Archive of Our Own

Hermione put her head down on her overflowing desk and ignored the letter.  She enjoyed her job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, most days, but on others it was just one massive headache.

The letter she was ignoring had been forwarded on by Minerva McGonagall at Hogwarts.  The accompanying note said that Firenze had appeared with it two days prior while returning from a visit to his family.

Centaurs were some of the more…contrary creatures Hermione had the pleasure of dealing with.  She had expected that, of course.  Her contact with centaurs during her school years had mostly been limited to Firenze, but when he’d been driven out of his colony during her fifth year for daring to teach humans it had left a certain impression.  She’d spoken to him a few times when she went back for her N.E.W.T. year, trying to build rapport; she’d already known then that she wanted to join the DRCMC when she graduated.

Though the Forbidden Forest centaur colony had - reluctantly - agreed to reverse Firenze’s banishment following the war, Hermione was under no delusions that this represented a dramatic change in attitude toward wizard-kind.  Still, the Forbidden Forest centaurs were some of the more accepting and tolerant of their kind, compared to those who had less contact with humans.

It was that…relative tolerance that had prompted them to extend an olive branch.  A thorny one, to torture a metaphor, but there was no denying that it had the makings of a thoughtful gesture.

The letter was an invitation to a once-in-a-lifetime astrological event of some kind, to be held on 31 October, only two weeks away.  Hermione neither understood nor cared about the significance; that wasn’t her department.  She was simply the poor damned soul responsible for figuring out who was eligible to attend.

Of the Hogwarts professors, Hagrid and Minerva had the most familiarity with the colony, but the centaurs were still cross with Hagrid for that business with Grawp and the headmistress was in no condition to sit in the cold forest all night.   Harry would be a good choice: he was an important figure among wizards and had met several members of the colony during his school years, plus he had been the subject of a prophecy.  He was also an Auror, but hopefully they would be willing to overlook that.

Centaurs didn’t share human values, didn’t care about human values, and weren’t willing to divulge any information on what they did care about.  It made every interaction with them a high-stakes guessing game.  Anyone she brought along had to understand that.

Kingsley was going to be in the States on 31 October - his trip had been planned months in advance - but sending an aide would possibly (probably?) not be considered an insult.  There were certainly some Unspeakables who would give their eye teeth to attend, but given the nature of their work Hermione didn’t know how the centaurs would react to their presence.

Unless…

Hermione took a fortifying sip of tea, wishing she’d taken George up on his offer of brandy when he’d popped in earlier.  If ever there was a time to drink on the job, this was it.

The deep, drawled “Enter” always made her feel like she was thirteen again, standing in the dungeons, trying to gather her courage to ask about her Potions essay.

As she had back then, Hermione took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and opened the heavy wooden door with a firm hand.

“The Forbidden Forest centaurs have sent an invitation for an event they’re holding on 31 October around midnight.  I am recruiting important figures from around the Ministry to attend.  May I count on you?”

She paused, remembering to breathe.

With painful, precise slowness, Snape put down the quill he was holding and looked up at her, every bit as disdainfully as he had when she was a student.  “Why hello, Miss Granger.  Yes, I am well.  As ever, I remain humbled by your concern for my well-being and the politeness you’ve shown me.”

As if the man had a single polite bone in his entire body!  Hermione refused to give into the taunt offered by that infamous raised eyebrow, no matter how infuriating it was.

“What’s this about the centaurs?  Do come in and explain yourself.”  He gestured to a chair that looked about as comfortable as the one he’d regularly offered students when they bothered him.

Hermione debated just leaving, but then, he did outrank her.  Enormously.  She didn’t need another complaint on her employment record.  Sighing a little to herself, she stepped into the cavernous office and approached his desk with as much dignity as she could muster - which, under the circumstances, was really not much.

“Mr. Snape-”

He held up a hand, sending off a paper aeroplane with a flick of his fingers.  Twelve heartbeats later, a tray of tea appeared on his desk with a loud pop that made her jump.

