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Chapter Text

The first time she met him in the library, Hermione barely reached his shoulder. Professor Snape swept down the aisle, robes billowing behind him, and she squeezed herself against the shelves so she wouldn’t be in the way.

The professor did not even notice her.

Hermione was disappointed and relieved in equal parts. He must know so much – how could she even begin talking to him, when she knew so little about the wondrous world they shared?

Then, there was the small matter of his personality – some of the other professors, like Professor Flitwick or her Head of House, were not too unlike Hermione's old teachers from primary school. Professor Snape acted like students were an inconvenience to him.

Perhaps one had to be brilliant for him to take an interest.

Hermione eyed the pile of books she had collected already, wondering if adding a few volumes on Potions would make it too heavy to carry all the way back to her dormitory before she remembered she was a witch.

It was taking a little longer than she had expected to get used to this new world, but Hermione was positive she would have become used to it by mid-term.

Christmas, at the latest.

The first time she met him in the library after the war, Hermione did not even notice Professor Snape until he was almost beside her. Moving like a shadow, he made her jump when the faint rustling of his robes alerted her to his presence.

Half expecting he would scold her for her lack of self-control, she slowly turned around to face him. After living through the war, a surprise meeting in a library should not have her pulling her wand out with clammy hands.

Professor Snape did not say a word, but the weight of his presence created a silence deeper and thicker than anything the library was capable of on its own. It was ripe with unsaid words: apologies and explanations and laments were all crammed in there.

He stooped slightly as he shuffled on towards the Restricted Section, like he carried the weight of the past on his shoulders.

Hermione stared after him, wishing she knew how to talk to him.

The second time, Hermione was determined not to remain silent.

“Professor Snape,” she began, her voice ringing out clear as a bell in the nearly empty library. Toning it down a bit, she continued: “I must – “

“Is there anything about gratitude or respect in the diatribe you are about to launch into?” His voice was only a whisper, but the customary sharpness still impregnated every syllable.

“Yes – “

He cut her off again. “Then, stay silent.” Professor Snape glared at her as Hermione gasped for air like a goldfish caught on dry land, before she closed her mouth and nodded with ill grace.

He continued his path towards the Restricted Section while Hermione wondered if this was how it was going to be now: being an adult seemed to constitute of an endless array of moments where one recognised it wasn't about oneself, it was about other people.

It had been a lot easier when adults seemed to know everything.

It had been years since Hermione last visited the Hogwarts library, but it looked exactly the same. The students dotting the study tables seemed much younger than she remembered, which was only to be expected, but it had come as a shock to realise the teachers were not in fact as ancient as she always had believed as a student.

Madam Pince's replacement, Madam O'Rourke, had a thick Cork accent and was very pleasant once Hermione got the knack of deciphering her staccato voice.

“Minerva told me you would be paying us a visit when Gringotts could spare you, Miss Granger. I've been doing the best I can to pick up where Madam Pince left off, but – “ She shrugged, and Hermione made a mental note to return to the subject later. ”I’m quite relieved you're here – some of the happenings have been very odd. Most odd, indeed.”

“Minerva mentioned time warps –“ Hermione had been keen to return to Hogwarts in any case, but her professional interest had been piqued.

Madam O'Rourke glanced around. “Not here. Please come into the office, and I will explain.”

They were sitting in what had been Madam Pince's inner sanctum up until a few weeks ago. Hermione's cup of tea sat abandoned on the dainty little side table next to the visitor's chair. It turned out that Madam O'Rourke (“Call me Ciara”) had been keeping a log of any strange occurrences since her arrival on the scene. The list was useful, if unsettling, reading.

There were books in the office, too, in various states of disrepair. One volume, Tenets of Transparency, kept flickering into invisibility. Another, Story of My Life (Unexpurgated), kept emitting soft moans until Ciara silenced it with a flick of her wand.

Meanwhile, Hermione had formulated a strategy. “I need to speak to Professor Snape first.”

Regardless of Hermione's personal inclinations, it was clear that the current Defence Against The Dark Arts Professor and Deputy Headmaster must be her first avenue of investigation.

“I'm sure he will be eager to assist.” Ciara looked like she was trying to persuade herself as much as Hermione.

“It is the same Professor Snape we're talking about, isn't it? The-Spy-Who-Lived, or whatever Rita Skeeter calls him?”

“I wouldn't use that term within his hearing, but yes, it is.”

“Then I'm sure he will be pleased to renew our acquaintance,” Hermione said, trying very hard not to let on that she was quaking in her boots.

“Miss Granger.” The current occupant had returned the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom to the Gothic Horror Chic it had favoured during Hermione's sixth year.

From what she could make out in the candlelight, Professor Snape was just as happy to see her as she had anticipated.

“Professor Snape.” She advanced past the tables, trying to see if they were the same as when she had been student. There should be a scorch mark in the third row from when Ron had dropped his wand in second year, but the light was too dim to tell.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” His upper lip was curled, lest she dare take his words at face value.

Hermione weighed up the situation. Her job at Gringotts meant she frequently had to deal with clients, so her ability to remain unflustered under fire (sometimes literally) had been honed since her student days.

Perhaps it was best to tackle him right on.

“It would be very helpful if you could provide me with a written account of every strange occurrence in the library from the last six months.” Adding a pleasant smile might have been overkill, but Hermione didn't usually do anything half-heartedly.

