I splash cool water on my face and look up into the mirror. My remarkably unattractive visage blinks back, scowling and dripping. I am not hiding – only giving myself a moment to pull it together.

“Snape?” a gravely voice asks.

As I turn, Mundungus Fletcher moves closer to me, leering, and as unkempt as ever.

“I thought that was you. Tell me, are you really here with that Granger girl, or do I need to lay off the aconite?” He’s staring at me with a mix of disbelief and a certain unsavory humor.

“What is it you want?” I ask him. I cannot understand what he could be doing in a restaurant like this, for though they do serve alcohol, the place is much cleaner than his usual standard.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m just fine, but how’s the table talk?”

“That’s hardly your concern.”

“Not so well, then.” He nods his scraggly head like a sage. “Now, it may not concern me, but you look like you’ve got a giant stick up your back end, and no girl’s gonna like that, eh?”

I do nothing but glare into his grinning face.

Another man walks through the door. Fletcher turns to him immediately. “Hullo Buford! Here you are, mate,” he says, pulling something from his pocket. It’s a tiny plastic bag with a small pill inside.

Before Buford can take it, I snatch the bag from Fletcher’s dirty fingers. “What is in this?”

“Oh, nothing major. Billywig, the basics, you know,” Fletcher says offhandedly. “Nothing I could get in trouble for. Don’t worry, you neither,” he assures Buford, who is eyeing me nervously. “If you want one,” he looks up at me appraisingly, “I can guarantee it’ll make your night better.”

“And how would it do that?” I ask, examining the pale, pearl-sized pill.

“It’ll just help you relax, that’s all. Tell him, Buford,” Fletcher says, thumping his customer on the shoulder.

Buford stares at his feet for a moment, reminding me of Longbottom. “It’s not p-powerful, but I’ve always struggled with anxieties.”

“See, take it from Buford,” Fletcher says cheerily. “It’ll help with your anxieties.”

“I wish Mr. Buford the best of luck with his anxieties, but you,” I look warningly at Fletcher, “had better hope that my further analysis will prove you have nothing to hide.”

“Fine,” Fletcher says, throwing up his hands good-naturedly. “Analyze all you want. I know I’ll be helping you to more within the week, but next time, you pay, Severus. C’mon, Buford,” he says, and the two of them desert before I can respond.

I only pause for a moment before swallowing the pill. In that brief moment, I consider what Hermione’s thoughts might be were she to see me. I wonder whether she’s ever tried anything like this. If she ever did, I’m certain she considered it cracking under pressure and I know the pressure must have been considerable. Ha. As if Hermione would succumb to the temptation. I doubt she would even consider it a temptation.

But fuck it. I need the help, as Fletcher was so apt at discerning.

The irritating knot at the back of my neck becomes suddenly less irritating. I focus instead on my image in the mirror. I really don’t know what can be done to make it better, but perhaps it was not as bad as I thought. I do at least have a full head of hair, if it is greasy. And I fancy that I can pull off long hair. Best not to focus on my nose, but my mouth and eyes are strong, if severe. It could be worse.

Pulling myself out of an utterly juvenile staring contest with the glass, I stuff the little plastic bag in the waste bin and leave the lavatory.

Back at the table, Hermione waits, looking absurdly gorgeous, studying the room idly. For a split second of panic, I consider turning around and walking the other way. Wouldn’t it be simpler? I know it would be, but I could never walk away from Hermione.

As I take my seat across from her, she abruptly changes the direction of our previous conversation. “You know, work can’t be all we talk about, safe as it is. I wouldn’t mind getting to know a little more about you.” She is trying to conceal the anticipation in her eyes.

“You seem to have a specific question in mind. Go ahead,” I answer, dread spreading through my body.

“Well, all right,” she says with the sweetest, shyest little grin I’ve ever seen. My head spins for a moment at the thought that she could look that way at me. “Quite a few people have conjectured that you’re actually serpentine. I mean, you’d have to be cold-blooded to wear such stifling clothes all the time!”

Of course; the very first quasi-question she poses and there’s no possible way I can give her a straight answer without condemning myself. “I am not serpentine,” I answer stiffly. Hermione frowns.

