It's Never That Simple

Missile Envy

Story Summary:
All Hermione Granger wants is for her thirtieth birthday to be just like any other day. All Severus Snape wants is some black market lethifold fur. But it’s never that simple. What you want isn’t always what you get, and sometimes what you get...isn’t too bad, actually. AU Futurefic. Non-DH-compliant, for obvious reasons.

Chapter 01

Chapter Summary:
All Hermione Granger wants is for her thirtieth birthday to be just like any other day. All Severus Snape wants is some black market lethifold fur. But it’s never that simple. What you want isn’t always what you get, and sometimes what you get...isn’t too bad, actually. AU Futurefic. Non-DH-compliant, for obvious reasons.
Posted:
08/29/2007
Hits:
3,670

It's Never That Simple

There were numerous drawbacks to having two male best friends. Ron and Harry were tediously obsessed with Quidditch, far too forthcoming with details of their sexual exploits, and answered any inquiry as to which pair of shoes looked best with a particular set of robes with two identical blank stares.

On the other hand, there were also several advantages. To date, neither Ron nor Harry had after asked Hermione if an article of clothing made his bum look fat. Neither of them had ever called her up sobbing in the middle of the night over a love affair gone astray. But the best part of all was that they routinely forgot about her birthday.

Under normal circumstances, Hermione didn't count this as an advantage. But as she hung up the phone with her parents after enduring five minutes of being cheerfully wished a 'Happy Big 3-0,' Hermione didn't think she'd ever been more relieved that Ron and Harry only had the vaguest notion that her birthday was sometime in September, and wouldn't even remember that until at least the first week of October.

And thank Merlin for it. Hermione's sole wish for her thirtieth birthday was for it to be staunchly ignored by all those around her. All she wanted was to go to work, treat herself to some of that sublime curry from the Muggle takeaway spot around the corner from the Ministry at lunch, go back to her flat, put on some music, light some candles, pour a glass of wine, take a nice long bath and downplay the entire matter.

This is not to say that Hermione had a complex about turning thirty. She didn't. Truly. After all, thirty wasn't old, especially in the wizarding world. Hermione might very well be only a fifth of the way through her lifetime. She wasn't staring down mortality, for Merlin's sake, and Hermione Granger knew a bit about staring down one's own mortality. She was just passing a relatively meaningless milestone on the road of life. That was all. She was perfectly fine with it.

By the time she got into work, Hermione was in a good mood. She even hummed a little as she waited for the elevator to deposit her in the Experimental Charms Department, Research Division. She called out pleasant greetings to her coworkers and headed to her office. It was going to be a lovely birthday, she decided.

Then Emily happened.

Emily was cute and blonde and all of twenty years old. She was sweet and friendly and so chipper that Hermione occasionally considered spiking the girl's coffee with a strong calming draught. During her three-month tenure as the receptionist for their office, Emily had made it her personal mission to turn the Experimental Charms Department into one big happy family. She'd had little success with this mission, mostly because the average Ministry worker in the Experimental Charms Department had specifically signed on to the department because it promised very good research opportunities and limited contact with other human beings.

Emily popped her head into Hermione's office and chirped, "Happy Birthday! The Big 3-0, eh?"

Hermione couldn't help but find it a tad disturbing that Emily had access to her Personnel File. "Yeah," she answered, smiling weakly.

Emily grinned in response. "Party in the conference room at three o'clock!"

Oh, no.

"I already bought streamers and party hats and everything," Emily continued, practically bouncing with anticipation. "What kind of cake do you want?"

Oh, please, please no.

"I don't," Hermione managed, her mouth dry. "It was really thoughtful of you to go to so much trouble, but there's no need to throw me a party."

"Don't be silly," Emily scoffed. "Of course you have to have a party. I told Mr. Winters that we should celebrate everybody's birthdays from now on, and he thought it was a wonderful idea. Give us all a chance to socialize, you know? Have a little fun."

Hermione sagged. If the director of the Department was in on it, she didn't have any choice. She forced her face into a smile. "That sounds great."

It had come out sounding more sarcastic than she'd intended, but Emily was beyond noticing, already bubbling over with excitement. Hermione felt a headache coming on. If she were to stupefy the girl and lock her in a cupboard for the rest of the day, would she actually be breaking any laws?

"So which one is it then?" Emily asked, looking at her expectantly.

Hermione stared back. "I'm sorry?"

"Which kind of cake," the receptionist explained. "The birthday girl gets to choose."

"I..." Hermione trailed off, swallowing, wondering why she even cared. So Emily wanted to throw her a party. What was the big deal? "I'm not feeling very well, actually," she said, standing up. What on earth is wrong with me?

"Oh, no. And on your birthday, too." Emily sounded legitimately dismayed, legitimately concerned. Legitimately young. It occurred to Hermione that the girl standing in front of her had been seven years old when the Second War of You-Know-Who had ended. She'd only read about it in history books. Hermione suddenly felt older than the hills.

"Yes, it's a terrible shame," she said tiredly. "I think I'll go home and have a lie-down." The words shocked her even as she heard herself speaking them. Hermione had been working in the Experimental Charms Department, Research Division for nearly twelve years, and she had taken exactly four personal days, all of them eight years ago when her mother had undergone gallbladder surgery.

Sweet Merlin, I've got to get out of here.

Emily looked so disappointed that her streamers and party hats were going to go to waste that Hermione almost relented. Almost. She told herself that Emily would manage to survive this, and that someday she'd understand. Someday in about ten years.

"I hope you feel better," Emily said sincerely as Hermione brushed past.

"Thanks," she mumbled without turning around.

"We'll just have the party tomorrow, then!" Emily called at Hermione's rapidly departing back. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Damn. Now I have to quit my job. "Make sure to owl me about what kind of cake you want!" the younger woman managed to get in before the heavy oak door to the Department slammed shut with a very satisfying thud.

Hermione waited for the elevator and trudged back to the apparation spot, then stopped. She didn't want to go back to her flat right now. Even the new biography of Nicholas Flamel wouldn't be enough to distract her. And then she'd have to look around her flat and realize that it was the same flat she'd been living in since she'd left Hogwarts, with the same furniture and the same boring beige walls she'd been meaning to paint since she'd moved in. And that she was alone in it.

Well, being alone wasn't really the problem. She preferred living alone. She was an only child, and a bit of a neat freak. She liked her privacy and her space, especially after those disastrous few months when Terry had moved in last winter. She liked being alone. She detested being lonely.

She had long conversations with Crookshanks despite the fact that he'd gone deaf two years ago. She was...Merlin, she was pathetic.

No, she admonished herself. You are not going to get depressed about this. You're going to go to your favorite little café in Clerkenwell and read the paper and relax, and then maybe pop over to Flourish and Blotts for a little shopping. This is your birthday, and you're going to enjoy it.

Nodding to herself, Hermione strode up to the apparation point and focused her mind on the closest apparation-approved alleyway to the café.

*******

Severus Snape was having an agreeable morning. As with every other morning, this particular morning's agreeableness was determined by exactly one factor: whether his leg was merely paining him, or whether it was screaming in unbearable agony. Today, it was merely paining him, and - having learned long ago to be grateful for small favors - Severus had therefore decided that this was, in fact, an agreeable morning.

