Round Midnight
[Usual disclaimers apply - the characters aren't mine, the story is]
"Man and woman, who in natural fashion incarnate the two poles of the alchemical work - sulphur and quicksilver - can by their mutual love, when this is spiritually heightened and interiorized, develop that cosmic power, or power of the soul, which operates the alchemical dissolution and coagulation." Buckhardt
Chapter 1
Quicksilver
Quicksilver is female, whereas Sulphur is male. It is also in a sense androgynous, containing both the sun and the moon - the two poles of the process. Quicksilver is the most direct manifestation of the materia prima, the 'vital breath' which links the body-soul organism with the cosmic sea of life. It is the key to the whole, and in the spiritual sense of the prima agens is the initial and pervading spiritual influence which permeates ego-consciousness.
Severus Snape peered at the number on the door, almost indistinguishable against the dark wood as evening drew in. Barely reassured that he had the correct place, he knocked hard. The echo of his knuckles rapping on the oak door hung in the air for a moment, and he found himself improvising excuses in case he had, after all, reached the wrong house.
Snape wished, not for the first time, that the Ministry would make it compulsory for wizards' houses to be connected to the Floo network - particularly when they were, as this one was, in the middle of Muggle London.
Footsteps behind the door took away one of his hopes: that whoever lived here, if he had got the wrong house, was away. At the sound of locks being unfastened, Snape straightened up a little more and pushed a hand through his hair absently.
There were few things that him made nervous, but potentially dealing with Muggles would do it every time. He hated to look out of place, to feel ridiculous, and the Muggle world was sufficiently foreign to ensure that he ran that risk whenever he ventured into it. Reminders of the horrors of Voldemort's attitude to Muggles didn't help, either.
The door opened, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had found the right address.
"Professor, please come in." Hermione Granger seemed unsurprised to find him on her doorstep; he wondered whether Arthur Weasley had succeeded in getting in contact with her today after all.
She gestured, waving him in as she held the door open and he nodded briefly before crossing into the room behind the door.
The room opened out before him and, for a moment, he simply looked around. McGonagall had mentioned that Miss Granger had acquired a flat in London a year or two earlier. He hadn't paid much attention to the gossip at the time but, even if he had, he doubted whether he would have imagined something like this.
The room was light and airy, the ceiling stretching above even his height by some way. It looked as though the room had been several rooms at one time, now formed into one. Surprisingly, there didn't appear to be any magical extensions.
At the far end of the room two enormous windows looked out over London, white shutters folded back against the frame to let the light flood in. Between the windows a desk was pushed against the wall and covered in papers. A computer was open on the desk, and Snape resisted the urge to go and look at it; he had been curious about them for some time now, particularly since he had read details of some testing techniques using them in the Journal of Biochemical and Molecular Toxicology - the journal was one of a few Muggle publications he read regularly, refusing to dismiss the potential value of the work of any scientist, Muggle or wizard.
The wall to his left was covered in bookshelves, from floor to ceiling, and crammed with books. Some things never changed; he wondered whether Miss Granger was subconsciously trying to replicate Hogwarts' library in her own home.
"Feel free to go and have a look, Professor. Would you like some tea?" He looked back; she seemed amused that he had been distracted by the room. "Please, do go and help yourself. Milk and sugar?"
"Neither, thank you. I take it black," he answered.
As she turned, to what he now saw was a kitchen area, he was almost certain he heard her mutter "predictable" to herself. It wasn't worth calling her on; she was no longer his student - hadn't been his student for some years now, in fact - and he wasn't fool enough to believe that he could afford to alienate her before he'd even begun to talk over why he was here.
For a moment he watched her as she filled a kettle and reached into cupboards to pull out mugs and a small box; her movements were as efficient as his own. He wondered, not for the first time, just why she was researching potions. He was rarely surprised - he'd seen enough of the worst of humanity for that - but he had been more than surprised when McGonagall had told him that the Granger girl had applied, and been accepted, to read Alchemy at Amergin College, Oxford.
That Hermione Granger should be accepted to Oxford was no surprise to anyone, of course, although he was damned if he let her know that. Her choice of subject did startle him; she had spent seven years at school working harder than anyone else would consider appropriate and she could certainly have read almost any subject - except Divination, not that such a charlatan subject was available at Oxford anyway. If he'd been asked, and he'd made certain that he wouldn't be, he would have assumed she would have chosen Arithmancy. She had had the logical mind needed for that; a natural mind for logic as well, unusual in a witch or wizard, as he'd found to his chagrin when she had deconstructed his carefully wrought puzzle guarding the Philosopher's Stone in her first year.
Snape realised that Miss Granger was watching him quietly as he stared at her; she was leaning against the kitchen cupboards, waiting for the kettle to boil apparently. He looked rapidly away and headed towards the bookshelves to stand in front of them, browsing vaguely.
Alchemy; his subject. The last subject he would have expected anyone to want to read. He never expected any student to follow the course on through to higher education. Most were too clumsy to excel at the topic and, besides, his self-appointed mission to inject backbone into the supposed cream of wizarding youth was usually enough to deter anyone from enjoying his classes.
Enjoy them she clearly had - the books he was gazing at were proof enough of that. Everything from standard Muggle texts on chemistry and biochemistry through to an apparently ancient translation of the Qinyuan chun. Mixed in among them was evidence of entertainment and a broader range of interests: novels by Nancy Mitford, Christianna Brand and more, psychology texts by Piaget, Horney and Jung, modern paperbacks and battered Penguin books. He recognised many from his own bookshelves.
He turned round, pulled from perusing the books by the realisation that Miss Granger was standing behind him. She held out a mug of tea to him; he took it gingerly, trying not to burn himself.
"Thank you." He spoke quietly, beginning to sort out again in his mind the conversation he'd mentally rehearsed on his way here. She had to be wondering why he was here; he was rather surprised she hadn't already asked the question. The last time he'd seen her, in a classroom at Hogwarts, she had been the same rather pushy student she had always been. This patient waiting for him to get to the point was rather unnerving.
