Chapter Six

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

Chapter 6

In the early morning hours, in a dim and spooky room housed within an imposing subterranean building, a disembodied brain steeped in murky green water, waiting for the dark man to return and regale him with tales of driving the metal chariot. But alas, the man had an agenda of his own, taking him slightly off course from his normal routine.

Snape had never set foot in the Ministry commissary before that day, but he strode in confidently, like he owned the place, robes a-billowing with unnatural liveliness despite the early hour. The smell of stale coffee, burnt toast, and something unidentifiable perfumed the air, a subtle assault on his delicate olfactory sense. If he had been drawn there for the food, the smell alone would have put him off eating, but no, his mission was to locate a witch, and not just any witch, but one in particular.

He had searched almost the whole of the ninth floor, scouting her usual haunts – the Brain Room, the Unspeakables' briefing room, her office, Dougherty's office – and found them empty, all devoid of witch, or anyone else for that matter at eight o'clock in the morning, a good hour before the official start of the Ministry work day.

When he explored the commissary, however, success: his quarry sat alone at a small table at the very back, head down, right hand absorbed in furious scribbling, left hand wrapped around a white china cup embellished with the Ministry logo. It seemed she hadn't noticed him, for she hadn't looked up since he'd walked in.

He approached stealthily, applying a wordless Silencing Charm to his boots to deaden the sound of his steps.

"Good morning," she greeted him, never once looking up from her paperwork. "Your swishing robes gave you away. Next time apply the Silencing Charm to your entire self." Apparently his spy skills were a bit rusty.

"May I join you?" he asked, eyeing the tiny table strewn with numerous stacks of textbooks, parchments, and empty teacups.

"Of course," she replied, finally looking up, her eyes weary, but her smile bright. She hastily gathered her research materials into one very tall, tottering pile and then, using her wand, sent the china back to the kitchen.

"You're a hard woman to find, Granger. If I didn't find you here, I would have filed a missing person report with the MLE and forced them to investigate your disappearance."

"But wouldn't that be a wish come true for you? The bane of your existence gone forever?" she teased.

He leaned in close and spoke in hushed tones. "Until we finish my training, I'm keeping an eye on you." His dark eyes held her gaze until a flash of white sailed by, catching his peripheral vision and breaking the trance. "What the..."

"Automatic refill," she explained blithely, plucking the teacup from the air, never spilling a drop of fragrant Earl Grey with a splash of milk.

"Am I to understand you have confined yourself and nearly the entire contents of your personal library to this minuscule space in the commissary so you can have a hot beverage?" he asked, brow raised in disbelief.

"Absolutely," she replied with enthusiasm that could only have been caffeine induced. "The tea would be cold by the time it reaches my office, so I tolerate the cramped quarters here in order to enjoy a cup of hot tea while I do my research."

"Couldn't you brew the tea in your office?"

"And take valuable time from my research? No, I would rather let the commissary take care of it."

He shook his head. "You are a strange witch, Granger."

"Don't you think it's time to call me by my given name? Our conversations last night were of a rather personal nature, so for you to call me Granger seems so cold, so distant. That might be the image you project for public consumption, but you're not really like that, not anymore at least."

"Of course, Hermione," he replied, a smile twitching his lips. "I only ask you not to reveal my secret Mr. Nice Guy identity. And you may call me Severus."

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer McFly?" she teased again.

"Would you please tell me what that's all about?" he implored.

"A 1985 American movie called Back to the Future used the DeLorean car as a prop, a time machine specifically. The protagonist of the film is a young man named Marty McFly."

"I see. So do I resemble him in some fashion?"

"Not by a long shot. He's short and brown haired, but if you squint and look through a petroleum jelly-smeared lens, you could pass for his father, George McFly. He's tall, dark, and lanky... with a large nose."

"He sounds charming, the perfect matinee idol," he said, his tone as acerbic as toxic lemon drops.

"Well, I find him appealing," she defended. "He's a hero in his own right."

This piqued his interest because popular culture usually cast physically odd characters as the comic relief or the villain, not the hero. "What sort of hero?"

