Part Two

Winter, and I was bundled up against the cold, the deck abandoned in favour of the common parlour in the middle of the house. George had come to visit, both as a sort of Weasley emissary and in search of new things for the joke shop. In that regard, I recommended him to the attentions of a local kitsune, one of the more prankish of creatures. They got along famously.

Molly had sent along one of her famous jumpers, this one with a sort of froggy-looking creature that I supposed was a kappa, and I had to ask myself if she had more of a sense of humour than I had ever given her credit for. After all, the twins must've gotten it from somewhere. More Weasley gifts (as well as Potter and Longbottom gifts) were waiting in the corner, as I hadn't put up a tree just then and wanted to save them for Christmas. Both George and I knew that Molly's was a jumper, and I was cold, so I'd opened that one right away. Besides, George could then take pictures of me wearing it and reassure Molly that I was both fine and pleased with her gift.

We were curled up in a pair of very cushiony chair before the fireplace, the rain a background to George's highly coloured account of a mishap involving Harry, Ginny, and a hapless photographer. I remember I was laughing when the door opened. Shocked, I saw that it revealed a darkly scowling Severus Snape trailed by a rather distressed house elf. I stood.

"Granger, why does this... Weasley have my room?"

The smile I'd had dwindled, and the hands I'd raised to greet him fell. "If you'd given me notice, I would have reserved it for you," I replied coolly. "As it is, it's a very comfortable room, and I thought George would appreciate it, as it's the only Western-style room available right now. The Ministry's been weeding out its problem children of late. There's a traditional room next to mine that you can have. Or you can spend the night at the Embassy and go home in the morning." I was very close to being angry, and I couldn't say why. He glowered at me a moment longer, then spun on his heel.

"Very well." He gestured impatiently to the elf to show him the way, and that just made me madder. The door slammed shut behind him.

"Phew!" George whistled. "Shades of our Hogwartian youth, eh? He hasn't changed."

A bit of a smile tweaked the corner of my mouth. "Did you expect him to?" In fact, I thought he had, a bit, and was disappointed to see that he still could be-was?-a complete git, however admirable in other areas.

"Can't say as I did," George admitted, "but I'd think he'd have some manners for the innkeeper. Used to be as nice as he was capable of to Rosmerta."

"Oh?" I said and managed to keep it neutral. "I never noticed." I returned to my chair.

"You weren't there often or long enough," George pointed out. "Fred and me used to be there regularly, so to speak. When we started the shop, we'd do a bit of spying on the professors there, see how our work was doing out in the big world." I rolled my eyes. "Still go with Ron, but Snape's never there any more, of course. Wonder what he's doing here."

I could feel my eyes widening in alarm. "George Weasley, don't you dare," I hissed.

"Nah, I won't. Too much work, and I wouldn't risk both you and Snape mad at me. I'd disappear, and whatever was left after would end up on old Snapey's shelves. Don't want to spend the next fifty years with just my eyeballs watching his laboratory, me. I've plans."

"Would those plans involve Fiona Dappledew, by any chance?" I asked with faux innocence, and the conversation veered back to something close to its original character.

For someone who had the room next door, Severus was certainly very talented at playing least in sight. I wondered if he was even there at all, if somehow George and I had had a collective hallucination, or even been visited by Snape's ghost on the way to his afterlife. Weird, but not impossible. Magic, you know. But the house elves reported that he was being served his meals in his room and occasionally left (to where, they didn't know) so they could clean and air the room. They said this rather pointedly, for they were always aggrieved that I never let them clean mine. I was a bit surprised that he let them clean his, but then reasoned that he likely did not travel with anything unduly volatile, personal, or incriminating. Or that if there was anything so important, he would keep it on his person, not leave it for house elves (among others) to meddle with in his absence. There were certainly a few items that I did not care to let out of my control.

George left a few days later, more than ready to leave these heathen shores for those of Merrie Olde England and eager to get to work on the next generation of Weasley prank inventions in concert with Fred's ghost. Other witches and wizards came and went, none of whom were of any importance. Severus remained resolutely isolated, and I was beginning to worry. It wasn't any of my business, I suppose, but after all, there had to be some reason for him to travel around the globe, and it wouldn't be to hole up in my guestroom for days on end. He could do that at his home, wherever that was, if he was so inclined, and probably find it more congenial than the smallish space I'd allotted to him. But when I asked, the house elves reported that his health and well-being were satisfactory, so I had to content myself with being on the other side of the door. It wasn't until a week later that he reappeared with no explanation and as much warning, simply sitting down to breakfast like any other 'normal' wizard. It was his own affair, I told myself firmly, and bit back any annoyance I was feeling. Instead, I simply said, "Good morning," just as I had to the two or three others present. They, being naturally daunted by the presence of one they had believed and prayed to have left behind, didn't even say that much. Breakfast was a very silent meal. So was the following lunch.

