Chapter Two

The Potions Master: Part Two.

The first meeting was a disaster. True to his word, Snape had little to say. He was surprised when Hermione turned up once again Polyjuiced as Heather Gunn, and still more so when she announced that she presumed he would find it easier to talk to her that way. He was pleased to note, however, that she had dispensed with her inexpert attempts at glamour and opted for a more casual look. Heather's face and body were still extremely desirable offset in a pair of jeans and a plain blue cotton top. Her hair looked just as pretty tied in a long, thick plait, and her face was fresh and captivating without the contents of a department store make-up counter smeared all over it.

He sipped his coffee and answered her many questions relating to his life since his unexpected survival in monosyllables, asking nothing of hers in return. He refused to answer questions relating to details of his survival and enjoyed her look of disappointment and annoyance as she watched him stand and leave without arranging a second meeting.

An owl was dispatched three days later to tell her she had an hour to get to the large city library in the middle of town. This time he specified that she should not continue her masquerade. He had become quite fond of being eyed with envy and begrudging admiration by the male public in response to his beautiful companion, but he was aware that the presence of a goddess was not the way to ensure obscurity.

In the library, Snape revealed to her his partiality for solitude after the years of enforced service to a pair of manipulative masters. He was forced to interrupt his dialogue, however, in order to tell her unequivocally that note-taking was not permitted, though it amused him to see the extent to which she viewed their arrangement as a project requiring the same degree of effort and enthusiasm as a piece of Arithmancy homework.

In looks, adult Hermione Granger was everything that Heather Gunn was not: understated, unadorned and unexceptional – she was no conventional beauty, but Snape found he preferred to look at his grown-up former student, who had lost her girlish awkwardness, rather than the charming features and curvaceous figure of some over-done Muggle.

The library get-together resulted in a joint walk to a local historical spot: a recently uncovered Roman wall on the outskirts of town, sheltered and unseen by the tall office buildings surrounding them – the perfect place from which to Disapparate. He left her another hand-message to arrange their next meeting and was pleased to note that she seemed less apprehensive this time when he took out his wand and asked for her hand.

Their two subsequent rendezvous took place in the city art gallery. If Hermione noticed that Snape stood transfixed by the painting Dante's Dream, she didn't let on, although he did notice that she was more interested in the description of that painting than any of the others. He watched her squinting carefully at the notes on the wall beneath the enormous, gilt-framed canvas. He knew it by heart; he came here to look at it often enough:

This painting shows an episode from the 'Vita Nuova'. In it Dante dreams that he is led by Love to the death-bed of Beatrice Portinari, the object of his unrequited passion.

This is Rossetti's largest ever painting. In it he creates a visionary world through soft, rich colours and complex symbols. The attendants wear green for hope while the spring blossoms signify purity. The red doves indicate the presence of love, and the poppies symbolise the sleep of dreams and death.

Snape supposed she was making some fanciful romantic deduction based on what she and the rest of the wizarding world now knew about his own forlorn, loveless past. He wanted to tell her that he liked the composition, found the colours soothing, appreciated the symbolism – in short, liked it for anything but any comparison there may be to himself and his own dead love. Lily Evans was a subject to be dwelt upon internally, however, not one to be voiced out loud; doing so would somehow demean her memory. He walked away from the painting in the trust that Hermione would follow.

They had lunch in the gallery's small café – if tea and crumpets could be described as lunch, but as it was half past twelve, Snape supposed it could hardly be anything else. She remarked on his pale skin and emaciated appearance, and he wondered if she was hoping that feeding him up à la Molly Weasley was a plausible route to her self-imposed recompense. He assured her that his eating habits suited him admirably and were in no need of a major overhaul. She sighed as she bit into her crumpet and fiddled with her hair, an action Snape had come to understand to be a sign of agitation and deep thought.

The two hours spent at the art gallery were amongst the fastest he had ever known, a fact which he attributed to Hermione's relentless chatter, her interest in his life and her eagerness to please.

Her incessant catechism slowed to an occasional enquiry about his potion-making business as they wandered away from the art gallery and towards the poorer end of town. They were heading towards a disused, boarded up shop which they had used on their previous meeting as a convenient Disapparating spot.

