The Devil's Hour

He isn’t sure of the time, but sometimes after midnight, he leaves his lab. After yet another failed experiment, he believes he deserves a nightcap. Even if it is the night before the Halloween Feast, and tomorrow is the anniversary of one of the worst days of his life. Even if he knows that his Friday will be spent containing explosions and counting down the hours to the weekend.

Maybe then, he can work uninterrupted on the micronisation of the bronchodilator for Granger’s damned inhaler. Or come up with a better material to use for said device, because her satisfaction with what the Muggles are using is unsuitable. 

Aluminium is highly reactive—doesn’t she know that? 

Of course she does, the know-it-all. She knows that it could interfere with any changes he makes to the potions’ ingredients, yet she stubbornly clings to her position despite their discussions. 

Or her underhanded comments on the inconvenience of needing to shake the inhaler before using it to make sure that the right dose of potion is administered— these are children, Severus, she said. 

As if he doesn’t know that the asthmatic dunderheads wouldn’t remember to shake a life-saving device to save their lives.

Of course, that means that he has an enlarged mockup of the mechanism sitting on the counter of his lab, simplified yet still infuriating, but he will crack this before Granger’s mind shifts gears and she beats him to it.

It’s a sign of the times that two thirds of a mug of aged scotch go straight to his head. He’s spending his night thinking about Granger. Frustrated, he lifts his drink to his mouth, only to find it gone.

There is no sense in thinking more about work; not when tilting his head causes the room to tilt with it. Yes, there is much to mourn and little to celebrate this particular night, but it won’t do to bring himself down, so he decidedly calls it quits on his maudlin ways. Leaving the comfort of his armchair, he vaguely registers his aching bones as he sways down the hallway to his bed.

He passes by the half-open door of his lab—

And stops.

Why is this door open?

He distinctly remembers pulling it behind him earlier. He has been drinking, so he is not at his sharpest, but he knows that this door, of all doors, is one he is always sure to keep shut at all times. 

A clink of glass sounds from inside.

His wand descends from his sleeve into his hand. 

A hiss, then scratching on his spotless stainless steel counters—or is it the new shelves he’s just installed—

He nudges the door open with his foot.

It creaks as it swings wide to bring the rest of the lab into view, where his counters are spotless no longer.

Standing on his hind legs, swatting at vials and successfully knocking them onto the delicate apparatus below, is the furry, orange mass that is Granger’s familiar.

Ten years after the war and her blasted cat is still causing chaos.

There’s nothing he can do for the broken vials; he knows that. The most he can do is swat the creature away and clean up the glass and potions before things get worse.

He has the alcohol to thank for his calmness, and as though sensing his thoughts, Crookshanks sits down gingerly in front of the fragile, elaborate setup. Mixed potions are dripping from the metal stands, and it is difficult to discern what exactly has been spilled. He is tempted to knock the cat over with magic, but of course he can’t, because of Granger.

Severus steps into the room just as one paw playfully nudges the nozzle that triggers the potion aerosolisation, mimicking the mechanism of Granger’s muggle inhaler.

Something doesn’t look right.

It is then that he sees that the chamber into which the bronchodilator is ejected has also been shattered.

No harm done yet—

Severus’ vision goes red as he zeroes in on a clawed paw, just as it presses down on the nozzle.

A barely visible puff of potion sprays out, and the cat sneezes.

Severus throws caution to the wind and raises his wand.

The cat tilts its head and confidently presses down again, then pulls away to watch the steady stream of potion dissipate.

It doesn’t. 

As though by magic, the nozzle gets stuck, and glistening droplets fill the air. There is no shine or sheen to them, and given their larger-than-usual size due to his earlier failures—

Oh, bollocks.

It seems there is aerosolised Veritaserum in the air.

Which means that soon it will reach the vents. Which means that everyone will go ahead and say what’s on their minds, just as he’s always wanted, considering how much tiptoeing around the truth happens around him and at Hogwarts—

Oh gods, the students!

Well, fuck.

He has no idea what time it is, nor how the cursed Kneazle has entered his quarters, but truly, it’s too late for this.

It’s too late for him too, it seems, because his mind is suddenly clear. His thoughts are slow, because in any other similar situation, he would have been quick on his feet. Much like Crookshanks, whose legs, to no one’s surprise, are deftly manoeuvring around the large shards of glass and puddles of potions on the counter until he lands on the stone floor.

Holding his tail high in the air, he approaches Severus, only to brush against his calves and disappear into the hall.

Blast it all. 

