Diligence

Chapter 4: Diligence

Aside from the massive bookshelves in her front room, the oversized, claw-footed bathtub was Hermione's favorite part of her old flat. The bathroom walls were painted a color called "molten lava," a sort of jewel-tone red that was bright enough to warm, but cool enough to relax, and the tiled floor was covered with a large matching rug. Next to the tub sat an end table with just enough room for a candle, a glass of wine, a bottle of bubble bath, and a book.

After her day at the Society's Library, Hermione felt that she deserved a good soak. She filled the tub with hot water, made sure the surface was covered with foam, lit the eucalyptus-scented candle, poured herself a glass of merlot, and sank into the tub with a sigh. Closing her eyes, she slipped into her usual bath-time fantasy.

A spa... A woodland scene outside the window... Warm and steamy... Ah, there's that dark-haired male bath attendant again. More merlot? Thank you. Don't mind if I do. Still here, huh? Do stay. Silent type, aren't you? You want to rub my shoulders? Okay. Mmmm... that feels so nice. Strong hands... Long fingers... You're quite talented.

You're intriguing... Fantasy-Severus whispers something. I can't hear you, but whatever you're saying sounds delicious. Tell me again...

A loud crack shocked out Hermione out of her fantasy. "Damn it!" she cried. The noise turned out to be an owl determinedly tapping, tapping at her bathroom window. "'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!'" she shouted. Hermione sighed. "I don't suppose you have any appreciation for poetry, do you, owl?" she asked the affronted bird while opening the window to let him in. The owl looked at her curiously.

"You have rotten timing. This better be good." After she threw on her bathrobe, she signaled for the bird to follow her into the kitchen, where she offered him some food, sat down, and opened the note.

Dear Ms. Granger:

I was surprised, but interested, when I received your note. I read the articles about Snape in the Daily Prophet at the war's end, but I haven't thought much about him since he left my father's laboratory for Hogwarts more than 20 years ago. We were not the best of friends, but I did respect his intellect and his commitment to Potions. My father thought very highly of him. I don't know how much insight I can offer, but I am willing to talk. Are you available next Wednesday at noon for lunch?

Gaspard Shingleton, P.M.

"Next week it is," Hermione said to the owl and sent the creature on his way.

The next afternoon, Hermione was back at her favorite table at Hugo's.

Shea McIntosh was there, too, watching as usual.

Hermione was reviewing her notes on Severus' Wolfsbane articles when Lola set down a pot of tea for her. Hermione didn't notice until the friendly waitress spoke up.

"That's the second pot today, Hermione. Don't float away, now."

"Huh? Oh! Thanks. Ooh, biscuits too?"

"Certainly. A girl can't live on salad and tea alone. Oh, must go. Another regular needs me."

Hermione poured herself a cup and turned back to her work.

He knew his stuff, she thought. In her short career, she'd read plenty of mediocre books and articles and had listened to more pedestrian talks at Potions conferences than she liked to remember. Mediocrity bored her to tears. Severus Snape's writings did not. His knowledge was extensive and deep. He offered both careful empirical scholarship and daring use of magical theory.

She could read his personality in his writing too. Snape was thorough. He must have known as much about magical theory as Waffling. He even cites conversations he had with him.

Snape was unafraid of opposing viewpoints. "Indeed, an entire school of thought is devoted to the inviolate nature of Light or White Magic, an understanding that has underpinned much of normative magical practice and theory for centuries. Waffling, this school's major proponent, offers lasting insights to any scholar of magic. This paradigm, however, raises as many questions as it answers and must be reevaluated in light of newer research," Snape wrote. He's not dismissive of his predecessors or unafraid to challenge them, Hermione thought.

Snape argued clearly and sharply. He explained his methodology carefully, mapping out each step in detail. He welcomed the reader into his writing, the very opposite of his pedantic classroom performance. At least he doesn't call his readers dunderheads!

Still, his sardonic humor shone through. He pulled no punches in mocking the Potioneers he thought fools. "Bureaucratic red tape...particularly the speed associated with Ministry Potioneer Armand Slug's animal namesake...slowed the development of this groundbreaking potion as much as did the level of difficulty it presents to the average brewer." Very cutting. Sharp intellect, sharp wit. He's certainly not boring. Damn sexy, actually.

