Chapter Twenty: Pete fell in…
Day Three Hundred Eighty
The orange did not sit very well on the table. She'd probably intended it as some sort of grand gesture, but as soon as she placed the orange in the center of the table beside Severus's armchair, it rolled off and hit the ground. Sighing impatiently, Hermione leaned down and picked it up, holding it out in her hand as she rose. "Here," she said, not ungently.
Severus eyed the orange suspiciously. She had, as was her custom, barged into his office unannounced, walked over to the chair he was sitting in, and was now standing in front of him, looking simultaneously cross and hopeful. "Were the kitchens all out of olive branches?" he asked dryly.
"It was the last one," she warned. "So if you don't eat it, I will."
Something inside him admitted defeat and Severus Summoned her usual chair from its place near his desk. Taking the orange from her hand, he began to peel it. "Sit, will you?" His voice was not nearly as irritated as he'd hoped it would be. "You're hovering like a damned ninny."
Looking entirely too satisfied, Hermione complied, folding her legs under herself as she sat. But she did not speak, and, for that, Severus was grateful.
Because if she'd come here to talk, he had more than a vague idea of what she wanted to talk about, and he would rather sever any one (or two) of his own limbs before discussing any of that. He dropped orange rind carelessly on the floor and slid a thumbnail in between two wedges, attempting to free one.
"This morning," she began, speaking so slowly that Severus had more than enough time to hand her a slice of orange before she was finished, "…oh, thank you," she told him, picking off the stray strings. "But, this morning, at breakfast, Harry…" She grinned at him and her voice was rich with suppressed laughter. "Harry looked at me as if he'd seen a ghost."
With a grimace, Severus shook his head and popped his orange slice into his mouth. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"
"I thought of it when I was down in the kitchens," she admitted. "But it's true. When he came in, he just stopped and stared at me. And he put his elbow in the butter dish, too. Well, that came later, of course."
He gave her another orange wedge. "He asked me what day it was," he said, flicking a leftover bit of rind into the fireplace. "A few todays ago."
"Just confirms my suspicion," Hermione replied, running a finger down one side of her piece of orange, probably to assure herself it was clean. "Harry is beginning to remember. I wonder how long it will take."
"It took you far longer than me," he told her, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. "But you have ample excuse for that. With Potter… well, he hasn't undergone any particular trauma, but he is spectacularly stupid, so it's anyone's guess."
Frowning, she drummed her fingers on her knee. "Harry is not stupid."
"Unobservant, then," he said mildly. "Besides, it's not as if we have a formula for any of this. It could be days, it could be years." Moodily, he separated another slice of orange from the rest and began pulling bits off, smoothing his fingers over it as he worked.
"I don't know whether to talk to him or not," she said. "About… the loop, I mean. It could do more harm than good."
With a small shrug, he considered what she'd just said. "I don't see how. And, really, once he's had everything confirmed, it might…"
Her face was pale, nervous looking. "I don't want to talk to him," she said quietly. "I don't want to have to tell him. He'll be angry, and then I won't be able…" She did not complete her thought, and he didn't know enough about the situation to even begin to have an idea of what she meant.
"Leave it, then," he told her after a long pause. "Potter will work it all out on his own, eventually."
"With Harry remembering, it makes me wonder how many other people are, too," she said, fidgeting with the sleeve of her robe and not meeting his eyes.
"It only makes sense, I suppose," he replied, turning the now-clean orange wedge over and over in his hands. "Probably, if we make it long enough, everyone will know. It might make luncheon conversation slightly more endurable. Less repetitive, at least." Absently, he offered her the orange.
Startled, she glanced at it. "Oh," she said in a tone he could not quite discern. "Thank you, Severus." As she reached out to take it, her fingers brushed his, and he did not pull away as quickly as he should have.
Day Three Hundred Ninety-Six
Pritchard always brewed with his head down. Most of the other students in the class were constantly looking about, talking to each other, consulting their texts, but not Pritchard. Contenting himself with the occasional glance up at the chalkboard, he kept his gaze otherwise firmly fixed on his workbench, chopping, grating, stirring in utter silence.
