Six

A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews.

Three days later, Severus Snape stood in his front room dressed as if he was heading to teach a Potions class. His boots were polished to within an inch of their lives, his trousers pressed to a fine, sharp crease, and his hair was clean and shiny. As part of his routine, he ventured into the wizarding community three times each month to withdraw funds from his bank at Gringotts and exchange it to Sterling. He would ensure that any outstanding invoices were settled at Slug & Jiggers and also obtain further ingredients as he needed them. Not that he brewed very often, except for particular clients who were more than willing to pay his extortionate fees, or occasionally for himself. He wouldn't purchase potions from anyone when he was more than capable of brewing them himself. Not to mention that it was always a safer option.

There was a clatter from Snape's front door, and he frowned slightly at the mail that had landed on his mat. Snape's post always arrived the Muggle way. It was not a common known fact that Squibs made up the majority of staff at the Post Office in Britain. A system of intercepting owl post had been introduced during the war, so as not to bring attention to the renegade wizard-in-hiding, and Snape had found that his neighbours didn't ask as many questions when there were no owls travelling back and forth. He didn't have time to open his letters now, so he lifted the three envelopes without paying them any heed and placed them on the table beside his armchair. He would deal with them later.

He turned and grabbed a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace, and emerged a few moments later at the back of the Leaky Cauldron. A few patrons stopped their supping as his tall, black frame walked passed them, and some of them murmured his name to each other quietly. He always attracted attention and had learned to ignore it, mostly by going about his business as if no one else existed. Even the Daily Prophet had become bored with 'Snape Spotting' once they realised it wasn't such a rare occurrence after all.

Stepping out into Diagon Alley, Snape made a sharp right turn and walked purposefully in the direction of the bank. There was quite a crowd milling about, and Snape sneered slightly as he caught sight of Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley outside Fortescue's, sharing what was probably the most disgusting ice cream confection he had ever seen. Potter looked up a little and caught his eye, nodded once in acknowledgment, and turned his attentions back to the Weasley girl, linking her fingers in his tightly. Snape looked away. What was it with Potters and their penchant for girls with red hair? Whatever it was, he had no wish to dwell upon it.

With a rueful grimace, Snape found his thoughts drifting to the rest of the Golden Trio. He realised instantly that it must be the boy Weasley that Granger was running away from, and he didn't blame her one bit. He had always been too sloppy and slap-dash for Snape's liking, and he imagined that it was Granger who had coached the boy through most of his schooling. He didn't have such a poor showing in his O.W.L.s, but it was doubtful he would have done so well without help. Scowling, Snape found himself still thinking of Granger as he walked up the steps of Gringotts, and he forcefully pushed away the image of her crying face as he approached the Goblin clerk and began his transaction.

***

Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her shirt tightly, tied her hair into a ponytail on the top of her head, and then lifted the thick gardening gloves. She had put off starting the mammoth task of clearing the garden for a couple of days, but she refused to say that she had been wallowing.

Yes, she had spent her mornings lolling around in bed, staring at the view from the window. And it was true to say she had consumed an inordinately large amount of wine and chocolate each evening while trying to concentrate on reading her book. The fact that she been replaying her conversation with the professor was neither here nor there. She also ignored the fact that she had bitten her nails to the quick, wondering what his reaction would be to her letter.

She had finally churned out what she felt was an acceptable missive after four more scribbled, tear-stained attempts and another glass of wine. She had shoved it hastily into the envelope, addressed it and stuck on a Muggle stamp before she could change her mind. She must have looked quite a sight, walking down the dark lane in her PJs, scarf, and Wellington boots to the post box. By the time she had finished writing, it had been three a.m., and the only other living thing that had shared the lane with her was an aged and half-sighted badger out for a stroll, and he'd not been one bit bothered that her outfit did not match.

Finally, Hermione had given herself a mental kick up the arse and resolved to start on the garden.

The weather was mild, the sun trying to creep out from behind the light clouds above, and Hermione had pulled on her old black jogging bottoms that she tucked into her socks before putting her wellies on. She had no idea what might be lurking in the undergrowth and had visions of standing in something disgusting necessitated the boots. She had bought the gloves from the local shop on her first trip into the town since 'Snape day,' as she had started to think of it. Even though she had only visited the garden centre, she had found herself scanning faces and looking around in the hope that she might see him again. She had returned disappointed and angry with herself for being disappointed.

She began by lifting out the more noticeable rubbish. Old plastic carrier bags, empty drinks cans and even an old bicycle wheel had embedded themselves in the overgrown grass, but how they had found their way there, Hermione couldn't guess. She had filled two large black bin liners within the space of twenty minutes, and she stopped to look at her progress. It would be so much easier with magic, but she hadn't even unpacked her wand yet. She would have to do something about that soon. Hermione had realised during a previous stay that not using her magic would start to make her feel woozy, and later she had looked up her symptoms in Hogwarts' library. It was a common enough problem, the magic building up and causing flu-like symptoms, easily resolved when the magic was dispelled. Now, whenever she was spending time in New Mills, she would sneak into Diagon Alley, Disillusion herself, and find a dark corner in which to perform some quiet and unremarkable spells. She always returned feeling energised and clearheaded.

With determination, Hermione grabbed the strimmer and smiled grimly as she turned it on, feeling the vibrations buzz through her. Taking a deep breath, she headed towards the grass.

