About A Potions Master

Chapter 4

By Pigwidgeon37

Had it not been impossible to refuse a three-hundred-galleons-worth gift, Hermione would certainly have tried to find a pretext for not keeping the appointment. As things were, worming her way out of the weekend at Snape Manor would have equalled the foolish act of flushing three hundred galleons down the toilet, and thus she felt unable to cancel it. Postponing it would only make matters worse—she had no choice but to get over with it as soon and as quickly as possible. The day and a half preceding it, however, were not among the most happy ones in Hermione's life. The feeling of dread pooling in her stomach erupted upwards into her throat whenever she was thinking of the infinity of seconds she would have to spend in Snape’s company—at his home, for Merlin’s sake!—in what she presumed would be one hellish, eternal Potions class. Unfortunately, the thought recurred about every two minutes, so that she spent Thursday and most of Friday feeling strangled by her own conflicting emotions.

For it was true, she had certainly eyed her former teacher with more than just a fleeting interest. The change he had undergone might be subtle, but it was undeniably there. If only he hadn’t been so vitriolic during the auction. Now she had to fight on two fronts: the sudden attraction she felt for him would have been bad enough to grapple with, but her fear of how he was going to treat her in his own house, where she would probably succumb completely to her own insecurity, made her wince with discomfort.

Ginny, still without husband, insisted that she take Thursday afternoon off, to go for yet another shopping trip. “You’ll see that you’ll feel loads better with some new clothes and robes,” she said.

“I don’t see why that would make me feel better,” Hermione objected, but was dragged ruthlessly to Diagon Alley.

She had to admit, though, that Ginny was right, at least partly. She didn't feel less scared, but certainly less self-conscious. At work, she always wore her Ministry robes. At home, jeans and a nondescript sweater were more than enough. On the few occasions she went out, it was mostly to visit her friends who had known her for ten years and didn't pay much attention to her clothing. As for herself… she couldn’t have cared less about her looks. They were not what really counted, or so she thought. But when she imagined being looked at by a man for whom, despite her fears, she felt a certain attraction, she was not so sure about her convictions anymore.

And so they left Madam Malkin’s loaded with parcels and bags, and made their way towards Gladrag's, a little further down the street, where they would find underwear, shoes, and other clothes which Madam Malkins, who specialized in robes, didn't supply. Ginny successfully talked her into purchasing something a little more osé than just plain cotton underwear and nightgowns—“I know he's not going to see it, but it makes you feel better to know he’d like what he’d see if he saw it”—two light summer dresses, linen trousers, a skirt which Hermione insisted had to be long, and three pairs of shoes.

Thoroughly exhausted, they decided to take Hermione's acquisitions to her flat and then have dinner together at the Leaky Cauldron, as neither of them felt up to cooking anymore. Afterwards, Ginny accompanied her home to help her pack and take Crookshanks with her, for Hermione refused to leave him alone for the whole weekend, but was sure that Snape would be highly displeased at hosting not only her but also a cat whose temper was unreliable at best, especially when in unknown surroundings.

Friday dawned and treated Hermione to the weird feeling of seemingly endless minutes but surprisingly short hours, and sooner than she desired it was a quarter to six. With a deep breath, she picked up her bag, took a last, longing look at her flat she doubted she would ever see again, and Apparated.

The sight that met her eyes when she rematerialized at her destination made her feel slightly better. She had half expected to see some gothic monstrosity with turrets, towers and gargoyles, echoing with the screams of tortured prisoners. It was different, though, as different as could be. Pleasant, to tell the truth, if grudgingly. No gothic horrors but a beautiful Elizabethan manor embedded amidst luscious green hills. Sometimes, she thought, it was good to see one's expectations disappointed. Steeling herself, she walked up a gravel-strewn path towards the entrance door.

One minute to six. She’d rather be damned than knock even one second early, and so she counted down the last minute. Four… three… two…one. She raised the heavy knocker and let it fall back against the wood. It had not yet hit the surface, when the door was opened by an elderly House Elf. Hermione noticed that the creature was looking extremely nervous.

“Good evening,” she said kindly—there was still a soft spot for House Elves in her heart. “I am Hermione Granger. Professor Snape is expecting me, I believe.”

“Good evening,” the elf squealed, “Please come in, Miss Granger. I is Piggy. Master Severus is busy at the moment, but Mrs. Snape is expecting you in the library.”

