Chapter Four

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

Chapter Four

It was not for nothing that The Royal Standard pub had been mentioned in The Good Beer Guide every year since 1988: their beer and wine menu had just as many items as – if not more than – the food menu. Snape placed their order at the bar and returned to the table with two pints of Fuller's London Pride ale.

"Here's to a good ending for this evening," Hermione offered, raising her glass.

"Indeed. Cheers," he toasted, hoisting his as well.

They both drew long, satisfying draughts, savoring the malty base and complementary hopsy flavor of the complex ale. Snape leaned back against the leather banquette and closed his eyes, the alcohol just starting to wash away the tension he'd held in his neck and shoulders since the breakdown. He felt strangely at peace in the yeasty-smelling, boisterous pub, and he wondered why. Was it his first successful driving lesson? Well, successful until that cur fouled things up. At least he wasn't too old to learn new skills. Or maybe it was his companion that put him at ease? Before he could ponder that somewhat uncomfortable thought and have another sip of ale, Hermione cleared her throat, an apparent sign of the impending inquisition.

"So, what kind of assignment calls for a wizard to drive a Muggle vehicle?"

He made her wait while he took multiple gulps, emptying half his pint. "A secret one," he finally answered, his face covered in smugness and a bit of foam on his upper lip.

She made no attempt to advise him of his new facial feature. "You'll have to do better than that. Practically everything in the Department of Mysteries is a secret." With a long series of sips, she emptied half her glass as well.

"I will explain as much as I can. It's undercover surveillance in a village north of London that is apparently too idyllic by Muggle standards."

She snorted behind her glass, not really attempting to hide it well. "Undercover? Meaning you are not supposed to stand out in the crowd? How are you going to manage that?"

"What? Don't you think I blend in here?" he asked facetiously, gesturing at his sartorial finery.

"Oh, certainly, if this were a pub in central London and you worked for MI6," she said, adding to the jest. "But seriously, what has Dougherty planned for your cover? Financier? Solicitor?"

"Ice-cream van driver." His stone-faced delivery held no hint of humor.

"Really? Well, I guess that would work if you were spying on children..."

His furious blinking either meant he had a vicious twitch or his Unspeakable pledge had taken effect, preventing him from revealing sensitive information.

"To brew the perfect Draught of Living Death, one must crush the sopophorous beans with the broad side of a silver knife – to obtain an adequate quantity of juice – and add a clockwise stir after the seventh anti-clockwise one."

Hermione's broad grin lit up her face. "Do you always recite brewing tips?"

"No, sometimes I list ingredients and instructions. And what are you currently researching?"

"A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins."

"Do you always quote The Winter's Tale?"

"Of course, although I once recited lyrics from a Queen song with almost the exact same title."

"Well, you're much better off than Doyle. He recites dirty limericks. How embarrassing." Snape didn't really object to his colleague's quirk, but he wouldn't let Hermione know that.

"Embarrassing, yes, but sometimes quite funny. I would prefer that to Keene's show tunes."

"You haven't lived until you've heard her sing selections from Annie, Get Your Gun."

"All the same, I'm happy to work the night shift, so I don't have too much contact with the rest of the department."

A hush fell between them, filled with the dull roar of pub noise. The silence felt neither tense nor awkward, so neither Snape nor Hermione felt the need to fill the air with inane blathering. With impeccable timing, the barmaid arrived with their food just as their pints were drained.

"Who's got the salad and jacket potato?" she asked.

Hermione's hand shot up, an old habit from years ago. "That would be mine."

"That means you have the chip butty, sir." She emptied her tray of their meals and condiments. "Can I bring you another round?"

They shook their heads, and the barmaid nodded and walked away.

"Granger, that's not proper pub food. Why are you eating that tasteless rabbit fodder?"

"It's not tasteless," she replied, exasperated. "You might try eating something healthy instead of that heart attack on a plate."

"I survived two masters and that big fucking snake, so I think I've earned the right to eat whatever I damn well please!"

That harsh commentary might have deterred persons of meeker spirits, but not Hermione Granger. "Too bad they don't serve dessert here. We did pass an ice-cream parlor on the way here. We could go there after dinner and get you a sundae. That would surely send you over the edge."

"Ha, bloody, ha! It's potato. It can't be that bad if you're eating it," he retorted, then stabbed a chip and bit the crispy and soggy morsel in two.