In the hours before dinner, I retired to the parlour and picked up a book I had been reading in lieu of more stimulating company. I was certainly not expecting Master Snape to appear, still less to inquire about my progress with my knitting. Unfortunately for my ego, I am by nature a truthful woman, and I had to admit to him that while I had made considerable progress up to a point, I had been stymied by a dropped stitch that had gone unnoticed for several rows. With no one to help fix it, and at a loss on how to do it myself, I had set it aside to gather metaphorical dust until the situation changed.

He demanded I produce it immediately.

The majority of the work itself apparently passed muster, for he made no comment about it, good or bad. The mistake itself likewise escaped. He instead informed me curtly that as my instructor, he would have expected me to apply to him for assistance in such a case.

I pointed out that his instruction had been a casual matter of less than an hour of his time, without any remuneration, which I did not believe left him under any obligation to me, though possibly the reverse was true.

He replied with no little rudeness to the effect that his time was now his own, and he could incur as many gods-damned obligations as he bloody well pleased.

I might have then mentioned that he could at least have the fucking courtesy to apprise me of the fact. And while he was about it, he could bloody well make the damned effort to show his face now and then.

I might have.

I don't remember the exact phrasing.

I don't really remember what we said after that, either, except that it grew increasingly heated and quite often profane. I do remember him being very much in my face, his complexion livid, his eyes narrowed in fury. And I remember what he didn't say, in all the back and forth of our shouting; he didn't speak one word of insult. Not one. I can't say that I understood, or even contemplated, the implications of that at the time, but it did register with me.

It's difficult to describe what happened next, not with any real clarity. One moment we were inches apart, screaming to high heaven, and the next he had pushed himself that little bit forward (he says I am the one who moved), and there was a clash of lips, noses, teeth, and probably even hair. His hands affixed themselves to my shoulders with such ferocity that I had finger-shaped bruises the following morning. My own hands were trapped between us, somewhere around the bottom of his ribcage.

My husband and I both have difficulties articulating our emotions, being so much more skewed to the cerebral rather than the emotional. In this case, I can only describe my feelings as a... a wellspring of impossibilities. I knew Severus Snape could be passionate in the general sense of the word; hadn't he demonstrated that time and again, and just finished demonstrating it again? But in the man-woman, love-lust sense of the word? And towards me, of all people? And somehow, I was engaged in reciprocating? Not to mention every other sensation that was flooding through me.

Impossible. Verging on absurd.

And yet... I couldn't deny that he was kissing me violently, any more than I could that I was kissing him back with equal fervour. Nor that on some indescribable, semi-conscious level, I was spinning castles in the air about more. More in every sense of all those impossibilities. More such that afterwards, I had to reluctantly abandon the excuse that I was merely sexually frustrated, which would have simplified everything so beautifully. Then I might have resolved matters myself, so to speak, or found an obliging fellow who wouldn't have been remotely as complicated. But there they were: feelings. And for Severus Snape of all people. It left me absolutely flabbergasted. (I could, my husband points out, use a more elegant term. I could, but 'flabbergasted' describes my state of mind with the greatest accuracy. There wasn't anything in the least bit elegant about it at the time. In any case, back to the kissing, which I'm sure you find much more entertaining.)

Severus slipped away from my mouth, but before I could complain, he found the oh-so-sensitive spot just behind my ear and was kissing and nibbling and licking just there. (See? More entertaining, even if, like some people, you merely find it amusing or revolting.) I jolted forward and clutched at him. Unfortunately for the mood, I had managed (don't ask me how) to clasp my arms around his neck, and naturally, I squeezed. He gave the most incredible yelp of agony, poor man, and leapt away, curling defensively against the pain of scars that had never quite healed. He swore-not that I blamed him-like an entire fleet of sailors and their mothers. But just as I was about to see what I could do to help, not to mention apologise, he straightened, and I could see the mantle of 'Professor Snape' enveloping him like an Invisibility Cloak.

