Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Hermione's first sensation on waking was the chill of cool bedroom air on her skin. There was the split second confusion, experienced as mild panic until she remembered where she was and recalled the events of the previous evening. Her eyes remained closed, though she knew the alteration in her breathing pattern would give her away should the figure in the bed happen to be alert too. She listened intently for the sounds of heavy, rhythmical breathing that would tell her he still slept and give her the all clear to open her eyes. The only sound that reached her ears, however, was the unmistakeable sound of deliberate movement. A body shifting position, a hand reaching out to replace a glass object on a wooden surface, a long and irritated out-take of breath.

There was no option but to open her eyes and accept the onslaught she knew would be heading her way as soon as she admitted to wakefulness.

'And once again I am forced to beg for an explanation. Have you decided that your way to atonement is to plague me with your continuing and odious company?'

Snape had pushed himself up into a sitting position – chest still bare, arms folded – his facial hair almost a full beard. His hair was now so greasy he might have just walked out of the shower, if it wasn't for the distinctly grubby aspect to his look. His expression was pure malice.

Hermione sat bolt upright in response to her morning greeting. She had hoped to have time to calm down the mop on her head before sharing it with her companion, but any chance she had had to make small reparation to her morning state was gone. She was to be seen at her very worst without even a splash of cold water to force her eyes to sparkle and compel her pale cheeks to glow. She pulled her blanket a little higher, suddenly acutely aware that she was skimpily clad in knickers and a vest-top underneath the bed-covers. She wound them tightly around her middle, bunching handfuls of scratchy blanket with one hand behind her as she swung her legs over the side and stood up.

'Is your purpose to actually move in?' he continued, scowling as if he were looming above her in his Potions classroom, a swirl of black robes and sour looks, instead of sitting semi-prone and half-naked in his bedroom.

'Had I known how intent you were on "making amends", I would have assumed a new identity and fled the country instead of merely dismissing you.' He had picked up his wand, which was lying next to the empty vial of Hangover potion, as he spoke. Hermione feared for a second that he was about to point it in her direction and either vanish the blanket or inflict some ominous dark spell on her. He did neither, but tapped the slender wooden implement against his palm, observing her mortification with evident enjoyment.

'Of course I'm not moving in!' she replied, bending to scoop up her jeans, cardigan, shoes and socks from their hiding place beneath the wicker bed-chair. 'I only stayed because I wanted to make sure you were alright.'

'How touching. What, I wonder, do you imagine I did before you turned up four weeks ago dressed like a slut and raving about guilt? Do you think I have never been too drunk to remain conscious before?'

'I wasn't here then; I am now,' Hermione retorted, her free arm fiercely clutching her clothes and shoes to her chest, 'so get used to it. Breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes. I suggest you freshen up before coming downstairs.' She scuttled past him towards the door, the wooden floorboards cool and refreshing against her bare feet as she dashed out across the hallway into the sanctuary of the bathroom before he had time to abuse her any further. No doubt he would redouble his efforts once he joined her in the kitchen which she had yet to locate.

Hermione found the room she was looking for at the end of the entrance hall. Last night she had entered the hallway drenched and disgruntled; now her hair was tamed, her face clear and her mouth minty fresh. She walked into the kitchen, closing the door behind her and took stock of the room. She felt her skin tighten as the October air greeted her, and she observed at once that this wasn't a well-used place. Snape's kitchen put her in mind of Harry and Ginny's back in Grimmauld Place, save for the fact that theirs, though well-ordered, was a vibrant animated space – a Weasley kitchen to rival Molly's. Snape's, however, had a dormant, neglected feel to it, as if the owner came in here rarely and reluctantly.

Motes of dust danced in the sunlight, which flooded the kitchen from the window above the sink – the only source of natural light in the room. Hermione made her way over to a large fireplace, which dominated the far wall. A muttered 'Incendio' and a flick of her wand soon had the flames dancing and crackling beneath the cauldron in the grate. She noticed with satisfaction the heating power of a fire – not just physical heat, but atmospheric warmth, too. The room seemed inhabited now, active with the promise of industry and bustle. She recalled that she would likely soon be joined by an irate and reproachful Severus Snape and reasoned that the offer of tea and toast might have some calming effect on his temper. With that in mind, she set to the activity of preparing breakfast of some sort, though the disregarded atmosphere of the kitchen gave her the feeling that her endeavours could be futile. She doubted to find a cupboard well-stocked with anything but potions ingredients and the air of abandon.