"You're welcome," she said, moving away to the sofas in the middle of the room. There were two, covered in a charcoal grey wool, near the massive fireplace.
Snape eyed the fireplace a little sourly; with something that size, she really had no excuse for not connecting it to the Floo network, he thought. He joined her, though, sitting on the opposite sofa and taking a sip of his tea. Gods, what did she do to this? It was strong enough to strip paint, or scour the desks in his classroom after a particularly bad lesson. No wonder she'd offered milk and sugar.
"So, Miss Granger ... why isn't this flat on the Floo network?" he asked suddenly; he winced inwardly at the abrupt opening, although his face betrayed nothing.
She smiled wryly at him. "You can't have come all this way just to ask me that, surely? But, if you really want to know, I ... had some unexpected visitors some time ago. It seemed safer to remove myself from the network, to avoid a repetition."
"Yet you open the door without bothering to check who is standing on the other side?" He raised an eyebrow quizzically at her. It seemed too elementary a precaution to have missed; he glanced at the door to see whether it was enchanted to allow a view out but saw only the solid oak.
"There's a small lens in the door that lets me see who's standing outside, Professor. Now, is this a social call?" she prompted, understandably sceptical.
A social call - Snape wondered just how long it had been since he had paid anyone a social call; he snorted softly with amusement, curious as to whether Miss Granger actually meant to provoke him into one of his classroom displays of sarcasm. She had changed considerably, he thought idly. It seemed to be more of a change than could be accounted for merely by college life and growing up.
"Hardly that, Miss Granger. Clearly the Minister didn't manage to talk to you before you left work today."
She shook her head. "No, I haven't heard from Arthur in a while. Is there a problem, Professor?" she asked, settling against the back of the sofa and cradling her mug in her hands. It looked as though she expected the explanation to take some time.
"Not as such, no. Not yet. I need some assistance," Snape replied, reluctantly. This would be the hardest part of the conversation, simply admitting that he needed some help - he had never found it easy to receive, much less ask for, any kind of assistance. She leant forwards at his words, the familiar curiosity coming back into her face. An expression he recognised well, at last, having encountered it from her regularly in class - amongst other expressions such as anger and disdain. He had her attention now, certainly, no matter what the cost to his personal pride.
"It concerns Voldemort," he began. Hermione nodded as he continued. "It seems that the Ministry overlooked something when they imprisoned him," he said, unable and unwilling to keep the sneer from his voice. The fools' insistence that Voldemort should be imprisoned, rather than killed, would be responsible for more chaos than they could believe; he was sure of that. There was, of course, the question of whether he could in fact be killed - he had transformed so far from what was commonly accepted as human that Snape thought that any physical death would be of no real consequence. Still, it would satisfying to try.
"I have reason to believe that he's attempting to recreate the effect of the Elixir of Life by internal transmutation. He has had no time to work on creating the Philosopher's Stone, after failing to steal Flamel's - and his skill at physical alchemy was never particularly advanced. I have - finally - convinced the Ministry that this is something that needs to be investigated," he said, bitterly.
The Ministry had been less than enthusiastic about addressing his concerns; there were very few witches or wizards who understood inner alchemy - any form of alchemy, come to that - well enough to comprehend what it was that he now thought Voldemort capable of. It did not help that he had only the reports of warders and guards to base his theory on. Voldemort was spending more and more time in a semi-catatonic state, apparently disengaging from reality for days on end. The Ministry, and others, saw this simply as a breakdown following his capture and incarceration in a cell in the permafrost below Antarctica. The cell itself was warded with an infinitely complex series of interlocking spells and charms, coded to open to specific individuals and no others. Layer upon layer of security had been developed to protect against Voldemort's escape - his physical escape, that was.
Hermione had apparently followed the same line of reasoning that he had. "So you think he's looking for escape by a merging with the collective unconsciousness, rather than a physical escape? That would be ... possible, I suppose. The physical creation of the Philosopher's Stone is only confirmation of the achievement of the internal transformation, after all," she mused. She put her coffee on the floor and uncurled herself from the sofa, heading for the bookshelves and skimming a hand along a shelf until she found the book she was looking for.
"Why do you think he's trying to transmutate? Is there any suggestion he's following the usual meditation rituals?" she asked, looking back over her shoulder just long enough to ask the questions, before turning back to the book in her hand. Snape looked at her back with irritation, biting back a demand that she turn and look at him if she wanted an answer, rather than almost ignoring his presence in the room. He needed her help, though, so he swallowed the comment. He couldn't quite keep the sting out of his voice when he spoke, though.
"No, Miss Granger, it's pure intuition on my part. Yes, of course, there's evidence that he's following meditation rituals; the Ministry may chose not to believe it but I, personally, have had quite enough of the Ministry underestimating Voldemort's capabilities. His breathing pattern is recorded as changing from time to time, coinciding with the periods of catatonic behaviour so -"
"So you think he's grounding himself before and after working on the meditation. That would make sense," said Hermione, interrupting but still thumbing through the book, looking for something.
"Exactly, Miss Granger. Would you care to extrapolate the rest?" Snape bit the words out. He took it back; she hadn't changed since school, after all - she was still entirely too eager to let everyone else know just what she knew. At that moment, though, Hermione turned back to him.
"My apologies, Professor, I shouldn't have interrupted. Please, go on."
Snape hoped he didn't look as startled as he felt; he hadn't expected the apology, and was curious about the look of ... well, something like fear on her face when she had turned round. What had she been expecting? He took up the thought process again, though, leaving the question for later.
"Thank you. As you noted, he seems to be grounding himself for meditation. As Voldemort was not exactly given to self-examination, to my knowledge, before he was captured, I have some doubts that he has embraced spiritualism now. It would be far more in character for him to seek a way out; the idea that he might be aiming to recreate the effect of the Elixir occurred to me some time ago - his obsession with it before Flamel's Stone was destroyed suggested it - but there was no obvious reason for him to seek it. All it would achieve would be eternity in a cell. This, though, is why I need your assistance, Miss Granger."