Good God, she thought, I'm nearly pining over the man who was an utter, utter bastard when he taught me. Get a grip! Sexy, yes, but hardly a happy, easygoing guy, she told herself. I know that. I do. Why would I ever expect him to be that way? She frowned. Don't be a silly little girl, Granger.

It's the work that's important, she admonished herself, and I'm paying him respect by doing it. He was too talented to die... At least not without having tried some serious magic to counter Nagini's poison. Plus, he was attractive. Very attractive. Not that that has anything to do with it... Shit! I'm doomed. She laid her head face down on the table with a groan. When she looked up, she caught sight of someone familiar negotiating the crowded café on the way to her table and slipped her wand down her shirtsleeve just past her wrist.

McIntosh frowned when he saw Hermione's surprised expression and followed his eyes to its cause. The corners of his mouth turned up in the slightest of grins when he saw who was on the way to Hermione's table.

"Put it away, Granger. We're long past that, aren't we?"

"Does that mean you don't want to kill or maim me anymore?"

A heavy exhale answered her.

She narrowed her eyes at her visitor and returned her wand to its usual resting place. "Did you come here in response to my letter, Draco?" Malfoy's face darkened ever so slightly. "Erm, I mean, Malfoy. Wait... How did you know I would be here?"

"A mutual friend told me that you hang out here a lot."

"We have a mutual friend?" Hermione asked.

"Yes. We do, but let's leave... that person out of this for now."

"OK. Well. Thank you for coming, then. Have a seat. You're really willing to talk to me about Se..., erm, Professor Snape?"

Malfoy dropped into the chair across from Hermione, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and looked her in the eyes. "I never imagined I'd be doing this, Granger." He squirmed. "I will, but that doesn't mean that I'm going to answer all of your questions."

"No, of course not. Well, thank you, Malfoy. Did... ah... did you want to order anything? I mean, since we're here? The food's very..."

"Save it, Granger. I didn't come here for the food." He laid his hands on the table, turning his head away from Hermione to stare down at them. "You must know how shocked I was when I got your letter." Malfoy looked up sharply. "Furious, actually. I thought you were being a nosy little Gryffindor busybody who had no right to know personal stuff about Snape, let alone to ask me to tell you."

Hermione frowned, but held her tongue.

"But as you can see, I'm calmer now."

Hermione found Malfoy's behavior a little melodramatic. Of course, he always laid it on thick if he thought it would get him something he wanted.

"I'm still not clear exactly why you want to know, but our friend assures me that whatever your motivation, it has nothing to do with dishing dirt or exacting revenge."

"I would never do that!" Who does he think I am? Rita Skeeter? She took a deep breath. Don't let him get to you; he's always tried to do that.

"Well, we'll see about that, won't we? Let's just get this over with."

Hermione motioned for him to begin.

"Snape was my godfather. Of course, being a know-it-all, you're already aware of that." Malfoy curled the right side of his mouth.

Does he have to insult me every time he says something?

"He and my parents were old friends. My mum and dad were both prefects when Snape started Hogwarts, and I think they kind of looked out for him."

Hermione suspected that she and the senior Malfoys had different definitions of "looked out for."

"Snape was good to me, attentive, when I was a kid. We were close. He got me a stuffed toy dragon when I was three or so." His voice dropped. "I had it for ages."

Malfoy looked up at Hermione to gauge her reaction to this statement. Hermione, picturing a younger Severus on the floor making a toy dragon fly as a blond toddler laughed and clapped his hands, grinned at him.

"He actually talked with me, too. Most of my parents' other friends treated me like, I don't know, some brainless spawn. When Snape came to dinner, though, he used to start off talking to me before turning to my parents. You know: what kind of mischief I was getting myself into, what I was reading. When I was first learning, he had me read to him every time he came over. He was like a member of the family, an uncle."

Malfoy shifted in his seat. Hermione figured that Severus probably was the closest thing Malfoy had to an uncle when he was younger. The Lestranges were in Azkaban, the Tonkses were personae non gratae, Narcissa's Black cousins were out of the picture in some form or another, and as for Lucius, she believed that he'd been an only child like his son. For such a socially prominent family, the Malfoys didn't have many close relatives about when Draco was growing up. Had he been lonely?

