Many thanks to Losille, Subversa, and Mum for their beta reading efforts and advice. This fic is loads better because of them.

The epilogue is disregarded.

This was a gift for SSHG316 for the Winter 2008 round of the SSHG Exchange. Love you, Shug!

*****

Hermione’s lip curled as the dreadful fishy smell drifted through the car windows. Ah, how jaded she’d become in the year she’d lived here. She’d initially taken in Cannery Row, the old Fisherman’s Wharf, and the other touristy parts of Monterey, but now the Aquarium was the only place she still cared to visit, and that was only when the school groups and vacationers weren’t out in force. She wouldn’t be here now, if it wasn’t for Dorothy’s taste in restaurants.

Or her recommendations in men, Hermione thought ruefully.

It was a beautiful afternoon, she decided, catching a glimpse of the ocean as she drove into Pacific Grove. She turned off the main road and breathed deep, the tangy eucalyptus filling her lungs. The streets were crowded with old houses, and the neighbourhoods nearest the sea weren’t laid out in their usual grid pattern, but it was easy enough to find the right street.

She took a deep breath as she pulled into a parking spot near Hiram’s. The ocean was half a block away, and she gazed across the water for a moment, watching a lone sailboat drift toward the harbour. Beyond, the north side of the bay was barely visible; the hills surrounding Santa Cruz glowed gold in the late afternoon sunlight. Hermione mentally shook herself, turning her attention back to the here and now … though she really didn’t want to be here right now. The restaurant was tucked in among the houses and looked like another house itself, except for the unobtrusive sign on the front lawn. No wonder she had never noticed it before in her explorations of the area, even though she’d played at the nearby golf course more than once with Dorothy.

Dorothy. The head of the Social Sciences department at the university, who had set Hermione up with Frederick Smith, whoever he was. Hermione got out of the car, trying to calm the apprehension churning in her stomach. She had never accepted a blind date before, and she was terribly nervous. She glanced at her reflection in the car window. Not a hair out of place, which was saying something, especially considering the strong breeze that made the trees rustle. She crossed the street and made her way up the path, her hands clenching, glad she had pockets to stuff them into.

Leslie, she reminded herself. She still had to remind herself that Hermione Granger didn’t exist any more. She was Leslie Wilkins, who’d attended a public school in England, achieving outstanding marks on an obscene number of O-levels and A-levels, who then took two years to drift around the world before attending university in Chicago and law school – Americans were weird, to make the law a post-graduate study – in Washington. After practising family law in Dallas for five years, she had been offered a faculty position at a nearby university and had jumped at the chance to be a teacher.

A dozen faces drifted in the forefront of her mind as she opened the door and stepped into the dim entryway. She’d left their world behind, but their faces and what they had taught her still remained, those men and women who had not only fed her hungry mind, but had fought alongside her as well.

Leslie, she told herself again. Leslie had never wielded a wand or got in so much as a fist fight. She only had female friends, hated camping, and had only ever been tortured socially. Leslie Wilkins had never even heard the word “Muggle” … she simply was one.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped into a wood-panelled entrance hall. Her first impression was that the restaurant was quiet and busy, not too posh. She liked it already. She nervously scanned the faces of the people waiting as she slid the coat off her shoulders.

“Leslie?”

Well, his voice is pleasant, she thought, folding her coat over her arm and looking up at the man who stepped from the shadows, giving her a glimpse of his face. Yes, he did look Spanish, just as Dorothy said. He looks like Viktor, a voice in the back of her mind chirped, but she shoved the memory away.

He was at least ten years older than she. A hank of hair flopped forward over his brow, and his nose was even more impressive than her friend had implied. But for all that, he certainly was appealing. And he smelled good. Hermione held out her hand, trying to smile naturally. He took it, his slightly-crooked teeth flashing in a small grin as a peculiar, pleasant warmth ignited where they touched. “Frederick,” she said, her nervousness fading as she looked at him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Dorothy and Benjamin Grey have told me a lot about you,” he was saying, but her mind had stuttered to a stop at the familiar drawl, ice running through her veins when he uttered a name so similar to her own.

