“Mione! Wait!”
“No.” Hermione summoned and shrunk a few books she’d thoughtlessly left on the kitchen counter of Grimmauld Place, blinking rapidly. With the way she left them lying about she was undoubtedly going to leave some behind, but surely Harry would return them.
“It’s not…I didn’t mean…I was drunk, y’know?”
She did know. That didn’t make it hurt less. “I know you and I have…different views about sexuality,” she said, holding onto her composure with an iron grip, “but I expected us to have compatible views on loyalty.”
“Hermione, I love you.”
“Liar.”
“It didn’t mean anything!”
“Ronald Weasley, I didn’t expect you to be the sort of man who would use a woman for sex! Merlin, what would your mother say?”
“That’s not-”
She turned away. “I thought you were done with this. I know how you acted when I went back for my N.E.W.T.s, but I thought, since you proposed-”
“How did you know?” His face was growing red. “Who told you?”
“I did,” said a voice from behind them. They both turned to look at Harry, whose eyes were nearly as big around as the lenses of his glasses. “Ron, what-”
Ron hissed something that made Harry wince and step aside, then stormed back upstairs.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione offered, more on reflex than anything. She hated apologising for Ron, but it somehow felt like her responsibility.
“Don’t apologise, not for him. Did something happen?”
They both went quiet as footsteps - multiple, from the sound of it - went down the stairs and out the door.
“Merlin,” Harry said, his face contorting in pain. “Again?”
Hermione nodded.
Warm arms cradled her. Her mental image of Harry was still scrawny and not nearly tall enough for his age; even after spending so much time alone together during the horcrux hunt, this tall, broad-shouldered Harry sometimes took her by surprise. It was a pleasant surprise, though.
“Guess you moved on quick,” Ron muttered from the hallway. “Were you with him when you wouldn’t sleep with me?”
“Oh shove off,” Harry said, his arms tightening for a moment like a noose before loosening again. “Did you see your guest out? At least give her some dignity, Ron.”
Hermione buried deeper into Harry’s chest, not caring anymore. Eventually Ron gave up and stomped away, back upstairs to his room.
“I feel like a monster,” Hermione admitted, losing the battle with her tears. “Nine months I’ve been planning our wedding, mostly by myself. I wanted this time between us to be special, getting to know each other. He told me he would wait for me.”
“I’m not defending him,” Harry said, running a comforting hand over her head, “but Ron…he’s still finding himself, I think.”
“At the bottom of a bottle? In the arms of other witches?”
“...I don’t agree with his methods, or how he’s hurt you, but I don’t think he did it out of malice.”
She pulled away, drying her eyes with the back of her hand. “It doesn’t much matter, does it? It hurts either way. We’re over, now.”
“For good?”
She nodded. “I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t tolerate physical abuse or infidelity. I intend to keep that promise.”
“Ginny and I will tell the Weasleys.” Harry sighed, ruffling his hair. “I can throw him out, you know.”
“You can, but you won’t.” He’d offered Ron a room to get away from the post-war chaos and the agony of losing a brother, neither of which had really faded in the past year and a half.
“...For you, I would. Do you have somewhere else to go?”
Hermione worried her lip. “I…have that apprenticeship from Snape I’ve been considering. It’s an old custom, but room and board are still technically included.”
“With Snape? Didn’t you say that was a last resort?”
“What do you call this?”
Harry didn’t have a good answer.
“I’ve decided to accept your offer,” Hermione said, looking at the man across the cafe table from her, “with one condition.”
An imperious eyebrow raised in her direction.
“I find myself in need of a place to stay, so I would need the traditional housing.”
“The pay I’m offering is sufficient for a flat.”
She winced a little. “I’m afraid the issue isn’t money. I need someplace both safe and discreet. I trust your judgement; if you know someplace you can recommend, I’ll be happy to look into it.”
His silence spoke volumes. “...Fine, I agree to your terms.”
She smiled and bought him chocolate cake to celebrate.
Of all the job offers Hermione had received after her N.E.W.T.s, Snape’s was the least expected.
Potions had never been her favourite subject - especially since being bested by the Half-Blood Prince - but she had come to appreciate it more while volunteering after the war. Recipes were all well and good, but when ingredients ran out and supplies were short substitutions had to be made. Sensitivities and ingredient conflicts meant some potions necessary to keep patients alive had to be adjusted accordingly, and it was never as simple as exchanging one ingredient for another in the same quantity.
Madam Pomfrey had found her elaborate substitution charts and had shown them to Professor Slughorn, who had recommended that she publish her work. Apparently such things were usually passed down from master to student instead of being collated in such an orderly fashion. Oh, he didn’t have the time to help her, but he insisted that it would be valuable.
And so, Hermione had sought out the only other Potions Master she knew.
Snape had been resistant, at first, but once he realised that his criticisms were only helping her refine the data in her tables he began to - begrudgingly - offer further advice. They developed enough rapport that he was willing to introduce her to other masters, researchers, periodical editors…
Four months after her graduation, her tables and their defence were published in The Practical Potioneer, co-authored by Hermione Granger and Severus Snape. Two months later, an owl arrived with an offer for an apprenticeship.
The first lesson Hermione learned in her apprenticeship was that Master Snape, her master, was very different from the Professor Snape she’d known at Hogwarts, who was different again from the Snape she’d collaborated with for months. It was like deciding to teach her had lit a fire in him she’d only seen a few times, an almost frenetic energy, and he devoted himself to the task with all the passion and fury of a man possessed.
It was like she’d finally made it to the centre of a whirlwind, watching the storm that had buffeted her for so long protect her instead. Oh, he’d always protected her, in his own way, but this was on a whole different level.
She didn’t have to explain to him why she wanted Harry and Ginny to visit but not Ron, he simply charmed his Floo to accept a boy he could barely tolerate and barred nearly everyone else.
Their days were full - Master Snape was the brewer for a chain of apothecaries covertly owned by the Malfoys, and it was a matter of pride to keep the shelves stocked - but he made sure she had time to eat, sleep, and speak to her family and friends, even if it meant he did the extra work himself.
It was a learning experience like no other, entirely focused on brewing, inventory, ingredient procurement and preparation, research-
Entirely focused…on him. It took two weeks of living in his home, in the suite of rooms he’d magically enlarged for her, to realise with painful clarity why such a high percentage of apprentices developed intimate relationships with their former masters. She wasn’t ready for anything like that, not so soon after her heart had been broken, but it was intoxicating.
“Miss Granger.”
Hermione blinked, realising that she’d been staring at her master for at least a full minute. “Yes, Master?”
“Are you well?”
It was a strange question in the middle of a brewing marathon. “I…believe so?”
“Would you care to expound on why you are watching me instead of your cauldron?”
Because she wanted to kiss him. “Not really, sir.”
He nodded, apparently pleased with this Slytherin response. “See that you focus on your work, Apprentice.”
She did so, thankful she’d been let off easy.
“Regulations from the Guild of Potioneers forbids relationships between masters and apprentices until three months after the apprentice achieves a mastery.”
Oh, right, he was a Legilimens. “I see. Thank you for letting me know.” She did some quick calculations and made a note in the very front of her research notebook.
Three months and twelve hours after she achieved her mastery with flying colours, Hermione Granger visited her former Master for tea. She ignored the teapot, pushed him into his favourite armchair, and snogged him senseless.
