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And They Didn\'t Live Happily Ever After	By : ElizabethStump Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 90306 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 39
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"And They Didn't Live Happily Ever After"

Chapter Forty
“Caught Between an Obnoxious Prat and a Sarcastic Bastard”

Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah. Disclaim, disclaim. Rowling owns it all, and all that obvious stuff. You try coming up with forty unique and interesting disclaimers.

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Arriving at work Monday morning, Severus was surprised to see a note hovering in mid-air. The scrap of parchment was desperately vying for his attention as he stepped into his office. It was a note from Lavender, requesting him to see her immediately when he arrived.

As Severus went to Miss Brown's office, he felt particularly agitated, due in no small part to the fact that he was anticipating Hermione confronting him tonight, demanding he take off his mask. He was certain she had most probably figured out his identity by now. There were three things he expected Hermione would do upon confirmation of his identity: yell at him, cry, or run away. None of those possibilities held any great allure.

Severus entered Miss Brown's office and discovered his employer frantically pacing the length of the room. Draco was already seated in a chair.

“Good!” Draco addressed him with exasperated relief. “Now that you're here, Lavender can tell us why she's in such a strop.”

The agitated witch stopped her pacing and turned to face her only non-elf employees. “Gentlemen, we may have a problem.”

Severus never cared for conversation that started on such an upbeat note. “A problem?” he asked slowly, his voice low and threatening.

“I have it on good authority that Alastor Moody wants all the Aurors who oversee Death Eater parolees to start making unannounced visits to their places of work, maybe their homes, as well.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to shout, “WHAT?”, however the statement did not need repeating. He wondered how his employer had come upon this information. Instead, Severus asked with restrained calm, “Who is your source?”

“Someone I can trust.”

“Someone you can trust?” Draco queried, skeptical of any anonymous source.

Both Severus and Draco were extremely cautious, but wondered what the purpose would be to feed Miss Brown false information of such a nature. If the information was true, then it was still something to not take lightly at all.

“Yes!” she snapped with great irritation. “And you two are not the only ones. It seems that my employing ex-Death Eaters has caused Moody to become suspicious of me. It was mentioned in the same conversation that I am not above his mistrust as well!”

As Draco and Severus looked at each other, each gauging the other's reaction to the news, Lavender started pacing once more. “You know what this means!” she began railing. “I can count on Moody coming in here and trying to slip me some Veritaserum! I can't know anything you two are up to anymore. I shouldn't know anything at all! I should be Obliviated, or take a Memory Erasing Draught, or – or SOMETHING!”

Lavender was bordering on hysterical when Severus grabbed her by the upper arms and forced her to sit down. “Calm down, Miss Brown!” he ordered her, using his authoritative voice. “Hysteria will solve nothing,” Severus hissed, trying to keep his own panic from rising in his chest.

“Severus is right,” Draco stated calmly. “We can't panic. What we can do is take measures to make sure we aren't caught doing anything even bordering on what the Ministry considers unauthorized.”

“And how do you propose that? You're not allowed a Floo connection in your homes, and your Apparition licenses are revoked. And if you think I'm going to be involved with making illegal Portkeys, you must be mad!” Lavender yelled with ever increasing loudness until she was close to shrieking.

“You forget that you have close to sixty-five house-elves in your employ,” the younger wizard reminded her. Severus' eyes lit up with the realization of Draco's line of thinking. “Use Marf and Dheef as lookouts or spies. If an Auror comes snooping around, one of the elves can come here and warn us, and we can casually come back to our flat, claiming that we were out for a walk when the Auror came to call.”

“Or,” Severus amended, “perhaps we can be told ahead of time by certain parties.” The raven-haired wizard gave Miss Brown a knowing look.

“Told ahead of time by whom?” Lavender asked, wondering who Severus was referring to.

“By the person who gave you this news, that's who,” Severus snapped back, expecting his employer to make the obvious connection to who he was obscurely referring to.

“And who do you think told me?”

“Who else would know about these random checks except someone who was supposed to know? Say, Kingsley Shacklebolt?” Severus asked rhetorically, raising one brow to add to his sarcastic tone. “Who else would know about such things?”

