Chapter 8

Banner by Savine Snape

Chapter 8

Severus' first waking sensation was the weight against his body, and his first thought was that something had fallen on him. The soreness in his neck and back confirmed this hypothesis. Had there been a skirmish? Had he been cursed?

Tensing for action, he experimentally cracked his eyelids open, expecting to find himself outdoors, injured and alone, as he had dreaded all through the Dark Lord's wars. Instead, he saw sunlight filtering though ill-closed draperies in a cramped, dingy room. His back hurt because he had slept sitting upright...well, somewhat upright...and the weight upon him was comprised of a yellow-eyed cat across his legs and the girl curled up against him, her short-cropped hair smelling of shampoo, and her pores still giving off the faint aroma of valerian.At least the kratom seems to have left her system, he thought, thankful that the narcotic component of the potion was no longer a concern.

The girl looked serene in sleep, and he knew instinctively that she wasn't dreaming. Her dreams would not be pleasant ones, and the terrible burden she wore like voluntary shackles would poison her subconscious mind every waking and dreaming moment. Her only respite came in dreamless sleep ... and perhaps, at times, in his company. He could not account for that point, but he had seen supporting evidence of it, so he accepted it as fact.

The trick now would be to keep her engaged without triggering her flight instinct. It was a fine balancing act, a tightrope walk, where his failure to safely navigate the wire would mean a broken Hermione. Unthinkable. He had, after all, some experience as Head of Slytherin House in handling adolescent girls...and hadn't his own closest school-year friends been female?...but this young woman was no child. He had to handle her properly, with a mixture of acceptance and enticement...and respect...to keep her on her feet.

Now, she seemed functional, but when he had come into the flat the night before, there had been every indication of a person in free-fall, with no journey's end in sight. He had his work cut out for him.

He heaved an inward sigh.

Carefully, he began to disentangle himself from the clinging Hermione, and in the process, he became aware that he was being stared at by Crookshanks. The cat looked miffed, as if Severus had slept late and kept the creature waiting for something important...probably hungry, Severus' ever-present inner voice informed him.

'Get off if you want food,' he muttered, and Crookshanks sprang down to the floor and began to saunter toward the kitchen area, ginger tail held high.

The girl stirred when he lowered her to the sofa cushion, but he didn't stay to see if she would wake. He used the facilities, ignored his reflection as he washed his hands at the basin, and swept into the kitchen to prepare a meal to nourish. Deciphering the use of the coffee making machine was not beyond him, he was relieved to see, and in short order he was chopping up chives into precise, uniform bits. Chervil and parsley followed, and all of the herbs were whisked into fresh eggs. He left the mixture so that the flavours could merge, popping sausages into a pan and pouring pumpkin juice into the quaint small glasses etched with drawings of oranges.

The persistent crunching from the corner ceased, and Severus looked over to find Crookshanks scenting the air like a big cat on the prowl for prey, his morning bowl of Go-Cat forgotten.

'I feel sure sausages are not an approved part of the diet of a domestic house-Kneazle,' he informed the flat-faced feline.

'But they are approved for their owners,' Hermione said.

Severus turned to see her standing in the doorway, looking like someone only half-awake. 'Are you hungry?' he inquired.

Hermione nodded. 'I can't remember the last time I ate sausages.'

Severus smirked. 'Then when you've performed your ablutions...and attended to your hair...breakfast will be on the table.'

Hermione stood in the bathroom with a face flannel in her hands, washing the sleep from her eyes. She could only remember seeing the very beginning of the programme she had put in the VCR...had she immediately fallen asleep on him? But he had stayed, so he must not have minded very much. She studied herself with a frown between her brows. She'd grown terribly thin in the last month, to the point that she looked truly unwell.

But he was here now, wasn't he?

When she walked into the kitchen, Snape slid an omelette onto her plate, where already resided one fat, juicy sausage. He had brewed coffee this morning, and there was a steaming mug beside her plate, alongside her cup of juice. She looked up at him in amazement. 'No one has served me breakfast like this since I left Hogwarts!' she said, slipping into her seat and beginning to prepare her coffee.

'Better not let Molly hear you say that,' Snape said, sotto voce, and Hermione giggled, the sound alien to her ears.