The faded sign announced itself, rather diffidently, as an independent book store. The boards on the windows and the faded paintwork were evidence that the book-buying public preferred the glitz and glamour of books sold in vast chain stores boasting a cappuccino to go with their read and a loyalty card to entice them back. The tiny shop before them may have once been a vital source of knowledge, but now it lay abandoned and uncared for, as uninviting as a Knockturn alley curio shop.

Snape waited for the passing man, woman and child to disappear from view before tapping the lock with his wand. He muttered the Alohomora incantation which would command the lock to turn and allow them access. The pair passed through the door unseen, and once inside, Hermione turned to relock the door with the counter-spell.

Inside was so dark in contrast to the brightness of the afternoon sunshine that a Lumos charm was required. The spell lit up the room with a gentle glow, casting shadows and enhancing the dusty barren shelves which had once groaned under the weight of their burden.

Hermione sighed. 'I think empty book shelves make me sadder than anything. Even when my parents moved and I saw my empty bedroom for the first time.' Hermione's Lumos spell bathed her in an unnaturally eerie light. A faint red glow seemed to emanate around her so that she was shrouded in a delicate radiance, making her edges seem brightly fuzzy. Snape noted the subtlety of her charm with approval. Most casters of Lumos managed to create nothing more than a harsh white light, effective but without refinement, and without attempting to modify or improve upon it. He resisted the urge to interrupt her with a compliment.

'Of course, that was because my feelings at the time were closer to a sense of impending doom and hopelessness than sadness,' she continued. 'But I wasn't to know how things would turn out.'

'An extreme reaction to a change of address,' Snape observed.

'Oh! It was just before I went on the run with Harry and Ron. I used a Memory Charm on my parents to make them forget they had a daughter. I got them to sell up and move to Australia. For their own safety,' she added.

Once again he suppressed the urge to offer praise. 'I presume you reversed the process once the war was over?'

Hermione shook her head and lowered her wand. The light it was creating dimmed a little and Snape was obliged to fortify his own charm in compensation.

'I went to see them,' she explained. 'Once it had all died down.' She paused for a moment. 'They were happy. How could knowing they had a magical daughter, who belonged to a dangerous world they could never share, improve their lives? I watched them for a bit, then I made up my mind to leave them alone.'

Snape nodded. 'A difficult decision, but I can't tell you it was the wrong one; I doubt that to be the case.'

Hermione raised her wand and smiled weakly. 'Ron and Harry still think I'm insane for abandoning my parents,' she said. 'It's nice to have someone who understands.'

'Realising that those we love are better off without us, and finding the courage to let them be, is more difficult than any of life's trials.'

Hermione gazed at him intently. 'You should know, Professor,' she said softly.

She seemed on the verge of saying something else, but instead she whispered the word 'Nox'. Her wand-light vanished, and the darkness enveloped her so that she was barely more than a dark silhouette. She walked towards him and stopped once the gap was almost closed. He watched her: confused, uncertain, yet enthralled. The light from his own wand lit up her face, and he could see the hesitation outlined in her features, yet her eyes held his steadily. She was so close now that he imagined he could feel her warm breath on his face, and although he thought he heard her whisper his name, he was still startled when she reached out a hand to his shoulder, stood on her tiptoes and brushed his cheek with her lips.

The warmth and intimacy of her chaste kiss was more than he had experienced since his early childhood, and even that was too dim a memory to enjoy anymore. Her hair still smelled of lemons, and for a moment he was certain that if he could only feel her arms around him and bury his face in those long brown tangles, then the big dark hole he stared into every night would go away. He reminded himself of her motives: forgiveness is what she was after from him; once she gained that she could move onto the forgetting part. She was not here to provide genuine friendship. He mirrored her step backwards and folded his arms across his chest.

'You really must be starved of affection, Granger,' he said, 'if you are imagining a kindred spirit in me.' Hermione glared at his response and all but stamped her foot in annoyance.

'One peck on the cheek does not mean I'm ready to declare ourselves soul mates,' she replied. 'You really do have to spoil everything, don't you? It was... RELIEF! That's all! Relief that someone finally doesn't judge me as a hard-hearted lunatic.'