“C’mon,” she says coaxingly.

“I find it usually takes several drinks before I am able to answer questions about my wardrobe,” I say evasively. I am on my way already. The bottle of wine has already been drained and whisked away.

She turns her eyes from me and flags someone down. The server arrives and Hermione smiles at me expectantly. “Well, would you like another of the same?”

“Yes, that should do,” I answer her, and the server retreats. She continues to smile expectantly. I can’t help marveling at her persistence, especially when it’s directed at me. “Now it’s my turn,” I say. “How is it that you are sitting here – apparently enjoying yourself – over a meal with Severus Snape?”

“You never answered my question!” Hermione protests laughingly. “But I suppose I can wait until you’ve had another glass.” I wait for her answer: It’s your behavior; you seem to be keeping it in check for once or Ron accidentally hit me with a cheering charm this afternoon. Instead, she gives me a quizzical look and says “It’s the novelty, I think.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Of course.” The server arrives, pouring fresh glasses of wine.

Sensing my disappointment, perhaps, Hermione’s face grows serious. “I mean, here I am, Hermione Granger, having a pleasant meal with Severus Snape. Honestly, think of all that that means. Think of what we each mean to the wizarding world! It feels like we’re laughing at all the taboos left by the war.”

Yes, her endless defiance of society has always been extraordinary, especially for one who cares so deeply about other people, but I am becoming irritated. Now I know I am solely a peaceable step towards cooperation between those who turned out heroes in the war and those, like me, whose honor has been irrevocably destroyed. “You’re making too much of this,” I tell her. “This evening does not have anything to do with post-war restoration or political forgiveness. You had better decide whether you are enjoying yourself on a personal level.”

She stares at me quizzically. I feel impossibly heavy in my seat. Now why did I have to issue an ultimatum? What am I to do if she says I’m right; I’m not worth her time and she is on her way home?

My God! She keeps me in suspense, mercilessly lifting her wine glass to her lips, tasting slowly. I take a huge gulp of my own wine, waiting. “Severus, you’re a very difficult and puzzling person, but I want to be your friend.”

“Why,” I jump in, “because I’m such a pitiful excuse for a man that you would feel guilty if you did not reach out to me?” I am aware of my scowl, my sharply sarcastic tone. I am aware that “relaxing” with that pill might not have been a good idea when I should be on my best behavior. I keep my face buried in my wine glass.

“Honestly,” she says, with her characteristic exasperated huff. “I’m not trying to patronize you! I’m just trying to understand you.”

I exhale sharply. The tension between my shoulders relaxes minutely. I cannot seem to help how thirsty I am. Another glass is already empty.

“So why all the black?”

“Black is a very traditional robe color.” She’s back onto the same topic. Worry starts to set in again, but considerably less than before.

“Why the long sleeves and high necks?”

I avoid her gaze diligently, motioning at the server for another bottle.

“It’s not because you offer your neck up to the other vampires,” she asks humorously, “and have to hide the scars?”

I grimace, or flinch, or something. I hadn’t intended to, but I have been drinking, and somehow I let myself open. Hermione stars at me with that look she gets when she’s lighted on an answer.

“A scar! Really?” she asks.

I nod, defeated.

“How did you get it?” she persists.

“It was in pursuit of duty,” I say darkly, hoping she’ll leave it at that.

“Oh.” Her eyes are wide.

“And now may I ask something?”

She perks up. “Yes.”

“How are you able to put up with imbeciles like Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter?”

Hermione gives me a sour glare. “That’s a horrible question.”

“Well, what should I have asked?”

“I don’t know!” she says, “You could have asked me who stole those Polyjuice ingredients in my second year or whether I approved of the Wizengamot’s decision in your trial. All the questions I expected you to ask!”

I smile a little. Oh, but I already know the answers to both of those questions. “I did not expect your question, either. I am rarely questioned about my clothing.”

Hermione sits back in her seat. “What did you expect me to ask?”

“You must already know,” I say dismissively, suddenly wanting to change the subject.

“How can you be sure?” she says, her expression bright.