She glanced at his hand – long and thin, like a spider, with lots of scars on his fingers – and back at his face. Her hand clenched around his suddenly, and the butterflies in her stomach seemed to explode. “You’re alive,” she whispered.

He blanched under his tan, black eyes wide for a second. The furious scowl he favoured her with a moment later confirmed his identity, and Severus Snape looked no less intimidating in a charcoal suit and red tie than he ever had in his frock coat and teaching robes. “Granger.”

“Erm,” she so eloquently said, trying to sort out the relief, terror, sorrow, and exuberance that thrilled in her breast, but she was cut short when he walked out.

After allowing herself a few more seconds of blank shock, she heard a small chuckle, then a throat clearing. Blushing furiously, she looked at the hostess, who looked both puzzled and dismayed. Well, she certainly couldn’t stay now. Not knowing what else to do, she shook her head, ignoring the others waiting in the foyer, and left the restaurant.

They’re complete strangers, she reasoned as she slowly made her way down the brick path. It doesn’t matter.

She glanced around. He wasn’t there.

Professor Snape is alive.

She knew that she was happy he was alive, even though she didn’t really feel it at the moment. She’d stolen a Time-Turner from his office and raided Sluggy’s stores before sprinting all the way to the Shack and labouring over him for what seemed like forever. She’d been losing the battle, praying for someone to come and completely snowed under by those who had:

“Get away from him!” a woman shrieked. Rough hands shoved her away from the man she had been trying to save. She felt a sharp pain as she hit her head on something, she wasn’t sure what.

“He’s still alive,” she gasped, her ears ringing. She tried to get back to Snape, but she slipped in the blood on the floor.

Mr Malfoy bent over the pile of robes, touching his wand to Snape’s neck. He whispered a gentle song, crooning desperately, while his wife and son pointed their wands at Hermione. Once Mr Malfoy stopped singing, he gestured, and Mrs Malfoy knelt at Snape’s other shoulder, helping her husband cradle the headmaster in their arms. Draco lunged forward, the palm of his hand cracking sharply across Hermione’s cheek. “Later, Draco,” Mrs Malfoy said urgently, and her son grabbed the remaining potions Hermione had brought with her. The four of them vanished.

Hermione gasped, the sound echoing in the empty room. Had Snape blinked? Or was it a mirage caused by the Apparition spell?

She’d never seen him again. The one time she’d seen Malfoy after that, he’d coldly informed her that Snape was dead. Hermione had left England shortly thereafter, spending six months in Australia before realising she wasn’t going to be able to rescue her parents any more than she’d been able to rescue Snape.

Her hands shook as she started the car, but she forced herself to focus as she pulled away from the curb. It wouldn’t do to be so distracted that she drove into another car or, heaven forbid, Monterey Bay. Her stomach growled and her head began to ache as she made her way home, the sun sinking behind a fog bank that was quickly moving in from the ocean.

Hermione let herself into her house, automatically putting her keys in the dish by the door, hanging up her dress and coat, transferring her wallet back to her everyday handbag. She pulled her nightshirt on and stumbled to the kitchen. After forcing down a banana, a glass of milk, and an aspirin, she turned on the telly, turned it off, lingered by the computer before deciding not to bother, and returned to her bedroom. She stepped into the bathroom, pulled off her nightshirt, and looked, really looked, at herself in the mirror. At Hermione Granger.

The ugly scar shimmered palely between her breasts, crawling from her upper belly to her collarbone, shiny and yellow-white against her pinkish skin. She’d never been able to conjure a believable excuse for the ugly, jagged remnant of Dolohov’s hex – the truth was as incredible as an accident or surgery – and so had taken to wearing concealing clothes, even in the summer. She’d hidden it, just as she’d hidden her name and her abilities, just another Muggle who didn’t know magic existed.

It worked well enough until she was face-to-face with a wizard who knew her, anyway.

She pulled the pins out of her hair, and it cascaded down her back as she brushed it out. Determined to wash all evidence of this horrid evening off her, she stepped into the shower.