'Then you should find yourself less Weasley-shaped friends if you wish to find another being who does not see the world as some sugar-filled haven where everything is fixable and good always triumphs,' Snape replied.

'Why do you think I sought out your company?'

Snape snorted. 'You must be desperate.'

'As I already explained,' she replied.

'And yet you appear no closer to your goal.'

'My goal?'

'Have you forgotten the purpose of our little get-togethers? Or have you begun to imagine your company alone sufficient enticement?' he said.

'I have not forgotten the reason why you lower yourself to grant me an audience, no. And as a matter of fact, I believe I am beginning to work out my purpose.' She raised her wand and lit it again. The light fell on her features, illuminating her defiance.

'Oh, do share, Miss Granger,' said Snape with a crooked smile.

'I don't think I'm ready to do that yet,' she replied. 'So if you would be good enough to give me directions.' She shot out her hand, palm upwards, for him to reveal their next destination. He ignored it, however, and continued to scrutinise her coolly.

'I will let you know when I decide,' he said. He Disapparated so quickly that Hermione was denied either an angry retort or a resentful acceptance.

Their next three meetings took place in the evening, and in an uninspiring, non-descript Muggle pub Snape claimed as his local. He had begun to grow curious about Hermione's self-professed failure of an existence and allowed himself an occasional delve into her own post-Hogwarts life. She answered his questions with as much relish as he had, which is to say, with no enthusiasm at all. She had little to say about her current working-life, claiming that she was taking a "much-needed holiday" from the Ministry. Snape was convinced that no Ministry Department had arrangements which allowed employees, however promising, to take time off to atone for past sins. He considered using Legilimency to find out what she was concealing but would not have been surprised to find her a passable Occlumens, and besides which, she was discerning enough to detect a forage into her mind, and he was not inclined to antagonise her just yet.

She was, however, willing to discuss her personal life.

'It does not surprise me that you and Weasley did not remain together,' he observed one evening over his usual pint of bitter.

'I suppose it shouldn't surprise me either,' replied Hermione thoughtfully. 'I thought we were meant to be together at one time, but there are only so many Quidditch anecdotes one can listen to without needing reciprocation. And to be honest, books and knowledge aside, he was getting fed up with my need to talk about... well, you – what the three of us had done, or not done. Ron didn't feel we had acted wrongly, you see. Harry did though. Obviously you know all about that; you heard him speak in your defence at your trial.'

Snape remembered only too well. His trial had taken place six months after the fall of Voldemort. His expectations for the outcome had not been high; he saw little in his future but Azkaban and an eternity left to rot with his fellow Death Eaters. But when the Saviour of the wizarding world turns up at your trial declaring you nothing short of the "People's Champion", not a soul dares to question it. He was acquitted and declared as much a victim of Voldemort's regime as a Muggle-born witch or a "blood-traitor". Snape, however, found the remorse of his colleagues and former Order members hollow and empty; he saw nothing but guilt and self-reproach in their eyes. Warmth and friendship seemed as beyond them as ever. He retreated from the world he had longed to join as a small boy living in Muggle misery. He sold his hovel in Spinner's End and used the proceeds and the money which had been accumulating in a Gringott's vault to buy a large Victorian town house – something akin to the house he had made his regular reports to in Grimmauld place, but without the evidence of Dark wizardry along every hallway.

He felt content enough to live out his days in relative comfort, with Muggles for the neighbours he rarely saw and never spoke to, and only the occasional delve into the magical world when the potion-making business he maintained demanded it. He had never expected another being from that world to care enough to make contact with him; no one had ever taken the trouble in ten years, save for the annual invitation to the Victory Day Ball that arrived by owl-post every year, as welcome as snow in April. Though why the celebrations were held in November rather than on the anniversary of Voldemort's demise was beyond Snape's comprehension.

He watched the young woman seated across from him, perched on the edge of a wooden chair, a shadow of the irksome little girl who had been the cause of too many extra night-time prowls along the corridors of Hogwarts. Stolen potions ingredients, illicit forays into the forbidden forest – any spot of bother Potter and Weasley found themselves in, she was sure to be there behind them: the brains behind the daring.

