FIC: Over a Cup of Tea (PG-13)
Title: Over a Cup of Tea
Type: Fic
Age-Range Category: Five
Pairing: Severus Snape/Hermione Granger
Author: iqeret (Ladymage Samiko)
Rating: PG-13
Note(s): All I can really say is that it's been a long time since I've taken up the keyboard…
Summary: Severus has found a peaceful life following the war, but a storm and a malfunctioning broom will bring back a person from his past.
It is said that it is an ill wind that blows no good. As the gael-force wind slammed open the door of The Tea House and catapulted a ball of bombazine and curls into the opposite wall, Severus Snape cursed it as a thoroughly lousy, bloody, buggering wind. From within the mass of crumpled robes issued sentiments that were very much the same as his own, with various comments elaborating on the theme of the stupidity in listening to idiot friends over one's own good sense. Distracted from his own ire, Severus watched as a broom skittered away and burst into brilliant green flames.
With a final huff, the witch got to her feet, smoothed her robes down into decency, and magicked her hair into a massive knot that still threatened to escape and take over the entire room. A glare was sufficient to dampen the flames, which had limited themselves to reducing the broom to charred splinters and ashes. "I apologise for the over-dramatic entrance," she began, settling the little details about herself. "I moronically allowed…" Words trailed off as her eyes and mouth widened. Inarticulate noises substituted for coherent language.
"Yes, I am alive," Snape drawled, expression sardonic, "and yes, I live and work here. Please apply yourself to regaining your powers of speech and removing yourself from my establishment, Miss Granger."
Several emotions crossed Granger's face until she was able to regain her composure. "I am glad you're alive, Professor Snape," she said slowly. "I would have hoped for a touch more civility. And I'm afraid you'll have to endure my presence for an hour or so. Having… disposed… of my previous mode of transportation, I'll have to wait while my alternative sorts itself out. Is there a storage shed or something where I can put it? It'll need a bit of space to sit. I can, of course, pay for the use, or at least…" and here she took in the details of the long counter and tables, "…buy a drink and something to nibble? Or is my money not good enough here?" She raised an eyebrow of her own.
He sighed emphatically; she'd asked and he now had no alternative but to comply. "You may take yourself out through the door by which you entered." He continued over her attempt to object, "Turn to your right, and you will most likely find an accomodating shed or stable or some such outbuilding. After you have dealt with whatever needs to be done, come back in and go through this door here. You will find me waiting." Snape turned on his heel, deliberately not waiting to see if she followed his instructions. Either the girl would or she wouldn't, and unless she wished to leave entirely, both courses of action would bring her to the same place without allowing her to snoop into areas she had no business in. That was part of the nature of the Tea House and one of the reasons he had claimed it as his own sanctuary.
~~~~~~
The young woman stopped in the doorway, observing the scene that was too familiar to her: Severus Snape selecting bottles and jars, adding a dash of one thing and a hint of another with the almost negligent manner of a born Master, flicking a spirit lamp alight with a casual turn of a wrist. Weight shifting from one foot to the other and back again in what might have been a dance. In her vision, the walls wanted to roughen and become the darkest of greys while the light became the flickering of candles and torches. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply, absorbing the ambient scent of juniper and spice, and reopening her eyes to take in the reality of her surroundings.
The room was a massive one, at least two full stories in height and quite possibly able to fit her entire rented cottage within its limits. A fireplace dominated the far end, surrounded by a collection of cozy-looking couches and chairs. And that was the word for it, in spite of its size: 'cozy.' Warm in more ways than the physical. More chairs and such were scattered throughout the room, along with an assortment of furniture in dark woods that looked to be well-used and cared for. Snape himself worked at an equally impressive bar fitted with all sorts of cabinets and hooks and things with a variety of containers and implements in all sorts of sizes and materials. The confusing array obviously made sense to him; there was no hesitation in his movements, no searching for the exact bottle he needed. It was his space, and yet… I would never have associated Professor Snape with a place like this, she thought.
