Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The café was a snug little haunt where a decidedly intellectual set gathered to eat pastry, argue philosophy and play chess. It was warm enough to fog up the glass, and tears of condensation streaked down the window beside the booth where Snape was sitting when Hermione arrived. He had already ordered when she slid into her seat and placed an order for a latte. The waitress brought tea for Snape and Hermione's latte and cherry strudel.

Ugh, that's utterly revolting – anaemic dishwater at best . . . He was careful to keep an impassive countenance, but pushed the cup away from him after one sip – a controlled and precise distance as if to establish the fact that he felt the universe had failed him by presenting him with this entirely inadequate beverage.

Hermione watched, bemused. It was obvious to her that he wouldn't drink the tea, even though he had said nothing.

"Yes, they don't do tea well here. Or anywhere else I've found, actually. It tends to be bags and lukewarm water." She tried to sound neutral and not superior, as if ordering tea in America was a mistake anyone other than an antiquated Wizard from a different continent could make, and often did.

"What's that you're drinking? Hot milk?" he sneered, gesturing dismissively at her cup.

"It's called a 'latte'. It's made with espresso, a kind of very strong Italian coffee, and hot milk."

Please tell me he isn't totally ignorant of modern culture . . . then again, he doesn't get out into the Muggle world much, I imagine. I can't see the Leaky Cauldron having an espresso machine. She snickered into her drink at the idea of what Arthur Weasley would make of one. Probably blow himself up, the daft man. She shook her head slightly to end that train of thought and was startled by Snape looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable as he spoke again.

"Can I order the Italian coffee by itself?"

Why didn't the server give me a blasted menu? How am I supposed to know these things? He felt very tetchy at having been shown up so early in the conversation and was determined to make her rue her presumption in asking him here.

"Oh yes, I think you'd like it – it's very strong and bitter," she said as she hid her grin in her latte. He placed an order for an espresso.

When it arrived he sniffed it advisedly and then again with appreciation. He took an experimental sip and let the aroma fill his nose, enjoying the taste on his palate. Rich and lemony, like a very dark, bitter-sweet chocolate. I'll have to see if they serve this elsewhere . . .

While he was testing his new beverage, Hermione noted with approval the changes that Snape had made to his appearance. His hair was short – and now that it was clean, it was actually wavy. It made him look much younger and revealed his dark eyes. His skin, with a little sun, was actually olive, not sallow and pasty. His teeth would never be as gleaming white as Gilderoy Lockhart's, but they were even and reasonably clean. His teeth were unobjectionable. In fact, he no longer looked like a Muggle comic advert for the inadequacy of British dental policies.

Snape removed his rather severe leather jacket, carefully folded it and laid it down on the seat next to him. Hermione was reminded of The Master from the Tom Baker-era of the Doctor Who television series, in his immaculate black velvet coat, fastidiously brushing infinitesimal grains of dirt from his sleeves . . . She noticed that his jumper wasn't black, but the darkest shade of charcoal grey – it was a fine knit, probably cashmere. It came up to his chin, emphasizing the clean lines of his jaw and his rather attractive ears. Cashmere, corduroy and smooth leather – she wanted to feel the textures between her fingers. She felt astounded at the sensuality betrayed by Snape's sartorial choices.

An observer watching the meeting might think it was a job interview that wasn't going particularly well or a student assigned to entertain a distant relative visiting from out of town. Both of them were rather stiff, and the conversation did not lack for long and uncomfortable silences.

Hermione clasped her hands together on the table, "So, Professor Snape . . ."

"As I am not a professor here and, thankfully, no longer your professor, you may call me Mister Snape."

That's not bloody likely . . . She tried not to snort out loud. "All-right. What brings you here?"

"I might ask the same of you. I admit I was surprised to see you here – I thought you'd be well on your way through your first Weasley whelp by now."

"Yes, well, that didn't turn out the way I was expecting and I don't really want to talk about it."

Don't think about it. Be a blank piece of paper. Don't cry; don't give him the satisfaction. Damn Ron.

"I'm studying Maths here - Muggle mathematics is the closest thing I could find to Arithmancy, and none of my other courses translated well."