Disappointment cascaded down her skin as she leaned against the shower wall, sniffling. She’d been completely broadsided, humiliated, overjoyed, frightened, and disappointed … all in about twenty seconds. With a hiccough, she gave in to the swirl of memories and emotions, and she wept.

Blood in her hair.

She slowly shampooed and conditioned her mop.

A metallic taste in her mouth as she nervously gnawed on her lower lip.

She brushed her teeth.

A sharp, stinging pain in her cheek.

She washed her face even as more tears welled up.

The claustrophobic sensation of clinging dust on her skin and clothes.

She washed her body.

The phone rang as she was scrubbing her back, but she didn’t even consider picking it up. Whoever it was could wait. Hermione sighed, irritated that she couldn’t even give Dorothy hell for setting her up with Severus Snape. How could she possibly have known?

How was Hermione going to explain this? How could she tell Dorothy how this had turned out? “Oh, well, it was nice for the first two seconds, and you’re right, he is rather attractive, but then I made the mistake of letting him know I recognised he was my former Potions master – oh, I’m a witch, didn’t you know? – whom I thought was dead after having been a double agent between the two most powerful wizards it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. He hated me when I was his student, and I don’t think that’s changed in the last eighteen years,” Hermione said out loud, her voice echoing off the tiles and glass doors. She harrumphed. Yeah. That’ll work.

A few minutes after she stepped out of the shower, the phone rang again. Wrapping herself in her robe, she stepped into her bedroom as the answering machine picked up.

“Leslie?”

Hermione froze, her brush pausing in her hair. His voice was tinny through the tiny speaker, but it was him.

“Hermione.”

She hadn’t heard anyone say that name out loud in three years. Sinking onto the bed, she looked into her office and saw the red blinking light that indicated she already had a message before this one.

“You must know why I left … but that doesn’t mean my behaviour wasn’t appalling.”

“You think?!” she squawked indignantly, striding into her office and glaring at the answering machine.

“Dorothy has already given me Hades for leaving you like that, but I needed your phone number.”

Hermione scowled at the machine as if Snape could see her. How did he explain that?

“She told me you live in Marina. You probably know Dave’s Coffee Shop near the north side of Tate Park. Please allow me to apologise in person. I’ll be here until they close.” He gave her a phone number, and the line went dead.

He was already there, waiting for her. Hermione harrumphed.

But what am I really angry about? she wondered, leaning against her desk. Is it that he left me at the restaurant and embarrassed me in front of ten people who don’t know my name and I’ll never see again, or is it because of something else? What do I wish I could say to Professor Snape, now that he’s not dead?

Her curiosity tickled. Did the Malfoys help him escape, or did he ditch them? Is he living completely without magic, or does he still use it? How the hell did he end up in California? Did he really loathe me as much as he seemed to back then? Even as her mind formed that last question, she forced it away. Hogwarts was half a lifetime ago, and she wasn’t the same silly schoolgirl she’d been. It didn’t matter any more.

But should she go? What good would it do? Allow him to soothe his conscience, which wasn’t a reason in and of itself. He did say he wanted to apologise. Hermione could probably milk it a bit and find out what had happened to him in the last two decades.

She remembered Harry’s description of Snape’s memories. How ashamed he was that his mother seemed to jump at the chance to shove Snape away forever. How he’d never seen heartbreak so plainly scrawled across someone’s face as it had been once Lily left Snape alone in the darkness.

I don’t owe him anything, she thought, and he owes me nothing but an apology. Actually, I do owe him an apology, she realized whimsically, and I have the chance to tell him to his face. She nodded, deciding to go.

After pulling back her hair, Hermione dressed in her favourite jeans and jumper. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and wrinkled her nose as she studied her red eyes. She looked dreadful. Well, this wasn’t the time to worry about first impressions. She’d already had two with this man, and quite frankly, she doubted he’d be sticking around for too long, once he said what he wanted to say. Everything she knew about him was eighteen years out of date, so she had no idea what he was like now. Except Ben and Dorothy trusted him. Hermione trusted them … at least, she had until this evening. She believed he wouldn’t abuse her, but she it would be imbecilic to meet this man without some way of protecting herself.