She sat on her hands while Snape fixed his tea, only helping herself when he growled a low “I’m not going to serve you, Granger” at her that she fancied she could feel through both the floor and the chair.  The tea did smell wonderful, as did the little chocolate biscuit she helped herself to, and she was…at least 80% sure that he wasn’t going to poison her.  Maybe 75%.  That business with the hippogriff claw import fees had only been wrapped up last month, and the man knew how to hold a grudge.

“Now,” he said, once they’d both indulged in a sip of tea and a biscuit, “what were you saying about centaurs?”

Snape would mock whatever explanation she gave, so Hermione simply handed over Firenze’s letter.  And helped herself to another chocolate biscuit while he was distracted.  Why did the Department of Mysteries get the best treats?  They didn’t need to arrange meetings with half a dozen different species.  They just sat holed up in their basement offices doing fascinating research…and enjoying excellent biscuits and tea, apparently.

“And you think it would be advisable to bring me along on this little…adventure?”  Snape glared at the nearly-empty plate of biscuits, then at her.

“You’re the Head of the Department of Mysteries-”

“That’s classified, Granger.”

“-and you lived at Hogwarts for a while.  Hagrid mentioned that you would forage in the Forbidden Forest from time to time, which means you either know the centaur colony or know how not to irritate them.”

“Not interacting with them usually does the trick.”

“Then send a representative!”  Hermione was at the end of her rope, and she struggled to wrestle down her temper.  “Look.  I’m extending an invitation to all the Heads of Department.  Divination isn’t really my strong suit-”

“What?  Something Miss Granger doesn’t know?”

“-but I’m pretty sure someone in your department would be interested.  If there is someone you’d like to send, please let me know by next Thursday so I can make arrangements.”  She tipped the rest of her tea into her mouth.  “And with that, I’ll be going.  Thank you for the hospitality.”

She thought she heard Snape try to call her back, but she was already out the door at that point and decidedly did not want to backtrack.  He could send a memo like everyone else.

She didn’t hate Snape, exactly.  On the regular she actually found herself enjoying his dark, dry humour.  The problem was that he seemed to have it out for her, for some reason she couldn’t quite pin down, and it meant speaking with him was almost as much a chore as negotiating with the centaurs.

A shame, really.  The man was a treat to listen to: sharp intelligence wrapped in a deep, smooth voice.  She’d been tempted on more than one occasion to borrow Harry’s cloak and lurk in Snape’s office; he was downright pleasant when he was ignoring her existence.

With Snape’s involvement appropriately uncertain, Hermione moved on to the other department heads.

Gawain Robards, the Head of the Department of Magic Law Enforcement, declined to attend but did designate Harry as his representative.  Harry always jumped at the opportunity to visit Hogwarts; he was thrilled.

Percy Weasley, who presided over the Department of Magical Transportation with great pomp and circumstance, declined her offer on the grounds that centaurs made a poor mode of transportation.  Probably for the best, all things considered.

Sarah Chandel, Head of the Ludicrous Patents Office in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, agreed to attend on behalf of her entire department, which had been too absorbed by a Quidditch game on the Wizarding Wireless to pay Hermione much mind when she came calling.

And on it went.  In theory, Hermione’s own department should have had the best showing, as they were responsible for cooperation with the centaurs…but that was rather the problem.  Not one single member of the DRCMC volunteered to attend the centaurs’ event, not even her boss, Tom Warbeck (no relation to the famous singer).  They all knew exactly what interacting with the centaurs meant.  Tom had given Hermione a shaky little smile, patted her gingerly on the shoulder, and mentioned that she was probably going to be Department Head someday anyways so she may as well start ‘networking.’

Arse. This was why she was trying to transfer to Magical Law Enforcement.

By her self-imposed Thursday deadline, Hermione had accumulated a gathering of five: Harry, Sarah, Edward Scot from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, one of Kingsley’s secretaries with a very Irish name Hermione couldn’t properly pronounce, and Hermione herself.  Snape hadn’t even bothered responding.

The pang of disappointment almost overrode her anger.

Because it wasn’t that Snape had been busy, no: somehow, he’d managed to be in her presence more in the past week than he had in the two years they’d been colleagues.  It seemed like every time she turned around, there he was: dark and menacing and ignoring her.  He was in the cafeteria when she ate lunch, in the atrium when she started or ended her day, in the little cafe a few blocks down where she grabbed an afternoon tea…

Why was Snape hanging out in a cafe, anyways?  He had excellent tea and biscuits delivered right to his desk with a flick of his fingers.

