Chapter Text
Hermione yawns, one hand coming up to card absently through her curls as she blearily navigates the stairs down to the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place.
She had never been an early riser as a child, breakfast cartoons apparently just hadn’t held the same allure for her as they had other children her age. But rooming with four other girls during her time at Hogwarts had gradually beaten that character trait out of her - like hell was she going to be the last one in the bathroom after Lavender somehow managed to use up all of the magically heated water, again - and now she can’t help but rise at the same time as the sun.
Not that many others in this house seem to share her sentiment, of course. Honestly, she still has no idea how Ron and Harry are able to sleep as long as they do.
She reaches the kitchen and fills the kettle with a flick of her wand and a mumbled Aguamenti, moving to grab two mugs from the overhead cupboard as the water begins to heat.
She plops a teabag in each of the mugs; Darjeeling for her, English Breakfast for him, then grabs the sugar from the side and milk from the fridge as she waits for the kettle to boil.
As soon as the water starts to rumble she fills the two mugs to the brim. She only lets her darjeeling steep for a minute or so before delicately extracting the teabag, but she lets the English Breakfast stew for a full five minutes, squashing the teabag against the rim a couple of times for good measure. She then adds a liberal amount of milk, along with three spoons of sugar.
She still doesn’t think she’s quite gotten over her shock at finding out that the esteemed Professor Snape takes his tea like an East End builder.
She carries both mugs over to the table, placing the English Breakfast down the far end of the table before she takes her place at the other end, sipping her tea gingerly to check whether its cool enough to drink yet. It’s not, but she drinks it anyway.
Her book is still waiting for her from where she left it last night, and she flicks it open with a sigh. She always thought she’d be a researcher of some sort when she grew up, she just didn’t think it would be quite like this.
When she was a little girl, she wanted to go to Oxford, get her PhD in Maths (or Physics, or maybe even both) and then solve an unsolvable problem or three.
Then she got her letter from Hogwarts, and everything changed. The question became whether she would apprentice in Arithmancy, or whether she would follow in her Head of House’s footsteps into the fascinatingly complex world of Transfiguration. So many more options, so many more possibilities.
Then Harry staggered out of the Triwizard maze, clutching the limp body of Cedric Diggory to his chest, and everything changed again. And this time not for the better.
All of a sudden she wasn’t studying for the joy of learning, but because these were skills she desperately needed to survive in this terrifying new world. In this world she took her NEWTS huddled in fear in the Great Hall, surrounded by Aurors on high alert because of a rumoured Death Eater attack. In this world she graduated from Hogwarts and promptly moved into Grimmauld Place along with Ron and Harry to assist with the war effort, pledging herself to the Order the day of her eighteenth birthday. In this world she spends her days poring over dusty tomes, searching for any scrap of information, even just a whisper, of how to put Voldemort back in the ground from whence he rose seven years prior.
She guesses an apprenticeship will have to wait until there isn’t a psychopath with plans of world domination threatening everything she holds dear.
She gets through about three pages of the densely worded volume before she hears soft footsteps outside the kitchen door. Surreptitiously checking her watch she grins - right on time as usual.
Professor Snape silently slips into the kitchen, not even acknowledging Hermione’s presence as he takes up his seat at the other end of the table. He picks up his waiting tea, blowing twice on the surface before taking a large sip, his quiet hum of appreciation the only thanks Hermione knows she’s going to get. There’s another beat of silence, and then he digs into his robes, extracting a tiny book that he wandlessly enlarges back to its regular, formidable size. He places the book down on the table in front of him, taking a moment to line the corners up with the edge of the table before smoothly sliding it across the smooth surface towards Hermione.
Hermione accepts the proffered book equally silently, smiling as she quickly scans the title - “Poisons, Toxins and Venoms: What to Use and When” - before re-shrinking the book and pocketing it within her own robes.
They’ve never acknowledged this routine they’ve somehow fallen into; Snape procuring titles for her that would make the more upstanding witches and wizards of society faint, and her repaying his initiative with tea that has been brewed to within an inch of its life.