"Snape even came to my birthday parties, if you can believe it. He didn't give me a lot of presents, a lot of things, but he spent a lot of time with me. When I was about eight, he gave me a tour through my own greenhouse! My mum's greenhouse, that is. He taught me all about the plants and the bugs, what he would use for which potions. We dug in the dirt, watering and replanting things, arguing over which plants were the ugliest, which bugs would go fastest in a race. Then, of course, he cleaned me up so that my father wouldn't know that his model son had been playing in the dirt." Malfoy grinned at the memory.

"My parents were condescending about Snape. You know, 'Oh, dear, don't be upset. Severus can't afford to buy you a real gift, but he loves you just the same.' Of course, they never said anything to his face. I once overheard my mother tell my father how much she liked Snape despite the fact that he had no money and was a half-blood. He had apparently 'cleaned up so well.'"

Hermione shuddered.

"Snape was way more interesting than any of my friends who were my own age. I used to hope that he would just stay poor so that he would keep playing chess or cards with me or let me watch him brew simple potions or whatever. Pretty snotty of me, wasn't it?"

Malfoy looked away from Hermione, and his eyes unfocussed for a minute. He shook his head and resumed.

"When I got to Hogwarts, I took Snape's interest and affection for granted. I got a lot of attention from other students, more because I was Lucius' son rather than what I actually did. It was kind of exhilarating to be idolized, even if it was for the wrong reasons."

"You acted like a prat, Malfoy," Hermione said.

"I know!" he replied, trying to refrain from shouting. "You lot certainly pointed that out enough."

Malfoy looked for Hermione to respond. She shrugged and said, "I thought you'd change if you realized it. I was naïve."

"I thought you'd quiet down eventually if you got frustrated enough." He smirked. "I guess I was naïve, too."

Touché.

"I came to think that Snape owed me his attention because I was his godson and the Malfoy heir," Draco continued. "But I didn't spend much time with him after I started school, not outside the classroom. Godfather or not, I didn't want to hang out with my Head of House any more than any other normal kid did."

Severus must have been disappointed in him. He really cared about Draco, Hermione thought. "I liked spending time with my Head of House," she said.

"Yeah, well, you were a Muggle-born, Gryffindor suck-up, Granger. No pureblood Slytherin would ever have been that obvious.

"Snape still favored me in class, though. He had to, I suppose. It certainly didn't have anything to do with my stellar personality. Outside of the Potions lab, our relationship cooled. More my fault than his. If I'd been less arrogant and more observant, sixth year might have been different.

"I knew Snape was a Death Eater. Being a Malfoy, I assumed that he was subservient to my father. After all, Father was a wealthy, well-connected pureblood, and Snape merely a poor, half-blood, nobody schoolteacher, right? I had no idea. I underestimated him, his position, his intelligence, and his abilities. I never stopped to think that his loyalties might be elsewhere. Like all the other Death Eaters' kids, I thought he had the Headmaster fooled. I never considered the opposite until it was too late. I never considered why an intelligent person would ever repudiate the Dark Lord.

"I knew what my parents' friends did, Granger. Not in any great detail, of course. Contrary to what you lot believed, though, I never took the Mark. Hell! I never even attended a Death Eater meeting until after my father was sent to Azkaban and Voldemort gave me my assignment the summer before sixth year. I wanted to prove myself, but I never wanted to be a murderer." He said that last firmly and looked directly at Hermione.

He sighed. "I'd like to believe that if I'd realized earlier that year just how wrong I was about Snape's abilities and true loyalties, I would have made different choices. I might have at least talked to him about what I was being compelled to do. I truly don't know, however, if my own arrogance wouldn't have won out anyway."

Hermione kept her eyes fixed on Malfoy's face, which had flushed in the course of his explanation, and remained quiet. Malfoy took a deep breath.

Sensing Malfoy's distress, Hermione asked, "Can you tell me more about what Professor Snape was like outside of school?"

"Oh! Yes. Well, he was still a right bastard, of course. A true curmudgeon. He had a killer wit. Once at a dinner at the manor, he insulted a couple of Ministry lackeys who worked for my father so cunningly that they left feeling as if they'd received the highest praise! I don't remember what he said, but right after they left, Snape laughed, really laughed. It took me a sec to get over my shock and join in.

