Bastard Incarnate

“Mrs. Snape?” The waiter bowed deeply. “Welcome to the ‘Wünschelrütli’*. Mr. Snape is already awaiting you.”

The blonde woman merely nodded and allowed the waiter to take her cloak, before following him through the small restaurant. There weren’t many tables, only ten or so, with more than enough space between them for conversations to remain private. The light, provided only by candles as befitted a wizarding restaurant, was dim and pleasant. An altogether pleasant place, the woman thought; what a pity that the person she had come to meet was anything but.

Their table was at the far end of the restaurant, well-hidden behind a group of potted plants. Strange, she thought, they seemed to be alive and thriving. Either her husband’s glare had lost some of its viciousness, or he had arrived only a few seconds ago. She rather leaned towards the latter explanation.

Upon their arrival, a man—dark hair, dark robes, tall and thin—rose from his chair. “Lobelia.”

She inclined her blonde head. “Severus.”

The waiter pulled out her chair for her, humbly awaited their aperitif orders and slunk off after having provided them with menus, which looked more like expensive photo albums than lists of dishes, however well prepared.

“Interesting location,” he remarked over the edge of his menu.

“Neutral territory, just as you wished.”

He snorted. “That doesn’t mean it had to be Switzerland.”

The aperitifs arrived, and they placed their orders. The process was slightly lengthier than usual, as the waiter had trouble writing under the dark gentleman’s withering stare. Meanwhile, the woman scrutinized her vis à vis, thinking that time and age had been rather lenient on him. Or rather, he was one of those who had been so ugly in their early youth that ageing was a blessing for them. Once he was in his fifties, she mused—provided he didn’t die of poisoning by accidentally biting his tongue—he might be quite passable. Or interesting, rather. Not that she cared.

“How is Siegfried?” he asked when the waiter had finally left.

“Fine. He passed his maturity exams with flying colours and is expecting his letter of admission to Blocksberg** University any day. But I suppose my sister told you as much.”

“I haven’t met Narcissa lately.” He gave her a long, cold look. “But I suppose she’ll be overjoyed to hear that at least her nephew upholds the von Heckentaschen*** family tradition and will attend a German university.”

The conversation, if it could be called thus, stalled after this exchange. During starters and main course, none of them spoke a word. From time to time, a furtive glance from black or blue eyes tiptoed across the table, hopped onto a hand, climbed up an arm and towards a head, to wander and examine, only to retreat hastily at the smallest movement on the other side.

To the waiter’s great chagrin, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Snape wanted any dessert or cheese, and so he merely brought them coffee and brandy.

“You will keep your promise, won’t you?” she asked, stirring her coffee.

“Of course.” He smirked at her. “Why this unseemly haste?”

“Because I want to be free, that’s why.” Her eyes remained hooded while she spoke, and her face betrayed nothing.

“Just free, or free to?”

“Since when is my private life your business, Mr. Severus Snape?”

“Ah,” he said, the monosyllable expressing satisfaction and contempt in equal measures, “So there is somebody, isn’t there?”

“You seem to forget that you are the recluse, not I.”

He scowled at her. “Whatever you say. Do you have the papers?”

“Yes.” She put down her brandy and pulled a roll of parchment out of her handbag. “Lucky guy,” she said, shoving it across the table.

“I don’t believe anybody ever called me thus.”

“Up till now, you never earned ninety thousand galleons merely by signing a document.”

“True,” he admitted. “But they aren’t yet mine. Siegfried’s birthday is 4 June, if I remember correctly. And the divorce procedure might take a few weeks.”

“You have my permission to file the divorce as soon as you are back in England.”

“No, thank you. I promised it was to be his nineteenth birthday, and I intend to keep my promise.”

Cups and glasses were empty, the bill was paid, and the couple rose.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose we won’t meet anymore unless something goes wrong with the divorce.” She offered her hand for him to shake. “Good bye, Severus Snape. You were a lousy lover, although I had to endure it only twice, and you’ve been a good husband only because of your total absence. But you gave me Siegfried, and I suppose that was worth both the abysmal sex and the ninety thousand galleons.”

He shook her hand. “Good bye, Lobelia. May you have a happy life with some Prussian necrophiliac who appreciates your frosty charm.”

He Disapparated.

()()()()~~()()()()

“Sorry, I’m late,” Hermione Granger panted, trying to shut the door with her left foot. It hit her shoulder, and the heap of rolled-up parchments she was clutching tumbled to the floor. Swearing under her breath, she bent down to collect them, all the while attempting to catch her breath and speak at the same time. “Sorry, I… I would have been right on time… but… my cat, Crookshanks, you know… sometimes I think…” She came up, her face flushed and her hair plastered to her sweaty skin. If she had expected four pairs of eyes glowering at her with ill-disguised anger, she was pleasantly disappointed. All she saw were four backs in black robes, huddled together in what appeared to be intense discussion of… what?

Hermione’s natural curiosity won over, and she approached the solid black wall. “Excuse me?” She poked at one of the backs with her fingertip.

“Ah, Hermione! Come and have a look.”

With an inward sigh of relief at Mafalda Hopkirk’s evident lack of irritation—the head of the Underage Magic department was not usually known for her patience with latecomers—Hermione stepped closer and inserted her head into a breach between two shoulders. “Fudge undergoes appendectomy—mediwizards confirm success of operation? What’s so interesting about that?”

Her question was answered by a collective snort. “Not that, nitwit!” said Lionel Hawkes, one of the colleagues she was currently sharing an office with. “Here!” And he pointed at a rather small notice at the bottom of the page.

“Shape diverse?” Hermione squinted at the too-small letters.

“Where’s your glasses, girl?”

“I’ve only just arrived,” she shot back, quite indignantly, “And I didn’t yet have time to put them on. So what’s written there?”

Instead of an answer, Lionel grabbed her neck and pushed her head down until her nose almost touched the paper. “Better now?” he asked, deftly sidestepping a kick aimed at his ankle.

