Chapter Three

Disclaimer: All characters you recognize are the brainchildren of J. K. Rowling. All brains and other original characters are my creations.

Chapter Three

At exactly 4:59 BST (British Summer Time), Snape emerged from the faux payphone that served as the visitors' entrance to the Ministry, looking quite sharp in a black Muggle suit and gray buttoned-down shirt – he skipped the tie for a more casual look. He had one minute to ponder his impending folly before the nightmare would begin. Do I really want to hurtle down a rock-hard concrete thoroughfare in a flimsy metal box at speeds not to exceed seventy miles per hour? Is it too late to change careers?

The low roar of an engine shook him from his musings. A sleek gull-wing door flew open. Snape stared, slack jawed and googly eyed.

"Don't just stand there, get in," Hermione huffed. "We're losing valuable daylight."

His mouth snapped shut and his eyes narrowed, from wonderment to irritation in 3.2 seconds. "What the hell is that supposed to be? It looks like a flying contraption from a bad science fiction film."

She laughed at his unintentionally ironic observation. "It's a DeLorean. Now get in, and I'll tell you all about it while we go and find some less congested roads for you to practice on."

Snape slid his long, lean frame into the passenger seat with some difficulty, his knees pressed into the glove box.

"Oh, if you pull back on the lever under the front of the seat, it will move back to accommodate your legs," she said, making tiny adjustments to the rear-view mirror.

Blindly groping beneath the seat, he found the handle and pulled. The seat lurched back with such unexpected force that Snape's head smacked against the headrest. "Thanks, Granger. My legs are quite comfortable, but I'm suffering from whiplash now. Who was sitting here before me? A house-elf?"

"Must have been Molly, I'd hazard to guess."

His trust in her began to wane, replaced by a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach, adding to the pain in his neck. "Granger, whose car is this?" he growled.

"Arthur Weasley's, of course," she said with a knowing grin.

He slammed his fist against the armrest. "I knew there was something odd about those doors. It flies, doesn't it, just like the Anglia?"

"It's all right. This is a genuine Muggle automobile, powered by a petrol-fueled V6 engine, no enchantments whatsoever. I can say with all honesty the wheels never leave the ground." Her smile radiated warmth and reassurance, and he felt the tension in his body easing just a bit.

"Why would a wizard – even a Muggle-obsessed wizard like Arthur – need a frivolous vehicle such as this?" he wondered.

"I believe it's called a mid-life crisis, and even wizards are susceptible."

"Indeed." For one moment, he wondered if his desire to leave the Brain Room signaled the start of his own mid-life crisis.

"Let's get on with it, shall we? Put your seat belt on, Snape," Hermione ordered, revving the idling engine, wasting no more time on small talk.

He looked on either side of the seat for... he had no idea what a seat belt looked like. Driving for Dummies mentioned safety equipment in the briefest of terms, offering no pictures, but Snape knew enough not to expect naturally tanned cowhide.

"It's actually above and behind you. Pull down the silver clip and insert it in the buckle at your left hip."

Once secured in the passenger seat, she put the car in gear, and they took off for greener pastures, or rather lower populated areas. She turned from the side street onto a main thoroughfare only to be stopped by a traffic light.

"Oh, excellent teaching opportunity," she chirped. "This is a standard three-aspect stoplight, red, amber, and green. The red means..."

"Stop right there, Granger. I haven't survived over forty-two years without some basic urban knowledge. I grew up in a big city." Albeit a decaying cesspit of a big city.

"Sorry if I offended you, Snape. You asked me to teach you how to drive, and I assumed you needed all aspects of instruction: theory, driving, Highway Code."

"I'm all set for theory and the rules of the road, thank you very much."

"Excellent! Why don't you impress me with your knowledge of cars."

"Nooo," he drawled. All that chitchat was giving him a throbbing headache.

"It might help to be conversant in car lingo, just in case you have car trouble and need to speak intelligently with a mechanic."

He named various parts, moving from front to back, gesturing to each one with a bony index finger as he listed it. "Headlamps, bonnet, windscreen, windscreen wipers, rear-view mirror, dashboard, steering wheel, ignition, gearstick, accelerator, brake, clutch, hand brake, boot, tail lamps."

When he finished, he turned his head to the side and stared out the window at the last bits of the city as they motored toward the suburbs of Greater London. As Gryffindors weren't known for subtlety, he hoped she understood his unspoken message: he had no desire – or capacity – for meaningful conversation. His jumbled emotions – excitement, anxiety, confidence, and despair – overwhelmed his brain and his vocal cords, and he needed every ounce of concentration to focus on the task at hand.