"Did they not have classes on 'How to be even more of an insupportable Know-It-All?' Ah yes, I suppose that would obviously be an independent extra-credit project . . ."

Hermione bit back an angry retort, took a deep, calming breath and summoned the page of St. Augustine in her mind's eye . . . "Just as the flattery of a friend can pervert, so the insult of an enemy can sometimes correct."

"And are you corrigible, Miss Granger?" His demeanour spoke to his belief that she was otherwise. The whole idea is risible. This recitation proves nothing other than her habit of memorization.

"I have taken your criticisms to heart," she said calmly. "Not raising my hand all the time, keeping my head down. You may not believe it, but I have been trying."

"On the contrary, Miss Granger, I find it easy to believe that you have been . . . trying." He bared his teeth a parody of a smile.

And . . . point to Slytherin. Does he truly only smile when he's gloating? Suddenly she realized that, for the first time since uprooting from England, she felt at home. Snape being pointlessly snide and cutting had been a constant in her life for many years. He doesn't mean it personally; it's just a habit or a reflex – like a porcupine shedding his quills or a squid squirting out a cloud of obfuscating ink.

"Your irksome academic enthusiasm aside, why here in America? Surely your N.E.W.T.s were sufficient to allow you your choice of professions?"

"Well, I didn't want to join the Ministry – I thought they'd probably offer me a 'show' position due to my role in the war, and I didn't want that. I don't know what I want to do yet, so it seemed premature to apprentice myself to anyone. What about you? Are you taking a degree, sir?"

"No," he replied, shortly. Me? Get a degree from a Muggle university? "As I am sufficiently credentialed in my chosen field, a Muggle degree would be of no benefit to me. However, the fall of the Dark Lord removed the danger of my pursuing an interest in Muggle sciences. There are some, I believe, that may have bearing on Potions research and development. I am attending classes as an observer only; auditing I believe it is called."

"So, Chemistry, Biology, that kind of thing?"

"Yes, and Botany of course."

"You want to do Potions research, not go back to teach at Hogwarts?"

"I would think the parents might be wary of a known killer teaching their precious issue."

"Sir, you were exonerated of murder. Everyone knows why you did what you did."

"Yes, my personal experiences have been shared with the readers of the Daily Prophet, to become lining for their owl cages. I don't think much of the public's ability to accept or understand the mitigating circumstances, even if McGonagall put her stamp on them . . ." He was quite bitter at how reviled he was, even though Dumbledore had left Pensieve memories for McGonagall, and his very portrait had confirmed Snape's continued role as a spy. The Ministry knew all of it, at the end, but the public liked a villain and Snape was just too good at being hateful for them to change their thinking.

"I can see that. Yes."

He knew that she could see it – she understood his circumstances and wasn't judging or making an overt show to display her position on it, one way or another. She simply let it be. It was very refreshing and he could feel himself relaxing a little bit into his seat.

"Your family, what do they think of you being at such great remove?"

"Well, it's just my mother and father, you know. I'm a 'lonely only'. They're quite pleased that I'm at University – it's expected in the Muggle world. Especially for someone as much of a blue-stocking as I am. They're disappointed that it's so far away, but relieved that it's at least a school they've heard of before, unlike Hogwarts."

"Why not Oxford or Cambridge? I know that the Ministry of Magic would have been able to arrange for suitable transcripts, if you wished to study there."

"Columbia was originally King's College, you know. It had a royal mandate." She smirked at him.

"Wretched colonists. I believe I asked you a question, Miss Granger, before you decided I required a history lesson."

"I wanted to get away. I'm not ready to get married and start a family; the last year, fighting the war, it derailed my studies and even with the additional study time we were given for the N.E.W.T.s, I feel as though I'm not ready to stop learning things."

Snape tried not to snort out loud. Only she would think of the war as something that thwarted her education. Hermione glanced at him inquiringly, but he nodded for her to continue.

"Mostly, I wanted distance from everyone who knew me or had expectations for me." There was a long pause as both of them considered the circumstances that had brought them to this place in time. "Is something wrong, Profess – I mean, sir?"

"I cannot fault your reasoning, Miss Granger. I too have enjoyed my anonymity here. Until now, of course."

They parted without making further plans.