“It's not Kingsley. He didn't tell me,” Lavender confessed.

“If not Kingsley, then who? This is not the sort of thing one just happens to randomly overhear at a social function. Who told you?” Severus demanded.

Both Draco and Severus had thought Lavender had gone mad, for she started laughing heartily before schooling her features.

Lavender merely said, “Someone who has your interests at heart,” while staring directly at Severus. “But we still need to figure out how to get around these surprise inspections. They might figure out that you're never home during the day.”

“Well,” Draco mentioned casually, while inspecting his nails, “since Macnair no longer occupies the flat below mine, it is no longer a Death Eater's residence; therefore you can have the Floo reconnected. That way we don't have a Floo in our flat, yet we have a nearby Floo access point in which to beat the Aurors before they get to our block of flats.”

After a few more of the logistical details were sorted out, Draco excused himself. There was a great deal of work that needed to be done on several projects.

Once Severus and Lavender were alone, she stood up to leave but he held out an arm across the doorway, to bar her exit. “Just where did you get that information, Miss Brown, if not from my very own parole officer?”

“I can't say. I gave my word not to say. Not just yet.” Lavender ducked out from underneath Severus’ arm and called for Wonkle to bring some tea. “I need a cup for my nerves. Care to stay and have a cup too?”

“No,” he bit out, irritated he could not be given the information he wanted. Severus began pacing Lavender's study, impatiently trying to figure out who may have given his employer such warning of upcoming inspections.

“And how are your evenings with Hermione progressing?” Miss Brown asked while pouring milk into her tea. “Does she know yet it's truly Severus Snape and not some other tall, dark stranger?”
Severus hesitated mid-stride before continuing his trek across the length of the room. “I have alluded to my identity, but nothing declarative or obvious. Perhaps by tonight she will know, or shortly there afterwards.”

“Tonight?”

'Damn!' In a moment of preoccupied thought, wondering if Hermione had figured out who he was yet, he let slip his Monday night meetings with Hermione. Severus had not informed Miss Brown of the additional meetings he had arranged with the brunette witch. He had figured that since it was his own free time and Hermione was not a paying client, he could plan to see her anytime he wanted.

After clearing his throat, Severus announced, “Yes. Tonight. She will be coming over for a few Monday nights in order to get extra dance practice in before her anniversary dinner.” He made a point of omitting the fact that Hermione had come over the previous Monday night.

There was an odd glint in the witch's eye. “And why didn't you tell me about this meeting before? Were you planning on telling me eventually?” There was an accusatory tone in her voice that set Severus' teeth on edge.

“What I do in my free time is none of your damned business!” he snarled irritably at Miss Brown. “Since you decided to do away with the exchange of coin, she is not a paying client – in the strictest sense. I think I have more than earned that forty percent royalty for the sex potions I have been working so fastidiously on, by meeting with Mrs. Weasley several times, as per our agreement.” His face began to contort with ever increasing fury as his lecture turned into full-blown fulmination. “I have more than made an effort to be a patient ear for her to bend. And if I arrange to meet with her on additional evenings, especially since you were the one to encourage dance lessons, then it's my own business why and when I meet with her. Though my job as a gigolo may be a front in order to fool the Ministry, you do not own me, Miss Brown. I have had enough masters in my lifetime, and I never will be owned by anyone ever again!”

Severus stormed from Lavender's office in a rage. Miss Brown's house-elf, Wonkle, who also acted as her personal secretary, ducked under his desk in order to escape the wrath of the livid Potions master.

In all the time Severus had worked for Miss Brown, he had never been made to feel like he was owned or controlled by anyone. It was by mutual agreement that he would be a gigolo at night so that he might claim to have some source of income; it provided a good cover so that he could consult on Potions in secret. Miss Brown's question about not being informed of Hermione's additional visits had made him feel like he was a piece of property to be bought, sold, and controlled. Severus had always lived by his own terms to see whomever he pleased and fuck whomever he wanted as a gigolo, and now his employer was questioning who he was choosing to see in his free time.