"It's going to be a long night," Hermione muttered under her breath. She switched on the radio to break the awkward silence.

The home-bound traffic on the South Circular Road was light for a Monday evening. They soon reached their destination, the deserted car park of one of the many schools in Croydon, only enduring thirty minutes of insipid music on BBC Radio 2. "And the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart" took on new meaning for Snape.

She killed the engine, pulled the key from the ignition, and, with a smile, presented it to him. "Your turn."

No fear. I survived a snake attack – huge fucking snake, too – and a full-on Wizengamot inquiry, and I emerged triumphant from both. I can do this.

With firm, steely eyes, he held her gaze as he snatched the key from her hand. They switched positions, and Snape made adjustments to the mirrors and driver's seat – this time with the cautious restraint one would expect from a man who handled noxious materials for a living. He turned the radio off with a vicious twist of the knob and preemptively raised a single eyebrow, daring her to challenge the driver's right to control the car stereo. She had no reaction whatsoever, simply staring at him with an expectant look.

Depress the clutch, move the gearstick into neutral, turn the ignition. The car didn't roar to life so much as it pleasantly purred. Move to first gear, disengage the hand brake, ease off the clutch and lightly push on the accelerator. The car jerked ever so slightly and moved forward.

"Great start, Snape," she said, giving him an encouraging pat on the arm.

He flinched at the unexpected contact, then moved his hand from the gearstick to the steering wheel, a passable cover, in his opinion.

If she noticed his unease, she made no mention of it. "Just circle slowly around the perimeter of the car park. You're doing fine. At my first lesson, the car lurched and hopped so much I thought my instructor was going to be sick. It took a bit of practice before I got the feel of the friction point. That's the spot..."

"Where most of the engine power goes from idling freely to transferring through the transmission and then to the wheels; it is approximately halfway between a fully depressed clutch pedal and one that is completely disengaged." He waited a beat, then added, "Sorry, Granger, but you're not the only swotty know-it-all in this car." He regretted his last words as soon as they'd left his mouth; he couldn't afford to anger her too much.

Hermione's bright face clouded over, her plump pink lips disappearing into a thin white line. "Hey, Captain Slow, don't you think it's time to change into second?" she said acerbically, accompanied by a smirk worthy of Snape himself. "You've almost reached three thousand RPMs, and you can't stay in first forever."

He resisted the urge to glare – he'd done enough damage already. Foot off the gas, depress the clutch, pull down the gearstick, simultaneously release the clutch and step on the accelerator. He changed gear like a seasoned driver, although he still felt like an inept firstie, trying to levitate that damn feather.

She put him through the paces: changing up, changing down, stopping, and starting. Every move precisely as it was described in his book, yet all accomplished while driving in circles in the deserted school car park.

"Time to take this on the road, Snape."

Half an hour ago, those words would have terrified him, but now he felt quite confident he could handle anything she tossed at him.

"We should head south to more rural areas with less traffic. How's your sense of direction?" she asked.

"Awful. If I had any sense, I should have fled in the opposite direction when I first met the Dark Lord," he deadpanned.

Her lyrical laughter surpassed any of the music he had heard that evening, but that wasn't saying much. Still, Snape couldn't remember the last time he'd intentionally made a woman laugh, and he rather liked it.

"Well, just turn left at the exit, then continue," she said, pointing him toward the other end of the parking lot. "And you might want to invest in a map book and a dash-mounted compass if you intend to make driving a hobby," she joked.

"Thanks for the advice, Granger, but I actually do have a knack for navigation." And it was back to business, flirtatious Severus replaced by somber Snape.

He turned onto the main road, stopping at the first traffic light and encountering other cars for the first time. He maintained an overly cautious full car-length distance between them and the car in front, and when the light turned green, he once again moved forward with the ease of a seasoned driver. She directed him back to the A road, heading south then east.

"Wow, you're a natural, Snape," she commented, surprised.

"Did you expect that I would fail miserably, Granger?"

"Not in the least. I was positive you would learn to drive, but I'm rather shocked at how quickly you've taken to it."

"Why is that?"

"You're the most pureblood half-blood wizard I know, firmly entrenched in the Wizarding world, eschewing practically all Muggle conveniences, such as coasters."

"I am not the one responsible for those water rings," he snapped. "I never eat or drink while in the lab. It might contaminate the potions, or worse... I might be accidentally dosed."

