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Previous chapters can be found here: "www . fanfiction s/676157/1/The-Fire-and-the-Rose"
The Fire and the Rose Part 27
Disclaimer: Anyone and anything you recognise belongs to J K Rowling; the story, however, is ours
This fic is also to be found at the DarkSarcasm Yahoo group - if you want e mail notification of updates, this is the best way to get them. The group can be found at group/darksarcasm. New episodes of this fic will be posted late every Saturday night UK time (and there will be 40 episodes in total, so look out for episodes each week from now until mid-December!). Please do not ask for more frequent updates. The authors have lives and other fics to write :)
MetroVampire & Rhosymedre
Part 27 - The Long Dark Teatime Of The Soul
Hermione stifled a grin - Snape most emphatically did not grin in public - and pulled herself a little further back. She knew that Sirius was due to arrive to collect "Hermione" and the boys and a small devil inside had prompted her to conceal herself where she could watch the meeting. It was all she could do not to snort as she watched Sirius lean forward and place a gallant kiss on Snape's cheek. To her observant eyes, a slight stiffening betrayed the effort that he was making not to flinch away from the contact. Fortunately, none of the others noticed anything, thus reinforcing Hermione's view of the ability of the average male to pick up on subtle behavioural cues.
Watching Sirius organise the other three was odd, she thought. His voice floated across to where she was hiding; not close enough for her to distinguish the actual words, but she could hear the half-flirting tone as he said something to Snape. Snape, to his credit, didn't react. In the course of the general chivvying, Sirius lifted his hand and for a moment it hovered in the vicinity of Snape's back, almost but not quite touching. Unconsiously, she flinched for him. She doubted whether Snape's self-control would stand up to a friendly embrace from the other man. But the hand stopped short and then the four of them were gone.
And she felt perversely bereft.
Which meant that there was only one thing to do. Return to the dungeons and make a start on the impossibly long list of things that Snape, in a last minute reversion to type, had left for her to do over the holidays. On top of her student assignnments that was. Oh, and the small matter of visiting her forcibly adopted parents.
Pulling her robes around her, she swept off in the direction of her private domain.
She might well throw herself into her work but it didn't stop the passage of time. With callous disregard for the state of Hermione's nerves, the 23rd December dawned. Breakfast came and went, and so did lunch, and finally she decided that there was no getting away from it. She had considered feigning illness - hell, she even had considered brewing something with short acting, but unpleasant, effects and then drinking it. But Poppy Pomfrey would no doubt detect the ruse, skilled as she was in foiling the plans of students who had some ulterior motive for desiring a short stay in the hospital wing.
She checked her luggage for the last time; clothes, fresh bar of that green soap that he used, together with a contraband bottle of Snape's home brewed shampoo. If he could reassert his personality over the holidays, so could she; and her personality was one that appreciated clean hair. Although she was accustomed to the feel of his hair by now, it didn't mean she had to like it and if she used the shampoo sparingly no one would notice the difference. And books of course, selected from his collection; she could hardly be seen by Snape's parents to be doing her Christmas homework.
Eventually, there was nothing more to check. She reduced her bag and, with more confidence than she felt, warded her rooms. She made her way through the school, pulling Snape's persona around her tightly, trying to infuse her whole being with unadulterated Snape-ness. Too soon, she came to the main hall. She passed under the hourglasses that showed the house points, now unusually static; the students remaining over the holidays were obviously managing to be neither good nor bad at that particular moment. Or at least not being caught at either.
She had one hand on the door, when she was stopped by a hearty voice.
"Off somewhere nice for the holidays are you, Snape?" It was Hooch. Hermione tried not to wince.
"I intend to spend a few days with my parents," she returned repressively, hoping that Hooch would get the hint.
"Thus giving the lie to the rumour that you were brewed up one day in a cauldron." Hooch laughed at her own humour.
