It was when Severus Snape came to visit that Susan Stewart, the temporary Quidditch coach, began to revise her opinion of Hermione Granger.
Miss Stewart first met Professor Granger in the drawing room adjacent to the Great Hall, where the Headmistress and staff waited for dinner to commence; Professor Flitwick, a diminutive, cheerful old wizard, had summoned a decanter of aperitif, to appreciative murmurs of the rest of the staff. It was into this atmosphere of piped tobacco and the clinking of glasses that Hermione Granger appeared suddenly, with hurried apologies and snowflakes in her hair and scarf.
Headmistress McGonagall wasted no time introducing Susan, who suddenly had no idea what to do with her shaking hands. It was unlike her to be startled by any celebrities—being a celebrity herself, as she often had to keep reminding the reflection in the mirror—but as she looked at Hermione Granger's warm but unsmiling face she received the unjustified impression of having been brushed off by someone Famous.
And Famous Hermione Granger certainly was. In the five years since she had left her Muggle college, Susan had become acquainted with the vagaries of the wizarding world under threat of Lord Voldemort; and so she could not perhaps be blamed for being a little in awe of Hermione Granger, recipient of Order of Merlin (first class), distinguished scholar, and Mistress of Transfiguration. She came back to herself as she heard the Headmistress speaking to the woman in question.
"Miss Stewart is replacing Rolanda for the next two weeks," McGonagall murmured over her drink as Hermione Granger folded herself, economically and without haste, into an armchair opposite Susan. "In the capacity of flying instructor and Quidditch coach. She wrote that book—I wonder if you remember it, Madame Pince procured it last month—The Science of Flying."
"I do remember," Professor Granger said, inclining her head in thanks as a floating shot glass made it to her direction, courtesy of Professor Flitwick. "I gave a copy to Harry some months ago."
"Oh yes," McGonagall said. "I understand that he's teaching the younger Potter how to fly."
"Without much appreciable success." Her steady brown gaze swiveled to Susan, who fought the impulse to straighten her back and shove her hands in her lap. "I read a few chapters myself, before passing it on. I found it very informative and sensible, Miss Stewart; I'm sure my friend will find it of use."
High praise indeed, Susan thought—and yet it did feel like high praise, and she felt a rising, unwanted blush creep from her collar to her cheek. It was well-known that Hermione Granger was difficult to impress in any professional field, and now, confronted with that face which hardly smiled and with that no-nonsense voice, Susan was hard-pressed not to feel flattered by the short words of approval.
McGonagall—or Minerva, as she had encouraged Susan to call her—and Professor Granger moved on to other topics, such as the approaching Hogsmeade weekend. Susan Stewart, silently holding her glass, availed herself of the opportunity to study the Transfigurations mistress.
The entire staff seemed to like and respect her—they had shouted hearty welcomes upon her return and some had now clustered round her chair to congratulate her on some paper or other—and yet she received all of this enthusiasm with hardly a smile. Well-dressed and proper Hermione Granger was unfailingly polite, and seemed to take care to ask after those small matters that peppered the lives of her colleagues, and yet she never smiled. Even Minerva McGonagall, the strictest woman Susan had ever met, lavished smile upon smile on her former student. Susan wondered how a wide, toothy grin would look, imposed on that polite, not quite pretty face, with its high cheekbones, low, disciplined eyebrows and large but half-lidded brown eyes. Susan wondered, too, how old she was, for there was a suggestion of wrinkles in the corners of her mouth.
Before she had time for further examination, Susan heard the dinner bells ring, and the staff rose to go inside to dinner; it was some days before Susan had the chance to speak to Professor Granger again.
/ \ / \ / \
In the succeeding days, Susan Stewart forgot entirely about her, and saw her only at mealtimes. There was the pressing matter of becoming acquainted with her students and struggling for some semblance of authority; Susan's small stature and youngish-looking, freckled face made her seem hardly older than some of her overenthusiastic students. She was impressed by their energy, and with the number of students who came after class for tutoring, talking about Quidditch teams and Quidditch cups.
Life settled into a pattern of sorts, broken only by the arrival of a strong storm, and a piece of news delivered over the dinner table.