Hermione turned away to snicker quietly behind her hand.

"What is so funny?" he demanded.

"Nothing of importance, I assure you," she replied, smiling like an unregistered Animagus beetle filled with juicy gossip.

"What are you keeping from me, Gra..."

"Snape, look out for that dog!"

An errant pooch appeared from nowhere, sauntering across the road. He swerved to avoid it, but lost control of the car.

"Clutch!" she cried. "Change down! Brake, Snape!"

In those frightening, chaotic moments, he managed to slow the car's momentum a bit, but they came to a sudden halt, not on the hard shoulder but in a ditch.

BANG... whoosh.

His eyes widened in terror. "What the hell was that noise!"

"Sounded like a blowout," she answered, rubbing her neck and wincing after she'd disengaged from the seat belt.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice deep with concern.

"A bit sore, nothing that some bruise-healing paste won't fix. And you?"

He too rubbed his neck, the left side, which bore a thickened, pale pink reminder of less happy times. "Also sore, but glad we weren't more seriously harmed." Damn fucking snake.

She nodded in agreement. "We should see about the car." He killed the ignition and applied the hand brake.

They surveyed the damage, a flat tire and a broken indicator lens. "Well, not great, but not bad either," she said, sounding unusually cheerful for someone who had just been in an accident.

"Not bad," he spat, his tone bordering on whiny. "If I remember correctly, and I always do, you shouldn't drive on a flat tire. So, how can this be anything but bad?"

She really could have assumed her superior know-it-all stance: chin jutted out, eyes narrowed and hands planted on her curvy hips. Instead, she remained calm and pleasant, explaining, "It still runs, so there's presumably no damage to the engine or transmission. Besides, it's better to experience these technical difficulties early in your training so you know what to do if it happens while you're on assignment."

"I suppose you're right," he conceded. "And the next step would be to swap the spare for the flat tire. I'll open the boot."

She waved him off with one hand while brandishing her wand with the other. "Oh, don't bother. We're on a tight schedule, so I'll just fix the tire magically."

"No!" he shouted, fearful of another debacle if magic were mixed with Muggle engineering. If Mrs. O'Leary's ordinary car turned into a pumpkin, what would Arthur's fancy sports car become? An artichoke? Perhaps a lemon? "I mean, I'm not allowed to use magic when I'm on assignment, so I should learn to fix it like Muggles do."

"If you insist." She pocketed her wand while shaking her head.

He popped open the boot, and they peered inside to find... nothing. No tire iron, no jack, and worst of all, no spare.

"Now what?" he intoned, once again thinking this whole driving business was a very bad idea indeed.

She grabbed her ever-present beaded bag from the car, pulled out a mobile phone, and punched a few numbers on the keypad. "Good evening. I need the number for the RAC please... Thank you, that would be lovely. You have a pleasant evening as well... Hello, I'm in need of roadside assistance... Yes, last name is Granger, first name is Hermione... H-e-r-m... Yes, that's me... I've got a flat tire, a blowout really, and no spare... No, I'm not in any danger... About one and a quarter miles southeast of Croydon on the A212... Yes, fifteen minutes is perfectly acceptable. Thank you."

Eyeing the tiny clam shell phone with wary curiosity, Snape asked, "May I see that please?"

She handed it to him, and he held it by his fingertips, keeping it as far away from his body as possible, as if it were dripping with destructive bubotuber pus. He flipped it open and examined it, careful not to touch any of the buttons despite an almost obsessive desire to do so. Having sated his inquiring mind, he gave the mobile back to her. Eschewing Muggle conveniences, indeed.

"You might consider getting one for your field work, especially your first assignment," she suggested. "Just in case of emergency, of course."

"Why would I need that," he asked, pointing a disdainful finger at the little device, "when I have magic for communication?"

"Hmmm." She cocked her head to the side, a mock-pondering look on her face. "Because not more than five minutes ago, you said, 'I'm not allowed to use magic when I'm on assignment.' And I've never seen such a thing as a discreet Patronus Charm, have you?"

"And just whom would I call?" he challenged, unable to admit she did have a good point. "I don't have breakdown cover with RAC as you do."

"You could call me if you need assistance." Her offer seemed earnest, no hint of sarcasm as she smiled and looked him straight in the eye.

Snape rarely depended on anyone but himself, but more and more, he was beginning to trust Hermione. Ever since that morning, when she agreed to help him learn to drive, his ambivalence toward her had been dissipating, melting away, replaced by begrudging acceptance. Still, he didn't know what to make of the ambitious Gryffindor.