"Well, mine is healthy, dry baked, and yours is unhealthy, deep fried in oil. It's like comparing apples to oranges; it's simply not done," she said with an air of complete confidence.

He couldn't resist rolling his eyes. "Granger, have you ever thrown caution to the wind and eaten a food purely for its taste, without regard for calories or fat? Something totally hedonistic with no nutritional value?"

"Yes, at Hogwarts. Back then, I was literally running for my life, so I wasn't concerned with calories or cholesterol. I'm more sedentary now, so I'm careful about what I eat."

Snape glanced at her as she speared the tender salad greens and chewed them thoroughly, as if she were pulverizing potions ingredients. He had a vague memory of the pale, waif-like girl foraging for berries and mushrooms in the Forest of Dean just to survive. Slightly heavier now, she looked much healthier, her face full and glowing.

"I remember you had an interest in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes at Hogwarts. What made you decide to pursue Charms instead?"

She became engrossed in her baked potato, mixing in the salsa to within an inch of its life. "It's such a wide and varied subject. I'll never be bored with it."

"Why did you choose to study the long-term effects of Memory Charms?"

"Well, I have to earn a living. You know the stipend from an Order of Merlin, Second Class, doesn't go very far." She stopped fussing with her meal and looked up, as if firm eye contact could prove her sincerity.

He suspected her reasons were more complex than she let on; he could read that in her eyes. He had spent years stretching the truth to suit his needs, lying to others as well as himself; self-delusion was an art he had perfected.

"Second class," he scoffed. "They practically give those away. Brunhilde Scower received one. That means inventing a cleanser is on the same level as helping bring down the most evil wizard of all time."

"Do you work at the Ministry simply for the glory and the financial benefits?"

"I could have done many things, but it seemed like the best fit." At the time. "Minerva constantly tries to lure me back to Hogwarts. She thinks a bottle of Ogden's Hundred Year Special Blend outweighs the danger of three hundred students mixed with fire and noxious potions.

"Slug and Jiggers had offered me a position as their exclusive brewer. I assume they valued my skills rather than my name; however, I don't think the general public would readily seek out products made by Dumbledore's killer. I can just imagine it: Snape's Headache Remedy – one dose of this, and you'll never worry about your pain again."

Hermione smiled and snorted at his wicked self-deprecating humor; who would have thought that behind the black 'armor' and scowling visage lay the sharp-witted tongue of a comedian? "So, what did you find so appealing about the Department of Mysteries?"

"Research, Granger, pure and simple. Plus, my contract states I have the first right of refusal for any Ministry project concerning potions, not just in our department, mind you."

"Having a dedicated research subject is a definite perk," she added. "I know I would be lost without Abby. Your Brian speaks very highly of you."

"Well, we have an excellent working relationship," Snape boasted matter-of-factly. "He's one of my most trusted confidantes." My only confidante.

"You might want to have a talk with Brian about confidentiality, then. If you weren't aware, he's a bit of a gossip. That's how I knew about your little peccadillo with Umbridge," she whispered in vain, the Muggles of Greater London surely not caring one whit about Snape's love life.

Beneath his cool façade, his blood boiled. "You realize I was dosed by those twats in the Locked Room." Brian will get an earful tomorrow. Gossip, indeed!

She nodded slowly, a look of disbelief in her eyes. "So, why did you accept a field assignment?" Ah, not the most subtle of segues, but it was the heart of the matter and the sticky wicket, all rolled into one brain-splitting, stomach-roiling issue for him.

He couldn't use that trite, old excuse of the piss-poor stipend to evade the question because she had jumped on it first. He still hadn't thoroughly examined his motivations yet, and he had no intention of sharing such personal musings with Hermione Granger anyway. Think, Severus, think. "Is that Lloyd at the door?"

Snape was most likely the unluckiest man in the world, or at least in England, but the Fates smiled upon him at that moment. Hermione whipped her head around to face the entrance just as Lloyd entered the pub. He signaled the car was ready with a pantomime steering wheel motion. Snape acknowledged him with a wave and a nod.

Hermione rummaged for her wallet in her at-the-ready beaded bag. "I need to settle up at Mr. Clutch. How much do I owe for my dinner and drink?"

"Not to worry, Granger. You've been kind enough to teach me how to drive tonight, so I'll treat you to dinner." As she opened her mouth, he raised his hand to still her speech. "I know, I know, this doesn't count as your favor."