***

Snape returned to Spinner's End with a bag of potion ingredients, a copy of the day's paper, and three bottles of elf-made wine. His trip to Gringotts had been very gratifying, and he had been informed of a large return on his investments. He was so pleased that he had decided to treat himself.

He walked into the kitchen, stored the wine horizontally in the wine rack above the end cabinet, and then headed back into the sitting room. He placed his paper beside the morning's post, and then went up the narrow stairs and into the smaller of the two double bedrooms. This was the room he had converted into a potions laboratory. It wasn't anything near what he had access to at Hogwarts, but it served its purpose, and he could still lose himself for hours over a bubbling cauldron when the mood struck. Carefully removing the phials of ingredients, he placed them meticulously on the long shelving system that ran the length of the back wall, turning the labels outward so they could be identified at speed if necessary. Crumpling the paper bag, Snape threw it into the charmed waste bin where it burst into flames and fell as ash into the base. He was still smiling smugly at his amazing aim when he went from the lab and into his own room to change into different clothes for the evening. Wearing his wizarding robes was all well and good, but they could be damned uncomfortable when he needed to relax.

Snape's bedroom would have come as a surprise to many people. Apart from his lab, it was the one room in the house that he had paid any attention to. He had purchased the bed frame from an antiques dealer one weekend when he was visiting St Austell in Cornwall. It was sleigh style, with a curved, glossy headboard and large bun feet carved from walnut wood. A tallboy stood in one corner of the room, and by the window, Snape had sat his mother's old writing desk, from where he dealt with any correspondence. On the opposite side of the bed, tucked into the corner of the room, was a floor to ceiling wardrobe with mirrored doors. Snape walked over to it and pulled out a coat hanger with one hand while unbuttoning his jacket with the other. He hung the jacket up carefully, then unfastened his trouser buttons and toed off his boots. He slipped his trousers off and stood in just his underpants while he sifted through the hangers for his soft karate trousers and a t-shirt. He wasn't quite as fit as he used to be, and it showed in the slim roll of fat that overhung his briefs a little. He wasn't overweight in the clinical sense, but he could definitely use some toning. And although his chest still showed signs of a six-pack beneath the smooth and unmarked skin, the criss-cross of myriad scars that adorned his back were his badge of honour. Not that anyone had ever seen them. Snape had never had much time for women after Lily, and a quick blowjob and an unexpected fuck with Bellatrix Lestrange (during which only his cock had been exposed) did not count as far as he was concerned. He had been Imperius'd at the time, a gift from the Dark Lord to his favourite whore, and Snape had vomited for days afterwards.

Snape finished dressing and wandered back downstairs. He was pondering grabbing a glass of that wine, even though it wasn't a special occasion. He laughed shortly to himself as that very thought crossed his mind. When would Snape ever have a special occasion for which to save the wine? He went to the kitchen and poured himself a generous measure, and then, taking the glass with him, he settled down in his armchair. Glancing at the Prophet, Snape pushed it aside with his hand and lifted his mail. He took a sip of wine, placed the glass beside the paper, and scanned the letters briefly. The first was a statement of his Muggle bank account. He already knew the balance, as he was meticulous with his personal accounting, but it was useful to ensure that all of his direct debits were going out as planned. He had learned that lesson the hard way when British Gas had charged him twice in the same month.

The second letter made Snape frown slightly. He recognised the handwriting immediately, and he sighed. She wouldn't just let it lie, of course. It was probably a grovelling apology, complete with contrite promises that she would naturally leave him alone from now on. She couldn't, Snape knew. It wasn't in her nature. Gryffindors loved to fix things, even when they weren't broken.

Snape ignored the letter and put it next to his wine glass, then turned to the last envelope. He smiled softly as he examined the neat, angular writing. Punctual as usual, he could almost picture Minerva as she sat at her desk writing. He opened it and took another sip of wine as he read. There was the usual news about the school and the expected offer of work should he ever wish too return. 'We do miss you, Severus,' she said this time, and with chagrin, Snape felt a lump in his throat. He missed Minerva very much, but he doubted that anyone but she and Pomona, perhaps, would give him a second thought. It was the last paragraph that gave Snape pause, and he read it over again.

'I am particularly concerned about Hermione Granger, Severus. You remember her, naturally. She and I have also been corresponding until recently. I find her leaving the Ministry and departing so quickly very disconcerting. She hadn't even mentioned going away, and her letters had been much less cheerful of late. The war leaves traces, I think. Some of which we are never free.

Minerva'

Surely Granger would have told someone of her plans? What with leaving her job and making up some tale about travelling the world, not to mention her emotional state and subsequent outburst, it would seem that she was behaving totally out of character.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Snape lifted the letter from Hermione and opened it carefully. He had expected an essay, but inside the envelope was one folded sheet of writing paper, crammed with her rounded script. Snape shuffled to the edge of his chair and bent over her note as he read.

'Dear Professor Snape,

P.S. Should you ever find yourself walking past Hilltop Cottage, please feel welcome to call for tea.

Snape let the letter fall to the floor and knocked back the remainder of his wine in one go. She was looking for forgiveness when she had spoken nothing but truth. And she would welcome him back. He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. He could never fathom the workings of a woman's mind, and female Gryffindors were even worse.