Hermione was forced to admit that Snape might not be the only one able to hold a grudge.

The group had agreed to meet at ten o’clock at night on the 31st in the Ministry atrium, where a portkey to Hogsmeade would be waiting for them.  With some assistance from Firenze - a difficult endeavour, as he refused to use an owl himself and relied on the other staff to send and receive his mail - Hermione had come up with some suitable gifts for the occasion.  She didn’t know what the centaurs wanted with occamy feathers or shed mola skin, but Firenze had assured her that both would be welcome and appropriate-

“Are those…legal, Granger?”

Hermione’s heart nearly stopped.  She whipped around to find Snape - of course - leaning against a section of the atrium wall that had definitely been empty before.

“Um.  Hello, Snape.”

He gave her a slow nod, rich with mockery.

“They are, actually; I have permits and everything.  Can I help you?  Only, we’re getting ready to leave soon-”

“Quite.  It appears I shall be joining you.”

She’d been afraid of that.  “I…didn’t realise you were interested.  You didn’t say…”

“Didn’t I?  Hmm.  The memo must’ve gotten lost on its way upstairs.  It is such a…long…way from the Department of Mysteries up to Beasts and Beings.”

The little smirk on his face told her that it was very likely no such memo had been written, let alone lost.  Also, her utter hatred for people calling her department “Beasts and Beings” probably showed clearly on her face.

“I’m afraid the portkey is only designated for five-”

“Oh, Scot won’t be joining us.”

Snape’s grin had turned downright malicious, and Hermione glanced away to avoid doing something she’d regret.  ‘Reformed’ the man may be, but everyone knew he could easily wipe the floor with the entire Auror department if he wanted to.  He’d probably get away with it, too.

Thankfully, her attention was grabbed by the arrival of Harry, who’d somehow managed to pry himself away from his wife unprompted.  In spite of Snape’s assistance during the war, in spite of Harry’s testimony at Snape’s trial, the two of them would never be friends.  Sometime between the end of the war and Hermione taking up her current role, they had settled into an equilibrium: unless their duties required it, both of them simply pretended the other didn’t exist.  It was like turning and greeting Harry had erased Hermione from Snape’s mind entirely.

Perfect.  If they could just…not interact, Hermione was sure they would get through this.

There was no way she was going to get through this.  Despite ignoring Harry entirely, Snape had been strangely hospitable.  No one had questioned his presence or Scot’s absence, so there’d been no opportunity to call him out on his undoubtedly shady tactics.

Once the team had arrived on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, Snape became the natural leader of the group.  He was, after all, the most familiar with the terrain, and had kept Sarah from Ludicrous Patents from falling into two different suspiciously-placed animal dens.

Sarah must not have attended Hogwarts, from the starry-eyed looks she kept giving Snape.  Poor woman, Hermione thought, not really sure what about the obvious hero-worship grated on her nerves so badly.

The walk also highlighted just how long Snape’s legs were.  Snape’s legs weren’t something Hermione thought about very often, but the man was clearly in shape.  Harry could keep up fine - bloody Auror training - but the witches were struggling.

“Keep up, Granger,” Snape called without even turning around.

Yet again, she wondered why the man hated her.  Kingsley’s Irish secretary was even slower than she was, but Hermione was the one who got called out.  Of bloody course.

“You alright?”

Hermione glanced up to find that Harry had hung back to walk with her.

“Yes.  Fine.  Sorry.  I didn’t realise I was this out of shape.”

Harry shrugged.  “At least it’s a nice night.  The weather witch on the Wireless said it might rain.”

Typical.  Magical folk thought they were so much more advanced than Muggles, but weather divination was about as reliable as meteorology, all things considered.

The clearing they (finally) stopped in was too circular to be natural.  The tall trees of the forest surrounded a small hollow, gently sloping towards a large circular stone in the centre.  Around the stone, the ground was covered in carefully tended grass interspersed with flowers, but something seemed…off.

