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Chapter Text

The clock on the wall was refusing to move any faster. It was twenty minutes until Hermione could flee the ministry after another day that felt like an eternity. In front of her on a wooden desk that would have looked at home in a middle-class townhouse in London was a report on the hydrodynamics of paper kayaks, untouched since she’d set it there an hour ago following another meeting to present its contents. There were several notes stuck to its pages with things to revise, and not for the first time, she couldn’t seem to bring herself to lift her quill.

Instead, she gave in to the itch of her fingers and opened one of the bottom drawers, only to swear under her breath when she found it empty. Had she really gone through her stash so quickly? She’d just replenished on Friday, hadn’t she? A moment of panic tore through her before she stopped it. She was being silly. She could get through twenty minutes.

The words on the report blurred as she grit her teeth. Revising the report would be as much of a waste of her time as staring at the clock, or sitting with Crookshanks once she got home trying to drown out her thoughts with a book. There were only so many ways to say the same thing, so many citations available to pull from—and she had found them all already, and still her boss said revise, revise, revise.

What she really needed to revise was her whole bloody life, but she had no idea where to begin. Working at the ministry, the promise of making a difference had been her dream since she was thirteen, and yet the only difference she’d made since beginning her work four years ago was depleting stocks of paper and ink. She might as well be selling bottomless cauldrons to pixies, for all her efforts had accomplished. It was the same no matter the department, no matter the boss, and proper promotions where she would get to make her own decisions always seemed just out of reach.

In the next desk over, Will Schafer began to hum along with the scratching of his quill on his own report, and Hermione’s nostrils flared as her head tilted towards the ceiling. At the end of the rows of desks, she could hear Joanne Jitterby’s loud, trilling laughter as she spent the end of her day chatting with Midge Fleabody. As far as Hermione knew, their jobs were as pointless as Hermione’s, except they all seemed perfectly happy about it.

Schafer caught her glaring, and his song ended with a sharp squeak.

Hermione blew out a long breath through her nose to stop herself from screaming. “I’m going mad,” she muttered under her breath, glancing at the clock again. A whole two minutes had passed.

The last eighteen minutes of her day were spent shuffling pages, cleaning her desk, and reorganizing her purse. The moment the clock ticked over to five o’clock, she was gone. The ministry’s atrium was busy, the whoosh of fireplaces, pops of Apparition, and voices a constant din. Hermione kept her eyes down, away from the bronze statue that had replaced the grotesque monstrosity installed during Voldemort’s reign, but Harry’s and Ron’s gleaming metallic eyes still seemed to follow her to the long queues for the Floos. She joined the one at the farthest end.

Chewing on her lip, she stared at the wispy grey hairs escaping from a long braid that belonged to the wizard in front of her. Next to him was another wizard in coffee-coloured robes.

“Hear about the new butterbeer regulations coming out of Trading Standards?” said the braid.

“Bloody money grab by the bicorn farmers if you ask me. No way it gets passed the committee.”

“It might. Look at all those decrees coming out of Magical Safety.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her purse strap. Not every department of the ministry was useless—only the ones she seemed to work in. Maybe it was just her. If she moved to Trading Standards, would she be allowed to push forward her ideas, or would she be asked to write ten reports about them that would end up forgotten in a filing cabinet or abandoned half finished because of “changing priorities”? Would she even be allowed to transfer to Trading Standards, or would they tell her they didn’t think she was the “right fit” like Law Enforcement and the Department of Mysteries?

“Hey, move up,” barked the witch behind her, making her jump. A large gap had opened in the queue ahead of her, and she scurried forward.

A minute later, Hermione stepped into the flames, her voice dull as she said, “Diagon Alley.”

The cobbled street was busy with post-work shoppers and merchants heading home. Earlier rain made the stones slick beneath Hermione’s steady footbeats, and the sky was dark and covered in clouds, masking the twilight.

Her favourite apothecary was midway down the cobbled street, but having just been there on Friday for the same thing, she walked past and turned into Slug & Jiggers. Inside the shop was large, with warm wood shelves and small table displays of new stock. Without pause, Hermione stalked to the shelves nearest the counter and found the Pick-Me-Up Potions. St. Mungo’s would be horrified if they knew how many she took in a week—apparently more than she’d thought, given her empty drawer on a Wednesday—but lately they were the only things that got her through the day, along with copious amounts of coffee. She always kept a potion on her bedside table in case she couldn’t find the will to get out of bed; more days than not lately, she drank it.

She considered that maybe she should try and cut back, but still found herself going to the till with a dozen bottles. Back out on the street with their weight in her bag, Hermione sighed, peering at the sky, and turned back the way she came. She glanced at all the shops she passed, searching for happy faces through front windows, but found only busy people and darkness. The yellow lights from the lampposts made gold puddles under her feet. There was no reason not to Apparate home, but her flat would only have dinner, Crookshanks, and a book. The same thing every night. Going to the Leaky and getting pissed drunk instead was an enticing possibility, so she let her feet continue in that direction.

A shout yanked her attention from her melancholy thoughts. Red light burst in her vision, and she instinctively leapt into a doorway. A little ways up the street two hooded figures disappeared into Knockturn Alley. Hermione’s heart raced as she emerged from her hiding place. Memories of strange wizards, dark objects, and secrets filled her mind, and before she knew why, she was lifting her hood and hurrying after the strangers into the shadowed lane.

Slipping past darkened figures, she kept her eyes and ears sharp while glancing at questionable shops that looked even more imposing in the dark. Having only ever been as far as Borgin and Burkes, Knockturn was longer than she expected. Just past it, around a sharp corner, the alley stretched onward. She passed an apothecary that appeared to specialize in poisons, a fortune teller with ludicrous claims painted with violet charms on the window, and a pub where smoking patrons hunched outside of the bowl of yellow light that lit the pub’s entrance. She thought she recognized one hooded stranger opening the lopsided front door, but she couldn’t be certain. For a moment she considered following him, but instead continued on down the lane.

The ground was littered with rubbish: bits of wrappers, broken bottles, and scattered old papers turned to mush in the rain. It was under the flickering light of a second-hand clothing shop that she noticed a strange masthead on a discarded paper. It was folded carelessly and leaning against the brick wall, as if someone had tossed it aside. The masthead read Knockturn News.

Peering over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Hermione picked it up. The eves and the wall, thankfully, had kept it mostly dry. The front cover story was about a tax the Ministry of Magic was trying to impose on so-called ‘dark materials’; several retailers and manufacturers complained that the definition was too broad and leading to large price jumps in a number of essential goods.

A screeching noise made her jump, and she remembered where she was. “Stupid,” she whispered to herself, mentally checking the location of her wand in her pocket.

Looking around again, she pondered the road back towards Diagon Alley for only a moment before heading towards the pub. A rusting sign above the scummy windows proclaimed it the Ghoul & Goblin. Inside it seemed to be built at odd angles, as if made from scraps of wood that didn’t quite fit together. The tables and triangular bar were wedged between jutting walls, oddly-placed pillars, and more than one steep staircase. Hermione did her best to ignore the other patrons except to note that it wouldn’t seem odd if she kept her hood pulled over her face. The barman looked like what she imagined an old man would look like after too many years at sea, his bulbous nose and tiny, bird-like eyes the only landmarks amidst wrinkles that spread over his bronze skin like waves. He gave her a grunt as she ordered an ale in a low voice.

She took her pint and paper to a worn oak table wedged into an acute angle near the back. From her spot she could see a good portion of the room in front of her, and more importantly, no one sat at her back. Checking her wand once more for reassurance, she spread out the paper on the tabletop.

How was it that Knockturn Alley had a newspaper she’d never heard about? She was sure no one had ever mentioned it: not in the break room at work, not in meetings past or present, not at celebrations big or small, nor any of the myriad of situations she’d experienced since she was eleven. She had never seen it displayed next to The Daily Prophet and Hogsmeade Herald at Flourish and Blotts, and she was at the bookshop practically every weekend.

She’d intended to finish reading the front page story, but on a quick flip through, discovered most of the paper was filled with classifieds. Curiosity peaked, Hermione found herself scanning the little blocks of fine print text. All sorts of things seemed to be for sale: cursed chess sets, walking tables, flying teapots, pet bats, suspiciously cheap potions ingredients, and even a casket full of beetle eyes. Perhaps this was why she’d never heard about it: it all seemed like things only patrons of Knockturn Alley would appreciate.

Hermione read on, finding ads for business opportunities that appeared questionable, illegal, and legitimate. On the second to last page, she had to do a double take. About midway down was a column titled “PERSONALS & LIAISONS”.

Middle-aged wizard seeks adventurous witch. Must be okay with smell of dragon dung. Owl Box 302, London.

60-yr, many businesses, collector, some scarring, looking for sexy long-term companion. Owl Herald via Ghoul & Goblin.

Visit Britain’s premier brothel, The Scarlet Witch. Clean, reputable, discreet. Options to suit all tastes and desires. Visit us: 8008 Knockturn Alley, London.

Lola. Tall and slim. Reasonable rates. Will travel. Owl Box 492, London.

Pretty, curvy blonde. Company, fantasies, or simple pleasures. 30min minimum. Owl Box 1202, Hogsmeade to arrange.

I want to meet you! Companion for hire. 22, petite, busty brunette. Private Knockturn Alley location. Evenings and weekends. Owl Box 1553, London.

Hermione stopped reading. It was as shocking as a newspaper she’d never heard of before: the sale of flesh in Knockturn Alley. In her mind, such things existed only in the Muggle world, and then they had always been like graves of some old relatives, mostly forgotten. She’d seen Ron’s copies of Wizards’ World when they’d dated—seen the covers, but not read them, despite curiosity—so of course there must be a market for such things.

An uncomfortable knot formed in her belly as she read the final ad again. The witch could be her, except Hermione was a year older. She drank a long gulp of ale, her mouth turned down into a frown. Scanned the little boxes of witches selling their company and bodies. Had the 22-year-old brunette dreamed of sex work, or had she fallen into it? Was she happy? Did she find it fulfilling? Or was she like Hermione, hopeless, angry, and bored sick of nearly everything in her life, and only doing it because she had to in order to get by?

Look at her. Hermione had come here looking for some excitement because going home to her cat had felt too pathetic, and had ended up reading personal ads alone in a pub with her hood hiding her face. Thoroughly irritated with herself, Hermione left the paper and her half-finished pint on the table, weaved through the pub, and pushed outside. The night air was cool, a balm to her fractured emotions. She looked left, towards Diagon Alley, thought about Apparating home, and then, knowing she was a bloody fool, she turned right.

Something burned inside her, made her want to whip out her wand and send bright, explosive spells into the dark. At least then she’d have left broken buildings in her wake. It scared her, that she might prefer to be a villain than a shadow. Hunkering further into her cloak, she pushed onward, boots splashing through puddles.

The sign’s bright blinking light was stark against the darkness around it. There were no words, only the outline of a naked woman in a pointed hat, gyrating and waving at the street to come inside. She was the colour of blood, a heartbeat that pulsed against the grime of the alley and the darkness of the night.

Hermione’s feet stalled. She stared at the brothel. The Scarlet Witch, according to the ad in Knockturn’s paper. She fell back against the wall of a shuttered shop, watching the beckoning woman, imagining the people inside: smiling, naked witches, salacious wizards slipping them galleons, the constant sounds of sex. She jumped as the front door opened, cursing herself silently again.

A man appeared from inside, the red light etching his features in stark relief. There was a bright smile on his face and her breath caught in her throat as he strode towards her. Their eyes met for a moment, and she saw a completely average wizard. He nodded, and then disappeared behind her. Hermione turned back to the sign, her heart thudding, unsure why she was so affected.

She must have been in a trance, for there was no other reason not to sense the person approaching. The man stopped beside her, a black silhouette framed by the scarlet light. She couldn’t see his face, shadowed in a deep black hood.

“Hey, sweetheart, how much?” he asked, voice low and gruff.

It took Hermione’s brain a moment to decipher what he was asking. When it clicked, her eyes went wide. He thought she was a… a… prostitute!

“I… uh…” she stumbled, horror coursing through her and yet unable to get her tongue to tell him to go away. All she had to do was tell him he’d mistaken her. Say no, leave Knockturn, and go home to her safe, comfortable flat and her fluffy, affectionate cat. “I…”

The light flashed behind the man and something inside her pounded with it, drumming with her heartbeat. What would it be like? The other man’s smile flashed in her mind. She tried to find the stranger’s eyes beneath his hood but there was only the shadow of his face and two gleaming red lights flashing where his eyes should be.

“Are you selling or not?”

“Y—yes. Yes, I am. Selling.”

Why had she said that? She stared at him, her pulse roaring in her chest. The red light behind him made her feel blind.

“I won’t pay more than 20.”

“20 galleons?” Was that really what men paid for sex?

“An alley corner isn’t The Scarlet Witch,” he said derisively, then looked over his shoulder. “Do you have a place?”

“No.”

“Ten then.”

“Okay,” she found herself agreeing like someone else had taken over her body. “Ten.”

She thought she might be hyperventilating. Surely, she was not doing this. Was not accepting this man’s offer to pay for her body. If he found out who she was... If he told anyone… Ten galleons…

Humming thoughtfully, he motioned for her to follow. Stomach in her throat, she found her feet moving, her hand falling from the pocket that held her wand.

He was tall and his long cloak hung heavily against the ground, the ends wet and dragging on the cobblestones. He led her to a dark doorway, notched deeply into a stone building. The doors were boarded up. A sign read “DO NOT ENTER.” None of the light from The Scarlet Witch reached them. There was only a dim yellow glow from four doors down, its spread cut sharply by the wall.

“The—the money,” she stammered, remembering he hadn’t paid.

He reached into his purse and pulled out a stack of coins. The clink of each one echoed in the alcove as they dropped into her palm. They felt heavy—in her hand, then in her pocket.

She was doing this.

Feeling alien, she bent over, one hand against the door, and lifted her robes with the other. She heard him rustling with his own clothes. Felt the cool air as he shoved her cloak and skirt up further, over her back. His ankles bumped against hers and she let them spread her legs. Her breath sped, waiting. Rough hands pushed her knickers aside. She braced both hands against the door.

Colin had been her last lover, more than a year ago. This was not going to be like sex with Colin, who’d loved her. She couldn’t even tell if she was wet. The man didn’t seem to care though, and quickly nudged his cock into position between her folds.

She had her eyes open when he entered her. He stuck at first, but the sensation was not as bad as she expected. There were a few moments of tight pressure, and then her body relaxed as it accepted the intrusion. His cock felt like any others’ inside her.

The man grunted, adjusting their positions, and then began thrusting. It was odd, she thought, that she felt nothing; she thought she shouldn’t like this. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. A simple exchange of flesh.

Her breath puffing against the door, the smell of damp wood and earth in her nostrils, she held herself still as he fucked her. His hand was warm where he held her hip. Her fingers flexed against the scarred wood that held her up. It wasn’t long before his hips churned harder. He groaned, the sound of an engine turning over, and stuttered when he filled her.

When he pulled out a minute later, she stood and fixed her clothes, then tugged her hood more firmly forward as she turned around. She still couldn’t see his face. It didn’t matter whose cum now trickled into her knickers, but she would have liked to see his expression.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Nice cunt you got there,” he said. He tipped his head, a flash of white teeth catching the light, and disappeared back down the alley.

Hermione stared at the empty spot he vacated for nearly a minute, trying to decide how she felt about what she’d done. Reaching into her pocket to find the coins, she twirled the warm metal between her fingers as she remembered the feeling of him thrusting into her, the brief smile and compliment afterwards.

She should feel gross, disgusted with herself, right?

She should feel gross, but what she felt was strangely alive.

Chapter Text

How long could he last like this? It was a question Severus often pondered, was doing again as he stood in the conservatory of his flat. Rain pelted against the uneven red patio tiles in his courtyard garden and ran in rivulets down the glass roof. He sipped a cup of tea, the milky liquid warming his hands. He had no idea what time it was, but it didn’t matter. He had no meetings, nowhere he needed to be.

There was a time he relished this: the absolute peace of no one wanting a thing from him. Every minute of his days his own. Every day a middle finger to the two powerful wizards to whom he’d given too much and decided he should die for it.

Those days were gone.

The question swirled in his mind. He had not yet found an answer, but with each passing day, he felt nearer to it. Some days it felt tantalizingly close, like if he could get the energy to force himself from bed, he could brew the right potion and have his conclusion once and for all. Today his body didn’t feel like a lead weight dragging him under, however, and so the answer was not quite so tempting. He had even found the will to shower and dress. Odd for a day without a delivery.

A meow disturbed his melancholy contemplations. Turning away from the window, he peered down at his feet to find grey fur and pleading green eyes staring up at him.

“Despite your persistent belief, you are not starving, beast,” he told his cat. Cinder yowled her disagreement, and he rolled his eyes. “Bloody irritating creature,” he muttered, bending over to stroke her long back. She forgave him with a rumbling purr, and he scratched her cheek before deciding he might as well do something other than stare out the window at the rain.

Beyond the conservatory, the main living area was a rectangular room, the walls hidden behind packed bookshelves and art both framed and on canvas. An unlit wood stove sat in the corner next to a squashy sofa Severus occasionally fell asleep on. Cinder trotted behind Severus until she realized he wasn’t heading to her food dish in the kitchen, slowing her steps as she followed him into the bedroom, which was barren except for a large bed, a side table, and a wardrobe.

It took no time at all to get dressed into Muggle clothes since he always wore the same few things, today plain trousers and a soft turtleneck jumper. Days of flowing teaching robes were long over, though he still preferred dark colours. The sleeves near his wrists were beginning to fray, but it did not matter. The only people he’d see outside were Muggles and people who would hate him regardless of what he wore.

It was early days after the war when he’d sold his house in Cokeworth and moved to Oxford. Miraculously waking up alive in St. Mungo’s and avoiding Azkaban after the war had felt like a clean break, and he’d stupidly believed he would finally be able to start over and make his own life. It hadn’t taken long before he realized he’d only moved to another prison. It wasn’t the flat’s fault. The cell he lived in had no walls and no masters, but it trapped him nonetheless. Disappointed with the outcome of his trial, the wizarding public had condemned him to an island of their own making. One day he would leave it and the world, and no one would care.

It was not that day yet, however. He would not rule out tomorrow.

It was only a few blocks to Oxford University’s vast parks. A leather satchel hanging over his shoulder and an umbrella over his person, he strode through puddles to the closest green. The North Walk, a long path with trees on one side and a field on the other, led towards a junction at the River Cherwell, where he turned south to follow the river’s meandering route. The rain was loud on the water, the river high and flowing quickly after months of near-constant rain. It filled his ears with a rushing hum that matched the static in his mind. Feet moving mechanically, he marched until the bottoms of his trousers were heavy with rain. Before he could lose his will to do anything besides head home, he Disapparated from a copse of trees towards London.

Stepping into the Leaky Cauldron, he counted nine occupants including the barman but not himself, three exits, and no threats, but he was pretty sure the two wizards at a table to his right were in the middle of a shady deal. Severus ignored them and approached the bar, fingers flexing at his sides.

The magical world could exile him, but they couldn’t keep him out completely—not that they didn’t try. It was his last remaining pleasure: making those that wished him to disappear uncomfortable with his presence.

“Snape,” said Tom gruffly, gaze wary. His name caught the attention of the wizard sitting two stools down, who picked up his pint with a huff and moved off to a small table.

“The pie and a pint of lager.”

“Five galleons forty-two,” replied Tom, with a glare that communicated Snape better not complain about the price, despite it being double what was listed on the chalkboard menu behind the bar.

Severus put his galleons on the scarred wood counter with a sneer.

Tom snatched the coins. “Lucky I’m a welcoming chap,” he muttered under his breath.

“Lucky you like my galleons, you mean,” Severus retorted coolly.

“Aye, and don’t forget that’s the only reason I tolerate yeh. Drink up and bugger off, Snape.” He stuck a pint glass under the keg tap and pulled the handle down sharply.

“But you’re such pleasant company,” he said smoothly.

Severus could go to the Ghoul & Goblin for a fairer price and far less vitriol, but some days, a few snarky words with Tom were worth the extra galleons. The wizarding world could revile him all they wanted, but he would not be forgotten, not when he had the energy to piss someone off.

He watched the room while he ate, and then ignored the barman’s request to leave and picked up his book instead. For a little over an hour, he read and pretended he wasn’t the most vilified person in all of magical Britain, but a regular wizard enjoying an average lunch.

When he was finished, he exited back onto Charing Cross, and found a vacant alcove to Apparate east into the City, to the brutalist mass of concrete, brick, greenery, and water known as The Barbican. He let out a breath once he entered the gallery, a bright room with frame-covered walls.

Severus hadn’t always appreciated art. There hadn’t been so much as a crayon in his childhood, and Hogwarts’ talking portraits were noted only for their strangeness, and later, usefulness. But modern and contemporary art, both Muggle and magical, spoke to him in ways a talking portrait had never managed.

He’d discovered it largely by accident several years ago, while marching down a London road with his teeth and fists clenched with rage. That day he’d been rejected from yet another position St Mungo’s—hadn’t even been allowed to apply, despite more than meeting the qualifications—and had then been shouted at by its patrons and spat on by a witch while trying to leave. His feet had churned up the sidewalk, traveling in no particular direction, when he accidentally found himself on Cork Street. It was an electric yellow gourd that caught his attention, its form made up of polka dots. It looked magical, but it and the gallery it hung in were entirely Muggle. Over the next few months, he’d visited every gallery on Cork Street and some beyond. These days, he couldn’t find enough energy to keep up with the exhibition programs.

He hadn’t been to a gallery in months. Yet standing inside the Barbican’s exhibition of Sebastião Salgado’s photography, Severus was once again enraptured. The photographs were moving black-and-white images of migration, displacement, and exile, the result of famine, war, and developments that didn’t care an inch about the people they crushed in the quest for money and pride. The magical and Muggle worlds weren’t so different, in that regard.

He paused in front of each photo in turn, bending his tall body to peer at the images. A family sat in front of a tent camp, the mother breastfeeding her child, while she and her husband wore vacant looks of hopelessness. A group of young Rwandan boys stood in a hut in a refugee camp; the boy in the middle looked back over his shoulder, straight at the camera, at Severus, the sun’s rays streaking over his wary stare.

There were so many children. All of them with dirty faces and large, sad, accusing eyes. By the third his chest was tight. The fourth made his fingers scratch at his coat. The seventh forced him to call on old shields, lest the burning in his large nose turn to tears. He always had a home as a child, as decrepit and unhappy as it was, but he knew those looks intimately. The nagging hunger in their bellies, the anger at the unfairness of it all, the fear that his current situation might never end (some of it would and some of it would not).

He moved from the children to a photo of an old man who would look at home in a university classroom with his tweed suit and thick glasses. The grey-haired elder sat on crushed grass, hugging his knees, and as Severus peered into his eyes, he felt his shields wobble.

This was Severus’s life now, where the only things left to move him were his own two feet and silent images of strangers and worlds he would never really see; where his only conversations were brief, cold transactions and silent monologues in the liminal space between himself and an artist.

Too often these days, he felt unsure it was enough.

At home, he capitulated to Cinder’s loud request for supper, and too exhausted to bother with his own, crawled into bed. The question he often pondered arose as he reached for a bottle of Dreamless Sleep. The answer must be soon, he thought, uncorking the bottle with shaking hands. In the meantime, he would settle for sleep.

Chapter Text

Ten days following her trip down Knockturn Alley, Hermione sat in the Leaky Cauldron with her girlfriends, none of them aware what she’d done. As it always was on Saturdays, the pub was packed, Hermione and her friends five at a four-person table.

“So anyway, I’m off to Paris next month to organize a shoot for the campaign,” said Ginny, who travelled frequently for her job in marketing with the International Confederation of Wizards' Quidditch Committee, who ran the World Cup. Always dressed like she expected to end up in front of a camera, she wore a slim robe and a moss-coloured blazer, hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

“You have to go to Étoile’s. The hype is warranted. Make sure you have the braised Erymanthian Boar,” gushed Parvati from across the table. She sat next to her sister Padma, the pair about as opposite as you could get for identical twins. In a soft sleeveless turtleneck, pencil skirt, and gold jewelry, Parvati was stylish, her hair cropped short with long bangs that swept across her forehead. The owner of a boutique that imported the latest fashions in wizarding clothing from around Europe and Asia, Parvati was a regular traveller too. Like Hermione, Padma wore plainer, practical robes, and had hair that hung down past her shoulders. Unlike Hermione, Padma smiled at her sister.

“Jaime and I were thinking of going to Paris on a minibreak. He wants to wait for Easter but I need to not think about wedding planning for a while,” said Padma. “Mum is driving me nuts.”

Parvati was suggesting hotels when a loud cry rent through her words.

“Sorry,” said Hannah, who was holding her three-month-old son at one end of the table. His screams quieted with a flick of her wand, and she shifted her jumper where she held him against her chest. “He’s hungry.”

“His lungs would put any crowd’s cheers to shame,” said Ginny, petting the soft fuzz on his bald head. “Is he letting you sleep much yet?”

Hermione listened to her friends while sipping an ale, trying to smother the sour feeling in her gut. The witches gushed over little Lincoln as she drank and tried to summon warm thoughts about babies. When her brain refused to move past “no, thank you” and “I would never,” she chugged the rest of her pint and stood.

“I’m going to get another round. Everyone want?” she asked, but they were engrossed in a competition to guess how long it would take Padma to get pregnant after her wedding. Hermione left them anyway.

Weaving through bodies and tables, she made it to the bar. She waved at the barman as she slid into a gap between a post and a wizard on a stool. Tom nodded in acknowledgement, holding up a finger to indicate she should wait while he served another customer.

She bounced on her toes and peered sideways at the man next to her, who was bent over a book. He had stubble over his jaw and his face was partly covered by long, black hair, but she recognized him nearly instantly. Curious about what sort of book Severus Snape would read, she leaned forward to peek at the cover. The title text was cursive and hard to make out, but she thought she read the word ‘witches’, which really didn’t narrow things down much.

“Do you commonly stare at people?” said a sharp voice, making her jump.

She looked up to find piercing onyx eyes and sneering lips—well, that look hadn’t changed.

“I’m sorry, Mister Snape. I was trying to figure out what you’re reading.”

A small furrow formed between his brows. For a moment, she wondered if she was about to be verbally eviscerated, but he turned the book towards her so she could clearly see the title was The Witches of Ramsay. “Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.”

“It’s a rare book I’m not at least a little interested in. I nearly bought that one a few weeks ago, actually. Are you enjoying it?”

“It’s pedantic drivel, but still better than speaking to anyone here,” he said gruffly, making her chuckle. The comment might have made her timid once, but the contempt in his voice didn’t sound pointed at her, and even if it was, she’d probably agree with him anyway.

“I’ll buy it and save it for when I’m feeling extra unsociable then,” she quipped, meeting his glower with a smile. “I’ve been reading mostly memoirs lately.”

Someone cleared their throat, and she turned to find Tom waiting to take her order. He shot a warning look at Snape.

“Two pints of ale, two glasses of white, and a lime goblin soda, please,” she said with an apologetic smile. She rummaged in her coin purse for her galleons.

“Careful with that one, Miss Granger,” was the barman’s reply, his eyes flicking towards Snape before turning away.

Hermione gave his back a quizzical look. Was he trying to warn her that Snape would try to pick her up? Her old professor wasn’t even looking at her when she turned back to him to ask more about his book.

“Have you read Kings and Abbots? I’ve heard it’s similar.”

Snape’s eyes slid sideways from his page before lifting to hers again, the little furrow returning. She wondered what would happen if she pressed her fingertip against it. Probably he would hex her finger off, a thought that made her lips rise in amusement.

“I have,” he said, marking his page with a slender bookmark and closing the cover. “Whoever told you they’re similar was either witless or speaking of a different book.”

“It was something about how they both reference pre-Christian witchcraft.”

“Did they tell you Gesta of Grizedale and The Forest Apothecary were similar because they both reference trees?”

Again, Hermione found her lips twitching with humour at his wry insults. She ignored Tom placing two wine glasses near her elbow. “I don’t think the manager at Flourish and Blotts is that thick.”

“We will have to disagree on that point.”

Hermione couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from her throat. “Oh, he’s not that bad,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’d say about 50 percent of his recommendations are good.”

“I am lucky to get recommendations at all. Not that I wish them.”

Despite his stoic expression, his dark eyes were alight with interest, and she found them oddly captivating. The manager at Flourish and Blotts was usually the only person she got to talk to about what she read, something she took advantage of nearly every weekend. Though, to Snape’s point, he very rarely disparaged a book, but perhaps that was what made him a good manager. Hearing Snape’s opinions was far more interesting.

“What would you recommend I read?”

He made a contemplative noise in his throat. “Since you are reading mostly memoirs, have you read The Sisters?”

“Yes! I loved it. Amazingly written. I couldn’t put it down.”

“I, too, found it engaging. Perhaps a little flowery.”

“Given your penchant for eloquence, I would have thought you’d be fond of flowery literature.” The crease went from little to large, and for a moment hard eyes bored into hers, and Hermione stiffened. “It’s only, I recall some of your lectures at school were often quite poetic,” she explained quickly.

Slowly his skin smoothed, but the stony edge to his expression remained. “They served a purpose beyond demonstrating my expansive vocabulary, which I cannot say for some authors. However, I suppose I do appreciate the odd floral passage.” His jaw flexed, eyes shifting to the counter next to her. “I doubt your friends will enjoy warm drinks, however.”

Hermione turned to find her forgotten order perspiring on the bartop. She glanced over at her friends, who were laughing at something, and twisted her lips.

“I suppose I should go then,” she said reluctantly. “It was really nice talking to you, though.”

Without acknowledgement, Snape opened his book and his face disappeared once more behind his hair.

Hermione contained the sigh that wanted to escape with the sinking feeling in her stomach. Hovering the drinks back to her table, she handed them out to her friends. Before sitting down, she glanced back at Snape’s bent figure at the bar. Ginny turned to her with a wrinkled nose and Hermione’s spine stiffened automatically in defense.

“Was that Snape you were chatting up?”

Hermione took a gulp of her drink, the glass wetting her fingers. “I didn’t think you’d even noticed I’d gone,” she said a little coolly. “He was nice to talk to, actually. We have similar taste in books.”

“Only you would think talking to that bastard is nice,” said Ginny with a roll of her eyes.

Parvati leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I heard Snape was secretly plotting to get back at the ministry with some of his Death Eater friends that didn’t get chucked in Azkaban, but the Aurors found out so he hid the evidence.”

Hermione laughed sharply. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she blurted. She met the shocked looks from her friends with a roll of her eyes. “You all remember he was on our side during the war, right? Was a big reason we won?”

“Harry was the reason we won.”

“And just because Harry believes Snape was on our side doesn’t mean he was, and he’s still a slimy wanker regardless,” said Parvati scornfully. She lifted her chin. “Now that I think about it, you should go ask him out. He’d be perfect for you.”

“Maybe he has a cat and you can be lonely cat people together,” added Ginny.

Hermione forced herself to smile against the tightness in her throat as her friends all laughed. A long swallow of her ale didn’t loosen it.

“Do we even bother asking how you are, Hermione?” asked Parvati, sounding bored.

“Same as always,” Hermione replied, raising her pint in mock gratitude.

“Remind me why we invite you out. You’re so, like, determined to be unhappy. Can’t you just be normal?”

Hermione’s mouth thinned into a line. Padma’s encouraging smile made her want to blast the table to splinters, because maybe then her friends might actually care what she thought.

She glanced back toward the bar, but this time, Snape was gone.

When she turned back to the table, the witches were back to talking about Padma’s wedding. Bridesmaid's dresses. Something that didn’t concern her, because she was the only one of them who hadn’t been asked to be a part of the wedding party. Probably because I’m a weird, unhappy cat lady, she thought bitterly, the pressure in her throat returning.

It hadn’t always been like this and, worse, she couldn’t pinpoint when things had changed. Not for the first time, she wondered why she bothered to come. With another long chug, Hermione slammed her empty pint down on the table, making her friends jump.

“What the fuck, Hermione?” Ginny gasped.

She gave the redhead a smirk she hoped rivaled Snape’s at his worst. “I’m going to take off,” she said, the lightness in her voice sharp and brittle like a piece of broken glass. “Crookshanks is probably wondering where I am.”

Unsurprisingly, her friends only stared as she grabbed her coat and bag, and marched to the exit. As she retreated into Diagon Alley, she heard their shrieks of laughter behind her. Hermione jabbed her wand at the brick that opened the gate to the shopping street, shrugging on her cloak as the wall folded itself into an arch. She yanked her hood over her head, despite the fact it was mid afternoon and the clouds had yet to drop their rain.

She couldn’t bring herself to go home to be the person who was the butt of her friends’ jokes, so she didn’t bother to stop her feet from turning down Knockturn Alley. Eyes stinging, she ground her teeth and pushed forward. Knockturn couldn’t fix her problems, but at least the people here wouldn’t mock her, no matter whom she was.

In the daylight, Knockturn failed to be intimidating. Dirty and drab, the buildings’ paint peeled and their windows were fogged by dust and cobwebs. Unlike Diagon, the cobblestones beneath her boots were broken, uneven, or altogether missing. She passed other hooded figures and a wizard with a nasty scar across half his face, but they all walked by with barely a glance toward her. Even the flashing sign of The Scarlet Witch appeared tame in the daylight.

It turned out there was a whole lot more of Knockturn beyond the brothel. She passed what looked like a sex shop, a few more clothing stores, a general store, a discount greengrocer, and a shop called The Putrid Pickle, which she gave a wide berth due to the stench wafting from the open door.

The Brittle Binding was a delightful surprise. Located in a narrow, twisting tudor building, its paned windows were completely blocked on the inside by columns of books, their yellowed pages visible from the street. Stacks of Knockturn News sat under the eaves out front, and Hermione grabbed one with the most recent date before heading inside. The door opened just enough for her to slip through into the dim shop. Tall stacks of books were piled between close shelves and anywhere there was a surface. Even the front counter was laden with balustrade-like towers up to the ceiling, leaving only a foot wide gap through which she could see the wrinkled proprietress, who was bent over a book and didn’t acknowledge Hermione’s existence.

Hermione tucked the paper under her arm and squeezed through a gap into a row of shelves. There appeared to be no organization system, so she let herself wander, scanning spines as she went. Some of the tomes looked ancient, and Hermione checked them for curses before gently sliding them from their places. By the time she returned to the till with three books in addition to her newspaper, her anger had dulled to a low simmer.

“Six galleons eight knuts,” said the woman in a creaking voice, not looking up from her book.

Hermione paid for her things, slid them into her handbag, and exited the shop. It turned out she’d been browsing long enough for the sky to turn to deep twilight. The alley’s lamps were on as she walked back up the street, making patches of weak yellow light amongst the grey and indigo shadows.

Outside The Scarlet Witch, her feet paused again. A wizard slipped past her and through the large double entrance doors, but Hermione couldn’t see inside. There were no windows, just a faceless, three-story box with the flashing sign and the front door. It was a mystery, and yet, it wasn’t completely anymore, was it?

The alcove where she’d bent over and sold her nice cunt to a stranger still warned her not to enter, while the witch above her beckoned. She took two steps towards the flashing light, then stopped, and retreated to the same place as the week before. Fingers fiddling with the strap of her bag, she lay her head against the cold brick, her heart twisting as it beat to a quickening drum. The pause was only delaying what she knew she was going to do, though she did not know why, only that if she didn’t try something different, find some sort of purpose or happiness, she was going to lose everything.

Keeping her hood up, she pushed the fabric cape of her cloak back over her shoulders to reveal her robes. A few flicks of her wand made the fabric hug her curves and revealed the tops of her breasts. She shivered as she waited, watching wizards pass, pulse speeding whenever they got close. Would they even pick her up? She didn’t see any other witches out here. Maybe this wasn’t normal. Maybe she was insane, and yet, she didn’t move.

When the next wizard walked by, she forced herself to croak a short, “Hello.”

It got easier with the next one, and the next, and then finally a wizard stopped. Unlike most of the patrons of Knockturn Alley, he wore a cloak without a hood, revealing short, dark hair and grey eyes in middle-aged face. He was broad and muscular like he did physical labour for a living. Negotiating still felt weird, but she found herself returning his awkward smile as they agreed on a price for her body.

“Name’s Owen. What’s yours?” he asked, waving at her to follow him. “My place is up this way.”

“Um… Jane,” she answered, the first name that came to mind that wasn’t her own. Useless maybe, if they were going to his flat, where he’d likely expect her to take off her clothes.

The fabric of her hood felt suddenly heavy on her skull. Hermione peered at the alcove from last weekend. Owen was pulling away from her, and paused. “You coming?”

Glancing at the dancing witch a last time, Hermione trotted after him.

Chapter Text

On Monday morning, Hermione arrived at her desk to find the latest report she submitted with a small note that said, “Please revise.” She stared at it, breathing hard through her nose, and counted to ten so she wouldn’t scream. A tiny muscle in her eyelid spasmed in revolt. Carefully, she put her handbag into a drawer. Then she turned around and walked as calmly as she could to the staff room. Judging by the startled glances and colleagues scurrying from her path, she did a poor job of hiding her fury.

Given it was a regular occurrence, the note shouldn’t have bothered her. But over the last few weeks, something had unlocked a box of rage that she’d been storing inside her, and it took every ounce of willpower she had to shove the lid back on it.

The staff room had coffee and tea pots enchanted to remain full of perfectly-brewed beverages. There were a few people inside grabbing their morning cuppas, chatting while they sipped or sitting on one of the sofas reading that morning’s Daily Prophet. When she’d first joined the ministry, she’d been aghast at people spending thirty minutes of work time relaxing at the start of their days, but she quickly understood that no one cared. It took her a little over year to stop caring too—or at least to shove the caring somewhere it wouldn’t bother her. These days, it was a welcome escape from her reports.

She went straight for the coffee and poured herself a cup, adding a splash of milk, then plonked herself down in one of the rickety metal chairs. It was hard and uncomfortable, but she needed the firm seat below her right now. She took a sip of coffee followed by ten more deep breaths and slouched over the table.

She couldn’t do the revisions. Wouldn’t do the revisions. It wasn’t as if they mattered, as if her report would ever get past her boss to the Department head or the Minister even if they did.

“Hey. Hermione Granger, right? Mind if I sit?”

Hermione lifted her eyes to find a wizard who wasn’t in her division. He had dark blond hair and a lopsided smile, and wore a dark blue robe that set off his matching eyes. He looked somewhat familiar, but she had no idea what his name was.

Not bothering to sit up, she gestured vaguely at the chair opposite her, still scowling, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m Cameron,” he said, sliding his hand around his cup. “I work in Invisibility.”

“Does your boss make you write inane reports eight times just to shove them in a drawer when you’re done?” she asked. She sounded more bitter than the brew in front of her.

Cameron took a sip from his mug. “Not sure I’d call them inane, but sometimes. That’s just how things are, isn’t it? Changing priorities and bureaucracy and all. I don’t mind it. I learn things and it keeps me busy, and they get used sometimes. Last month, they used my research for a footnote in a regulation to reduce airborne detection.”

A footnote. Well, there was something to aspire to.

He tilted his head, and Hermione considered throwing her coffee in his face to wipe off his smile. Her fingers tightened around her mug, but she only lifted it to her lips.

“You look like you’re having a bad morning, or is it just Monday?”

“It’s every bloody day,” Hermione grumbled. She looked him in the eye. “Did you want something?”

“Oh, um…” He chuckled and ran his fingers through his hair. “Could I take you out for a pint after work? Or dinner, if you don’t drink?”

“Why?” Hermione blurted.

“Well, uh… you’re pretty,” he said, cheeks turning pink.

Her growl was stifled into a grunt. Eyelid giving another spasm, she narrowed her eyes.

“Let me make sure I understand you. You see me sitting alone with a cup of coffee at barely nine o’clock on a Monday morning, clearly in a bad mood, and you think to yourself ‘now’s a good time to introduce myself and ask her out’?”

“I suppose I see your point,” he said with a soft laugh. “Seeing as I can’t take it back, though, I’d still like to go out with you. Maybe I could make you feel better.”

“For fuck’s sake, what is wrong with all you people?” She threw her mug onto the table, brown liquid spilling over the white top. “No!” she spat. “I don’t want a bloody date! With anyone! What I want is a new job with people who aren’t complacent wankers!”

Storming back to her desk, she landed on her seat with a thud, took a breath that felt like fire, and then groaned and put her head in her hands. Her fingers flexed against her skull as if she might squeeze her spiralling thoughts out.

God, she was losing it, but this wasn’t supposed to be her fucking life!

At least she wasn’t stupid enough to think a relationship could fix it. She’d already tried that, and if she couldn’t be happy with Colin, no one else stood a chance.

But she needed something. A job worth her time, for starters. A career with a future, with promise, something that made her excited to get up in the morning. She wanted purpose. Barring all that, she at least wanted something fun. Something that would make her smile.

Rumours were probably already spreading about how Hermione Granger had lost it and thrown her drink at a perfectly nice and respectful wizard. Everyone loved watching her fuck up, or maybe it was just there wasn’t anything good to say about her anymore. Maybe there never had been and the little praise she’d once received was nothing more than a shadow of Harry’s fame. Her breakup with Colin had been all over the Prophet and Witch Weekly, and every department transfer had been surrounded by rumours of poor performance, no matter that she tried her best and every boss had told her she was meeting their expectations.

Maybe she should tell them she had let a second man fuck her for money on the weekend, that she’d enjoyed it more than she’d ever enjoyed working at the ministry. What did that say about her?

In his shitty little Knockturn flat, Owen had taken her into his bedroom, revealing a body bulging with muscles. There was no attraction, no needy pull like with a real lover, but there was a sort of intimacy—transactional, sure, but intriguing to her nonetheless. She liked touching him and seeing his reactions. She liked the way he looked at her, like he was happy she was there. There was a comfort knowing exactly what she was to him, that their time together would end, and that she’d never need to be anything more than what she was. She didn’t have to guess whether she’d succeeded at her job, whether she’d done good enough. Her impact was right there, plain to see: a shiver, a smile, a moan, a splatter of cum, and then a few thankful words.

But she didn’t want to get hurt sneaking around in strangers’ flats, didn’t want to accept that she’d failed at achieving her dream. There’d been a moment of panic at Owen’s when she realized no one knew where she was and her wand sat in her purse in the other room, but he’d only asked for a massage. Had accepted her brushing off the fact she "looked familiar." She’d promised herself when she got home from Owen’s that it would be the last time. She wasn’t going back to Knockturn. Stopping was the smart thing to do.

It probably wasn’t smart to take another Pick Me Up Potion barely two hours after the first, but the other options were facing the people in the break room to get another cup of coffee or staring reproachfully at a report all day. Downing one from her stash, a pleasant rush of energy and motivation had her checking her diary for her daily schedule and picking up her quill to dive into revision notes.

It never lasted long enough. A little more than an hour had passed when her hand stopped and her leg began bouncing beneath the table.

She could leave the ministry, go to The Scarlet Witch, and not come back. She could go to The Broken Binding and beg for a job because they could certainly use someone with organization skills and she already spent all her free time reading. She could ask George Weasley for a job selling love potions and trick wands—if he could just make sure she never saw half of his family. Her lips quirked upward as the last idea reminded her of the first.

Fifteen minutes before her meeting she went and got another coffee, relieved when no one bothered her. Then she went to Room 314C and took a seat at one end of an oval table, next to Midge, whom she disliked the least out of all her colleagues because she tended to ask a lot of pointless questions and go on long rambles that took up a lot of time, meaning less opportunities for someone to ask her to write or revise a report.

Her eyelid twitched again thinking about revisions.

Her boss Albert Duddington was a portly wizard in his mid-fifties, with greying hair and kind brown eyes. He wore unflattering brown robes and a matching crooked hat. He was, without a doubt, the dullest wizard Hermione had ever met. Not even multiple cups of coffee and Pick-Me-Up Potions could stop Hermione’s mind from wandering the moment after he said good morning.

Thoughts of quitting hurried through her skull. She’d stand up, tell them all she was finished and walk out. She’d stand up, call them all complacent, incompetent fools, and walk out. She’d stand up, tell them she had wasted four years of her life on the most useless organization in the magical world, and walk out. She’d stand up, tell them she’d rather work at Knockturn’s brothel, and walk out.

Each fantasy got a little more violent than the last after that: screaming at them, setting every report she’d ever written on fire, setting every report ever written on fire, setting the entire building on fire.

“Miss Granger?”

Her head snapped out of a fantasy of creating a report monster, a giant, bipedal swirl of paper with massive fists, which would proceed to smash the ministry to bits for ignoring its parts.

“Yes, Sir?” she asked, eyes flicking around the table.

“What do you think about revisiting the Sugababes report?”

The eyelid twitch was back. The Sugababes report might win the prize for the stupidest thing she’d ever been forced to draft. It was titled ‘Average Sugar Content of Sweet-Themed Music Stars’. Shockingly, she’d concluded that the pop group were Muggles and not enchanted human-shaped confections.

“Why would I need to revisit it, Sir?”

“As I just said, we’ve been asked to look into possible future acts. Fruit, spice, sugar—might be butter next, who knows! We wouldn’t want to be unprepared by giving them an out-of-date report.”

“I finished it a month ago. Muggle bodies don’t randomly change composition overnight.”

“Even so. Always good to take a new quill to these things. What if one of them picked up a sweet tooth or they added a new member?”

Her eyelid beat a rapid pulse. “I will write you a summary of my conclusions.”

“What would be the purpose of that?”

“Not rewriting a perfect good report for the twelfth time!”

Duddington’s mouth twisted. “I realize it’s frustrating that these things take time, Miss Granger.”

“That’s not why I’m frustrated!” Hermione shouted. “I’m frustrated because you could have presented my first report and you still made me rewrite it ten more times. I’m frustrated because if I rewrite it for a twelfth time, it won’t matter because it’s going to end up buried in a filing cabinet gathering dust with every other report I’ve ever written. I’m frustrated because not writing it wouldn’t have changed a thing, because anyone with half a brain cell would come to the same conclusion. I’m frustrated because we do nothing of importance! Ever!”

“Miss Granger, now, there’s no need for that,” said Duddington with a frown.

“THERE’S NO NEED FOR ME TO REWRITE THE FUCKING REPORT!”

She snarled at Midge who touched her arm and tried to speak.

“Write it your damn self if you want it done,” she snapped, and then stormed from the room.

In front of the elevator 30 seconds later, her foot tapped out an anxious rhythm in time with her brain repeating, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

So much for shouting at them and leaving being a fantasy. She’d have to go back and apologize to Duddington. She’d only gotten angry; she hadn’t quit. She’d do it after she calmed down.

She really didn’t want to talk to her boss.

The lift opened and inside, she pressed the button to Level Eight. She felt a little better once she got out. No matter what was going on in her life, books had always been her steadfast partners. Just seeing the sign above the door for the ministry’s library and archives lowered her blood pressure. It was really too bad the ministry didn’t employ librarians any longer. Everything was managed with spells.

The collection of the ministry’s knowledge was located in a massive room, easily ten times the size of Hogwarts’ library. Its shelves stretched thirty feet high into an elaborate coved ceiling. Books flew off and slipped back into place like birds in a rookery. At this time in the morning it was busy, the public and ministry workers digging up new information or checking legislation. The tables at the front were packed, making Hermione frown. She ignored them for now and went to one of the look-up stations that sat in a row in front of them.

The small, square counter was flat and held a piece of parchment, a stack of index cards, and a quill. A long slot ran down the side of the tabletop, and Hermione slipped her wand into it, which would give her access to files restricted from the public. Picking up the quill, she glanced over her shoulders to ensure no one was nearby, and then wrote several queries on the parchment: type: decrees, effective: current, search: brothel*, sex work*, prostitution*. The ink glowed, then vanished before new words reappeared on the parchment, indicating the items that fit her parameters, which she copied onto a card before wiping the parchment clean with a wave of her hand. She wrote a second query: type: records, effective: 1975-current, search: The Scarlet Witch, brothel*. When she was satisfied with her list, she went to the stacks to find them.

Forty minutes later, Hermione had confirmed that sex work and brothels were legal in magical Britain, sex workers had to be at least 17, The Scarlet Witch paid their taxes and business license fees diligently every year, and there was another brothel in Hogsmeade. Judging from the tax statements, The Scarlet Witch made good money. According to a report she found from two years ago, hundreds of witches and wizards made money from magical Britain’s sex work industry.

With a flick of her wand, Hermione sent the reference materials back to their homes, then sat back in the stiff wooden chair and watched the books fly overhead.

The first time she’d come here, she’d been in awe of the number of books and the spells used to make the library function. Four years later, not even this made her want to stay. She didn’t need a bird made of books; she needed wings.

She didn’t know if The Scarlet Witch was the right answer, but there had to be something better than rotting away until her rage made her do something she couldn’t take back.

Sighing, she left the library and went for lunch.

The red flashing witch beckoned Hermione in the early evening light. After an hour-long meeting apologizing to her boss, talking through her complaints, and being told she’d still need to rewrite the report anyway, there really wasn’t a question that she’d end up here after the clock hit five.

The anger that controlled her earlier had faded in the late afternoon, and now she only felt certainty that even if The Scarlet Witch wasn’t the answer, giving up on the future she’d always wanted was.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged open the door.

Given the plainness of the building in the alley, inside was more lavish than she expected. The lobby looked more like a boutique hotel than what she’d imagined a brothel would look like. A curved wooden staircase led upstairs, and on the front wall sat an ornate fireplace, presumably for the Floo Network. The front desk was wood too, the two signs attached to it written in curling script: “Wands must be turned in on arrival. No exceptions,” and “No refunds,” they said. To the right of reception was a pair of double doors with a sign that read, simply, “Lounge.” Everything was rich browns and lush scarlet.

Behind the clean front desk was a witch with warm caramel skin and black hair. When Hermione lowered her hood and approached, she did a double take before her customer-service smile slipped back into place.

“How can I help you?”

“Hello,” said Hermione, heart thudding. “I, um…”

“First time?” the witch asked, and Hermione nodded. “Well, we can do private introductions, or you’re welcome to go into the lounge for a drink before deciding who suits your fancy. If there’s something in particular you’re looking for, I can recommend someone too.”

“Sorry, I’m not… I was wondering if I might talk to someone about work,” Hermione said quickly.

“Oh! Of course,” said the witch. “Just a minute.”

She slipped through the door behind the counter, and a few minutes later returned and waved at Hermione to follow. On the other side of the door was a short corridor. The second door on the left was already open, and the receptionist led her through it into a spacious office. Shelving and filing cabinets covered the wall to her left. Navy curtains framed an enchanted window, below it a small table holding what looked like family photographs.

“This is Madam Hazel Pearmain, the owner,” said the receptionist, introducing her to the older woman that sat behind a large wood desk in the room’s centre, its top covered in papers. The witch appeared to be middle-aged, with greying hair and a shrewd, unflinching gaze. She wore flattering, traditional robes that hugged her torso and draped from her waist down when she stood.

“Thank you, Misha,” she said in a warm voice. “Close the door, will you?”

Misha gave Hermione a small smile before leaving, and the door clicked shut behind her.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger. Please, call me Madam Hazel,” said the witch, reaching out her hand. Her handshake was firm. She gestured for Hermione to take a seat in the padded wood chair in front of her.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” said Hermione, sitting up straight and crossing her ankles. “I’m sorry for barging in. I wasn’t sure how to make an appointment.”

Madam Hazel chuckled softly. “That’s quite all right. It’s rather normal. Misha said you asked about working here.”

“That’s right,” Hermione confirmed. It was hard not to squirm under the owner’s scrutinizing gaze, and Hermione straightened her spine another inch. “I hoped you could tell me more about it before I make a decision.”

“Of course. Is there anything in particular you wanted to know?”

“Everything, really. I mean, I’m not totally ignorant, but it was not like this. It was just me and I had no idea what I was doing.”

Madam Hazel’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “You’ve done sex work before?”

“Only twice,” admitted Hermione, feeling herself flush. “Could you… how does it work here, exactly?”

“Officially speaking, I don’t employ anyone,” said Madam Hazel, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands in her lap. “We’d sign an agreement where I provide the brothel and amenities, and you would pay me a portion of your base fees for their use.”

“Base fees?”

Madam Hazel explained that base rates were standardized fees for a certain amount of time and included limited activities. There were also extras, like anal or deepthroating or bondage, and Hermione could decide what to offer, how much they cost, and would get the entirety of the fee. She could work whenever she wanted, however much she wanted. Contraceptives were mandatory and Madam Hazel would be checking monthly. Dating clients wasn’t allowed, and neither was booking them independently on the side.

Hermione listened to Madam Hazel with her belly swirling steadily. None of it sounded unreasonable or too intimidating. It might be interesting working with so many different types of clients.

“What’s it like? Doing it every day.”

Madam Hazel peered at her thoughtfully, her hands folded in her lap. “I tell this to everyone that works here: this is a service job. We sell intimacy instead of clothes or cauldrons, but there’s still days where you’ll be tired or half your clients decide they’re entitled to act like manticores because they’re paying,” she explained. “It’s not easy work, but if you work hard and get a steady book of regulars, I and many others here believe it’s good work. Some of my witches have been here for over a decade. Some stay for a year or two, and then move onto other things. Some decide they dislike it and leave after a week.”

“What happens with the manticores?”

“You learn how to spot them. You’re not obligated to serve anyone, and you can stop a session at any time for any reason. The rooms are equipped with charms so that if you’re ever scared, all you have to do is say the right phrase and your client will be out in the hallway with a locked door between you. We have a blacklist too.”

That made Hermione feel better. Safety was one of the reasons she preferred the idea of working in a brothel. She shifted forward in her seat. “I want a fulfilling career.”

“I can’t promise how you’ll feel about it, but if you want a career this could be one. A couple of the witches who work here are in their forties,” said Madam Hazel. “Have you considered the fact that you’re…”

Hermione grimaced. “I know I won’t be able to keep it a secret.”

“Not unless you want to spend half your earnings on Polyjuice Potion,” she said, making Hermione’s lips turn upward. “However, you could turn your fame to your advantage.”

“Do you think so?” It had never been worth anything before, except people picking apart her life to demean her.

Madam Hazel nodded with certainty. “I do.”

An hour later, after more questions and a tour, Hermione was back in Knockturn, hood up, knowing what she wanted to do but unsure if she should do it. Normally when she was uncertain she’d talk things out with Ginny, but Ginny had been available less and less lately, and her comments on Saturday still made Hermiones’s guts burn.

There was someone else whose opinion she trusted implicitly, though, and he even lived only a short walk away—assuming he hadn’t moved. They hadn’t talked in a year and she didn’t know if he’d want to see her, but if she knew him like she thought she did, she didn’t think he’d slam the door in her face. They had promised to keep in touch, to still be friends, after all, even if neither of them had reached out. Perhaps seeing Colin again was long overdue, regardless.

At the bottom end of Diagon Alley was Notion Alley, a small street that had once been mostly light industry, but was slowly being eaten into by businesses that would normally be on the high street. Colin lived half way down in an old brick warehouse that had been converted into flats, with an upscale bar and a furniture store on the ground floor. She went through the small door on the side of the building and up two flights of stairs, feeling a familiar pang as she stopped at the door of what had once been her flat too. Her knuckles rapped lightly on the white-painted wood below the number ten.

She heard his shuffling footsteps approaching, and then a mousy-haired man in a grubby t-shirt and trackies answered the door. Surprise stretched his boyish face for a moment, before it fell into a wary smile.

“Hi,” Hermione greeted him softly, glad he didn’t seem too upset to find her on his doorstep.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice laced with shock. “What are you doing here? Everything okay?”

Her fingers played with the strap of her purse. “Just needed to talk to someone I trust. Are you busy?”

“I was finishing dinner,” he said, but seemed frozen.

“Is that a nice way of saying bugger off?” Hermione asked with a teasing smile, hoping it wasn’t.

He laughed, a low breathy chuckle, and shook his head. “No, it’s my brain slowly trying to process that you’re standing in my front hall.”

“It’s customary to invite guests inside, you know. Unless you would rather I left.”

He shook his head again and stepped aside to let her through. “Don’t be silly. Come in.”

It was a bit surreal walking into their old flat. It was still recognizable, with high ceilings, bare brick walls, and tall sash windows that looked out onto the alley below. Hermione knew the morning sun would stream in and make bright squares on the old oak floors. Colin had changed some of the furniture. Instead of in the bedroom, his bed was pushed against the wall near the windows, and there was a newer, more compact sofa in the sitting area to accommodate it. The curtains she picked out were still on the windows, however, and on the floor was the same green and blue carpet, which she’d chosen because it reminded her of flowing water. The blue dish on the coffee table was one she’d eaten out of too.

“What’s it like being back?” Colin asked, and she glanced over her shoulder to where he’d stopped in the front hall.

“Strange,” she answered honestly. “I didn’t think I’d be away so long. I’m sorry for not owling sooner.”

Colin shrugged. “We both needed time. It’s good to see you, though.”

“Go finish your dinner. I’m pretty sure I can still figure out how to make tea,” Hermione said, hoping the tea would wash away the ache that had formed in her chest.

She made her way to the small galley kitchen, passing by the doors to the bathroom and what had been the bedroom. The door was shut, but Hermione thought there was a strong chance Colin had converted it into a dark room. His photos hung in frames all over the flat, and there were stacks of loose test photos and supplies scattered around. There was a developing tray and a funnel in the sink, making Hermione smile and shake her head.

She returned to the sitting room a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea. “I see you still haven’t stopped leaving equipment in the sink,” she said as she sat on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking her feet under her.

He snorted softly. “No one here to get mad at me for it, is there?”

She blew on her tea. “How have you been?”

“I’m good. Had a few pieces get into group shows at some Muggle galleries and sell. Still trying to get my other stuff into magical galleries, but no luck yet,” he said. “Dennis got engaged to Claire over the holidays. I think the wedding will be next year.”

“Tell him congratulations for me,” she said, then nodded towards a large frame leaning against the wall. The woman in the photo was wrapped in layers of cloth, her large eyes staring out at the viewer. The only movement was her blinking and the occasional shift of the fabric, as if it was alive, protecting her. It was a captivating image, though something about the woman unsettled her. “Is that one new?”

