Chapter 3

I woke up in my nest of bedding, covered in crumbs and books. I could see that the note I had left on the bench, letting my cousin know that I had found a job and would bring some cash home tonight had been replaced by an uneaten banana and the milk-soggy remnants of a half-eaten bowl of cereal.

I would have been reluctant to leave the warmth and familiarity of the flat for the associations and memories and oddness that would accumulate while I visited my parents' house, empty and dark and uninhabited, but I was impossibly curious about what Snape might have written to me.

The garden was a little overgrown and dilapidated. The door was faded, and everything looked a little skewed. Greyer, shorter, taller. I sneezed my way down the hallway, disabled the wards I had set, and banished the dust from the floor and my socks into a neat, tidy pile in a corner of the dining room.

I eyed the fridge, but decided not to risk it. I turned on the kettle, and trudged upstairs to my old bedroom. Letters were in mounds rather than piles, spilling over the bed and desk. I was glad that I couldn't see my room, my old books, all dusty and unused and strange through my estrangement from my childhood. I raised my left hand, open, and my right hand holding my wand. Steeling myself for the potential torrent of envelopes, I spoke.

"Accio all letters from Ron Weasley."

By the time I had collected my mail from Ron, Harry, and Snape, leaving the rest for another day, the water in the kettle had cooled again. I busied myself making tea, without milk of course, and shuffling the letters from Ron and Harry beneath those from Snape.

With any luck, it would turn 11.30 before I reached the end of Snape's pile, and I could put off the confrontation with Ron's anger and Harry's torn sympathies for another day.

The first letter was simple, an apology warning me that Snape had left that same night, and that Ron might misinterpret. Regrets, etc.

The second letter was bumbling and clumsy compared to the first. Muddled and confused. It almost mentioned conversations, but fell shy of referring to any exact times, places or topics.

The third letter apologised, very formally, for his getting so drunk and abstract. Said, in a reserved and cautious way, that he would like to continue our acquaintance.

I could feel my heart almost breaking at the thought of a tired, cold, drunk, lonely Snape in his house. Little money, less hope. Our situations were very different but I could understand, sitting in my family dining room, exactly what it could feel like to be alone with the past.

I found it a little strange, feeling as if my only approachable friend had once been my teacher. It must have been stranger for him, to have known me when I was pre-pubescent, and then hormonal. Difficult to shake the memories or separate Hermione the adult from Hermione the petulant child.

The next letter was more like himself, warm and wry. It rambled about money troubles, the irritating children that wandered past his garden on the weekends, and on the flaws in all of his mail-screening attempts. He teased me, about how low my standards, how desperate I must be, to have him at the head of my "potential husband" list.

I scoffed, and smiled, and forgot about dawdling. Forgot about not wanting to see Ron's handwriting before work. Feeling a little clandestine and silly, I read Snape's letters until I ran out of them, and had to apparate and run to reach Ollivander's in time.

Given how integral the construction of wands was to all magic use, and how personal wands themselves are, I was feeling growing levels of ire towards the set curriculum at Hogwarts. How could all those hours of charms and transfiguration and defense lessons presume to "teach" people how to use their wands for life, when the most important parts of wand-care and the evolution of the magic user and the magical conduit were entirely omitted! There was no reason why a course on wand theory couldn't be incorporated into first year, and advanced theory offered as a later-year option.

For example, understanding why Ollivander only used phoenix feathers, dragon's heartstrings, and unicorn hairs, instead of even more exotic and expensive cores. The magical power of the core was less about the material, and more about the perception of the material. Magical energy can be channelled through any magical beast or being. We could use house elf toenail clippings, or dried blast-ended skrewts, but the power and magic is only half the purpose of the core. The core must resonate with the user, and act as a mental focus.

Dragons, phoenixes, unicorns, are sympathetic characters in Wizarding and Muggle mythology; they are warm or strong or reliable or noble in our minds and hearts. An eleven-year-old child finds their wand and magic more accessible, with a connection to their wands.