"Another time, Snape and my father were in the lounge talking with a couple of foreign, erm, colleagues. They thought of some pretty creative insults for each other. After about a while, Snape said something that silenced them all. Then they burst out laughing and went around shaking his hand and congratulating him. He must have said something that none of them could top. Snape just flashed 'em a smug grin, but his eyes fairly sparked. You could tell he was in his element."

Malfoy's own eyes fairly sparked.

"I can imagine that," Hermione told him. "I've been reading his scholarly articles. He got furious with shoddy things his peers wrote, and he criticized them with the most biting sarcasm. It's brilliant! You can almost picture the smirk on his face while he wrote it."

"That's Snape."

"Do you think it was some sort of defense mechanism? His humor?" Hermione asked.

Malfoy flashed her his most exasperated grimace. "Of course it was, Granger, but he was still damned funny. Well, not precisely funny... he certainly wouldn't have liked to be described that way, but dead humorous."

Hermione tried to look chastened. She was finding Draco Malfoy more insightful than she'd imagined.

"Snape... played chess with my father and taught me to play. He brought my mum flowers whenever he came over. He spent a lot of time in our library. He and my father used to sit up late talking over Ogden's and cigars. I got caught by my nanny spying on them a couple of times."

Hermione smiled and said, "Yeah, I got caught a couple of times spying on my parents' cocktail parties. I thought it was so 'grown-up.'"

Malfoy smiled.

"Malfoy," Hermione asked, "did Snape get along with other Death Eaters? I mean, besides your parents?"

"Well... I know that he hated my Aunt Bellatrix with a vengeance. Not surprising. She was an absolute loon. I mean I didn't actually meet her until she escaped from Azkaban during our, what, fifth year?"

Hermione stilled and then nodded.

"Right." Malfoy's face reddened; he realized how blithely he'd asked that question. "Snape loathed her, and she, him. I guess she was jealous of him: his skills and his standing with my father and with Voldemort. All that and he was a half-blood." He paused and shook his head. "I used to believe that Snape admired the Dark Lord. But, well, now... I suppose underneath it all, he felt disdain... and fear. I mean, he must have believed in it at some point. I never figured just out when he changed his mind, and he certainly didn't tell me. I wish he had."

Hermione watched Malfoy's face as he told her what he knew about Severus' beliefs. He was struggling to make sense of the difference between what he had believed as a child and what had become clearer to him. Malfoy had to know how Severus felt about Harry's mother...from the way Harry had taunted Voldemort, if nothing else...but it seemed he didn't know the rest. Hermione chose not to tell him about the Potters, Dumbledore, and Severus' defection from the Death Eaters.

Hermione reached out a hand to her former nemesis, but drew back before touching his. "Malfoy," she asked quietly, "what did your parents think of Professor Snape after the war? When they'd learnt what he'd done to help Harry and the Order?"

He looked up at her quickly, then back down at his hands. "They were devastated when they found out about his death. My mother felt guilty because of the Unbreakable Vow. She was furious with Aunt Bellatrix for pushing him to make it and then doing all she could to undermine him, trying to get him disgraced and killed. Mum was angry with herself for making the request in the first place. She was just trying to protect me...

"I don't think Snape's real loyalties surprised my father. When he heard, he just furrowed his brow and then, nothing. Maybe after that last year without a wand and practically Aunt Bellatrix's prisoner, Father thought that Snape had simply caught on to the Dark Lord's lunacy quicker than he had. Or maybe he thought it was like one of Snape's jokes: Snape had pulled one over on him, and although he resented being taken in, he had to admire the man's skill. My father hasn't said a thing against him."

Malfoy stilled. Hermione watched him.

McIntosh watched them both, wondering what the young man would do or say next.

Malfoy took a shaky breath, but when he spoke, his voice was even. "Anything else, Granger?"

"No. Malfoy... Draco, thank you. I know this must have been really diff..."

"Like I said: save it. Spare me your concerned friend act. Just... Look, I'll never be able to make up with Severus. So, don't go... You know that he'd hate for everyone to be talking about his private life. Promise me that you won't let that happen, Hermione? OK?"

She didn't hesitate. "I promise, Draco."

Draco nodded and left.

