The Diary of a Somebody
Wednesday 1st February
21:00 — Home.
Have received a note from Minerva inviting me to one of her gatherings at the Hog's Head. Well, I don't need her handouts anymore, do I? Have a social life all of my own these days.
Ha ha. Can just see Minerva's face on hearing that. Would probably find myself on the wrong end of a Stinging Hex.
Anyway, will probably go, as I've nothing else to do on that particular night. Don't think I'm going to ask Granger to join me, though. Can't face all the inevitable nonsense from my old colleagues yet. And it's not as if she would expect me to invite her, so that's fine.
That's right, isn't it?
She wouldn't be offended… would she?
No… She has a life beyond me so… what's the difference? I'm right. Definitely.
Oh.
Who does she see when she's not seeing me? Just the Potters'?
Hopefully.
21:25
Better not be another man.
21:30
Better fucking not be Weasley.
Humph.
Who are her friends? Bet she has more than she can count.
Whereas I, on the other hand, have a bunch of old biddies who only talk to me, I suspect, out of habit. Oh, and Minerva, who probably just sees me as the perfect outlet for her stifled, under-developed maternal instinct.
Thoroughly depressed myself now.
Friday 3rd February
15:30 — Slowly going round the bend.
So ineffably bored I cannot think straight!
Considered doing some brewing, but have nothing to put in a brew.
Considered doing some reading, but I've no books to read.
Considered going for a walk, but have nowhere to walk to.
13:09
Might even start writing 'Cutting Techniques in the Twelfth Century'…
Except… I'm fairly sure cutting techniques in the twelfth century are more or less the same as those in the twenty-first century.
Can't have taken many attempts to get the development of the knife down pat, can it?
Granger must think I'm a right stupid idiot.
Sunday 12th February
16:00 — Home.
Hmm… Am becoming increasingly aware that in two days time it will be that dreaded day—Valentine's Day. Never had to worry myself over it before. Never had to think about it all.
Except for that time in my fifth year when I… No, best off banishing that incident from memory for ever.
And now… well…
Luckily, or perhaps unluckily (depending on your point-of-view), Granger is due in the Wizengamot early on the morning of the fifteenth and has decreed that she shall be busy reading up on her case notes and making general preparations until then.
Bloody fine by me. Seems a bit early on in the game to be getting embroiled in such a ridiculously commercial and pointless occasion. So the pressure is off a little then, but…
Am I still going to have to buy her a card? Is she going to expect one or not? What if she doesn't send one back? Am I supposed to expect one back? Should I be highly offended if she doesn't send one?
Aargh!
16:25
Hang on. She's stayed out late on nights before court cases before… There was that time when she bloody well got hammered in Yorkshire and had to Apparate whilst under the influence in order to arrive on time.
Is she spinning me a line? Maybe she already has plans. Has she got someone else on the go? Maybe she'd even rather spend the day by herself than with me…
Merlin; sometimes I wish I could just turn myself off. I'm starting to do my own head in with my pathetic paranoia.
16:55
If I send a card—is that enough? Or will she expect some further token? Flowers? Chocolate? A singing Cupid?
To be honest, I'm not sure I'll be able to bring myself to even look at one of those nauseating cards, let alone do anything else.
Humph.
Monday 13th February
9:00
Oh fuck. Still haven't bought anything. Am getting worried now.
10:30 — Leaky.
Have been walking around Diagon Alley for the last hour in a panicked haze. Went into Flourish and Blotts', looked at the cards, and I couldn't do it. Can't do it. Can't buy a card. Can't write in it. Physically can't. I cannot pick up one of those ridiculous, overly-sentimental, trite, nonsensical pieces of reinforced parchment and take it to the till to pay for. And I'm not going to steal it… (though, I'd clearly get away with it…).
Am going to have to think of something else.
15:30 — Home.
Think I might have just pulled things back. Wandered around Diagon Alley for a few more hours and couldn't find anything until I went into Potage's and found myself looking at a rather attractive glass phial.
Inspiration hit me like a train. I bought the phial, chucked a few ingredients into a cauldron and voila, had a nice little scent on my hands. Stoppered it into the phial and job done. It's thoughtful, but not unduly extravagant. Just like me. Hah.
