It sucks that I have to have a disclaimer. Ok. I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not j.k. (just kidding) about the fact that I'm not J.K. Rowling. I am not affiliated with Warner Bros. nor do I make any claim to be. Fan writing FAN fiction. Enough said.
Note: This was a little fluffy one-shot encouraged by Oxyopia's A Weighty Problem (search for the title on Google and it comes up first, when paired with the author's name). I say encouraged not inspired because, frankly, I have a very unhealthy obsession with creating stories like this, and have had since I got my own bedroom and created cozy, comforting stories to feel less alone. (Strange? Yes. But that was when I was about four or five, mind. And very long before I knew that babies didn't come from merely kissing a member of the opposite sex on the lips.) Anyways, I figured, if someone else (Oxyopia) could imagine something as morbid as this . . . may as well share my own interpretation of the situation. This may be a bit disturbing, but hang on and there's a pleasant resolution. Not the same as Oxyopia's, if you know what it is, so hang on for the ride. It actually does get somewhere. (Though badly.) All right. Enough random rambling. Story time!
Uh, wait. Warnings. I guess you can call this black humor. Answers dot com defines the genre as "a kind of drama (or, by extension, a non-dramatic work) in which disturbing or sinister subjects like death, disease, or warfare, are treated with bitter amusement, usually in a manner calculated to offend and shock." I guess obesity is a disturbing subject. At least, it is for me. And Snape acts a bit shocking in this, so ok. It qualifies. Uh, I need to actually write the story now.
Oh! This completely disregards everything important. Takes place in the placid life after the war, after Harry and Company have defeated Voldemort, and the gang goes back to school. Not DH compliant whatsoever and only moderately HBP compliant. And there are some sections I might call OOC. Eh. Whatever.
The Rise and Fall of Two Fat Geniuses
Very rarely could the dauntless Gryffindor brainiac actually term herself as 'scared.' Usually, Hermione Granger could find a multitude of better words: apprehensive, perturbed, timorous, or terror-stricken. However, for once, she could not bring herself to think at a professional level. Instead, the prefect descended to the very primitive act of screaming.
"Ee gawds, 'Mione! There a spider or something? It's a bit early in the morning to be shrieking, you know . . . first day of Christmas vacation, too . . ."
Lavender Brown groggily shook her head and levered herself up to look at her roommate. Hermione stared at her form in the mirror, now silent, but eyes gaping. She had been in the process of dressing, and now wore nothing but her pyjama bottoms and a bra. This, deplorably, looked incredibly inadequate for the task it served, and was very tight against Hermione's breasts—those not quite contained within the realms of decency even beneath the soft white fabric.
"Lavender, when . . . when did these happen?" Hermione looked to her friend and former competitor for the affections of 'Won-Won'. The insurmountable terror was one the girl never had experienced before.
Lavender blinked a bit. "Be quiet or you'll wake the rest of them." She proceeded to rise from bed, zombie-like, and shuffled over to Hermione in her state of distressing undress.
"They're . . . my God!" Hermione could not tear her eyes away from the mirror. "How did I not notice . . . did someone play a hex on me or something?"
"Well, I should think it obvious why you didn't notice." Lavender yawned, strangely intelligent even while still half-asleep. "What witch wears a bra under her robes? It's entirely a Muggle thing. You are going home to your parents today, so you put on your Muggle stuff. And you see, it doesn't fit like it did in September. It's actually a good thing. Guys like a lot of . . . up here." She tapped two moderate lumps on her own chest.
"But . . . I'm eighteen, Lavender. I never thought this would happen to me."
"Ee gawds, 'Mione," Lavender repeated, "You speak of puberty like it's a dreadful disease. It's not. You're just a late bloomer. That's fine. That's great. That's wonderful. But it's nothing bad. You're reasonable enough to know that. I've never seen a girl it entirely skipped. And trust me, my sister Jannie . . . ee gawds, she didn't get her figure until her mid-twenties. Even mum gave up on her."
Still, Hermione gazed at herself sadly in the looking-glass.
Lavender gave her a hearty hug. "Dear, dear 'Mione. You've been unconscious of them for months . . . but that doesn't mean other people haven't noticed. Why do you think Ron actually got the guts to ask you out in October?"
Hermione began to sob, sinking down to the floor in despair. "I thought it was him just growing up! How stupid I've been! What am I going to do?"
"You mightn't want to wear the tweed skirt," Lavender stated practically, grimacing at the rather Vogue-deprived Muggle clothing in Hermione's open trunk. "Even for Muggles, that's kinda old-fashioned. I have a skirt you can borrow to go home in . . . I don't think your hips will fit into those leg-huggers anymore."
………………….
Snape found himself glaring at everything in Minerva's office. Since the closing of the war, he had found himself constantly restless and impatient, even more irascible than when the threat of Azkaban had been held over his head. McGonagall and Arthur Weasley had kindly cleared him of all charges, by a long and tedious project with the Ministry, but Snape wondered if he would be better off in the new, updated facilities of Azkaban. At least, there, he would have something to do every second of the day. Here, he had loads of free time—something he was quite unused to—and nothing to fill it.
Minerva, in her usual forthright manner, was discussing plans for the next year.
"I think Mr. Longbottom is doing quite well in his apprenticeship with Pomona," she explained, reading from her undoubtedly neat pile of notes and sketches. "She says he should complete his training in, perhaps, five years. He's doing a grand job. Cleaned up that old greenhouse that no-one had been in for nigh a century, and all done before Christmas!"
Snape, as Deputy Head-Master, felt obligated to give a half-smile at this news. He had barely known about the notorious greenhouse since Neville's grand pronouncement at the annual staff party that the foolish young Gryffindor was going to clean it up, once and for all.
McGonagall must have caught a drift of Snape's apathy towards her banter, however, and decided to throw a bit of savory into his midst.