"Because you know me so well, of course, Miss Granger," came the drawled comment, and she reddened to realise that she had spoken her thought aloud. He didn't bother to look at her, however, and thankfully missed the schoolgirl blush. "Make up your mind whether to come in or leave," he added. "Lurking in doorways is bad manners.
"Even for Muggle-borns." The corner of his mouth twitched almost too slightly to be noticed.
He… he was laughing at her. Hermione was certain of it, though it wasn't in the obvious, sneering, hurtful way he would have done in the past. But then, this was no longer the past, and there was no audience here to play to. "I don't have to be wizard-born in order to choose to have bad manners," she answered back, leaning deliberately against the door frame.
"No," he agreed, "bad manners can be a universal trait. However, there is a fire on this side, as well as comfortable chairs, bruise salve, food-such as it is-and a hot drink. Judging from your ever so graceful entrance into my establishment, I presume you would be grateful for one or all of these things."
Hermione reddened again. "Bloody broom," she muttered, well aware that he could hear her. "I'm still asking myself why I allowed Harry to convince me to use the damned thing; I hate brooms."
Snape had finished the drink, and with his usual impatience, he stalked over to the witch, shoved the mug into her hands, and began propelling her toward the fire. Yes, she had used drying charms on herself, but he knew even better than she the clammy feeling they left behind, even when you were, technically, dry as a bone. Still taking care of children, he told himself sourly. In spite of the potential havoc she could wreak on his life.
She allowed him to lead her to the cluster of seats before the homey fireplace and settled on the edge of a dangerously plush chair. He sank into a similar one and summoned his own mug to land on the table beside it. "Drink," he commanded irritably. "It's what you need." He watched her take a ready, if respectful, sip, then pull back to regard the mug with widened eyes. She took another, more appreciative drink. He smiled smugly against the rim of his mug. After decades of potion making and years of training in this place, he knew his job and performed it excellently well. Silence, only slightly broken by the snapping of the fire, reigned while both witch and wizard applied themselves to their libations.
"That was marvellous, sir," Granger said softly when she had finished.
"Surprised I can make something palatable?" he sneered. "And call me Severus-or Snape if you can't manage it."
"I'm simply saying thank you… Severus; you don't need to snipe at me."
"I no longer have to watch my words, either," he pointed out. "And haven't you noticed by now that I'm a vile-tempered bastard at best?"
Hermione had been staring at the fire, trying to avoid doing the same to a man she hadn't seen in several years-a man generally believed to be dead. Now she looked at him properly, taking in the differences in his appearance compared to how she remembered him. His hair was as black as ever, though longer and tied back in a neat queue, bringing his face into high and stark relief, no longer even partially hidden from view. Pain had carved heavy lines in his face, and there was a hint of the scars Nagini had inflicted above the bar of his collar. But, even though he kept his expression closed, still guarding his thoughts, he gave an impression of being… at home with himself, perhaps even at peace. "I can only notice what you show me… Severus," she told him quietly. "And you know well enough that you've only ever used the sharp edge of your tongue around me. I know why, in the past. Now…" She paused, trying to put her thoughts into the right words, "You are who you are. You don't have to be warm and fuzzy. But you don't need to be hostile, either. I'm not an enemy to you; I don't want to be."
"You are not an enemy, but you are a threat," he said baldly. Doing so went against the grain, but he knew her well enough to know that subtlety would be lost. "I am a forgotten man, Miss Granger, and I am more than content to be so. I do not care to lose the life I have created here because you have trumpeted my existence to the world at large."
He watched her shoot upright and her mouth open to fling out indignant denials, but she had grown up a bit, it seemed, since he had last met her. Her mouth closed; she looked thoughtful and turned her attention back to the fire. "I'd like to think I wouldn't, without needing a reason, if you'd told me not to. I'd like to think I wouldn't have let a comment slip. But I can't deny that I'd like to see you get the recognition you deserve, as well, not just the paeans sung out for a dead hero."