Upon closer inspection, she realised that the flowers were almost all blooming out of season.  The witch hazel that dotted the treeline was natural, but the globeflowers that waved in the gentle autumn breeze should have been gone with summer, and the sweet little primroses should be dormant until early spring.

Centaurs were notorious for their stringent respect for nature, often veering into folly.  Hermione had personally seen centaur foals die from lack of basic medical treatment and homes burn down due to uncleared brush; they would rather let nature take its course than accept any intervention, especially from a witch.

Why, then, were flowers blooming so wildly out of season?

“A magical locus,” Snape murmured at her elbow.  The sound of his deep, rich voice sent goosebumps down her arms.  “The power of this place, at this time…it is an honour that we are allowed to attend.”

Oh, excellent.  Snape clearly knew what was happening here.  Divination was entirely bunk, in Hermione’s opinion, but perhaps she should have gotten the basics down at some point.  It would have saved her some embarrassment, especially as Snape leaned closer and asked, “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?”

The little stings that pricked her eyes only compounded her humiliation.  “I’m here as an observer,” she whispered.  She was a strong, stoic witch.  She was an up-and-coming professional.  She would absolutely survive her former teacher heckling her over her lack of knowledge.  Again.

But oh, in that beautiful glen, surrounded by impossible flowers, it seemed like too much all at once to face his scorn.

His scorn, surprisingly, never came.  In an uncharacteristic act of mercy, Snape simply took her elbow - long, elegant fingers barely discernible through the sleeve of her woollen coat - and led her into the hollow.  The centaurs were gathered in odd groups, in no organisation she could discern, but one centaur in particular looked up as the pair approached.

Remembering her manners, Hermione bowed.  “Magorian - it’s an honour to see you again.”

“Hermione Granger.”  The centaur’s gaze flicked to the man beside her.  “And Severus Snape.  Your arrival was fated.”

Undoubtedly.

There was a particular formality to handing over the gifts she’d brought, and Hermione thought she performed it rather well.  Magorian, in her limited experience, always had a bit of a Malfoy look about him - arrogant and disdainful - but he didn’t comment as he accepted her offerings, so hopefully there had been no major insult.

“Enjoy your time with us,” Magorian sniffed as he cantered off to join a group of his kin.

Snape led her to a fallen log that appeared to be embedded in the soil but clear of both moss and insects…at first glance, at least.  She sat gratefully and managed not to flinch when he deigned to occupy the other half of the log.

The actual event was rather anticlimactic, in Hermione’s opinion.  The ambiance was lovely - the sweet fragrance of flowers and soil and moss and grass with a sharp hint of something dangerous, the chill of the air tempered by whatever magic surrounded the hollow and the subtle warmth of Snape next to her - but there wasn’t much to see in the sky.

Snape, at least, seemed suitably impressed, and the centaurs appeared pleased by how the evening had gone.  Sarah looked like she’d rather be watching a Quidditch match, the Irish secretary was half-dead on her feet, and Harry had that odd look on his face that meant he was thinking hard about something.

Hermione decided to tentatively count the night as a win.  Assuming, of course, that they were able to get back out of the Forbidden Forest in one piece.

“Come along,” Snape grumbled, bundling Sarah and the Irish witch in front of him and leaving Harry and Hermione to trail behind.

As she turned to follow him, Hermione caught something out of the corner of her eye.  It couldn’t be…could it…?

It was.  Bright, luminescent, and beautiful beyond words, a small herd of unicorns stepped into the hollow.  The centaurs paid them little mind, as if this was an everyday occurrence for them (and, indeed, it quite possibly was), but Hermione was enthralled.

It had been years since she’d seen a unicorn, and then it had just been the odd pair Hagrid had bribed into compliance.  Seeing them there in the hollow, wild and free, mothers tending to young foals as the other adults watched over the herd, moved Hermione deeply.

Watching the unicorns felt a bit like falling in love: like the giddy edge of sleep on Christmas morning, like sitting in the cafeteria after a long morning listening to Snape drone on to one of his subordinates.  She wanted to approach, drawn in by the beauty of the scene, while simultaneously fearing her presence would disturb them.

“Granger?”