He had surprised her - that much was clear. She looked at him, eyes wide and puzzled. "Now I don't follow you, Professor. What do I have to do with Voldemort?"
"You have nothing to do with Voldemort personally, that's obvious," he answered. "No, it's your work that seems connected and it's because of that that I need your help. I found myself reading your doctorate thesis on quantum alchemy last week - and for the delay, you have my apologies. I'm well aware that the deadline for my response to the examining board is not far away and - before you ask - no, what I am about to ask of you will have no bearing on my report back to the university on the thesis."
Hermione sat back down on the sofa as he spoke, watching him intently and clutching the book, her arms hugging it protectively. He wondered idly whether she was protecting the book or herself, using it as a shield. "You're the external examiner? Yes, of course you would be. Stupid of me not to have thought of that," she said almost to herself. "Go on," she added quietly, "what do you need my help for?"
"Your work on quantum alchemy, and its relevance to synchronicity in particular, make me think that perhaps immortality is not what Voldemort seeks. It would be a useful byproduct but not the end in itself. It seemed to me that - if I am reading your work correctly - there would be the potential there for him, once he has achieved the transmutation required, to force anyone to do anything that he wants, using synchronicity as a form of Imperio. Manipulating matter at the quantum level."
As he spoke, Hermione seemed to draw into her own thoughts, chewing absently on the side of her thumb. There was a long silence once he'd finished. Outside, evening gathered in and the flat was bathed in the apricot gold of sunset. Snape watched Hermione's hair turning bronze in the darkening light, admiring the colour without conscious thought, waiting for her to think through his reasoning and respond.
"Essentially, you mean that once he had reached the point where the effect of the Elixir could happen, he could also take the concept of synchroncity and use it to force physical actions in others or create events and, nowhere near the people affected, be the sole cause? That wasn't an effect I had counted on, I will admit, but I think I can see where you're taking it." She drew in a shuddering breath as Snape watched the consequences dawn on her. "Oh gods, that would given him more power and control than he'd ever had - and he wouldn't need the apparatus of acolytes around him. No evidence that he was ever involved; no Death Eaters to betray him."
"Thank you, Miss Granger. I'm well aware of my actions," said Snape drily. "You needn't emphasise them."
Hermione started; Snape had been fairly certain that she hadn't meant to call attention to his own particular relationship with Voldemort at that moment but it had seemed a good way to bring her back from the chain of thought she was getting entangled in. She coloured but apparently decided to simply come back to the point she wanted to make.
"I never intended to create a weapon," she said.
"Neither did many others, Miss Granger. Einstein and Fermi amongst them. You are hardly alone and, I should point out, you did not create the weapon. You simply drew attention to the area; others with more devious minds saw the application. Well, so far one other - myself. Voldemort seems to be heading there under his own reasoning."
"Why do you believe he will succeed, Professor? No-one else has achieved the Elixir without the Stone as guidance." She sounded as though she was grasping for anything that would deny the impact of his words and her reasoning.
"I refuse to underestimate Voldemort, Miss Granger. Too many have. Besides, now you've brought this possibility into the open with your work on quantum alchemy, it's only a matter of time before someone tries this, even if I am wrong and Voldemort himself does not. Better to develop an effective defence against this now, before it's too late to build any defence at all."
Hermione was now looking at him with horror in her face; he regretted the events that meant he was the one to bring to her attention just what her discoveries could be used for but, in the end, someone undoubtedly would. He seemed to have been the unwitting volunteer for much unpleasant work, this was simply one more task to add to the tally. Another innocence lost, thanks to him. He drew himself up, standing again and pacing in front of the fireplace as Hermione dropped her head into her hands.
"Miss Granger, regret will not solve anything. If you had not found this, someone else would have done. If you had not found this, we may not have had any idea of what could be achieved if Voldemort does reach the transmutation - at least, not until it was far too late. Discovery of what is, after all, a weapon of mass destruction is - I grant you - not quite what Gryffindors are noted for but, then again Miss Granger, you never were a typical Gryffindor."
Hermione drew in a shuddering breath and let the book she still held drop to the table in front of her.
"Very well. I brought it to light, I'll have to bury it. How do you want me to help you?"
From his corner of the sofa, Snape watched Hermione gather herself together. He looked at her now, as though for the first time, as she sat upright and clearly resisted the temptation to slump in despair at what she had unwittingly created. She had grown up at college, he thought. Taller and slimmer than he remembered; a little too slim, as though she regularly forgot to eat - a condition he understood all too well. Her clothes hung slightly on her frame, clearly bought for someone a size or so larger; black jeans and a black sweater. He let his gaze wander over her with curiosity at the changes.
Her hair had either been tamed or had tamed itself as she grew up; it framed her face now in a slightly unkempt series of layers, rearranged as she shoved a hand through it to push away the layers from her face. She was pale; too much time in the library, she needed to get out more, Snape thought without recalling that the same should perhaps apply to him.
She looked up at him now, her question tinged with desperation. The distress was clear in her face; the shadows under her eyes seemed suddenly more pronounced and her jaw was set with a determination that would hurt later. "I need to help you," she said, reinforcing the question.
"And I need your help, Miss Granger - that is why I came here, after all," he pointed out, the drop of acid in his voice making it clear that he would not usually come asking for help. The dry comment had an added benefit; the tears he thought he saw shimmer in her eyes had vanished. He had too much to do - and too little inclination - to deal with tears; they were pointless waste of energy that would not resolve the problems they faced. Hermione swallowed and nodded.
"Then tell me how can I help you, Professor," she said simply. "I assume you've found something in my thesis that will help?"
"More or less," replied Snape. The truth was that he had only a limited amount of knowledge of the area she was studying; his work as external examiner was largely limited to ensuring that the thesis was internally consistent and logical, and that it had no errors that he was aware of. Therein lay the problems of examining most doctoral theses - the subject was, by definition, novel and so assessment was necessarily limited. Hermione's thesis, examining the potential for quantum alchemy - a synthesis of the Muggle science of quantum physics and the psychological elements of alchemy - was in a very different area to his own expertise in practical alchemy. His role as examiner had come about because he was known to have an interest in Muggle science, one of the few wizards with the understanding or inclination to study the subject.