“Part of a series I’m trying to get into Derby & Drake,” he said, referring to Diagon’s magical gallery.

“It’s wonderful, Colin. They’ll say yes if they’ve got half a brain,” she said earnestly. She’d always loved Colin’s art.

He cleared his throat and took a sip from his mug. “So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Hermione shifted on the seat. “Do you know how you always used to tell me I should quit my job at the ministry and do something else? I think I decided today to follow your advice.”

“Good for you! You’ve never liked it there. What made you change your mind? Did you find something else?”

“I might have shouted at my boss and stormed out of a meeting this morning. After imagining setting them all on fire,” she said with a rueful laugh.

“On the positive side you kept the fire imaginary,” said Colin with a smirk. “I’m sure they deserved it. What are you going to do instead?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She took a steadying breath, trying to ease the tightness in her lungs. If she couldn’t tell Colin, she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. She struggled to meet his curious hazel eyes. “Have you heard of a place called The Scarlet Witch?”

Colin drew back in surprise. “I mean, yes, most blokes are at least aware it exists. I haven’t been there, but I know some people who have. Why? You’re not…”

“I only found out about it a few weeks ago. I didn’t know brothels or anything like that existed in Knockturn.”

“I’m shocked there’s something you didn’t know. I’m glad that’s been rectified,” Colin teased her, though a shadow of concern still lingered in his expression. “Why do you ask?”

“Would you pay to have sex with me? If you were another bloke and didn’t know me.”

Colin stared at her like he was trying to figure out a difficult puzzle, and Hermione worried that she’d gone too far. She waited, fingers tight against the mug in her lap.

“Aren’t you against that sort of thing? Are you planning to start a campaign against them or something?”

Hermione bleated a sharp laugh. “No!” she said as she calmed her breath. “No, I have nothing against it, and if I was no one is interested in my campaigns anyway—you know that. I… I’m thinking of working there.”

She felt a little bad for how much she was startling him. He took a steadying gulp of tea. “Is that really going to make you happier?”

“I think so,” Hermione said. “I hope so. There’s not really anything else I want to do, and if I don’t leave the ministry soon, I’m going to either explode and hurt someone or blow up myself.”

“Are you that unhappy?”

She nodded, twisting her lips, pressure forming behind her eyes. She was glad when Colin reached out and put a hand on her knee. She really should have visited him sooner.

“Work is unbearable and then I go home and sit with Crookshanks. I might as well be dead, I do so little.”

“Don’t say that,” said Colin quickly, his eyebrows folding inward. “You just need to find a place worth your time. Do you not see Ginny and Parvati and the others anymore?”

“Not as often as I used to. Lately they’ve been… Well, they’re too busy with their own stuff.” Hermione shrugged. She wasn’t about to dump everything on him.

She put her mug on the coffee table and wiped a tear from her eye. “I tried it,” she admitted, making Colin cock his head. “Selling sex, I mean. The blokes didn’t know it was me. It wasn’t like I thought.”

“Was it good though?”

“Not like with someone I actually care about. Parts of it were good, though. The physical sex parts were… mechanical, I guess, but it was more than that. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I did enjoy it.”

“Isn’t there something else you could do?”

“Like what? Harry’s at Hogwarts, so I can’t teach. I don’t want to start a business or own a shop. I don’t want to work for the fucking Prophet or the goblins. I can’t handle blood or people being hurt anymore, so St. Mungo’s is out. We’ve already gone over the fact no one wants to hear my ideas about being welfare or anything else. This isn’t the Muggle world. There’s not that many things one can do.”

“Sex work, though? Is that really what you want?”

“Is it that bad?”

He shook his head. “I’m not the sort of wizard who would pay for sex, but I’m not against it in theory. As long as both people want to do it.”

“I need to do something different. Really different. I think I might even need to be someone different.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m stuck on it, but I went there today and talked to the owner and everything she said made me want to do it more. Am I mad?”

Colin looked at her sadly. “Maybe, but if you’re really that miserable, maybe being mad isn’t such a bad thing.”

Hermione nodded, feeling her heartbeat slow and her shoulders drop an inch. She was glad she’d decided to come talk to Colin. She’d missed him terribly, but hadn’t wanted to make things harder for him. She’d been the one to break his heart, after all, six months after agreeing to marry him. He deserved better, but that was why she needed to leave in the first place. It was why she’d chosen to give him the flat and most of their collective things.

“Can I hug you?” she asked.

Colin put down his mug and scooted forward, and she gratefully wrapped him in her arms. She felt him sigh against her and held him tighter.

“Can we be friends again?”

“I’d like that,” he said, giving her another squeeze.

Hermione smiled at him fondly, feeling doubly glad she’d come over tonight.

If she could have Colin back in her life and work at The Scarlet Witch, maybe things had a chance to be okay.

“Do you still have those photos you took of me? You know, the sexy ones.”

She watched cherry red blotches rise on his cheeks.

“I don’t mind if you do. Can I see them?”

Still frowning, Colin summoned them, a small box zooming into his hand from under his bed. He opened it, pulled out a few postcard-sized photos, and handed them to her. She felt the weight of him shift as he stood, grabbed his empty plate and their mugs, and went to the kitchen. She heard the water in the sink turn on.

She looked down at the photos in her hand. They were all of her, naked. Three of them were more classical boudoir shots, standing in the window or lying on the old sofa, but the last she was strewn out on their bed, tangled in white sheets, one leg wide and cocked up to reveal the triangle of curly hair and slick folds between her legs. Her hand slid down her stomach, brushing her pubic hair as her bent leg fell wider. Confident, teasing desire was in her gaze, and she remembered feeling that way as Colin snapped the camera. He’d put it down a few minutes later, crawled up the mattress, kissed up her legs, and sunk his face between her thighs, mumbling breathless words of affection as he brought her to orgasm. She remembered staring at the ceiling wondering why she wished he would stop and pick up his camera again. It was as he sunk himself into her, his eyes full of reverent adoration, that she finally understood the reason for the little niggling feeling she always got whenever they had sex: the fact he loved and desired her in a way she would never feel about him.

“I haven’t looked at them,” said Colin, walking back from the kitchen.

“But you did keep them,” Hermione pointed out.

His jaw flexed. “I shouldn’t have. I forgot about them when you left and found them again when I moved everything around.”

“So you did look at them,” she teased.

“Shut up,” he said, ears pink. “Take them with you.”

Hermione turned them upside down, so they faced her lap. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“I’m… thinking about pursuing someone.”

“You should.” She meant it. She’d left because she wanted him to be happy, to be with someone who would reciprocate his love instead of taking it because they were too scared of life without him. She gave him an encouraging smile and stood up. “I should probably go.”

Colin walked her to the door and she slipped the photos into her handbag. “Thank you for letting me in and for the talk.” She felt settled, hopeful in a way she hadn’t in a long time. She smiled. “I meant what I said about being friends.”

“I better see you soon then,” said Colin. They shared another brief hug, and when they separated, he had a strange look on his face. “I would, by the way.”

“Would what?”

Colin flexed his jaw, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Pay to have sex with you. I mean, I wouldn’t because I don’t believe in paying for it, but if I was a regular sort of bloke, and I did, and you were available, I would. I don’t... blokes like that aren’t… not that… what I mean is, they’ll definitely want you. More than another witch.”

It was Hermione’s turn to be surprised. She’d forgotten she’d even asked. Her smile widened, heart hammering in her chest. She loved Colin more than anyone else in her life, still did, apparently, even now. Not the way he deserved, in the way she should have. But strongly enough she’d known he’d be better off if she walked away from them.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said.

Hermione nodded. “I will. Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

Chapter Text

“It was really nice talking to you.”

For the hundredth time in the last week, Hermione Granger’s parting words floated through Severus’s head. This time it was while in his potions lab, which was set up in the spare room off the conservatory. It had plain walls, a simple but sturdy workbench, and a small cabinet for ingredients, since he didn’t need many these days. He brewed only a few times a month for Knockturn Alley’s sketchiest apothecary, Perilous Potions, the only apothecary that didn’t care who it sourced its goods from as long as they were potent.

Given another option, Severus wouldn’t have chosen to work with the shop, but he had exhausted all alternatives. If he didn’t have more than two decades of savings from Hogwarts stashed away in a vault, he would be in a very bad way. Not that anyone would care. No, they’d say it was his fault. That he deserved what he got. Deserved to suffer.

Except for maybe Hermione Granger.

“It was really nice talking to you.”

Pathetic to even consider she might concern herself with his fate based on a ten minute conversation.

Pathetic that it was the most enjoyable conversation he’d had in more than five years.

Gripping his knife more tightly, he stilled his mind by imagining submerging it into a cold sea of Occlumency. He returned to chopping burdock roots into paper-thin circles and finished the potion without thinking about her again.

After the potions were bottled, labelled, and placed in a small crate, Severus Apparated to Knockturn to deliver them. It was mid afternoon, the street busy with shoppers doing errands on a Saturday. He walked in shadow despite the weak blue sky overhead, the tall buildings on either side of the narrow alley a permanent shield from the sun. Severus wasted no time before heading to Perilous Potions. The tiny shop was even gloomier than the street outside, the windows covered with black curtains and floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with glass bottles surrounding the room.

“Snape,” barked the proprietress, who lounged on a stool with her feet on the counter, tapping her pointed, black-polished nails against her thigh.

Severus placed the box in front of her, and she lazily lifted the cover.

“Pity you ain’t taken one yet,” she commented.

“I wouldn’t give you the pleasure.”

“Fate should have given your skills to a more tolerable person.” She shifted to the till with a sigh, then flashed a wicked smile. “Or at least better looking.”

Severus settled himself behind his Occlumency shields, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him ruffled while she counted coins with deliberate slowness, each one making a solid click as it contacted the counter. At thirty galleons, she paused to give him a challenging stare.

“It’s thirty-five or you will not get your order,” Severus snarled, making her smirk.

It was the same game with her every time. Knowing he needed the income, she took great pleasure in flaunting her power while he stood stoically and waited for her to decide to free him from her company. As soon as his payment was safely tucked into his coin pouch, he swept from the shop to her cackling laughter.

Outside, he huffed out a breath through clenched teeth. He needed a drink. The Ghoul & Goblin was across the street, but his gaze drifted towards Diagon. Granger might be at The Leaky Cauldron for an afternoon pint with her friends. He took a few steps in that direction before stopping himself and swinging swiftly around. The pub door banged with the force of his grip. Letting the owner of Perilous Potions belittle him was bad enough; he wouldn’t sit around at the Leaky like a pathetic fool because of a little kindness that probably meant nothing at all to the witch.

It was busy, the room humming with conversations and cutlery scraping on plates; 34 patrons, four exits, and practically everyone was doing something they shouldn’t, but that was to be expected. ‘I’ll mind my business and you mind yours’ had always been the unspoken rule at the Double G. Accordingly, the barman only grunted in response to Severus’s order and then passed him his pint, and aside from a few quick glances as he made his way to a table, no one paid him any attention. He found himself letting out a long breath as he took the first sip of lager.

Next to him, a pair of grey-haired witches bent over their table, the brims of their pointed hats touching while they chatted and their smirks deepening the creases in their faces. It was impossible not to eavesdrop on the gossipy hags, who made no attempt to stop him from overhearing their conversation. In the time it took him to eat his fish pie, he learned the owner of Knockturn’s pawn shop was having an affair with the fortune teller, that Cloaks & Daggers had been visited by the Auror Office twice in the last month, and the one with glasses was peddling housewares she’d stolen from a Muggle shop before enchanting them.

When he finished his pie, he picked up his book and left them to their chatter. He’d read a few pages when in his peripheral vision one straightened and then tapped her friend on the hand.

“Ain’t that Hermione Granger?” she asked in an excited whisper, pointing towards the bar. Severus’s head nearly jerked in the same direction, but he forced it to remain turned towards his book, chest feeling suddenly tight.

“What’s she doing here? Always thought she had her nose up the minister’s ass. Too goody-goody for a place like this,” said the second witch.

“Nah, havin’ troubles, isn’t she? Broke off with that fancy artist fiancé, and got transferred to some useless department at the ministry a few months back. She ain’t so goody-goody as she seems, I reckon.”

“Maybe she enjoys a little dark wizard cock.”

The book in Severus’s hand creased from the sudden force of his fingers. The witches’ cackling in his ears, he risked raising his eyes and immediately located the unmistakable mass of Granger’s chestnut curls in front of the bar. She wore a thick cloak that draped over her shoulders to the floor and carried a brown leather shoulder bag, its bulk against her left hip. He couldn’t see her face, but could imagine her smile as she ordered from the bartender. A moment later, he no longer needed to imagine it, for she turned around holding her pint. Her eyes were bright as she scanned the room. What was she doing in a place like this? Was she meeting someone?

Her head turned, and then suddenly her eyes were on his. His breath stilled when her smile turned tentative and she began weaving through the tables.

“It’s packed in here,” she said once she stood in front of him. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

Unable to force a single word past his larynx, Severus gestured at the open chair across from him, shoved his dirty plate to the side, and then gave the tittering hags next to him a sharp glare. A quick flick of his wand halted any attempt they might make to listen in on his and Granger’s conversation.

“Thank you,” she said, pointing at the forgotten book still in his hand. “What are you reading this time?”

He showed her the cover, which had a photo of what looked like a subway or an airport, with a flat escalator and a walkway bathed in reddish-orange light. The title was Warped Space.

“I haven’t heard of that one.”

Severus cleared his throat. “It’s Muggle. A discussion of psychology’s impact on modern architecture and art.” Granger blinked at him for a moment, and his lips drew downward in response. “What brings you to the Double G?”

“Is that what people call it?” she asked with a snort.

“It used to be common among Knockturn regulars. I’m not sure if it is anymore.”

“Do you usually go to the Leaky nowadays?”

“No,” he replied, unwilling to tell her the reason he couldn’t be certain about the state of the pub’s nickname was because he hadn’t spoken to a Knockturn resident other than a shopkeep since before the last year of the war.

“I’ve only been once before, but I expect I’ll be coming more often now.” Her cheeks suddenly reddened, her eyes falling to her drink.

“Do you have business here?” Curiously, he watched her steady herself with a deep breath.

“You could say that,” she answered with a shy smile. “I, um… Ten minutes ago I signed a contract with The Scarlet Witch down the street. I’ll be working there.”

Severus quickly schooled his eyebrows, which wanted to shoot up in surprise. A brothel seemed an unlikely place of employment for the upstanding, cerebral witch Granger presented to the world.

“What’s the impetus for the career change?” he asked, keeping his expression and voice carefully neutral as he studied her.

It was plain to see she wouldn’t have issues getting clients. Especially with flushed cheeks and eyes darting beneath her lashes, she was an attractive woman. He clamped down on his Occlumency shields to put those thoughts out of his head. They were not helpful in the least.

Granger’s leg bounced beneath the table. She took a sip from her pint. “I need to leave the ministry, and it’s the only thing that appealed to me.”

That surprised him too. He would have expected her to be an ambitious ladder climber destined for a head position, but the witches at the next table had said she’d been transferred. Had they been right about her having troubles?

“What happened at the ministry?”

“Nothing is happening at the ministry. You could collapse the entire place into the earth and then set it on fire and the result would accomplish about as much,” she said hotly, eyes flashing with contempt. “If you enjoy spending your life being completely useless, I suppose it’s an acceptable career.”

Severus’s fingers tightened around his glass. “Not everyone has a choice regarding their usefulness, witch,” he said in a deadly tone. He took a violent swig of his beer.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she clarified quickly, but his eyes remained narrowed. “What I meant is there’s a lot of people at the ministry who don’t mind that they do nothing, that think it’s fine that their work and their department accomplishes nothing—and when I say nothing, I mean nothing.”

Her hands turned into fists, flexing against her palms. The look she gave him next was a challenging glare. “People like that made work hell. Every job I had there was a fucking joke.”

She jutted her chin out, arms crossed in front of her on the table, daring him to argue with her. Her irises were the colour of dark honey, the sort of eyes that gave away too much of what was behind them. Right now they were full of indignation and righteous anger, but it didn’t take Legilimency to see defensiveness and worry lingered in their shadows.

“Anyway, at least this way I’m getting fucked by choice,” she said with a bitter little laugh, pushing her hair behind her shoulders. “I thought I’d stay at the ministry my whole career, but all I’ve done there is make myself unhappy. Sometimes you just have to accept that things are what they are and move on, you know?”

The air in his lungs took on a fuzzy edge. Oh, how well did he know that.

“I suppose I should wish you congratulations then,” he said, trying to keep his voice smooth, and lifted his glass in acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” she said and clinked her glass enthusiastically with his.

He met soft, appreciative eyes with his shuttered gaze and felt something inside him flicker as if she was a match setting a small candle alight.

He looked away.

“Can I get you another drink? My treat.”

That was all it took to make the little flame she’d lit flare, pulling all the oxygen from his lungs so his chest felt tight. Scowling, he found himself nodding, then watched her glide to the bar.

What was he doing? He should leave. What was the point in staying for another round? It was like she said: sometimes you had to accept that things were what they were, and Severus had accepted that he wasn’t someone anyone wanted to be around. Even before his more recent ostracization from magical society, he’d never been a person people liked. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had genuinely wanted to spend time with him—not because they wanted something from him, nor because they’d been forced into it.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. He could remember the last time; he just didn’t want to. It had been Charity, before he’d killed Dumbledore, before he’d sat still and allowed the Dark Lord to…

“I hope that look isn’t because of having to spend more time with me,” came Granger’s voice, a pint sliding onto the table making him jerk in his seat.

“I don’t see anyone else here bothering me,” he snarled at her.

Her eyebrows folded, a flash of panic passing over her expression. Halfway into her seat, she froze, hand still around her glass, the liquid inside the same reddish-brown as her hair. The one she’d placed in front of him was the amber of her eyes. In the short time they’d been speaking, she had noticed his preferred drink.

“I guess I’ll take these pints and find another table then,” she said slowly. It wasn’t a question, and yet it was. Her intoxicating eyes searched his face.

He swiped the glass of blond liquid from the table. “You don’t even like lager,” he said smoothly. “Sit.”

She was irritatingly charming when she smiled.

“Tell me more about your book. I finished The Witches of Ramsay by the way,” she said. “Oh, I should ask what you do for work.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Is your intention for me to select a topic from the list, or do you expect me to speak to all three at once?”

She huffed an embarrassed laugh, and then gave him a teasing smirk. “I don’t doubt your ability to talk about them all at the same time, but go ahead and pick one.”

He stopped the corner of his mouth from twitching upward like it wanted. “Very well. The Witches of Ramsay then. What did you think of it?”

“You never answered my last question. What do you do for work these days?”

Severus wished she had forgotten to ask. He felt a little tipsy from the six empty pint glasses they’d managed to drain between them, sticky remnants still on the table. Judging by the glassiness of Hermione’s eyes, she was feeling them a little too.

“I do a little contract brewing for an apothecary,” he answered vaguely.

“It makes me glad to hear you still brew,” she said. She leaned forward onto her elbows, resting her chin in a cupped hand, and he could practically see her mind turning behind her slightly unfocused eyes. “Did you always dream of working with potions?”

His sharp, derisive exhalation made her smile. “Not all of us are afforded dreams, Granger,” he said. “There are worse things than potions, however.”

“Like working at the ministry,” Hermione said with a wry smile.

Like obeying powerful wizards’ orders, or being forced to do absolutely nothing at all, he thought.

“I take it you never dreamed of working at The Scarlet Witch?”

“Merlin, no. I wouldn’t have bothered getting ten NEWTs if I had,” Hermione said. “But it’s better than any of my other options.”

Fingers flexed against his glass, which had remained in his hand despite being empty for a good fifteen minutes. “That is how I feel about my work as well.”

They sat in silence for a moment and Severus felt a long unfamiliar warmth settle within him. No, not completely unfamiliar. He’d felt like this with Charity sometimes, and Lily a long time ago. It was the silence of a mutual understanding, akin to camaraderie.

“I should go,” he said, standing abruptly.

“Oh! All right. I’m sorry if I kept you late.”

He shook his head. “It’s no matter.”

Attempting to ignore her, he put on his cloak, calling again on his shields to squash the turmoil of emotions attempting to overcome him.

“I wish you the best with your new career,” he forced himself to say.

“Thank you for celebrating with me,” she replied, trying to catch his eye with her all too captivating gaze. “Would you ever—”

“Good evening, Miss Granger,” he cut her off, then spun on his heel and strode for the door.

What did it matter if he was rude? These last hours could only ever be a brief respite and if he’d been a stronger man, he would have rejected her when she first approached.

Outside the sun was setting, the wispy clouds above the narrow strip of Knockturn grey, orange, and pink. Severus strode up the cobblestones with quick strides, cloak billowing behind him, eager to avoid running into the witch again when she exited. His head felt strange, his thoughts slurring under waves of emotions that kept trying to surge through his Occlumency, which felt unusually weak. There was a reason he normally didn’t indulge. Alcohol made people stupid and senseless, and he couldn’t afford to be either of those things.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d chatted with someone for two hours at a pub, unless it was a meeting. It must have been Charity… No, now was not the time to think of her.

Cloak still billowing, he turned a corner and a framed rectangle of Diagon Alley appeared ahead. His thoughts spun. Why was he even walking? He needed to go home.

It was the absence of something that caught his eye before he could Apparate. The large building at the junction of the two alleys, which had always contained an ironmonger, was empty. Brown paper had been inexpertly spellotaped to its large rectangular windows, but had fallen in places to reveal a barren room with a wood floor. The curving stairs to the shop were an arch on the corner, as if it belonged to both Knockturn and Diagon equally. His feet stopped without thinking.

He climbed the steps, noting a for sale sign in the window, and peered through the paned front door. With a quick Lumos, he pressed his wand to the glass, illuminating the interior. The main floor was large and open, stretching farther into the rear of the building than he expected. To the left, against an exposed red brick wall, was a staircase leading to a second floor, which covered only the back half of the building, the space beyond the railing of a balcony hidden in shadow.

In his mind’s eye, a gallery appeared in the space before him. Two mobile walls would run down the centre for framed images. Wire hangers in the windows would hold pieces to entice passersby. He placed sculptures beside the walls and in the back. A small but familiar sense of longing settled in him as he imagined a long desk near the front.

It was not the first time he’d imagined such a space, or having a gallery of his own to share the art that meant so much to him. It was preposterous and silly, of course, as were most of his desires. People like him did not get the luxury of fulfilling their dreams.

“What’re you doing?” came a gruff voice.

Severus turned to find an old wizard in a tweed coat and mustard robes frowning at him. Recognition passed over the man’s well-worn features, and he stepped back as his wrinkles deepened, highlighted by Severus’s wandlight.

“I would assume it rather obvious,” replied Severus, wordlessly darkening his wand. He pointed at the large sign in the window, though it was rather difficult to miss.

“We don’t want no dark magic shops up this way,” barked the man. “Folks like you should learn to stay down the end of Knockturn.”

Severus sighed, suddenly exhausted with these reactions, the assumptions. Hate he could handle, had always handled, but he wished the world would be silent about it. Let him be, so he didn’t have to feel so needy, so desperate that a smile and a few kind words from Hermione Granger made him lose all sense.

He came down the stairs with a snarl and his cloak snapping behind him, causing the man to stiffen. “I would never dream of opening a shop that would so obviously embarrass most of the population by being beyond their comprehension and capabilities,” he sneered. “But should I ever wish to open a business in the future, I shall of course ask for your permission. To whom shall I address the letter?”

The wizard began to splutter, but Severus was already sweeping past. It pleased him when the old man jumped aside. He took three more steps and Disapparated.

As he landed in his private patio, he let out a wretched scream, sending a spell into a little wood patio table, which cracked and scattered in pieces across the red tiles. His lips curled back from his teeth in a grimace, not feeling any better for it. There was an ache next to his thundering heart, right where Hermione Granger had gone and lit her little flame.

Whore, he thought viciously, heaving in breath. Granger would make a perfect prostitute. He had accepted that he would never achieve anything, never be more than despised, and she had spotted his weaknesses, seduced him with with her entrancing smile, honey-coloured eyes, and engaging conversation, had the gall to ask about his dreams, to make him feel and want. Fucking bitch.

The front door shook violently as he shoved it open. Fingers fumbling, he took off his cloak and boots in his foyer. Cinder trotted up to him with a desperate, angry meow; he was more than an hour late with her dinner thanks to Granger. Cinder shouted at him again as his hand curled into a fist at his side.

“Yes, cat,” he muttered. He rubbed his eyes as he padded into the kitchen. She weaved between his legs as he filled her dish, her deep purr a backdrop to his racing thoughts.

It made no sense why Hermione should want to talk to him, look at him the way she did. What could she possibly want from a man like him? If she knew better, knew who he really was, she’d want nothing to do with him just like everyone else. If he told her what he’d done to Charity, his last true friend…

He shook his head to rid his mind of the memories. Tried to call on his shields again, but the ocean in his mind felt like a puddle. There was no sea deep enough to smother the awful thing set alight inside him now.

It was early evening, but the only thing he wanted was sleep. He felt… He rubbed his chest just below his breastbone, where the pain felt lodged and immovable. Voices—Granger’s, Charity’s, the wizard’s in Diagon, the proprietress’s of Perilous Potions, Dumbledore’s, the Dark Lord’s—tangled in his mind, settled like lead weights in his body, while he stumbled into his bedroom and undressed down to his briefs.

His body hadn’t changed much since the war, except for the new scars. His father used to say he looked like a skinny girl—at least until Severus grew two inches taller than him and broke his nose in a fistfight the summer before he left home for good. He was still too thin, though, wiry muscle, sinew, and bones visible beneath pale skin. Laying on the bed, Severus traced the barely visible scar on his knuckle, where his father’s teeth had broken skin. Then the one on his neck, the remnants of the bite that should have killed him, the skin strangely smooth under his fingertips.

If Granger saw his scars, knew where each of them came from, would she still speak to him?

What a stupid question. She wouldn’t have asked him for a second round of drinks, that was for certain.

He rolled onto his side, rubbing his chest again, and stared into the dark. He was so tired, and yet his eyes remained open, replaying his time with her. Their debate over the historical accuracy of The Witches of Ramsay, her laughter at his cutting remarks against Clifford Ripley, a new potioneer of increasing fame whose books and theories were, in Severus’s opinion, complete rubbish. Her amber eyes, which said too much, gazing at him with delighted surprise and appreciation.

There was so much sadness and hesitation in those eyes too. He had not wanted to dig, did not want to feel anymore connection when understanding already passed too easily between them. Out of options, left to rot in the ministry, angry and frustrated, and yet still so lovely and intelligent—and even if it was only in his head, he had just called her a whore, as if she was the problem instead of him, instead of the world.

Guilt pressed against his ribcage, his mind conjuring another memory of her smile. Sharp pain seized his chest, gripped his lungs, folded his eyebrows inward, made his fingers itch. He curled inward on himself, knees bending to his chest, an arm wrapping around them while the other pushed his fingertips as hard as he could into the shattering pressure below his heart in an attempt to force it out. He grit his teeth against the stupid, desperate want that flooded him against his will. He had called her a whore.

He was pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

This was the sort of feeling that only led to more hurt, more guilt. It was a weakness, one he’d long tried to excise from his body. He’d vowed when Charity was murdered that he would never betray another friend, a promise that required solitude. Yet he had accepted Granger’s invitation and in only an hour, Granger had broken his feeble resolve to keep to himself. He should not want a friend so badly, but he did. God, he did. Just one unblemished by his mistakes, his inability to do right by people. For God’s sake, he had already called her a whore!

A meow interrupted his thoughts, and Cinder’s soft weight leapt onto the bed behind him.

“Get away, cat,” he growled at her, but she marched toward him, walking onto his pillow. He stiffened as her soft weight pressed against his skull, warm and comforting.

“I SAID GET OUT!” he shouted, snarling, knocking her away with a hand.

Watching her run from the room, Severus cursed himself and collapsed back onto his side. Why had he done that? Cinder was all he had, the only creature who would ever comfort him, and he’d struck her. Why must he always lash out at those he cared about?

With a shuddering inhalation, one hand covered his face and he drew himself into a tight ball. His nose burned, his lip curled, and then it wobbled, a choked sound escaping his lungs as the last vestiges of his self-control dried up and cracked under the blinding heat that scorched his chest.

In the darkness of his room he sobbed, too aware of his loneliness, his emptiness, of how much he wanted someone, anyone, but now especially her, in his life—of how much he wanted not to want such things. Of how much he wanted to not be himself. Not to miss the people he should have died to save. His fingers wound into his hair, tugging at his scalp, tears flooding onto his skin, his pillow, and even then he couldn’t banish Hermione’s smile, Charity’s scream, Lily’s accusations, from his thoughts.

Desperately, he flung himself at his side table, wrenching open the small top drawer where several small bottles clinked against each other. He grabbed one with a shaking hand and uncorked it. The only answer was to stop feeling. Drinking it down, he dropped the bottle on the floor and buried himself under his duvet. Black edges of a blissful, thoughtless, dreamless sleep crept over his consciousness, the burning pain turning to smoke, leaving only a small flickering flame. Then the senseless darkness took him.

Chapter Text

Five days after signing her contract, Hermione arrived for her first shift at The Scarlet Witch. She put in her two weeks notice at the ministry only Monday, but had decided to work three evenings a week until she was free of the ministry for good. It felt like a smart idea to ease herself into it, and she didn’t want to wait to start her new life. After her outburst, Duddington hadn’t seemed surprised to receive her notice and he hadn’t tried to convince her to stay.

Misha was once again at the reception desk and waved her through to the rear with a note that her locker was waiting for her. At the back of the main floor was a staff lounge with sofas, lockers, dressing stations, and a cart with everything for tea. A witch was sitting in front of one of the mirrors applying lipstick to her wide lips. Her mahogany hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore a slim tank top and short skirt. Kind green eyes met Hermione’s as she glanced over her shoulder.

“Hello,” Hermione said, introducing herself.

The witch spun on the stool she sat on. “Charlotte, but here I’m Cherry,” she replied. “We actually met a couple times at Hogwarts, but I doubt you remember. I was three years behind you.”

Hermione searched her memories, but couldn’t match Charlotte to any of them. “How long have you worked here?”

“Just over a year, I think.” She finished applying her lipstick and smacked her lips together. Standing, she was taller than Hermione, would be even without the heels.

“Tonight’s my first night,” admitted Hermione.

“Nervous?”

“Definitely, but excited too,” Hermione said. Madam Hazel had given her a thorough overview of how things worked at the brothel on Saturday, but that was different than actually doing it.

She made her way to the lockers and found one with her name charmed on the front. The door made a metallic rattle as she opened it.

“I was shitting gobstones at first, but it gets easier pretty fast,” said Charlotte with an understanding smile. “I try to remember most clients just want to be the centre of attention.”

“Any other tips?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“A Lubrication Charm is your best friend—for everything,” Charlotte replied with a grin, “and if a bloke makes you feel off, trust your gut and walk away. You going to the lounge? I can wait for you if you want.”

“I’d really appreciate that.”

Hermione changed quickly into a burgundy teddy made of thick silk, with frilly lace on the straps and over her hips. She’d gone shopping for a whole new work wardrobe on Sunday, and couldn’t wait to get rid of her old office robes and skirt suits. It felt strange wearing such revealing clothing at work, but then she supposed once she got in the rooms with clients, she’d be wearing even less. Funnily, she was more nervous about introducing herself to clients than getting naked with them.

Hermione slid more new outfits from her bag onto hangers, pulled out her makeup bag, and slipped a handful of Pick-Me-Up Potions onto the shelf. Scooting into the shelter of her locker door, she uncorked one and threw it back, closing her eyes until it rejuvenated her, then grabbed her makeup bag. She hoped that once she left the ministry, she would stop feeling like she needed them.

“What should I call you in the lounge?” Charlotte asked, a hip against the back of the large sofa that cut the room in half.

“Hermione,” she said, moving to one of the makeup stations with more spring in her step.

“You’re not using a fake name?”

She shrugged, smoothing foundation onto her face. “There’s not much point.”

“I guess most people know who you are, huh?”

“Madam Hazel’s trying to get me to see it as a positive,” Hermione replied with a wry twist of her mouth. She had an appointment with a photographer on Sunday for the advertisements she’d agreed to let Madam Hazel run about her working at the brothel.

She put the last of her makeup on, took a deep breath to buoy the positive energy from the potion, and stood. “How do I look?”

“Like a gorgeous witch about to snag her first client.”

Hermione followed Charlotte out into the lounge, a square room as classy as the lobby. There was a long mahogany and brass bar, and instead of tables, the floor was covered in small groups of red velvet sofas. A few private booths lined the back wall. A wizard spoke with a witch in a slim blue dress on one of the sofas. Two other brothel workers, Vanessa and Malcolm, if Hermione remembered their names correctly, chatted on a couch while they waited for more clients. Another lone man sat chatting with the tall tattooed witch behind the bar, drinking what looked like a whisky.

“Some wizards just drink and hang out, so don’t waste your time if it’s busy and they aren’t eager to get you upstairs,” Charlotte whispered.

It wasn’t long before two wizards entered. Vanessa and Malcolm approached them first, chatting for a few minutes before wandering away. Charlotte urged Hermione forward then, and she was grateful to have the more experienced witch by her side as they settled next to the men on a sofa. Both the wizards looked middle aged, one with a short beard and stocky build, the other clean shaven and slimmer.

“Hi, I’m Cherry, and this is Hermione. What are you both looking for this evening?”

“The usual sort of thing, I think,” said the bearded man, who introduced himself as Frank, and his friend as John.

“Are you hoping to see someone together or separate?”

Frank laughed. “We aren’t that close. Just trying to give him a little fun for his birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” Hermione said with a smile to John, whose eyes kept skidding over her body. He had grey hair and an average face, with crows feet at the corners of his eyes. Hermione scooted closer to him on the sofa and mimicked Charlotte, touching him lightly as she asked, “Can I help you celebrate? Anything you’re curious about?”

They’d never been to the brothel before, so Hermione and Charlotte explained the process, Hermione taking mental notes every time Charlotte spoke.

“Did you say your name was Hermione?” asked Frank, grey eyes staring at her appraisingly.

Hermione’s smile faltered for only a second. She knew what question would come next. But like she told Charlotte, people recognizing her was an inevitability and she wasn’t trying to hide it.

“That’s right.”

“Like Hermione Granger?”

”That’s me,” she confirmed to the men.

“No way!” said Frank with a laugh. His eyes widened as Hermione assured him it was the truth and Charlotte confirmed her identity. “What are you doing in a place like this?”

For a moment, her chest went tight. She didn’t want to launch into a tirade about the ministry, nor reveal her personal reasons to strangers. She didn’t want to be judged over her choices. Thankfully, she remembered Charlotte’s advice.

“I like making people happy,” she told him simply, and then turned back to John next to her, placing her hand on his arm. “Maybe I sensed you were going to come in,” she said with a bright smile, pleased when he shifted closer to her.

“Guess I’m going to have an extra good birthday,” he said roughly.

“I’ll try to make sure you do. Did you have any questions now, or would you rather chat in private?”

John glanced at his friend.

“Go on. Enjoy, lucky bugger,” said Frank, waving his hand dismissively.

Saying goodbye to Charlotte and Frank, Hermione took him to a small room off the lobby, which was where they did the actual business portion of their transaction. He explained what he wanted, which she was thankful was ordinary, given he was her first proper client, and she told him the price. Once they’d agreed, he paid Misha and they went upstairs.

The brothel’s rooms were simple but well kept, with large beds, small sitting areas, and adjoining bathrooms. There were two large suites for bigger parties, and a few rooms with themes. Hermione took John to one of the regular rooms and instructed him to shower. She took a deep breath while listening to the water running. So far, so good. She adjusted her teddy and checked the room while she waited.

When John joined her again, only a towel around his waist, a little thrill went through her. She was really doing this. He was the first but there would be more. She wouldn’t have to be miserable at the ministry anymore. She’d have a job that meant something to someone.

She went to him with another bright smile. “All good?” she asked, touching his chest briefly. “Should we get into our birthday suits?”

He smiled at that. “Sounds like a party.”

She liked how he looked at her, a little hesitant in his desire, as she drew him into the room and undressed them both. It was easier to be flirty and sensual now they were alone.

“Are you doing anything else to celebrate your birthday?” she asked as they lay down together on the bed.

“Not sure. I wasn’t planning on doing anything until Frank dragged me out. He’s an old friend. Normally we go to the pub at the weekend, but I let it slip that I… well, it’s been a while since I did anything like this,” he said, his fingers sliding over her skin.

She gave him an encouraging smile. It was still a little strange being affectionate with a stranger she wasn’t attracted to. There was a different sort of connection, different than even a one-night stand, and she understood why some people might not like it.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

Hermione allowed him to lean over her and press his lips to hers. Different, so different, she thought, her heart still thudding with nervous excitement. He tasted like the spearmint mouthwash left in the bathroom for clients. It was different when she crawled down his body to suck his cock, different encouraging him and pretending to enjoy him like a real lover, different when he finally put his cock inside her, different after he was spent and they cuddled and talked until his time was up. Different, but not bad.

“Thank you. That was better than I expected. Maybe I’ll come back for my next birthday,” he said as he left. He had a sated, contended look in his eyes, and she felt incredibly pleased that she’d created it, made a positive change, even if just for one man on his birthday.

“I hope you do,” Hermione replied, and she meant it. “Come back anytime.”

By her third client, Hermione’s nerves began to fade. She enjoyed the little thrill she got with the wizards, the play of it, the attention. She had no idea if she was any good at marketing herself, at anything really, but she didn’t have much trouble finding willing wizards from those who walked in, and they all seemed happy with their time with her. By the time she left at half eleven, she’d had five clients, each of them different in appearance, personality, and preferences. They felt like puzzles to her, trying to sort out what they would like. It felt like she was learning a new language, a new way of being. It was so much better than rewriting reports.

She said goodnight to Misha on her way back into Knockturn Alley to Apparate home. Outside, the sky was pitch dark, the only lights the flashing red witch above her head and the pool from the lamp above the door to the Ghoul & Goblin. She imagined Snape inside reading his book, and wondered if she went in and found him, if he’d be happy to see her. She’d tried to figure out what she’d done to make him leave so abruptly, but hadn’t come up with anything. The hours they’d spent together had been some of her best in recent memory, and she wanted a continuation, but there was little she could do if Snape didn’t. Perhaps he’d simply seen whatever thing there was inside her that drove people away, like a black spot, invisible so she could not find it and scrub it away.

Frowning slightly, she twisted into Apparation to tell her cat about her day.

Hermione lived in a one-bed flat on the second floor of a block. It was entirely Muggle, but owned by squibs, who hadn’t minded that she’d made a few magical enhancements. Her front door opened into a short corridor, the rooms all off to one side: the bedroom across from the front door, then the bathroom, then the small kitchen before the reception room at the end. Every room had a window, making them bright during the day. They were the reason she’d ended up choosing it.

Crookshanks yowled and trotted up to her as she emerged from her bedroom on Sunday morning, his fluffy orange tail held high.

“Good morning, handsome,” she cooed, picking him up. Colin had always made fun of her for holding him like a baby, but Crooks seemed to like it and so did she.

She scratched his chin as she made her way to the narrow galley kitchen. It had white cupboards, Muggle appliances, and a miniscule breakfast table and chair shoved against the wall opposite the stove. A small stained glass ornament of a pink cat wearing a pointed hat hung over the window above her sink, and a spider plant (the only plant resilient enough to live in her care) hung from a macrame hanger in the corner.

“Sorry I’m late with breakfast. I work late on Saturdays now,” she told him, never quite sure if he understood her. He purred with his eyes half-closed. “After this week you’re going to have to get used to a new feeding schedule.”

Crookshanks gave a gruff little meow at that, and she laughed. “I know, we’re both going to have to adjust. But I really think it’s going to be good. Okay, okay, I will feed you.”

Scraping food into his dish, she found herself humming, nerves an undercurrent to her good mood. Her photo shoot was today. The advertisements might not be out for a while, but she couldn’t help but feel like she was announcing her new profession to the world. The camera would click, and her decision would be final.

It was a good thing she remained sure about it. Over the last three days, Hermione had served nearly twenty clients. Each of them was unique, confirmation that she wasn’t making a giant mistake. There’d only been one disrespectful creep, who’d tried to push her to do things he hadn’t paid for, but she had dealt with it, and to her surprise, Charlotte and Malcolm had been happy to talk about it. They’d both had similar experiences, their words reassuring. It hadn’t made her waver.

Sundays she enjoyed treating herself to a better breakfast than toast with marmalade, so when she sat down at the tiny table pushed against her kitchen’s wall, it was with a bowl of oatmeal topped with honey, yogurt, fruit, and almonds, along with her usual cup of tea. She spooned the sweet mixture into her mouth with a small smile still tilting her lips, trying to decide what clothes to bring. Madam Hazel had said to wear lingerie, but that was a rather broad category—something Hermione had only realized after visiting Knockturn’s sex shop, which also had a wide selection of sexy and sensual clothing. Maybe she should just shoot naked, she thought with a snort.

Picking up her wand, she summoned the photos Colin had returned to her from where she’d left them on her dining room table (her friends never visited, so there was no need to hide them). It was the one with her spread wide on the bed that she chose to stare at, her body slithering over the glossy paper. This was who she was now, sexual and enticing, as much as it came to her surprise. Judging from the photos, it had always been there, so maybe it shouldn’t have been.

Staring at her photo, she felt a new determination to embody the woman she saw. The chance to do something valuable to people was worth cutting the other parts of herself away. It wasn’t as if anyone liked those parts, anyway.

Tucking the photos safely away, she finished her breakfast and went to get ready.

The photographer Madam Hazel hired for her shoot was a plump witch with a captivating smile. Hermione greeted her with a Pick-Me-Up Potion dampening her nerves. They’d taken over the room usually reserved for parties, which had a separate bedroom, a huge sitting area with a fireplace, and a tub big enough to fit twelve people.

“I’m Eleanor,” said the witch, her smile lighting her whole face. “You need no introduction, of course.”

“That’s why I’m here,” replied Hermione with a short laugh. “I wasn’t really sure what you’d want me to wear, so I brought practically my whole closet.”

“That’s great. We can do a few different outfits.”

Apparently, it hadn’t just been Colin, or maybe making people feel easy was a thing all photographers could do, but Hermione enjoyed her shoot immensely. Eleanor cracked jokes and helped her pose, and in no time Hermione felt sensual and confident. She hoped that once the photos were printed, that’s what people would see too.

After finishing her shoot, Hermione decided to see if Colin was home. She hadn’t told him yet about her decision and she wanted to keep her promise to be friends. Though unintentional, he’d also helped her today by giving her confidence and making the shoot not quite so foreign. Walking down Diagon Alley toward his flat, she found herself smiling in the sunny weather, and the realization that what she felt was hope made her smile widen as her eyes tilted up to the blue sky. Her feet felt bouncy as she climbed the stairs in Colin’s building.

Colin answered her knock, and shook his head with a lopsided smile when he saw her. “Do you have something against owls now?”

“No. I just had a photo shoot nearby and it made me think of you, so I decided I’d drop by. Are you busy?”

“Just prepping for a show. Come in,” he said, waving her in. “Be warned, it’s a disaster. There’s multiple things in the sink, so you may want to avoid it.”

Hermione laughed, glad that things didn’t feel stilted between them. There were indeed silver frames, photos, and matting material everywhere. Bits of offcast paper littered the floor. None of it was new to Hermione; she’d been there for his first shows, helping him slide photos carefully behind glass. She avoided the debris, moved a few empty frames from one end of the sofa, and took their place on the seat.

“What were you having a photo shoot for?” Colin asked curiously from the small kitchen table, picking up a ruler and his wand to cut mats to fit between the photos and their frames.

“The brothel’s going to advertise me working there,” Hermione revealed. She watched for Colin’s reaction intently, but found only a flicker of surprise.

“You decided to do it then,” he said, lines appearing on his forehead.

“I started Thursday, just part-time. I’ll be full-time once I get through this last week of ministry hell,” she explained.

“Congratulations,” he said, but his voice was flat and his lips had formed a slight frown. Just like that, Hermione’s easiness faltered, an airy feeling inside her ribcage making her shift in her seat.

She swallowed and brought her knees to her chest. “Are you upset with me?”

“Hermione…” Colin put down his wand and ruler. “Of course I’m not upset. I’m glad you’re getting away from the ministry and doing something you think you’ll enjoy. I’m just worried.”

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Hermione reassured him, though she wasn’t sure that was exactly true. She wouldn’t be able to avoid some people judging her.

“Have you told Ginny and the others yet?”

“No. I’ve been trying to arrange something but everyone’s busy.” Colin’s frown deepened, causing Hermione to ask, “What?”

When Colin didn’t answer, she stood up and moved to him, and to her surprise, he hugged her. She looped her arms gently around him. “What?” she prodded him again.

He let her go, his mousy hair falling into his large, concerned hazel eyes. If only she loved him, wanted him still, she thought. She took a step backward, putting a little more distance between them.

“I want you to be happy, Hermione, but I worry because people are arseholes.”

Hermione snorted, her eyes falling. “I know, but I’d rather deal with the arseholes than the ministry, I think, and I want this to be good, and I need clients to do that. It makes sense to use my reputation—” She said the word with slight disgust, because she’d never understood why people cared about what she did. “—to my advantage. Don’t worry. Please?”

“No promises,” he said, the right side of his mouth lifting slightly.

“Tell me about your show,” Hermione said, moving towards some of the framed pieces he’d leaned against the brick wall.

“It’s a solo show at Derby & Drake. The one I told you about.”

Hermione spun on her feet. “Colin! That’s amazing! It’s about bloody time they accepted you. I’m… I’m so happy for you!”

Spots of colour highlighted Colin’s cheeks. “Thanks. It’s not until the end of June, but I’m excited. Hopefully it won’t flop. You’ll come, right?”

“Don’t you dare doubt yourself. Everyone is going to love your work, and I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Looks like both of our careers are on the up,” he said with a gentle smile, dimples forming in his cheeks.

Hermione grinned at him. “Looks like it.”

Chapter Text

A week later, Hermione awoke on Monday morning and as she automatically reached for the potion on her bedside table, she realized she didn’t need to trudge to the ministry. Hand falling away, it hit her. She was free, and she had also given up on her dreams, on the person she’d intended to become. She had a chance to be happy now, but in a job that most people would probably believe made her a lesser sort of woman, nevermind it was the ministry that had made her less by crushing her under monotony.

March sunshine warmed her duvet with buttery light while she stared at the ceiling, suddenly aware of her new reality. As if someone had cut one of the strings holding it tight, her body unfolded a little and she exhaled as she opened. The space left over from the looseness in her limbs felt vast and strange. The last time she’d felt like this was the day after Voldemort’s defeat.

A wake of grief and struggle had stretched behind her, and ahead of her lay a tangle of unknown, terrifying and full of hard work and promise. That day nearly five years ago, she’d stood in the moment in between, on a bridge crossing where her past and future diverged like steep cliffs. Ahead was hope and behind was ruin, and all she had to do was step forward. Just like that morning, Hermione found herself too stunned by the deep crevasse to turn away.

Lips curled upward to reveal her teeth and water flooded her vision at the same moment. A sharp laugh and a rough sob burst from her lungs together in a jumbled sound. Stuck at the crossing point, giddy grief poured out of her, giggles and tears streaming down her temples, and for a moment Hermione thought she’d gone mad. Crookshanks was curled up next to her, and she pressed her hand into his soft fur, another cry-laugh escaping.

She’d done it. She was free. She was fucking free and the ministry could go to hell.

She’d finally been able to schedule a time to meet her girlfriends that evening, and she hoped they would understand, that they’d see the truth: that she was trying to better her life, that she was determined not to be unhappy.

When she finally prised herself from the mattress it was mid-morning. She spent her day ridding herself of the rest of her ministry-worker life. She went through her wardrobe and pulled out all her old work clothes, keeping only a few favourites and shoving the rest into a bag to take to Don Your Robe & Wizard Hat in Knockturn Alley the next day. She emptied her purse and went through her diary, removing any vestiges of the ministry. When she was done, she once again found herself feeling bittersweet.

The sun was beginning to set as she made her way to The Leaky Cauldron. She hadn’t seen most of her friends since she’d left them in the pub weeks ago, though she’d run into Padma once at the ministry canteen since she worked in the Wizengamot Secretariat, though they hadn’t talked long. Nerves built steadily in her belly.

The pub was quiet, only a soft murmur of voices and the occasional clinking pint or spoon. Tom wiped glasses behind the bar to keep busy. Hermione found herself searching for dark hair and a book held in elegant, pale fingers, but Snape was missing. So were her friends, so she ordered a pint and dinner and then found a table that would fit five.

It took twenty minutes for everyone to arrive. Hannah was first, without baby this time, and Parvati was last, which was normal despite it being only a short walk up Diagon Alley from her shop. Hermione was considering getting a second pint to calm her nerves as they got through greetings and the usual small talk. None of them mentioned Hermione leaving last time, nor the things they’d said, but that didn’t seem to stop her stomach from feeling as if it had clambered onto a swingset.

It was Ginny who turned the conversation to the reason they were all there. “I can’t stay late, so what’s your news, Hermione?”

It was time to channel her inner Gryffindor. She cast a quick charm to keep their conversation to the table.

“I got a new job,” she said with a nervous smile.

“Congratulations,” said Hannah. “What is it?”

“Don’t tell me you got transferred again.”

“What department?” asked Padma.

“It’s not at the ministry,” said Hermione, which made her friends finally look interested. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous, why it felt like she had to push her words out past a stiff flap in her throat. Telling Snape and Colin hadn’t been this hard. “It’s at The Scarlet Witch in Knockturn Alley.”

“Knockturn?” Parvati asked, facing twisting.

“What’s The Scarlet Witch?”

Hermione turned to Ginny. “It’s… it’s a… a brothel.”

There was a long silence where Hermione held her breath. Parvati’s jaw went slack. She could see the whites in Padma’s eyes. Hannah looked frozen.

Ginny let out a dismissive, disbelieving little chuckle. “Is this a joke?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I’m working there,” she said, her hands fists in her lap. “I’m doing sex work.”

Another silence stretched between them, and then it was broken by the sharp screech of chair legs against the floor. Hannah stood, face pale.

“I have to go… the baby,” she blurted, and then turned and hurried out.

“What the fuck, Hermione,” Ginny said, jerking Hermione’s attention back to her friend. “Why would you… How can you do… that?”

She said ‘that’ with the same tone as people said Voldemort and You-Know-Who after the war. And Snape’s name, she suddenly realized.

A thought ran through her head: she should have expected this.

“Is it for money?” Padma asked.

“It’s not about money, though it has the potential to pay better than the ministry, if I can get enough clients.” Parvati let out a derisive bleat, which Hermione ignored. “You all know I was miserable at the ministry. I needed to do something different.”

“Being miserable at the ministry doesn’t mean you should… should… lay on your back and invite wizards to use you!” snapped Ginny. “I thought you at least had some self-respect!”

Hermione whirled to her friend with a snarl. “I’m not being used!”

Parvati’s hands clapping slowly interrupted Ginny’s retort.

“Brava, Hermione,” said the elegant witch. “I knew you’d gone downhill since Hogwarts, but I didn’t think the war had fucked you up this badly. Leaving Colin and now you work at a brothel… truly, what an inspiring person for young witches to look up to.”

“Parvati…” Padma said to her sister.

Parvati stood up, peering down her nose at Hermione. “Look, I know we’ve known each other a long time, but quite frankly, what you’re doing is disgusting and anti-feminist. I don’t want my shop associated with that kind of thing,” she said, straightening her jacket and adjusting her purse on her shoulder. “If people find out I hang out with someone who works at a brothel, it wouldn’t look good. People might think I’m okay with it and they might think I sell clothes for… well… whores. No offense.”

She blew a kiss to Ginny and Padma. “Later, witches. See you on Friday. Good luck at your whorehouse, Hermione.”

Hermione’s throat felt like Parvati had tightened her waving fingers around it. Her skin felt hot. Parvati walked out the same way she’d entered, stylish robes waving in her wake. Hermione swung to her remaining two friends.

“I’m not a whore!” she insisted.

Ginny’s brows folded. “You are, though,” she said. “Fucking hell, Hermione, you’re working at a brothel! That’s exactly what you are!”

“It’s not how you think it is!” Hermione retorted, arms crossed over her chest.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “What, you don’t let men pay for your company, and then do whatever the fuck they want with your body like you’re a feelingless object? It’s fucking gross!”

“Maybe Hermione can explain,” said Padma tentatively.

“There’s nothing to explain! I just can’t believe you of all people would stoop to whoring yourself. Did you even think through your decision, or did you lay down for the first bloke to offer you a trick?”

Her words felt like Dolohov’s curse, too fast to defend against as they penetrated Hermione’s skin, leaving her gasping and overwhelmed by pain. She wanted to say it hadn’t been like that. That she’d considered it carefully before the first time. That her first time hadn’t been in a dark, moldy corner of Knockturn with the first man who asked if she would sell her body. She stared at Ginny, who was supposed to be her best friend, and felt bereft. Ginny stared back, brown eyes critical. Something in them changed, like Hermione had been using polyjuice as long as she’d known her and it had just worn off.

“I guess that answers that question,” said Ginny flatly.

“Ginny, please,” Hermione begged.

“I have no idea who you are anymore. The Hermione I knew never would have laid down and given up, let herself be used like that,” Ginny said, her voice cracking in the middle. “You’re supposed to be brave and vibrant, and instead you’re just pathetic. Whomever you are now, you’re not my friend.”

She stood, gave Hermione one last look of condemnation, and left. Hot pressure burned behind Hermione’s eyes. She hadn’t changed that much, had she? No, she hadn’t given up. On her dreams, maybe, but not her life, not herself. Why couldn’t Ginny see that?

“Why did you do it?” came Padma’s quiet voice.

A tear rolled down Hermione’s cheek as she turned to her remaining friend. “Because working at the ministry was going to kill me, or I was going to kill someone else,” she explained simply. “I like sex work. I’m not letting wizards use me. Not like the others think I do. It’s not seedy.”

“I didn’t think you were that unhappy.” Padma’s lips twisted as she contemplated her pint. Her fingers wiped the condensation on the glass. “The thing is… I sort of agree it’s wrong, or at least kind of gross, and I don’t want to be caught in the middle. I can’t have a spat with my sister with my wedding coming up—you probably shouldn’t come, now that I think of it. I’m sorry. I honestly wish you the best.”

Then Padma rose too, the mountain of her above Hermione less impressive than the others but no less solid.

“Bye.”

Severus had avoided pubs since his last encounter with Granger—avoided practically everything outside of his flat—but eventually he had to make another delivery to Perilous Potions. After enduring another round of taunting from the proprietress, he headed to the Leaky. It was a rainy Monday evening, and Granger had indicated her changing preference in pubs due to the proximity of her new workplace, and so Severus reasoned there was a close-to-zero chance of accidentally running into her.

Of course he was wrong.

The pub was as quiet as expected when he stepped inside, and it took him only a brief moment to spot Granger at a table with her friends. He stood with lungs feeling like they suddenly held less air, caught between going to the bar and running away, when he noted her downturned expression. The smile that drew him to her was missing, replaced with a mask of shock and hurt, her jaw stiff and eyes wide.

There were nine patrons excluding him in the pub, three exits, and what made Severus decide to stay was that Granger’s friends were the most threatening people in the room. They circled around her like wolves. Ginevra Weasley sat broomstick straight, her hands clenched into fists on the tabletop. One of the Patil twins looked like she wanted to Disapparate, while the other had a cruel, haughty look on her slender face while she talked. Someone had cast a charm to keep what they said from others’ ears, but only an idiot wouldn’t see that Granger was receiving a dressing down.

Moving to a seat at the bar, he kept his eyes on her table, barely acknowledging the disparaging remarks from the barman as he paid for a pint. His book remained in his pocket, and his fingers flexed against his glass to contain his urge to grab his wand, cast a shield over her, and send her friends running from the pub. But he had no right to be so protective, to interfere, so he sat and watched while the uppity Patil twin left, nose in the air like a puffed-up poodle.

Severus’s lip curled dangerously as Weasley started in on Granger next. At least she appeared angry now, shouting something back at redhead, and Severus silently encouraged her. Her defense was brief, however. With a flinch, she imploded into herself. A few minutes later, Weasley was gone, and then the last Patil twin too.

Watching her sitting alone, shoulders hunched and staring blankly at the table, it was like seeing a mirror of himself. Not the version he showed when out in public, but the one he was at home. He knew that look exactly, had experienced the same when his life was in tatters and his weaknesses got the better of his self-control.

That connection could be the only reason he wanted to go to her, the reason he was frozen between that urge and one to flee. Leaving was the logical solution. Leaving had been the logical solution from the moment he entered and saw her in the pub.

Gritting his teeth, Severus called over the barman.

“What do you want now, Snape?”

“An ale,” said Severus, eyes still on Granger, who had slumped over the dregs of her pint. He rummaged through his pocket and pulled out more galleons.

“If you get drunk and cause a ruckus, I’m not letting you back in,” said Tom.

Severus’s snarl was fast and sharp. “If anything was going to make me cause a ruckus, it would be your extortionary prices.” He smacked his galleons on the counter. “A pint of ale, Tom. Now.”

Begrudgingly, the barman took his money. Foam sloshed over the glass as he slammed it on the bar in front of Snape. With a sneer, Severus picked up the two pints now in front of him and went to Granger. Her chin lifted when he stopped in front of her table. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and shining, and it was strange to him that the emotion he saw following surprise was relief.

“Snape,” she breathed.

“Granger,” he said, placing the ale in front of her with more care than the barman had done with him. The fingers of his now empty hand flexed by his side. “I could not help observing your interaction, and thought perhaps you could use this.”

“Thank you. I could use a friend too, if you’re interested.” She gestured at the seat across from her and then picked up the ale. “I mean, I would have wanted to be your friend regardless, even if I hadn’t just lost most of mine. Please don’t think that I—”

“Granger,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “Stop your infernal rambling.”