And so he lingered over his morning toast and coffee in the dingy little kitchen at Spinner's End, flipping through the Daily Prophet, snorting in disgust at most of the tripe contained therein and feeling almost at peace with the world. Or at least not prepared to actively cheer on anyone willing to come along and finally put it out of its misery.

Ah, well. Perhaps he wasn't quite the nihilist he used to be. After all, the Second War could have ended far worse. He could still be stuck in the Dark Lord's service, or trapped at Hogwarts, forced to subvert the noble process of natural selection by trying to keep moronic schoolchildren from blowing themselves up.

As it was, selling off the patent for a male enhancement potion he'd created a few years ago had given him more than enough money to spend his approaching golden years alone with his research. Nobody bothered him, and the imbeciles brewing up potions at Hogwarts were more than welcome to blow themselves up, with his blessing.

Frankly, he would have even been prepared to judge his life overall as extremely agreeable, were it not for his damned leg. It was an injury sustained in the final battle, one that - as many a snot-nosed Healer at St. Mungo's had informed him afterwards - should very well have cost him his leg entirely. It hadn't, for which Severus was thankful. It would likely hurt like hell until he died, for which he was less so.

Severus was not terribly aggrieved that his leg pained him, nor even that it often completely incapacitated him. Many fine, upstanding members of the British wizarding world would argue that he deserved far worse, and he would be hard-pressed to disagree with them. His main complaint about his leg was that it kept him from standing for long periods of time, thus limiting his ability to work on potions.

His leg could ache all it wanted. He would, however, prefer that it not suddenly give out underneath him at inopportune moments, causing him to clumsily splash caustic liquids all over himself. The upside to this was that there was no longer anybody around to witness these moments. Severus' trick leg had amused his students to no end during the unbearable years he'd been forced to remain at Hogwarts before selling his patent. Memorable times.

Severus finished his toast just as an owl arrived for him. It was one he recognized and had been anticipating for several days now. Wiping his mouth, he rose from the table and opened the window. The owl obediently held out its leg to allow Severus to remove the message, then flew away. No response was necessary. The missive contained one line:

Hog's Head Inn, 6pm.

Smirking with satisfaction, Severus tossed the parchment into the fire. After the war, he'd been more than happy to cut off contact with his shadier associates, namely the remaining Death Eaters. This had been greatly facilitated by their subsequent incarcerations and deaths. Severus had not gone so far as to cut off all contact with all of his shady associates, however.

Not all shady individuals had been Death Eaters, after all, and a man had to get lethifold fur from somewhere. And if he was unwilling to pay a ridiculously high Ministry tariff for it, that somewhere was the Hog's Head Inn.

*******

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out, sitting back and watching the flow of pedestrians from her prime sidewalk table in Exmouth Market. The weather was pleasant - insofar as it wasn't raining - and the Muggles of London knew how to make the most of what they could get in that department. An overlarge mug of cappuccino sat in front of her emitting cheery little wisps of steam, and she dug the Daily Prophet out of her briefcase, figuring she could use a laugh.

She didn't really know why she kept paying for a subscription to the rag, as she barely ever read anything but the headlines anymore. Habit, she supposed. The Prophet no longer had the ability to send her into fits of righteous anger at every turn of the page, mostly because...well, among many other reasons, there were only so many things a person could waste the energy of righteous anger on at any one time, and the amount of righteous anger that could be potentially wasted in response to the utter trash published on a daily basis by the leading British magical newspaper could kill a person if they weren't prepared to just find the whole thing humorous.

Which Hermione was, especially right now. Really, she should do this more often - just sit in a café and relax. When was the last time she'd done anything like this? When was the last time she'd done anything besides work and tidy up her flat?

Researchers Discover Possible Link Between Tuber Consumption and Dragon Pox

The last weekend night she hadn't spent curled up with a good book had been a month ago, when Ron and Harry had dragged her out clubbing. Ron had puked all over her favorite black flats as she attempted to apparate him home and her ears had still been ringing the next morning from the loud music. Great night all around.

Work on Harry Potter Monument Halted Due to Zoning Injunction

Well, Harry would certainly be pleased about that. Actually, she wouldn't be surprised if he'd filed the zoning injunction personally. His main reaction to the idea of a fifty-foot statue of him standing in the middle of Diagon Alley had been disbelieving horror.

Hermione paused to scan through the editorials. Finding nothing of interest, she took a sip of her cappuccino and flipped past the Quidditch roundup to the society pages. Though she wasn't remotely interested in hearing about which eligible young lady Harry or Ron or Fred or George had reportedly hooked up with this past weekend, the society pages were a good way to find out what was going on with former classmates and members of the D.A. and the Order. She still saw some of them around the Ministry on a regular basis - Ginny, Justin, Kingsley, Michael, Cho, Tonks - but they were all busy with jobs, relationships, families. It was hard to keep in touch. Even the war itself was fading into memory. Barely a quarter of those who'd fought in the final battle had even bothered to show up for the annual commemoration ceremony this year.

The society pages didn't seem to be in danger of producing anything of interest, or at least anything Hermione hadn't already responded to with the necessary bouquet of flowers. Fleur had produced Weasley Male Grandchild Number Three last Thursday, a little boy named Nicolas. Fleur referred to him by the French pronunciation. Bill called him Nicky. This was much more common ground than they'd managed to find with Weasley Male Grandchildren Numbers One and Two, Guillaume and Marcel, whom the collective ginger-haired brotherhood had promptly renamed Bill Junior and Mark. Hermione was far too intelligent to choose a side in that particular argument.

Then it jumped out at her: Terrence Paulinus Horatio Jonas Abbott Boot.

It was there, in the middle of a paragraph in the announcement section. Hermione sat up, shook her head a little, then read the bold print above the paragraph: War Heroes Wed.

Hermione felt a tiny thrill of dread. It was a sensation she remembered rather vividly, though she hadn't felt it for a long time, not since the war. Perhaps she was blowing this out of proportion.

On Saturday in the Ministry of Magic Wedding Chapel, Terrence Paulinus Horatio Jonas Abbott Boot married Lavender Eunice Brown...

On top of everything else, Hermione couldn't help but feel deeply insulted. After three years together, Hermione and Terry had broken up. It was bad enough that Terry had gotten married less than eight months later. It was an outright slap in the face that he'd gotten married to Lavender Brown, who made a living scribbling out horoscopes for Witch Weekly.

Now she'd be Lavender Boot. That was worth at least a private snicker. Private, because Hermione didn't hate Lavender. She found her tiresome and flighty and not particularly intelligent, but there were far greater evils in the world.

Still, Hermione wasn't sure what she was more embarrassed about - that she'd been replaced by Lavender Brown, or that she'd actually been in a long-term, serious relationship with someone whose idea of a soul-mate was Lavender Brown.

The bride had walked down the aisle in a gown made entirely of pink rose petals. Their wedding song had been Celine Dion's 'Power of Love.' Hermione fought down a gag.

Shoving away her now cold cappuccino, Hermione roughly folded up the newspaper and stuffed it in her briefcase. She looked out at the pedestrians in Exmouth Market, suddenly feeling horribly detached and distant from all of them, with their prams and sandals and out-of-place baseball caps. What were their lives like? What did they do every day they weren't here, walking around leisurely? Did they love their kids? Did they cheat on their spouses? Did they have jobs they hated? Did they hang pictures in their cubicles to remind them why they worked at jobs they hated? Were they happy when they finally came home to hug the people they worked so hard for every day?

