“Divination,” or “What Can Be Found at the Bottom of a Cuppa”

A/N: Written for alexajones22 as part of the SS/HG Exchange on livejournal. Beta read by the incomparable scifichick774

***

Brewing the perfect cup of tea had become Severus Snape’s new obsession.

He’d had many such preoccupations in the past. Lily…Voldemort…revenge… And his most recent and personal favorite:

Wallowing in guilt.

That particular obsession had taken up a great deal of his time since he’d murde- been forced to kill Albus Dumbledore (for we must be politically correct). The vitriol from the Wizarding world had done much to feed that gnawing beast in his gut. The one that ate at his insides and made him suffer every day for the destruction he had wrought by his too-sure machinations. The dark creature who kept him strapped to the rock, picked apart by the horrors of his betrayal. It was so easy to feed it with recriminations, self-loathing, and sickeningly idyllic thoughts of what might have happened, who might have survived had Severus Snape never taken the Dark Mark in the first place.

Yes, he had been quite well positioned in his personal pit of fire and brimstone, and doing quite well at accepting his position as the most hated wizard (next to Voldemort, of course) in magical history. Quite well, indeed, that was, until a certain bushy haired, know-it-all, infuriating witch had stuck her pert little nose where it certainly didn’t belong.

He’d been gloomily, yet safely, enslaved at Azkaban (Dementor-free since the new Post-War Ministry had decided that the creatures were too reminiscent of Voldemort and had removed them) when his court appointed legal representative had approached his cell door with a trembling lip and shaking hands.

Not that he blamed the poor fellow. He was Severus Snape; hook-nosed, greasy, Dark Marked, and not to mention the killer of the most beloved wizard of their time. In truth, it gave him some comfort that, though his wand had been broken, he still had the power to instill fear, no matter how magically impotent he may have been rendered by his peers.

Peers. Now there was a sneer-worthy thought.

Such a sneer was so powerful that the wretched sod at his cell door had trembled even more, so afraid to impart the knowledge that he had gained to his client in fear that Snape would be angry.

Angry?

That wasn’t exactly the word to describe the disposition of someone who had just been told that his future, which he at least had known would be at Azkaban and therefore a product of his own awful actions, was no longer in his control.

No. It had been taken over by a sycophant…a do-gooder…a…a…Gryffindor.

For what he had learned, before he’d bellowed and his messenger had run out the door, was that Hermione-let-me-raise-my-hand-and-show-the-world-just-how-damn-smart-I-am-Granger had figured out the truth about his actions in the war. She had discovered the circumstances of the Unbreakable Vow and, compounded with the secret ways in which he’d helped the cause while on the run, was not only trying to get him freed, but was also determined to make him a bloody hero!

Within a few short weeks, the courts had handed down their new verdict. But not before reviewing the host of “evidence” that Miss Granger had provided: letters from the possessions Draco Malfoy had inherited from his mother detailing the circumstances of the Vow; a missive written by Dumbledore himself before his death in strong support of everything Snape had done; depositions provided by those loyal to the cause whom he had sworn to secrecy regarding his actions in passing along secrets during the war (it seemed, ironically enough, that the only way to get wizards to keep their word these days was to create an Unbreakable Vow - apparently a handshake agreement meant nothing).

After all of this, the board had been “left with no choice but to rescind the sentence of Severus Snape in Azkaban.” Despite Miss Granger’s efforts, he was still looked upon with disgust by many, but Severus Snape had his freedom. Those in his astonishingly large group of supporters rejoiced as he stumbled out of the gates of Azkaban, his eyes blinded by the sudden intrusion of the sun into his vision. “He’s free! He’s saved!” The sickeningly ebullient crowd swarmed toward him, so proud of themselves, as if they had wrought his salvation instead of Hermione Bloody Granger. Yes, yes, it was a banner day indeed for all of those in the courtyard that sunny afternoon.

All except one for one person. Though this Nelson-Mandela-esque situation may have brought joy to the thronging masses, they’d forgotten a key element in their bid for his liberation:

No one had ever asked Severus Snape if he’d wanted to be saved.

