Chapter Eight: Coffee and Conversation

Ever since drinking the Elixir of Solidago, Hermione had felt her perspective on the world to be a little skewed.  It no longer seemed strange to be spending the holidays at school, in the company of one of her worst enemies.  Her research was proceeding satisfactorily, and the brief notes she got from Harry and Ron assured her they were having a wonderful time.  She didn't bother to tell them what had happened.  Whenever she put quill to parchment and thought about it, the words dried up in her skull and it seemed a silly idea.

But queerest of all, was that every time she thought about her parents, she felt nothing.  The whole thing seemed distant, as though it hadn't happened to her at all, but to another girl she just happened to share a body with, who had all the emotional attachments and bore all the associated grief.  Hermione actually felt rather cheerful.  Snape wasn't even too difficult to get along with.  Conversations with him tended to make the most peculiar leaps and twists, so that an hour or two after they'd started, she wasn't sure what they'd begun talking about, or how they'd arrived where they were. 

Sometimes they'd talk about her parents.  Even though it didn't hurt anymore, Snape seemed determined to dredge up every little thing associated with her family, digging even into matters she'd long considered intimate.  And she talked.  She didn't know why.  But she told him everything she could remember.  And he listened.  Snape was excellent at listening.  He would sit, incredibly still, opposite or beside her, but always with a good space between them, and hear the details of her life as though they were all he'd ever wanted to know.  Sometimes he'd have a coffee mug, and would sip the mixture slowly, absently, as she talked.  It was a peaceful ritual.

"When I was three, I made mud pies in the backyard with Dad and we decorated them with holly leaves.  Mum took one look at us and made us wash the mud off under the garden hose before we were allowed inside!"

Snape nodded slowly, stirring his coffee with a soft clink of spoon against china, the distinctiveness of his features lost in the warm shadows of the room.  Perhaps he'd planned it that made, meant all along to be the faceless, nameless, Father-confessor figure, no more the feared and distrusted professor.  He could have been anyone, wrapped in the confining robes of darkening shadows, almost hidden in the comforting gloom that let her words spill so freely.

Yet as a child, Hermione had never been comfortable in the confessional at church.  The few times her parents had made her go, she'd made things up rather than tell the quiet, faceless voice behind the grill her shames and dreams.  Somehow the idea of talking to someone she could put a face and name to, however despised, was far more welcoming than confessing to a stranger.  And Snape was far from despised.  Perhaps it was the conversation itself, or the times they spent working, researching and experimenting for the sheer academic pleasure of doing so, but he had started to take on a sheen in her mind that was nowhere near hated, distrusted, nasty Slytherin professor.  It didn't bear too much thinking about.  Unlike her family, the figure Snape was seeming to become was something she couldn't put a thought to, just something she enjoyed, the simple comfort of his presence.  The presence of someone she could talk to.  It was so easy, just to talk, to be swept away on a torrent of words. He would always listen. 

Couldn't she do the same for him?

It seemed so simple.

Hermione's lips curved into a slight smile, sure in the knowledge he could make out her features enough to see it.

"How did you spend your childhood, Professor?"

He sighed, so softly she nearly missed it.  "You don't need to know, Miss Granger."

"But I want to.  You didn't need to know everything about me, but you seem to.  Somehow I've just kept talking, and talking, and told you every silly thing I can remember.  I've never talked so much about myself before."

"You needed to," his voice said quietly from the shadows.  "Tell me, how do you feel about your family now?"

Hermione paused a moment to consider. "Okay, I guess."  The thought surprised her.  "That would be the effect of the elixir, I suppose?"

"No."

"Sorry?"

"That amount of solidago only lasts for a few hours, Hermione.  Enough to start you purging your demons.  If I'd thought you needed another dose, I would have given it to you, but you've managed to fight your battles all by yourself."  She could hear a sad smile in his words.

I'm proud of you, it could have said, a confirmation of an unassuming confidence in her character that gave Hermione a warm glow.  Like firelight, only the hearth was empty in this, the middle of summer. 

Yet why so sad?