Had a bit of a close shave, however. Nearly bumped into Potter. Saw him staring into the window of Twilfitt and Tatting, so I quickly dived across the cobbles and occupied myself with hurrying as far away from him as I could get. Suspect he was on the same mission as I was. I take no pleasure in this supposition. In fact, it unsettles me greatly. Hence my hasty retreat.
So… Have decided I'm not going to send a card. Will compose an accompanying note instead; I'm fairly confident she will appreciate it just the same. Just have to think what I'm going to write in it now. Hmm.
Dear Hermione,
Please accept this token of my… affection…?
Or regard, maybe?
Oh dear. Neither word is sufficient but… well, will have to do…
Tuesday 14 February
13:00
Have received nothing from Granger. No note. Nothing. I know she's busy, but… am afraid I have misjudged…
22:00
It's fine. She appeared on my doorstep this afternoon, straight from the Ministry, apparently. She thrust a bottle of brandy towards me and said 'For you.'
I was touched. Really; am not entirely joking…
'I decided I wanted to spare an hour or two to have a drink with you, if that's all right?'
I frowned uneasily. 'Oh… Ah, I don't know… I have company…'
Her expression suddenly froze. 'Oh,' she uttered quietly. 'Sorry.'
When she actually turned to leave, I let out a series of low chuckles. As the truth dawned she rolled her eyes and barged straight past me, scoffing irritably that she 'should've known.'
She's right; she should have.
Saturday 18th February
18:00
Off to Hog's Head tonight. Should be a good (ish) night.
23:50 — Home. Pissed and pissed off.
Verrry shit night! Minerva and I have fallen out. Old cow. Stuff her. Who does she think she is? Why does she have to stick her nose in?
…
Going to bed now—had too much booze.
Sunday 19th February
15:00 — Bloody bed in the afternoon!
Have only just woken up. Feel sick. Also feel slightly disgusted with my increasingly sedentary existence.
Well… Can't be arsed to move yet, and there's no other claim on my time today so might as well recount blow-by-blow what went on last night. I arrived at the pub and the rest of them were already there. Only managed five minutes of peace, however, before Rolanda got things going. Why is it always her?
'How's things with Mrs Weasley?' she cooed and then chuckled to herself at her little joke. Silly cow. Granger is by definition no longer a Weasley. So why is she bothering with weak little pokes like that?
'Actually, Severus,' threw in Pomona patronisingly. 'I thought you might have brought her along tonight.'
I stared at her. 'Why?' I demanded brusquely.
Why should I have brought her? We've been seeing each other for less than two months.
'Oh well… I don't know…' she muttered into her glass, sufficiently cowed at my uncompromising glare.
'Bit defensive there, Severus; she hasn't given you the boot already, has she?' Rolanda, unfortunately, never gets cowed.
Sometimes, I don't know why I bother with these people.
'Stop teasing him,' admonished Minerva, proceeding to steer the conversation into other waters. Didn't stop Hagrid glaring at me intermittently throughout the night though. What's he sizing me up for? Going to kick my head in if I step out of line, eh?
Would like to see him try.
Drink flowed (of course) and I think Minerva had a few too many whiskies, for later on in the evening she turned to me and said, "How are matters between you and Hermione?" I'm not sure she would have been so straightforward under drier circumstances. A further point to note was that this was no casual inquiry. I rather thought her tone was stiff and her expression as tight as wax. I made no reply; simply looked at her. My appraisal didn't go unnoticed and she raised an eyebrow. 'What?' she asked defensively.
I suppressed an indignant smirk as I comprehended what was bothering her. 'You don't approve, do you?'
Her expression flickered. 'I'm sorry? I don't think—'
'Do you?'
She opened and closed her mouth before clenching her jaw and shaking her head drunkenly. 'I've been thinking about it and… I don't know that it is such a good idea.'
Not as if I've never expected this response; I just hadn't expected it from this particular quarter, unfortunately.
'I realise she could do a lot better than me. What have I got to offer—'
'It's not that,' she muttered irritably, her eyes drooping slightly from the drink.