Alone in his office, Severus felt caged. Instead of opening a book in order to begin more research, he felt the sensation of being tethered down to his office weighing upon him; he felt unsettled and anxious. Part of the reason was that he hadn't had a good shag in over a week. The last time he had experienced sex was with Miss Anne during the initial testing of the male enhancement potion. Last weekend, Miss Anne was away due to a visit by the Old Crone, and his Sunday night client bowed out at the last minute – not that she ever requested a shag very often. It wouldn't have helped if his Sunday night client had showed up and spread her legs anyway. He would have refused her. Severus was only interested in bedding one witch, and Hermione had yet to decide if she wanted him. Not to mention that her decision would likely be very different once she did figure out his true identity.

Severus has spent most of the weekend canning two bushels of peaches, while worrying if Hermione had figured out who he was yet. If she did, would she come Monday night, or would she not show up at all? He pondered the many possible scenarios that would happen later that night – that was, if Hermione bothered to come. None of the likely outcomes seemed pleasant. The best and mostly unlikely of all outcomes was that Hermione would accept him – flaws, crooked teeth, seedy night job, past history between them and all – and agree to become his lover; the worst possible outcome was that he would never see her again.

Sitting down at his desk, Severus forced himself to work on the latest pile of notes he had compiled, mentally slapping himself whenever his thoughts strayed to Hermione and the question of whether he would ever feel her welcoming touch again. It was then that he finally realized that he might have made his heart too vulnerable for the second time in his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The repair crew was still working on fixing some of the fire damage to the lab, thus giving Hermione a much needed chance to sit in her office and catch up on paperwork. Since Marge's death, the low-level working witch had no time to do the interdepartmental paperwork required to make her section run smoothly. This was work Madam Dushka could have done so that Hermione could have more time to do more important work, like making sure she was all caught up on testing inventory, but that was not meant to be.

Hermione could have pawned the paperwork off onto the incredibly obtuse idiot down the hall, but since she spotted all those spelling errors on Mr. Spawn's C.V., she did not trust him not to botch it up. She had already caught a faulty entry of his, labeling a box of tested “Night Blooming Jessamine” as “Night Blooming Jasmine.” The results of such an error could have been disastrous if overlooked by some myopically half-blind apothecary. Cestrum nocturnum (Jessamine) was a plant that was available to both the Muggle and magical world; its atropine-like toxin affected the nervous system. In contrast, Jasmine nocturnum was a rare plant that was only grown by the wizarding community, its blooms picked on hot summer India nights by the light of the full moon; it was used in some love potions. She was thankful that at least he didn't label it as “Night-flowering Jasmine”, because Nyctanthes arbor-tristis was frequently used in fever-reducing potions. Either way, any faulty entry could have possibly resulted in deaths.

Hermione's attention was not on her work. No matter how hard she tried, she could not focus her attention on the papers she shuffled and reshuffled in her hands, filing them and then unfiling them once more, half-remembering she was supposed to do something with them first before putting them away.

Her mind constantly drifted over the meetings she’d had with Snape during the past several weeks. What struck her most was the fact that he knew exactly who she was and still admitted his attraction to her, cooked for her, and gave her neck rubs. Remembering Madam Rosmerta's assessment of several couples in the bar that night right after the play, Hermione thought about how Snape acted around her like the one couple where the barmaid guessed the man has not slept with the woman yet. The way Snape leaned towards her during their meetings, and touched her at every opportunity, Madam Rosmerta would probably wisely guess that Snape had not slept with Hermione yet, though he wanted to.

Hermione had already admitted she had wanted to sleep with him while she didn't know his true identity, but she could not admit that now. There was too much bad history between her and her old professor for her to casually cast it all aside. Just because Snape had gotten past any ill feelings he might have had towards her in the past, did not mean that Hermione had suddenly cast her reservations aside too. There were too many questions, and too many bad memories to overcome, for her to want to be Snape's lover.

Hermione shuddered at the memory of practically throwing herself at Snape time and time again. How she must have seemed like some silly female to do the things she did: wantonly sucking his fingers, shyly admitting her desire for him, rubbing herself against him like some virgin schoolgirl. There were flashes where Hermione wondered if Snape secretly laughed at her behind her back for all her clumsy attempts at seduction. The prospect of that mortified her.

Suddenly all the sexual confidence she had felt growing within her over the past few weeks had withered inside of her. Hermione felt bereft of hope and optimism.