“Stop that, you prat, that’s—WHAT?”

“Ah!” Stuart Bush, deputy Head of Department and self-appointed creator of the Best Puns You Ever Heard, chuckled into his fist. “The Snape effect has smitten yet another victim.”

Apart from his Punomania, Bush was a nice, easygoing guy, and thus the others merely cringed silently, trying to force their faces into a grin.

Hermione was the only one whose traits expressed terror rather than to curl into a polite rictus. “Snape is married?”

“Will have been married,” Lionel corrected.

“Oh, shut it, Lionel, this isn’t the Restaurant at the End of the Universe!” This rebuke had the desired effect, although it was more due to Lionel’s absolute non-comprehension than any desire on his part to follow her command. “I never knew…” she said, looking from one to the other.

“Neither did we,” Hopkirk said dryly, “Which explains our lack of reaction to your lateness. The first time you may honestly thank Snape for something,” she added, shooting Hermione a malicious glance. “If indirectly.”

“I suggest,” Bush said in his best stentorian tones, “that this meeting be postponed in favour of some immediate research.”

“Hear, hear!” Hopkirk grinned. “Proposal accepted. Ladies and gentlemen, to the archives!” She wheeled round and headed for the door, which Bush was already holding open for her.

Hermione was the last to leave the room; out in the corridor, she quickly caught up with Alice Quinn, her fellow volunteer—or, as Alice put it in her more grumpy moods, her fellow slave. Both girls had finished school one year ago—Alice was a Ravenclaw—and both had chosen to work with the Ministry of Magic. For the first two years, this meant nothing less than being shoved from department to department every four months, so as to ‘gain experience in as many fields as possible’. In reality, this somewhat pretentious formula was merely a euphemism for ‘playing the errand boy for people who otherwise would have to fetch their coffee themselves’. Hermione had arrived in Hopkirk’s department only a week ago, and Alice had joined two days later. First, their superior had foamed at the mouth, ranting on and on about the stupidity and incompetence of those who assigned two volunteers to a small department, while others had to work overtime so as to cope with their workload; a little later, however, she had shrugged, merely observing that the girls were pretty likeable and that, with five people on staff instead of three, they could have longer coffee breaks.

Alice raised her head and sniffed the air. “Shepherd’s pie again!” Her face contracted into a grimace of disgust. “That’s the…” She pulled a piece of parchment from her pocket and unfolded it. “The tenth time within the last two months. Beaten only by twelve fish-and-chips in six weeks. Who’s responsible of the food du jour anyway?”

Hermione shook her head. “No idea, honestly. But I don’t think I could eat anything today, even if they had prepared goose liver with truffles.”

“Exactly,” Alice said and nodded vehemently, making her black ponytail swing left and right, “Who knows whether they didn’t put Fudge’s appendix into the minced meat.”

“Ewww! Gross!” Hermione said and punched her upper arm. “But that wasn’t what I meant. It’s more the thought of Snape being married…”

Alice stopped dead in her tracks and glared at the other witch. “And you’re calling me gross? Now you’ve really ruined my appetite. Come on,” she said, dragging Hermione forward by the elbow, “I want to see who was the unfortunate woman.”

()()()()~~()()()()

Due to her long-standing, well-honed experience with searching for and finding the most obscure of texts, Hermione was the first to hit upon gold. And due to her possessiveness, she didn’t immediately alert her colleagues. But—and she was honest enough to admit it, at least to herself—there was also another reason for her to remain hidden between the rows of shelves and filing cabinets, staring at the documents she had just unearthed and keeping her silence. Before facing the others, she had to regain her balance. Because at this very moment, Hermione Granger had the distinct feeling of being the most stupid person on earth. In hindsight, to boot.

It was hard not to blush at the memory, even for a Gryffindor. A Gryffindor with a saviour complex, she thought wryly, and contemporaneously wished she were able to make that particular event and everything that had led up to it un-happen. But it played in her mind, the whole thing, over and over again, as if to spite her.

Severus Snape, Mystery Man Extraordinaire, who had grown more nervous and worn-out by the day, especially in her seventh year. Knowing what she knew, since the evening of the Third Task—besides, he bore a strong resemblance to Viktor Krum, first amour fou of her life and consequently the first to teach her that a broken heart hurt physically, too—she had spun a resplendent aura of tales of heroism around him. She had fantasized about the hardships, the torture and constant pressure he had to endure, she had imagined him in the most outlandish situations of mortal peril (and, most of the time, rescued him by her sheer cleverness and courage). He had become her Heathcliff, her Mr. Rochester, her Count of Monte Christo, her Aramis, her Errant Hebrew, her Ulysses. He was the paradigmatic Tragic Hero in need of a Creature of Light (female, of course, and her name was Hermione Granger). Seen in that context, the remark about her teeth didn't sting anymore. Instead, it became some kind of invisible Order of Heathcliff, first Class, complete with laurel and crossed teeth… er, swords.

When Hermione Granger decided to embark on a project, she did so thoroughly and stubbornly—the Hogwarts House Elves knew that only too well. Albeit not exactly a handsome man, Severus Snape was still a hell of a lot better-looking than the average House Elf, and thus more worthy—aesthetically speaking—of salvation. During her fifth year, he thus became Hermione's project.

She started defending him when the other students wished him straight to hell and, in order to get him there, invented new ways of killing him, the originality and cruelty of which Voldemort would probably have appreciated. She began to give him furtive smiles during Potions class. She bought a push-up bra. At first, Snape didn't react at all—probably thinking that he was becoming delirious—then his eyebrows constantly formed a V of indignant astonishment, and finally he accepted that Miss Granger had gone mad and simply ignored her. Back then, her interpretation of his reactions had been slightly different, but that thought still made her blush, enough to deter her from more in-depth consideration of her teenage delusions.