"I make a much better hero as a dead man," he pointed out. "Alive, I'm much more problematic. And I have found that I care more for peace than I do for accolades, particularly insincere, grudging ones."
"I believe I know what you mean." Her voice was low. "And peace… peace sound lovely…"
"Beleaguered by fans, are we?"
She smiled wryly. "Only in a sense. It will sound like a petty problem, but I'm beleaguered by Weasleys."
"If it's by all of them, that is hardly 'petty,'" he drawled.
The dry humor made her snort. "Ron and I dated," she continued, "for a few years. I love him, but during that time, I realised it was fraternal love. I'd had a crush on him like I had a crush on Lockhart." She loftily ignored Severus's snigger. "When that wore off, I was left with affection, and that was less than I wanted for a marriage. Ron seems to think it's enough. And the rest of the family… they have strong reasons to ignore signs of a cooling off. They're continuing to hint, weedle, cajole-even plot-to put a ring on my finger and keep it there."
"'Strong reasons'?" Severus queried, eyebrow raised. He was beginning to recall the few times he'd been thrown into Gran Snape's metaphorical lap and forced to watch Coronation Street.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this…"
"In vino veritas."
"…nor do I know why you're listening…"
"Blackmail."
"…but… I have a daughter."
Snape choked. And coughed. And sputtered. And darkened. "You bloody, foolish child!"
"I know, I know, I know. You can't tell me anything I haven't already told myself. Not to mention having had to listen to Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, Mrs. Weasley, my parents… And it's a bit late for it, anyway. Nine months after the war."
He rolled his eyes. "Celebrating with young Mr. Weasley?" he sneered.
"That's what everyone thinks." At the tone of her words, Snape looked at the girl sharply. "Even Ron wants to believe it. But… We were hurting, lost, traumatised… I'm sure the therapists could come up with all of the proper terms. I think we both felt… adrift. Apart from everyone. Alone. I didn't have a family then. He'd lost his other half, the person who'd been with him since before they were born. We needed to connect with someone, and we did.
"Rose's father is George Weasley."
"And he hasn't taken responsibility?" The disdain dripped from Severus's words.
She traced the rim of her glass absently. "We've talked, argued, talked again. He knows; I wanted to be honest with him once I was sure-and I was honest with Ron after a while. But we agreed that we didn't want to upset the rest of the family. And I think he makes a much better uncle than he would a father. He does help as much as he can."
"Complicating your life to this degree must be a gift."
"Says the pot to the kettle," she shot back.
He smiled wryly. "Touché, Miss Granger."
"Hermione, if you're going to insist on being Severus. And now that you know all of my drama, you can give me a better answer than 'blackmail' for why you're putting up with me. I could just as easily have taken a table in that front room of yours and imbibed this lovely drink-which I begin to believe you spiked-on my own with a book."
"And you would have thought your myriad questions very loudly," Snape pointed out. She hadn't changed that much. "You might call it a mild geas; it's the price I pay for belonging here." He held up a hand against the questions she looked about to hurl at him. "The Tea House is my sanctuary-my hermitage, if you like-which I needed after the war. It is a place that forms itself around finding its visitors and providing them with what they need."
"Something like the Room of Requirement," Hermione posited.
"Slightly, yes. The Tea House moves of its own accord through the world, and determines for itself what its visitors truly need; they themselves have no conscious impact on what it produces for them. You may want a bottle of Ogden's best, but the House will give you a peppermint tisane if that's what it deems necessary. I mixed your drink, Hermione, but I did not select the ingredients-which included nothing more inimical than red wine." He watched her closely as she considered his words.
"And it created this room, too, didn't it? It is, in fact, a reflection of me and my needs." He nodded, noticing that she looked oddly disappointed. "Does it control you, I mean directly?"