So now he was left in his cottage on a remote Scottish island (all of Miss Granger’s attempts at vindicating him in the eyes of the public as well as the law notwithstanding, most people didn’t want the Headmaster of Hogwarts' killer within a hundred kilometers of them or their rosy-cheeked children) with a broken obsession. It was harder to find that dark place of pain without iron bars and screams, even with the threatening sounds of the briny waters that crashed against the tumultuous cliffs and the storms that raged across the island. A particularly delightful spate of brooding and bowel-rending could be broken like a spoon to a cauldron bubble by a simple warm and salty breeze. Severus Snape had to face facts. A proper obsession needed dedication and concentration on the subject, two essential elements which he found he lacked outside the walls of Azkaban.

No longer could his obsession be the newest form of self-immolation and abuse. No more could his days be filled with fantasies of pain and comeuppance. Suffering had ceased to be, by no decision of his own, that all encompassing goal.

Now, it was tea. Or, more precisely, brewing the perfect cup.

Severus found that the windows could be shut, the humid sea air barred from his cabin, and all distractions erased until all he was left with was leaves, water, and an hourglass. It was the closest he could come to potion making without the reminders of what he had lost, a position which for so many years he had regarded at a sort of “second place finish,” but now seemed to leave a gaping hole into which more blackened bile of his past actions stealthily crept. But now that his obsessions had switched, such personal issues could not be allowed to affect his goal. He may not have been able to succeed at perfection in guilt, but he could damn well figure out how to brew the perfect cup of tea.

But even that would prove to be disrupted by the last person he ever wanted to see again.

***

Fourteen leaves of medium size, rather than fifteen. A cup made of porcelain, not pottery. And now the water, just at the point of boiling, that had to be poured with utmost precision. A tablespoon in the first second, two in the next, then...

"Knock, knock."

His shoulders jerked at the alien sound, the disrupted water from his kettle splashing over his hands and eliciting a hiss as it burned his softening skin. He restrained himself, barely, from dashing the kettle and cup against the flagstone floor, and let out a stream of curses that would do any sailor proud.

But as the haze of frustration and anger began to fade as quickly as it had come (for Severus Snape, master spy, had always been a relatively controlled man), one thought poked through: Who in the hell was at his door?

Though his new wand had not proven to be as deft as the one that had been broken, he was rather sure that the wards that he’d placed around the property, to repel both Muggles and Wizards alike, were very strong. Unbreakable, even.

And if that wasn’t irony…

So it was with great annoyance, and not a little bit of curiosity, that Severus Snape stomped toward the door and wrenched it open with his wand at the ready.

And was totally and completely flummoxed by what—or more precisely whom—awaited him on the other side.

“You!” he spat.

Really, not very articulate, but it was all he could say in the face of the audacity, the temerity, the absolute gall…

“Well, I see that your manners haven’t improved much from our time in the dungeons, have they?

And with that, Hermione Granger swept past him and into the main room of the cottage.

Regaining some sense of his normal hauteur (for he was Severus Snape), he rejoined, “I don’t recall inviting you in. At least when you were wearing that sickening tie of scarlet and gold you had the common courtesy to tremble a bit in my presence and ask my permission.”

Hermione snorted, “I think you’ll find that quite a bit has changed, as we’ve both just proven. Now, with those pleasantries out of the way, I need your help.”

For the second time in the space of about four minutes, Snape was rendered speechless.

This state continued as he watched her poke a toe at the situation she’d created by her insipid knocking. “What’s all this mess?”

Not so amazingly, this was when Severus Snape regained the power of speech.

“Out!” he roared. “Get out of my house, off my property, and as far away from this bloody country as you can. I don’t care how you do it, but get out, now!”

There. That was a perfectly acceptable bellow; a different tact than the menacing low tones that he often used—had often used—on trembling students, but still effective in this situation. She would surely run now, with her proverbial tail through her trouser clad legs (but surely those were too tight be classified as trousers!), back to Weasley and Potter and all of the rest of the heroic and unbesmirched masses. Yes, beautifully played, he thought.

But then why was she still standing there, her head cocked to the side, with what looked suspiciously like a smirk gracing her rosy lips?

Rosy? Merlin, he’d been alone for too long. What was he doing thinking about her legs and lips and more to the point…

“Do we feel better now that we’ve gotten that out?”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Who in the hell did she think she was?

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” he demanded in deliberately measured tones.