Quietly, she said "I really would like to hear about your childhood.  I've told you so much about myself that I need to hear something in exchange.  Please?"

He was silent for so long that Hermione almost feared he'd managed to spirit himself away, leaving her talking to an empty chair and the ghosts of her imagination.

"I don't know where to start."  Wryly, that, as if he were giving in and knew it.

"Begin at the middle," Hermione said.

He started, surprised.  "I thought you'd want me to start at the beginning.  That's the usual response, isn't it?"

"Well, let's be unusual," she replied, a grin nagging at her lips.  "I've always thought the middle is the best place to begin because you're not so far away from either the beginning or ending."

"Perhaps you're right.  Perhaps, you might be right…" he mused, voice trailing away into the depths of his cup. 

Hermione sighed loudly, drawing his attention.  "Don't try and distract me, Professor, I said I want to hear everything and I meant it.  Now, go on."  She sat back expectantly, smoothing her emerald robes over her knees.

Snape stared past her into the patterns of the stonework.  "I begged the Sorting Hat to put me in Slytherin."

She nodded silently, as he had.  After a while she realised he seemed to be expecting her to comment.  As she opened her mouth to reply, Snape continued.

"It wanted to put me in Ravenclaw.  It said I had the mind of an academic, to study for anything other than love for it would be a corruption of what I was capable of.  It said politics were beneath me. If I became a Ravenclaw I would become the best person I was capable of being.  I said, please put me in Slytherin.  Please.

"And it did.  In the end, the hat won't put you somewhere you won't fit in."

"You fitted in?"  So, maybe she wasn't as good a listener as Snape.

He nodded.  "To my sorrow and relief."

"What-"

"Please, Miss Granger, let me tell it my own way.  If you would hear, please listen."
Chastened, she whispered "Sorry, Professor," and moved by an impulse she couldn't define, added "I didn't mean to distract you.  If I talk, just ignore me."
"That would be a little hard to do, Miss Granger."
"Wha- oh, sorry, Professor."

He chuckled slightly.  "Okay, where was I?"
She was silent.  He smirked at her sideways.  "It's alright, you can talk.  That was a question, not a statement."

"Ummm, fitting in.  In Slytherin, I mean."

"Yes, I managed, somehow.  While undoubtedly I might have been a better person if I'd been in Ravenclaw, being Slytherin was something I'd been training for since I first understood the concept of Houses.  And it made going home for holidays easier.  If I'd been in a different House, I probably couldn't have gone home."  He laughed bitterly.  "Maybe that's what the Hat meant."

"And maybe everything's just clearer in hindsight," Hermione murmured.  Snape looked surprised.  He opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly.  "Maybe," he said quietly.

"What were your parents like?"

"If you'd asked them if they knew me they probably would have denied it.  Hah.  I was the accident, the little mishap that made two people most incredibly unsuited to each other and to caring for a child stay together… I don't know why they didn't just break apart and dump me in an orphanage somewhere.  I suspect they enjoyed taking things out on each other, and me, when I was around, too much to bother.  It certainly wasn't love that held our little happy home together.

Father was worst.  I don't think he ever understood that children aren't mini adults in shorter robes.  From the moment I could walk and string a few words together I was his student in everything.  Not that he was actually a teacher by profession; he just believed it was his duty to instruct me.  If I didn't understand, he persevered until I did.  I learnt to understand very quickly.  He had a very creative teaching style."

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered softly.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned across the space between them, somehow found his hand, and placed her own on top of it.  "I'm sorry," she repeated.  His skin was soft and cool to her touch.

His breathing was almost silent.  Snape was so still that again Hermione began to think that she'd offended him.  Quickly she removed her hand, and withdrew to her side of the sofa, blushing. 

"Professor?  Professor Snape?"

"I think you had better go now, Miss Granger," he said roughly, almost swallowing the words.  "I'm sure you know where your room is.  Go!"

Hermione was on her feet, out of habit, before she stopped to think that she'd just been sent to her room like a child.  At the threshold of the room she turned back, ready to give him a piece of her mind, and stopped, angry words forgotten, for Severus Snape had moved out of the darkness into the light of the single candle in the room, and the candlelight reflected brightly on his cheeks.

