Chapter Text
The air is thick with the humidity that precedes a late summer storm.
Though there isn’t a single visible cloud, she can feel it coming. The earthy smell of petrichor permeates the air, and she wonders how long it’ll be before the rain arrives. Not too soon, she hopes. While attending a children’s birthday party at the Burrow isn’t her first choice, it’s probably the only reason she left her flat this weekend at all. Otherwise, she might have spent it melting onto the surface of her sofa.
She could easily predict Molly’s admonishment for being an antisocial hermit. Frankly, spending two or so hours in the backyard of the Burrow drinking freshly made lemonade and entertaining a handful of children under the age of five is better than a lecture at the next Sunday lunch. While she has no intention to have any children of her own, her friends have made some very cute ones.
The sun, still quite high in the sky, beats down on her, and Hermione shifts the parasol so it covers her a little better. She suspects that she’s going to end up slightly sunburnt all the same, and her freckles will be more pronounced than ever. From where she sits, she can see Ginny chasing around Teddy and Victoire with her bare arms completely exposed. She doesn’t seem to be at all bothered by her golden skin becoming even more freckled.
Hermione envies this.
She cares far too much about all of the minor—and more obvious—blemishes on her skin. It’s always been a problem for her, caring about things when there is no cause for it. What does it matter if there are a handful more freckles on her arms or cheeks?
Sighing, she takes a sip from her lemonade, the condensation beading up on the outside of the glass almost causing her to drop it. The hum of the crickets and other bugs and creatures in the grasslands surrounding the Weasley home is audible even over the sound of the other adults chatting and the squeals and laughter of the kids. It’s almost hypnotic; she could easily close her eyes and fall asleep out here.
“Aunty Hermione!”
Victoire’s high-pitched shriek cuts through the ambient noise, and Hermione looks up in time to see the eldest Weasley grandchild dashing towards her across the yard. Her deep blue eyes are bright and sparkling, Victoire is a seamless blending of both her parents' features, and she seems cheerful in direct contrast to the unholy screeching. She has no idea how the child is capable of making such a sound.
Closing the parasol and setting it aside just in time, Hermione is practically winded as Victoire throws herself into her arms, almost flattening her in the process. Hauling herself into some semblance of a comfortable position on the picnic blanket she’s been sitting on, she settles with Victoire half-sitting on her lap.
“Victoire!” Fleur says from a few feet away looking almost embarrassed. “Ce n'est pas féminin.”
“It’s all right,” Hermione reassures her. Truthfully, she rather likes Bill and Fleur’s daughter. “I don’t mind, really.”
Fleur frowns a little uncertainly but doesn’t press, returning to sit with Molly and her husband at the long picnic table they’d set up for lunch.
“Can you braid my hair, Aunty Hermione?” the young girl asks, shuffling around so her back is to her before Hermione has a chance to answer.
Hermione blows out a breath and chuckles. “All right, but I make no promises about them being good. I’ve never been very good at hair…”
“But you have such pretty hair,” Victoire says, looking over her shoulder at her. “It’s so soft and fluffy, just like my Nanette.”
She frowns a little at being compared to the young Weasley grandchild’s pet Pygmy Puff, trying to take it as a compliment. Her fingers are clumsy as she tries to section the shiny strawberry-blonde strands of Victoire’s hair. Even with hair as ideal for styling as this, Hermione finds her skills lacking. She manages something in the end, and carefully weaves the ends, sticking the end of the braid with a spell so it doesn’t come loose.
“I love it!” the girl tells her before looking over to her mother. “Maman, look at my braid!”
“Very pretty,” Fleur agrees.
Hermione doesn’t know whether or not to be grateful for the lie. She lifts the girl off her lap, expecting Victoire to take off and run around again. Instead, she’s surprised when the young girl reaches for her arm, turning it so that the inside of her left forearm is facing up, exposing the horrible deep pink words that have been carved into her skin. The breath catches in her throat. It’s easy enough for her to forget the scar is there when she’s wearing her robes or in the colder months when her arms are covered.
She’d been precocious as well at Victoire’s age. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that the ugly words would capture the young little witch’s attention.
“What does that word mean?” Victoire asks, and from the corner of her eye, Hermione can see Fleur looking over at them, mortified.
“Oh,” she says, waving off the older woman’s concern, “it’s a word that isn’t very nice and you probably don’t want to make a habit of repeating. Someone who didn’t care for me put that there when I was younger.”
“Does it hurt?” Victoire’s eyes are wide with concern.