If she hadn’t just been told off and abandoned by her friends, he would have left at the offer of friendship.

He sat down.

“I am an old, cruel, impatient wizard. I will not make a very good friend,” he stated cooly. He wanted to rub that damned spot in his chest he’d been suppressing for weeks, but solidified his Occlumency shields and took a drink of his lager instead.

“You and I must have different definitions of cruel. Buying me a beer after seeing me upset and alone seems rather kind to me,” she replied, making him scowl. “Besides, apparently I’m a pathetic, disgusting whore who hates witches and will ruin you by association, so I’m not much of a friend myself.”

He should have hexed the witches out of the pub after all.

“Perhaps we are not so different then, except I hate everyone,” he replied smoothly.

Granger snorted, and then burst into a mirthful laugh. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. Cheers to us,” she said, lifting her pint.

Warily, he tapped his own against it, the glass making a soft clink. He drowned the pleasure over making her smile with a long swallow.

“Did you come here to read again?”

Severus plucked his book from his pocket and set it in front of her. She grabbed it eagerly, flipping it open to read a few pages.

“Why do you like to read in pubs, anyway?” she asked, nose still buried in his book. She peeked up at him when he didn’t answer.

Severus’s jaw flexed. His index finger tapped against his glass. “I live a quiet life and it is an excuse to get out of the house.”

Granger made a thoughtful hum, closing the book and putting it to the side. “I always thought I wanted a quiet life, but then I got one and it nearly bored me to death. I imagine it must be nice for you though, after everything.”

Everything. That was certainly one way to sum up his twenty-year commitment to the war and all his worst mistakes.

“It was nice for a time,” he admitted. “It grates eventually, as you experienced.”

“If you want more excitement, is there not something else you can do?”

“Do you really think I have not tried? One can only repeat something so many times before continuing becomes an act of stupidity, and I am not a stupid man,” he snapped. “Given not a moment ago we were speaking about ruin by association, I would think the answer to your question is obvious.”

He sneered at her, irritated that he had revealed so much. It deepened when she laughed in response.

“I’d tell you to consider sex work, but something tells me it’s not your calling,” she teased him with a raised eyebrow, amber eyes mischievous, and Severus’s annoyance fled in surprise. “Though… if you’re interested, I’m pretty sure people would line up out the door for a shag with a dark, mysterious wizard,” she added with a playful smirk.

Severus nearly choked on his beer. An angry glare while he spluttered did nothing to deter her laughter.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly, taking his pint from his hand and summoning a napkin from the bar. “I swear, I… I’m not normally this strange. I’m just in a weird mood from everything tonight.”

“Having spoken to you on three occasions now, I can assure you, you have a persistent oddity.”

Sadness washed across her expression like a gust of wind, but then she resettled herself and tilted her head. Her voice was softer, more serious when she asked, “Is your reputation really so bad still?”

“Yes,” he answered, refusing to elaborate.

“It’s been so long though. You were exonerated by the Wizengamot.” She sounded genuinely confused.

“Don’t be naive,” Severus said dismissively. “Most people believe I tricked the Wizengamot into freeing me. I will always be the man that killed the most beloved wizard since Merlin and the worst headmaster in Hogwarts’ history.”

Her lips formed a firm line. “People are so…” She let out a frustrated growl instead of finishing her sentence.

“Thoughtless and judgmental?”

“I was going to say fucking stupid.”

Before he could stop himself, a rough laugh shook his lungs. When he caught his breath, he felt lighter for it. Better, when Hermione responded with a delighted smile.

“I’m really glad you hang out in pubs, by the way, so we had the chance to talk,” she said, her eyes sliding sideways shyly as she sipped her pint. “Since we’re friends now, you can call me Hermione. I’m going to call you Severus, if that’s okay.”

He considered her, warmth spreading in his chest at the same time fear rippled down his spine. His fingers clenched around his glass.

“I suppose that would be tolerable,” he replied finally.

All of a sudden, she smacked her pint on the table, making it shake. He arched a brow in question.

“You know what, Severus? Fuck stupid, judgmental people,” she announced boldly, and then gave him a lopsided smile. “To clarify, I mean that figuratively, not literally, in case you’re confused because of the whore thing.”

He raised his pint in acknowledgement.

“Fuck them all,” she said, clinking her glass once more with his. Rage burned in her eyes, and it excited and scared him to know a little of it might be for him.

“Fuck them all,” he echoed her, and took a long gulp.

Chapter Text

Hermione stood with her back to the blood red tile that covered the outer wall of South Kensington Station. The sky was grey above her, and Muggles strolled past to and from the station gate and shops nearby. She could hear the train roaring past in the strip in the earth below her feet.

She’d been waiting for ten minutes, and with each progressive minute her pulse notched a little faster. Severus’s reply to her letter had been brief, little more than a time and place. He’d said to keep the remainder of her afternoon free, but had not indicated why. She couldn’t guess, and her imagination was most definitely not helping. Who was she kidding? She’d be nervous even if she knew exactly what they were doing. She was friends with Severus Snape. That thought alone was both terrifying and wonderful at once.

A small part of her wished she could tell Harry, gloat a little given despite his desire to speak to their surly ex-professor following the war, he’d never managed to do so. But she hadn’t spoken to Harry in more than two years, hadn’t sent him a letter in nearly as long, once it became apparent he did not want her in his life. She’d wanted to believe her friendship with Harry was stronger, but deep down, she’d known that if it came down to it, Harry and Ron would choose each other over her—at least once she’d revoked Ron’s shagging privileges. That was how things went with her, proven once again a week ago.

Colin was the only exception. She hoped Severus might be an exception too. She tried not to dwell on the fact she only had two friends, both tenuous, fledgling relationships that might not even last.

Her heart shifted up another gear when she spotted a recognizable form in the distance. As his silhouette transformed into a fully fleshed out man, her mouth went dry. Severus wore slim black trousers and a navy turtleneck under a long wool coat that fell to his knees. Double-monk shoes shone on his feet, flashing with his long steps. With his hair tied back to reveal his angled face, he was a striking picture, and Hermione felt something hot slither from her frozen mouth down to her core. She stared as he closed the distance between them, stunned by how beautiful he was, his face chipped from marble and his body a ballet dancer’s. It made no difference that when he got closer, the clothes proved a bit shabby and well-worn. Her mouth still hung agape when he stopped in front of her and scowled.

“Need I remind you already that meeting today was your idea?”

She blinked, coming back to herself, and slammed her mouth shut.

“No! That’s not… I just—nevermind. It was nothing, really. Stop looking at me like that.”

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a disbelieving stare instead. “If you want a friendly face to stare at, I’m not the person to have around.”

“No! No, don’t go, please. I’m sorry. I was just—”

“Hermione,” Severus snapped, cutting her off. “I thought it obvious, but just this once I will remind you that I have a sense of humour.” He glared at her again as if to make his point clear.

“Oh.” Her laugh felt airless and heat was pooling in her cheeks. “Because—”

“I’m a cantankerous, blunt old man who will likely spend most of our time together scowling and won’t hesitate to mock you the next time you gape at me like a petrified fish,” he finished for her. “Last chance to change your mind.”

“I’m not changing my mind,” she huffed, sure she was scarlet from head to toe. “You’re stuck with me, so scowl all you like.” On an impulse, she pursed her mouth, sucked in her cheeks, and wiggled her lips, approximating the appearance of a fish.

“And here I thought you’d ceased to be a child,” he muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched in a way that made her sure he was suppressing a smile.

She followed him away from the station, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. He slowed half way down the first block, glancing her way.

“You’re not one of those witches that won’t eat anything but salad are you?”

“First off, there’s nothing wrong with salad. Secondly, I resent that you think I could be so picky, and thirdly, I hope you aren’t one of those wizards that only eats beige-coloured food,” she retorted.

His response was another dirty look, but as with earlier, there was a hint of amusement in his gaze. It was funny how he used to be able to intimidate her so easily. He remained imposing, but for whatever reason, his acerbic nature amused her now. Well, she’d become quite ill-tempered too over the last few years, so she supposed it made sense.

They stopped at a pretty little cafe with sage green walls and gold accents. It smelled like warmed bread, cooked tomatoes, herbs, and stale tobacco. They sat at a small scarred wood table, which wobbled until Severus cast a discreet balancing charm.

“How’d you find this place?” Hermione asked, peering at the decorative plates on the wall behind Severus.

“I used to go to the V&A often,” replied Severus.

“Is that where we’re going after? The museum?”

He dipped his head in confirmation as the waitress arrived with their tea and food. When she was gone, Hermione motioned to her bowl of soup.

“Look, not a single green leaf in sight,” she said, then peered at his sandwich. “I suppose I’ll give you a pass since yours is only partly beige.”

“If you’re referring to the bread, it’s very clearly yellow ochre,” he said, and took a large bite.

“You might be one of the only wizards alive that knows that yellow ochre is a colour,” she replied, now curious. He was taking her on a trip to a museum and had knowledge of colour theory. “Are you an artist?”

“No. An enthusiast. When I have the need, I prefer to put my creativity to more practical pursuits.”

She assumed by practical, he meant potions. It was rather an art and, from what she knew, he’d begun experimenting when he was school aged. Still, she would never have guessed he’d have a deep interest in art.

“Do you often go to museums then?”

“Museums or galleries, when I can,” he said, and then his dark eyes lifted from his lunch. “Does that surprise you?”

“It does, actually,” replied Hermione, then added, “In a good way.”

Onyx eyes jumped around her face as if searching for a hidden spot. “Well, what are you enthusiastic about?”

In his voice, the question sounded far too sensual. She turned to her soup to distract herself. He’s barely been your friend five minutes. Stop it, she chastised herself.

She answered with a small shrug, wishing she had an interesting answer. “Nothing, really. That’s why I changed jobs. I suppose the things I like the most outside of work are reading, knitting, and my cat—Gods, that makes me sound pathetic, doesn’t it?”

The look he shot her was so deadly it made her spine straighten and her hand pause holding her spoon.

“Your assessment of yourself is accurate,” he snarled, and there was no amusement in his eyes this time.

Her breath caught. Her eyebrows folded. “You think I’m pathetic?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

“I think anyone who judges others as lesser for enjoying books and having a cat is pathetic, yes,” he said with just as much venom.

“I—I’m not judging anyone,” Hermione stammered. “Maybe myself, for not having any other interests. It wasn’t…”

She stared at his curling lip, his face no longer handsome but exactly how she remembered from school: violent and ugly. Then suddenly, she understood. His quiet life that he hated.

He flinched as she flicked her wand under the table to cast a Muffliato, as if expecting a hex. She put her wand carefully away and looked into his shuttered gaze.

“I don’t think you’re pathetic for reading and having a cat. That’s not what I was saying.”

“Then what were you saying, Hermione?” The way he spoke her name, mocking and cold, made her falter.

It seemed she’d fucked up already, but at least she had to explain. She straightened herself and set her jaw. “I’m saying that I’m worried about you judging me for not having many interests. I’m saying I’m scared of you believing me sad because outside of work, most of the time I sit in my flat alone,” she explained with an edge to her voice. “I’m saying I’m insecure because to be honest, the other night isn’t when I lost most of my friends. It was years ago because I am pathetic. Pathetic enough to be sitting here hoping we might actually be friends despite the extensive evidence that I’m terrible at it.” Her nose stung and she scrubbed her eyes to rid them of threatening tears. She felt completely foolish admitting all that to him.

“Despite all that,” she added, sniffing and sitting tall again, “I won’t be friends if you think badly of me and are going to be mean about it.”

Across from her, Severus’s lips remained curled downwards, but his eyes took on a hesitant, melancholy gleam. His long fingers shifted against the tabletop. “Perhaps we are… more alike than I previously considered,” he said softly.

Hermione took a long sip of her tea to steady herself. “Maybe in the future you could give me a chance to explain instead of insulting me the instant I misspeak then.”

He dipped his head in acquiesence. “I will attempt to do so in the future.”

He bit into his sandwich. Hermione returned to her soup, the only sound between them the occasional clink of Hermione’s spoon against her bowl or a teacup on a plate. She kept her eyes low, her mind working over what he’d just admitted, the fact he’d even shared so much.

It wasn’t exactly an apology, but Severus had never struck her as a person to share vulnerable truths willingly. Yet he’d said they were alike, which meant he felt like she did: lonely, pathetic, insecure, desperate for a friend. She’d never admitted any of those things to anyone else. Such things might be weapons in the mind of the wrong person, but apparently they’d decided to trust each other.

She glanced up and her breath caught momentarily when she found him regarding her. His expression had barely changed: a slight downturn of his brows and lopsided twist to his lips, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint in his pupils. A small crease had formed above his nose and once again she found herself wanting to smooth it with a finger. He flexed his fingers where they rested on the tabletop, pulled them away to his lap when she noticed them. A few forgotten pieces of crust remained on his plate.

“Do you really have a cat?” she asked, allowing him privacy from her gaze by turning back to her soup.

“Yes,” said Severus, his voice rough. “She’s a pain in my arse and still better company than most people. I assume yours is still that large orange furball you had at school.”

“His name is Crookshanks and he’s half Kneazle,” Hermione informed him. “Have you always had cats?”

Severus shook his head. “Cinder is my first. I got her when I moved to Oxford.”

Hermione brightened instantly. “Wait, you live in Oxford? I grew up in Oxford! Well, for some of my childhood anyway. What area do you live in?”

“North.”

“I lived in Summerton,” she said, naming the neighbourhood just north of Severus’s. “We moved there from London when I was seven or eight, I think, so I could go to a different primary and be somewhere quieter than London, but I haven’t been back since the end of my sixth year.”

That thought stole her smile. She didn’t like thinking about her parents or her childhood, mostly because it made her remember what she did to them and how much they hated her. She felt guilty for not feeling guilty for sending them to Australia, because it had kept them, Harry, and Ron safe. She was glad when Severus didn’t press her for details.

“Why did you move to Oxford? You used to live up in the midlands somewhere, didn’t you?”

“The town I grew up in is best left forgotten,” he replied. “Are you finished?”

The main entrance to the Victoria & Albert Museum was a set of doors under a mass of curving arches and a grandiose stone tower. Inside, a multi-story foyer was lit by light streaming in through the domed ceiling. Hermione hadn’t been to the V&A since she was a child, so followed Severus’s confident steps down a corridor and into a temporary exhibit. It contained two rooms dimly lit except for spotlights highlighting picture frames.

“A photography exhibit,” Hermione said with amusement at the sight rows of black and white photographs. She’d have to tell Colin about it.

“Bill Brandt. He was a modernist. A Muggle, obviously.”

They approached the first photograph, a portrait of artist Henry Moore leaning over one of his large sculptures. It didn’t take any knowledge to see Brandt was skilled and imaginative, but Hermione was still glad to know a little about photography from Colin. There was something different about Muggle photography, the way it was frozen in time, that she found captivating. Muggle and magical images were both wonderful in their own ways, and she’d always admired Colin for his skill with both.

In no time she was swept up in Brandt’s black-and-white photographs, which were primarily portraits, landscapes, and nudes. Some were experimental and strange, while others took her breath away. There was a photo of stonehenge that looked positively magical despite its stillness, the stones glowing like ethereal beings between light clouds and snowy ground. Another had a building, shot from a corner, its walls sharply contrasting in moonlight during the blackouts of World War Two. There was the dark silhouette of the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral before a lit pile of rubble from the Blitz. She noticed Severus drift away from her, but didn’t mind, preferring to linger in front of the ones she enjoyed most.

When she’d been through half the room, she gave up her route and wandered, finding Severus in front of a portrait of a nude woman. She was overlarge in the image, her back and one side visible, a bed beyond her. Leaning in, Hermione could see the stretchmarks on her bum and thighs. Her spine was a light stripe down the dark curve of her back.

“His use of shadow and light is spectacular,” she commented. Severus grunted beside her, in what she assumed was agreement. “She’s supposed to be a prostitute, isn’t she?”

“I believe so,” said Severus quietly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes slightly. “It’s a beautiful photo.”

“Why are you glaring at it, then?”

She pursed her lips, trying to name the reason for the unsettled feeling that the photo produced in her. It didn’t take long, given the subject matter. Her own nude portraits, recent and old, swam through her consciousness. “I suppose I don’t understand how the same subject can be beautiful art and distasteful rubbish at the same time,” she said finally. “Where is the line? Is it intention? Style? Who they are? Whether it’s real? Who takes it? Whether someone gets aroused by the person in the photo or not?”

Severus took some time to answer. “Not all art is beautiful. It can be ugly sometimes. It can offend. Plenty of it has been described as distasteful rubbish by people too shallow to appreciate such experiences,” he said, his low voice rumbling gently in the quiet room. “As far as this photo, I believe it’s art because it was intended to capture something human, and because it made you ask those questions and feel something you wouldn’t have otherwise.”

Together they moved to the next photo, Hermione unsure if he’d answered her question, but appreciating his answer regardless. He seemed more relaxed in the gallery than outside, or perhaps he was simply more confident talking about art.

“Do you know Colin Creevey?”

“I recall him from Hogwarts, yes. A photographer, I believe? Though I’ve only ever seen a few of his pieces.”

“He’s really talented. A friend of mine. Well, he was my fiance once, but that was over a year ago and not a story for now,” Hermione explained, unsure why she was sharing such things. “Anyway, we had a similar discussion once about what sort of photography can be considered art. We got stuck on images for advertising. He argued that it was.”

“I think that’s up for debate. Some would say it isn’t, since its purpose is to sell a product rather than creative expression.”

“What about Alfonse Mucha? Most of his works were advertisements but he’s still respected as a fine artist.”

Suddenly, his dark eyes were upon her, staring intently. He looked genuinely surprised. “You know Mucha?”

“My dad really liked art. He took me to a Mucha exhibit in London when I was 13 or 14. I’m not sure I appreciated it as much then as I do now.” She smiled wistfully. She missed her father and wondered if he was still dragging her mother to galleries and museums.

“For whatever reason I have a theme of artistic men in my life. I’m sure the Prophet will say I have daddy issues and that’s why I left Colin and ended up working in Knockturn.” She rolled her eyes. “I think I just like curious, intelligent people. But you didn’t answer my question.”

He gave her a dark look and they moved to the next photograph, a parlourmaid bent over an old clawfoot tub filled with water.

“It’s not a question I’ve considered before, and it provokes several more. Are religious iconography or political propaganda art? Portraiture at one time was intended to display wealth. One could argue they all sell something, even if not goods or services.”

“Perhaps art is simply something that tells a human story. In which case all of it is art.”

“You agree with Mister Creevey then?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.” She laughed at her own lack of commitment to her ideas. Mostly, she found it fun to twist her brain around them. “Like you said, ads are for a purpose; whether they’re art or not doesn’t really matter. Maybe art is something made by a person that has value. People will show up and pay for whatever art critics and gallery owners say is good. Parents show off their children’s drawings.” She cocked her head and hummed thoughtfully. “I guess I do agree with Colin. It’s all the same when it comes to money and ego, isn’t it?”

She was pleased to see she’d earned a slight curve of Severus’s lips instead of a harsh look this time. “That’s awfully cynical for a Gryffindor.”

She shrugged. “Nothing much has worked out how I expected. It makes one rethink their worldview. I’d prefer to think myself as practical.” They’d reached the end of the first room, so she walked towards the second smaller one, him trailing behind. She peered over her shoulder to smirk at him. “I think the whole ‘your school house dictates your entire personality’ thing is bullshit too.”

He chuckled at that. “Despite my previous statement, I quite agree. Your feelings on how to define art, however, I am not sure I do.”

Chapter Text

Knockturn was quiet on a Monday afternoon. Clouds mottled the pale sky and despite the alley’s persistent dim, the lamp above the door of the Double G would not be necessary for another hour or two. Hermione stood in front of one of the pub’s grimy windows next to Severus, her shoulder leaning against the frame, not quite ready to say goodbye. They’d spent the afternoon together, first at the Institute of Contemporary Art to see an eclectic exhibition, and the last couple hours at the pub. Going out had become routine for them since he first took her to the V&A and Hermione looked forward to it every week.

“Are you free next weekend?”

“That is a silly question given what you know of me.” She knew him well enough now to know he was teasing her and her cheeks heated in response.

“It’s still polite to ask. You might be growing sick of me,” she offered in explanation, to which he gave her a withering glare. “Fine,” she capitulated, chuckling as warmth spread through her belly, “I will owl you then.”

“See that you do.”

“I suppose I should go. I told Colin I’d be there at half five.”

Severus dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I wish you a pleasant evening then.”

“Thank you, and thank for you for another enjoyable afternoon.”

As always, he was the first to walk away, taking three long, graceful strides before twisting into Apparition. The soft pop echoed off the crooked buildings and Hermione was left with yet another impression of his beauty. Shaking the image from her mind, she headed towards Diagon Alley.

Her steps felt light as she strolled down the street and into Diagon’s off license to pick up something to contribute to dinner. It had been years since she’d had two social calls in a single day, and then they’d almost always been because of Colin, who effortlessly made and kept friends in ways she’d never been able to emulate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d needed to buy a bottle of wine or pack of beers for anyone but herself.

The shop reminded her a little of an apothecary, except instead of potions bottles, its dark oak shelves were laden with wine, mead, and other spirits. Having just had pints with Severus, she went to the section with cider. There were dozens of varieties, crafted with various apples and other fruit, some of them infused with magical properties. She picked up a bottle infused with miracle berries, then put it back, thinking it was probably too sweet. She was reaching for a perry cider when she noticed the young wizard at the front counter staring in her direction. Wondering if she’d not noticed something, she peered around, then at the wizard again when she found nothing amiss.

Intense, hungry blue eyes met hers, and she stiffened instinctively, head snapping back to the shelving. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the desirous gazes of men these days, but the way the clerk stared at her felt different, like sticky, uncaring fingers crawling up her back, lifting her clothes and reaching for places she most definitely did not want him to touch. She grabbed a couple familiar bottles, eager to leave, and did her best to ignore the wizard’s unwavering look as she approached the till.

He appeared around her same age, with long messy hair and ears decorated with silver dragon tails.

“Hey,” he said lowly, cocking his head. “You’re Hermione Granger, yeah?”

“Just these, please,” Hermione replied in a clipped voice.

“Sure I can’t help you find anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

A relieved breath escaped her when he picked up a bottle and began punching numbers into the brass till, but she remained on her guard. At the top of the register, little metal numbers sticking out of the top jumped about, numbers flashing.

“I know what well fit witches like, you know.”

“I’m sure you do,” Hermione said, focusing on counting out her coins. “I’m good, though.”

He ignored her payment, considering her again. “I think you’d like me.”

Hermione grabbed the bottles from the counter, deciding she didn’t need her change. “Have a nice night,” she replied, and hurried towards the exit.

“Hope to see you soon,” he called after her.

Once she was a few hundred feet down the street, she shuddered and slowed her steps. It wasn’t the first time a stranger had been blatant about their interest in her, but the interaction had felt more menacing than usual. It made her wonder if it was because of her work, but she’d never seen him in the brothel.

Brushing it aside, she continued to Colin’s, where he greeted her with a hug and dimples in his cheeks. He finished cooking while she poured them drinks and set the table.

“How are things? New job treating you well?” asked Colin, placing a plate of spag bol in front of her.

“Things are…” She halted when he slid into his chair across from her, struck by the similarity to her memories of eating dinner together after work. The table set the same way, the same curious look in his eyes after asking about her day. Not even her feelings were that different, because she hadn’t loved him properly then either. The only difference was the definition of them, the months they’d spent apart, and hopefully how he felt about her because of them.

She picked up her fork and tucked the tines into her spaghetti.

“Things are a mess, but also a lot better,” she answered him finally. “That probably doesn’t make sense. Work is going well, though. I’m enjoying it for the most part and my colleagues are great.”

“I’m glad to hear that. What’s a mess?”

Hermione told him about what had happened with her girlfriends. Ex-girlfriends. “I haven’t heard from them since. Not even Ginny.” She shrugged. “It’s probably for the best. They weren’t very good friends, in retrospect. Not lately, anyway.”

“No, they weren’t,” Colin said coldly. “Even when we were together, I never liked how they treated you.”

Hermione’s fork paused in the middle of a twirl. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“They were your friends since school… and you were already feeling alone, and… you’ve always been insecure about people, I guess,” he explained slowly, like he was thinking along with each word. His eyebrows folded inward, furrowing in deep contemplation, and then he looked back at her with a frown. “I should have said something. I’m not really sure why I didn’t, except maybe I figured it would be better if you realized they were awful on your own. You deserved better than them. It’s a big reason I don’t talk to Ginny anymore.”

Hermione swallowed sharply, feeling suddenly a little hollow. Insecure about people—well, there was a reason for that. Deserved better—maybe, if she could figure out what she’d done wrong. “I didn’t know you stopped speaking to Ginny.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

For a little while, there was only the sound of them chewing, cutlery scraping on plates. Hermione tried to push away the painful, empty feelings that always came when faced with the reality of her friendships. She thought of Severus, how easily they talked about what they read and the artwork he shared; how he’d glared at her for suggesting he might be growing sick of her. She hoped she hadn’t come across like she was fishing for compliments.

“You’ll make better friends.”

Hermione sipped her drink. “I hope so. I’m trying, I suppose, though you might not like the primary candidate at the minute.”

“Who?”

“Severus Snape.”

“Wait, really? How did that happen? I’m guessing he’s improved since he was our professor.”

“He’s still prickly, but surprisingly thoughtful when it counts,” she said, spinning her fork against her plate and cringing when it made a high-pitched squeaking noise. “We kept running into each other and got to talking—he reads as much as I do. He was at the pub the night I told Ginny and everyone about my job, and he actually bought me a beer after they left, entirely unprompted.” She smiled at the memory.

“I’m having a hard time picturing that, but I believe you.”

Hermione chuckled. “I think you’d like him, actually. He’s been taking me to galleries and art exhibitions all over. I should really introduce you.”

As she said it, a little pit of worry formed in her gut about what might happen if they met. But it was just her insecurity about people, she knew—not something to act on.

“I’d be open to that,” said Colin, and then his mouth turned up in a teasing smile. “You have a thing for artistic men, I see.”

“They make excellent friends,” said Hermione, putting emphasis on the last word and suppressing the heat that was trying to turn her cheeks pink. A theme she would give him, had acknowledged as much herself, but she absolutely did not have a thing for anyone.

“Your bookings are way up,” said Misha as soon as Hermione stepped through the brothel’s front door the following day. “First one in thirty.”

Over a month into full time sex work, it was a relief that she was still enjoying it. Some of her clients were strange and there was the odd creep, but they were all interesting, they all wanted her time, and most of them left happy.

Hermione took her schedule from the receptionist, which was enchanted onto a piece of parchment that changed daily to match her bookings in the brothel’s consolidated diary. The large book Misha and Madam Hazel managed sat on the front counter, a small stack of letters beside it.

After thanking Misha, Hermione strode down the hall towards the lounge, thinking she maybe had a couple more new repeat clients, only to skid to a halt as she registered the number of appointments on her schedule. Biting her lip to stop herself from smiling, she tried to sort out where to fit in a break around five bookings. Five! The most clients she’d had in a day so far was nine, but that was on a busy Saturday, and all but one of them had been walk-ins. Five pre-booked appointments on a Tuesday felt impossible, but they were there on her schedule.

As she entered the staff lounge, Jude, or Mistress Jewel as she was known to her clients, called an enthusiastic, “Good morning!” She found the witch sitting with Charlotte on one of the plush sofas, both waiting for the brothel to open at ten. Jude was in her thirties, a tall witch with purple hair and a slim body decorated with tattoos.

“Morning,” said Hermione with a wave, continuing to her locker. “How many pre-bookings do you get in a day usually?”

“Really depends. Sometimes two, sometimes ten. Somewhere in the middle is probably average,” said Jude. The witch had been working at The Scarlet Witch for over a decade. The brothel’s only dominatrix, she was popular and had a hefty book of regulars.

Hermione hid her grin with her locker’s door. As she pulled off her coat, she noticed a small stack of magazines on a middle shelf. She pulled them out curiously and found a note from Madam Hazel on top: “Thought you might want copies of your advertisements—more to come,” it said.

Well, that explained all the bookings—and, she realized, the strange behavior from the off license clerk the night before.

The three magazines were all for wizards, with names like Busty and Wanton Witch, barely-covered women on the covers. Hermione flipped through one searching for her ad, only to stop with wide eyes when she found it.

On the glossy page, her hands slid up her nearly naked body, pausing to accentuate her lace-covered breasts before she blew a kiss. The text around her glimmered yellow-gold against a deep red background: The Scarlet Witch presents Hermione Granger. Ready to make your desires and fantasies reality. Book now!

“You look fucking fit, whore,” came Jude’s voice from behind her, ‘whore’ something she called most of their colleagues and said with a note of affection. From Jude, it felt like a term of endearment.

“I didn’t expect it to be a full page,” said Hermione, watching herself blow another kiss.

“You’re famous. Of course Madam Hazel’s going to go all out,” said Jude. “Expect you’ll be busier now.”

“I have five bookings today.”

“Of course you do! The blokes who can’t afford you will be wanking to this,” she said with a chuckle.

“You look great, Hermione,” said Charlotte with more reserve, coming up beside her. “I’m glad they’re working.”

Hermione stared at her sensual image again and felt a rush of excitement and heat. She’d always considered herself a plain, average-looking woman, but the witch in front of her was sexy and alluring while still being recognizable. The only thing tempering her delight was the knowledge that the ads meant the Prophet would likely soon find out about her new job. She’d hoped she’d have more time before having to face public scrutiny, but maybe it was better to get it over with.

“When’s your shift over? We should go for a celebratory drink,” said Jude.

It was the first time any of them had invited her out. She’d never managed to make friends at the ministry—she’d tried at the beginning, before she’d realized it was useless and most of them were complicit in her suffering—but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to be friends with her colleagues.

She glanced at the magazine again, the new Hermione Granger. She slipped them back in her locker.

“Probably around six,” she answered Jude, then turned to Charlotte. “Will you come too?”

“As long as it’s not too late. I’m at St. Mungo’s tomorrow morning.”

Hermione grinned. “We’ll get you home on time. Promise.”

The women confirmed plans while Hermione put on her makeup, and then it was time to meet her first client of the day. A pre-booked appointment, he was already waiting in the private room off the lobby. She said hello as she slid through the door and then stopped abruptly.

“George!” she exclaimed, locking eyes with the Weasley.

He looked the same as the last time she’d seen him a few years ago: longer ginger hair to cover his missing ear, freckles across his nose and cheeks, a stockier, softer body than his younger brother.

“Hey, Hermione,” he said with a grin. “Long time no see.”

Her heart fluttered, unsure what to do. She’d had distant acquaintances buy her services, but never anyone as close as George. She thought it would be strange, even if she and Ginny were no longer friends and she hadn’t spoken to Ron in any significant way since they broke up. Carefully, she shut the door and sat next to him.

“How are you?” she asked, forcing herself to fake a smile. She’d give herself a few minutes to decide.

“Good. Wasn’t sure when I booked if it would actually be you. Never thought you’d be the sort. I should have made a pass at you a long time ago,” he said with a chuckle.

“I probably wouldn’t have been open to it if you had,” said Hermione. “How’d you find out about me working here?”

“Not exactly a secret, it is? I’m a long time Busty subscriber,” he said with a big grin. “That’s what made me book, but Ginny, Ron, and mum have been going off about you for a couple weeks—be pissed if they knew I was here, actually, but I guess I don’t have to worry about that now.” He laughed again.

Cool rage rattled like a snake inside Hermione’s guts, but she kept smiling. So Ginny had told Ron and Molly about her, and they’d been discussing her—she knew it wasn’t anything good. Molly had always assumed the worst about her, and as far as she knew, Ron had never forgiven her for leaving him. She felt suddenly determined to make George into a regular client.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing,” she said, shifting closer to him. “Everything here is kept completely confidential. What happens between us stays between us.”

Her fingers lightly caressed his arm and desire sparked in his eyes. She changed her voice into a seductive lilt. “It sounds like you’ve thought about having sex with me before, so what can I do for you today? Any fantasies you’d like make come true?”

“Did always want to shag you,” George admitted with red cheeks. “I really don’t know how this stuff works. Do I have to pay extra for the back door?” He waggled his eyebrows.

Hermione spent the next several minutes explaining what was included in her services, and that, yes, he would need to pay extra for anal sex, and how much it would cost him.

“We’re not fucking in here, are we?” he asked, peering around at the small room.

Hermione laughed and gently swatted his chest. “Of course not. Once I know the experience you’re hoping for and we’ve settled up, we’ll go to a proper room where we can relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“This is a lot more professional than I expected,” George commented, sounding impressed. “Thought it’d be a squeaky bed behind a beaded curtain. Wave my beater’s bat at you a little and be done, you know?”

Hermione snorted softly. George hadn’t changed much, it seemed. “I think I can do much better than that,” she said, shifting into his touch as his hand tentatively slid up her thigh. “We do it this way to make it as easy and pleasurable for you as possible.”

“I’m definitely easy,” he said with a wink.

Ten minutes later, George had made his selections for their time together. Upstairs in Room 8, Hermione went through a typical routine: make him shower, talk and flirt as they undressed, then massage him until he was ready to fuck. Resentment lingered behind every action, carefully hidden by her smile. There was a moment of discomfort as she crawled between his bare legs, staring up at such a familiar freckled face, but she pushed past it easily.

“Don’t tell me if Ron has a bigger wand—ah! Fuck, that feels good.” His hips flexed beneath her as she sucked the end of his cock. Twirling her tongue around the tip, she met his hooded gaze.

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” she said huskily, and continued her ministrations. He was average really, but then so had been Ron. There was nothing remarkable about either of their cocks. As far as sex work went, though, average was preferable. “This time is entirely for you. You don’t even need to think about your family.”

She took his cock back into her mouth and slid him deeper, burying any lingering thoughts of other Weasleys and hoping he would do the same. He stifled a moan, which was a good sign.

“Merlin’s balls, you really are a professional,” he gasped while she bobbed her head and wrung the base of his cock with her fist. “Stop or my visit is going to be shorter than a gnome.”

Hermione did as he asked, pulling her mouth away from him.

“Time for a new ass-ignment, if you get my meaning,” he said, pushing himself up and waggling his eyebrows. Hermione chuckled softly, shaking her head at his terrible puns. Casting a couple discreet lubrication spells, she moved onto her hands and knees, which was his preference.

It was easier to forget who was fucking her with him behind her. He pushed through her slickened anus with a groan. Hermione made encouraging noises and words while his hips churned his cock into her, until he let out a loud moan, hips jerking with his climax.

“Merlin,” he gasped as he stilled.

“Did I feel like you imagined?” Hermione asked coquettishly.

“Much better, by my anal-ysis,” he replied with a wide grin. She rolled her eyes and chuckled into the pillow while his hands slid over her bum and hips. “Does it feel good to you?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. The pleasure she received from most of her clients wasn’t physical. It was important her clients believe she loved every minute of it, however, and George would be no different.

“I think you’ve found your calling,” he said, his softening cock falling out of her. Hermione thanked him, rolled over onto her side, and invited him to lay next to her. “Wow, I even get a cuddle?”

“Only if you want one,” Hermione replied, but he was already pushing himself beside her and cupping her left tit with a hand.

“I’m glad I decided to come,” he said with another wiggle of his brows.

“So am I,” said Hermione, lifting her lips. If only for a chance to sully his family. She leaned into his touch and dragged her fingers down his chest. “I hope I’ll see you again sometime.”

“I think you might. I’m, uh… between witches right now.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s hard out there for a bloke.”

“Well, I’m happy to ass-ist in the meantime,” Hermione quipped.

George chortled, beaming at her. “I’m going to have to think up more puns.”

When he left, there was a clear spring in his stride. Hermione kept smiling until he was gone, then shut the door, took a deep breath, and grimaced. She needed a Pick-Me-Up Potion.

Chapter Text

When Hermione woke up the following Sunday, she was looking forward to the day. Severus was taking her to another gallery that afternoon (His letter had even contained more than terse instructions this time, which she thought boded well). A pleasant tingle of anticipation hummed steadily through her nervous system as she got out of bed and made her breakfast. She’d just finished eating when The Daily Prophet arrived.

Sunday editions were always the largest and the paper saved its most impactful and salacious stories for them. That day, the newsprint felt thick in her hand as she took it from the owl and slipped two knuts into the pouch on its leg. Sipping her tea, she spread it on the table, her fingers spasming around the mug’s handle as she saw the headline, the ceramic crashing to the floor and shattering, sending milky tea and shards everywhere.

The mess remained, her eyes still on the paper. Her face. Her face was on the front page. The one from her ad, cropped across her décolletage so it didn’t reveal her nearly-naked body. Somehow, the kiss she blew felt tawdry instead of sexy under the bold black headline, “DISGRACED WAR HEROINE HERMIONE GRANGER TURNS TO PROSTITUTION.”

She’d known this was coming, had believed herself prepared. Yet she stared, feeling as if a fist had lunged from the paper and knocked all the air from her lungs. Suddenly aware that her feet might give out from under her, she sat back on her chair with a thunk.

As she read the article, all she could think about was Severus, Colin, Madam Hazel, Jude, Charlotte, her other colleagues reading the same words. It felt impossible that their opinion of her wouldn’t change after reading about how she was a lonely, desperate witch who’d been damaged irreparably by the war and turned to sex work because she was a failure morally, vocationally, socially, and romantically. Harry Potter was no longer in her acquaintance, which was damning enough in itself. Hadn’t she joked with Severus about the Prophet declaring she had daddy issues? Now there it was, suddenly true because it was in ink. There were several spin-off articles on subsequent pages, each more damning than the last: her failed tenure at the ministry, her failed relationships with Colin, Ron, and even Viktor, and worst, that she’d recently been seen with Severus Snape, who the article insinuated was one of her regular clients.

She was aware, with the same potent feeling that she had when boarding the train to Hogwarts for the first time and Apparating with Harry and Ron to start their search for Horcruxes, that her world was now, for better or worse, changed. That she was now changed, even if by all objective measures she was the same person she’d been ten minutes ago.

Seeing the new her in the magazine’s pages on Tuesday had made her feel proud and hopeful. Now she felt dirty. If that was all, she could have set it aside, but the part that hurt, that made it feel as if a curse had sliced cleanly through her chest, was that not all of it was lies. She was lonely and desperate, even if it wasn’t in the way the Prophet insinuated. Of course the war changed her, damaged her—you didn’t spend a year starving, worried about your survival, getting tortured, all while trying to save the world, without being different on the other side of it. She had lost so many people she believed would always stick with her, up for her. No, too much of the article was far too close to the truth. She felt exposed, like her scars and scabs had been picked away from her flesh until everyone could see all her open wounds.

If she lost her few friends and the respect of her colleagues over this, could she still blame the Prophet when she knew the articles were a likely outcome of her choices?

She could not get the thought out of her mind: that everyone in the wizarding world now knew she didn’t measure up. That there was something defective about her, that made people cold and distant, that made her mistakes unforgivable. For a long time, she’d tried to understand what was wrong, would have gladly carved the bad bits out if she knew where to find them, but whomever it was everyone wanted her to be, she had never discovered her.

Pressure rose in her throat and made tears pool in her eyes. No, she was not going to cry. Fuck them, she thought with grim vindicativeness, pressing her mouth more firmly into a line. The rage felt so much more tolerable than the hurt, so she latched onto it. Fuck them! Fuck them all!

A tear escaped as she stood and she brushed it away angrily. The spilled remains of her tea vanished, her dirty dishes flew to the sink, her windows and front door were warded against probable howlers, and the newspaper on her kitchen table lit into a bright orange flame before falling into a pile of ash.

In an hour she would see Severus and know if he had given up on her. If anyone could understand what she felt like right now, it was likely him, and that was the only thing that gave her hope that he would not hold the truth about who she was against her.

If Severus had known today was the day The Daily Prophet would choose to drag Hermione through the mud, he would have chosen a different lunch spot than The Leaky Cauldron. He’d picked it because he’d had an order to drop off at Perilous Potions, and because of its location conveniently close to the gallery they were set to attend after. A small pit of worry twisted in his gut, and after making his delivery, he strode from the apothecary as quickly as he could.

Inside the Leaky, there were twenty-three patrons, three exits, and Hermione was the most captivating person in the room. She sat in profile to him at the bar, ankles crossed as her feet balanced on the lower rung of her stool. Jeans and a knitted jumper showed her shape, the slight convex curve in her spine from leaning against the bar with her forearms, fingers playing with the pint glass in front of her. He paused for a moment, dumbstruck by her beauty, before he realized he was staring and pushed the feelings quickly under his shields with a stab of guilt. What an arse he was to ogle her today of all days, when they were friends.

As he approached, he turned his attention to the potential threats: a group of three middle-aged wizards staring at Hermione like lecherous creeps. At a nearby table, another wizard glanced at her too, but he was trying to hide it, and if he acted on it, Severus was fairly certain the seething witch who sat across from him would take care of it. Lip curling dangerously, Severus pinned a deadly stare at the creeps as he glided behind Hermione to the seat that would block their view.

“Good afternoon,” he said as he slipped onto the stool.

She startled, squawking and nearly toppling her pint. Severus stopped its perilous tilt with a finger.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” she said, dropping the hand clutching her chest and running her fingers through her curls. “I have really got to get better at greetings, don’t I?”

“Given the news this morning, I believe you are justified being distracted,” Severus said. Her lips turned into a frown, and he wondered if he shouldn’t have mentioned the article.

She gave a half-hearted shrug. “I knew it was coming. I’m pissed off, but I’ll be fine.”

“Would you rather we move to a Muggle establishment?”

She shook her head. “I need to get used to people knowing. Besides, I’ve got you to scare off anyone who tries to bother me,” she said with a soft smile, patting his arm and leaving a little ember of warmth behind, “assuming you still want to be seen with me. I won’t blame you if you’d rather go home.”

What Severus wanted to do was go to the Prophet’s premises and burn them to the ground. Instead he said, “Consider me your bodyguard for the day,” and was pleased at the grateful smile she gave him in reply.

“Let’s get you a drink and order some food, shall we?” She waved Tom over, who came to them rather reluctantly.

“What is it?” the bartender barked.

Severus raised a perilous eyebrow at him as he ordered a pint and Sunday roast.

“Same for me, please, except no gravy,” added Hermione.

Tom looked between them and scowled, and for the first time in several years, Severus paid a fair price for his meal. “Coming right up,” he grunted. Severus wouldn’t be surprised if he paid triple next time he was there alone.

“I get the impression he doesn’t much like you,” Hermione commented.

“Him and everyone else,” replied Severus dismissively. He nodded as Tom set his drink in front of him.

“Not everyone else.”

He changed the subject. “Why no gravy?”

“I don’t like it.”

Both his eyebrows went up over his pint glass. “How can you not like gravy?”

“Because it’s floured meat juice and I would rather taste my food,” Hermione huffed at him.

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore,” Severus said sardonically as their plates, one doused in thick brown sauce and the other containing several more colours due to its absence, were placed in front of them.

“Do you like gravy that much?” she asked, picking up her fork and knife.

“The country likes gravy that much, witch,” he said with a scathing look, to which she rolled her eyes. “You are the anomaly here.”

“Gosh. All this time I’ve been trying to figure out why no one likes me, and it was the gravy,” she said with mock revelation. There was an amused shine in her eyes as she leaned into him, and he found himself tipping towards her in response. “Tell me, Severus, what universally loved food do you dislike that’s caused your rejection from society?”

Severus’s face twitched as he tried to keep a straight face. “Jam,” he replied.

“You’re right, we can’t be friends anymore,” Hermione said as she laughed brightly. She took a bite of mashed potato as a wizard pushed in on her other side and waved Tom over. He noted the way she shifted her stool two inches away from the stranger before turning back to him.

“How can you not like jam?”

Severus wasn’t sure how to explain it to her, wasn’t sure he wanted to explain it to her. It wasn’t a matter of simply not liking the flavour. Growing up, his mother had done her best to feed them, but with his father drinking most of his meagher salary, and then most of his allowance once on the dole, there was only ever a few pounds a week to spend on food. Bread, potatoes, tinned meat, and eggs made up most of his diet before he went to Hogwarts. But every summer, his mother would take him to pick blackberries and bilberries, and together they’d make jam. Enough to last most of the next year, even after trading a few jars away to neighbours for things they needed. Dark berry jam was the taste of his childhood. Sometimes he ate white bread with a thin spread of jam for breakfast and dinner, sometimes for three or four days straight. He hadn’t minded the taste until he went to Hogwarts. His first day back home in the summer after his first year, his mother set a plate of bread and jam in front of him, and the sweet spread had soured in his mouth. After that, it only ever tasted of the shame of poverty.

No, he couldn’t tell Hermione that. He didn’t want the pity or assumptions that often came with admitting things about his past. He didn’t want her to think he was still that boy, even if his distaste for jam had followed him.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Severus Snape and today’s front page news,” came a sly, mocking tone, and Severus looked up to find the wizard next to Hermione giving her a lewd little grin. He had a close-shaved head and small eyes, which danced between them. “Makes sense a man like you’d have to stoop to washed-up whores, but didn’t think you’d have the nerve to do it in public.”

Before there was room for conscious thought, Severus’s wand was in his hand. When he blinked, it was to find the wizard staring at not one, but two wand tips. He smirked at Hermione, who had a dangerous glint to her eyes as she aimed her wand at the man’s chest.

“Care to repeat that?” she asked, her voice laced with the sort of saccharine sweetness that indicated violence.

“A man like me won’t hesitate to transfigure your balls permanently into shrivelfigs if you insult her again,” Severus said icily.

“They’ll be real ones, too,” added Hermione. She glanced at him and though her expression spoke of amused mocking, he could see the rage and hurt swimming in the darkness of her pupils. “How long do you think before they rot off, Severus?”

Apparently, an angry Hermione Granger was a beautiful viper. Frown twisting into a deadly smirk, he turned back to the wide-eyed wizard.

“Delicate things, shrivelfigs. A week at most, I’d say,” said Severus silkily, allowing his eyes to drop to the parts in question, as if judging their size.

“Hey, now! What are you doing threatening my customers?!” barked Tom, who’d returned with the man’s beer.

Severus kept his wand raised. “Some of your customers need to learn to hold their tongues.”

“If it wasn’t clear, this is point where you apologize, take your pint, and leave,” Hermione said. She flicked her wand sideways in a shooing motion.

“Uh, right, I…” the man didn’t finish, just grabbed his glass and disappeared into the pub.

“Well—well you both better bloody eat and leave,” stammered Tom.

“We were working on that before that daft wizard decided to throw insults,” Hermione retorted, tucking her wand back into her sleeve.

Severus watched the barman move across the bar before putting his wand away and returning to his seat. He heard Hermione snort, followed by a stifled chuckle. Turning to him with dancing eyes, she burst out laughing.

It was not the response he’d expected, and he found his lips twitching, and then a deep, amused rumble vibrated his lungs as she doubled over in hysterics.

“Breathe, Granger,” he instructed as she wiped tears from her eyes.

“Oh, Merlin, I almost want another bellend to come along just so we can do that again,” she said between giggles. She took a few steadying breaths. “What do you think, 80 per cent chance he comes into the brothel next week?”

Severus blanched. “I hope zero,” he said, horrified at the thought of her having to encounter the wizard again.

“Wouldn’t be the first arsehole I’ve entertained,” she replied with a shrug. “It’s too bad you weren’t around for the blokes who catcalled me on my way in earlier. Not that I need you to protect me. It just would have been hilarious.”

Severus frowned. He hadn’t considered Hermione’s new job beyond the basics. He’d been to the brothel in Hogsmeade a handful times over his tenure at Hogwarts, so wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the process. Did she deal with creeps and arseholes regularly? He hoped not, even if she joked about it like she didn’t mind. He watched her silently for a moment, chewing on his gravy-soaked potatoes.

“Are you still enjoying your work?” he asked quietly.

“I am. It’s like any job, of course. It’s not perfect, but it’s a lot more satisfying than writing useless reports for the ministry every day, and I like all my colleagues, which is new,” she said. She glanced up at him and he kept his expression still. “I can just imagine the questions spinning in your head. Go ahead. Ask away.”

His spine stiffened. “I am not sure it’s any of my business,” he deflected.

She paused her hands, which had been sawing her roast beef, and frowned. “A lot of what was in the Prophet was twisted or untrue,” she said quietly.

“I don’t read the Prophet expecting facts,” Severus scoffed.

“What did you think of it? The article, I mean.”

He got the impression she believed he might say he liked it, or at least that half of it was fairly written. The truth was, when he saw her on the front page that morning, he’d had two reactions. The first was rage over the slanderous text, the implication that she was somehow diminished and worthy of mocking. The photo, however, made him feel like a pubescent child getting turned on by pictures in the Evans’ Freemans catalogue, which had only incensed him further. The Prophet had no right to put such images of Hermione in his head!

“It is currently sitting in my fireplace in pieces, awaiting the day it becomes kindling,” he said, which was true.

“I didn’t wait. I just lit it on fire, right on my kitchen table,” Hermione replied with a small smirk, but sadness lingered in her gaze. She turned back to her meal, spooning carrots and peas into her mouth.

He couldn’t stand to see the expression that followed, the same one she’d had the night they’d become friends: not just rejection, but resignation.

“Forget the Prophet. They print nothing but drivel.”

“If only most people saw it that way,” she said listlessly. “Anyway, we’re friends. If you ever want to ask me about work, the offer stands. As long as it’s not names or details, I’m happy to talk about it.”

He nodded mutely and went back to his meal, not trusting himself to speak.

The National Portrait Gallery had opened a sister exhibit to the one at the V&A. It was only a few minutes down Charing Cross Road, which they walked in silence, dodging Muggles and the odd wizard out enjoying their Sunday afternoon. In no time at all they were within the gallery’s long corridors, arched doorways, and colourful walls, and looking at a new set of Bill Brandt photographs.

The images were no less captivating for the familiarity of their compositions and stark chiaroscuro. Perhaps it was the relatively quiet hall, but they remained silent as they moved from piece to piece. Severus watched Hermione in his peripheral vision, her hand gripped tightly to the strap of her handbag and her expression serious. Slowly, however, he began to drift further behind her, slipping into his usual habits as he regarded the photos. He leaned into a closeup of an old man’s eye, surrounded by wrinkles and a white brow, trying to make out the image in its reflection.

When he straightened again, Hermione was several portraits on. He let her be, choosing a different path around the room so they could enjoy their quiet contemplations, but he found his gaze drawn to her frequently. He should have noticed sooner. In between frames, he turned to check on her again to find her standing in front of the same photograph as before, her back ramrod straight.

He approached carefully, pausing in front of an overexposed photo of a woman, half of her face, a long white arm, and a portion of her breast ghostly against a solid black background. Hermione stared at it as if she wasn’t really seeing the image, her shoulders trembling minutely. The delicate skin of her neck flexed as she swallowed.

“Hermione?”

She tilted her head less than an inch, her eyes dropping low, but he still saw her misery. Panic skittered through Severus’s body like wispy spiders scurrying from a broken web.

“Are you all right?” he asked as gently as he could.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you or the gallery,” she said with a sniff. Lifting her head, she allowed him to see the tears rimming her lashes, and his breath stilled. “I just can’t stop thinking about the article.”

“There's no need to explain.”

The urge to comfort her, to make her smile again was overwhelming, but with no knowledge of how to accomplish it, he stood stupidly by her side. His fingers itched as he struggled for a solution. Twisting them together behind his back so she would not see, his frown deepened as she wiped away a tear with a finger.

“Can we go somewhere else?” she asked hopefully. He agreed quickly, feeling worse for his relief.

On the way out, she stepped into the loo. Severus waited with his back against a wall, teeth clenched, the ache of want, this time for her happiness, an engulfing conflagration. It was another bloody foolish thing to want, given who he was. He’d never made anyone happy in his life.

“We can go,” came her voice. She appeared more her usual self, with dry eyes and a small, embarrassed smile, but the melancholy remained like an aura around her as they made to leave.

Outside, they turned towards the river, and when they reached The Mall, marched away from crowds moving towards the palace and parks a few blocks away. It was a grey day, everything still damp from a morning rain. Spring had bloomed in riotous green, chartreuse leaves sprouting on the trees lining the sidewalk. The wide Thames flowed along beside them, its water muddy green-grey, the wake of boats lapping at the river’s edges and lifting the smell of damp and mud to their noses. Severus watched Hermione as they walked, glad when the tension in her body began to slowly leak away.

“I’m sorry for making you miss half the exhibit,” she said as they passed under Waterloo Bridge.

“I can always go back another day,” he replied. He pressed his lips together.

“I’m just… so angry, Severus,” she said, her voice breaking once. “I’m so mad and I don’t know what to do about it.”

She stopped and went to the low wall that protected them from falling onto the foreshore. Her hands curled into fists over the stone.

“I’m pissed off me doing sex work is front page news. I’m pissed off that most of the magical world will believe it. I’m pissed off you aren’t treated better. I’m pissed off that none of my life has worked out how I intended it to… that we went through all that hell with Voldemort and all we did was ensure that things stayed exactly the same as they’ve always been.” Her eyes flashed at him, amber gone fiery red-gold with her fury and sadness. He could feel her emotions rolling off her in waves, pushing against his decades-old shields.

“I don’t understand why nobody cares,” she growled, thumping her knuckles against the rock. He moved closer to her, not knowing what else to do. “Where did I go wrong, Severus?”

“What makes you believe it was you that went wrong?”

“Because it often seems like I’m the only person who feels like I do, like everyone else is in on a pact that I wasn’t told about and I can never seem to figure out.”

No one had ever said such things to him, the things he felt but had learned to keep hidden at all costs. He took another step closer and she peered up at him, and—Gods—he wanted to reach for her then, tell her that she was better than anyone. Instead he looked at the sluggish water, the Muggles shuffling past them, the square stones of the sidewalk worn uneven by millions of feet.

“You are not the only one. Though I cannot promise you there are more than two,” he said, heart beating quickly.

“How do you deal with it?”

“I am not sure I do,” he answered honestly, “but it is too much trouble trying to fight people who are determined to misunderstand and mistrust me.”

He let out a long breath and met her gaze again. “I wish I had an answer for you.”

Her smile was warm this time. “I wish I had one for you too.”

She reached for his hand and slipped her fingers into his, causing his body and lungs to still. The sensation was foreign, her skin so warm against his it felt as hot as the fire he imagined inside her. She gave his fingers a squeeze before drawing her hand away.

“Thank you,” she said. “Shall we keep walking?”

He nodded, once again unable to speak. His heart felt as if they were running, not ambling along a river. By his side, his fingers flexed, still feeling the ghost of her warmth, and he shoved them into his coat pockets.

“Would you be interested in coming over to my flat for dinner sometime? I want to introduce you to Colin. I think you’d enjoy discussing photography and art together.”

Multiple thoughts careened through his head at once: I’d rather see you alone she wants me to come to her flat what if it goes badly I’ll be in her house. He quickly steadied his breathing and shoved all his racing thoughts under his shields so he could think.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. You can say no. I won’t mind.”

She was lying. He could hear the disappointment already laced into her words.

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” he snapped.

“Does that mean yes?” she asked hopefully.

He scowled at her. “As long as there’s no jam.”

Her startled laugh was high and clear. “I wouldn’t dare insult you like that,” she reassured him. “Though don’t come expecting gravy.”

Leaning into him, she bumped him with her shoulder, leaving another flash of heat. For the first time since the Leaky, she gave him one of her usual, brilliant smiles, and he allowed his own lips to reciprocate, pleased to have had some part in causing it, even if he had no idea how.

Chapter Text

Hermione hurried home from work, already worried she’d made a mistake by not taking it off to prepare. It took ten days to arrange, but Severus and Colin were scheduled to come for dinner. She spent the last week meal planning, cleaning, and generally overthinking every detail of the evening. Now there was only enough time to clean herself up, clear the cat hair Crookshanks had deposited during the day, and start dinner.

Wanting something that appeared to take effort but didn’t, she’d decided on baked salmon, rice, and roasted vegetables. She sliced lemons and dill, chopped peppers and asparagus, and measured out rice, water, and spices, all the while feeling a steady hum of nerves growing beneath her skin.

She desperately wanted the evening to go well. She wanted Severus to like her flat, her cooking, her friend. She wanted him to like her. She wanted to help ease his loneliness too. Even if he and Colin didn’t end up friends, she hoped having another person treat him with kindness might help him discover there were more people than just the arseholes he encountered. It bothered her to think of his old friends abandoning him after the war; worse, that he may not have had any to lose. It seemed to her that he was far too wonderful not to be surrounded by people who adored him.

A sharp knock rapped against her front door as she put the vegetables in the oven. Straightening her aran jumper under her apron, she walked down the hall and found Severus standing outside. He was, as usual, scowling when she let him in.

“Here,” he grunted, thrusting a bottle of wine into her hands. It was a 2000 pinot gris, Muggle, and cold in her grasp. She wondered if he or someone else had picked it out.

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “You really didn’t have to bring anything. You can hang your coat there. Shoes off, if you don’t mind”

“It is customary for a guest to bring an offering to the dinner host,” he said stiffly, shrugging out of his long wool coat. Underneath he wore a dark grey jumper over a white button-up shirt. His hair was once again pulled back from his face, and she tried not to stare at his long feet as he toed off his shoes.

“I’m still cooking,” she said, motioning for him to follow her down the hallway. “Bathroom is there if you need it. Can I get you a drink? Did you want to open your bottle?”

“Only if you will have a glass too,” he said as they entered her kitchen. The room was scented by the rice simmering on the stove, turmeric and garlic mixing with the sweet jasmine grains.

Severus leaned a hip against the counter next to the fridge, and Hermione tried to ignore his piercing gaze assessing her space by concentrating on pouring them wine. She pulled out glasses from the cupboard. A tap of her wand had the bottle open.

“Is there anything I can assist with?”

“It’s customary not to put one’s dinner guests to work,” she replied cheekily, pleased at the spark of amusement it produced.

She handed him a glass and tasted her own with a smile. It was pleasantly tart, a little fruity. Severus swirled his glass and she watched his nostrils flare over the rim before he sampled the drink.