“I'm sure you think it would be. Is there any compelling reason why I should assist you in what no doubt will be a wearying and ultimately pointless endeavour?” Professor Snape's face was a prize-winning study in contempt mingled with boredom.

“I'm sure Minerva will be along to provide some when I tell her you refused to cooperate.” Hermione turned around, heading for the door – she was not going to play any games, and the sooner he found out, the better.

“Must you be so tedious, Miss Granger? Running to the headmistress to get their way hardly befits anyone over the age of seventeen.”

“Must you be so predictable, Professor Snape? Acquiescing to my request would have had me double-guessing what you were up to for weeks.” She raised her eyebrows, well aware she was in the presence of a master of the art.

“Touché. In return for my concession, can you please consider whether you really require a record of every time something unexpected has happened? It would be a rather long list.” He had softened a bit, as if she had advanced somewhat in his opinion – perhaps even on par with Flobberworms and Gilderoy Lockhart.

“That's precisely why – it seems extraordinary that you should be involved in so many of the incidents.” Five, by Madam Pince's reckoning – Hermione assumed there would be rather more if she ever received an honest account from Professor Snape.

“What do you mean by that?” Oh, great – now he was giving her the one eyebrow treatment.

“Exactly what I'm saying – the only common denominator I can find so far is you, so you are my main avenue of investigation.”

“Oh, joy.”

It had been a slight variation of the truth – Hermione's main focus of investigation was in fact the books Professor Snape had been checking out, not himself. While the books involved in the incidents were fascinating in their own right (Oblivio, Ergo Sum – Observations On The Nature Of Memory and A Short Account of the Perils of Sleeping), there was nothing obvious that attracted her attention.

One got a feel for it, after a while – troublesome books were either well-known (The Anatomy Of Ghosts sprang to mind, source of ghost infestations in libraries and private book collections across the continent), or very rare indeed (recalling one of her first investigations, it was very clear why Hermione so far only had discovered one surviving copy of Cursed To The Core).

Professor Snape's reading list, heavily weighted towards Potions and the Dark Arts, featured no smoking guns.

It did not necessarily mean Hermione was going down the wrong track – no one could predict how magical books would react in the vicinity of others. A sedate volume on Charms, placed next to a seemingly innocuous essay on the nature of time travel, coupled with a shelf several feet away containing a collection on the origins of magical creatures, had caused one of the trickiest problems of Hermione's career – so far, at least.

Established libraries like the one at Hogwarts rarely featured on her agenda. The delicate equilibrium required to ensure the books behaved had been perfected over centuries.

No Hogwarts librarian would make the mistake of placing the Invisibility Section next to the collection of Concealment Charms, like some poor sod in Brasilia had. It had taken Hermione two weeks to track down his body, and no charms the whole Brazilian Ministry of Magic could come up with had managed to make him visible again.

Something was rotten in the state of Scotland, but she was damned if she was going to pin down what it was based on Snape's list.

There was only one way to find out what was going on. It was one of her favourite aspects of her chosen career that 'going to the library' was a call for action as well as a bid for further research.

Other than the Gilderoy Lockhart collection having been moved under 'Humour' rather than 'Defence Against The Dark Arts,' Hermione could not spot any changes since her school days. She had a pass to the Restricted Section this time, and was using it to explore the Dark Arts section when an ominous shadow fell over her from behind.

She didn't even need to turn around to know it was Professor Snape – few other people had mastered the art of being silent very loudly as efficiently as he had.

“Thanks for the rolls of parchment,” she said, checking a few last volumes before rising to face his looming large nose.

“I assume your efforts have not yet been crowned by success, given your continued presence here. How unexpected.” The lack of inflection was masterful – as an adult, Hermione could admire the performance rather than twisting herself in knots trying to impress him. How had she not seen playing the game was what mattered, not the outcome?

“Well, I was looking for a way to give you another unexpected surprise, so I guess I've achieved that.” When she stood up the sun was in her eyes, so all she could see was Professor Snape's silhouette. “Wait a minute!”

Ten minutes ago, rain had been beating on the library windows like it was trying to batter the castle into submission. Hermione knew her Scottish weather – rain like that did not just go away. Something had changed.

The sunlight came from a dome far above them and they were hemmed in by the shelves surrounding them, still carrying the familiar titles from Hogwarts, but if they ventured further Hermione had no doubt they would slowly fade into this new place. Wherever it was.

“I assume no written report will be required this time, Miss Granger?” The only way Professor Snape betrayed any agitation was that his nostrils were flaring, and that his wand had appeared in his hand so quickly Hermione had not even seen him move.

She let her own wand slip into her sleeve in case there were Muggles around, looking at him meaningfully until he copied her. “Does this place look familiar to you?”

“I have not seen it before.”

Someone passed by the shelves behind them, and a snatch of overheard conversation in an unmistakeable Australian accent finally reminded Hermione where she last had seen a library bathed in sunlight like this. “We're in Melbourne! I knew I'd been here before.”

“Did you make a Grand Tour after the war – Famous Libraries I Would Like to Visit?”

If Hermione had not been looking at Snape, she would have missed the way he was inching towards the end of the shelf. “Nice try. My parents lived here for a while, if you must know, and I would appreciate if you left the stunts to the professionals.”

“As you wish.” It was a wonder the words did not croak under the weight of his disapproval.

Hermione found the spot where the magical books from Hogwarts changed into normal Muggle volumes – as expected, it was hard to pin down, but she eventually managed to put her wand on the crack.

“Brace yourself,” she advised Snape, not bothering to turn around to take in the affront at her having the temerity of telling him what to do.