"In the beginning, he's portrayed as a bit naughty, a Peeping Tom. He fancies Lorraine, but he's too shy to tell her. George is very smart and timid, an easy target for bullies. When he sees his love being assaulted, he takes on the biggest of the bullies in town and knocks him flat on his arse. And in the end, he gets the girl."

He rolled his eyes. "Bollocks. Average blokes aren't destined to become gallant knights, except in fairy tales." But in reality, he didn't mind the comparison. Perhaps he could get the girl in the end.

She lightly slapped him on the arm, a playful gesture if she were a third year. "It's a comedy film, Severus. Accept it for what it is, pure entertainment."

How could he argue with that? He opened his mouth to do just that, challenge her on what passed for quality entertainment these days, but a little voice inside his head told him to shut it. He chose to speak about safe, yet mundane topics instead.

"It was rather cloudy when I left home this morning. Do you think it will rain tonight?" he asked nonchalantly. "I understand it's difficult to drive under wet road conditions, but I'm certain I will rise to the challenge."

Hermione stared at him, speechless, her face a curious mix of disbelief and annoyance. "Are you serious? The weather? You couldn't think of anything else to talk about?" she admonished him. "You're better than that, Severus. Why can't you just talk to me?"

He truly was curious about the weather and its effects on driving, but if she wanted deeper conversation, he knew exactly what topic to broach. "As you wish. Tell me about your research, Hermione. You were rather evasive earlier about what led you to it."

"I-I'm sorry... it's just... personal reasons... and they're... difficult to talk about."

"Of course. We all have our reasons for what we do, and they are commonly... very personal."

He didn't press for details, but she offered them freely. "In my past, I'd broken rules and done things I'm not proud of, but all in the name of survival, in the interest of defeating Voldemort. Some things I considered minor: sneaking out after curfew, petrifying Neville..."

"Stealing from my stores?" he drawled, the silken tone of his voice softening the accusation.

She winced, embarrassed. "Sorry about that, but to a twelve-year-old child, a few nicked ingredients meant nothing compared to gaining access to the Slytherin common room in order to question Malfoy."

He nodded and gestured for her to continue.

"Some things I considered major. If not unforgivable, then unconscionable and morally questionable. I... I performed a Memory Charm on my parents without their knowledge. I changed their identities: Jonathan and Hortensia Granger became Wendell and Monica Wilkins. I moved them to Australia for their safety. I wiped all traces of myself from their memories; for all intents and purposes, they didn't have a daughter because they didn't know I existed.

"I traveled to Australia after the war ended and eventually restored their memories. I'm not boasting when I say it was difficult. Physically, mentally, emotionally, it took a toll on all of us. At first, they were confused... then they were angry. Intellectually, they understood my reasons for altering their memories: they would be less vulnerable if they didn't know me. Emotionally, they felt betrayed that I used magic on them without their permission. In the end, they chose to remain abroad, to be... distant. So, even with my good intentions, I've lost my parents."

She delivered the entire explanation with a cool detachment, but her glistening eyes told him of deep feelings he knew very well: regret and guilt.

"Hermione, I assume you have no friends who are former Death Eaters and thus were privy to the Dark Lord's inner circle?"

She nodded, pressing her trembling lips tightly. Deep within, she must have known what he was about to tell her.

"The Dark Lord often tormented the families of Muggle-borns to intimidate and demoralize. Your parents were watched, and they were targeted for termination. Yaxley reported he had visited their home in late summer 1997, and he had found it empty." He leaned forward and placed his hand over hers. "Hermione, don't you realize you were destined to lose no matter what you did? Your parents would have been killed if you hadn't moved them, and they would never have agreed to leave the country realizing the danger you faced. Knowing this is no consolation for what you've lost, but perhaps it will assuage your..." He didn't feel it was his place to label her emotions.

She pulled her hand from beneath his to wipe her watery eyes. She sniffled, swallowed, and released the breath she was holding. "Guilt. It's a strong motivator."

He smiled halfheartedly, only the right corner of his mouth uplifted. "For some, indeed." He conjured a handkerchief and gently pressed it into her hand. "Your feelings are legitimate. Very few people get to save the day without experiencing guilt on some level. But don't dwell on it forever. It's unhealthy; I can personally attest to that. It's time for you to move forward."