Using bodily parts of less glamorous magical beings would be less believable, less buyable. There were, of course, worldwide theories concerning the most efficient and durable core components, but as Ollivander's carefully spindled handwriting in the margins explained, it is the Wizard's subconscious that chooses the wand.

He left when I arrived, waving amicably and moving slowly towards Fortescue's around the corner. I shrugged, and sat down amongst the dust to look over the wands laid out, box-less, on the bench. Though I hadn't spent much time reading about the various woods and techniques used in the construction of the body, I recognised these easily. Vine wood and dragon heartstring, the same as the wand in my pocket. All the same length and weight, but different shapes and shades of stain.

Taking the hint, I picked each up in turn, closing my eyes to feel and compare. I assumed that the lesson was the title of the fourth chapter in my book – Process makes Perfect. The mood or atmosphere, the magical surroundings, the dragon or tree, could create an entirely different result. A different lathe, or different age of wood... it was almost immeasurable, the potential variations.

I watched the passers-by through the gloomy window for a while, amused. Given how different our bloodlines and home situations were, so many Wizards and Muggles fell into the same patterns of existence. Almost the inverse of wands, really. No matter how variable the ingredients, most humans ended up the same.

I could feel my mind and awareness expanding out from rote lists and facts into a deeper comprehension and knowing. I felt awake and alive in a very strange way.

Unlike anything I'd learnt before, I couldn't assimilate this through books. I would have to learn a lot, of course, but more than that I would have to do and be. I felt as if nothing I had ever learnt could possibly be as important as this.

Then the shop bell rang, and someone from Hufflepuff, a few years behind me, came inside. They seemed visibly shocked to see me.

"Hello, er, is Mr. Ollivander around?"

I cleared my throat, and squared my shoulders against the unexpected situation. I would have to bluff my way around this.

"No. He's taking a break, but I can help you. Did you need a new wand, or a repair?"

"Ah, a new one. Mine's... it... well, you know. Anyway, I heard that this place had finally re-opened, so I came in."

I smiled, and nodded, and tried to look as if I knew what I was doing. I walked slowly down a row of towering, jumbled boxes and wrestled four down into my arms. Blue faded card, dark polished wood, felted, ribboned, they were mismatched through age and inattentiveness.

I tidied the wands on the counter into their boxes, and luckily noticed some small runes on the end of the lid. I could do this. With a cursory glance at the blue card box, I lifted the lid gently and proffered the wand inside.

"Hawthorn, Unicorn's hair, 12 inches."

He blinked, picked it up, and gazed at it dubiously.

"Hmmm." He said. I worried at my lip for a second, then spoke again. I had to maintain some appearance of capability and knowledge, or he'd lose faith in the Ollivander brand, and I might risk my position.

"Well," I tried, "if it feels wrong, it's wrong. I'm sure it took you some time to find a comfortable, workable wand last time."

He looked a little unsure, so I took the wand from him and pushed it in its box to the side of the counter, pulling the wooden box forwards.

"It's the wand that chooses the wizard, after all," I smiled.

He nodded, and then smiled for the first time. "That's right. What's this one, then?"

I sneaked a look at the box, and rattled it off quickly and confidently, hoping that I'd guessed this one correctly.

"10 and a half inches, Ivy, Unicorn hair again."

Because of the steep learning curve, and trying to memorise every reaction, the half-successes and not-quites, the half hour it took to find Kevin Whitby's wand flew by. I hadn't noticed that Ollivander had returned, even, until he stepped up behind me and smiled approvingly.

"Whitby. Nice to see you. Hazel again, I see. But a Unicorn hair, that's quite a change. I suppose that you really were due for a replacement, in that case."

Whitby smiled, and nodded his head shyly.

"Yeah, well, the Unicorn ones were feeling better, so we thought to head in that direction," He laughed, placing his galleons on the counter.