It had all started when her ex-professor moved into Grimmauld place a few months ago, explaining brusquely that the new ministry-appointed headmaster of Hogwarts had banned all staff from remaining at the school outside of term time. He’d been met with quiet hostility; Hermione knows Ron and Harry still doubt his true allegiance to the Order after everything he’s done in the name of being Dumbledore’s spy, but McGonagall had put her foot down, and as the new head of the Order that had pretty much been the end of the discussion.
For the first few weeks he had skulked around the house like he was still in the dungeons at Hogwarts, keeping out of everyone’s way as much as they kept out of his. The first time he’d come down to the kitchen at precisely seven in the morning to find Hermione already present he had promptly turned around and left the way he came. But it seemed that eventually the desire for morning caffeine outweighed his need for privacy, and once Hermione proved her ability to drink her tea without attempting to interact with him in any way, he started joining her daily.
The silent book exchange had been added about two weeks later, when Snape had taken a look at her current literature - yet another reread of Moste Potente Potions - rolled his eyes and arrived the next morning with three far more interesting (and far darker) reads. Hermione had devoured all three titles in a matter of hours, and had silently slid them all back across the table the very next day along with the sheet of notes she had made. Snape had sneered at her notes, pushing them back towards her without even reading them, but after that he started bringing down at least one new book every morning. Judging by their pristine quality, Hermione has a sneaking suspicion they might be from his personal collection, which surprises and delights her in equal measure.
“I recommend chapter fifteen on undetectable coagulants. It has a number of interesting insights.” Snapes smooth voice cuts through her reverie so unexpectedly that Hermione jumps, knocking her knee on the underside of the table. She swears, ignoring Snape’s raised eyebrow, before turning to look at her ex-professor in surprise.
This is new. They’ve never actually talked before.
“I- I’ll bear that in mind, thank you,” she says stiltedly, completely thrown off guard. Snape waves his hand dismissively, his attention focussed on a spot just past Hermione’s shoulder.
A full minute of silence passes, where Hermione tries and fails to process this new development. She desperately wants to test whether Snape’s unexpected communicativeness might continue.
“I found chapter seven in the last book you gave me very informative,” she starts cautiously, “I never considered the preemptive use of competing antidotes before.”
Snape slowly directs his gaze towards her face, and Hermione finds herself holding her breath like she’s still that same excitable first year who was so desperate for her teacher’s praise all those years ago. His dark eyes bore into her, and she barely resists the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. She determinedly holds his gaze even as she waits for the dismissive comment, the verbal takedown that she knows is sure to follow.
“I have a number of additional reads on that particular theory.” Snape’s voice is perfectly even, not giving away an iota of how he’s feeling. “I shall bring them down tomorrow.”
“I would appreciate that,” Hermione replies, making sure her voice is equally devoid of inflection. She won’t reveal how excited she is at the idea of being treated like an intellectual peer by this man, she won’t .
Snape nods and returns to his tea, signalling the end of their unexpected conversation. Hermione exhales as quietly as she can and returns to her book, barely retraining the grin that spreads across her features.
“It’s an interesting theory, I will grant you that. But theory is all it shall ever remain.” Snape’s voice is dismissive even as his eyes glint with the fire of debate. “It is hard enough to poison a target once undetected. What makes you think you’d also be able to slip them the competing antidote without giving the game away?”
“That’s why you’d want to combine the poison and the antidote into a single suspension,” Hermione explains far more animatedly, hands gesticulating wildly as she argues her case.
It’s a few weeks after their first, tentative conversation, and to Hermione’s delight theoretical debate has somehow worked its way into their morning tea routine. The subject matter varies from day to day, but this particular topic is one they keep coming back to. Hermione is sure that competing antidotes is the key to them winning this war, if only she can work out the logistics of how.
Snape sighs heavily, like Hermione has said something particularly egregious. “Just when I start to think you might be marginally more capable than the vast majority of dunderheads I teach at Hogwarts. You know full well that combining potions in that manner will destabilise the properties of both solutions, rendering them both equally useless.”
“The thought had crossed my mind, yes,” Hermione says with an eyeroll, ignoring her ex-professor’s growl in response. “That’s why you’d need to cast a variant of the stasis charm on the respective potions, to prevent them from combining.”
Snape opens his mouth, no doubt to continue objecting to her argument, before slowly closing it with an audible click. He taps a long forefinger against his lower lip, considering the proposal, and Hermione can’t help grinning. She’s got him now.