Hermione felt as if she'd just tussled with a small hurricane. She was still in one piece, but felt a little shaky.

Shea McIntosh watched Hermione struggle to compose herself, pack up her things, and leave. He sipped from his cup of tea. It had gone a bit acrid, but that suited his mood. The conversation he'd just witnessed made him pause. For the first time, he felt that he shouldn't have listened in. He didn't feel guilty; trailing Hermione Granger served an important purpose. He did, however, feel unsettled. The more she learned about Snape's past... no, my past, damn it! The closer that Hermione got to a fuller picture of his past, the more difficult Severus Snape found it to maintain his distance.

His McIntosh persona had always provided just enough remove from his past life at least to pretend to himself that he was an objective observer. But she was getting closer. He wanted her to get closer, but it unnerved him to see her talking with someone he knew and cared about...Draco...about himself. He knew that Hermione was making this Potions project personal. It was no longer only about intellectual curiosity. And he knew that it couldn't be merely about intellectual curiosity. The woman had an inherently crusading spirit that could never be completely crushed. The task she was to undertake demanded a brighter passion than mere intellectuality. More broadly, though, intellect without passion, without emotion, was a cold, dead crust of a thing. He believed that. He'd seen it.

The further that Hermione Granger moved along in her inquiry into Severus' life as a scholar and a Death Eater, the closer she got to him; not only to a body of work by a scholar, not only to the movements of a spy, but to his scholarship, his espionage. She was becoming more intimately familiar with his life than anyone had before, and he knew that she needed to in order to... to... do her work...I can't even say it aloud...but it still, after all he had learned, unnerved him.

Hermione will get by, he thought. She always has more than got by. And I will compose myself. There is more to be done.

The following Wednesday found Hermione at Hugo's again, wondering where the rest of the week had gone.

She'd prepared ingredients and potions for Professor Watson. She'd scribbled in her journal, trying to articulate the theoretical foundations for her Potions Mastery project and had run experiments on different bases and equipment to be used in the final creation. She'd allowed several Weasleys to drag her to a Quidditch match, substituting a mental review of what she'd learned so far about Severus for attention to the game. She'd had tea with Luna following her friend's interview with the Unspeakables, listening to as much of a debriefing as Luna was permitted to relate.

On the day she was due to speak to Gaspard Shingleton, Hermione reviewed his biography and her notes. The conversation with Draco the previous week still disturbed her. Severus doesn't provoke dispassionate description, that's for sure.

The trouble was that the conversation she'd had with Draco hadn't really been a conversation. It had been more like a confession. In revealing part of Severus' private side, Draco had also revealed a still-wounded part of himself. She'd found what he'd said useful, but a part of her wished that she could apologize and return it. She was touched that someone who really didn't like her had agreed to tell her this truth. Hermione was certain, however, that she couldn't offer Draco the absolution a priest would provide in exchange for the revelations. She had no means or right to do so. She prayed that talking with Gaspard Shingleton would be easier.

Hermione's nervousness about the meeting was compounded by the fact that Minerva had insisted she come to Hogwarts that very evening to dine with the faculty and stay overnight before speaking with her and Dumbledore's portrait the next day. Minerva had spoken to Hermione in her sternest 'I-will-brook-no-dissent' voice, and Hermione had caved.

When she saw a man with tanned, wrinkle-free skin and a shock of spiky, white hair approach her table, all Hermione could think was that Gaspard Shingleton was a lot better looking than his Famous Wizard Card made him out to be.

When Shea McIntosh, who, naturally, was also sitting at his regular table at the café, saw the man approaching Hermione, all he could think was that Shingleton had always been a small-minded, womanizing wanker. He looked forward to watching Hermione put the fuckwit in his place.

"Hermione Granger?"

"Oh, hello! You must be Mr. Shingleton. Please, sit. Thanks for meeting me here rather than at the Society."

"Not at all." He grinned. "The median age of the members who actually spend time there must be about 50 years my senior. I bet you find eating there as tedious as I do."

"The atmosphere there can be rather stuffy," she agreed, grinning back.

McIntosh rolled his eyes. Wipe the grin off your face, woman.

Shingleton perused the menu for a few minutes, and they placed their orders.

"So, Hermione," Shingleton began. "May I call you Hermione? Good...so much friendlier that way. You really want to talk to me about Severus Snape?"