"By the way," she commented, lowering her glasses to draw importance to her point, "I'm deciding here and now that you are far too thin for your own good, Severus."
Snape looked at her quizzically. Without an ounce of warning, McGonagall poked him in the ribs sharply with her wand.
"What was that for, pray?" Though startled, Snape felt indifferent to knowing why McGonagall did some things. Unlike Dumbledore, she trusted Severus implicitly, telling him everything and all, whether it could possibly interest him or not. It became rather monotonous after a time.
"There's virtually nothing there but skin, Severus. You've done nothing but become more and more emaciated since the defeat of Voldemort. Truthfully, I'm worried for you. At the rate you're going, you might pass away before me. And that's saying a lot."
Snape breathed deeply. "If you insist, I will eat more."
"And sleep more! Sleep immediately after you eat dinner."
His Roman nose crinkled in disdain. "That's highly unpleasant. It settles too heavy."
Minerva threw up her hands to the proverbial sky, which was, in reality, the ceiling.
"What else can I do? You won't take weight-gain potion, will you?"
"I don't think so. That requires immediate sleep afterwards as well."
Minerva sat back, pushing her glasses up her nose again.
"So you see. You must do something . . . something effective, Severus. If you don't round out a bit over the holidays . . . well, I might have to send you somewhere. And you would not like that, I don't think."
Snape shuddered, not knowing what Minerva had in mind, but it probably involved pineapple groves, girls in virtually nothing, and generally an excess of sugar in everything served.
"No."
The careful scrutiny of McGonagall met his eyes.
"You will try to do something, right? It mightn't not be a lot, just maybe three stone or so in the next few months?"
Three stone. Twenty-one pounds. I can plaster that bit on somehow . . .
"Fine. Anything." His lips set into an ambivalent line.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder. "It's for your own good. I hope you know that."
Severus bit back a sarcastic reply, instead simply sighing:
"Of course."
…………………….
"Hermione, dear, it may be Christmas, but that doesn't mean you should eat ten strips of bacon in one morning!" commented Mrs. Granger, eyes wide. Her daughter's face held a look of tranquilized pain, as though in the midst of her suffering someone had set her into a trance that only dulled it, not eliminated it. The girl put down her tenth rasher back onto the plate, both surprised that someone had counted and that so many had already slipped down her gullet.
"You're right. I think I feel sick. Or not. I don't know."
Mrs. Granger seemed a bit worried. "Would you come help me get your father's present?" she asked pointedly.
"Fine. Whatever. Doesn't matter." Hermione pushed back her chair and slowly rose. The two women then walked into the bedroom.
"Hermione, are you all right? Ever since you got home, something's been . . . wrong, I've sensed."
Hermione looked at her mother. While not exactly with the perfect hourglass figure, Mrs. Emily Granger had very voluptuous hips and a bounteous bosom. Her middle was a bit broader than it could have been, but not enough to make any unnecessary bulges. Yet, Hermione realized, her mother at this time was still significantly less in the bust and hips than herself.
"Did you notice . . . did you notice that I've changed?" Hermione's voice quavered.
"Yes, I surely did." Mrs. Granger, though the lilt of her tongue indicated pleasure about this apparent fact, seemed concerned. "Is that what's the problem?"
Hermione burst into tears, settling into a thick overstuffed chair. "It's horrible. I didn't really notice consciously until the morning I came here two days ago. Oh, mum! I find myself not getting enough to breathe sometimes, I can't run for they bounce so. I feel so heavy . . . so fat . . ."
"My dear, you are heavier, in some places, but not by any means fat. Have people been telling you so?"
"No, mum. That's my impression alone."
Mrs. Granger sat down next to her daughter. "Then what's the problem? You aren't technically fatter. All women, I'm sure you know, develop in this manner."
"Yeah, but these . . ." (she batted them angrily) " . . . they're so much bigger than everyone else's. Even yours . . . I mean . . ."
Mrs. Granger paused to think. "Well, I know for a fact that you inherited your size at least partly from me," she mused, "And I remember, at your age, having trouble coping at first as well. But I believe the main thing is your dad's side."
Hermione's eyes flew open. Her father, Dr. Granger, was skinny as a rail.
"You mean . . . oh." Her eyelids fluttered down again. "You mean Aunt Berta and Grandma Alexandra."
" . . . Yes."
Hermione looked down. "Do you think they'll get much bigger?"
Mrs. Granger put her arm around her daughter. "Probably not. If they do . . . well, there's cosmetic surgery in our world, and I'm sure some other remedy in your magic one." She moved her head so that their eyes peered into each other's. "But remember, Hermione. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Women will be jealous of you all your life. Men will fall at your feet. Being a bit bigger than the rest is not a disadvantage."
Sober, Hermione nodded.
"Good girl." Her mother hugged her again. "I should have prepared you for this. I'm sorry. The fault for that is mine."
"Don't mention it," the girl declared grimly, though she could not rid herself of the upsetting notion that she would never look like Audrey Hepburn.
…………………….
He had tried, really. Meals became torture, stuffing himself with bread, cheese, and steak-and-kidney-pie until he was sure he would vomit. (Sometimes he did, though not without a fight.) He went to bed as soon as he could after dinner. Yet, still, he could see no difference on the scale. Snape thought it the most dismally depressing thing in his life. Two weeks already, and my numbers aren't getting any higher.
Maybe his stomach was too small. There lay the crux of the problem, most likely. After years of skipping meals habitually and eating scantily, coupled onto his active lifestyle and consequently high metabolism . . . he just could not process much food very quickly.
Maybe he drank too much water, not enough wine. No, wine would not help. He would never become a drunkard like his father—at least, not a regular one. But his father was a corpulent old fool, was he not? Snape tried to remember what his father had done in order to keep the pounds sticking to him as though with glue.