"My apologies, Miss Granger," he said. "It will not happen again." And he left the room, the cloud of his dignity swirling about him.

As a contrast, I let my dignity flee like Daphne from Apollo and sank to my knees, trembling. The most intense experience of my romantic life (such as it was) and the man was apologising. As well he should! my mind told me, though in my opinion, he would be apologising for very different things. And I certainly intended that we would do this again...though next time without inflicting the physical agony.

By some stroke of either divine favour or extreme luck, I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to get through dinner without alerting anyone that something was... odd, though admittedly this wasn't the most difficult task, as most of the residents were too intent on their own woes to bother much about me. We tended to be cordial, but not friendly. I retired to my room immediately after and was highly conscious of the occupant of the room on the other side of the wall. I recalled suddenly that he could move back into his regular room now if he wished. And if what had happened this evening was merely sexual frustration on his side, then that would probably be for the best. As foreign an idea as sleeping with Professor Snape was, the idea of doing so casually was positively abhorrent.

It took some time to turn what were really nebulous thoughts into ones as coherent as I've expressed them to be, and then I had to settle in and turn my whole attention to them in order to digest the ideas and give them the attention they deserved. Our history and my preconceptions had to be brought out and examined and evaluated as well as all of the 'impossibles' my mind (and body, to be perfectly honest) were producing. This was Professor Snape who had kissed me and whom I had kissed in return. My former professor, many years my senior, and honestly, not very attractive. The first two felt like heavy baggage that would have to be dealt with if I was to deal in impossibles. The last made the situation a bit strange(r) to me, but I'd learned the Lesson of Gilderoy Lockhart and could set it aside. When it came down to it, I was no Cleopatra myself, though I considered my looks reasonably pretty. So that was neither here nor there. But there was the bit about our age difference and our former relationship which would complicate matters far more than if I had met a random wizard in the Avalon Library, for example. I set myself to the task considering them and figuring out what I wanted, and telling myself the entire time that I was assuming a lot on the basis of one angry kiss.

But it was one hell of a kiss.

I fell asleep without having come to firm resolutions. Well, maybe one or two.

---

It turned out that any resolutions I made were of little consequence; Severus decamped before I even awoke the next morning. My knitting, neatly repaired, was sitting on my knitting bag, unobtrusive but, to me, obvious. This time, there was no note.

I got through breakfast much as I had dinner the night before and niggled at the situation over the course of the day. The simplest solution was to allow the roused dogs to lie. They would naturally return to sleep, and life would continue much as it had before. By all evidence, that would be Severus's solution. But how did he really feel? Had it merely been the mistake of a moment, one that he would prefer to forget? Something more intense? Had he already been attracted to me, strange as the thought was? Was he then somehow disappointed in my reaction? Or was it something he had never intended to act upon? I had to face the fact that I didn't know him well enough to guess. I had known the man most of my life, and yet I really knew very little about him. It was part of why I was so off-balance about being attracted to him.

Another possibility would have been to return to England. After all, I hadn't been formally banished from the United Kingdom or anything like that, merely reassigned. Simple enough to pack it in and return. But my original reasoning still held: I wanted to complete my tasks, both Ministry- and self-appointed, before I went back. I didn't even want to go back for a visit until then.

I decided upon some hopefully discreet surveillance and intelligence gathering. I still corresponded with Minerva and Madam Pince, and though I knew he didn't teach any more, I also knew that the two women were the closest he had to actual friends. (Unless Rosmerta... but I resolved to let that lie, at least. It was a bit early in the game for jealousy, particularly over someone who like as not was innocent, not to mention that I had been a child at the time.) I wrote to them, introduced Severus into the epistolary conversation, and...with some delicacy, I hoped...began pumping them for information. Both were extremely obliging; though he naturally said nothing, I think they had an idea of where the wind was blowing so far as he was concerned, which I considered an encouraging sign. Minerva recounted any number of anecdotes from over the entire span of their acquaintance. It was nice to know that his childhood had not been entirely bleak, and that his enjoyment did not consist solely of getting back at the Marauders for anything they had done to him.

I continued my knitting, and when the day came that I made another mistake that I could not fix, I...having finally managed to worm his address out of Minerva...mailed the thing to him with a short, non-committal note. It was returned to me...fixed, I should make certain to say...with an even shorter, equally non-committal note. He wasn't taking any chances and was likely hoping that I would drop the whole matter.