She was taller now than he had ever imagined her to be – her hair less wild, almost wilted along with her enthusiasm and grit. She was virtually as pale as he was, giving the impression of someone who preferred to sit indoors with a nose in a book, avoiding the sun like a nocturnal creature. Her eyes had always given everything away: huge chocolate-brown orbs, once full of excitement and yearning, now looked at him with a mixture of sorrow and regret, and he did not know whether it was for him she wasted her distress on or herself.

It was the first time she had ever mentioned the trial; he saw the trepidation flicker across her face as she wondered how he would respond.

'If you expect me to feel gratitude towards Potter for speaking the truth, you are deluded,' he replied sharply. Hermione flushed and took a hasty sip from her glass of orange juice.

'I don't' she replied. 'Of course not. Harry doesn't expect that you should either.' She chewed her lip and seemed to be considering something. When she finally spoke, it was as if she had reached some long-debated decision. 'He would like to speak with you,' she said.

Snape scowled. 'Is that what this is all about?' he replied. 'Put on an act of penitence, gain my trust, then hit me with, "Potter wants a word"?'

'No! I swear! This is not about him!' Hermione replied heatedly. 'He can make his own damn Polyjuice potion and get you to proposition him if he wants a bloody chat. I'm past sorting out his problems, or anyone else's for that matter. All I can focus on right now is you, so don't you dare accuse me of duplicity!'

He could see her outburst was heartfelt, and the idea of Harry Potter beneath the facade of the beautiful Heather Gunn was nauseating enough to drive out any ill-favoured thoughts towards Hermione. He nodded his acceptance and wondered how it was possible that he was beginning to find the company of Hermione Granger almost bearable.

'Professor Snape, can I ask you something?' Hermione said after a peaceable lapse in conversation.

'You don't usually require permission, Granger.'

He had meant for some time to stop her from calling him by his old formal title as if they still had the relationship of student and teacher. But the subject seemed too intimate to introduce, and although he did not want her to call him "Professor" or "Sir", the notion of Hermione Granger calling him "Severus" was too ludicrous to contemplate. He saw no option but to allow her to continue with the inappropriate official address. Besides, once the subject of titles was broached, then she would have to reciprocate by inviting him to use her first name and that would never do. "Severus and Hermione" sounded like friends, confidants, intimates. They were not friends, nor would they ever be; the idea was absurd. It was much safer to think of her as Granger.

She tilted her head in contemplation. 'Do you ever miss anyone?'

Her question surprised him; she usually went in for a more tactful line of questioning, although he had always seen through her attempts. This was as direct as she had ever been. He could not question her bravery for alluding to a subject which no one else had ever dared to mention since it became public knowledge. He had seen the question in the eyes of every witch and wizard, nevertheless – the question Dumbledore had once asked: "After all this time?"

'If you are referring to what I think you are, I advise you to rethink that question,' he replied, ominously.

'Oh! No, I didn't mean anyone in particular,' she replied, her voice wavering with embarrassment. 'I really meant, do you miss Hogwarts: teaching, colleagues, students, anyone you used to know.'

'I notice you didn't use the word friend,' he replied softly.

'Well, I don't suppose living the life of a triple-agent allowed you to have many of those, sir.'

'Nor does having a sour disposition and a reputation for admiring the Dark Arts,' Snape answered, a trace of a smile accompanying his self-deprecating sentiment.

Hermione smiled back. 'Yes. Well I suppose not. Do you? Miss any of it?'

What did she want to hear? That he missed the status of being simultaneously Voldemort and Dumbledore's right-hand man? That he felt insignificant now that he was no longer Headmaster of one of the most prestigious magical schools in the world? Did she want to hear him lament his loss of prominence in wizarding society?

He felt only release.

'I disliked teaching in general and the company of children in particular,' he replied.

'You hid it well.' Hermione smiled.

'Being enslaved to a couple of power-hungry wizards was also no picnic,' he continued. 'Added to that remains the fact that my fellow teachers and Order members were never exactly all-embracing, even when they had every reason to believe me a servant of the light. Their eagerness to believe in my treachery, whilst not surprising, was hardly a cause for celebration. I live a life of freedom at last. My responsibilities are to myself alone. I eat when I like without fear of a summons from one master or the other. I work at an occupation I enjoy, and I do so at my own pace and without the pressure of expectation. The thrill I feel at no longer having to worry about the life of an idiotic, mediocre, thoughtless Gryffindor "Saviour" cannot be described in mere words. In short, I couldn't be happier.'