After he had left, Ollivander patted my shoulder and told me that it was time for my new wand.

"Should I get some boxes down, then?"

He shook his head, wisps of pale white hair floating about amongst the dust mites in the air. It lent a dreamlike, surreal tint to his words.

"I wanted you to look through the wands to get a feel for the shop, the weight of the place. Since you've done that already, we can get started on your practice."

I goggled, as I realised what he was implying.

"I'm going to make my wand?"

He chuckled, and led me towards the back room, a warm hand conciliatory upon my back.

"Of course not. No wizard can make their own wand; It's like trying to tailor a suit, from scratch, without a mirror. Only a very accomplished wandmaker can step back from him – or her – self and create something worth using."

We sat down at a workbench littered with scraps and tools.

"And you can, I suppose," I teased, smiling at him. I honestly did wonder, now, whether he used a wand that he'd made himself, or one he'd ordered from somebody else. Perhaps he had found an antique wand, because reused wands weren't unheard of, or had had one made by the Ollivander before him.

He shrugged, unreadable with a soft smile, and set a box containing core materials before me.

"In any case, you'll practice making wands for people you know. Use your knowledge of their personalities to try and create a wand that has its' own identity and power. You'll get used to thinking about receptivity, conductivity, and flexibility. Compatibility and identity and magic."

He chose a dragon heartstring from the box, and held it before me with pinched fingers. It was drier and stringier than I had expected. I had obviously assumed that my wand contained a warm, moist, living core. I felt a little foolish, all things considered.

"While," he placed the heartstring on a flock covered tray and covered it with a handkerchief before handing me a tray and nodding, "I will work alongside you, making your new wand, so you can see how it is done. We'll take breaks if we get any more customers this week."

"This week?!" I couldn't help blurting out.

"Of course. Save for the start of the school year, there's very little demand for new wands. Most wizards and witches usually owl in, make an appointment, to save themselves time. Anyway!" He waved his wrinkled hands emphatically towards the box of cores, "I'm interrupting myself now. Think of someone, anyone you like, and try to choose a core that works for or resembles them."

I frowned down into the boxes, and knew it would be Snape. Which was highly inappropriate, as I was only just getting to know the man. But, as I thought through the alternatives, it couldn't be Harry, he was too... Harry. Ginny was too sweet and simple and in love for me to tolerate the thought of spending hours thinking about her personality. Ron was, well, exactly. I truly didn't know anybody at the moment, for all the years I had spent with everyone.

So, of course, it had to be Snape. I looked at the collection of core samples, seemingly so small and cheap and humble in a jumbled, tiny box. Smiling with what was either a wicked sense of humour or the silliness of my very tired mind, I gently picked out a strand of shining white Unicorn hair, and placed it on my own tray.

Ollivander nodded thoughtfully, and then clapped his hands.

"I'm loosing my senses, in my old age, aren't I?"

I blinked at him, frowning.

"We can't have you choosing the wood or designing the form until you've become very closely acquainted with The Lathe, young lady."

The emphasis he placed upon those words seemed ominous, and my fingers twitched as if in anticipation. Sure enough, Ollivander led me by the shoulders to a very old-style lathe, propelled not by magic, or Muggle electricity, but by a very flimsy looking wooden foot pedal. I scrutinised it for a while.

"Bob!" Ollivander called out, and a very upright and not at all brownish house elf apparated without warning. I felt my usual indignance for the oppressed displaced by shock.

"He's called Bob?!"

"It's a highly respectable name, young missy!" Bob cried out, scandalised, from beneath the table. He was already settling himself onto a spare chock of wood, and testing his feet against the pedal.

"I mean, rather," I amended, "I've only met house elves with insipid fairy names."