During the summer term of her last year, Voldemort fell victim to his own megalomania, or, more exactly, to a herd of out-of-control Dementors, whose anger at promises made but not kept led them to destroy—and this time for real—the Dark Lord. The threat was gone, the wizarding world celebrated, and Snape remained his dour, inapproachable self. Not that Hermione was discouraged, on the contrary. After all, the Creature of Light had not yet made herself known as such.

Her metamorphosis from Miss Hermione Granger into the Creature of Light was planned for the night after her last N.E.W.T. exam. The O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s took place before the rest of the finals, which meant that she and Snape (not for a single moment did she doubt the outcome of her talk with him) would have ten days of bliss before she had to leave Hogwarts. Maybe he would leave together with her, for two months of passion before he had to return to his duties; or she might come back after informing her parents of the new turn her life had taken, so they would spend two months of mind-boggling sex alternating with high-level intellectual discussion in the dungeons.

Had she not been taunted for seven years by her schoolmates, because she was so different from them, and had that otherness not led to considerable academic success, maybe she might have discussed the whole affair with Lavender, Parvati or even Ginny. As things were, she was convinced she always did things right. Besides, she had not been romantically attached to any of the male students, mostly for fear of being discussed in the boys’ dormitories, which was something she abhorred. Hence, the girls considered her an essentially asexual being, and Hermione would have eaten her tongue rather than to admit she had romantic feelings. The fact that those feelings had been evoked by Snape didn't increase her desire to share them with anybody.

And so, she was full of bossy optimism when she descended to the dungeons on the night of 19 June 1998.

The dialogue that ensued in Snape’s office was still etched into her mind, word by humiliating word.

“Good evening, Professor. Am I disturbing you?”

“Yes, Miss Granger, as a matter of fact you are disturbing me.”

“Oh, I… I see. So, are you very busy?”

“Yes, I am very busy, which is exactly why you are disturbing me. To answer your question before you even ask it: no, I cannot tell you how you did at your N.E.W.T.s.”

“That wasn’t really what I meant to ask, Sir.”

“Ah. I won’t tell you about anybody else’s N.E.W.T.s either.”

“That’s all right, Sir, I really didn't mean to…”

“Well, what do you want, then?”

“Sir, I’m going to leave Hogwarts very soon—”

“One point to Gryffindor for stating the pleasantly obvious.”

“—and I thought that, since my exams are over and I’m not your student anymore—”

“Miss Granger, you are and will continue to be a student of this school until the minute you board the train to King’s Cross.”

“Technically, yes, Sir. But there’s no danger anymore that you might show me favouritism—”

“This particular danger, Miss Granger, is about as imminent as the danger of a flobberworm besting me in a duel.”

“I know, Sir, but don’t you think that we might finally act according to our feelings?”

“I have never been known to act otherwise than according to my feelings.”

“Oh, that… that is wonderful, Sir!”

She had crossed the room and thrown herself into his arms with such force that only his quick reaction had prevented his chair from toppling over. The expression on Snape’s face had been absolutely priceless—a quick succession of surprise, anger, amusement, embarrassment and, finally, indignant fury. He had chased her from his office, and the words he had used to characterize her behaviour had been so harsh and scathing that even now, almost a year later, tears came to her eyes.

Hermione Granger was an everything-or-nothing person. Once she had sufficiently recomposed herself, she had missed no opportunity to join her peers’ tirades of hate and resentment against the Potions Master. There were plenty of occasions for venomous remarks, because he had not been more lenient in his judgement of their N.E.W.T.s exams than he had been in chastising them during the previous seven years. She had relished in calling him ‘undead son of an undead bitch’, she had made the most scandalous observations on his general appearance and personal hygiene, she had put a very elaborate hex on the teacher’s entrance to the Great Hall, causing the door to call him the most terrible names in a voice not unlike Molly Weasley’s. It had taken Dumbledore and Flitwick ten hours to remove it. Every night until she left Hogwarts, in the privacy of her four-poster and with only Crookshanks as witness, she had cried, because of her humiliation and because she was ashamed of her behaviour.

The documents she had found still in her hand, she stared at a wedge of sunlight that was leaning, like a fallen luminous pillar, against the small window near the ceiling. Dust particles, visible only within its bright confines, danced and whirled; a large fly got caught in the translucent tunnel and buzzed toward the windowpane, only to hit the glass again and again in a vain attempt at leaving its prison.

Hermione sighed and looked down at the wad of parchments. Snape was getting a divorce. She didn’t know too much about love and marriage, but was pretty sure that, one year ago, his conjugal life couldn’t possibly have been very harmonious. It made her feel slightly better about his reaction to her—admittedly less than sophisticated—declaration of love. And she realized that a part of her wanted to finish what she had started back then. She wanted to confront him and ask him why he had told her off so cruelly. The past year had taught her a lot, and she was pretty sure she’d be able to stand up to him now, whatever his reaction. After putting a final flourish under this chapter of her life, she was sure she’d be able to go on. Maybe find herself a boyfriend. Her innate insecurity concerning her appearance and lovability had not exactly benefited from his put-down; that and her quite Percy-ish attitude towards her work hadn’t encouraged her to go out and expose herself to potential similar experiences.

With a final nod, she turned to leave the aisle and join the others. On second thought, she paused, drew her wand and spelled the window open. Watching the fly hurl itself out into the open filled her with a strange satisfaction.

()()()()~~()()()()

Not for the first time, Severus Snape thought that subscriptions to the Daily Prophet, which in his opinion was a rag the wizarding society could very well do without, should be forbidden to students. Usually, he just ranted on and on about hormone-addled brains rendered more useless than they already were by pictures of famous witches and wizards, about harebrained females drooling over the latest news of Harry Potter, England’s star seeker, about male dunderheads comparing the assets of Lavender Brown (theProphet’s new Divination Divine columnist) to those of Fleur Delacour (brand-new assistant to the French ambassador and notoriously unattached).