Sniffing hard, Hermione leaned her head back and directed her eyes at the lazily twirling ceiling fan above her. Sometimes she had to stop herself from thinking too much. It never did any good. The waiter came by and gave her an odd look. Hermione asked for the check, automatic British-middle-class-public-display-of-emotion shame forcing her to make a hasty exit. She fished a note out of her wallet and tossed in on the table.

Picking up her briefcase, Hermione walked briskly around the corner, to the alleyway. Then, glancing around to make sure nobody would see her, she apparated to Hogsmeade.

The cooler, crisper air woke her up a little and Hermione took a moment to just enjoy the main thoroughfare. High in the mountains and lacking the large groups of chattering students she was used to seeing in Hogsmeade, the town was a quiet, cozy and quite lovely. It was also a great place to get a drink. And Merlin, did she need one.

Not the Three Broomsticks, though. Hermione was bound to run into one of her former classmates there, and the last thing she was in the mood for right now was company. The Hog's Head it was, then. Hermione smiled to herself as she moved along, transfiguring her briefcase and robes into items more suitable to the clientele of the inn.

She hadn't been to the Hog's Head since recruiting the original members of the D.A. fifth year. It was a happy sort of nostalgia, when Voldemort had been nothing but a shadow on the horizon, when their largest fear had been getting caught by Umbridge, and when even that old witch could be thwarted through sheer defiance and cleverness.

Which is to say that while the rest of the British magical world might regard the Hog's Head Inn as a house of ill-repute with watered-down drinks, sticky floors, stickier stools, loos a dementor wouldn't touch and customers that were dodgy at best, Hermione regarded it as a sort of haven. Once upon a time, she'd been utterly sure of herself there, and she needed that now. She needed to feel it again, to remind herself of who she'd been. Who she still was, perhaps. She'd sort it all out.

The drinking should help.

*******

Severus glanced at his watch once more and scowled into his watered-down firewhiskey. His supplier was now fifteen minutes late and he feared that the witch sitting next to him was in imminent danger of vomiting on him. Needing to set some sort of time limit for waiting, Severus decided that he would flee at the first visible or aural sign that the shot-happy woman to his left was preparing to empty the contents of her stomach.

He rather liked this cloak.

"Blurff," the witch stated, pushing back the hood of her cloak. She had a much harder time getting her bushy hair from sticking to her face, as it was crackling with static electricity after being trapped beneath her hood for so long.

Severus made to take a sip of his drink, then set the glass down. As her face slowly came into view, he realized that the witch sitting next to him was Hermione Granger. And that she was utterly plastered. Unable to think of any way in which this situation couldn't be amusing - aside from her vomiting all over him, which he was prepared for - Severus sat back and prepared to enjoy the show.

Finally wrestling the atrocious nest on top of her head into a ponytail, Granger finished off her drink and held up the empty glass in order to speed the bartender into pouring her another. "Hello, Professor," she said, her dark eyes darting to him.

He scowled a little. It would have been much more entertaining if she hadn't noticed him. "I'm no longer a professor."

"Yes, well you were my professor," she said, with the sort of logic that only makes sense to the intoxicated. "Therefore, you'll always be a professor."

Swallowing the last of his drink, Severus nudged the glass toward the inside of the bar. The bartender bustled over and poured Granger a new drink, completely ignoring him. Severus sneered at his back. Granger snorted into her drink.

"We professors like to see how our most talented students have fared to be in the ensuing years since their graduation from Hogwarts," Severus murmured a little vengefully. "I cannot tell you how gratifying it is for me to learn that achieving the highest N.E.W.T. scores in a century has gotten you as far as the Hog's Head Inn, Miss Granger."

For a brief second, there was a flash of the Granger he'd taught at Hogwarts, the arrogant little know-it-all who had memorized the entire Potions textbook before even setting foot in his class. The buck-toothed genius who believed that she knew everything about Potions without ever having brewed one, who had wasted her talent by subjugating herself to Potter and her own naïve and unyielding belief that books held all the answers.

And then Granger turned on her stool to look at him, an odd smile on her face. It was the first time she'd looked at him full-on, and her face was a bit startling. He recalled vaguely that the beaver teeth and baby fat that had marked Hermione Granger had largely gone by her fourth year, but the sharp teenage angles of her face that had sprung up during her fifth and sixth year were fuller now, softer. Her hair was still a nightmare, but then he didn't have much room to judge in that particular area. She'd always had a habit of furrowing her eyebrows; a permanent crease was beginning to form there.

"I don't usually come here," she told him. "I haven't been here since I was fifteen, actually." With a self-deprecating little laugh, she turned back to her drink. "It's my birthday," she confessed. "I'm thirty. And I'm here celebrating it."

Being on the dark side of fifty, Severus had no sympathy whatsoever. He glanced at his watch again. It was half past, and Severus had a feeling he'd been stood up.

"Alone at the Hog's Head?" he couldn't help but ask, a bit of the old spiteful glee coming through. His misery rarely got company anymore.

Granger downed her drink and signaled for yet another. "It's been a bad day. My ex-boyfriend just married Lavender Brown."

"My condolences to your ex-boyfriend," Severus said, taking a drink.

She laughed at that, looking back over at him. "What are you doing here? I heard you got rich off of the ErectoPotion patent. Surely you can do better than the Hog's Head."

"Surely you can, too," he pointed out.

"True," she admitted. "But I'm bitter and lonely and depressed. I have an excuse."

Finally, Severus spotted his supplier, who entered the pub and lurked in a corner. "I enjoy the friendly, relaxed atmosphere," he said, carefully standing up and stretching out his leg. "Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Oh, don't do that," Granger said, sounding honestly disappointed. Then again, she was drunk. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"Buy another for yourself," he recommended "And do try to make it to the loo before it comes back up. Goodnight, Miss Granger."

His supplier peeled away from the wall and proceeded outside. Severus limped out after him, keenly aware of Hermione Granger's eyes glaring at his back.

*******

Hermione turned back around on the stool and scowled into her drink. Sweet Merlin, even Snape couldn't stand her company. That was a new low, right there.

Everything in front of her was beginning to weave back and forth rather unpleasantly. Or perhaps she was the one weaving. Either way, Hermione had a feeling that she should probably stop drinking firewhisky. Except she already had a shot in front of her and there was no point in wasting it. Swallowing it down, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and stood. She had to hold onto the bar for a few seconds to regain her balance, but she thought she could make it outside to apparate home.

Well, apparation may not be the best idea right now. Spending the rest of the night figuring out where she'd left one of her arms wasn't going to improve the situation. According to a sign above the fireplace, the Hog's Head floo was broken. She vaguely remembered that it had been broken when they'd formed the D.A. here fifteen years ago. She wouldn't be surprised if the thing had never actually worked at all.

Gathering up her strength, she stumbled over to the door, wondering how many times she was going to fall down on her way to the Three Broomsticks. The fresh air enlivened her a little bit, and she set about carefully putting one foot in front of the other. As she walked past the alleyway, she heard low voices murmuring and turned to look. It threw her off balance and she landed in a heap with a hearty 'oof.'

The voices stopped, and she saw two dark figures staring at her in surprise. "Don't help me up or anything," she grumbled, getting her feet back under her.

"Who's that?" one of them asked the other accusingly. "She with you?"