Very carefully, she stretched out her hand to touch a battered 19th century copy of A Letter Concerning Toleration: Humbly Submitted, only for the bright sunlight to be replaced by the gloom of a wet October afternoon in Scotland.

“Well done. As a layman, I would have assumed you were going to investigate the phenomenon, but clearly returning to familiar ground took precedence. No doubt, you will come to a conclusion in a few decades' time, having exhausted all other possibilities.”

Hermione finished jotting down observations in her little notebook and put it away. “If you'd like to know what I'm doing, you could just ask, you know.”

“Would that not violate your professional ethics – assuming you have any, of course?”

This is Professor Snape, Hermione reminded herself. Listen to what he isn't saying.

“Not unless I have to clobber you over the head to get you to shut up, no. I now have a baseline for how far the Hogwarts section extended into the other library, and can use it to calculate the likelihood for other incidences. I'll be using Arithmancy, of course – I would explain that too, but it would take too long.” She gave him a big smile, which finally unsettled him so much he went quiet.

Chapter Text

“Keeps herself to herself, she does. Not like some I could mention, running down to Hogsmeade every chance they get...” Mr Filch looked hopeful, but Hermione refused to bite. She was not there to gossip about the teachers.

Only librarians.

“Have you noticed anything different about Madam Pince lately, Mr Filch? I'd bet nothing gets past an observant man like yourself.” She wasn't holding out much hope it would work, but it did. Wizards or Squibs or Muggle men, they weren't very different.

“Haven't seen much of her lately, have I? Used to come to my room for a chat, she did – those students have no respect for their elders. Does her good to have someone to talk to. Mind you, I'm not saying I understand all she's saying, but she seems happy enough.”

“And she's not coming to see you anymore?” Filch's office looked exactly like it always had, but if it had not put Madam Pince off previously, there was no reason her opinion should have changed suddenly.

“Not since the students came back. It's always busy, the first few weeks – them students stomping through the corridors like they're a herd of Hippogriffs. Wouldn't occur to them to use their precious wands to clean their feet from mud, oh no.”

It had actually not occurred to Hermione, either, but she remembered Mr Filch under Umbridge and any residual guilt disappeared. “So, you haven't seen her since the 1st of September?”

“In passing, yeah – not down here. Looking fagged to death, she was.”

“Did she mention anything about her work at all?”

His pale eyes glittered. “Asked me to clean up the desks last week – some third-years had stuck chewing gum under them. Drooble's Best Blowing Gum no less, I had to take a chisel to it. They wouldn't have tried that during the war, oh no...“ He faltered a little when he recalled whom he was talking to, and Hermione took advantage of his temporary discomfort.

“What did she say? And did Madam Pince do anything out of the ordinary while you were there?”

“Just asked me to do what I could, considering the little sods had used Sticking Charms. She loosened them for me, but it only goes so far. Said she might have to pop out – “

“Pop out where?” Hermione's voice was too sharp, but fortunately Mr Filch wasn't put off.

“Oh, just round the back – she has a few storerooms there. Asked me to make sure nothing untoward happened if she wasn't there. Couldn't trust the little blighters for a second – “

Hermione cut him off before he could expand on his favourite subject. “How long was she gone for?”

“Five minutes, tops. Here's the odd thing, though: when she came back, snowflakes were melting in her hair. Sensible woman like Irma wouldn't use magic for no reason, 'specially not when she was working.”

“I'm afraid I could not tell you whether Irma was working on a special project, or anything like that. Part of the reason we have managed to retain such highly qualified staff over the years is the freedom that comes with the job.” Minerva pushed the plate with shortbread towards Hermione, who gratefully stuffed two in her mouth.

It had been a long day.

“The school cannot afford to pay very high wages, as I'm sure you understand, but my colleagues – whether they are teachers or not – are free to pursue their own interests during the holidays. Having a first-rate library helps too, of course.”

It gave Hermione an excellent opening. “Professor – Minerva, are you familiar with the term L-space?”

“Not as such, my dear. Do enlighten me.”

“In my line of work, it soon becomes obvious that magical books can manipulate the world around them. They're magical, of course – it is only to be expected. Large collections of books are even more unpredictable: they can bend space and time, opening passages to any library, anywhere...”

“I think we may need something stronger for this conversation.” Minerva didn't continue until she had summoned a bottle of Muggle whisky and two glasses. “Are you about to tell me that the school library is open to anyone who might decide to wander in?”

“That's why you ordinarily have one of the Librarians of Time and Space tending to it. Nothing much gets past them.” Hermione was not a member, which was why she could discuss their existence in the first place. She wasn't sure she ever wanted to tie herself down to a library – curse-breaking was much more fun than guarding the fabric of time and space.

“Meaning no one is doing it at the moment, I presume?” As usual, the Headmistress put her finger on the salient point.

“I've done what I can, and I presume Ciara has, too, so nothing tentacled is about to burst out of the Restricted Section. The bigger question is whether Madam Pince has disappeared because of whatever is going on, or – “ Hermione was still trying to work out how to put it when Minerva spoke:

“Or whether Irma caused it. Whatever it may be – have you got any closer to figuring out what is happening?”

“Professor Snape was very helpful.”

“Was he now?” The harsh lines around Minerva's mouth quivered a little.

Hermione pretended not to notice her amusement. “Based on the information I have gathered, he is the best link to the phenomena. If Madam Pince were here, she might be able to tell us more, but as far as I can tell, activity has in fact increased since her disappearance.”

