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Teacher, Death Eater, Soldier, Spy by dionde [Reviews - 9]

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Chapter 1
 
“Curious.” Hermione examined the little parcel deposited in her breakfast porridge by an unknown owl. It was dainty, for want of a better word – wrapped in tissue paper (albeit now smeared with oats) with a double bow on top, it clearly came from a better sort of boutique than Hermione usually frequented. 
 
Having established that there were no exotic curses placed on the contents (even fifteen years after the war, one could never know), she carefully untied the bow and unearthed a very small box hidden among all the sheets.

For one heart-stopping moment she thought it was from Ron. A ring from Ron, to be precise.

She must have made a noise, as the only other occupant of the staff room emerged from behind the Daily Prophet. “I see the Owl Post has yielded unprecedented bounties.” 
 
“That remains to be seen.” 
 
“The screech was purely borne from anticipation, then.” 
 
Hermione ignored him, having remembered that Ron had moved in with Parvati Patil and thus was unlikely to embark on another attempt to persuade her that they should get back together 'because they were meant to be'. Instead, she carefully prised the box open. Inside was a small brooch, made of two intertwined stems with flowers fashioned from precious stones. She didn't know much about gemstones, but the craftsmanship was exquisite. 
 
There was no note.

“How pretty,” she mumbled, and Snape was over by her side in a flash. 
 
“Yellow sapphire,” he determined. 
 
“Is it expensive?”   
 
“More than Armadillo Bile, anyway – it's used in Wit-Sharpening potions, but it's far too expensive for my Potions budget.” 
 
“Hardly a gift from a grateful parent, then.” 
 
Snape snorted. “In thirty-two years of teaching, I have yet to receive a gift from a parent. Grateful or otherwise.” 
 
“Not even as Deputy Headmaster? You'd think someone would chance their arm,” Hermione mumbled absently as she examined the brooch, holding it up in the pale winter sunlight.   
 
“In my experience, parents are even bigger dunderheads than their offspring.” 
 
“Twenty years spent establishing your reputation as a dour bastard might have influenced their decision.” She inspected the crystals forming the petals. They looked like cubic zirconia, but how could you tell?
 
“I did receive a Howler. Once.” Severus didn't seem displeased at the memory. Hermione pitied the unfortunates who had thought it was a good idea to send one to Severus Snape. 
 
Deciding quickly, Hermione pinned the brooch on the lapel of her robes. It looked like a little harbinger of spring. 
 
“Are you going to wear it?” He couldn't have sounded more incredulous if Hermione had announced she was adopting a Blast-Ended Screwt as a pet.
 
“It's unlike you to ask redundant questions. Yes, I am. It's not cursed, and it’s not every day someone sends me gifts, anonymous or not. I actually like it, too.” That wasn't always the case. People would insist on giving her books, failing to realise that Hermione didn't like being told what to read. To add insult to injury, they almost always got it wrong.

Harry, bless him, actually listened to her, and normally got something she had mentioned in passing (or fancy chocolates, which was always welcome). Others seemed to think that anything with a binding screamed 'Hermione', without paying attention to the contents. 
 
Being given something nice to wear for once was a lovely surprise. 
 
“Your students will ask where it's from,” Severus warned her, as he folded up the staff copy of the paper for the comfort and convenience of the next teacher fortunate enough to enjoy a blessed half-hour free from students. Creased papers and a lack of milk for tea could incite even the most placid staff member to mutiny.
 
“Then I'll lie.” Hermione gathered her half-marked essays, glancing at her watch. “Come on, once more unto the breech.” 
 
Severus rose, shrugging his robes into place. “Double Potions with Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. If you had any compassion, you’d kill me now.” 
 
“Not a chance. I'm not substituting for you.” She held the door open for him, the corridors already echoing with chatter from students heading to their next class. 
 

 
 
The next gift arrived at breakfast a week later, accompanied by the daily shower of owl feathers and letters from parents. 
 
Hermione eyed the admittedly splendid parcel with acute suspicion. It was obviously a book. She didn't hold out much hope that it would be something she actually fancied reading. 


Pride and Prejudice. She had two copies already, one dog-eared version in her parents' attic and another cheap Penguin edition in her study at Hogwarts. This one was lovely, the sort of book nice bookshops displayed behind glass that you never spent the money to buy for yourself. Hermione would never have forked out for a third copy of a book she already owned twice, not when there were so many unread books out there, but as a gift it was perfect. 
 
Perhaps it wasn't a huge leap to assume a known bookworm enjoyed Austen, but it still suggested remarkable perspicacity from the giver. Her secret benefactor obviously wasn't one of her friends, or he or she had been very successful in keeping that trait hidden. 
 
Unless... 
 
She turned left, only to find Severus already staring at her. 
 
“Another mystery offering?” 
 
“Yes. This one is rather nice.” She tilted the book so he could see the embossed front cover. 
 
He raised his left eyebrow. “Rather suggestive.” 
 
“They don't even kiss, as far as I recall.” What had they been reading in the Slytherin common room in the Seventies, Winnie the Pooh?
 
“The whole novel, which incidentally is one of the most celebrated examples of romance in English literature, is concerned with the protagonists going from antagonism to love. In conjunction with Suspicious Package Number One, I would call that highly suggestive.” 
 
Hermione had spent the better part of last week wondering who the anonymous sender was, and had almost persuaded herself it was a grateful parent – not all teachers thrived on antagonising their students – who hadn't attached the accompanying letter properly. Snape's unexpected summary threw her completely. “I – I suppose it is, if you look at it that way.” 
 
He threw her a pitying glance, as if the Hidden Language of Books was taught to Slytherin third years as a matter of course. 
 