"No," the other one answered, his voice cold and sarcastic and very familiar. "Though she certainly looks drunk enough to be talked into it when we're finished here."

The other man chuckled and they both went back to their business, whatever it was.

Face flaming, Hermione trudged past the alleyway, then flattened herself against the wal. She strained to hear what Snape and the other man were talking about, but they were too far away. Finally she heard an apparation crack and peeked around the corner.

Right into the enraged face of Severus Snape.

With a yelp, she fell back. Snape loomed over her, cloak swishing. He crossed his arms, glaring down at her, and Hermione suddenly felt all of twelve years old again. It didn't help that Snape still looked almost exactly like he had when he'd been her professor. The lines on his face were deeper, but he was still imposing, still capable of the trademark death glare, and still able to sneak up silently and scare the knickers off a person.

"It's nice to know you haven't changed too much since Hogwarts," he sneered. "You're still skulking around spying on people, I see." He raised a slow, contemptuous eyebrow. "Don't you think you're getting a bit old for this, Miss Granger?"

Hermione managed to restrain herself from sticking her tongue out at him. "You're one to talk."

"I'm not the one sprawled out in the dirt," he pointed out.

She pushed herself up off the ground - again - and promptly stumbled right into him. Snape didn't make any move to catch her, didn't even uncross his arms. He just stared down at her impassively as she peeled her hands from his biceps and righted herself. It struck her suddenly that he smelled the same way he always had at Hogwarts. Not that she'd given specific thought to how Professor Snape had smelled at Hogwarts, but it had always been unmistakable whenever you were close to him, a whiff of asphodel or the pungent scent of the preservative potion in which he stored his organic ingredients. Anybody who'd spent a detention with Snape bottling up newt's eyes knew that the smell was almost impossible to get off of your hands.

She remembered his hands now, glancing at them wrapped around his arms. They were long-fingered and deft, almost delicate - completely at odds with the sharp features of his face and the even sharper features of his personality.

Distantly, Hermione recognized that she'd made it into the 'overanalyzing everything' stage of drunkenness, which meant that in less than fifteen minutes, she'd be at the 'maudlin and crying' stage. Hopefully, she'd be in her flat by then.

"Are you capable of getting home on your own, or shall I call the Knight Bus?" he asked, sounding bored and annoyed.

Hermione shook her head a little. Drunk or not, thirty or not, she was never lacking in curiosity, especially when it involved Professor Snape meeting people secretly in dark alleyways. "What were you talking about with that man?"

Snape gave her a level look. "Miss Granger, I'm going to introduce you to a new concept, one you've apparently never heard of before. It's called 'minding your own business,' and it could very well change your life. Knight Bus, then?"

She'd had far too much firewhisky to appreciate sarcasm. "No. What were you doing? Who was that man? Was he a Death Eater?"

"He couldn't possibly be," Snape deadpanned. "All the Death Eaters have been caught. Don't you read the Daily Prophet, Miss Granger?"

Hermione snorted, and she swore Snape's lips even twitched a little bit. "Fine," she said. "Don't tell me. I get it." She peered up at him. "Smuggler?"

The glare returned. "Consider this your first lesson in minding your own business."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to turn you in, for Merlin's sake. I know how outrageous the tariffs are these days, and I've already figured it out anyway."

Snape moved finally, reaching up briefly to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You won't stop until you've gotten praise for your brilliance, I'm sure. Yes, he was a smuggler. Well done, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor."

Hermione studied him as she felt herself swaying a little. "Why risk it, though?" she couldn't help but ask. "The tariffs are high, but you can afford them. If you got caught, it would mean at least three months in Azkaban."

"Once does have to spice up one's retirement every so often," Snape smirked a little. "Robbing the Ministry's coffers is merely an added bonus."

She was a little surprised he actually answered her. "I thought you were going to tell me to mind my own business again."

Snape's face immediately fell into a scowl, and she wished she hadn't said anything. "As well you should. Had your stunning intellect not momentarily overpowered your alcohol consumption and kept you from advertising our acquaintance, the situation with the smuggler might have gotten extremely nasty. He wasn't a Death Eater, but that doesn't mean he'd have lost any sleep over killing you."

They didn't call it liquid courage for nothing. There was something nice about being this separated from reality. It was still there, happening right before her eyes, but there weren't all of the worries and doubts and inhibitions she usually had. So Hermione stepped closer to Snape, still curious, still wondering. He was almost the same Snape she'd known at Hogwarts, but not quite. That Snape would have sarcastically wished her luck getting home and gone on his way. She wasn't entirely sure why this Snape hadn't done the same thing yet, but she suddenly wanted to know.

"What would you have done if I'd let on that I knew you?"

His eyes were dark, fathomless as they looked into hers. "I would have made up an excuse for why you were there. If he hadn't bought it, I'd have been forced to find another supplier for lethifold fur," he said, eyebrows drawing together in annoyance.

Hermione couldn't hold back an amused smile. "You'd have killed him?"

Snape glowered at her for a second, then turned away and stalked towards the street, probably to hail the Knight Bus. Hermione grabbed his arm before he could, and there was a moment of shock for both of them. It was like third year in the Shrieking Shack, when she'd stared at this same individual's unconscious body, horrified at the idea that she'd just stupefied her own teacher. Then it passed.

She was an adult now, and he wasn't her professor anymore. It was still strange to touch him, but not as strange as she'd thought it would be. Snape was just a person and so was she, and they were on equal footing in the world, aside from the fact that she was drunk.

Hermione cleared her throat. "No Knight Bus," she implored him. "Please. Flooing's going to be bad enough."

Snape was still glaring down at her hand on his arm as if it were a particularly repulsive insect. His cloak was rough against her palm, and she couldn't help but notice that his arm was impressively firm. All the men she'd dated - which is to say, Ron and Terry - had been tall like Snape, but much thinner. Weedier, maybe. Whatever the bloody word was for it. Snape was more substantial, and it wasn't due to middle-aged paunchiness.

Did he work out? The very idea of it was too absurd for words. Hermione fought down laughter as Snape raised his eyes to her, his expression both aggravated and resigned.

"Where do you live?" he asked flatly.

Hermione blinked at him. "London."

Snape rolled his eyes to the sky, as if praying for guidance. "Where in London?"

"Wenlock Square," she muttered. Located near King's Cross, Wenlock Square was one of four Muggle-free inhabitance zones in London. Due to its proximity to the British Magical Archives and the National Magical Library, it was largely inhabited by scholars and researchers. Hermione had a feeling that even if she'd passed out before telling Snape where she lived, he'd have been able to figure it out soon enough.

"How surprising," he drawled. Then he pulled her against him and apparated them there.

*******

Severus was not above a cheap thrill. Even in his younger years, women had never pounded down his door - had, in fact, often run in the opposite direction - and age had done absolutely nothing to improve the situation. His twenties and thirties had been peppered by the occasional one-night stand and the even less occasional visit to Knockturn Alley. By forty, he'd more or less accepted the fact that his libido was better off sticking with its one tried and true partner: his imagination.

He'd last had sex with a woman sometime around the millennium. The last time he'd had actual physical contact with one had been his last day at Hogwarts, when Minerva had shaken his hand and wished him luck.

