Wonders Unceasing
******
Disclaimer: You know the drill.
Author's Note: Critique is good. Critique is my friend. If something works, let me know. If something doesn't work, let me know that too. Thank you! :^)
******
Chapter Three: Dirty Little Secrets
The Potions Laboratory was cold, the chill striking Snape through the soles of his slippered feet and slithering icily upwards until it lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He shivered, hastily setting a hand to the edge of a worktable as his knees shuddered and threatened to give way. Granger was frowning at him; he was sure she'd spotted his moment of weakness. The walk from the hospital wing had proven more exhausting than he'd ever admit.
"Don't just stand there," he snapped, irritated by his own traitorous body. If he moved away from the support of the table then he was going to find himself sitting on the floor, and the rapidity of that inevitable descent would no doubt add additional bruises to his current collection. Instead he turned away from the centre of the room, bracing himself against the support of the wooden worktop while selecting measuring glasses and decanting vessels from the collection on the wall shelves above the table.
"You know where the store room is," Snape went on. "Going on past evidence, you are perfectly familiar with the contents... the Boomslang skin, anyway." He smirked at his hands when he heard Granger's indrawn breath, and almost chuckled when she said nothing at all for several seconds. He'd never been able to decide whether she knew that he'd been well aware of who it was had made off with his missing supplies five years ago. Her response finally gave him the answer: she'd had no idea at all. After a moment's further reflection he found he was rather disappointed. He'd hoped for better than that from her.
"I found the layout was very logical," Granger said pointedly once she had gathered her wits, managing to colour the comment with a faint trace of amusement.
Snape hid his smile behind the scowl that he directed over his shoulder. "Then make use of that... organ you presume to call a brain, and assemble the ingredients. The stores in the hospital wing will be short of Skele-Grow, Sanguinem Supprimere, Redigerinflamini, Anti-Petrifaction Lotion, Pepper-Up Potion and Dreamless Sleep Potion¹. I trust you can remember the ingredients. They were required for your N.E.W.T.s."
"I think you'll find Pepper-Up Potion was actually part of the material for the O.W.L.s, Professor," Granger remarked.
Snape turned slowly and propped himself on the edge of the table, folding his arms across his chest and looking down his nose. "If I remember correctly, Miss Granger, the Potions practical for your O.W.L.s was your lowest grade."
Granger huffed at him. "If you remember correctly, Professor Snape, the class had only half the usual time because of the Kouei that Malfoy portkeyed into the dungeons right in the middle of the exam. And I don't recall you doing anything useful about that. If Harry hadn't done what he did, it would have suffocated Neville."
Snape smirked at her, silently, watching the indignant expression on Granger's face change into thoughtfulness.
"Although... it was very convenient, Ron finding a second portkey just lying around like that, wasn't it?" she said.
Snape felt his lip pulling into an ironic curl. "Indubitably," he said shortly, but Granger didn't seem to hear. She had frozen, still and pale as a marble statue, her eyes staring blankly at nothing and her face tilted slightly towards the ceiling. Snape had no doubts now as to what had happened to Ronald Weasley. He waited with some trepidation for the storm of tears to come. Words of comfort would forever be dishonest coming from his lips, and should Granger unwisely seek solace in his arms he was certain his legs would prove unequal to the task of holding him up, leaving him in a most undignified position.
There was no outburst of sobs. Granger drew in a sharp breath, her expression hardening. "Skele-Grow, Sanguinem Supprimere, Redigerinflamini, Anti-Petrifaction Lotion, Pepper-Up Potion and Dreamless Sleep Potion," she said briskly, heading for the store cupboard without looking back at Snape.
Snape frowned thoughtfully after her. This was no insecure First Year hiding behind a wall of books and eager answers, a tender ego easily punctured with words, pride that carried her away to cry in solitude and concealment. This was a woman who had always possessed the ability to stay cool and rational in a crisis, whose wits had been sharpened by adversity and who took criticism with equanimity and returned insult in kind. This was also a woman, it seemed, who could be relied on to keep doing what had to be done, even in the face of personal loss.
Minerva McGonagall would have been proud.
"We can use the two largest cauldrons for the Pepper-Up Potion," Snape called after her. "One small cauldron each for the others. There aren't enough fires in here for all of them, we'll have to use the classroom as well."
Granger reappeared with an armful of jars and packages. "We, Professor?"
"I'm sure your ears function correctly, Miss Granger." Snape knew his voice lacked bite. Where was a bad mood when you needed one? "You didn't think I intended to let you sit here and gawp uselessly while I provided you with entertainment, did you?"