Carrot—stick—carrot. A bit much for a single phrase. He was busy, so she had time to adjust. He had a wife, which made her feel a rush of jealousy washing over her, much to her discomfort. And there was a library.

“Is you not coming in, Miss Granger?”

Hermione pulled herself together. “Of course. Sorry, I was… elsewhere with my thoughts.”

The entrance hall was magnificent. Marble floor, enormous mirrors resting on marble consoles and flanked by renaissance hangings… Hermione decided that two and a half days in this house were definitely worth being sneered at. If that wife was only half-acceptable…

“I takes your luggage, Miss, please, and shows you to the library.”

Still slightly dizzy with surprise and awe, Hermione followed Piggy the elf across the echoing entrance hall towards a beautifully carved door in the background. And straight into paradise. She didn’t hear the door close behind her, for she could only stare. Stare at the thousands of books aligned there, in bookcases that covered the walls up to the ceiling. As if drawn by a magnet, she went to the nearest shelf to have a first look.

“Good evening, Miss Granger, and welcome to Snape Manor.”

Hermione almost jumped out of her skin with fright. As usual, the sight of more than two books together in a room had made her completely forget the existence of anything or anybody else. Heart still hammering, she turned round to apologize and greet the unsuspecting object of her jealousy. Her outstretched right hand froze in mid-movement.

“You… you…”

“Yes, you saw me at the auction, and yes, I am Severus’s mother,” the woman said with a smile the strangeness of which Hermione didn’t immediately perceive, for she was busy processing the information.

“I… I’m sorry, Mrs. Snape, I must seem incredibly clumsy. It was just the beauty of the house and the library… and then the shock of Professor Snape being married… and then unmarried… good evening,” she finished lamely, shaking the other witch’s hand and cursing herself for being socially inept.

“Severus will join us as soon as he can. He is currently dealing with a… slight situation. Please sit down.” She guided Hermione towards the fireplace, where a small table was set for tea. “We have recently inherited a House Elf from distant relatives, and I’m afraid that the poor creature is rather clumsy. I am not sure how exactly it managed to get into Severus’s laboratory, but the fact is that it overthrew one of the ingredients, right into a bubbling cauldron. It exploded—the cauldron, not the elf,” she said, filling Hermione’s teacup, “and now the poor wretch shows symptoms of poisoning. I hope Severus will be able to cure it.”

“Unless it already has a name,” Hermione said, trying in vain to fight back a smile at the thought of Snape’s distress, “you might consider calling it Neville.”

Mrs. Snape cocked an eyebrow at her, and Hermione was stunned by the similarity between mother and son. It was almost uncanny. Although the wrinkles around the older witch’s eyes betrayed that she was more given to laughter than her son. This impression was proven right when Hermione told her about Neville Longbottom.

“Yes,” she said, still giggling, “Of course, now I remember. I think Mr. Longbottom was tied with Mrs. Skeeter for the dubious honour of being Severus’s enemy number one, at least for a long time. To be beaten by that awful woman when she had the gall to ask him—you remember that flood of interviews shortly after the war had ended, don’t you?—she asked him whether he preferred boxers or briefs, pretending that her female readers were interested in that particular detail.”

“I don’t remember reading that,” Hermione said when she had sufficiently recovered.

“From which I conclude that you are not a reader of Witch Weekly,” Mrs. Snape remarked.

“No, of course not. Why?”

“Well, Severus was unwise enough to say something like ‘I am not going to answer this absurd question anyway, so why don’t you take a poll?’ He thought he was being particularly sarcastic, but unfortunately she took it as a hint. The poll results appeared in the following edition of Witch Weekly. Eighty-five percent had voted for boxers.”

“I suppose he set up owl traps all around the house for the next months,” Hermione said.

“Unfortunately not. The problem was, of course, that I found the whole affair very amusing and had a very hard time concealing it. He was so furious… But tell me about yourself, Miss Granger. Why did you bid for Severus?”