Knowing there was no point in continuing to pretend to do paperwork when it was not going to get done no matter how many times she moved the papers about, Hermione grabbed her cloak and left her office.

Sticking her head into Madam Dushka's office, Hermione asked, “Have the repairmen given you an estimate on when the lab will be finished?”

The senior witch shrugged and replied, “Probably late today by the latest estimate. If you are done with your paperwork, you might as well call it a day.” It seemed her boss had finally taken some pity on Hermione being saddled with such an incompetent co-worker, to give her the rest of the day off.

Surprised that her boss hadn't assigned her some menial job, Hermione did not have to be told twice. She left quickly and Flooed directly from the Ministry to the Three Broomsticks.

Looking towards the stairs at the Three Broomsticks, she recalled the confidential conversation she had shared with Lavender the previous day in a private room upstairs. Hermione had phrased her words carefully so that she did not tip her hand that she knew Calleo was Snape; she only made reference of Malfoy's employment when relaying the pertinent information. Lavender had seemed quite upset that she would come under the Ministry's scrutiny, but so would Hermione if Alastor Moody was involved. He had convicted two innocent wizards based on pure speculation. Who knew who else Moody might falsely convict if he set his mind to something?

Hermione turned and walked out the door into warm Scottish summer air.

The previous day, after her meeting with Lavender, Hermione had entertained the idea of going to the Hogsmeade Memorial Cemetery where many of the war dead lay buried, but did not have the emotional strength to walk amongst the headstones of her old friends and mentors. Now she needed to talk to the bones of those who had guided her during her formative years.

The Hogsmeade Memorial Cemetery stood on a patch of mostly flat earth, a short distance from the gates to Hogwarts. It was decided by those who had fought and survived that the cemetery for the war dead would be placed near the school. The verdant earth was dotted with highly polished slabs of granite that stood out from the ground like comically jagged teeth. A fence that was neither forbidding nor welcoming demarcated the land of the living from the realm of the dead. Above the gate to the hallowed ground was a sign that read, “Memoria prodamur proiecerint.”

"Those who sacrificed will be remembered," Hermione said to herself, translating the Latin phrase that struck at her heart.

Hermione did not amble or stroll. She walked with careful steps, making sure not to step on top of the graves. Her gait was partly out of respect, but also partly out of fear that the earth would open up and she would be sucked down into the earth, trapped by some coffin that caved in, the ground swallowing her whole. As she walked by each headstone, she would stop momentarily and remember the person she once knew as a living breathing being. Now the only things occupying the spaces six feet underground were decaying corpses devoid of thought or soul.

She paused before Remus' grave and wondered if he would have ever gotten around to proposing to Tonks. The sight of Hagrid's headstone brought a weary smile to Hermione's face, recalling all those days in Hagrid's hut: the sipping of hot tea from gargantuan mugs that the half-giant held easily in one hand, as she politely tried to choke down one of his cauldron cakes, praying she wouldn't chip a tooth in the process.

It was when Hermione finally stood before Minerva and Albus' headstones, placed side-by-side, that she sat herself down on the bench placed at the foot of their graves. She always wondered if the two were romantically linked, or if their association was merely one of close camaraderie due to similar backgrounds – both being Gryffindors and Transfiguration teachers – and a long-standing work relationship.

“I know,” Hermione said to the two pillars of rock inscribed with Minerva and Albus' names, and birth and death dates. “I should swing by more often and tell you what's been going on as of late.”

She heaved a huge sigh to prepare herself. “Where to begin?” Hermione looked up to the sky in search of an answer that could only be found within herself.

After a quick glance about to make sure no one else was around the cemetery to overhear, and casting a quick Charm to alert her if anyone was near by enough to catch any of her confession, she plainly said, “Well, Ginny has been cheating on Harry with Draco Malfoy. Yes, I know. It was quite a shock to me, too. You'll be even more shocked to learn that Malfoy has been working as a gigolo for Lavender Brown for the past few years. Well, technically, I don't know how long he's been a gigolo, but it's been at least as long as Ginny has been seeing him, so a year and a half at least. So I was in a bind wondering if I should say anything to Harry or not, and then I found myself seeing a gigolo to talk over this problem of whether to tell or not to tell. Yes, I know, it's mind-boggling that I would see a gigolo. It was for talk only, I swear. And you'll never guess who he is.”