Suffice it to say that apparating Hermione Granger home had nothing to do with gallantry and everything to do with his imagination's constant search for new source material with which to feed his libido. She was a former student, but then he wasn't inclined to be picky at this point. He wasn't going to try and sleep with her - talk about a woman running in the opposite direction - but it was perfectly fine to hold her against him for a moment after they arrived in Wenlock Square. She was drunk and he'd just suddenly apparated them. She needed to get her bearings. It was all completely above-board.

That her breasts were smashed up against him was a matter of necessity. It's not as if he was copping a feel. And it's not as if she was shoving him away, either. In fact, she drew away slowly, staring up at him, looking a bit dazed.

"Thanks," she said, swallowing.

He scowled, mainly because it was his go-to facial expression. It also kept her from noticing that he drew his hips back a little bit to hide the effect of a young female body being pressed up against a dirty old male body. "Are you going to vomit?" he asked suspiciously as she swallowed again.

Granger looked away, swaying a little. "Maybe."

Severus took that as his cue to leave. "I'm sure you can manage to stumble home from here," he said briskly, stepping back to apparate away, at which point his leg decided it had had enough of apparating willy-nilly across the country. It went out from under him, and Severus sat down hard.

There went his hope of getting out of this with a modicum of dignity.

"Are you alright?" Granger asked, squatting down beside him. Her face was pale and sweaty, and Severus was just preparing a scathing retort when it went even paler. Turning away, Granger rid herself of the shots she'd downed earlier at the Hog's Head.

Ah, yes. Dignity all around.

*******

Shakily cleaning up the mess she'd made, Hermione comforted herself with the thought that at least she hadn't regurgitated on Professor Snape.

"Sorry," she mumbled, spelling her mouth with a few breath-cleaning charms and crawling over to sit next to him. She still felt awful, but far more clear-headed. She wasn't quite sober yet, but at least the earth was no longer conspiring to knock her over.

Aside from a baleful glance, Snape remained silent, his jaw clenched.

Perhaps it was the now greatly reduced amount of firewhisky in her bloodstream, but Hermione couldn't help but find the whole thing a bit funny: Terry and Lavender, turning thirty, getting drunk at the Hog's Head Inn with Professor Snape. It certainly hadn't been her usual day. And while it hadn't been the best day - had, in fact, been pretty terrible - she couldn't help but feel oddly...lighthearted. The world suddenly seemed full of possibilities that had been there all along, but that she hadn't been able to see until now.

She was thirty years old, and she had her entire life ahead of her.

She didn't mind her job, but she certainly didn't love it. Frankly, she'd been bored with it for years now. So why not quit and find a new one? She had some money saved up; she could take a bit of time off and fix up her flat the way she'd always wanted to. She could take a trip. She could meet new people. She loved Harry and Ron, but they didn't have to be the center of her entire social universe. There were plenty of other people out there, interesting people. Hell, there was one sitting right next to her. Hermione turned to Professor Snape, smiling.

His jaw unclenched and he regarded her warily. "What?" he snapped.

"I live right over there," she said, nodding at her building. "Do you want to come up for some tea? It's early yet."

His eyes narrowed, growing even warier. "Why?"

Hermione leaned towards him conspiratorially. "Professor Snape, I'm going to introduce you to a new concept, one you've apparently never heard of before. It's called 'being friendly,' and it could very well change your life." She stood up, brushing herself off and then extending a hand to him. "Tea, then?"

Snape's lips thinned as she threw his words back at him. Ignoring her hand, he slowly managed to stand, wincing as his bad leg threatened to go out on him again. "I think not," he said stiffly, taking out his wand and preparing to apparate away.

Hermione stopped him, touching his arm again, causing them both to pause for a second again. "Come on," she said softly. "It's the least I owe you after you got me home."

"If you truly want to thank me for seeing you home safely," Snape sneered, "then I'd prefer you just let me go."

Sweet Merlin, the man could be aggravating. "It's a cup of tea, Snape," she bit out, trying to hold on to her temper. "I promise it won't kill you."

"It may very well bore me to death," he drawled.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Say what you want about your time with me so far tonight, but you certainly can't call it boring."

Snape didn't appear to have a ready response that statement. Hermione took advantage, giving him another smile. "Come on," she urged. "You can sneer at my Muggle furnishings and pretend to have a horrible time. You'll love it."

*******

If someone had informed Severus when he woke up that morning that by the end of the day he'd be standing in Hermione Granger's flat perusing the contents of her bookshelves while she made tea and blathered on about Merlin-knows-what, he'd have probably had the greatest laugh of his life. And yet here he was, shaking his head in disbelief not over his actual presence here, but over the fact that Granger owned the entire collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart.

Turning away in disgust, he curled his lip at the apartment in general. On the few rare occasions he'd entered an actual Muggle abode, he'd noticed their mystifying affinity for the color beige. Granger's flat displayed far more than an affinity. The entire living room was beige: walls, carpeting, furniture. The only elements of color in the room were the contents of her bookshelves and a few scattered pictures of the Trio and their associates acting like fools per usual.

"Here we are," Granger said with a smile, bustling into the room with a tray. She'd removed her robes and was now clad in beige trousers and a white blouse. Had it not been for the blouse, he might not have been able to locate her in the room. She sat down on the sofa and began pouring the tea. Severus took up residence in the armchair.

"Do you want anything in it?" she asked, looking up. "Milk? Sugar?"

"No thank you," he said, managing to sound reasonably polite.

She handed a cup and saucer over. "I have biscuits, too, if you want any."

"Just the tea is fine." That came out far less polite. Severus shifted a little, uncomfortably reminded of Dumbledore's particular brand of hospitality-cum-psychological manipulation. Odd how the memories of Dumbledore always hurt the most. He'd done far worse things in his life, after all, for far less noble reasons.

As if sensing his mood, Granger remained silent as she poured milk into her own cup. The silence stretched on as they both sipped their tea, and finally Granger let out a soft chuckle. "I'm sorry. I'm being a terrible hostess. It's just that...well, I'm not particularly good with small talk."

"Neither am I," he said flatly.

That brought another little smile to her face. She sat forward, her breasts causing a small gap to open up between two of the buttons on her blouse, showing just the tiniest bit of unintentional flesh, making it nearly impossible to connect her with the bushy-haired little know-it-all his mind was supposed to see her as. Severus' imagination added another little tidbit for his libido to enjoy later. Trying to appear casual, he sat back in the horribly soft Muggle armchair and crossed his legs.

Granger noted the movement, and thankfully managed to misinterpret it. "Your leg hasn't gotten any better?"

"No," he said. "But then it hasn't gotten any worse, either."

"Something to be thankful for, I suppose," she said.

He gave a noncommittal hum, wondering yet again what he was doing here.

Granger regarded him over her cup of tea. "I can't believe you haven't said a word about the flat yet."

Well, if she was going to ask..."It's like being trapped in a bowl of oatmeal."

She winced, but retained her good humor. "I know. I've been meaning to redecorate."

"When everything is the same color, how do you manage to not constantly run into your own furniture?"

Granger choked on a sip of tea. "Was that a joke?"

"Actually, it was an honest question," he said coolly. "Also, whatever meager respect I ever had for your intelligence was destroyed when I saw that you not only own every single one of Gilderoy Lockhart's overwrought, inaccurate, ego-driven tomes, but that you feel no shame in displaying them for all to see."

She stared down at her tea. "Well, I had to buy them all for second year anyway," she said lamely, "and I never throw out books, so..."