He turned from the stove, a second plate in his hand, one expressive eyebrow arched. 'Don't underestimate her...she'd be fully capable of forcing a multi-course meal on you, if she thought it would make you eat.'

He sat down across from her, his white lawn shirt once again rolled to the elbows to facilitate his efforts in the kitchen. The shirt was creased, for he had slept in it, and there was a day's growth of stubble on his face, a look that did not flatter him. He busied himself with rolling the sleeves down and fastening his cuffs before he took up his fork. Hermione felt guilty. It was cold in the flat.

'I'm sorry,' she said, looking down at her plate. 'I ran out of coins for the meter, and I ... didn't feel like going out to get more.'

Snape made a dismissive gesture, as if it were no great matter, and then he gave his full attention to the food on his plate. Hermione followed suit, alternating bites of the fluffy herb omelette with sausage. The flavours were amazing, but she found she had no great capacity for food after weeks of starving herself. She managed half the sausage and one-third of the omelette before the food defeated her. She then sat back and watched Snape eat, sipping her coffee appreciatively. She loved tea, but some mornings, a real jolt of caffeine was needed.

When he stood to retrieve the coffee pot, she allowed him to refill her cup, then he sat down, his expression intent. Hermione shifted uncomfortably on her chair, averting her eyes from him as she stirred milk and sugar into her coffee. He, she noted, drank his coffee black. I might have guessed that, she thought with faint amusement. But why did he have to get serious? Wasn't it pleasant just being together?

'I brought coins for the meter,' he commented, 'but the heat seems to use the power very quickly.'

'Yes, that's why I've not used it much lately,' she admitted, forgetting for a moment his wily ways and looking at him again.

He leant forward, holding her gaze. 'Hermione,' he said, 'you were Potter's sole heir. You inherited his fortune and all his property, save the house in Grimmauld Place, which was given over to the Order of the Phoenix Trust. And even so, you have the right to live there, even if you choose not to purchase your own home. You could have a house-elf preparing breakfast for you every morning of your life. Why do you choose to live this way?'

His gesture encompassed not only the cramped tenement, but the dodgy, deteriorating neighbourhood, as well.

At the mention of Harry, Hermione pushed away from the table, the urge to stand and run from him almost overwhelming.

'Don't!' she screeched, her hands clamped to the table's edge like a pair of vises. 'Don't talk about them!'

For a moment, Snape looked startled, then his expression smoothed to his usual impassive coolness. 'I wasn't speaking of them...I was speaking of you.' He seemed to sit taller, a minute stiffening of his spine and straightening of his shoulders, and when he spoke again, his tone was like finely-honed steel...a blade of truth, for he was speaking words whose veracity she could scarcely admit to herself, much less to him.

'You did everything you could do to force me to come to you here. Well, I'm here now, Hermione, and you're going to have to speak to me like an adult. I'm not going away and neither are you.'

Already her fingers sought her wand. Had he placed an Anti-Disapparition Jinx on the flat whilst she was sleeping? Could she hex him quickly enough to make it out the door before he could Stun her or place a Full Body Bind? Or perhaps she could get into her room and ward the door against him ... but did she know a ward Snape couldn't dismantle?

He watched her with narrowed eyes, his thin lips pressed into an uncompromising white line. She stared back at him mutinously, her right hand shoved up the sleeve of her jumper, clutching her vinewood wand. Her heart pounded in her chest, her body flooded with adrenaline. Damn him to hell! She wouldn't be the one to look away.

Then the air was full of ginger fur, and Crookshanks was on the tabletop. In an instant, he had nicked the last bite of sausage from her plate, but before he could make his getaway, Snape plucked him up and dropped him onto the floor.

'Have you no control over this animal?' he demanded of her.

'Don't you dare hurt him!' she cried, bending to stroke Crookshanks, who was unconcernedly chewing the bit of meat he had scavenged.

'I'm not the one who failed to feed him or tend to his litter box,' Snape said, exasperated.

Crookshanks moved from beneath Hermione's hand and began to clean himself. Looking up at the sneering wizard from her crouched position on the floor, Hermione said, 'You are a right bastard, Snape.'

