At Odds

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

They didn't go directly to Crawley.

Apparently, one could not calculate the exact coordinates of the burglar using the letters of "jam-filled doughnuts," as Hermione had initially expected, though Severus had found the idea somewhat amusing. Hermione had been much less amused when, after he had Apparated them back to Spinner's End, he had pulled two battered broomsticks out of a cluttered closet.

"I don't think so," she told him unequivocally.

"Would you rather walk?"

"Yes." She sounded petulant to her own ears, but that did not change the fact that she did not relish the prospect of riding a broom all the way to Crawley. Few things were less comfortable to ride. When she wore jeans, she spent the first five post-flight minutes fishing her knickers out of her arse; when she wore a skirt, her legs froze, and she was quite certain that unscrupulous wizards were getting an eyeful. "Couldn't we Floo or Portkey or something?"

"We could Floo if we wanted to broadcast our arrival," he said, eyeing her with amused disdain. "However, Crawley does not have many hearths connected to the network, and none of them open to a place you want to go."

Hermione scowled at him and took the broom from his hand.

The flight was as miserable as she had expected, made bearable only by Severus. Instead of teasing her as he flew circles around her, as Ron and Harry were wont to do, Severus stayed abreast of her. Occasionally, he would gripe about her relatively sedate pace, as he was clearly used to moving more quickly, and Hermione would oblige him by accelerating. She supposed it was in her best interest, anyway; her legs felt as if they had been dipped in ice water, despite the warming charm she had cast, and her knickers were literally in a twist. There was no way she would let go with either of her hands to right them, even if Severus weren't there to witness it. The sooner they arrived, the sooner she would be comfortable.

They touched down on the roof of a building in the old district of Crawley, a cobbled market town surrounded by industrial sprawl, just as the first few stars of evening struggled to shine through the persistent haze of a modern city. Their landing pad looked to be a recent addition to the building: a tarred, flat surface annexed to an ancient, shingled, slanted roofline. The peak of the old roof hid them from the street, and the rickety aluminum lawn chair and plastic table gave evidence to the fact that they were not the first to hide behind it. On the alley side of the building, a pair of iron bars arched over the low wall at the edge of the roof: an emergency ladder of sorts.

Stiff-legged and cold, Hermione dismounted carefully, trying not to stagger as her legs wobbled under her. Severus seemed none the worse for wear, flexing his knees athletically and tossing his hair out of eyes that shone with a rare glee. Apparently, he appreciated flying more than she did. Returning his grin with a half playful, half irritated grimace, she placed her hands in the small of her back and stretched, groaning as her back popped loudly. Oh, what she wouldn't do for a hot bath and soaking salts!

His eyes widened momentarily, then he glanced away to study his broomstick, his cheeks becoming inexplicably rosier. Too sore to think about what could have embarrassed him, she took that moment of his distraction to straighten her clothes and undergarments.

"Perhaps we can go warm up a bit?" she finally suggested when he began pressing crescents into his broom handle with his thumbnail. He wouldn't look at her, but his nodded agreement was sharp and perfunctory. With a practiced swish of his wand and a non-verbal spell, the two brooms shrunk to the size of matchsticks. Hermione handed hers to him, almost dropping it when, as their fingers touched, he jerked slightly as if he had been shocked. If she had to guess, she would have said he was flustered, but the reason was conspicuously absent. He would not have been able to see up her skirt as she landed, for she had been careful to land first. Shrugging away the morass that was a young man's thought process, she walked to the edge of the roof and leaned over the short wall to peer up the alley, searching for a likely spot to have a nice, hot cup of tea. Nothing immediately presented itself, and since Snape was staring fixedly at the ground by the hem of her robes, she took matters into her own hands.

"I'm going to find a place to recuperate. Are you coming?" He glared at her, jerking his head "yes," and Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Fine, then."

Using a nonverbal Hover Charm, she levitated herself into the alley. It was cloaked in shadows impenetrable by the feeble flicker of the old-fashioned gas lamp on the street beyond. By the time they both had landed, Severus had gotten over whatever had bothered him up on the roof and was ready to take the lead, picking his way through the rubbish ahead of her by the faint glow of his wand. She was a trifle disappointed that he hadn't offered her his arm, but pushed the thought away. There were more important things to worry her at the moment, such as...