He cannot think of what to do to stop this madness. His slowed reaction times are a side effect of his drinking, but the alertness he associates with the experience of ingesting truth potion is unmistakable.

There is Veritaserum in the vents.

Bloody hell, he needs to call for help. 

His self-preservation kicks in, and he attempts focus on what he can do to prevent the students from coming to harm, but—

There is Veritaserum in his veins.

His mouth decides who would be most helpful when called. 

“Winky!”

The quirky elf appears beside the representation of his recent failings. Wide eyes take in the unusual disarray of his lab, but the smile on her face remains steady.

“Master Snape, sir!” she says, her hands twitching to clear the mess.

There’s no time; he’s already wasted enough of it.

“Please seal off any connections in the airflow between my quarters and areas that contain any students,” he mutters. The cat was fine, the ghosts will not be affected, and the elf seems to be alright as well—

“Students be in their dormitories and the Hospital Wing, sir—”

He interrupts. “Are there any that are wandering about the hallways or in the kitchens?” He wants to shut his mouth in the face of his next thought. Why would he even bring that up right now? “Sometimes they sneak away to the alcoves behind the larger tapestries, or the Room of Requirement on the seventh floor. Occasionally they will throw caution to the wind and fuck in an empty classroom, or the ledge of the Prefects’ bath near the mermaid—”

Winky’s eyes soften. “No, sir! Only ghosts be in the halls. Mrs. Norris is roaming the grounds, and the Prof—”

“A relief that there is no one of importance then,” Severus’ eyes widen at his truth-telling, and he clears his throat. “If any students leave their Houses or behave irregularly, please let a member of staff know.”

“Of course Master Snape, but there is also—”

He needs her to leave so he can shackle himself to his chair before he embarrasses himself and never hears the end of it from Minerva. Or worse, Granger. “Thank you. You may go.”

Winky hesitates for a moment, then disappears with a snap of her fingers.

Fuck. What will Granger think when she hears about this? Especially as her familiar was the instigator. He wonders if he’s been hurt; there were an awful lot of vials on his shelves—

It doesn’t matter. The cat is gone, and the students are safe. His lab is located in the dungeons, so any possible mishaps will be contained to his domain as Head of Slytherin.

The mess can wait until morning.

Marginally alleviated and extremely pleased with himself, Severus waves his wand to lock and ward the door of his lab. That should keep everyone—and everything— out. He sighs and returns it to his sleeve, turning to go to his bedroom, only to notice a bright light coming from the main area of his quarters.

The same room where he’d sat for his nightcap earlier, and where he had lit one candle to suit his wallowing.

Nothing but a chandelier—or a fireplace, here at Hogwarts— would emit this much light at this time of night.

Wand at the ready, Severus sneaks into his living room.

Bugger it all.

Indeed, a fire is crackling merrily in the grate. The entirety of his living room is illuminated, down to the parchment at his desk and the charmed Slytherin snake on his mug where it rests on the ground next to his armchair. How pitiful. Couldn’t he have invested in some proper furniture, or even glassware? Apart from Albus and Minnie, no one ever came down here, so he never felt the need to—

It takes a deep breath and some physical effort to halt his thoughts and bring his attention back to the altered state of his home.

Someone is here, because a faint rustling comes from the hallway that leads to the concealed door of his quarters. 

It could just be Filch— that would explain the fire.

It may be Winky, or any other elf that tends to his meagre household— but that does not explain the mug that remains on his carpet. That would have been the first thing to go…

It seems that only Granger’s cat stokes his ire so. He snorts. Despite the invasive nature of Granger’s atrocity, he would have noticed if a Kneazle-cat hybrid gained the power to cast an incendio.

Everything is where he left it—everything but the mess in his lab and the warm fire he wants to sit in front of, perhaps with a book or a proper tumbler of whiskey, and the open door he needs to ward—

He hears a meow, followed by a hurried shushing sound. He lifts his wand, striding forward to stupefy the intruder once and for all, whether it is Granger’s monstrosity or Mrs. Norris or even Minerva—

He stalks to a stop.

Granger herself stands in his doorway, her dark curls forming a halo around her head and her cat cradled in her arms.

She’s ready for bed in a grey terry robe, fluffy and untied, beneath which she wears a wide-necked camisole and black leggings. Her feet are bare.

“Professor Snape!”

He looks up from his staring, bewildered yet livid at her presence. 

“Professor Granger, what—” he starts, thinking to ask her what in the seven hells she is doing in his quarters, when she interrupts him.

“I’m sorry!” she breathes, flustered. “I was reading when I noticed that Crookshanks hadn’t come back from his midnight hunt—”

She steps back as he advances, unintentionally drawing himself up to his full height.