'The difference in age, then.'
'It's… She has only recently come out of a marriage, Severus. A marriage. I'd be wary of anyone getting involved at this juncture, but…'
'But that it's me makes things ten times worse… Thanks.'
Clearly, Minerva has no faith in me. She was the one who, not so very long ago, was banging on about finding me a woman! Probably only said it because she knew she'd never find one for me. Marriage or no marriage; she just doesn't see me as having enough to offer to keep someone like Granger interested.
'What do you know about relationships?' she slurred gruffly, and I felt an inward blush at her pointing out my complete lack of success in this area. 'I worry that things won't turn out the way you would wish.'
'Bollocks!' I snapped, surprising the both of us, probably. 'You just don't like the thought of your former teacher's pet associating with me.'
'That's not—'
'And what in the name of arse do you know about relationships anyway?'
Her expression became wintry. I'd spoken a bit too loudly and the conversations around us were faltering. The trouble with Minerva and me is that while we've had some real humdingers before, they were usually over professional matters, not personal ones. Since leaving Hogwarts, however, I've noticed our interaction stray further into that murky area, simply because Hogwarts is not in our shared interest anymore.
She pursed her lips and looked away; ignoring me. We ignored each other for the rest of the night, in fact. I joined Horace and was forced to listen to how many get-well cards and gifts he'd received from illustrious former students during his recent illness. I swilled my drink in an effort ignore his droning and brooded instead. And, unfortunately, I began to feel it was me who was in the wrong with regard to Minerva. It's probably because some ingrained part of me automatically respects and defers to her because she is older and was my teacher for seven years—
…
Oh good Merlin.
Oh my good Merlin.
Wish my hand had withered away before writing those words! Oh God! No; they're wrong. I've got it completely wrong.
It's… not the same for Granger and me, is it? Does she have some unconscious notions about me—inadvertent behaviours because I was once her teacher?
Merlin. This whole weekend is turning out to be a shit one. Minerva and I aren't speaking, and I'm seeing someone who won't be able to stand up to me because she's sub-consciously afraid I'll deduct points from Gryffindor.
Lovely.
15:50 — Still in bed.
Have thought about it a little more and I don't think it's the same. The relative age gaps are too different: Minerva could be my grandmother...probably. (Better not tell her that the next time I see her.) Am sure Hermione would gladly hex me to kingdom come if she felt I deserved it.
And maybe my disquiet over offending Minerva has nothing to do with 'respecting my elders' either…
Maybe it's because, deep down, I fear she might have a point…
Tuesday 21st February
15:00 — Home.
Have had terrible and exhilarating idea with regard to my non-existent career.
Was in Slug and Jiggers' today and the business is up for sale. Jigger junior, apparently, has no interest in keeping the apothecary going following his father's death and wants to sell up.
What if… Could I run an apothecary? I dismissed before the idea of setting up my own business on the grounds that I couldn't be arsed… but this business is already set up…
Let's face it, what I don't know about the world of potion-making just isn't worth knowing about. I know exactly how to store ingredients; where to source them; how to use them…
Oh. Just one small problem, of course.
Have no money to buy a business.
17:00
Still thinking about the apothecary. Wish I'd never gone there today. It's a ridiculous idea, really…
Maybe I should go to Gringotts' and have a chat with the goblins about getting a loan. I reckon Jigger junior would seriously consider me, as well. Perilously close to convincing myself here.
Have thought of another trifling issue, though: don't actually know anything about running a business. Still, from the state of some of the establishments in Diagon Alley, think it's fair to say that few magic folk do.
Clearly, though, have all the hallmarks of a polymath and can turn my hand to anything, including business…
Shall continue to ponder, methinks…
Friday 24th February
10:00 — Home.
Am meeting Hermione tonight. That scuffle I had with Minerva is still on my mind and I'm feeling a bit hesitant towards the lady in question.
And yet, it's been about two months since we came to an understanding. Two months! A triumph in my book, if not in anyone else's. I shouldn't let silly things bother me. I fear though, that only when it's been two decades will I probably finally feel secure and comfortable. Typical me.