On 5 June 1999, though, all those adversities paled to absolute insignificance.

For the first time in his life, Snape’s name was mentioned in the newspaper. Even if it had been to inform the magical population of his having won the Cagliostro Award—the wizarding analogon to the Muggles’ Nobel—he would not have appreciated it at all. As things were, it succinctly told the readers of his divorce. And this brief notice was probably just the beginning; at least that was what he pictured in his mind while on his way to breakfast. Hordes of journalists, led by a triumphant Rita Skeeter, would invade Hogwarts; students would be interviewed on the Potions Master’s behalf. The situation would be aggravated by the fact that there was nothing, absolutely nothing to be said about his marriage—all the worse, for those bloodhounds, those shameless scavengers would simply make up by imagination what they lacked in facts.

In other words, Snape was facing his own, private apocalypse.

He had debated with himself whether he should make an appearance in the Great Hall at all, but come to the decision that, all things considered, it was better to face catastrophe before it developed a life of its own. While still in shock, students would be easier to stare into submission; their imagination, at least as far as his own private life was concerned, had to be nipped in the bud; said bud was then going to be crushed into nothingness under the heel of his authority.

This small satisfaction, however, was forgotten the instant he saw the faces of his colleagues.

Until one day ago, Dumbledore, his friend and mentor, had been the only one who knew about the marriage and its rather barren history. The Headmaster knew that Voldemort had wished for his Death Eaters to procreate, that he had chosen pureblood wives for them among the acceptable families all over the globe—Narcissa von Heckentaschen for Lucius Malfoy, and her older sister Lobelia for Severus Snape—that he had wanted to see the fruit of their loins as soon as possible. Lousy lover, indeed! Snape didn’t like blonde Norse goddesses at all (unlike Lucius, who had been enthusiastic about his aristocratic icicle), and he didn’t want children, and he didn’t want to be married. Once Lobelia was absolutely sure their endeavours had been successful—the first had been almost as useless as it had been unpleasant, but the second had yielded a result—they had agreed that she would be free to return to her native Germany as soon as Voldemort was gone (her family bore the Dark Lord no sympathies but had been coerced to leave their two daughters to his favourite Death Eaters by threats best not repeated), and that they would stay married, albeit leading separate lives, until the child came of age. Dumbledore knew all this; every once in a while, he had even tried to instil some interest in Siegfried’s life in his recalcitrant Potions Master. Needless to mention that Snape hadn’t reacted too well. Nothing concerning his son could possible light so much as a spark of curiosity within him, as he had informed the Headmaster on more than one occasion.

But now Dumbledore wasn’t sole keeper of the secret anymore. It was out for the world to be dissected and discussed. And it seemed that the esteemed Hogwarts faculty were a bunch of experienced vivisectionists.

He could see it on their faces.

()()()()~~()()()()

The problem was, Hermione thought, while absentmindedly scratching Crookshanks’s furry belly, that you didn’t simply meet Severus Snape. You had to ferret him out of his dungeons, and in order to do so successfully, you needed a pretext.

“Not now, anyway,” she muttered to her cat, “First, he’ll be angry as hell because the Prophet dared write about him, and second, there’s the finals. I’ll have to do it after the holidays have started.” The volume of Crookshanks’s purring increased slightly. “As always, we see eye to eye. Now for the pretext. That’s the really difficult bit.”

Crookshanks uttered a pensive “Mrow!” and turned, so his witch could dedicate her attention to his back.

She took the hint and caressed him with long, firm strokes. “You see, the man’s a living conundrum. Although the word ‘living’ might be in need of redefinition, if applied to him. Worst of all, he doesn’t seem to have any interests aside from Potions.” She sighed and briefly interrupted her stroking, to pop a piece of candied ginger into her mouth. “And I really don’t know what Potions-related request I might have, in order to lure him into an appointment. Probably—” she took another piece “—probably he knows that I’m working with the Ministry, so I can’t pretend…”

The third piece of ginger didn’t make it into her mouth, for her hand froze in the air, halfway between the bowl and her face.

“Of course I can! I could write him a letter, pretending that I’m fed up with the Ministry.” She snorted. “He’ll certainly be able to relate to that. My Potions N.E.W.T. was absolutely brilliant, so I might ask to become his apprentice instead. Huh? What do you think?”

Crookshanks closed his eyes and relaxed completely.

“Well, it might work. And it’s certainly worth trying. If he refuses to see me, I’ll go and search him out—challenge him, you know? Not to a duel, of course. Just to a real, adult conversation about what happened… Argh!” She buried her head in the bushy fur. “I think that’s more of a challenge for me than for him. So I’ll just have to hope he’ll accept my proposal in the first place.”

()()()()~~()()()()

Minerva McGonagall was about to retire.

This bit of news, important though it was, had not yet made its way to the pages of the Daily Prophet. Not that this fact was surprising—at Hogwarts, secrets were kept better than at the Ministry of Magic. Snape’s divorce being a case in point, if this truth had needed to be proved. The saying ‘As leaky as ministerial discretion’ usually applied to the memory of more than centennial wizards or rusty water pipes, existed for a reason.

Since McGonagall had been filling three positions—Deputy Headmistress, Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor—Dumbledore had decided to choose two successors, one of them being Severus Snape. Unsurprisingly, he was about to become Deputy Headmaster. Bill Weasley, who had been hired as the new Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor, had arrived at Hogwarts at the beginning of summer term, only to be mercilessly put through his paces by his future predecessor. Snape, whose workload was already considerable, had requested that McGonagall’s prep talks, which he didn’t expect to be less lengthy than they promised to be tiresome, be postponed until the summer break.

