Hilltop Cottage

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, I am more than grateful! Hugs to Kizzy7 for beta\'ing and being an all-round good egg.

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When Hermione went into the kitchen to make more tea, Severus stood to stretch his leg. As his eyes scanned the mantelpiece, he noticed the photograph of Bertram Mellor, and he lifted it with interest.



Hermione watched him from the door of the kitchen, and she smiled to herself. For some reason she hadn’t yet managed to work out, she felt very happy to have Severus in her house. He could be as nosey as he wanted, and she would still welcome him.



‘That’s my great-grandfather, Bertram Mellor,’ Hermione said, offering Severus his tea.



‘I am aware of your family connection to New Mills, Miss Granger. I wonder, however, how closely you have looked at this photograph?’ Severus stared down at her, his face a mask of indifference.



Hermione faltered slightly. Something in Snape’s manner had changed, and she had no idea what she had done, but he was definitely not one bit pleased.



‘I hardly look at it. It just sits there. This was his house, before he died.’ Hermione was perplexed. ‘Why do you ask?’



Severus took his tea and put the photograph in Hermione’s free hand.



‘Examine it and tell me what you see.’ Severus said softly.



He was watching her face carefully, and as her brow furrowed, he relaxed slightly. She obviously hadn’t studied the picture in any great detail, and his musings that she had been duplicitous were soon replaced with a sense of relief. She was truly Gryffindor to her frizzy roots. Severus suspected she would have a hard job being untruthful to anyone, even if her life depended on it.



Hermione stared at the photograph. Snape had obviously spotted something she hadn’t, but the picture seemed innocent enough. Her great-grandfather had always been a smart man. He was dressed in a dark coloured suit, complete with tie and waistcoat, and a trilby hat was set at an angle on his head. Tufts of grey hair poked out around his ears, and he was smiling slightly at the camera as if posing under duress. Hermione shook her head apologetically and looked up at Snape.



‘What am I meant to be seeing?’ she asked.



Snape rolled his eyes in such a familiar and yet exasperatingly superior manner that Hermione felt irritated. Holding the picture out of his reach, she took a step backwards and hardened her gaze as she looked at him.



‘I’ll look again, shall I? I get the feeling if I don’t see whatever it is, you’ll give me a bloody detention. Don’t forget, sir, that I am almost twenty years old. Not only am I no longer a child, I have never actually appreciated you treating me like an idiot.’



Almost immediately, Hermione regretted her outburst and gasped, putting her hand over her mouth in shock. ‘Where the fuck did that come from?’ she thought, trying to keep up as several things happened at once. The photograph dropped from her hand and fell to the floor, the glass in the frame cracking distinctly. At the same time, Snape put his mug onto the mantle in the place where the photo usually sat, then turned on his heel and walked from the house without a backward glance, leaving the door wide open.



Hermione stared after him for a moment before her feet started to move. She ran down the path to the wooden gate and looked down the lane. Snape was marching away from the house, and Hermione fumbled with the latch on the gate in her haste to catch him.



‘Professor!’ she shouted down the lane. He either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her, and she kicked out at the gate in frustration, stubbing her toe and bringing tears to her eyes.



When she looked again, Snape was nowhere to be seen, and she screwed her eyes tightly to stop the wail that threatened to break free.



‘Please come back,’ she whispered sadly.



***



Snape slammed the door of his house with such force that the ashes of his fire were disturbed by the sudden gust of air, swirling like grey dust onto the rug next to the hearth.



It had been against his better judgement to go to Granger in the first place, and now he knew why his gut feeling had told him to avoid her at all costs. The bloody girl really knew how to push his buttons, and despite her protesting, she really was still a girl to him. She had always managed to get under his skin one way or another, and she had managed it yet again after only an hour in her company. Snape gathered himself and took a deep breath. It was of no consequence. He had done what he felt he should, and there was no reason for them to have to tolerate one another again. For tolerate him she most certainly had.



Of course she must bear a grudge, because he really had been despicable to her at Hogwarts. During the first year, it was because he was wary she would already know of him through her great grandfather. There had been no love lost between Mellor and Eileen Snape, and she had christened him the ‘Vulture’ after a particularly steep rent increase.



