Hermione watched Severus Snape as he sniffed suspiciously at the contents of his glass. He gave an experimental poke with the decorated plastic stirrer, thoughtfully supplied by the bartender. Crushed ice slid melodically against glass. He withdrew the stirrer from the mix and the small pieces of green plant floating on the surface of the concoction drifted to a slow standstill.

"Remind me again exactly what this is," he said.

"It's a mint julep."

Hermione, having no need of any form of prior analysis, was two thirds of the way down her own glass.

"And why exactly do I wish to add sugar and flavouring to an otherwise perfectly acceptable bourbon?"

The immediate answer was, of course, because it tasted good. The intermediate answer - the OWL level response, if you will - was that some experiences were just better when viewed through specific chemical filters.

On the whole, Parvati had dealt better with the concept of Snape than might have been expected, insofar as you could call simply refusing to admit the existence of a fact "dealing with it". In fact, she had always been able to dismiss any information she preferred the world not to contain; the need to study for examinations, for example. Add to that a tendency to single-mindedly pursue an objective, be it a boyfriend or a new set of robes and ten years of fashion journalism, and you had fluffy pinkness distilled into a form of direct ruthlessness that was slightly disturbing.

Although Pavarti's instinctive startle reaction to Snape's abrupt intrusion into her slightly panicked stream of consciousness had proved to be an unexpectedly sharp accent in an otherwise monorose afternoon.

All in all, Hermione had found the whole day more than a little disorientating and somehow, a return to Oxford to mull over things in her own rooms, had not seemed nearly as appealing as a drink and maybe supper in London. She hadn't quite laid out the entire scheme to Snape himself, but he was oddly unresisting as she pulled him into the Wine Bar, as typical of its kind as the earlier coffee shop had been.

This one was all dark wood floors and polished brass fittings and heaving with the pre-theatre crowd, catching a cocktail before heading off to the next West End sensation, recounting anecdotes in voices calculated to be just penetrating enough to reach the nearby tables.

Under ordinary circumstances Snape would have said something cutting a long time ago. Then again, under ordinary circumstances she would not have been sitting in a wine bar watching him silently subject a harmless cocktail to the sort of treatment she associated with one of Neville Longbottom's more avant-garde potion attempts. The lack of open contempt for their surroundings was one more disconcerting thing in a disconcerting day.

"It won't hurt you," she ventured, wondering if humour would lighten the subtle tension.

"I beg your pardon?"

That was odd. Since when had Severus Snape been absent minded?

"The drink," she amplified. "It won't hurt you."

He scowled at her.

"This place is not sufficiently interesting to be dangerous."

That was better. Relief made her smile slightly, and brought a nagging sense that if she were going to prolong their meeting she had better raise the subject now.

"Are you going back to Hogwarts tonight?"

He looked somewhat surprised at the question.

"Of course. The classroom cannot spare me for an indefinite length of time."

Hermione took a deep breath and concentrated on making her tone as casual as possible.

"I don't suppose you'd be interested in getting something to eat before you go back. I know a nice little place round the corner that might be able to fit us in."

He put the glass down slowly. Damn, she thought, he's going to refuse. Of course, he just wants to be away from this as soon as possible. For a moment she thought he wasn't even going to answer, but then he shrugged carelessly.

"I suppose there are some practical details that need to be worked out and now would be as convenient a time as any to do that. And as Ms Patil's empire building has undoubtedly caused me to miss dinner, it will save me getting something upon my return."

The response was grudging in a way that only Snape could achieve, but Hermione remembered enough of him to know that if he had truly objected he would simply have said no and left.

"Well, we can go as soon as you've finished your drink."

**********

Both the noise and population levels of the restaurant were significantly lower than in the wine bar. Snape had, in the end, never progressed beyond a small sip of his julep, pronouncing it far too sweet and an insult to a good bourbon. Hermione had finished hers and her nerves, if not settled, were at least mildly sedated for the time being. The dining area was arranged into small rooms, none with more than a handful of tables, giving an intimate air. Although it, too, was busy with early diners, a table had somehow materialised, with an ease that made Hermione suspect that the maitre d' had some magical blood in her background. An infinitesimal relaxation in the set of Snape's shoulders told Hermione that he was much happier in this setting and he had unbent far enough to order a bottle of a decent white wine, which he was now sipping as an accompaniment to his mushroom risotto.

She sliced into a delicately cooked scallop.

"So," she tried, "how are you?"

Small talk was not one of Snape's strengths, but to simply launch into a work plan seemed curiously out of keeping with the surroundings.

"I still teach at Hogwarts," he answered, as if that covered everything, which in a way it probably did.

She couldn't think of a follow-up that didn't strike her as too personal. Which was ironic when she thought about it; there had been a time when nothing had been 'too personal', when everything had been open, naked. Which was probably why she shied away from anything that smacked of that now; why she didn't want to do or say anything that could be seen as presuming on their past association.

