Chapter Text
Hermione thrives on order. She enjoys a clean and clear space – a messy house is a messy mind, her father used to say – and her belongings are rarely in a place where they shouldn't be. The tornado on her bed is therefore causing her a fair bit of mental distress. She starts clearing it up; dresses go on the left side of her wardrobe, skirts on the middle shelf. She fingers the skirt of a pale yellow sundress. Maybe she should wear that instead? Then she huffs, hangs the garment into the closet and tucks her hair behind her ears. It doesn't at all matter what she wears, and she's not changing again.
Crookshanks is stretched out half on top of the last dress to be put away, and when she moves his leg to pull it away he startles, raises his head and hisses at the audacity.
“I'm sorry, old man,” Hermione chuckles, reaching over and scratching his chin. His purrs vibrate through her hand, and she reluctantly gives him a final stroke before straightening up. She hangs up the dress and closes the wardrobe doors with a sigh. She's procrastinating. She should just leave. The sooner she leaves, the sooner it'll be over and she can come back home and try to forget.
She goes down the sunlit hall to the kitchen at the back of the flat, where she checks she's not running out of milk – she isn't – and that Crookshanks' food bowl is filled – it is – before putting the dishes away in the cupboard. A final check in the mirror in the hall for any marmalade on her face, a called-out goodbye to Crooks, and she leaves the flat. The stairs creak underneath her feet when she bounds downstairs, and the morning sun shines through the stained glass in the front door, making a kaleidoscope of colours on the carpet. The warmth of the early summer morning hits Hermione's face as she steps outside. Donning her sunglasses, she goes down the walkway and weaves through the parked cars towards the narrow lane beyond the last house on the row, nestled between houses and shrubbery.
The early morning sun is warm on her bare legs, and she rolls up the sleeves on her blue dress (that she didn't at all choose because she remembers his appreciative smirk the last time he saw her in it). She touches the outside of her pocket, making sure the two shrunken books are still there. They are. It probably would have been smarter – and less painful – to send them by owl rather than to give them back in person, but there's a part of her that needs to see him.
It takes her less than ten minutes to reach the Apparition point at Chiswick Common – it's tucked beneath a cluster of rowan trees on the east side – and when she steps into it the Disillusionment charm washes over her like raw eggs being cracked on her head and trickling down her body. The unpleasant feeling makes her shudder, and she takes a second to clear her mind before bringing up her destination. It doesn't stick properly, and she huffs. She inhales deeply and tries again. Confident she won't end up somewhere else than where she wants to go, she raises her wand and turns on the spot with a soft pop.
Hermione appears underneath a bridge next to a murky canal. It smells quite strongly of urine, and several pieces of furniture and carrier bags bob along in the brown water. It's a rather unpleasant smell, and she wrinkles her nose. Dilapidated buildings with cracked or boarded-up windows line the canal on both sides, and in the distance a brick chimney dominates the skyline. Checking she's alone – which she is – she cancels the Disillusionment charm, sheaths her wand and walks along the canal. Weeds grow in the cracked steps leading up towards the high street, and the rusty railing looks like it may fall over any second.
Either Cokeworth has become even more rundown in the months since she last walked this route, or she's forgotten how bad it is.
Reaching the high street, she pauses to let a car drive past before crossing the street. Cokeworth has a completely different atmosphere than Chiswick; the handful of shops on the small high street that aren't boarded up have a neglected air about them. A black cat sits on the pavement outside the chip shop, watching the few passersby through yellow eyes and flicking its tail.
A broad-shouldered man with grey hair stands outside the corner shop, changing the advertisement of a sandwich board sign. When he spots her, he straightens up with a smile.
“Good morning to you!” He shields his eyes from the sun with his hand. “It's been a while since I've seen you around. How've you been?”
Hermione slows her steps. “Not bad, thank you.”
“Give my regards to your man, won't you?”
Her man.
Those words shouldn't hurt as much as they do.
She smiles wanly. “I will.”
Hermione passes several streets with identical terraced brick houses, which gets dingier the farther she gets from the high street. Turning onto a smaller street, she pauses. Most of the houses on this street looks abandoned, and the street sign on the corner is half falling off its posts. The aged black letters say 'Spinner's End'.
She takes a deep breath. It's been months since she's seen Severus. Not since that rainy afternoon in March when she looked at him with tears in her eyes and said, “I can't do this anymore.” His face was a blank mask – as she was used to – and he offered no protest to her statement. Like she didn't matter at all. His indifference hurt her the most.
Hermione was on her second and final year as an apprentice under Professor Flitwick when Severus returned to Hogwarts to teach Potions. He spent the year after the war convalescing, holed up in a private room at St Mungo's where the Healers worked around the clock to not only save his life, but make sure he had few lasting means. He returned to Hogwarts just as severe and sour as she remembered him, cravat tied high on his neck to hide the scarring left behind by Nagini. He barely said a word to anyone when he arrived, and certainly not to her. Then one night she found him in the kitchen, bent over a steaming mug of tea. He didn't object to her taking a seat opposite him; his only reaction was a quirked brow. They didn't speak, only sat and sipped their tea. It turned out he was as much of an insomniac as she was – a lovely parting gift from being on the run and always worrying someone would discover them while they slept – and most nights he beat her to the kitchen. By the second week, a mug of tea was set out for her when she arrived. For almost two months they met nightly; always drinking tea but never speaking.