Hermione paused to catch her breath, since she found herself rambling, chattering non-stop in order to get it all out. Her mouth kept moving as her stream of conscious thoughts struggled to get out unhindered.

“He’s Professor Snape! Oh, Minerva. Don’t look so shocked. You and Albus should have seen this coming, what with the Death Eater Decree. And I've been so lonely and miserable with Ron, since he seems to ignore me. That's why I started seeing Snape weekly, just to have someone to talk to. Only I didn't know it was Snape. Oh, do stop twinkling at me, Albus. It's not funny!” As Hermione prattled on, she could envision Albus and Minerva’s different reactions to her recounting of events that had led her up to that moment.

Hermione sighed with exhaustion once more. She had unloaded her heart to the two slabs of carved granite before her, even admitting that she thought she was falling in love with the man she knew as Calleo, but uncertain of her love now with the knowledge that it was Snape.

“Don't look at me like that, Minerva. I know. I feel like a hypocrite. I finally decide to sleep with him, breaking my marriage vows, and then to discover it's actually Snape? Do you have any idea how confused I am? I remember what that man said to me the night before my wedding. He treated me abysmally for years. And now I meet him years later, and he's suddenly nice to me? I know, I know, I never knew him other than in the context of a professor-student relationship, but still. How do I know it’s not all an act?” Hermione felt perplexed. How was she supposed to feel about a man she was falling in love with, while hating the man she remembered? “I don't know. Maybe his surly attitude all those years was an act. Maybe both versions of him are an act, and he's not really like either one at all.”

Holding her hands out toward the graves in a pleading manner, she begged, “Help me out here. You both knew the man for years. What was he really like? Is he truly like this? Has he changed? I've heard others mention what a foul temper Snape has always had, and he's so different around me now. What's changed?” Hermione laughed. “That's silly! Everything has changed! He no longer teaches–though maybe if I had to teach three or four hundred students a week, especially if they were anything like Trevor Spawn, then I might be a grumpy bitch too.” Laughing at the realization that if one co-worker could make her this upset and terse, imagine what three hundred mediocre students would do to her temperament. “Maybe I'd be worse than Snape if I was a Potions mistress at Hogwarts! Can you just imagine it now? All the students in the corridors whispering behind my back that I'm worse than the old greasy git?”

Hermione cringed as the old nickname for the former professor slipped past her lips. It was a cruel name, and she knew he was aware of those malicious monikers that children assign to those they dislike or who are different. She had had her share as a young child. “Buck-tooth beaver” and “swotty toffy” were two of many names she remembered. Recalling her own hurt feelings from being taunted as a child brought a few tears to her eyes, which she wiped away hastily. Even Ron had been cruel to her over the years, calling her “mental,” “a nightmare,” and “a star-struck tart” when he had first discovered she was dating Krum, and many other names that she had forced herself to stop recalling.

A sudden wave of compassion for Snape washed through her. Hermione had heard from Remus that Harry's father and Sirius were cruel to Snape at times, and Hermione could only imagine how she would have felt if she had been the victim of such vicious teasing for years. It was bad enough that Malfoy had publicly called her a Mudblood repeatedly. And for such name-calling as Snape had endured to continue into adulthood only made her wonder if she would have been equally as cold and disdainful herself. She remembered how even at the Order meetings, during the last year of the war, Ron and Harry would still use the term “greasy git” and “dungeon bat” when referring to Snape openly. It didn't help that Sirius used to publicly call him “Snivellus” in front of others, no doubt a nickname that was born during their days at school.

Ron still called her names even to this day, and she had forgiven him for them, but it seemed that Hermione was finding it harder and harder to forgive him when he seemed to do little these days to make amends for his periodic cruelty.

Still, the worst names Snape had ever called her personally were "a silly girl” and “an insufferable know-it-all” – and that was only once, many, many years ago. Though still mean-spirited, those names stung far less than being called “a frigid cunt” by your own husband the previous week.

