Chapter 7

"We can pop bottles all night,

Baby, you could have whatever you like."

—"Whatever You Like" by T.I./the Anya Marina cover from Gossip Girl

Snape had left the table 10 minutes ago, and still Hermione sat, dumbstruck, replaying the conversation in her mind. She was shaken out of her reverie when a tall, handsome man in a navy suit approached her. "Bonjour, mademoiselle. Je m'appelle Matthieu," he reached for her hand and kissed it. Hermione blushed automatically. She was doing a lot of that these days. "Pardon, but I was looking for Professor Severus Snape — has he gone?"

"Bonjour, je m'appelle Hermione. Oui, Monsieur. I'm sorry." She added, "He left about 10 minutes ago." Matthieu did not look surprised, but instead grinned ruefully. "Hmm. That man, so difficult to reach! I had a few questions about a brew he has been working on for me." Hermione lit up, "Oh! So you're who he has been consulting for." Matthieu raised an eyebrow, "He has mentioned our work?" The tone of his voice had slipped from suave to suspicious, which did not escape Hermione. "Only briefly, sir," she said quickly. "He was my Professor at Hogwarts and we caught up recently."

This seemed to relax the man, and he gestured to the vacated seat. "May I join you for a drink?" Hermione hesitated — it was now after 4, and she had said she'd meet up with Neal. But Matthieu grinned, and she was struck again by just how attractive the French all seemed to be. He looked to be around the same age as Snape, but clearly was unburdened by any past hardship. "Please, any friend of Severus's is a friend of mine — and I'll even bring out our best champagne." She couldn't say no to that, and nodded her assent.

Matthieu snapped his fingers and two flutes of liquid gold appeared in front of them. He toasted her, and they drank slowly. It was unlike any champagne Hermione had ever tasted, it practically melted in her mouth. "It's my own creation, I'll confess," Matthieu said when he saw her blissful expression. Hermione smirked, "You must be confident in it to call it your best champagne." Matthieu tipped his drink to her, "But do you not agree, now that you've tried it?" She raised her glass in his direction. "So...you own the restaurant, you make the fare, you're a researcher. You're a regular jack of all trades," Hermione said.

He winked at her, "I do what I can, mademoiselle. And you? Your face...it looks familiar to me somehow." Hermione took a beat to form her words. How did one explain oneself without using the words "war hero"? But he beat her to it. "Ah! You're the friend of Harry Potter, are you not? Western Europe owes you a great debt." She felt herself redden further. "Yes, I fought alongside Harry in the second wizarding war." "And what do you do now, hero of war?" He jokingly added the moniker. She took another sip, "I'm studying at l'academie, getting my advanced degree in potions, alchemy, arithmancy." He raised the glass to toast her again, and said quite gravely, "How accomplished you are."

For some reason she laughed aloud at this, and he laughed along with her, and something shifted between them. The conversation flowed more easily, indeed, quite like the champagne kept refilling itself. When Hermione next checked the time, it was half past 8. They had moved inside to drink at the bar, and were engaged in a hearty debate about Beauxbatons vs. Hogwarts. "Never was there finer food than at Beaux," Matthieu reminisced dreamily. "The croissants, the toasted crêpes, the creamy bouillabaisse..." Hermione cut him off, "I'll concede that French food is superior, but you haven't known comfort food until you've had Hogwarts shepherds pie. I mean that. I even learned the recipe so I could make it at home, for R— for myself." She broke off. Matthieu turned his knees toward her, and laid an arm across the back of her chair, where it brushed against her back. Hermione shivered pleasantly, looking into his pale blue eyes. Blue eyes and blonde hair had always been her weakness...and charm, that smile... "Perhaps you'll make me some soon," Matthieu said, staring into her eyes, like he was willing her to lean in just an inch. She didn't know if it was the heady buzz of alcohol or her own as of late unbridled lust, but she found herself moving closer. And then, the cold, crisp voice that so tormented her in her youth rang out — "Ah, Matthieu. I see you've met Miss Granger."