"Severus is back from the Continent, have you heard?" It was Minerva's voice; Susan craned her neck to see the recipient of this remark, and found Flitwick nodding madly. "He's staying in Edinburgh next week. For a guest lecture, you know. I suspect it will turn out more like a press conference than anything else."
"It was in the Prophet," Flitwick said. "I don't suppose he will have any time to stop by."
"I wrote him an owl to tell him he was welcome. No response yet."
Susan felt the first fingers of excitement squeeze her gut. Her mother was a great admirer of Severus Snape, spy and hero, famous lecturer on the conjunction of potions and arithmancy, and now celebrity thanks to the biographies written about his most mysterious life. In the first he had been vilified and the public clamor for his imprisonment (for this was at the time of his trial for crimes committed in war time) grew even stronger; in the second, any and all claims against his character and deeds had been confronted by a woman called Laetitia Pym.
Of the two there was no question that Pym's biography was the closer to the truth; compiled from interviews with the man in question, documents both public and previously secret, and testimonies from various celebrated parties, the biography had catapulted Severus Snape into public adoration seemingly overnight. Susan herself had not understood the extraordinary charm of the man until she had picked up both books. For a man so publicly scorned to suddenly be exonerated, and with such convincing proof… Susan understood why wizards and witches who had never before had any interest in the academic vied for seats in his lectures and appearances.
It was, perhaps, coincidence that at the time the man first enjoyed the first hints of popularity, the reading public had grown weary of sensationalist literature, and began to be interested in serious subjects; Susan's own publishers informed her that there had been a noted decline in sales for paperback romances and Gilderoy Lockhart's adventure stories, and that in response publishers had picked up books on anything from magical apiculture to Muggle automation. It was in this milieu that Severus Snape, newly exonerated hero, had found himself with a book on revisionist household potions, and a willing audience. (Susan knew that her own book's popularity was the result of this unprecedented, and now almost-receding, thirst for knowledge on the part of the reading public.) The two books he had published since then had experienced unprecedented bestseller status; it was not surprising, therefore, that the rest of the staff turned to this conversation between Minerva and Professor Flitwick.
All the staff, perhaps, except Hermione Granger, who remained uninterestedly picking at the vegetable mystery on her plate. Pomona Sprout, the Herbology Mistress, was sitting between Susan and Miss Granger and spoke above the clamor, "Are you coming with the Hogwarts contingent, Miss Granger? Professor Slughorn and I have made plans to attend the lecture. It's on the use of von Hoek's theorems in predicting potion viability. I thought you might find it of interest."
"Oh yes," Susan found herself saying. Professor Granger met her eyes and Susan forced herself to continue. "My uncle is a publisher. In his office, I—I chanced upon a paper of yours, Professor Granger, on von Hoek's theorems and their application in volume-change transfigurations."
"Oh, that." For the first time, Susan was rewarded with half a grin and found herself ridiculously pleased as Hermione Granger favored her with a five-second half-smile before selecting a carrot with a fork. "How curious that you remember it. It was published two years ago."
Susan could think of nothing to say and was saved by Professor Sprout: "Well? It's this Friday evening, Miss Granger. The Warden has been kind enough to reserve us four seats. I have been so hoping that you would join us. Minerva is coming as well."
"Yes, Miss Granger," Flitwick said from Susan's other side. "You must be the fourth in our party. I'm sure Severus will be very pleased to see you."
Before Susan could dwell on the fact that nearly the entire staff called the Transfiguration mistress "Miss Granger" rather than by her proper title, the woman herself stopped the chorus of agreement by saying, "I'm afraid I won't be able to make it, Professor Sprout. I have a meeting with the library commissions committee."
There was a collective groan. The library commissions committee, composed of Professor Granger, Madame Pince the librarian, the bursar (a smallish man to whom Susan had never been introduced) and half of the school board, met monthly to discuss proposed acquisitions for the library and each of the faculty departments. Attendance was a must for every member of the committee, as the staff knew well, as they turned to discuss who would fill Miss Granger's place in the Hogwarts contingent.
Pomona Sprout, however, dared pat Miss Granger's highly intimidating shoulder to say, "It really is a pity, my dear. You were always his favorite student. You had the best letters of recommendation he ever wrote, and I understand you worked very well together on that project the B&B comissioned. Wolfsbane potion, wasn't it?"