"You're right," she agreed, wiping her tear-stained face. "Guilt led me to my field, but I find great fulfillment in my research. And now it seems I've found a kindred spirit in you, another guilt-ridden soul in need of good company, even if you just want to talk about the weather." She smirked and reached across the table to squeeze his hand.

"Well, what should we talk about then?" he asked, rather enjoying their brief contact.

"You were rather evasive yourself when I asked why you opted for a field assignment."

Why did she have to ask about that? Snape's silence signaled his continued reticence on the subject. However, he realized it was his own damn fault he was in that position. He should have made a list of acceptable conversation topics beforehand, instead of leaving himself so open, so vulnerable.

"'Quid pro quo, Clarice. I tell you things, you tell me things.'"

"Clarice? What have you been into, Hermione? Is there some hallucinogen in that tea? How could you confuse me for a woman?"

She laughed, and her face shone, despite the dim ambient lighting in the cafeteria. "It's another movie reference. I'll tell you about it later. But for now, tell me something about you."

He wondered if perhaps he'd passed into an alternate universe where women actually sought out his company and wanted to know about his thoughts and feelings. The only woman who cared about what he had to say was Rita Skeeter, and actually, she didn't care; she wrote whatever the hell she wanted and called it the truth.

But Hermione seemed truly interested in him, or else she wouldn't have asked; she wasn't one to make small talk for no good reason.

He trusted her enough to put his life in her hands; he would never have gotten into a car with anyone but Hermione Granger. But did he trust her with his friendship? Snape did the math and calculated that trusting her with his friendship could yield dividends far greater than an occasional hand squeeze, like a closer look at her breasts. Oh, what the hell.

"So, you want to know why after years of devoting my life to potions research I've taken a field assignment?"

"Yes," she said, leaning forward and inadvertently giving Snape a lovely view of her cleavage again. That little glimpse of heaven confirmed the wisdom of his decision.

He ran his hand through his hair, not quite believing the ease of discussing such things with Hermione, things that he would normally ponder by himself. As he spoke, his disjointed thoughts flowed more eloquently than he had ever imagined.

"I've been in hiding essentially since childhood. I learned at a young age that it was better sometimes not to be noticed. Soon, I became accustomed to the solitude. Later, I lived in the midst of the Wizarding world, even though I existed on the fringes of polite society, lurking in shadows because that's what spies do. But it's not what I truly wanted."

"What do you mean?" she interjected.

"All my life I've searched for acceptance and recognition. I never had that as a student at Hogwarts despite my academic achievements; except for Albus, I never had that as a teacher or Headmaster, either. I thought I'd found it when I joined the Death Eaters, but my brethren scorned me, only acknowledging me because the Dark Lord valued me."

He looked away from Hermione and focused on his hands folded in his lap.

"After the war, the Ministry's propaganda machine presented me as a hero and bestowed honor upon me with that blasted Order of Merlin, Second Class. Finally, I had the recognition I so dearly desired, but it was bittersweet. The public realized Potter could not have defeated the Dark Lord without my assistance, but they treated me with contempt for my heinous acts, all done for the greater good; even those few who were less than thrilled with the new Wizarding world order treated me with disdain. And there was my acceptance, albeit reluctant. So many people greet me with a smile, but as soon as I present my backside to them, they delight in kicking me in the arse."

She grimaced. "The media and the public are more than happy to put their heroes on pedestals, but it seems their greatest pleasure is then knocking them down to the ground."

"Yes, and thus I have remained in hiding, avoiding public reaction. I work for the Wizarding world's largest employer, but in the smallest, most enigmatic department. I make my required appearance at every anniversary event commemorating the Dark Lord's demise, but I do so warily.

"I resent being treated as a pariah, the necessary evil, and I refuse to accept those titles anymore. I didn't survive that bloody, fucking snake to be in the dark, forever hiding. I've been given a second chance to live, and I'm going to do that on my terms.

"If I want to take a stroll down Diagon Alley, I will. If I want to attend those damn celebrations and leer at the pretty women, I will. And if I want to work beyond the dark confines of my Ministry lab, I will. I don't care what anyone thinks anymore. I'm going to live."

He'd done it again, opened up to her, poured his heart out, and nothing bad happened as a result. He wasn't struck by lightning or mowed down by a stray erumpent. Best of all, Hermione had listened to his rant with rapt attention, never once pitying or mocking him.

