Chapter Eleven
Ron
Snape had microwaved her mash perfectly. She suspected he may have become quite used to microwave meals, but when she voiced her suspicion, he only shook his head and told her, "Too expensive," before unloading a petit pain and a lump of cheese onto his duvet. He seemed in better spirits, now that they were back at the B&B. And by better spirits, Hermione meant that he had volunteered to heat her dinner, as well as spoken to her without looking as though he was about to snap her neck in two.
They'd pushed their beds together and laid out the picnic dinner between them, Hermione sitting cross-legged on her bed, Snape sitting at an awkward angle on his. He hadn't protested when she'd slid her mattress against his, though Hermione pretended not to notice the way his sallow skin flushed pink across his cheekbones.
"Well, Miss Granger," Snape said once he'd downed the last remnants of his foul mood with a bit of bread and butter and a full litre of water, "I think it's your turn."
"My turn for what?" She took a bit of his bread and scooped potato onto his plate in recompense.
"You say you've been honest with me," he said, "but unless I am mistaken, you've told me nothing over the past two days."
"That's because nothing's happened," Hermione replied, her ears growing hot.
"You say that—"
"You know that," Hermione replied, fighting down a smile. "You're trying to ask me about myself and you don't know how. I suppose small talk isn't your forte?"
"It's not something I'm very used to."
Sad, Hermione thought, hoping her pity didn't show on her face. She stuffed a bit of bread into her cheek and swallowed before saying, "What do you want to know?"
Snape beat the rim of his plate with the tines of his fork, thinking.
"What did you study at A-level?" he asked.
"Chemistry," Hermione replied immediately, "Biology, Maths, History, and English."
"Five?"
"I was ambitious," Hermione replied. "If it makes you feel better, I failed them all except for Maths. And in that one I got a 'C,' which might as well be failing."
"Why?" Snape said, looking honestly confounded.
Hermione shrugged and swept a finger around her plate, bringing up the last remnants of mash, still feeling ravenous.
"That's when it happened," she said. "I couldn't focus. History was a disaster. I got almost every detail I could've wrong, and babbled for near-half of my answers."
"Do you still have your exam?" Snape asked, eyebrows furrowed.
"No," Hermione replied. "They don't exactly give them back. Though knowing my luck it's stuck to the wall in the examiner's office or something as a comedy piece. Why?" She sucked her finger, bit her nail. "Do you think it might be useful?"
"Do you remember any of what you wrote?"
"Not an iota," Hermione said. "Only thing I do remember is looking down to find the pages filled with rubbish, and that they sent me to the school nurse because I was soaked with sweat and they thought I might pass out."
She shoved her plate aside and smothered a hiccough with the back of her hand. "Your turn."
"I think I've made enough of an arse of myself over the past few days," Snape replied.
"Not nearly," she said. She took a hold of her bare feet with her hands and leant forward. "Stupid for stupid. Tell me something ridiculous you've done. It's only fair."
Snape didn't smile. He didn't laugh, or groan, or refuse. He just looked at her, his dark eyes steady, glassy, almost wet.
Hermione gripped hard onto her toes, suddenly uncomfortable. Suddenly feeling a bit odd. Not handsome, she reminded herself. Also, grumpy arse.
"Sleep walking," she suggested, attempting to allay the sudden awkwardness of this conversation. "Or anything else out of the ordinary. It's most likely very important that we make a note of such things."
Snape shuffled for a moment, and leant against the headboard, looking unwilling to open his mouth, until he finally said, "I jumped off the roof."
Hermione almost fell backward off the bed. Her face flaming, she rushed to say, "I didn't mean sui—"
"No," he said. His hand gripped the edge of the pillow, his knuckles white. "It was an accident."
"At your house?" Hermione breathed.
"Yes. There was no reason for me to be up there. I just thought I could…"
"Fly," Hermione said for him.
He nodded. Their eyes met again, and she suddenly felt a bit sick.
"Did you have a broomstick, by chance?" she asked, dropping her gaze to the duvet cover.
At least he didn't snort, but his reply was a most definite, "No."
"Hm," Hermione said. Her diary was in her rusksack on the other side of the room. She couldn't be bothered to get up and retrieve it. "What else?"
"I don't think so," Snape said. "Your turn."
"You've read my diary," she protested.
"The first few pages of your diary," he said (a bit quickly, actually. Was he blushing again?), then repeated, "Your turn."
She frowned and ran her thumb along the scar on her left arm.
"I bought my parents plane tickets to Australia for their anniversary."
Snape scoffed. "That's not embarrassing."
"They were one-way," she said, and finally, he laughed. It wasn't even mean. More mirthful, like he wasn't actually laughing at her, even though she suspected he was.
"What did they say?" he asked.
"They absolutely loved the gift," she said, allowing herself her own self-deprecating smile, "at least, until they realised two weeks before they were to leave that the tickets didn't include a return trip. They weren't exactly happy to pay twice again what I had spent in the first place, but I still managed to talk them into going." Her hands were going sweaty, remembering the e-mails that had flooded her inbox: her parents tanned and smiling in front of Sydney Harbour Bridge; a koala bear clinging to her terrified father's front; her mum, tanned and smiling, arms framing a termite mound in Queensland—both her parents looking the happiest they had in years, finally free of their daughter.