Thus he was sitting in Dumbledore’s office, two days after the students had left the castle, having tea with the Headmaster and his deputy, and discussing bureaucracy, paperwork and administration. There was a lot more of it than he had thought. He was growing more ill-tempered by the second. Letters to new students, letters to all the other students, letters to the parents, reports for the Ministry, reports for the Board of Governors, accountancy… it seemed as if the list of tasks would never end, and the balefully smug expression on McGonagall’s face, while she ticked the points off her fingers, did nothing to heighten Snape’s mood.

“I’m sure it’s possible to work as efficiently as you did,” he said, throwing her a rueful look across his teacup, “but waste less time.”

“I’m curious to hear your suggestions,” she responded primly. Criticism didn’t go down well with Minerva McGonagall.

Snape saw it with satisfaction. “We-ell,” he said, now feeling considerably better, “Take the letters for example. Not those for the first-years, which I’m afraid are inevitable. But all the others—why not distribute books lists during the last week of school, before they leave? That would spare a lot of time, not to mention owl fees.”

McGonagall uttered a brief “Ha!” and shot him an haughty look. “Do you think I haven’t tried? I did, every year. But it’s impossible to explain to our esteemed colleagues that they need to have their lesson plans ready before the holidays. Or rather,” she said, nodding as if to confirm her own words, “it’s quite easy to explain, they understand perfectly. Only they never act accordingly. Therefore, all I can say is good luck, but you’d better forget it.”

“My dear Minerva,” Snape responded, leaning back and crossing his arms, “like so many things in life, this, too, is merely a question of discipline. I bet—”

The bet remained a mere concept and never left the realm of theory, though, for at that very moment an owl demanded entrance, quite peremptorily. Dumbledore’s outstretched arm was pointedly ignored as the bird soared towards Snape, undeterred by his indignant glare. But post owls were notoriously stubborn animals and didn’t leave without delivering their burden to exactly the person it was destined for. Thus, Snape had little choice but to accept the roll of parchment the bird was carrying. After condescendingly accepting an owl treat from Dumbledore, the owl left through the still-open window.

In a display of shameless curiosity that was memorable even for his standards, Dumbledore rose and peered over the Potions Master’s shoulder. “From Miss Granger!” he exclaimed. “And she wants—” He bent down and adjusted his glasses. “Well, if that isn’t a godsend, Severus! Exactly what you need!”

“Does she propose marriage?” McGonagall asked, acid dripping from every syllable.

“Don’t be irrational!” Snape bit out. “No, she wants to become my apprentice. Of all the foolish—”

But Dumbledore’s enthusiasm wasn’t so easily smothered. “Think about it, Severus! Not even you can deny that she used to be a brilliant student—of course she’s frustrated with her Ministry work. She could be very useful to you, correcting homework, maybe even taking over some of your classes…”

“I wish I had had an assistant,” McGonagall observed ruefully. “It would have been a blessing! But nobody ever volunteered.”

“Which goes to show that true quality always triumphs,” was the sarcastic reply.

Only afterwards did it occur to Snape that his tongue had been faster than his mind. Had he pondered his answer, even for a moment, he might have modified it. But he hadn’t. Instead he had talked himself straight into the corner Dumbledore wanted him in.

()()()()~~()()()()

Hermione Granger had many qualities, one of them being her pride. Considering that she was only nineteen, she knew herself remarkably well; she was also quite aware that pride was a double-edged sword. For instance, she would never have told anybody, not even her closest friends, of her plans concerning Snape. Not that she was an overly secretive person; but to give an account, if only the abbreviated version, of the facts that had led to her decision would have been too deeply humiliating. The mere thought of disclosing to Harry that she had had a secret crush on Snape, or of telling Ron about the put-down she had received, made her shudder. No, this was definitely something she had to keep to herself—only for the time being, of course. Once she’d finished what she had started by sending off that letter, she was of course going to tell all her friends. She’d invite them for dinner (this was the fantasy that kept her going during the two days between the arrival of Snape’s reply and their appointment at Hogsmeade) she’d prepare something fancy, and then, when everybody was having coffee, she’d say casually, “By the way, did I already tell you how I got my own back at Snape?”

What a laugh they were going to have. A good, hearty laugh.

Hermione swallowed and glanced at her watch. As usual, she had been hyperpunctual, and Snape hadn’t yet arrived. She tried to play her fantasy out in her mind, but it seemed to have lost some of its comforting effect. With ferocious concentration, she willed Alice’s face to appear before her mind’s eye, ponytail whipping to and fro, eyes brimming with tears of mirth.

“Miss Granger?”

Plummeting from the heights of her reverie, Hermione looked up and straight into the Potions Master’s black eyes. “Professor—”

“Now, Miss Granger—” (oh, how she hated the slight emphasis on the first word. A subtle reminder that he hadn’t forgotten their encounter of one year ago) “—you aren’t my student anymore. Therefore, for the short time until you become my apprentice, you may call me by my first name, as wizarding etiquette demands.”

Three blows in two sentences were a little more than Hermione could take. Her equanimity suddenly dissolved, she stuttered, “That’s very… I mean… Pro—er, Severus, I wasn’t aware… you accept?”

“Let us say,” he replied, smirking at her, “that I was more or less forced to accept.” He sat down opposite her—for its grown-up patrons, the Three Broomsticks provided small but comfortable booths in a rear room—and continued, “Even though the decision wasn’t entirely my own, I don’t have to buy a pig in a poke. No offence, of course.”

Hermione shot him a murderous glare. “Thanks all the same. What exactly does that mean?”

“Our contract is of limited duration. One year. If—” his eyebrows rose and his lips contracted into a parody of a smile “—we come to the conclusion that we’re incompatible, you’re free to leave after one year.”

Bastard, Hermione thought. Arrogant bastardly bastard undead son of a bitch insufferable pureblood git. She’d accept his offer, and then, when he felt smug and utterly victorious, she’d fling it back into his face. And while he was still cringing under the blow, she’d fire her well-prepared Now-Let’s-Be-Adults speech right after it. Ha! She’d crush him. Maim him. Turn him into a whimpering lump of minced meat. “All right!” she said and held out her hand. “We have a deal. I’ll be your apprentice for exactly one year.”