“You think Irma has disappeared, then?” There was an unaccustomed brittleness in Minerva’s voice.

Hermione belatedly remembered that Irma had been one of her colleagues for at least two decades. “She may have gone into L-Space on an extended expedition.”

“For almost a month?”

“It happens. The passage she took may have closed again, and she would have to find a different way back, or – “

“Surely you know me well enough by now to realise I'd prefer the truth, however unpleasant.”

“Or she may have got lost entirely.” Hermione had been, once. L-Space could be terrifying, despite all the books.

“I see. Is there anything we can do? Send out a search party, perhaps?”

Hermione swallowed a giggle, imagining the Hogwarts staff outfitted like a polar expedition, setting off from the library. “I'm quite sure Madam Pince is better able to take care of herself out there than all the rest of us together.”

Minerva's shoulders sank infinitesimally and she poured herself another drop of whisky. “Very well, then. What do you propose to do instead?”

“I would like to use Professor Snape's – connection to the library, for want of a better word. It might be helpful if you dropped a word in his ear first.”

“Really? I thought Severus had been remarkably accommodating already.”

“One can always improve,” Hermione said primly.

“How wonderfully exciting this is. Rather than marking the mountains of essays in my office or planning tomorrow's Double Potion class, I'm in the library, doing... Miss Granger, I hope you can enlighten me, as I'm not quite certain what we are supposed to be achieving.”

“Since when are you teaching Potions again?” It was much easier to speak to Snape while she was busy casting spells – Hermione could just let her mouth run on without having to pick which three complex emotions were dominating her perception of him today.

“Horace was apparently in dire need of a visit to a London specialist. Entirely by chance, his unknown ailment coincides with Puddlemere United playing the Harpies.”

“I'm sure the pleasure of returning to your old stomping grounds will make up for it.”

“If you wish to improve your mediocre Potions skills, you may sit at the back. Bring your own cauldron.”

“Thanks for the offer.” Not rising to the bait might play into some sort of double-bluff on his part – surely, he didn't believe Hermione still was looking for his approval?

“Is there any point to our activities here this evening? So far, I have failed to detect as much as a whiff of Antipodean air.”

Hermione was used to ignoring Ron's whinging – Snape's wasn't much different, albeit more eloquent. “Why don't you get on with whatever you're usually doing? I'm just here as an observer.”

“Perhaps you should take down one of the dictionaries – I believe the traditional definition is somewhat less intrusive.”

“I thought you were going to look for some books, not have a wank in the main aisle.” Hermione's cheeks turned bright red – she would do well to remember it wasn't Ron she was speaking to.

Professor Snape's back stiffened alarmingly. “If you don't mind, I would prefer to remain ignorant of what passes for acceptable behaviour among Gryffindors. In a library.”

Hermione said nothing – it was safest, and while they had been bickering she had discovered something.

A thin crack in one of the bookshelves, meandering all the way from the ornate holly leaves at the bottom to the improbable pineapples adorning the top. L-space stretched libraries to breaking point, and she had just discovered one of the connection points.

“What is that?” said a sharp voice so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath. Hermione shrieked, promptly losing the train of her wand.

“What the hell did you do that for, you – you idiot?” she said when she had started breathing again.

“Your vocabulary this evening has certainly been a revelation. While common sense would dictate a more conciliatory approach towards those you have approached for assistance, I should probably not be surprised.” The hint of smugness was unbearable.

“The next time you're brewing a particularly tricky potion, remind me to pop my nose into your cauldron and ask you when you're going to start stirring clockwise. Is it really so difficult for you to accept that someone who is female and younger than you might have a clue what she's doing?” Hermione stood up, too angry to keep looking for a hair-thin crack she had been lucky to spot the first time.

Snape looked like a Blast-Ended Skrewt had decided to nest in his pyjamas. “I was under the misapprehension that having Potter broadcast the most intimate details of my past to all and sundry would have inoculated me against any accusations of misogyny.”

Hermione wondered if the number of syllables were directly related to his level of discomfort. Nothing with Snape was ever straightforward.

“As for your other accusation, I would like to point out that I was the youngest teacher Hogwarts had seen in a century.” He continued like someone determined to do their duty, however unpleasant.

“I assume that's the best apology I'm going to get,” Hermione muttered, bending down again to track the elusive crack.

In sullen silence, Snape continued to do whatever Potions Masters and ex-spies turned Defence Against The Dark Arts teachers did in the library after the students had gone to bed, and Hermione pottered around nearby, trying to find a lead.

She gave up at eleven, nodding to him as she headed past the librarian's desk towards the rooms Minerva had assigned to her. Perhaps the Headmistress had been hoping the proximity to the library would help Hermione's investigations. She had been sorely mistaken, in that case – beyond a nebulous idea that L-space was behind it all, Hermione had no idea what was going on, never mind how to stop it.

There was no way she was going to tell Professor Snape that, though.

Chapter Text

Another two evenings of waiting for something to happen to Professor Snape passed relatively peacefully. They even spoke occasionally, after Hermione decided that potential contempt from his side was preferable to another evening of boredom.

He must have agreed with her, because he deigned to reply, even expanding into a discussion on how to bind spells to books by using Potions ingredients in the ink.

The third night, Professor Snape was clearly in a mood – he may as well have hung a placard around his neck to broadcast he was Not Amused. He did not interrupt his sulk to inform Hermione what had occurred, so it was fortunate she was able to contain her curiosity.