“What am I going to do?” Hermione pleaded for some answer from the inanimate stone before her. “I don't know if I can ever go back and face Snape, knowing who he is and what I've done. Yes, I know I'm being a hypocrite to throw away the friendship we've developed, all due to the fact that I now know it's him. Don't berate me, Minerva. I feel bad enough as it is. I've been over this a million times in my head already before I came here. I just need to say it out loud.”

Hermione did feel better as she vocalized all the random and muddled thoughts that had been trapped in her head. It was one thing to think it; it was another to utter it from your own mouth, forced to hear one's own thoughts aloud.

Rehashing over the old argument that had been running around in her head, Hermione said, “If I don't go back to see Snape, what do I have to look forward to? Being stuck at home with Ron?” It was clear from her own statement that Hermione knew she would be going back to Snape's flat that night. “I just hope that once he finally does reveal himself, that he'll be the same person I've gotten to know and not change into the old acerbic, mean-spirited man I remember from years ago. Perhaps if I pretend I don't know it's Snape, we can continue having nice evenings together, talking and dining.” Shaking her head, she noted mournfully, “I can't believe I'm actually looking forward to an evening with Snape over one with Ron. What has the world come to?”

Gazing at Albus' tombstone, she read aloud the inscription, “The answer to all your questions can be found in a Lemon Drop.” An ironic smile twisted Hermione's mouth into an odd tight-lipped half-grimace. “Very funny, Albus,” she remarked dryly, looking at the lemon tree behind the wizard's headstone.

After spending a few more moments in quiet introspection, Hermione's wand began humming and vibrating. Remembering that she had set a Charm to notify her if anyone approached the cemetery, Hermione rose from her seat and gazed beyond the perimeter fence.

A short, squat witch, that looked to be the color of dirt from head to toe, was slowly strolling along the path to the cemetery. As she got closer, Hermione recognized the older witch as Professor Sprout, Headmistress of Hogwarts.

Pomona waved her arm enthusiastically in greeting when they were close enough to easily recognize each other.

“I thought I saw someone down here!” the older witch remarked cheerfully.

“Yes, I just came to visit and keep them up-to-date on the latest goings-on,” Hermione explained with a nod of her head towards the tombstones of Albus and Minerva.

“Then you should swing by my office sometime and talk with their portraits directly,” Pomona offered jovially. “We'll have some tea, and then I could leave you alone to catch up in private with them sometime.”

“That's very kind, Professor Sprout, but I wouldn't want to impose,” Hermione politely declined. There was something less nerve-wracking about confessing certain things to a piece of stone versus winding up in an argument with a piece of enchanted canvas. Besides, headstones just sat there silently and listened to you without passing judgment.

“Oh, it certainly would not be an imposition!” the headmistress countered. “And besides, just between you and me, though you were never a Hufflepuff and you never considered apprenticing in Herbology, you were one of my favorite students.” She shortly corrected herself by adding, “Well, right after Neville. He was my favorite, but you were a close second.”

“Thank you,” Hermione answered, feeling a little awkward since it had been a while since she had received such enthusiastic praise, and she discovered that she missed it.

Glancing at the lemon tree, Hermione asked, “When did you plant that?” She wondered if maybe the former Herbology professor planted it herself.

“The lemon tree?”

Hermione nodded.

“My, it has been a while since you've been here!” Pomona commented boldly. “It popped up as a seedling the day the war ended; and within a week, it was bearing fruit! Most amazing thing. It survives the Scottish winter with nary a sign of frost damage. I think Albus was behind it. He was a master at Transfiguration. My only critique is that the lemons are quite awful,” she said sotto voce, as if she didn't want Albus' bones to overhear her remark.

“Really? What's wrong with them?” Hermione tried not to feel guilty as she suddenly realized she had not been back to the cemetery since a few days after the last stand, when the last of the war dead had been buried.

“Here,” the headmistress said, as she fetched a lemon that had recently fallen on the ground. “Look.” Pulling out a small gardening knife from inside her dirt-smudged robes, Professor Sprout cut open the lemon and showed it to Hermione.

Examining the lemon, Hermione noticed the waterless and pulpy texture.