"The key is to stop Voldemort; as he's working at the psychological level, that is almost certainly where we need to meet and defeat him. There isn't enough of him left alive to try to defeat physically." Snape's voice twisted with disgust for the creature that had had the wizarding world in terror for so many years. "Any chance we had to kill him was lost when Potter got in the way," he added. Hermione looked up again at the mention of Harry. "Do you see much of Potter these days?" asked Snape.
Hermione looked surprised at the question. "I didn't think you cared, Professor," she drawled, stretching slightly as though to ease muscles cramped as she sat on the edge of the sofa. "But no, I don't see that much of him. Or Ron, come to that. They have other interests, and the common bond of school has long since gone. I get letters every now and then but that's all - and probably rather more than you really wanted to know."
Snape wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased that he at least wouldn't run the risk of encountering Harry Potter whilst he worked with Hermione; he had little objection to the boy in reality, his fears that he would follow his father had turned out to be unfounded in the end. Potter had been part of the group that finally caught Voldemort, but he hadn't indulged in the flashy heroics that Snape had half-expected. His mother's genes had clearly contributed some sense to the boy after all.
"You're right, Miss Granger, it is more than I needed to know." His drawl matched hers. "But then, I did ask so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you answered. To go back to the issue that I came here to discuss, though -"
He stopped speaking abruptly as Hermione got up.
"Before we get into what I suspect is going to be a long and detailed conversation, I think I'll sort out some food. I don't think I've eaten since yesterday, and it's beginning to catch up with me." She yawned slightly. "I got caught up in some research I was doing online," she nodded towards the computer, "and lost track of time. Don't worry, I'll be fine once I've eaten and put on something a bit warmer. It's getting chilly in here."
Night had crept on whilst they spoke, and the windows at the end of the room were black now. As black as the London night ever got, acknowledged Snape, looking out into the sulphur glow that formed a halo over the capital and could be seen for miles. He looked back to Hermione; she was paler now than she had been when they started speaking, and he wondered just when she'd eaten yesterday. Probably breakfast, by the look of her.
"Go put on some warmer clothes, Miss Granger," he said, "I'll deal with dinner - assuming there is anything in the cupboards to eat?" he added wryly.
Hermione laughed. "You forget to eat and get food too?" she asked. He nodded. "Ah well, the joys of Hogwarts - the house-elves never seem to forget to shop. No house-elves here, but the local Waitrose does a fair impression. There'll be food in the cupboards and the last time I looked nothing was actually moving in the fridge. Thanks - just ... just find whatever you can and work with it. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Snape watched her cross the room to close the shutters, pulling them across the windows to shut out the night. She touched a switch on the wall and the room was suddenly softly lit, with washes of light flooding across the walls from the floor. Hermione disappeared down a small spiral staircase in a corner of the room, a feature which he hadn't noticed when he entered the room. He stood for a moment, taking in the room again in this different light and paying a little more attention than he had done at first.
The room was sparse; he wouldn't have expected that. Most wizards were pack rats, accumulating objects and clutter as they went. From what he knew of Muggles, they were little different. The acquisition of "things" was almost elevated to a religion, with little thought given to whether or not the "things" were in fact necessary. Hermione clearly did not subscribe to that philosophy - except perhaps with regard to books but, he had to admit, those were different. The result was a room that, whilst it looked vastly different, was not in fact dissimilar to his own. Solid, elegant furniture - her tastes ran to oak, rather than his preference for chestnut - books, and a few pictures on the wall that held the fireplace.
Snape wandered over the fireplace to light it; a swift motion with his wand, and the fire laid there was abruptly burning. He looked curiously at the small lumps of ... coal, perhaps. He wasn't sure; he preferred wood fires, although he knew that wizards in some areas preferred to use coal. In the end it was all the same, though, give or take a few millennia of fossilisation. The warm given off was more than adequate, and he moved away slightly, looking at the pictures on the wall. A mixture of Muggle and wizard photographs - her parents, he presumed, looking at a static picture of a pleasantly boring looking couple. Potter and Weasley waved cheerfully from another photograph, then stopped abruptly when they realised who was looking at them. The photograph looked as though it had been taken when they were still at Hogwarts - from the size of them, he estimated the end of the seventh year. Probably celebrating the end of the NEWTs.
The rest of the pictures on the wall were paintings; various styles, all originals - a mixture of abstracts and watercolours of pieces of architecture. Snape wondered whether Hermione had painted any of them, but none of those with any form of signature looked as though they bore her name. He paused for a moment in front of one picture; at first it seemed another abstract but then, as he stepped away, he suddenly realised it was a portrait of a large ginger cat. Hermione's familiar at school, he thought. The name escaped him; he looked around again, but there was no suggestion that she had a cat now. It had been fully-grown, from what he could remember, and cats did not have indefinite lives. On the whole, he thought wouldn't ask - pet owners tended to be rather irrational if the pet had died.
He suddenly realised he was hungry, and remembered what it was he was supposed to be doing. Pacing back across the room, his boot-heels suddenly loud on the wooden floor, he looked around the small kitchen area. Wooden cupboards ran across the wall, those on the floor topped with a granite worksurface. Another series of cupboards divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room, the worksurface on these extending back slightly into the room. A couple of stools in chrome and black leather were tucked under the extension. Given the lack of any dining table, Snape supposed this was where Hermione tended to eat.
He hesitated before opening the cupboards; this reminded him somehow of his potions storeroom, though he had no idea why. The faint feeling of trespass was irritating, and he reminded himself that she had actually agreed that he should do this. If the Floo network were connected, he would have summoned one of his house-elves to deal with this - that idea was rather less invasive than doing it himself. No Floo network meant he'd just have to deal with it. He liked cooking, that wasn't a problem. In fact, if he had felt more comfortable, he would have been looking forward to this - he rarely got the opportunity to cook, given the combination of house-elves at Hogwarts and the scarcity of his visits home.