A high-pitched, squeaky sound, close to a squeal, made half the staff wince. Everyone turned to look in the direction of the Divination apprentice, Cassandra Gillespie, with whom none of the older staff seemed pleased. "You?" said Miss Gillespie, half-admiringly, half-incredulously. "You worked on a project with Severus Snape? Oh Professor Granger, how thrilled you must have been!"
"As I recall," Professor McGonagall said dryly from her position of many seats away, "neither of them was very thrilled about the prospect."
Professor Granger turned to face Miss Gillespie's flushed face, framed by the wild hair and frivolous earrings that was the fashion among the younger set. "It was many years ago, Miss Gillespie," she said. "A decade, I believe. I was still an undergraduate at Oxford." Susan had to admire a woman who could work with a celebrity—who must have known him on quite intimate terms—and not tell all about it. There seemed to be many merits to Professor Granger's kind of reserve. It was consistent with Susan's portrait of the Transfigurations mistress' personality—that of detachment, and a dislike of displays of great emotion or enthusiasm; a practicality that suited a woman of her age, and lack of relative attractiveness.
"A student!" was Miss Gillespie's wince-making exclamation. She seemed to have a singular talent for speaking in italics. Susan fought her prejudice against Miss Gillespie's clothes and voice and air of unmitigated shallowness, as well as her facility for quoting passages from that most stimulating publication, Witch Weekly. It seemed a battle that many of the staff seemed to be losing, as they rolled their eyes and turned to their food. "An undergraduate, and you worked with him on such an important project! That is just amazing!"
Professor Granger inclined her head.
"And Severus was only a teacher," Flitwick said cheerfully as dessert appeared before the staff. "Not the great striding colossus he is now."
Professor Sprout snorted. "But of course he was," she said. "Fair hid out in this castle, he did. That was the time of the Skeeter biography, you remember."
"It was very good of you to keep him company as you did, Miss Granger." This was Flitwick again. "I'm sure it was a great comfort to him to have the support of a colleague. As I recall you became quite good friends."
Susan's gaze slid to Miss Granger and even though there was nothing in that imperturbable expression that changed, and even though she (Professor Granger) said nothing, Susan's quick eyes took in the thin line of her lips and the white knuckles that gripped her fork; Susan's gaze met Professor McGonagall's, and it occurred to Susan to say something to change the topic; but the end of dessert was upon them and various members of the staff got to their feet, and Susan could only share a helpless glance with the Headmistress as the high table emptied. She was not quite sure what had transpired, but she found herself with an apology for Professor Granger and no courage to speak it, as the woman herself departed.
/ \ / \ / \
It was an unanimous, unspoken decision that anyone but Miss Gillespie should be found to replace Hermione Granger in the Hogwarts party for Severus Snape's Edinburgh lecture. Susan had meant to ask who it was (part of her having hoped, secretly, that it might be herself) but became distracted during the week as she fell into meetings with new Quidditch captains and first-years with acrophobia, as well as with her publisher, who came to visit Hogsmeade. It was a busy, seemingly monotonous life; but she was quite satisfied, and found herself collapsing into bed almost nightly, exhausted and dreaming of books and the scent of buttercups.
Friday came, and half the staff had forgotten about the excursion to Edinburgh. The next day, Saturday, was some festival or other in Hogsmeade (Susan was not as familiar with the village as she wanted), and there was a debate in the staffroom as to whether the older students as well as the staff should be allowed to participate, as they had never been in years prior.
Cassandra Gillespie, closest to Susan's age among the staff, had knocked at Susan's door on dreary Friday morning and suggested that they go to the festival together; Susan, despite herself, was powerless to say no as Miss Gillespie squeezed herself past the door of Susan's quarters, proceeded to her closet and started to pick out frocks for Susan to wear. Looking warily at Miss Gillespie's clothes and her air of youthful excitement, Susan found herself thinking wonderingly of Hermione Granger, and whether a practical woman like that had ever found herself excited about school balls, or clothes—or flowers perhaps, in any capacity but the academic.