Her smile must have faltered, because she looked up to find Snape observing her with concern. Or perhaps jealousy? It was impossible to read him.
"What should we do tomorrow?" Hermione asked. "I was thinking about going back to the village—"
"I'm done here," Snape said. "As far as I'm concerned, we can move on."
"Yes, but—"
"Reading now," Snape cut her off, climbing to his feet. He took his bed frame in his hands and began to drag it backwards until the legs notched into the dents in the floor, then pulled it a further two inches toward the window. He slid his plate onto the bedside table and collapsed onto the protesting mattress, flipped open the book she had assigned to him, and said, face and voice completely impassive, "Then we can talk about what we go from here. And perhaps," he added, his tone dead, his eyes fixed on the blank inside cover of the book, "it is time for you to start thinking about going home. Your family must miss you."
Hermione chewed for a moment on nothing, not knowing how on earth to answer that, not wanting to admit out loud that she wasn't sure they did.
"Severus," she said, "what happened to your parents?"
Her only answer was a flipped page.
She scooted back in her bed, the covers bunching around her knees.
"We'll talk tomorrow," she said, her face burning, knowing she'd said something wrong.
"Tomorrow," was his only reply, and with that, they both buried themselves in their books.
She was in the forest again. It was night, and cold, as bitter as the day she and Snape had come upon the deer, but she was inside. In a bed, a creaky one, swaying on its leg like she was high up, close to the ceiling.
She lifted a hand. Her fingers hit canvas.
"Hermione?"
Her head did, too.
"Ron?" she said.
"Hey." She couldn't see him but she knew he was there. She could feel the indent on her mattress, his elbows digging into the springs. The lower bunk creaked as he shifted on his feet, sending up a puff of must and cat wee.
"What's going on?" Hermione asked.
"Were you asleep?"
"I still am." She stretched out a hand, her fingers trembling, then withdrew, afraid her bones would go straight through him. Was this real? She wasn't here. She was, but she wasn't. She was aware where she ought to have been, in that little B&B with Snape, Mrs Jones, and the landlady's yappy dog snoring on the floor below.
"Ron," Hermione said, testing the name again. Her head hurt, like a motor in her mind was trying and failing to turn over, all its gears grinding. "Who are you?"
Concern: "Are you all right?"
Her forehead was splitting.
"Here," Ron said. "Incendio."
A lantern at Hermione's bedside flared to life, but its light only travelled so far. Only the canvas wall, her bed, the posts. Everything beyond it was a morning-grey, faded-out, like it ceased to exist. She knew where she was, but she didn't know how she knew. As far as she could see, she was in her own little pocket, the light failing to reach anywhere and anyone outside of it.
Anyone except him.
Hermione tried not to gasp but couldn't help it. The shining red hair, brilliant even in the lamplight. Freckles splashed across his cheeks and nose. He'd just pocketed something, and moved to fold his big hands in front of himself on the mattress, just an inch away from her covered knee.
"You left us," Hermione said.
His expression flickered—hardness, regret.
"Yeah, I know," he said uneasily. "We've gone over that."
"You left us."
"Hermione?"
Hermione lay back down, flat on her back, stared at the ceiling, only moving when she felt Ron crawl in beside her, propped on his side, still very carefully not laying a hand on her.
"You can do magic," she breathed.
She jumped—Ron's hand was on her forehead, feeling for a fever. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked.
No, she certainly wasn't. She was feeling sick, and dizzy, like the bed was going to spin out from under her, throw her off, send her flying.
She found the leg of his trousers and clutched tight to the fabric.
"We need a place to meet," she said. "If we're separated again."
"I'm not-"
"We need it, Ron," she insisted.
"Okay, okay," he whispered. His hand was around her ear now, so warm she wanted to cry. "The Burrow. We'll meet at the Burrow. Okay?"
"The Burrow in Devon," Hermione replied.
"Er, yes, the Burrow in Devon." The smoothing motion of his hand over her hair stopped. The bed wobbled violently, and she clutched harder. He didn't seem to notice. "Did you have a bad dream?" he asked. "I'm not leaving you again."
"That's the thing, Ron," she said. "Yes, you are."
The bed gave one final spin and he was gone, the tent was gone, the lantern light was gone. She was on the floor at the bed and breakfast, grey morning light easing through the windows, Snape standing over her in his loosened dressing gown, face unreadable.
"You were dreaming again," he said. "What did you see?"
"Him," she said. She stood, tripped, the blankets curling around her ankles, grabbing tight. "I need to go," she said.
"Go where?" he asked as she flung her purse, her notebook, and her phone into her bag.
"The Burrow. I'm going to find him, and I'm going to bring him back with me. Severus…" Her voice faltered; Snape had gone shimmery, a big black oil slick spread across her field of vision. "I'm going to find Ron."