Snape took a deep breath and reached for the closest cupboard door; opening it, he felt faintly foolish. Nothing more than a collection of pans - why he'd felt this might be private, he couldn't say. Not even his own kitchen was exactly sacrosanct. He hunted through the rest of the cupboards to find a few more pans, a pile of plates and a cupboard of mugs, before he found any food. Her comment came back to him - "the local Waitrose does a fair impression" - and wondered just who this Wait Rose was. Investigating the contents of the cupboard he realised it had to be the grocer; most of the food had "Waitrose" written on it somewhere.
Several types of pasta, a couple of bags of rice, cans of various things - tomatoes, peppers, tuna - and a number of bottles of spices and dried herbs jostled with a couple of half-empty boxes of something called "breakfast bars". The shelf above held cereals and flour and a number of cans of chestnuts. Snape picked one of these up and looked at it curiously; he adored chestnuts, but the palaver of roasting and peeling them was something he could live without. These appeared to be a reasonable compromise for cooking with - he doubted whether they had the flavour necessary to eat just as they were. It looked as though Hermione shared his liking, given the half-dozen cans she had on the shelf.
Snape found himself wondering what Hermione was like now, as he looked through her things. The flat - well, the room, since that was all he'd seen, suggested that she'd retained her fascination with learning generally, rather than focussing exclusively on her university subject. The books spilling out of the shelves ranged across all subjects; there was even a small collection of cookery books sitting on the worksurface in front of him, he noted. Turning his head slightly, he read the titles. Italian Food - Elizabeth David; How To Eat - Nigella Lawson; Appetite - Nigel Slater; Cranks' Bible. The last one puzzled him, so he opened it to discover a book on vegetarian cooking. Of the others, he knew only Elizabeth David - he'd even met her once; she had been some relation of his mother, and he'd met her in London one day when he'd been here to have lunch with his mother. An irascible old woman, but she lit up when she'd discovered they had visited many of the same places in France and Italy.
He put the book back and wondered what Hermione was doing; she'd taken longer than was strictly necessary just to change clothes. If she didn't appear soon, he supposed he would have to check on her. In the meantime, he had dinner to make. He checked the cupboard again, then pulled out one of the cans of chestnuts and a half-empty package of risotto rice, setting them on the worksurface and turning to find the icebox - no, fridge, that was the Muggle term for it. They were usually white, he recalled, scanning the area again. Nothing obvious ... he started on the rest of the cupboards; Miss Granger had mentioned a fridge so, no doubt, she had one around.
The second cupboard yielded results - the icebox was hidden behind the door. Snape peered in; the light was rather unforgiving but he noted that she was right, nothing was actually moving in there. Something wasn't far from independent life, though, judging by the rather acrid smell of mildew that greeted him. He pushed aside half-empty bottles of jam and mustard with fastidious fingers, searching for whatever it was that was quite so profoundly unpleasant. His sense of smell was keener than most; part genetics and part experience. A lifetime creating potions ensured that the he had could detect the subtlest of odours - the subtleties of potions often depended on it.
He found the offending object in the bottom of the icebox; once a lemon, now green and grey. The remaining lemons in the bag looked unaffected, so he washed those after throwing out the other. They went back into the icebox, and he carried on looking through the contents. There wasn't a lot more, in fact - an unopened bag of salad, a collection of apples, a heel of Parmesan cheese and a bottle of red wine. He blinked at the last item, and looked at it more closely. Zinfandel - perhaps it wasn't so surprising that she kept it in the icebox, he thought, but he wouldn't have chosen to do so. He thought for a moment, then took the wine and the cheese, together with an onion that he'd found hiding behind the lemons.
Hermione came up the stairs just as he had found a knife and chopping board, and had a pan already on the hob with a slick of olive oil heating in the bottom. Another pan was on a fast burner, heating water and a handful of dried herbs. Snape looked up; she had found a heavy grey sweater to pull on in place of the black one - or perhaps in addition to it, he couldn't tell. She smiled briefly at him and turned to the fire, toasting her feet slightly in front of it, one after the other. She had put on socks that seemed to match the sweater; thick and grey and looking remarkably comfortable, he thought.
"What are we having?" she asked, breaking into his concentration as he chopped the onion.
"Risotto, with chestnuts and red wine," he answered briefly, looked at the can of chestnuts and trying to fathom out how to open it. He heard a muffled laugh, and the can was taken out of his hands as she leant across the worktop.
"It opens like this," she said, demonstrating as she hooked a finger in the loop on the top and pulling. "Very efficient, and it means I don't have to hunt through the drawers for a can opener. I take it you discovered my hoard of chestnuts, then?"
"No, Miss Granger, I didn't - I conjured them up from thin air." His voice now extremely dry, Snape tipped the onions into the pan with the olive oil and emptied the chestnuts on the chopping board instead. He detested small talk, convinced it was a waste of time and, besides, he was no good at it. He waited for a hurt response and was surprised by a chuckle instead.
"You're right of course, it was an obvious comment. I apologise - or did you conjure them out of thin air?"
He looked up; there was a grin on her face. "No, of course, you wouldn't. How could I forget - you don't like 'silly wand waving', do you? By the way, if we're going to be working together, I'd prefer it if you would call me Hermione. I would rather not feel as though I'm 11 years old again."
Snape held her gaze for a moment, trying not to smile at her mimicry of his annual speech to first years. She'd learnt to hold her own over the last few years, clearly. It was going to be interesting to work with her.
"Very well, Hermione," he said. He waited for a short moment then added, "and you'd better call me Severus, then. Otherwise you will undoubtedly still feel 11 years old and I'm sure that would be ... inappropriate to the work we're doing." His tone was dry, but she smiled again.
"Thank you ... Severus." The short pause before she said his name suggested that it might take some time before she used it naturally; unsurprising, really, he thought. He turned his attention back to the work at hand.
"This is going to take a while to finish," he said, "why don't you start to tell me where you've got to with your research? I assume you've carried on with it since finishing your thesis?"
