I am back from the realms of AP European history, for better or for worse. Here's a long-awaited chapter! Enjoy, and welcome me back in a comment, please!

Chapter 29

As he expected, Snape saw practically nothing of Granger for a good long while. In class, she refused to raise her hand—horrors!--and consequently he did not call upon her. If he ever caught sight of her in the halls, heading his way, she would sidestep into a convenient corridor and prevent an encounter. If they did have to pass within a particular vicinity of each other, she never dared to look into his eyes. He was slightly amused by her mortification, but was nevertheless uncomfortable with the fact that she had taken such a liberty as she had. She had better be humiliated. The girl has to get a grip on herself or she'll never survive in this world. Too many men in my place would exploit her after that experience. If I were in the Ministry . . . good Merlin, she'd be pregnant by now.

However, as much as he thought about the experience with Hermione, he remained blissfully unresponsive to her display of affection, as impassive mentally as he had been physically the moment she had introduced it. I've had a good deal of practice not going all aflutter with the stupid girls swooning after me for years—so now when a smart one does, I'm not susceptible. It gave him confidence to realize this, and an unusual readiness to endure her apprenticeship. Somewhat in the manner that a woman on a diet would be able to say—aha, bring out the donuts and put them on the table, but I won't ever touch them because I hate donuts now!--he was able to tell himself that, absolutely, he would not fall into her grasp. He had no desire to do so, after contemplating long and hard about whether he ought to or not. Besides, every time the notion that he might fall in her snares repulsed him as soon as he remembered Lily.

Lily. Still, even after he had resolved to forget her, she still haunted him. Well, Rome wasn't built in a day, and I suppose it wasn't destroyed in one either. Sorry, Luna.

Snape was leaving the breakfast hall with Luna, two days after the strange encounter with Hermione, having a perfectly swimming conversation through legilimency.

-Of course it won't be easy. I never said it would, did I?

They were on their way to their respective destinations, which, coincidentally, were in a similar direction. Luna had transfiguration in a bit with Professor Percy, and Snape was headed to the teacher's lounge in order to meet Pince and with her visit Drosselmeyer again.

-I do not believe so. Nevertheless . . .

-You shouldn't be so bastardly.

-Bastardly? That adverb is not like you.

-They use it in a lot of old Victorian books.

-Hmph. More like dastardly, dear.

-Well, if you say so.

-You shouldn't have interrupted in the first place.

-I'm sorry. But really, you shouldn't expect so much of yourself.

Snape snorted with slight amusement.

-Not as though you have the right to talk! You're barely of age and already are in charge of a business, and a major media publisher no less! You're unique in that except for the Weasley twins, and god knows what they've become.

-I really feel very sorry for George.

-So do I.

-It must be terrible to be separated from what is virtually half of one. Just as bad as tearing apart with a horocrux, probably.

-Imagine the damned dark lord, splitting his soul into seven.

They reflected in moderate mental silence the terror the man must have faced, though Snape felt no compassion, and Luna only the hint of it.

-You were talking about Allen Hiller the other day. What else did he do?

-You mean Hitler. Adolf Hitler.

-Yeah, him.

-He's the best historical comparison to Voldemort I can find. The terrible thing about him is, he wrote a book about what he intended to do, what his philosophy was—how he hated Jews and such, and that he thought they should all die—but the mere fact that he was a good orator was what mainly brought him to the office of chancellor of Germany under President Hindenberg. He was especially good at the propaganda the people needed while in the middle of a depression. Hindenberg was keeping him in check, predominantly, until the old man died—and then the devil came out of the man entirely and Hitler began his crusade against capitalism and communism. And basically everyone who was not an 'Aryan' or German. People say that he was a Jew, though,(1) which serves as ironically as the fact that Voldemort was a half-blood. Like me.

-But I probably would have been okay, if I lived back then, right?

-Well, actually, wizardkind was really little effected by the World Wars, which I think very strange. It seems we barely noticed it except for the depression. None of us went to war, as far as I know. It was just a bunch of Muggle foolishness, or so everyone has written. But based on what I've gathered over the years . . . it was really quite traumatizing. What with trench warfare and all. Can you imagine, living for months in a dirt trench in the middle of nowhere, dead bodies falling all about . . . you think OUR battles are bad, just read something about the Muggles and what THEY do to each other. Plus their nuclear weapons . . . oh Merlin.