“I…” Hermione felt herself blush. Since Wednesday evening, during those few moments she hadn’t spent picturing this weekend's horrors, she had been asking herself how exactly she felt about her former professor. And had to admit that she didn’t know. Or rather that she knew but was afraid to acknowledge it. After Harry had told her and Ron that Snape was a spy, she had come to respect him. When she had witnessed his courage during the final battle against Voldemort’s forces, her respect had turned into admiration. Then she had seen him again, two days ago, and had felt attracted to him, much as she wanted to deny it. But that final, completely crazy, bid had not been hers. Although, if she had had the money she would probably…

“Would it help if I told you that I do not try to scare off every woman who takes a sentimental interest in my son?”

“Is that—” Hermione cleared her throat and tried to keep her hands steady. The spoon was rattling merrily against her teacup. “Is that so obvious?”

Cassandra Snape bent forward and patted her knee. “Gryffindor, aren’t you? Mmh, just as I thought. Terribly inept when it comes to concealing your emotions. Apart from the fact that you think your immortal soul will be sullied if you are anything but straightforward. However, Severus is Slytherin enough for two. Very well, my dear. Do you think that forty-eight hours and a Slytherin ally will be sufficient?”

Hermione's jaw fell. “You aren’t… I mean, you can’t be implying… Why would you want me to…”

“Have some more tea, Miss Granger, and try some of these chocolate biscuits. Piggy makes them. Not only are they delicious, the chocolate will also soothe you nerves.”

In blind obedience, Hermione grabbed one of the cookies. Mrs. Snape had not exaggerated. They were heavenly.

Cassandra Snape observed with a smile as the flustered girl sitting opposite her visibly calmed down after the second biscuit, and poured her some more tea. “The question, my dear Miss Granger, is not what I want, but what you want. If you have a romantic interest in my son, I am more than willing to help you. Especially because I have reason to think that he is not entirely unsusceptible to your charm.”

Hermione gave her a nonplussed look, all the while cursing herself for blushing, and trying to persuade her heart to stop that erratic thumping. “What makes you think so, Mrs. Snape?”

An incredibly smug smile stole its way onto the old lady's face. “I know Severus very well, Miss Granger. He has been grumbling about that bossy know-it-all staying at his home for a whole weekend so long and so often that I have reason to believe that he is just acting grumpy. When something causes him real anger he just retires into icy silence. But you still haven’t told me about yourself.”

“I…” Putting down her teacup, Hermione decided that for once she could just as well be reckless. She had taken an immediate liking to Snape's mother and felt that she would neither be laughed at nor despised if she told her the truth. “I wish I could give you a clear, straightforward answer, Mrs. Snape,” she said, “But I’m not sure it is possible.”

Mrs. Snape nodded. “I would have been very surprised indeed if you could, Miss Granger. These things are neither easy nor straightforward. So just tell me what you would like me to know.”

To her great surprise, Hermione found that she would like to pour out the story of her life to Mrs. Snape. Not that there was much to tell… “I hadn't seen Professor Snape since the end of the war. By that time, he still was the permanently angry, scowling, sneering bas—” She blushed again and shot Mrs. Snape an imploring look.

“I know he can be a bastard, Miss Granger. He is my son and I dearly love him, but I am also fully aware of his shortcomings. As a teacher, he must have been horrible.”

“He was… intimidating,” Hermione said. “Sometimes downright cruel. Of course I came to understand his reasons when I was older. However, I didn’t particularly like him, even after the war had ended. The most positive feeling I was able to dig up was respect for his courage and bravery. But then I saw him, two days ago…” Her voice faded as the memory returned.

“And?” Mrs. Snape prodded gently.

“And I noticed all those subtle changes. He seems so… well, relaxed. At ease with himself. Good-looking, if in an odd way. As if a shroud had been torn away. I had that feeling… it's difficult to describe… as if he were able to understand me now. Very few people do, you know,” she added with a trace of acid in her voice.

“He certainly understood and appreciated your thesis,” Mrs. Snape observed.

Hermione's heart did a triple somersault. “He… he read my thesis?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes, he was one of the experts it was sent to for examination. He wrote an enthusiastic review and immediately contacted Cabbage & Holmes, telling them that they had to publish it at any cost.”

“That was his doing? I always thought it had been Professor Benedict’s idea… I really don't know what to say. I have never thanked him…”

“What a fortunate coincidence that you should be able to do so now,” Mrs. Snape said with a wicked smile. “I suggest that I show you your rooms now, Miss Granger. Dinner will be at half past seven, so you should have enough time to… prepare yourself.”

With these words, she rose from her seat and guided a still-stunned Hermione out of the library.