Hermione nodded and pulled one of the stools out from under the worktop, settling down before she started to speak.
****
Hermione would later describe the evening as one of the oddest she had ever had; at the time, though, it seemed perfectly reasonable to be sitting at the kitchen counter in her flat whilst her former Potions teacher created something mouth-watering from the meagre contents of her cupboards. That he had found anything at all to conjure a meal from was astonishing in itself, never mind that he managed to make it sound as though he had intended to make the risotto all along.
She had been surprised to see him when she had checked through the security lens, from habit, to see who was knocking at her door. A dozen possible reasons, each more unlikely than the last, were discarded as she unlocked and opened the door. By the time she faced him, though, Hermione had settled for a mundane greeting. Unless Snape had changed considerably since she had left school, she would find out soon enough why he was visiting her.
With that expectation in mind, she was rather bemused when Snape didn't immediately begin by discussing whatever it was he needed to see her for. He stared around the room as she shut the door, apparently fascinated by what he saw - both architecture and contents.
Hermione took the opportunity to look at him as he moved into the middle of the room; his Muggle clothing suited him rather well, she thought. Black, of course - a high-necked top, fine knit, and a black suit. The jacket was cut just slightly longer than usual, although not quite long enough to be a frock coat. Well polished, solid black boots with an unusual metal decoration on the sides. Hermione suppressed a smile - the boots looked as though they belonged to someone out in the American West, rather than to a professor of Potions currently absorbed in the contents of her bookcase here in West London.
He had done something to his hair and general appearance as well - nothing more than basic maintenance, thought Hermione, but it made him look more approachable. Perhaps Voldemort's defeat had finally given him the freedom to think about more than simply survival.
It had taken a cup of tea - she'd forgotten to take the tea bag out of his mug in time to prevent his tea from stewing to the industrial strength she'd discovered a liking for at college - and more inconsequential conversation before he had come to the point. Once Snape had told her why he was there, though, she rather wished he had taken longer about it. Possibly even forever.
With her emphasis on the interaction between alchemy and physical science she had not paid much attention to the spiritual, or mental, processes involved in alchemy. She had studied them - three years as an undergraduate studying alchemy had ensured that - but somehow, perhaps because it was uncomfortably close to Divination or perhaps because she didn't quite believe that the spiritual processes of alchemy were as real as the physical, she had not considered the implications of her work on that level. There was no reason why she should; her thesis was complete as it stood, and the mental processes were outside the scope of quantum alchemy. Nonetheless, quantum alchemy was not outside the scope of spiritual alchemy; far from it.
She could have quite happily lived without knowing that she had defined a new weapon, albeit a wizarding weapon. To be able to attack by the mind alone - no words, no contact needed. Hermione shuddered. The attacker need not even be on the same continent as the attacked; there need be no evidence to lead to the attacker, or even an indication that an attack had taken place. Synchronicity would be all that was needed; influencing events at a quantum level would mean that no causality could ever be shown.
Hermione shuddered again, wrapping her arms around herself and nestling into the over-sized thick sweater that she pulled on earlier as a defence against the cold - internal and external. She had brought Snape up to date with her research - in truth, she had not got very much further with it. Most of her time over the last couple of months had been taken up with getting the thesis into a fit state for submission. A plate appeared in front of her now, heaped with a dark red risotto steaming gently. She looked up at Snape.
"Eat, Miss Granger - Hermione. There is still some wine left; would you like a glass?"
She nodded, dragging a fork through the risotto in front of her. Moments later Snape sat beside her, and handed her a glass half-filled with red wine. He served himself with risotto and wine and then, with a sideways glance at her, began to eat.
Hermione stopped redistributing her food on the plate and followed his example; the risotto was astonishing - the texture of the chestnuts brought out against the melting rice. The red wine, which gave it a deep red colour, had mellowed to a background softness.
They ate in silence for a few minutes; Hermione noticed, without paying much attention, that Snape ate almost as slowly as she did. She had endured a certain amount of teasing at school for it, but had never seen the need to bolt her food in the way that the others did. It had the side effect of ensuring that she hadn't struggled with her weight at any point either.
The flat was silent, disturbed only by the occasional chink of metal on china and the insistent ticking of a clock. Double glazing and some discrete charms blocked out the London background noise. Slowly, as she ate, Hermione began to unwind - the combination of hot food and wine on an empty stomach was surprisingly relaxing. Eventually she'd eaten enough; almost all the food on the plate, to her surprise. Next to her, Snape had just finished and was swirling the remains of his wine absently in the glass. Hermione found herself staring at his hands as he did so, watching the subtle flexing of his long fingers. When she looked up, it was to see him now looking at her with an indecipherable expression on his face. She wondered what he was thinking, and braced herself for one of his usual, dry, comments - but he said nothing.
Hermione had thought herself beyond being provoked by silence; it had been the favoured teaching method of one of her professors at college. A year of being criticised, for the half-considered thoughts and over-extrapolated theories that his silence had produced, had been enough to ensure that she used that silence to think, rather than simply speak.
Snape's silence unnerved her just enough to forget that training; the only comfort she later found on recollection was that he had previously seemed equally unnerved by her silence when he first entered her flat. The pause in which they simply looked at each other was broken by the first question that ran through her mind.
"Do you really hate students as much as you seemed to, or was it all an act to toughen us up?"
Hermione winced as she spoke, sure that this would bring the stinging comment it undoubtedly deserved. Snape simply quirked an eyebrow, though, and looked as though he wanted to laugh - probably at her discomfort.
"My attitude towards students was, and remains, - as you suggest - at least partly 'an act'." Hermione held her breath, waiting for him to continue; she was in any case almost speechless that he'd taken her question seriously. "However, it has little if anything to do with 'toughening' students. I observed, whilst I was at school, that the effective teachers were those who were either adored or feared. When I began teaching I did not - and do not imagine that I ever will have - the personality required to be adored, Miss Granger. So I make sure that they fear me. If, in consequence, they also hate me and believe me to hate them, so be it. It produces the results I desire; even Mr Longbottom, you will recall, passed his final Potions examination. Better that a student hates me and works hard if the alternative is indifference to both the teacher and the work."