He shuddered visibly at the thought, and thought fervently, in a manner somewhat akin to a prayer but not particularly addressed to a god, that neither he nor Luna would live (himself metaphorically) to see a day where the world was under nuclear attack.

-So, basically, we're lucky we survived at all?

-Exactly. Actually, there was quite a lot of damage to British wizarding communities due to the bombings and such, especially in London, but the Ministry thought it proper to hush it all up to keep the peace. Those idiot politicians. If we went into another depression, they'd never even admit it.

-Mind if I join the conversation?

The strange voice impeded suddenly through their mutual thoughts, and Snape and Luna's unity broke. They both spun around, to face the Bloody Baron.

"Sorry, I could not but help it," he apologized, a frigid grin gracing his face.

Luna had not spoken much to the Bloody Baron before, but was unafraid of him entirely. "Good day, Baron," she declared politely, curtsying in an old-fashioned manner not unbecoming to her. "It was more of a history lesson than anything else."

"Oh, I daresay I could tell you much about history," the old ghost sighed dismally, "Though I do believe some of the facts have gotten a bit muddled over the years. Speaking of history, have you seen Binns lately?"

Snape could see where this was headed. Since his last heart-to-heart with the Fat Friar, he had rather avoided the other ghosts. The Friar's . . . idiosyncrasies . . . rather put him ill-at-ease with the rest of the ghosts, and he had not been to Eden, even for his meals, in a good many days. Surrounding himself with live people, in essence, to forget his own wretched state of deadness. Doubtless, the Baron and others were slighted at his lack of company.

"I actually have been keeping an eye on Binns," he said, albeit apologetically. In fact, Binns was the only ghost Snape had been even close to socializing with for weeks. Although, of course, this was mainly because the history professor was the only other ghost who ever took his evaporated meals in the Great Hall with the other teachers. Even so, Binns was morbidly depressed, going about his duties with a transparent sense of willingness that held no basis with anyone who knew him. Actually, so few people really cared to know him that Snape did not think that anyone else had come to notice.

"He looks a right sad sight, and no one knows why," the Baron replied, twisting his lacy cuff ponderously. "Granted, he never was the most cheery of people, but he always used to be somewhat less . . . well, dead." The ghost's icy, false laughter rang through the halls, disturbing even with the background noise of lively chatter in the Great Hall, which was not far off from where they were. His morbid sense of humor began to grate on Snape, who wondered if the other ghost could make any puns besides those involving death. "In all seriousness, though, you have seen his most obvious change in attitude?"

"Rather," Snape admitted.

Luna decided to get in a word edgewise. "But I should be rather more worried about Friar Honnete, would you not say?"

Leave it to Luna to be the only student in the school who calls the Hufflepuff ghost by his real name. She hates epithets to the point where she refuses to use them on others, I fancy.

The Baron gave a sharp laugh. This morning, he seemed to assert as good a humor as he ever could have. "Oh, I shouldn't worry about him. The poor jolly man gets like this periodically, but always bounces back in a few years, none the worse for wear. He just gets to pondering too often; I daresay he prays too much. You don't get any less dead by asking God for forgiveness, but he keeps on trying on the off-chance that he's been a sole mistake."

"God Makes No Mistakes" Snape remembered Honnete had said, nevertheless.

"Though King George knows why he's down here with such lousy sinners as us," continued the Baron, unusually garrulous.

Again, he laughed, though no less nasal or forced than the other times. Unused to this strange pseudo-optimistic streak, Snape nodded curtly. "I see. Well, that was his own explanation of it himself, so I fear I cannot elaborate. Binns does seem quite ill in the mind, however, I would agree."

"Well, I suppose I just might kill two birds with one stone, so to say; inform you of one of the strangest things to happen to a ghost, prove there is still a chance beyond this life, and also to let you know why, come my next deathday, I will be gone." Snape had remembered the conversation he had with Binns very vividly unto this day, and the words sprung to his brain instantly. He had mused over them very much since their utterance, and was somewhat saddened at the idea that the poor history professor's life had been so deuced unlucky.

