Chapter Thirty-seven: Man's Best Friend, With a Twist
redacted lyrics fromFumbling Towards Ecstasy, Sarah McLachlan
It was so cathartic. Hermione had never been able to scream before, not without worrying about whether anyone could be listening. She had tried it once before, but after hardly any time she had found herself focusing more on who could possibly hear her than her own anguish. Right now, though, she stumbled toward the lake, pausing periodically to holler soundlessly at the moon and its reflection on the water, safe in the knowledge that no one would hear her cries—not even herself.
She wasn't even sure of what she would do once she reached the water—but the shimmering reflection displayed on it suddenly looked very attractive as a target. Irrationally, she decided she would destroy it—attack it, vaporize it, make it non-reflective—in any way she could. Just as she had marched up to the very edge of the shore, however, she felt a strong hand pull her away from the water.
"That water is freezing!" Severus Snape practically yelled in her face. "What do you think you're doing!"
Hermione hadn't thought it was possible to get any angrier, but at that moment she hadn't wanted anything more than to throw herself into the lake and pound on the surface of the water with all her strength. Snape could barely tolerate her in this time period, and she was certain that he almost loathed her in hers—so why had he bothered to stop her? All of the vile hatred she had been directing toward the dispassionate moon transferred itself immediately to the thin boy who still had a firm grasp on her shoulder.
She tore herself away from him and fumbled in her clothes for her wand, forgetting in her blind fury that she'd silenced herself. The violence of her emotions made her clumsy, and by the time she'd found her weapon Snape had already drawn his.
"Expelliarmus!" he said, his normally rich voice sounding hollow—yet calm, frighteningly calm. It had an effect on her, even though at that moment she welcomed her anger, nurtured it like her own child. Hermione could feel some of it draining away as she responded instinctively to his demeanor, and she made baleful eye contact with her future professor. She opened her mouth to wither him with exactly what she thought of his intrusion, but he simply raised an expressive eyebrow. Right. I can't talk.
Hermione crossed her arms defensively, not stupid enough to go looking for her wand, but hating him for insinuating himself into the situation.
"I have no intention of terminating that spell," he informed her. Hermione tipped her head insolently to the side as if to ask him what he did intend. Snape almost looked as if he didn't know, and it dawned on her that she didn't really need a wand to release her aggression on a simple patch of water in the lake. Hermione turned and quite deliberately rushed toward the water again.
"Hermia!" he called—and this time she almost fell into the water in shock. He sounded…his voice was raw, and it occurred to her that she might not have been the only one out wrestling with emotions tonight. She wheeled around, asking him if he intended to hex her in what would have been a challenging voice—but of course, nothing came out.
"Whatever it is, it can't be bad enough to go swimming in that thing," Snape said, his tone of voice comforting to her by the very fact that he sounded absolutely disgusted that he was trying to deter her. It was much more like the Snape she knew and expected to see, anyway—he just didn't know how wrong he was.
"You have no idea," she mouthed to him silently, shaking her head.
"Look—" he began, and then shook his head, threw up his arms, and stalked off toward the castle. Hermione felt almost as if she'd just missed out on something important—but out of the corner of her eye, she saw the dark figure stop.
It was a singular moment—with her wand lost somewhere in the grass, and Snape's back to her, there was no way she could influence his decision to come back. That made it all the more meaningful when the young man turned and slowly walked back in her direction. As he did so, Hermione felt her vindictive rage ebb away.
Something had made Severus Snape choose to follow Voldemort. She knew him—albeit not very well—from her own time, and he had never struck her as acquisitive, nor had he seemed very ambitious. As a Potions Master, he could have had a job anywhere in Europe—as a former Death Eater even; not every nation had as strong a sentiment against Voldemort as Britain, which was part of the problems they faced in fighting him.
By the time Snape reached her on the shore, Hermione's anger had transitioned into a deep sadness for what fate had in store for the people she knew in her time as well as this one—all of them.
Hermione felt helpless. This man was not one to appreciate physical expressions in any way, shape, or form—and she couldn't make a sound. There simply wasn't any way that she could reach out to him, tell him she appreciated the effort it had taken him to come back to her. Remembering he disliked 'foolish wand waving' and other overly demonstrative gestures, Hermione simply stood and waited, reasonably certain that he hadn't walked back twenty yards in order to insult her.
"I don't know what your situation is," he began bluntly, an odd note of sympathy warring with the typical sarcasm that was usually found in his voice. "However, as someone who has looked in the face of great anger and stared it down, I encourage you not to give in to its desire to turn you into a slave of physical aggression."
As he'd spoken, Snape had seemed to look past her into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, eyes narrowing as though challenging his own demons to duel with him again. She stood transfixed, unable and unwilling to disturb this shocking glimpse into the mind of an intensely private man. Hermione thought she understood what he meant about fury having a will of its own; not ten minutes earlier she had been desperate to leave some sort of tangible monument to her rage, even if it had meant destroying something or half-drowning herself in the lake.
Severus' focus returned to her, and he looked into her eyes searchingly, as though he needed to find the darkness held in check. She met his steady gaze bravely; on a whim she brought the terrible knowledge she held of his future to the forefront, wondering if he could see the truth of it reflected in the moonlight.