Tobias had been an East-Ender. A Muggle of low station, eventually rising to the prominent position of lights-man for one of the many theatres of London. His mother—well, although she had a passion for sweets, she always remained very thin. She had to be; very rarely did a rising actress have anything more than lean proportions. That was the only reason Eileen had abandoned the Wizarding world for almost a decade of her life, she wanted to be a star of the stage. That was how the two of them met. Snape knew that much, along with the fact that his father had looked like a rather healthier version of himself in his wedding picture.
At this point in his ponderings, Snape lay with a book by Freud on the beat-up couch in the staff room. The poignant smell of stale tea hung in the air, as did the scent of a platter of fried 'doughnut holes' that lay conveniently on the table next to him.
I should probably have one of those. At least one. Then I don't have to lie if Minerva comes in and asks me to partake.
So, he grabbed one, examining it minutely. The glaze, he decided, was buttercream, and probably had a lot of sugar. Oh Merlin. It's going to give me a headache. I shouldn't have it, one single confection is not going to help me, anyways . . . oh, too late!
He swallowed it before he had the chance to give up and place it back again.
Well, I managed it.
So thinking, he turned back to his book, deciding that he did not want to think any more about his parents or food.
Imagine his surprise when, four hours later, as the bell rang for dinner in the Great Hall, he looked to the platter of doughnut-holes and saw, to his great amazement: every single one of them gone!
No one had even walked into the warmth of the teacher's lounge, Snape was certain of that. The corridors outside were drafty and cold, and would have sent a chill through the room. Besides, he could not think of any staff member who would not, in such a cheerful season as Christmas, neglect to even greet him.
There remained the question: to where had the sweets disappeared?
As he stood and stretched his cramped legs, a pain in his stomach accosted him.
Merlin. I . . . I ate them all.
So began his predilection. Though that night he immediately turned to bed without going to dinner, groaning what seemed like all night, in the morning he found himself minus one pain, and plus a sense of complete satisfaction. The numbers finally had reversed their trend, and begun to inch up the scale.
Finding little better to do, Snape again found himself with a book on the couch in the teacher's lounge come that afternoon. He took advantage of a plate of bear-claws in the same manner he had succumbed to the doughnut-holes the previous day, and again went to bed with sharp pains in his abdomen. Yet, on the third day, after finishing off a plate of holiday cookies, Snape decided he might as well join the rest of the school at dinner, though he ate sparingly that night. By the end of the Christmas vacation, however, he found himself capable of digesting two large meals a day with few aftereffects beyond a mild heartburn. At least Minerva will be happy he thought savagely whenever the numbers climbed on the bathroom scale. Which came more and more often, actually. By the end of the year, he had reached what McGonagall deemed an 'acceptable state of roundness' and no longer needed to continue his crash diet.
………………………..
Hermione, upon her return to school, found herself eating an intense amount of food. Why this occurred, when she had, for years, picked at edibles like a dainty bird, she had little idea. It just seemed natural, or so she told herself.
She did not like to admit the fact, but she was depressed. Her very life had been disrupted by uncontrollable, unforeseeable events that she never had predicted would inflict her, and gazing in a mirror only brought her to tears. Every glance afforded substance for her imagination . . . an extra roll of skin here, a bit less angularity there. Soon she came to demand that Lavender and the other girls of the dorm move the long body-length looking-glass to a location where she could never accidentally let her eye fall upon it. Her imagination sufficed enough that she did not need to see reality, or such was her view.
Having at least a beginner's grasp on psychology, she knew that her compulsion to devour food was a way of contributing to her emotional sense of loss, of lacking. She had pain in her life, and she felt the only way to get rid of it was to stuff herself silly and then go sleep as much as possible. Teachers begin to notice her sad loss of self as her grades slipped—not a lot, but she started to get Es on some of Snape's essay's, and McGonagall realized that the Gryffindor's concentration was starting to lack in Transfiguration.
"It's just a phase, leave me alone," Hermione insisted when Lavender, Padma, Ginny, and other girls inquired after whether she was 'all right'. Understanding less than they thought they did, the girls came to respectfully ignore her tantrums of sobbing in the middle of the night and recourse to food in the day. Ron and Harry noticed nothing but that she was eating more than her boyfriend of late, which both thought extraordinary.
Inevitably, Hermione began to develop a stomach. It scared her the day that she could not button her skirt properly, and had to extend it magically in order to clasp it without the two halves flying apart in an instant.
Aware of her academic decline and the lack of concern from her friends, she was under the impression that she was dying. Or, some days, that she was better off killing herself. This she never achieved, for of such lethargy was she that she could not rise from her bed to throw herself from the window. She ate intense amounts, so she did not understand why she had virtually no energy—none, indeed, to climb upon the ledge and throw herself off the parapet.
Some days she would not eat at all, walking around briskly, exhilarated that she was burning calories and losing weight. This resulted often in more light-headedness, and more binging the next day.
Her depression was apparent to the day she graduated, head of her class still, but lacking a certain vigor she used to contain.
……………………
The summer did not treat Snape well. Anticipating his restless syndrome would drive him mad if he laid about Hogwarts doing little to nothing, he secluded himself in his family home at Spinner's End and determined to write a few extensive pieces for publishing that he had intended to develop for ever so long.
He had no notion of continuing his crash diet enforced by Minerva, but found himself unconsciously adapted to it. A growling stomach woke him in the morning, preventing his pleasant lie-in, and he rose to make himself a hearty breakfast. Again, in the midst of his work at noon, he was interrupted by his digestive system clamoring for something to sustain it, and he appeased it with a quickly-eaten delivery from a take-out restaurant. Supper came, and he found no reason to deny his body what it wanted then, either.
This cycle continued throughout the summer, three straight months of almost no movement beyond the triangle made by his bed, the kitchen, and his desk, except the occasional trip to the lavatory.