In a high, wooden cupboard, which hung on the wall next to the sink, Hermione found crockery: a pale-blue china tea-set with a delicate pattern of tiny white flowers – the kind of thing grandmothers keep for best – never meant for use, but there to fulfil a vague hope that the right occasion would one day require its use. She dared not use that one: the cups looked as if a generous measure of hot tea might finish them off. Several unwashed mugs in the sink looked like the safer option, though it took a combination of magic and might to get them clean. She set the clean mugs on the table and searched the room for something resembling sustenance. Surely the man ate? She found it hard to imagine Severus Snape sending out for pizza every night.

Hermione had found no concessions to Muggle technology in any of the rooms she had so far been privy to. Snape had obviously managed to either destroy or disguise the gas and electricity supply to the house: there were no light fittings and no plug sockets. This house ran on magic alone. She was as likely to find a gas oven or an electric toaster as she was a DVD player or a plasma screen TV.

There was no refrigerator, but she did find a bottle of milk hidden away in a pantry. The store cupboard obviously had some sort of Cooling Charm cast over it: she felt the hairs stand to attention on her arms in response to the chill air as she stepped inside. She found half a loaf of bread to go with the milk, and a few minutes searching found a jar of strawberry jam, a pot of honey and some butter.

The table was soon loaded with breakfast items, and by the time the self-allotted twenty-minutes was up, Hermione had charmed four toasting forks to hover over the flames with a slice of bread each. The homely smell of toast filled the air, and the fat black kettle was whistling through its spout for all it was worth. The kitchen was a picture of domestic felicity, spoiled only by the arrival of Severus Snape.

Snape's entrance reminded Hermione of the overbearing teacher he once was and of why Neville Longbottom had feared him enough to see his form when confronted by a Boggart. The man knew how to project a sense of menace. His penetrating black glare and familiar scowl seemed to add inches to his already formidable stature as he took in the unfamiliar scene of tea, toast and the promise of sympathy. Hermione watched his eyes scan the room quickly, lingering on the fireplace and the obedient toasting forks, now gliding through the air back to the table like soldiers on parade.

She was relieved to see that he had taken her suggestion of freshening-up quite seriously: the beard was gone, his hair was newly-washed and he strode into the kitchen wearing fresh clothes and an expression of renewed contempt. The unmistakeable odour of whatever he used for soap accompanied him. Hermione caught its scent above the warm kitchen smells and savoured the contrast between that and the stench of alcohol and disregard, which had been the previous evening's offering. Ready to face his offensive with a charming smile and a congenial welcome, she wished him a good morning and gestured for him to sit while she poured him a generous helping of hot tea.

'A word of advice, Granger: when in someone else's home it is customary to wait to be asked to sit, drink and eat. Your place is to accept or decline politely, not barge in and decide what's on the menu. As for staying for a sleep-over – I find a little warning, so that I can prepare the guest bedroom, preferable to waking up to the sight of some misguided interloper lying spread-eagled at the foot of my bed.'

Hermione smiled benignly as planned. 'You won't mind if I take the advice of a man whose hospitality includes asking for sexual favours with caution? Only I rather think that our situation has lent itself to a different set of rules.'

For a brief second, Hermione thought she detected a flash of discomfort at the reminder of last night's indiscretions, but it was gone so quickly that she was sure she had imagined it. She waited with trepidation for his next move, hoping he would give in without grace and sit down anyway. There were things she wanted to discuss with him, and she wanted his retribution out of the way for the sake of progressing towards a more cordial understanding.

Hermione was determined to regain the hesitant rapport she had worked so hard to achieve. He had seemed to be becoming more at ease with her company, and for her part, she had looked forward to their meetings more than anything she had experienced in the way of friendship for a very long time. She had found him to be observant and insightful – though his observations tended towards the mordant it was true – yet she found she liked that, preferred it to the infinitely more juvenile humour she had shared with Harry and Ron. Snape's humour was biting and sometimes cruel, often at her expense, but it amused her, nevertheless, and she had found that he was just as capable of turning his caustic wit on himself as anyone. Pleasant thoughts of his deep sardonic drawl kept her awake at night, these days, far more than images of his broken and bloody body.

She wanted him back.

Her theories of why he had pushed her away varied from hour to hour, but the one which she feared the most persisted in torturing her as she lay awake in the small hours, wondering why he had left her alone with Oliver Cromwell a week ago:

Her repellent company reminded him of what he had lost in Lily.

Hermione had spent the last six nights staring through the grey tones and shadows on the ceiling, a solid night's sleep as elusive as her peace of mind. When she dwelt on Snape's enormous capacity to love, so at odds with the ruthless brute he had seemed as a teacher, she felt such a sense of reverence towards him that she had come to believe, if she excited no emotion from him more fervent than genuine approval, she would count herself content. She had tried to recall the point in time when his opinion of her had begun to matter so much, but there had been no defining moment, no shock realisation like a religious conversion – it had been a gradual ascent, a steady progression from dislike to respect.