“See, the fruit is dry and is practically devoid of any juice,” noted the older witch, poking at the flesh with her knife. “That would be indicative of Imperial mandarins, but this is not a mandarin tree nor grafted onto rootstock that would make the problem worse. Nor is there excessive nitrogen in the soil to cause the fruit to be desiccated.” Chucking the fruit back under the tree, she admitted, “I've tried everything to make the fruit more palatable, but nothing I have tried has worked. What's more, the fruit does not rot, but dries out naturally. So I come out here and collect them, and the elves use them to decorate the wreaths around the castle at Christmas time. I usually keep a bowl on my desk for decorative purposes. I've asked the portrait of Albus about his Transfiguration spell regarding the tree, but it seems that his portrait knows nothing about the tree. Personally, I don't think he wants to admit he failed in that one aspect. But that's neither here nor there.”

Professor Sprout and Hermione chatted a while longer before Hermione excused herself, noting it was getting late in the day and she needed to head home.

Before they parted company, Hermione asked, “Could I take a few lemons back with me for further study?” having told the headmistress about her ingredient-testing position.

“Not at all, take as many as you like. They seem to be of no use for eating, so you might as well take as many as you can carry,” the headmistress urged the younger witch.

“Thank you.” Hermione gathered enough to examine and experiment, and a few for drying and analyzing later on. Some fruits were more useful in their dried state than fresh.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Back at home, Hermione found a decorative bowl she rarely found a use for, that she had received as a wedding present, and artfully placed a tower of lemons in it. Setting it on the kitchen table, she smiled to herself at the quaintly homey tableau presented by the sight of the fruit and very worn-looking furniture.

Once dinner was in the oven, Hermione went to the bedroom to collapse.

“I have to go tonight,” she mumbled into her pillow while staring out the window.

It felt hotter that day than the day before, and the Daily Prophet had predicted that there was a heat wave on the way. It was supposed to be close to 34 degrees Celsius the next day. Hermione vaguely wondered whether wizards made wild guesses to the weather, used complex Arithmancy charts to predict the climate patterns and fluctuations, or just took whatever the Muggle weathermen said at face value – what with all the computer modeling and technology they used, which made weather-casting a rather reliable art for Muggles.

With nothing to do but kill time until dinner was ready in another hour, Hermione continued to vegetate on the bed, exhausted from all the mental and emotional gymnastics she had put herself through over the weekend and that day.

Hermione wasn't even sure how she would react to Snape, once he opened the door for her tonight. There was no point in her preparing for anything, since she had no idea what would happen. Would Snape know she knew his identity and just come out and admit who he was, or would he continue to play this game of theirs? She wasn't even sure she could continue, but if Snape was willing to play along and ignore the truth, then so was she. It was easier this way, and she needed things to be easy for once in her life.

There was a thump in the kitchen, and Hermione went to investigate the noise. A Treble W owl was perched on the windowsill with a medium-sized box. After relieving the owl of its burden, she gave it a treat from Pig's snack tray before the bird took off.

Curious as to what the Weasley twins could be sending her, Hermione opened the box only to quickly shut it closed. She had forgotten that she had delicately asked George to send her a selection of their adult Owl Order wares, since he had offered her a job running the retail store.

Unable to be even remotely inclined to consider when she might sample anything from the box, as her libido had taken a sharp dive since Friday night and the news of Snape working for Lavender, Hermione hid the box under a collection of cleaning supplies. She was certain Ron would never stumble across the adult novelties there.

Thankful that she was home and Ron wasn't yet, as she could only imagine her husband accidentally opening the box, thinking it was for him – or worse, prying into her post – Hermione got the box hidden just before Ron came through the front door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dinner was another strained moment between the two. Desperate to see if there was any reason to stay home instead of going to see Snape, Hermione valiantly tried to talk with her husband, only to confirm her suspicions that they indeed had nothing in common any longer. Ron was bored quickly by anything of an even remotely intellectual nature. He preferred to spend time rehashing family gossip or cooing over how cute their newest nephew, Eric, was.

Talking about certain subjects with Ginny and Harry did not irritate her in the least, but somehow the same words coming out of Ron's mouth infuriated Hermione beyond reason. Resentment was a funny emotion that could alter one's perceptions to the point of absurdity.