“So who do you think it is?” she asked. 
 
“Kindly don't involve me in your love life; I have a Potions department to run.” He rose abruptly, leaving a half-eaten slice of toast behind.

Hermione stared at the familiar billowing robes departing towards the side door. It wasn't even the nearest route to the dungeons. She was pretty certain her anonymous benefactor wasn't Severus, but other than that, she was stumped. 
 

 
 
The following week passed by unbearably slowly. The first gift had arrived on a Monday, as had the second. The sender was obviously well versed in the magical world, so it seemed unlikely they would ignore the power of three. Or would they? Hermione marked essays, ran tutorials and even sat through a whole staff meeting without engaging with her brain more than superficially, wondering when something would happen. If it would happen at all. 
 
After Minerva had concluded the meeting (“Only two weeks left until the Easter holidays, thank goodness”), Severus leapt on her like a panther. 
 
“Any more gifts from your secret correspondent?” 
 
Hermione couldn't hide her disappointment. “No. I thought today for sure, but no... Maybe they've given up.” The staffroom looked even duller than usual after her admission, grey daylight barely filtering through the heavy curtains. Two weeks may as well be two months, as far as she was concerned.
 
“It could be a clever gambit to attract your attention, stopping after two gifts to confound you.” Snape looked cheerful at the prospect. 
 
She glared at him, which made him positively loquacious. “Naturally, you would expect a third object, or for the sender to reveal their identity. Instead, there is silence, ensuring your curiosity will remain engaged far longer than if the expected outcome had materialised.” 
 
“For a dead man, you certainly talk a lot.”

“Thankfully, your lack of observational skills does not affect my mortality.” 
 
“I still believe you really were dead. You were probably turned into a zombie. It would explain the pallor, wouldn’t it?”

“Do you remember the first ten years after the war, when you were too intimidated to talk to me? It wasn't so bad, in retrospect.” 
 
Hermione didn't clarify that it had been crippling guilt coupled with admiration that had kept tripping up her tongue. It was less embarrassing to let Severus believe his own explanation. She escaped to her office, so disappointed in her secret correspondence coming to an end that she only recalled her three o'clock tutorial when the students knocked on her door. 
 
That evening, it was Hermione’s turn to host the Tuesday drinks. They were a fixture in her calendar, instituted to ensure she got to see Harry and Ron every week, come hell or high water. When Harry's children were younger and Ron still worked as an Auror, their schedules had made it almost impossible to see each other. Hermione had stepped down from Magical Law Enforcement at around the same time it ceased to be a two-man operation to put the Potter children to bed, so the only difficulty nowadays was to tear Ron away from the shop at closing time. 
 
These days, more tea than alcohol was consumed, but they'd been calling them 'drinks' for five years so no one was going to change it now. It had the added benefit of suggesting they still had some sort of a social life.
 
In retrospect, Hermione should have made more of an effort to have a dissipated youth; it was rather too late now. She didn't even have the excuse of working all hours any longer – at Hogwarts, there was plenty of time for one's own pursuits, whether it was research or more recreational activities. 
 
Most of the time, settling down was a Good Thing (especially Ron settling down with Parvati), but it made life rather boring. Having a Secret Admirer (if you couldn't be all Mills & Boons in your own head, what was the point?), had been a welcome distraction. For one delicious half hour in the bath, Hermione had even allowed herself to pretend it was who she wanted it to be, in the face of all the available evidence to the contrary. 
 
And now the excitement was gone. 
 
Ron had made some strides when it came to interpersonal relationships in recent years, no doubt thanks to Parvati's influence. He was still as blunt as ever, however. “You seem a bit glum, Hermione. Slytherins giving you trouble?” 
 
“I can do my job very well, thank you.” She poured him some more tea using wandless magic, to underscore the point. 
 
“Very impressive.” Ron didn't look very impressed; she'd used that particular trick before, she recalled. 
 
“How about you, Harry? Still tracking those scarab beetle smugglers down?”
 
“Nah, they're small fry. Finished up the operation last week. Ron is right, you know. You seem a bit off colour.” 
 
“Aren't you two perceptive,” Hermione mumbled, but Harry kept looking at her earnestly. Him and his bloody interrogation techniques. “Fine, I'll tell you.” 
 

 
 
Harry was holding her precious copy of Pride and Prejudice up to the light, and Hermione had to fight her impulse to grab it back. Meanwhile, Ron was doing his best to make her brooch talk, to no avail. After his fourth detection spell nearly set fire to the table cloth, she kindly but firmly confiscated his wand. 
 
“I could bring it down to the Auror Office and run some tests,” he offered as he grabbed the book from Harry, leafing through it trying to decode secret messages where there were none to be found. 
 
“You don't even work there anymore,” Hermione reminded him. 
 
“Sure, but I've still got connections.” 
 
“Or I could ask Harry, who actually does.” 
 
“Hmm,” Harry agreed, repossessing the book from Ron and resorting to checking the binding for hidden letters instead. 
 
“No.” Hermione made up her mind. “I don't want to find out. Someone did something nice for me; that's enough. I don't care if they turn out to be – Hagrid's second cousin, or whatever. I'll just enjoy feeling like I'm special for a little while.” 
 
Harry turned his full attention to her, his eyes looking greener and deeper than usual. “You are special, Hermione. Never doubt that.” 
 
She would sound like a complete idiot returning the sentiment by telling him he was also special. Knowing Harry, her somewhat tremulous smile told him everything he needed to know.   

“Even if you do have terrible taste in men,” he added.

“Oi!” said Ron, and normal order was restored.
 

 
 
After all that, the third parcel arrived the following day. 
 


Teacher, Death Eater, Soldier, Spy by dionde [Reviews - 9]

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