“Delighted,” he purred and grabbed her hand.

The faint tingle of magic she felt during their handshake was a little unsettling. “Er, Severus—”

“You’re my apprentice now,” he interrupted her sweetly, “It’s ‘Sir’ for you from now on. But if you prefer the old-fashioned ways, you may of course address me as ‘Master’.”

The wave of fury this last remark unleashed was just what she needed for her sharp retort. “You didn’t think I accepted for real? Pig in a poke—you’re one to talk! Not for a second was I serious about—”

“Miss Granger, you just—”

Wham! Her hand came down on the tabletop. “Kindly let me finish, Master! I’ll never become your apprentice, because you’re the lousiest, most despicable, evil, arrogant bastard in this world! And you had the gall to refuse me last year?”

He was taking the string of insults she’d hurled into his face a little too well. As a matter of fact, he was grinning. Sardonically. Smugly. Like a bad, bad Cheshire Cat. “What a pity,” he said in his silkiest tones, “that you should be Muggle-born and thus ignore the finer points of wizarding law. Otherwise you would be aware that, by shaking my hand and agreeing to my conditions, you have established a magical contract with yours truly. A binding magical contract, I might add.”

()()()()~~()()()()

No fancy dinner. No casual “Oh, by the way, I so one-upped Snape!” No triumph. No satisfaction, however petty. Just a defeat, worse than Waterloo and Stalingrad and Alesia put together. The shame! The humiliation! The hurt pride!

“Mrow!” Crookshanks the cat said, when his witch stumbled into her flat, still paralysed with shock.

Hermione staggered towards the couch, let herself fall down on it and buried her face in her hands. “Crooks! What have I done?”

The spectres of the imminent and more distant futures began to encroach her mental horizon. She’d have to tell Hopkirk. She’d have to tell Alice and Lionel. She’d have to tell Harry and Ron and Ginny… Worse, she’d have to explain. What on earth was she to tell them? They'd never believe it had just been a lark. Hermione Granger wasn’t a lark person. And then… And then a long, interminable year as Snape's apprentice. She’d have to give up her flat—the meagre salary of an apprentice at Hogwarts was never going to pay the rent and her personal expenses as well. Snape would treat her like a slave… everybody was going to laugh at her…

Suddenly, she sat up straight. What if Snape hadn’t told her the truth? Maybe he just wanted to give her the fright of her life…

Hermione jumped up and almost fell on her hasty way to the fireplace. With trembling hands, she took a pinch of Floo powder out of a small tin, lit a fire, tossed in the powder and pronounced, “The Burrow!”

Almost instantly, Molly Weasley’s reassuringly round face appeared in the flames. “Hermione! What a pleasure to see you! I’m afraid Ron isn’t home, though…” Her mortified expression nearly coaxed a laugh out of Hermione. Mrs. Weasley was still firmly convinced that her youngest son and Hermione were destined for each other. None of the two had ever shown a romantic interest in the other, and Ron's conquests were legion, but his mother clung to her conviction all the same. Whenever she saw Hermione, she made some remark about Ron who was ‘bound to settle down with a nice girl his age—’ pointed look at Hermione ‘—sooner or later.’ Ron had a marked preference for ample-bosomed witches in their forties. Hermione didn’t mind in the least.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Weasley. I was wondering whether I might have a word with your husband?”

Molly looked slightly puzzled but went to fetch Arthur immediately.

“Hermione, my dear,” he said, giving her a friendly wave, “You’re looking… distressed. I suppose that Mafalda is quite demanding.”

Grateful for the white lie he had served her on a silver platter, Hermione said, “Yes, actually I’m a bit overworked. Sorry to disturb you, but do you think you might tell me about magical handshakes and whether they have the power to engender a binding magical contract?”

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione knew a lot about legal history, and she had heard a few very exhilarating anecdotes. About people who had tried to get out of just the sort of contract she had entered into an hour ago. There was no way out of it. She was stuck with Snape for one entire, terrible year.

()()()()~~()()()()

Snape returned to the castle in a considerably better mood. He might be stuck with that Granger nightmare, but at least he knew that she was going to regret every minute of it. Yessss! Oh perfect revenge served as cold as ice and all the more delicious!

He went straight down into his dungeons and poured himself a celebratory drink. Come to think of it, life wasn’t all that bad. The divorce had been filed, the gossip had died down, he was going to be a rich man before the end of July, and Hogwarts provided him with a free-of-charge slave. A slave not entirely devoid of merit, no, of course not. The Granger girl was quite brainy and could easily take over the first- and second-years. Homework… he tilted his head to look at the ceiling. Homework up to the fourth-years. He would teach her a few nice potions, nothing too time-consuming—because he had to fulfil his part of the contract as well, however sloppily—and thus buy himself a year of relative comfort. Ah, the possibilities…

What intrigued him, and more than he cared to admit, was the question why she had sent the letter. She had been so obviously surprised, shocked even, when he had accepted her request… No, she had certainly not wanted to become his apprentice. But what—

He almost choked on his drink. No! Impossible! It simply couldn’t be… Well, maybe… Oh, Merlin! Oh, Merlin, Circe and Aphrodite! If she still had that crush…

And he was stuck with her for an entire year.

In less than a second, he was standing at his fireplace and talking to Dumbledore. “Albus, I… er, I was reading, uh, Dagobert Duindelbrane’s essay on wizarding law… very interesting indeed… but I, er, think he might be wrong in one point… I seem to remember that you once made a contract, a magical contract with Aberforth… but you weren't quite serious about it—you got out of it, didn't you?”

The abominable twinkle in his eyes redoubling, Dumbledore smiled and said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with Miss Granger. Good night, Severus, and sweet dreams.”