"It's not as though he has any especial reason to be happy," he suggested, and hoped the Baron might pick up on the hint. The ghost did not.

"No, but, then, none of us do!" Again, the false, hideous high laugh. Snape wanted to leave the Baron rather soon.

"We ought to go," Luna declared, perceptive and considerate as ever, "Good day to you, Baron!"

"Good day to you too, mademoiselle, Snape," the ghost nodded to them both, then, seeing himself dismissed, floated away the direction he came.

"Wait, Baron?" This came from the girl. Curious, Severus wondered what she intended to do.

The Baron turned, a hint of arsenic annoyance lacing his voice. "Prithee, what is it?"

In the most congenial, artfully innocuous voice for which many lauded her, Luna queried: "Have you talked to the Grey Lady since the Battle?"

Unable to dodge the impetuous inquisition, which was clearly a Dumbledore-like jab of revenge for his own impertinence, the Baron growled in return. "Why ever so? I never have been to her 'standard'; she condemns me for my past actions even now . . . and she blames me for having lost the confounded diadem that made her abandon her mother. We have not spoken more than a hundred words in the nigh three hundred years we have resided here, in death." As he spoke, he advanced towards them again, every vaporous muscle on his frame twitching, every link of every chain on his body melodious. "Little girl," he reprimanded, "I wear chains that she has virtually draped around me, that she condones to see on me. Why on earth would I have anything to say to her?"

"You love her," suggested the girl, insouciant.

The stony anger evaporated from the Baron's tone, and he chose to laugh again, painful and contracted. "I did, did I not?" he rhetorically pronounced, then unexpectedly drew a heavy breath and began to recite. "You call it, Love lies bleeding, -- so you may, Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day, From month to month, life passing not away:
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops, (Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvelous power) Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent, Earthward in uncomplaining languishment, The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!" He stopped abruptly, incredulous of his own self. "Wordsworth," he admitted in wistful attribution, then made a suggestion to leave.

"Talk to her," insisted Luna of the persuasive eyes. "Do at least try. Things might be different, now that the diadem is no longer an obstacle to stand between you."

Curtly nodding, with a queer look in his eye, the Baron again testified his salutations and dispensed on his merry way.

Luna poked her thoughts into Severus' phantasmal brain, to resume their conversation as they went along their own path.

-No one else could have said that to him and got away with it besides yourself, Luna.

-Said what? I said nothing but the truth!

-Well, for many people, they know the truth, but don't like other people to divulge it to them.

-Perhaps. I daresay you know from experience?

(Snape cringed noticeably.)

-You are most perceptive.

-Well, I think we ought to do something for poor Binns. At least cheer him up a bit.

- Your legilimency is definitely improving, Luna; notice you did not struggle as much this time as before. But as to Binns, he won't need our cheer, and likely won't want a penny of it. He's going to be leaving earth relatively soon.

-Oh? How?

-Some strange phenomenon. We don't have an explanation for it, but he'll be gone upon his next deathday, whenever it is.

-Oh. Well, we should still do something for the Friar. Maybe we can help him so he doesn't get depressed anymore. It can't be healthy for him, going all melancholy like he does. I know, I feel terrible when I'm depressed.

-It's truly wretched.

"I need to think about something to help him."

This Luna spoke aloud, looking at her friend and teacher knowingly.

"If you could contrive some plot that would actually succeed . . ." replied Snape carefully, measuring his enthusiasm. He liked the notion more than he cared to admit; from his own experiences, he liked to get support in his worst times as much as he usually fought against it initially. He doubted that the Friar would fight against any advances on Luna's part, either.

"I think I can make anything succeed," proposed Luna delicately. "I'll see you later; let me know all about the experience with the Weasleys."

"For certain, Luna."

They parted, with a benevolent smile on the girl's part and a reflection of it in the old potion master's heart.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

This was kinda a catching-up chapter. Checking in with a lot of characters I haven't touched on in a while. A few political concepts, too. Hope you enjoyed; next one will be very long. I assure you. Thanks for sticking on the boat!