He did not think much about the results of such a sedentary lifestyle until he took his first shower in months. (What reasons did a bachelor with no romantic endeavors, who never left the house, ever have to shower?) In any case, upon his removal of the sweat-ridden, rather disgustingly dirty clothes, Snape discovered why he had needed to take off his belt sometime in July, and why his trouser button snapped in early August. He had developed a substantial belly.
Initially, he was horrified and disgusted. He had become exactly what he had striven for years never to become; he had turned into an overweight old bastard with virtually no life.
Yet, as the water streamed down his face, scattering the oil and grime of everyday living from his torso and newest accomplishment, he realized: It's not so bad, after all. Minerva can't tell me I need to gain weight any more. I can concentrate on losing this, and as long as I botch it up partway through, I'll achieve a medium somewhere that will be satisfactory for all involved.
Though he felt a bit guilty about it, he was almost glad that his new bulk had a habit of blocking his view of the not-so-pretty appendage below it. The thing about men with big noses . . . yeah, that rang true for Severus. He never really liked that fact, however, and the upside of the situation with his new stomach was that . . . well, out of sight, out of mind, to be quite plain.
He had to enlarge his clothes a bit before he got dressed, but, otherwise, he had no other problems with it at all.
……………..
Almost exactly two years later, Hermione read a letter from her latest submission to a writing journal. The look in her eyes signified that the epistle did not bring good news. As she finished reading it, she gave a cry of despair and fell face forward onto the pillows of the couch to sob.
"Hermione? Dear?"
Mrs. Granger dumped the rest of the mail in the kitchen, poring over a fresh new Developments in Dental Hygenics magazine that had also come in the mail.
A brief glance at her daughter led Mrs. Granger to a frustrated sigh. "Another refusal?"
The jerking of the bushy head buried in the sofa gave her assent. Mrs. Granger meandered over to her daughter's side and perched on the coffee table to massage the girl's shoulders.
"I'm sorry." The air hung with their combined breathing. Hermione, though she hid her face, gave the impression that she felt her mother's sympathy only perfunctory.
"I know I've said so over twenty times, but I really mean it."
"It's ok," Hermione gasped, her voice muffled. "You don't need to lie any more. Just . . . leave me alone."
"I'm not lying!" Mrs. Granger stood, a bit angry. "Why would I lie?"
"Because you enjoy seeing me fail. You like to see me in such straits as I am now. It gives you a sense of power over me, the knowledge that you are so successful and I am not. You-"
"-Baloney!" Mrs. Granger put her hands to her ears, unaware of the collecting tears under her eyes, "Utter ripping nonsense! You can't really think these things!"
Without a word, Hermione rose, slowly, and meandered to the kitchen in a staggering manner that suggested that she was under the influence of hypnosis.
"Hermione!" cried the woman, exasperated. Receiving no response, she murmured in an aside, "Oh, God, she isn't listening to me. Hermione!" she added loudly, addressing her daughter. Hermione had a tub of ice cream cradled in her arm, and, feverishly, she began jabbing at it with a spoon.
"Hermione! Oh, come now." Mrs. Emily Granger walked into the kitchen. "Listen!"
She stared at her daughter, wondering what in hell she could do. Hermione had spent most of her time since graduation eating, lumbering around the house like a bear loose in a mansion, occasionally dabbling off a smattering of terrible poetry about lack of love, and more eating. It was wretched, and driving both Emily and her husband mad. Like slow suicide, Hermione's waistline was expanding beyond normal proportions until she could only be called, at this stage, severely obese. Coming from a health-conscious family, in all likelihood, made the matter worse, since Dr. and Mrs. Granger knew very well what Hermione was doing, and knew that she knew also.
Finally, Mrs. Granger could not reign her true thoughts from escaping. "Do you know what you are?" she exclaimed furiously, watching as Hermione swallowed the sugar-ridden delicacy with as much determination and as little zeal as writing a difficult potions essay.
"What am I, mother?"
The tone, so plaintive, so sincere, struck Mrs. Granger to the bone. This was not her daughter. This was . . . oh, dash it all, they must have switched her personality with some lower-class mind at that magic school. Hermione would not act like this. No doubt one wizarding family was also wondering at this time whatever happened to their dear little Ramona or Elisa or something.
"You are a burden to this family, that's what!" Mrs. Granger could not help herself. The truth flew out of her mouth as if on one of those cute owls they used for delivering mail instead of post-men. "You haven't gotten a single bit of wretched rhymes published since you began this exploit! Why don't you forget the wizarding world, come and help me and your father in the office? If you want, we might send you to a University in the States, or anywhere you like! Or, if you want to still be a full-time witch," (Mrs. Granger always referred to her daughter's affliction as a sort of job) "you should find a job in their world. Even wizards can get cavities."
Hermione shrugged. "If you think I should, mother." Tears began to stream down her face, completely disregarded. A few made damp puddles of creamy milk by falling into the ice cream carton.
Then, suddenly, her eyes widened in surprise. "There's another letter for me," she whispered, poking at the pile of bills and grocery advertisements until a parchment letter surfaced amid the clutter. It bore the Hogwarts seal, and Hermione opened it tediously. Her mother turned away respectfully.
Dear Miss Granger:
Let me make this quite brief. It has been some time since your graduation, and perhaps you are engaged at present, but we at Hogwarts have all conceded on asking you before anyone else.
Our arithmancy instructor, Professor Sinistra, passed away rather unexpectedly of late. We need someone to take her place in the coming school year, but, her being rather young, she had no apprentice to follow her. We at Hogwarts immediately thought of you, Miss Granger. With your exceptional talents and natural brilliance, with the addition of the fact that your final general exam essay was on your passion for the subject, it was a unanimous vote to send this request to you. Will you, Miss Hermione Granger, accept a post on the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as Arithmancy professor in September 2000, and possibly beyond? Here are the details of your potential employment.