“He was in my lab, which I assure you is free of vermin—” he spits.

“Peeves said…” Her fingers pause mid-stroke between her familiar’s ears, and the creature’s eyes slide open to fix their gaze on him. “Wait. Why was Crooks in your lab?”

His temper roils, and he struggles to keep his thoughts to himself. “I should be asking you that, Granger—”

“He’s free to roam wherever he likes! It’s not his fault—”

“His fault?” He splutters, thinking of the bespoke glass vials and the wasted potions and the advantage she would gain if she found out that he’d been dosed with truth potion by a cat. “He is a pest—”

The creature in question hisses and drops to the ground, swishing his tail as he vanishes back into Severus’ quarters.

A victorious smirk tilts across her face, as unnatural as a smile would be on his, as she folds her arms across her chest. Her breasts press together, and his eyes flicker down and linger for a moment longer than they should before he wrenches them up again. 

She doesn’t notice his transgression, thankfully, though her mouth curls in that way he associates with the times she tells off the students. 

“—are no restrictions on the movements of people’s familiars, and despite him liking you, you’re always so mean to him! What did he ever do to you—”

“Impertinent witch!” Her cheeks turn red, but she doesn’t cut him off. “He invaded my quarters and wrecked my experiments!”

“A simple spell will fix that. It’s not like Crookshanks is disruptive like the students, or god forbid, Peeves—"

“Do not utter that ghost’s name at this hour!”

“It’s not like I’ll summon him, you know,” she says, her voice taking on a nasal, matter-of-fact tone that has him bristling. “I’ve already seen him.”

“You’ve seen Peeves?” He deflates. “Fuck, this could get out of hand. Well, more out of hand, if ghosts could—” 

She looks at him strangely, and he moves his attention from his thoughts to her again. 

“Out of hand?” she scoffs. “He was quite calm when he told me that Crooks was here.”

“A poltergeist is never calm; he must be up to something!”

“I don’t know—he only told me that he’d seen Crooks—”

He unsheathes his wand from his sleeve again, moving so he can look behind her. “Is he still in the dungeons?”

“I don’t think so, he was muttering about house-elf magic and the students missing the fun. I thought he was going on about a ghost thing, like the Headless Hunt?”

“That’s tomorrow night, Granger.”

She groans. “I don’t know what ghosts do on any night, alright?”

“Clearly not, although knowing Peeves, a clever witch like you ought to assume that just like your feline, he’s up to no good.”

Her nostrils flare and she growls—growls—at him. “Just use a Reparo, Snape! A small wave of your wand will put it all to rights!”

“A wave of my wand won’t put Veritaserum back into its vials!”

“Veritaserum?” She shakes her head, looking hesitant, then shrugs. “So he spilled some. I can reimburse you…”

“It’s not about the spillage or the money! I’m a Potions master, I do account for these things—” His nose picks up a tart scent—perhaps pomegranate, no, red grapes—and he notices that her lips are stained with wine. What did she drink that would make her lips turn that colour?

He realises that he’s spoken out loud.

“I haven’t been drinking, thank you very much!” A blush to match the dusky pink of her mouth flushes her cheeks and her exposed décolletage. He struggles not to look down as she inhales deeply. “Unlike you, I remember that I will be around students tomorrow.”

It’s that grating, know-it-all tone that is so reminiscent of how she sounded in her childhood that pushes him over the edge. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. Why do you think I’ve resorted to drinking?”

She starts to answer, but his frustration erupts from his mouth, vicious and unfiltered. 

“It’s just my luck that this bloody celebration, once again, falls on a weekday. I teach the dunderheads, only to have what they learn go in one ear and out the other. I watch them mingle and eat and chatter about, then I’m forced to herd them back to their towers like mindless sheep. It’s a wonder Minerva hasn’t planned a party in honour of it all, because knowing my luck and ineptitude at what counts for socialisation these days, my name will be the first to be drawn for night patrols!”

A small gasp escapes her, but he’s unstoppable in his rage. “And no, that is not enough, because I have to watch as disruptive familiars bring down the shelves on my experiments and spray Veritaserum into the air, and then I must argue with its insolent owner, who refuses to leave me to my peace in all hours of day and night!”

Her mouth moves silently, as though attempting to form words but unable to do so fast enough. Or at all.

Well, now he’s done it. 

“You’re not inept.” Brown finds black and smoulders. “Just… particular.”

He truly has; he’s broken Hermione Granger. 