She took a sip of wine; it was dry, with a hint of apples. A good choice and she told him so. Conversation about the wine was followed by some bland enquiries after old staff members and equally perfunctory questions concerning the health of her old friends. Snape seemed as relieved as she was when the main course arrived giving them a legitimate excuse for their concentration to be elsewhere.

There was only so much arrangement of her food and plates that could be done, before Hermione had to look up, if only to transfer some vegetables to her plate. As she did so Snape was neatly attacking his skate wing, deftly running the knife between the cartilege and the flesh, lifting the sweet flesh with the flat of the blade and transferring it to his fork. Another jolt of memory hit her; the strong careful hands, skinning and slicing all manner of strange ingredients; competent and confident, muscles knowing the actions so well that sight was almost superfluous. And the odd sensation that she could nearly feel the movements, knew how the knife would rest on the joint of his finger, knew how much pressure would be needed to cut just deep enough....

She pulled her attention back to her own dinner, and took another sip of wine to moisten a mouth gone suddenly dry.

"So," she said, with forced brightness, trying to shake off that eerie doubled feeling, "how are we going produce Pavarti's shopping list then? Owl post? Regular conferences by Floo? She does seem to be very anxious to get everything sorted out."

She wondered what Snape had made of the new Pavarti - she woud reserve judgment on any question of "improved" for the moment. Her thoughts were temporarily diverted and she had drawn breath to ask his opinion, when he spoke across her, answering her initial query.

"We will first need to assemble all that remains of the notes of that period - I presume that you have kept adequate notes?"

That was a nasty question. The initial notes had been Snape's, and he had left them in her rooms after - well, just after. She still had them, bundled with a very grubby copy of Hogwarts: A History; she had had no real expectation of needing either again, but they were part of her past that she couldn't bring herself to part with. But would he have expected her to keep them, as a scholar might, or would he expect her to have disposed of them as things from childhood no longer needed?

"I still have some of them," she temporised. Snape's expression was unreadable.

"Then we first need to establish exactly what we do have. Then I suppose we need to devise some base preparations and work out how they are to be modified to each specification. Then a working plan needs to be formulated."

"This is going to take some time," Hermione mused.

"Then I suggest you lose no time in getting started," he replied. "If Miss Patil is correct, and she needs this to be ready before Christmas, then you appear to have your work cut out."

She would have her work cut out? All thoughts of deconstructing Pavarti's behaviour left her mind.

"I thought you were going to be helping me?"

He gave her a supercilious look. She was bizarrely relieved that he hadn't lost the ability to make her want to hit him.

"I have teaching commitments for another week. You, I apprehend, have already begun the somewhat longer vacation enjoyed by those in higher education. Therefore, it is inevitable that this task will lie with you."

She gritted her teeth.

"Well, I'm going to have to be in fairly close contact with you if I have to collate all the notes and then make up a plan. To make a plan I have to know what you are, and aren't, willing to do."

He arched an eyebrow.

"How would you define 'fairly close contact', Hermione?"

Damn it, was he referring to the last time they were in 'fairly close contact'? Was he making fun of that? Could he be taking part in this simply to exact some kind of obscure revenge over what happened in her final year? The thought made her throat go taut with fury and unwanted tears pricked at her eyes.

If you me to back down over this Professor Snape, then you have a surprise coming.

She drew a controlled, careful breath, met his gaze and aimed for her sweetest tone.

"I would have said daily, Severus."

"Daily?"

"At least."

"I have full teaching responsibilities until the end of term. I cannot guarantee to answer owls or be available reliably on the Floo until then."

Really?

"Well, I'm going to need at least that much input from you, if I'm to guarantee accurate reproduction of your work", she stressed the last part, "so if you can't manage that, perhaps you would be kind enough to explain to Parvati that we can't do it after all?"

His face clouded, and she knew she'd scored some kind of point.

"The only answer to this dilemma that I can see is for you to come to Hogwarts, so that we can work together directly. If that is unacceptable to you, then perhaps you should be the one to break the news to Ms Patil."

That was clearly a challenge.

"Unacceptable?" she managed. "How could you think that, Severus? It would be a pleasure to come back to the school. Given that I've ceased teaching for Christmas, as you say, I could be there tomorrow. Would that be too soon?"

To her surprise, he looked away.

"I'll tell the headmaster and the house elves when I get back tonight. Should I pass on any special request?"

The sudden seeming withdrawal shook her a little, and she shook her head.

"No, nothing special," she said in a more natural tone. "I'll aim to arrive tomorrow evening, about dinnertime. If there's a problem, owl me."

A curt nod of the head was her only reply.

Hermione was uncomfortably aware that the business proposition had somehow turned into a personal issue between them; a series of escalating dares almost.

She was pleased to be going back to Hogwarts, of course she was; Christmas had always been her favourite time of year at the school. But she couldn't help wishing that the invitation had been able to be more openly offered and accepted. Stifling a sigh, she continued eating her meal.