( He receives his letter in the middle of his morning tea in the tiny little flat he now calls home. Spinner's End has long since been sold — probably burned to the ground, if he had to imagine. He hasn't checked. There were too many bad memories attached to it, and too many people on both sides of the war who knew the address. As soon as it all ended, he'd done with it the same as he's done with most ties to his life before — wiped it clean, broke free from it, and slipped far away from any tethers.
He does not keep up with the Old Crowd. He does not return the letters sent to him by the Malfoys, or by the Order, or the few half-hearted correspondences from Minerva reluctantly trying to coax him back to that school. In the eyes of nearly everyone, after his public spectacle of a trial ended, Severus Snape may as well have become a ghost.
Everyone, that is, except the bloody Ministry. Whatever magic they've got in place, he thinks must be similar to what drafts Hogwarts acceptance letters. There is no true hiding from it, not without drastic means — means which he certainly would've employed, had he known he was even remotely still considered a viable candidate for this ludicrous law.
He opens his post midway through sipping his tea, and nearly drops the bloody cup. He reads it in silence. Spends several motionless seconds contemplating it all, and then, very calmly, sets the bloody thing on fire and watches it burn to ashes in his saucer.
Well, he thinks blithely, fuck. Then deeply considers hurling the tea saucer into the wall.
He spends a few days living with the fantasy of utterly ignoring that it's even real. He toys with the concept of outright rejecting the Ministry's orders, and simply hexing any official they might have the audacity to send hunting for him. They'll have a hell of a time finding his place, and an even harder time finding him. If he knows the Ministry, eventually they'll tire of spending resources on it and bugger off.
He did not factor Granger into these calculations, and when he receives the follow-up letter a week later, he sighs and burns that one as well — but it isn't nearly so satisfying. He finds hardly any catharsis in it, haunted with the realization that while he might be perfectly willing to flaunt the Ministry, she clearly isn't. Typical.
He isn't entirely sure up until the moment he actually leaves his flat whether or not he's going to meet with her at all. He goes back and forth moment to moment, a perpetual scowl on his face like he hasn't worn in years.
But he's never been a coward, and never truly been one to run from duty. And so, at precisely four o'clock per her request, he knocks upon one largely unremarkable door.
Prof-, mister-
Somehow, though his face is schooled into something stone-stoic and impassive, he still manages to look like he's rolling his eyes internally. Merlin's name and God above, save him. It isn't her fault really, he knows this, but it's incredibly hard not to take his anger out on the only available target. He bites his tongue, and sweeps into her apartment without so much as a word in greeting.
He spends one long moment tracking his eyes around her flat, the tidiness of it, the simplicity of it. If he comes to any judgments about it, none display in his features when he finally turns to look at her properly. )
Miss Granger.
( That's as close to a proper hello as she's likely to get — a flat, toneless acknowledgement. )
You've chosen an incredibly inconvenient time to turn law-abiding.
( He's plenty aware enough of her extracurriculars to know that isn't always the case, with her. )
no worries! i understand and frequently backtag! 💖
( for a moment — a very brief one — seeing him is enough to pitch her headfirst back to first year. she's a child again, so full of hope and wonder and awe, and professor snape is just as angry, just as irritated as she remembers him being. it's enough to ratchet her pulse up several ticks, until it rabbits against her ribcage —
and then he strides past her, and that gives her enough room to blink, to force the image away and recognize the differences. he may have been scowling at her, as always, but he'd seemed better. less thin, less sallow, more like he's had a decent meal or two in the past ten years. he's even ditched the voluminous black robes that'd defined him at hogwarts. rallying, she tosses her head and presses the door shut behind him, locking it and then absently resetting the ward, a buzz of her magic settling over the door. they're as safe as they possibly can be in her flat, layers of wards of her own creation as well as more traditional magical alarms and reinforcements in place.
turning, she meets his eyes as he finally looks at her — and stiffens. law-abiding. it crawls under her skin, burrows. only he would throw that at her as an insult; if anything, ron and harry would be of the opinion she was too law-abiding, too ethical. but when the law was complete and utter bollocks... )
Not for lack of trying, ( she growls, raising her chin defiantly. i will not let him bully me. not about this. not now. ) I can't believe Kingsley would do this. It's ridiculous, not to mention unethical, and —
( hermione cuts herself off, takes a deep breath that might even be cleansing. prof — no, just snape, that's neutral, isn't it? — hadn't come here to hear her wax on about her issues with the law. waving a hand, she bustles to one side where there is a neat, albeit very cramped, kitchenette and an electric kettle on. she fusses with two teacups for am moment, grateful to put her back to him for a moment to collect herself. )
There is no loophole that I could find, and I've spent the last week in the Archives looking for one. ( she says finally, throwing a glance over one shoulder to find him still lingering in her living room. snape. in her living room. merlin. ) What about you? You're here, too.
