WITCH IN EXILE
By Tailchaser
Chapter Two: The Luggage is Introduced
Disclaimer: All the characters and places from the Harry Potter books belong to J.K. Rowling. The Luggage belongs to Terry Pratchett, and is a - I'm not sure if citizen is the right word - of the Discworld.
If you had happened to wander through Diagon Alley that night, and managed to tear yourself away from the entrance to Knockturn Alley and the enticing shadows that lurked there, you would have seen a mysterious pile of robes, fur and canvas bundled up under a tree next to one of the entrances to Muggle London.
The pile had originally intended to stay at the Leaky Cauldron, but had given up its last sickles for a ride on the Knight Bus. Next morning would be the earliest it could changes some muggle currency. So the pile slept under an oak, and sometimes it stirred and emitted a muffled sighing sound. Once it miaowed. But the man who swept the steps of Flourish and Blotts told himself firmly that he didn't hear that.
That last example of innocent, aware life in the alleyway had long since returned to a little unit and a curly-aired fiancé when the dark figure stepped out onto the cobblestones. His eyes flicked once across his surroundings, examining every detail, and when they were satisfied he began to walk along the street. He strode awkwardly, favouring one leg, gazing into the half-light warily. The little street lights flickered almost shyly on a face ravaged with tiredness and… something else. It could have been guilt that lurked underneath the self-deprecating sneer. It could have been sadness; it could have been pain.
A shudder. Now it was pain, that glanced through the figure's dark eyes. He clutched his robes tighter and tighter to his bony frame, hugging them as close as the slippery, shiny fabric would allow. It wasn't snakeskin and it wasn't silk, but something indefinable, something cold and fluid. Whatever its origin, it offered no real warmth, and the person wearing it shivered and wished, again, for a decent cloak of wool or cotton.
But that would hardly have been suitable where he had just been. Hardly suitable. Certainly not appropriate.
Oh, no.
He stepped around a body sprawled across the stones. As an afterthought, the man stooped over to check the body's pulse. A firm beat, and a strong smell of alcohol and unwashed wizard, assured him that this member of society was probably at his best unconscious. At the very least he wouldn't cause any harm to anyone.
The figure in the hated robes straightened up, and his face was a study of contrasts. The expression that gazed down at the drunk could have been one of pity, if it weren't also just a bit envious. A moment, and it was gone. The man's face was still once more.
It was at this time, while collecting his thoughts, that the figure's gaze fell upon the aforementioned pile, snoring softly underneath the oak tree. Puzzlement. In the scene that was Diagon Alley after dark, this was a picture that did not belong.
Bemusedly, the wizard chewed his lower lip in thought. As he tasted bitter copper, his senses began to reel, and he became aware once more of the blood that stained his mouth and hands. His stomach rolled, but he had purposely not eaten anything so the heaving that followed, though racking, was dry. He coughed; wiped his mouth on his sleeve, knowing that the majority of the stains would remain until he scoured them off.
The wizard coughed again. No longer asleep, the pile sat up with a start. "Professor Snape!?" it yelped, and the dark wizard found himself locking eyes with Hermione Granger.
It could have been a moment before the wizard found words for his thoughts, or it could have been twenty. Or more. He coughed, only this time it sounded as though he were nearly choking. "Miss Granger. Ever the bad penny, I see."
He couldn't see her face, but he knew that voice. Always offering suggestions and knowing better than everyone else in her class… Even if he didn't exactly *like* her, he did respect her intelligence. It was almost a pity she was a Gryffindor, really, he mused; as a Slytherin she would have had a far greater opportunity to shine…
"Professor. What are you doing here? Nobody sent you to look for me, did they?" She said this quickly and breathlessly.
Snape allowed himself a brief, humourless chuckle. "Do you really believe that you are the centre around which everyone's deeds revolve? I assure you, I have my own reasons for being in Diagon Alley at--" he checked his watch "--nearly half-past one in the morning."
And let that suffice, he added silently.
"Oh." And then, slightly muffled, "If that's all then, Professor, I suggest you do whatever you're here for, and let me go back to sleep."
Amazed, he nearly laughed, but choked it back into a noncommital sound. "Really?"
"Really." She sounded as though she had her robe over her mouth, or her face buried into a pillow. She didn't have a pillow here, did she? As the notion came to him, Snape found his lips quirking. Oh, dear.
He gave into them and smiled. In this light, there was no way she could clearly see his face. Another thought came and the smile died. He would have to be careful she didn't get a proper glimpse; he felt in no way inclined to explain the bloodstains.
