Chapter Eight

Author Note: These characters were created and belong to J K Rowling – no profit accrues to me. Thank you for your patience! This chapter has been a long time coming, and I hope you find it worth the wait. Many thanks to my beta, queenofspades and NEW pinch-hitter beta, ArtemisofEphesus.

Chapter Eight

"Eileen Sophia Snape! What on earth were you thinking?!" Hermione put her hands on her hips in exasperation. Her eldest was certainly a right handful. "Lina, sweetheart, you mustn't torment Justin like that!" She scooped up her nursling and used a cleaning spell to remove the jam from his wispy curls. He, of course, was not at all disturbed by his sister's predilection for finding out how much toast he could balance on his head, and gazed down at his sibling adoringly.

"Is there any of that toast left? Your father will want a slice before he heads off . . ." At that moment, Severus swung past the breakfast table and snatched two slices of bare toast in a smooth sweep as he headed toward the Floo. He stopped in front of her for a moment, smiling faintly as she went through her morning routine.

"Keys? Lunch? Ring? Wand? Will to live?" He nodded and patted or indicated each item as she reeled them off. It was a bit obsessive, but he had to admit that the check-list had got him off to work at the Ministry with everything he needed more often than not.

"Anything I should know about? You'll be home at the usual time?" He nodded, his mouth full of toast. She shifted Justin to her other hip and stood up on her tip-toes to give him a kiss. Justin gurgled with delight as the kiss brought his father close enough for him to grab a handful of hair to yank. Lina tackled him around the knees and rubbed her jammy face on his robes. Hermione laughed and cast Tergeo to remove the traces of jam from Severus' hair and clothing. He kept his face impassive and tried his hardest to look put-upon, but his eyes crinkled up at the corners and she knew he really loved these affectionate demonstrations. It came naturally to his children, loved and cherished as they were – their upbringing so different from his own experience.

"You're a good father, Severus," she whispered into his ear – and gave him a playful nip on his earlobe. He started back in surprise.

"Madam Snape! Behave yourself!" he pretended to admonish her. He went so far as to shake a finger in her face, but his tone held no threat whatsoever. Hermione attempted a penitent mien, but managed to pat him on the bum as he walked to the Floo. He whirled around in surprise, but she was innocently moving Justin's arm to help him wave goodbye.

He threw his handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and spoke clearly and calmly, "Ministry of Magic – Department of Potions Research." The green flames whirled him away, and the brightness made Hermione blink.

She blinked again and was surprised to find herself lying in bed. Alone. The sun was slanting through the leaf-green curtains and onto her pillow. She slowly came back to reality – she was at her parents' house, back in England. She wasn't married to Snape; she didn't have children. Nonetheless, the dream had felt so real, so comfortable and right.

It had been months since she had moved back from New York. She hadn't written to Snape or heard anything from him – she didn't even know for certain if he was back in England. It wasn't the first time she had dreamt of him, but this one hadn't felt like a dream. It felt real and true and meaningful, as though the life she woke up into was the impostor. She wanted that easy camaraderie with the tall, darkly sardonic man. She longed for him to feel so comfortable around her. In the dream, she had felt like an adult – an intelligent, alluring grown-up. She realised that was how she felt around Snape in general. He made her feel like the best, most interesting, and worthwhile version of herself she could imagine.

With the echoes of the dream scenting her morning tea, she decided that she couldn't waste any more time sitting around, waiting for life to happen to her. There had been quite enough of that recently. She had been moping about since she had returned from America; her mother called it "being a silly goose". The wise woman was sure that there was a boy somewhere in the picture, but sapiently kept her nose out of her daughter's business. As undoubtedly intelligent as Hermione was, there were invariably the truths of life that could only be learnt through personal experience. Hermione had been subjected to her fair share of grief and loss, frustration and misadventure. Perhaps it was time for some of the sweeter things that life had on offer . . .

Hermione stopped for a moment to muse on why exactly she wanted to find a man whom most people considered an uptight kill-joy at best, and an evil bastard at worst. She missed him. The dream reminded her of how much she had come to find his propinquity comforting. But it went deeper than that; Snape was excitingly unknowable to Hermione. She was familiar with his presence, but the workings of his mind were impenetrable. She could never be certain as to what he would say or what he was thinking. His worldview was breathtakingly grim, in Hermione's view, and yet his assessment of people's motivations, as demonstrated by their actions, was almost always spot-on. He was truly brilliant; his intellectual curiosity prompted him to think in ways that other people didn't, to explore places they wouldn't. Hermione found his acumen impressive. She wasn't interested in Potions research herself, but she had a great deal of respect for his explorations. He was also rather funny, in a rueful, absurdist way. He was a master of deadpan humour and was always ensnaring her in the most outrageous suppositions, then almost-smiling when she finally caught the joke. She noted that he had a habit of ducking his head back when he had a ghost of a smile on his face, as if he still had curtains of hair to hide behind. She longed to see a real smile – and knew that this meant, somehow, finding him . . .