The unicorns looked up at the sound of Snape’s voice, the entire group taking several steps back.

Hermione turned, wanting to snap something nasty at him for ruining the moment, until she caught the look on his face.

He’d been just as affected as she had, she realised.  He, too, had seen the ethereal, breathless glory of the unicorn herd, had felt their influence.  But unicorns were creatures of light, the ultimate creatures of light by some estimates, and Snape was…grey at best.

What could that possibly be like, to comprehend and appreciate such beauty while also facing their unequivocal rejection?

For one moment, Hermione forgot that Snape hated her.  She forgot that he’d been nasty to her through school, that he spared no opportunity to mock her, that he could barely be decent to her best friend.  Her heart broke for him.  Reaching out to lay a hand on his arm was instinct, a simple desire to offer comfort in whatever way she could.

Then, of course, the reality of what she was doing crashed back down.  Attempting to play it off casually, Hermione let her hand fall and kept walking towards Hogsmeade and their portkey.

She could feel his eyes on her the entire walk.

It was the following Wednesday that Snape cornered her in the Ministry atrium.  He’d clearly been waiting for an opportunity; he’d passed her in the hall the past few days, but hadn’t even tried to speak with her.  The frustration of trying to explain the centaurs’ event to her utterly daft superiors probably showed on her face.

Her superiors had finally given up and delegated the review of her report to a faceless underling, who’d just rubber-stamped the thing without question.  Normally that would have irritated Hermione - she’d put quite a bit of work into that report, after all - but she was just glad to be done with the whole thing.

It was into that haze of blissful triumph that Snape’s voice cut.  “Granger, a moment, if you would.”

Her shock was twofold: Snape wanted to speak with her?   And it sounded more like a request than a demand?

She trotted over to him like a good little minion.  The atrium was nearly empty - it was quite late, and the only ones around were the few people who cared about their jobs and the Unspeakables.  They were alone in the normally bustling hall.

Snape cleared his throat.  “I apologise for keeping you.  I wished to extend my gratitude for your offer to attend the event last week.  It was an honour.”

“...Yes, of course.  I’m glad you were able to make it.”

She found, to her surprise, that she actually was.  Snape had been different that night: he hadn’t insulted her once, that she could remember.  He could have, too, when he realised just how lost she was, but instead he’d…helped her, in a way.  It was enough to make something deep in her chest, something she’d firmly suppressed the last few years, give a little flutter.

Snape pursed his lips like he’d bitten into something sour.  “I have…one other order of business, if you have the time.”

“I have time, sure.”

He shifted on his feet.  Hermione blinked.  She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so…expressive.  Well, aside from the occasions when he’d been downright furious.

“I wish to express my admiration for you, Miss Granger.”

She blinked up at him, then glanced down at her feet.  They were still planted on the marble floor of the atrium.  Funny; she was pretty sure she’d felt the entire world tilt a little on its axis, but there it was, still as solid as she remembered.  “Your…admiration?”

“I find that you are someone I wish to know better.”

Oh.  Oh.   He was flirting with her.  Was he flirting with her?  Was this how flirting went?  She wasn’t the sort of girl boys normally flirted with.

“You…but you hate me?”

“Granger?”  Hermione turned to see Tom looking at the pair of them from across the atrium.  She hadn’t realised he’d been in his office so late; he hadn’t responded to her knock.  “Everything alright, there?”

Was she alright?  She glanced back at Snape.  She still wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t some bizarre hallucination brought on by the cafeteria curry (she’d always known it was a bit dodgy), but on the off-chance it was real…it had to have taken some impressive courage to approach her.

The little flutter intensified.

“Yes,” she told Tom, smiling.  “Unspeakable Snape and I were just having a small chat.”  She turned back to Snape.  “Perhaps we could continue this in my office?  I believe this is going to take longer than a few minutes, and it’s quieter there.”

Snape narrowed his eyes, but nodded slowly.

The elevator ride up to the fourth floor was exceedingly awkward.  Hermione didn’t dare break the silence, and from the look on Snape’s face he wasn’t keen to do so either.  The only relief was that they were nearly the only people in the building, so there were no other stops.