(Here it indeed discussed Hermione's proposed salary and such other mundane things.)
Please reply as soon as possible.
Yours,
Minerva McGonagall, headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Hermione, eyes brighter and more lustrous than they had looked in months, threw the epistle over to her mother, setting down the ice cream.
"Well."
Mrs. Granger handed the parchment back to her daughter. "Are you going to take it? It seems quite satisfactory."
Slowly, Hermione nodded her head and went to the stairs. She needed to write her response to McGonagall.
…………………
This has gotten too out of hand Snape contemplated for the thousandth time that month, staring at his form in the mirror. Only two years ago I was barely 150 . . . now the numbers have climbed to nigh over 350?
He stood, quite bare, in his bathroom, pondering over this.
I swear it was the chocolate. I always was a 'sucker' for chocolate. Especially dark. Hm. Should add some to my coffee this morning.
Then he got himself dressed for work and promptly lost his worries.
One advantage to bulkiness—time seemed to have slowed down. Instead of stalking up and down the halls with the quickness and veracity of a caged rat, he moseyed here and there like a great large bovine, taking in the sensations of life much more completely. A strange odor here, a strange creak of a floorboard there; everything came to his astute attention better than ever. True, though he was the one walking with a decreased pace, he could not rid himself of the impression that he was enjoying life more.
He arrived at the staff 'meeting' (more like a party to greet Miss Granger onto the Hogwarts staff) a trifle late, but not so late that he missed the girl's entrance. Dismally, he wondered what she might think of him so changed. Then he forgot his fleeting worry; someone had brought a plate of Danishes, and he needed to keep his eye on them to make sure the rest of the world did not jump on them before he could have his pick for the biggest.
Minerva walked over to him as he covertly kept his gaze on those pastries.
"Out of curiosity, Severus, have you heard anything from Miss Granger, or about her, since her graduation? You are better up-to-date with all the journals than most of us, I'm afraid."
Snape frowned. "No, and that's something I'm rather surprised about. And, unless she was using a pseudonym—which I highly doubt she would do, since she adores taking credit for her work—she is not publishing anything in the Muggle world, either. It rather shocked me, actually; I expected to see her name behind several things long before now, without needing to search. Truthfully, I have delved carefully and thoroughly, and can find no trace of her anywhere. I even checked the literature magazines, for Merlin's sake."
Minerva gave a concise nod. "I wonder why she's not out there yet. It is very uncharacteristic of her."
Snape shrugged. "Perhaps it was a mistake, to take her on with no knowledge of her doings for two years."
"I hope not. Yet—"
She was interrupted by the arrival of Hermione in the floo. (The girl had used her ex-boyfriend Ron's fireplace in the Burrow to get to McGonagall's office.)
Everyone was, more or less, a little shocked at the state of the girl—who, quite frankly, resembled Miss Piggy in declining age. After the initial intakes of breath, however, they swarmed her--Snape and McGonagall excepted. Of these two, one could not tear his eyes away, staring openly with unreadable emotions, and one looked merely sad and thoughtful.
……………..
McGonagall looked at the list Albus had left. It had been in his desk, and she discovered it when searching for a lost quill. The parchment had faded a bit as time wore on, but the ink had been smeared the day it was written. Small dots of warping—likely tears-- testified to Minerva's assumption that it had been a difficult epistle to write.
Things I want you to help Severus achieve:
So read the heading.
1. Get him to gain weight. He's probably looking more haggard than I left him by the time you read this.
McGonagall had crossed this off with chagrin. She had done a fine job of that, all right!
2. Give him more free time. Maybe cut short his rounds with Filch?
That had been easy to bring about. Minerva also had this X'ed out.
3. If nothing else, tell him everything. Trust him implicitly. I made the mistake of not doing this, and I regret it, but it is quite necessary at this time. It will not, in the future, I pray.
4. Help him find love beyond Lily Evans. Man or woman, no matter which. Probably will end up being a woman, for him. Just, he ought to have someone to care about him as much as he cares about them. And no, my dear, I am not expecting you to volunteer.
Number three had been the easier of the last requests. But four . . . she still had no idea how to go about. It would be harder now in his current state.
Well. There was Miss Granger. No matter how much McGonagall doubted the identity of the girl, she had always supposed the possibility of forming some chemistry between the two. When they were . . . well . . . thin, that is.
But perhaps their mutual large size could be less of a detriment than she anticipated. With a little encouragement . . . she might be able to help them realize that they had more in common than most would believe.
McGonagall had to think about this. It might make up for her over-doing of number one, if it could help bring about the difficult number four.
…………………….
They still had a few days before term began. Hermione spent most of her time in her room, sketching out a hasty syllabus for each of her classes that year. The few times she did emerge was for meals. For some reason, McGonagall saw it fit to switch the placements of the professors around just a bit, so that Snape and Hermione sat next to each other. This did not achieve any ends whatsoever—the potions master simply set to his mound of food more greedily, more silently, and left more early. Hermione, not wanting to talk to Trelawney on her other side, found herself rather isolated. With the lack of conversation, she ate more than she might have otherwise and absconded with a few sweet buns or cookies in her pocket.
But, then, it might have been coincidence that Hermione's room was positioned right next to Snape's in the teacher's corridor.
Contrary to popular belief, Snape did not reside in the dungeons. Rather, he slept within the same square wing that all the teachers laid their heads down in, though he had constructed an instant passageway down to his dungeon office. The door across from his was McGonagall's, and the room next to him had been occupied until Sinistra . . . oh, but who wanted to think about what Sinistra did to herself? In any case, he had mixed feelings about Hermione now situated in the compartment.