“Do you know a lot about wine?” she asked curiously, turning back to the salmon.

“Enough to get by at the Malfoys’ old dinner parties.”

“The elder Malfoys, I assume? Do you still see them?”

“I was acquaintances with Lucius and Narcissa at one time,” he said, his gaze turning flat and cold. He took another sip from his glass.

She wondered whose decision it had been to make it one time instead of still, but didn’t think it wise to ask, and she didn’t particularly want to talk about the family that had watched her get tortured in their sitting room and done nothing about it, so she offered something of herself instead. “All I know about wine is whether or not I like the taste. This is good.”

Silently, Severus sipped his glass and watched her sprinkle fresh dill, salt, and pepper over the fish. He seemed stiff, closed off, and Hermione hoped she hadn’t made a mistake inviting him over. The pink fish was mostly covered in thin slices of lemon when another knock signaled Colin’s arrival.

“Just a minute,” Hermione said, quickly washing her hands and hurrying into the hall to let him in.

She felt a little better seeing Colin’s smiling face, and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek in greeting.

“My contribution to the feast,” he said, handing her another bottle of wine.

Galloping feet sounded in the hall, and then Crookshanks appeared by their feet. He meowed loudly at Colin, who grinned and picked him up.

“Hey, buddy,” said Colin, rubbing his chin. “You being a good boy for Hermione?”

“I wish I’d known he missed you so much,” Hermione said, feeling bad as she listened to Crooks purr loudly in Colin’s arms.

“I missed you too, big boy,” crooned Colin, giving the fluffy feline a final scratch before plopping him back on the floor.

Smiling, Hermione turned back to the kitchen to find Severus leaning against the door frame, his wine glass pinched elegantly in his long fingers, watching them with a critical gaze. She felt her cheeks heating.

“It’s nice to see you again, Sir,” said Colin, coming up beside her.

“Severus, you remember Colin,” Hermione added to assist the introduction.

The right side of Severus’s lip twitched, and Hermione suspected he was struggling not to sneer. Colin stood admirably against his judgment and stuck out his hand. Severus hesitated only a moment before grasping it and giving a firm shake.

“I hope to feel similarly by the end of the evening, Mister Creevey,” he said smoothly.

“I’m sure you will,” said Hermione, letting out the breath she’d been holding. “Tell him about your last show, Colin. Can I get you a glass of wine? Something else?”

She stuck Colin’s gift in the fridge and then poured him a glass from the open bottle while he explained a little about his recent Muggle collection.

“You two can sit in the other room if you like while I finish dinner,” Hermione offered, the small kitchen feeling cramped with the three of them and a half-kneazle winding around her feet, begging for the fish. “It’ll be more comfortable and I won’t be long.”

“You sure there’s nothing you need help with?” asked Colin.

“I’m fine. Go on.” She shooed them out of the kitchen, hoping they’d be all right on their own, smiling when Severus asked a question about Colin’s show. As she finished prepping the salmon, she heard Colin through the wall, and a few minutes later, Severus’s voice had joined in again.

Content they were getting along, Hermione focused on their meal. The kitchen smelled delightful already. She put the fish in the oven and checked the vegetables, then returned to the cutting board to chop fresh parsley for the rice, the men’s voices a pleasant backdrop to her work. She was stirring the parsley into the cooked rice when she heard the unexpected rumble of Severus’s laughter. Her hand paused. Severus never laughed easily, certainly not loud chuckles audible through a wall fifteen minutes after meeting her; but then, she supposed Colin was more outgoing, kinder, funnier, and generally less of a miserable mess than she was. It was good they were getting along. Maybe Severus would get another friend from tonight. That would be good, right? Of course it would be.

Ten minutes later, she was hovering plates and bowls of food out to the table. Her reception room was both a sitting and dining room, but large enough not to feel stuffed. The walls to her right and opposite the door were covered in white-painted bookshelves to match the walls without them. The two wizards were lounging on opposite ends of her sofa, which sat in front of a fireplace against the back wall. Their chatter stopped when she entered, both smiling—or rather had been smiling, until Severus’s eyes met hers and his expression stilled. She ducked her head to hide hers faltering.

“Oh, um, I forgot the wine. Would one of you mind grabbing it?” she asked, as she lowered the food to the table.

Severus disappeared into the hall, and Colin came and helped her set the table. It wasn’t large, only big enough for four people unexpanded, but more than adequate for her needs (mostly she used it to hold random objects she was too lazy or distracted to put away).

“What were you two laughing about?” she asked Colin curiously, shifting the salmon to the centre of the table.

“Oh, I was telling Severus about that guy at my last Muggle show. The one that offered me ten grand to do a boudoir shoot with his sister.”

“Wait, he did what?!” Hermione gasped.

“I thought I’d told you that story.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, you hadn’t.”

Severus reentered holding two bottles of wine.

“Pick whatever seats you like,” she said, taking them and putting the full one on the sideboard so it wouldn’t use up table space.

When she turned around, it was to find the two wizards sitting next to each other. She pushed away the feeling of disappointment that the seat they’d left empty was across from Colin, not Severus, and reminded herself they were both her friends, and the meal was to help introduce them, not for her to make moon eyes at the man whom she was becoming far too enraptured with. It would be weird to move the place setting now. Colin would feel bad. She didn’t want that either. She sat down.

“It looks great, Hermione,” said Colin.

“I hope it tastes okay,” she said, smiling. “Dig in.”

The dishes circled the table between their hands, and soon their plates and mouths were full and Colin and Severus were discussing art and galleries again. She listened as they talked, trying to chime in where she could, though some of the photography techniques and artists were beyond her knowledge. It seemed like they agreed on a lot of things.

“It’s honestly been so frustrating trying to get into either Derby & Drake or Charming’s,” said Colin.

“I wish there were more options,” said Severus. His eyes shifted between them, landing on hers for a moment before turning back to Colin. “I have… considered opening a gallery myself.”

“You want to open a gallery?” Hermione asked curiously, fork pausing halfway to her mouth. “I didn’t know that. You should!”

“It hasn’t been worth mentioning because it will never happen.”

“Why not? There’s obviously a need and you’ve been wanting to do something different. You’re so passionate about art, I think you’d be a wonderful gallery owner,” Hermione said earnestly, only to be met with a look of cutting disdain.

“Given one typically requires customers to operate a gallery successfully, I fail to see how I’d be wonderful at it—or have you forgotten in your fall from grace that you aren’t alone in the magical world’s gutter?” Severus replied sharply.

Hermione stiffened, rice falling from her fork and skittering onto the table as her hand shook. “Maybe it’s you that’s forgotten that the magical world is more than the Prophet and the wankers that hang out in the Leaky.”

“What do you know?” he snapped. His dark eyes were completely shuttered, his knuckles white around his cutlery. Hermione dropped her gaze and shoved the remaining rice in her mouth, unsure if she wanted to shout at him or cry.

Colin cleared his throat. “I think it’s a good idea. You could easily hire someone to deal with customers and focus on the artists and the business.”

Severus glanced at Hermione, a furrow between his brows, but she continued to avoid his gaze. “I suppose that might be a possibility for dealing with customers,” he muttered, “but unfortunately artists and suppliers are typically people.”

Colin shrugged a shoulder. “It’s worth thinking about, honestly. I don’t think you’d have as much trouble as you expect.”

“I do not know if there is a market for contemporary and modern magical art.”

“I think there would be, once people saw it. Drake’s and Charming’s bring in a lot of the same artists all the time, and people like new, interesting things, especially if it’s something they can show off.”

Hermione let their conversation drift past her ears, feeling a little like she was sinking. She ate her food, trying to convince herself it was fine. It was good Colin and Severus were clicking. Good Colin was supporting Severus’s ideas, that Severus obviously respected Colin’s opinion. It was good.

It also made her stomach twist. Her head rang like a bell, Severus’s harsh words the clapper clanging inside. She watched the two men speaking, dropping her gaze to her meal when Severus glanced her way again. Not for the first time, she wished she was more like Colin and less like herself.

He always had a way about him that made people feel easy. It was what had first drawn her to him when they reconnected at a party Ginny threw the summer after the end of the war. It was what had made her fall for him at first, had made him so hard to leave. She knew when she left him, she wouldn’t just be losing him, but all the people who’d been her friend by extension. She couldn’t fault him for it. It was just the person he was. She wouldn’t want him any other way.

She had counted on Severus taking to Colin just like everyone else. She just hadn’t expected to feel lost in the process. She had feared it, of course, but had hoped for once her insecurity wouldn’t bear fruit. It was silly and selfish to be jealous, but then she had never found a way to not be jealous of anyone who had an easy time making friends. Watching Colin with Severus was like seeing a wish play out in front of her, one she knew she would never be able to catch.

She wanted to be angry at Severus for what he said, but all she could feel was the ache of disappointment and the whisper of her deep-seated fear that she was going to end up completely alone. She sat silently, drinking her wine, wondering if it would be all right to get hammered, waiting for the wizards to clean their plates. The moment both had put their utensils down, she stood. With a flick of her wand, the dinnerware piled itself.

“Need help?” Colin asked.

Hermione shook her head and failed to keep her voice from sounding brittle when she said, “No. Don’t let me interrupt. I’ll be back with pudding.”

“Thank you,” said Severus softly.

She gave them both what she hoped was an encouraging smile and left the room, feeling better and worse for her solitude. After sending the dishes to scrub themselves clean in the sink, Hermione summoned the tart she’d bought on the way home from the top of the fridge and considered how much time she could stay in the kitchen without Colin and Severus getting suspicious. Hating herself for being morose, she pulled out a knife and small plates. Filled the kettle. Leaned against the counter, her head bent and sucking in shuddering breaths, before pushing onward. She could still be a good host. They hadn’t told her to bugger off yet. She’d have a Pick-Me-Up in a minute and then she’d be fine.

From the cupboard, she summoned three china cups and saucers, which she’d bought at a Muggle antique shop. Once, she’d thought she might inherit her grandmother’s china, which had sat in the glass cabinet in her parents’ dining room, but these days, she doubted she would even get notice if they passed away.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Colin until he was right beside her.

“Oh, sorry,” she gasped, hand over her chest.

“All right?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “I’ll be out as soon as the tea is ready.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She let out a resigned little noise. Of course Colin would see through her words and half-hearted smiles. He knew her far too well, all her moods, her feelings, her fears. She’d never understood how he still loved her, despite all of them. But that was part of him too, she supposed.

“Nothing is wrong—truly,” she insisted, swallowing to stop the sudden burning pressure in her nose. “I’m just in my head. I’ll be fine.” She tried to wave him away, but instead he pulled her against his chest in a hug.

“I can imagine what’s going through your head. Stop worrying, okay? We’re good, and I don’t think Snape meant what he said,” he said, squeezing her tight. “I’m glad you introduced us. I wish he was a little less grouchy, but I can see why you like him.”

Hermione chuckled softly, feeling not at all better for his reassurances, but returned his squeeze anyway. The kettle screamed.

“Go on,” she said, making shooing motions with her hands and returning to her task. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Once the tea and pudding was ready, she snuck to the bathroom for a potion and took a deep breath to pull herself together. Trying to imagine herself at work, she put a smile on her face and went to rejoin her guests, busying herself cutting the tart and pouring tea and wine.

“How’s work, Hermione?” Colin asked.

“Good. I’m starting to get some steady clients, which is nice. The Prophet article actually got me more bookings, surprisingly. I’ve been thinking I might do a couple extra shifts,” she answered, and found herself meeting Severus’s unyielding black eyes, a tiny spark of anger finally sparking within her. She tightened her jaw.

“I guess being in the magical world’s gutter can have its benefits, depending on your profession,” she bit out. She turned back to Colin with a bright smile as Severus’s face went pale. “How’s preparing for your show going?”

Colin coughed with his fork in his mouth and had to wipe his lips with his napkin before speaking. “Good, Derby & Drake just finalized the date. It’ll be June seventh.”

Hermione jerked upright excitedly. “That’s exciting! Why didn’t you say something earlier? I need to put it in my diary.”

“I wanted to see if Severus decided to be pleased to see me again before I invited him too,” said Colin with a smile, his ears and cheeks tinged pink.

Hermione avoided looking at Severus, unsure if he would even want to see her again after tonight.

“Well, Snape? Want to come?”

His dark eyes moved between them, and then he dipped his head. “I will check my schedule,” he said.

Hermione didn’t like the spark of hope his agreement lit inside her.

Severus stood partially hidden in the kitchen, watching Hermione say goodbye to Creevey in the hall. His arms were crossed over what felt like a large iron cauldron sitting in his lungs. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t simply left before pudding, except that the moment Hermione disappeared into the kitchen, Creevey had turned to him and said, “I think we’ve really buggered this up.”

He’d left Severus feeling confused about what exactly the young wizard thought he’d done wrong. There was no question when Severus had fucked up: the moment he’d agreed to come for dinner. The whole evening was a cascading mess. Being in her space felt uncomfortable to begin with, like he was peeking into parts of her life he had no right to see, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from looking. He’d tried his best to be friendly with Creevey, had been glad to have a shared interest to fall back on for conversation. He’d ended up far more tolerable than expected, but Severus found it difficult to split his attention between him and Hermione. Four years alone meant he was no longer used to talking to people, and his desire to have Hermione’s closest friend not hate his guts made him pay close attention to his words. If only he’d been paying more attention before lashing out at Hermione for supporting his stupid dreams, which he never should have mentioned. She’d announced to Colin that he was unhappy, and made fixing it sound too easy, her pronouncement of his wonderfulness so genuine, so nonchalant that it felt like her hand had reached inside him and squeezed his heart. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t given her time to explain like he’d promised before lashing out.

When Creevey returned from the kitchen, a slight frown on his face, and plopped back down in his chair, he’d said, “I’m not sure that helped. You’re going to have to make your own apologies.”

Severus had nodded, not knowing what else to say.

Now he was watching Creevey slide his arms around her and kiss her cheek. “Love you. Will you come over soon?” Creevey asked. The soft, apologetic look in his eyes and the easy way he touched her made Severus grind his teeth. He lowered his voice, but not low enough that Severus couldn’t hear. “I’m sorry for not paying more attention. Let me make it up to you.”

“You don’t have anything to make up for,” Hermione replied, her voice still lacking its usual lightness. “Send me an owl though. I’m off Sundays and Mondays usually, but we could do after work again too.”

“Thank you again for dinner. Goodnight, Snape.”

Severus raised a hand in farewell, and then he was alone with Hermione. She turned back to him with a wary gaze. “Are you staying or going?”

“Staying, unless you prefer me to leave,” he answered against his instincts, which told him to flee, that it didn’t matter if he apologized since she would never want to speak to him again anyway. But guilt sat heavy in his gut at her obvious dejectedness and she at least deserved to know that it wasn’t because of her. After the Prophet, after her friends, he could at least find a way to do that.

Her eyebrows pinched together, and she seemed about to say something until she nodded and pushed past him into the kitchen.

“You can wait in the sitting room if you want. I’ll make us more tea.”

Severus knew when he was dismissed.

He peered at some of her books while making his way to the sofa. She seemed to have organized them by topic first, then alphabetically by author, and she had a few intriguing tomes he hadn’t read before.

Her ugly orange furball of a cat sat on one side of her sofa, curled into a ball, and opened his eyes when Severus took the opposite seat. Her couch was comfortable, with wide cushions and plush, dark grey fabric. To his annoyance, the cat—Crookshanks, was it?—uncurled himself and crossed the distance between them. With his pushed face, Crookshanks reminded him of a whiskered old man. Severus had the uncanny feeling he was being judged.

Apparently he passed, because soon the cat was pushing into his lap.

“I suppose you won’t take no for an answer either,” he muttered as Crookshanks purred. He stroked a hand through the half-Kneazle’s thick fur, which felt like dense wool compared to Cinder’s sleek coat. It was still soothing though, the soft vibrations background to the sounds of Hermione in the kitchen. She seemed to be doing more than making tea: putting away dishes and cleaning perhaps. He frowned at the thought she was avoiding him, though he knew he deserved it. A ragged breath sighed from his lungs.

There was a small stack of books on the coffee table and two more, plus a box of Muggle tissues, on a side table next to an armchair. A thick throw blanket hung over the back of the chair. He could imagine her sitting there, legs curled up, a cup of tea steaming as she read.

Above her fireplace was a large frame containing what he thought was likely one of Creevey’s older photographs. It was beautiful, an ethereal image of a lonely old oak tree surrounded by shifting mist. It felt as if he could hear the breeze and creaking branches.

He was considering whether he’d been abandoned when she finally appeared hovering a tea tray. “You can kick him off if he’s being a pest,” she said, putting it on the coffee table. “I wasn’t sure how you took your tea.”

“Just milk.” The same as her, he’d noted earlier, when she’d finally switched her wine glass for a tea cup.

She sat across from him, her mug in both hands and her legs tucked under her. Her amber eyes were wary and sad as they watched his hand stroke her familiar’s fur.

Severus’s frown deepened. Settling into the deep water beneath his shields, he decided to get it over with.

“I… misspoke this evening. I should not have said what I did.”

“You have always known exactly what to say to cut people to the core,” she said with a grim smile, then took a sip of tea. “Do you mean it?”

“Sometimes,” Severus admitted. “Not in this case.”

“I wasn’t making fun of you. I believe what I said, and I don’t think you’re in the gutter either,” she explained, finally meeting his eyes.

Severus swallowed thickly. “I have lived most of my life in the gutter. It is not a place I would ever wish for you.”

Hermione put her cup on the table, pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her cheek on the backrest. Hard, assessing eyes met his, and once again he felt as though he was receiving judgment. He forced himself to allow it, to let her stare, glad to have to have Crookshanks’ fur to sink his fingers into so they weren’t wringing in his lap.

It felt like an eternity before she said, “Crookshanks likes you.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “I’m not sure I’m particularly interested in the opinion of your cat.”

“You might want to change your stance on that. He figured out Peter Pettigrew was hiding as a rat before the rest of us, you know, in my third year. In retrospect, I wish I’d let him eat him.”

Severus snorted softly. “I wish you had too,” he said, studying her. Despite his apologies, the change in conversation, her expression had not changed, her eyes still full of a vacant sadness that he wished he knew how to remedy.

“Would you prefer I let you be?” he asked, unsure if he meant for now or forever.

“No.”

Severus frowned, irritated at his lack of understanding. She was clearly still upset. He wanted to reach into her mind and see for himself, to rage at her, to beg her to tell him what was wrong, to tell him how to fix it, but he worried, too, about what she might ask of him if he did.

“I’m glad you and Colin got along so well,” she said, but she didn’t look glad at all.

“I should have got along with you.”

Her eyes fell to her knees. “I thought we did,” she said quietly, her voice cracking. “I guess I forgot how special Colin is. We only recently became friends again.”

His mind pulled forth an image of their arms around each other, the look in Creevey’s eyes. He didn’t want to ask, to pry, but for some reason he needed to know.

“Do you wish you were still together?”

“No,” she replied. “Things would be a lot easier if I did, but I don’t.”

Severus stilled his face so she wouldn’t see the relief that coursed through him.

She pulled a few curls forward from her shoulder and wound them around her index finger. “I’m the one who split up with him. Maybe I should have left him in peace, but his friendship is important to me.”

“He seemed to believe he had made an error with you this evening.”

“Neither of you did, really. I probably could have handled the gutter thing on another night,” she said in a hollow voice. “Colin has always felt a little responsible for my moods, and I try not to take advantage of his kindness, but he makes it hard sometimes. Whenever we’d argue when we were together, he’d always apologize first, even if I was at fault. It wouldn’t surprise me if he blamed himself for me leaving still, but it most definitely wasn’t him.”

He had no idea why she was telling him this. It did nothing to explain why she was upset. Why did she have to be so confusing?

“Colin’s guilt complex isn’t what’s troubling you.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about. I’m just being stupid and self-pitying.”

“No one could ever describe you as stupid.” Self-pitying, well, he was no stranger to that, even if he abhorred himself whenever he did it. Now seemed like an especially ill moment to be a hypocrite.

“A whole lot of people have described me as stupid, actually—even you, once, a long time ago,” she pointed out with a wry quirk of her lips.

Severus’s frown deepened. He didn’t recall ever calling her such things, but he supposed it was possible. He put his cup down, dislodging her cat, who went and put his paws on his mistress’s knees.

“I put food in the kitchen for you while you were sucking up to Severus,” she told him, scratching his cheek. He let out a long purr and then hopped gracefully from the sofa to find his dinner.

Hermione let out a long sigh.

“Tell me what is wrong,” Severus demanded, beginning to feel a little desperate.

“It’s not something you can help with, and it’s not because of anything you did wrong, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Tell me regardless.”

Her eyes rolled and she shifted uncomfortably. “Do you really want to know? Even if it’s stupid?”

“No, I’ve asked you several times because I enjoy wasting my time,” he snapped, frustration finally getting the better of him. “Yes, witch, I want to know.”

A long silence stretched between them, the only sound their breathing.

“I’m… jealous, I guess.”

That was not what he expected. “Jealous?” he asked, more confused than he’d been earlier. What could she possibly be jealous about?

“I told you it’s stupid. I want you and Colin to be friends… and probably it was me, but it felt like I might as well have not been here tonight, and neither of you would have cared.” She frowned. Her hands curled into fists then loosened again. Beseeching eyes met his. “I’m glad you two hit it off. I wouldn’t ever ask you not to be friends with him. Just… please don’t forget about me.”

Severus’s eyes went wide when her eyes flooded and tears began streaming down her cheeks, her fingers trying ineffectually to wipe them away.

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“I know! I know. I just know my track record with friends and you’re both wonderful people… and Colin is Colin… and you have so much in common and I’m… well… I’m me. I shouldn’t even be telling you this, because it’s not fair and I don’t want you to feel badly. It makes sense why you’d get along better with him and I don’t fault either of you for it. I just… I guess I thought you and I…” Her voice trailed off as she buried her face in her knees. “I’m sorry,” she choked out, the sound muffled by her limbs. “You can go.”

Severus shifted forward and then stopped. His heart beat wildly. She thought he was going to abandon her like her other friends. He didn’t know whether to reassure her or be angry at her for her stupidity—because it was, without a doubt, an absolutely idiotic thing to believe he could prefer Creevey’s company to hers. Shouldn’t she be the one abandoning him? How could she not know he only made an effort with Creevey for her?

He stared at her as she sobbed into the protective shell of her limbs, and something inside him twisted, and—fuck, fuck, FUCK—he moved to the centre seat cushion. He had no idea what to do, how to comfort her. Shouting at her to stop, his normal solution to others’ unwanted emotions, was definitely the wrong response.

“You really don’t have to stay and watch me cry like an idiot.”

“I’d rather be with you sobbing than with anyone else smiling, you infuriating witch,” he hissed.

Her eyes lifted, then widened briefly. She tilted her head and wiped away her tears. “You don’t mean that.”

He’d never met a more maddening person in his life. How dare she believe he would lie, that he would give a rat’s ass about Colin-fucking-Creevey. Could she not see how badly he ached for her company, her presence? Why else would he be here, playing an inane, intolerable guessing game over her feelings?

“Oh, yes, I’m very well known for offering comforting platitudes,” he snapped coldly. “Severus Snape, the wizard everyone goes to for kindness, biscuits, and hugs when they get upset. Have I ever, in the last decade of your acquaintance, given the impression that I’m in the habit of lying to spare people’s feelings?”

A startled laugh leapt out of her, making him blanch. He stiffened when she unfolded herself and shifted closer to him. She looked like a mess, red-faced and damp, and yet her tear-laced smile was surprisingly genuine. Apparently he had just needed to shout at her.

“Where’s your liquor cabinet? Let me get you a drink,” he offered, desperately wanting an excuse to put space between them. Her knee was touching his thigh, burning a hole in it.

“I don’t want a drink,” she said. Her amber eyes were now full of intention, and fear rushed up his spine. He froze as her hand lifted, and tentatively slid over his. Her palm was warm, her skin soft. “Maybe it’s uncommon, but I’d really like a hug.”

“It will be the worst hug you’ve ever experienced,” he told her seriously, trying to deter her even as he felt himself flood with want.

“Somehow I doubt that. Can I?”

He glared at her. “If you must,” he said, and apparently she did, because she shifted even closer.

The hand that had rested on his curled around it and pulled it to her side. He held himself perfectly still as her arms came around his waist. His traitorous arms curled around her back automatically. Everywhere she touched was warm. So warm. Soft. Her head fell to his shoulder, and he grunted in protest. Her cheek was on his collar bone, her wild hair tickling his nose. He could smell it, spicy-sweet—argan oil, he thought, and mint. It took all his willpower not to push his nose into her curls to catalogue it exactly.

“This seems like a pretty good hug to me,” she said softly, her breath hot and ticklish against the bare skin of his neck.

“Are you sure you have an adequate sample size for comparison?” he asked gruffly, and felt her body shake against him with her laugh.

His own options for comparison were admittedly few, but even then he was certain this hug would always rank at the top of his list. She felt perfect tucked between his arms and his chest. Her arms squeezed him tightly, and then she pulled back. Thankful she wished to be freed, he let go of her, but then she stopped half way, her hands on his waist.

“I don’t think I need a comparison,” she said softly. Tentatively, her right hand lifted, and she pressed her index finger gently between his brows. His lashes fluttered at her touch. He nearly leaned into her hand, wanted to press his nose into her palm, rub against her like a cat wanting its cheek scratched.

He snatched her wrist, pulling it away. “What are you doing?”

“It’s your grumpy wrinkle.”

“Excuse me?”

She laughed softly. “I like it.”

He still held her wrist tight in his grip, but she didn’t try to pull away. He couldn’t tell if it was her pulse or his that was hammering against his fingers. Forcing himself to release her, he thought she’d pull away, but instead placed her hand over his chest, his heart flapping under her palm.

She was so close like this, close enough he could see the flecks of gold and rust in her irises as her eyes darted around his face. A small scrap of dead skin marred her bottom lip, and his breath shook as the pink tip of her tongue slid along the crease of her mouth, leaving it damp and him completely mesmerized. He wondered how they would taste. What would happen if he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers? His head dropped an inch. She was so warm. So lovely.

“Severus,” she breathed.

His eyes widened in alarm as he realized what he was doing. He cleared his throat and ripped himself away, horrified at his lack of self control. He’d made her miserable all evening, had made her cry, she had asked for comfort, and he’d been going to maul her like a salacious creep.

“I should go,” he said quickly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” he snapped, and marched out of the room and down her hall.

She followed behind him slowly. One arm wrapped around her middle, she watched him put on his shoes and coat.

“Can I see you soon?” she asked when his hand grasped the doorknob.

“Soon,” he confirmed, giving her one last glance. “Owl me.”

He left her looking disappointed, but he couldn’t risk a lengthier departure, which might inspire another hug and erode what little control he had left. He strode quickly from her building and out onto the street, where he found an empty alcove and Disapparated. He landed in the park in Oxford and didn’t pause before marching towards home, glad for the cool night air on his over-hot skin. His breath came hard and his heart thundered in his chest.

By the time he got home, he felt a little more together. He fed Cinder, avoided the shower, brushed his teeth, checked his locks and wards, stripped off his clothes, crawled into bed, and picked up his book, a Muggle fiction novel from Japan that had recently been translated to rave reviews. He’d read only the first four words of the section, ‘And she was right’, when the whole page blurred in front of him. Suddenly, the ghostly memory of Hermione’s palm over his heart took over his consciousness and he let out a small gasp as the flame in his chest burst to life.

No, he couldn’t be that weak, he thought. He forced his eyes back onto the page, reading the same four words again, and realized that, yes, he was precisely that weak. Had always been that weak. Stupid. Pathetic.

The question he hadn’t thought about in weeks floated through his brain again, because he’d hurt her, run out on her tonight. His eyebrows folded, the book falling from his fingers and landing beside him.

A shaking breath rattled from his lungs, all the air going with it, because what was the point in breathing any longer?

He was in love with Hermione and she was never going to speak to him again.

Chapter Text

There seemed little point in getting out of bed. Four days had passed since dinner at Hermione’s and he had yet to receive a letter. He wasn’t sure why he still bothered to hope for one, given what he’d done and how he’d left. It was inevitable, of course, but that didn’t ease the pain of being alone again. He barely ate, left his room only at Cinder’s insistence to care for her or when his body became too uncomfortable to ignore. He slept most of the day and lay awake in the crushing darkness when he could not. He didn’t shower, even when his body began to feel greasy and he began to smell.

What a cruel joke he’d played on himself, falling in love just in time to drive Hermione away. Perhaps she would take Cinder as a parting gift so he could finally let himself rot into the earth.

He considered, not for the first time, brewing some poison to take—something quick and painless, like Deathcap Milk or a Draught of Long Night—but it seemed to him that he probably deserved to suffer, and Cinder did not. He took Draught of Dreamless Sleep instead, no longer wishing to think, to dream, to care.

An incessant tapping sound woke him. He opened his eyes blearily, wanting nothing more than to fall back asleep. Making a noise of complaint, he pressed his head further into his pillow, trying to ignore it. It sounded like one of his neighbours jackhammering outside, the sort of sound that felt like it was banging on the inside of his skull. He let it go on for a few more minutes before accepting that it wouldn’t let him be.

He pushed himself up on one arm and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He didn’t know what day it was, what time it was. His room was dim, a weak light leaking in through the gap in the door. Cinder had apparently been driven out by the noise too. He stood up unsteadily, dressed only in dirty briefs, and heard her claws scratching at a window. Tch-tch-tch-tch joined tap-tap-tap-tap.

“What is going on?” he croaked.

Blinking in the light of the sitting room, he saw Cinder stretching up against the conservatory's glass wall, paws trying desperately to reach a perturbed looking owl perched on the edge of the clear roof above her. He couldn’t see what was tied to the bird’s leg.

It couldn’t be from her. It wouldn’t be from her.

Rain pattered against the roof and wet the tiles outside. The owl banged its beak to announce its presence again. Heart bounding nervously, he strode to the conservatory door. Cinder chattered next to him, large eyes fixed on the bird. Careful not to let Cinder out, he slipped outside, cool raindrops prickling his bare skin. Soggy splinters from the table he’d massacred more than two months ago still lay scattered about. The owl dropped gratefully onto the back of his lonely patio chair.

He saw it then: creamy paper, folded neatly, with a navy seal. He untied the letter like it was precious, hands shaking. Rain gathered in his eyelashes, dripped from the ends of his damp hair and down his long nose. When it was free, he bent his body and clutched it to his stomach to protect it from the weather.

“Thank you,” he said softly to the owl. “Will you wait in case I need to send a reply? I will bring you something.”

The brown bird shook out its feathers, flew into the branch of a nearby tree, and began preening. Severus slipped back inside and sat gingerly on the sofa. His thumb traced the wax imprinted with a small otter curled around a stylized HG. Inside she might be telling him off, but she had written. He had something of her, at least, which was better than nothing at all.

Gently he cracked it open. His eyebrows folded as he began reading, and then silent tears slipped down his cheeks. His body feeling suddenly too heavy to carry, he fell onto his side.

He didn’t understand. Didn’t understand how he deserved such a letter, both an apology and an invitation. What she was apologizing for, he had no clue. Being upset that he’d been a right prick? For “pushing him,” she’d said, as if he hadn’t allowed her to hug him, hadn’t been the one to attempt to take it further. But she had asked to see him again, and had signed it, “Your friend.”

Relief and regret coursed through him. Perhaps he should end it now, take poison before he did something else to hurt her. At least he might die knowing one person cared about him enough to call him a friend. What would she think if she could see him, bare skin unwashed and damp from rain, crying over her bloody letter? God…

The paper remained in his hand, warm against his long fingers. He wondered if he should tell the owl to go, if he was even capable of crafting a reply. If he was capable of removing himself from the sofa. If he was capable of being her friend when he felt like this, was this weak. When the thought of being without her had shattered him. When he would undoubtedly hurt her again if he tried.

Cinder meowed inquisitively as she appeared around the coffee table. She sniffed the letter in his outstretched fingers, rubbed her cheek against it, then hopped into the small space in front of him. He stroked her fur gently, grateful for her presence, even if he wasn’t sure he deserved her either. She stared at him, purr rattling, moving so his fingers would hit the best spots. Breathing became easier, his body less like iron. He grimaced as she licked the water from his cheek, but continued scratching her chin.

“All right,” he said to her finally.

He forced himself upward, trudging to the small wood box where he kept his stationery, then returned to the sofa. He read Hermione’s letter again, picturing her with each word, and then penned a brief reply.

The letter sent, Cinder fed, and the barest of needs met for his body, Severus climbed back into bed to wait for another letter.

Hermione stood in the middle of the Millenium Bridge, staring out past the metal and wires at the Thames, watching the wakes of the boats as they sped by. Hoards of Muggles passed at her back, moving between Bankside and the City. The railing was cool beneath her bare hands, grounding, something she needed right now.

It had been ten days since her dinner party and she was a little terrified of seeing Severus again. Not because she thought he’d be cruel to her, but because she couldn’t forget the feeling of being pressed against his body, the pressure of his long fingers around her wrist, the way his dark eyes had felt like gravity, drawing her towards his lips before he’d bolted. She had no idea how to feel about him, or rather, no idea how to act in the wake of her feelings and his defensive, often contradictory behaviour. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her; that much was clear. Beyond that, she had no clue. She had gone and fallen for the most confusing man in Britain and yet she couldn’t help but feel lucky that she got to continue to call him a friend.

She’d let herself wallow for several days, eaten the entire remaining half of the tart she’d bought for dinner the following evening. The brothel had become a welcome reprieve, which at least was pleasant confirmation that she hadn’t fucked up there as well. It was easy to throw herself into her work. With clients, she was forced to pay attention, to interact, couldn’t let her mind spiral like it wished. It helped to know that she was desirable in some way, by someone. She’d worked an extra shift on Sunday, went out to the pub with a few of her colleagues, and only then finally mustered the courage to owl Severus.

Now, though, her mind was running, tripping between fantasies of being held against him and all the ways she might accidentally make him bark and bolt again.

“Hermione.”

His deep voice blew through her like a wave rolling through the river water. She turned, a nervous smile forming on her lips only to have it falter when she saw him. She’d never seen him look so poorly. His stringy hair whipped across colourless cheeks in the wind. Hollow circles smudged shadows under eyes as solid as cliffs. The weight of his wool coat seemed to drag his thin shoulders down.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her instinct to reach for him quelled quickly. “You look…”

“I am only tired,” he said in a rough voice. He turned away from her, towards Bankside. “Come.”

Hermione followed him, staring worriedly at his back. Beyond the end of the bridge rose the massive tower of the old power station that housed the Tate Modern art gallery. She’d never been, it only having been open a few years, but Severus led her confidently from the bridge and around to the entrance.

“Are we here for a particular exhibit?” she asked curiously.

“You will see soon enough.”

He slowed as they approached the glass front doors, strange orange light visible beyond them. Severus ushered her through.

“Wow,” she gasped as she stepped foot inside. “It’s incredible.”

From the doors a concrete ramp sloped downward. They were in a massive hall, six or seven stories tall and just as long. What could only be described as a sun hung from the wall opposite them. It was huge, the light from it suffused in a pale mist. The entire space was filled with an orange glow. She had never seen anything like it.

“It looks like a real sunset!”

“It’s called ‘The Weather Project’,” said Severus quietly as they continued into the hall, passing under a bridge into the main exhibition space.

The sun was even more enormous up close. People crowded beneath it, their voices combining with the constant electric hum that echoed through the hall. Above them was a suspended ceiling made entirely of mirrors. Several patrons lay on the floor on their backs staring up at themselves, some making shapes with their bodies.

“I’ve never seen art like this,” said Hermione, slightly in awe of it. “We should lay down.”

She moved into a free patch of floor and lowered herself to the concrete. Flat on her back, she chuckled at Severus’s scowl looming over her.

“I feel like a first year again with you way up there,” she teased him. She patted the bare concrete next to her, indicating he should join her.

With a roll of his eyes, he laid his long body next to hers, a few inches left carefully between them, his hands a pillow for his head. “If my old bones seize up down here, you are doing the honours of levitating me onto my feet and obliviating everyone after,” he said, making Hermione snort.

“You’re not that old,” she said, “though it would be funny to see you stuck like a turtle on its back.”

“What a pleasant mental picture,” he deadpanned.

Hermione laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you to struggle for long.”

Severus grunted next to her. Hermione stared up at the ceiling, enjoying the picture of them side by side. With his arms framing his head and ankles crossed, he looked like he could be sunbathing. Hermione put her hands on her stomach and pulled her knees up so her feet were flat on the floor, making her body look even shorter. The silence between them was comfortable, so she let her gaze drift, studying all the people doing the same thing or wandering between bodies. A group of several friends nearby had formed themselves into a circle, heads touching, and she smiled at them wistfully as they made faces and laughed.

She turned back to the mirror over her own head and made a fish face, grinning when Severus rolled his eyes next to her. “This is fun,” she said, rocking her feet.

When he said nothing, she glanced sideways. The single eye she saw reflected the sun, his skin washed in orange and contrasting shadows and his features more prominent in the strange light. Even in profile, something about his expression worried her. The hollows below his eyes that she’d noticed outside were stark.

“Have you not been sleeping well?” she asked tentatively.

“It is nothing you need to worry about,” he replied, still staring at the ceiling.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

A lone black eye flicked to her then back to their reflections. “No.”

Hermione pursed her lips and turned back to the mirrors, watching her reflection stretch her legs out. Next to her, Severus was utterly still. His eyes fell closed, and if it hadn’t been for the lines etched in his face, she would have thought he was sleeping. His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm, but the sense that something was wrong had not diminished.

Had they been somewhere more private, she would have pried. She bit one side of her lip, worried that he was sick, that some bastard had attacked him while he was out, or that something had happened to Cinder. It could be her; maybe he hadn’t slept because of being too worried she might cry or force him to hug her again. She wished she knew what he was thinking. Anxiety crawled under her skin. She forced her eyes to stay glued to the ceiling, towards the sun, even when she felt him move his hands to his sides.

“I told you to stop worrying.”

She looked towards him to find him staring at her intensely. Colour rose on her cheeks.

“That’s like telling Cinder not to be hungry,” she informed him. “I don’t like when people I care about aren’t okay. Especially when I don’t know how to help.”

The strange light reflected off the whites of his eyes. “You…”

Somehow, she knew what he meant to ask but couldn’t. “You’re my friend, Severus. Of course I care.”

It was all she could say, because she could not speak the whole truth: that she cared about him in ways that went beyond friendship, ways that made her want to rest her chin on his shoulder and whisper in his ear that whatever it was, it would be all right.

Severus’s face contorted suddenly, like waves curling, crashing over his features, and then he jerked to his feet. Instinctively Hermione pushed herself up, but she was too slow. He swept past her towards the side of the room, his long strides eating up the concrete floor as she scurried after him, thankful when he went around the ramp instead of up to the exit. In a bare stretch of corridor, he stopped and plopped down on a bench, where he folded forward and put his head in his hands. Tentatively, she sat next to him, leaving a few inches between them.

“Sev?”

“Don’t,” he growled, a warning.

“Did I do something?”

A flash of onyx eyes glared at her for a moment before disappearing again. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Hermione took a shaking breath. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

Severus was tired, everything too sharp, too heavy. It felt like the Tate Modern might collapse over him and he’d be bearing no less weight. Hermione had seen right through him from the moment he stepped behind her on the bridge, and yet it was only her presence that kept him from crumbling.

All he wanted was to shout at her, to warn her away, to tell her that her care for him would be rewarded with pain. That he was not worth it. But God how he craved it, her presence by his side. He wanted to embrace her again and let her heat soak into the darkest parts of his soul and keep her there, an interior sun, the antithesis of himself.

Yet caught between his instincts he felt frozen, incapable of doing more than hiding on a bench like a fucking child having a tantrum.

He didn’t want to hurt her.

He wanted to scream.

He pulled at his mind with desperate thoughts, trying to drown it behind his Occlumancy. He didn’t understand why it had become so difficult. He’d always prided himself on his self-control—it was what had made him the perfect spy—but when it came to Hermione, it felt like he wore no armour.

“Severus,” she said again, and he was relieved that she’d used his full name.

Carefully, he let his hands fall, twitching, into his lap. Not wanting to know what Hermione thought of him, he nevertheless looked her way to find her face pinched with concern. She gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Here,” she said, a bottle appearing under his nose. “It’s a Pick-Me-Up Potion.”

Her fingers brushed his as he took it, her grip lingering before drawing away. He swallowed it like a shot of bitter liquor. It felt like a bubble, growing, lifting him from the inside, then settling into a buzz of energy. His nostrils flared as his Occlumancy shields slid into place and he felt able to breathe again.

She uncorked a second bottle and downed one herself, her eyes falling closed. The delicate curve of her eyelid and her dark lashes lying across her cheek made him want to press his lips over them. When she opened them, he recognized the energetic gleam in her eyes.

“I have more if you need another,” she said.

“Do you have an apothecary in your bag?”

“It only stocks Pick-Me-Up Potions, I’m afraid,” she replied. “Is it helping?”

“Two would not be advisable. Do you take them often?”

“Not as many as I did when I worked at the ministry. I was taking three or four a day at the end,” she said with a twist to her mouth that was half smile, half grimace, “and before you chastise me, I know it’s not good to take that many, but it was the only way I got through the day. I only need them sometimes now.”

“How often is sometimes?” Severus asked, concerned. Pick-Me-Up Potions contained Belladonna roots, which at high enough doses, combined with the stimulant effects of the potions, could cause convulsions or induce mania.

“A few times a week. Mostly when I have a tough client or I’m tired and coffee isn’t enough.” Her breath stuttered out of her nose. “I used to talk to Colin or Ginny, and at school I’d just focus on studying, but when those stopped being options, I needed something else.”

Severus frowned, but he could not fault her for her vices, given he had his own. Had he ever had somewhere he needed to be, he might have opted for something similar instead of the welcome oblivion of Dreamless Sleep. Of all the potions she could have chosen, Pick-Me-Up Potions weren’t the worst thing to rely on.

“My last two years of Hogwarts I spent more time than I should have high on Elixirs of Induced Euphoria,” he admitted. He’d spent most of his weekends and holidays with a small group of Slytherins, laughing and pretending that his happiness was real. “That was before I learned Occlumency.”

“You brewed it yourself, I assume?”

“Of course. My own variation of the recipe to make it particularly potent. It was how I ingratiated myself to my housemates.”

“That was how you made friends?” He nodded. Pathetic. He was surprised when she grinned. “I got attacked by a troll in first year. I lied by the way. I was in there because they’d been making fun of me and I was crying.”

He’d suspected she’d been lying, of course, but the truth saddened him. She’d been alone, picked on. Perhaps if he’d been in Gryffindor, he might have made friends with his bullies too. The thought made him shudder. Better to get high with his fake Slytherin friends than spend time around the pompous idiots that were James Potter and Sirius Black.

“Harry and Ron were surprisingly good friends, despite how it started. We had a couple falling outs over the years, but always worked it out somehow, at least until the war ended,” she said, and despite the potion, a sense of melancholy settled around her shoulders. “I know you hated each other, but I miss Harry. I miss Ron too, as a friend, anyway.”

Severus swallowed, thinking of Charity, her teasing in the staff room, their walks to the pub on Saturdays, the postcards she would send him over summer holidays, which he still had in a box for safe keeping.

“It might surprise you, but I do not hate Potter. I simply wish he was treated like everyone else.”

“So did he, but I’m not sure that was possible, given Voldemort’s and Dumbledore’s goals.”

He frowned at the names of his old masters. How many lives had they both disrupted, changed for the worse? He tried not to allow himself to think about whom he might be without them.

Soft skin brushed against his knuckles, making him startle. Breath tight, he stared at the back of Hermione’s fingertips where they rested against his hand. His fingers spasmed unconsciously as he swallowed. Why would she touch him? Was this her friendship, her care?

He should stop this, he thought, but his index finger moved of its own accord, stroking against hers in reply. A pang of loss hit as she pulled away, but then her hand was sliding into his properly, lacing their fingers together. Her hand was dwarfed by his and yet was somehow stronger, gripping his tightly.

“Maybe you should make us some of your special elixir. It might be fun,” she said quietly. “I’d love to know what it feels like to be deliriously happy.”

Severus wasn’t sure he wanted the reminder of his school days, nor that he deserved to feel such giddy glee, even if it was artificial. He lifted himself, dropping her hand, already having overindulged.

“Would you like to see the other galleries?”

He was relieved when she smiled. “I’d love to.”

Chapter Text

Bent over the side of the bed in Room 8, Hermione lay passively while a cock plunged into her pussy like a piston. The grunting noise its owner made with each hard stroke was slightly annoying, but Hermione would never tell him that. Instead, she moaned intermittently and kept her body loose so he could lead.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he huffed, hips still churning.

“Yes, fuck me just like that,” she replied huskily. She was lying, of course, but he would never know.

“I’m gonna cum,” blurted her client, so Hermione began begging for it, to which she received a resoundingly positive, “Take it, witch,” before he shouted out his orgasm.

He pulled away panting and sweaty. Hermione peered playfully over her shoulder, flashing him a smile. He was a little older than her, the sort of client who was there because he needed to feel strong, in control. Guys like him weren’t her favourite, but they weren’t the worst either. She’d had more of his type since the Prophet article: insecure blokes who wanted to “give it” to Hermione Granger, feel powerful over a once war-heroine. She was happy enough to take their money, as long as they weren’t complete arseholes. Thus far, this one had managed to keep himself out of that category, and having paid for extra services, he was more than worth her time.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he said, watching his seed dribble out of her. Hermione let him look, then rolled over and invited him onto the bed. She tucked herself low against his side so he would feel larger, and ran a hand up his stomach and chest.

“You ever had a guy piss in your mouth?”

“No. I don’t do that sort of thing, not with me being the person peed on, anyway,” Hermione replied. It wasn’t the first time she’d answered the question. Her clients asked her all sorts of questions. She’d ceased to be shocked or offended by most of them.

“I bet you’d like it if I did it,” he replied cockily.

Hermione smiled at him. “I’d much rather suck your dick,” she said to distract him from trying. He seemed the sort of man who would respond to such suggestions. She rarely misread her clients these days.

“You can’t get enough of it, can you?”

“Mhmm, give it to me,” she hummed in affirmation, crawling between his legs.

She took his shrunken cock into her mouth and sucked, stretching it, twirling her tongue so he could see. When he told her to suck his balls she lowered her head and drew the soft sacks into her mouth, one at a time. Within ten minutes, he was hard again and ready to fuck.

When he left, Hermione could tell he felt more the wizard for his visit, which meant she’d succeeded.

Humming, she cleaned up the space, showered in the room’s bathroom, put back on her clothes—if you could call lingerie and a silk robe clothes—and headed back to the staff lounge via the back stairs. She glanced at the clock on the wall above the tea station. It was just after five o’clock, early enough she could probably squeeze in another standard session with one of the wizards in the lounge before going to Colin’s for dinner, but she’d already had seven, and decided she’d had enough for the day. It still felt like a wonderful novelty to set her own schedule and not have to watch the clock for the end of her workday.

Jude came in while she was getting changed. She’d obviously been with one of her kinky clients, because her blue hair was up in a tight braid and she was dressed in a leather corset.

“Hermione! How was your shift?” she asked.

“Good. Usual sort of blokes today,” Hermione answered, pulling on a thick pink jumper over her t-shirt. “They all left happy.”

“No one wanting to jerk off over your feet again?” Jude grinned, making Hermione chuckle.

“Honestly, I would have that guy back over some of the others recently,” she said with a mock shudder. “How was yours?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear him screaming through the sound-dampening charms,” said Jude with a wicked grin. “We both had fun.”

“I’m glad you’re both enjoying yourselves,” came Madam Hazel’s voice as the door opened. She held a letter in her hand and approached Hermione. The front of the envelope was addressed to ‘Hermione Granger, care of The Scarlet Witch’, and when she turned it over, the seal was broken.

“I checked it for curses and creeps,” explained Madam Hazel. “I wouldn’t normally open your mail, but it’s from Wanton Witch and I thought it might be related to the advertisements. They’re offering you a shoot.”

“A shoot?” Hermione asked curiously, unfolding the letter. Her eyes bulged as she read down the page. The magazine wanted her to do a photoshoot with them.

Jude appeared by her shoulder. “Everyone wants a piece of Hermione Granger.”

“It’s softcore and sounds like it wouldn’t be much different from your ad shoot, except fully nude,” said Madam Hazel.

“Do people here often do pornography too?” Hermione asked, feeling slightly flabbergasted that a magazine would be offering her so much money for nude photos.

“Most don’t, but the odd person does. I did it myself for several years before I bought this place. It’s a lot more public than working in a brothel. You have to be comfortable performing for an audience and all the things that come along with a shoot,” explained Madam Hazel. Hermione tried to imagine the witch younger and in front of the camera. She glanced at Jude, who was twirling the end of her long braid around her finger.

“It was the first sort of sex work I tried, but it’s not for me. I prefer one-on-one,” she shared.

“If you’re interested, it won’t hurt your career here,” said Madam Hazel, “though I think you could get a better offer than that.”

There was one big reason not to do it, in Hermione’s opinion, and that was The Daily Prophet. It had been less than a month since the article announcing her career change, and she wasn’t sure she was up to throwing them more fuel for their tirade against her. Anger sparked when she imagined what the paper would say if they found out she was doing pornography too. “Hermione Granger is Worse than Voldemort” would be the headline. The upset wasn’t worth the money.

Wait.

“A better offer?” she asked curiously.

“For your first, absolutely. Wanton Witch is lowballing hoping you don’t know what you’re doing. If they were smart, they’d offer more and put you on the cover,” she said with a sharp nod. “I can put some feelers out for you, if you’d like. I’d take a percentage should you book a contract.”

“I…” Hermione snapped her mouth shut, giving herself time to think.

The first surprise was she wasn’t opposed to the possibility. She’d enjoyed the photoshoot for the advertisements, the one before with Colin. Before the Prophet had ruined it by putting it on the front page, she’d liked how she looked on the glossy magazine pages, and it hadn’t bothered her to know wizards would be looking at them—quite the opposite. Now that she thought about it, she was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her before, considering she had six such magazines with her ads in them in a cupboard at home. She liked the idea of doing different things, challenging herself, reaching people who might not be able to afford her services at the brothel, and of more people believing she had something to offer the world.

However, there was still the Prophet and she was still working on getting more regular clients at Scarlet. There was Severus too; they’d been better since their afternoon at the Tate Modern, but she couldn’t help but feel their understanding was tenuous and they needed more time before he could handle her balling in another gallery over an article. She hated that she had to consider the rag, but right now, a porn shoot didn’t seem worth the potential pain, even for more galleons and new experiences.

“I think I’d like to focus on building my books here for now before I start something new,” she finally said.

“You’ll have full books in no time,” said Jude, putting an arm around her.

Hermione blushed and squeezed Jude back as Madam Hazel said, “I agree.”

Ten minutes later, she stood in Knockturn Alley. It was a beautiful evening, still light and the sky clear. There were few residents out and about, except for the usual cloaked wizards out front of the Ghoul & Goblin. She smiled at a witch who glanced her way as she ambled up the street. No one else paid her any attention.

The moment she stepped into Diagon Alley, she heard a sharp wolf whistle. Rolling her eyes, she kept her hand near her wand in her pocket until she reached the post office, where she scribbled a reply to Wanton Witch telling them not this time, but she’d consider it for the future. She ignored the crude look the old man working the front counter gave her when he read the recipient.

She was glad to get to Colin’s. They’d owled back and forth, but she hadn’t seen him since dinner with Severus and hoped his busyness the last couple weeks hadn’t been an excuse not to see her. He opened the door with a smile, however, and quickly wrapped her in a hug.

Inside, his flat was still an explosion of framing materials and finished pieces. “Sorry it’s a mess,” he said, moving flat trays from one end of the kitchen counter atop another stack next to the sink. She found tea bags while he filled the kettle. “I should have had us meet at your place or gone out or something.”

“I don’t mind,” said Hermione. “Though I’m sure Crookshanks won’t forgive me for keeping you away.”

“Don’t tell him I’ve been thinking about getting a dog.”

“Traitor,” Hermione teased. She passed him mugs from the cupboard. “Is prep for the show going well?”

“I had a bit of a disaster with some frames I ordered, but think it’ll get sorted in time,” he replied. “I finally got Derby & Drake to agree to let me show some of my more suggestive pieces.”

“I don’t see why they should even have a say. It’s your work,”

“They want to show what they know will sell, that’s all,” he explained with a shrug.

“Severus always makes magical galleries sound like dinosaurs who’ve been showing the same pieces since 1780,” said Hermione.

Colin laughed, stopping the shrieking kettle and pouring out cups. “That’s true to some extent.”

Mugs of tea in hand, they wandered out to the sitting room, where Colin had already cleared space and laid out Chinese take away on the coffee table. The room smelled of sweet and sour sauce and fried rice. Once they were seated, he handed her a plate.

“I was actually thinking of asking Snape if he’d come over and give me his opinion on a few pieces I’m trying to decide between for the show,” he said, while they were loading their plates with food. “Dennis and Noah don’t care enough about art to have an opinion.”

Hermione kept her hands moving, scooping chow mein noodles through the sensation of her stomach falling from her middle to around her knees. “That sounds like a great idea,” she said, unable to keep the pinched tone out of her voice. “I’m sure he’d love that.”

Colin’s eyes flicked sideways at her while he scooped kung pao chicken over his rice. “Is that okay with you?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” She fixed her eyes on her plate so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

She felt terrible that her instinct was to keep them apart, not that she was about to act on it. Telling Severus she was jealous had been bad enough. It was neither of their faults she was how she was. That it hurt he didn’t want her opinion too, even though she was aware she knew less about art than her friends.

“Hermione, I’m not going to try to seduce him or anything. I wouldn’t do that to you,” said Colin, sitting back with his plate.

“What do you mean?” she asked, heart picking up speed. She put another scoop of fried rice onto her plate.

“I’m not completely blind. It’s pretty clear you fancy him.”

She settled back on crossed legs, trying to control her flaming cheeks. She didn’t think she’d been that obvious. She thought Severus probably knew, given she’d practically thrown herself at him. He’d continued to be a little withdrawn, and though they’d been in Oxford their last outing, he hadn’t invited her back to his flat after.

“He’s just a friend.”

Shoving a forkful of chowmein into her mouth, she tried to focus on the salty-sweet flavour of the noodles instead of how badly she wanted the most maddeningly changeable and enigmatic man on the British isles. She could only hope her stupid feelings dissipated before she made another mistake.

“You used to look at me the same way you know,” Colin said softly. “Funny, I never noticed when you stopped.”

She peered at her ex, but found no resentment in his expression.

“It took me a long time to understand why you left, but I think I do now,” he said, and then scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I am going to try not to repeat it.”

“Oh?” Hermione asked curiously, watching his cheeks go splotchy with scarlet.

“You know how you told me to pursue the person I was interested in? I’ve been seeing him for about a month. You’ll probably get to meet him at my show opening.”

Hermione’s eyes were wide. She was delighted for Colin. She quickly swallowed her noodles. “Is that why you’ve been so busy?”

“Yeah. His name is Matthew and he works for the Owl Post. He’s a bit of a goof to be honest, but in a sweet, funny way. I, well… I know it’s early, but I really like him.”

“A sweet, funny goof sounds perfect for you,” she said. He deserved someone nothing like her. Someone easygoing, uplifting, who would love him dearly and never drag him down with their moods. “I hope I get to meet him at your show.”

“I hope Severus comes around,” said Colin.

Hermione shrugged. “You might be waiting forever on that one. In any case, feel free to invite him to look at your stuff or hang out whenever you like. I’m not his keeper, nor yours,” she said, then added with a grim smile, “Who knows, he might not want me, but maybe he’ll be up for a threesome.”

Colin coughed out a choked laugh. “Hard pass,” he said. He ate a few mouthfuls of Chinese food. “You can give me your opinion on the pieces too before you go though. Severus said he’s been having some good conversations with you.”

“I appreciate the pity offer, but no thank you,” she replied with a smile, not interested in contributing an opinion Colin clearly didn’t want. She decided she no longer wanted to think about Severus tonight, about what he thought of her or their conversations, or how she would never be like Colin when it came to people.

She changed the subject. “Tell me how you met Matthew.”

Severus had felt this way the first time he’d met Hermione in South Kensington, like it must be someone else’s body, someone else’s feet marching forward. He did not have friendly acquaintances. He did not have people who asked to see him when they weren’t required to. Now, apparently, he did, because here he was, walking to Notion Alley to give his opinion on the photographs for Creevey’s show.

There were feelings unlike the first time he met Hermione as well. More uncertainty, for starters, over whether he should even be going. He’d replayed portions of the dinner at Hermione’s over and over in his head since he’d received Colin’s letter, remembering Hermione crying on her sofa, convinced he and Creevey had some sort of deep connection. That thought made him want to turn around and Apparate home. But she’d also said she wanted him and Creevey to be friends, would probably blame herself if Severus rejected Colin’s offer, so here he was.

Hermione would be at work right now, not so far away. Just thinking about her sent a flurry of feelings through him, like a warm wind lifting and stirring his blood. Gods, what a mess he’d made of things, and he wasn’t convinced he wasn’t about to make another.

Turning down Notion Alley, he he found Creevey’s flat block without trouble. His heart flapped nervously as he climbed the stairs and knocked on his door.

“Severus, thanks for coming,” said the wizard, waving him in.

Severus dipped his head in acknowledgement. Creevey’s flat was smaller than he expected, even more so for all the framed photographs resting everywhere, but it still managed to be bright and airy thanks to its high ceilings and tall windows. He accepted Creevey’s offer of tea, and was surprised when he indicated they should sit together on his sofa instead of getting straight to the point of his visit. Crossing his legs at the knee, he fixed his robes and kept his expression neutral.

“How are you?”

“As well as I can be,” Severus replied with a frown. He despised small talk. It wasn’t as if anyone actually cared about how others were. Before Creevey could start making comments about the weather, he said, “You look like you’ve been busy. It appears to be quite a large show.”

“I’ve got too many, even with most of a gallery to fill,” said Creevey with a lopsided smile. “That’s why I wanted your opinion.”