Hermione knew that if Snape was back in England, he wasn't at Hogwarts. She wondered what he could be doing and where he could be. He had mentioned Potions research, so presumably a friendly word at the Ministry would confirm whether or not he worked there. She didn't feel up to approaching Arthur Weasley. She tapped her paper with her pen and wrote "Ministry – possible" at the top.

She thought about what he liked to do and where he could most often be found. He's probably at home, reading a nice book with a hot cup of tea. I know I would be, if I didn't have anything more pressing to do. Tea, some hot dripping toast, a comfy chair, a side table on which to set the tea, a lamp for optimal reading enjoyment, a lapful of cat for warmth . . . Her mind drifted off into a well-visited fantasy land of 'How The World Should Be Arranged (according to Hermione Granger)'. It would not have surprised her to learn that it was very similar to Snape's view, with the substitution of a hot toddy for tea and a blanket in lieu of Crookshanks.

Bookshops seemed a distinct possibility. She added "Bookshops – probable. (Research further)" to her paper. She didn't much fancy the direct approach of simply owling him, although it would certainly be quicker and more certain. She wanted to give him the opportunity to back out of contact gracefully, give herself the chance to save face if he didn't want to continue their odd association.

So, in her usual organised method, Hermione mapped out a plan of attack, alternatively titled, "Running Severus Snape to Ground, Without Him Realising It." She made a map of all of the kinds of bookshops in London that were akin to the ones she and Snape had frequented in New York. Her love for books made this part relatively easy. She made a schedule for Saturday and Sunday mornings, with a plan for spending half an hour or so at each of four locations each day. Having spent so much time in proximity to him gave her a sense of his magical signature – it left a particular resonance in the air. It was like the trail of a heavy perfume but translated as a ringing in the ears or a tingling on her skin. She was soon able to figure out which shops he had ever visited and focused her attentions there.

--ooOO0OOoo--

Snape had long since moved back into his home at Spinner's End, but didn't feel entirely settled. He wasn't sure why. The house was the same miserable pit it had been when he was growing up. Granted, it was cleaner now; he hadn't seen the point of making improvements to it since he had always lived at Hogwarts for most of the year. However, now that he was cut loose from the castle, he was looking at his sole inheritance with new eyes.

Contrary to popular belief, he did perform spells from time to time. Even aside from duelling. He just preferred the physical response he got from working directly with the ingredients of potions, the actions of stirring and decanting. Touch and smell could tell you if something was overripe or too dry. He supposed that you could run a diagnostic test through a charm or something to that effect, but it seemed rather removed for his tastes. What was the point of doing work if it wasn't, well, work? That which sustains you should require effort. In this sense, he was different from the average Slytherin, who had no compunction against someone else doing the dirty work, especially if it was an elf.

Recognising that some spell-work would be required, he rolled up his sleeves in preparation as he entered the small living room. Several perfunctory waves later and the old walls were the neutral colour of parchment. He had initially tried white, but found it too stark. So, he had pulled out a book at random from the nearest shelf and duplicated the colour. There wasn't too much wall-space to recolour, as the bookshelves filled nearly the whole room. They were the only thing he had added since his parents' demise, and they were solidly built and spelled against dust accumulation and mildew.

He was currently doing his reading either in bed or at the kitchen table, so he made a note to purchase a comfortable armchair at his earliest convenience. Perhaps two. They came in matched sets, did they not? It would be more comfortable that way, if he ever had a visitor . . .

The windows were now sparkling clean, but still draughty, as the old house was resistant to his charms to repair the cracks and leaks. New windows would solve the problem, but he was chary of spending money before he had more amassed in his vault. Instead, he Transfigured the old cotton curtains into thick velvet ones in a rich chocolaty brown. The floor, once cleaned (several times), revealed wood planks in remarkably good condition. There was nothing much to do there except add a rug or two for comfort.

The kitchen he gutted entirely with no remorse. With the cupboards and units cleared away, there was room for a decent table under the window. An open shelf was all he needed for his silver and dry-goods. A small magical fridge kept his cheese from going off before its time. The window ledge would be perfect for growing salad herbs. A larger area for herbs in the back garden would have to be planned and implemented – with the appropriate wards in place to prevent any interference with the more toxic exotics he liked to cultivate.

All the expenditure of magical energy had tired him, and he resolved to tackle the upstairs another day. He settled down to read at the kitchen table with his copy of Middlemarch, a cheese and pickle sandwich, and a strongly fortifying cup of tea.