Snape paused for a moment to finish the wine; Hermione thought he was as taken aback at answering her question as she was.
"My teaching style, however, is not what I came here to talk to you about. You said that you wanted to help me; is that still the case?"
Hermione nodded, surrendering to the slightly surreal atmosphere in which Snape came to her for help.
"Very well; what I plan to do will - I believe - enable us to stop Voldemort or, at least, to meet him in his chosen battleground," he said, nodding as Hermione suddenly sat upright, wondering whether he could possibly mean what she thought he meant. "Yes, Miss - Hermione," he corrected himself, apparently remembering her request, "we need to follow him, but faster if we are to have any hope of stopping this before it goes any further."
Snape stopped, looking mildly disgusted with himself, then continued. "There doesn't appear to be any way to say this without sounding melodramatic so, if you will, please excuse the melodrama. We need to create the Philosophers' Stone."
Hermione smiled - he was right, it did sound rather melodramatic. "And that's why you need my help. Interesting, Prof - Severus," Hermione corrected herself as well, his title still coming more easily to her mind than his name, "you're the first person to have realised the implications of my thesis in that regard. Certainly no-one else has mentioned that my conclusions mean I had to have worked out the process involved and, given the way academics seem incapable of keeping anything like that to themselves, I would be very surprised if someone had realised and not mentioned it to me."
Snape snorted, and Hermione's smile widened at the almost-laugh.
"Have you actually created the Stone?" he asked, his expression serious again. Hermione shook her head.
"No. I debated whether to try but - after all the fuss in my first year at Hogwarts - I decided that it wasn't strictly required for the research I was doing, and I would prefer to avoid the attention it would inevitably bring. It's caused enough fuss already."
"How has it caused a fuss?" asked Snape sharply. "You said that you did not believe anyone else had worked out the implications of your thesis." Hermione looked away, his eyes suddenly intense as he picked up on her comment.
"No-one has mentioned it to me ..." Hermione paused, gathering her thoughts together. She didn't want to over-state the issue, but perhaps it was better to tell someone. Snape was probably the best person to tell, in fact. If they had been in contact before, she might have discussed the matter with him when it had happened; he have a clearer idea of who - and what - might be involved.
"There have been some threats made," she continued. "About a month ago, I was working here when I had some unexpected visitors - it's why I've had the fireplace disconnected from the Floo network, and why you can't apparate into the flat itself. They wanted some information, and seemed to believe I either had, or knew where to find, the Stone. It wasn't clear whether they thought I had Flamel's Stone, and had had it since school, or whether they had somehow found out what I had been researching - it wouldn't be hard to find out what I've been working on."
"Did you recognise these ... visitors?" asked Snape, a note of urgency in his voice.
"No," replied Hermione, staring down at the worksurface as she remembered the incident, and the fear came washing back unexpectedly. "They were dressed in black, with silver masks covering their faces." She heard the soft intake of breath beside her, but continued. "Only one of them spoke, and it wasn't a voice I knew. Although I think I would know it again." The last comment was said almost in an undertone, but Snape obviously heard it.
"What did they do to you?" The question seemed almost pulled from him, as if he didn't want to know and didn't want to hear the answer but felt compelled to ask.
"The usual, I imagine."
"Did they-"
Hermione interrupted, shaking her head. She caught the edge of horror in Snape's expression as she looked up.
"Nothing irreparable - some hexes and a small dose of Crucio. I think it was more to encourage me to think about being more co-operative next time."
Hermione hesitated, not wanting to ask the next question. There seemed no way that it would not offend, but still she needed to ask.
"Do you know who ..?"
Now it was Snape's turn to shake his head; thankfully, he seemed not to mind the question.
"I haven't heard anything - I'm not quite persona grata with the most likely suspects, after all." Snape's role as Dumbledore's spy had come to light in the final days of the fight against Voldemort, and for a time the revelation had drawn the worst of the fire towards him. Hermione thought, later, that the revelation and its timing had been entirely deliberate; a risky manoeuvre, but it had distracted Voldemort and the Death Eaters just enough for them to be outflanked and overwhelmed.
"Presumably not Lucius Malfoy - I would imagine you would know his voice, if only from having had to listen to his son for seven years," added Snape. "Their voices are rather similar. There's nothing to stop Lucius from using others, of course, and I would imagine that he would stop at little to obtain his own Philosophers' Stone. He would not let something as simple as Voldemort's capture keep him from pursuing his own ambitions. It is a pity that Fudge proved quite so corruptible when it came to the Malfoy money; I would rather have seen Malfoy in Azkaban that Fudge, no matter how much I dislike the former Minister," he bit out.
Hermione watched Snape pace the room; he had pushed himself up from the kitchen bar when he started to consider who would have been most likely to attack her. Without his robes, he seemed more in proportion than she recollected - or perhaps it was simply her recollection that was faulty. He was tall, and lean, but less imposing than in her memory. Hermione almost laughed at herself; her memories were largely coloured by the impressions of an eleven year old girl - impressions that had remained throughout her time at Hogwarts. Now, at the age of twenty-five, she had spent almost as much time away from school as she had spent at school - the psychological distance was immense. Somewhere in those seven years the memories of a child had been filed away, almost irretrievably, and had little to do with the way she saw things now.
She hopped down from the stool and, stepping around Snape as he wandered back towards her from the windows, sat in a corner of one of the sofas, her legs drawn up under her. She balanced her glass, with the remaining wine, on the broad arm of the sofa, and decided to try to add her own interpretation of the incident.
"It wasn't Malfoy - I heard him speak a few times; he and Draco do sound alike. Whoever it was seemed to be self-directed, I didn't get the impression that he was doing it for someone else - he knew what he wanted and it seemed to be important to him personally that he get it. The other two with him appeared to be there to add muscle to his presence."