Hermione turns her arm back over and draws the child towards her for a hug. “Not at all,” she says. It hasn’t hurt in years, but she won’t pretend the curse scar doesn’t bother her. “Don’t you worry about me. Why don’t you see if Teddy wants to play?”
“Okay!”
Victoire is on her feet and barrelling towards Teddy Lupin faster than Hermione could blink, leaving her bewildered and feeling a little self-conscious. While the young witch probably won’t think twice about this short exchange, she will likely spend the rest of the weekend thinking about it.
As the sun begins its descent towards the horizon, the threatening storm clouds start to roll in. The children tire and Andromeda Apparates away with a dozing Teddy. Bill carries a sleepy Victoire back inside the Burrow to put her down for a nap, and Percy and Audrey leave with their newborn, Lucy. Hermione lingers to help Molly and Ginny take all of the leftover food inside while Arthur and the other wizards pack up the tables for the next party.
Before she can leave, Fleur stops her at the back door on her way out wearing an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry about Victoire. Children can be so curious.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” Hermione says with a smile. “I know she means nothing by it.”
She accepts a kiss on both cheeks from the other witch, hugging Molly and Ginny and waves to Harry and Ron as they carry one of the long chairs into Arthur’s shed.
The flat is quiet and dark as she Apparates into her sitting room. Wandering around, she switches on the lights manually, preferring not to get in the habit of using magic for everything. She looks at the armchair in front of the fire out of habit, searching for her familiar, but the cushion on the chair is empty. It’s been six months since Crookshanks passed, and she still isn’t used to being here without him.
Flopping onto her sofa, exhausted, her eyes slide down to the expanse of forearm marred by the hideous script. She knows in her youth she’d been naive enough to think that a word was simply that and she could take away its power. Now she knows better, having worn it around, unable to escape it for her entire adult life so far.
She turns her arm over.
Perhaps she should wear a glamour? At least she wouldn’t have to look at or think about it or have another awkward conversation about it. The idea of having to maintain a glamour every time she wants to wear something that doesn’t cover her arm is exhausting. Not worth the magical energy drain.
Sighing, Hermione drags herself off to the bathroom for a shower, compartmentalising the conversation to review when she is less tired from socialising.
The week drags, each hour stretched out wafer thin.
By Wednesday it feels like it should already be Friday, and no amount of interesting casework improves Hermione’s mood. The second it ticks over into her lunch hour, she’s out the door of her office and makes her way to the Atrium so she can Floo to St Mungo’s. The only thing she has to look forward to in the middle of the week is her standing lunch with Pansy. After spending the past several days in her head, she suspects she’ll be taking full advantage of unloading her problems onto her friend.
As always, Pansy is waiting for her in the reception area with its mish-mash of rickety old chairs, filled to the brim with patients whose concerns vary in degrees of severity. The dark-haired witch has switched her Healer’s robes for a Muggle jacket and looks impatient to leave.
“Hungry?” Hermione asks, returning Pansy’s brief, one-armed embrace.
“Starved,” she replies, leading the way to the exit onto the street.
They go to Pansy’s favourite cafe, sitting in the outdoor dining area to enjoy the light breeze offering some relief from the oppressive London heat. Removing their outerwear, a waiter brings them water and menus, and they order quickly before sitting back and staring at one another wearily.
“How’s Neville?” she asks, finally summoning the energy to speak.
Pansy’s expression becomes a little goony at the mention of her fiancé. “Oh you know, he’s started trying to hybridise two different species of aconite to make it more stable in brewing so it’s hard to get him to talk about anything else at the moment."
Hermione smiles, pleased for Neville and Pansy alike. Her patience with his hyper-fixations is incredibly endearing and also makes Hermione feel unbelievably jealous of their happiness. “You’re sweet with him.”
Pansy flushes at the praise and hurries to switch the subject. “I want to strangle Pye,” the dark-haired witch huffs, nodding politely at the waiter as he brings their coffee. “I swear to Merlin if he makes a snide comment in front of the Apprentices during rounds again I’m going to—”
“Be calm and reasonable and not set him on fire,” Hermione interrupts. “You should just report him.”
Pansy snorts. “Smethwyck is useless.”
“Go over his head. The hospital board surely won’t ignore the complaints of a senior Healer,” she suggests, taking a sip of her espresso and shivering as the rich brew hits the back of her tongue.
“Sometimes I forget how naive you can be, Granger,” Pansy chuckles with a smirk. “The board is an insufferable collection of old Pureblood wankers who sit around all day patting themselves on the back for being born into privilege.”
“Perhaps you are the naive one,” Hermione quips. “Maybe you should be using your Pureblood family standing to get them to take you seriously.”