Sharing a library aisle with a Snape in a huff was not unlike trying to fit into a lift with an angry Erumpent – there was little room, literally or metaphorically.

After banging into his preternaturally sharp elbows one time too many, Hermione decided to cut her losses.

She retreated as far as she could while still keeping him in sight. It was only when she leant against the bookshelf behind that she noticed it smelled strange. Upon closer inspection, the books were far too shiny to be Hogwarts property – the colourful plastic covers were a bit of a giveaway.

As was the fact they were all in Japanese.

“Professor Snape!” she hissed.

“What?” he barked, swirling around in a show of displeasure. Unfortunately, the books on the lowest shelf that he had been inspecting had been pulled out a bit, and the hem of his robes swept them down on the floor. They landed with a bang.

“Now look what you've – “ he began, before Hermione wordlessly pointed down the aisle behind him.

One of the books had taken flight, running away surprisingly quickly on stubby legs. It turned a corner, disappearing from view, just as Hermione regained her voice.

“We must catch it – we're gone into L-space again!”

Snape did not waste any time: he set off running, his robes flapping behind him. Hermione took a little longer to get started, and when she caught up he had already come to a stop.

“Which way did it go?” she asked breathlessly. This place was much bigger than the Hogwarts library – the aisles stretching out before them went on for hundreds of yards.

“Would I still be standing here if I knew that?” Every little crag in Snape's face was brought into sharp relief from the fluorescent lights above them. Had Hermione been a little shorter, her vision would have been entirely obscured by the shadow cast by his nose.

Looking wildly around her, Hermione considered a quick Accio – could it really be worse than the alternative?

Meanwhile, Snape had gone down on all fours, peering beneath the shelves. His arse was surprisingly bony for someone who spent most of his life at a desk. “At one o'clock!”

Hermione didn't bend down to confirm – she tiptoed around the shelf instead, to the next aisle.

It was empty.

Hoping Snape would alert her if the book ran away again, she continued to the next one – only to bump straight into a teenager reading something colourful and animated. He broke into apologies, presumably in Japanese, but Hermione pushed him aside.

Now was not the time for niceties: she had spotted the dratted book, tripping down the aisle like it had every right to be there.

“GOT you!” Hermione threw herself forward and caught it just as it gathered speed – the little legs were waving in the air as she hoisted it in her arms, climbing back to her feet. Carefully obscuring the teenager's view of the renegade book, she looked around for Snape.

“Another daring rescue by Miss Granger. Whatever Gringotts are paying you, they should double it.” If sarcasm was present, Professor Snape was not far behind.

“Very funny.” Hermione wrapped the book in her green Weasley jumper, so tight it only could struggle feebly to get loose. “Let's get back – if we can.”

Professor Snape scowled, the way she imagined he would if he were completely lost but did not want to admit it.

“I'm not so useless now, am I? Follow me,” she said.

Hermione smiled apologetically as she walked past the teenager on the way back, but he was too absorbed in his reading to notice.

Both of them kept their hand on the wands, checking each aisle for Muggles. Most of them were browsing the books, but a few looked up as they walked past. It was too late to Transfigure their robes, so Hermione settled for looking as innocuous as she could manage.

Her marker was still there. The Hogwarts bookshelf was not – all Hermione could see was shiny white linoleum shelves stretching into the distance, gleaming in the bright lights.

“How is your Japanese?” she asked tentatively.

“The majority of the volumes in this – this establishment appear to be in Korean, so I hardly think it matters.” Snape swept his robes around him, like he wanted to minimise contact with the Muggle environment. “Am I to infer that we are stuck here?”

“That seems to be the case,” Hermione admitted. “We have two options: either stay here and hope L-space will reconnect us to home, or – “

“Do go on,” Snape mumbled as a Muggle girl squeezed past them, bending her whole body in apology. Wherever they were, she had better do the talking – Snape's brand of politeness was unlikely to go down well.

Admittedly, that was true for most of the known universe.

“Or we march up to the British embassy and admit that we're lost.”

Snape took it comparatively well. “How do you propose we get there? What's the sign language for 'I'm a wizard, get me out of here?'”

Hermione stifled her giggle – either he was trying to wind her up, which suggested a hitherto unknown flair for humour, or he was genuinely clueless as to the Muggle reference, and would think she was laughing at him. “I imagine 'Do you speak English' will work quite as well – we're in a library, after all. Surely someone will be able to communicate with us?”

“You don't think they might find it strange we have no idea where we are? Not to mention we're dressed a bit oddly?”

Hermione shrugged off her robes, the runaway book securely bundled up in the middle – it was quite hot in the centrally heated library, unlike its Hogwarts equivalent. “We'll just play the confused tourist card. You can pretend you're annoyed with me for getting us lost, that will explain the glower.”

“Pretend?” He followed suit, the long rows of buttons opening so fast they must be secured by magic, before revealing a crisp white shirt and an unremarkable pair of black trousers. Regarded in isolation, the long hair looked out of place, as if he were a banker trying to cling on to his lost youth.

The change of attire made no difference whatsoever – every bit of dramatic flair supplied by his robes was still there in the flicks of his hair as Snape inspected the aisle in front of them and evidently found it wanting. “Do tell me you have that infernal book under control. Right or left?”

“Left,” Hermione said, on the basis that there had been no sign of an exit during their brief excursion to retrieve the book. “You never told me if you actually speak Korean,” she reminded him. “It would be helpful to know.”