Hermione moved to her bed, fingering the side of the headboard for a moment before pushing gently on a hidden panel. The handle of her wand swung into view. She grasped it, feeling its texture, reacquainting herself with its dimensions and the cool, pleasurable wave of energy it sent up her arm. She concentrated on her jeans, coaxing the fabric to do what she wanted, then slid her wand into the newly-elongated pocket. The wand’s outline would be visible to anyone looking closely, but she was okay with Snape knowing that she was armed. She pulled on a black trench coat and looped a scarf around her neck; despite the fog that had surely made its way inland by now, she decided to walk the half mile to the coffee shop.

The air was still and close around her as Hermione stepped onto the pavement. Even if it had been daytime, she wouldn’t have been able to see more than a dozen houses in any direction. Hastening through the darkness and fog, she made her way to the coffee shop and paused in an unlit part of the parking lot, peering in.

Snape sat at the counter, pinching the bridge of his nose. He glanced up when a car’s headlights flashed through the windows, but when the car kept going, he looked down at his coffee cup again. He looked sorrowful and tired – very much like the Professor Snape she remembered – and a far cry from the elegant man who had smiled at her when he’d taken her proffered hand today.

She hesitated a moment longer, wanting to go in, but even more nervous now than she’d been at Hiram’s. Before, she hadn’t known what she was facing. Would Frederick be pleasant? Would he treat her well? Now, her questions were the same, but what little she knew did nothing to reassure her.

Taking a deep breath to suppress her nerves, she opened the door, setting off a graceful tinkling of wind chimes. He glanced over his shoulder and did a double take when he recognised her. A hostess approached, but Hermione just shook her head and walked to Snape’s side.

“You came,” he said quietly, standing.

When it came down to it, she hadn’t truly considered not coming to see him. It was nice to know he didn’t take it for granted, though. “Of course.”

He blinked, and it occurred to her that he hadn’t actually expected her to show up. She offered her hand, and he grasped it in both of his, then gestured to the chair on his left. “So you’re Leslie Wilkins,” he said quietly.

“So you’re Frederick Smith,” Hermione countered, her mind racing. Snape, stating the obvious? What was the world coming to? A waiter approached, and she ordered a hot chocolate.

Snape’s voice rumbled low and quiet. “I was seven kinds of fool for leaving you this afternoon.” She sighed, remembering the embarrassment, but then he said, “Hermione.” She looked at him, and he said, “I’m sorry.”

She smiled slightly. “Thank you. I know you must have been as shocked as I was.”

“That is no excuse.”

“I’m not saying it was.” She leaned her elbow on the counter and looked at him. He shifted a moment before he asked irritably, “What?”

“I listened to your message and thought about all the things I’ve always wanted to say to you.”

“Shit,” he muttered with a pained expression.

“I apologize for setting you on fire, my teeth were not that big to begin with, and I’m very happy that you’re not dead,” she replied, smirking. Before he could react to the other things she’d said, she added quietly, “Malfoy said you were.”

“Why would you ask him?”

Hermione looked away, thinking furiously. He didn’t know about what happened at the Shack, then.

His eyes narrowed, and she could almost hear him thinking. “Why would you think to ask him, if you thought I was dead?” he demanded.

“They left the Great Hall as soon as they could. When the Aurors went to fetch your … you, they didn’t find you. Obviously. I thought the Malfoys would be more likely to know something. More likely to care about what happened to you,” she finished lamely.

“Draco Malfoy would lie just to spite you.”

“Which is why I hadn’t stopped wondering.” The waiter brought her a mug on a saucer. She stirred the whipped cream into the hot chocolate and took a tentative sip. It bought her time to think of something to say, though as the seconds stretched into a minute, then two, the silence didn’t seem uncomfortable.

“You look good,” he commented.

She raised an eyebrow at him over her mug, thinking of her hair, which had undoubtedly frizzed beyond belief by this point. “Not as good as I looked earlier.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, annoyed.