Susan had only two classes for the day, and decided that at her disposal was a well-earned break. When the last first-year had left her on the pitch, she went into the small locker room that she had appropriated as her own and fished out a set of robes, not quite fashionable but good enough for a walk through Hogsmeade and its collection of shops.
Feeling like a student playing truant, she fought the temptation to skip to the gates; on a whim she even walked through what was called the Fellows' Garden, through which the students were not allowed to wander. She felt herself on that happy medium between the simple giddiness of youth and the wise, tempered sobriety of the old, and spent the rest of the day indulging a series of small whims—an ornament for her hair (for tomorrow's festival), an owl to her parents, a small box of chocolates. It was a pleasant surprise, always, to discover within her purse the rewards of minor celebrity, and it was a satisfied young woman who let herself in through the gates—to find herself startled by the sight of Severus Snape stepping out of a black car.
/ \ / \ / \
Many wizarding families had cars, particularly those with young children; the cars tended to be old-fashioned ones, dark in color and long in the hood, for wizards found nothing appealing in the sleek, toy-like designs of modern Muggle automobiles, built for speed and style. (Susan's aunt had remarked once that wizards had no need of the former and no taste for the latter.) This was one of those old-fashioned cars, and it was with no small surprise that Susan found herself in front of it as one of the best-known men in the wizarding world came out, resplendent in a gray suit, shoes like mirrors and gold watch-chain, tie and an old, polished cane; so surprising was the sight that she found no words to say as he heard her step on dry leaves and turned to her. (It did not escape her notice that his cane was, for a few moments, held in a defensive position.)
"Good afternoon," he said. "Are you headed inside?" he asked, indicating the gates with the cane.
"Oh yes, sir," Susan found herself saying, cursing the nervous, suddenly damp palms that must be wetting the paper bag with her hair ornament. "I'm sorry. I don't quite know how to address you. Shall I call you Professor, Doctor or simply Mister?"
He smiled then—a sidelong, pickerel smile, the quotation came to her—and seemed to forgive her tendency to babble when nervous. "Even though I haven't been staff for many years, my Hogwarts colleagues are still in the habit of calling me Professor," he said. "If you like, miss, you may call me the same. However, you seem to have the advantage of me. Are you staff or student?"
"Temporary staff," Susan said, fighting the urge to curtsy. "Susan Stewart, sir. Replacement for Madame Hooch for these few weeks."
The smile—oddly attractive on such a harsh, not quite handsome face—widened and he approached her, indicating with his hands an offer to carry her packages (his cane being tucked under his arm). Perhaps it was the waning afternoon light that was most forgiving to his features but she knew his age and found that he looked younger than she had imagined, for a man who had known such a hard life. Distracted temporarily by his face (and that remarkable nose), she realized that he was speaking of her book, and found herself coloring with embarrassment.
"Oh, no," she said, waving her hand (now freed of the hair ornament package) awkwardly in a gesture of dismissal. "Please say no more about it. After all the fuss made about it I myself am inclined to think of it as slipshod and popularist."
"By no means," he said as they both turned to walk up the path. "I found it entertaining, to be sure, but more importantly, quite well-researched and matter-of-fact. I was particularly fond of your commentary on how brooms should not be transfigured by amateurs into sleeker reincarnations."
They talked on until they reached the gates, and by the time they had reached the statue of Bagshot the Blind on the second floor Susan was deep enough into the conversation to barely notice that Professor Granger was talking to a student outside her office. Susan should not have been surprised at the pause in his footsteps, and the answering pause in Professor Granger's conversation, but she was surprised when Professor Snape turned to her and said, "How fortunate that I should find her so quickly. It was Professor Granger I came to visit."
"Oh yes," Susan said, remembering. "You must have just come from your lecture. I was very sorry to miss it. I'm sure she feels the same way."
"Nonsense," he said pleasantly. "I'm sure she was happy to get out of it."
Before Susan could ask why, Professor Granger, the soul of politeness, came to meet them, sending the lingering student away (but not without the student's flinging curious glances in Severus Snape's direction).
"I see you've met my erstwhile colleague, Miss Stewart," Professor Granger greeted them.
"Oh yes," Susan replied. "I chanced upon him at the gates, and he was kind enough to help me with the results of my foray into Hogsmeade," she added, indicating the paper bags in Snape's arms.