Hermione had her own office for logistical reasons only.  She was famous, which meant reporters would sometimes overrun the rest of the department looking for her.  She was also notorious for her ability to occupy the entirety of whatever space she was put in, a bit like a cat; closeting her behind a closed door ensured that her chaos was, at least somewhat, contained.

The thought struck her as her hand reached for her office door: it was going to be messy.  Messier than normal, even.  She’d been navigating office politics for the past few weeks.

Snape, with his enormous office that was always swept meticulously clean, was going to have a fit.

It would solve her conundrum, she thought darkly.

“Sorry about the…the state of things,” she muttered as she pushed the door open.

It was…worse than she remembered.  A flick of her wand organised a portion of the papers back into the three separate folders they’d originated from.  Her mail went into her mail basket - though it had to be shrunk to fit - revealing her favourite quill, which had been missing for two weeks.

At least something good had come out of this mess.

“Please have a seat,” she said, clearing a stack of books off the visitor’s chair that hadn’t been used since that time Harry had stopped by…goodness, it had been months ago, now.

Snape sat, perhaps a bit gingerly, the beginnings of a sneer already forming on his face.  Oh, he certainly had to be regretting his choices.  He wouldn’t be the first, Hermione supposed.  Her relationship with Ron had died in much the same way: she was too bossy, too pushy, not attentive enough.  She lost hours - days, sometimes - to research and failed to prioritise the people who mattered to her.  Snape…Snape was probably considering how to extract himself from this conversation.

She’d seen pictures of Lily Potter.  There was nothing in Hermione that could inspire the kind of devotion Harry’s mum had been worthy of.  A brain on legs, that’s all she was; and she had it on good authority that they weren’t even great legs, at that.

“Look,” she said, her confidence dying a quiet death beneath the piles of notes still littering her desk, “I’m…I’m sorry.  I’m not sure what to do.”

Snape remained silent for a long moment, then muttered under his breath, “Me either.”

And just like that, Hermione felt loads better.  Maybe…maybe she hadn’t scared him off after all?  “It was quite a shock.”

“I’m sure.”

“I thought you hated me!”

“So you’ve said.”

“I…you just sprung this on me!”

“In my defence, I’m out of practice.  The last time I was trying to get a pretty girl’s attention I dropped half a tree on her Muggle sister’s head.”

She stared at him, feeling her face flush.  The compliment hit her with the force of a bludger, which was probably why the only response she could come up with was, “I don’t have any Muggle sisters.”

His lips quirked - genuinely, this time.  “Hence my dilemma.”

“So…what now?”

The little smile vanished under a dark scowl.  “Well, traditionally, this is the point where you either express mutual interest or tell me to sod off.  Granted, you’ve made your position rather plain, but I’d appreciate some clarity if you don’t mind.”

She’d…made her position rather plain?  “Look, I’m sorry for dragging you to my messy office; I didn’t mean to offend.  Could you…would you mind explaining this to me?”

“No.”

Alright.  “I see.  It will be a bit difficult for me to make a decision if I don’t know what I’m making a decision about.”

Snape shifted a little in his seat.  “What is there to decide?  You know who - and what - I am.”

“You make it sound like you’re expecting a rejection.”

His scowl spoke more eloquently than words.

“Won’t you offer some kind of an argument?  I’ve known you for a while, but I haven’t really known you.  I mean…we’ve been acquainted for years, and both of us have gotten the Rita Skeeter treatment, but aside from our rather confrontational encounters over imports we haven’t really spoken.  If you do want to get to know me better, could you tell me why?”

“No.  The less you associate with me, the better.”

“Well you’ve changed your tune,” she muttered.  Why would he be so open down in the atrium, in public, but so reticent in private?  Unless…ah.  Realisation dawned.  “Someone put you up to this.”

Contrary to his earlier fidgeting, Snape went still.

“Right.  I understand.  In that case, Unspeakable Snape, I believe you’ve done what you came to do.  Please see yourself out.”

She stared down at the top of her desk until she heard her door open, then close again.  She wasn’t sure what else she’d expected.

At least the fluttering in her chest had finally stopped.