“Never thought I’d see the day Hermione Granger suggested using systemic discrimination to get my way.”
Hermione shrugs. “I’ve become jaded by politics.”
Their food arrives, and her appetite suddenly flees. She picks at her food while Pansy complains about her sexist co-worker, nodding along at the appropriate points. Without her work robes on, her forearms are visible, and she turns over her left arm, staring at the ugly dark pink, “Mudblood” carved into her skin.
Hermione looks up when she notices Pansy has gone silent to see her friend observing her, lips pinched into a thin line as she eyes the scar.
“Sorry,” she says, turning her arm over again.
“Has it been bothering you again?” the other witch asks, concerned.
“It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hermione answers. “I just—on the weekend at the Burrow one of the kids asked me about it and suddenly it’s all I’ve been able to think about again.”
“Bloody kids,” Pansy mutters.
She laughs bitterly in agreement. “I’ve spent years coming to terms with the fact that it might never fade and there is no way to magically remove it, right?”
Pansy nods in confirmation. “Right.”
“It’s just such an ugly reminder of an awful thing that happened,” she says sadly. “I don’t have nightmares about it any more, at least I haven’t in a couple of years now. Still, I’d sooner never have to look at it again.”
They fall silent and Hermione picks up her fork and starts to poke at her food again while Pansy stares at the table in quiet contemplation. “You might not be able to have the scar erased, but I might know of another option you could consider if you were open to it?”
Hermione brows lift, curious. “Sounds suspicious.”
“Not if you were born this century,” Pansy scoffs. “Have you heard of magical tattoos? I’ve heard they can cover up scars and other marks received through magical means.”
“Hardly appropriate for a witch intent on a career in politics.”
“True,” Pansy sighs. “I suppose it depends on what you’re willing to live with. Which would be harder for you?”
Hermione rolls it around in her head for a moment and comes up empty. “I don’t really know.”
“I’ll see what I can find out, and you can either decide to give it a try or not,” her friend tells her. “Digging up a little information isn’t a commitment.”
“All right,” she agrees, trying to imagine what on earth she would even have tattooed should she want to go down that path.
They part ways in the hospital reception, Pansy grumbling as she returns upstairs while Hermione returns to the Ministry.
She’s long since become disenchanted with working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Each time she is forced to liaise or mediate a meeting between the Ministry and Centaurs or Goblins she loses a year of her life. The amount she gets back is not even approaching equal to that which she puts in, but she also suspects that if she leaves the Department, Gethsemane wouldn’t be able to replace her easily. Not a lot of people in the Wizarding world are content to do work that receives little to no recognition.
On her way to her office, Hermione passes by Amos Diggory who nods politely but looks tired and flustered, levitating a giant stack of files on his way back to his office. She almost offers to help him, but she reminds herself that her in-tray is stacked just as high. Slumping into her chair, she summons the correspondence at the top of the pile and spreads it out on the desk in front of her, her eyes quickly becoming unfocused.
Pushing back the sleeve of her robe, she stares at the scar for the nth time, chewing on her already abused bottom lip.
Perhaps a tattoo isn’t such a terrible idea?
The little bit of parchment is creased almost beyond legibility.
She’s been clutching it tightly in her pocket at work the past two days, pulling it out to look at it, folding and unfolding it, reading the address and pondering. Hermione is conflicted, torn up over whether or not going to this little tattoo shop is a good idea or not. It’s not as though she’s booked any kind of consultation with the proprietor. Hell, she doesn’t even know who it is.
Despite trying to be as objective as possible, she wonders how others would view it. Would she be seen as vain? More likely they would see it as incredibly edgy and unprofessional given how behind the magical world is socially. Tattoos are a lot more socially acceptable and commonplace in the Muggle world. The fact that she’d never even heard of a magical tattoo artist before is indicative of how uncommon a breed they are.
Sighing, Hermione fishes the bit of paper out of her pocket for the fourth time in as many hours.
Saturdays in Diagon Alley are always busy, and today is no exception. Despite the blistering heat, the streets and shops are crowded with families. During the summer her parents would often take her on trips to France or Italy, sometimes just to the coast to escape the warmth of the city. It feels as though wizarding Britain had unanimously decided that beach trips were passé.
She walks as quickly as she can, squeezing past couples and families alike as she makes her way towards Knockturn Alley. Though its reputation has certainly improved in the years since the war and the place has been cleaned up, she still feels a sense of unease as she veers off Diagon. But of course, a niche tattoo shop wouldn’t have a place on the main shopping strip.