"Much as I might like to, Miss Granger, I think it would be better if you came with me."
"Why's that?" Clearer, now. She was watching him, he was sure of it.
Because I've just been to a Dark Revel and I know I'm being watched. Because if you stay here now you've been seen talking to me, my…colleagues will come along and 'visit' you, and they will not leave you alone until they know exactly what you were doing talking with me. Doubtfully even then…no, child, you're far safer with me. No matter how little we *both* like it.
Aloud he only said "Do you actually want to stay in Diagon Alley by yourself? I don't imagine that you can have a great many galleons on you, if you're sleeping out here."
"I have money," she said defensively. "I just have to wait until morning to get it changed into galleons."
"Be that as it may, I still don't like the idea of you staying here by yourself." As soon as he said it, Snape winced and wished he could rephrase it. Now it sounds as though I *care* about her, he thought bitterly. As if I worry about the students of rival houses. His lips curled bitterly. He was disgusted with himself for the way it sounded, but he knew he would hate himself far more if he let the annoying little brat stay exactly where she was, and she died because the Death Eaters had seen her with him. Another death on his conscience to increase the burden he already carried. He would be able to live with himself, he knew that. After all he'd already done, he was still alive; one new death wouldn't be that much more of a burden. Dumbledore wouldn't blame him, even if he knew, but Snape didn't want it. It seemed ridiculous that so many innocents could die, while here he was, still breathing, still existing, someone who deserved it far greater than they.
He heard movement underneath the tree, and moments later, Hermione Granger stood before him, a bag over each shoulder and a pug-faced cat – complete with carrier – in her arms, and her Hogwarts trunk at her feet. Snape stared at her. "If you intended camping out for the holidays, Miss Granger, you certainly came prepared."
A slight smile quickly crossed her face. "I'm nothing if not resilient, Professor." He wondered at that, but chose not to comment.
Instead, he snorted. "What in the world happened to your hair? I had no idea the Weasley genes were that contagious!"
She coloured, and her eyes narrowed, but Hermione didn't reply, showing a restraint Snape really hadn't expected from her.
"Well? Shall we go?" he motioned impatiently, indicating somewhere around the next block.
The girl looked a bit confused. "Where? Why?"
He sighed. "Home, of course. I can't exactly leave you here, can I? Even if you are a Gryffindor. Minerva or Albus would gut me if they ever found out I did that. But if you don't hurry up and come along, I will be sorely tempted."
Still she didn't move, and Snape wondered what the problem was now. "I'm not going home, Professor. I'm not exactly…welcome there right now."
"By home, I mean Hogwarts. If you have no objections?" She shook her head, numbly though relief showed plainly on her face. Dryly, he continued. "Then, let's go, Miss Granger. Tonight, if at all possible." He turned his head away from her, and Hermione barely caught his next words. "I have to see Albus any way. He has to know about Lucius."
He started walking, and she placed Crookshanks' carrier on top of her trunk, and tapped its lid with her hand. "Come on then," she said, and the trunk shook itself, nearly dislodging the carrier, before lifting itself up to reveal two rows of hairy feet. When Hermione fell into step a little behind Snape, the trunk trundled along beside her, marching with a proud, jaunty gait.
The wizard eyed it with curiosity. "That is your trunk?"
"Ummmm…yes. I found it in a second-hand shop at the start of the holidays and it took a liking to me. The shop owner certainly seemed glad to see it go; he only charged me a galleon for it. I still think he undercharged me, but that was all I had left and the trunk had no intention of leaving me."
"It followed you out of the shop?" Snape wondered aloud.
"Actually it grabbed hold of my robes…" She seemed a bit embarrassed.
"I certainly think you were undercharged, by all means," he commented, looking at the cocky wooden trunk that was keeping pace with them. "Then again…why did the shop want to get rid of it?"
She mumbled something under her breath.
"What?"
"It, ah, keeps biting people," Hermione muttered, sounding sheepish. Snape eyed the trunk again, with distaste and a good measure of respect. Eventually he said, "Well, I wouldn't want to tangle with it…that's one nasty piece of –-luggage-- you have there, Miss Granger." The trunk bobbed up and down in assent.
Hermione laughed. "I think it agrees with you, Professor. What about it, luggage? Do you think you're a nasty piece of work?" It bobbed up and down again, smugly.
Snape looked at them both with an expression normally seen on someone who saw a dragon reading Dickens. Then he looked away and Hermione was sure she heard him chuckle.