"Professor Granger," the man himself said, bowing his head; she inclined her head in reply, and he said, "I hope I am still in time for a late tea at the staffroom? I remember Hogwarts' buttered tea-cakes with great fondness."
"Certainly," was the reply.
Into the short awkward silence that followed, Snape said suddenly, "I hope you know, Professor Granger, that I have come with the sole intent of persuading you to join tomorrow's Hogsmeade festival."
The woman in question wrinkled her nose in distaste. "No, thank you. I can think of many more restful things that I would rather be doing rather than chaperoning teenagers."
"Oh no, not as chaperone," was his answer; "I asked the Headmistress earlier this evening if you were on duty, and she replied in the negative."
"Very perspicacious of you, I'm sure. No, thank you."
Snape turned to Susan. "You must come," he said. "If Miss Stewart proposes to accompany us, then won't you consent, Professor."
"I think it's time for tea," said Professor Granger.
"I'll join you both there," Susan said, gesturing at Professor Snape to return her packages. "I must put these in my room upstairs."
"Oh no," Professor Granger said, fishing her wand out of a pocket and relieving Snape of the packages with a levitation charm. "Come into my office and I'll ring for a house-elf to take them up. If I am to be cajoled into coming to tomorrow's festival, Miss Stewart, you must remain to make sure I don't lose my temper."
It was done, and as they walked to the staff room in silence. Susan thought about how surprising it was that plain Hermione Granger should be visited all the way from Edinburgh by a man of such stature; it was even more surprising that her company, this evening and at tomorrow's festival, seemed to be the sole purpose of his visit. She supposed that a man like Severus Snape must not want for friends, and it made her conscious of two things—first of all, a humility in Severus Snape, in that he did not seem to forget old acquaintances; and second, a quality of sincerity in Professor Granger that must attract and retain such friendships.
Susan had thought at first that it was probably most difficult to become friends with Hermione Granger, who gave away so little. To be sure, she was courteous and warm and took care always to inquire (tactfully) about one's affairs, but even as she invited confidences, she was so grudging about giving them in turn. However, Susan had begun to form a more complete picture of her (Professor Granger) in her mind; and the clip-clop of three pairs of shoes on the hallway (as well as the counterpoint of Professor Snape's cane) was the accompaniment to her growing realization that there was a quality to be prized in such a woman. She was well-loved by her friends, apparently treasured as a colleague by Severus Snape, and adored by children of all houses—this last being the most surprising, for children were so likely to be grudging with affection when it came to strict, competent teachers.
Susan could only conclude now that the source of this collective affection was Hermione Granger's sincerity, and detachment. She chanced a glance at the profile of the man accompanying them, and thought how an intelligent, introverted man had to endure fawning and the admiration of women, young and old, who probably didn't understand half of the things he wrote in his books or said in his lectures. An intelligent, detached woman like Hermione Granger, who spoke only the truth—who would never flatter, or judge too harshly—was probably a refreshing change.
Their small, incongruous group arrived with no difficulty at the staff room, where they were met with pleased exclamations and offers of cake. Afterwards, as the party went down to dinner and came up again for coffee, she would not remember much except Snape's inquiries about Leys (sweet Leys of the high ponytails and the grass and the buttercups)—and the way he kept darting glances at the Transfiguration mistress; talking to her with the warmth of a brother or an old friend, trying to draw her into conversation, but with a quality of helplessness that spoke quite a different story.
/ \ / \ / \
Someone, somewhere in the castle, closed a door; Susan woke with a start.
Her eyes fluttered closed when she realized that she was still safe in the staff room, warm in front of the fireplace and wrapped comfortably in a knitted blanket (probably courtesy of Sprout; Susan could smell her characteristic patchouli smell). For a moment she could forget the portrait of some headmaster or other over the mantelpiece, and be transported to her Leys common room of years back; she could imagine that outside, there lay not the rolling hills of Scotland but the drenched buttercup fields outside her old college. She imagined that the smell was still fresh in her nostrils—the smell of sweat, and grass, and weekday mornings that would forever evoke the hard, sweet years she had spent there; she remembered their names, those fresh-faced girls for whom physical exertion and dizzying amounts of study had become a daily habit. She wondered if they remembered her still, and she allowed herself to feel the sadness of her solitude.