Hermione appeared to be mulling over his words. She stared into her empty glass of juice and sighed. 'So, you wouldn't describe yourself as lonely?'

'I prefer my own company.'

'But... all the time?' Hermione was persistent. 'I mean I'm finding your company surprisingly... not unpleasant, some of the time...'

'I'm flattered.'

'... but I'd want a break from it. Don't you just yearn for someone to talk to?'

Snape smirked. 'Well, I had my books when the going got tough; now I have you to enrich my dull existence,' he replied.

'You're laughing at me.'

'And you make it surprisingly easy.' He set down his own glass on the table top and fixed her with a gaze that it amused him to note always made her flush. 'Ending my solitude is not the answer you are looking for, Granger.'

She dragged her eyes away from his and stared at her hands. She fiddled with the silver ring on her index finger and raised the question which seemed difficult for her to contemplate. 'What if there isn't an answer?'

'Then at the end of our agreed time, you go back to your life, and I continue with my pitiful excuse for one.'

'Which you love... apparently.'

'Which I prefer to anything I have experienced before,' he replied.

Hermione looked up and there seemed to be a faint trace of optimism in her eyes that he could not fathom the reason for. She smiled and picked up both their empty glasses. She made her way to the bar and ordered two more drinks. When she retook her seat, Snape nodded his thanks and continued on the subject of Hermione's quest.

'It would not surprise me if you spend your evenings after our meetings sitting at a desk with a quill and parchment, formulating a clear and concise, if utterly useless, plan of action,' he said.

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. She had the look of a child caught pilfering chocolate. Snape noticed her cheeks glow softly in the dim light of the pub.

'Writing down your thoughts and ideas is an excellent way to make sense of everything,' she replied, loftily. 'Muggles call it brainstorming.'

Snape sneered. 'How very Muggle of them.'

Hermione's agitation was becoming more apparent. Her ring fiddling was reaching the point of irritation, and her habit of furrowing her brow, as if in a constant state of perturbation, was beginning to try his patience.

'What if I said I needed longer than a month?' she said at last. 'What if I said a month isn't long enough?'

'Nevertheless, a month is all you have.'

'But... ' she had moved on to shredding the damp cardboard beer mat now as she made her plea, '... I only have a week left.'

'Until October 30th. Yes.'

'You worked out the date?'

He raised his eyebrows in response to her surprise. 'And you did not?'

She shrugged. 'These three weeks have gone so fast,' she said, reaching for another beer mat to obliterate.

If Snape had been a fanciful man, he would have described her attitude as regretful. But Snape was a pragmatist; only a deluded fool could imagine that a young and talented witch would enjoy his company enough to convey disappointment over its imminent conclusion. Yet, despite his certainty of the relief she would feel once her duty was done, he could not help but observe that her behaviour that evening seemed strangely withdrawn. There was more melancholy in her words and actions on this, their eighth meeting, than he had witnessed before.

He noticed her agitation as she made short work of the moisture-soaked coaster. Her fingers worked deftly. He was moved to admire the meticulous dexterity of her movements even whilst performing such a mindless, banal task. It was no wonder her manipulation of magic was equally skilled, though he would never tell her so. He could only conclude her sullenness to be a symptom of her realisation of the futility of their meetings. He reasoned that as she had made no progress, despite earlier assurances to the contrary; she now knew that her efforts were nothing more than a waste of time.

As they left the "Red Lion" and strolled towards the narrow, cobbled alleyway behind it, Snape contemplated Hermione's mood. She was right; these meetings had been an utter waste of effort on both their parts. He was beginning to find himself anticipating each rendezvous with an eagerness he could not account for. He looked forward to her conversation, noticed the way she smiled despite herself when he made some mordant comment. He was even beginning to form an opinion on which clothes suited her best. He could not allow himself to continue on this foolish path which could never be of any benefit to either of them. With grim determination he made the decision to release her from their informal contract. Whatever it was he needed from Hermione Granger was not in her power to give. Prolonging their time together could only serve to increase the ache when the time came for her to leave him.