Severus Snape stood there, in front of the bar. He looked every bit the man she thought she'd left at Hogwarts. He wore all black, with a long dark coat that swirled around him almost like a robe. And he spoke, too, in the voice she grew up with, cruel and blank. "Miss Granger, I think it is time you went home." Anger flared up in Hermione, "Sev—Professor, you've no right to tell me when I can go home." She heard the petulant tone in her voice and tried to soften it, silently cursing the man who made her revert to her worst tendencies. "I was just having a lovely chat with your colleague." At this, Matthieu moved his hand off the back of her chair, turning all the way around and moving his hand forwardly to Hermione's knee.

Snape caught the movement and nearly snarled. "Oh, come on Sev, join us for a drink. Your Hermione is quite charmant, surely you'd like to sit?" Snape seemed to grow even angrier at the invitation, even as he appeared more still on the surface. Hermione couldn't place the source of his rage through her drunken haze. She turned to grab her drink and promptly knocked it over, so that it splashed onto her sweater and Snape's coat. "Oops," Hermione giggled, trying to regain her bearings. As she moved, she slipped and over corrected, and would surely have sprawled onto the ground if Snape had not caught her around the waist, lifting her to her wobbly feet. "Matthieu, I'll speak with you later," he glared at the restaurateur. Matthieu looked unperturbed, certainly more so than the murderous-looking Snape. "Sure Sev, come find me somewhere more...private. But do it soon s'il vous plaît." No overt threat had been made, but even Hermione could feel the tension.

Snape, still holding her by the waist, pulled her roughly out of the restaurant and down the block. Hermione was beginning to feel dizzy, as though all the champagne were hitting her at once. "I'm going to apparate us now, since you're in no condition to do so," he said stiffly, condescendingly. She felt like she was being squeezed through a small tube, and then she was back in front of her apartment, with him, again.

She breathed heavily, and felt suddenly more sober. And the more sober she felt, the more pissed off she realized she was. "I can take care of myself, Professor. You're not in control of me. I'm not a child!" At this Snape snapped, "Then why, pray tell, were you acting like one? Getting drunk in public with a strange man you don't even know! Throwing yourself at him!"

Her fury rose: "Oh come on, he said he was your friend! You two clearly knew each other! And I was not throwing myself at him — if I was you'd know it!" He nearly barked back, "You're just the same reckless little know it all you were in school! You still know nothing!" Hermione took a step away from him, drawing herself up to her full height. "You know nothing about me," she said coldly.

And Snape then stepped closely to her, softening his glare as he held her forearms, as if imploring her to understand. "That man...we are business partners. He is not the kind of person you want as your 'friend.'"

Then she understood. He had been worried, maybe even slightly jealous, and his concern, though likely misplaced, felt nice? Or entrapping, like Ron's? She felt very confused. She could admit that much to herself. He was still holding onto her, looking from one of her brown eyes to the other. The champagne working its way through her system flooded her with courage, and forgotten heat. Without warning for either of them, she tugged hard on the lapels of his coat, crushing his mouth to hers, moving against him, slipping her hands under the overgarment to claw at his silken back. He groaned against her mouth, and bit at her, making her moan. She pushed her tongue into his mouth, trying to fuse her body into his. She couldn't believe she was so warm and wet already. He pulled her into him and she practically writhed, never feeling more wanton in her life. And as her hips pressed more firmly into his hips, he jerked away suddenly, panting slightly, her red lipstick smeared around his thin lips like a bruise.

She felt lost then, her back against the cold brick. He wiped his face not indelicately with his shirtsleeve and looked at her the way she had always wanted to be looked at. But when he spoke again, it wasn't with words of desire. "Miss Granger—Hermione. We cannot. I am your teacher still. And further, you are drunk. You can't control what your body is doing right now. You can't think through what this would mean." She shuddered, releasing a breath to rid herself of the tense knot in her stomach, buried in her hips. It did not unravel.

"Yes. Yes. Of course, Professor. I'm very sorry to have, er, overstepped our boundary." She hated the way her tongue rested on "our." She knew nothing of what he wanted, or of what he felt. After their argument, he clearly thought she was little more than the child she used to be.

He seemed to know the expression in her face, know it boded ill — he took a step as if to reach out, but Hermione turned abruptly and unlocked her apartment door, slamming it behind her as she staggered, still drunk, up the narrow stairs.