“I’m not sure my opinion is worth much these days, but you’re welcome to have it,” he replied, and took a sip of his tea.

“There’s no need to be modest.”

“Do not mistake honesty for modesty,” he replied sharply.

Creevey chuckled and took a long swallow of his drink before setting it on the coffee table. “I forgot how bloody intimidating you can be,” he said with another laugh, making Severus raise a brow. “What have you been getting up to since I saw you last?”

Creevey was pleasant enough, despite the odd bouts of small talk, and as he relaxed slightly into conversation, he found himself imagining himself a decade ago, sitting with Narcissa and Lucius in their manor’s sitting room drinking tea. There were very few similarities beyond the fact their mouths sipped tea and ejected occasional words at each other; Creevey’s cups weren’t fine china, his entire flat was the size of the Malfoy’s smallest bathroom, Creevey was more than two decades younger, and they weren’t playing a subtle sparring match or talking politics. But it still felt a little familiar, all the same.

He still wished he was with Hermione instead.

After finishing their tea and conversation, Creevey invited him to look at the photographs he was attempting to choose between, which he’d laid on his dining table. They were all square, close-ups of body parts in motion: a hand stretching out briefly as if it reached for someone, only to fall out of frame empty; a single glimmering eye, a tear forming and falling over its lashes; a hand coming up to cover a naked breast as the torso twisted slowly away from the camera.

“Same model?” he asked, a finger tracing his bottom lip.

“No,” replied Colin. “The eye is mine. The other two are the same.”

“You can only choose one?” he asked. It seemed to him as though they were intended to be a triptych. At the very least, the two hands should be together, he thought.

“Yes, unless I get rid of others.”

Severus straightened, peering around at the leaning stacks of frames around the room. “It’s difficult to say without seeing the rest, unless you simply wish the most individually impactful.”

“I knew I invited you for a reason,” said Creevey. He waved his wand and the frames lined themselves up along the back wall in a neat row. “I should have done that before you got here.”

Severus moved to the first in line, a mid-sized frame, and wished it was on a wall for proper viewing. Instead he bent over to look at it better, while Creevey moved frames around and stared critically at his work.

The first image was shot as if he stared down a darkened hallway, striped wallpaper and dark mouldings barely lit with dim light. Another corridor veered off close to the viewer, only its lower corners visible. Around it came a woman cut off above her waist, walking towards him and then continuing out of frame. Over and over she came and went in an endless loop, bare feet striding evenly over the carpet. There was something deeply uncomfortable about the image, something that niggled at the back of his mind like scratching fingers.

He moved to the next photograph, which showed the partial silhouette of a woman against a brick wall, half cut off by a slashing shadow. The third was of a bed, the view nearly top down. Messy sheets tangled around a man’s waist and legs. It was cropped close, only his chin and jaw visible as he lay on his side. Slowly, he slid his hand into the empty space next to him, and then curled his fist into his own chest. Severus’s breath caught in his throat.

“Loneliness,” he said softly, aware of an ache that sang of painful recognition.

“I should have expected you to connect the dots,” said Creevey from across the room. He moved to Severus and paused at his side. They both watched a man bent over in the shower, one hand flat against the shining tiled wall, his nudity obscured by thick, curling steam, his face by shadow. The man was nearly completely still, only a small vibration in his tense muscles, and yet Severus found it difficult to tell whether he was sobbing or holding his cock. Perhaps he was doing both, he thought.

“It’s funny. I still like them all, but I feel a bit separate from them now too. Maybe that’s why I’m having a hard time choosing between them,” said Creevey, his head cocked to one side and his forearm folded across his stomach.

“Hermione,” Severus said, unwilling to voice the rest of his thoughts.

These images, they were all of grief and longing. There was a stillness in them all, like wreckage after a storm had blown through, and yet the feelings were as sharp and clear as cutting glass. He swallowed his own echoing emotions, which wanted to climb up his throat and burst free.

“Processing your breakup with your art is probably a bit cliche,” Creevey said with a short, embarrassed chuckle.

“I see nothing trite about your work,” said Severus, continuing down the row of images, only glancing at them now, wanting to save some contemplation and discussion for the show, when Hermione would be with them too.

“Thank you. That means a lot,” said Creevey.

Severus waved a dismissive hand and grunted.

When he reached the end of the row, it was plainly obvious which one should go. “That one,” he said, pointing at a huge frame with the portrait of a woman covered in shifting fabric. “It doesn’t belong with the rest. It’s beautiful, but the others are far more powerful as a body of work. Keep the three, make the hands a diptych, and remove this one.”

“I was worried you’d say that,” said Creevey. “The problem is, I’m pretty sure that’s the photo that got me the show.”

Severus shook his head. “Of course it is,” he muttered. The owners and curators at magical Britain’s only galleries had favoured the same sort of classical portraits and landscapes that were so commonplace as to be banal. Creevey’s portrait was probably considered avant-garde.

“You wanted my opinion on your pieces, and that is the only one I have to offer,” he said.

“Thank you. I’ll have to see what I can do.”

“Refusing to bring it is always an option. I doubt very much they’d cancel your show so close to opening.”

Severus looked at the out-of-place piece again, and its purpose in the series finally hit him. The woman was clear-eyed, her gaze at first determined before growing sad. She was beautiful, and yet Severus was sure that if he was able to reach for her through the glass, his fingers would never be able to touch her through the obscuring fabric.

“Does Hermione know this is meant to represent her?” he asked, and in his periphery, Colin started. Then he shook his head.

“No. She’s seen it, but I don’t think she realized.”

Severus’s heart beat hard, once again overcome by seeing its image captured. Creevey had truly loved her, perhaps still did.

“You cannot show this with the rest,” Severus said sternly, even more sure of his opinion now. It wasn’t that he was jealous, or that he worried that Hermione might figure out that Creevey had made an effigy of her. “Your work is more impactful and relatable if the audience doesn’t know its subject.”

Creevey blinked at him, then nodded. The two men stared at each other. Severus automatically brought up his shields, but he thought that Creevey might have already seen the truth. Severus had recognized her after all, seen himself in the rest well enough to understand them too. His fingers flexed and he moved them behind his back.

He shouldn’t ask, given he barely knew the wizard and Hermione’s opinion was all that mattered. But Severus felt like he and Creevey might have some sort of understanding now, and given his feelings, he needed to know.

“Do you want her back?”

“Not anymore,” replied Creevey, running a hand through his hair. He grinned wryly. “As usual, in the end, she was right.”

Severus snorted at that. A smile lifted one side of Creevey’s mouth higher than the other, dimpling his cheek.

“Do you want to see some of the stuff I’ve been working on recently? It’s in my dark room.”

Severus nodded. “Lead on,” he said.

Chapter Text

Derby & Drake was at the opposite end of Diagon Alley from The Leaky Cauldron, the end you didn’t go to unless you had plenty of galleons in the vault. Hermione’s heels clicked against the even cobblestones, while Severus stalked beside her, silent and far too handsome in fitted dark navy robes and a wide belt that accentuated his narrow waist. Except to visit Parvati’s shop, Hermione had always avoided this part of Diagon Alley, finding most of its offerings pretentious, overpriced, or impractical. As they passed her ex-friend’s business, she kept her eyes on Severus, refusing to turn her head towards it. A little ways on, between an antique dealer and a French restaurant, was the gallery. Its lights spilled out onto the street from inside, witches and wizards milling about and visible beyond the square windows.

“Wow,” she exclaimed at the sight of the crowd, and then her feet stopped dead as she spotted a familiar elegant face and short black hair at the front of the line, next to an equally-stylish wizard.

Severus paused two steps ahead of her, turning back, his grumpy wrinkle at full effect.

“Shall we join the line?” he asked.

“In a minute,” she replied, closing the distance between them. Logically, she’d known that she’d inevitably end up in the same place as one of her ex-friends, but she couldn’t help but wish it hadn’t been tonight. She was already probably going to have to face Colin’s family, whom she hadn’t seen since they’d split.

“Are you worried about Miss Patil?”

“Not about her so much as how I might react to her.”

Severus glanced back at the crowded building. “It’s been many years since I attended a magical event, and most likely no one will be glad to see me.”

Hermione let out a long breath. It helped, somehow, knowing he was apprehensive too. Special that he’d admitted it, even if it was communicated in between the words he’d spoken. She hadn’t touched him since their visit to the Tate Modern, but found herself tentatively reaching for his hand again, brushing her fingertips over his in invitation, needing an anchor and thinking he might too.

He scowled as his eyes searched her hopeful face, the furrow between his brows becoming a canyon.

“Sorry,” she said, drawing her hand away, but before she could wind them back around her bag strap, he twined his long fingers with hers.

His mouth was folded into a grimace, his eyes impenetrable black stone, but between them, his grip was solid, and Hermione was unable to stop her heart from swelling.

“Shall we?” she asked to distract herself from the urge to close the gap between their bodies.

He nodded, and so she gently tugged his hand to join the small queue. Inside, witches and wizards milled around in fancy dress with glasses of wine and champagne. The walls were all plain and white, and an L-shaped wall up the middle of the room blocked her view of the back. Colin’s photographs hung proudly in their frames in every direction.

Following the end of the war, Hermione had attended several large formal events: balls, galas, memorials, parties, and more. At the beginning, she’d been sought out, pulled into conversations, offered drinks. She’d never understood why she was famous exactly, but some of the people had ended up interesting and she’d thought it would help her ministry career. After such events, Ron and Harry would often talk about invites to dates, dinner, and business meetings, but Hermione never seemed to get as many, and the ones she did were often from people who made her uneasy. She frowned, trying to recall the last event she’d been invited to. Had it been two years ago? Three? Before Harry had drifted away and hidden himself behind the walls of Hogwarts.

Severus’s fingers squeezed around her own. “Fuck them all, remember?” he murmured, quiet enough so only she would hear.

A questioning eyebrow made her chuckle, the humour shaking away some of the nervousness and filling her with warmth instead. When they stepped forward, following the group in front of them, she held his hand a little tighter.

“I’m so glad for Colin that it’s busy,” she said. They were nearly at the front now. “He deserves the recognition. He’s been working hard for so long.”

“He’ll need to make some sales tonight.”

“I hate that it all comes down to money,” she huffed.

“And ego, if you are to be believed,” he replied with another amused quirk of his mouth.

“True,” she said with a grin, pleased that he’d remembered their conversation from their first visit to the V&A. They’d revisited the topic at the Tate Modern when faced with Duchamp’s famous autographed urinal, and not come any closer to an agreement.

“Names?” asked the doorman, peering up from his clipboard as they stepped forward and then jerking in surprise.

“Hermione Granger and Severus Snape.”

“I… uh… am not sure I have you on the list.”

“I suggest you look again,” said Severus in an insistent, low tone. “We were both invited by Mister Creevey.”

The man flushed and his lips thinned, but he dropped his head to the paper, and then finally waved them in.

“Thank you,” Hermione said as sweetly as she could as they passed, a brief panic filling her belly as Severus’s hand pulled from hers once they were through the door.

“That man doesn’t deserve your thanks,” muttered Severus.

“I didn’t really mean it,” she replied with a smile. “Should we get a drink? I’m not sure how easy it’ll be to find Colin in here.”

“I suspect the gallery’s curator will be shopping him around to the richest guests.”

Hermione kept her eyes open for Colin as they wound their way to the bar at the back, but couldn’t see him through the sea of bodies. There were other people she recognized: several higher-ups at the ministry, the editor of The Daily Prophet, two members of the Wizengamot. Near the back, she spotted a small group of stylish youth, and recognized Blaise Zabini. There, standing next to him was Parvati, smiling and holding a glass of champagne. Hermione moved closer to Severus and kept her eyes ahead until they reached the bar.

“Who let the riffraff in?” someone nearby muttered as they joined the end of the queue, but she couldn’t tell whom.

She watched him snarl at someone who bumped his shoulder, and couldn’t help but smile. Fuck them, she thought.

“I am feeling doubly glad there’s a bar,” Hermione said, both Severus and the wizard in front of her turning at her voice.

“Dennis, hello!” she greeted Colin’s younger brother, who was now staring at her with wide eyes. He and Colin shared mousy hair and dimples, but overall Dennis looked more like his mother, square-faced with a slender nose, whereas Colin took after his dad, shorter and with rounder features. “I didn’t recognize you. Hello, Claire,” she added, acknowledging his fine-featured fiance, who she’d only ever met twice.

Dennis’s forced smile made the warm one she wore falter. “Hi, Hermione.”

“It’s lovely to see you both. Congratulations on the engagement.”

Claire took a small step away from her and tucked herself protectively into Dennis’s side. “Thank you,” she said, voice nearly lost in the din of the crowd.

“You both remember Severus Snape.”

“Of course,” said Dennis, shifting on his feet.

“Pleasure,” Severus said acidly.

“The turnout’s great. I’m really happy for Colin,” said Hermione, not sure why she was trying to be friendly, except the line wasn’t moving and maybe, just maybe, she could convince them that she wasn’t a horrible person. “How are you? Still working at St. Mungo’s?”

“I am, yeah. Good. No need to ask what you’re up—ow!” He was cut off by Claire elbowing him in the side. She flashed a mannequin’s smile. Dennis gave a short chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Were you going to say something, Mister Creevey?” Severus asked dangerously.

His face went pale as he shook his head. By some miracle, the line moved forward, and the couple used the opportunity to scurry ahead and start talking about what drinks they wanted to order.

“It’s okay,” Hermione said, because the middle of Colin’s first magical gallery show was not the place to demand his brother explain why she deserved such coldness when Colin had forgiven her—or did he still hold resentment, and simply hadn’t told her because he knew it would hurt?

“I find myself reminded of an unfortunate incident several years ago where a student decided to steal some Swelling Solution from one of his lessons and had to spend a week in the infirmary having his bollocks returned to normal size,” said Severus smoothly, scowling at the couple’s backs. “I do often wonder if there weren’t permanent side-effects.”

Hermione put a hand over her mouth to stop her laughter from overflowing as she watched Dennis’s ears turn burgundy. Claire glared over her shoulder, only to retreat when Severus raised an imperious brow.

“Now I know why you called your students dunderheads so often,” Hermione said, still chuckling softly.

Severus gave a thoughtful hum in response, a corner of his lip turning upward, and before she could question it, she reached for his hand and gave it a quick squeeze in gratitude before they stepped forward, finally at the front of the line.

As they waited for the bartender to fill tall flutes with champagne, she felt the ghost of his touch against her knuckles, the back of his index finger whispering across knobbles of bone, making her breath hitch. She glanced up at him, but he was staring at the bartender, a deep furrow still between his brows.

Once they had their drinks, they weaved through more people to Colin’s photographs. The black and white image they selected first showed an empty corner of a sofa, out-of-focus curtains barely waving inward from an open window behind. She recognized Colin’s flat immediately, the furniture arrangement from before he’d redecorated. She’d loved to sit in that corner of the sofa, could practically feel the breeze and sun on her skin. The next was of the flat too: the dining table, the angle low so it felt as if Colin was sitting in the chair with the camera. A lone plate sat in front with beans on toast, a tea cup was to its right, steam rising, and she found her eye drawn to the empty chair opposite. She frowned slightly, feeling a discomfort in the stillness of the image. The next photo gave her a similar feeling.

“I’d only seen a couple before, but Gods, these are really good, aren’t they? They’re making me feel things and I don’t even know why,” she commented. “Why should I feel sad over beans on toast?”

Severus’s chuckle was a deep rumble next to her. “I will allow you to draw your own conclusions,” he said with a teasing glint to his dark eyes. “I admit, I was moved by them the first time I saw them. They are holding up on a second viewing so far.”

He’d seen them? Of course, Colin had wanted his opinion. She hadn’t realized it was for the whole collection, hadn’t known he had followed through. Neither of them had mentioned it until now. She let Severus lead her down the line of images, trying to focus on the photographs, on their conversation. It shouldn’t matter. Didn’t matter. They were their own people. They could do what they pleased without having to tell her. It didn’t mean they weren’t still her friends. So why did it make her feel like this, like the world might drop any moment from under her feet?

“Hermione! Snape!” came a familiar voice, and she turned to find Colin moving through the crowd towards them.

Colin wrapped her in a hug, and she squeezed him tight, trying to let it ground her. “This is amazing. I’m so happy for you,” she told him, pushing the anxious feelings that remained behind a smile.

“This is Matthew,” said Colin, his cheeks slightly pink, stepping back to reveal a handsome wizard in emerald-coloured robes set off by his rich umber skin.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand.

“I feel like I know you already, Colin talks about you so much,” gushed the wizard, his dark eyes squinting with his broad smile.

Hermione shot Colin a startled look. “What on earth did you say?”

“Only good things! I promise!” interjected Matthew. His laugh was clear and infectious, and Hermione responded with a genuine smile. “I hear you are a Seers of Knaresborough mastermind,” he said, referring to a popular wizarding boardgame.

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Hermione replied, her cheeks going rosy.

“You never lose a game, even when you start with a terrible hand,” Colin pointed out. “Do you not remember the time you pulled the false oracle twice and still won?”

She did remember that. She had crowed with victory and the rest of the table had looked incredibly put out.

“You play board games?” Severus asked softly beside her.

“Yeah, we used to play with Colin’s friends all the time.”

“They’re your friends too.”

“Which is why they only talked to me when you were around and I haven’t heard a peep from anyone since we split up,” retorted Hermione, ignoring the twisting feeling in her gut. She shrugged. “It’s fine.”

Colin frowned. Wanting to change the subject, she asked Matthew about working at the owl post office, and they fell into pleasant conversation. Next to them, Severus and Colin did the same, talking about Colin’s sales and his struggle over a piece he’d left at home on Severus’s advice. She would have felt jealous, except the backs of Severus’s fingers whispered over hers while Colin was speaking. She knew it was likely only meant to be comfort, but she moved closer anyway, heart thudding, responding with a caress of his elegant thumb, then the backs of her fingers on his wrist. It was difficult to concentrate on Matthew’s story about the post office’s owls making the Muggle news because someone decided to mail a friend 146 singing stones individually as a prank. She caught enough of it to laugh, but most of her pleasure was because of Severus‘s fingertips seeking her out like mosquitos searching for blood. Along the back of her forearm, down the small pad of flesh below her pinky his fingers went, driving her pulse rushing through her.

“I really don’t want to go, but I’m supposed to network, mingle. You know, try to actually make money off my supposed career,” said Colin eventually. “Catch up with you later?”

“See you!” said Matthew. Hermione smiled after them, happy for Colin.

“Shall we continue?” Severus asked, and she risked looking at him, finding his usually stoic expression.

She let out a shaking breath. What she wanted to continue was him touching her. But she had his attention, so she hummed in agreement.

They circled the room until they’d seen all Colin’s work, and then Severus led her to a section of wall beyond the frames, which was a little more secluded from the crowd. It felt a little like a finger hooked itself under her breastbone and tugged her gently towards him, and she didn’t resist. They stood close enough she could feel his body heat, her shoulder leaning against the wall as she peered up at his dark, searching eyes.

“I’m having a good time,” she said, the air escaping her lungs feeling unusually light.

“It would be better without all the other people here,” Severus said with a smirk.

“True. I’d much rather be alone with you,” Hermione agreed. Tentatively she took a step forward, so the length of their arms touched and the backs of their hands knocked together. When he didn’t protest, she moved another inch closer and laced her hand into his, confused when he scowled but didn’t pull away.

“Is this okay?”

She watched his throat flex as he swallowed. “As long as it is okay for you,” he said roughly.

She wanted to lift onto her toes, fist the front of his robes, and kiss him to prove just how okay it was. “It’s very okay. The okayest,” she replied, her voice embarrassingly breathy.

“I’m not sure that’s a word,” Severus said gruffly. She laughed softly, feeling her cheeks growing hot.

He twisted his mouth. “Hermione, I don’t…”

All Hermione could think about was how badly she wanted to kiss him.

“You don’t what?”

He shook his head, long hair fluttering against his cheeks, where the muscles of his jaw tensed. His fingers twitched against hers, and she smiled.

“In a world where you get your art gallery, would it look like this?” she asked, attempting to give him some reprieve and to distract herself from her desire.

“I’m not sure that world exists,” he said with a frown.

“Hypothetically,” she encouraged him. “Don’t tell me you haven’t imagined it.”

“There’d be some similarities, in that there would be walls and art,” he said, and she felt him relax where they touched. She shifted as his eyes went unfocused, like he was looking at mental blueprints. “I’d like a slightly larger space, so I had more flexibility and the ability to show bigger pieces. Perhaps a second room for installations. Bigger windows for displays for people on the street and natural light in the daytime. I’d change the colour of the walls depending on the pieces.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Hermione said, wanting it for him. “Would you open it in Knockturn?”

“I’m not sure I’d ever get the audience I need there.”

“I suppose a gallery is probably best off not hiding in the dark.”

His lips twitched upward. “Is that what you’re doing there?” he asked with a teasing smirk.

“I’m doing a very bad job at it if I am,” she answered with a breathy laugh. “Hence all the silliness with the Prophet and why that wizard over there is totally imagining getting under my knickers.”

Severus followed her gaze and glared at the man, teeth pulled back in a snarl. The wizard, an older fellow in a suit, swiftly returned his attention to the group he was with.

“Seeing you torment people gives me endless entertainment,” she said with a chuckle.

“You must be constantly amused then.”

She laughed. “I am.”

She felt the tug again, the want inside her growing, urging her to flatten herself against his wiry body and slide her hands into his fine hair. He overtook her awareness, until it felt like there was only the heat of him against her, his piercing black gaze, her own rapidly beating heart.

“Do you have a favourite piece?” he asked. Hermione blinked, suddenly aware of the gallery again. Her eyes skittered around the room, surprised to find it just as full. She tried to remember a single photograph she’d seen.

“It’s hard to choose.” She felt overhot, like her brain had just spent ten minutes spinning through the Floo before landing where she stood.

“I need to use the loo,” she said, feeling like if she didn’t get a little space, she was at risk of falling into Severus or doing something incredibly stupid again. “Can I get you another drink on my way back? You can look around if you want.”

“I’ll stay here,” he said, a slight frown on his face.

Before she could question the urge, Hermione lifted herself swiftly onto her toes and brushed her lips along the shallow line next to his mouth.

“I will be back,” she insisted to his wide eyes, and then with flaming cheeks, she slipped into the crowd.

Her heart skipping rapidly, she made her way to the rear of the gallery, where a short hall led to the loo at the end. Just like the rest of the evening, there was a queue, so she joined it and leaned against the wall, putting her fingers to her lips. Merlin, what an idiot she was. What a silly thing to do, when the entire reason for her going to the loo was to avoid pushing him past his comfort zone.

But it was impossible to ignore his gentle touches, how his muscles fluttered against her skin when she moved closer, the intensity of his gaze, which never seemed to waver. Still, that didn’t mean he wanted to kiss her in a public place where neither of them felt entirely welcome. It didn’t mean he wanted to kiss her at all. After another mental loop of reflection, every action felt entirely platonic, like a friend trying to help her feel better from being faced with painful reminders of people from her past and a bunch of strangers who believed her a degenerate.

Sighing, she lifted her head an inch and let it thud back against the wall. She couldn’t believe she’d kissed his cheek. Would he be there still when she returned? Inching along with the slowly shrinking line, she grew increasingly worried that when she returned, he’d have scarpered. She wrapped her arms around her middle. Gods, but it felt so good to have him close, to touch him…

Movement caught Hermione’s eye, and when her eyes focused, it was to see a strange wizard standing against the opposing wall. He was tall, with a square jaw and a lumpy midsection. What unnerved her was how he stared right at her, eyes roving up and down her body. He wasn’t the liquor store clerk, but he gave her the same feeling, like he had already undressed her and was playing with her like a doll in his mind. She forced her gaze on the back of the head of the woman in front of her and hoped he’d go away. The line really needed to hurry up. She moved one place forward, and in her peripheral vision, the man did too.

She was two back from the door when he stepped next to her. “Hey, are you Hermione Granger?” he asked, but before she could reply, he said, “You are, aren’t you? I’d recognize you anywhere after those ads.”

“Can I help you?” Hermione asked through gritted teeth.

“You sure can,” he said, sliding closer.

Hermione stepped sideways, narrowly avoiding his arm trying to curl around her hips, bumping into the witch in front of her in the process. “Sorry,” she said, pulling her handbag forward. “I think you misunderstood me,” she said to the wizard.

“You look good in that dress,” he said, ignoring her. She wore a scoop-neck black dress and tights, which she’d thought had been elegant when she’d put them on. She’d wanted to look like she belonged, just another member of the crowd.

“Please leave me be,” she said, heart now thrumming rapidly. She wished she was at work where there was a charm and all she had to say was a few words to make him disappear. Instead she unclasped the flap on her handbag as surreptitiously as she could, slipped her hand inside, and curled it around her wand.

“Ah, come on, you don’t need to play hard to get,” he said, putting an arm around her waist. “I just want a quickie. Then I’ll get you a drink. How much, by the way?”

Hermione felt her stomach drop out of her body. “I’m not working right now,” she ground out, repelling another grab for her with her elbow.

“I wouldn’t have approached you if you were in the middle of fucking another bloke.”

When he tried to push into her a third time, she drew her wand. “Get the fuck away from me unless you want to be cockless,” she growled.

“Bloody hell. You on the rag or something?”

None of the people around her said a thing, just stared, looking annoyed or setting their eyes to the ceiling as if it had suddenly transformed into another piece of art. She glanced at the woman in front of her in line, who quickly turned and dropped her eyes.

“I’m trying to enjoy my evening without being sexually harassed,” she hissed.

“It’s your fucking job,” the man insisted loudly.

“Not right now it isn’t! This is an art gallery for Merlin’s sake!”

She heard rapid footsteps, and a grey-haired wizard in formal robes marched down the hall toward them.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded, staring at her and her raised wand.

“She’s being a problem,” spat the randy wizard.

“Excuse me? You’re the one who thought it was appropriate to proposition me in a gallery,” Hermione retorted hotly. “All I did was tell you no!”

“This is a reputable business,” said the man who she assumed must be the gallery owner. “We sell art, not bodies.”

“That’s what I told him,” said Hermione defensively. She put away her wand.

“I’m afraid I’m going to need you both to go.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “Excuse me? What did I do? I was just trying to go to the loo.”

The owner puffed out his chest and looked down his nose at her. “People believing you’re selling… services… it’s not the look I want to give my clients. We’re an upper-class gallery.”

Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. “Anyone who believes I would do that here is an idiot or a creep. All I did was stand in line,” she said, voice shaking.

“You clearly offered me a go before changing your mind,” said the prick who’d started this mess.

“I did not!”

“Enough! Both of you need to be outside, preferably far away from my business,” snapped the owner.

“You should have just let me shag you,” said the creep.

“You shut the fuck up!” Hermione shouted at him, then turned back to the owner. “My friend Colin, the photographer, invited me. I have a right to be here.”

“I’m sure you can see him another time.”

“I want to see him now,” Hermione replied sharply. “I didn’t do anything to harm your business except exist!”

“You will need to exist somewhere else. You have three minutes before I call the patrol.”

“Just go, Hermione. You’re only embarrassing yourself,” said a familiar voice. Turning towards it, she found Parvati, looking as perfect and haughty as ever, standing in line four people back, where she would have seen and heard everything.

It took every ounce of will to compress her emotions into a tight ball in her throat instead of allowing them to escape. She wanted to hex all of them, but couldn’t without making problems for Colin, so there was nothing to do but follow the owner out. He motioned for them to move, and she slipped behind the creepy stranger, not wanting him at her back.

She thought of Severus, waiting for her, believing she left when she didn’t come back. She spun, stopping, the owner nearly running into her.

“Please, I just need to tell my friend that I’m going,” she pleaded, “and I need to get my coat.”

The owner huffed. “I will get your coat and tell Mister Creevey of your whereabouts after you are outside.”

“I meant the friend I came with. Please.”

The wizard grabbed her shoulder and shoved her forward. “I said get out.”

Chapter Text

He could still feel Hermione’s lips against his cheek, the spot tingling as if her lipstick contained Pepperup Potion. His fingers flexed, itching without her touch. She liked touching him, liked holding his hand, liked sharing gentle caresses of their fingers. She was comforted by them, a squeeze of his hand or the brush of a fingertip enough to shift the hurt, dejected look in her eyes to a smile—the surprising rush he’d gotten with that discovery. Those things shouldn’t be true, but they were, as real as the kiss she’d placed to the side of his mouth and the intent look in her eyes.

It made him want to explore what other reactions he might get from her with his hands, and that thought made him want to lock himself up in his flat. Once she returned, he would suggest they leave, and then he would find a way to wrest back his self-control, which was feeling ever-weaker in her intoxicating presence.

Arms crossed over his chest, he searched the crowd for her telltale curls. He wasn’t familiar with time it took witches to go to the loo, but it seemed to him she was taking a long time. Perhaps it was normal. Perhaps she’d realized what sort of wizard he was and was full of regret.

The possibility of her abandoning him at the gallery was circling his mind when he heard the clear sound of a woman’s raised voice. He straightened immediately, peering around at the approximately 205 bodies, two exits, and, yes, there was something going on near the back, though no one else seemed to notice. Another shout had him stalking through the crowd, sharp glares creating a path towards the commotion. He was halfway there when he heard Hermione’s voice clearly, his stomach lurching. She was in trouble.

The curator had his hand on her and was shoving her forward. A wizard with a red face and flashing eyes stalked ahead of them. Hermione appeared wild, her body taut and her face a mask of rage and shame.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Hermione growled, pulling away from the older wizard. Severus charged toward her.

“Severus!” she gasped with relief when she saw him. Without thinking, he tucked her protectively against his side. The curator didn’t look pleased to see him.

“What is happening?” he asked, trying to keep his voice smooth.

“He’s kicking me out for being harassed by a creep,” Hermione explained shakily.

“You’re her friend?” the curator asked haughtily.

“Yes,” Severus answered in a deadly tone. “Do you regularly remove your customers for other people’s poor behaviour?”

The wizard straightened, his mustache twitching. The patrons nearby had turned toward them, curious about the drama, but Severus no longer cared. Fuck them.

“You two aren’t my customers,” said the curator.

“Maybe we would be if you weren’t such a pompous, prejudiced arsehole,” Hermione hissed by his side, making Severus smirk. Her hand was fisted into the back of his robes, holding him tight.

“What’s going on?” Creevey shoved through the crowd, Matthew behind him, giving Hermione and Severus a worried glance.

“Colin, I swear I didn’t do anything,” Hermione said quickly.

“I’ve asked them both to leave. They aren’t welcome here any longer,” said the curator stiffly.

Severus knew the man wouldn’t budge. It was always like this. Hermione had been publicly disgraced and he was persona non grata. It didn’t matter what the truth was or if they had Creevey’s support.

“Next time you make invitations, I suggest excluding Knockturn degenerates,” the curator told Creevey.

“We aren’t degenerates!” Hermione shouted.

“That’s enough,” Severus said in the voice he used to use to halt classes in their tracks. It still worked, making everyone in their immediate vicinity stop and face him. He smiled at Creevey. “It was a wonderful show. It’s only too bad it was not at a better venue.”

Hermione shaking next to him, he turned them toward the door. “Come. Leave the fools to their own company,” he said quietly, and led her out the front, snarling at anyone who glanced their way.

“Our coats,” said Hermione as they got to the door. She turned back to the owner. “You said you’d get our coats.”

“Wait out there,” he answered, and then turned to the doorman. “Don’t let them back in.”

Outside, the early June air was cool compared to the hot, stuffy gallery. The wizard who’d been with Hermione and the owner loitered outside, and Severus smirked at the violent glare Hermione shot him.

“I’m sorry,” she said to him softly, still gripping his robes.

“Do not trouble yourself.”

They stood silently until the curator brought their coats and shoved them into their hands. Hermione leaned sharply away from the other wizard who came up beside them to get his. Then the door was shut, and their night was over.

Severus saw it coming before the wizard opened his mouth.

“Fucking whore, you had to make a fuss. You could have said you already had a john,” he spat, now in a light cloak. He choked a moment later as Severus pressed the tip of his wand into his throat. Hermione’s appeared next to his, pushing into the man’s chest.

“Call her that again and you will see how I earned my reputation first hand,” he said darkly, and the wizard’s eyes went wide.

“You’re the fucking whore here!” Hermione shouted.

“Get the fuck away from me, you freaks,” hissed the man stupidly.

Before Severus could react, he felt the flash of violent magic beside him, and then blood poured from the wizard’s nose. The man lurched back with a shriek.

“Severus is my friend and I had every fucking right to be in there and treated with fucking respect! All you had to do was keep it in your pants and leave me be!” Hermione roared, pressing forward, wand still outstretched. Her hair frizzed around her head with static. “You fucking wanker! If I ever see you in the brothel, if you ever come near me again, I will make you wish I removed your cock.”

“I think this is the point when you leave,” Severus said smoothly, tipping his wand away.

Thankfully, the man made the wise decision to listen. Grunting and clutching his bloody nose, he took a few stumbling steps backward and Disapparated. As soon as he was gone, Severus put his wand away and turned back to Hermione. She met his gaze, wide amber eyes shining with fury and despair.

“I was just waiting for the loo,” she explained desperately. “I didn’t do anything, I swear.”

Rage bubbled in him at her pain. He took her hand in his. “I know you didn’t. Come.”

He led her up the street, feeling her body vibrate as she gripped him like a vice.

“I… I think I need to sit down,” she said after a hundred metres.

Severus led her to the steps of a closed shop, where she flopped down gracelessly and listed forward, elbows on her knees. She hadn’t put her wand away, it hanging in a loose fist. Gently, he prised it from her and sat down.

“Where do you keep your wand?”

“Bag,” she said absently, and so he carefully tugged her handbag from her shoulder and slipped her wand safely inside.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, leaning into him. He curled a protective arm around her shoulders, the action so automatic he didn’t have time to question it. Her body was a warm ember in his side, and yet the thrill he felt earlier at her touch was gone. If only there was something, anything more he could do beyond sit and hold her on a dark stoop. Memories of dinner at her flat, of sitting on her sofa while she cried floated through his mind.

“Do you think I made a mistake switching jobs?” she asked morosely.

Severus took a long breath. “My opinion is unimportant. Do you?”

“No, but more and more, yes. I enjoy my work now, but… I don’t know if I can handle dealing with this rubbish constantly. I don’t understand why it’s the only thing people can see, but it’s not like I can take it back either.”

“Most humans are not rational creatures. They see a choice they have been told is wrong, that they don’t understand and don’t feel like they could choose in your position, and instead of thinking, they lash out.”

“Sometimes I think they must be right. Sometimes I… I don’t know who I am or what I want anymore.”

Severus gripped her tighter, aching at how unsure she sounded. “You are you and can be whomever you like.”

“What if I don’t know whom I want to be? What if I want to be the wrong thing?”

“Hermione,” he said with gentle admonishment. He knew exactly how she felt: the uncertainty, the impotence of seeing a world where there didn’t seem to be a slot for you to fit. But he could not bear hearing her say it. “Anyone who believes you are wrong is not worth your consideration.”

“I know, I know… Fuck them.” She laughed humourlessly. “I keep trying to convince myself I don’t care, but I don’t know if I can be alone like that, though sometimes I think I’m meant to be.”

She peered up at him with a melancholy smile. He wanted to say You will never be alone as long as I am here, but he could already feel himself falling into her, needed something solid to hold him back from revealing too much, going too far, so instead he said, “That was quite the nose bleed hex you cast.”

“The best part is when he tries to stop it, he’ll start bleeding places much worse,” she said with a devious quirk of her mouth.

He chuckled softly. “You’re vicious.”

“We make a good pair,” she said with a small smile.

“I suppose we do,” he agreed.

He startled when she lifted a fingertip and pressed it between his brows, traced it over an arched peak and down his cheek. It sent tingles across his skin, down into the aching spot inside him as it moved slowly across his stubbled jaw. He couldn’t help his eyelids falling shut, from leaning into her touch. Eyebrows curling inward, he knew he needed to pull away, to stop this.

“I really don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said softly.

Eyes flashing open, he found Hermione closer than before, staring at him with wide pupils and irises swirling like liquid honey. Maybe if they hadn’t spent half the evening touching, if they hadn’t been drinking champagne, or if he hadn’t just watched her cuss out and hex a wizard like a violent goddess, he might have been able to control himself. But they had, he had, she had, and her fingers felt like hot sparks across his skin, and he really had no idea what he would do without her either, and so there were no thoughts in his head, only the urge that pushed him forward.

He kissed her.

The moment his lips touched hers, he realized what he’d done, but then she responded, her lips parting and pushing into his. When her fingers carded into his hair and dragged over his scalp, he could not help a soft groan. His hand skirted up her side, pulled her closer as his nose bumped against her cheek, trying to find the best way to meet her mouth. There were so many overwhelming sensations—her lips, her hands, her breasts pressing into his arm, and, oh Merlin, her tongue snaking into his mouth and she tasted like wine—and it was wonderful and too much and everything shot heat into his cock. It was too, she was too… he did not deserve it… he had to…

He wrenched himself away, breathing hard.

“That was—”

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, his brain suddenly functional and chastising him for once again losing control and taking advantage when she needed comforting.

The fingers of one hand were still resting at the nape of his neck, and she shifted them, sending more tantalizing tingles through his skin. “I’d really rather you weren’t,” she replied with a soft smile, stilling his impulse to flee. “I’m not.”

Releasing his head, her fingers drew along the tense line of his jaw and then she leaned into his side again. A warm hand enveloped his and rested it over her knee. He did his best to settle his breath, imagined a dark ocean, clear and quiet, a counterpoint to his body, which was the lashing, stormy surface, she the wind.

When he’d steadied his mind, he straightened beside her, cursing his inability to let go of her hand. Motion toward the gallery caught his attention, and he watched two silhouettes move into the street. They appeared to be talking, and then the taller one pointed straight at him. Squinting, he kept himself ready as they marched at a near run towards them. He let out a breath when he recognized Colin and his beau.

“Hermione,” Severus called her softly, and he felt her stir at his side. He went to move his hand away only to find her grip solid and her weight immovable.

“Hermione!” Colin gasped as soon as he stopped in front of them. “I’m so sorry. You too, Snape. Are you okay?”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” replied Hermione. “I’ll be all right.”

“It was my show. I knew they were fucking arseholes,” Colin growled.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, and Matthew put an arm around him. “It wasn’t anyone here’s fault,” he said.

“I’m sorry it took us so long to leave,” Colin said angrily. “That is my last show with them.”

“No,” Hermione protested. “You’ve worked so hard. You deserve the recognition! What happened to me doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” insisted Colin. “He insulted you and kicked you out for no reason. He knew you were my guests. I don’t care if my photos are on his walls. I’ll find another way to succeed if the normal way means working with people like that.”

Severus decided in that moment that he very much liked Creevey.

“You keep talking like that and you’re going to make me randy,” Matthew said with a grin.

“Matthew,” Colin admonished him, his cheeks turning noticeably redder even in the lamplight.

Hermione snorted. She squeezed Severus’s hand, then much to his simultaneous relief and dismay, stood and let him go. Rising behind her, he brushed off his robes. Watching the two friends give each other a long squeeze, Colin with his chin resting on her shoulder, eyes closed, Severus wondered how one could find affection so easy. Matthew met his eyes and shared a smile.

When the two friends parted, Severus gave a slight smirk at Matthew’s surprise when he was hugged too. “It was lovely to meet you,” she said, drawing away quickly.

“You too,” said Matthew.

“We’ll do something soon,” said Colin, and then they all wished each other a final goodnight.

Severus watched the new couple grow smaller as they walked up the lane. Hermione returned to his side and slid her hand in his. He turned to find her smiling shyly. “Shall we go?” she asked, to which he nodded.

“Where would you like to go?”

Her eyes slid sideways and then back again. “Is your place an option?”

His lungs stuttered. The idea of her in his flat was overwhelming. Looking at his things with her assessing eyes, meeting Cinder, simply taking up space. He’d have memories of her on his sofa, perhaps in his kitchen. Once she was in his flat, it would never feel the same again. He would disappoint her, make her cry one too many times, and she would leave, and there would be no escaping the feeling of her.

“Would you not rather go home and sleep?”

“It’s not that late. I just thought… you’ve already been to mine.” She pressed herself against his front, her free hand sliding to his waist. Her eyes were dark honey again. “Maybe I want to see you in your natural habitat.”

His habitat, because he behaved like an animal.

“Maybe my habitat is private,” he snapped, putting distance between them. He wrenched his hand out of hers.

Smile falling, she shook her head. “Oh,” she said meekly, the sound laced with disappointment. “I’m sorry, I guess I presumed… I’m pushing you too fast… I’m sorry, I just…” She fumbled with her handbag. When she had her wand in her hand, a forced smile lifted her mouth, rejection still swimming in her eyes. “Maybe it would be best if I go home and sleep.”

There was a long pause where Severus was sure she was thinking about kissing him again, even though it made no sense at all; and Merlin, he wanted to kiss her back, didn’t want her to leave, but she was going now, having gotten the wrong idea again. His hands balled at his sides. He’d fucked up again. Of course he’d fucked up again.

“Thank you for being so wonderful tonight. Aside from the getting harassed and thrown out bit, I had a really good time,” Hermione said, drawing his attention back from his spiraling thoughts. “Goodnight then.”

Concern pinched her brows as silence stretched between them, Severus’s tongue feeling like a dead weight in his mouth. Before he could force it to work, he was staring at her back, listening to her heels clicking over the cobbles as she walked away, and all he could see was the worried, dejected expression on her face before she turned and—fucking fucking FUCK. He lunged forward as she began to twist.

“Stop!”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her as hard as he could, caught her when she stumbled and wrapped her in his arms.

“Severus! I could have splinched you!”

“You are exceptionally exasperating, witch,” he growled, irritated and feeling foolish. She could have splinched him. She’d turned him into a impulsive idiot.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes still wide.

“If you apologize for nothing one more time, I won’t hesitate to use a silencing spell,” he snapped. “We’ll go to mine, if that’s what you really want.”

Before she could reply, he whisked them away, and whatever happened next would be her fault.

Chapter Text

For the brief moment they hurtled through space, Hermione clung tightly to Severus. Then suddenly, raindrops were pattering onto tiles beneath her feet and dampening her hair. She breathed into Severus’s chest, smelling earth, pine, sweat, and something undeniably male and him. When she looked up he was scowling, the wrinkle between his eyebrows a deep fissure.

“You really don’t have to do this,” she said, heart skipping anxiously, still not letting him go.

“I do, apparently, if I don’t want you sulking at home believing I want rid of you."

Her cheeks flooded with heat. “I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“Enough.” He gave an irritated huff. “Come,” he said, letting her go and striding away.

They’d landed next to a glass conservatory attached to a small brick building. Tall vine-covered walls and trees surrounded most of the patio garden, except for where Severus had followed a path that led to what Hermione assumed was the front door. Beyond it, a driveway disappeared behind more trees and a towering brick house.

He was already inside when she stepped into the small foyer, where his coats hung on hooks on the wall and an umbrella leaned in one corner.

“My flat,” said Severus coldly, already out of his coat and shoes. “If you’d like to snoop around and judge me, by all means, feel free while I make tea."

Hermione stared at him as he disappeared around a corner. The wall to her right had two closed doors, but what caught her attention were the bookshelves on the wall opposite, which continued out of sight. She carefully hung her coat next to his, slipped off her heels, and stepped into his sitting room. His bookshelves were impressively large, stuffed to the brim with multicoloured tomes. As she took another step forward, a grey blur zoomed out of sight beneath the sofa. Cinder. He had a tall scratching post for her in the conservatory, which made Hermione smile. To her left, a small table sat near an open doorway through which she could hear Severus banging about. Much like her own breakfast table, the second chair belonged to a cat, not a person, a plushy bed on its seat. Art covered the wall behind it, picture frames and canvases carefully fit together like puzzle pieces. It warmed her, how perfectly Severus it all felt.

Her bladder announcing it had been thwarted in her quest to relieve it at the gallery, she went searching for the loo, finding it through the first door past the foyer. Using her wand to turn on the light rather than fumble for a switch, she was overwhelmed with his smell as she walked inside and shut the door. She breathed in deep as she moved to the toilet and shimmied down her tights. As far as bathrooms went, it was utterly average, a little dirty but not gross, the counter holding shaving soap and a Quick-Shave razor. The bar of soap by the sink was green, and when she lathered her hands after finishing with the loo, she smelled his familiar pine scent.

Quietly she moved into the kitchen. Severus’s tall form seemed to take up half the small room, so she paused by the door, a Muggle fridge buzzing next to her. He didn’t acknowledge her presence as he stalked around the small space flicking his wand with more vigour than necessary. The kettle was already on the lit stove, cups and teapot waiting on the countertop. She flinched as a cupboard flew open, a package of biscuits zoomed into his hand and crumpled, and then the cupboard door closed with a slam.

Anxiety settled solidly over Hermione’s chest. Despite his insistence when he’d Apparated her, Severus radiated displeasure. A plate shattered as it smacked into the countertop, then pieced itself together with a harsh twist of Severus’s wand.

“I can go.”

He shot her a sharp glare over his shoulder. “What did you plan to do here?” he asked, putting several chocolate digestives on the plate. She stepped deftly out of his way as he came to the fridge and took out a carton of milk without looking at her.

“I’m not here to snoop or judge you.”

He paused at the counter, back turned, his knuckles white around the edge of the countertop. Cautiously, she tiptoed towards him. When he didn’t move, she closed the gap and put a palm lightly against his lower back. His muscles fluttered under her touch, his robes soft and warm.

“I want to be closer to you, that’s all,” she said truthfully. “I wanted to sit on your couch, ideally with your arm around me or your hand in mine again, and to talk to you without an audience, and maybe have you kiss me again—or do a little more than that, if you were up for it.”

“You… why would you want that?”

She’d already admitted as much, so there was no point in lying. “Because I like you.”

“Don’t,” he said, voice rough and cold. “I shouldn’t have… Tonight was a mistake.”

She took a step back, the hand that had been touching him curling into her chest.

“Why bring me here if it was a mistake?”

“Because you were upset,” he said, still staring at the wall.

“Just because I’m upset doesn’t mean I expect you to do what I want. It’s not a manipulation tactic.”

Silence was his reply, the sound of heating water filling the small room, the lashing rain hitting the conservatory roof a background thrum. Well, she supposed he’d already made his feelings clear enough, so there was no need to elaborate. Hurt lodged itself in the pocket inside her that held all the evidence that she was made wrong, made inadequate, and that was why she was going to end up alone. Why else would he touch her, kiss her, just to announce that all the most wonderful parts of her evening were blunders?

“Right. I’m sorry for…” Being me, she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat where pressure was building, rising behind her nose and eyes. “Everything, I guess.”

She gave a sorrowful little laugh, felt herself harden, and turned.

“Hermione…”

The kettle screeched, ringing in her ears as she hurried back to the foyer. She put on her shoes and coat, pushing the solid aching lump in her chest down; she could cry when she got home. Securing her bag over her shoulder, she took out her wand, and then opened his door. It was pouring out now, the rain falling in buckets and filling her ears with a constant roar. She barely heard the kettle stop its screaming. She paused before deciding she didn’t care if she got wet, and stepped through the opening when she heard stomping feet behind her.

She turned on the stoop to find Severus standing at the end of the foyer, his face a pale, haunted mask, jaw twitching he held it so tight. Even now, her first thought was how beautiful he was, how badly she still wanted him.

“Stop,” he said, soft and pleading.

He took a step closer and paused, then another. Rain was already soaking through her light coat, droplets running from her hair over her forehead, down the crease between her breasts.

“What do you think will happen if we get closer?” Severus asked from just inside the door.

She blinked in surprise. “Well… I hoped you’d come to like me too, and then we’d do things that people who like each other do, like go on dates and fuck and generally spend more time enjoying each others’ company.”

“Like you?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

The words landed in her lungs, the resulting rupture so forceful that she stumbled backward on her heels.

“Is that really so hard to do?” she asked him, voice cracking, but she already knew the answer.

She focused on the safety of home, intending to Disapparate, but then Severus’s hands were circling her biceps. “Must you always assume I mean the worst possible thing?” he said harshly, then his voice smoothed again. “Come inside.”

“Why should I when you don’t want me here? When everything good tonight was apparently a mistake? You wouldn’t even look at me!”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, hidden by the rain. The weather had already soaked Severus’s thin hair, sticking it to his cheeks and around his ears. Water dripped off his large nose. His face spasmed, contorting it into different shapes like emotions were fighting each other under his skin.

“I am… I am not suitable for this,” he croaked finally.

“For what? I don’t understand,” Hermione said, the look of anguish on his face making her want to reach out to him, but she kept her hands by her side, tightening her fist around her wand. When he didn’t answer, she tried a more direct approach. “Why did you kiss me? Was it an experiment? Did I make you feel like you had to or I’d be upset? Were… were you trying to hurt me?”

“No!” he barked at the last question, eyes wide.

“Then why? Tell me, or I’m leaving.”

“I… wanted to,” he said, and then added quickly, “but I should not have.”

“Because you don’t feel that way about me?”

“My feelings are irrelevant,” he snapped.

“Your feelings are completely relevant! I’m trying to understand them, because I don’t know what I did to make you so angry with me.”

“I am not angry at you! I am angry at myself! I was meant to be comforting you!” he shouted through the roaring rain. His mouth snapped shut, the muscles in his jaw flexing. He met her gaze again, his expression stoic once more. “You should not like me. I am… I am not… I am not a good man. I will hurt you.”

“What do you think you’re doing right now?” she shouted at him, making his eyes go wide. “Do you think it makes me happy being kissed and making it pretty fucking clear I liked it and then being told I’m not welcome, that it was a mistake? Being told by my friend that he thinks no one can like me? I was happy having you hold my hand, and be on my side, and comfort me, and yes, fucking kiss me; and you went and undid all that, because what… you don’t think you’re worthy of me? Or have I proven myself so fucking pathetic and dejected that you think I can’t handle a relationship?”

“IT… IS NOT… ABOUT… YOU!” He heaved in front of her, eyes wild. He squeezed them shut. “It’s me… You make me feel like I’m going mad,” he moaned, pulling on his hair.

“Well, we have that in common,” she snapped. “You might be the most confusing, frustrating person I have ever met. Every time I go and think I understand what you’re feeling, you do something to make me think the opposite. It’s bloody infuriating. We could be shagging right now or having tea but instead we’re shouting at each other in the rain because… I still don’t even know why!”

It was fucking ludicrous that she was standing here soaked to the bone, shouting at the man she loved when he wanted her and just didn’t want to admit it.

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Hermione let out a frustrated growl. “I know enough! No, don’t interrupt! We were in a war and you were put in an impossible situation and did what you had to do for us to win. I know if you hadn’t things could be a whole lot worse right now,” she said vehemently. “We all made bad fucking choices for the greater good. Have you even bothered to consider what I did? Because I definitely hurt people. I probably killed people. I lied. I erased myself from my parents’ memories and sent them to Australia, and I will live with them hating me for it for the rest of my life because I don’t know what else I was supposed to do to keep the people I love safe. I’m a fucking bank robber, did you know that? I broke into Gringotts and destroyed a whole lot of it and stole a dragon because I had to in order for us to win. I broke into the ministry and stole from them too. In school, I gave someone permanent scarring because they tried to fuck with my friends, and unlike you, I don’t even regret most of it. I trapped—”

“Stop!” Severus shouted, interrupting her diatribe. He moved into her until she could feel his heat. His eyes had gone soft, intense in a way that made her listen. “Stop,” he said more gently.

She startled when his thumbs touched her cheeks, attempting futilely to dry her tear- and rain-soaked skin. “You are the most maddeningly stubborn person I have ever met.”

Hermione felt her entire face heat with blood. “Yes, well… you’re one to talk.”

He stared intently at her, eyes flicking between her eyes and her mouth, and her pulse sped at the open desire in his wide pupils, even though fear still swam in their shadows. His hands fell to her shoulders. “I want to keep you safe from me, but I don’t know how to resist you,” he murmured.

“I don’t want you to, on either account,” Hermione replied, unsure if she was breathing.

“All right,” he said, his tone weary, like he had finally given up after a long battle and was glad to see the end.

His head dipped forward, pausing a few inches away. Her wand clattered on the ground. As she slid her palms up to his shoulders, his lips fell against hers. It was gentler than the first time, a long press of his mouth, his lips slippery wet and tasting like the rain hammering in her ears. She reciprocated with an open-mouthed kiss, enjoying the way he trembled from her hands winding into his wet hair, the feeling of his arm wrapping around her waist and pulling their bodies flush as their kiss deepened.

“Come inside,” Severus said lowly when they finally pulled apart.

She let him tug her back into his house and close the door, turning the rain into a distant rumble. He dried them both with charms, stowed her wand, took her bag, peeled off her coat, and hung them next to his. She shivered as he bent onto a knee and a broad hand slid down her calf, making something inside her clench with need. But he only brought his hands to her foot and gently tugged off her shoe, and then repeated it with the other. When he was done, he stood, took her hand, and pulled her to the sofa.

“I’ll get the tea,” he said, still in the slightly sleepy, resigned voice from before their kiss.

Hermione curled her legs under her on the sofa, listening to the gentle clinking noises of Severus resuming his task, such a stark contrast to only fifteen minutes ago that it felt like she’d transported to a different planet. One where Severus kissed her and made her tea in his flat. Now that she wasn’t shouting or snogging him, nervousness leaked slowly back into body and her mind filled with doubts she didn’t want to believe: did he really want her? Would he change his mind? Had she accidentally manipulated him again by storming out into the rain?

When he emerged from the kitchen and hovered a teacup into her hands, her heart felt like it was tripping over her other organs. It helped when he sat next to her instead of the other side of the sofa. His lips were in a gentle frown and he seemed to be considering her. Hermione felt herself blush. She accepted one of the biscuits which had borne the brunt of his wrath earlier.

“You remembered how I take my tea,” she commented after taking a sip.

“It seemed a useful thing to know,” he said softly.

“Planning on making me tea lots, then?”

“Whenever you wish me to.”

It was such a typically noncommittal-yet-sweet Severus answer that she couldn’t help but chuckle. Carefully, she shifted her body into his side. She smiled, amused but pleased, when his arm twitched against her weight and then awkwardly curled around her shoulders, and she settled herself against him more firmly.

She spent most of her time these days fucking, kissing, cuddling, and massaging wizards, and yet sitting with Severus’s arm around her on his sofa made her heart race in ways work never did. Would he come to mind that intimacy was her job, even though it was so different for her?

They sat in comfortable silence, sipping their tea, Hermione’s urge to kiss him growing as his body heat seeped under her skin. She still had tea in her cup when she set it down and pried his own cup from his fingers, earning a raised brow. Returning to her seat facing him, she pressed her lips into his again, a gasp puffing against her skin. God, she wanted this man, was already filled with shaking, eager desire. Her fingers pressed into his shoulders, eliciting another quiver from him. When a hand cupped her face, she straddled his thighs without thought.

“Hermione,” he groaned softly.

She forced herself to pause, to ignore the throbbing in her core.

“Do you want to take things slow?” she asked breathily.

An impossibly black gaze met hers, set into the most beautiful face she’d ever seen, because it was his. For once, she saw unshielded desire overwhelming the hint of trepidation. His fingers combed into her hair on either side of her head. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, her head falling to the side while he stroked her cheek, ran a thumb over her bottom lip. Kissed the pulse point below her ear, drew her mouth to his again. When he curled an arm around her, deepening their kiss, she thought she had her answer. Hot breath blowing against her cheek, Hermione shifted closer, tongue sliding along the crease of his lips. He felt solid against her, and she wanted more of him, his skin against her skin. Her skirt was already riding up over her hips. His hands skimmed down her back.

A flick of her fingers had the zipper of her dress open, and he paused with his fingertips on the bare skin over her spine.

“Only if you want,” she said breathlessly, still scared of pushing him and having him run away again.

Together they tugged the wide straps from her shoulders to reveal her black lacy bra, which Severus stared at with unguarded lust, lips bruised and cheeks pink. He kissed her again as his hands skimmed up her bare sides, making her giggle into his mouth.

"Sorry," he said softly.

She placed his hands more firmly over her and flicked her bra open with a quick burst of magic. "It's all right. I'm just ticklish." She exposed herself to him, in case he had any doubts.

Their mouths found each other's again, not quite in sync but perfect nonetheless. Tentative thumbs traced the shape of her breasts along her ribcage before finally cupping their weight, and she couldn't help the needy sound that escaped her.

Her back arched to direct his lips in a hot trail along her neck, down and down until he took a pink nipple into his mouth. Arms cradling her, he suckled one and then the other, groaned as he pressed kisses to their heavy undersides. She clutched his head, urged him on until she felt wild with her want for more, for him to touch her elsewhere too. She pushed him back hard, his eyes going wide as her hands made for his belt buckle.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” she said, sliding the leather from around his hips and throwing it onto his floor.

He didn’t, so together they undressed in a flurry of limbs, fabric, and tentative smiles, and then she was sliding into his lap again, running her fingers through the dark hair on his chest, making him shudder as she admired his lean body, his bones and muscles a map beneath his pale skin. Scars littered his torso, the largest two large jagged gashes that formed a circle over one side of his neck and shoulder. His cock was long, solid between them, pressed up against her aching pussy.

“You are so beautiful, Severus,” she said, slightly in awe that they were sitting like this, that he was letting her see him, touch him.

“You may wish to get your eyes checked, witch,” he muttered, cheeks darkening with heat.

“My eyes work perfectly well,” she assured him, leaning in to kiss him again.

His skin was soft, warm, felt too wonderful not to run her hands over. It seemed he felt the same, for his own wandered over her body, pitching her need higher. He squeezed her thighs, pulled her more firmly against him, and then finally rested them on her hips, thumbs running along the creases where they joined her thighs.

“Touch me,” she encouraged him, shifting back to give him access to her soaking cunt. Trembling hands slid down her inner thighs and up again, the backs of his fingers ghosting over her folds before he finally slid a finger along her slit. She shivered with pleasure, wanting his fingers firm against her.

“Show me,” he rasped.