The library turned out to be located in an underground shopping centre, which did not seem right to Hermione. She acknowledged she was probably being unreasonable – who wouldn't want to break up their shopping trip with a trip to a library? Snape did not appear to be too impressed, either, but that was his default attitude.

A short conversation with the front desk librarian revealed they were in a city with a British embassy, and they were also provided with a map covered in scribbled directions for how to get there without generating more than mild curiosity.

“You look surprisingly relieved,” Snape observed as soon as they were swallowed by the stream of people outside the library, sweeping them up like they were meant to be there rather than casualties to the vagaries of L-space.

“We could have been somewhere outside the reach of British diplomacy. This makes things much easier.”

Snape looked dubiously at the map thrust into his hand. “You seem to place a lot of faith in the competency of British Muggle officialdom. I only hope it is not misplaced.”

“Not them.” Hermione knew very well they stuck out like a sore thumb – she wasn't going to make it worse by speaking about magic in public. “Our lot. As long as there's an embassy, there will be a way to contact local – you-know-whats.”

Snape's upper lip curled. “Perhaps not the most propitious choice of words, but I understand what you mean.”

A very long walk, a secret knock, several hours of waiting and one International Portkey later, they stumbled into the headmistress' office.

“Severus and Hermione! I had almost given up on you for the night, but Ms Gibbs at the Portkey Office was most insistent. What on earth happened to you?”

“I think we know what has happened to Madam Pince, at least,” Hermione said, brushing the travel dust off her robes. Seoul had been rather dirty, or at least the hotchpotch of walkways and alleys they had navigated to get to the embassy had.

They had spent most of the walk arguing about the difference between Animagi and Patroni forms, so at least it had not been completely wasted.

“What?” Snape said sharply, at the same time as Minerva.

“She's pure-blood, isn't she?” Hermione didn't know how she knew that, but she did. It would have been thoroughly depressing, if it hadn't helped her solve the riddle of Madam Pince's whereabouts.

“She is,” Minerva said, frowning. “Why does that matter?”

“Because she is likely marooned somewhere with no idea how to get back without attracting unwanted attention,” her deputy said, mind presumably sharpened by having faced the same predicament himself. “Either that, or she is trying to Apparate in stages.”

“Or she might be in a different dimension, in which case there's nothing we can do to help.” Hermione had no idea how many worlds L-Space opened up to and she had no desire to speculate right now.

All she wanted was her bed.

Wordlessly, Minerva reached for a piece of parchment and sent a message off with the owl that appeared as soon as she opened the window. “Let's hope she receives this. I will contact the Department of International Magical Cooperation immediately. The two of you had better go to bed – you look like you've been battered by a Hippogriff.”

Hermione wasn't about to argue, and for once neither was Snape. They shuffled off to bed like first-years out past eleven, parting in silence.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Hermione didn't make it to breakfast the following day. Thankful she did not have any classes to teach, she lay on her back looking up on the starry sky decorating the inside of her canopy and plotted her next move.

It required an excursion to the Muggle world – she may as well pop in to her parents' at the same time. They would like to hear about Hogwarts; they had been rather taken with it when she had managed to get them permission to visit during her seventh year, after the war.

The war – after the first few days, when she kept seeing flashes of the battle out of the corner of her eye, it felt very distant now. Hogwarts was full of new students who had never seen the castle without its battle scars, and their cheerful unconcern rubbed off on its older inhabitants.

What mattered was how many points Hufflepuff was ahead of Slytherin, not the past.

It wasn't possible to forget Minerva's wrath when her school had been threatened, nor Severus Snape as a traitor and Dumbledore's murderer before the truth burst out of Harry's mouth at the last moment of the war, not once one had seen it with one's own eyes.

It certainly made meals at the High Table more interesting – Hermione even had a grudging respect for Trelawney (albeit not for her subject, which she still considered as useful as a chocolate wand).

“You seem to be talking about Professor Snape an awful lot. Isn't he the one with the troubled past?”

Hermione almost choked on her biscuit. “That's one way of putting it. He's the ex-double agent who was also our Potions teacher. Surely, you remember him – he was half the reason we won the war.”

Her mum placidly poured herself some more tea. “I was referring to his more distant past. It is terribly romantic, isn't it?”

Considering it for the first time, Hermione conceded it possibly was – to someone who had never met the man. “You've no idea what he's like – he can make someone wither with sarcasm without even opening his mouth. I'm sure part of it is acting, but he genuinely functions on a different level to most people.”

She sat back, trying to unpuzzle the poster boy for enigmas. “Unlike most people, he doesn't pretend he cares about things he doesn't think are important. Like being nice. He would sacrifice his own life to do the right thing, but he would bite your head off if you try to thank him. He's back teaching kids about the Dark Arts after deceiving the most evil wizard in the history of Britain, and they don't realise the only reason they're not being taught how to torture each other instead is because he did what he did. For twenty years.”

“I see. Have another biscuit, dear.”

Hermione bit into it so hard the crumbs went flying. “He's probably the smartest person I have ever met – perhaps not as brilliant as Dumbledore, but I for one would prefer a bit more pragmatism and less faith in the mysterious power of love. Snape probably tells himself he doesn't need anyone else, but I can see how he talks to Minerva and the other teachers who were there before the war.”

“He has friends, then?” Her mother seemed disproportionately relieved to hear that.