And groaned inwardly as the annoying witch before him assumed that pseudo professorial stance he’d seen her take with Potter and Weasley.

“As you may know, I’ve been employed by Gringotts as a Curse-Breaker since the end of the war…”

“I assure you that I do not make it a point to know the latest gossip on former students.”

“Oh, really?” she replied with a doe-eyed expression that looked ridiculous on the so-called “brightest witch of her generation.” “Then I’m sure you haven’t heard the news about Pansy Parkinson’s nose job, the torrid affair between Dean Thomas and a very married witch, or Neville Longbottom’s sex change?”

Well, Parkinson’s situation would be all for the better, Thomas had never seemed to be able to keep his pants from tenting in front of Madame Pince, so he wasn’t too surprised by that, but the news about Longbottom was quite interesting…not that he had any concern with this nonsense, whatsoever.

He’d left that all behind when he’d refused the “pity position” Albus had endowed to him at Hogwarts before his passing. He’d left that life behind completely. Utterly.

So why was he now to be plagued by one of its most annoying and destructive remnants?

He tuned back in to her blathering…

“And we’ve come across a curse that has a rather substantial Potions portion of its makeup and I’m afraid that, while I’m rather good at Potions work, I can’t seem to crack it.”

“Not that good,” he said petulantly.

“Well, that’s true, I suppose. I never did get to take Potions with you in seventh year, so…”

She dared to joke about that? She of all people? What an impertinent, audacious, daring, surprising…

Yes, he was stopping this right away.

“If you think,” he replied silkily as he began to glide toward her, “that I would help the woman who has been the cause of my current situation, who, with no regard to my desires, in typical Gryffindor fashion insinuated herself into a situation in which she didn’t belong…” He was rewarded by the slight pallor of her face as he stalked toward her, and by the way she inched back, just a little. Ah, yes, he still had it! “…that I would assist her in any way, you’re more a fool than I thought. And that is saying quite a bit.”

For the first time in their very odd conversation, Hermione—Miss Granger—had the grace to look at least a little confused, if not, unfortunately, bereft of speech.

“You’ve never struck me as a stupid man, but let me spell this out for you in case your time incarcerated has muddled your mental faculties. I saved you from a lifetime of torment and loneliness, not to mention the assignation of unjust guilt, and you’re angry? Tell me how this makes any sense.”

He bristled. “Did it ever occur to you,” slapping his hand for emphasis against the wall to which he had backed her up, “that perhaps I was where I needed to be? That perhaps the will of the people had been done, that even if I had, oh how did you put it in your deposition? And, oh yes, unlike Hogwarts gossip, I am very interested in what happens in my own life, thank you very much. That even though you said, “Severus Snape’s only reprehensible action is that he entered into an Unbreakable Vow with a person of ill repute. However, his subsequent detailing of such to Professor Dumbledore, the agreement he made with the Hogwarts' headmaster regarding a possible act of forced homicide and the primacy of the war effort over the Headmaster’s own life, and the passing of information he accomplished from the dark side to the light during the war, surely makes up for this momentary lapse in judgment,” that perhaps the punishment was appropriate for my crimes before my salvation in the form of Albus Dumbledore? That perhaps it is my lot in life to suffer for the pain and anguish I have caused? That maybe, just maybe, you should have kept your damned noble machinations to yourself and let me be?” he ended on a roar.

Her eyes seemed to cloud over for bit and he was so sure that he had gotten to her. That he had reminded her of all of his transgressions, not only those most recent, and that she would very quickly be on her way. Yes, the next words out of her mouth would be those of a quivering apology and excuses for a quick exit.

But instead, he heard:

“So you’re mad because I took you away from Azkaban, where you could be punished everyday for your misdeeds?

He sighed at her curious, but not fearful, tone of voice. “In a word, yes.”

Hermione seemed to ponder this for a moment, her head tilting to the side in thought.

“I see. You do realize that that’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Excuse me?” he said incredulously.

“Well, you certainly don’t need Azkaban to make you miserable. Your current bleak state is proof positive of that. And since you’ve never really cared much about the will of the people before, why should it be so hard to recreate the experience of being completely reviled, instead of just partially, here at your island hideaway?”