"Severus, hold on!" She grabbed the back of his cloak before he could step out of the velvet shadows and into the small circle of light. Whipping his head around, he glared down at her, small points of light reflecting in eyes blacker than the darkness of the alley. With lank strands of hair hanging before his eyes, he seemed curtained off and distant, and Hermione had the sudden urge to push his hair out of his face, hoping to find the camaraderie that they had so recently shared. Instead, she said, "We must Transfigure our clothes or we'll be conspicuous."

He blinked in understanding and stepped back into deeper shadows before performing a nonverbal spell to Transfigure his cloak and suit into a long coat, black jumper and jeans. Simultaneously, Hermione enchanted her lovely blue robes into a sensible jacket, blouse and slacks, warm enough for the cooling evening but still flattering. She didn't bother to consider why that was important to her. Disguises in place (and Hermione did consider how ironic it was to think of Muggle clothes as a disguise), they stepped out of the alley to the sidewalk that was nearly vacant of pedestrians. Cars trundled by on the cobbled road, headlights blindingly bright, but traffic was relatively light for such a lovely summer evening. Granted, if Hermione had her choice, then they wouldn't have been in this particular spot. The buildings had a shabby, neglected air to them, and spray-painted graffiti decorated the boarded-up doors and windows of several storefronts. Only one in three streetlamps actually worked, stretching the darkness between pools of light. The red tips of cigarettes flared in the shadows of an alley down the street, reflecting in the eyes of young toughs loitering in a loose cluster. Occasionally, Hermione could hear a harsh laugh, devoid of humor, and see a shower of sparks as a cigarette met its end.

Missing the comforting glow of her wand, Hermione sidled as close to Severus as propriety allowed. Of its own accord, her hand curled into his, and she was so distracted by the unnerving sense of displacement in this rough, Muggle neighborhood that she didn't notice him stiffening. He didn't let go, though, for several blocks, until he opened a door and gestured that she enter a grungy pub with one small, dirty window and the strains of a tired rock song filtering through a haze of cigarette smoke. Hermione wrinkled her nose as she hesitated on the threshold. "I thought we were going to a bakery."

Severus gave her a long look as he held the door open and allowed thin fingers of smoke to escape. "Was that a joke?" he asked, the doubt in his voice indicating that he might think her that stupid.

"Obviously not a very good one," she mumbled as she entered the pub, resisting the urge to mince her steps and examine the floor before placing her feet. Their shoes made a slightly sticky sound as they walked, and she wondered if she could get away with a quick disinfecting charm on their chairs and table before they sat down. To be very honest, she had been looking forward to a pastry and hot cup of tea after that long flight, especially since she hadn't been able to eat a thing at Malfoy Manor.

Severus deposited her at a corner booth along the wall, one of many high-backed wooden constructs with hard seats and a knotty, uneven table. The lighting in the pub was as bad as in the streets, obfuscating the booths and their occupants with a haze of smog and gloom. He was gone an inordinately long time for simply procuring two drinks, so she peered around the edge of the booth at the bar. To the untrained eye, it would have appeared that he was having a close discussion with the bartender. However, Hermione recognized the use of Legilimency when she saw it. The gritty, balding man's eyes were wide and glassy, staring directly into Severus'. Sighing, she hunched back into the booth and hoped that no other wizards were around to see.

He returned a moment later carrying two tumblers of amber liquid, setting one in front of her as he slid behind the table on the opposite side of the booth. Frowning in censure, she said, "You know that was a violation of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy."

His eyes widening slightly in surprise, he took a long sip from his drink as he gazed at her appraisingly, his early disease with her gone. "He'll survive, I'm sure," he said finally. "And I accomplished my purpose." At this, he looked a trifle smug.

Instead of taking his bait, she lifted the tumbler to her nose and sniffed. It was scotch or whisky; she couldn't tell which and was fond of neither. Her father had tried to explain once, having her sample several brands of each and describing the alternating peaty or oak-matured flavors. By the sixth taste (and the "tastes" had gotten more generous each time), she was having trouble counting the bottles, let alone appreciating the nuances of grain alcohol matured in charred oak barrels. It wasn't until he pulled out and lit a long, pungent cigar that her mother had bustled in, putting a stop to the impromptu lesson and encouraging Hermione to drink several tall glasses of water and a tablet of B vitamins before tucking her into bed. Except for a strained bladder the next morning, she had woken feeling fine, if a bit groggy.