The address leads her to an incredibly unassuming brick building situated between an undertaker and the White Wyvern pub. Above the door, there is a sign that reads Indelible Ink—rather a clever name for a tattoo parlour. Though there are large windows, all she sees is her reflection mirrored back, a privacy spell clearly in place.
Now or never, Granger, she tells herself, trying to summon some of her Gryffindor bravery.
A bell tinkles above the door as she pushes it open. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the art hanging on the wall around a little reception desk. The rest of the shop is cut off from view, most likely for the client’s privacy. The dark, Victorian-style wood furniture and accents give the place a moody feel. Though her aesthetic tastes run a little cleaner and more modern, she can appreciate the effort put in to make the place look appealing.
“Be with you in a moment.”
The voice that greets her is deep and eerily familiar, and she feels a little bolt of electricity zip down her spine. Shivering with nerves and anticipation, Hermione wraps her arms around herself as she waits, remaining standing so she can better admire the gothic paintings. After a few moments, footsteps approach from the back, and she turns just in time to see the proprietor step through the doorway.
Hermione’s eyes widen and her mouth gapes open. “Prof—Mister Snape,” she says, hurriedly correcting herself when she notices his thin lips curl.
“Granger,” he deadpans, looking decidedly unhappy to see her.
It’s as if she isn’t a day over twelve, sitting in his classroom with her arm shot in the air as he stares down his nose at her in derision. The man has a way of making her feel small that few others do. Still in shock, Hermione struggles to find her words, her tongue feeling two sizes too large for her mouth.
“I—is this—”
As she fails to verbalise, she notices that he’s not wearing an outer robe or a coat, dressed in black trousers with a white buttondown, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. She’s never seen him wearing so few layers before, causing a cognitive dissonance. The Snape she knew was always protected by heavy drapes of fabric that swallowed him up and made him appear more intimidating and sallow. This Snape, his unmistakable features and look of pure disdain aside, is a different creature entirely.
She isn’t a big fan of things she cannot understand or anticipate.
Mind whirring, even as Snape’s expression grows darker with each passing moment, she spits out the first thing that comes to mind. “I was under the impression this tattoo parlour was owned by Markus Scarr.”
“I purchased this establishment from him several years ago,” Snape says through gritted teeth.
“Do you have a business licence?” she asks. Why? She has no idea, and from the look of Snape’s souring expression, he is rapidly losing patience with her line of questioning.
“Do you expect me to produce my paperwork on request?” Snape responds. “I wasn’t aware that the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was responsible for magical business license checks.”
How the hell did he know where she worked? “It isn’t,” she replies.
“Then what, pray tell, are you doing in my place of business, Granger?” he snaps.
The answer to his question sits at the tip of her tongue and she wills herself to unleash it. Instead, she does what she always does whenever she becomes flustered beyond belief.
She puts her foot in her mouth.
“You’re awfully defensive for someone who is supposedly running a legitimate business. How am I to know you aren’t covering Dark Marks or other prison branding?”
Even as the words slip from her she knows it is the wrong thing to say. Whether she means it or not—and perhaps there is a small part of her that is suspicious of Snape of all people tattooing people—she verbalises the errant thought.
Snape’s expression is murderous, his thin lips twisted into the most terrifying sneer she’s ever been on the receiving end of. Hermione’s stomach curdles, but she realises that now that the words have been spoken she can’t take them back. So she stiffens her spine, trying not to show any fear as he crosses the little reception area towards her. He steps right past her, yanking the door open so violently that the bell above it flies off, bouncing on the floor loudly several times before rolling to a stop beneath the reception desk.
“Get. Out.”
The words are spoken quietly, but she can tell even without looking at him that he is restraining himself. His posture is incredibly stiff, and this close to him she can see a vein throbbing beneath his jaw, partially obscured by the scar tissue at his throat from where Voldemort’s pet snake had torn through his flesh. Turning, Hermione moves to leave as he’d instructed, and then she sees it. Completely unchanged and as stark as ever against his pale skin.
The Dark Mark.
She really is the biggest idiot in the world. “Mister Snape, I’m—”
“I don’t want to hear another word from your mouth,” he hisses. “Now, get the hell out of my shop.”
Hermione ducks her head, caught somewhere between horror and shame. Walking past him, she glances at him once more to find him glaring at her with every ounce of hatred she’s certain she deserves. While he might have been an impatient and nasty teacher, not once since the war has he ever given her any reason to believe he’d engage in any kind of illegal activity.
Hell, even if he were, it isn’t her business to go checking up on him.
“Stupid, Granger,” she mutters under her breath and she walks back towards Diagon Alley, her cheeks flushed with mortification.