I must say, it's a lot different going out with her for dinner than it was that (one) time I went with Lucinda. There are some aspects of my character I, naturally, want to camouflage at this juncture, but there is no feeling that I need to put on a front. 'False' was how I think I felt about that Lucinda thing… Well, in this instance, Granger would know I'm pretending because she's known me long enough… ish. Depends whether you want to count the student years or not… Not sure that I do, actually…
Still, it's difficult. Take, for instance, greetings.
How am I supposed to greet her when I see her?
A hug? Sorry; can't do spontaneous hugs. How the fuck could I ever pull off a spontaneous hug?
A kiss? But where? On the cheek? On the lips? Or is it too early for that sort of thing?
I just don't know. I mean, how am I supposed to know? My standard greeting for any person is nine times out of ten a pained grimace, and the other time, no acknowledgment whatsoever.
And she's not much help, either.
The other day, when we met outside the Leaky, after 'Hello,' we just stood there. When she started looking awkward, I simply opened the door and indicated for her to go through.
Am I supposed to determine such etiquette? Is it down to me, as a man? Or have I just committed an unforgivably chauvinistic offence in even thinking that?
I bloody well hope it's not down to me to make the moves because she'll be waiting a bloody long time—we both will.
18:45
Here we go. Three gulps of whisky and I'm about ready to depart. Minerva can piss off.
Saturday 25th February
11:00 — Home.
I've only just got in from last night.
…
Can't think properly at the moment to write anything further than that.
Noon. Dazed.
Yesterday was a good day. Feel I should be struck be down for writing something so blasphemous, but can't be helped; it's the truth. Things seemed to be on a downward spiral at the beginning of the evening, but righted themselves soon enough. Oh my good Merlin yes.
Felt normal (apprehensive) on seeing her, and when I realised how pretty she looked, my thoughts turned further inward. I should have been coming out with some flowery compliments and entertaining her as we waited for our meals to arrive, but instead, all I could think about was my own inadequacy and wonder what on earth she was doing even turning up here with me.
The snifter(s) before I left perhaps weren't such a good idea. I don't know why I resort to drink because it rarely buoys me up with false confidence. More often than not, it simply adds a melancholic tinge to my musings. In this instance, such thinking made me feel uncharitable towards her and, indeed, self-obsessed. Surprise, surprise; in order to deal with that, I drank (it's a terribly vicious circle).
I hasten to add this was not done too obtrusively. She never mentioned it, so I don't think she noticed… But wouldn't be surprised if she suspects I have a drink problem… (sometimes I wonder…).
And so, perching on the edge of contemptible, self-inflicted gloom, anyone may imagine how I was shoved blindly downwards when the door to the pub opened and I glanced up to see a horde of her old classmates pile in! Found myself watching Longbottom, Thomas and Finnegan lurch to the bar. Granger was already there, getting us some more drinks, and her former comrades were soon crowding around her rowdily.
I watched them talk and laugh for a moment, imagining what they might be saying. Didn't really come up with much, except I felt certain there would be a suggestion that she should join them in their carousing.
And then…
It was precisely as I anticipated it. Three expressions dropped simultaneously. Like stones. I knew then she must have told them. She had informed them she was with me.
Another time, I might have taken pleasure in their palpable shock, but not that night. It hit a little too close to home. Not even the fiery heat of Ogden's best could alleviate the sting.
She appeared to excuse herself and returned, whilst I cowardly contemplated crying off with a sudden illness. Wouldn't have been too far from the truth really. Did feel a bit sick having to sit there while those three cretins took it in turns to send not very surreptitious, stunned glances towards us.
Evidently, my expression must have been beginning to fail with regard to giving the impression I was fine. Or maybe it was the fact that silence had elongated between us far too long for it to be acceptable. In any case, she suddenly asked, 'What's wrong, Severus? You don't seem yourself tonight.'
Myself? I wondered; fascinated slightly by the fact she felt she knew me at all.
'Nothing.'
She looked unconvinced and said nothing for a time, during which an awkward tension then descended over us like a smog.
Just when I was beginning to think I wouldn't be able to stand it any longer, she said, 'Tell you what; let's go.'
My stomach clenched in alarm, thinking she was fed up and wanted to call it a night.