"Do not let it win," Snape said, almost urgently—and she shivered. "All of us have…memories…" he seemed to struggle with the word, "that make us want to scream at an uncaring sky."
oOoOoOoOo
Sirius woke on Saturday morning feeling forlorn. Hermia hadn't come back before he'd finally given up and gone to bed, and while he certainly didn't expect her to check in with him before doing anything she felt she had to do, he still felt unhappy that he hadn't gotten to see her before he'd gone to sleep. After her abrupt departure from the dinner table, he and the others had all questioned each other for nearly an hour trying to figure out what was wrong—and Remus had looked especially pensive during that conversation.
He told himself he was not jealous, just worried about his girlfriend.
Without bothering to look at the clock, he pulled the bedcurtains and decided that the bright sunlight having nearly crossed the floor all the way to Peter's bed meant it was time for everyone to get up.
"Oi!" he called out, "last one out of bed is a grumpy old house-elf!" Sirius knew just the right name to call one, too.
"Yes, sir," the weary voice of Remus Lupin replied in a rather good house-elf imitation for someone woken by a loud 'Oi.' Sirius looked at the other two beds; he could see Peter's leg sticking out from below the crimson curtains, the bare foot tapping about on the floor, searching for a slipper—and James…well, he wouldn't put it past his best friend to have charmed his own bedcurtains to be Imperturbable.
The honorary Potter stood and padded over to James' four-poster, trying to ignore the amusing sight of Wormtail attempting to don his slippers without looking (one foot had managed to slide in halfway, but the slipper itself was upside-down). Sirius leaned as close to the Gryffindor decorated material as he dared, hearing Remus muttering that he would claim to have still been asleep if he lost a limb trying to wake Prongs.
"Come on, James—time to wake up and decide what we're going to do on Wednesday," he dangled, knowing that his friend loved their adventures during the full moon.
"Mmmff," was the only reply, followed by a light snore not a minute later. James always could sleep anywhere.
"D'you think he only hexed them to keep humans out?" Sirius asked Remus and Peter (who had finally managed to emerge from bed, slippers and all) thoughtfully.
"You wouldn't, Pettigrew gasped, realizing the implications in the question.
"Well now he will," Lupin said, shaking his head in consternation. Sirius winked devilishly at him, knowing that Remus could catch the play of emotions he felt, because of how close it was to the full moon. He never could resist a dare.
"What if someone—" Peter began to protest, but Sirius had already transformed into Padfoot and was nosing under the drapes in search of James' bare feet. His friend had not been clever enough to ward his bed against dogs, and Sirius made the most of it, finding exposed skin and touching his nose to it quickly before backing off—he didn't want a broken nose when he turned back into a human. Potter's squeal of indignation was like music to his ears. Considering the fact that James would most certainly learn from his mistake and improve his wards for next time, Sirius decided to make the most of it.
Padfoot leapt onto James' bed and played happy puppy, enthusiastically licking the protesting boy's face in his best imitation of Man's Best Friend, With a Twist.
oOoOoOoOo
Hermione had slept well, which had been a surprise. After Snape's unexpected and poignant statements to her, she'd watched him walk away from her with tears in her eyes. Just as she hadn't really thought about Sirius or the others having had friendships or relationships (Oh, Merlin, that's ME now, isn't it?) before becoming involved in the events she knew so well, she hadn't spent any time contemplating what must have been Snape's awful childhood. She'd known she couldn't ask—not the least of reasons being that she had still been under Silencio—and his quiet dignity had felt to her as something quite inviolate.
She had been quite grateful when he'd thoughtfully Accio'd her wand and carefully dropped it at his feet before moving on, pausing just long enough for her to mark the position. Hermione looked over at the magical object as it sat on the small stand by her bed. It seemed painfully ironic to her that the only people to have touched it in this time were herself, Snape, and Peter—the latter having caught the wand as it slipped from her robes while they waited for Transfiguration class a week before. She suppressed the wild urge to snatch it up and hand it 'round at luncheon that day, if only to set her mind at ease. Hermione hated superstition—but she was aware of certain…prejudicial feelings…nonetheless.
"Ye shouldn' sleep wi' tha curtains open, ye know," Fiona remarked when she saw that Hermione was awake.
"Oh?" she asked, sitting up and smiling at the woman she was certain had to be Seamus' mother—they had the same eyes. McCready nodded sagely, and Hermione wondered what sort of strange reason the Irishwoman was going to come out with, especially as she had been thinking about superstitions just a minute before. However, Fiona managed to surprise and shock her at the same time:
"Ye migh' talk in yer sleep."
"Do I talk in my sleep?" Hermione asked, horrified at the thought.
"D'ye think I'd let on if ye did?" Fiona laughed heartily. "Good source o' infermation, that." Hermione resisted the urge to throw a pillow at the other girl, unsure of who would win if she started something physical.
"Remind me not to do anything that could be considered 'blackmail material' around you, then," Hermione teased.
"I won'," the redhead replied baldly, giving a little wave as she headed through the dormitory door and down the staircase.
Of course you won't, Hermione thought to herself with a chuckle. I wonder if there is any way I could introduce you to the Weasley twins… She never before thought to consider it a great tragedy that certain people that would have been very well-suited to be friends had been born so far apart as to never meet each other.
She stretched lazily and got up, realizing all of a sudden that she was ravenously hungry. Hermione dressed hurriedly, tossing on a sweater that she'd bought out of sheer sentimentality—the color was exactly the same as that Mrs. Weasley used for Ron's Christmas sweaters. She wasn't exactly sure how she'd explain her tearful exit from dinner the night before, but she wasn't as worried about it as she thought she would be. Her friends were good, kind, and forgiving people—and she didn't think she wanted to go another minute without seeing Sirius again.