She caught his hand before he could draw it away, cupped it with her own so her fingers matched his. He stilled as she placed him back over her, using her hand to guide his touch, to slicken his fingers with her arousal for him. Carefully, she pushed his fingers inside her, eyes fluttering closed. She moved his hand in the rhythm she wanted, back bent and hips rocking into his touch. “Curl them a little… Yes, just like that…” She moaned as his fingertips bumped against the best spot inside her. Rocked her hand faster so his sped up too.

Vibrant pleasure pulsed with every thrust of his fingers. Joy rippled outward over it being Severus’s long digits inside her, Severus’s breath in her ears, his strong thighs holding her, and he wanted her, he wanted her, he wanted her. Merlin, and she wanted him. Was mad for him.

She let his hand go, sure he would keep building her, and moved her fingers to her clit instead, circling. She grinned when he nudged them away and replaced them with his thumb, and it took only a little guidance until both his hands played her perfectly. Her entire body was so hot, the pleasure in her core so effervescent from his touch that it drew her inward, shrinking her until she was a spark, wild and powerful and so good she couldn’t bear it. She swore as she burst, shouting out his name as her climax bubbled through her nerves. His hands withdrew and she found his mouth, moaning into it as their lips and tongues melted together again.

“How far?” she asked, a flicker of fear a background to her desire, despite his cock grinding against her pubic bone. “I want your cock inside me, but—”

“Yes,” he gasped.

Together they lifted her and positioned him at her entrance. He kissed the column of her neck, his long hair tickling her skin. Her mouth fell open as she sank over the first inch. Slowly, slowly she pushed him until he fit, long enough he pressed against the end of her. The first wave of her hips had her clutching his shoulders, arching against him as she gasped. The second, harder and swift, made her cry out in pleasure. His nose rested on her cheek, breath panted against her skin as she rode him, rolling her hips, wanting him deeper, wanting his pleasure as much as her own. Too soon a soft, rumbling moan escaped him and his hips jerked with his climax. She kept going, milking the dregs of his pleasure until she felt him begin to soften.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she finally stopped, head bowed against her shoulder, arms tight around her like she might suddenly flee.

Hermione ran her hands lightly up his back, across his shoulders, through his hair, making him shiver, and she wondered when he’d been touched like this last, if he’d ever been touched like this, loved like this—because she did love him, was overwhelmed with it.

“What did you tell me earlier about apologizing for nothing?” she asked, kissing the top of his head.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled against her.

She didn’t know if he meant forever or just for the night, but the answer was the same either way.

“I won’t,” she promised.

Chapter Text

It occurred to Severus as he lay in his bed staring at the dark ceiling that he’d never slept with anyone before. He’d had sex plenty enough when he was younger, but afterward he would leave or they would go home, and he would end up in his own bed and fall asleep alone. It wasn’t that he hadn’t ever imagined sleeping next to someone, nor that he hadn’t wanted to; there’d been several periods in his life when it was a recurring wish, when he would have given anything for someone who cared enough to hold him, whisper gentle words in the dark.

For some reason, he’d never imagined the woman next to him would be naked, and so never considered how tempting it would be to spend the night running his hands over her bare skin or how often he’d contemplate waking her up to do more pleasurable things than sleep. He certainly hadn’t considered that every snort, snuffle, and movement as she slept would make him jolt with concern, keeping him awake. If he’d allowed himself to imagine sleeping with Hermione like this, he might have guessed it would be this way. It was just like her to barge her way into his bed and take over before he had a chance to protest.

He was tired. He was uncomfortable. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He worried that at any moment, she might wake up, tell him off, and he’d never see her again.

Hermione was tucked against his side, his left arm her pillow, her limbs spread across him like creeping tangleweed. He slid his hand along the arm draped over his chest, confirming that she was still real, that he hadn’t dreamed their evening. Her skin was as soft as Cinder’s fur, silky and warm under his palm. It felt strange that he should be able to touch her like this, to touch her wherever he pleased, to put pieces of himself inside her and have her writhe with pleasure and beg for more. He pictured her face as her climax tore through her, eyebrows pinched, mouth slack, and head thrown back, an utterly entrancing siren. He did not deserve her.

Every moment with Hermione was to feel torn between his desire for her and her happiness, and the inevitability of his failure, both to keep himself from hurting her and to keep himself at a distance. He felt like a sauce bottle with its lid torn off and tipped over, no way to get what he’d once contained back in. No, he’d decided instead to upend himself, let it all pour out until there was nothing left. When he was empty, would she see the darkened stains that remained and be horrified? Would she understand then why he’d tried so hard to keep her away? Sometimes he could feel them: immutable dregs of rottenness in his belly, like decaying seeds inside a ripe fruit, hidden until you took a bite or cut it open. He didn’t understand how Hermione couldn’t taste them, hadn’t already spit him out.

She would. It was inevitable that this would end. That she would finally see who he was deep down, or grow sick of him, or find someone better. No matter how much he loved her, tried to care for her now—and he would try until the day she left him. He wished again that he was someone else.

Wiping a useless tear from his cheek, he sank into his mental ocean and forced himself to concentrate on the rhythm of her lungs rising and falling against him, to match his own. Still, he could not sleep.

An hour later, he carefully extracted himself from Hermione’s limbs, pausing when she grumbled in her sleep, and went to his laboratory. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, the sound of it now fuzz as it leaked through the door from the conservatory. Cinder sat on the platform on the corner of her cat post and he got a glare as he approached. She’d hid all evening, until Severus had coaxed her out for her dinner, and then had disappeared again.

“You’re going to have to get used to her,” he whispered to her, stroking the length of her back and scratching under her chin until she purred. “I expect she’ll spoil you more than I ever will, judging from her own beast, so it’s in your best interest.”

His ingredient stocks were miniscule compared to the ones he’d had at Hogwarts, but they contained what he needed for the potion he intended to brew. Severus had pondered over the issue of the belladonna in Pick-Me-Up for the last month. Lying sleepless in his bed, his mind had wandered to it again, a solution coming to him while watching her eyes dance beneath her lids as she dreamed.

Unlike people, potions—and magic more generally—had always made sense to him, and so while he was not certain the substitution would work, it wasn’t a surprise that it did. By the time the sky had turned pale blue-grey at the edges, he had several rows of bottles lined up neatly on his workbench filled with sunny yellow liquid.

After cleaning up, he returned to the bedroom, pausing at the door to take in the shape of Hermione under his covers. Her hair was splayed all over his pillows, her expression the soft contentedness of sleep. He considered leaving her to rest, but just like last night, could not seem to resist the pull of her. He shifted himself as close as he dared, tucking an arm under his pillow so he could watch her, only to find her blinking at him, a sleepy smile tilting her lips upward.

“Everything okay?” she whispered, fingers sliding through the hair on his chest.

“Yes,” he croaked quietly, unsure why he felt emotion pressing against his sinuses again. He put an arm around her, grateful when she snuggled into his chest so he did not have to worry about his expression. “Go back to sleep,” he said, stilling his mind again under water.

She did, and surprisingly, so did he.

When he opened his eyes, the room was lighter, he was cold, and it felt like a spider was attempting to crawl up his nostrils. He snorted and groaned, swiping away the offending creature, which turned out to be Hermione’s hair. She was still asleep, cocooned in his blankets; he had only a scrap left over his left side. Cinder had taken up her usual spot on his pillow and stretched out her feet as he shifted, stealing most of it.

“Can I not get a single piece of my own bed?” he muttered, rolling over and stealing a corner of Hermione’s pillow for his cheek.

She looked peaceful, happy as she slept. He should have been offended, but instead he found himself once again in awe that she was there. He gently tugged the duvet over himself too and put an arm around her waist. He held his breath as she stirred, eyes blinking slowly before sliding shut again.

“Mmm… good morning,” she mumbled. She burrowed into his chest, her hair attacking his face again. He swiped it aside.

“You are a nightmarish bed partner,” he grumbled, pulling her closer so she couldn’t recapture the blankets again. Behind him, Cinder hopped from the bed. “Did no one teach you to share?”

“I can hardly help what I do while unconscious,” she protested. She kissed his chest, right in the centre, then again a little closer to his neck, far too pleasant a feeling for someone like him. Her foot slid down his calf, making his eyes slide shut. “I’m sorry if I kept you up,” she said softly, but Severus was lost in the feeling of her mouth and hands wishing him good morning. His cock, which had woken up alert, bumped against her hip.

Had being touched always felt so good? Had he forgotten in his years of solitude? Or was this new, a unique effect of Hermione? Her hands on his skin might easily turn into an addiction, and he couldn’t help but sink into it, want her closer. Her mouth found his and her knee hooked over his narrow hip, bringing his cock against her more solidly. Oh, this was entirely worth the lack of sleep.

He rolled on top of her and began working his way down her body. It felt like performing Sunday worship as he trailed his lips along her skin. Her neck, her collar bones, her chest, her nipples and breasts, the bottom of her ribcage, her stomach, her bellybutton, her hipbones, the soft stretch of skin above her neatly trimmed pubic hair, each of them received his reverence. Whispering her desire for him, she opened herself wider with every press of his mouth, hands tangling in his long hair, pushing and pulling him where she wanted more of his attention.

He kissed along her thighs, the inner planes of both knees before spreading them wide and settling his shoulders between them. Once before the altar of her pussy, he eagerly dove into her slick folds, finding her soaking. He lapped and sucked, her taste tangy-sweet, and dedicated his fingers to the bowl of her arousal. Soon she was lifting, driving her cunt up against his face, gripping his hair so tight it hurt, and Severus grinned, redoubling his efforts.

“Sev… Severus…” she gasped, his name a rasping prayer, beautiful falling from her honeyed tongue in a way it had never been before. A long keening moan proclaimed the arrival of her climax, wetness spilling against his fingers as her thighs quivered around him.

He gave her one last appreciative lick before attempting to move away. “Let go,” he ordered, her hand still tugging his hair, and it took a moment for her fingers to loosen. He raised an eyebrow at her once he was free.

“Sorry,” she said with a giggle.

“You keep saying that this morning, and I don’t know that I believe you mean it,” he rumbled in a low voice as he crawled back over her. How divine that he didn’t need to wonder if she would allow him to soothe his aching cock. She was the one to fist his length and guide it inside her.

“You feel so good, Sev,” she whispered, his nickname sending a sharp spike of melancholy like a lance through his arousal and pleasure. All the witches who had ever called him that were gone… gone and dead… left him… what he deserved…

He kissed her, driving away the pain with the feeling of her lips, the thrusting of his cock, the sound of her pleasure. He didn’t want to think of such things. He wanted only to love Hermione, to drown himself in the feeling of her body and her desire and his devotion. He snapped his hips harder, sweating with the effort of it. With one hand, he found her clit above his hammering cock.

“I want to feel you,” he begged, slowing his pace, knowing he was close. But it took no time at all to bring her to another peak, and as soon as she fell he was joining her, their cries in chorus as rapturous pleasure erased all other sensation. He shuddered with the aftershocks of it, slowed but did not stop his hips to drag it out as long as possible, and then lowered himself onto his elbows, careful not to crush her.

Her face was flushed, cheeks rosy and forehead dotted with moisture, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. She pushed damp strings of hair behind his ears.

“I want to wake up like that every morning,” she said happily.

Severus couldn’t seem to speak, so he hummed in agreement and kissed her instead, ignoring the sorrow that clung to his throat. When his breath had settled, he rolled off her, but held her close, wrapping her tightly in his arms and inhaling the scent of her hair. He wanted to wake up like this every morning too; not having sex, but with Hermione by his side, no longer alone.

They spent the next two days together, one night in his flat and the other in hers, before they were forced apart by Hermione’s employment. After a reluctant goodbye and a promise that she would see him after work, Severus left her to get ready and Apparated back to Oxford. He landed in the park, feeling like he wanted to stretch his legs. He was sore in places he’d never thought one could get sore. Hermione had offered him an analgesic potion and a strength tonic, something she said she used on occasion at work, but Severus had declined. He needed the aches in his muscles now, reminding him that the last few days hadn’t been a hallucination. He pushed away lingering doubts and focused on enjoying the green fields and trees around him.

At home, Cinder shouted at him while he took off his shoes.

“Was it really so hard being left to your own devices for one night?” he asked her, to which he got another yowl.

Just as he expected, memories of Hermione were everywhere inside his flat now. In the kitchen was her leaning against his countertop in nothing but one of his old t-shirts, smiling as he made them breakfast; a flash of the round curves of her bum as she bent over to get milk from the fridge for tea; her tentative hand on the small of his back while he had a meltdown and nearly forced her from his life.

The sitting room was the same. He plopped onto the sofa just next to where he’d first touched her, been touched by her; where they’d sat when he’d given her the improved Pick-Me-Up Potions and been astounded that a gesture to benefit her health could cause such an affectionate response. Their second night in his flat, she’d lain against his side while they both read from his library, which was surprisingly pleasant on its own, and then she’d put her book down, tugged down his sleeping pants, and taken his cock into the heat of her mouth. They’d spent only two days here, and already it felt strange not to have her with him. Years alone, and already he felt restless, like he no longer knew what to do with his solitude.

Those thoughts made him feel pathetic. That, at least, was familiar.

He lay his head back on the sofa and shut his eyes, imagining her weight in his lap, her bare tits pressed into his chest, and her hands in his hair, and felt the spark of want he’d carried since they’d met in the Double G come alight. He placed his fingers below his breastbone. She said she would return after her shift. He hoped the men who paid her appreciated how lucky they were to have her attention, even for an hour at a time. He wasn’t jealous of her clients. Having been in their place at a different brothel, he understood that they would never experience what he had the last three days. Even if that changed, he would never dream of asking her to stop, not when she was happy, not after what she endured for it.

He was considering going to Tesco’s and spending the afternoon making them something nice for dinner when he heard the loud pop of Apparition outside. Jolting upright, he looked through the conservatory to find a wizard standing in his garden. Severus frowned as he noted the unmistakable red hair and freckles. It was Ron Weasley, which meant there was an Auror in his garden.

He waited, wondering if this was the day he would finally be dragged off to Azkaban—for no goodness in his life could go unpunished, and the last few days with Hermione had been better than good. Weasley moved out of sight, and a few moments later there was a knock on his door. Severus waited another minute before getting up.

He yanked open the door and met Weasley’s gaze with the most disdainful look he could muster, pleased when the Auror stiffened.

“Hello, Mister Snape. My name is Ron Weasley. I’m from the Auror Depart—”

“I know perfectly well who you are, Weasley,” Severus interrupted, making him frown. “Why are you here?”

“It would be best if we could go inside to chat.”

“We can talk here or not at all.” Rain was falling lightly, and Severus restrained himself from smirking, his own head sheltered in the doorway.

“In that case, I’d like to speak with you about an incident that was reported to have occurred on Saturday at Derby & Drake in Diagon Alley, involving Hermione Granger and yourself.”

Severus sunk deep into his Occlumency shields to avoid making a visible reaction.

“I assume you are referring to Hermione being erroneously removed after another patron sexually harassed her,” he said smoothly. He could tell that bit of information caught Weasley off guard. He said nothing, so Severus continued. “It seems a bit overkill sending an Auror to investigate such a minor incident.”

Weasley narrowed his eyes. “One can never be too cautious,” he replied, which Severus knew really meant the department was worried about him being violent. Not that he’d ever done anything outside of defending himself since the war’s end. Self-defense from a man like him—and now, he worried, a woman like Hermione—would always be seen as aggression. That he dared to do anything but cower was perceived as a threat to wizards like Weasley. He’d known that for as long as he could remember.

“We have reports that you and Granger attacked a man with a curse.”

Indeed. It was an impressive bit of magic from his witch. His witch.

“I never did such a thing,” he said, refusing to confirm that Hermione had.

“Maybe you can give me a rundown of what occurred that night,” Weasley said, pulling out a small notebook and a self-inking quill.

“Hermione and I arrived together around seven, having both been invited by the photographer, Mister Creevey. We spent most of the evening enjoying each others’ company while looking at Creevey’s photos,” he began, watching Weasley’s scowl deepen. He told the Auror the rest of the story, focusing on the elements that confirmed Hermione was the victim, watching the wizard’s quill grow limp in the rain.

“Were you engaging Hermione’s… er… services at the time?”

“No, and that is hardly relevant.” Severus’s fingers twitched, wanting to go for his wand.

“Did you see Granger cast a curse on the wizard?”

“I’d hardly call a nosebleed hex a curse, or has the ministry changed its laws and plans to arrest half the wizarding population over every minor squabble?”

“Your opinion on the matter isn’t necessary, Snape,” said Weasley, doing an admirable job of controlling his temper compared to the boy Severus remembered from Hogwarts. Unfortunately, he’d yet to learn to control the violent cherry shade of his ears.

“My mistake. I thought you’d come to my house precisely to ask me for it,” he replied cooly. “Is that all?”

“For now, yes.”

“In that case, kindly get off my property, Mister Weasley, and tell the Auror department I hope they will ensure they’ve gathered all evidence before making a decision on the matter. I would so hate to lose my esteem of it,” he said in the silkiest tone he could muster.

He watched the redhead walk back to his patio, smirking when the Auror muttered, “Prick.” The moment he’d Disapparated, Severus slammed his door and doubled his wards.

He used to enjoy tearing down people with fine words, but now he only felt sick with worry. He paced in his sitting room, thoughts racing. Had Weasley already cornered Hermione? If not, should he warn her? He didn’t think she’d appreciate him showing up at her workplace, and if the Aurors arrived while he was there, it wouldn’t do her any favours. Unfortunately, it seemed the best thing to do was wait.

Stomach a solid coil of worry, he went to his cookbooks to try and find something especially nice for her dinner.

Chapter Text

Hermione was having a good day. Waking up with Severus in her bed was a dream she wanted to keep having forever, and she couldn’t stop grinning on her way to work. Her colleagues had noticed her mood, and had been excited for her when she told them her relationship with Severus had progressed beyond platonic. It had been so long since any of her girlfriends had been excited for her about anything, had even been interested in her life, and it felt lovely.

While she’d known that having sex with Severus was nothing like what she did at work, it was still nice to confirm it. Her first several clients had all been pleasant. Two had even given her big tips.

She’d forgotten all about the incident at the gallery until 20 minutes before her fifth client of the day. She was sitting in the staff lounge enjoying a cup of tea and a break when Madam Hazel came in frowning and informed her there was an Auror who wanted to talk with her. Hermione was horrified that they would show up at the brothel, where they might scare off customers or convince Madam Hazel she was a criminal. She never expected to walk into her office to find Ron waiting for her.

For a moment, she stood stunned in the doorway, taking in his familiar freckled face and blue eyes. Something hitched inside her, and she squashed it, embarrassment quickly turning into rage when she made the connection that Ron was the Auror who’d been sent to bother her.

“You have fifteen minutes,” she said flatly, arms crossed over her chest.

His eyes dropped quickly to her skimpy dress and back up again. He cleared his throat. “I’m here to ask you about an incident that occurred at Derby & Drake in Diagon Alley on Saturday night.”

Hermione pressed her lips together to avoid swearing. Images the gallery full of flames briefly filled her imagination. “What incident?”

“We were informed you assaulted a wizard outside the premises after causing a disturbance.”

“I assaulted and caused a disturbance?” Hermione asked incredulously. “I don’t know if it was the owner or the creep that got us both kicked out who reported me, but I assume they failed to mention I was minding my own business when I got harassed and got thrown out for telling him to leave me alone.”

Ron’s eyebrows folded as he scribbled in a notebook. “Why don’t you take me through what happened,” he said in the way she knew he wasn’t really going to listen because he’d already made up his mind.

She told him anyway.

“He said you drew your wand on him,” he said when she was finished.

“You would too if a wizard sexually harassed you in a gallery toilet, got you thrown out, and then called you a whore when you didn’t just lie down and take it like he expected!”

“You sure you didn’t entice him in some way?”

Hermione was so angry she couldn’t stop the tears in her eyes. She hated that she was crying in front of Ron. She hated that she was even needing to have this conversation. “I stood in line and waited my turn, and before you ask, I was wearing a completely normal dress. But I guess to you and everyone else that means I’m asking for it. It’s all my fault for thinking I could possibly be treated decently by anyone after choosing to work here. If you’re going to sit there and ask questions like that, then arrest me for what you really have a problem with: my job.”

“I can’t do that,” said Ron roughly.

“Can’t, but wish you could, I’m sure.” She wanted to tell him that she’d been entertaining his brother every week, that she knew the exact pitch of his brother’s moan when he came, that he only ever fucked her in the arse—and wasn’t that just like the rest of their family. Instead she scrubbed the tears from her eyes. “Any more assumptions or insults you’d like to chuck at me, or are we done? I have a job to do.”

Ron’s lips thinned. “If there’s nothing else you can think of that would help.”

“Nothing you’ll take seriously. I’d tell you to go talk to Parvati because she saw the whole encounter by the loo, but she thinks I’m disgusting and worthless too, so I doubt she’ll tell you the truth. Feel free to go talk shit about me for fun, though,” she spat.

Ron stepped forward, pausing next to her. “I wouldn’t ever talk shit about you, Hermione,” he said softly.

Hermione shot him an incredulous glare. “You just did, Ron. You and Ginny have been saying shit about me for years behind my back. Just go.”

Unable to handle any more, she spun and opened the door, surprised to find her colleagues in the corridor, furious looks on their faces.

“Excuse me, Mister Auror,” said Jude, stepping in front of Ron in the hall and looking particularly intimidating in her leathers. “You may want to look up the definition of consent, because it’s not doing sex work or wearing a dress.”

“You should be getting the wankers to leave her alone, not help them bully her,” said Charlotte. “Weren’t you her friend? You know she wouldn’t do any of that.”

Ron’s face went a little pale. “Thank you for your time. Have a good evening,” he said, and walked out.

Madam Hazel’s arm came around Hermione’s shoulders, and she couldn’t help the tears that spilled onto her cheeks.

“Misha, could you make sure Auror Weasley leaves promptly, and if Hermione’s next client comes in, get him set up and tell him Hermione will be along shortly?”

“Of course,” said Misha, giving Hermione an encouraging smile before following Ron through the door to the lobby.

“We’ve got your back, whore,” said Jude affectionately. Charlotte squeezed her shoulder, and then her colleagues went back to work and Hermione followed Madam Hazel back into her office, where they sat around her desk.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said immediately. “I don’t know why the Aurors would come here.”

“You’re not the first witch here to get a visit from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and you won’t be the last,” said Madam Hazel with a shrug. “We’ve even had a couple Auror clients who haven’t appreciated being blacklisted for acting like criminals and attempted to retaliate with the department’s blessing.”

“That’s horrible!” Hermione might hate the Ministry of Magic, but she wanted to believe they weren’t so corrupt they’d target innocent people. She wondered if Ron knew. Was that why Harry had left the Auror’s Office and gone to teach at Hogwarts?

Suddenly, she wanted to scream. The Auror Office had selected her ex to investigate her, as if he could possibly be unbiased. She should have burned the ministry to the ground when she left.

“Know I will support you. If the Aurors keep bothering you, come see me,” said Madam Hazel.

“Thank you. I will,” replied Hermione. It felt good to know Madam Hazel had her back, but that wouldn’t matter if the Aurors charged her with assault or worse. She clenched her fists. Why did it have to be like this?

Madam Hazel handed her a handkerchief, which she accepted with thanks.

“How do you handle people thinking less of you because of what you do?” Hermione asked, shoving down the bubble of frustration that wanted to push out another wave of tears.

“I remember that they don’t know me,” she said, then shifted and met Hermione’s eyes with a softness at the edges of her usually stern gaze. “There are always going to be people that judge you, but they don’t work here and they haven’t bothered to learn or understand your choices or get to know you beyond their ignorant assumptions. None of that is a problem with you. They want people like us to feel ashamed, and so the best way to get back at them is to be proud instead.”

Hermione nodded. She wished it was that easy. But being proud wouldn’t get people to leave her alone, especially not with The Daily Prophet spewing hate and lies. Everyone read the Prophet. All she had was her own voice.

She sat up, an idea forming in her mind. It had worked before. It had been for Harry, and The Quibbler was defunct, but it was worth a try and she had other options.

“Do wizards’ magazines ever give interviews?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, sometimes they do,” Madam Hazel confirmed, tilting her head curiously.

“Would you be able to reach out and see if any would do an interview with me? I’d want it verbatim, but I’ll do a photo shoot too if they want.”

Hermione felt determined. If this worked, she could tell her truth and prove she wasn’t ashamed at the same time. Fuck them all, she thought.

“I’ll make some inquiries,” said Madam Hazel with an amused smile. “It’s funny. When you first came in, I thought you wouldn’t last a week, but you’ve taken to this business better than most. I should have known you’d be tough and determined, I suppose.”

Was she those things? She didn’t know, but she was glad to work here. “I’m glad to have surprised you,” she said.

“Everyone here is fond of you. If nothing else, remember that.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, warmth in her belly making her smile, and a few last tears slipped over her cheeks. “I’m quite fond of everyone here too.”

“Let’s get you to your client, shall we?” She stood and went to her drawer, plucking out a potion and handing it to Hermione. With a wave of her wand, Hermione stopped feeling the pressure around her eyes. “The potion will help with any residual redness and puffiness. You’ll want to touch up before you go out.”

“Thank you,” Hermione repeated, and left to fix her makeup.

Sitting in front of a mirror in the lounge, she dabbed on fresh lipstick and redid her eye makeup. When she was done, she found herself staring at her reflection. The witch who gazed back no longer looked like the witch she once thought she was or wanted to be, but she liked this Hermione better than the old one; she wasn’t plain, or dull, or forgettable. She couldn’t let the Auror Office or a bunch of arseholes and ex-friends convince her that the person she saw now was someone not worth being, not when it made her happier. Pushing out her jaw, she straightened her back and put on her customer-service smile, ready for her next client. She had work to do.

Severus was standing in front of the oven, emotions squashed tight behind his shields, when he heard the second pop of Apparition that day. He dropped the spatula and rushed to the door. If the Aurors had hurt her, charged her, he would make them pay.

He had the door open before she’d knocked. For a moment, they stared at each other. Sadness, determination, shame, anger, and relief flickered through her gaze in a single moment, and then she was in his arms, face pressed into his chest.

“You got a visit from the Aurors too, I take it?” he said gently.

“Those lying little cockgoblins,” she hissed, her voice muffled by his shirt. “I should have cursed his cock off and given the gallery owner a bad case of diarrhea.”

Severus smirked, giving her a squeeze and then drawing her inside so he could shut the door. “They would have deserved it,” he said.

She peered up from the cocoon she’d made of his body, and his heart flared and fluttered at the affection and appreciation in her gaze. “It smells good in here. Did you make me dinner?”

He scowled as he felt his cheeks heat. “Having you starve is counterproductive,” he said.

Then her lips were against his, and he drew her close, still in disbelief that she wanted to kiss him when dinner and hugs were the only things he could provide her.

“Hello, by the way,” she said softly, blushing.

“Hello,” he replied, unsure why the word made a lump form in his throat. He swallowed and released her. “Take your coat off. I need to get the pie out before it burns.”

He returned to the kitchen, glad for a moment to settle himself. Hermione entered a minute later, hand dragging along his bum as if she couldn’t help from touching him. Severus forced himself to concentrate on serving the chicken pie while she rooted through his cupboards for glasses and cutlery. Even out of the corner of his eye, she stuck out in his little kitchen. It was so domestic, to be cooking dinner while she set the table, felt like something he shouldn’t have. He forced his attention back to the pie.

They sat at his small table, Hermione in Cinder’s usual seat. She kept smiling at him, looking at him like he was something good, and he wondered if he would ever get used to it, how long it would take for her to stop.

“Was it Ron Weasley that came to talk to you?” she asked, and then took a bite of the pie. “Wow, this is really good. How long did it take you?”

Severus rolled his eyes. This witch. “Yes, it was, and a few hours. Any other conversations you’d like to start before we continue?”

Hermione snorted, her foot poking him under the table. Her smile turned tentative when she spoke again. “Ron came to the brothel while I was working. I could have killed him. Thank goodness I wasn’t with a client or in the public lounge at the time. He was a fucking jerk about it too.” She sighed, her lips twisting. “I think it’s likely I get charged with something. It felt like he’d already made up his mind.”

“They don’t have enough evidence,” said Severus, though he too thought they might, even if just to humiliate them and let them go. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d done it to him.

“I want to do something… not about Saturday, but to show everyone I don’t regret my choice to do sex work. I asked Madam Hazel to make some inquiries about giving an interview to a wizards’ magazine, but I don’t know if it will amount to anything.”

Severus frowned. “Wouldn’t you rather lay low?” he asked. Sticking your neck out when people were looking for an excuse to hurt you was how you got your head cut off, in his experience.

“No, I want to give everyone a giant, enchanted middle finger,” Hermione replied simply. “Oh, I’m going out for a drink with Jude and Charlotte tomorrow after work, but I shouldn’t be too late, so I can come over after.”

Severus nodded, still worried about her desire to flip everyone off, but it felt like the conversation had moved on. “I can see you another night if you wish to spend the evening with your colleagues,” he said. Perhaps some space would be for the better.

“I wish to do both,” she said, popped another bite of pie in her mouth, and smiled.

Once they were finished dinner, Hermione insisted on cleaning the dishes, and then they settled on the sofa to read. She leaned against his side, both their legs stretched out—his to the coffee table and hers along the sofa. Much like in the bedroom, she’d stolen his throw blanket for herself. It was nice, reading like this, and yet he couldn’t completely relax.

His attention lifted from his book when Cinder leapt onto the sofa. Her green eyes stared at Hermione, who stretched out a hand, letting the cat sniff her fingers. Apparently finding nothing offensive about her scent, Cinder moved to the very end of the couch, curled up, and began cleaning herself.

“Well, I’d call that progress,” said Hermione, sounding pleased.

“Indeed. Unlike me, she usually prefers you when you’re sleeping.”

Hermione chuckled. “I have some ideas about how we might fix me being such a pest in bed.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Petrification charm?”

Hermione laughed sharply, her body vibrating against him, and Cinder disappeared from the sofa. She poked him in the ribs. “Damn. That was your fault.”

“I don’t recall being the one making loud noises,” he said with a small smirk.

Hermione spun as she moved onto her knees and grinned wickedly at him. “All the loud noises I make are caused by you.” Her hand slid up his chest, making his breath stutter. His cock gave an anticipatory twitch. “The question is whether I can make you make a loud noise.”

“You best work on your sense of humour then,” he said smoothly as she encouraged his legs into her spot and crawled over him.

She laughed brightly again and pulled off her shirt. “Is that all you want me to make you do, laugh?” she asked, unhooking her bra.

His eyes fell to her perfectly round and perky tits the moment they were free. Hermione grabbed his hands and placed them over the soft flesh, squirming as he squeezed them. “You won’t moan for me?” she asked him, as much with her darkened eyes as her words, and then her lips were on his.

He nearly granted her wish then and there, but his lungs took a momentary pause when she slid her hands under his shirt and dragged them up across his stomach. Their mouths parted so she could pull off the garment. Instead of resuming their kiss, she slid down his body, pausing to kiss his stomach as her deft fingers undid the fly of his pants and drew out his cock. The air left his lungs permanently as she took him into the hot, wet heat of her mouth.

“Fuck, witch,” he swore, head rolling back, as his sensitive cockhead slid past her epiglottis. Her mouth, throat, and tongue shot fire to the base of his cock. The feeling of her swallowing him, his entire cock sliding down her throat, was what made him finally moan, but it was her smiling amber eyes staring up at him that nearly undid him.

“Stop,” he gasped. “Stop.”

Grinning like a cat with a bird, she crawled back up his body. Her kisses were sloppy, her tongue overeager, the sort of kiss he hadn’t shared since he was a horny teen snogging the only witch he’d managed to interest at Hogwarts, and only when they were high. Hermione was so much better. She stripped them between kisses, and his fingers found the pleasure point between her thighs, rubbing sweet circles until she was moaning into his mouth. Desperate to bury himself inside her, he ushered her onto her hands and knees and then slid in to the hilt.

His cock picked up a heated rhythm. His hands gripped the handles of her hips. She was so fucking beautiful below him: smooth skin, perfect curves, wild hair, delicate hands gripping the sofa cushions. It made absolutely no sense that such a witch should want him like she did, but Gods… Gods… yes… yes…

She came apart below him unexpectedly, her pussy flooding with wetness that coated his balls and made an obscene noise as he fucked her harder, every stroke punctuated by her sounds. The fire of pleasure built and built in the depths of him, until it burst in a conflagration that turned his vision dark. He wasn’t just moaning then, but yelling into the room, his head thrown back as he came.

His chest heaved as Hermione extricated herself from his withering cock and spun on her knees. He shivered as a hand stroked the sweaty hair on his chest and her lips found his again. There was no resisting her soft shove backward, and he collapsed back onto the sofa, content to become her bed and let her settle against his chest. Lazily, he summoned the throw over them. She kissed the scar on his shoulder.

“Listening to you when you cum might be one of my favourite things ever,” she said. He grunted, glad she wasn’t looking at him because his cheeks burned.

“I have no idea why,” he muttered.

“Do you like hearing me when I cum?”

“They’re incomparable,” he said, less stiff than he might have done had he not felt so sated from their coupling.

Her hand paused against his chest and she pushed herself up to meet his eyes. “They’re not incomparable,” she insisted. “You’re going to have to get used to the fact I find you incredibly sexy.”

He blushed before he could stop it, which seemed to make her pleased. She pecked him on the lips and settled her head against his ribcage again, her fingers resuming their perusal. She went quiet for long enough Severus closed his eyes. If her hand hadn’t kept its rhythm over his chest, he would have believed she’d fallen asleep. He was drifting off when she spoke again.

“Do you think I should be proud of my work?” she asked, her voice quiet and even.

They’d talked very little about her work. He never asked for details, didn’t really want or need them.

“If you enjoy it and are good at it, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be.”

“I want to be proud of my work. More than anything.” She sighed. “More than enjoy it, you know? I want it to matter.”

You matter to me, he wanted to say. She had made more difference to his life than she could possibly understand. If he could be proud too, proud enough to feel he deserved her, what a life that would be. But any pride he might have once held had been washed away by his failures and deficiencies—too many of those to count. As for work, he would never get the chance to do anything worth being proud of, so there was no point in hoping for it. But he had no idea how to express any of that to Hermione, so instead he wound his fingers into her curls and pulled the throw more tightly around them.

Chapter Text

It took only a week for Madam Hazel to get an offer from one of the wizards’ magazines she’d contacted. After two weeks, she had collected three, and to Hermione’s surprise, had negotiated on her behalf for better payment from all of them. Hermione came in early on a Friday to look them over. They sat in Madam Hazel’s office, the contracts spread on her desk while she flipped through them and explained what each entailed, Hermione feeling a little more breathless with each one. Wanton Witch wanted the same as the first time in addition to the interview, and Busty had offered something similar. Wanton Witch and Sirens wanted to put her on their covers, but it was the rest of the proposal from Sirens that truly shocked her.

“They want me to do a shoot with a wizard?” she asked, slightly dumbfounded.

“Sirens is a hardcore magazine. They sell sex, not pinups. It would be a basic scene, only oral and vaginal sex,” clarified Madam Hazel. She flattened the scroll and pointed to the galleons they were offering. “They’re paying according to what they’re proposing.”

Not only did Sirens want the sex scene, they also wanted a solo shoot and a guarantee she wouldn’t do an interview with a competitor until after theirs was published. It was a lot, but Madam Hazel was right about them paying for it. Hermione had never seen such a big number—far more than she made in a month at the brothel.

Madam Hazel flicked her wand and one of her tall filing cabinets opened and a magazine flew into her hand. Hermione briefly glanced a topless witch on the cover before she opened it and handed it to Hermione. Hermione peered down at the glossy pages and flipped through. There was a witch with a wizard, other women with dildos, two women and a wizard, two wizards and a witch, bodies meeting, grinding, rocking together. There was no attempt at modesty, several of the moving images lewd close-ups. All the witches looked at the camera, some with sultry expressions, others smiling, others open-mouthed and moaning. It was a little bit theatrical, in Hermione’s opinion, but then working in the brothel felt like that too even without the cameras. She tried to imagine herself in the women’s places, getting fucked while a camera flashed, a crew watched, knowing that afterward strangers would see her. A lot of strangers, many of them with their cocks in their hands. A warm, tight knot formed in her gut and she shifted in her seat. She flicked the page again and there was her full page ad, her body slithering sensually before blowing herself a kiss, looking like she belonged there alongside the performers on the opposing page.

Her belly tightened as her eyes kept flicking between herself and a witch sucking a wizard’s cock, face puckered and head bobbing, a smile in her eyes. She wanted to do it. She wanted to be the bold, confident version of her, show everyone that she was good at this, not just some washed up war heroine who couldn’t do anything else. Prove that she didn’t care what the Prophet wrote about her, that she wouldn’t let them stop her.

Putting the magazine down, she looked at all the offers again, forcing herself to think.

“Should I tell Sirens no?” asked Madam Hazel.

Hermione bit her bottom lip, then shook her head. “Do you think it would be a mistake if I went with them?”

“I don’t recommend doing it only for the money,” she answered, considering Hermione with sharp brown eyes, “but if it’s something you’re interested in, they have a better reach than the others, including into Europe. I also got the impression talking to them that if they like you, they’d be likely to offer more.”

“I wouldn’t be doing it for the money,” said Hermione.

“There’s no right answer. It’s about what you’re comfortable with and your long-term goals,” said Madam Hazel. “If you choose to go with Sirens, I can negotiate the timing with the other two so you can likely do all three.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say yes, and then snapped it shut as the still-cautious part of her took over. This was bigger than working at the brothel. Once the photos were out there, she wouldn’t be able to take them back or ease herself into it in secret before the world found out what she’d done.

What would Severus think? He’d never been curious about her work, and she wasn’t sure if that was because he was uncomfortable with it or didn’t care. She worked late shifts Friday and Saturday, so she wouldn’t get to find out until Sunday.

“I’d like to think about it,” she made herself say.

Madam Hazel explained the magazines would need a response within the next week. Once copies of the contracts were tucked safely into her locker so she could look them over again later, Hermione got ready for her workday, thoughts still spinning about the possibility of doing the Sirens shoot, of saying, “Fuck them all,” as loudly as she could.

George Weasley was her first client of the day. He’d become a regular since his first visit, and Hermione couldn’t decide if she was more or less pleased than usual to see him, given her recent encounter with his brother. Neither she nor Severus had heard again from the Auror Office, but that didn’t mean they were gone. The thought of Ron barging into the brothel still made her blood boil. She still wished he had waltzed in during one of George’s sessions; that might have made it worth it.

When she forgot he was a Weasley, she found George a fun client. The puns hadn’t let up, and after a few sessions, he admitted he’d prefer a more vigorous warmup than the massage or gentle touching most of her clients received. It was routine now that after his shower, he would jump on the bed like a playful dog, and then roll onto his stomach.

He waited for her, face half-hidden in his folded arms, Hermione smirking as she caught his eye.

“How was your week? Still stressful?” she asked, pausing next to the bed to lean over and grab a round globe of his arse, which was covered in auburn hair.

George let out a long breath as her hand tightened. “Bloody nightmare,” he said, another jagged breath releasing as she moved to manhandle the other and then gave it a light slap. “Gave me a real thrashing.”

“You seem to like thrashings,” Hermione teased, her next slap echoing.

He groaned softly. “Only from you, dear.”

She continued his warmup, teasing and spanking, until she was sitting on his back, pinning him with her body while she turned his bum pink. The whole thing was more Mistress Jewel’s forte, but Jude had shared a few tips and Hermione could handle a little spanking. She was surprised that it made her sessions with George more enjoyable. She had other clients like him, who visited her because they wanted to let go and let someone else take over for a while, or in George’s case to forget about being the sole owner of the British wizarding world’s most successful joke shop.

When she told him to turn over, her voice more authoritative than it used to be, his cock was hard. He forwent the blowjobs normally, and so she quickly lubricated her rear and slid him into her, riding him slowly, smirking at his slack expression. Hips churning, she made herself moan.

“I can tell you needed this, enjoying making me do all the work,” she chastised him in a silky, teasing tone—despite the fact she did this all the time.

“But you’re so good at it,” he replied with a lazy smile. “Some might say fant-ass-tic.”

She smacked his chest lightly, keeping her hips moving. “You’ve used that one already.”

“My apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

Lifting herself off him, she moved onto her hands and knees, because that was what he liked best. “Give me a proper fuck.”

She made sure it was good for him, and after he was spent, lay by his side for their end-of-session cuddle. He had a contented, half-drunken smile on his face, and grinned at her when he caught her eye. Shifting more solidly against the pillows, his hand traced the curve of her breast.

“I saw Ron this week,” he said, and she forced herself to keep smiling. “He mentioned that you had some trouble a few weeks back.”

It took a moment for her brain to process what he said and what it meant, and then her whole body went rigid and she sat up sharply.

“Did he tell you I didn’t do anything wrong except get harassed by some pricks at a gallery and then your bloody brother for the sole reason that I work here?”

George followed her upward and put his hands up defensively. “No need to get tetchy. Just making small talk.”

Rage made Hermione forget her customer-service smile. “Why would I want to talk about it? Ron shouldn’t have even told you. That sort of thing is supposed to be confidential. Do you want me telling him you come here?”

George shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter because he already knows.”

All the blood seemed to drain out of her head in an instant, leaving her dizzy.

“Don’t get me wrong, he was right pissed about it. Ginny too.” He laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Was a while ago. Can’t remember why you came up, but I said I’d seen you and then had to explain. They wouldn’t talk to me for a week. It’s all good now though.”

“Well… how nice for you,” Hermione replied bitterly. She considered sending him out on his naked arse into the hall with the security charm on the room.

“They worry about you, you know.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “They worry that I’m selling sex, you mean.” Not able to stand sitting next to him any longer, she went to the door, and grabbed the silk robe she’d hung on the back for after her session.

“That and other things,” he said as she tied the belt tight around her waist, looking worried for the first time. “What are you doing?”

“George, you’re my client so I shouldn’t say this to you, but fuck your family,” she raged, stalking closer to him. George scooted back on the bed, eyes going wide. “None of them give a shit about me. They haven’t for years. Even when Ron, Ginny, and I were friends it was conditional. Ron spent a year telling everyone our break up was all my fault and refused to talk to me since. Ginny used to mock me to my face. The second I was inconvenient or didn’t behave how they thought I should, they told me to get fucked.

“If you need more proof, maybe consider when I told Ginny I was going to work here because it would make me happy, she called me a whore and told me I wasn’t her friend anymore. Maybe consider that she was offended enough by you buying my services that you had to earn her forgiveness—forgiveness I was never even offered or afforded.”

Angry tears streamed down her face. She trembled with fury, nails digging into her palms. “I need you to leave,” she choked out.

George’s face was pale as he slid off the bed. Silently, he got dressed while Hermione stood by the door and tried to stop herself from shaking. Her teeth ground together as she watched him, his familiar red hair, the way he tied his shoes with the same motions as his younger brother. He didn’t look at her until he paused next to her in front of the door.

“I’m really sorry that I brought up my family,” he said without his usual humour. His blue eyes shone with surprising sincerity and regret. “I didn’t know that’s what happened with Ron and Ginny. You’re always so happy when I see you, I thought you all not being friends was a mutual thing. They… they go off sometimes—sort of a condition of the hair colour, I think.” His chuckle was empty. “But I don’t think they wish you badly.”

“Just go,” Hermione replied, tugging open the door.

He lifted an arm as if he was going to hug her, and then, much to her relief, thought better of it. “Take care, Hermione. Thanks again,” he said, and walked into the hall.

Hermione slammed the door shut behind him.

The rest of her shift was not Hermione’s best work and she was glad when her last client left shortly after eleven. While changing in the staff lounge, she found herself wishing it wasn’t Friday so she could see Severus. She’d spent nearly all her free time with him since the night they’d become a couple. But they’d agreed it made sense to spend Fridays and Saturdays apart because she worked so late. More than anything, though, she wanted to crawl into bed next to him and have him hold her until she forgot about everything else.

Hermione was pulling on her jeans when Charlotte walked in. “Hey,” said the witch, moving to her locker three down. “How was your shift?”

Hermione peered around the narrow metal door and gave her a wry smile. “Have you ever had one of those days where your first client sucks and it just kind of goes from there?”

“Those days are the worst,” said Charlotte sympathetically. “You want to go for a pint? You can tell me about it and drown your sorrows.”

“That would actually be incredible.”

They walked together up to the Ghoul & Goblin. Even at half eleven, it was packed, voices and clinking glasses creating a din in the awkwardly-shaped room. Once Hermione had taken a sip from her pint, she found she no longer wanted to talk about George or her shitty day.

“Have you ever done porn?“ Hermione asked curiously.

“No way,” said Charlotte with a laugh. “This whole sex work thing is supposed to be temporary. None of my family knows I work at Scarlet and my brothers definitely buy those magazines, so it’s better if I don’t. I don’t think I’d be confident enough anyway. Getting my photos done for the brothel's menu was bad enough. Are you thinking about it?”

Hermione nodded while sipping her drink and then put it down. “I’m going to do it. I’m just trying to decide what sort of shoot.”

“Hermione Granger, from war heroine to pornstar,” Charlotte said with a grin.

“I don’t know about that.” Hermione laughed, feeling herself blush. “Maybe one day, if I like it—well, and if enough wizards like it.”

“I’m sure you’re going to do great. You’re so much braver than I am.”

“You’re in healer training, right?” Hermione asked. She thought the witch would probably look just as pretty in Healer's robes.

“Yeah. That’s what I really want to do,” said Charlotte, her green eyes brightening. “My granddad—he’s a Muggle—had dementia and was sick a lot when I was young and I helped look after him, so it felt like a good fit. Scarlet is just to keep me afloat until I can finish training and get a job at St Mungo’s or something.”

“How long until you’re done training?” Hermione would miss Charlotte whenever it was, and wondered if she’d want to keep in touch or distance herself from the brothel. Hermione wasn’t sure if they were exactly friends, but they’d been out for pints several times after work, usually with Jude or Malcolm.

“Supposed to be done at the end of summer, as long as I keep doing well,” said Charlotte. She sipped her beer and then sat up. “Whenever it is, I’m going to throw a giant party, so prepare yourself for that, because you’re coming.”

Hermione grinned, feeling suddenly lighter, only to have it immediately dwindle. “Are you sure you want me there? Your other friends, they might… I wouldn’t want to make it difficult for you with everyone knowing I work at Scarlet.”

“Of course I want you there,” said Charlotte, eyebrows curling. “I’m going to invite Jude and Malcolm too. My other friends might be curious about your work, and a couple of them idolized you at school, but you can tell them to bugger off if they get annoying.”

Hermione’s mouth hung open. “Idolized me?”

“I did too, to be honest,” Charlotte admitted with an embarrassed chuckle. “You were crazy smart, a prefect, and best friends with Harry Potter, and you always had this like… no-bullshit air about you. At least in Ravenclaw, a lot of the witches thought you were super cool.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been called cool in my life,” said Hermione with a startled laugh. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m not! You chewed out a boy who was bothering my friend Jules in our second year and she got the biggest crush on you after that,” said Charlotte, her eyes dancing. She took another swig from her pint and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s really embarrassing, but we used to try and sit close to you in the library so we could figure out what books you were reading and then read them too. We were such nerds.”

“You didn’t.”

“We did!” she chortled and Hermione couldn’t stop a laugh from tumbling out, until they were both snorting and giggling into their pints.

“Anyway,” said Charlotte when they’d caught their breaths, “they’ll all be at the party. Jules will probably die when I tell her you’re coming.”

“I’m sure she’ll have changed her mind about me since then.”

Charlotte shook her head, her mahogany ponytail waving behind her. “We talked about you a bit when Prophet article came out, and I told her it was bullshit and you just enjoy sex work and hated the ministry. She thinks it’s impressive you’re doing what you want regardless of what people think. She knows I work at Scarlet too.” She patted Hermione’s hand. “I promise, it won’t be a problem. Anyway, it’s like Jude says: us whores have to stick together, right?”

Hermione took a drink of her ale to calm a wave of emotion that tried to crest into her tear ducts. “Right,” she said, unable to stop smiling. “Well… tell Jules I look forward to meeting her.”

Chapter Text

Lucky Seven was an American-style diner in the Westbourne Park area of Notting Hill. According to Colin, it was a favourite of Matthew, who considered himself somewhat of a breakfast connoisseur. On Sunday morning, Hermione met Severus at Westfield Park Station so they could walk to the restaurant together. He was waiting for her, looking as handsome as ever in a button-up shirt, and she wasted no time before wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug.

“Good morning,” he said gruffly.

“I have missed you more than you know,” she said and he squeezed her a little tighter. Smile widening, she exhaled a long breath into his chest, feeling her body relax. It was with reluctance that she pulled herself away.

Severus peered down at her. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes? No? I don’t even know where to begin with the last two days,” she said, laughing. She laced her hand with his and gently tugged him forward. “Come on, we better start moving or we’re going to be late.”

The forecast had called for rain, but the sky above them was patchy with clouds, revealing a pale blue behind them. They strolled down a tree-lined boulevard away from the station. While they walked, Hermione told Severus about losing it on George, wanting to get the bad stuff out of the way while it was just the two of them.

“I realize how silly this is going to sound, but I only accepted George as a client to try to get back at Ginny and Ron,” she admitted, and sighed. “That backfired, obviously. Apparently, fucking a whore is forgivable but being one isn’t.”

“Don’t call yourself such things,” said Severus seriously. His eyes flicked to her momentarily before concentrating back on the sidewalk. “Perhaps there are better ways to get back at them.”

“If you have any ideas let me know,” she said with resignation. “Meanwhile all I’ve managed to do is upset myself and lose a regular client. Though George was surprisingly apologetic.”

“As he should have been,” said Severus. They walked a few more steps in silence before he said lowly, “I’m sure you will have clients glad to take his place.”

“I hope so.”

She leaned into him, letting her cheek fall against his arm while they strolled down the tree-lined boulevard. At the end of the block, the restaurant appeared like beacon down the cross street.

“Well, it certainly looks like a casino,” commented Hermione, staring at the bright red shopfront emblazoned with dice, neon, and text that looked like it would be at home in a western movie. Out front was a table and chairs in the shape of bottle caps.

Inside, they found a cozy space with two rows of green vinyl booths and a counter at the back. Colin and Matthew already sat at a table half way down and waved as they entered. Hermione covered her mouth to stifle a giggle as Severus scowled at the loud paraphernalia on the walls.

“Not feeling inspired to buy a Pepsi clock for your house?” she teased him, to which he shot a sharp look.

“Alas, I prefer a goblin soda,” he said, making Hermione chuckle.

They climbed into the booth across from Colin and Matthew. Colin caught her eye and grinned.

“Didn’t have to wait forever then,” he said quietly, making Hermione’s cheeks go pink.

“Quiet,” she retorted, but she was smiling. She reached for Severus’s hand on the vinyl seat between them, pleased when his fingers curled around her own.

They ordered their breakfasts and Hermione couldn’t help but feel joyful as they talked about the sales from Colin’s show, planning for his brother’s wedding, and Matthew’s recent travels to Ibiza, Spain, which made the furrow in Severus’s brow so deep that she laughed even harder at Matthew’s wild stories. She couldn’t remember the last time she was out like this, with friends and a partner, simply having a good time and unworried about what the people around the table thought of her. It felt good to have Severus’s hand seek her out again and again, to have him shift so their shoulders bumped together while they ate. Plus, her banana pancakes were delicious.

“So, what’s new with you two, besides the obvious?” asked Colin, scooping up his last forkful of eggs.

“We had some unfortunate interactions with the Auror Office for starters.”

“What happened?”

Hermione gave a little shrug. “Ron showed up a few days after your show because the gallery accused us of assault. We haven’t heard anything since though, so I assume it’s been dropped.”

“No bloody way,” gasped Matthew.

“Why are so many people in the magical art world such tossers? I’m so sorry,” Colin groaned. “Snape, you need to hurry up and open your gallery.”

“I hardly see how that would help.”

“It would give aspiring magical artists somewhere to go that isn’t owned by wankers,” said Colin. Severus raised an imperious eyebrow, and Colin laughed. “You’re not a wanker, Snape.”

“I shall endeavour to do more to convince you then,” he sneered.

Hermione found Severus’s knee under the table and gave it a squeeze. “The whole thing made me think, though, about finding a way to tell people the truth about why I’m doing sex work now and that I enjoy it,” Hermione said with a rush of excited nerves. “I asked Madam Hazel to be my agent and got some exciting offers on Friday.”

Severus shifted, peering at her, and she smiled in response.

“Offers? For what?” asked Colin.

“From some wizards’ magazines,” she said, the air shaking from her lungs on the way out. “I’m going to do some interviews and… I think I want to try doing porn.”

She felt Severus stiffen beside her, but was distracted by Matthew’s enthusiastic, “Wow, look at you, witch! Is it like, a hardcore magazine or pinups or kinky shit or what?”

“How do you know so much about porn?” Colin asked his beau.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen an issue of Wands Out or Holster. Oh my God, you haven’t! You’re so adorably innocent.” Hermione snorted as Colin’s cheeks turned red. Matthew gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek which deepened the colour.

“I got three offers, but I need to pick one to start,” she said, aware of Severus stiff and silent next to her. “Two of them are for pinups, but I’m leaning more towards the hardcore one.”

She answered several questions from Matthew and Colin, telling them more about the offers and why she’d decided to pursue it. Severus said nothing. His jaw was set, and Hermione wondered if despite the charms that would keep the Muggles from hearing them, Severus wasn’t comfortable talking about her work in public.

“Well, I think it’s awesome,” said Matthew with his usual wide smile. “You should definitely do the hardcore one if you want to. You don’t strike me as a half measure sort of person.”

“I’m not, really. Not once I decide something, anyway. I’m sure it’ll feel a bit weird at first knowing so many people will see me like that, but I think it’ll be fun, and if I continue I’ll end up doing more hardcore scenes regardless, so might as well get the extra benefits right off.”

“How do you feel about every straight wizard being jealous of you with your hot pornstar girlfriend, Severus?”

Cold onyx eyes snapped across the table at Matthew. “I should hardly think they’d be jealous.”

Matthew’s face fell. “Ouch,” he whispered. “She’s right there, mate.”

Severus turned on her. “How can you even be considering this?”

“Haven’t you been listening? Because I think I’ll enjoy it and I want to show and tell people about my work in my own way,” Hermione replied, feeling completely off-footed.

“The only thing the public will say about you after will be that you’re a washed-up whore!”

Hermione jerked back in her seat. Across the table, Matthew gasped and Colin frowned.

“Merlin, learn to hold you tongue, Snape,” muttered Matthew.

“For what reason? I don’t see why I should be encouraging her to invite public abuse.”

“I can handle whatever the Prophet decides to write about it!”

“Oh, yes, and you did that so admirably last time,” Severus snapped, eyes wide and a little wild. “What happens when more people start kicking you out of their businesses after that? How much of our time together is to be spent sobbing in public?”

Hermione pressed her lips together to try and stop the burning sensation rising in her sinuses. She turned to Colin. “Can you spot me this one?”

“Of course,” he said gently.

Hermione shoved Severus hard enough he tipped dangerously sideways. “Let me out,” she demanded. His mouth opened and she cut him off. “I said let me out!”

Frowning, he slid from the booth. “Hermione…”

“No!” she interrupted him again, aware that heads at all other tables were turning towards them. She grabbed her coat and handbag in her fists and shuffled awkwardly out of her seat. She refused to look into his face, finding Colin’s and Matthew’s instead, both of them frowning.

“Thank you for a wonderful time,” she said, and then she turned to Severus. “If you’re so concerned about me crying in public, next time you decide to convince people you’re a complete wanker, don’t do it with me. Let me know if you decide to stop,” she ground out, and then stormed out of the restaurant before she could burst into tears.

“What the fuck, Snape. She’s your bloody girlfriend,” she heard Matthew berate him as she closed the door behind her.

She looked both ways on the busy street. Not finding a close alley to Apparate from, she picked a random direction and hurried away, eventually finding an alcove that would do.

As soon as she got through her front door, her willpower dissolved and she burst into tears. Crookshanks trotted down the hall, pausing at her feet. He stared up at her with large yellow eyes and gave a short meow that sounded like a question.

“Hi, handsome. My morning didn’t end so well,” she said, picking him up and cuddling him to her chest. He purred, nuzzling her and licking tears from her cheek. “Thank you,” she said with a sad smile. He was such a good cat. She carried him to her sitting room and curled up on the sofa, holding him tight and burying her face into his fur as if it could block the hurt with its dense softness.

But Severus’s words were a stiletto and even Crookshanks’s comfort couldn’t dull the wound Severus had sliced expertly into her heart. Used against people she believed deserved the pain, his cutting remarks were glorious things. Against her, they were too sharp, too deep, worse because she never expected them. She didn’t understand how he could be so loving and tentative, and then flip on a dime and be so cruel. In front of Colin and Matthew too. What would they think?

He’d made it sound like he thought she was stupid, hadn’t considered the reactions she might receive, was weak and unprepared to deal with them. To imply that no one would like her photos, that he wouldn’t want to be seen with her…

A fresh wave of tears spilled into Crookshanks’ fur. He purred until her breathing evened out, then squirmed in her arms a second before there was a knock on the door. She let him go at his insistence, half hoping she had imagined the sound, but then it came again, a little harder. Frozen on the sofa, she didn’t know if she wanted it to be Severus or not. Another knock, louder still, echoed through her flat, and Crookshanks yowled at the door.

“Hermione!”

Her lip wobbled at Severus’s rough voice on the other side of the door. She pushed herself off the sofa, not sure that she would answer it, and padded tentatively into the hall. She approached the door cautiously as Severus banged on it again.

“Hermione, please,” he said, more desperately this time. Crookshanks meowed again.

Severus jerked as the door opened, then froze. He stared at her with a pale face, hair tangled as if he’d run from the restaurant.

“Hermione,” he whispered.

She had to force the word from her mouth. “Yes?”

“I… May I come in?”

Chapter Text

The feeling of deja vu was overwhelming. It was a moment he’d hoped he’d never have to repeat, but given who he was, he couldn’t really be surprised it was happening. He tried to do better, but in the end, he always ended up making the same mistakes.