“I know what you meant.” She sighed and added, “Thank you.” Under the weight of his stare, she turned to look at him, and she took full advantage of the opportunity. He wasn’t as wintry pale as he used to be, and wrinkles extended from the corners of his eyes. His hair, though currently in a state of disarray, was short around the sides and back, though the top was a bit long, that schoolboyish hank flopping into his eyes. It was still black. The nose was still huge and slightly crooked, and his cheekbones could still cut glass. Dorothy had hit the nail on the head: he was definitely not handsome, but you wanted to keep looking at him. “You look good, too.” Dead sexy, to tell the truth.

He huffed impatiently, burying his nose in his coffee cup again.

“Where do you live?” she asked. The Monterey area was small enough that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen him before now.

“Santa Cruz.”

She looked sharply at him. “Are you part of the Community?” Hermione knew there was an unusually high population of magical folk in the town and the surrounding hills, and they simply called themselves the Community.

“I am not,” he replied, picking up his mug, but before he took a sip, he asked, “You?”

Hermione shook her head. She had felt the magic when she’d come to interview for the teaching position, given herself away when she’d reacted to something Muggles couldn’t see, but she had stopped short of revealing her identity. Hermione Granger was not unheard of, even in California. The locals had just shrugged and let her go without further investigation, but Hermione didn’t take any chances. When the time came for her to start teaching, she moved to Marina and put twenty miles of water between herself and the Community.

She didn’t ask why he’d left the magical world behind. Maybe his reasons were similar to her own, or more likely, there was even more than what little she knew about Severus Snape. Harry had told her a great deal about what he’d seen in the Pensieve, but he had destroyed the actual memories once he’d got Snape a posthumous Order of Merlin and a portrait in the headmaster’s office. She didn’t know, and she didn’t need to know. It was half a lifetime ago for her, and she didn’t want to rehash it the first time she’d seen the man in eighteen years.

She was drawn out of her reverie by him taking a deep breath. “You’re armed,” he remarked.

She ran a damp palm down her thigh, her fingertips bumping over the denim that hid her wand from everyone else. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

Smirking, Snape said, “Neither did I.”

Hermione took that to mean he had his wand, but he was being subtle about it: Do I really have it? he’s thinking. If I do, where is it? Dratted Slytherin.

“Why Leslie Wilkins?” he murmured.

“Leslie is my mother’s maiden name. Wilkins is the name I gave my parents when I sent them away.”

Damn, that still hurt. That she’d Obliviated and uprooted her parents in the first place. That she couldn’t undo it. That she hadn’t appreciated her family until she couldn’t have them back.

The furrow between his black eyebrows deepened. “Sent them away?”

“Did the Death Eaters never go looking for my family, then?” Had it all been for nothing? It was a gamble she hadn’t been willing to take – she still would have done it – but she wanted to know. She explained in a few short sentences what she’d done to them.

When she finished, he replied, “There was talk, but nothing was planned. I don’t know if that’s because they were already gone, or if they weren’t a primary target.”

She nodded, and the silence stretched between them. Hermione finally asked, “Why Frederick?”

Snape bowed his head. “Penance,” he murmured. Hermione nodded, thinking of Fred and lonely George. “Not just him, but everyone I hurt. I chose the name a long time ago,” he finished.

“You aren’t still –” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t know how to say it, or even exactly what she was intending to say. It wasn’t her business, anyway. She did want to find out, however, so she managed to word it in a way that wasn’t quite as intrusive: “Are you happy?”

He glared at her condescendingly.

“Are you content, at least?” she ventured.

“Honestly, do you care, Granger?”

“Yeah.” His countenance softened, his gaze no longer on her but focussed a thousand miles away. “I told you I didn’t quite believe it when Malfoy said you were dead. I hoped you had a chance to make a fresh start for yourself.”

“Bloody Gryffindor,” he grumbled, and she laughed. A quiet but sincere guffaw, fuelled by utter delight at the sound of a word she hadn’t heard in almost two decades. Through the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes, she saw him smiling. It was a genuine smile that warmed his black eyes considerably, and she wanted to keep looking at him.