Snape stopped pacing as she spoke and stood in front of the fire, his legs slightly spread as he let the flames warm him. He stared into the fire, and Hermione wondered whether he'd even heard her.
"Are these coal?" he asked. Hermione blinked, then realised he was pointing into the fire and was presumably asking what it was that was burning. It seemed very unlike him to be distracted but, then again, she realised that she didn't really know him. The dark sarcasm of the classroom was, he had admitted, something of an exaggeration of his personality. All the same, she thought it wasn't perhaps characteristic for him to stray away from a subject.
"They're smokeless fuel," she answered. "A Muggle invention, they're supposed to produce less polluntants than wood or coal - those are forbidden within London, to try to reduce the pollution level in the city. I don't think it'll help us fight Voldemort, though." The last comment was said rather drily, hoping to provoke Snape back into something more familiar.
"Of course. I noticed them earlier and was curious; sometimes it's easier to seize on the mundane than to continue with a train of thought, particularly when the thoughts are circling unproductively," he said, surprising her with an explanation. "I'll make some enquiries and see whether anyone has heard of a rogue Death Eater working for himself; I believed all of them were accounted for. Still, it would not be the first time someone managed to elude the Aurors."
Hermione nodded, and picked up the glass of wine; she had almost knocked it over when she shifted to find a more comfortable position on the sofa. "I've taken the usual precautions, and added a few refinements, both here and at my lab in Oxford. If anything else happens, I'll let you know."
Snape turned around to look at her. "I would appreciate that," he said in a
wry tone of voice. Hermione smiled into her glass.
"So, how do you want to go about making the Stone?" she asked, bring the conversation back to the point. "We could use my lab, or work at Hogwarts if you would prefer. I don't believe there will be a problem from the University's perspective in either case; I've submitted the thesis and don't need to show my face there again until the viva. All I've done since I finished the thesis has been theoretical - I've been working here more than there," she would have continued, but Snape held up a hand to interrupt her. Hermione flushed slightly, aware that she had been babbling rather. She was more tired than she had estimated. "Sorry," she added, "go on - had you planned anything?"
"Perhaps - given the interest being shown in the work by your friends," replied Snape slowly, "we should consider making two Stones; one in Oxford and one at Hogwarts. From what I do know of the process, there are no particularly exotic ingredients which we would find difficult to procure enough of for two Stones. Or are there?" he asked. "You know the process better than I."
Hermione thought for a moment, considering the various steps involved, then shook her head and looked back up at him. "No, nothing very unusual. It's mostly time and effort, rather than esoteric elements. Do sit down," she added with mild exasperation, "you're too tall to look up at from here."
"I do beg your pardon, Miss Granger," came the reply as Snape folded himself onto the other sofa, "far be it from me to add to your discomfort." Hermione thought he sounded amused, but his expression gave nothing away. She smiled anyway.
"Sorry, I shouldn't order you around. Oxford has done terrible things to my manners around teachers, clearly," she added. "It was one of the hardest things to get used to, calling the tutors by their first names. I kept imagining Professor McGonagall's reaction if I had tried to call her Minerva!"
This time Snape did laugh, although the sound was unpractised. "Quite. I believe she would accept it now, but I would not have advised it whilst you were at school."
"It seems such a long time ago."
"Hogwarts?" he asked.
"Yes; so much to take in, I think I spent all seven years with my head spinning as I tried to learn all I could about being a witch. At the time school seemed to go on forever, but now it's been as long again since I left and - I don't know quite what it is I'm trying to say." Hermione's voice tailed off, and she stared at the empty glass in her hand.
"I rather doubt that you stopped growing up when you left school, Hermione. The changes are simply different when you're older. And this conversation is getting maudlin, Miss Granger," he added briskly, "which means, since we have not had enough wine to be able to place the blame there, that I will leave before we both fall asleep."
Hermione punctuated his comment with a yawn, then laughed at herself.
"I think I've just proved your point, Severus." Odd, how using his name felt both strange and appropriate; working together as equals would take some time to get used to.
****
Snape left shortly afterwards; Hermione had seen him to the door, still yawning, and he had apparated from just outside the flat. Hermione had pointed out that the layout of the area was such that he could apparate to and from the flat without being observed by others. He supposed that constituted an invitation to return, beyond the agreement to make arrangements for the alchemical work by owl.
Hogwarts was no more than a silhouette against the darkness of the January night sky when he arrived back; the lights of the school were set, points of gold, in the dark granite of the walls and shimmered in a thousand reflections in the still lake. It was far too cold for anything to be inclined to disturb the night, with snow blanketing either side of the path that led from the school gates to the main entrance. The path itself was clear, swept or charmed clear, until Snape left the main drive to track his way across through the snow to a less-used door almost hidden in the folds and crags of the school walls. His feet were cold, despite the boots he wore, and he was grateful to quickly reach the relative warmth of his rooms.
A flick of his wand had the fire burning in the grate, the flames leaping and twisting around the pile of logs with the unmistaken scent of woodsmoke easing through the room with the heat. Snape dropped his jacket on the chair behind his desk, settling into one of the armchairs that faced the fire. A muttered command summoned coffee, a small mug that swiftly had ink-black stimulation coursing through him.
It had been an interesting evening; more so than he had expected. Hermione Granger had changed considerably since he had last seen her. An uncharitable thought had him wondering how much of that was because she was now free from Potter and Weasley's influence - or perhaps she had simply out-grown them once free from their undoubtedly suffocating presence.
The rogue Death Eaters were a problem; he would need to send owls to a number of people, although he thought it best to leave that for the morning. He would also certainly need to discuss his concerns with Dumbledore - and he reminded himself to check with the Headmaster whether there were any particular approvals he needed to get before continuing with the experiment.
A soft knock sounded on the door; Snape looked round.
"Come in."
The door opened to admit Dumbledore; Snape was not particularly surprised. He had spent too many years teaching at Hogwarts to be startled whenever the Headmaster showed a particularly adept sense of timing.
"Good evening, Severus," said the Headmaster. "I trust your meeting with Miss Granger was productive."