"I do, yes, erm, Gaspard. I learned that you two studied Potions at the same time, and you both apprenticed under your late father. Master Shingleton's work on poisons is very interesting, by the way. I've been re-reading some of it lately."

"Really? I always found my father's work deadly dull," he drawled, giving her a half-grin. "I'm sorry. I know that was a terrible joke. Honestly, though, I never could understand Father's morbid fascination with poison."

Hermione and McIntosh separately, but simultaneously, mentally groaned. That did it, McIntosh thought. It's just a matter of time before our Miss Granger puts him in his place.

"Erm, yes, well... I'm writing an article about Professor Snape, and as a peer of his who studied alongside him, your perspective is really very important... Gaspard."

McIntosh smiled. Flattery will get you everywhere with this one.

"I'm happy to help if I can, Hermione. As I wrote in my letter to you, though, Snape and I weren't exactly friends." He snorted. "I don't think he actually had any friends. He had one friend early on...some girl in Gryffindor...but I heard he treated her abominably, and she dropped him." He flicked his hand as if he were flicking a fly off the table, and from his look, Hermione surmised that silently Shingleton was adding, "And the little snot deserved it, too."

Shingleton continued, "He spent time with Lucius Malfoy, but I think Snape was more of Malfoy's acolyte than a friend."

There it is again; he's looking at me like we're co-conspirators! Hermione thought.

"Snape was terribly intelligent, but socially he was worlds apart from Malfoy's set. Snape seemed to be something of a social climber, if you know what I mean."

Hermione bristled. Another snob.

Shingleton took her silence as assent and continued. "But he was a star in Potions; there's no denying that. Snape was just as sullen and arrogant with Professor Slughorn as he was with everyone else, but the old man just loved him. Snape had no social connections, but he was smart. He must have done well in seventh-year Potions. I was already graduated by then, you know."

Hermione nodded. "You were apprenticing with Arsenius Jigger when Snape studied with him during the summer of... 1977. What was that like?"

"I don't know if you could call what Snape did studying. I was studying with Jigger. Snape was still in school; this was just a summer job. He was more like a low-level assistant. Master Jigger had him preparing ingredients, waiting on customers in the apothecary, that kind of thing. Tedious stuff, really. I think he sometimes prepared simple potions for Master Jigger, but that was as far as it went."

Hermione knew from Snape's file that Jigger had him do much more than Shingleton acknowledged. He's turning the focus away from Severus and onto himself.

"Master Jigger was renowned for brewing some rather complicated potions for special order," Hermione noted. "You must have learned a great deal from him."

"Oh, yes. It was a wonderful opportunity for me. He had me making several potions for his special-order customers. Xenographical Dip, the Anti-Yex Solution, Zythum."

Shea McIntosh let out a shingle snarf of a laugh and then covered his mouth.

"Wait," Hermione said, "Zythum? Isn't that an ancient Egyptian beer?"

"Malt beverage would be more accurate."

"Ah. Right." Utter wanker. "And Snape?"

"He observed from time to time. He did some ingredients prep. I had him fill in for me on some of the more tedious parts of the process, especially stirring. He was actually fascinated by that dreary aspect of potion-making, if you can believe it."

"That's where your invention came in?"

"Yes! The Self-Stirring Cauldron takes the tedium out of potions making, allowing one to focus on the more interesting, more important aspects of the process. It's done very well, you know, helping ordinary witches and wizards brew some of the simpler draughts at home! They have to look after so many other things in the house. Who has time to spend all that time stirring?"

Hermione, remembering failed brews and exploding cauldrons, offered Shingleton a feeble smile. It must really have been him doing those infomercials on the Wizarding Wireless.

McIntosh gnashed his teeth. Merlin, the man's an imbecile! Doesn't he know the most basic things about the woman with whom he's speaking? It seems like the fact that she's a war heroine and good-looking is enough for him go into prattling mode.

"Anyway, Snape was fascinated with ingredients. He and Master Jigger did talk from time to time about the proper way to gather herbs and such. Snape was very thorough, always so focused on the nit-picky details. He pestered Master Jigger with all kinds of questions and then constantly parroted the answers back to us. He was a tedious know-it-all."