Dear Merlin, was she blushing?

Any respect was definitely gone now. "Lockhart?" he asked, unable to say the name without his voice dripping with derision. "Honestly?"

"Not anymore," Granger said exasperatedly. "He's a great fraud, I know. But..."

"Lockhart?"

"It was second year," she huffed, glaring at him. "Why do you care, anyway?"

She had to ask? "Because it was Gilderoy Lockhart," he said, by way of explanation.

"I was thirteen," Granger stressed.

"You still possessed a brain, didn't you?"

Granger set down her tea and crossed her arms, something flashing in her eyes - a challenge. "Mad I didn't have a crush on you? Is that it?"

"Of course not," he sneered, picking up his tea again, mainly to have something to do with his hands. "The very idea is abhorrent."

"Maybe I did, a little," she said, tilting her head to the side, looking thoughtful.

Only years of spying kept Severus from displaying any reaction to that statement, even though he could've sworn his heart missed a beat out of shock. Then it occurred to him that she was joking. "I'm flattered," he said, oozing sarcasm, "that you held me in as high esteem as you did Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Oh, not then," Granger said, making a face. "I thought you were horrible then."

"The flattery continues."

"And after sixth year, I absolutely hated you," she continued, oblivious.

The pang was there. Less now than it had been years earlier, but still there, always there. "Do stop, Miss Granger," he said sharply, hoping to shut her up. "I may blush."

She finally seemed to remember that he was sitting right across from her. She looked at him, eyes wide for a moment before the little crease reappeared between her eyebrows and she stared down into her teacup. "It was seventh year," she said quietly. "Or what should've been our seventh year. When you helped us find the last Horcrux."

Severus shifted again, feeling a sudden urge to flee. It would be a cowardly thing to do, but that wasn't why he didn't do it. He wasn't sure why he didn't do it. "I tracked you down," he said evenly. "Potter made death threats. I explained the situation to him. He finally shut up. The three of you sat still and listened for once in your lives. I told you where to find the last Horcrux. I left. Based upon this, you developed a..." He couldn't even get the word out, and couldn't seem to think of an alternative, mostly because the idea was patently laughable. Luckily, Granger picked up the slack.

"Not just based upon that," she said, brown eyes studying him. "It was based upon all of it, I guess. We'd been flailing about for weeks trying to find the last Horcrux so we could destroy it and Harry could kill Voldemort. And then you just showed up out of nowhere and made sense out of everything. Dumbledore, the last Horcrux, the final battle...up until then, I don't think I'd ever realized how much you'd done for us, how much we owed you."

"I didn't do any of it for you," he responded scathingly.

"I know," she said, her voice calm. "But you still did it. At great danger to yourself."

Unable to process that statement and feeling increasingly out of his element, Severus went on the attack. "Do all of your crushes stem from a sense of gratitude, or am I alone in that particular place of honor?"

Granger looked amused. "It wasn't gratitude." She set down her cup and stood. "Can I show you something?"

Severus narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "If it's a shrine of some sort - to me or to anybody - I'm leaving immediately."

"It's not a shrine," she laughed. "Come on." Her laughter was almost girlish, which seemed preposterous. Not just because she was no longer a girl, but because he honestly couldn't remember her ever laughing when she had been a girl. He supposed she must have done so, but he couldn't draw up an actual memory of it. Of course, that was likely because she'd never had any cause for laughter while in his presence. He'd made certain of that.

For some reason, that thought did not give Severus as much satisfaction as it should have.

Granger led him into a small alcove off of the living room, waving her wand to turn the lights on. There were more bookshelves, and based upon the large desk taking up the majority of the space in the room, he gathered it was her office. She sat down at the desk and opened one of the drawers, flipping through files for a moment before drawing one out and handing it to him with a sheepish smile before sitting on the edge of the desk.

Severus looked down. The file had his name on it. Uncertain what to make of that, he opened the file. It contained copies of every article he'd published in the past fifteen years, marked up with different colored highlighters with notes scribbled in the margins. She hadn't just kept every article he'd written. She'd read and critiqued them.

He was still unclear as to how this might not be construed as a shrine. It was definitely flattering. It was also creepy. Severus slid a surreptitious hand into his pocket to grip his wand. "I have them for everybody," Granger confessed.

Does 'everybody' include your imaginary friends? "Do you?" he asked evenly.

"All of my former professors," she clarified. "When I first started out as a research assistant, I'd run into articles written by Professor Flitwick every once in a while, so I started keeping a file of them. Then I ran across something he'd written with Professor McGonagall, so I started a file for her, and..." Granger trailed off, shrugging and looking a little embarrassed. "It's interesting to read about the work you've all done."

"I see," Severus said in a neutral tone.

Granger bit her lip, then plowed on. "I'm not an expert on potions theory, but your study of the transformative properties of mind-altering potions seemed truly groundbreaking."

He stared at her for a second, a completely new and unusual sensation flowing through his body. Well, the sensation itself wasn't particularly unusual. His nether regions weren't dead, after all. They still responded to lithe young bodies and pretty young faces.

This was the first time he could ever recall them responding to someone praising his expertise in potions. Severus was not an impulsive man, but he had a great deal of experience in judging his odds of success and failure. And as far as he could tell, there was a forty-five percent chance that Hermione Granger would recoil and/or slap him if he tried to kiss her right now. That left a fifty-five percent chance that she wouldn't.

Figuring that he had fairly good odds for success and nothing in particular to lose if he failed, Severus stepped forward and kissed her.

*******

At Hogwarts, the idea of kissing Severus Snape had been a popular way to describe a particularly disgusting situation to one's fellow students, usually a detention set by Filch. Scrubbing toilets without magic was more revolting than snogging Snape, as was sorting potions ingredients. Popping pus-filled boils on plants in the greenhouses was considered a toss-up.

In reality, kissing Snape was a rather nice experience.

His nose was large and digging into her cheek, but it wasn't abhorrent. He still smelled strongly of Potions class and his breath tasted like firewhisky, but neither of these two things were off-putting, merely...Snape-ish, somehow. For all the bets placed on whether or not Snape had ever actually kissed another human being, it seemed that he had, or at least knew how to. And she was kissing him back.

He made a sound in his throat and pulled her closer. His arms were still firm, as was his chest, and those lovely hands of his were moving slowly up and down her back, and somehow the madness of it all - of Snape in her flat, of him kissing her - made a strange sort of sense. They weren't so different after all, not any more.

For one thing, they both got randy over academic articles. Even Terry had thought that was a little twisted, and he'd been a Ravenclaw. The thought of Terry brought her back to reality. Bloody reality. It was never any fun. Still, Hermione pulled back, catching her breath a little.

Snape looked like he was braced for something. "Um," she said stupidly, biting her lip. It was wet, and she could still taste him. "Sorry. I just...I don't really do this."

"Snog former professors in your home office?" he deadpanned.

"Well," she said, trying not to laugh, "that either. I meant...the whole bringing strange men home from bars and..." she cleared her throat, not really wanting to finish that sentence. "It's the whole ex-boyfriend getting married thing."

"I see," he said, his face falling into cynical lines. "Revenge, is it?"

"That's not what I meant," she said exasperatedly. "I'm not on the rebound. We broke up eight months ago, and I wasn't even all that torn up about it then. But I did just find out about him getting married today, and it was sort of upsetting, and if something like this is going to happen, I want to be sure that it's not happening because of that."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Is it happening because of that?"