Apparating home, she takes off her summer robes and hangs them on the hook by the door, looking down at her uncovered forearm. Sighing, she shuts her eyes and leans heavily against the front door.
There isn’t a chance in seven hells Snape will consider tattooing over her scar now.
The fortnight passes glacially.
Hermione suspects it’s because she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about her interaction with Snape. Being tossed out on her arse had been humiliating, and she keeps kicking herself for going in there blind. She probably could have asked Pansy for more information regarding the proprietor before charging in there as she had. On the other hand, her friend certainly could have been a little more forthcoming.
Not that it makes even a little difference now. Whether Pansy had been opaque or not, she had been the one to insult Snape on his own premises, and she’s spent the past two weeks trying to work out the best way to apologise.
In truth, she is terrified of going back there.
She wouldn’t blame him if he’d put a blocking spell on the place just to keep her out. In fact, she’s a little worried that’s exactly the kind of thing Snape might do to ensure she never sets foot in his shop again. This thought makes her feel sick to her stomach. The people pleaser nested inside her can’t stand the idea of anyone disliking her, especially one of her former professors. A letter would probably be the easiest way to test her theory, but even if an owl were to make it through, she can only imagine anything she sends will be set on fire.
No, the only way to resolve this is in person.
Resolving to go to Diagon Alley during her lunch break, Hermione spends the rest of her morning in a state, her stomach twisting into knots. Her work goes ignored, instead scribbling down a list of points she’d like to hit upon if she happens to get in through the door of Snape’s shop.
She realises not long before her break that a prepared speech will undoubtedly appear disingenuous and crumples several bits of parchment, incinerating them with a whispered spell. At the hour she is out of her chair, pulling on her robes, and through the door to make a hasty exit from the office, desperately hoping not to run into anyone along the way.
“Hermione!”
A groan escapes her, but she turns anyway, tantalisingly close to the grates in the Atrium so she can Floo to the Leaky. Her lips form a wobbly smile as she sees Ron and Harry approaching from across the dark-tiled foyer, waving in greeting. Her hopes of a quick escape foiled, she has to force herself not to tap her foot impatiently as she waits for her two friends to catch up to her.
“Fancy seeing you outside of your office on a Monday,” Ron teases.
“I leave my office, thank you very much,” Hermione huffs.
“Not on a Monday,” Ron argues while Harry snickers beside him.
The two of them can still be unbearably childish whenever they’re together. She has no idea how they manage to get any work done. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have some errands.”
“All right, no need to get defensive,” the redhead says, holding his hands up in surrender.
Hermione would like to hope he has better sense than to question what those errands are, but Ron isn’t known for his tact. In fact, she watches his mouth open as if to ask exactly that before noticing Harry elbow him in the side and give a little shake of his head. She smiles at him gratefully.
“We won’t keep you,” Harry tells her, ignoring the sour look Ron shoots at him, rubbing his side dramatically.
“We’ll do lunch on Friday if you like?” she offers as an olive branch, hoping the promise of a meal out will be enough to placate her friends.
“Fine,” Ron huffs.
Before he has a chance to argue or delay her further, Hermione turns on her heel and hurries towards the nearest grate. Reaching into her pocket for the little pouch of Floo powder she always keeps on hand, she takes a pinch and tosses it in, calling out her destination as she steps into the green flames.
She barely pays attention to anything in the Alley, her vision tunnelling as she marches towards Knockturn. As she comes upon Snape’s shop, all of the conviction that had carried her here is replaced with acute anxiety. Her heart is beating its way up her throat, and she’s surprised to find herself standing in front of the door, no wards blocking her path.
“Shit,” she mutters.
There is literally nothing to stop her from going in. A small part of her had been counting on him throwing up something in her path that would prevent her from doing this today. She’d be forced to turn tail and scurry back to the Ministry and hide in her office for the rest of the day. Instead, there is no such obstacle and she is forced to dig deep for some of her usual tenacity and rip off the plaster.
“Bugger it,” Hermione says, pulling the door open and stepping inside, flinching when she hears the bell overhead. He must have reattached it.
This time, her brows draw together as her ears are met with the sound of music—specifically Muggle, and from before she was even born. She recognises it though, David Bowie’s voice and musical stylings unmistakable. Her dad used to play a lot of '70s and '80s music on the weekends in his office. She smiles, some of her nerves melting away for no reason she can think of.
The last time she’d arrived earlier in the day—before he’d even started work. This time, she suspects Snape may already be with a client. When he steps through the doorway into the reception wearing black latex gloves and wearing an equally dark expression, her suspicions are confirmed.