Harry was hovering.  That in and of itself wasn’t suspicious - it was his habit when he was excited - but he wouldn’t tell her why.   Hermione had already ruled out a promotion, a pregnancy announcement, and his favourite lunch being served in the cafeteria.  He was just…there, and not doing his job.

“What?”  She finally cracked.  “Why have you been following me around all day?”

If anything, Harry looked even more giddy.  “Did you have a visitor last night?”

Hermione, who had managed to put the odd conversation from the previous night out of her mind, felt her heart sink to somewhere near her stomach.  “What do you mean?”

“I overheard Robards speaking with Warbeck.  He saw you and Snape being awfully friendly - said you went up to your office together.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “Harry James Potter, what did you do?”

It had been silly, a foolish misunderstanding.  Harry had been asked to give recommendations on how to allocate the research budget for the DMLE.  Snape had wanted some of that budget to go to his department.  The Department of Mysteries actually had some promising research projects, ones Hermione would have given anything to get her hands on, which would have stalled without-

Anyways.  Harry claimed Snape fancied her.  Something about how his eyes followed her whenever she entered a room.  Harry, bless his meddling little soul, had offered the DoM a substantial grant from the budget…but had strongly suggested that Snape ask her out.  (Which was…both surprisingly Slytherin and almost certainly immoral, but par for the course at the Ministry.)

Snape had said that there was no way she would agree.

Harry really should have known better than to bet against a Slytherin.

“You really turned him down?”  Harry said, deflating slightly.  “I really thought-”

“Harry, the man hates me.  He's insulted me in every conversation we’ve ever had.”

“But I thought…and last week, that thing with the centaurs…”

“Every conversation bar one, then.  Look.  He fulfilled his part of the bargain, just…just give him what he wants.”

Harry’s eyes went wide.  “The old bastard really did it, then?”

“If by that you mean he claimed he wanted to get to know me better, then refused to elaborate and told me I was better off not associating with him, then yes, he did it.”

“…Ah.”

“‘Ah’ indeed.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Mione.  I guess…I really thought he fancied you.  And I know you had a crush on him back in sixth year-”

“Oh, don’t you dare use Truth or Dare against me!”

“-and Ginny says you still sort of fancy him-”

“Your wife is dead to me!”

“-so I figured, well, why not?”

Her desk, Hermione decided, was her one true friend.  It was the only one who’d never betrayed her.  “If you meddle in my love life again, Harry,” she muttered into her comforting little piles of notes, “I will pickle your bits and send them to your wife as a trophy.”

Harry left pretty quickly after that.

Hermione drove everyone away, in the end.

Confessing her old crush on Snape had been a massive mistake.  She and most of her year-mates - the survivors, at least; and wasn’t that a sobering thought - had gotten together for drinks at Grimmauld Place a few weeks before Harry and Ginny’s wedding.  It had been a cross between a class reunion and a stag-do, except that the ladies in attendance were clothed.

She’d thought she had taken her booze well…right up until Seamus had asked her who her most embarrassing crush was and she’d blurted out…

Well.

If she’d known it would come back to bite her so harshly, she would’ve stayed stone cold sober the whole night.

Ginny, of course, was a menace, and had dragged the entire sordid story out of her over the following days.  Not for the first time, Hermione resolved to watch her words around her surprisingly sneaky friend.

Hermione capped off her Week from Hell by stopping by Hogwarts.  Minerva wanted an update on how the centaurs’ event had gone, and how Hermione’s career was developing, and how all her favourite former students were getting on…

Thankfully, she didn’t ask about Snape.

At the end of their meeting, feeling rather uplifted and confident from her former teacher’s praise, Hermione decided to take a wander through the Forbidden Forest.  She didn’t consciously decide to seek out the unicorn herd, but when she stumbled across them in a dark copse she had to admit that a part of her had been hoping she'd see them.  Again, that supernatural peace flowed over her.

She would, eventually, forgive Harry and Ginny for humiliating her.  In time, she was sure she would even forgive Snape.  It wasn’t his fault that he’d been roped into Harry’s silliness.

She had buried her feelings for him before; she would survive.  Snape would disappear into the depths of the Department of Mysteries with his funding like a dragon, and when he resurfaced he’d return to mocking every other word that came out of her mouth.  They would return to normal.