More fool he. You'd think he'd know me better, wouldn't you? Though such was my state of mind at that point that I found it rather sweet. I replied with a thank you note that took me a great deal of time to write and should have expressed a bit more than simple gratitude. What he thought of it was impossible to tell; he sent no further reply until I had another problem. I was sorely tempted to manufacture them just to have an excuse. I'm still not sure that I didn't a time or two. As it was, I finally succeeded in establishing a correspondence that was somewhat on par with the conversations we had had when he was visiting: generally casual, always interesting. He wrote of his current experiments; I replied with my adventures with mu-onna and the house's zashiki-warashi.

In one letter, I asked after George Weasley. There were some weeks before I received another letter, which was written as though I had never asked the question in the first place. I considered that, too, a positive sign. Though from my perspective, the idea of George and me was simply silly, Severus had seen us getting on well, and George was, after all, my contemporary. I didn't want to overdo, or give Severus a firm foundation for that sort of wrong idea, so in my next letter, I wrote, You didn't answer my question last time, so do you mind if I inquire about Ginny Potter, née Weasley? I haven't heard from any Weasley...or Harry...in a while and am anxious to know how the family is doing. Which was actually true in that no one had written since before George's visit; they weren't terribly reliable correspondents. My news had to come from other sources. He replied with a curt, and likely truthful, I have only had a brief encounter with Arthur of late, who reports that the family is well. No detailed intelligence of my own knowledge. Thereafter, I let the subject drop.

I did not bring up the night he had kissed me. Neither did he.

---

I have implied that a good bit of time passed after Severus left Japan, and I won't disillusion you. I will only admit that yes, I was a slow knitter, and there was the further complication of what I had needed the scarf for. In truth, that could be a story in its own right and may actually be read if you delve into the Ministry archives where, after being treated with an Unalterable Print charm, my report was filed. It would be a bit unwieldy to include here, and likely not at all interesting for you Readers who are more interested in my romantic pursuits, such as they are. (Given the parties involved, you might expect it to be a great deal more exciting, wouldn't you? I certainly would have.) I shall, however, to satisfy basic curiosity, mention that in order to meet certain Spirits and treat with them, I needed to bring an offering. This offering had to be the work of my own hands, well-made and well-intentioned. Severus's contributions, the casting on and later corrections, actually muddied the waters a bit; they debated whether he had to be included in our negotiations. He didn't, in the end, but they read his intentions as well as mine, and imparted certain truths to me that he probably would not have admitted of his own volition.

Armed with those truths and the knowledge of a job well done, I packed a few items, donned a lovely, fringed scarf, and set out for home: England.

The house looked shabby, but judging from his letters, I knew the inside would be anything but. It wasn't really cold enough to justify the scarf I was wearing, but I didn't take it off. Instead, I fought my way through all of the layers of spells that encouraged me to believe the house wasn't really there and that I should much prefer to go home. Unfortunately for the spells, Severus's house was the only home I had (or didn't have; I couldn't take my reception for granted). By the time I made it to the actual door, Severus had set aside whatever he was doing and cleaned up enough to answer my knock promptly and personally.

"Granger," he nodded, as brief and impersonal as his first note.

"Snape," I replied, just as cool.

After that, any observer would have found chirping crickets more entertaining. He eventually recognised the ridiculousness of the situation and allowed me in. He conducted me to a carefully polite room before remarking, "I was not expecting you; you gave no indication you were returning to England." He took my scarf...and I was sure he recognised it...and my jacket.

"No, I didn't. It's more of a flying visit, really. I finished what I set out to do, but I haven't decided what to do next." I glanced around, noting the carefully neutral art on the walls, the upholstered chairs that were probably only mildly comfortable. I decided to remain standing; he wasn't being antagonistic, but this was hardly a warm welcome, either.

"And that includes your scarf? You haven't made such a hopeless bungle of it that it had to be personally delivered?"

Now that was a trifle annoying. What had I done to deserve a warning shot across the bows? Still... "I finished that one, yes, and I'll tell you all about it later," I informed him before pulling a shrunken box from my pocket. "I brought you another one."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Granger," he huffed, enlarging the box and opening it.

"A Granger original," I said proudly as he pulled the yards of knitted fabric from the box like a magician's handkerchief trick. Simple stockinette, nothing fancy, but about twice as long as he was tall and in a soft, dark russet wool I thought would work with his skin tone instead of against it as Slytherin greens tended to do. The casting on had taken forever to do properly, but I thought I had the trick of it now. As for the rest, well, the negotiations had taken a very long time and a good deal of patience.