It was intended to be a joke, Hermione knew that, but somehow it didn't strike her as funny. It was the sort of thing that Harry or Ron would have said. The sort of teenage-boy-wisecrack that she didn't usually join in with, not even as a student. But hadn't it ever struck his colleagues that there was more to the man than that?
She didn't question too closely where the protective instinct had sprung from. Or why it was suddenly that much fiercer.
"I was under the impression that the most popular view was that I was a vampire, and was thus, simply bitten into existence," she retorted, repeating another one of Ron's pet theories.
She suspected that there was a little too much venom in that remark to be able to pass it off as simple teasing. Before Hooch could respond, she had opened the door and was through it into the snow.
The sense of annoyance over Hooch's comment, and her own awareness that she had overreacted, took the edge off any pleasure that she might have felt at the walk down to the main gates. The sun glinted off the snow, causing her to squint against the glare and making her eyes water. She stomped through the drifts towards the boundary, oblivious to the beauty of the scene, feeling only the dragging resistance to her steps.
She paused, once she had passed the outer limits of the last of the anti-Apparation wards, hoping that Snape's description of her destination had been detailed enough. It was the first time that she had apparated to somewhere that she didn't know. In fact, it was only the third time that she had apparated anywhere at all.
Splinching myself is all it would take to make this the perfect Christmas, she thought sourly.
She gathered herself to apparate, and then jumped as a hand touched her arm lightly.
If it's that woman with another cheap shot, I swear I won't be reponsible for my actions...
She turned in annoyance, to be faced with Albus Dumbledore.
Which was, she reflected, almost as bad. It meant that you were about to be manoeuvred into doing something that was much against your better judgement, and somehow it would turn out to be your own idea.
"I gather that you won't be with us for Christmas Day this year, Hermione," he said softly.
Hermione nearly choked in shock. It was so long since someone, other than Snape, had called her by the name she still gave herself, that she half wanted to look round for Snape.
In an instant she was Hermione Granger, Head Girl again, awkwardly inhabiting someone else's body.
"Um, no," she managed. "I have to go and visit my... I mean Severus's... I mean Professor Snape's... parents."
Dumbledore didn't seem to notice the uncharacteristic fluster.
"Severus hasn't seen his parents for a long time," he mused.
"I know," she said. "He told me that. They just sort of summoned me... I mean him."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"He is normally adept at avoiding that sort of summons."
What? There was a way he could have got me out of this?
Hermione's protective instincts vanished in a profound desire to kill her Potions Master. Once he was back in his own body, of course.
"Is he?" she said grimly. "I must have a chat with him about that."
Dumbledore smiled inscrutably.
"Ah well, I expect there's no help for it now. Have a pleasant time, my dear."
She was about to draw breath to ask for Dumbledore's help in devising some kind of last minute excuse, but the headmaster had unaccountably vanished.
Her thoughts about her beloved headmaster were less than charitable at that moment as well. Slytherin must be seeping into my brain, she thought.
And apparated.
She was profoundly grateful that she had decided to arrive in daylight.
Hogwarts had been cold and snowbound; glittering and beautiful and festive.
This place was just cold.
There was no snow, just a bitter, icy drizzle, tangy with the promise of sea. The sky was heavy and the late afternoon winter light leached the world into black and white. There were scattered patches of vegetation here and there, but even they seemed to be struggling to maintain the colour green. She was standing in a narrow lane, which had attracted someone's notice sufficiently for some council to tarmac it at some stage. The cracks and potholes in the surface suggested that it had seen little use or attention since. Edging the road was a hawthorn hedge which abruptly gave way to a three foot high wall, with rounded capstones, and which appeared to be mostly made of flints. Half way along, the wall was broken by a small gate, which gave onto a short path, which in turn lead through a semi-overgrown garden to the house.
The house itself was as grey as the surroundings, built of the same materials as the garden wall. It was what Hermione used to fancifully describe as a playschool house. Two storeys; a door in the centre with a window on either side and three windows upstairs. It showed no concession to the season, not even a wreath on the door or a card standing on a windowsill.