He sat on one side of Hermione’s sofa, and she on the other, with bloodshot eyes and a red, puffy face. There were no tears now, however. She stared at him with her lips pressed together and her shoulders rigid. She hadn’t bothered getting tea this time. Crookshanks sat in her lap instead of his, and if he didn’t know better, he was being glared at by him too.

“I… should not have said those things the way I did,” he forced himself to say.

“The way you did, or at all?”

He grimaced. The truth was, he had meant some of it—not in the way he said it, but there was honestly in his fear for her wellbeing if she insisted on following through with waving her enchanted middle finger in the loudest possible way.

“Both,” he finally replied. “I don’t think it’s wise and I don’t think your friends should be encouraging you to harm yourself.”

He saw her face twist and her mouth open, but before she could respond, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you, and that’s not the point.”

“You told me you were making inquiries about an interview, not to… to begin a career in pornography.” He couldn’t help the roughness in his voice. If she had told him, they would have been able to have this conversation in private, without him acting like a complete prick.

“Is that what’s bothering you? That people will see me fucking other blokes?”

“No!”

“Then what?” she asked. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset, why you’d say such awful things about me. I never thought I’d ever hear you call me a… a washed-up whore.” Her voice cracked on the final word.

“I will never call you a whore!”

“But you did!”

“I did not,” Severus snapped. “I said that is what everyone else will call you, and you know that they will.”

“Yes, I know some people will. But everyone? Not a single person interested in my work or what I have to say? Do you think I’m that repulsive?”

Severus’s stomach dropped into his guts. “No! No, that isn’t what I…” He dragged his hands through his hair, pressed his fingers into his scalp. She had to understand. He knew what it was like to live in a world where everyone hated you, or enough people hated you and the rest didn’t give a damn so they might as well hate you too. She’d already experienced enough grief.

He looked at her desperately. “I don’t want to see you hurt. The Prophet—”

“I don’t care about the Prophet! They can write whatever they want!” She jerked forward, dislodging Crookshanks from her lap. Severus shot to his feet. Hermione glared up at him, fingers digging into the seat cushions. “I’m doing this whether you like it or not. You can either support me or leave.”

“I am trying to support you! By stopping you giving everyone more wands to curse you with!” He paced, arms gesturing wildly, heart bounding with fear. “I don’t… If it goes badly… if someone… I won’t be able to protect you!”

He didn’t want to see her thrown out of another business, attacked and harassed, have the Aurors come after her. He didn’t want her paying double at the Leaky or being forced to constantly watch her back in case someone decided to throw hexes, chuck garbage, or poison her meal that day. He didn’t want her to end up alone and miserable in her flat with no recourse for any of it.

“I don’t need you to protect me, Severus. I need you to be excited for me.”

“And when it goes horribly wrong?”

“Then I need you to listen and hold my hand, just like you did last time.”

Could she really want so little of him? Or did she know that was all he could give and not wish to make him feel bad about it?

She peered up at him with anxious eyes. “Do you care about me?”

His breath stopped with his feet. “Yes,” he croaked.

Hermione rose and moved in front of him. He reached for his Occlumency shields, his quiet lake, but they felt unreachable, so he closed his eyes and prepared for her rage, her dismissal. He deserved both. Despite being taller than her, he felt small, like a little boy who’d been naughty and was waiting for the inevitable instruction of all the ways he’d failed, the belt lashing whose only lesson was pain. His hands clenched uselessly at his side, unwilling to defend him. He would accept her judgment and retribution, and then leave her to find someone better.

“You can’t insult me whenever you get scared, Sev.”

He waited for more and when none came his eyebrows corkscrewed, his eyes flashing open, searching hers. “I… That was not my intention.”

Hermione shifted forward, hand lifting, and cupped his jaw. He scrunched his eyes shut again, too aware of the tightness in his chest, the rottenness in his belly, of everything he wanted but knew he did not deserve. Her gentle fingers did nothing to soothe it. She was too forgiving, too gentle, too kind for a wretch like him. Comforting him, when he was the one who’d done wrong, should be comforting her. He jerked, shifting her hand away, and took a step back.

“I should go,” he said, forcing himself to straighten, only to have her grab the front of his shirt. His hands circled her wrists, trying and failing to loosen her grip. “Please,” he begged her, turning his head away.

“You don’t really want to go.”

He shook his head minutely.

Her breath ghosted across his skin before her lips met his cheek in a gentle kiss. He didn’t know what to make of it.

“Will you look at me?”

He found her beseeching amber eyes. She took his hand and led him to the sofa, drawing him down so they sat side by side. She held his hands in hers between them.

“I am sorry,” he said. He wanted to lay himself bare, but more words wouldn’t come. It felt like there was a stopper over his throat, and it took effort to push just the short apology past it.

“I don’t think I ever told you, but shortly after the Prophet’s exposé about me, I got an offer to do a softcore shoot. I was interested in doing it then too, but I turned it down because I was worried about the backlash and how that might impact me and our friendship. I don’t regret turning it down, but if I make every decision for the rest of my life based on whether the Prophet will write something awful about me, I might as well never do anything,” Hermione said, and he tried his best to listen through the pain in his chest.

“I’m not doing porn just out of spite. I want to leave a mark on the world, on people,” she continued. “I really really want to do this. I want to push myself, see how far I can go, and share how I feel about it with people who might actually listen—even if they’re only listening because I turn them on. It’s a start. It’s better than no one listening at all.

“Sometimes it feels like you don’t listen, like you care more about everyone else’s opinion about me than mine or even yours. I know it’s not your intention, but when you say things like you did today, it feels like you’re siding with everyone who hates me and wishes I would disappear.”

A tear spilled over her bottom lashes, and he felt like the worst sort of man, like it would be best for her if he finally brewed the poison that would rid the world of the burden of him.

“You should allow me to disappear,” he told her honestly.

The shake of her head sent more tears sliding down her cheeks. “I don’t want you to disappear,” she croaked. “I want you to care about me more than anyone else.”

“I do,” he said, voice rough.

“I love you, Severus.”

She collapsed into him as he froze. His blood, his breath, his nerves, everything stopped except for his bounding heart. Nothing existed except for that muscle, and it beat like he was a rabbit staring at a wolf. She loved him? How was that possible? He wasn’t… didn’t… couldn’t… His heart was so fast.

“Sev?” a ghost whispered in his ear. The world tilted.

In a rush of desperation, he tried to push his panic under a mental tide, but the pieces of him all felt unattached and drifting, the water too vast to contain.

“Severus,” came the voice again, and his eyes jerked toward it this time.

There were watery eyes, Hermione’s eyes, wide underneath pitched eyebrows. Eyes that loved him. But she couldn’t love him. No one loved him. It was impossible. He was not loveable. She had made a mistake. He had already hurt her far too much. Loving him was the worst thing she could do. How could he possibly accept it, knowing who he was?

“I…” he choked, the word catching against the stopper in his throat.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Here.”

Gentle arms circled his shoulders, holding him close, and it was so wrong and his heart was so fast and he was falling, being pulled down to the sofa cushions, and he had no limbs or strength to stop it. He collapsed on his side, aware but unaware of her lying in front of him. His hand gripped his shirt at the front of his chest, where it felt like his heart was trying to flee. It was wrong. He was wrong, too wrong to be loved.

Hermione’s voice whispered soothing things in his ears and he couldn’t figure out why. He hated himself for it. For allowing himself to be comforted when he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve her love, let alone her care. For not being able to move. For needing her words like water.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “It’s all right.”

A small choked sound escaping his lungs. Her arms immediately circled him tighter, pulling his head to her chest, and he buried himself there, desperate and scared like a pathetic fucking boy crying in the arms of his mother—or what he thought it must feel like. Safety as a child was in alone in his room, while his mother’s and father’s screams echoed through the rotting floorboards.

He sobbed anyway, wrapped in the warmth of Hermione’s embrace. She was an anchor between his parts splitting into pieces, torn between his logic, his heart, and his terror.

He was broken, so broken. Why couldn’t she see that?

“I’m sorry,” he cried in a creaking boy’s voice.

“I know,” she shushed him. “I forgive you.”

That sent a new rush of tears.

Inevitably, his heartbeat slowed. His breath returned, growing steadier instead of gasping. His panic drained until he felt empty. He kept his face in Hermione’s shirt, too embarrassed by his emotions to face her, until that grew awkward too and he pulled away.

Again, her hands stopped him from going more than a few inches. She lifted one to trace his features, her touch tingling his skin. The room was dim, the lights off, the sky having clouded over outside her windows. Yet her eyes glowed gold, and he imagined himself being judged by a goddess before him. He forced his eyes to remain open, even as her fingers traced his brows and under his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Don’t,” she replied. “Not for this. I shouldn’t have said it. It’s too soon.”

It would always be too soon, yet he wanted desperately to hear it again. He wanted to be a good enough man to tell her he felt the same way, but he wasn’t, and the words would not come out of his mouth. Let her hear them from someone else. Another day, because today he was selfish and couldn’t let her go.

“I’m so sorry this world hasn’t been kind to you, but it will be worse if we can’t even be kind to each other.” Hermione spoke softly, soothingly, but there was a hard, honest edge to it too. “Will you listen and support me? Will you try?”

“Yes.”

He would try. He would fail, because the only things he didn’t fail at were being deceitful, sending people to their deaths, and hurting those he loved.

He wished he knew what else to say. Words were his strongest allies in a fight, a war, a game of subtlety, or a battle of wits, but when it came to love, to forgiveness, to soft feelings and vulnerable truths, they always failed him, might as well be a foreign language. He had no words for such things, because they’d only ever been something for people other than himself. It didn’t matter that he wished he had them now.

She kissed him softly as guilt settled in him, a toxic old friend. He pushed his lips against hers, keeping his movements slow, deliberate, hoping he might communicate something of his feelings through them, or at least another apology. Kissing her felt so right, and when her tongue sprang forward and her leg hooked around his hips, it wasn’t long before his desire for her made itself known. She pushed her body into him, her breath hot against his mouth.

“Bedroom,” she whispered.

He followed her down the hall into a neat room with a double bed covered in pale, spring green sheets. Slipping out of their clothes, they climbed onto it, Hermione near the pillows. He still had no idea why she reached for him, welcomed him overtop of her so gladly, but he didn’t hesitate, pressed his lips against hers again.

He could have told her he loved her then too, but he didn’t. Maybe his words would always fail him, but he knew how to bring her pleasure and set himself to the task. His fingers found her clit between her legs, circling while he kissed her until they were jumping and she made soft noises against his mouth. He trailed his lips down her body and set new kisses over her sweet centre, determined to give her bliss. He liked the feeling of her fingers’ too-tight grip in his hair, when she pulled and ground her pussy into his face, demanding more of him—and he gave it to her, again and again, until her orgasms became a knotted string measuring the depth of his feelings. Only when she told him she wanted his cock instead did he climb back over her and slide into her heat to join her in release.

When they were both spent, he kissed her again and pulled the covers over them both. Guilt, regret, and fear still coated his heart like paint, but she deserved none of those, so he kept them to himself and curled into her warmth. He would selfishly steal it for as long as he could.

Hermione’s hand made even strokes across Severus’s back. His pale skin was soft, but covered in smooth ridges from too many slashing scars. Outside the window, the sky was fiery red and indigo. They lay in her bed, his cheek against her breast, both arms wrapped around her as if she might disappear at any moment, as if he was a child desperate for comfort after a hard tumble. Since his breakdown on the sofa, he had barely spoken, hadn’t left her side. His eyes were closed, though she didn’t think he was sleeping. There was a furrow between his brows and every so often his fingers would twitch. It felt good to lie with him like this, to stew in his presence. She should be relaxed and content after so much make-up sex, but worry had settled itself inside her and would not budge, no matter how many orgasms Severus gave her.

Pieces of their past filtered through her mind with new clarity. She’d known that Severus was affected by his exile and the wars—how could he not be? Her own experiences had troubled her, and she hadn’t experienced nearly as much. She knew this, but she hadn’t realized quite how deeply his wounds went. How much had he suffered: enough that a declaration of love would drive him to crumble and weep.

It made horrifying sense why he’d balked at her first attempts at affection, why he’d been so reluctant to have her in his space, why he so often tried to push her away and then clung to her like she might disappear. They were both broken people, but he was in so many more fragile pieces than she was.

Was it even fair to ask him to support her when she knew he shook under his own weight? She didn’t know how to help him, heal him, except to keep loving him as best she could. But it worried her that he might never be able to accept it, that they might both be too broken for them to work for more than these peaceful moments. He was so much like her, after all, and everyone always left her, one way or another.

Her love was an aching, yearning thing in her chest. It made her want to cry, but she refused to grieve while he was still beside her. She let a hand caress his cheek. Brushed strings of his hair over his shoulder and slid her hand down the ridge of muscle and bone. A small shiver went through him.

“What are you thinking?”

His eyelashes fluttered against her skin, but he didn’t look at her. “That I wish I had more to offer you than this… That I wasn’t… me.”

“I would hate it if you stopped being you,” she said. More memories and questions flitted through her brain. “What I do at work and what I do with you, you know it’s different, right?”

“I know.”

His eyes closed and he drew in a long breath before exhaling just as slowly. She petted his cheek. Maybe it was foolish to ask questions; he might turn into a feral animal in self-defence, but it was a risk she would need to take. She wanted to know him better, needed to know if she was the only person who ever loved him, as impossible as that felt to her.

“Will you tell me about your friends?”

“You know as well as I do I don’t have any.”

“Old friends,” she clarified.

He seemed to shrink against her. “There… have not been many.”

It made her sad but not surprised to hear that. She didn’t expect him to offer more and didn’t want to pry, but then he kept speaking.

“There was… Charity—Professor Burbage.”

“I remember her. She taught Muggle Studies, right? She was always kind to me,” Hermione said. Obviously, though, they weren’t still friends. Had she rejected his friendship in the last year of the war like so many others? She recalled that she’d resigned from Hogwarts when he’d become headmaster. “What happened?”

His fingers tightened into a fist against her side. “I… the Dark Lord, he…”

He didn’t need to say more than that for her to understand. Voldemort had killed her.

“God, Sev, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, body curling tighter against her side. “It’s… I was terrible… I should have… I was there and I… I let him.”

It felt like the bed had disappeared from under them. Voldemort had made Severus watch him kill his only friend. Had he known? Was it a test of Severus’s loyalty after what happened with Lily?

Jesus, he’d killed Lily too…

“It’s not your fault.”

Beside her, Severus sat up, turning away to hide his face with his long curtain of hair. She snatched his wrist. He tugged against her grip, but she refused to let go. She knew now what he was doing, what was probably happening in his head.

“It’s Voldemort’s fault. I know you. If you had a choice you would have saved her. You saved all of us so many times.” She pulled gently on his wrist. “Don’t go.”

He dipped his head, his hair swinging forward. “If it is really what you want.”

He let her pull him back to the mattress, where she climbed on top of him. She had no idea how to heal him, how to convince him of his goodness, and she couldn’t tell him she loved him. But she did know how to pleasure him, so her lips found his and her hand found the curve of his jaw. She made her mouth supple, speak the language they both understood. His cock was hard by the time she’d kissed down his lean body and took it into her mouth. She loved the gasps and groans of his pleasure, the sight of his long fingers curled tight into her sheets. When she thought he was close to climax, she lifted her body over his and enveloped his length. Rode him slow, and then hard, until both of them were shuddering. Before he slipped out of her, she folded herself over his chest. Her cheek on his shoulder, she kissed the scars covering his neck.

She waited until she thought he was asleep, and then whispered into his ear, “I love you.”

Chapter Text

On Wednesday, an unexpected post owl arrived in Oxford. Hermione having gone to work, Severus sat alone in his sitting room reading when it tapped on the conservatory glass. He frowned suspiciously, but got up to allow the creature to do its job and deliver it. He’d only recently purchased a small canister of owl treats, and he absently fed one to the bird while scowling at the pale blue envelope with his name on the front.

After closing the conservatory door behind the owl, he returned to the sofa, where Cinder was busy giving herself a bath. She gave him an irritated look as he reclaimed his seat next to her and slipped a finger under the fold in the thick paper to open it.

Inside he found a short letter. He glanced first at the bottom for a name and discovered it was from Creevey. His scowl deepened, wondering if the wizard had decided he needed to tell Severus off for how he’d treated Hermione on Sunday. He might have received one at the restaurant following Hermione’s hasty departure if Severus hadn’t told Creevey and his beau off first and then run after her.

The letter contained no harsh words, however, only a simple invitation to lunch to discuss an undescribed business proposal. During previous conversations they’d chatted about the possibility of creating new development solutions that would give Creevey’s photos different effects, so perhaps the wizard wanted Severus’s assistance given his expertise. He replied to Creevey suggesting they meet on Saturday.

July had brought warmer temperatures, but no end to the clouds and rain. It was drizzling lightly when Severus left home, filling his ears with a soft patter. Creevey had suggested they meet at a Muggle cafe, which Severus found without much trouble. Inside was a cosy space with neat lines of tables, a long bar with stools in front of the windows, and a display case full of delicious-looking pastries, pre-made sandwiches, and other food next to the till. There were only four other people, none of them Creevey, two exits, and no threats, so he found a table and ordered himself tea and a slice of carrot cake.

Still unsure if Creevey intended to continue the berating from Sunday, Severus mentally catalogued possible responses while waiting for his tea to steep. When Creevey arrived, he felt more prepared, or at least like he wouldn’t immediately snap and make the same mistake. Creevey, however, met him with a dimpled smile, waving as he made his way to the counter. He didn’t seem tense as he ordered, nor when he sat down across from Severus.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he said, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of his chair. Severus remained silent as Creevey took a sip of his latte, marring the little heart in the foam. “I suppose we should address the elephant first so the rest of this is enjoyable.”

“Rest assured I recognize I spoke in error on Sunday and Hermione and I have discussed it.” He refused to go into details with Creevey, would Avada himself before sharing any of what occurred between him and Hermione. It was bad enough she had witnessed his pathetic breakdown.

“Things are good between you then?”

“I would have thought you’d have talked to her by now.”

Creevey gave a lopsided smile. “I’ve been busy. I assume she spends most of her time with you, anyway.”

“Indeed,” he said, unwilling to say more than that.

“I’m glad you worked things out.”

“I hardly think I’d be here if we hadn’t.”

Creevey smiled in response. “Good, because I care a lot about Hermione, and I’ve been thinking about something for a while and it’ll be easier if she doesn’t hate your guts.”

He stuck a forkful of cake in his mouth and spoke through the mass. “I cannot guarantee she won’t in the future,” Severus said flatly.

Things with Hermione had been different since Sunday, the knowledge of her love for him both precious and terrifying. There was a new closeness between them, soft and more passionate, and yet he could not help but feel their relationship was more fragile than ever, like one more blunder on his part might shatter the blissful peace between them. He’d not attempted to communicate his affections for her directly, and she hadn’t said the three words to him since. He wondered if she ever would again. Not that he deserved them.

“You are going to try and do right by her, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then I guess you and I will have to take a risk on each other,” Creevey replied with a chuckle.

“That depends,” replied Severus. To avoid more awkward questions, he asked, “Care to enlighten me as to why we are here?”

“I’d like to make a business proposal.”

“You said as much in your letter. Details, Creevey, or you are wasting our time.”

“Okay, so since my show at Derby & Drake, I’ve been thinking about what to do with my career and how few options there are for magical artists in general, and I was complaining about it to Matthew, how I wished there was another gallery,” he began, speaking with rapid excitement, his eyes alight. “That led me to think about you wanting to open up your own gallery, but not feeling capable of doing it on your own—assuming I interpreted your feelings correctly. I’ve already looked into it a little, and I’m sure you have too. I thought we could explore it together, make a go of it if it seems feasible. It could be good for both of us.”

“No.”

Colin rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his latte. “Come on, Snape, at least think about it before turning me down.”

He wasn’t adverse to having a business partner in theory, but as theory was all it could ever be, there was little reason to ponder it, let alone the fact it was Hermione’s best friend. He poured his tea from its little tin pot, added milk and sugar, and tried to decide if the wizard was naive or stupid. Perhaps both.

“Are you certain you have thought adequately about it? Really? What is your plan for dealing with my reputation then? Because I sincerely doubt yours is enough to make up for mine.”

Perhaps in a decade enough people would have forgotten about him to consider it. If he was around in a decade and not rotting in the ground.

“I know I don’t see what you deal with usually, but I don’t think your reputation is as bad as you believe—at least not anymore, or not with the people I’ve talked to about you. Besides, there’s plenty of people willing to look past poor reputations if they think it will benefit them.”

Severus curled one hand into a fist in his lap and picked up his fork with the other. “What benefits would those be?”

Creevey held up his hand and began counting on his fingers. “Prestige, investment, ego. Not wanting to look like an out-of-touch fuddyduddy or on the flip side, wanting to brag about being avant-garde. Not to mention the attraction of the art itself, which I hope is the biggest draw,” he said assuredly. “Plus, you’ve interacted with the sort of people we’re going to have to attract to some extent. I don’t want to cater to to rich, pureblood wankers specifically, but it would be good to fill their mansions with a few paintings.”

‘Sort of people’ was a very nice way to say Death Eaters and their pureblooded sympathizers.

“I expect that sort of people like me even less than most given I betrayed them,” Severus said coolly.

“Do they really need to like you to want something from you?”

Severus hated to admit it, but Creevey was correct on that point: most of Voldemort’s inner circle had despised each other, and him especially, but aristocrats tended to view people outside their blood relations as investments, not friends—sometimes that even included their wives and husbands. If they became patrons of a gallery, would he be using them or the other way around?

Shoving those troubling thoughts aside, Severus returned to the conversation at hand. Being right about rich purebloods didn’t mean Creevey’s proposal was a good one. Severus chewed on his cake, heart jumping in his chest, refusing to entertain it or the niggle inside him that kept him listening.

Reluctantly, he muttered, “I suppose not.”

The wizard grinned like he’d already won Severus over. “We’d work well together, I think. You have the vision and knowledge of galleries and contemporary art in various mediums. I’m good with people generally and have an artist’s perspective. Plus, it will give me somewhere to show my own work, and I like the idea of supporting other magical artists who might be struggling to get their careers started like I did. Most importantly, we’re both passionate about it.”

“Passion does not equate a successful business.”

“It helps. I know neither of us have run a business before, but we can learn. People do it all the time. My dad started a cheese shop after he quit being a milkman—yes, I know—so I know a little and have been picking his brain. We’ll need to translate it to our context, obviously, but the basics around how to get customers and make a profit aren’t that different. I’ve started looking into what we’d need to do to register a business with the ministry, taxes, all that. Besides, Hermione is always talking about how brilliant you are.”

Severus’s reply was a scowl and a tightening of his fingers around his teacup.

“She’s also said you’re as stubborn as she is,” Creevey added with a chuckle.

“I hardly see how that is relevant,” Severus snapped.

“Persistence is a good trait for a businessman to have,” said Creevey, raising his eyebrows suggestively over his mug. “I’m pretty persistent too, by the way, when I need to be.” He drained the last of the latte.

Severus rolled his eyes. He felt trapped, itchy, and he very much wanted to leave. He would not consider Creevey’s proposal. He would not.

“Think about it. We don’t need to rush into it, but I think it would be great for both of us. Maybe we can meet next week to chat again? Even if you just help me out.”

Severus sighed. The eager glint in Creevey’s eye said he did not just wish Severus to help him out, but he supposed he could ensure the younger wizard didn’t do anything stupid. He was still Hermione’s friend, after all. “Fine. If you insist.”

“We’re going to have to work on your enthusiasm,” replied Creevey, laughing when Severus sneered at him in response. “Anyway, you been to any new shows lately?”

Severus let out a breath. “Hermione and I went to Browse & Darby’s exhibit of Euan Uglow’s drawings and sketches. It was an interesting insight into his process. But first, you are going to tell me about your father’s preoccupation with dairy.”

Creevey laughed, and Severus couldn’t help but smirk.

Severus did his best to put Creevey’s offer out of his mind. Hermione was coming over Sunday morning, and he didn’t want anything to distract him from caring for her. Instead of thinking about the not-possible gallery, Severus focused on tidying. When her pop of Apparition echoed in his garden, a pot of tea sat ready to welcome her.

Her arms came around him the moment she was through the door. “I missed you,” she exhaled against him, and then her lips found his. Her eager mouth and the hands tight against his back loosened the knot in his chest that tightened whenever she was away. He held her close, breathing in her scent. This was all he needed.

“Have you had breakfast?”

“That would have delayed me,” she replied, giving him another peck.

He couldn’t help his lips from lifting. “I’ll make you something.”

They moved to the kitchen, where Severus pulled out oats, an apple, and brown sugar. As he stood at the stove, measuring oats into a pot, Hermione wrapped her arms around his waist and lay her cheek against his back.

“You’re making it difficult to feed you.”

“You’re making it difficult not to hug you,” she retorted, squeezing him tighter. Severus bristled, trapped between her and the stove.

“I’m sure you can find a way.”

She refused, clinging to him as he forced himself to concentrate on the food, ignore the way his skin prickled and every muscle tensed from her affection. He turned on the pot of oats and sliced the apple, the warmth of her body spreading across his back.

But it was strange for her to be quite so clingy. He set the knife down and spun in her arms, but nothing seemed amiss when he peered into her eyes.

“Is everything all right?”

“Am I not allowed to be happy to see the man I lo—like?”

He caught the word change. He could say it now, he thought as his fingers wound into her curls. Casually, like it was nothing more than an echo, even though it was his whole heart. He could pretend he wasn’t going to fuck things up and she wasn’t going figure out who he really was, a worthless oaf that would only hurt her. He could. He should. She had said it. I love you. Why was it so hard? He wanted to tell her, “you shouldn’t,” but she was already talking again.

“I got the date for my Sirens shoot.”

“When is it?” he asked, feeling both guilty and relieved to be spared from trying to force any words out of his heart.

“Three weeks.”

Her eyebrows moved a few millimetres together, uncertainty passing through her open gaze.

“What is it?” he asked. Had he not been supportive enough? Should he have acted more excited?

“Madam Hazel reached back out to the other magazines and… one of them, Wanton Witch, gave me an offer. I… I decided to take it,” she said, then added quickly, “It’s just a soft shoot.”

He could tell she was nervous to tell him. Expecting him to snap, no doubt. Of course she would think that. He pulled away and checked the oatmeal, stirring it and turning off the hob.

“I said I would support you,” he said lowly. His movements felt mechanical as he spooned the oatmeal into the bowl and added the apple and sugar. “Do you want milk?”

“Yes, and I know you did. I just… I didn’t talk to you first. I should have.”

“Why should I have a say?” he snapped, voice louder than he’d intended. He moved to the fridge and grabbed the milk. Of course she believed he’d be a demanding prick. He was a demanding prick—it was better she understood that now, surely. Of course it was better. It was better he didn’t tell her he loved her, because she would fall out of love with him soon enough.

“Despite what I have convinced you, I do wish happiness and success for you,” he said with more venom than he intended. He waved a dismissive hand. “Merlin knows I won’t be providing either to this… relationship. Take whatever jobs you please.”

He poured milk into her bowl and handed it to her. She placed it back on the counter. “Sev,” she said softly, catching his forearm as he went for the fridge. She pried the milk from his fingers and set it aside too, then wrapped him in her arms. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye, to see what emotion was there. “You do make me happy.”

That wasn’t what he expected. “I’ve hurt you,” he replied bitterly. “I fear I… I will hurt you again.”

“Relationships aren’t without bumps. You are still going to try, right?” He nodded. A gentle hand slid over his cheek. He met her liquid eyes, finding them sincere. “I don’t expect you to stop being generally grumpy.”

“I am not grumpy,” he huffed. Her mouth cracked into a smile, and he halted his own from lifting too. “Fine. Perhaps I am a little grumpy.”

“I like it most of the time.”

“You’re deranged,” he muttered, making her laugh.

“True, but not because of liking your grumpiness. It’s part of who you are and I wouldn’t want you ungrumpy.” She kissed him lightly. “I don’t mind being a little deranged, as long as you don’t mind it.”

He swallowed thickly.

Lips twisting, her chest rose against his with a deep breath. “If you want to try for your own success, I’ll support you. You know that right? I know it bothers you, not having a proper job.”

Severus’s eyes snapped to hers, eyebrows folding, searching her face, but she gave no indication that she knew about Creevey’s proposal.

“Open your gallery.”

The same sort of trapped, itchy feeling he’d felt yesterday overtook him, and it was only his Occlumency that kept him turning his head instead of lurching away.

“You would be good at it, Sev. You love art. You have an incredible eye and you care about the artists, not just profiting off their hard work. Whatever you do will be better than a bunch of stuck up arseholes liking things only because they can use them to show off how many galleons are in their vaults. You should think about it, anyway.”

It was precisely what he hadn’t wanted to hear, why he wouldn’t mention Colin’s offer. More than her love, her belief in him rankled. It made him want to shout, How can you not understand? I would rather disappoint you than kill you with my ambition! Only his promise to do better kept his mouth sealed.

Because that was the root of it all: his aspirations, his dreams, his pride. He’d followed them blindly from childhood, believing they would make him a better man, but all they had done is make him a murderer, an instrument, a slave. He could feel the brand burning on his forearm, the matching one on his soul, and it should have been a warning to Hermione and Creevey like it was to him; some days, he wished the Dark Mark had never faded. Maybe then they would believe him.

He’d been practicing his Occlumency since their last quarrel, and so it held more easily now. He’d promised her to try to be a better partner, and so he wouldn’t get her hopes up that he might one day be worth something more than he was. He wouldn’t make her insecure about the steadiness of his or her friend’s affections for her, or make things complicated for her when she came to her senses.

His desires—because of course he wanted the gallery, to do more, to be something again—he shoved under the ocean floor in his mind and picked up Hermione’s bowl from the counter, putting it back into her hands.

“You should eat before your breakfast gets cold,” he said.

Hermione’s frown deepened for a moment, but then she gave a short little nod and pecked him on the lips. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The shop at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn was still for sale. That was the first thing Severus noticed when he walked up the narrower street. He wasn’t sure why Creevey had insisted upon meeting at this spot, but he had, so Severus stopped in front of one of the large windows. More of the spellotape attaching the brown paper to the glass had failed, allowing it to peel back to reveal the interior. It wasn’t dark out this time, so Severus could easily see the old wood floors and the staircase leading upward.

The till should go under the stairs, he thought, now that he could see the space better. Then he chastised himself for even thinking it. He wasn’t going to open a gallery. He intended to reiterate that to Creevey once he arrived.

He tapped his foot on the cobblestones, shifting to the stairs so he was out of the way of the Saturday crowds. He glanced at the for sale sign again. It had faded slightly in the sun, and Severus wondered why it hadn’t sold yet. Was there something wrong with the building? Unstable extension charms or a sticky poltergeist, perhaps? He peered through the door again towards the brick walls to see if he could see any cracks that would indicate structural damage.

“Glad to see you’re interested in the place,” came Creevey’s voice behind him.

Severus turned with a scowl. “Merely passing time waiting for you to show up.”

Creevey walked up the steps. He was dressed in a businesslike tunic and trousers, with a wide double belt. Severus hadn’t seen him dressed so formally since his show at Derby & Drake.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked.

“We have a meeting.”

Severus narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, ‘we’?” he ground out, already feeling like he knew the answer, and he wasn’t pleased about it.

“Look, I know you haven’t agreed to be my partner, but I’ve been walking by this place for months and I figured a little visualization might help you decide, so I’ve booked us a viewing with an estate agent.”

“Absolutely not,” Severus snapped. “I will not be manipulated into—”

“Mister Creevey and Mister Snape, I presume?” Severus’s head snapped to the stranger’s voice. A stout man in expensive-looking robes stood at the bottom of the stairs.

“That’s right,” said Creevey with a smile. He shook the man’s hand. “I’m Creevey.”

“Pleasure, and you as well, Mister Snape. I am Robert Greenbriar.”

Severus stared at the man’s outstretched hand for a moment, then tentatively stuck out his own. He glanced at his expression as they shook, but there was no disgust or derision present. The man’s grip was firm, and… was that a smile beneath his mustache?

“I’m not planning to sign anything today, and you’re still welcome to tell me no, but I’d like your opinion on the place regardless in case I decide to give it a go on my own,” Colin said quietly as the estate agent unlocked the door with a large brass key.

Feeling completely wrong-footed, Severus failed to mount a defence against Colin nudging him through the front door. The building felt even bigger inside, and the staircase more beautiful, with a curling end on its railing and carvings adorning the stair string. He couldn’t smell mold, only the scent of wood and the lingering tang of metal and rust. He looked up at the double height ceiling to find old candle-laden chandeliers. Those would need to be replaced with more neutral, smokeless lighting that wouldn’t affect the artwork.

The agent stood to the side, flipping through papers in a leather folder. “Let’s see. Originally built in 1783, several upgrades since then. Asking 12,000 galleons, but I’m sure we could negotiate that down.”

“Is the structure sound?” Severus asked, and when the agent confirmed he believed it was, said, “Enough for magical extension should one wish to add another room at the back?”

He didn’t miss the smirk Colin shot him, and scowled in reply. He was only asking for Creevey’s benefit. That was all.

“I don’t see why that would be a problem, though you could also consider adding walls to the existing space at the back. The main floor is 2,200 square feet.”

“We’ll need to calculate running feet—the length of suitable wall space for hanging art,” Severus clarified. He supposed walls could be constructed in front of part of the windows without blocking too much light, given their height. It would provide more display space in both directions. He turned back to the estate agent, mind whirring with questions and possibilities. “It’s been on the market for quite some time. Why has it not sold?”

“Too close to Knockturn, I expect. It’s a rather large place, too. Most aren’t looking for something so big. What did you plan to do with it?”

“An art gallery,” said Colin.

“Like, what’s it called, Dibby & Date?”

Severus couldn’t help his snort. Beside him, Creevey grinned. “Sort of, but we’re more into contemporary art,” he said.

“Well, there’s certainly space here for that. It comes with with the flats upstairs as well, but the entrance is outside, so you could rent them out if you didn’t wish to occupy them yourselves.”

“Flats upstairs we could rent out, Severus,” said Creevey with waggling eyebrows. “Good, steady supplemental income. Always people looking for flats to rent.”

Well, that would help with cash flow, especially starting out. For Creevey, because he wasn’t doing this.

He toured the rest of the property regardless. There were offices and a large storage room upstairs, as well as a cellar beneath the main floor accessible via a staircase next to the loos at the back. There were things to do, like the lighting, climate control, and a few minor repairs, but it was remarkably easy to see a gallery functioning comfortably in the space. They viewed the flats next, which were vacant and a little rundown, but not irreparably so with a little wandwork and elbow grease.

“What do you think, Severus?” Creevey asked, coming up beside him as he stood at the front windows of the second flat, looking out over the street.

Severus didn’t want to tell him it was perfect. A useless spark of want had once again settled in him, but he would not risk indulging it. He brought his thoughts under the ocean of his mind, forcing them to still.

“It would be a large investment, particularly given the renovations required for the gallery,” he said.

“I realize that, but Mister Greenbriar thinks we could get a deal since they’ve had no offers yet and the sellers are motivated. I’ve got savings, and there’s the flats, which we could rent immediately. Plus, I’ve got preliminary approval for a loan from Gringott’s if needed.”

Severus jerked towards the other wizard. “You cannot seriously be thinking of borrowing from the goblins.”

“Might have to, if I can’t find a partner,” he said with a sly smile.

“I have already told you I won’t be manipulated, Creevey,” spat Severus, crossing his arms over his chest. “I will help you if you wish to pursue this endeavour so you do not bankrupt yourself, but I will not be a part of it.”

The wizard seemed unperturbed. “It’s not manipulation when it’s the truth, Severus. Anyway, it doesn’t sound like you think the place is crap.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “It would be… an adequate space for a gallery,” he admitted.

“High praise, coming from you, but I think it’s time for drinks. I’m going to go tell the estate agent we’re potentially interested but need time to think about it,” he replied, the same glint in his eyes as the week before.

“There is no we!” Severus growled after him, but Creevey just laughed and gave a dismissive wave over his head as he walked away.

Hermione was thinking about all the wizards behind the camera lenses. Not the three holding them at strategic positions around her, snapping shots as she undressed, but the hundreds that would see her in the magazine photos later. The ones who would want her, be interested in what she had to say when they saw her like this: draped over a chaise lounge in a luxurious townhouse wearing only thigh-high stockings and a g-string, lips painted cherry red. She’d started in a tight dress, which now lay on the floor along with a lace bra she’d tossed aside.

Strategically placed orbs of light floated in the air, carefully positioned by a lighting magician and the director, Mikel. She looked at her reflection in the lens in front of her, raised her index finger to her pouting lips, and raised one knee. Her hand skimmed down her stomach, the fluttering nerves inside it invisible to the cameras as she pulled aside the slip of fabric left covering her.

“Nice,” said Mikel, and a breath stuttered out of her. “More light on her pussy!”

Hermione couldn’t hold back her laugh. Her body shook as she held her pose, giggling while Mikel made sure her cunt glowed to his satisfaction. When he was happy, she continued like there’d never been a pause.

Being naked in front of the crew of strangers didn’t bother her, but it wasn’t like at the brothel either. Her body was being immortalized beyond memory, had to please people she’d never get the chance to know. Performing felt different without the gasps, moans, tense muscles, and smiles to guide her and judge her success by. There was only the snapping cameras and Mikel’s voice.

“Good. You look good.”

“Move your arm up a little for me. Yes, like that.”

“Touch yourself now. Good.”

“That’s sexy. A little more. Nice.”

“Okay! Wrap! Reset upstairs!”

Hermione let her limbs fall, a sigh of relief flowing from her lungs. She’d done it. Mikel hadn’t sounded cross or disappointed once.

A green-haired witch with a nose ring ran up to her as she sat up. “Hey, you’re doing great,” said Beth, who was the assistant on set.

Hermione gratefully accepted water and a robe. “Think so?”

“Definitely. Come on. We need to get you changed and fix your makeup for the next one.”

The townhouse they were shooting in looked like all the others lining the block, with white-painted stone, sash windows, and black iron railings next to the street, nothing to indicate there was pornography being shot inside. They’d been in one of the first floor reception rooms and the hallway was a hive of activity as the crew moved to the master suite. Hermione followed Beth upstairs into what was once another bedroom, but currently housed only a dressing table, a sofa, and a rack of lingerie. A door was half-open to reveal an ensuite bathroom.

She was sitting in front of the mirror having her lips glossed peach-pink when there was a knock on the door. A tall wizard emerged, strikingly handsome with wavy brown hair, a square jaw, and elegant steel grey robes. After greeting the makeup artist, he moved straight to Hermione and stuck out a broad hand.

“David Bancroft, Sirens’ owner and head editor.” The smile he flashed was disarmingly charming. “Nice to finally meet you, Miss Granger.”

“Hermione, please,” Hermione replied, shaking his hand. “The pleasure is mine.”

“I hope it will be,” he said with a soft chuckle, turning Hermione’s cheeks pink when she realized her accidental innuendo. “Apologies. You’ll find no shortage of such jokes here. It comes with the business, I’m afraid. I hope that’s all right.”

Hermione confirmed it was fine. It was the same at the brothel, except it felt different coming from David instead of one of her Scarlet colleagues.

“I’m so happy you agreed to shoot with us. Mikel told me you’re doing well already,” he said, taking a seat on the sofa and crossing one knee over the other, so she could only see him reflected in the mirror. She tried not to grin at the director’s compliment. “I apologize for making you come to us. It never occurred to me you’d be open to doing porn.”

“I wanted to get my feet under me at The Scarlet Witch before I tried anything new.”

“All done,” said the makeup artist.

“Give us a minute, will you, Pat?” David asked.

Just like that, they were alone. Hermione spun in her chair, arrested momentarily by another glittering smile as she met David’s stormy blue eyes.

“Madam Pearmain said you might be interested in doing more after today.”

“Assuming this afternoon goes well. The article was the impetus but not the reason for doing this, if that makes sense,” she replied, “I’m prepared to work hard.”

“I’m glad, because we’ve got a busy day planned for you. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make this a better experience.”

“I’m not looking for special treatment.”

A flash of surprise crossed his expression, but it melted into a chuckle. “I say the same thing to all my performers,” he clarified. “It’s good business to keep my talent happy. This isn’t like the Muggle world. There’s not exactly witches lining up out the door to do this work, and I doubt the reception you received in the Prophet will make anyone more eager to try it.”

Hermione’s careful smile wobbled. “I’m hoping the interview will help balance out people’s opinions a little.”

“I hope it does. In any case, don’t hesitate to ask for what you need.”

He excused himself a few minutes later, leaving Hermione alone with her reflection. She wondered how many times she would sigh with relief today. First shoot, check. Made a good first impression on the man paying me, check, she thought with a little grin. Now she just had to do the same the rest of the day.

As a new wave of nerves and excitement filled her, it was automatic to reach for her handbag.

There was another knock on the door, and this time Beth’s head appeared. “They’re ready for you downstairs.”

“Give me one minute,” Hermione said.

Returning to her search for a Pick-Me-Up Potion, she caught her image in the mirror in her peripheral vision. Pat had give her a natural look this time, glittering brown shadow and soft rosy lips. Her hair had been left long but was tamed into silky curls. Her silk robe, the same one she wore at the brothel, had slipped off one shoulder to reveal a narrow gold strap.

She’d always reserved the word ‘gorgeous’ for women like Parvati, Ginny, and Charlotte, who seem to exude it without trying. The woman in the mirror, however, was gorgeous. Long eyelashes blinking in surprise, she set her bag to the side and stared. This was the witch that David had seen, would see when he watched her perform. The one the wizards would wank to in the magazine, the woman they’d come into the brothel wanting to see. The creeps and the naysayers, her ex-friends, and her parents could say what they wanted, but right now, she was gorgeous. Slowly, her lips lifted into a bright smile.

The potions remained in her handbag, forgotten. You’ve got this, whore, she told her reflection, and then went to show people what she could do.

The interview took place in her dressing room at the end of the day after all her scenes were finished. It was just her and the writer sitting on the sofa, a Dicto-Quill recording their words on a roll of parchment between them. Peter was an average-looking fellow, likely in his thirties, straightforward. There was absolutely nothing about him that resembled Rita Skeeter, which put her more at ease.

She tried not to yawn as she listened and answered Peter’s questions. After three separate shoots, she was exhausted. The last was the one she’d been most nervous about, with a co-star named Charles, who’d been surprising normal despite looking like a Greek sculpture. He’d given her plenty of tips and they’d ended up chatting whenever it was time to change positions or Mikel adjusted the set. Fucking in front of a camera had been more strenuous than she’d imagined, but was also surprisingly fun.

Peter began the interview asking about how and why she got into sex work, what she liked about it and what she didn’t, how she felt about her shoots, and what her plans were for her future career. Then the questions got more personal. She revealed her favourite sex positions and turn ons, her bra size, her hobbies. She was surprised when he asked about her experiences in the war and how it felt being famous for them. When he asked about Harry, she fought through the hurt in her guts and said they’d been best friends, that she still loved him, but they’d grown apart like a lot of people did as they got older.

David crept through the door while she was explaining that most of the stories about her and her past beaus in Witch Weekly were false. He put up a hand indicating he would wait, and Hermione finished her answer.

“Last question,” said the writer. “Is there anything else you want people to know about you?”

Hermione thought about it for a moment, and the reason she wanted an interview in the first place. “Mostly, I want people to know that I’m not doing sex work because I’m desperate, crazy, seeking attention, or anything like that. I’m doing it because I want to and enjoy the sex and the challenge. I like that I get to do a job that makes people happy. I want people to know that I’m not going to stop because they don’t like it, and I hope more people will come around and support me, and realize that just because I have sex for a living doesn’t mean the other parts of me have disappeared or diminished,” she said, certainty making her feel solid. “Oh, and if any wizards like what they see, they’re welcome to book me at The Scarlet Witch. Wait, am I allowed to say that?”

“It’s fine,” said the writer with a chuckle. “Thank you so much for talking with me today.”

“Were my answers okay? I hope I didn’t ramble too much,” Hermione asked, suddenly worried she’d misspoken or fucked up somehow.

“You did great. More is better than less in interviews, trust me. I’ll take out all the ums and uhs and duplicate words in edits,” he reassured her.

David approached as Hermione stood and the writer began putting away his things.

“I’m glad I didn’t miss you,” he said with another one of his charming smiles. “It sounded like a great interview. I can’t wait to read the rest.”

“Thank you. I hope it’s good. Did you need something? I thought you’d have left already.” It was late, the sky outside the windows approaching dark. She was looking forward to seeing Severus, changing into her pajamas, and cuddling on her sofa.

“Normally I would have, though normally I wouldn’t have come at all. I wanted to thank you and congratulate you on your hard work today,” he replied. “Consider me impressed. I had you pegged completely wrong. I’m hoping my team did their jobs well enough you enjoyed it and might be willing to do it again for a future issue.”

“I—I’d love to,” Hermione stammered. A rush of heat and pride made her feel taller. “Please get in touch with Madam Hazel. She’s handling all my bookings.”

“I will.” His eyes crinkled when he smiled. Something in them shifted, and he rubbed the back of his index finger along his chin before straightening. “You’re probably exhausted, but would you be interested in getting a quick drink to celebrate?”

“Oh! Um… No, thank you. I’m knackered, and my boyfriend is expecting me.”

“Lucky wizard,” he said, making Hermione blush furiously. He stuck out his hand and she took it again. “Have a good night, Hermione. Tell Madam Pearmain to expect to hear from me soon.”

“I will,” Hermione said. “Goodnight.”

She let out a breath when he left the room. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was after nine. Severus had probably expected her over an hour ago. She sent him a quick patronus, her little otter brighter than it used to be, and then gathered her things, wished the few remaining crew goodnight, and slipped into the street. Severus was waiting at her front door when she arrived, leaning against the wall, a plastic bag in one hand.

“Sorry it went so late,” she said, rising on her toes to give him a kiss.

“Everything went all right?”

“It was great. Just a long day. I’m knackered,” she said as she let them into her foyer. She pointed to the bag in his hand, nostrils flaring as she scented curry spice and cardamon. “Is that food?”

“I was unsure if you had dinner,” he replied, and then pulled out a bottle of prosecco. “I realize we are celebrating tomorrow, but thought you…”

He was cut off by Hermione’s body colliding with his, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. She kissed him soundly, pleased when he pulled her closer with one arm. After all the grief surrounding her decision, she had never expected such a sweet gesture. He was always surprising her that way, and it made her love him even more.

She wanted to tell him that, say the three words that were in her heart, but instead she settled for, “I’m so lucky to have you,” and kissed him again.

Chapter Text

The day after Hermione’s Sirens shoot, Severus found them at the Ghoul & Goblin. It had been months since he’d been to a pub with Hermione, longer since he’d been out alone. Nothing had changed about the place, the tables still crooked and the dragon wheezing behind the bar. Hermione sat to his left on a worn wood chair, and his fingers spun the pint glass in front of him.

Today had felt like one of their old Sunday afternoons, except that he’d awoken in her bed and now they sat at a large table waiting for her colleagues from The Scarlet Witch to arrive. It scared him a little how quickly having her in his life had come to feel normal. The thought of sitting here alone with a book filled him with dread, when once it had been one of his few comforts. Next to him, Hermione’s leg bounced under the table. Her eyes were unfocused, a frown playing on her lips until she caught him staring, and it disappeared. She’d had the same look the night she’d introduced him to Colin, though he hadn’t known what it meant then.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” she said.

“Neither do you.”

“I’m not really, just…”

“Whatever you are thinking, cease.”

She flashed him a wry smile. “I think you’ll like Jude. She’s a badass.” She’d said so at least six times since telling him about tonight, but he didn’t point it out.

Her colleagues’ arrival was announced by a small squeak from Hermione and her waving hand. It was easy to pick out which one was Jude, who looked like a witch from a Muggle children’s story, with long violet hair and black robes with black spiderwebbed embroidery. She immediately wrapped Hermione in a hug. Malcolm’s face hid behind a forelock of blond hair, and the young wizard wouldn’t have looked out of place on a prestigious Muggle college rowing team. Charlotte was the tallest of the three. She stood back while the others greeted Hermione, large eyes glancing his way warily. Undoubtedly he had taught her. He had probably taught all of them. He dropped his eyes to his pint as they sat and Charlotte volunteered to get a round.

“Severus, this is Jude and Malcolm,” said Hermione, her voice deliberately light.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, keeping his own neutral.

“Nice to finally meet you properly. Hermione talks a lot about you,” said Jude, making him grimace. Probably complaints.

“I do not,” Hermione said quickly. “It’s a perfectly normal amount.”

Jude chuckled. Charlotte returned with the pints and handed them out. Her jaw tightened when she realized the only free chair was across from him.

“Hi,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Hello,” he replied.

“So… Tell us all about the shoot,” insisted Jude from next to Charlotte. “What was it like?”

Hermione’s cheeks turned pink, but she brightened, a big smile appearing. “It was a lot of work but really fun. It felt like I imagine acting in a Muggle movie would, except for all the nudity and sex.” Jude and Malcolm chortled at that. Hermione took a sip of her beer. “There’s a lot more starting and stopping than you’d think and some of the positions were difficult. I feel like I need to exercise more, or maybe I should bring Strength Potions with me.”

Severus and Charlotte began speaking at the same time. He shut his mouth and gestured for the witch to go first.

“You’re better exercising if you’re doing it regularly. Strength Potions aren’t good for you if you take them frequently,” said Charlotte. She turned to Severus tentatively. “What were you going to say?”

“The same thing,” he said. Her lips quirked up.

“Okay, no Strength Potions.”

“What was the best part?” asked Jude.

Hermione thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” she finally said with a chuckle. “There were lots of good parts. The solo shoots made me feel… sexy, I guess, and then with Charles—he was my co-star—it was fun figuring out how my position or expression would affect the photos and thinking about how people will react.”

“My witch is an exhibitionist,” said Jude with a gleeful smile. “Tell us more about Charles. Big cock?”

“Giant cock,” Hermione replied with a laugh, eyes flicking to Severus. He made no comment. “Severus very sweetly brewed me a tonic this morning.”

He frowned at that. It wasn’t sweet. It was entirely pragmatic to do what he could to help her recover.

“Imagine if your cunt wasn’t used to it,” said Malcolm, making Severus’s eyes snap up. But Hermione only laughed again and said he would have been brewing her more than a tonic or she wouldn’t have been able to walk.

As their discussion of her shoot continued, the level of openness about sex and their bodies shocked him. He listened silently, discovering things he never would have asked about because it would have felt like intruding, and he wondered why it didn’t for them. Even Hermione seemed to have no problem sharing her experiences, the mishaps on set, the positions that were hard and the ones that made her orgasm for real. Their conversation drifted to the brothel, and he was reminded that this was their profession; perhaps this was normal staff room chatter. He learned about their favourite clients, the ones with strange fetishes, and the creeps and arseholes who treated them as less than house elves. Anger sparked in him at the latter, but they all agreed it was part of the job, and laughed at sending them out on their bare arses and telling them never to come back.

It was unlike any other social gathering he’d ever attended. Not that he had attended a large variety. But the ones held by the Malfoys and others in their circle felt like neat fences compared to this groups’ wild brambles. They never would have gone to a pub to begin with. It would be a dining room, or a ball room, or a wizards’ club. Everyone would be stiff, each word carefully chosen, any laughter near-silent rattles of breath. Hermione’s friends expressed their joy loudly, in boisterous exhalations that were infectious—more than once, Severus had to halt his lips from rising with them.

There was comfort in the stuffy pureblood gatherings, however. There were clear rules and etiquette. Once he’d learned them, it was relatively simple to follow them, and no pressure to make friends, only allies and arrangements.

It hadn’t been like that with Charity, of course, but it was just the two of them and they’d been isolated at Hogwarts, where there were always excuses to end conversations. She’d always laughed at him. “Merlin’s pants, Sev, you’re as prickly as Poppy’s stinging barrel cactus. One day I’m going to make you tell me all the things that go on inside your skull,” she’d say, and then wave him off. That day had never come, would never come.

He was jolted back to reality by Hermione’s hand brushing over his thigh. He blinked to find the entire table was staring at him, Jude clearly amused, Malcolm’s blue eyes assessing, Charlotte and Hermione with matching expressions of concern. Fucking fuck. How long had they been staring? Had he missed something important?

He stood rapidly, automatically reaching for his mental shields. “I’ll get another round,” he announced, and strode away.

He nearly groaned as he leaned on the bar, ordered their round in a grumble, and tossed the coins at the barman. This was why he never bothered with people.

“Sev?”

He stiffened.

“All right?” Hermione asked softly, sliding next to him.

“Fine,” he said. He watched the barman pull their pints, pressed his teeth together to stop himself from snapping. “I am simply unused to this. I can leave if I am making you and your friends uncomfortable.”

“You’re not,” said Hermione. “We all just want you to have fun.”

He sighed. “I am happy listening to your conversations. It’s… better that way regardless.”

“Give them a chance. Please?”

“I am,” he insisted. “I do not know how…” He groaned lowly in frustration. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“To have a good time.”

“I am.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he hissed.

“I just don’t want you to feel left out.”

“Hermione,” he growled, making her start. “I am not social. I prefer to listen. I like your friends. I do not wish to steal their attention at a celebration intended for you. You can believe me, or I can leave, because I cannot change my personality. Choose now.”

Her head fell, and he swore internally. “I believe you,” she said, glancing up, and he was surprised to find her eyes dry. “I’m sorry. I just… worry.”

“Stop.”

“I think we’ve had this conversation before,” she said with a quirk of her mouth.

“I suppose we have.”

“I think me talking too much while a round of drinks has gone warm on the bar has happened before too.”

That memory felt years gone, but it had only been five months. That evening, she’d said it was nice talking to him. Did she still think that when they argued? When his flaws became apparent? When he stayed silent because he had no script for this?

Hermione glanced back at her friends, then tilted her head with curiousity. “What are they doing?”

Severus turned, finding Charlotte, Jude, and Malcom bent in a huddle over one end of the table. “Making trouble,” he said. He’d taught enough years at Hogwarts to know mischief when he saw it.

“I suppose we better go check on them then.”

“Hermione,” he called her attention as she reached for a glass. He waited for her to meet his eyes. “These are much better friends than your last set.”

“I hope they’re all friends,” she said. Severus didn’t know how she could believe that they weren’t already given their obvious care for her, but he was not experienced with friendships, so perhaps he was missing something.

As they returned with their pints, Jude, Malcolm, and Charlotte all sat tall in their seats, failing at hiding their grins.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked. Her chair was now covered in red ribbons and bows, and a thin rectangular box covered in red paper waited on the table. When she sat down, sparks shot into the air, whistling as they split into tiny sparkling fireworks near the ceiling.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, hand over her mouth, pink highlighting her cheeks.

“We wanted to give you a small something to commemorate your successful new endeavours,” announced Malcolm. He tapped his wand on the gift, and the paper vanished to reveal a magazine.

Hermione burst into laughter as Severus leaned over her shoulder to read it. Her friends had bought an issue of Sirens and spelled the photo from one of Hermione’s advertisements onto the front. Under the masthead, bold text said, “Congratulations, Hermione!” along with several complimentary adjectives, like, “gorgeous!” “stunner!” and “fit as fuck!”

Severus caught Charlotte’s eye and he let his lips rise, nodding his appreciation to her. He felt better knowing he was not mistaken: they were her friends, no questions. He wished he’d thought to do more for her.

“Look inside,” urged Malcolm.

Gingerly Hermione flipped it open, a hand still over her mouth. She began to shake, and tears rimmed her eyes as she flipped through pages and pages of her own face pasted onto the bodies of the talent. They’d added their own faces on some of the other performers, and several amusing titles and captions.

She made a choked half-sob, half-laugh when she flipped the page declaring “Everyone loves Hermione Granger!”

Jude wrapped her in a hug. “We know you smashed it, whore.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, squeezing her back. She turned to Charlotte and Malcolm, wiping her eyes. “Thank you too. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’re going to show us the issue when it comes out,” said Malcolm.

“Promise,” Hermione said, then turned to Severus. Even with her eyes glassy with tears, she looked happier than he’d ever seen her.

He returned her smile. Her obvious joy filled him with warmth, but as she turned back to her friends, the feeling he was left with was hollow, inadequate. He was supposed to be her partner, and he did not think he’d ever be able to make her smile like that, fill her with enough happiness that it burst out in tears. All he’d done today was make her worry.

If it wouldn’t have made her upset, he might have walked out then, let her be with people who knew how to care for her properly. He wouldn’t ruin her night, however, so he sunk such thoughts under his shields, kept the smile on his face, and took a long slug of lager as he leaned back in his chair.

By the end of the night, Hermione and her friends were all giggles and slurred words. Severus had stopped drinking some time ago, knowing one of them would need to be sober enough to Apparate them home. They stumbled into Knockturn Alley, Severus following behind them with his usual stern expression. He was exhausted and ready to go home.

Outside, he waited in front of the dirty window and watched Hermione, Jude, and Malcolm hugging.

“Severus?” He turned to find a glassy-eyed Charlotte next to him. She was tall enough they were eye-to-eye.

“Yes? Did you need help getting home?”

“I’m good… I’ll take the Knight Bus. I jus’ wanted to say… I know you don’ remember… but I was your student… Hermione and I both think you were a good teacher… I love potions, and anyway… I wanted to thank you, I su’pose… for keeping us safe from the Carrowses.”

Severus stood frozen, unsure how to react, unsure why she was even thanking him for something he deserved absolutely no thanks for. No… she was just drunk. Completely shitfaced, by the looks of it. It was nothing. He would forget about it, and so would she.

“Charlotte!” called Malcolm, waving her over. “You Knight Bussin’ with me?”

The witch grinned at him and staggered to her friends, where she wrapped Hermione in a hug. “Love you, witch,” she said.

Once she’d said her goodbyes, Hermione returned and sagged against him. “I had fun,” she said, a pleased smile on her face.

“I’m glad,” he said, putting an arm around her.