"Thank you," he replied, trying to smile, but feeling incredibly uncomfortable, as if he'd lost the World Stinging Nettle Eating Championship (held annually in Marshwood in Dorset).

Then the awkward silence came as they waited for the breakdown company mechanic to appear.

Hermione pulled a book from deep within her bag, perched on the car boot, and proceeded to read. Snape occupied his time by surveying the DeLorean, running his hand over the stainless-steel body, kicking the serviceable tires. He even opened the bonnet to study the engine, battery, and cooling system, even though he had no appreciation for the mechanics behind the high-performance vehicle.

"That's a PRV fuel-injected V6 engine with 170 horsepower output; however, that's further reduced by 40 horsepower because of the US-required catalytic converter." She never looked up from her book as she gave him the lecture.

"Fascinating," he drawled, then snapped the bonnet shut with a satisfying thunk.

She continued, oblivious to his indifference. "Despite its less than stellar output, it handles quite well with its independent double wishbone front suspension and multi-link rear suspension, rack-and-pinion steering, and power-assisted disc brakes."

"Granger, I just need to learn how to drive. I don't give a rat's arse about performance or handling. You might as well be speaking a foreign language. To me, a car is just a metal box with wheels that takes me from point A to point B, nothing more. I will always prefer Apparition; it's so much more efficient and cost effective."

"Fine," she answered in icy, clipped tones, still seemingly absorbed in her reading.

Twilight crept over the horizon, the gray, barren roads bathed in a dark orange glow. Snape felt time moving backwards; the idle minutes seemed an unbearable eternity. He paced around the car in an endless circuit, stopping every so often to kick a stone with the toe of his now dusty, scuffed tassel loafers. Between his inert hands and the pressure-filled silence, he could bear it no longer – he spoke.

"What are you reading, Granger?" he asked in his most pleasant voice, deep and sweet like hot chocolate.

She finally looked up and lifted the book from her lap to show him the cover.

"I've always considered you a witch who knows where her towel is." He smirked as he paraphrased The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, but it could have been easily taken as a compliment about the always prepared Hermione.

"It's scary to think we have similar tastes in reading material, Snape. Your knowledge of Muggle literature surprises me."

"I'm just shocked you're reading anything other than some weighty, ancient magical tome or a periodical."

"I get enough of that during work. I like to escape from the Wizarding world when I read."

"Who are you and what have you done to Hermione Granger?" he joked, finally able to fashion a comfortable smile.

Before she could answer, the RAC van suddenly appeared at the crest of the road, its headlamps a bright, hopeful harbinger of rescue from their awkward situation.

The shaggy-haired, gangly, coverall-clad mechanic – Lloyd, according to his name tag – leapt from the van and ambled toward them, consulting a clipboard on the way.

"Good evening, folks. May I see your membership card please?" He checked Hermione's proffered card against his paperwork and handed it back. "Thanks, miss. So, you got a flat tire, eh, McFly?" His grin seemed nearly as wide as he was tall.

"I think you've mistaken me for someone else," Snape replied, a bit bewildered by the young man's non sequitur.

Hermione suppressed a giggle. "It's a blowout and we've no spare. We had to swerve to avoid hitting a dog, and that's how we ended up in the ditch."

Lloyd examined the tire and shook his head. "That's beyond repair, I'm afraid. It won't be easy to find a replacement, but not impossible. Do you want me to tow you to Croydon or closer to your home?"

Her disappointment reflected in her fallen face. "I don't expect that service centers in either location would be open at this time of night. I guess it's London then so it can be repaired tomorrow."

"If you are looking for an immediate replacement and don't mind paying extra, I'll call my cousin Vincent. He's the manager of the Mr. Clutch in Croydon. He'd be happy to open up shop if you've got cash."

"Brilliant!" she shouted, startling both Snape and Lloyd with the volume and abruptness of her response. Was Hermione as eager to be done with this fiasco as Snape was? The animosity between them had appeared to be diminishing just minutes ago, but her reaction seemed to indicate otherwise.

"Okay. It's probably going to take over an hour in the shop between putting on the new tire and a general systems check to make sure there's no hidden damage. Plus, I have to call Vincent so he can get his sorry arse off the sofa. Just loves to sit in front of the telly at night, that one." Lloyd continued to talk as he prepared the car for towing. "You'd be welcome to stay in the lounge at the garage, or I can drop you off at the nearby pub if you like."

"Pub!" they both shouted enthusiastically, startling the poor mechanic once again.