Normal was good.  Safe.  Normal didn’t feel like something had been ripped out of her and exposed to open air, stepped on repeatedly, and shoved back inside her chest, dirty and bruised.  Normal didn’t make her check the corners of rooms and the ends of hallways, half-expecting someone to be lurking just outside her peripheral vision, teasing her with his proximity.

Normal was…lonely.

A unicorn foal, shimmering gold in the autumn afternoon light, came up to where she’d perched on a fallen log.  Hermione reached out, letting it examine her hand, before carefully running her fingernails along his nose and up to the little nub of his horn.  He leaned into her hand like an oversized cat.

The herd was less devastatingly beautiful in the daylight, if no less impressive.  A city girl at heart, she’d never spent much time with horses outside the odd glimpse at a fair or while travelling with her parents.  Her childhood fascination with ponies and unicorns hadn’t prepared her for how big they were.  The tallest of them - likely the oldest males - towered over her, their backs level with the top of her head.

The feeling of peace that had descended on her shattered abruptly when a crack sounded through the forest.  The foal she’d been petting whickered and dashed back to the safety of the herd, flying hooves barely missing her knee.  The adults, in turn, backed away warily.

Even before she heard the muffled cursing from behind her, Hermione knew who it was.

She stood to go.  It couldn’t be too far to the edge of the Hogwarts wards, and unlike some people, she didn’t have residual Headmaster privileges like being able to apparate on the grounds.

For a glorious moment, she thought he hadn’t seen her, that she’d gotten away.

“Granger?”

She hung her head.  Of course she couldn’t be so lucky.  She turned and gave him a small nod, mustering her reserve of Gryffindor chutzpah.  “Unspeakable Snape.”

He said nothing further, so she turned back around and carried on.

She got two steps.

“Let go of me,” she snapped, dodging away from him.  He hadn’t grabbed her, exactly - simply put a large, warm hand on her upper arm - but it made her heart pound.  Probably for all the wrong reasons, admittedly, but she could at least pretend it was because she hadn’t liked being touched on her arms ever since Malfoy Manor.

“...Apologies,” he muttered, backing away and raising both hands.

“Well?  What do you want?  There’s no one here to impress.”

“...What?”

“Harry told me about his meddling.  Look - I’m sorry you got caught up in his nonsense, but there was no need to be cruel.   You got what you wanted, didn’t you?  Just…just leave me alone, alright?”

To her utter humiliation, Hermione felt tears rolling down her cheeks.  She was, she realised, doomed to forever make a fool of herself in front of this man.

She turned to go, drying her eyes and her nose on her sleeve.  Like him, she had no one to impress.

“Potter was right.”

Her feet stopped.

Her heart stopped.

“...What did you say, Snape?”

“Potter was right.  I…oh, blast it all.  I do fancy you, Merlin take my black soul.”

She stared at him, residual tears leaking out of her too-wide eyes, but she couldn’t bear to look away.  “You do not!”

“I believe I know my sensibilities better than you do.”

“But-”

“If you claim I hate you again, Granger, I shall grow angry.”

“Hermione,” she whispered. “My name is Hermione.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then use it, please.”

He huffed.  Rolled his eyes.  Straightened his shoulders, and faced her with the solemnity of a condemned man before the Wizengamot.  “Hermione.  I…apologise for the way I have behaved.  I was…no.  There is no excuse.  I am, as I’ve said, a bitter old man.  I have no expectations that you shall forgive me, but you deserve an apology.”

She did, and she appreciated it.  “Did you follow me?”

He blinked.  “...No.  I come here from time to time, following the herd’s path, to collect ingredients.  Sometimes I can find tail hairs or shed horns, and certain plants grow especially well along their usual routes.”

“I see.”  She looked him over.  “I never knew you returned so often.  There’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

He looked back at her, silently.  Awaiting judgement.

“You asked, the other day, for a chance to get to know me better.  Do you still want it?”

For one, two, three heartbeats, he simply looked at her.  Then, something inexplicable moved in his dark eyes, something that stole her breath away, just like that first glimpse of the unicorn herd.

“Yes.”