Even a hundred todays ago, Severus would have dismissed this as dedication to the art and possibly even mentally praised Pritchard for his diligence. But on this today, as he watched Thomas Ashcroft tease and torment his way through more than half of the students in the room, he recognized Pritchard's behavior as nothing but pure, unadulterated fear.
He was afraid of everything and everyone, it seemed. As he cautiously made his way to the back of the classroom, eyes lowered, his body seemed impossibly small, unconsciously presenting as inconspicuous a target as he could. "Professor Snape," he said in that clipped accent of his. "I'm ready for boomslang skin, now, sir."
Ducking his head in an effort to make eye contact with the child, Severus held out the proper amount. "Here you go, Pritchard."
"Thank you, sir," he said quietly, taking the skin and holding it carefully in his palm.
"Is everything all right?" Severus heard himself ask, in a voice that might almost be characterized as kind. It was instinct and nothing else that caused him to speak.
Pritchard looked startled. "S-sir?" he stammered.
His mind raced — he could, if he chose, probably force an admission out of the boy this instant. Alternately, he could backtrack and convince Pritchard that he hadn't spoken and the boy was, in fact, hearing things. Instead, in a fit of strange behavior that could only be explained as too much time spent with Hermione Granger, he found himself giving Pritchard an out. "Your assignment," he replied, allowing impatience to creep into his expression. "Is it going sufficiently well?"
"Oh," Pritchard said, relief obvious. "Erm, y-yes. I think so."
Severus gave him a dismissive nod and turned to give one of the Ravenclaws her boomslang skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pritchard go back up to his table and drop the skin into his potion.
With a cry of surprise, the boy leapt back from his cauldron. Foam bubbled over its brim and began pouring over the table top and spilling onto the floor. Pritchard looked as if he were about to burst into tears.
"What is going on here?" Severus asked loudly, stalking over to the mess and leaning over the workbench. "Is there a problem, Pritchard?"
"Yes, sir," the boy whispered, sounding utterly miserable. "I — erm, there's been an accident."
"That, Pritchard," he said, "is obvious." He waved his wand over the dripping table, muttering "Evanesco," watching the potion disappear with satisfaction. As he continued to look down into the cauldron, he saw something glitter in its bottom. "What, pray tell, is this?" he asked dryly, fishing a small vial out and holding it in between his finger and his thumb.
Of course he recognized it as soon as it was in his hand, but he couldn't let his students know that.
"Erm, it's a vial, sir," Pritchard said quietly, sniffling. The child was going to cry.
"And what, Pritchard, was in this vial?"
A few tears ran down the boy's face. "Armadillo bile," he whispered.
Severus scowled. "This potion does not call for armadillo bile, Mr. Pritchard," he said sternly.
"I know, sir."
"Then what was it doing in your cauldron?" he asked.
He was not even attempting to hide his tears now, and his voice was thick with them. "I don't know, sir," Pritchard said, hiccupping slightly as he quietly wept.
"You don't know," Severus repeated dubiously.
And then he heard it.
A snigger.
Spinning around, he caught Thomas Ashcroft with a broad grin on his face. "Do you find something amusing here, Mr. Ashcroft?" he asked, a dangerous note in his voice as he took a step toward the boy, forgetting Pritchard's existence for the moment.
The smile slowly disappeared. "No, sir," Ashcroft replied, but Severus could hear the amusement in his tone persist.
"I would hate to think that you had anything to do with this… accident," he said, still quiet, stalking his potential victim. "Especially given that one of your Housemates is involved."
"I would hate to think that you thought such a thing, sir," Ashcroft said, lips curling.
Severus's frown deepened. "Do not try my patience, boy," he said, giving Ashcroft a final warning.
"Am I, Professor, sir?" he asked in reply, deviously innocent.
And with that, Severus snapped. "You hateful little bastard," he roared, grabbing the front of Ashcroft's robes in one hand and clutching the vial in his other. "You filthy, disgusting, execrable excuse for a child. Even Voldemort was probably less of a bullying little shit of a boy than you."