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to come with an answer she would believe…

“Or,” she said with understanding dawning, “is it getting harder to hate yourself?”

He said nothing. He couldn’t. Not to something that felt so eerily like the truth that his hands began to tremble. But he mustn’t let her know…

And then, oh the horror as he saw her lips break into a luminous grin. “That’s it, isn’t it?! Oh, this is absolutely delightful…”

“Miss Granger, I warn you…”

“You warn me what? We both know that you don’t scare me anymore.”

He wasn’t too sure of that, but it was true that she had born up rather well under his condemnation. One thing that Snape had learned from his former life was that it was always important to assess an opponent before battle. Since she had stormed into his cottage, and his life, rather abruptly, he hadn’t had the chance to do that. But now, in just a moment of careful scrutiny, he was shocked by what he saw.

It had only been a year since the end of the war, and the end of her seventh year, but she looked much older than a woman of 19. It wasn’t so much the form or figure, as it was eyes that were a little too knowing and a little too seasoned for his comfort. The effects of war, he surmised, and since she had been in the thick of it, it wasn’t too surprising that it had affected her so. Still…the transformation was more than that. Her expression was as bright and determined as it had been in the past when she had been raising her hand incessantly in class or defending her classmates with that blasted Gryffindor sense of honor, but this time it was supported by some sort of inner steel. Her features had lost the petulance of youth and had grown engaging and somewhat dangerous, rather than pleasant as is the case with most girls as they rose to womanhood. And especially now that she seemed to be in battle mode…

Suddenly, he felt very, very tired and very, very old. With a sigh, he walked back over to his broken tea service and slumped down into his chair.

And, miracle of miracles, that simple act, not his yelling and his posturing, was the first thing that worked to produce a bit of doubt in Hermione Granger’s eyes.

“You really are upset about this, aren’t you?”

He sighed, “Did you really think I wouldn’t be?”

“Honestly?” she asked. “No. I mean, I think I’ve always known how much it’s bothered you to be so, well, not to put too fine a point on it…”

“I think we’re past delicate descriptions, don’t you?”

“Well, all right… ‘hated’ would probably be one of many words for what people have felt for you.”

“Yourself included, I’m sure,” he said dryly.

“Actually, no. I don’t think I’ve ever really felt that way. Not even,” she said, raising a hand as he began to protest, “when we heard what had happened to Professor Dumbledore. Oh, trust me, I wanted vengeance as much as the next witch, but I couldn’t seem to get it out of my head that Albus Dumbledore had trusted you. And even though the man wasn’t perfect and certainly wasn’t always right, he seemed to be a rather good judge of character.”

“That’s not much coming from a man who thought he could save Tom Riddle.”

She looked uncomfortable for a moment. Oh, yes, you’ve done it, Snape thought to himself. She’ll remember what you are, then she’ll be out the door. A bit embarrassed for the impassioned way in which she fought for your freedom—and what was that about anyway?—but none the worse for wear. Yes, far, far out of your life…

“Really, I don’t think it’s the same at all,” she said slowly, as if figuring it out as she spoke. “From what Harry has said—”

“Blasted Potter,” he mumbled.

“From what Harry has said,” she said a bit louder this time, stopping Snape’s protestations with a raised brow. He had barely time to register his surprise at this action of hers, and to figure out the familiarity of it, when she continued…

“…Dumbledore trying to save Riddle from his future as Voldemort was more about faith in the human condition than anything else. And,” she said pointedly, “don’t you think he learned his lesson and that he would only bestow such faith on those he believed would earn it?”

Snape said nothing to this. He really couldn’t lest he betray that Hermione was echoing that voice in his head, that tiny, tiny voice, yet one still present that said that maybe Albus had been somewhat right after all. That maybe, just maybe, this was the way things had to have turned out. They’d won the war, hadn’t they?

Thank heavens that the voice that screamed “murderer!” and the vision of blazing green light that had leapt from his wand were stronger than that little voice.

But not as strong as they had been…

“Perhaps,” was all he could seem to say in reply.

Amazingly, the fit and fire of their earlier conversation had lapsed to a more passive, if not completely comfortable, silence. For a moment, he could ponder this new information, could add it to the already weakening walls of self-hatred, and see what he could see.

That was, until she began to speak again.

But this time he was in for a pleasant surprise.