Hermione chuckled to hear Snape described with same moniker he'd later used to mock her.

McIntosh, to his credit, blushed.

Shingleton took her laughter as amusement with his tale and smiled broadly at Hermione. "Has anyone ever told you what a lovely smile you have, Hermione?"

Oh, no, she thought.

"Thank you, Gaspard," she said. "What a kind thing to say."

"I'm not saying it just to be kind. You really do, you know. Your whole face just lights up when you smile. It's very attractive."

Hermione blushed at the compliment despite the circumstances. She got the feeling that Shingleton believed that all women found him attractive. He is good looking. That white hair is so unusual. Very striking. He's a bit of git, though.

"Thanks. Can I ask you about your experiences apprenticing together under your father?"

"Yes. I had gone to study with my father for my Mastery after apprenticing for Master Jigger. It used to be thought quite important to study under different masters for portions of one's training. Anyway, it was quite interesting to study under Father. Except for the poisons, of course. Luckily, Father didn't push me to follow along the lines of his own studies. He understood the need for me to establish my own, unique contribution to the field.

"Snape began working with my father as a journeyman just about two years after me. He'd studied the Wolfsbane Potion with Belby and was still interested in it. I think that's why he came to study with my father. He'd taken up Belby's idea that lycanthropy was an infection that could be treated...I suppose most people think about it that way nowadays, feel sorry for the werewolves and all that...and thought studying poisons and their antidotes could be applicable.

"The two of them got along quite well. My father's work, as I'm sure you know is encyclopedic... exhaustive... or is that exhausting?" Shingleton cracked another smile. "Snape tended to approach Potions in the same way. He was so solemn about it, took all the fun, all the mystery, right out of it. He must have been terribly boring as a teacher."

Hermione blinked. An irritable git, but definitely not boring.

"Anyway, Snape worked hard. He was committed. And his mind was like a sponge. He simply retained everything. I don't know how he did it. I worked regular journeyman's hours, but Snape... It seemed like he was just always there. He wasn't, of course..."

"You knew about..."

"Voldemort? Well, I didn't know then, but I suppose I should have guessed. I was... well, I still am, just blind to politics. It's a mess!"

He was almost gleeful about it, and Hermione was tempted to use just one, little hex. She restrained herself.

Shingleton continued, "I can honestly say that it's one arena in which I have no skills and no desire to acquire them. I didn't know much about my father's involvement. He wasn't really a Death Eater. No mask or cape or Dark Mark. But he... somewhat... admired the Dark Lord. He favored purebloods and made no bones about it."

"So he didn't know that Voldemort was actually a half-blood, then?" Hermione asked.

"Was he? I'm sure Father didn't know at all."

"Professor Snape was also a half-blood, you know," Hermione said.

"Him, too? I certainly didn't know. Not sure if my father did either. Hmmm... He must have known Snape was a Death Eater. I can't see any other real reason why Father would like him."

Because I was the intelligent son the man never had, you idiot, Snape, er...McIntosh, damn it, think McIntosh...McIntosh thought.

"Do you know what kind of work he did? Aside from his journeyman's project, of course."

"Oh, you know, the standard curriculum at that rank: charmed potions, some of the more complex medicinal potions for treating mental and neurological problems, recreating recipes from partial historical accounts, transfiguratory potions, higher-level protection potions, that sort of thing. That, plus his special study of the Wolfsbane, but he spent more time on that only after he'd begun working with Albus Dumbledore along with my father.

"I have to admit...completely off the record, of course...that it could be pretty nerve-wracking working alongside Snape. I was older and further along in my studies, of course. But Snape was really advanced. He had learned a great deal since the days at Slug and Jigger. He had the most amazing grasp of and passion for the subject. He really was quite clev..., er, annoying. His intensity, it was most... unusual. Abnormal, I think."

"Uh huh. Erm, what about Albus Dumbledore? I mean, did your father mind that Professor Snape went to work with him at Hogwarts?"

"I don't know for certain, of course. He didn't really like the man personally... or politically, but Dumbledore was an alchemical genius, one of the most powerful wizards alive, and the Headmaster of the most prestigious wizarding school in Britain.