There was a collective gasp as he pronounced the Dark Lord's name.
"Yes," he continued, giving Ashcroft's collar a shake for good measure. "Don't think I haven't noticed you, Mr. Ashcroft. You conduct yourself no better than a common thug, and the only reason I have allowed you to continue taking up space at this school that could be put to far better uses is because I shudder to think of what your behavior would be if unchecked."
Severus released him, shoving him back against his workbench. Ashcroft's hands curled around the edge of the table, bracing himself as Severus continued to loom over him.
"Your mother may think your attitude is cute or maybe even precocious, but I assure you, Ashcroft, I do not. I do not approve of brutalizing children for no better reason than their mere presence, and I think that you would best benefit from a severe beating."
As he practically shouted this last, he saw Ashcroft's eyes widen.
The horrible little monster actually flinched.
Blinking, Severus glanced up and saw that the hand holding Pritchard's vial was now headed toward Ashcroft's face with startling speed. At the last moment, he pulled back slightly, allowing the vial to fall to the table.
It did not break.
It hit the table with a thudding sound and rolled off onto the stone floor where, again, it remained impossibly intact. Severus watched it spin around and felt hopeless, drained.
"Two hundred points from Slytherin, Ashcroft," he said, stepping away from the child. "But you'd better pray that whatever deity you worship helps you if I catch you so much as laying a finger on another student while you're at Hogwarts. Now, get back to work," he barked into the stunned silence in general. There was a loud flurry as students hastened back to their cauldrons.
Almost idly, he bent over and scooped up the empty vial, placing it into Pritchard's empty hands as he made his way back to the stores cabinets. Shaken, Pritchard fumbled with the vial, and Severus watched it fly out of his hands and land on the ground, shattering into an uncountable number of pieces. He suppressed the abruptly overwhelming urge to scream.
Day Four Hundred Two
"I can't stop it," Severus said moodily, staring down into his brandy.
"Excuse me?" Hermione sounded startled, but he did not look up, knowing that if he saw reproach in her eyes, he could not bring himself to continue.
"Every day," he began, draining his glass and removing his feet from their previous position propped on the top of his desk, "every day, Graham Pritchard breaks a vial containing armadillo bile. I have done everything I can think of to prevent it. I even tried to break it myself. The damn thing bounced off the wall when I threw it. It's not possible."
"Graham Pritchard?" she asked, after a pause.
Standing, he poured himself a refill, finally looking up to offer her the decanter. Her eyes were wide as she shook her head, and he could not tell what her expression meant. "He's one of my Slytherins. A fourth year."
Her shoulders shrugged, but only very slightly. "I know who he is," she said. "I remember all that from last year, with his trunk. Nasty business, that."
"You know?" Severus asked, collapsing into his desk chair. He was beginning to feel the effects of all of the alcohol, but he was determined not to care. "Even bloody Gryffindors know about the damned trunk?"
Again, the shrug. "Not everyone," she said. "It wasn't something that we wanted to make terribly public. But the prefects were mostly involved. Surely you remember."
Momentarily forgetting that Hermione was in the room, he covered his face with a hand. "I have no memory of the incident," he said heavily. "I'm sure I was there. I must have been. But I have no idea what you're talking about." He did not want to look at her.
"He was hysterical," she said. "Neither Malfoy nor any of the other Slytherin prefects could calm him down, so they called as many of us to the Slytherin common room as they could find. One of the Ravenclaws, I think, finally got into the room. It was awful."
"Are you going to tell me what happened, or am I eternally condemned to ignorant ineptitude?" he asked irritably.
It was a sign of how well she'd come to be able to gauge his moods that her voice was clear of anger as she replied. "Someone had dismembered his cat and put the whole thing back into his trunk," she said quietly.
"Ashcroft," Severus growled, curling his hand so tightly around his brandy that he fancied he could feel the glass give a bit under his grip.
"No one could prove anything," Hermione said. "And you… well, you told Graham that he should start locking his trunk."