School started. Dull and boring as usual. The students still poked fun of him outside of class, no different from before his gross surplus of weight settled upon his form. He still enjoyed sweets to a scary degree, and wondered if he would eventually become diabetic. The students still also tried to bribe him with aforementioned sweets in the hopes that Snape would follow the rule of Slughorn and give them good boosts to their grades. (Not so; Snape took a psychopathic joy in deducting points from their houses while leaving their A's and D's alone.) McGonagall still talked to him incessantly about things he might have cared nothing for in a thousand years. Trelawney still predicted a savage and brutal death for him, but now it involved a heart dysfunction rather than the more crazy ideas she came up with in previous years. Pomona still was trying to get him to visit her in the middle of the night for certain dubious activities of which he still wanted no part.
Also, he still commonly suffered from indigestion, and it kept him up one particular night.
He lay in his bed, contemplating the news that Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter had finally tied the knot last week, and spent a disturbing amount of money on a lavish wedding. If only none of their children looked like Lily!
As he dwelt there in such a comatose state, his ears perceived a sound usually foreign to them. Sobbing. Coming, as it were, from Granger's room.
Disgruntled, he rose from his creaking bed and dragged himself down to her door, feeling altogether much more sleepy as he walked. He gave the door a trite rap, and silence followed. Not liking this, Snape quietly opened the door and looked beyond, hoping for the world that the girl was not nude in her distress.
She was not. Hermione snuggled in her bed, a large lump under cover of about six pillows and perhaps eight quilts. Her eyes met Snape's as he stood at her threshold, indefinable emotion crossing his face.
"Miss Granger? It's far too late to be crying your heart out. I beg of you, denounce the guilty party here and now, and I shall endeavor to help in your crusade against it in the morning." He stifled a yawn with the cuff of his sleeve.
Hermione, at first, said nothing.
Snape yawned again, this time not caring about looking rude. "Miss Granger, do you intend to make this hard? Must I really attempt to dredge the problem from your beastly little throat? I have some excellent pincers that would suffice for the task aptly, but I fear the process might be a bit uncomfortable."
"I love how you can do that without caring about anyone else's judgments."
Oh good Merlin.
"Please, Miss Granger, do not deign to tell me that your ailment is the simple adolescent 'everyone-hates-me' syndrome that so afflicts those in the realms of depressed third through fifth years?"
A pause.
Oh God. He knows it's silly. I know it's silly. Good lord, how do I explain . . .
"I know how immature it is."
She felt his glare penetrate through the dark, though it broke with another wide yawn on his part.
"Then it will be easily remedied." Shaking his shoulders back with a pompous air, he stated with the utmost conviction: "Miss Granger, I never have hated you, nor will I ever hate you. You are of a mind uncommon, and, though you tended to be most obnoxious during your first years here as a student, you never were a second-rate one." He yawned again with increasing length of breath. "There. Better now? I did you rather a favor, eliminating most of my usual acridity and standoffishness."
Hermione's bushy head twisted against the pillow as another sob coughed from the voluptuous realms of her self.
"I appreciate that, but it's more than just low self-esteem." This came forth rather mangled, but Snape understood the essence of her words.
Torture of tortures. She'll need to talk this out all night.
Snape's ear suddenly pricked at the notion that, perhaps, someone might have opened a door down the hall . . . no, only his all-too optimistic imagination.
"Do you mind if I seat myself?" he queried, snapping into a more wakeful mood. "My knees do not react kindly to standing for prolonged periods of time. And you obviously are in such a distressed state that you can not solve your dilemma alone."
"It's all right, don't keep yourself up for my sake. This isn't something that can go away in one discussion. It's been . . . more something that's been developing for years."
"All the more reason for me to assist you in any possible way. I like my sleep, thanks very much indeed, and if you make a habit of crying every night, I shan't be getting much of it."
Here, he plunked himself down gratefully in the large armchair by the dim fireplace. He made especially sure not to turn it to face her, knowing the value of sometimes not facing the addressee in such conversations. In her place, he would not like someone peering at her as though she were some carnivorous zoo exhibition. Comfortably positioned so that he might turn his head and look her directly in the eye, if dramatics or other needs called him to do so, he coughed expectantly.
"So. Get on with it. The root of your problems begins with . . . what?"
Hermione did not answer.
Snape verbally listed the usual problems he had dealt with his students as a Head of House—plus with some of which he had first-hand experience.
"It can't be schoolwork, you're beyond that, obviously. Neither can it be lack of mental acumen—you take pride in that to an almost egotistical degree, though that is not at all reprehensible."
He listened for some word or sound of assent or dissent from the prostrate girl. Good Merlin, this is worse than pulling teeth.
"Is it, then . . . stress, perhaps, about this new work of yours?" Pause. Nothing. "No, actually," he self-corrected, "That doesn't fit the part about it 'developing over years'. Is it then . . ." He stole a glance at the girl, realizing how fitfully obvious the answer. ". . . your weight?"
There. He had got her. A severe hiccup came from the braniac's form, and she began sobbing.
"I hate myself," she stated simply, though garbled. "It's not fair that I should have come to this. I swear. I think of days just five years ago . . . and wonder how it is that I should have come to be so . . . so . . ." She found herself lost for words, not wanting to say 'fat' because of its evil connotation, nor wanting to say 'plump' for it seemed a gross understatement. Yet, when she attempted to think academic phrases better suiting, her mind swam with words like 'ambidextrous' and 'fulmination' and 'expeditious' that seemed quite wrong indeed.
". . . Bulky."
A grim laugh wafted from the chair of her professor, and Hermione realized with a shock exactly with whom she talked so openly. Too stunned to trust her voice, she lay in silence.
" Alas. But I am in a similar predicament, as you may well perceive." A hint of amusement permeated his voice, and Hermione felt slightly less at unease. At least she had not offended him.
"I was wondering why your name has not been out in the public eye yet," he went on, and Hermione found herself a little curious to pursue discussion on the previous point. "I will surmise that your seventh-year developments brought on . . . oh, some depression, perhaps, emotional urge to fulfill something in your life that you did not have?"
