Hermione fingers the cloak draped across her arms, committing the coarse feel of the cloth to her memory. The texture rubs the wrong way across her fingertips, reminding her forcefully of its owner.
She has been in possession of this cloak for one complete year now, and she's almost certain it's time to return it. After all, for all the time she's had it, it still does not belong to her. Even with all its familiarity, even with the time she has spent getting to know the lay and stitching of it, it is not hers to keep. She took it with an understanding, and she's there to give it back with a new one.
While she procrastinates in a small diner, the sky darkens. Hermione pays the price for her dallying as the rain pours from the angry clouds in thick sheets. She swings the cloak around her shoulders in a gesture that comes from a year of use, drawing the hood up with a strange smile. The charms sewn so handily into its fabric repel the water like glass.
The cloak has shielded her from the rain many times in the past year. Again she is reminded rather suddenly of its owner. Wearing it always makes her think of him in some way. At first, she was uncomfortable with just how much her thoughts leapt to him when she wore the garment, but she has grown as comfortable with that as she has the cloak itself.
She frowns as she realizes the hem is dragging in the mud. Despite the fact that it remains clean because of all the repelling charms, she does not feel right treating the cloak that way. She realized soon after coming into possession of it that just because something can take the abuse does not mean that something should be abused. Such a fine garment such as the one she is wearing and has worn for a year deserves nothing more than the highest respect she has, and so that is what it gets. She bunches the fabric a bit, pulling it out of the mud.
The problem with it being a bit too large has plagued her for all of her time owning it. Many a person, well-meaning and also slightly nosy, have suggested that she get it altered to fit her more snugly, to alleviate her of the nuisance of holding it away from the ground. Hermione has politely denied each and every one of them with a shake of her head and a small smile. Others have commented that it seems cut for a man, intended for someone quite bigger than her. Hermione is not large and never has been, and those assumptions about it being cut for a man much bigger than her are quite right, but she knows that no matter what altercations are made upon the raiment, it will make no difference. The cloak does not belong to her and will never fit her, for she is not the right person to fit in such an article.
The cloak does more than shield her from the rain, however. Over the past year, it seems to have become a shield for her. Ever since the end of the war, at night when she is alone, Hermione shivers with a cold in her bones that has nothing to do with temperature and is not affected by the merry flames in her hearth. Tucking the heavy fabric around her slight frame and taking a deep breath brings her more comfort than any fire.
She finds that she is reaching the outskirts of the quiet village now, and her pace slows as she nears her destination.
The cloak has proven invaluable in potions-making as well. Hermione is now the head of her research department at the reformed Ministry of Magic, and potions-making is one of her favorite experimental pursuits. She finds the intricacies of it enchanting, and discovering something new in potions always gives her the same feeling she was overcome with when she first performed magic.
Once, when Hermione had a new worker in the room, the young man blundered and added two ingredients together that succeeded in creating an extremely explosive mixture. Hermione was familiar with the warning signs—particularly the flowery aroma that arose when the two most volatile ingredients were combined. As quick as a flash, she enveloped herself and the young wizard in the cloak, their backs to the cauldron. The contents blew up, splattering them and the walls. It sizzled as it hit less resistant things, like paper and wood, but when Hermione stood and released the young man, she noticed that the acidic substance merely slipped harmlessly off the fabric.
Hermione knew from that point on that the cloak's purpose was not only to shield herself but to shield others as well. The cloak had also taught her a valuable lesson: when she wanted something important or dangerous done, it was best to do it herself.
The cloak has taught her a lot of things in its own way. There are only so many things an inanimate object can show to a person, but Hermione has found over the course of a year that examining something closely can reveal many different things.
When she wakes with her pajamas plastered to her skin with sweat, the residual sting of nightmare fangs nipping at her heels, she grabs the cloak off the chair by her bed and goes for a stroll about her home. Soon she has stopped quivering. She is able to, once more, with the shield of the cloak settled about her form, sleep soundly.
She is almost certain the time has come to return the cloak to its owner because lately, it has been losing its effectiveness. After all, it is only a piece of cloth. All the things she has gained from it are losing their appeal when she realizes that she has come to a new understanding.
Hermione pushes the hood down now that she is under the dry eaves, standing before the front door. She only hesitates for a moment before knocking firmly three times.
There is silence, then the sound of footsteps. The door is cracked open and one dark eye peers at her from the opening. She senses rather than sees the questioning quirk of his eyebrow as he says, "What could you possibly want from me?"
She restrains the snort that rises in her throat and instead replies, "I have something that belongs to you."
The door opens wider and standing before her is Severus Snape, her former professor. He is clad in a simple black shirt and black trousers, surprising her. He gestures for her to come inside, and so she does, welcoming the warmth from his fireplace.
"If I assume correctly, you are here to return my cloak."
In answer, Hermione swings it off of her shoulders and holds it out to him. He does not take it, merely appraising her. She stares back, chin high.
"Miss Granger, do you ever learn anything? Or has a year gone by with nothing changing your thick thought processes?"
"Sir, I believe it's time I return this to you. It's not mine, after all, and even though it has grown on me, I've never been one to borrow something and never return it."
Snape sighs and without warning, walks over to the couch and sits down, stretching his legs out in front of him and sinking into the cushions. He looks at her expectantly. Confused, Hermione perches stiffly on a chair across from him.
"I'm not sure I understand, sir," she says.
"Miss Granger, why have you come all the way here to this isolated place in what, no doubt, has been an unpleasant journey for you? You have to walk all the way from the other side of town to get to my home, and apparating just anywhere here is not possible because of the privacy wards. Returning that cloak to me cannot be what brought you all the way here."
Hermione is surprised at the way he is treating her with something akin to patience. Their last meeting was not nearly as pleasant.