“I know I’m interrupting,” she says in a rush before any snide remarks can leave his lips, twisted as they are into a scowl. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”
He continues to gaze at her with waves of loathing pouring off him. “Spit it out, then.”
“I wanted to apologise for what I said the last time I was here,” Hermione begins, falling back on the speech she’d begun to prepare in her office. “It was completely unwarranted and inappropriate of me to cast aspersions the way I did. Would you believe me if I said I sort of panicked when I saw you?”
“No,” he says coolly, seeming unconvinced by her sincerity.
“Well,” she begins quietly, “I know you don’t owe me anything—”
“You are correct,” Snape interrupts, his eyes narrowed. “Now I suggest you turn around and walk right back out, Granger. I don’t want your apologies. I want you to leave.”
Her heart sinks, descending into the giant pit in her stomach. “Right, I…”
Hermione pauses, forcing herself to remember why she’d come here in the first place. Perhaps a desperate plea might be enough to move him. She has her doubts, but maybe if she can make him feel a little sorry for her… She grits her teeth, forcing herself to meet his dark gaze. Beyond the glare, there is a vast expanse of deep black, completely unreadable to her.
Instead of shrinking, Hermione rolls up the left sleeve of her robe, exposing her forearm and turning it upwards to expose the dark pink, shiny letters that mark her skin. Snape’s eyes move from her face to the newly exposed bit of skin and grow wider for a split-second.
“Bellatrix left me with this souvenir during our encounter at Malfoy Manor,” she explains, allowing her sleeve to fall back down and cover it again. “I’ve tried everything imaginable to rid myself of it over the years and some time ago I gave up. Until recently I thought I’d been able to successfully forget about it. But now I…”
She trails off, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling vulnerable. Snape’s eyes flick back up to her face again, and they stand there without speaking, the music trailing out to meet them from the back room drowning out the silence. His frown has melted away, but his lips purse together, almost contemplative.
“I can’t do it,” he tells her finally.
Hermione didn’t think her heart could sink any further, but she’s proven wrong again. “Oh. Of course, I understand—”
“You understand nothing, Granger,” Snape snaps, cutting her off. “The process—magically adhering the ink to curse scars and other magically damaged skin—requires positive force. It would be a waste of both our time.”
She should perhaps be unsurprised to learn that Snape has no positive emotions for her, but it stings nonetheless. “I see, of course.”
Hermione breaks his gaze, turning to leave. She can feel Snape’s eyes on her as she leaves, forcing herself not to look back, her throat burning with disappointment. She swallows it down, not wanting to return to the Ministry looking as though she’s cried even though she desperately wants to.
Making it back to her office without further incident, Hermione shuts the door behind her and locks it before collapsing wearily into her chair. Staring at the untouched work on her desk, her eyes finally become blurry with the tears she’s been holding back, the searing drops rolling down her cheeks unchecked.
She wishes she hadn’t allowed herself to hope.
After her attempt to apologise to Snape, the rest of the week flies by.
Despite her devastation, Hermione finds herself unable to stop thinking about changing his mind, her resolve strengthening. He couldn’t have a lower opinion of her than he does now, so she decided to use this as a platform from which to improve it. This renewed determination helps her get through the frustration of all the Ministry red tape she is faced with regarding her current liaising efforts with the Goblins.
By the time Saturday morning arrives, she’s shaken off her nerves and is mostly able to ignore the stone that has taken up residence in her gut from the moment she’d first set foot inside Indelible Ink.
The previous night she’d gone to Pansy and Neville’s house and drunk most of a bottle of wine as she complained to her friend for sending her there blind in the first place. By the time Neville Apparated her home, she and Pansy were both equally tipsy but she felt a little less peeved with her friend for leaving out the important information about the tattoo proprietor.
Her hangover this morning had been surprisingly mild given she doesn’t often have more than one or two pints if she’s out with friends or at a party. Apparently she’d needed a night of being utterly irresponsible to prepare herself to face Snape again.
Now, freshly showered and dressed, she Apparates to Diagon Alley and allows the weekend crowd to carry her along the cobbled street towards her destination, the least nervous she’s been. The shop is closed and still dark when she stops in front of it, and she’s surprised at managing to arrive before Snape himself has.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately based on the thunderous expression that comes over his features—Snape arrives only a few minutes later. Perhaps for the first time, she notices her former professor has incredibly long legs. He’s dressed in his customary black robes and is wearing the frock coat she’s known him to sport, but before he’d been an intimidating authority figure in a school.
Now he’s just an intimidating man.
“Granger, I thought I told you to—”
“Go away, get out, stay gone, yes,” she interjects, trying to appear confident as she waves him off. “I know, but I’ve decided I can’t take no for an answer.”