Snape pulled out a chair and sat down in it with folded arms. His brimming mug of tea lay in front of him untouched.

'Is it not to your liking?' she asked pleasantly, sitting down opposite and taking a slice of toast from the pile. 'There's milk in the jug.' She pushed it towards him as she spoke.

He paused for a moment before seemingly unable to resist the seductive sway of a hot cup of tea. He picked up the milk jug and poured a splash into his mug.

'I take it you made use of the Hangover Potion?' Hermione continued.

'Evidently.'

'You're welcome.'

'I didn't ask for it.'

'But you needed it.'

'Nor did I ask to be judged.'

'I'm not judging. Toast?' She pushed the plate towards him and he grudgingly took a slice. Hermione bit into hers, a feeling of unreality accompanying the pleasant sensation that only hot buttered toast can provide. 'Your mirror says you need to brew more. You're getting low.'

Snape merely grunted in reply.

Hermione couldn't say why she was so surprised when he reached for the pot of honey, or why she should find amusement in the fact that he obviously had a preference for something pleasantly syrupy, rather than the sharp, tangier flavour of marmalade. She had not expected him to choose sweet over tart.

'So am I to expect an encore tonight, or are you done with your Halloween binge?' she enquired.

'Speaking in riddles won't help your cause,' he replied sharply. 'Are you presuming I need a motive for drinking a bottle of firewhisky?'

'I think so, yes.'

'Well this should be good.' He set down his mug of tea, leaned back in his chair and stretched out his arms on the table in front of him in a gesture of mock-attentiveness.

Hermione sipped from her cup in an effort to appear unperturbed by his raised eyebrow and ominous smirk. She considered the easy option of backing down and laughing off his challenge with a bland denial, but this was her chance to confront him, and she may never have the courage again.

'Harry is my friend. I know the significance of the day,' she said. 'It's the anniversary of the death of his parents. Of the death of his mother,' she added, so quietly she could have been muttering the words to herself. Snape heard them, however. She saw a look of astonishment in his eyes as if her words had taken him by surprise. And just when she was sure he would explode in an inferno of outrage and bile, he threw back his head and laughed. The sight was quite disconcerting, she had never seen him laugh before and was quite astounded that he had the ability. Laughter and Severus Snape was as incongruous as Percy Weasley and rule bending. The sight of his mirth in the face of her statement gave her more reason for unease than his fury-filled censure.

'You think my drinking a result of mourning?' he asked, once his laughter had died down.

'Well... isn't it?'

'Am I to understand that you believe me in a grief-stricken state because I am lamenting the loss of a childhood infatuation nearly thirty years ago?'

'Infatuation?'

'Have you been confusing love with remorse, Granger?'

'You're denying it? That you loved her? The trial... your memories... I thought... '

His amusement at her apparent mistake was gone. The transformation from humour back to resentment was so sudden that she began to doubt her own short-term memory. Snape's expression was now hard to judge as he observed her with apparent fascination.

'Enough! This subject is not up for debate. You can finish your tea and get out.'

The notion that Professor Snape was suffering from what Muggle psychologists termed as "denial" crossed Hermione's mind. She wasn't about to accuse him of emotional repression though – he looked in no mood for a forage into his psyche.

'We've been through this, Professor. Fine, talk about whatever you like, but before I go there's something we need to discuss.'

'There is nothing we need to discuss. Your intrusion is unacceptable. You will find my aim to be perfectly accurate this morning, and I don't advise you to wait for proof.'

His wand was lying idly on the table next to him; Hermione glanced at it and was reassured to know that her own was tucked away safely in the belt of her jeans.

'You think your reflexes are better than mine?' she said, sipping slowly from her tea and savouring the soothing sensation of heat combined with the caffeine boost.

Snape snorted. 'Are you challenging me to a duel, Granger? I may be out of practice, but I rather think that overcoming an inexperienced witch, with enough neurosis for a stint in St Mungos, not beyond my capabilities.'

'That is below the belt, even for you,' she replied, setting down her mug with a thud, so that the contents splashed over the sides, forming a pale brown pool of moisture around the base. 'And most definitely comes under the heading of cauldron, kettle, black. It takes one to know one, Professor. And of course I'm not challenging you to a duel. I'm not some hormonal student with a point to prove.'

She pushed her plate containing a half-eaten slice of toast away from her and folded her arms across her chest with as much defiance as the gesture could convey.

'Then say what it is you have to say. I have no time for your amateur dramatics, and your persistent probing is giving me a headache. You have two minutes before I Confund you.'

'I'd like to see you try.'

'Would you indeed? Another challenge?'

She eyed his wand warily again, but his hands were occupied with his breakfast and he seemed unlikely to carry out his threat.