Hermione frowned and looked away. "Actually, now that I think about it, it really isn't."

She saw him cross his arms out of the corner of her eye. "Why is it happening, then?"

Funny how things could become clear in the oddest moments. She'd puked in front of Snape and suddenly her professional goals had all realigned and snapped into place. She'd kissed him, and suddenly couldn't see any legitimate reason not to kiss him again.

Hermione looked back at him, unable to keep from smiling. "Because I admire you. Not just for what you did during the war, but for everything you've written, the work you've done..." She was getting a little warm just thinking about it.

Snape eyes were shining with a strange light. "What I've read of your work has been equally impressive," he said, a little stiffly.

"Really?" she couldn't help but ask. "What have you read?"

"I don't have a folder of every article you've ever written, if that's what you're asking."

"I wouldn't expect you to. So...what, then?" Did she sound a tad breathless?

His smirk was dangerously close to a smile. "Still looking for praise, are you?"

"Maybe," she shrugged, attempting nonchalance and falling well short. For better or worse and for reasons somewhat incomprehensible, his opinion meant a great deal to her.

"Your article on new methods to reverse irreversible charms was quite good," he said.

"Quite good," she echoed, sagging a little.

"Your theory was sound, as was your arithmantic analysis," he explained, shaking a chunk of dark hair out of his eyes and staring down his nose at her. "Your topic was dreadfully uncreative, however. Since the end of the war, every person with the least bit of talent in the area has been working on reversing irreversible charms. You had some interesting ideas, but your talent was wasted on such a mundane area of research."

"Was that a compliment?" Hermione had to ask, because she honestly couldn't tell.

"Of sorts," Snape answered, pursing his lips.

Hermione cocked her head at him. "Is this your way of flirting with me?"

Snape didn't seem to know how to answer the question. He finally settled on, "Perhaps."

"Wow," Hermione said, leaning back against the desk. "I think you're actually worse at it than I am. And that's saying something, believe me."

"Would you rather I wrote you a sonnet?" he asked, a bit snappishly.

"That would be entertaining," she snorted, "but I don't think so."

Snape squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "At this point, I believe I'd have preferred it if you slapped me."

"Don't you have anything nice to say about anything else I've written?" she asked.

"Well," he said, looking up at her, tapping a finger against his chin, "I do recall something you wrote about tracking and security charms, regarding their usage on inert versus active matter."

"Yes, I published it just last year," Hermione prompted him, sitting forward.

"I was impressed," Snape said, his voice growing softer as he studied her. "It was very brave of you to challenge Miranda Goshawk's Standard Coefficient of Magical Life Force Interference."

"I've had problems with Goshawk's Coefficient since Hogwarts," Hermione breathed, moving a bit closer. "Everyone always used it without thinking, because it seemed to take everything into account...."

Snape nodded as she spoke, also moving a bit closer. "Age, gender, birth date..."

"...astronomical phenomena..."

"...weather patterns..."

They were an inch away from touching now, breathing the same air. It was somehow more intimate than actually touching, because it was still pure possibility. Hermione threw the ball into Snape's court. If he finishes the sentence, I'll kiss him, she decided.

"But she never took into account..."

He didn't even hesitate. "...the interference of electromagnetic fields. She never would have. It's a Muggle principle."

"It's an understood physical principle that just happened to have been discovered by Muggles," she corrected him.

"You proved your case quite convincingly, as I recall. At least the International Confederation of Charms Scholars seemed to think so. They gave you an award for that research, didn't they?"

He remembered. He remembered not just her article, but the fact that she'd won a completely obscure award for it. Hermione felt a tingle go down the entire length of her body. Well, that sealed it right there.

*******

Nobody had ever looked at Severus Snape the way Hermione Granger did just before she kissed him. He had seen several women look at other men that way. He had seen wild animals look at potential prey in that way. On certain rare and unpleasant occasions, he had even seen a wild animal or two look at him that way, but never in his life had a woman ogled him like a tasty bit of meat. Well...except for Bellatrix LeStrange, but she'd done that to everybody.

It put him off-kilter a bit. On the few occasions over the course of his life that the fates had deigned to smile on Severus Snape, they had generally only smiled long enough for him to let his guard down so that they could kick him in the arse all that much harder. Even as he lost himself in kissing Hermione Granger, some part of his mind was still wondering when Potter and Weasley were going to jump out of the closet - possibly with a photographer to add to the humiliation - and announce that the entire thing had been a joke. As seconds, then minutes went by without this happening, he finally began to relax.

As much as he ever did, anyway.

It was perhaps a blessing that as things progressed he worried more about the fact that he hadn't had sex with a woman in nearly a decade than he did about the fact that the woman he was about to have sex with was one of his former students, and one he'd actively despised at the time. His libido and his imagination may have seen him through a great deal, but they were no match for the real, live article. Especially when it was pretty, twenty years younger than he was and making a lot of very encouraging noises.

"Wait, wait," she panted. Severus drew back as if he'd been burned, just stopping himself from glancing over his shoulder at the closet door for a hidden photographer check. But Granger just winced, wriggled an arm underneath herself and pulled out a glass paperweight that had been digging into her back. Then she grabbed the front of his robes and hauled him back on top of her. Ah. Well, then.

As far as Severus was concerned it was amazing sex, in the way that just about any food at all is a feast to a starving man. Whether or not Granger was satisfied, he had no idea. It occurred to him that she'd likely been underwhelmed by the entire thing, but was at least polite enough not to shove him off of her and kick him out of her flat. It also occurred to him that once you'd had sex with a person, it was time to use first names.

"Hermione?" he asked tentatively, the word sounding strange in his mouth. She may not be the Granger of old, but she was still Granger to him, for better or worse.

Apparently the feeling was mutual. "Snape," she replied noncommittally.

He got up on his elbows so he could see her face. She was smiling at the ceiling in a bemused sort of way. "So apparently I am that woman, after all," she murmured. "The sort who picks up strange men in bars and takes them straight to bed."

"We're on your desk," he pointed out, because it seemed somewhat impolitic to mention that he was not a strange man solely because he was her former professor.

"True," she admitted, brushing a hand down his back. "We could go to the bed, if you wanted."

Severus' leg had been overtaxed already with the apparating. He was fairly certain that having sex with a woman on top of a desk had been the last straw. If he tried to stand up right now, he'd fall over and probably stay there until morning when his leg would do everything in its power to remind him why he didn't regularly have sex with women on top of desks, aside from the obvious reasons.

"I don't suppose it's possible to apparate anywhere directly from your flat?" he asked, knowing it was a long shot, even if it was the only possible way he was going to make it home without crawling a good distance on his elbows.

"No," she said, a bit coldly. "You have to do it from the hallway. Can you wait that long to flee after the deed or would you prefer it if I threw you out the window?"

Severus gritted his teeth. "I am not fleeing." Well, that wasn't precisely true. "I am not fleeing for the reasons you think," he confessed, because a.) once more, there was no way to extricate himself from this situation with any sort of dignity and b.) now that he'd given his bad leg a moment's thought, it was starting to inch past pain into agony. Giving up, he pushed himself off of her, settling down on the floor as gently as possible, stretching out his bad leg and scowling at it. In moments like these, he was a good deal less thankful that the Healers had managed to save the bloody thing.

