An Offer She Couldn't Refuse

Chapter Two:
Nighttime Visitor

By the lake in the twilight, Hermione could not suppress a giggle. A companion? What the hell did that mean? Did he want a roommate, a dinner companion, what? Leave it to a Slytherin to be so ambiguous (likely deliberately) when trying to wrangle a commitment from another person. And she was dealing with a consummate Slytherin. If she so chose.

It was awfully convenient. Just when she was despairing about her future, the great greasy bat rides in on his… white horse? She snorted. More like silver and green thestral. And offered an answer to all her problems. Money and probably housing (it seemed like this assistant thing would be a 24/7 deal), and from there she could take care of herself, sort out her priorities, figure out the next step. With a cozy resting place in between.

It was too good; she couldn’t pass it up. She had to go to Professor Snape, now. She could not jump into the situation without a full understanding, and she was quite certain there would be no full disclosure until they were face to face.

Hermione walked briskly to the owlry to send notice of her intent. She doubted the professor would be pleased if she simply turned up on his doorstep, even though he had invited her, in a manner of speaking. Pulling parchment and a quill out of the bag she kept with her out of habit (one never knows when note-taking will be necessary), she jotted a quick note which she felt was more than a little awkward.

Professor-

I am interested in your proposal, but I think we need to talk about the specifics of this arrangement. I would like to request a meeting with you at your earliest convenience, preferably this evening. Please reply by return owl; I will be waiting.

-Hermione

She did not know any other way to sign such an odd correspondence. Pacing the owlry, she struck an imposing figure in the half-light. Thank goodness the owlry was devoid of students—not an odd situation for this time of year. They would be seeing most of the people they typically wrote in the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours, anyway.

Mercifully the wait for a reply was not long. The school owl could be seen by the light of the moon, flying at break-neck speed back to its perch, likely displeased by getting such urgent use before its hunting time.

Hermione removed the scroll from the fussy bird’s beak, narrowly avoiding what was sure to have been a rather nasty bite. Unrolling the parchment, she read the spider-web fine print that was scrawled across the inside.

Come on then, if you must. My office, ten minutes.

She snorted and rolled her eyes. He couldn’t even be bothered to compose a complete sentence. Or sign the blasted thing.

Ten minutes… she would have to run. But she could probably make it. She was never the runner that Harry or Ron was, and would have to take a moment to collect herself once she reached the dungeons. She could take the stairs a little slower, she supposed. Probably best, that, because she was not always known for her grace.

Taking off at what was, for her, top speed, Hermione flew through the castle attracting more attention than she originally intended. Where could the head girl be running to? Classes were over, she had no research, no assignments due by 10 pm or midnight… maybe she just had one last pressing question. That had to be it.

Noting the unwanted attention she was drawing, Hermione wisely decided to take it down a notch. Her lungs were extremely grateful for the change of pace provided by the stairs to the dungeon.

‘Great,’ she thought, running her hands over her hair trying to discourage the rampant frizz that her flurry of activity had caused. ‘How -could- I be so forgetful?’

She knew the answer, whether or not she was willing to admit it to herself. For a long time, she had nursed a little “thing” for Professor Snape—the classic Shy-Bookworm-falls-for-Unattainable-and-Inapropriate-Dangerous-Man syndrome, she supposed. Such utter crap was the basis of virtually every Muggle romance novel in her mother’s vast collection. But in the back of her mind, Hermione knew that the best fiction always contained more than a smattering of reality—what made it so good was that it was the impossible made plausible.

All of a sudden, memories of Harry’s overtly disastrous Occlumency lessons came flooding into her mind. Hermione knew she had to get off this train of thought unless she wanted her professor to know all about it. That was intimidating. She couldn’t afford that mindset; she was here to do business and that was all.

Picking up the pace again, Hermione just managed to stop short of the dungeon door, where she had intended to knock. That was not necessary, for as she turned the corner and put on the brakes Professor Snape had opened the door to his office. This was a source of both embarrassment and relief for Hermione, who was not entirely sure she could have stopped in time.

She did achieve precious control over her gait once inside the room, which was subdued and menacing as ever (apparently she had not just imagined that atmosphere when she was on a mission of blatant, unmitigated theft) in direct reflection of the dour man who worked there. In fact, as she stopped short just inside the door, he nearly ran into her.

He smirked and sidestepped her easily. Only once they were both in the office, door shut, and seated on opposite sides of the large desk, did he speak.

“Well?” he drawled, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“I’ll get straight to it, then,” she said, feeling very small and student-like (as opposed to almost graduated job-seeker) all of a sudden.

When he saw that she was struggling with what to say next, he added, “See that you do.”

Hermione took a deep breath and leaned forward in the chair, arms resting on the edge of his desk.

“As I said, I am very interested in what you have proposed, but I need specifics. What are my responsibilities, precisely?”

She had stayed vague on purpose, hoping against hope that she would not have to bring up the more uncomfortable side of this conversation.

Snape leaned back in his chair, looking bored and annoyed the way he did with particularly thick students.

“I believe I made your duties quite plain. You will be grading students’ assignments and aiding me in my personal work in research and development, as well as taking over my task of stocking the hospital wing.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” she said softly.

“Well, Miss Granger, perhaps you could enlighten me?”

Oh, that tone! It irritated her so. He knew perfectly well what she was referring to. He was doing this on purpose. Well, she wasn’t going to show him how she felt. Steeling herself, Hermione continued.

“You said you were seeking a companion,” she said levelly, maintaining his gaze, “and I want to know what that entails.”

Hermione noticed that her professor seemed to deflate somewhat; he should have expected this line of questioning. Hell, he shouldn’t have been intoxicated when he wrote the note… or so hung over he didn’t give a damn when he sent it.

He let out a great sigh and tried to figure out how to answer her.

‘It would be good to sound vulnerable,’ he thought. Which was as much an excuse to express how he didn’t want to believe he felt as it was anything else. He would have to reflect on this development later… and sober this time. But damn, it was difficult. Why did she have to make it so difficult?

‘Because this is really happening,’ he told himself, ‘it isn’t an impossible hypothetical anymore.’ And that had him, the bat of the dungeons, the long-time Death Eater and member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle, teacher to Neville Longbottom for seven years (seven and a half, really), perfectly terrified.

“I am not entirely sure…” he began in a low, silky tone which belied some deeper motivation or feeling Hermione could not fully identify. “I know only that I have spent a large portion of my time alone—frequently by my own choosing because the idea of company, and the available choices, were both unappealing to me. I am looking for change, Miss Granger. I do not wish to work alone, dine alone, and retire alone anymore.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Did he just admit that he desired her company? That she was appealing to him? In what sense?

__Wait__

Did he say, ‘retire alone?’

Damn him and his inability to answer.

“So,” she said, determined to get it all out in the open, “you want a coworker and a dining companion…” Hermione leaned forward on the desk again, “and what, exactly?”

“Miss Granger,” he leaned forward onto the other side of the desk, and it appeared that his head was suddenly extremely heavy, “I have never been one to -court- in the traditional sense… nor do I see such activities in my future. To that end, I would still like such companionship.”

Hermione sat in silence, trying to formulate a response.

“And now,” he said darkly, “our meeting has come to an end.”

He stood and walked to the door, holding it open expectantly, “Good night, Miss Granger. You may ‘sleep on it’ so to speak, but you must contact me by owl with your decision by nine in the morning, so that I may either make arrangements for your arrival or start seeking another assistant.”

Half-way through the door, Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by the slamming of a door in her face.


Well, now she had something to think about.