"You noticed?" Hermione felt a bit nervous.
"Of course, you dolt. Despite my long hair, I am a male, after all. Men always notice women with solid hips." Realizing this a bit more crude than he liked, he added explanatorily, "I'm not the sort to lie for the sake of tact."
Hermione felt a bit more miserable, while conflictingly feeling more admiration for her teacher's boldness, but Snape continued anyways. "I assume that instead of foolishly compensating with drugs of some nature, or alcohol, you turn to your daily intake of nutrients and . . . overindulge. Am I right?"
He turned his head slightly, just enough to see the frizzed head bob in response.
"Well, I must commend you for not taking the idiot's way out of the situation. Not to say that eating too much is good, mind, but you might have done worse."
"Drinking and stuff damages your brain . . ." mumbled Hermione.
Snape had to smile. "Of course. Thus, such actions are the course of the true dunderhead. Though, of course, food does have some less satisfactory consequences." He left his phrase hanging, unsure how to proceed. "And . . . I am sure these consequences were more emotionally damaging than the essential problem."
". . . Mhm."
"Which led you to continue to feel worse, to need more compensation, and the cycle continued downward from there. Or, you could say . . . sideward."
She coughed. Good. At least she came close to laughing.
"Yes, you could say so."
She said no more, and Snape decided that he might as well comfort her with the story of his own downfall. This, he recalled, was a good tactic when confronting students with problems: either explain about how he had experienced them himself, or make up stories about how he had experienced them.
"Doubtless you are curious how I came to be so . . . large myself?"
A careful pause. "Not . . . curious, per se."
"Well, it might make you feel better if I told you, so I shall. To be truthful, I have no real excuse. At least you have hormones to blame, remember that. I . . . well, Minerva told me to eat more. So I did. And even after the point that she became certain I wasn't going to blow away come the next storm . . . I could not break the habit formed. If I had more willpower, I suppose I might have, but any hint of that evaporated once our dear Headmistress let me loosen my reign, that I might have reason to loosen my belt."
So he concluded his concise speech, which left Granger in something between awe and disappointment. She probably expected some florid and exciting story involving Lucius Malfoy (the bastard!) and being forced to swallow food capsules until I looked like Saint Nick. I daresay if I had more imagination at this hour, I might have granted that wish. Merlin, I wish it had been more interesting.
For good measure, he added:
"No, my dear, sorry. I did not get struck by lightening that rearranged my DNA. I was not abducted by aliens and forced to celebrate Christmas in a red suit and white beard. My house was not invaded by a bunch of uncouth Mexicans who force-fed me tamales and beans."
A thought, previously unuttered, struck him on the nose. "Perhaps, you might say, it is what is commonly called a 'mid-life crisis', only one that did not involve a great deal of damage to my Gringotts account."
Snape looked again at Hermione, who seemed less inclined to sob and more inclined to sleep at this point. He decided it would be advisable to take his leave now.
"I hope I have helped you, to some small degree," he said quietly, rising and ignoring the creaks of the chair's joints. Advancing to the bed, he rearranged the bedclothes about her in what he hoped was a paternal manner.
"Good night, Miss Granger. Pray, do not lament about your looks. I believe . . ."
Here, he stopped, frowning. What did he want to say?
" . . . I want you to look at me whenever you feel depressed about your own self, and to be able to laugh."
That was a powerful statement, true, but Hermione caught the loophole. Did he really expect to deceive her?
"But that's cruel for you," she said sadly.
Stern, Snape drew himself as high as he could.
(God, I love how tall he is . . . so elegant and regal . . .)
"Miss Granger, I believe I have suffered so much cruelty in my life that a little bit more at my expense for you would be a pleasure."
Gasp. Had he really said that? Taken the wrong way, it sounded almost more than cavalier, and almost like a hopeless romantic.
Bah. She was no more sentimental than he was. He knew she would understand what he meant.
"I see, Professor."
Then he left, trudging out the door every bit as proud as a king. Hermione felt she could take comfort with the knowledge that, as she judged by the sound of the door softly closing just meters down the hall, he was not very far away at all.
' . . . a little bit more at my expense for you would be a pleasure.' What a quaint statement. It reminded her a bit of that fellow from Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy! Oh, she never had seen that, all along, Snape was so like him!
So, she drifted off to sleep in the land of Jane Austen, her anxieties pressed against the back of her mind, at least until the morrow.
She only subconsciously realized that Snape had done her rather a rude turn by addressing her only as 'Miss' Granger when technically she was a professor. Not that she felt like one, at any rate. Yet, even though she knew she ought to consider it an affront on her professionalism, her subconscious enjoyed it.
…………………
Even after that conversation with the professor, Hermione still found herself lamenting to herself after midnight, usually aloud. Never failing, though, Snape came to visit every instance, consoling her with his wit and knowledge of psychology. Problems disappeared when she discussed them with him. When students played pranks on her, he always had a worse one to relate. When she had heard rude comments about her said behind her back from other teachers, she would cry them out to him and he would retort with even less kind slurs regarding him. When Rita Skeeter penned a malicious article about her, paying especial regard to her 'manatee-ish looks', Snape laughingly produced one from a year prior describing him as an 'overfed Gargoyle'.
At which point, Hermione found that every time she sought comfort in Snape's voice and speech, almost always she found it when he deconstructed his own self, showing her how his plight was almost always worse off than her own. He produced examples of things that any normal person might find humiliating, terrifying, and outright despairing. The idea tormented her, but she would not address it for a good long while.
Soon it became habit for Snape to visit in the night, whether he faced an upset Hermione or not. They began to have open conversation in the daylight hours as well, taking advantage of their position at meals and sometimes taking their Hogsmede groups at the same time so that they could sit and share coffee together at Madame Puddifoot's. Strange how one's least favorite professor can become one's best friend in adulthood Hermione mused one day in idleness.