"Plus Snape got a respectable teaching position out of it. That was part of the deal, I think. Snape was, to be frank, poor. He would never have the kind of independent fortune that most Potions masters we knew did. It's a rather expensive field to enter, after all. A position at Hogwarts wouldn't make him wealthy, but it provided a decent living, and in our field...as you must know...status counts."

"So, you don't think Professor Snape left because he didn't get along with your father?"

"Oh, no. He liked Father." Shingleton coughed to clear his throat. "Very much, as I recall. Snape respected both Belby and my father. The good words of his mentors meant a great deal to him. Goodness knows, they offered him enough of them...

"I don't think Snape's family life had been especially happy, if you know what I mean. I doubt the company of the Death Eaters was much better. He should have just focused on Potions, despite whatever my father said to him about... Er, Snape would have been better off sticking to the lab. Happier, too."

Not too subtle, is he? Still, Hermione pictured a young Snape working away in Vincent Shingleton's laboratory, every once in a while letting something more than a smirk grace his lips. It pleased her. "You're probably right."

"So, if you've no other questions, Hermione, fancy getting a drink?"

Hermione smiled weakly, made her apologies to Shingleton, and left as quickly as she was able. Outside the café, she cast a quick Scourgify on her coat. I don't think smarminess has a distinct odor, but it certainly feels nasty.

McIntosh watched Hermione rush out, glad that she'd finished with the white-haired wizard. He'd made sure this meeting had happened, but wasn't happy about it. Shingleton wasn't properly qualified to evaluate the subject of Hermione's inquiries or much of anything else. He's a simpleton. And he's a wanker.

Said wanker remained at the table, ordered a glass of wine, and flirted shamelessly with the waitress. It was always amusing to watch Lola chat amiably with one of her friskier customers and then put him in his place by referring to her burly boyfriend, who butchered all the meat bought by the café. McIntosh relished the look of Gaspard Shingleton's Adam's apple dipping when he gulped at the mention of a man who slaughtered for a living.

That evening, Hermione Apparated with a soft crack just outside Hogwarts' warded grounds. Thoughts about her interview with Albus Dumbledore's portrait pursued her through an uncomfortable dinner with the faculty and into the guest quarters afterward. Hermione gathered her research notes on Severus and collapsed into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. Hours slipped by before a particularly loud crackle in the fireplace startled her, and she gasped. She realized that it was nothing but the dying fire and decided that bed was in order. She wanted to be completely awake for tomorrow's interview.

Before getting into bed, Hermione pulled out a copy of the photograph of youthful Severus she'd found in his MESP file and gazed at it. Photograph-Severus raised one eyebrow at her and sneered. She wondered with what expression portrait-Dumbledore would receive her questions and dreaded the next day's meeting.

Author's Notes: Whenever I start feeling guilty that I've kept you all waiting so long and want to bemoan the fact that I don't have more story written far in advance of posting, I try to remind myself that many Dickens novels started as serial fiction with an episode or chapter appearing in a periodical each week. And Dickens and all his readers lived through weekly suspense. The thought that I am like Dickens in any way...save for the fact that we both use versions of the English language...is patently absurd. The comparison does, however, placate the part of me that likes to use the rest of my consciousness as a psychic punching bag. Temporarily placate.

All this is by way of offering an apology for keeping you either teetering on the edges of your seats or disgusted enough to chuck the whole thing. I can offer nothing except the standard excuse: real life got in my way. In this case, it was the real life that pertains to getting a full-time job: a real, live, 9-to-5 job. The job and commuting and apartment hunting left me too exhausted to write. That, and Draco was sulky, Gaspard Shingleton kept indicating that he wanted to be even slimier than originally written, and Shea McIntosh couldn't decide until the last moment that he wanted to "come out" as Snape. Bad boys.

Oh, and yes, who else but Hermione would throw Edgar Allan Poe quotes at an owl? The line is from "The Raven," of which I recently found a reading online done by (ahem) Christopher Walken. Quite appropriate. It's here: http://www.ojai.net/swanson/theraven.htm.

Thanks go to lizzyann, who is, above all, a truly excellent friend. She is also Official Coach, Nudge, and Cheerleader in my world and a very talented storyteller in the wider universe.

Please keep reading, friends.

Coming up next: The showdown of the century! Or, at least a very difficult meeting between Our Miss Granger and the portrait of the not-so-recently-deceased Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.