“Interesting,” Snape finally concedes, although the word sounds almost painful on his lips. “There have been promising developments into molecular level stasis charms, and it would have the added benefit of allowing for a time-delayed administration.”
Hermione’s grin grows even wider as Snape reaches the same conclusions she had come to during her research the night prior. “I started making some notes,” she says eagerly, digging out a folded sheaf of parchment from within her robes. “There are some preliminary tests we can run to confirm viability which should be relatively straightforward.”
Snape reaches across the table with his left hand to take the proffered papers, his dominant hand still cradling his half-drunk tea, but before he reaches them he hisses and sharply withdraws his hand.
“Sir?” Hermione asks worriedly as Snape cradles his arm to his chest with a grimace.
“I am being summoned,” Snape bites out, his voice laced with pain, and Hermione feels all the colour drain from her face. She watches, stunned, as Snape swiftly rises to his feet, his expression a hard mask as he makes for the door. “Tell Minerva I shall report back when I am able.”
“Of course,” Hermione practically whispers, feeling like her brain is wading through tar. Snape has almost reached the door by the time her faculties kick back into gear, and she abruptly stands up, almost knocking over her chair in her haste. “Sir...be careful, won’t you?”
Snape turns back towards her, an odd expression colouring his features. He opens his mouth as if to say something in response, then quickly snaps it shut again. He nods brusquely, before disappearing out the door without a word.
Snape doesn’t return that evening. Or the next. Or even the one after that. Hermione forcefully tells herself that she has no reason to doubt the man’s ability to keep himself safe, but by the end of the fourth day without word she can’t help but start to feel a tad anxious.
When she raises her concerns to McGonagall, the older witch purses her mouth in an expression that looks oddly like pity.
“I know you’re on edge after what happened to Albus. We all are,” she says with a gentle pat to Hermione’s shoulder. “War is hard, lass, and it won’t get any easier. But Severus can look out for himself, he always has done.”
Hermione frowns at what she considers a frankly blasé attitude towards Snape’s wellbeing, but McGonagall’s stoic expression has started to falter at the mention of Dumbledore. She nods and makes a hasty retreat before she had to deal with the fallout of inadvertently referencing that which shall not be referenced.
Harry and Ron are of no help either, alternating between making snide jokes about Snape flying back to his batcave to sleep, and more serious accusations of him returning to his true master. After her third failed attempt to get them to take her seriously Hermione snaps, storming out of the room and refusing to speak to either of them until they seek her out to apologise, both looking appropriately contrite.
“We’re sorry, ‘Mione, really we are,” Ron says with a small pout. “But why do you care so much? He’s still a git.”
“He’s an Order member, Ron.” Hermione argues, eyes glinting dangerously. “One who might well be in danger.”
“Even if that’s the case,” Harry counters softly, “There’s nothing we can do without risking blowing his cover if it hasn’t already been blown. Give him a few more days, then we’ll talk to McGonagall.”
Hermione huffs, but is forced to reluctantly agree with her friend’s assessment. There’s no sense in throwing away all of Snape’s hard work ingratiating himself within Voldemort’s inner circle just because she has a bad feeling. The sensible thing to do is to wait. She can do that, surely. She’ll give it another twenty-four hours, then she’ll make the Order take action.
In the end, however, the decision is taken out of her hands.
Harry, Ron and a few other Order members had gone a pub just down the road about an hour ago, arguing that all work and no play makes for a tired and bitter resistance. For once Hermione actually agrees with the sentiment - she honestly can’t remember the last time she did something that was purely for fun - but she had still had two more chapters to get through when they were all ready to leave, so she had waved them on ahead and promised she would catch up with them soon.
By the time she finishes the final page her head is pounding like it’s been trampled on by an angry Hippogriff, and for a long moment she considers bailing on her friends and just heading straight to bed. But it’s been so long since they all hung out together, and really who knows when the next time will be, what with Voldemort’s followers getting more daring in their attacks. Hermione knows she’ll regret it tomorrow if she doesn’t at least make an appearance, so with a soft sigh and a hastily knocked back headache-soothing concoction, she grabs her travel robes and heads out into the night.
She’s barely gotten three steps from the door when something large and heavy comes down on the back of her head, and abruptly the whole world goes dark.