She was startled to realize that she was not alone in her room, when a male voice interrupted the silence.
"I suppose you have no new answer to give me."
That was Professor Snape—difficult indeed to mistake that voice, so sonorous, and so very unlike any other voice that Susan had ever heard; and yet it was unlike him, for all throughout his conversations with her and those halcyon minutes in the staff room with the rest of the professors, there had been in his voice a quality of moderate, cultured cheerfulness; something more personal than politeness, and more impersonal than friendliness. Now there was nothing of that left, and the helplessness that Susan had noticed in his interactions with Professor Granger stung her now, thrown into relief as he asked a simple question.
"No, Severus. I'm sorry."
And that was Professor Granger; polite, reserved. Part of Susan had expected her to be the other person present, for what reasons she (Susan) knew not. In the silence that followed Susan thought that they were probably seated in the window behind her chair, by the windows that overlooked the lake. She heard Snape rise—she could tell that it was him because the sound of his cane echoed hollowly as he began to pace, his footsteps producing small shuffling sounds on the parts of the stone floor that were without carpeting.
"Why are you here?" Professor Granger murmured. Susan imagined her setting down her teacup and peering at Snape over the spectacles that she took to wearing in the evenings.
The pacing ceased, and Susan listened for a reply.
"I have told you. I wanted to be here for your birthday."
"That would certainly be a first, in eight years."
"Nine." This Snape bit out, astonishing Susan with its sudden bitterness. "It has been nine years. And you know that I would have come, if you had asked."
"Oh yes." In Professor Granger's voice Susan detected the first stirrings of derision; how easily did that polite reserve translate to cold sarcasm. "I'm sure you would have."
Snape's soft footsteps and the sound of his cane; a sudden cessation. Was he standing in front of the windows, looking out? Had he stopped in front of Professor Granger's chair, watching her with that penetrating, intelligent gaze? Susan wished that she could see, and knew a moment of shame for intruding on the privacy of their hushed, bitter conversation.
"I came," he whispered. Susan struggled to hear. "I came, whenever you called me and whenever you needed my help. I have been more like a dog than a man when it comes to you, Hermione."
Professor Granger was silent.
"Have I done something to displease you?" was Snape's quiet response to her silence. "I came because you haven't answered my owls since the year began. Apparently you haven't even opened them," he added bitterly, "because if you had, you would have known that I would be in Edinburgh. That I would come to see you."
"Shhh." Professor Granger shushed Snape. "Not quite so loud. You'll wake Susan Stewart."
"I don't care about Susan Stewart!" Snape retorted angrily. "I don't care about any of them. You ignore my every attempt to see you for nine months, you avoid me at every party and dinner, and when I do manage to corner you, you haven't even the courtesy to be honest with me." Professor Granger made to interrupt but Snape went on; "And you had the audacity to insinuate that I—with—with someone else. When you know so well that for almost a decade it has been only you—"
"I don't have to listen to this—" And there was Crookshanks (a ginger cat of ancient, indeterminate age) ripping out a loud meow; Susan could imagine that he had been knocked out of his mistress' lap, perhaps by her standing up.
"Yes, you do! You bloody well have to!"
"No, you listen." Professor Granger's voice was icy and Susan winced as she imagined Snape might have. "I don't belong to you, and you don't belong to me. I don't care if you spend your time entertaining groupies at your flat, and I couldn't possibly care less about you and that—that Maureen creature—"
"Is that what your silence is about?" her companion bit out; and then the harsh voice gave way to melancholy. "It was a picture in the Prophet, wasn't it? Printed in January after a New Year's party. I should have guessed, and yet how could I have done so? You've never before shown an interest in any of my affairs, as you pointed out at every opportunity."
There was silence. And then Professor Granger's voice: "Is that all you have come to say? If it is, then I imagine you will have no further purpose in staying here. I assure you I have heard you quite clearly."
There was the sound of rustling fabric, of someone preparing to leave.
"May I call again?" said Snape, quietly. "You have expressed no interest in going to the festival with me. May I call at another time?"
Silence, and then: "Hermione, please. I am sorry for my harshness. Please allow me the favor of your company."