She notices a lot of eyes falling on them as other commuters pass them on the cobbled street, and Snape appears aware of it too. He growls, sweeping past her to the door of the shop, touching his wand to it and releasing the locks and wards in place.
“We’ll have this conversation inside,” he says tightly through gritted teeth, pushing the door open and gesturing for her to enter.
Hermione slips past him into the unlit space, squinting to see around. He follows her, locking the door and flicking his wand to illuminate the space.
“Badgering people to get your way doesn’t work when you’re an adult, Granger,” Snape says coldly before she can say anything. “In fact, this would constitute harassment. How would your friends Potter and Weasley like to hear I’ve put out a restraining order for you?”
She stares at him, a little stunned by his threat. His stony expression doesn’t give anything away, but there is a little glint in his eyes that makes her suspect he’s messing with her. Sucking in a breath, Hermione tries to force herself to remember what she’d planned to say.
“I know you don’t like me,” she begins, “but I also don’t think you completely hate me. I know I said an awful thing and you’re entirely within your rights to be pissed off. But I’ll do whatever I have to to change your mind about me.”
“You’re awfully confident for someone who has several strikes against her,” he drawls, removing his outer robe and sauntering behind the reception desk to hang it.
“Several? What else have I done?”
“You are entitled, stubborn, and far too presumptuous for your own good,” he begins, listing them off on his fingers. “You have terrible taste in friends, and frankly Granger, you annoy me. However clever you may well be, you’ve never used that brain of yours to its fullest potential, wasting away in that department of yours instead of using your intelligence for something worthwhile.”
“Oh?” she says, trying to ignore the direct impact his words have on her ego, even if a part of her agrees. “You think I could be doing something more important than fighting for the rights of other magical beings?”
“If you have to ask, perhaps you aren’t as intelligent as I’ve been led to believe,” he quips, beginning to remove his frock coat.
Hermione’s brain comes to a halt mid-thought as she watches him shrug the item off. Seeing him in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves already rolled is somehow less distracting than witnessing the process. She finds herself unable to speak, watching his nimble fingers pluck at the buttons with practised ease, her mouth going completely dry as he loosens the ones at his throat, exposing his scars.
She blinks and looks away quickly when she notices his brows raise, caught out staring. Clearing her throat, Hermione quickly tries to gather herself again. “This isn’t really about my professional failings as you see them,” she argues. “I’m here to change your mind about me, Severus Snape. I will make you like me.”
He scoffs loudly at that. “And just how do intend to accomplish that?”
Hermione smiles broadly at him. “You just watch.”
Without waiting for him to reply, she turns on her heel and unlocks the door, sweeping back out onto the street and leaving a stunned Snape behind. She might not have made much progress changing his mind, but at least he hadn’t thrown her out of his shop this time. There is a slight spring in her step as she walks back along the Alley towards the Apparition point.
She has plans to make.
Every owl returns, still carrying the package they’d left with.
She is persistent, though. Despite Snape’s consistent rejection of the peace offerings she has attempted to send to his shop, Hermione isn’t deterred, until a week into her campaign when one of the books she’d tried to send him bears a note attached warning her not to send another or it would be incinerated on sight and not simply returned. She takes this as a sign to switch gears.
Instead, Hermione readies herself early every morning and when she collects her coffee order she also picks up a coffee and a pastry for Snape. She waits for him at the door to his shop until he arrives, pretending not to see his eye roll and lip curl as he approaches. Though he never greets her, he doesn’t stop her from following him inside the shop and doesn’t reject the coffee.
The first few days, she convinces herself that he has begun to thaw towards her until he disabuses her of that notion.
“If you think for one moment plying me with caffeine, pastries, and books is going to win me over, Granger, you are sorely mistaken,” he tells her one morning when she is running a little late and arrives in the Alley after him.
She goes to work feeling a little disheartened that day, but it doesn’t stop her from showing up early the next morning with his coffee order and a rhubarb Danish—she learned quickly he takes his coffee black and prefers tart pastries to the overly sweet ones. But by the end of the second week, Hermione is running out of steam, ready to give up and cease pestering the man.
He’s sitting behind the reception desk when she walks into the shop today, his sleeves already rolled exposing his wiry forearms. She wonders if he has any tattoos other than his Dark Mark elsewhere, but from what little of him is exposed there is none she can see. He’s preoccupied, his head bowed as he reads over his client appointment schedule, quill scratching against the paper as he makes notes in the margins.