She shook her head and chuckled. "You better brush up on those Legilimency skills, Snape. I was going to say we have four more days, or rather evenings, of lessons."

"I thought you said I was a natural. What else are you going to cover in four days that I can't figure out on my own?"

"I owe it to you and all the people of Greater London... no, the UK and all the world... to train you properly. You still have to learn parallel parking, lane changes, merging, right-hand turns, and roundabouts..."

His eyes glazed over as she listed more driving skills. Or maybe the ale was at last taking effect. "All that in four more days?" His expression appeared pained, as if he'd just broken a tooth eating one of Hagrid's rock cakes.

"Yes, you'll be a competent driver by Friday evening. I took one of those week-long intensive courses to prepare for my driving license road test. Have you heard about those?"

"Yessssss," he hissed. He had just enough mental capacity for one word answers by now.

"Great! Meet me at the service center once you've paid the bill here. Don't be rude to the barmaid," she admonished him, adding a saucy wink before she walked away.

What the hell was that for? Why does she think I would be rude to a complete stranger? Especially one who brings food and offers more ale. All those thoughts made his head hurt, so he rested it upon the table, cradled in his arms.

"Well, looks like you've had enough to drink, plus your date's left you. I'll just leave the bill and you can pay when you're ready," said the barmaid, slapping it on the table next to his throbbing head.

Oh, bollocks! "Thank you." Two words. Perhaps the evening would end on a bright note.

On Tuesday morning, Brian swam the length of his tank, back and forth ad nauseam, his form of pacing. Since his natural milieu was a deep green liquid, he didn't really get seasick. When the door to the Brain Room banged open and he heard heavy, angry footsteps approaching, he stopped his movement.

Somebody hasn't had his caffeine this morning, Brian broadcast his thought, unable to keep it to himself.

Snape grunted, his less-than-loquacious answer proving he had bypassed his morning cuppa.

Brian waited for Snape to unpack his satchel before attempting any conversation. The taciturn wizard took an inordinate amount of time organizing his potions mise en place – notebook opened to the last entry, every quill and stirring rod perfectly parallel and equidistant apart from each other. Patient and inquisitive Brian could stand it no longer.

So, tell me, how did last night's lesson go? Have you 'mastered the skills of driving a motorized vehicle' yet? His thought tendril tapped the rim of his tank as he waited for Snape to respond.

Snape indulged in a petulant, lung-deflating sigh. "I can see I'll have no peace until your rabid curiosity is sated." Despite his irritation, he hadn't the heart – or the energy – to torture Brian with the usual scraping-the-stool-across-the-floor bit, so he stood before the tank, vowing to keep the interrogation short with succinct answers and intense glowers. "The lesson went very well, in my opinion and Granger's, too. She said I was a natural. It ended when a dog crossed our path and I accidentally drove the car into a ditch, blowing out the tire. The end." That was the briefest brief Snape had ever reported, but would it satisfy the brain?

Driving into a ditch and blowing out a tire seems counter-productive. Was that really how the evening ended, with the two of you stranded?

He responded with the first glower, a combination of narrowed eyes and creased brow. "I said it was an accident. And no, she called a mechanic who towed the car to a service station for repair."

During which time, you two...

"Had dinner in a pub."

Oh, how romantic, Brian gushed.

Snape felt warmth suffuse his cheeks, which he willed away with ease. "Eating greasy food in a noisy, beer-scented atmosphere is not my idea of romantic. It was a driving lesson, not a date."

Miss Granger doesn't seem the type to eat pub food. She's very health conscious from what I can see.

"I hadn't noticed." What a lie! He could finally look beyond his skewed memories of the annoying Gryffindor to behold the lovely young woman she had become. Gone were the gangly limbs, flat chest, and out-of-control hair, replaced by a fit, curvy figure and tamed, chestnut-colored curls, gently framing her...

Severus, are you paying attention?

"No, Brian, I had momentarily tuned out your droning. What were you saying?"

Pay attention, man. I said she's highly intelligent, not at all like the usual Ministry dunderheads one would encounter, present company excepted, of course.

Snape nodded in agreement, finding humor in his corruption of Brian's vocabulary and truth in his assessment of Hermione.

And she can converse easily on a variety of topics, much like you. She's just very pleasant company.

"Yes. Now about those conversations you've had with her..." Snape approached the tank, wand in hand, a malevolent glint in his eye.