Open-mouthed and wide-eyed with shock, Snape remained where he was, in front of the fireplace, thinking black thoughts of revenge—Dumbledore, Granger and McGonagall nailed into a barrel, floating towards the Niagara Fall… A too-fresh twig exploded, emitting a shower of sparkles that landed on the hem of his robes; soon, merry little flames threatened to become even merrier big flames, and only at the last moment did Snape realize the danger and cast an extinguishing spell. “Granger!” he hissed. “That’s the second time that obnoxious brat burns my robes.”

The absurdity of this remark was obvious even to him. All the same, it was the lens he needed to turn the blaze of anger into a single, laser-hot beam directed at Hermione Granger.

()()()()~~()()()()

Had the circumstances of her return to Hogwarts not been so terribly awkward, Hermione might even have enjoyed it. As a matter of fact, she had already regretted her decision to start working at the Ministry of Magic a few times—not that she would ever have thought of exchanging the ministerial frying pan for the fire of having to call Snape ‘Master’. But, she told herself in those moments when her despair was a little less black, after all she only had to spend one year in this hell, and then she would be free to decide what she really wanted to do with her life.

When she stepped into the castle’s entrance hall on the morning of 10 July, she even managed a smile. After all, McGonagall was here to protect her, just as she had done in the past. If the Potions Master really became unbearable, she might always seek comfort and advice with her old mentor. There would be the occasional tea with Hagrid—a fond smile crossed Hermione's face when she thought of his rock cakes which lived up to their name in such a teeth-wracking fashion—she was going to have chats with Professor Vector, her old Arithmancy teacher, and probably the Headmaster, too, would invite her to his office from time to time. Besides, and that was maybe the biggest consolation, she’d be able to study again. Snape might be a cruel bastard, but he was a brilliant Potions Master who’d teach her a lot; although she didn't like his methods, they would at least lead to a satisfying result. She had the library at her disposal…

The conversation she’d planned on having with Snape would have to wait, though. It was by no means forgotten, but it seemed a little unwise to have it just now. But she was going to confront him. She had promised that to herself. Towards the end of her apprenticeship. Then she’d land her final blow, with the weight of a year's worth of pent-up anger behind it.

()()()()~~()()()()

“Sir?”

“Miss Granger.”

“Sir, I wanted to ask—tomorrow is Harry’s birthday, and he has invited me to the party. Would you give me the evening off?”

“Potter’s birthday party? How interesting.”

“Yes, Sir. I’d really like to go, and I’ve finished all my work—”

“Hardly, Miss Granger, hardly. As it happens, tomorrow night is a new moon, and you’ll have to harvest Tinkleberries in the Forbidden Forest. Terribly sorry, really, but I’m afraid I can’t give you a leave of absence.”

“Tinkleberries? But… but, Sir, you only need them for the students’ stores, and there’s going to be another new moon before school starts.”

“Indeed. But they have to be dried and conserved properly, and therefore it is preferable for you to collect them tomorrow.”

“But I could go to the party and come back in time to—”

“And if you had two heads you could sing duets with yourself. No, Miss Granger, the answer is, and will remain, no.”

Hermione went back to her quarters in tears.

()()()()~~()()()()

“Miss Granger?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“What is this supposed to be?”

“I thought that was quite clear, Sir. It’s the list of topics and subtopics I’d like to gather more in-depth knowledge about. It’s almost the end of the holidays, Sir, and I haven’t done anything useful, at least not to myself. And I’m already quite adept at cleaning cauldrons and preparing ingredients.”

“Every learning process starts with the basics, Miss Granger. You have to master them perfectly before—”

“Sir, with all due respect, I was able to clean cauldrons already in my first year, and I don't quite see—”

“That’s exactly my point, Miss Granger. You don’t quite see. Hence you’ll have to follow my orders, not vice versa. This plan is preposterous and thus best thrown into the fire.”

“Preposterous? I’ll be sure to tell Professor Craig, who helped me write it.”

“Craig? You asked Craig to—How dare you? You are my apprentice, and not allowed to seek another Potions Master’s guidance!”

“Says who?”

“I say so, Miss Granger, because you have no right to… to besmirch my good name—”

“I didn't do anything of the sort, Sir. I merely told him that I wanted to present something perfect, because I was so in awe of your brilliance…”

Snape went back to his quarters fuming with rage and destroyed a set of crystal tumblers.

()()()()~~()()()()

“Miss Granger?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“You gave the first-years’ homework back without previously consulting me?”

“I was under the impression that that was exactly what you wanted me to do, Sir. As a matter of fact, you said ‘Take this bunch of insipid scribblings and cover it in red ink. I don’t want to see them again!’”

“What I meant, Miss Granger, was that I didn't want to see them again before you had corrected them!”

“Then you should have said so, Sir. The way you formulated your order, it seemed that you didn't want anything to do with them anymore.”

“If you are so keen on deciphering subtexts, you should have chosen another course of studies. You are not to interpret my orders, Miss Granger, but to follow them. Word by word.”

“‘I don't want to see them again’ seemed clear enough, Sir.”

“And stop talking back!”

“Of course, Sir.”

Both Snape and Hermione went back to their quarters in total exasperation.

()()()()~~()()()()

“Miss Granger!!!!”

“Sir?”

“Have you gone completely mad?”

“I don't think so, Sir.”

“Don’t try to be sarcastic, Miss Granger, it doesn't suit you.”

“Sorry, Sir, I forgot that being sarcastic is your privilege.”

“I will tolerate no more of your cheek, Miss Granger! And what, if I may ask, is that noxious-smelling slime in your cauldron?”

“It’s the Bellaflora Potion I was supposed to brew. Sir.”

“It’s most certainly not. The Bellaflora Potion, if brewed correctly, is a slightly glutinous, opalescent yellow liquid, smelling of mimosa. How many pinches of dragon orchid root did you add?”