He bent and took her elbow, propelling her into the sitting area and pushing her into the armchair. He sat down on the sofa, directly across from her. 'Yet you abjure the ministrations and kindnesses of your friends in favour of my bastardry, Hermione, so one can only surmise that you prefer it to sweetness and light.'

She stared at the clenched hands in her lap. God damn him! Why did he have to be so perceptive? Why did everything have to be dragged out under the bright light of day? Didn't he know that there were some thoughts...some emotions...best left to the dark recesses, where they might thrive like mushrooms beneath a rock?

She swallowed and forced herself to speak past the thump of shame she felt at his bald observations about her and the way of life she'd chosen. 'I don't prefer you because you act like an absolute sod around me,' she said. 'It's because you let me be...you've no expectations of me.'

He was silent for so long she wondered if he had left the room. Then she raised her eyes and saw he was still there, studying her with a focus so absolute she was impaled by it.

When her eyes met his, he spoke.

'You think I've no expectations of you? And that's why you seek my company?'

As ever, she was immobilised by the penetrating intensity of his black eyes. She could not speak, so she nodded once, acknowledging the accuracy of his statement.

'You couldn't be more wrong.' He leant forward, his elbows coming to rest upon his knees as his eyes came on level with hers. 'I have great expectations of you...greater, perhaps, than any I've held for someone in more years than I care to remember. You are Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of your age.' A faint smile touched his lips. 'I used to scoff when Lupin said that about you, but I've come to know it is nothing less than the truth. You are uncommonly clever, and the ability you demonstrated in the war increased my regard and respect for you.'

He fell silent, but did not look away from her, and Hermione squirmed beneath his unwavering, concentrated regard. His words made her uncomfortable. What kind of world was it in which Severus Snape could calmly relate his regard and respect for someone, particularly her? It was an unnatural phenomenon, like dogs and cats living together in harmony. Was it a some bizarre portent of the end of the world?

'Never believe that you can settle for anything less than your full potential around me...and never expect me to pretend you are anything other than who you are: a woman of character, kindness, and keen intelligence.'

Hermione jerked her head back, as if to throw off his words, but she was still unable to break away from his steady gaze. She couldn't be expected to sit and listen to such twaddle for much longer...she ought to set him straight, but the ability to form coherent arguments seemed to have momentarily deserted her. How could she have so misjudged Snape's thoughts and intentions? And now, how could she get him out of her flat?

Then he sat back against the sofa cushion, rotating his shoulders slightly, as if to release muscle tension. 'Well, I imagine you must have some things to attend to now,' he said. 'I know I do.'

He lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck, and Hermione watched him with misgiving. Ten seconds before, she had been trying to think of a way to throw him out, and now that he was talking about leaving of his own accord, all she felt was desperation to keep him in place.

She didn't want him to go.

'Are you ... leaving?' she asked in a small voice.

Crookshanks, his fur-cleaning now complete, leapt onto Snape's legs as if he were sure of his welcome, and a plaintive 'mrow' from the half-Kneazle was added to Hermione's objection.

'Off, Hippogriff bait!' Snape said, sweeping Crookshanks aside, onto the sofa beside him, and easing the rebuff with an apparently unconscious stroke of ginger fur. Without looking at Hermione, he said, 'Actually, I have a project on this afternoon I was wondering if you'd be interested in assisting me with.'

Hermione watched the taciturn Snape stroking her familiar's fur, watched the cat arching into the man's touch, and wondered how to answer him. She didn't want him to leave her, but she also didn't want to commit herself to something before she had further information.

'There is a privately owned conservatory where I harvest my own potions ingredients...one can visit only by appointment, and I rarely see anyone other than the person who manages the place when I'm there.' He looked up from the purring ginger Kneazle-cushion. 'I could use the skill of a NEWT-level potioneer to gather ingredients. I can promise there will be no crowds of people. If I give you the directions, will you meet me there at two o'clock?'

Hermione thought about it. She would be going out of the flat, but there would not be a press of strangers about her...or even worse, of former friends...and she would be in Snape's company. She'd not gathered potions ingredients since her student days, but when she had done, she'd enjoyed it, and what's more, she'd been good at it. She felt a slow flush of possibility within.

'Yes, I can do that,' she agreed, and when Snape produced a pre-printed card with the conservatory name and direction on it, she accepted it like a woman squaring up to a challenge.