"It is... well done, Granger," he said, carefully looking at the garment in his hands, passing it over and around, feeling its softness, maybe looking for a flaw.

"It made me think of you." I approached slowly, deliberately. "As you can see, I thought about you a lot."

"You didn't need to. I would have been satisfied with a pound or two of that hojicha you keep in your kitchen."

I stopped, just beyond wand's reach. "No," I agreed, "I didn't need to. I could have sent you a pound of tea or a set of dishware or a little paperweight in the shape of Mount Fuji. I wanted to. I didn't have to write to you, either. But I wanted to." His was looking at me now, eyes hooded, trying to disguise their intent. I continued, "Just because I haven't mentioned the night you kissed me, Severus, doesn't mean I've forgotten about it. And if I haven't forgiven you for it, it's because I didn't think it was something you needed forgiveness for. If anything, I was more pissed off that you stopped."

He gaped at me, wordless. I resolved to have him visit a denti-wizard as soon as I could possibly convince him. A dentists' child develops a few quirks.

"Your... overtures," was the word I chose, "were a bit abrupt, yes. But you can't accuse me of making a hasty decision at this point, or giving way because of undue influence. Unless you've been doping your letters with love potions, of course." Smiling, I took the step into arm's reach. I disengaged the scarf from his hands and draped it carefully over his shoulders, around his neck. "Just so we're quite clear," I said as casually as I could, and now it was I who was avoiding his eyes, "I have a reply to those overtures that I'd like to give you now." I knew from experience that his neck was not the best idea, so as he had before me, I hauled on his shoulders, pulling him down to meet my mouth.

Wow.

I have no other words for it.

---

I have no intention of going into further detail, as this is neither Witch Weekly nor The Daily Prophet. I will only disappoint you by letting you know that no, we did not shag each other silly on that occasion, nor will I tell you when, where, or how we did. You might infer, however, that as we are now an old, married couple with one son, we, at some point, have. But back then, after we managed to recover some of our propriety, we talked, as you might expect Severus Snape and Hermione Granger to do. When we had cleared up a few points and made a few mutual decisions, we returned to the kissing. We had a lot of months to make up for, after all, which we continued to make up for in the months to follow. We went to...and were seen at...plays, concerts, and national events. We spent a number of nights at home, by which I mean both his house in Dover and the guest house in Japan. Minerva and Irma were our frequent guests and hosts. My other friends, and a few of his that I hadn't expected to exist, were introduced to the idea gradually. George still teases the two of us. A little while later, and probably with a good deal of persuasion from Severus (I have never asked either side), the Ministry grudgingly transferred me back to the U.K..

And then, to quote another, better author: Reader, I married him.

And contrary to all expectations...and curse-spells...we lived happily ever after.

---

A/Ns:

So... This was written for the 2016 sshg promptfest, in reply to dragoon811's prompt: Hermione's knitting has always been lumpy and uneven. Deciding that the magic way is the problem, she tries the Muggle method. Snape ends up being the one to teach her, and they fall in love stitch by stitch. (Or perhaps he wants to learn to get closer to Hermione. Up to you!) Many thanks to her for the inspiration.

There were a few different prompts I was seriously considering this year, but when it came down to it, this one had the clearest scene to start with: when Severus first sees Hermione's knitting. That bit, at least, wrote itself. And then rewrote itself when I realized that the third person POV, slanting to Severus and located in Grimmauld & Hogwarts, was dragging like a dead cow pulled by an inch worm. Hermione took charge then, scrapped a good bit of the original, rewrote the remainder, and this is the result. Perhaps a bit rougher than I might like, but definitely tighter and more interesting.

You can find all of the Japanese spirits mentioned on wiki for a casual glance. Hojicha is roasted green tea; I prefer it cold.

'Plays, concerts, and national events' is from the movie/play A Majority of One by Leonard Spigelgass and is used by the male lead, Asano-san, to describe courting. (I recommend the movie with Alec Guinness & Rosalind Russell if you can find it. I usually have to lie in wait to catch it on TCM.)

'Reader, I married him' is from the end of Jane Eyre. (I recommend that, too.)

I think that's everything, except to say, as usual, that I hope you've enjoyed this and a token in the little box below would be greatly appreciated.