Hermione left the room.  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Throwing herself down on her bed, she narrowly missed Crookshanks.

What had happened?  Nothing, really.  Yet she couldn't dislodge the feeling that something important had occurred that night, that she was just too blind or tired to realise.  She'd been talking, as usual, as had become a habit in the evenings of the last week, and he'd been listening.  Then she'd tried to turn the tables and get him to talk.  Strangely enough, he had.  Why?

Though he definitely wasn't the touchy-feely type, it had seemed so natural there, just for a moment, to reach out to him.  Just like she would to Ron or Harry, or Ginny in a rare moment of closeness.  To try to bridge the gulf that that was there, always, between two people who barely knew each other but were starting to make an effort to learn.  Although the effort had been all hers - she'd shared so much about herself and barely got a look at his face in return!  Anyone with a shred of curiosity would want to glean something about their confidante in return, wouldn't they?  And she was hardly the barely curious type.

"I don't know anymore," Hermione whispered into her pillow.  "I thought I did, but now I don't, and I'm confused."

"What's that, love?  Confused about something?" 

"Just life," she told the mirror.  "I'll get over it."

"You make it sound like a disease!  Now Roie, she knew life was a blessing…"

"No, it is a disease," said Hermione solemnly, remembering something she'd once heard from the Weasley twins (naturally enough, cackling with laughter.)  "It's socially transmitted, and it's one hundred percent fatal."

If the mirror had eyes, they would be rolling in their sockets.  Perhaps the glass was trembling a little in its frame.  "Honestly, young lady!  Life is something to be treasured!  If you'd been hanging around a dusty room for as long as I have, you'd recognise how valuable it is instead of bemoaning how unlucky you are!"

"I wasn't moaning!" She sat up, startled.

"Yes you were," it said smugly.

"Wasn't!"

"Were too!"

"Argh!  Just shut up and give me some peace, alright?"

"Not until you admit that you were moaning, and I am right," said the mirror pompously.  Hermione sucked in her breath sharply, and eyed it appraisingly. 

She couldn't use her wand, or she'd probably damage the delicate spells on the mirror.  Aggravating as it was, she still wanted to study it. 

"Well?  Am I right?"

"No, you're not.  You're an annoying piece of glass that won't let me have any peace."

"Well, I like that!"  It exclaimed huffily.  "Just an annoying piece of glass, hey?  I'll have you know that my frame is real bronze, and my backing is sapient pearwood!  Think on that, then.  How many things do you know made out of sapient pearwood?"

"Two, including you," Hermione said sharply, and marched quickly out  the door before she lost her nerve, leaving the mirror to complain loudly to a sleeping Crookshanks.

Author's Notes:

It's been a long time coming, but finally I've been able to put paw to keyboard and come up with a new installment.  The next chapter shouldn't be too long away, either.  (Hopefully!)  Thank you to all who reviewed, I'm honestly amazed that so many people like reading this, and I'm very glad that you do!!  I'm sorry that I don't have enough time to respond to everyone individually, but I'm uploading inbetween classes so it's a bit rushed.  Lol!

I would also like to say something about the title.  At the time I started writing this, it seemed appropriate along the lines of Hermione being 'in exile' from all she was close to, yet as the story has progressed it has become more and more apparent to me that it no longer fits.  I have decided, however, to leave it as it stands simply because so many people know it as such.  On another note, I have started writing the tale of Albus Dumbledore's first adventure with the luggage.  As soon as I've edited and re-edited, I'll be posting.  Look for it!  The title will be Wizards and Worldgates.  (A bit of shameless advertising never hurt anyone.)

Disclaimer: As always, anything HP related is J.K. Rowling's, the luggage is Terry Pratchett's.  The idea of 'start at the middle, then you're not so far from either the beginning or the end', comes from Erle Stanley Gardner's The Case of the Fugitive Nurse, a Perry Mason novel.  Got a problem?  So have I.  And if you like, I'll give you the name of my doctor.

Lol!