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Chapter 8: Downpour
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Things are easier ever since the librarian started sending money.
Hermione almost refuses at first; it is more than enough to know that there was someone in town who knows they are magical. Someone they can trust, someone who wishes them well. The fact that the librarian is a Muggle makes the discovery all the more precious and extraordinary.
They have been in correspondence with Ruth, if that is indeed her real name, for nearly a month now. Snape is initially mistrustful, unwilling to even write a response, and it sparks a blazing row over dinner. It is only when Hermione threatens to deliver a reply herself that he acquiesces.
Each letter, tucked into a library book, is a revelation. They are astonished to learn that it is not only Ruth who knows their secret; there is a small network of sympathetic Muggles in town. There is Mr. Metzger, the round-faced butcher, who never seems to charge them the full amount for chicken breasts, and Ms. Miller at the bakery is always eager to sneak a biscuit or two into their basket along with the bread.
Quite suddenly, their tiny orbit of two has expanded. Hermione finds herself both relieved and strangely wistful.
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The wind tugs at Hermione's borrowed auburn hair, drawing it across her face in wide ribbons. The December sky is thick with gray clouds, crowded close to the mountains and threatening rain. The shop awnings ripple ominously in the stiff breeze.
Hermione hitches the rucksack up her shoulder and feels the sharp corners of the library books within.
Today she will meet Ruth.
Snape's back is straight, formal as he walks beside her down the high street. He does not approve of her presence today, but she doesn't know why. She knows that it is a risk, but there is always a level of danger venturing into town; and besides, Ruth knows about her already.
Snape wears his village persona of Dorian Stein, the same sandy-haired disguise he used months ago in the bookshop in Dunkeld. Hermione can't help but feel fond of this round, smooth face, even though it is the antithesis of the angular man hidden inside.
"I have to meet her," she says suddenly, the first either of them has spoken on their long walk, "I have to thank her."
"I don't see the necessity, when you have already thanked her many times over in your letters," Snape grinds out, still staring straight ahead.
A thought strikes her, and fills her gut with a strange, uneasy feeling. Snape spends an inordinate amount of time planning out his visits to the library, making lists and puzzling over the letters until the early hours of the morning. Perhaps it is not, as she had thought, purely in order to keep them safe. Perhaps Snape feels a connection to Ruth that he does not feel with her. His immediate, fervent refusal of her offer to come along to town swims into the forefront of her mind. She feels suddenly small and sad, and she doesn't quite know why.
"I can give you some time," she says, "Alone. With Ruth, I mean. If you want it."
He stops walking suddenly. They have reached the library.
Hermione's voice wavers oddly as she turns to face him, "It seems like your visits to the library matter a great deal to you. I don't want to spoil it."
Snape blinks at her in confused silence. His expression is severe, but the effect is somewhat dampened by his borrowed, earnest face.
"I assure you," he finally speaks, "I am not concerned with you" -and here a flicker of a thing twitches in his brow- "...spoiling anything."
He opens the library door.
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Ruth is older than Hermione had expected. Her blonde hair is cut in a severe bob, but her eyes are kind.
"Mr. Stein," she greets Snape, pushing her black-rimmed glasses up into her hair as she turns their way.
"We were just looking for some peace and quiet," Snape says, in a stitled sort of way. This, he had warned Hermione, is how they would know that it was safe to speak openly.
"The library is a quiet place," Ruth agrees.
Snape lets out a breath. This is the real librarian, not just anyone with a flask of Polyjuice. His black eyes dart into the corners of the room. They are alone.
"Mrs. Stein, how lovely to meet you at last," Ruth murmurs. Her eyes crinkle at the corner.
Hermione smiles back, and suddenly there are tears in her eyes.
"Oh dear," the librarian's eyebrows draw together in concern and she reaches for Hermione's shoulder, "It's alright. I know how difficult it can be for someone with your...condition."
Hermione doesn't see Snape's eyes widen in surprise, doesn't see his aborted move to touch her hand. He instead puts his hand in his pocket and stares determindly at the floor.
"You don't know how much we appreciate your help," Hermione speaks around the tightness in her throat, "All of you."
She wonders why this feels so monumental, this discovery of their small circle of helpers. It feels like the turning of the tide, though she knows logically that their hardships are far from over. Perhaps it is always like this, in eras of oppression and societal upheaval. There are still good people, trustworthy and just people, even if they are at first hidden.
"My niece Hannah shared your condition," Ruth says simply, "I only regret that I could not help her more when she was still living."
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The first drops of rain are falling as they leave the library, new books and their secret letters within tucked into Hermione's rucksack.
They make their way to the edge of town, the wind tugging insistently at their scarves. Snape is darting wary glaces at her, as if to look for signs that she will burst into tears again.
They are halfway home before the sky opens up in earnest.
Hermione feels something inside her open up in answer.
The rain is shockingly cold, drumming on her upturned face. She laughs, white teeth flashing against the gloom. Her hair is quickly soaked through, curls plastered against her cheek, and she realizes that her Polyjuice has worn off.
She looks over at Snape, now wearing his true face. His black hair sluices water down his neck. His eyes, those constant dark eyes, never truly hidden, are burning into hers through the downpour. Something shifts deep within and a flood of affection and warmth for him rises up in her, so strong that it takes her breath away.
This man had risked everything for them in the war and lived, only to be thrust into another life of hiding and artifice. Her former teacher, her constant companion. She finds she cannot imagine a life without him anymore.
Lightning cracks nearby and the air sizzles with electricity. She grabs his hand before she loses her nerve and they are running.
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They reach the cottage, the wind a tempest at their backs. His fingers have tightened around hers. She doesn't look at him, she doesn't dare.
The entryway is dark and warm and silent. Hermione closes the door to the howling wind, and then their breathing is the only sound.
He makes to let go of her hand and she clutches it tighter.
"Granger." It's the first he has spoken since the library. His voice is strange somehow, strangled and thin.
"Don't," she says, finally meeting his eyes. They are blazing with an ineffable emotion, and she feels a surge of courage, "My name is Hermione."
"Hermione," he says in quiet wonder, and she is kissing him.
At first he is still, barely breathing. Then he is kissing her back, and his hands come up to cup the back of her damp head, trembling, and she knows at once that he needs her the same way that she needs him.
A crackle pierces the moment like a gunshot.
Hermione pulls back. Their eyes are locked as the Wizarding Wireless whirs to life in the next room.
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A/N: Thank you for all of you who have encouraged me through this process. I can't believe that my experiment of a story ended up taking over two years to finish.
There were several ways that that I contemplated ending it, but I always imagined that Hermione would eventually hear something on the wireless. I hope that I haven't disappointed too many people with this ending. It felt right to leave it open-ended, as I wanted things to feel still a bit fuzzy and obscured.
Thank you for all of your support and kind words.
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