Abruptly he stopped. "Right. Here we are." They were standing outside the Leaky Cauldron. He rapped loudly on the door.
Keeping his face in shadow, he asked the round, bleary man who answered "May we use your floo terminal?"
The man blinked owlishly.
"Whaaaa…?"
"Floo. Terminal. May we use it?:
"Sure…I guess…just lemme check…" But Snape had already pushed past the man, and Hermione, closely followed by the luggage, had no option but to do the same. As the luggage sauntered through, the man at the door rubbed his eyes. "That's it, I swear, I'm never having another nightcap again!"
When Hermione reached the fireplace, Snape was already standing there with a little tin of floo powder. "Just say 'Hogwarts', he instructed. "It will bring you to the room outside the Headmaster's office." She nodded. Then, looking at her trunk: "But how…?"
He sighed. "Do you think this monstrosity can manage to go through by itself?" The trunk danced on the spot, showing very clearly that it could, and would, take itself through.
"There's your answer, I think," said Hermione. But she lifted off the cat carrier first, to take through herself.
The wizard handed her some powder. "I should watch to see you don't bungle this, Miss Granger. But then, you don't have Longbottom around to…help you, do you?"
Despite the sneering tone of his voice, Hermione thought she detected less venom there than normal. It seemed more out of habit than a desire to wound.
Scattering the powder on the flames, she said "Hogwarts", and stepped into the hearth, where the world began to spin.
Hermione fell out onto a lush maroon carpet, a bag to either side of her, and cat carrier in front, Crookshanks yowling in protest. She blinked at the carpet for a moment, then, heeding the dizziness in her skull, shut her eyes. Much better. Nice just to lie here, quietly, calmly, with the carpet cool and flat beneath her cheek…
"Not the world's best floo traveller, are we, Miss Granger?" Snape purred smoothly. "May I say that your trunk is a lot better at this than you?"
"No you bloody well may not, you bastard," Hermione told the carpet, not caring if he heard her or not. She felt a slight touch on her shoulder. Snape?
The touch moved. Cold. Hairy. Luggage. "Ahh!" Dimly, she heard Snape snicker. "I think it's worried about you!"
"Damn you, Professor!" He seemed to find this even funnier. "And you, do you mind not standing on me so I can get up?" The Luggage shifted, still nosing her shoulders with its feet.
She heard movement on the other side of her. Then the luggage jumped off her, snarling. Hermione sat up gratefully, and quickly lest it change its mind, to see her trunk charging at Snape, lid snapping violently. She laughed, and it circled him for a moment, rattling and clanging, looking for all the world like an oversized, wooden terrier. "Call it off, Miss Granger!" His voice was still amused, but there was an edge of annoyance to it.
"Okay, that's enough." The lid shut and the trunk returned to stand docilely at Hermione's side. She patted the lid gently; the chest rubbed itself lightly against her legs.
"If you're ready now?" Snape asked, glancing towards the door to Dumbledore's office. Hermione nodded, and only now glanced around the room they were in. She'd only been up here once or twice, as a prefect, and she'd always been too nervous about having to go see the Headmaster about another student to take any notice of her surroundings.
He knocked on the door, and they heard Dumbledore answer. Snape looked at Hermione for a moment. "Stay here, Miss Granger, and try to keep that monstrosity of yours civil!" She snickered like he had earlier, and he glared.
"I will tell Dumbledore of your presence, and no doubt he will arrange something, with Madame Pomfrey most probably, for your accommodation here until school starts."
"Alright, Professor. And Professor?" Hermione took a deep breath. "Thank you." Snape looked at her in surprise. Then he entered the office, closing the heavy wooden door firmly behind him, and left the girl, the cat and the temperamental trunk to study the pattern of the grains in the wood.
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Author's Notes
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, it was incredible to see so many people had read this story! I'm really amazed.
NB: Hermione is going to be in seventh year, so I intend to change ch. 1 to reflect this. I think I said she'd been at Hogwarts for 6 years, but was only 16, (or so her mother thought). Don't know how I ended up with that; sorry!
Gates – thanks for telling me when Hermione's birthday is. I'll update chapter one to fix this shortly.
Sunshine – Wow. Your comments really inspire me to write more!
Strega Brava – I'm glad you like it. I'll email you each time I update, if you like.
PotionsMastersMistress – I love your name! I've always been surprised that Hermione's parents just accepted magic so easily, too.
Cammie – I think I've answered your question!
Jade – you make me so happy! I could get drunk on reviews like yours!!