“Yes, of course – they have their in-jokes and all. I don't understand half of them.” Being among her ex-teachers as an adult had been rather a revelation. Filius had a completely filthy sense of humour, and Professor Sprout certainly didn't mince her words when the students were out of earshot.

“It's probably for the best,” her mother mumbled, and Hermione remembered the cocktail evenings with the 'girls' before she had gone to Hogwarts. She had not understood much of the conversations then, either.

One had to hand it to him: no one could make an entrance like Professor Snape. He burst through the doors to the library, robes flying and wand firmly in his hand. “What is going on here?”

“Nothing much.” Hermione stood up from the bookshelf she had been examining. The Legal section showed no sign of having been touched since Ron had researched Hippogriff cases in their third year. “I thought you had detentions tonight.”

“Against my better judgement,” Snape said through gritted teeth, “I let Perkins off after an hour when it occurred to me you had been strangely absent from both lunch and dinner.”

“You were concerned I was missing meals?” Hermione found it slightly touching and downright peculiar for Snape.

“I was concerned you had followed in Madam Pince's footsteps, literally as well as metaphorically. That you have not done so is entirely due to chance, not your own wit – or absence thereof.” He looked down his long nose at her, a feat even more remarkable since Hermione had realised he only had a few inches on her when she was wearing heels.

“I've come prepared.” Hermione wiggled her hand around her magically enhanced pocket, until she found what she was looking for. Triumphantly, she waved her Muggle credit card in the air.

Snape looked like she had produced a Flobberworm for immediate consumption, rather than an inoffensive bit of plastic. “You realise a credit card will offer no protection against any threat larger than a fly?”

“It's pretty handy if you want to get to the nearest embassy by Muggle means of transport, though.”

He swirled around in a cloud of black wool. “What about those creatures you mentioned – from the Dungeon Dimensions, was it?” It had taken some persuasion to convince him they bore no relation to the Basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets – those were monsters entirely in their own right.

“No tentacles to report so far,” Hermione said cheerfully.

“One would think Madam Pince's disappearance would inspire you with some hitherto undetected caution – it's merely conjecture that she is safe and sound in the Muggle world. Minerva has not got any word back from the Ministry.”

Hermione was struck by a horrifying possibility. She wouldn't have been able to explain why it was so appalling – what consenting adults got up to in their own time was none of her business – but she was so shaken she didn't even think first before speaking.

“I'm sorry, perhaps I didn't realise – “

The shock of receiving an apology so easily brought Snape up short. “Didn't realise what?”

“You and Madam Pince – I mean, I was assuming you were spending a lot of time in the library because you were doing research, but I suppose – Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just never thought...” Hermione's cheeks were so hot she was surprised she couldn't see them glow, and she only seemed to dig deeper.

Snape's eyebrows were almost at his hairline. “Madam Pince. And I.”

“It only just occurred to me – “ Hermione had been very stupid – she had listened to Filius' scabrous stories without considering for a moment that Snape might be having his own affai– own adventures, without even leaving the castle.

Why her epiphany should render her thoroughly depressed, Hermione did not have time to consider at the moment. Severus was looking increasingly irate – she braced herself for the blistering rebuke for sticking her nose into his personal life that was about to ensue.

“Irma is forty years older than I am!” he burst out instead, affront written all over his face.

Hermione was so surprised she said the first thing that occurred to her: “Well, you're twenty years older than I am, and I wouldn’t let that hold me back!”

They stared at each other. The looming cloud of awkwardness was averted by clocks chiming the hour – only a few bells rang out first, followed by a profusion of noise meted out in intervals. Finally, the chiming was interrupted by several loud silences.

“Oh, fuck, we're at –” Hermione started saying, when the deafening silence swallowed her words.

“Where? What is this pl– “ Snape looked around him wildly, wand ready to curse whatever beast or man that dared show themselves.

“I'm pretty sure we're in – “ Hermione squeezed in before the next silence, trying to enunciate the words as clearly as possible in the absence of sound.

Severus frowned. “Honolulu?”

“No, ANKH-MORPORK!” Hermione didn't realise the clocks – all the clocks – had stopped until she had nearly burst what was left of their eardrums. “Sorry. Ankh-Morpork. It's not in our universe, but they've got magic too, and they're pretty used to people dropping in.”

“How convenient. Do they also accept Muggle credit cards?” Pity he hadn't forgotten about that – this was the difference between arguing with Severus Snape rather than Ronald Weasley.

“Not as far as I know, no.” Hermione got her own wand out – the Unseen University was pretty harmless as libraries went, unless some sort of Incident was occurring.

That was when tentacles appeared.

“The best way to get out of here is to get the librarian – “ she started to say, before everything went black.

Severus had been discomfited to be transported to another universe – damn Hermione and her airy talk of ‘dropping in’. He preferred their own world, thank you very much; at least five decades of putting up with its deficiencies meant they did not come as a surprise.

Unlike the giant trunk that appeared out of nowhere, knocking Hermione to the ground. It vanished so fast Severus barely had time to spot the legs sticking out underneath it – they pedalled as if their life depended on it, some of them not touching the ground.

A curse bounced off it and knocked over a bookcase. Severus did not waste more time taking stock of the damage, but judging from the ominous rumbling his failed attack had rather impressive side effects.

He did not care. For the moment, all his attention was consumed by the pale woman on the floor, disconcertingly still.

One of the few advantages of the life Severus had led was that the sequence of spells for events like this came unconsciously. He had warded the space around them and began the diagnostic charms before even registering the deep gash at Hermione’s temple.