"Well, sir, the cloak does belong to you."
"Could this not have waited until another time? Perhaps when the weather was not so disagreeable?"
"Well—"
"Miss Granger," he says, staring at her over his steepled fingers, "do not toy with me. Why are you here?"
There is a pregnant pause, and then Hermione exhales slowly.
"I don't know."
"You are disturbing my peace…and you do not know why," he says, the last part of the statement descending into a dangerous drawl.
Hermione refuses to avert her gaze, choosing to stare completely into his eyes. He lifts an eyebrow at her bravery.
He blinks once, slowly, then rises. "Miss Granger, get out."
She starts. "What?"
"Get. Out."
"But—"
"I tire of your presence. You have learned nothing. I was not able to teach you when you were a student, and I am not able to teach you even when you force my hand."
"I'm not forcing you to—"
"The last time we were face-to-face, you demanded an apology from me."
"Yes." She nods, chewing her bottom lip in an unconscious fashion.
"You wanted to know why I had insulted you for all seven years of your school career."
"Yes, but—"
"You wanted to know why I never praised you for all of your…educational efforts."
"Yes," she grinds out, tired of being interrupted. "And you threw me out then, the same way you are now!"
"And if I recall correctly—which I do—it was raining then too." He looks at her in a way that she cannot decipher.
She swallows, frowning at him. "Yes. And you gave me your cloak."
"And what did I tell you then?"
"'Try thinking before you come barging in on me, demanding answers and throwing accusations, you stupid girl,'" she recites in clipped tones.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-amused smirk at that. "You always did have a talent for retaining things and regurgitating them in the most unintelligent way."
Hermione huffs angrily and gets up from her chair. "Excuse me, sir, I can see now that coming here was a mistake. I'll just take my leave."
"Miss Granger, it is raining."
"I can see that. As stupid as you frequently say I am, I do have eyes and ears."
"Obviously not."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Snape lets out the most exasperated breath she has ever heard from him. "Miss Granger," he growls, "if you are going to go out in the rain, you will need a cloak."
"I don't have one."
"Then take this one," he says, picking the cloak up from the chair where she has left it.
"But I came all the way here to return that cloak," she snarls, furious.
His eyes glitter as he drapes it over her shoulders. Close contact with Snape is strange to her. She shies away, pushing the garment back into his hands and shaking her head.
"Miss Granger, you really have learned nothing. One cannot go into the rain without a cloak."
"Bother the cloak!"
They stare at each other for a long moment. Snape's face is like stone—unreadable and cool. Hermione is red in the face and scowling.
"…I do not enjoy repeating myself, Miss Granger. What have you learned?"
"I am returning this cloak to you," she says slowly.
"I happen to know that your IQ is, most likely, higher than the average rock. However, you are making me doubt that. Answer the question."
"I've recognized some things over the past year."
He waits on her to continue as she runs a hand nervously through her hair. His sharp eyes catch every small movement she makes.
"Just because other people think something isn't attractive doesn't mean one has to share their opinions. Just because something can be treated badly doesn't mean that something should be treated badly. Some things deserve respect, despite the purposes or abilities of said things. Some things can protect you in ways that you never realized until you don't have those things. I've learned that when you want something done, you have to do it yourself, especially if it's dangerous or difficult."
She spits the whole speech out in one long breath and then pants a little when she finishes, seemingly surprised at her own verbosity and force. Snape regards her with another one of his inscrutable looks.
Slowly, he asks, "From what did you derive such valuable knowledge, Miss Granger?"
Her eyes flicker away from his for a split second before she replies. "From…the cloak," she says, feeling more idiotic with every word that passes her lips.
"You learned all of this from…a cloak?"
"Not so much from a cloak," she mutters, growing red in the face, "but more from your cloak. All of those things…are things I imagined coming from you."
"Coming from me?"
Without prompting, she whispers, almost inaudibly, cursing her rashness, "Actually, not coming from you, but…applying to you."
The seconds tick by with no communication between them. Hermione manages to study every single thing in the room that is not Snape in the time period before he speaks.
"Miss Granger," he says, and she finally looks him in the eye. "Do you mean to tell me that you have taken my cloak and my advice…"
She swallows, her throat dry.
"…and turned those two things into an allegory for myself?" he whispers silkily.
"Yes," she says with her eyes squeezed shut and her voice almost nonexistent.
"So you can learn, albeit obtusely and with much time."
She looks up at him to see that he is smirking at her, and closer than before. In fact, his face is rather uncomfortably close to hers.
"There is hope," he says, his voice a low rumble, "for you yet."
"Sir?"
"However, Miss Granger, if that is all you have gleaned from your time spent thinking, you have not learned enough. Is there anything else?"
"You want more."
"You have three seconds to tell me what else or I will give you this cloak back and show you the door."
"Fine," she spits. "I learned that…all of that is not even close to the real thing, and…"
"And?" he purrs.
"And I would like to know more than just an allegory," she blurts, cursing all the gods she knows for her tendency to blush under pressure.
Snape studies her for a very long minute, making her extremely uncomfortable. Hermione fidgets under his black gaze, twisting her robe in her hands.
"Miss Granger…"
"Yes?" she asks, wary.
"Since you have proven you can be taught, tell me, what are you doing for lunch on Sunday?"
"Uh," she stammers, startled, "nothing that I know of, Professor."
"I have not been your professor for some time. Call me Severus."
"All right."
"Good. You are done with all this allegory nonsense, then?"
She nods, very confused, but starting to catch on.
"I will connect my floo to yours so that you will not be forced to make the trek across town. Miss Granger, are you sure you want more than just an allegory?"
After a moment of hesitation, she replies, her eyes flashing, "Call me Hermione."
"Sunday, then?"
"Sunday."