Taking advantage of his distraction, Hermione can’t help but notice his features, made all the more hawkish with his long hair tied at his nape. He isn’t a conventionally attractive man, but his sharp features give him a rakish quality that is attractive to her.
What?
She blinks, wondering when she had started to think of Snape as attractive. But she cannot deny that lately she’s been unable to keep herself from admiring him; from his dark eyes, those blasted forearms, his nimble fingers, and impossibly long legs. Even his barbs and acid tongue don’t bother her any more.
Bloody hell, she thinks. She must have lost her mind sometime over the past few weeks. All this exposure must be making her barmy.
“You’re staring, Granger.”
Hermione starts, almost dropping the coffee. “Rather rude of you to call me out on it.”
“I assume you’re here to attempt to further ingratiate yourself with me by trying to increase the diameter of my waistline?” he drawls, eyes flicking up from the ledger before him.
She can’t help but snicker at that. “Actually,” she begins, closing the distance between them and placing his offerings on the counter between them, “I was thinking it might be time for me to give up. Leave you alone.”
“Now? Now you choose to heed my pleas for you to bugger off?” he says incredulously.
“Yes.”
Snape raises a brow in disbelief. “Why don’t I believe you?”
Hermione shrugs. “Believe me or don’t. I won't be here tomorrow.”
He stares at her silently for several long moments before an owl taps at the glass of the front door, waiting to be let in. Hermione spins around and gets the door, holding it open as the creature flutters in and lands gracefully on the reception desk. Snape unties the letter attached and rolls open the desk drawer and extracts a treat for the owl. The creature nips gently at his fingers before accepting the treat, munching it down quickly and preening as the wizard strokes the top of its head before launching itself off the desk.
Hermione is a little stunned by the transaction as she releases the door and allows it to shut after the owl flies away. “Who knew you had a soft spot for animals,” she teases.
“Animals don’t annoy me,” he murmurs with a smirk as he cracks the seal on the letter and unfolds it to read.
Hermione huffs but sips at her coffee and watches as his eyes move back and forth quickly across the page, the lines becoming more apparent between his brows as they draw together. He seems annoyed, and her curiosity is instantly piqued.
“What is it?” she blurts out impatiently.
“None of your bloody business,” he says, dropping the correspondence onto the desk. “Didn’t you say you were leaving?”
“I did,” she replies, but her curiosity gets the better of her and she glances at the letter, recognising the signature at the end. “What’s Charlie Weasley writing you about?”
“How are you so familiar with Mister Weasley’s writing?”
“Dragons, magical creatures,” she says. “So?”
Snape rolls his eyes. “Incorrigible swot.”
“What does Charlie want?”
The wizard issues a long-suffering sigh. “Whenever one of the beasts reaches the end of its life, Mister Weasley harvests some difficult and expensive to acquire ingredients for use in potion making. I will have to travel to Romania to collect them.”
“You still brew?”
“Yes.”
Hermione can tell from the tightening in his jaw that Snape isn’t interested in elaborating further on that, so she shifts back to Charlie. “So Romania?”
He grunts an affirmative, displeased. “I may have to pass on them. My current client load won’t allow for a sporadic day trip to the mountains.”
“I’ll do it,” she offers without hesitation. Coffee and pastry might not be enough to ingratiate herself, but surely going out of her way to acquire him some rare potion ingredients will.
“What?”
“I’ll go,” Hermione reaffirms. “I’ll go see Charlie and bring back all of your ingredients safely. Surely that will be easier than organising a courier or attempting to move around all of your clients? I can go this weekend.”
His expression is completely unreadable, but his eyes gaze at her in a way that sends a frisson of electricity down her spine. “Fine,” he says eventually.
“Really?” Her lips curve upwards.
“Yes,” he replies.
“And then would you consider tattooing over my scar?” she asks hopefully.
“I knew there would be strings attached.”
“Mister Snape—”
“Snape,” he interrupts. “Just Snape is fine.”
Hermione sucks in a steadying breath, unable to believe how flustered he continues to make her, but in a very different way than before. “I don’t expect you to make any promises. I just ask that you consider changing your mind. Not now, but one day perhaps.”
“All right.”
“Write Charlie back,” she says with a smile, walking towards the door. “Tell him you’re sending someone to collect for you.”
Snape nods, and Hermione leaves, almost running into a middle-aged wizard who appears to be on his way in, hastily apologising. She holds the door open for him, walking down Knockturn with her forgotten coffee still clutched in her hand. Practically skipping on her way to the Leaky Cauldron to Floo to work, Snape’s dark eyes staring intently at her flashes through her mind and her face flushes with heat.
She needs to get a handle on that errant little fancy, and fast.