“Djoo want anythin’ else?” their server asked, startling them both.

“Just a moment,” Snape said, gesturing for him to leave them alone. He turned to her and said, “I deprived you of dinner this evening, and while this isn’t Hiram’s ….” His voice trailed off, and he held a menu out to her. “I’d be happy to take you back there. If I’ve not blacklisted myself,” he said pensively. “But are you hungry now?”

“No, thanks,” she said. “I ate a bit after I got home.”

Looking glum, he nodded and put the menu away. He settled the bill while she drank the rest of her chocolate, and they left the restaurant. The fog was even thicker now than it had been when she walked here, and it carried the smell of the sea with it. Hermione breathed deeply as they stepped into the cold dampness, drawing the briny taste into her mouth and holding it there as she savoured it. She glanced at Snape and saw him frowning, looking around the deserted parking lot. A black sedan, damp with condensation, was the only car nearby. Of course it’s black, she decided, smiling.

“Did you Apparate?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t have a licence. I only live half a mile from here, so it’s a short walk.”

“It’s ten o’clock, Granger,” he growled.

She patted her hand against her thigh, and his gaze lingered below her waist as she said, “As you pointed out, I am armed.”

The black car chirped, its parking lights flashing, and he commanded, “Be prudent and let me drive you home.”

She considered saying no, but there was a slight chance he’d insist on walking with her, and then he’d have to come back to get to his car. And the temperature had dropped even more in the last half hour. “All right,” Hermione said.

The dashboard lights mixed with the reflected light of the fog outside the windscreen, sharpening his features and making his eyes look deep and cold. She expected him to put the car into gear, but he just sat in the driver’s seat, glaring at her. She suddenly began to doubt the wisdom of her choice when he rumbled, “You.”

She leaned slightly towards the car door, looking at him with wide eyes. Destination ….

“Set me.”

Determination ….

“On fire.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and Hermione realized he was more amused than angry. She grinned sheepishly, the third D of Apparition fading from her mind.

“That robe cost me sixteen Galleons. I should have made you buy your own blasted chocolate,” Snape grumbled. He started the car, put it into gear, and backed up, looking over his shoulder. “Though if I’d known it was you who set me on fire, I might’ve respected you a bit more.”

She chuckled, and his eyes smiled at her as the car eased forward.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“Computers,” he replied, pulling onto the boulevard. “Software and support. The same company where Benjamin Grey works.”

“Severus Snape in Silicon Valley. That’s a far cry from –”

“Potions? That’s the point.” He turned left where she pointed and asked, “I know you work with Dorothy at the university. You aren’t teaching, are you?”

Hermione snickered, then laughed at his look of utter disgust. “I’m a lawyer, though I don’t practise any more. I teach legal studies at the university, so it’s a far cry from the ankle biters you had to deal with.”

“How did you get into the law?”

“I left the house-elves behind, but there are still so many who need someone to speak for them,” she explained, launching into a brief explanation of her work in family law before she’d come here.

The black sedan parked in front of her house. “Ever the idealist,” Snape finally conceded, looking at her house, but then his gaze focussed on her. “So … may I take you to Hiram’s, then?” he asked hesitantly, hair hanging into his eyes.

“I’d like that,” she replied. He blinked, his eyes widening. “I’ve heard good things about that restaurant,” Hermione explained with a flippant, teasing air. His lip curled, and he looked down at her with an utterly Snapeish sneer. She chuckled and added, “I’ve also heard good things about Frederick Smith.”

His expression softened into another tentative smile, and he touched her cheek with his long, slender fingers. “And the fact that Frederick is your horrid, greasy, old Potions master who enjoyed making his students cry?”

“He seems to have made a fresh start,” she said, trying not to tremble. Then she added, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which one?”

“Are you content?”

He turned in his seat to face her, looking at her intently, and he took her hand in his. “I’d like to see you again. Before we go back to Hiram’s,” he amended firmly. “It’s going to take weeks to get another reservation there.”

She nodded, smiling as the butterflies returned, sweetly tickling in her belly.