Curious: it wasn’t bleeding. Must be a magical injury, he decided as he checked her pulse (too high) and breathing rate (adequate).

She was unconscious but not dead, nor close to.

Severus glared at his wand hand to stop it from shaking unbecomingly. This was no time for histrionics: he needed to get Hermione to the Hogwarts Infirmary or St Mungo’s, whichever was quicker.

He did not entertain the idea of seeking medical advice in whatever locality they had been transported to for a moment – if luggage on legs passed for normal around here, he shuddered to think what approach they would take to Healing. All he had to do was to find a way to return to the real world, preferably directly to Hogwarts.

Clearly the multiverse hated Severus Snape, or it would not keep throwing impossible situations at him. As usual, refusing to engage was not an option: every time he looked down at Hermione’s face, relaxed as if she were asleep with her mouth slightly open and the creases around her eyes smoothed out, it felt like the air had been punched out of him.

He must get her out of there –

Whatever melodramatic meanderings he was about to indulge in were cut short by a medium-sized ape landing on the floor next to Severus and Hermione, straddling the border of the warded area. It looked quite peeved as far as Severus could tell, his education not having been very forthcoming on the subject of great apes.

“Oook,“ it said, gesticulating towards the toppled shelves and distant shouts surrounding them. It wasn’t a compliment.

“A bloody big trunk appeared out of nowhere and knocked her over!” Severus defended himself, as the horrible suspicion struck him. “Are you the librarian?”

“Oook.”

“You're an orangutan,” Severus said, as if stating his observation would make it reasonable.

The orangutan shrugged, in a complicated movement that with a little imagination could be interpreted as 'Give the man a small banana'.

“Why are you standing there, then? Get us out of here! Please,” Severus added belatedly.

The orangutan sighed, as if humans were too stupid for words (Severus knew that feeling only too well), and reached down to Hermione’s skirt.

Severus’ wand was at the orangutan’s throat quicker than it could blink, but it paid no attention. It rooted around Hermione’s pocket as Severus bit off the curse at the top of his tongue, pulling out a big brass button and handing it to Severus.

“Oook?”

As a conversationalist, the librarian-cum-orangutan left a lot to be desired. Severus felt compelled to fill in the gaps, a trick not even Albus had mastered. “Yes, that looks like an emergency Portkey. Thank you. I don’t suppose you know the password, as well?”

The orangutan rolled its mournful brown eyes.

“I guess not.” Severus picked Hermione up from the floor, very gently, and held her tight against his chest. Her unruly hair tickled his nose and the warmth of her body made him light-headed. It was too much, somehow – something he was never meant to have, even under those circumstances.

It was a permissible weakness, however, because it gave him the password to activate the Portkey.

“Home. Hogwarts,” Severus said, not caring which one was right.

“Pity there’s no potion that cures concussions,” Hermione said, looking hopefully in Severus’ direction.

“Nice try. You got your just desserts, if you ask me – it was an even more dunderheaded display than I would have expected from someone with your record.”

“Says the man who distracted me by squabbling at the critical juncture,” Hermione said, but she was smiling. She was quite adept at reading Severus Snape by now, even without the help of Madam Pomfrey’s – Poppy’s – description of his state of mind when he had come running to the hospital wing with Hermione in his arms. Once he had deposited her on an empty bed, he had apparently sat on the floor with his head in his arms, until Poppy had pronounced her out of danger.

Hermione was careful not to let wishful thinking lead her into ascribing something that wasn’t there as an explanation for this extremely interesting display of emotion, but clearly there was something. No smoke without fire and all that.

Despite her head being very sore, Hermione realised that Severus must know Poppy would have told her what had happened when she was unconscious. He would not make it easy for her to extract what exactly he had meant by it, which only made it more appealing.

Whatever else he was, Severus Snape was not boring. It was worth frequent detours from London to explore this attractive quality further, even when her assignment was over.

As if he had been reading her thoughts – Hermione resolved to study Occlumency as soon as she got out of the hospital wing – Severus said, “Madam Pince is in transit from Ulan-Bator. She spent the last two months cataloguing yurt wall hangings and their role in recording spells for posterity, which apparently explains the lack of communications. That, and the language barrier.”

“Was she all right?”

“She was quite annoyed with the library and its shenanigans, it seems. I don’t think there will be more trouble.”

Hermione decided to make her intentions known early. “I must have a thorough debriefing session with her. Perhaps several.”

“Of course,” Severus said blandly, which was suspicious in itself. “How could you otherwise find out how you were so utterly mistaken in the source of the disturbances?”

“Mistaken?’ Hermione rose up halfway, supported by her elbows. Attack being the best form of defence was one thing, but this was tantamount to a declaration of war. “Whose Portkey was it that transported us back, if I may ask?”

The Hogwarts library sighed metaphorically – the literal variety would have blown a number of rare volumes off its shelves, and contrary to the opinion of the Librarians of Time and Space, it was not unhinged.

It merely wished to broaden its horizons a bit.

Getting rid of its two most persistent visitors would have left the library free to continue its most interesting excursions in L-Space, but now it would soon be back to the dull workings of normality again. Humans only got in the way.

At least Professor Snape seemed likely to spend some of his evenings away from the library in the future. Miss Granger was an old acquaintance, and not likely to be put off by a discouraging exterior – she was tenacious, too.

Madam Pince was a different matter.

The library would give its left arm (if it had had any) for a half-way competent orangutan, but they were in short supply.