'Let's go somewhere else,' she clarified with an encouraging smile. 'It's a bit noisy in here tonight, isn't it?'
It wasn't that noisy, but she stood up, leaving me no room to argue and I dumbly got to my feet as well. Eyes followed our departure and I clenched my teeth together to resist my desire to leave a few hexes in my wake.
'Let's go for a walk,' she suggested once we were outside. 'I shall Apparate us.'
I only had a few seconds to wonder, knowing how much she enjoyed her walks, where on earth she would take us to, but when the world had righted itself again, we were still in London, only by the bank of the river. And my bloody God was it cold!
She sucked in a breath, searching her coat pockets. 'Typical; forgotten my bloody gloves…'
I felt my nice woolly ones in my pocket and reluctantly pulled them out. 'Here,' I offered, hoping I sounded more chivalrous than begrudging.
'Thanks!' She shoved her hands into them and then went to stand overlooking the river, folding her arms and leaning on the wall. I resigned my hands to the negligible warmth of my pockets and followed. My pace was a bit slower. Don't normally get dizzy after Apparating, so must have been the, ah, drink. (One of these days, I'm going to get through an outing with her entirely sober).
The cold would soon sort me out, though, and I glanced cursorily at the lights that shimmered on the water, a sight which obviously enamoured her, before turning my back to it and looking at the Muggles rushing up and down the Embankment instead.
And it was standing there that I felt more keenly out of place than I have possibly ever felt. Such moments in her company, of course, are not unfamiliar to me. However, this was not some short stab of self-consciousness I could suppress with a shrug of inner bravado. It was a moment of almost incapacitating self-doubt and suspicion of her and her reasons for even being there in the first place.
In the swell of the misgivings, so came the melodrama and the very real consideration that what was going on between us was some terrible error in judgement. On my part, certainly.
How plausible, really, is it for a man such as myself, with all that has gone on in my past, and after years of solitary existence and inward obsession, to suddenly be able to get involved with a woman who is half his age and a former student to boot?
Have, obviously, marvelled over this before, but right then it felt utterly ludicrous to me. Painfully ludicrous, even.
And I didn't know what to say in the noisy silence. I didn't know whether I should tell her these things, never mind how to tell her these things. I didn't know whether to dismiss them as silly anxiety. I didn't know whether I should heed them as a warning.
Had to do something, though. Couldn't stand there like a lemon all night. Couldn't wallow in a muddled haze forever. And despite wanting to forget my thoughts, I managed to betray myself into revealing some of my trouble.
'Are you in touch with Minerva?' I found myself asking her, half-debating whether to bite my tongue out after I had done so.
I sensed her shift in confusion, but I kept my eyes ahead, not really knowing where I was going with this foray into conversation.
'We see each other sometimes, yes,' she confirmed. 'But not on a particularly regular basis. In fact, I've not seen her since the new year. Why?'
Suppose I'd been wondering whether Minerva would have had the front to speak to Hermione directly about our involvement. Was glad to hear differently.
Despite feeling I was dropping Minerva in it slightly, I continued. 'She doesn't approve of… this.'
There was silence from my companion, and I suddenly felt a bit defensive about my bringing it up. 'I realise this is nothing to do with her—'
'But her opinion matters to you. It's all right; I understand.'
I hesitated, not really having thought of it in those terms. Did Minerva's opinion matter? Does it matter? Maybe it does... Precious few other people have ever bothered to take an interest in my life, after all.
I finally turned to her and she was looking pensively at her hands. As I looked at her, I felt some of my unease… ease. Minerva may very well be right—I may not turn out to be enough for Hermione Granger, whether in the aftermath of her marriage or out of it. I may not be able to handle a relationship when it hits me in the face, but… never going to know unless I try, am I?
'Look; it's nothing she won't get over once the novelty has worn off,' I heard myself say in a positive voice. 'She's just a bit of a traditionalist, that's all.'
'Yes… Tell her there are far bigger age-gaps about.'
I nodded my agreement, not wanting to enlighten her over Minerva's real bone of contention. Or even my bone of contention. I'm losing count of the many bones, to be frank.