She shivered and wished she shared Snape's confidence that she would be able to fool his parents.
Nervously, she opened the gate and headed up the path. At the door she paused. Would Snape knock on the door of his own parents' house? Should she just walk in?
She raised a hand, and was mercifully spared the decision as the door swung open. At first she thought of a charm, but then she noticed the very small house elf scuttling into the shadows. Tentatively, she stepped inside.
The hall was only barely warmer than outside. It was certainly no lighter. An odour of stale, overcooked vegetable hung in the air. In fact, about the only thing you could say for it, was that it was dry. She had the impression of brown; brown door frames and skirting boards, brown ceilings and browny-green walls. There was an ugly table to the right of the door and a single straight flight of stairs ran up the left side of the hall. A door to her right opened and a tallish woman emerged, dressed in floral print robes with a small round white collar. Her hair was white and tightly coiffed into what Hermione always thought of as old-lady-perm.
"Severus, dear, what on earth are you doing hanging around on the doorstep? Why didn't you apparate straight in?"
The woman came over and gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek.
"I thought I'd take a look at the house from the outside," she ventured. "It's been a while since I was here."
"Well, nothing's changed much," the woman responded, seeming to accept this as a perfectly valid reason for her behaviour. "Except that the wisteria died, but I expect that you noticed that."
"Yes, I did," she lied, and followed the woman into the living room.
By the end of the evening, Hermione was beginning to think that she might actually get away with the deception.
Snape's parents were older than she had expected; he must have been a late baby. His mother twittered around her, asking if she had had enough to eat, if she was warm enough, if she had brought thick robes, all without visibly listening to the answers. His father, a conversationalist to rival Severus himself, she discovered, contented himself with a couple of terse questions about "that school" and then lapsed into silence.
"Don't mind your father, dear, his arthritis is playing him up again." Snape's mother began to fuss around with the cushions only to be impatiently waved away by his father. His mother protested weakly. Neither of them appeared to invest much energy in the exchange. Hermione had the impression that this was a scene that had played itself out so frequently between them that it was now more a matter of habit than anything else.
She felt brave enough to venture an observation at this point.
"I thought you would be away somewhere this year." Yes, that was like Snape. Make a statement, don't ask a question.
His mother looked a little confused.
"Oh, we thought we'd spend Christmas at home this year. You know, what with the Muggles and all that business over the Euro."
Hermione was nonplussed. She couldn't immediately see why the Euro would cause anyone to stay at home, still less wizards who used a different currency anyway.
"I see," she said, not seeing at all.
Snape's mother appeared to be satisfied with the response and bustled off to organise tea, Hermione having managed to persuade her that she had eaten sufficient for lunch and only wanted something light.
Alone with Snape's father, who showed no inclination whatsoever to talk, she was free to sit and take in the room. It was reasonably large. That was about the most positive thing that she could find to say for it. Other than that, it continued the sense of dark brown that had pervaded the hallway. The floor had a worn rug on it, instead of carpet, and, at the edges, Hermione could swear that she saw dark linoleum. Two armchairs were placed facing a small open fire, which seemed to be the only source of heat in the room. Beyond that there was a dresser, some bookshelves - although not so many as she might have expected, knowing Snape's predeliction - and some ugly standard lamps. The whole thing reminded her forcibly of the museums she had visited as a child which had contained fully furnished rooms labelled How We Used To Live: The War Years. All it needed was a bakelite radio on the dresser, tuned to the Home Service - Snape's father did not seem like a man who would have any truck with The Light Programme - and it could have been 1941.
Outside the drizzle had developed into rain and was announcing its presence on the window. Hermione tried not to think about Snape and the Burrow.
Meanwhile, Snape's mother had returned with tea, or at least the announcement that Pitty would be bringing tea in just a minute.
She walked over to the dresser, opened one of the doors and busied herself with something. Her body was in Hermione's line of sight so she couldn't see exactly what it was. Finally, Snape's mother straightened and then turned.