She took a small sip, rolling the sharp liquid across her tongue and grimacing as she swallowed. No, she still couldn't tell what it was, but its effect was rather warming. Severus was watching her expectantly, and she sighed, letting him off the hook. "And your purpose was..."

He smirked, preening a little as he steepled his fingers over his glass. "I know where our burglar will appear. Muggles notice much more than they realize."

"That seems awfully easy."

"This is The Nut and Berry Pub."

Blinking, she stared at him in slight bewilderment until the answer flashed into her mind.

'Oh,' she thought. 'Jam-filled doughnuts.' Hermione answered his wicked grin with a slow smile of her own. She had always respected Snape's intelligence, even as she railed against his cruelty and unfairness. Her recent interactions with this younger Severus, as a peer and a friend, had been some of the more difficult and personally rewarding experiences of her adulthood. She doubted she would ever be able to think of Professor Snape and not remember him as a poorly adjusted, socially inept, but thoroughly engaging young man. Again, she wondered whom he had loved and wished she had been more persistent in getting the information out of Harry. Severus had never spoken of her, leading Hermione to believe that things had not gone well between them. Perhaps it was unrequited? But how could a woman in her right mind not take the time to get to know him?

Hermione paused a moment, an odd memory bubbling to the surface of her thoughts: a comment of his spoken during the fight in which she'd walked out on him. He had complimented Lily Potter. Miss Evans, he had called her. Perhaps he'd not complimented her outright, but had compared the woman to her, casting Lily in a favorable light. What could that mean? Snape's hatred for Harry's dad had been legendary, but he had never said anything against his mother. Could she be...? But no, it was ridiculous. There must have been someone else.

As horrible as it was that he had lost his love, Hermione couldn't help but feel a tad envious of the woman who had so captured this man's heart.

Three hours later, as they sat side-by-side on a length of cardboard Transfigured into a cushion, Severus wondered if perhaps Heidi had jinxed them with her proclamation of ease. The cold from the stone building at their backs had long since seeped through his coat and jumper, chilling his skin and permeating his flesh. The stakeout had seemed like a good idea in the relative warmth of the bar, his belly coated in fiery drink and the bright eyes of a woman regarding him appreciatively. He'd felt invincible for a moment, as if he'd just downed a dose of Felix Felicis. The reality was that the summer night had quickly cooled, and a low mist prowled the street, settling in their hair and dampening their clothes. Not even reapplied Warming Charms could drive away the chill for long.

They were sitting in a shop's entrance, the backset door providing a private vantage point from which to watch the pawnshop across the street. Though their lookout was cloaked in inky-black shadows, they had Disillusioned themselves and cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm before settling down to wait.

Heidi was sitting uncomfortably close, attempting to absorb as much of his body heat as she could through the thick layers of their clothes. It would have been quite pleasant if he weren't piercingly aware of each breath, each tiny movement, and the very touch of her aura in the surging of his blood. The blame for this awareness, and his resulting discomfort, lay squarely on her shoulders.

Somehow, after she had awoken on his couch to recover from the potion slipped into her drink by Lucius, and during their evolution from reluctant business associates to amicable friends, he had forgotten that she was female. Yes, at the back of his mind, he had academically acknowledged that she was of the gender opposite his own, and a rather unconventionally pretty one at that. He had noted features of hers that had pleased him, sometimes fascinated him, but not in an overtly sexual manner. However, with one uncalculated (at least, he assumed it was uncalculated, because she just wasn't that subtle) move, the knowledge of her femininity had dropped from his brain straight down into the parts of him that were distinctly masculine.

She had stretched.

After dismounting her broom, she had fitted her hands into the small of her back and stretched, thrusting her breasts forward to press against the bodice of her dress, outlining tightly puckered nipples and baring the long, creamy column of her throat in a genetically programmed gesture of surrender. And then she had groaned.