Closing his eyes and snarling again, Severus hurled his glass in the general vicinity of the fireplace, satisfied to hear a loud breaking sound. "I have made a mockery of my position," he mumbled.
A long pause, then. He could hear the clock ticking.
And then, a hand cautiously, hesitantly touching his shoulder. Small, warm fingers, smoothing over the cloth of his robes. "You have not," Hermione whispered.
He opened his eyes and saw that she had perched herself on top of his desk, leaning toward him with compassion (and something else he'd promised himself not to think about) in her gaze. "I am a teacher at this school, and I have not been able to teach my students. I have failed to protect them, and I have failed to guide them. If I were not so damned useful to Albus Dumbledore, I would have been sacked years ago." His laugh was bitter. "Hell, I would have quit years ago."
"If there is one thing that I have learned from… everything," she said, hand traveling down his arm to cover his own, "it is that self-pity is a worthless emotion. It accomplishes nothing."
"Then I am in the correct place, because neither can I," he told her dryly. "I cannot even bring myself to throw you out of my office, as I know I should."
"Forgive me for not complaining," she said with a small smile.
"I am not a forgiving sort," he said, all seriousness.
Her hand picked his up and turned it over. She leaned over his palm, staring at it as it rested on his thigh. "I won't bother to correct you."
They sat in silence for a while. Hermione continued to study his hand, tracing it with her fingers, and Severus continued to allow it, cursing his weakness. He was, however, able to keep himself from touching her in return. A small victory, but one that he cherished nonetheless.
"So…" Hermione said, breaking the quiet. "You said that Graham breaks something every day?"
"Not something," he corrected. "A thing. The same thing. Without fail. Despite many efforts to the contrary."
"Please don't keep putting yourself down," she said severely, still looking at his hand. "I've got an idea, and you're distracting me."
"An idea?" he echoed, taking a swallow of brandy from the glass in the hand that was not the source of her visual explorations.
Finally looking up, her eyes were hooded, her brow furrowed. "Graham Pritchard's vial breaks every day. So does the Time Turner. And I… I die." She said the last in a decisive, harsh voice, spitting the words out before she could even begin to think about taking them back.
He winced at that. "You are telling me nothing I do not already know, Hermione," he said sternly.
"And I suppose that no one else dies, either," she continued, tapping the center of his palm with her pointer finger. "At least, I haven't heard about it."
"I haven't been driven to suicide quite yet," he said, voice neutral. "So I don't know if it would work or not. After watching glass bounce off of stone two days ago, I am quite prepared to believe any number of impossible things."
"And these things always happen." A spark of excitement flashed in her eye.
"Again, you are telling me nothing new."
She sighed and pulled her hand away. "Dumbledore said that if you go too far back in time with a Time Turner, you can't move, else the causal flow is disrupted."
"So you would change the future," he interjected.
Clearly, from the glare she was shooting him, he'd just interrupted her. It occurred to him to take points, but she was speaking again before he had a chance. "No, I mean you can't move. You're rooted to the spot. Nature prevents you from changing causality."
"Hermione…" he began, frustrated beyond belief. "I feel that I should warn you that confusion and anger are not separate emotions for most people."
"There are definite consequences to today," she exclaimed, leaning forward into him. "Don't you see?"
"I think we've already estab–"
"Pritchard, the Time Turner, and me. Oh, Severus, don't you see?"
He was, he had to admit (if only to himself), baffled beyond all reason. "I–"
Again, she interrupted him. "It's possible!"
Now, Severus did reach out and touch her, put his hands on her shoulders, quite possibly in preparation to shake her. "Hermione," he began, unsure of what to say next.
It did not, unbelievably, matter, as he suddenly found himself with a lapful of Hermione Granger as she tumbled completely off the desk and into his unintended embrace. "It might work!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck in a quick hug, pressing her lips to his cheek.
Before he could react, she was out of the chair, across the room, and through the door.
"Fuck," he sighed, cradling his brandy glass in his hands and wondering what, if anything, had just occurred. "I have got to stop letting her do that."