"I envy you, Severus. You really do practice what you preach, taking your own words to heart. You told me to move on, and you've already done so. Not simply existing, but really living, and..."

A vexatious noise, a combination of buzzing and humming, emanated from her wand, interrupting Hermione. With a tap to her palm and a "Finite," she silenced it. "Sorry about that. It's the Alarm Charm, my own creation, to remind me of imminent appointments," she spoke humbly, no hint of braggadocio in her voice. "This morning I'm getting my eyebrows shaped, one of my few indulgences," she explained, smiling slyly.

"Hmph," he muttered.

She raised one quizzical and slightly unkempt eyebrow in response, then began the arduous process of shrinking her leaning tower of textbooks and parchments. Once completed, she packed her belongings into her ever-present evening bag – especially unsuitable for day use – and rose to leave.

"Have a productive day, Severus. I'll see you after work."

"Until this evening, Hermione." He nodded farewell and intently watched her retreating form, thoroughly enjoying the view, despite her best assets being hidden under heavy work robes. He remained in the vacant cafeteria for a few moments longer, thinking about the past few days. His opinion of Hermione had changed drastically in that time, and the thought of that made his head spin and stomach pitch. He needed to analyze these new feelings. Time for a meeting with his brainy confidante.

By the time Snape arrived in the Brain Room, Brian's frantic pacing had agitated the liquid in his tank to a bubbly froth, and his peevish thought tendrils splashed dark green fluid onto the floor.

There you are, you inconsiderate man! I thought you had got lost or been in an accident.

Snape rolled his eyes and busied himself with organizing his workbench, even though he wanted nothing more than to glean romantic advice from Brian.

"It's not even nine o'clock yet. Technically, I'm not late," he huffed.

You're usually here well before then.

He stomped towards Brian, artfully dodging the wet spots on the floor surrounding the tank, each step echoing with unbridled exasperation. "I didn't know I needed to report my whereabouts to you on an hourly basis," he snarled.

I was worried about you.

Snape breathed slow and deep, suffusing every irritated cell in his body with calm. He still couldn't believe it when someone actually voiced – or thought, in Brian's case – concern for him. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm sorry to be so ill-tempered."

Tell me something I don't know, Brian thought sarcastically.

"I met with Hermione this morning. That's why I was detained," he explained, ignoring Brian's flippant mockery and actually responding to his imperative.

I'm still mad at you and...wait! Did you just call her Hermione? When did that start?

Snape glanced at his wristwatch. "Oh, forty-five, fifty minutes ago, I reckon."

Oh, that's a new development, a good one. I guess things are moving in the right direction. You'll be laid before you know it, Severus.

"I... erm... that... it's not like that," Snape spluttered, annoyed that Brian knew exactly what he was thinking.

Oh, what's it like then? Brian teased.

Snape sighed. Why was it so awkward for him to talk about these touchy-feely things? In the few instances when he'd discussed his thoughts and emotions with Brian, he had felt at ease, most likely because Brian's response didn't have the added burden of facial expressions or body language.

"I like her... a lot, in fact," he admitted. "I feel quite comfortable with her, although sometimes my chest gets tight and tingly when I'm with her."

Maybe you're having a heart attack, Brian diagnosed, trying to be helpful. I read about that in a medical textbook once.

"It's not a heart attack," Snape responded vehemently. After a deep, cleansing sigh, he continued, his tone softened. "And I think she likes me. She smiles at me a lot, touches my hand, and laughs at my bons mots."

Oh, yes! She does like you. So what's the problem?

"The problem is that after tomorrow I'll have no excuse to see her outside the workplace."

That's not insurmountable, Severus. You ask her out on a date, dinner and a show perhaps. It's very simple.

Insecurity and doubt darkened his face. "That's easy for you to say. You see the best in everyone. I have no idea what she sees in me."

Stop whining, Severus, Brian insisted. I'm not going to waste our time listing your finer qualities. Suffice it to say, there's a witch out there who's your perfect complement, like salt and vinegar, sweet and sour...

"Enough. I'll ask her out," he snapped, all traces of self-doubt vanished, replaced by his patented Snape snark. "Can we concentrate on work now?"