Quite without his permission, his body had lit like an engine, warming and humming and chugging to life. His traitorous brain had then supplied a barrage of inappropriate impressions, combining images, sounds and scents that should have had nothing to do with Heidi, but most certainly did. Be that as it may, they were now indelibly scored onto the backs of his eyelids, brought to front and center by the merest flash of her eyes as she smiled at him. This condition had brought him to a low-grade state of panic, not only because it was completely and utterly out of his control, but because he respected Heidi, and such thoughts showed a serious disregard for her... and for her. For Lily.

She shifted against him, their shoulders lightly touching, and he fought against the compulsion to jump out of his skin. He was strung more tightly than piano wire, afraid that the slightest plucking would break him. He had hoped that the whiskey would have mellowed him, but it had only served to blur the line between admiration and idolatry, the possible and the ridiculous. For several bleary moments, when she had taken his arm after they had left the bar to walk to the pawnshop, he had entertained the fantasy that they were a contented couple on their way home from a quiet drink. Almost as soon as the fantasy had bloomed, he had squashed it under the heel of reality. The fact of the matter was that she was probably not Heidi of Canterbury; she had no idea of his true aims with the Starglass and wouldn't approve when she did; that a decent person like her would never consider a relationship with a reprobate like him; and that his heart wasn't even his own in the first place. It was impossible.

If only he could convince the rest of his body.

"Severus," Heidi said conversationally, breaking into his thoughts. She shifted again, shivering a little as she hugged her arms to her body. "How long do you plan to sit here?"

He moved to scoot away, then realized that he would be giving up the little warmth that had collected behind his back for unrelieved cold stone. Bugger. "For as long as it takes."

"That's rather vague," she said as she hunched her shoulders and tucked her hands under her arms. Severus harrumphed and tried not to notice that her crossed arms were forcing her breasts to press against her Transfigured jacket. "What if he doesn't come tonight?"

"How do you know it's a he?" he asked, just to be argumentative.

She ignored him. "Are we just going to sit here in the cold?"

"It will get warmer after daybreak."

She jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her elbow and then attempted to give him the cold shoulder. Inevitably, for he had noticed that she rarely stayed silent for long unless she was absorbed in a book, she huffed, then began to speak again. "When I was younger, this kind of thing was a lot more fun. Now, my arse just hurts." Choking, he tried to smother the sudden noise in his arm sleeve without seeming too obviously shocked by what she had just said. "I'm sorry, but it does," she added with a small sniff. "Even with the cushion."

Since Heidi's backside was the last thing he wanted to think about, and therefore the first thing to wriggle through his mind's eye, he decided to address her earlier questions. As he did so, he wondered if she were perhaps more cunning than he had previously thought. "I have it on good authority," he smirked at her chastising scowl, "that certain unusual characters frequent this establishment at very odd hours. He'll want to unload his... merchandise... as quickly as he is able."

"We might have missed him already," Hermione pointed out.

Severus scowled at her. He wasn't used to having his plans questioned, let alone explaining them. "Then we'll get information out of the next bloke that drops by."

"So we might be here a couple of days." She pursed her lips, staring absently at the pawnshop door, unaffected by his forbidding expression. "We can sleep during the day, perhaps leave a proximity ward, like you have at the..."

"Yes."

"But we'll not want to be too far away," she added quickly. She seemed as reluctant to discuss the well as he was. He didn't want to be reminded of the ugly scene that had played out between them, nor dream again of her shocked eyes as she vanished into its depths. But to where had she disappeared?

He decided to change the subject again to something that had piqued his interest. "You used to stakeout pawnshops when you were a child? How very illicit of you."

Glaring at him, she raised her cupped hands to her mouth and blew into them. "No. Not exactly. And it was rarely my idea. Usually not. Well, sometimes." He raised a questioning eyebrow, knowing that she would be compelled to explain further by her rather strict moral code. "It always seemed necessary at the time, though looking back... but we meant well." Her eyes darkened with sorrow, and she stared up almost pleadingly. "I'm so sorry. Things could have gone differently..."

He was thoroughly confused. It was as if she were talking to someone else. His face must have reflected his bewilderment because her eyes widened and she flushed, glancing away and rubbing her hands together a bit too vigorously. Tiny tremors vibrated through his clothes, and he realized that she had begun to shiver in earnest.