“Why’d you stop drinking?” Her eyes were half-closed and shining as she peered up at him.

“Someone has to get us home.”

“Pfft… We could have taken the bus,” she said. “I want to see you hammered.”

“No, you do not,” he replied, pulling her more tightly against him. “You’re not going to vomit on me on the other end, are you?”

“Nah. Did with Ron once, but he’s shit at Side-Along Apparition,” she said, making Severus snort despite his sour mood.

Thankfully, she kept her word, only swaying a little when they landed on his patio. Gently, he took her into the house, helped her to take off her clothes, and tucked her into bed. Her hand reached for him, snagging his robes as he tried to leave.

“I need to check on Cinder.”

“Brush my teeth,” she demanded sleepily, baring them at him. He shook his head and flicked his wand. Instead of letting him go, she tugged on his robes, so he sat on the edge of the bed. She sighed, curling herself around him.

“Parents would be so mad I didn’t brush properly.”

“The spell is more thorough and wizards can regrow teeth,” he pointed out.

“They don’t care. Don’t like magic. Pissed when I fixed my front teeth. Suppose they hate me anyway, so it doesn’t matter,” she mumbled, one side of her mouth turned up. She sighed. “Everyone was so nice tonight.”

Severus placed a hand on her shoulder. She’d never said much about her parents. They tended to avoid their pasts in conversations.

“My father hated magic too,” he revealed.

“Your father was a wanker.”

Severus chuckled. “He was worse than that.” He pushed a lock of hair from her face. He hated that once again, they seemed to be a pair.

Hermione only hummed a brief acknowledgement before her mouth drew into a frown. Her eyes were half-lidded, staring unfocused at the wall. “D’you think I’m unloveable?”

She asked it nonchalantly, like it wasn’t important, like the answer was a foregone conclusion, like there might be a ‘too’ at the end of the sentence.

He barely got the words out. “Why would you think that?”

“Everyone leaves,” she answered, shifting closer to him. “Only good if you’re fucking me… or watching me fuck.” She snorted as if it was funny, her hot breath warming the skin of his leg through his robes. She wriggled a hand under his thigh and her elbow hooked around his calf, locking her against him. “Don’t wanna lose you.”

Her eyes slipped shut as Severus forgot how to breathe. His mind filled with static.

Was that what he’d made her believe? That he was only around so he could fuck her? That he only cared about her body?

He wanted to tell her then: that he loved her. That she was the best thing in his life. That he never wanted to lose her either. That they could stop having sex and he would love her just the same. But his lungs had frozen, his body numb with horror.

If he said it, would she even believe him?

“Love you, Sev,” she said, her voice a barely whispered whine. “Don’t leave me.”

“I… I won’t,” he forced out.

She hummed, the sound happy. Before long, her breathing deepened, and then she was snoring.

He was unsure for how long he sat, unmoving, before rising like a robot. Carefully, he extricated himself and went to find Cinder.

Chapter Text

Mounting the stairs of Colin Creevey’s flat block, Severus wondered why on earth he continued to bother. Ever since since the wizard’s initial proposal, Colin had invited Severus out once a week to discuss the gallery. He never asked if Severus was in or out, but Severus wasn’t a fool; he knew Colin believed he’d won him over.

Severus’s decision hadn’t changed. He couldn’t deny it was stimulating to do something novel with his mind again, however, or that he liked having a regular reason to leave his lonely house when Hermione was working. Nor could he discount that Colin needed his help and Colin was Hermione’s close friend.

Colin answered the door to his flat with his usual dimpled smile and led him into the bright sitting room. It was neater than the last time he’d visited, no longer stuffed to the brim with frames. He could feel the cooling charms attempting to battle the August sunshine, which had turned unusually scorching, but it was still a relief compared to outside. He was sweating under a loose button-up shirt and declined Colin’s offer of tea in favour of water.

They sat at the kitchen table, which was covered in papers and binders. A notebook, a Muggle calculator, and a pen sat in front of Colin’s chair.

“I got the forms to register as a business with the ministry, but that means we need a name and to decide if we want to put an offer in on the shop or look for another location.” Colin took a sip of his drink and then pulled out a roll of parchment, handing it to Severus.

Severus had given up reminding Colin that there was no “we” when it came to them, so peered at the form. It all looked rather benign: proprietor’s name, location, type of business, and so on. “What will you call it?”

“I’d assumed you’d already have a name.”

“It’s not my gallery,” Severus said stiffly.

Colin sighed like Severus was a stubborn child. “Will you not even consider partnering with me on it?”

“I did consider it and it’s a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“I believe I have told you that already, Creevey,” said Severus, not wishing to remind Colin of all the ways he was unfit for anything to do with the public. People. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Colin gave him a considered stare. “What does Hermione think about the idea?”

“I have not spoken to her about it.”

Colin gave a small flinch of surprise. “Wait, have you seriously not told Hermione? We’ve been meeting for weeks.”

“There is little point in telling her about a business that will not be mine.”

“It could be yours,” Colin insisted. “Severus… I know you want to do this.”

“One does not get everything they want,” Severus snapped. Slick fear swam in his stomach, and he drowned it quickly under Occlumency shields.

“You certainly won’t if you never try.”

“I have already told you what the outcome of this will be.”

“I already told you that I’m willing to take the risk,” said Colin stubbornly. “You’re not a Seer. Hermione would support me on this.”

“Don’t you dare bring Hermione into this!”

“Why not? Because I’m right?” he asked, gesturing widely. “She’s your girlfriend, Severus. How could you not even tell her it’s a possibility? Are you that scared that she might support you?”

Severus surged upward and slammed his hands on the table, making water slosh onto the papers and the pen skitter onto the floor. “I AM NOT SCARED!”

Colin stared up at him with wide eyes and, for a moment, it felt like being in the classroom again leering down at one of his students who’d pushed him a little too far. But then Colin straightened, his jaw stiffening. He met Severus’s gaze, his hazel eyes clear and resilient.

“Yes, you are,” he said with surprising gentleness. “I know you probably have good reason to be with everything’s that happened to you, and I know you’re convinced this can only fail. But I think if you can find it in yourself to try, you might be pleasantly surprised, and if we fail anyway, I promise neither Hermione nor I are going to hold it against you.”

Colin’s chair creaked as he pushed it back. The younger wizard grabbed both glasses, despite them remaining more than half full. “I’ll get us some refills,” he said, and sauntered from the room, leaving Severus panting at the table.

He flopped himself into his chair, the unhinged rage he’d felt gone as quickly as it had come. It felt like he was being manipulated, though he did not believe that was Creevey’s intention. What Colin didn’t understand, and what Severus would never admit to him, was that it wasn’t Colin and Hermione’s support he didn’t trust; it was his own abilities. It was the world, life, fate, destiny, other people. Something would go wrong. He knew it would go wrong. Staying out of it was the only way Colin had a chance of being a success.

He’d thought about accepting Colin’s offer several times over the past weeks, but the more he considered it, the more he felt overwhelmed by dread and apprehension. He knew how his life worked; he wasn’t going to give fate another chance to wreck him and make a fool of himself in the process. He didn’t need yet another reminder of his own failures, nor a new one to add to the already too-long list.

Feeling agitated, he listened to Colin moving about in the kitchen and sunk into the still sea in his mind.

Colin returned and put a new glass of water in front of him. He picked up the lost pen, dried the dampened pages, and then took a sip from his own cup before sitting down again. “I’m scared too, you know. It’s a lot of money to invest on an untested business model. But I believe in the idea and I don’t have a lot of other options if I want to keep making a living in the magical art business, so I think it’s worth the risk,” he said. He pulled a folder from the ones littering the table. “I’ll give you a week to decide, but I’m going to move ahead in the meantime and buy the shop. Regardless, you should tell Hermione we’ve been talking about it. She’d want to know.”

He opened the folder in front of him and began filling in the pages inside. Severus sat in silence, unsure if Creevey was leaving him time to think or quietly dismissing him. He sipped his water, deciding to at least finish it.

“What do you think of the name ‘Amuse’?”

“I think it sounds like a sweet shop,” replied Severus, “though I appreciate the attempt at a pun.”

Colin returned to scribbling on his papers. Severus leaned forward curiously, trying to make out the upside-down words, but they were too small to read.

In his imagination, he always pictured a gallery named after himself. It was common practice and simple. “Creevey Gallery” didn’t exactly strike a sophisticated tone, neither did “Snape & Creevey,” though it was slightly improved—not that it was a real consideration, given he was not going to become the wizards’ partner.

His fingers tapped against his glass.

“Outsiders,” he said as the name occurred to him.

“What?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “The gallery name.”

“Right.” Colin thought about it for a minute. “I like it. It’s very apropos.”

Colin looked at him expectantly. Severus scowled. “That was not a yes,” he hissed.

The wizard shrugged. “As I said, you have a week.”

Severus drained the rest of his drink and stood. “It won’t make a difference,” he said, and made for the exit.

Even though he knew his answer, his conversation with Colin plagued him. It nagged him when he wasn’t busy, stalked him around Oxford and London, butted in to his conversations with Hermione, and yet he could not seem to bring himself to tell her.

If he tried, he was going to fail. He knew this. He would fail at the gallery. He would fail at this relationship. The best thing to do was never try. He’d already failed at resisting Hermione. But she was flame and he was wax. The gallery was just a dream. A stupid dream.

It was Thursday evening, and Severus sat on his sofa, Hermione leaning against his side. A book was in his hands, but he hadn’t read a word in at least thirty minutes. An uncomfortable knot was below his ribcage, every loop of his thoughts pulling it tighter.

Hermione turned a page, the soft hush of paper momentarily breaking the hum from the fridge and the even rhythm of their breaths. They’d never talked about the conversation they’d had while she was drunk and half-asleep in his bed. He hadn’t wanted to risk bringing it up, and either she felt the same or she’d been pissed drunk enough to forget. It was another reason he couldn’t tell her about the gallery: he could not bear to accept her encouragement or her faith when he knew he was bound to violate it, when she already thought so little of him.

He’d believed himself braver once, but all those choices had predetermined answers. There was never any question, not truly, whether he would try to keep Lily safe, fight Voldemort, make amends for his greatest mistakes, help the Order, teach at Hogwarts, play spy, keep his students safe, follow Dumbledore’s plan. What choices had he ever had, that weren’t choosing between bad and worse? Good choices went to good people, privileged, handsome, rich, connected people, and he had never been any of those. Being with Hermione already felt selfish.

She shifted beside him. “Do you want more tea?”

“I’ll get it,” he said flatly, dislodging himself from under her. “I don’t wish to read anyway.”

“I thought you were enjoying that one.”

“I changed my mind.”

He stalked to the kitchen, pulling desperately on his shields again. Kettle, water, tea bags, milk, he made tea mechanically, using the movements to help still his mind.

When he returned to Hermione, he felt more in control of himself. She’d abandoned her book to the the sofa cushion, hesitated when he held out her tea, a question about his mood in her eyes. A decision solidified in the amber of her irises, and she took the mug silently, shifting so she could face him as he sat down.

“Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“The usual,” he replied, voice low and vacant. He considered her, tea warming his fingers. He wanted to do right by her, but he had no idea how. “I…”

“What?”

He sighed. “I am going to see Colin on Saturday,” he said, regretting it when her smile faltered and hurt flashed in her eyes.

“That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t talked to him in a long time, but I’ve been busy too, I suppose.”

It felt like every day he was presented with opportunities like this, chances to ease her burden, to reassure her, but his tongue would go numb and his throat would tighten.

“I will ask if he and Matthew would like to go out. I’m sure he would like to see you too.”

“Would you?” She brightened a little. “I’d like that.”

She took a sip of her tea. “I think Jude wants to do a movie night soon. You could come if you wanted.”

Severus shook his head. “I’m sure you’ll have a better time without me,” he said, and dashed her smile again.

She stared at him, uncertain eyes searching his as he forced himself to Occlude further, grateful when his brain let him sink deep. He barely felt a thing when she put her mug on the table, took his from his hand. With a light touch she pushed him back. Silken hands slid up his chest. Weight settled in his lap. His body felt like stone as she ran her palms across his shoulders, took his face in her hands. Deep underwater, fire had no hope of reaching him, though a part of him yearned to swim upward, to grab her outstretched hand. She kissed him and his mouth parted, eyes sliding shut. Somewhere inside him, tears fell, but he was already an ocean, so they were lost.

“Sev, what’s wrong?”

He could not answer her, but he could not bare to see her worry either, so he lifted iron hands to her sides, pushed his leaden lips against hers. She was rain against him, slick and coating. His shirt, her shirt, his belt and fly, her pants and they were bared, and his cock already steel, she poured herself over him. He found her source with his fingers, made her moan, and then the part of him that was still fluid spilled into her. He could not remember if he’d made a sound.

On Saturday, Severus left for Colin’s, his answer unchanged. They sat once more at his kitchen table, only the order of the stacks of papers changed.

“The business license got approved,” Colin said first. He slid it towards Severus.

His eyes swung down the page, stuttering on his own name. The forgery of his signature was poorly done. But the large block letters showing the ministry’s acceptance were irrefutable.

The ministry, who had turned his hospital room into a prison, then gleefully thrown him into Azkaban. The ministry who’d delayed his trial repeatedly, let its Aurors and prison guards spit in his food as they handed it to him, shove him to the ground, trip him as he entered the courtroom, send hexes to endure until they wore off or another guard took pity on him. The organization who’d narrowly allowed him free, mostly thanks to the testimony of its Chosen One. Who’d denied every job application for a year, lost or delayed every form he submitted to the Floo Authority until he stopped sending them. The one who sent Ron-fucking-Weasley to harass him and Hermione.

“You had no right,” he growled.

“The ministry didn’t ask me any questions,” Colin replied. He put three more sheets in front of him and topped them with a pen. “If you’re in, I need you to sign these.”

Colin’s gaze was solid, determined.

Severus picked up the pen and it felt like standing on a stormy cliff, at the top of a tower, in his foyer listening to the roar of the pouring rain. His heart beat wildly. His hands shook.

Potter could call him brave in front of the Wizengamot as often as he wished. That would never change the fact he was, despite his best attempts, a weak man who would always fall to the will of stronger people. Hermione forgive him, but if he was going to fail, it was better to set himself ablaze before crashing into the sea, so there was no option but to drown.

“This is going to be good, Severus.”

“When it turns out otherwise, I will not have you complaining to me,” Severus replied and slashed ink onto the page.

Chapter Text

REVEALING HERMIONE GRANGER

Until recently, Hermione Granger was known best as a heroine of the Second Wizarding War, Ministry of Magic ladder-climber, and ex-lover of several famous wizards. But discontented with those labels, the 23-year-old witch is reinventing herself as an outgoing sexpot known more for her gorgeous curves and abilities handling cock than her magical power or political connections. Though new to the sex business, she’s already filling books at Britain’s top brothel The Scarlet Witch, and confidently showing off her sexual prowess in front of a camera. Her passion for her career is evident, and though it’s early days, this busty, vivacious witch seems well on her way to achieving sexual stardom. Sirens sat down with Granger to get the details on how she got into sex work, her future goals, some of her favourite things, and why she was eager to show off her new skills to our readers.
(continued on page 31)

“Severus!”

Severus jerked upright from where he sat on the sofa. Hermione was at the door, having just pushed it open, disturbing him from his ruminations. He hurried to her, expecting her angry or in tears, but instead was greeted with a wide smile and sparkling, sunshine eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, heart still pounding.

“My advance copy arrived!” she replied while toeing off her shoes. “But first…”

She wrapped her arms him and pecked him on the lips, and he hugged her close in response.

“Come on. I haven’t read it yet. I have other good news too.”

“All right. Come sit down before you bounce into a wall,” he said gruffly.

He watched her grab a magazine from her bag and bound to the sofa, glancing at the clock as he followed her. He had yet to tell her about his partnership with Colin, whom they were meeting for lunch in a little over two hours. He couldn’t bring himself to interrupt Hermione’s excitement, however, so he took the seat next to her and let her curl into his lap. He would tell her as soon as they were done.

“I look good, right?” she asked, showing him the cover.

The photo was cropped at her mid-thigh, her head cutting into the magazine’s title so she filled the entire page. She was gorgeous—not that he expected anything else—her head falling to the side while her hands squeezed her bare breasts suggestively. In large letters near her shoulder it said, Hermione Granger: England’s hottest new star loves getting pounded! His cheeks went suddenly hot.

He cleared his throat. “It is… rather eye-catching.”

The photos inside were even more erotic and gave him a near-instant erection. The interview was first, the introduction overtop a full-page photo of her in gold lingerie laying seductively on a bed. On the next page, “I hope I’m still in the sex business in 25 years,” was printed over a half-page image of her nude and on her back, one arm draped lazily over her head, legs splayed wide, and fingers tantalizingly close to her pussy. The interview itself was interspersed with more photos, most of them nude. They were both silent as they read, and Severus was surprised the questions covered more than her job and sex. Her enthusiasm for her work and anger at the state of the wizarding world and the war came through.

“You should be proud of this,” he said when he was finished reading.

He felt like a complete arse for doubting her desire to do it. The Prophet would no doubt spin things as they always did, but among those who read Sirens, she would surely get some new fans.

“Thank you,” she said with pink cheeks. “I am. Want to see my scene?”

He nodded, helping her turn the page.

“Merlin,” he breathed as his eyes landed on a closeup of her sucking another wizard’s cock.

“Wow,” she said, sounding slightly in awe. He was too. The back and forth of her head was hypnotizing. Her expression wasn’t like when she was with him, but it was still fucking sexy.

She appeared to be having fun, a big smile and bright eyes on her face as the man, as the cover had intimated, pounded her in many different positions. In several her neck was stretched out, her brows pinched as she moaned and rocked back into the man fucking her. There were little captions by the photos like, “Hermione knew what she wanted and it was his cock,” and, “She was wetter than an aguamenti, and begged him to take her from behind”—all of which he was sure she never uttered.

“We used a hovering charm for that one,” she said, pointing at her balanced precariously over the wizard, her feet on his thighs while he thrust into her from below. “It’s weird seeing myself from the outside. I never thought I’d get to see how I look when I’m working. What do you think?”

He was sure his cheeks were deep red despite his attempts to stop them from heating. His cock felt like it was suffocating. Hermione peered at him curiously for a moment and then her mouth split into a wicked grin. She placed the magazine on the coffee table, crawled into his lap, and gripped the large bulge straining the front of his trousers, making him groan softly.

“I guess that answers my question,” she said. Her eyes had gone dark.

She pulled off her top and Severus reached eagerly for her bra clasp. As his mouth surrounded a nipple, his brain reminded him that he still hadn’t told her about the gallery. He had to tell her. But they had time. Surely it could wait until after. Together, they tugged off his shirt. Severus palmed her tits while her fingers made quick work of his belt.

“I’m glad you like watching me fuck,” she said huskily. His reply was cut off by a gasp as she shoved her hand into his briefs and wrapped her fist around his length. Her other hand carded into his hair. “No one else gets me like this, though,” she whispered. “I love you.”

He was glad that her mouth crashed into his so he was saved the expectation of a reply. Her hand tugged insistently at him, his love and desire for her swelling until all the emotions and thoughts that weren’t about their bodies or pleasure fell away. She was a siren in his lap, just like the magazine titled her—a lustful goddess, all her attention on him, and there was no way to resist her. He scooped her up by her bum and carried her to his bedroom.

As gently as he could, he placed her on the bed, pulled off her bottoms, pushed her on all fours, and buried his face into her cunt. He drank her like nectar, licked and nibbled and sucked until her thighs were shaking under his grip and she was muffling her cries in his sheets.

“Please, Sev,” she begged him softly, pelvis bumping back into his face. “I need you.”

Severus kept his mouth working while he struggled out of his trousers and pants. Then he was behind her, sinking inside her, eyes sliding shut from the bliss of being surrounded by her heat. His willpower already shattered, he picked up a quick pace, hipbones striking her bottom hard enough it sent shockwaves through her flesh.

“Yes. Yes. Don’t stop,” she whined, a single pitching eyebrow visible as she pressed her cheek into the mattress, her riotous hair blocking most of her face.

The pressure at the base of his cock built with every thrust, every moan from Hermione below him, and then she was shaking with another climax, wetness pooling around his cock, and there was a sharp tug as his orgasm overtook him. They collapsed together into his pillows, breathing hard. The light was low, painting the room in hazy yellow-grey. In his arms, Hermione giggled.

“I hope everyone has that reaction,” she said.

“They will,” he mumbled into her hair. There was no question.

“That reminds me,” she said after their breaths had steadied, rolling in his arms. “I got another offer from Sirens.”

“Of course you did,” he said. She was going to be a star.

“The thing is, they want me to shoot in France and Romania. Apparently David—that’s the owner—owns several magazines.” Severus felt himself still. Her hand slid up his chest. “I want you to come with me. I won’t work every day, and I’d feel better having you there. We can sightsee and you can visit galleries when I’m working. It’ll be like a working holiday.”

Severus felt dumbstruck. She wanted him to come?

“When is it?”

“Oh, um, I don’t have exact dates but two or three weeks in October. We can add some time to the ends if we want to sightsee longer.”

He cursed himself. The gallery… Colin had suggested they open at the end of October. With his luck, he would miss her holiday, and she would miss the gallery opening. The gallery she didn’t even bloody know about.

“Severus?” came her tentative voice.

His voice came out sounding pained. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

The way he said it, Hermione wasn’t sure he wasn’t about to tell her he was dying or that she was a stupid whore for thinking the trip to Europe was a good idea. It felt suddenly wrong to be naked, lying so close. She sat up. Severus lifted himself beside her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I am… I am opening a gallery.”

She blinked in surprise, not quite sure she’d heard him correctly. But the words soon worked their way through her brain, and then she was smiling.

“A gallery? Your gallery? Severus! That’s wonderful!” She threw her arms around him, and he squeezed her gently in return. Yet when she pulled away, his gaze remained worried.

“Colin is my partner. It was his idea. I am not convinced it will be a success.”

Colin? It explained why they’d gone out last weekend, and it was wonderful for them both, but still left her feeling a little airless. She pushed her negative thoughts away.

“Of course it will be successful!”

“We plan to open in late October.”

“That… That’s fast, isn’t it? Can you open a gallery that quickly?” It was already nearly September.

Severus grimaced. “We’ve been working on it for some time… Since the beginning of July.”

July…

A tight feeling gripped her chest right below her breastbone. That was seven weeks ago.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The airless feeling returned. They must have been meeting frequently then, while she was at work. Neither of them had said a thing… not that Colin had spoken to her recently. Severus said he was seeing Colin last week, and let her believe it was just a friendly visit.

She’d always encouraged him to open the gallery.

Did they not want her involved for some reason?

“You were busy with your new career and I… was not sure about it,” he said.

“So, what, now that you know my porn career isn’t going to go to shit, it’s okay to tell me? What would happen if I failed? Would you leave me in the dark?”

“No! The results of your shoot have nothing to do with it. With the gallery, I simply… I did not think… it was too much.”

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. She pushed from the bed, going for her knickers with shaking hands. Too much. Of course… No matter what she did, she was always too much. Too much, not enough of the right person, inconvenient, not worth the effort…

She’d pushed him faster than he wanted, demanded he support her. She’d sensed he couldn’t, but had ignored it, but she’d been right and it was because he was already making plans of his own with her best friend, who hadn’t spoken to her since they’d gone for brunch at the Lucky 7. Colin, whose life she’d pushed her way back into when he’d finally moved on.

It felt like her chest was caving in. She could barely do up the button of her jeans, her hands were shaking so hard.

“Hermione, stop. You have misunderstood me.”

She jerked up, staring at the man she loved, still nude and sitting in bed, because apparently she wasn’t worth standing up for either.

“What is there to misunderstand? You’ve been sneaking around behind my back with my best friend to start a business that you’ve been dreaming about for years and you didn’t even bother to tell me—because I did one fucking porn shoot?”

“I wanted to tell you! I did not agree to go ahead with it until last week. I still do not believe it will work out.”

“I’ve always supported you! I’ve told you to open the gallery multiple times and you didn’t even think to mention it was a possibility?” she shouted at him. “We see each other nearly every day, and I always ask about your day, and you didn’t think, ‘oh, hey, maybe I should mention the biggest thing in my fucking life to the woman I’m with’?”

Severus stood, and she turned away from his naked body as he dropped the sheets. “It is not that simple!”

“It seems pretty bloody simple to me!” Her mind whirled, suddenly questioning every interaction over the last two months. Her voice caught as she forced herself to choke out the question, “Do you even love me?”

He’d always been a closed-off person. A man of few words. She hadn’t minded that he never said it, thought he just wasn’t comfortable with such words, that he showed her his feelings in other ways. She didn’t want to believe that everything between them had been a lie, but maybe it hadn’t meant to him what it meant to her. Maybe it was asking too much for him to love her too.

Too much… it was always too much.

Was anything she thought they’d had even real? Or was it like most of her other relationships, where one of them faked it or she gave it her all while they talked shit about her behind her back?

“Hermione, I… that has nothing to do with it!”

“It has everything to do with it!” she shouted back.

He hadn’t said it.

Feeling like the floor was made of cracking glass, Hermione trembled and waited for an explanation. Still next to the bed, Severus’s jaw shifted as he ground his teeth. Long, bony fingers curled at his sides. Several times his chest lifted as if he was going to speak, but only silence passed between them.

When she spoke, her voice didn’t sound like hers. “Why are you with me?”

His lips twisted. Suddenly, cold onyx eyes bored into hers. “Why does it matter? Aren’t I only here to fuck you?”

Tears leapt onto her cheeks.

That’s what she was to him?

Her mind spun, but it made sense. All her clients, regardless of their preferences or stated reasons, came to her for one thing: intimacy. They came to her because they felt a lack of human connection, human touch. Severus had been alone, lonely, for years when they’d met at The Leaky Cauldron, and she offered him what he needed: company, care, pleasure, someone to share himself with. He’d never had an issue saying he wanted her, because he did want her. But wanting and loving weren’t the same.

“I care because I love you,” she threw back at him. “Silly me for thinking I’m good for more than a fuck.”

His eyes went wide. “That is not what I meant!”

“Say it, then,” she demanded.

She would give him this last chance.

“I… I…” She watched him swallow, his hands twisting by his sides. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. “I…” he croaked, “I want… I can’t.”

“Right, then,” she said, and walked from his bedroom. She picked up her bra and shirt and put them on mechanically.

“Hermione, please,” he said, hurrying from his room in his jeans.

She glanced at the magazine, her own half-naked body on the cover. Well, if a whore was all she was to him, he could have it.

“Hermione.”

He tried to reach for her, but she evaded his grasp, striding to the door and shoving on her trainers.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” she said through her tears. She picked up her bag. “I hope the gallery works out. Tell Colin he doesn’t have to worry about me bothering him either.”

“Hermione, stop!” His voice was panicked. He lunged for her, and before she knew what she was doing, her wand was in her hand and pointed at him. He held his hands up, his expression like she’d shoved a dagger into his chest.

“Please, give me the chance to explain. Don’t go. I… I need you.”

“What about what I need? I’m not going to be your whore!”

She kept her wand held like a sword, gripping her bag over her chest like a shield, and stepped backward, flicking her wand to open the door.

“You’re not! Not to me. Hermione, please. I… do… I—I love you. Please, don’t go. I love you!” Severus shouted, as she escaped outside.

The words were steel hammers that fractured her insides. The bits of her fell in, taking others with them, until there was only a hole in their place. Because they weren’t real. He just needed her and wanted her to stay.

She Apparated to the hallway outside her flat, and managed to get through the door before she crumpled.

Sitting on her welcome mat, back against her front door and sobbing, it occurred to her that this was probably how Colin felt when she left, knowing for the last year of their relationship, she’d stayed with him because he was her best, closest friend, because she had been too scared to let him go, even though she didn’t love him like she was supposed to. It made painful sense, karmic sense, why both men would forge a strong bond and leave her together.

She hadn’t given either of them what they wanted. Hadn’t been the person they needed her to be.

The day she ended things with Colin, she’d sat him on the sofa they’d bought together. It was raining, little drops pattering on the tall sash windows. As gently as she could, she explained that she’d fallen out of love with him, through no fault of his own. That there was something wrong with her, because he was the best person in her life, but she couldn’t lead him on when she knew he deserved so much better.

When she was finished explaining to Colin why she was leaving him, he’d sat next to her for a long time, jaw flexing and eyes rimmed with tears that she would never see fall. Not until his gallery show, in a single close-up eye framed on a wall for everyone to see. She’d been so focused on her feelings for Severus, on the creep harassing her that night that she’d missed the truth both men had been trying to communicate. But she understood now.

That day in their flat, after an eternity of silence, Colin had looked up at her with a resigned sort of acceptance, and said, “Okay. I understand.” Memories attached themselves in her mind, forming another damning piece of evidence, because Severus had given her the same look before they’d kissed in the rain, like there was no use fighting her.

Chapter Text

“Hi, Hermione!”

Misha’s enthusiastic greeting roused a small smile from Hermione, who wasn’t entirely sure she should be at work, but at the same time, the brothel was the only place she wanted to be.

“Is Madam Hazel in?”

“I think she’s in her office,” said Misha. She cocked her head. “Are you okay?”

Hermione took a shaking breath to hold back her tears. “Not really, but I don’t want to talk about it before my shift,” she replied with an apologetic smile. “I do want to ask about my booking schedule, though.”

“Sure. What do you need?”

Hermione had done a lot of thinking over the past couple days in between bouts of uncontrollable sobbing, and though the thought of being without Severus and Colin in her life hurt like ripping out her own two lungs, she’d decided to return to what she’d started the day she’d walked down Knockturn Alley. She’d been searching for a new career, new dreams that would make her feel important and fulfilled, and by some miracle, she had found them. The Sirens editor believed she was worth investing a lot of galleons and a trip to Europe in. The Scarlet Witch had become her second home, and as of Sunday, was the only place she still had friends. Even if she would never be a whole person to her clients and fans, it was honest work and made people happy. In time, she hoped it would make her happy again—that it wasn’t a sign that for the first time since leaving the ministry, she’d needed a Pick-Me-Up Potion to get out of bed that morning. Seeing the sunny yellow liquid that Severus brewed for her had sent her into another round of miserable tears, but it had worked, and she was here.

“I’m going to need to take some time off in October. I don’t have exact dates yet, but in the meantime can you add two hours to my Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays?”

“No problem. Are you going on holiday?”

“More of a working holiday. Sirens wants to shoot me in Europe and I might extend it,” she explained, smiling when Misha congratulated her.

She wished the trip was sooner. She wanted a distraction. She wanted not to be home, where Severus had embedded himself into every stick of furniture and fleck of paint. If the extra hours helped, she might work Sundays too. It wouldn’t hurt to help her career and earn some extra galleons before her trip, especially with the Sirens issue coming out soon.

By the time her last client left, Hermione’s day had gone about as well as she expected, which was not great, but good enough that she’d managed to not think about Severus for most of it. Feeling exhausted, she plopped herself on the sofa in the lounge, unsure if she wanted to go home. It was only six, so she could conceivably pick up a few more clients in the lounge if she wanted to. It was tempting, given that going home no longer promised arriving to a hug, or dinner waiting for her, or quiet companionship, or the best sex of her life. The only person to tell about her day would be Crookshanks, just like it used to be.

Tears welled before she could stop them, a choked sound belching from her lungs. She heard the door open but it registered like a ghost wailing in an attic several floors above.

All she could think was that she was alone, and she’d been stupid to think that Severus had ever seen her differently than any of her clients. So many of them were kind to her too. It didn’t mean those relationships were anything more than what was bought and paid for.

“Hey, Hermione! Hermione? Hey, what’s wrong?”

A body sat down beside her, and Hermione could only tell it was Charlotte from her voice. A comforting hand moved to her shoulder. “Did something happen?”

Hermione looked up at her through a blur of tears. “Severus, he… he…”

“Oh, babe,” said Charlotte, understanding anyway and wrapping Hermione in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

Charlotte held her until her sobs had quieted to silent tears, and somehow, by the time she had finished explaining what happened—how’d she’d loved Severus, but he hadn’t loved her, only wanted and needed her company, and had been hiding a secret business and who knew what else—Jude, Malcolm, and Vanessa were there too.

“It’ll be okay,” said Charlotte, her eyes full of empathy.

Malcolm shoved a mug of hot tea into her hands. Jude offered to torture Severus on Hermione’s behalf. It felt new and strange and wonderful to have people who were so eager to support her.

“I’m really lucky to have you all in my life,” said Hermione, voice cracking, though she managed to keep more tears at bay.

“Right back at you,” said Jude, pressing a kiss to Hermione’s cheek.

“It’s Severus’s loss,” said Malcolm. “Seriously. What an absolute wanker.”

“I need to get to my client, but next time I see you, we are arranging a time for you to come to my flat and do girly shit,” said Jude.

“I’d like that,” Hermione said.

Much like they’d come in, her colleagues filtered out to their clients until it was just her and Charlotte again.

“I need to get to a client too, but if you are willing to wait, we could go for pints or even go back to mine after. It’s only a standard, and I’m pretty sure I have some ice cream in my freezer.”

“I’m really going to miss you,” said Hermione, suddenly overcome with sadness that in a week, Charlotte wouldn’t be here to go for pints with after work.

“We’ll still see each other. You’re coming to my party whether you want to or not.”

“I do want to,” said Hermione. Charlotte wouldn’t ever need to force her. “Go on. Your client is waiting. I’ll be here whenever you’re done.”

All alone again, Hermione settled into the sofa with her tea. Everything inside her still felt like it was cracked and broken, but the pieces didn’t feel quite so sharp, like maybe her colleagues—her friends—had sanded down the edges a little. Now she just had to find a way to move on.

There was little comfort in being proven correct.

It had been months since Severus had considered the question of how long he would live. But a week after things had fallen apart with Hermione, he hoped the answer was imminently. He lay in his bed, cycling between crying, sleeping, and fantasizing about a dues ex machina taking him out: an electrical fire, his house collapsing on his head, an old enemy breaking in and hitting him with a killing curse while he slept, a dark hole opening beneath his bed, one of his old master’s ghosts dragging him beyond the veil. Death would be best. Easiest for everyone. For her.

He was letting Colin down, but couldn’t bring himself to care. Colin would be better off going his own with the gallery, anyway. He’d sent Severus two letters that he hadn’t read and never responded to.

His only remaining reason to live hopped up onto his bed and bumped her forehead into his overlarge nose. He sniffed, not bothering to wipe his damp cheeks.

“I’m sorry you are stuck with me,” he whispered, petting her head. Did Cinder miss Hermione too? The cat had finally accepted her; just a week ago, he had come out of the loo to find Cinder sitting in Hermione’s lap, a grin of pleasure on his witch’s face.

A smile he would never see again.

Not his any longer.

He buried his face into his pillow, and prayed for something to end him.

A loud banging echoed through his dreams. They mingled with Hermione’s voice asking if he loved her, Charity begging him to save her, Dumbledore pleading for his merciful death. He peeled an eye open to find himself still in his room, hunger gnawing at his guts and his tongue glued to his palate. The banging felt like the pounding in his head, but he closed his eyes against it, and eventually it faded, and he returned to his nightmares.

The next time he awoke, there were voices.

“Snape!”

“Severus!”

“Where the fuck is the bastard? What a fucking mess. It smells.”

“Check in there.”

The moment he realized the voices were coming from his sitting room, Severus jerked up in bed. It made his head whirl, but he heard the door creak open wide, and saw two blurry silhouettes.

“GET OUT!” he shouted as he held onto his spinning, pounding skull.

“Severus, are you all right? Why haven’t you been answering my letters?”

He forced his eyes open to find himself staring at Colin and the last person he wanted to see. Looming in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, was Ronald-fucking-Weasley. Severus straightened and forced himself not to react to another wave of dizziness.

“If you’ve come to arrest me then get it over with or piss off,” he hissed.

“He’s not going to arrest you. You disappeared and wouldn’t answer me, so I reported you missing. Ron agreed to help me get through your wards.”

The redhead stepped forward. “Did you do something to Hermione?”

“You stay away from her! All you’ve ever done is make her suffer!”

He lurched upward, swaying once he got to his feet, and snatched his wand from his bedside table. He felt like a walking corpse, except he was far too annoyingly alive. He half-hoped the Auror would send a hex his way so he could retaliate, but Colin put a steadying hand on Weasley’s arm.

“I think I can take it from here. Thank you for the help,” said Colin.

“You sure you’ll be okay? He looks a little barmy.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Weasley,” Severus spat.

“I’ll be fine.”

Severus waited until he heard the front door open and shut, and then stumbled forward. Clutching his skull against a bounding headache, he swerved around Colin and staggered from his room, shoulder smacking the door jam as he passed. He did not acknowledge it.

Weaving through the scattered books and bits of broken table and bookcases to the kitchen, he fed and watered an excited Cinder. Then he went to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, drank it in one long swallow, and downed a second on top.

He glared at Colin, who appeared at the door, and waved his arm at the kitchen. “Help yourself,” he muttered, pushing past him. Of course the Gryffindor couldn’t keep well enough alone. Severus headed straight to the couch, where he collapsed onto a cushion littered with debris. It took only a moment to realize his mistake.

He hadn’t been able to move Hermione’s magazine, to touch it. Had carefully avoided it when destroying the rest of the room. It sat exactly how she’d left it, a horrible, pristine monument to what he’d lost. It felt wrong watching her fondle her breasts enticingly, as if she might ever want him again or look at him without a mask of contempt.

Fuck. Fuck, he missed her so much. He was such a fucking fool. He’d always known it would end, but he hadn’t wanted it to end like this.

His head fell into his hands as he began to shake. It didn’t matter if Colin saw, for he’d leave soon too, and then Severus would be alone again, as it should be.

“Severus,” said Colin, his voice too gentle. “What’s happened?”

The reasons far too awful, Severus said nothing and curled himself into a ball against the armrest.

“It’s Hermione, isn’t it? She won’t answer my letters either.”

“I’m sorry,” Severus rasped. He’d ruined their relationship too.

There was a long silence and then Colin sighed. “I should have told her at the start.”

A rasping, dark chuckle rattled Severus’s lungs. “She was right about you,” he said, each word wrapped in a bittersweet ache. “Always taking the blame for other people’s mistakes.”

He waved a pale hand at the door, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. “Do yourself a favour and leave me to rot.”

“Severus, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit. I’m not going to leave you like this.”

Emotions and regrets bounced against each other like colliding stars. “You fail to grasp the situation again, Creevey.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

Clawing regret and anger that these were words he could say when better ones were so hard made him spit, “I look this way because I am! There is nothing good about me! I only ever hurt people! I will hurt you too!” A new wave of tears spilling over his lashes, he tightened his form into as close to a ball as he could manage.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“It’s true,” he muttered. “You should leave… or find someone to kill me.”

“Is that what you want? To die?”

“Yes,” he answered desperately. “Take Cinder with you. My cat. She does not deserve to suffer. Bring me the locked box from my desk. I’ll give you my vault key. Use it for her and the gallery.”

He would do right by them both, some last good before he died, even if it would never make up for everything. Not to the person who deserved it the most.

Colin stood and Severus let out a breath, finally thinking he might have some peace, but he only went into the kitchen. He heard Colin murmuring to himself, and then a streak of silver-blue light bounded around the corner and took off through the conservatory with its tail wagging. If Severus wasn’t so exhausted, he would have rolled his eyes; of course Creevey’s patronus was a bloody golden retriever.

Some time later, he emerged with mugs of tea. Carefully, he set them on the coffee table, and picked up the magazine.

“Don’t—” Severus started with a jolt, then stopped himself.

“I’m just putting it somewhere safe,” said Colin. Carefully, he set it on top of a row of books that Severus hadn’t blown to bits. “I’ve asked Matthew to come over.”

“Too cowardly to confront me one-on-one?” Severus taunted him, though his voice lacked its usual venom.

“You seem to be beating yourself up well enough on your own,” said Colin. “Honestly, I’m worried about you and Matthew’s parents work at St. Mungo’s, so he knows this stuff better than I do.”

“Does it look like I’m in need of a healer? I’m not bleeding or cursed.”

“You’re still unwell.”

Severus grunted. What did he know?

He was a broken 43-year-old, dirty, half-naked wizard curled up into a ball on a sofa. He wasn’t unwell. He was simply done. With everything. With life.

It was why he didn’t protest when Colin shoved a mug into his hands. He peered at the transparent, brownish liquid.

“Black?”

“Your milk is off.”

“Apologies. I was not expecting guests,” Severus deadpanned.

“Do you have a clean shirt?” Colin asked.

“No idea.”

The warmth from the cup seeped into his hands, which remained on the sofa’s cushion. He listened to Colin sip from his own mug, silence stretching out between them, wishing he could sleep. Thoughts of Hermione swirled endlessly in his mind. Of how much of a fuck-up he was. How Colin should be with her, not him. How much he loved her and would never stop.

“She thinks it was all a lie,” he admitted softly.

“Was it?”

“No. I… didn’t know how to tell her.”

Colin made a thoughtful humming noise. To Severus, it sounded like condemnation.

“Why are you still here?” Severus asked.

“The short answer is I care. The long answer is because you’re my friend and my business partner, and because you’ve been through a lot and I don’t think anyone has ever helped you when you needed it, though maybe that’s because you didn’t let them. Mostly, I know how it feels to have Hermione leave you.”

His chest went tight, felt brittle like sand pressed into a cake. Like one touch might make him crumble.

“Cinder?”

“I’ll look after her. Just worry about you.”

That was impossible, Severus thought, unless it was worrying about how he might accidentally hurt more people. But he was too tired to argue against the humiliation of Colin and Matthew dragging him to St. Mungo’s, too tired to care what might happen after. He was a ship sent to sea with a cracked hull and torn sails. He’d struggled valiantly against the waves for a long time, but he’d finally run out of power, had removed the oars and sails by hand and thrown them away. He was already in the deep, resting against the muddy bottom, the weight of the ocean pressing on him and crustaceans picking at his corpse. He’d never sail again. He didn’t want to try. So he lay there and waited for whatever was to come.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s robe slipped open as she trod down the back stairs to the staff room. She left it that way, shaking out her curls with a hand and waving at Malcolm, who lounged on the sofa, on her way to her locker.

“How many today?” Malcolm called.

“Ten, but I plan to tell the next one to leave, so might end up nine unless I can find someone else,” she said, searching through the potion bottles on the top shelf, most of them empty.

“Don’t wear yourself out before you get to France.”

“I’ll have lots of time to rest while I’m there and with the magazine out and going away, it just makes sense to do more now while I can,” she said. Between work, her shoot with Wanton Witch, extended hours at the brothel and celebrating her birthday, she’d barely been home the last week. She was tired, but it felt better than sitting at home being sad. Her fingers tightened around a Pick-Me-Up Potion, trying not to think about the sunny yellow ones she’d run out of weeks ago and who’d made them. She chugged it quickly before exchanging the empty bottle for her makeup bag.

“As long as you’re not too tired to party on Saturday,” he replied, small wrinkles of concern around his eyes. It was Charlotte’s party to celebrate her promotion to a fully licensed Healer and her new job at St. Mungo’s in the Janus Thickey Ward.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

She changed, reapplied her lipstick, and checked her appearance. With a long exhale, she wished Malcolm a good session and went back the way she came so she could drop her robe off back at her room for the day.

That morning when Misha had handed Hermione her schedule, she’d been shocked and then irate to see ‘G Weasley’ three down. It was her fault because she’d been too upset after their last session to remember to put him on her personal blacklist. Misha and Madam Hazel wouldn’t have known not to book him.

“Before you tell me to bugger off, hear me out,” George said the moment she opened the door.

“I hope you don’t think you’re going to convince me to go upstairs with you.” After a pause, she shut the door and sat down, careful to keep some distance between them.

“I don’t. I just didn’t think you’d talk to me if I invited you down to the shop.” His grin softened into a gentle smile. “I’ll still pay for your time, but I wanted to give you this along with another apology of my own.”

He slid a plain envelope towards her.

“What’s this?”

“It’s from Ginny. I showed her your article—bloody nice pictures, by the way. It’s my current favourite wank material. Anyway, she was going to owl it, but I convinced her to let me deliver it to you.”

Hermione fingered the folded paper.

“Promise it’s not bad,” said George. “You’ll be pleased to know I told Ron you’d hex him blind if he tagged along. He says he’s sorry, though, and you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Hermione’s lips twisted and she shifted stiffly in her seat. “It would have been nice to hear that from him a long time ago.”

“I know. He’s sorry about that too, but if you hadn’t noticed, my family is kind of stubborn.”

Hermione spluttered, choking on a laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry for the fake booking, but I didn’t want you to think we all hated you.” He pulled a small stack of galleons from his pocket and set it in front of her.

Hate her? Hating her would have been preferable. They hadn’t cared about her enough to hate her.

She wanted to scream. Instead, she pushed back his galleons. “I don’t want your money, George.”

“You sure? All right, well… I suppose in that case, I look forward to supporting your work in more hands-on ways in the future,” he said with a wink. “Now I will get my ugly mug out of your hair. Take care, Hermione.”

Hermione stood as he did, gripping the letter by her side. George brushed his hair out of his eyes, giving her a crooked smile, and she felt her anger wither. He’d shared her article, was trying to help. She sighed.

“George,” she stopped him as he moved past her. “I can recommend someone else if you still want a session.”

“I’d be happy to meet one of your ass-ociates,” he quipped, causing Hermione to groan. “I know you’re going to miss my puns.”

“Sit down and I’ll be back with someone in a few,” she said, leaving him and heading to the bar lounge to see who might be available to see him.

It didn’t take long to choose. She’d known George since she was eleven, after all, had spent months with him upstairs. Esme was pretty, curvy, a little goofy, the sort of witch who would laugh at his jokes and wouldn’t be faking it half the time like she was.

She wasn’t sure if she’d miss George’s stupid puns. But she didn’t feel ready to open Ginny’s letter, so after introducing Esme to George, she put it in her locker and went to the lounge to find a client for herself.

By the end of the day, her ex-friend’s letter remained unread. Hermione’s last client was one of her favourites, an older widower named Alexander who had been one of her first regulars. He worked as a division head at the ministry in Games and Sports, and as she let him into Room Six, she couldn’t help but wonder what Ginny would think if she knew someone she worked with on a regular basis used her services.

Alexander liked to take things slow, so instead of sending him to the shower, they moved to the sofa and Hermione opened the bottle of wine he always ordered from the bar.

“Did you have a good month? How was the fundraiser?” she asked as she poured him glass.

“It went well. Better than I could have imagined,” he said, accepting his drink with thanks. “In fact, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Bugger!” Hermione scrambled to pick up the toppled bottle before its contents spilled over everything. “Sorry, that was so klutzy of me. Should I get another?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Alexander, placing a steadying hand on her back and prying the bottle from her hand with the other. “Let me.”

Hermione vanished the burgundy puddle from the table with a wave of her hand and gratefully leaned into the sofa, placing a palm over her racing heart. Once they were comfortably seated next to each other with glasses in hand, she asked, “So, what were you going to say?”

Alex sipped his wine and put an arm around her. “I met someone at the fundraiser and have a date on Friday.”

Hermione let out a rush of breath, her smile widening. “Are you sure you should be here then?” she teased him.

“It’s not until the weekend, and I wanted to see you one last time in case it goes well,” he replied. “The only reason I have a date is you.”

“I don’t recall setting you up with anyone.”

“That’s strange. I swear she said you’d sent her,” he said, light grey eyes dancing. “Honestly, though, I never would have been confident enough to ask her out if it hadn’t been for my time with you. When I started coming here I thought those days were behind me.”

“You’re a catch, Alex. I’m glad you realized that,” Hermione complimented him. She let her fingers travel lightly over his stomach. “What’s she like?”

When Alexander left two hours later, Hermione lingered in the room. She sat on edge of the bed, the sheets still messy from sex, a warm feeling in her belly and an ache in her heart. She felt good about helping Alexander gain confidence enough to put himself out there. Making a difference, even if it was small and personal, was what she’d always hoped to do with her work, but there was sadness too that she wouldn’t see him again, and deep inside something whispered that she wouldn’t get the same chance he did to date again. Could someone in her line of work ever be considered a catch? Could she?

Most of her colleagues were single, and the ones that weren’t had partners that were or had been in the sex business. Perhaps that was where she’d need to find someone too. Not that she was even remotely interested in dating anyone right now. Not that it would change who she was.

It had been a month since her breakup with Severus, and she still thought about him every day, no matter how hard she tried not to. Every passing day without so much as a letter from him was more confirmation that their relationship had been a facsimile, her love unrequited. Somehow, knowing that didn’t make him any easier to let go.

Straightening her shoulders, she pushed herself from the bed and pulled off the dirty sheets. Cleaning up after her sessions was routine now, and it took no time at all to reset the room, shower, and dress. She yawned when she got back to her locker, glad to be done for the day. It was good to be busy, but she was going to go back to a normal schedule when she got back from Romania.

She got Chinese on the way home, and ate it on the sofa with Crookshanks begging for chicken balls despite having just been fed. She stared at Ginny’s unopened letter waiting on the coffee table as if it might fold itself open and tell her whether the contents were worth reading. Once her belly was full, she picked up the letter, spinning it in her fingers several times before finally cracking open the seal.

Inside she found three double-sided pages full of Ginny’s slanted handwriting. It was neither a scathing diatribe of Hermione’s faults, nor a sappy plea to be friends again. She apologized for their last interaction at the pub and for being a poor friend before that.

…I didn’t know how to handle that you were changing, and instead of trying to get to know the new you or see things from your perspective, I got angry. I used to look up to you. You were always so passionate and driven, and I saw those parts of you fading, and I blamed you for it. I told myself you were being stupid and ungrateful, and I probably listened to Parvati and Ron too much because they were successful in ways I thought you would be, even though the situations were completely different. You were supposed to be Hermione, the one who always had the answers no matter what shitty problem you, Ron, and Harry were facing. You were supposed to fight! And instead Ron and Harry were ditching you, and you were giving up and fumbling everything else, or at least that’s how it looked from the outside. I never stopped to consider that there might be other reasons, and then you told us you were doing sex work, and it was like confirmation of everything I’d believed. I know that wasn’t fair of me, but I never stopped to question it until George said you were making a name for yourself and that we were all awful for how we treated you. I’m glad he made me read your interview. I still don’t know that I agree with sex work, but I understand better why you needed to leave the ministry, and I’m glad you found something that makes you happy…

Hermione read the words with a frown on her face, then cast the pages back onto the table. It was a confirmation of all the things she’d felt over the last three years, and yet she didn’t feel vindicated or relieved. It didn’t make her want to write back with thanks, and she didn’t think she wanted to take up Ginny’s offer to get coffee and get to know the “new” versions of each other.

Her hand absently stroked Crookshanks thick fur for several minutes as the lines around her mouth deepened. Then she stood and went to her dining table, summoning her stationery. She sat, lips twisting in front of a blank sheet, a Muggle pen grasped in tight fingers.

Ten minutes later she refilled her mug of tea, returned to the sofa, and picked up her book. She’d written only five words on the page left on the dining table: Ginny, I got your letter..

The following morning, Hermione padded half-asleep into her kitchen for breakfast to find three owls sitting on the sill outside her window, the Prophet’s owl looking completely put out by the two others, who had a large bouquet of bright flowers between them. Crookshanks sat on the floor beneath the sink, the tip of his tail twitching as he stared at the intruders. Unsure what to make of the gift, Hermione nevertheless accepted it and placed it on her counter.

A little card was tied to the vase, which proclaimed it a present from the ‘Sirens team’ for the success of her issue, which had sold out and so they’d decided to do a second printing. She smiled, but like most things right now, felt bittersweet. More people would read her article, see that she could shine. She sniffed a purple freesia and then stuck the little note to the wall above her breakfast table.

She ignored the Prophet until she was finished serving Crookshanks his breakfast and then promptly rolled her eyes at the salacious headline. The week previous there’d been an article about her work with Sirens, which had at least quoted some of her interview, though still managed to be about fifty percent wrong.

“I don’t even know why I bother with this rubbish,” Hermione said to her familiar, who made a short, gruff meow in response before returning to noisily eating his food. “Right? Exactly.”

It felt good to torch the paper, watching the fire turn it to smoke and ash. She vanished what remained before it could harm her kitchen or beautiful bouquet, and then returned to making her breakfast. Back at her dining room table, she shoved the abandoned letter to Ginny aside and pulled out a thank you card, scribbling a note while she spooned muesli and yogurt into her mouth.

It was a typically cloudy day for London when Hermione arrived in Diagon Alley, but still pleasantly warm for the end of September. She was getting used to the comments and odd stares from the public, and ignored them as she made her way to the Owl Post Office. The queue was thankfully short, and before long she was handing her letter to the old wizard behind the counter. As she waited for him to ring her up, her eyes drifted to a poster on the wall. “Subscribe to The Daily Prophet here!” it said, images of recent issue flipping past underneath the text. She watched “Hermione Granger: Rising Star or New Low?” and her face float briefly past.

“One sickle, three knuts please,” said the man.

“Actually, I’d also like to cancel my Daily Prophet subscription,” she said. It felt suddenly silly to read a paper she knew was full of garbage. The few articles in the Knockturn News were written better. “Do you sell subscriptions to the Knockturn News?”

“Uh… I’d have to check,” he said, blinking at her as if she’d hit him with a Confundus Charm.

“Please do.”

Hermione tapped her foot while he disappeared into the back.

She heard Matthew before she saw him, his bubbling laughter carrying from the back room. He emerged a minute later, a stack of papers held under one arm, brown eyes catching on hers. He waved and flashed one of his big, bright smiles, but all Hermione could do was stand, hands gripping her handbag strap in front of her chest. The employee who’d been helping her pushed around him.

“If you want a subscription to Knockturn News, fill this out,” he said flatly.

She blinked, forcing her attention back to the counter. “Sorry?”

He tapped the faded paper form on the countertop and handed her a quill. Hermione scribbled her information on it as quickly as possible, handed him what she owed him to mail the letter, and then turned for the exit.

The door was drifting shut behind her when she heard Matthew call her name. Frowning, she turned as he emerged from the building. His papers had been abandoned, and a lime green shirt stuck out under the neck of his brown uniform.

“Hey,” he said with another smile.

“Hi,” Hermione said tentatively. A soft blow to her side made her stumble sideways, but the witch who’d done it already had the door open when Hermione righted herself and glared.

“You might try an ‘excuse me’ next time!” Matthew called after the woman, but she didn’t pause and disappeared into the building. “Sorry. Some of our customers are so rude.”

Hermione didn’t have the energy to explain to him that it had probably been on purpose. Moving safely in front of the shop window, she glanced at another wizard who passed behind Matthew’s tall form.

“I’m sorry if this is weird,” Matthew said with a chuckle. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Hermione shrugged, not knowing what to tell him. “That depends on what part of my life you’re asking about,” she replied slowly. “Trying not to think about it, to be honest.”

His face fell into a sympathetic frown. “Yeah. I… I’m really sorry. I know I’m supposed to be on Colin’s side and all, but I’d probably not want to talk to him either if he went and started a business with my brother or something behind my back,” he said. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Mostly I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for whatever part I might have played in it.” He hesitated before adding, “Colin’s sorry too.”

Hermione swallowed a hard lump that had formed in her throat. “Everyone’s always sorry.”

“I mean it, though.”

Her face caved inward, eyebrows scrunching, lips curling to bare her teeth. Ginny was sorry, George was sorry, Ron was sorry, Colin was sorry, Matthew was sorry—even Severus, if he ever bothered to reach out, would probably say he was sorry. She was so fucking tired of apologies.

“It doesn't change anything!" she bellowed, meeting Matthew’s eyes suddenly, hands becoming fists. “I know I’m not perfect and for whatever reason I’m difficult to love, but I’m sick of forgiving people because I want to matter, when I never mattered enough to start with. I don’t fucking care about sorry. It isn’t enough!”

She felt herself shaking, anger and hurt she’d been trying to stuff down for the last month coming loose.

“If Colin told me how much I hurt him, I would have tried to make it up to him or left him alone.” She laughed ruefully, the sound like rough dirt grinding over stone, sending another shock through her. Her bottom lip wobbled and her eyes rimmed with tears. “Colin’s the only person who has ever made me feel loved unconditionally, no matter what stupid thing I did. Maybe I deserve what they did… I don’t know… maybe I’m being selfish, but… I can’t stop it feeling like Severus stole the one person I always had on my side, and maybe Colin wasn’t, but he could have told me and I would have listened and tried to do better. I wouldn’t have left it at sorry.”

Matthew’s gaze was full of sympathy when she finished. Tears slid down her cheeks, and she didn’t care if he saw them. If he told Colin, well, what would it matter? He’d already chosen Severus over her.

“Shit, witch. Can I give you a hug?”

Hermione snorted despite her tears and nodded. Matthew wrapped her in a tight hug and she hugged him back, and felt another jagged piece inside her soften at the edges.

“I don’t think you’re difficult to love,” Matthew said fiercely, still gripping her tight. “I think most people are idiots, and unfortunately Colin is people.”

“Yeah… Unfortunately, I am too,” she joked, wiping her eyes.

“You haven’t lost him, either, though he did super fuck up, so I get it if you choose not to forgive him.”

“He’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t care.”

Matthew’s frown deepened. “Yeah… Fuck, I’m sorry to make you cry in the middle of the street.”

“It’s okay. I have potions at work so I won’t look like a wreck.”

“Do you often cry at work?”

“Not usually. Lately once or twice. I try to be prepared,” she explained with a wry twist of her lips. “Speaking of work, I should go before I’m late. Thank you, though, for saying hello. Take good care of Colin, won’t you? He deserves someone who’s crazy about him.”

“I will,” said Matthew, still frowning. “Stay fit, witch. You’re killing it. If you ever need a hug or someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

He gave her another quick squeeze, and then Hermione made her way towards Knockturn Alley. At the corner, the recently-sold store still had its windows covered in brown paper, but a new sign hung over the door. She knew it was their gallery as soon as she read the name: Outsiders.

A small smile lifted her lips as a new wave of tears spilled over her lashes.

Wishing she’d gotten the chance to tell them both it was the perfect thing to call their gallery, Hermione disappeared into Knockturn’s shadows.