“It’s admirable how constant you are, really,” she continues, a hint of amusement in her voice.

His irritation fizzles out at her fond expression, but something inside Severus remains suspicious, because for the first time since she’s returned to the castle, the witch is being nice to him. 

Is Granger telling the truth? She seems sincere...

Did he ask Winky to seal off his chambers from the rest of the castle, or just from the parts with students in them?

He doesn’t remember.

Could she have inhaled the truth serum too?

He can’t stand the thought of her being nice to him out of fake nicety. He needs—

“Winky.”

Winky appears between them, her Hogwarts pillowcase dusted with flour. “Professors!”

“Winky, did you seal off my chambers, or only the areas I told you about?”

“Only the houses where the students are, sir,” The elf pulls at her ears. “Winky tried to tell Master Snape, but the potions be acting fast!”

“I see.” He glances at Granger, who claps her hand over her mouth. “So not the hallways, or the staff’s rooms then.”

“Oh,” Hermione sighs.

Winky looks between them, then snaps her fingers and vanishes. 

A quiet moment stretches between them. He is uncertain how to proceed. 

“Do you mean to say we’ve both been dosed with Veritaserum?” she finally asks.

“Obviously.”

“That explains why you’re more hostile than usual, then,” she mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she answers, too quickly.

“Granger—“

“Hermione.” Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip, instantly drawing his eyes to it. “I— I hate when you call me Granger.”

“You do?”

“Yes. We’re colleagues now.” She gets even redder. “Would it be alright if… I call you Severus?” 

His breath hitches, and the longer he appraises her, the higher one of her eyebrows arches in a manner that is oddly reminiscent of himself. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she questions, her eyes glimmering.

He’s about to tell her that he’s thinking of biting her lip for her, just to give her a taste of the agony he’s in after such a long night, when he catches himself. He falls back on another caustic truth to shield the truth from her.

“You’ve decided that this ungodly hour is an appropriate time to visit me. Why are you even awake? And walking the halls, dressed in your nightclothes?”

She uncrosses her arms to bring the sides of her bathrobe together over her chest, then decides against it. Her voice is quiet. “If you must know, I was reading. There’s something to be said about getting things done while everyone else is asleep.”

“Ah. I can relate.”

“You can? That’s a first.”

“One of many, I hope,” he blurts.

The witch scoffs—scoffs—at him. “You’re laughing at me!”

He laughs. “Oh, but I wish I were.”

“But you hate talking to me, or even being around me—“

“Hate is a particularly strong word for our interactions.”

“They aren’t interactions! They’re arguments, spats, uncivilised discussions! What do you think they are, if not that?”

“Furious attraction.”

Her breath catches. “No! You think I’m a swot. A frizzy-haired, big-toothed, insufferable know-it-all—”

“Not anymore—and I apologised for saying that—”

“Yes, but you still think it, don’t you?” 

He opens his mouth to deny it, but she doesn’t give him a chance to. 

“It’s like pulling teeth, talking to you—”

It seems that it’s her turn to put her lovely bare feet in her mouth. He tries to respond, because her hair is expanding in size, which is definitely not good. 

“You despise me. Your opinion of me is—”

Does she really think he hates her so? But she must; the potion is forcing her to tell him the truth.

There has to be something he can say—

More truths spill from him. “Yes! Yes, alright? You infuriate me, but my opinion of you is of the highest order.”

She pulls her hair back from her temples with closed fists. “Speak in more obscure terms, why don’t you!”

“How’s this for obscure?” He steps forward, but she stands her ground. “You are the most relentlessly ambitious witch I have ever met. You won’t take no for an answer unless all alleys are exhausted, and I have no choice but to argue with you, so much so that you’ve taken over my every waking moment.”

The truth shocks him, but sinks into his skin. Like it became real once he spoke it.

“Is that clear enough for you? You make me madder than I’ve ever been, and bring out the worst in me every time we speak, and push me so far out of my skin that I don’t know what to do with myself—”

The tips of her fingers graze the fabric of his shirt, and he freezes.

She kisses him.

Just as he opens his mouth to her, she pulls back just enough for her lips to move over his.

“Do you know what to do now?”

His fingers sink into her curls and yank her forward, kissing her until they’re both breathless. 

“Cheeky witch.” 

He feels her hands clawing at the drawstring of his joggers, and lifts her until her legs circle his hips. As he carries her inside, her thighs soft in his grip and her mouth wet on his neck, he almost trips. 

Beyond his witch’s curls, her curst cat settles in front of the hearth. His tongue glows red as he grooms himself in the firelight, his work done… for the night.