Bob sniffed his nose, and nodded at me rather oddly. I realised that many taller people, like Lucius Malfoy, used that nod. It was a little strange to see it from a different perspective, where it was not debonaire or striking at all, but still reflected a stiff and unmoving dignity. I had never seen anyone like him, and as Ollivander thrust a carving tool into my hand and left me with a rough scrap of wood and Bob, I told him so.

He smiled briefly and set off on the pedal, saying that he ".. at least, can make myself appropriate coverings from discarded handkerchiefs and tablecloths. That Malfoy bunch, the whole clan," - and here I realised he meant Dobby's family, rather than the Malfoys themselves, "not one of them can sew or add or spell to save their own hides. Disgraceful. I blame the inbreeding."

We settled into a comfortable silence, and I made a mental note to talk to more house-elves, in a calm rather than revolutionary tone. There seemed to be so much more I could learn, so much more I was exposed to every day, that I felt a greater thirst and hunger to just be alive and moving than I had ever felt before.

The afternoon passed in an instant, and took forever. Ollivander sent me out the front door later than the day before, with plasters wrapped around my fingers and a bruise on my foot from where I had accidentally slipped it between Bob's pedal and the floor. I was tired, and lost in the whirring clumsiness I seemed to display, but glowing from it all.

Everything was so haphazard, so chaotic, so wonderful. I laughed into the dark of Diagon Alley, and almost tripped into Snape.

"Good evening, Miss Granger?"

I smiled at him, and linked my arm into his, walking us briskly towards The Leaky.

"It's just... everything, really. Books, and without books, and all at once, but not at all, and so chaotic. If I'd met this in a course at Hogwarts, I'd have walked. In fact, I did walk from Trelawny."

I heard him snort, but kept babbling.

"The point is that I think I've moved beyond rules and facts and numbness, and am only, just now, realising that I can live and learn at once! Osmosis, that beautiful process! So natural and.. ouch."

I had pressed a sore finger into the stone that opened the archway, and paused to wince.

"And," I felt breathless and could feel my heartbeat pulsing with the cold night through my arms, legs, and face, "and you really can't write letters, can you?"

Snape blanched, and ushered me into the dark warm light of the pub, muttering that it was my turn to buy drinks, since I had surely received my pay by now.

I didn't complain, but I did make sure I took a very obvious and long sip out of his glass before I set it before him. He raised an eyebrow, and pulled it towards himself.

"I mean, not that you can't write, but rather that you couldn't seem to decide whether you wanted to be formal and staid and proper, or just babble like I am now, about everything."

He blinked into his juice, and I bit my tongue. Was I ballsing it up again? I felt fuelled by a new and frantic energy, that pushed words out of me before I could stop them. He eventually answered, his voice duller and quieter, as if he was trying to be unheard.

"If you'd like, I can restrict myself to one or the other."

"Pardon?"

"I mean, I could only ever write to you with basic formal language, or I could, figuratively, put all of myself on the page. To make it less confusing."

He seemed flustered as he spoke, and when he had finished, he nonchalantly took a deep drink of his juice.

"I want all of you."

He choked on his juice, and sprayed some through his nose onto my cloak. We spent a few minutes grasping at napkins and patting things down, before he frowned at me. I couldn't help a grin from rising to my face again. He jostled me with his shoulder, and took my glass away from me.

"You deserved to get sprayed in juice, young woman. That comment was far too innocent-sounding to be anything but deliberate. And your timing, well..."

He raised his hands, shrugged, and then leant in surprisingly close to me, whispering in my ear.

"I'll Obliviate you and tell Weasley where you work, if you mention the content of those letters in public."

I grimaced, and he settled back into his seat. We were quiet for a while, a little awkward. Snape hid behind his hair, leaning down over the large table we sat at.

"I," I began, then I winced, and began to hate the personal pronoun. I felt to self-centric, so insulated, that I wanted to elide it from my vocabulary, and think and speak in an existentialist haaze for the rest of my life.

"Even awkward and silent and clumsy like this," I tried again, "even tired and silent and threatened, I've never felt warmer or more comfortable in my whole life."