"As it's a special occasion, I thought we might have a drop of something to celebrate." She picked up two glasses. "Sherry for you dear." She placed a glass of something brown by Snape's father's chair. He didn't acknowledge it in any way. "And for you, dear, your favourite." She smiled happily, holding out a glass to Hermione.
Hermione politely took it and survyed the inch and a half or so of brownish cloudy liquid. She had done enough investigation of Snape's rooms to know that he had a small collection of rare whiskies, one or two bottles of brandy and a bottle of Absolut Citron. This did not appear to be any of those. She supposed it would be rude to sniff at it; after all she was supposed to know what it was.
She took a small sip, and had to force herself not to gag. Whatever it was was beyond sweet. The syrup clung to the side of the glass and the sides of her mouth. It was so sickly that it made her skin prickle. She could practically feel her teeth rotting on contact.
Snape's mother seemed absurdly proud of the mixture.
"You see I do remember things. Sweet vermouth and sirop d'orange, just as you like it."
Hermione highly doubted that the Snape that she knew would like it very much at all. It really had been a long time since he had been home.
"It's lovely," she said, wondering if she was going to make a true statement at any time during the visit.
The rough shingle crunched under Hermione's feet as she fought her way determinedly along the beach, leaning very slightly into the wind. It was Christmas Day afternoon and for the second time in as many days she had sought the sea as an escape from a house that managed to stifle her, regardless of the chill. Christmas dinner had been an experience that she was not keen to repeat. The vaguely vegetal smell that permeated the house had revealed its source. And that source was broccoli.
Looking at the spongy grey items that were spooned on to her plate, Hermione understood his passionate hatred for the hapless brassica. She politely made her way through an unexceptional meal of tough meat and soggy greens, trying not to think of Christmas at Hogwarts or the Burrow. And after the incident with vermouth à l'orange she declined the wine, pleading an adverse interaction with a wholly fictitious potion that she was taking for an equally fictitious sinus complaint.
That evoked one of the only responses she had heard from Snape's father.
"Potions," he snorted. "Bloody useless, the lot of them."
Snape's mother frowned as she laid down her knife and fork.
"You haven't eaten your broccoli."
"I don't really like broccoli." She tried to make it sound just a little apologetic.
Snape's mother frowned again.
"Yes, you do," she said. "You've always liked it."
There seemed little that she could say to that, but as soon as she could she fled the house.
The need for a walk after the meal was only partially an excuse. Snape's body needed a considerable amount of exercise to function, storing as it did vast reserves of nervous energy. His restless prowling during term time gave him an outlet for a lot of it. Cooped up in a house with nothing to do but read might have suited Hermione's body, but Snape's protested vigorously. Neither of his parents seemed at all fazed by her sudden announcement that she was going out. His father just grunted and his mother murmured something about Severus always being so fond of his walks and his books. In her opinion, he'd hardly changed at all.
She had had no partlcular intention of finding the sea. She had simply struck out away from the house, selecting her path at random. Ten minutes along the lane in the direction that she had chosen brought her out on a cliff edge, with a steep but navigable route down to the shore. Another five minutes of careful scrambling and she was breathing in the icy wind, uncaring of the burning in the back of her throat and the stinging in her eyes, grateful to be somewhere where she could think with a clear, if cold, head. Away from the smell of overcooked vegetables.
The wartime feel of the house didn't stop at the décor. Upstairs there was only cold water; hot water was fetched by a house elf. All the rooms, it appeared, were heated by open fires, laid first thing in the morning by the same elves. For the first time in her life, Hermione woke to find her windows iced over from the inside. She had briefly debated casting some kind of warming charm on her room and then remembered that she had her own wand. If the Ministry detected the use of magic by a student... It might well be that they would not, that it would go by the location not the owner of the wand, but she didn't dare take the risk.