Cringing inwardly, he supposed that he could share some of his warmth. He didn't want to drape his arm across her slender shoulders or feel her trim lines against his side. Well, to be honest, he wished he didn't want to hold her, which was an entirely different matter. But it wouldn't be as if he were truly holding her, because he was doing it for her own good. It would be a considerate gesture to protect her from the cold. She would appreciate his thoughtfulness and consider herself in his debt. Yes, this was strategic positioning, not cuddling.

Motives firmly rationalized into the shape he desired them, he Transfigured his coat back into a cloak and pulled open the edges, wrapping his left arm around her shoulders and enveloping both of them in warmth. She stiffened momentarily, shooting him a surprised glance, then huddled against his side, humming gratefully. She was, indeed, shivering; he allowed himself to draw her close against him. With the mental dexterity that would serve him well for a twenty-year stint as a spy, he convinced himself that the warmth that suffused his limbs was from body heat alone.

Dawn broke, peachy and pale, and sent tiny tendrils of light over the roofline of the buildings. Ensconced in warmth, Hermione twitched and gasped, jerking out of a disturbing dream. A blurred, soft-focus swirl of disjointed images and sensations had crept into her sleep that was usually heavy and dreamless. Hands had worshipped her reverently, the palms smooth and slightly damp, instead of with the calloused energy with which she was familiar. She had run her fingers through hair: fine, straight and slick at the roots. They had both been whispering... something, as they had twined together, seeming to defy most laws of physics in an acrobatic tumble through buoyant space, velvet gray and redolent with aroma of man. Her partner had been pale, tactile smoke with nimble fingers. Her own hands had traced ridges and valleys of anatomy she could not name. She remembered being suffused with a tender sorrow and deep joy, but could explain neither. Even as the last wisps of the dream faded, she kept her eyes closed and clung to her dream lover, searching vainly for distinct blue eyes or an impression of red hair. That she couldn't find any sent a frisson of embarrassment and abating arousal down her spine.

Ron had been her first and, due to their long-lasting relationship, her only. Sex was comfortable, if routine, and she considered herself content. It made Ron happy, and she usually enjoyed herself, so she took their frequent (except for her last trip back to the future) couplings in stride. She was absolutely positive that no one had sex as it was written in romance novels. This dream had been so unlike any of their encounters that she knew it wasn't some half-remembered night that her mind had dredged up to taunt her. She only knew that she wanted to sink back into sleep and continue on where they had left off, no matter that she was wrapped in Ron's arms and dreaming of another.

She had another war with her conscience and decided to let the last dregs of the dream wash away. It wasn't fair to Ron. Opening her eyes and inhaling deeply, she realized two important things at the same time. The first was that the man in whose arms she slept was not Ron and that the slightly pungent masculine scent that had played a rather heady part in her dream was still strong in her nostrils. Startled, she attempted to push out of the iron bars of his arms, but he made a hissed, quelling sound between his teeth, and she immediately stilled. Immensely glad that his attention was elsewhere, namely the door of the pawnshop, and therefore couldn't see her embarrassed flush, she followed his line of sight.

A man in a long, brown, shabby coat was striding up the sidewalk toward the store. His head was lowered and hunched between the upturned collars of his coat, the only thing visible a thatch of poorly trimmed brown hair and the tip of his nose; his hands were thrust deeply in his pockets. Despite the quickness of his stride, his worn leather boots made no sound on the pavement. Hermione forgot her dream in favor of staring intently at the man, trying to figure out where she had seen him before. The answer came to her as Severus rose silently to his feet, a shimmering haze against the stonework of the building.

It couldn't be, though, could it? Maybe she was mistaken. He would never stoop to...

By the time Hermione had decided that an unemployed, ostracized werewolf, no matter how good he was, might have to take desperate measures in desperate times, the blur that was a Disillusioned Severus was halfway across the street. She had little doubt that his wand was in his hand. Clambering stiffly to her feet and unwilling to acknowledge how much she missed his warmth and smell, she rushed after him.