'So, anything else bothering you?' she asked after a time, looking at me intently.
I told her no, but of course it was a lie. I'm always bloody bothered in some way or another. And I was bothered then by how I should be thanking my lucky stars. Still, on second thought, not as though they haven't got any making up to do for their complete non-attendance during my formative years, is it? Told myself to enjoy it while it lasted. Make the most of it, because as surely as the earth is round, someone or something will eventually put a spanner in the works.
She suddenly became a little bit self-conscious under my consideration and glanced away first. Or maybe, in hindsight, she was being deliberately coy… Whatever; the effect roused within me a certain level of feeling which made me think I might have it in me to make the moves after all. I unfurled a frozen hand from my pocket and…
And then put it back in my pocket. Clearly, I don't have it in me. Am to be plagued by self-doubt until my dying day, it seems. Pathetic. Felt like throwing myself over the wall and into the icy depths of the river. At least then I wouldn't have to be sick of myself all the time.
However… I obviously didn't throw myself to my death. She hadn't witnessed my indecision, so I was free to brace myself and try something else that was not so very desperate. I crossed my arms and rested them atop the wall, mimicking her posture, deciding that I could, at least, talk.
'What did your friends in the pub say when you said who you were with?'
Her eyes snapped from the river to mine straight away. I raised my eyebrows in a flippant manner to show I was prepared for what was to come.
'Well,' she began, a tentative, apologetic smile forming, 'they were mostly reduced to incoherent jibbers, but I think Neville was checking my eyes for signs of Imperio.'
Hah. Very funny, Longbottom.
'Are you under Imperio?'
She shrugged. 'You tell me,' she added cheekily, laughing.
I let out an amused breath; near enough a laugh, but not quite. Of course her friends would want to check her for signs of Dark magic.
'Maybe we should take you to St. Mungo's and get you certified fit, curse-free and sound of mind?' I suggested as airily as I could.
'Oh, that won't be necessary.'
Suddenly, she was shuffled right up to my side. Felt some of my earlier preoccupation dissolve then. How could it not when she was pressed against me and I could smell that perfume I'd expertly crafted/thrown together from scratch? Though it often seems like it, I'm not entirely dead inside.
And realising that no one was going to come along and helpfully Imperio me into action, I uncrossed my arms and put one around her shoulders. Before I could dwell on how different this small action made me feel, she made a small noise of appreciation and I decided to tell myself to shut up.
It helped.
And then…
'I'm cold,' she announced after a moment of quiet.
Cold. Right. I could no longer feel my hands, but was I complaining? Before an inexplicable sense of disappointment could really take hold, she looked up and said, 'Let's go somewhere warmer.' Then she was biting her lip indecisively, in two minds about something, and I… don't know what made me do it, but my fingers were under her chin and my thumb was pulling her bottom lip free.
'Yours… or mine?' she posed softly.
Considering I felt I might suddenly go into cardiac arrest, I nearly suggested St. Mungo's. But, cleverly maintaining my outward composure, I thought of my abode, and of the half empty Ogden's bottle I'd left open on the table, the cauldrons I had lying about, and the fact that I would have nothing to offer her apart from booze, and said, 'Yours.'
And, well… Don't think I should write anything more about what happened later on. Not as if I'm going to forget about it, is it? Can't stop bloody thinking about it. Anyway, I'd feel a bit of a perverted old man if I recounted a blow-by-blow account of what—
Oh dear. Unfortunate choice of… Oh well. No one will be reading this diary, of course; doesn't matter. But, maybe I'll up the ward count later on…
In any case, matters progressed to the point where it seemed… practical for me to stay. And believe me, no one was more surprised than I was. Surprised by myself, mostly. Yet, it's always easier for me to be around her when no one else is.
Wonder if she'd consent to only ever seeing me in private?
Of course, this new development is, naturally, threatening to add a further dimension to my indefatigable self-doubt, but I refuse to acknowledge it right now! No. There's no need. Won't go there. Can't.
Forget everything else. I shall simply concentrate on the feeling that I'm eagerly anticipating seeing her again.
My definition of eager of course—full of poise.
AN: Thanks for reading.