He chuckled at the way she was now observing him. "I do not require rescuing, Miss- Hermione. The relationship is a trifle difficult to explain satisfactorily, but you may think of it as a job that comes with certain duties. I am not compelled or coerced in any fashion, but if I wish to remain, I must perform these duties to the best of my ability. If I no longer wish to, or flatly refuse to, then I am able to leave when I please. As it is, I am comfortable enough here and rarely called upon to involve myself any further than being the occasional wailing wall, like any other publican. I mix drinks-usually teas, hence the name-provide a room for a night or two once in a while, and then send people on their way.
"It-" and here Severus paused, wondering if the House had spiked the drinks; he was feeling annoyingly verbose. With an inner sigh, he gave in. The Tea House could be very much like a parent-a proper parent-nudging you to do things for your own good. "I make the world better in small ways, Hermione. It's an atonement of sorts, and not as unpleasant as…"
"…as the years between the wars," she finished softly. He scowled to see her compassion written clearly on her face. "Would you…" she hesitated, but true to form, she plowed on. "Would you show me one of your spaces? Not one that the Tea House has adapted for me. It doesn't have to be really personal," she hurriedly added. "Even a kitchen or sitting room."
"Very well," he acquiesced, aware that even as she spoke, a door was shaping itself in the wall behind her. He gestured in its direction as he rose, but she waited for him to take the lead.
The room beyond the door was a polite fiction. It looked like something he might inhabit, but it was a public sitting room, the farthest in he had ever allowed any guest of the House, and a place he never spent any time in of his own volition.
He did not stop here.
The door opposite usually led to an equally innocuous kitchen, proof against remarkably rude guests. Today, it lead to another room entirely.
Neither small nor large, with walls impossible to discern, being completely lined with shelving in dark woods and filled with books of all shapes and sizes. In the center was a small, cast iron stove with fittings for a kettle, a battered chair, and a couch long enough to sleep on. Two tables sat between, one with several books atop and a lamp, the other with pot, cups, and tea caddy.
To his surprise, the young witch looked about her not with pleasure, but with some distress. Her eyes darted from one thing to another. "Yes," she murmured, "this is yours." After several moments of pacing back and forth, she turned to face him fully. "This was your library. At Hogwarts. Your personal library."
"How do you know that?" he demanded. "How?" Snape loomed over her, becoming again the intimidating Potions Master of old.
She met his eyes squarely. "You were dead. Everyone thought you were dead. You had disappeared, and we waited. We waited a year for you to return. Minerva kept saying she needed to clear your rooms. It had to be done. You were gone. But she didn't want to accept it; I could see how hard it was for her. I told her I would do it. The castle allowed me in, and I boxed all of your belongings, all of your books, all of your papers, your clothes, everything. They're in the basement of my parents' house, if there's anything you still want."
There was more to it; he could see something hiding behind that straightforward Gryffindor gaze. He looked, and without truly trying, fell into her memories.
Hermione, and a basket a few feet away holding a baby a few months old. Outwardly, the girl was working efficiently; his books were being sorted, catalogued, and boxed with appropriate labels. Inwardly… a maelstrom. Faith turned upside-down, sideways, and right-side up again. Regret. Anger. Guilt. With each book, each title she recorded, each cover she ran her fingers over, the regret multiplied and multiplied again, bound up with…
"That is impossible…" and the link was broken, leaving him to stare, flummoxed, at the young witch whose cheeks were beet red.
"Not… impossible," she muttered, her eyes dropping. "Just… highly unlikely." After a long pause, she added in an even lower voice, "And damned painful."
Severus shifted from one foot to the other, feeling as he had as an awkward teenager. "I'm sorry."
Hermione shook her head violently. "No. No, don't apologize. You did what you needed to do. And you… you're happy, right? You made the right choice. You had far more important things to consider than a schoolgirl's crush."
"It was-it is-more than that, though, isn't it?" he probed, still trying to process what he'd felt from her.
She turned and ran her fingers along the book on the nearest shelf: a well-loved copy of Pliny the Elder. "We had Amortentia in class at one point, as I'm sure you know. I… lied when I spoke of what I smelled."