The first time he spoke, she startled so badly she spilt tea all over herself. He quirked a brow and dryly – and hoarsely – remarked that tea usually goes into the mouth, not on one's clothes.
Slowly but surely a friendship grew between them, and by Easter, Hermione was in love with him. She spent the rest of the term trying to talk herself out of it; he'd shown no indication he fancied her, and she would rather have his friendship than nothing at all. On the last night of the term – and her last in the castle – he walked her back to her chambers after her farewell party in the staffroom. Hermione still didn't know what possessed her to stretch up, brace her hands on his chest, and kiss him. She expected him to push her away, say something scathing and leave her heartbroken. Instead he sighed into her mouth and pressed her against the closed door, a knee sliding between her thighs. A mumbled question and the door opened behind her.
She was late meeting Harry and Ginny for lunch the next day.
Hermione reaches the last house on the street both too quickly and too slowly. It looks especially grubby in the cheery summer sun; several bricks have cracks in them, and the dark blue paint on the door has seen better days. Pushing her sunglasses on top of her head, she knocks twice and steps back. The door opens soundlessly, showing the narrow face and tall frame of her former paramour. Something flutters in her chest.
“Hello, Severus.” Her voice is surprisingly stable when she's feeling anything but. “May I come in?”
Wordlessly, he steps aside to allow her to enter. Out on the street, a car backfires.
As Severus closes the door behind her, the roller blind on the front window snaps up.
She flinches, heart racing.
Looking over at Severus, he's slid his wand down from inside his sleeve and into his hand. Realising it's only the roller blind, he slides it back up his sleeve.
The pendulum wall clock strikes nine.
Why does he still have that clock? He's voiced his hatred of it more than once – threatening to blast it to smithereens.
Severus' eyes drift down slightly. “You cut your hair.” His voice washes over her like the first sip of tea in the morning. Still hoarse, but also silky.
Hermione touches the shorter curls, which barely brush her shoulders. It was a spur of the moment decision a couple of weeks ago, and she's still not entirely sure how to feel about it. “I did.”
The ticking of the clock is awfully loud as the silence stretches.
Something's different about the room, but she can't put her finger on what. It looks the same as it did the last time she was there; the same brown sofa and bookshelf-lined walls, the same threadbare rug and table lamp she knocked to the ground once in her haste to get her shirt off. Instantly she's transported to a snowy evening of them cuddling up on the sofa, a fire crackling in the hearth. He probably wouldn't call it cuddling, though. More like very close sitting or some other nonsense. She recalls how the firelight reflected in his eyes as she rode him on the sofa, his hands tangled in her hair and his breath hot on her face.
Hermione fidgets. “You have to say something about the haircut, not just state that I've had one.”
“Why?”
She exhales sharply. “Because if you say nothing I'll assume it looks bad.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “I hardly think it's my place to have an opinion on that anymore.”
She supposes that's both fair and true, though it doesn't make it any less painful.
“Why are you here, Hermione?”
Though not as painful as that.
Hermione clears her throat and reaches into her dress pocket. “I found a few things of yours when I was having a clear out the other day, and figured you might want them back.”
She was shocked when her yearly summer clear out yielded two books belonging to Severus. Partially because it was months since he had been in her flat, and partly because he hadn't spent much time there at all. They spent most of the previous summer in Cokeworth – eating fish and chips down by the river and spending hours in bed – and once term started she more often than not Flooed to Hogwarts.
She brings the books back to their normal size, and as he takes them from her, his fingers brush against hers. Her magic immediately reaches out towards his, at once comforting and seductive. It makes her shiver.
“I was looking for this the other day,” he says, seemingly mostly to himself as he traces a hand over the cover of the book.
“For your research?”
His black eyes meet hers. “Yes. I'm trialling out a new charmed arithmantic formula.”
“Any success so far?”
“Some.” He puts the books on the low table next to the sofa. “Was there anything else you wanted?”
Hermione hesitates. She's not ready to leave. Who knows when she'll see him again? “I met Mr Baker from the corner shop on my way here. He said to give you his regards.”
“Did he, now?”
Hermione doesn't share that he called Severus 'her man'. “How've you been, Severus?”
Crossing his arms, Severus snorts. “Really? Resorting to small talk?”
She rolls her eyes. “It's called being polite, you should try it sometime.”
“We're no longer together. I don't have to be polite.”
Hermione recoils. “Just because people break up doesn't mean you stop caring.”
He looks away. “I thought that was precisely the reason people broke up.”
She's forgotten how easily he gets underneath her skin, how his words nestle their way into every nook and cranny of her insides. Sometimes they give her joy, sometimes pain.
“I never stopped caring, Severus,” Hermione says, voice low, “but we weren't happy. You deserve to be happy. You clearly don't want me here, so I'll go.” Her skin still hums with her magic, desperately reaching out towards his. Does he feel it too? It takes everything in her to push it down. “I wish things would have worked out differently between us.”
His face still reveals nothing, and she wants to shake him and scream in his face. Didn't he care at all? This is it, she supposes. She gave him all she could and more, stretched herself thin in every direction and she is exhausted.
Mustering all the determination she can, she squares her shoulders. “Goodbye, Severus.”
Her fingers wrap around the cold metal of the handle, and the sunlight is too bright on her face as she steps through the front door.
Only to find herself in Severus' sitting room.
The roller blind on the front window snaps up, and she flinches.