They halted by the backyard gate of the pub and Hermione held out her hand, as usual, for instructions.

'I will send you an owl,' he said, ignoring her gesture. There was no need to discuss his decision; she would feel obliged to argue, and he was unsure of the strength of his resolve if tested. She would soon understand herself dismissed when October 30th arrived without word from him. She would no doubt feel relief and a Gryffindor sense that she had done everything within her power to make amends. She could get on with making a success of the life she was supposed to live: return to the Ministry, find an eligible young wizard, have babies, wait for their letter from Hogwarts. And he would return to his potions and solitude. The regret would soon pass once he had got used to her absence again, once he remembered how much he preferred being answerable to no one.

He had no explanation for the disappointed look in her eyes when he did not take her hand. She let it drop forlornly by her side, reached into her coat pocket and took out her own wand.

'Just this once, may I decide where we meet up next?' she asked cautiously.

'That is not our understanding,' he replied. 'I believe I made it clear that I was in control of this arrangement.'

'Yes, I know – and you are, but I would like to at least make a suggestion.'

What did it matter? His decision or hers, there would be no next meeting; he would allow her a crumb, just this once.

'Very well,' he replied. 'Where do you propose we meet?'

'Hold out your hand then.' Her request took him by surprise. He had expected her to name some Muggle tea shop, or perhaps another library, as the next venue. However, she held out her hand for his, her eyes alive with warmth and pleasure in response to her small triumph. He did as she asked, allowing her to take his right hand in her left.

Her hold was determined, yet soothing as she slowly pried apart his fingers in a manner which Snape did not feel wholly necessary for the purpose of the simple charm she was about to use. The need to hurl a sharp comment at her to hurry along the process rose in his chest, but the sensation of Hermione Granger gently parting his fingers as if she was tending to the wing of a damaged sparrow restrained any abusive remarks. The feel of her flesh on his, as innocent and inconsequential as it was intended to be, was worth more than the touch of a dozen hired whores who would give their bodies willingly and without restraint, but money cannot buy affection. Hermione's touch conveyed such a profusion of compassion and tenderness that Snape was obliged to call on all his powers of self-control just to keep his eyes fixed on her and suppress an appreciative groan of longing.

'There,' she said softly, once she had completed the gratuitous task of readying his hand.'You do have nice hands, Professor,' she added. The blush was in her voice, though he could not see her pink cheeks which were hidden by a drape of brown hair and the murky atmosphere of the alley.

'Get on with it, Granger.' He found his voice at last. He couldn't afford his control to waver in the face of her softness. He rebuked himself for his pathetic enjoyment at the trivial physical contact and feeble compliment. Her warmth was insincere, he told himself. He had been alone for far too long if he was beginning to interpret every smile, kind word and fleeting encounter as evidence of admiration. But he knew that he would lie awake that night, fantasising over her words and touch. He would imagine himself responding to her gesture. He forced that thought to the Patronus-conjuring area of his mind, and observed her raise her wand and tap his palm with its tip.

Snape watched as she performed the simplest of magical acts with such grace and precision, his intention to take in every detail of this last encounter; it would have to sustain him for some time. He felt the pleasant rippling sensation of an invisible quill lightly tracing a path across the flesh of his palm to reveal Hermione's choice – her decision for the next meeting which would never take place. She let go of his palm, still tingling from her spell as he raised it to his eye-line and read, "A walk in the park – meet me by the statue of Oliver Cromwell at 11 0'clock on Sunday."

It hardly needed magical intervention to convey such a simple address, but he did not criticise her for once. He wondered how long she would stand by the statue waiting for him before realising he wasn't going to turn up. He hoped he would find the courage to let the hour pass without giving in to weakness.

'Very well,' he said.

Her eyes sparkled with delight at his approval. Her tentative smile broadened, illuminating her face like a Lumos charm.

'After you,' he continued, inviting her, for once, to be the first to Disapparate. He told himself that he wanted to make sure she had really gone, but later that night he would remember the turn of her head and the stray lock of hair which she brushed from her face as she made to leave. He would recall with a pleasure he had no explanation for, the look of hope and resolve in her eyes as she disappeared into the night air.