Instead of killing time at their flat before she had to leave for “dance lessons,” Hermione excused herself and swung by Flourish and Blotts to fritter away some time before heading to Snape's flat. Time alone in a bookstore was much more preferable to the company of Ron at the moment.

Walking to the back of the bookshop, Hermione headed straight for the Family/Home section. She quickly found the two books she had browsed on that hot summer night when she and Ron had fought.

Marriage and Divorce in the Modern Wizarding Age and The Magical Contracts of Marriage and Children were still in stock on the shelves, and Hermione quickly pulled them down. She found herself a place sit, and began thumbing through the table of contents on the contracts book.

After reading pertinent parts that she was keenly interested in, Hermione noticed the time. Hermione bought the books, relieved she wasn't worried about money for once and that she could actually buy a couple books on impulse, instead of calculating down to the last Knut to see if she could afford them. It was a relief to be able to have the funds for something as simple as books, and not worry about being short where finances were concerned.

Hermione arranged to have them owled home, instead of taking them with her to Snape's flat.

Strolling along the cobbles that lined the street, Hermione noted her reluctance to reach her final destination, nervous that it would all come to a halt tonight.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Severus had checked his hair twice and brushed his teeth three times, even using the tooth whitening potion to brighten his smile, though he doubted there would be much to smile about tonight.

He had a lesson plan for swing dancing prepared, but he doubted it would be of any use tonight. Marf had been briefed on the situation, and every possible outcome had been planned for. Most importantly, lots of tea and alcohol would be ready. He doubted Hermione would be drinking, but he might be if things dissolved quickly into unpleasantness. Handkerchiefs were pressed and ready, and Severus' nerves were braced for the worst.

Severus figured that tonight was the night. Either she stayed and agreed to help him and Draco escape; or she would run off into the night, and he might have to resort to begging and possibly groveling for her help. Groveling seemed to evoke an inordinate amount of pity in Gryffindors, especially when it was sincere. The Slytherin loathed being an object of pity, but he was willing to bare the sting of it if it suited his end purpose of escape.

Though he had stayed late at work to minimize the time he would spend pacing his flat, he still found too much time on his hands to spend waiting. Temptation to begin drinking before his guest arrived was strong, but the ex-Death Eater held his resolve to wait until he absolutely needed a drink before indulging. For if he started now, he doubted he would stop until he was close to suffering from alcohol poisoning.

He heard Hermione's knock on his door.

Checking the color of the bed curtains, Severus saw they were gray with an overlay of swirling red. 'She's in despair,' he noted before Charming the bed curtains to black.

Grabbing his half-mask, Severus adjusted it, checking himself in a mirror before opening the door to welcome Hermione into his flat.

============

A/N: Cestrum nocturnum is frequently referred to as “Night Blooming Jasmine”, even though it is not a member of the jasmine family. The more pedantic plant enthusiast, such as myself, will refer to is as “Night Blooming Jessamine” and not “Jasmine.” Only a rabid plant nut like myself would understand that there is no Jasmine nocturnum, having spent years hoarding rare tropical plant catalogs and studying gardening books. Anyone who has labeled a plant J. nocturnum has most probably mislabeled it such, but Nyctanthes arbor-tristis is frequently referred to as “Night Jasmine” or “Night-flowering Jasmine” and is frequently used in homeopathic medicine (for fever and rheumatism). The flowers of N. arbor-tristis are commonly used in Buddhist temples for worship.
A huge round of thanks to LP for her Latin translation services. “Memoria prodamur proiecerint” translates roughly into these variations: In memory of those who have sacrificed; Those who sacrificed will be remembered; May we never forget those who sacrificed; So that those who sacrificed are not forgotten; So that we never forget those who gave their all.
According to weather records, on Tuesday, August 5th 2003, it was 34 degrees Celsius (95 degrees Fahrenheit) around London on that day. All other exact temperatures in this fic quoting degrees are based on actual recorded temperatures for the respective day in or around the London area.
Thanks to okonchristy (A.K.A. cocoachristy) for being my sounding board on the past several chapters when I needed some feedback to see if I was on track.
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And They Didn\'t Live Happily Ever After