“Seven, Sir, just as is written on the recipe you gave me. I was wondering myself, but—”

“Wondering? You were wondering? Potions-making, Miss Granger, is not about wondering. It is about exactitude. And when I write ‘one pinch’, you add one pinch, and only one. Is that so difficult?”

“No, Sir. But you didn’t write ‘one’. You wrote ‘seven’. Look, it’s quite clear: this is a seven, not a one.”

“This is, as every five-year-old would recognize, most obviously a one.”

“Seven!”

“One!”

“Seven!”

“Out, Miss Granger! Out! Now!”

Hermione ran back to her quarters. Snape remained in his workroom. Once he was sure she was out of earshot, he emitted an inarticulate scream and hit the wall with his fists. Hermione closed the door of her rooms behind her, took a deep breath and screamed as loudly as she could. The next day, both were hoarse.

()()()()~~()()()()

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Get out of my sight.”

“And a very happy Christmas to you too, Sir.”

()()()()~~()()()()

The months went by, and spring won the first skirmishes with winter. Soon, the meadows surrounding Hogwarts were flecked with yellow and white, and small, pale-green leaves ventured out of their buds. A tepid march was followed by a bright, lovely April, which caused even the dour Potions Master to cast wistful glances at the rectangle of blue sky visible through the classroom windows. When the Easter break started and most of the students had gone home, he decided to do a most un-Snape-ish thing and treat himself to a stroll through the grounds. He was in dire need of a bit of sunshine, for the other day he had received a letter from his son. Although he had never seen the boy, the harsh words the missive contained had stung quite a lot.

Hermione, too, had had mail the other day. And she, too, had been thrown off-balance by the letter. Or rather, by the invitation she had received to Harry’s wedding. During their fifth year, when her hero-worshipping of Snape was still in the budding phase, she had had a short crush on Harry. As a matter of fact, the realization that Harry was never going to think of her in terms of romance had been the potent fertilizer that brought the Snape-bud to full blossom. As she was gradually becoming more exasperated at Snape’s terrible behaviour towards her, she felt, every now and then, a nostalgic longing for easygoing, always-ready-for-a-good-laugh Harry. She knew, of course, that they would never work well as a couple, merely because he lacked the seriousness she so highly valued, but, happy as she was to see him settle down with Ginny Weasley, her happiness had a slightly bitter aftertaste. Hence her need for nature, sun and daffodils.

Snape left the castle at ten o’clock, Hermione at ten fifteen. Both went down to the lake, if on different paths. Snape began to walk around the lake clockwise, Hermione set out to circle the lake counter-clockwise. None of them was looking elsewhere but at the ground, both were musing about their lives and what they had achieved so far. None of them was exactly happy with the result of their musings. Both were feeling lonely, rejected and useless. Both came to the conclusion that they would probably have to remain alone for the rest of their lives.

Thus, they almost collided.

In their black moods, they were both feeling vulnerable, and both were secretly craving for somebody to persuade them that they were not entirely unloveable, antisocial creatures.

They looked at each other, locked eyes briefly and then looked away. In the same direction.

Thus, they saw the bench.

They sat down.

Then, there was a long, long silence—highly unusual, considering that they usually started fighting as soon as they set eyes on each other. It wasn't a bad silence. More the companionable kind.

Considering the highly unpleasant nature of their previous thoughts, they decided to switch topic and think about each other. They really hated each other’s guts, didn’t they? Because they were so very different, or were they?

Somewhere along the road, it began to dawn on them that they weren't. Come to think of it, they had grown used to each other. The nature of their fights and bickering had undergone a subtle change. Secretly and deep down, they both enjoyed it, because it was at least as fun as it was exasperating. It was a challenge.

So maybe they weren’t cat and dog? Maybe they were just a panther and a lion—a bit different, yes, but essentially of the same feline family?

“Miss Granger, I—”

“Sir, I—”

They looked at each other, a hint of a smile ghosting across their faces.

“You are an insufferable, bushy-haired nightmare, Miss Granger, but working with you isn’t altogether unpleasant. You have… potential.”

“You are the worst possible incarnation of bastardly arrogance, Sir, but at least you’re an intelligent arrogant bastard.”

They exchanged grim looks.

“May I ask why you went for a walk today, Miss Granger?”

“I got a letter yesterday. And I was… a bit upset. And you, Sir? You never struck me as an outdoor person.”

“At the risk of sounding like a parrot, I received a letter yesterday, and it was quite a blow.”

Both nodded and lapsed into silence again.

“And… what was your letter about, Sir, if I may ask?”

“My… son saw fit to inform me that I’m the most despicable, disgusting man that ever walked on this earth.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m really sorry about that, Sir. You… you don't deserve it.”

“On the contrary, Miss Granger. I do deserve it, and that’s what makes it so…”

“Hurtful?”

“Hmm… yes, I suppose you could say so. And you? What bad news did your letter tell you to upset you so?”

“It's stupid, really, but… Harry’s getting married, and I’m feeling…”

“Left out?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m feeling.”

“Don’t I know that feeling.”

“Yes, I suppose you do. Isn’t it strange? I mean, to know that someone else is feeling lousy in the same way you are just makes you feel a little better.”

“You have just formulated one of my basic teaching concepts.”

“I’m afraid I did. God, you were such a bastard.”

“Were, Miss Granger?”

“Don’t fish for compliments.”

Silence enveloped them again.

“I heard that, at this time of the year, Madam Rosmerta’s garden is a highly pleasant place to sit in.”

“Was that an invitation?”

“Reading the subtext again, Miss Granger?”

“Did I read it correctly, Sir?”

When the two figures heading towards Hogsmeade had disappeared behind a group of trees, Albus Dumbledore left his hiding place and stretched his aching joints. “Finite Incantatem!” he said, and went off towards the castle.

The bench had turned back into an innocent-looking twig, indistinguishable from the many others that littered the grass.

T H E     E N D