So she shivered until the room warmed enough to make getting up even remotely feasible. She supposed she should be grateful that the Snapes ran to indoor sanitation. The prospect of a trip to a shed at the bottom of the garden was definitely not an attractive one.
The room itself was an mixture of the impersonal, interspersed with insights into Snape's boyhood - books, naturally, but odds and ends that he had obviously collected on his walks. Curiously shaped sticks, smooth stones, intact shells, and something that looked as if it might be a human bone. She found it oddly easy to imagine Snape as a boy. After only two days in his parents' company she could understand why he might have retreated into solitary pursuits, finding the companionship between the pages of his books that he lacked in reality. And who would fault a child for reading, she thought ironically. Wasn't it supposed to be so desirable?
Didn't she use books as precisely the same wickedly effective combined defence and escape mechanism?
She forced that thought aside; analysing Snape was far better than examining her own life.
She swallowed.
She didn't want to be here, in this bizarre anachronism of a house, where they had grown out of decorations, where no presents were exchanged because it was pointless between adults.
"After all, we have everything that we want by now. It's just a waste of money." His mother again.
She wanted to be away from its residents who were so wrapped up in themselves that there was no room for anyone else. She wanted to be back at Hogwarts in the midst of the glitter and the warmth and more food than anyone could sensibly eat. She wanted to see Albus Dumbledore with a pink party hat on his head.
She wanted to be with Snape, she realised with a shock. She missed him. She missed having him to talk to, being able to bounce ideas off him, trading pointed remarks about his cosmetics business and her tea making skills. She missed sitting quietly reading or working, whilst he was absorbed in some experiment on the other side of the room.
There had to be some way of getting out of this minimum security version of Azkaban.
The news she received as she stepped through the door almost rekindled her belief in a benevolent divinity. Or at least in the omniscience of one school headmaster.
There was a letter waiting on the hall table, addressed to Professor Severus Snape. She picked it up and turned it over. It had a Hogwarts crest on the back.
Opening it, she read what, at that moment, were the most welcome words anyone had ever written to her.
Professor Snape,
Your presence is required urgently back at Hogwarts. I would be grateful if you could return as soon as possible.
Merry Christmas,
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster.
Thank the gods, she thought in dizzy relief. She didn't much care what had come up; just so long as it was back at the school.
Snape's parents seemed to take the news philosophically. Or at least his mother did.
"You do seem to be very important, if he needs you this urgently."
Snape's father simply grunted again from his chair.
Gathering her things together she apparated with as much haste as was decent.
She reappeared back at the Hogwarts boundary, and her feet promptly sank into two feet of snow. She didn't care, she was home. This time she looked around her, appreciating the beauty of the glacial scene before her. She was about to head back to the castle when she heard footsteps crunching in the snow.
I don't care if it's Hooch. I don't even care if it's Alice Lacock.
It was neither.
"Did you have a pleasant stay, my dear?" A soft enquiry from the headmaster.
"Not particularly," she said with more truthfulness than tact.
"I rather gathered that Severus's house was less than welcoming."
Unwelcoming was not exactly how Hermione would have described it.
It was cold, a cold that had nothing to do with the tiny fires that struggled to survive in each grate.
"I suppose that any attention must seem desirable after that."
Hermione blinked. Dumbledore had given voice to the half-formed thoughts that had been swirling round her head for the last two days. Thoughts that had encompassed a young boy and the lure of the darkness.
"Severus always used to prime me to send him an owl after forty-eight hours, demanding his presence back at the school," Dumbledore went on, blithely. "I assumed that you would have a broadly similar need."
Something else that Snape hadn't told her. But this time she didn't want to kill him. No, this time she wanted to find him and put her arms around him and just hold him.
And knowing the man, she suspected that he might, in fact, find her original impulse marginally more preferable.
A/N: The title of this chapter was first appropriated by the late, great Douglas Adams as a book title. However, the origin of it lies with the late, equally great, comic genius, Tony Hancock.