In subsequent years, Granger’s friendship with Potter was reason enough to dislike her, but the thing that had frustrated him the most was that he had to teach her then, a time when he couldn’t hone her skills, allow her intelligent insights, or compliment her abilities. They might have achieved great things together had he been able to teach her properly, but the opportunity had been denied them both. All because of the fucking war. His own extra curricular activities had driven him to breaking point, and there were times during classes that he had simply gone through the motions, unaware of what or whom he was teaching. Their chance had gone, and he had failed her and made her hate him in the process. It could have been so very different, but he didn’t allow himself the luxury of what might have been. Loving Lily had taught him that such thoughts were just a waste of time.



Severus ran his fingers through his hair and walked despondently to his armchair. Her words were still ringing in his ears, and a part of him felt foolish for walking out as he had. But the overwhelming shame at her outburst had been too much to bear. She hadn’t invited his presence into her house, and he was sure she wouldn’t have wished it. Worse yet, she had obviously been emotional for some reason, and she must be mortified at him observing her tears. Thank god she hadn’t felt the need to explain herself. He had no desire to listen to the tale of her broken heart, for surely that had triggered her outburst. What other reason could she have for needing to hide from the rest of the world?



Severus stretched his legs and felt his eyes closing. He had a headache, and it wasn’t eased by the memory of Granger’s usually wide, brown eyes narrowed in anger as she spat her vitriol in his direction.



***



Hermione decided to fill the void left after Snape by having a bath and trying to forget about it. The bathroom was small and set in the eaves of the cottage, with the bath nestled under the sloping ceiling. There was a small frosted window, edged with the frilliest pink chintz curtains Hermione had even seen. It was at floor height, and its situation had puzzled her until she realised that the floor had been raised to give ceiling height to the room below.



The taps were on full, and steam started to rise and fill the room as Hermione unstoppered a bottle of scented oil. Lavender was her favourite, and right now, she needed its relaxing properties as well as its wonderful aroma. She added a generous splash to the water and turned the taps off tightly to stop them dripping. Sorting out the dodgy plumbing was one job that would have to wait. Hermione slipped off her white, towelling bathrobe and fixed her hair into a messy bun atop her head. She dipped her toes into the water gingerly, swirling the bath oil and inhaling deeply. Slowly, she eased herself into the hot water, allowing it to wash over buttocks and thighs until she was lying with her head supported by the curved end of the bath.



Closing her eyes, Hermione immediately thought of Snape and bit her lip. It was only an hour since he had stormed away from her, and yet it already felt like it was just some sort of surreal dream. And still, her skin tingled as she remembered his tall frame and sombre countenance, standing in front of her fire and staring down at her. He still managed to intimidate her, so how had she found the courage –the ridiculously rash courage--to lash out at him in such a rude and un-Hermione-like way? Not that what she said wasn’t true, but she had never spoken in such a way to someone she respected. Her cheeks blushed at the memory of it, and she shook her head and opened her eyes, forcing her mind to concentrate on things other than Snape. But even as she grabbed her bath scrub and squeezed the foaming bath wash into the nylon fibres, the image of his face hung like a spectre in the back of her mind. With a resigned sigh, Hermione knew she wouldn’t settle unless she apologised to him. She hit the bath water with the flat of her palm in frustration.



‘He is going to just love that, damn it!’ she said out loud, imagining the smug look on his face.



Half an hour later, Hermione was sitting at her small dining table with a block of writing paper and a Parker pen in her hand. She had poured herself a large glass of wine to fortify herself, but so far, she had two attempted apologies and had screwed them both up into small crumpled balls, which she had then thrown in the direction of the fireplace. She took a breath and tried again.



‘Dear Professor Snape,



If you are reading this and haven’t incinerated my letter already, then thank you for giving me the time to explain myself.



I am truly sorry for my unnecessary outburst earlier today. As you are aware, my emotions are a little frayed at present. Nevertheless, this does not excuse my rudeness.



After all, you only wanted me to look at the photograph more closely…’



‘Shit,’ Hermione muttered to herself. She had completely forgotten the photograph. Her eyes scanned the room until she spotted the picture on the floor in front of the fireplace, surrounded by shards of broken glass. She walked quickly to it, lifting it by the corner and shaking the glass from the faded print. She brought it back to the table and turned her reading lamp onto it. Taking a sip of wine, she perused the photograph carefully from the top to the bottom, examining each section to find what she had previously missed.



With a gasp, Hermione’s eyes widened in shock. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed it before, and yet now she couldn’t tear her eyes from the image. Bertram Mellor was standing in front of a row of very familiar Victorian houses. The image was a little shaky, but there was no mistaking what she was seeing. Staring out between the net curtains of one of the houses was a young, pale, and terribly thin face, framed with black hair.



‘Oh, no,’ she whispered.