He did know, of course; he had not allowed himself to be ignorant of anything that happened within the precincts of Hogwarts. "You claimed it was grass and parchment and something you could not immediately describe."
She made a noise of agreement. "The parchment's correct; nobody would question that one anyway. It wasn't grass, though; it was calidraxys leaf-and I did know the difference." Calidraxys… one of the primary ingredients in any number of warding potions with a smell best described as 'bitter' grass. He didn't need the potions here in the Tea House, but back then… his quarters, both his personal ones in the dungeons and his public ones as Headmaster, had reeked of the stuff. It was so familiar that he had long since stopped noticing it.
"And the third odor?" he asked tensely.
Her hand stilled. "Your robes. I didn't realise until I was taking them out of your closet. Candlewax. Woodsmoke. Juniper. Stone. It was you. You were the third.
"I sat there, on the floor of your wardrobe, and sobbed into your sleeves."
"I wasn't worth it."
"Nobody can dictate to their hearts." There was an unspoken as you very well know, but to her credit, she didn't say it aloud.
"And now?" He found himself beside her, absorbing her scent of oranges and cinnamon and light, very much aware of how the girl had become a woman.
"And now?" she echoed, still refusing to look at him. "Now, I am a young woman with a young child. You are a free agent. And, as you say, I am… a complication. As long as you're content, nothing more needs to be said."
"I have been," he admitted, but his hand lifted to her cheek, and he felt soft skin and wiry hair when she rested against it. How long had it been since he had even… "And you are a complication. But…" Heart thudding, he leaned forward, wondering, even as he believed in his core being that this would somehow turn into one of the universe's usual jokes at his expense. But one small, hesitant kiss found her warm and welcoming and proved a mere prelude to a second and third and fourth. Sweetness transformed into excitement and hunger, until Severus discovered he was crushing his witch against the shelf, which had to be terribly uncomfortable, and pulled back. "My- my apologies, Hermione. I-"
Her eyes smiled at him, and she seemed to have no inclination to remove her hands, one of which was becoming very familiar with his arse. "No apologies, Severus. No apologies for the past, no apologies for this, here, now. I offer, of my own free will and heart, to give and take for tonight. Tomorrow, we move forward as we choose. No tricks, no coercions, no sacrifices."
He wanted to promise her tomorrows; it would cost her a great deal if tonight was all he could give. He smoothed his hands over her hair, taking in everything about her, her scent, her young face, the slight huff of her breath along with the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He could still taste her on his tongue. To take would be selfish, to turn away would be cruel. So much to weigh in the balance…
She rose up on her toes and nipped playfully at the end of his nose. "You're thinking too hard," she admonished him. "Stop it. I do it all the time. We've both spent years thinking ten steps ahead and worrying about everyone else. What do you want, Severus Snape?"
"Everything," he answered hoarsely. "I want everything." He wanted her, wanted to discover the woman she'd become; he wanted her in his bed-or wherever else he could have her. He wanted her here, in his home, without her having to choose between the worlds, without him having to reappear in a world he no longer wanted any other part of. Her daughter was a part of her, a part he'd accept and hoped he would welcome. He wanted both of them to welcome him. He wanted both the peace he'd won and the love her eyes promised him. He wanted to be able to love her in return, and see her joy instead of her tears.
"Then tomorrow, we figure out how to have it." She clasped his face in her hands. "We're intelligent people; we'll manage it. But tonight… tonight I want you. And, by preference, a bed. But we can start with that couch over there. You know I fancy the smell of parchment."
Severus began to smile. "And after that, Hermione Granger, I have a closetful of robes in my bedroom."
"I am very interested in the way you think, Severus Snape."
~~~~~
The Tea House creaked, ostensibly from the night's chill, but with slow, imperceptible movements, it nudged its way through realities in the direction of Yorkshire. There was a very nice little cottage there that it thought it might settle next to for a while. At least until its folks sorted out what they needed.