“Look,” she said with a sigh, “I’m still not sorry for what I did to free you. But,” she rushed on when he let out a growl, “I get that I probably should have spoken with you before I went ahead. I’d considered it actually, but I was afraid that your negative feelings toward me would stop you from accepting my help.”

“Miss Granger…”

“Hermione, please. Don’t think we’re past such titles?” she said, echoing his earlier chastisement. “I figured that you would be so disgusted that a Gryffindor had offered to help that you wouldn’t make a move to secure your freedom, so I decided to forgo that and go about it myself.”

A small smirk, not necessarily surly, twitched his lips. “That’s a bit Slytherin, don’t you think?”

He was surprised as he noticed her small, but answering smile. “Perhaps. Maybe it takes a bit of a Slytherin approach to help a Slytherin. But maybe if I had come to you, given my case, you would have...”

“…denied you any support and legally barred you from supporting an appeal,” he finished for her. “Really, Miss—Hermione, you still are very Gryffindor even if you do display a few other tendencies. There surely was no way that I’d have accepted help from you or anyone else, Slytherin or not, so your method was the only way in which you’d have succeeded.” He finished bitterly, “So yes, well done. Well done indeed.”

“I see,” she said, and to his alarm she looked perilously close to tears. “Well then. It seems I’ve caused you enough trouble, so I guess I should get going …”

How intriguing, and yet at the same time, how typically Gryffindor, that the momentary lifting of his emotional barriers, which allowed her to see his weariness with the lack of agency he had in his own life, was the thing to make her back off. Not thunderous bellows or intimidating murmurs. Instead, it was just a little bit of…damn it all… honesty that had her backing away. That had her turning to leave.

And in that moment, the most curious thing happened. Severus realized that he didn’t really want her to be upset or repentant. That for all of her unwanted meddling, she had provided him with an opportunity to pursue other obsessions, if not more inane ones. That he had freedom of a sort, and that the jagged cliffs and balmy air of his island were a great deal better than prison and moldy stone cots. That maybe, just maybe, Hermione Granger had done the right thing for him after all.

Still, he couldn’t be too obvious about this small revelation, now could he?

“Hermione,” he called softly as she approached the door. As she turned toward him, her face drawn and pale, he was struck once again by the fact that he didn’t want her to leave. Maybe it was the toll of too many months spent alone, or maybe it was the promise of lively conversation, or maybe, just maybe, it was the ridiculous, though somehow undeniable notion that there could be the chance for something more…but whatever the reason, he was surprised to find that he wanted her to take her hand off the doorknob and stay.

But how?

“I…I’ve been working on something and could use your help. In return, I’ll be sure to help you with this potion of yours. But first you must past muster in helping on one of my own.”

“Really?” Her face lit up in surprised delight. “Help you with a potion? But I thought I’d heard that you’d given up…” She bit her lip as if this was too much to say in the face of all that she had said already.

“Yes, well…” He paused for a moment, not knowing exactly how to answer her. For the first time since this nightmare of the past two years had begun, he wasn’t so sure that his Potions work had to be abandoned. He realized with sudden insight that preparing the perfect pot of tea had not only been a way to have a more healthy obsession, but may also have been a subconscious bid to return to the vocation from which he had derived such satisfaction.

“Let’s just call this an experiment, shall we?”

“All right,” she said, practically bouncing on her heels. “Where do we start?”

“We begin with determining the right amount of tea leaves, the exact temperature of water, the…” He trailed off, suddenly self-conscious as to how silly this idea may truly seem.

And was most surprised by the way her features softened. “You’re…you’re trying to brew the perfect pot of tea, aren’t you?”

“Cup,” he corrected firmly. Then, gentling his tone, he said, “But yes, that’s the basic premise. It’s occurred to me that no one has ever gotten it precisely right.”

“Well, then, it’s about time someone figured it out, isn’t it?” Hermione said briskly and he couldn’t help but wonder at the way in which her simple determination warmed that gaping pit in his belly.

And as they worked, their elbows bumping occasionally and their breaths mingling as they debated the finer points of heating water and the proper rates for pouring, Severus Snape was struck by the fact that no matter the outcome of water and leaves, this cup of tea may prove be the most perfect ever brewed.

***
fin