I pour another glass of wine for each of us. I must fortify myself for what I know to be coming. I can feel the weight of it coming.

“All right, I’ll ask. Why did you become a Death Eater?”

Rather than fight her, I let it out, as simply as I can. “I was confused when I was in school. Confused, angry, and full of spite. Lucius Malfoy befriended me, welcomed me into his fold. He was older, beautiful, and merciless. I worshipped him. While he was in school, we committed terrible atrocities that acclimated ourselves to what was asked of us in service to the Dark Lord.”

“What atrocities are you talking about?” I can tell Hermione is trying to prepare herself for the worst. Already, her subconscious is deciding how much she will be willing to accept and forgive.

“There are too many occurrences to recount.”

“Tell me the worst,” she says, cutting to the chase. At that moment, all the wine really begins to set in. Or maybe it was my trip to the restroom. Does she really want details of the worst moments of my life? Has she not already seen enough to condemn me?

“Murder,” I say solemnly. “It was a Hufflepuff, a stuck-up brat, a great fan of James Potter. When I was new to the school, and to Lucius’ friends, this boy insisted on threatening me. To make up their mind about me, Lucius and the rest stole the boy from his dormitory one night and brought him to one of the steep cliffs that overlook the lake. Lucius gave me a bat. ‘Kill him,’ he said. As angry as I was at the boy, and as much as I disliked him, I could not imagine actually killing him, but Lucius and the others, all shouting, seemed right, so full of fire and vengeance. I swung the bat hard, bringing it down along the side of his head. It wasn’t a lethal blow, though the blood made it seem so. Unfortunately, the blow made him lose his balance. He tottered a few steps and fell backwards, down the cliff and into the water.

“No one ever suspected. It did not take long after being discovered missing that his body was discovered. It appeared an accident, and he had had a record of roaming the school after curfew. But for years, I lived in terror that someone would find out, someone in Lucius’ group would turn against me, or some clue would be uncovered.”

“Have you told anyone else?” Hermione asks, eyeing me in alarm.

“Dumbledore,” I admit. If this question comes up again – which looks less and less likely as the revulsion sets into her face – she’ll be met by the same answer.

She sits there silently, her eyes now averted to her napkin.

“I suppose, unless you have something equally horrific to reveal, we should be leaving.” I know that any color that the wine might have produced has left my face. I feel like breaking something; the china on the table, or perhaps Hermione’s memory of this moment.

She nods, and instead of breaking out into the violent behavior, as my strained nerves desire, I focus on paying the bill and getting her out of the restaurant. I feel as if, after round two of Severus’ most blindsiding honesty, Hermione is about ready to bolt and hide from me for as long as she can.

But can I blame her? Who would want to befriend a teenage murderer turned Death Eater?

“Thank you for dinner,” she says politely, but she is still avoiding my eyes, looking down at the street instead. She must be wondering whether she was mad to accept this invitation.

Still, she knew my mind when I used that spell against her. Maybe it was too short a glimpse for her to truly absorb every detail, but she knows about the terrors I have lurking in my past. She came to the greenhouse despite all she knows. But has she had enough?

“Was I wrong to tell you?” I can’t keep myself from asking.

“No.” Her answer is ready, but not entirely convincing. “I asked for the truth. I should have known I wouldn’t like it.”

It would be too much to ask whether she still intends to see me. “Can I offer you accompaniment home?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just apparate,” she says decidedly.

“Then goodnight,” I say.

“Goodnight.” Pop.

I apparate back to the greenhouse, slam shut the door, and collapse onto a chair. What kind of idiot am I? What kind of dunce gets tweaked and drunk enough to spill their worst secrets to the woman of their dreams?

I hold my head and stare down at the gravel ground. I cannot bear thinking about this. I can’t seem to control the intensity of my thoughts or the pressure in my chest.

I stand up quickly and cross the room to the snake cage. The Runespoor has one eye open, glinting up at me in the soft darkness. I must be loud, breathing heavily and stomping around the greenhouse.

A sharp headache begins behind my eyes.

It is time to forget.

I disapparate into the night.