"Oh," Granger said as understanding dawned. She pulled her robes around her and sat down next to him, looking sympathetic. Severus repressed the desire to hex her. "Sorry," she winced. "I didn't even think."

"Neither did I, obviously," he bit out.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Go away," he growled. Granger shook her head, muttering under her breath. Severus sighed. "Tea would be appreciated," he managed to say with some modicum of politeness. In that he wasn't snarling at her, and he dearly wanted to.

Granger did bring him tea. She did not, however, go away. Well, he was in her flat.

"It was one of the Carrows, wasn't it?" Granger asked, because no number of lessons on 'minding your own business' were ever likely to sink in with her.

"Amycus," he said shortly. "I killed him directly afterwards, so I suppose we're even."

They shared a grim smile. "It seems so long ago now, doesn't it?" she asked.

"It is long ago now."

"Far away, then. I mean, the most exciting my life gets anymore is when I have to give Crookshanks his annual flea-repelling charm and he hides under the bed for a week."

Severus shifted a little, grimacing. "Hence my affinity for illegal potions ingredients."

"Good for keeping your skills up, I imagine," Granger said with a wry smile.

"We all have to find excitement somewhere. Apparently your new method is picking up strange men at the Hog's Head."

"I haven't done the whole thing yet, though," she said, standing up. "I've got to take you to my bed."

That would involve getting off of the floor, and Severus wasn't sure that was a possibility at the moment. "I'm perfectly fine right here, thank you."

"It's getting late," Granger said, crossing her arms. "I'm going to bed soon anyway. You can either come with me, or you can spend the night on the floor. Your choice."

"You go on," he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "I'll be along in a moment."

"You're going to make me wrestle you in there, aren't you?"

"Were I in top form, I'd find that a rather intriguing idea. As it stands, however..."

Granger stared down her nose at him in a way he found almost disturbingly reminiscent of himself. "You and Harry are exactly alike, do you know that? You're both completely bullheaded. Stubborn to the core."

Severus opened his mouth to verbally assault her for even suggesting that he and Potter did anything more than - unfortunately - live on the same planet, then quickly shut it. Not only would arguing with her prove her right, but by the hard look in her eye, it would also mean spending the night on the floor. It was hardwood. Severus made his decision.

*******

Hermione hadn't expected Snape to be gracious about accepting her help moving into the bedroom, and her expectations were met and exceeded. He snarled and sneered and berated her the entire way. As he was in pain, she let it slide.

"Er...do you want to prop it up on a pillow or something?" she asked, reaching over for one. The look on Snape's face indicated that if she came near him with it, he'd use it to asphyxiate her. "No, then," she concluded, drawing her hand back.

"This isn't the Hospital Wing, and you aren't Madame Pomfrey," he said angrily. "I simply need to sit still until I can walk again."

"That's fine," Hermione assured him, setting up some pillows and stretching out next to him on the bed. "Stay as long as you like."

"I believe I'd rather stay as short a period of time as I like."

"Shag me on a desk and then run off? That's not very gentlemanly of you."

"I'm sure gentlemanly went out the window when the desk came into play."

"Still, isn't it only proper to stay for breakfast?"

Snape snorted. "You have quite obviously never had a one-night stand before."

"No," she admitted. Then she turned to look at him. "What, you have?" He shot her a look, and Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit peeved at that thought. Not just that Snape's sex life had apparently been far more exciting than her own, but that...hang on a second. "So that's all I am, then? A one-night stand?"

He seemed surprised at the idea that she might find that idea just a trifle insulting. "What else did you have in mind?"

"Well, I don't know," she grumbled testily. "It's not as if we couldn't do it again."

"I wouldn't recommend it at the moment," he said, with a meaningful glance at his leg.

"I didn't mean right now. Just...at some point. We could. Is all." Hermione knew she was digging a hole for herself, but couldn't seem to stop. "And it's not as if we can't do other things. Talk, I mean. About articles and potions and..." Snape appeared to be in a great deal of pain, and not all of it having to do with his leg. Hermione finally shut up.

"I see absolutely no reason to have this conversation right now," he said.

Then her mouth opened again. "But we could have it..."

"Granger," he growled warningly. "I am not in the mood."

"Oh, all right," she sighed. "We'll talk about something else."

"I could not wish for anything more."

"Bloody old bat," she muttered. Then she turned onto her side so she could look at him. "Okay, then. I have a question for you."

"Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to like the question?"

Hermione ignored him. "How did you come up with the ErectoPotion?"

"For once I'm proven wrong. Surprisingly enough, the answer is: through research."

"But you had to have tested it out before you applied for the patent."

Snape let out a discreet cough. "That is generally the way research works, yes."

Hermione couldn't keep down a grin. "Who did you test it out on?"

"I couldn't afford to hire paid test subjects, if that's what you're asking," he said, his lips quirking. "Let it never be said that I haven't suffered for my art."

"Merlin," she said, shaking her head. "No wonder you were always in a bad mood."

"I refrained from testing it out while school was in session," he said dryly.

"It would have led to some awkward questions, I'm sure."

"Undoubtedly." Snape was quiet for a moment, then turned his head a little to look at her, his expression blank. "Fair is fair, Granger. Now I have a question for you."

"Am I going to like it?"

"Probably not."

Hermione blew out a breath. "Okay. Ask."

"For what conceivable reason could you possibly want to continue our relationship?"

She bit her lip, thinking about it for a second. "I don't know," she finally shrugged. "I guess I just figure...why not? I like you. I think you're interesting. I think in spite of yourself you find me at least a little bit interesting, too. I think we could have a lot of fun together. Plus," she added with a little smile, "I have a feeling I'm going to have a lot of free time on my hands soon."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah. I guess I realized some things today."

"That marriage to Lavender Brown isn't enough of a revenge on Terry Boot?"

"I wish them all the best," Hermione grinned. It was just a teensy bit malicious. Snape hummed, smirking. "But no, that's not it."

"I'm not nearly interested in what you have to say to drag it out of you. Speak your mind or let me agonize in peace, Granger."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I realized that it's far too easy to imagine things are more complicated than they really are. You just get into a rut, and it's comfortable, and every time you think about getting out of it, all you can do is list all the reasons it's too hard, instead of the ways you might be happier."

Snape made a disgusted sound and closed his eyes. "Make that sentiment less verbose and you can sew it onto a pillow."

"Merlin, you're aggravating," Hermione groused. "Just because it's cliché doesn't mean it isn't true."

"Actually, in my experience..."

"Oh, forget it," she interrupted him. "Are you in or not?"

Snape opened his eyes, considering the matter. "Oddly enough, I believe I am," he said after a moment. A slow, nasty smile spread across his face. "If nothing else, I shall be highly amused to see Potter and Weasley's reactions."

"Me too, actually," she snickered.

"After the novelty of that has worn off, I give us a week."

"Such pessimism," she scolded him. "We enjoy each other's company in our own sort of way. We enjoy having sex on desks together. What more is there?"

Snape gave her a supremely cynical look. "It's never that simple."

"Who knows?" she mused. "Maybe it is." He gave her a sidelong glance, his scowl relaxing into a smirk that once more was almost a smile. And Hermione knew that at least for a brief moment, Snape thought it just might be true, also.

"Anything is possible," he allowed neutrally. Well, it was a start.