He looked up, sideways at me, his hair flopping a little over his large and bumpy nose.

"It feels incredibly weird saying this, but you're the best friend I've ever had, I think. You want it gone, it's gone. No need to joke about Ron, even."

He scoffed, and sat back up, with his little half-smile.

"What makes you think I was joking?"

I laughed, and turned to look at the bar. "Should we order dinner here? I don't fancy what's left in my cousin's fridge today."

He shrugged, reminding me far more of Harry and Ron in Fifth year than of the potions master that had ignored my attempts at learning beyond the classroom. So we ordered fish and chips and actual drinks, and spent a good half hour one-upping each other with theories on the origins of the meal.

"It's from the squid in Hogwarts, you know," He poked at his dinner, "It keeps regenerating, so they're using it as a cheap replacement for real food. All the Mediterranean trade routes dried up during oldie moldie's attacks."

"That does explain the rubbery texture," I conceded, "but I know that Muggles in the UK still fish. I have to educate you, Snape, on the effects of Nuclear waste disposal on rivers, and genetic mutations in the food chain."

He nodded, sagely. "Maybe so, Hermione. But I'm not so desperate for company that I eat said mutated fish for dinner with a 'best friend' whom I only refer to by his surname."

"Alright, then Severus. How've you been today, anyway? Any luck with money or work?"

I'd meant to sound interested and hopeful, but his face fell just slightly enough that I knew he'd had bog all luck, and less hope.

"As much as these evenings are better than staying in my cold, rotting, shithole alone, I won't be able to afford the high cuisine that is... this..." He lifted a vinegar sodden, cold chip with his fork and let it fall limpy onto his plate.

"It really defies any words in the human language, doesn't it?"

I contemplated the chip, lonely on its plate. Snape lonely in his house, and me sitting in my cousin's flat listening to teenagers slam doors above and below.

"So you want to stop doing this because of money problems?" I asked, feeling a little bruised and raw inside. I hadn't realised how much I'd valued these two nights until then.

He rolled his eyes, and held my hands. I realised I'd been fidgeting, spinning the ring around, again.

"I meant, you dolt, that you should chivalrously offer to shout me. I was your long-suffering professor, after all, and now close intimate friend."

I laughed, and pulled my hands away too quickly for my own liking, and nodded.

"Yes, with one stipulation. That's a lot of money, dinner out five days a week, if not seven. I'm only on an apprentice's wage, and no matter how short my official hours, that place seems to absorb time like a sponge. You can make me sandwiches for lunch, to compensate. Drop them off about twelve. Make enough for the three, no, four, of us."

He sat back, taken aback, and rubbed his forehead in apparent consternation.

"Four?" He asked.

"Bob, the house elf," I explained. He laughed, presumably at the memory of S.P.E.W., and stretched his arm across towards me. We shook on it, and parted ways with promises of better chips, perhaps a search for a different pub, and some tea with those sandwiches, if you please.

I apparated close enough to the flats to walk for a moment, and made my way inside. Iphigenia was sitting at the small kitchen table with a textbook, and she raised her head to wave a greeting as I moved my sore foot over to my nest of bedding. She giggled, and I looked at her in astonishment. She hardly ever giggled.

"What?" I demanded.

"You're blushing." She exclaimed. "You never blush, Herm. What's going on, got a man to go with that ring, now?"

I raised a hand to swat at her ineffectually, and changed into my pyjamas, ignoring her for a few minutes.

"I told you about the ring already," I sighed at her eventually, "A friend of mine gave it to me, because he hated it, and I didn't, and it was a family thing, so he couldn't just sell it."

She gave me a very knowing, silly smile, so I pulled the duvet over my head and threw my smelly worn socks in more or less the direction of her face.

"Rent's in an envelope in my handbag. Help yourself, and let me sleep." I grumbled, before closing my eyes to the world.