"I don't think that would be fair to either of us. You don't owe me anything, anymore. You shouldn't have to keep seeking me out to pay—to pay whatever debt it is that you imagine you have. I've had enough of your gratitude."
"Gratitude?" Even Susan, hidden from view, shrank from the explosion of that word. "Am I never to hear the end of that dirty word? Of course I am grateful. You were my friend when no one else would speak my name without spitting—you wrote that biography, researched for months and struggled to be fair, none of which you had to do—you took on a pseudonym to spare me the difficulties of having to be publicly grateful for the efforts of a former student—but Hermione, you have exacted punishment from me as well."
Silence.
"You have hurt me at every possible opportunity, sending for me when you need me and pushing me away when you have taken what you needed. I have not minded, because I'm only too happy to feel like I can be of any use to you; but your treatment of me, over the last nine years, should be enough to ensure that all vestiges of that gratitude should be extinguished. I begin to understand that this is what you desire."
"What exactly do you mean?"
A momentary silence; Susan imagined, vividly, Snape standing, clutching at his cane with whitened knuckles, gathering the courage to say more.
"Is this the end?" he said finally. "Are you sending me away for the last time?"
Professor Granger snorted, if ever such a word could be applied to any action of hers. "I have been sending you away for a long time now, Severus." She said this casually, almost jokingly, but the clattering of teacup against saucer betrayed her.
"You know that at any time you could have sent me away for good, if you had really wanted to." Slow, dreadfully slow footsteps, as though he were walking toward her; Susan strained to hear. "I was grateful to you for a long time but I have loved you for much longer than that. Hermione, I—"
"Shh." At the incredulous silence that followed, Professor Granger called out, "Miss Stewart? Are you awake?"
/ \ / \ / \
- - - (end of part 1 of 2) - - -
Notes:
1) Time and dates: By a happy coincidence, I wasn't fudging with regard to what day Hermione's birthday (19 September) should fall on; I had intended from the beginning that nine years should have elapsed since she had worked with Professor Snape at the age of twenty or twenty-one (year 2000), and when I went to cross-check my facts prior to posting this story, it turned out that in 2009 Hermione Granger's birthday does fall on a Saturday, as does mine. So I'm happy to report that no liberties have been taken with the time-line (apart, of course, from everything being AU.)
2) The bursar manages the financial affairs of a college or university, while the warden (mentioned as being responsible for the Hogwarts contingent's seats at Edinburgh) is the head of a college or school. I'm simply assuming the existence of a bursar at Hogwarts.
3) I wrote this as an extrapolation of a theme in Josephine Tey's book Miss Pym Disposes, as might have been obvious from my borrowing of the name Laetitia Pym. I was very pleased with the author's portrayal of a quiet, reasonably intelligent person (in this case Susan Stewart) who finds herself catapulted into celebrity and who comes to a school, finding herself immersed in the affairs of staff and students. Susan's last name was borrowed from a character who might have lived in Scotland and graduated from Leys Physical Training College, with a curriculum so demanding and extensive that the students are allowed to take up medical positions. Facets of Hermione's character have been drawn from meditations on one of the Leys staff.
Furthermore, the subject of gratitude being a block to a healthy relationship should be familiar to any reader of the Lord Peter Wimsey stories. I obviously am not very original.
4) "A sidelong, pickerel smile"—familiar to many readers as coming from the Roethke Poem "Elegy for Jane," a poem that has long been a favorite among SSHG readers. Read it and you'll see why.
5) Homages to other fic writers: "B&B" is a nod to one of my favorite, one of the most unusual, SSHG fics, "The Silvering Divide" by somigliana. Oriel and the Oxbridge feeling of this text is a nod, too, to "Round Midnight" by Clare/MetroVampire, completed in 2002, a most literate, enjoyable read.
6) Late tea at the staffroom: it probably was quite late for tea, but I can imagine the school would offer a late tea for those staff members with classes that run late into the afternoons.
Med school makes me depressed, and depression makes me churn out first chapters to new stories instead of laboring over my old ones (not that I've abandoned them). However, unlike many of my favorite fic writers who abandoned their stories and the fandom, I aten't dead—I'm still here, writing new chapters to old stories, however slowly.