'Did you receive the invitation?'

The jerk of his head at Hermione's abrupt question revealed his unease. She waited for him to answer, but he merely sipped his tea in silence, clearly unwilling to give her a reply.

'You did then?' she ploughed on. 'Me too. I can't believe it's the ten year anniversary already. A decade has gone so quickly.'

'Lucky you. Every year has seemed like a dozen to me,' he replied.

'Even though your life is so wonderful?' she asked, smiling pleasantly.

He ignored her.

'Are you going?' she asked, trying hard to sound as if it was a question of no importance, that she didn't care either way whether he was attending or not.

'What do you think? Have you ever known me to be there?'

'How should I know; I've never been to any of them,' Hermione replied.

Snape lifted up his head and stared at her in surprise. He seemed about to say something then evidently changed his mind, and instead sneered at her. 'Out of some Gryffindor sense of undeserving I suppose?'

'Like you, yes.'

His expression was an alarming mixture of seething resentment and indignation, but as he seemed intent on stewing quietly, Hermione proceeded to probe.

'You said you don't miss it, but what about curiosity? Don't you wonder about them all? McGonagall, Flitwick, Slughorn...' She paused. '... Harry?'

'I presume you are in contact with Potter?' he replied.

'He and Ginny, sometimes Ron, are my only contacts. They have children of their own now. Their youngest is just turning one.'

'Thank Merlin I'm not still teaching,' Snape replied, and Hermione noticed his lips quiver in response to her own laughter at his acerbic quip.

'You didn't answer my question,' she continued.

Snape sighed. 'There are so many of them, Granger – it's all I can do to keep up.'

'That'll be the day. I mean the one about being curious.'

Snape drummed his fingers on the table. 'I try not to think of it. Occasionally I do,' he admitted.

Hermione trailed her finger through the tea-puddle on the table, making circular swirling patterns in an attempt to occupy her fingers and appear nonchalant. 'Why don't we go?' she said.

'We?' Snape demanded.

'Why not?'

'Together?'

'Yes.'

'Do you have any idea of the gossip and attention we would provoke?' he replied. At least he wasn't saying no.

'I don't think I care,' Hermione said.

'Severus Snape: Death Eater, murderer and maligned Headmaster; and Hermione Granger: Gryffindor's favourite daughter and Harry Potter's best friend, attending the tenth anniversary Victory Day Ball together? The idea is inconceivable.'

'I don't see why.'

Snape pushed back his chair and stood up. He picked up his wand and paced the room, clearly in a state of agitation as a result of Hermione's unexpected proposal. She watched in fascination as he strode from one end of the kitchen to the other, his expression shrouded by the curtain of long black hair which fell forward as he walked. He walked to the sink, his back now toward her. She turned and watched, noticing his knuckles pale as he clutched the edge of the work-top, staring out of the window into the sun-filled autumn morning. She folded her hands on the table in front of her, waiting patiently for him to work through the dilemma he seemed to be facing.

Minutes passed, and Hermione was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten her presence. Perhaps staring into space for long periods of time was usual behaviour for him, a symptom of solitude and the unfamiliarity of company. She was about to clear her throat loudly in the hopes of reminding him that he wasn't alone, when he lifted his head as if he had remembered his breakfast companion and turned around to face her, leaning against the sink and grasping his wand in both hands.

'You are delusional, Granger. This is not your way to atonement. I am weary of your persistent questioning of my every word and action. It was an interesting diversion in the beginning, I confess, but now you are beginning to bore me. I do not care if you are suffering from the pain and misery of guilt – that is for your own conscience to bear, not mine. If you wish to achieve a state of penitence, do so in your own time, and stop wasting mine. I am a busy man, with a business to run and associates to see today, so you can finish your tea like a good little girl and be off. Go and crawl back under whatever guilt-ridden stone you saw fit to construct for yourself. I am done with you.'

Hermione's eyes were fixed on the table as he made his speech; she dared not lift them to meet his in case the lump of ice in her throat melted into the tears of disappointment and humiliation which she knew would be met with scorn. She stood though, without a word or a glance in his direction, and made her way across the room towards the open door, knowing with the dread of certainty that she was unlikely to see him again. Every step brought their separation a little closer to inevitability. She passed through the kitchen door and into the dark entrance hall, sure he must realise his error and call her back, but the only sound was her own heart hammering beneath her ribs; no assured footfall could be heard crossing the stone-flagged floor behind her, no deep drawl calling her back with a begrudging acceptance of his mistake. She was out of decent lingering time by the time she placed her hand on the latch and heard the click of the lock: her cue to leave. Regret, resignation and loss of hope united as one to see her out of the door and out of his life.