( implication being: you haven't found a way out of it either, have you? )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
forgive me for the delay, i got mega behind on my game tags and had to get caught up!!
He does not keep up with the Old Crowd. He does not return the letters sent to him by the Malfoys, or by the Order, or the few half-hearted correspondences from Minerva reluctantly trying to coax him back to that school. In the eyes of nearly everyone, after his public spectacle of a trial ended, Severus Snape may as well have become a ghost.
Everyone, that is, except the bloody Ministry. Whatever magic they've got in place, he thinks must be similar to what drafts Hogwarts acceptance letters. There is no true hiding from it, not without drastic means — means which he certainly would've employed, had he known he was even remotely still considered a viable candidate for this ludicrous law.
He opens his post midway through sipping his tea, and nearly drops the bloody cup.
He reads it in silence.
Spends several motionless seconds contemplating it all, and then, very calmly, sets the bloody thing on fire and watches it burn to ashes in his saucer.
Well, he thinks blithely, fuck. Then deeply considers hurling the tea saucer into the wall.
He spends a few days living with the fantasy of utterly ignoring that it's even real. He toys with the concept of outright rejecting the Ministry's orders, and simply hexing any official they might have the audacity to send hunting for him. They'll have a hell of a time finding his place, and an even harder time finding him. If he knows the Ministry, eventually they'll tire of spending resources on it and bugger off.
He did not factor Granger into these calculations, and when he receives the follow-up letter a week later, he sighs and burns that one as well — but it isn't nearly so satisfying. He finds hardly any catharsis in it, haunted with the realization that while he might be perfectly willing to flaunt the Ministry, she clearly isn't. Typical.
He isn't entirely sure up until the moment he actually leaves his flat whether or not he's going to meet with her at all. He goes back and forth moment to moment, a perpetual scowl on his face like he hasn't worn in years.
But he's never been a coward, and never truly been one to run from duty. And so, at precisely four o'clock per her request, he knocks upon one largely unremarkable door.
Prof-, mister-
Somehow, though his face is schooled into something stone-stoic and impassive, he still manages to look like he's rolling his eyes internally. Merlin's name and God above, save him. It isn't her fault really, he knows this, but it's incredibly hard not to take his anger out on the only available target. He bites his tongue, and sweeps into her apartment without so much as a word in greeting.
He spends one long moment tracking his eyes around her flat, the tidiness of it, the simplicity of it. If he comes to any judgments about it, none display in his features when he finally turns to look at her properly. )
Miss Granger.
( That's as close to a proper hello as she's likely to get — a flat, toneless acknowledgement. )
You've chosen an incredibly inconvenient time to turn law-abiding.
( He's plenty aware enough of her extracurriculars to know that isn't always the case, with her. )
no worries! i understand and frequently backtag! 💖
and then he strides past her, and that gives her enough room to blink, to force the image away and recognize the differences. he may have been scowling at her, as always, but he'd seemed better. less thin, less sallow, more like he's had a decent meal or two in the past ten years. he's even ditched the voluminous black robes that'd defined him at hogwarts. rallying, she tosses her head and presses the door shut behind him, locking it and then absently resetting the ward, a buzz of her magic settling over the door. they're as safe as they possibly can be in her flat, layers of wards of her own creation as well as more traditional magical alarms and reinforcements in place.
turning, she meets his eyes as he finally looks at her — and stiffens. law-abiding. it crawls under her skin, burrows. only he would throw that at her as an insult; if anything, ron and harry would be of the opinion she was too law-abiding, too ethical. but when the law was complete and utter bollocks... )
Not for lack of trying, ( she growls, raising her chin defiantly. i will not let him bully me. not about this. not now. ) I can't believe Kingsley would do this. It's ridiculous, not to mention unethical, and —
( hermione cuts herself off, takes a deep breath that might even be cleansing. prof — no, just snape, that's neutral, isn't it? — hadn't come here to hear her wax on about her issues with the law. waving a hand, she bustles to one side where there is a neat, albeit very cramped, kitchenette and an electric kettle on. she fusses with two teacups for am moment, grateful to put her back to him for a moment to collect herself. )
There is no loophole that I could find, and I've spent the last week in the Archives looking for one. ( she says finally, throwing a glance over one shoulder to find him still lingering in her living room. snape. in her living room. merlin. ) What about you? You're here, too.
( implication being: you haven't found a way out of it either, have you? )