She accepted early on that she had a definite attraction to him. He had a definite resemblance to Krum—the wonderful boy she lost her girlhood to, the boy she sorely missed for years—in his nose, dark hair, and piercing eyes. Strange, also, how I never noticed how alike they were before. Indeed, in a mood of comparison, she realized she rather liked Snape's personality better, however. Krum had been . . . rather obsequious. Though Hermione liked it to a degree, she felt more at ease in her careless intellectual banter with Snape. They were two negatives that somehow managed to evade nature and neutralize within each others' company. It was a lovely, strange, and absolutely chaste companionship that Hermione hoped would never change.
But despite her concern about his welfare in regards to his continuous self-decimation in his talks with her, it was about Christmas by the time Hermione mentioned it.
"By the way," she mused while walking to the Great Hall for breakfast, "I would like to point something out that I think needs to change."
Their conversation having been about different types of mint and their effects on potions, this was an obvious turn of subject. The potions master stopped in his slow, yet strangely masterful strides to examine her face.
"What needs to change?"
Did she detect a ray of fear flitting across his face? While she held him in suspense, Hermione laughed inside; he obviously was thinking along the lines of their relationship, or whatever the hell it was they could call their ridiculous comradeship.
What utter nonsense. She had no intention of changing anything. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply. He ought to be relieved at what she had to say, actually.
"Basically," she began tediously, "Every time I explain my problems to you, you respond with how things were worse. Or are worse. And it makes me upset that you feel so inclined to put yourself down in such a way."
There. She saw the creases in his forehead melt.
"I've simply become immune to society's hatred," he replied softly, his eyes drifting to the floor. "Life was never easy for me, and from an early age I always found myself in the situation of a Don Quixote. For a long time, I did 'feel' it, and badly."
Snape sighed. Such things ought not be discussed before breakfast.
He nevertheless continued. "Then, at some point, I realized how pointless it all was, feeling angry and upset about all the horrid things that happened to me. I decided to be a cynic and laugh at my own misfortunes. Ever hear the quotation by Horace Walpole: 'The world is a tragedy to those who feel and a comedy to those who think'? That's my philosophy."
His eyes flitted back to meet Hermione's. "I may be a pessimist, but I am also an active thinker. The idea that I was not rather startled me into indignation and contemplation, to the point that I realized that, truly, life is better taken with a laugh than a sigh. Easier on the throat."
Suddenly, something above them caught his glance, and the potions master paled.
"Blast."
Hermione followed his upward gaze as a swish of green accosted her peripheral vision.
"Mistletoe. Oh damn it all, we should not have stopped here."
He snarled, but Hermione had grown to love that snarl. It seemed rather less poignant on the fleshier face of the current Snape than the one of her lesser-liked memories.
"Are we to follow tradition, or curse it and go on our way?"
A lilt of humor hinted in her voice, taunting him, yet giving him the option of absconding with her and ignoring the hint.
"This is too cliché," he said rather angrily, and seemed to turn—but, at the last second, he embraced Hermione's bountiful torso and their lips touched in a final whirlwind of skin and emotion. They might have been hundreds of pounds thinner and quite a bit younger, the way that kiss felt. Hermione felt normal for the first time in years. Snape knew the true pleasures of someone else's oral closeness for the first time beyond girls in magazines. They merged and felt extraordinarily . . . right. Despite rolls of blubber, despite their stomach diameters, despite the fact that he could not even get his arms completely around her . . . they were right.
That was the day of December 22, the day they first knew they were in love. Hermione marked it in her diary afterwards.
………………….
McGonagall felt a smile come to her withered face as her two professors of extreme dimensions--Snape and Granger--entered the Great Hall together as usual, but with a certain aura about them that made her wonder what had happened. Severus seemed less tense than usual, she noted, and Hermione was aflush and merry.
The pair sat down together, and Hermione poured Snape his coffee, adding a few bits of dark chocolate that she had gotten from who knows where. Stirring it thoughtfully, Snape responded rather caustically to an enthusiastic greeting by Trelawney, and the pair snickered together as the divination professor flounced away with a slice of banana bread in her hand. While the Headmistress' eyes followed the lean figure of Sylbil for a moment, though, she missed something extraordinary. With chagrin, she thought she saw Hermione and Snape's hands closely intertwine under the table. But, then, Snape's extensive stomach blocked her view.
Rising ostensibly to speak to Neville about his occupations with the second terribly afflicted greenhouse on the Hogwarts Grounds, McGonagall got a better look at the situation.
I've accomplished number four, she sighed internally, feeling her insides bubble with the giddiness that so often concerns the elderly spinster when seeing two young people in love. This was accompanied with the simple satisfaction that she had played the matchmaker, however little she had done, and her efforts produced a blossom.
Now all they need to be happy is to get thinner. But how to engineer that . . . ?
So visions of new health programs at Hogwarts began to arise in her mind.
Happy Ending with a cliché!!
Just as a side note, Snape and Hermione never lost weight and lived happily ever after, the end.
Well, I still think Fat Snape is less disturbing than Pregnant Snape . . . an idea that really scares me to the bone.
"being forced to swallow food capsules until I looked like Saint Nick . . . 'I was not abducted by aliens and forced to celebrate Christmas in a red suit and white beard'." Guess this OLDISH MOVIE reference and you get brownie points!
I borrowed the 'Ee gawds!' line from a rather inconspicuous character in a musical. Name the musical and you get more brownie points.
By the way: THIS FICTION IS NOT INDICITIVE of a HATRED or DISCRIMINATION of FAT PEOPLE AT ALL. I'm 30 lbs. overweight and have been for years, and it's never been easy for me. So I guess I wrote a bit of myself into Hermione in the beginning. But yeah.
THANKS FOR READING!
Please rate and review!
Happy Thanksgiving, if you live in the States.
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