The man froze mid-step and then spun to face the street, his eyes wide and his nose raised as if scenting the wind, but his body slightly crouched. Gasping, Hermione's doubts as to the man's identity were laid to rest: there was no mistaking Remus Lupin. His face drawn and pinched with misery, he looked far older than he should have.

Hermione hadn't seen him draw his wand, but recognized the flare of a Protection Charm as it rebounded the red streak of a Stunner.

"No, Severus!" she shouted as her friend's Disillusionment wavered and dropped, and her own spell dribble off her like viscous ice water. His face was twisted with loathing, and his black eyes shone with a righteous hatred.

"Stay back, Heidi. It's that wretched beast from Hogsmeade." He threw his left arm out to the side in a protective gesture meant to keep her out of the fray and slashed the air with his wand. Again, Lupin blocked, glancing between them with a frantic, bewildered expression. Ducking under Severus' arm, Hermione darted between the dueling wizards.

"Stop this!"

Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on years of pent up hostility and rampant testosterone to override the mental faculties of two very bright men. Lupin's Expelliarmus took her by as much surprise as it did him when her wand flew into his left hand. She didn't even have time to brace herself before Severus' Sectumsempra gouged a deep slice into her shoulder. Both men looked comically horrified an instant later, and Hermione would have laughed if her right shoulder didn't hurt so terribly.

Lupin dropped both wands he was holding and took a shaky step backward, his hands clutching at his hair. Eyes round and wild, he stared at the shallow pool of blood that was beginning to collect under Hermione's fingertips. Severus had paled to the color of bleached parchment and worked his mouth soundlessly for several long moments until Hermione could no longer smother her groan of pain. It felt as if her shoulder and forearm had been flayed to the bone, and she considered it a distinct possibility if she remembered this curse correctly.

"Well, don't just stand there," she snapped through rapidly numbing lips as she tried to hold the edges of the wound closed. "Fix it!"

That seemed to break them out of their daze because both rushed forward. Severus reached her first, for which she was quite grateful, as standing was beginning to get difficult.

"Why did you do that?" Severus raged at her, even as he wrapped an arm around her waist and eased her to the curb. "I told you to stay back, you stupid, stupid..." He suddenly leaned over her and pointed his wand at Lupin, hissing, "Back off, Lupin. This is your fault."

"My fault? It was your hex!" Lupin replied shakily, still running his hands through his hair and looking deeply guilty.

"It was my fault for stepping in the middle of a duel," Hermione ground between clenched teeth and tried to ignore the feather-light caress of the back of Severus' hand against her breast as he carefully tore away her arm sleeve.

"Which begs the question..." Severus all but growled. His black eyes flicked to her face, and she was startled to see as much panic simmering in their depths that Lupin outwardly displayed. The next moment, he was trailing the tip of his wand over the gash, singing the counter curse.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, trying to decide what to do. She couldn't have allowed Severus to hex Lupin, even if he had had to result to theft to support himself. Neither of them would understand why she would even care, and if they were to find out, she would have more issues to deal with than a missing magical artifact. Both men were staring at her expectantly, waiting for her to satisfy their curiosity. She settled on a diversionary tactic. "I take it you two know each other."

They both looked startled, glancing at each other with mutual dislike, but it was Lupin who answered. "We went to Hogwarts together. Same year."

"You don't seem very friendly," she said, stating the obvious as she tried to figure out how to get the Starglass from Lupin, and at the same time, keep him from harm.

Severus sneered after running his thumb down the long, fading line that stretched from the top of her shoulder to the middle of her lower arm. A trail of goose bumps followed, tempting him to smooth them. Folly lay down that path, and he had an important matter that required his attention. Casting a Reparo on her sleeve, he said, "Lupin and his friends found their entertainment by ganging up on solitary students. Now," he said as he stood to his full height, which was unfortunately even with Lupin, and pointed his wand at his chest, "you will return what you stole from us."

A/N: Did you see? The Devil is in the Details got February Featured Story on The Petulant Poetess! I did a happy dance when I got the email.

Oh! And house points to the TPP readers/reviewers for being the first group to top 100 reviews! That kind of thing also makes me very happy.

I've also finished writing this fic – I'm in the review and edit stage, which I must admit is not much fun. At least you can rest assured that I will not leave you hanging with a WIP.