her coffee maker.

In the shower, she decided that talking to Mrs Longbottom wouldn't be worth her time - the old lady probably didn't want to talk about it, and anyway, wouldn't she be at St. Mungos?

Drying her hair, Hermione decided that it was worth the effort to talk to her. Perhaps she could bring some biscuits.

Pulling on a fresh pair of socks, Hermione dithered again. Biscuits? Really? Would biscuits appease a bitter old lady who spent her Christmases with the comatose forms of her son and daughter-in-law, attended to by her grandson?

Sipping her coffee, Hermione decided that some things were too important to be ignored. Plus, Mrs Longbottom was no more scary than her Grandmother Granger, and if she could charm Granny Granger with a few kisses and some sympathetic questions about her lumbago, surely Augusta Longbottom wouldn't be that difficult. Glancing at the clock, she decided she had time for a quick batch of her mum's shortbread.

Secure in her baking ability as well as her ability to charm, Hermione set to work, all the while dictating questions she wanted to ask Augusta Longbottom to the Dicto-Quill that hovered about her flat.

AN:Not mine, no money. But thanks and praise go to the marvel that is Subversa for taking my ramblings and making them recognizable English!

Thanks also to Lulabelle72 for her ingenious prompting!