"Actually, I was assuming you'd make me do all the work while you practiced lurking and glowering." Granger was smirking at him! She was setting down the ingredients on the surface in front of him in neatly sorted little stacks, and smiling sideways at him with an annoyingly smug little half-smile. "Although maybe you'd prefer to try looming and glaring down over my shoulder at the potions instead?"
"Twenty points from Gryffindor for forgetting your place, Miss Granger." Outrage finally provided Snape with a convincing air of sneering superiority. It redoubled when Granger merely nodded acceptance and began to prepare the cauldrons for use. She showed no contrition, no horror at letting her House down, and not the slightest hint of being cowed. Nor was there any sign of the bravado with which some might have tried to shrug off the penalty. She hadn't answered back. There was absolutely nothing he could fault her on in her response.
In seven years of Potions lessons Granger had obviously learned far more than how to brew a few potions. He'd been trying to hammer home the more subtle lessons of life thought most of his time in the teaching profession, with limited success. Now one of his pupils showed signed of having mastered his unofficial curriculum- and instead of finding satisfaction in his success he felt rather peeved: Irritation aside, he'd been enjoying the battle of wits until Granger had actually won the round. Won it by not responding, no less.
"The Skele-Grow and the Anti-Petrifaction Lotion need least attention, so I'll set those up in the classroom," Granger announced.
Snape waved at her to get on with it, letting her do the moving around. He could keep himself busy enough sorting and measuring ingredients without having to leave his seat. Moving as little as possible seemed wise. The potions would need attention for at least a couple of hours, and he had to conserve his strength if he was going to last that long.
Snape returned to his preparations at the work table, pulling forward a cast-iron balance and a stack of brass weights. The pixie dust had to be trickled onto the pan of the scales with a steady hand. The stuff was so fine that the lightest breath or the slightest disturbance would whisk it up into a hallucinogenic cloud. Properly it should have been measured in the fume cabinet. Snape did not give much for his chances of making it that far without dropping the jar. He could keep his hand steady, if he concentrated hard enough.
Behind him, a loud clang rang out.
Snape froze. The momentary silence suggested that Granger had done the same.
Slowly, carefully, Snape turned his head enough to let out the breath he'd been holding. He took in another, and resumed his task. His hand remained utterly steady. He permitted himself a small smirk and a moment of pride. "If lifting the cauldrons by yourself is too much for you, Miss Granger, I'm sure you can try a charm. I've heard you're adequate at wand waving."
Snape could feel Granger's eyes narrowing as she glared at his back. "If walking to the fume cabinet is too much for you, Professor, I'd be happy to cast a containing charm on the more dangerous ingredients," she said.
Snape glowered at her. "Perhaps that alternative had already occurred to me."
"You couldn't have cast it already because…" Granger's come-back trailed off hesitantly. "Actually, it's not the best way to tell you that," she continued, sounding apologetic. "I'm sorry. Your wand was broken in the final fight with the Death Eaters, after Voldemort… ended. I'll get on with chopping things." She turned away from him and took herself off to another table to work, burying herself behind a heap of roots, shoots and dragon scale, averting her eyes.
Gryffindor tact, Snape thought sourly. As subtle as a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a fireworks factory, and just as likely to send sparks flying. How did Granger expect him to react to the news? Bawl his eyes out? He'd never really liked that wand anyway: Laburnum and Sphinx hair, nine-and-a-half inches. It suited him far too well for him to be comfortable with it.
Snape shook the thought away, and then waited for his head to stop spinning at the incautious movement. Granger was pottering around behind him, preparing the base for the potions. There was no need to check on her. Her work was always accurate. Perhaps she'd grow overconfident in the absence of his usual critical overwatch, but she'd have to deal with that on her own.
Silence settled over the pair, save for the small sounds of slicing, chopping and shredding and the musical tinkle of jar lids, spoons and delicate metal weights. Granger's robes swished softly as she shifted between the cauldrons, adding and stirring. The preparations became almost hypnotic in their repetition. Time became timeless, precision became art.
Snape reached for another twig of rosemary, and woke from a daze of automation when his hand came back empty. He stretched a little, straightening the kinks in his spine, and twisted around to see how the potions were getting along. The pile of ingredients on Granger's table was all but gone. Aside from the simmering time and the additions required that he himself had not yet prepared, most of the potions were complete.
"How remarkably efficient of you, Miss Granger," he noted. "In a hurry to escape? You must be aware of the dangers of rushing a potion."
Granger managed to become even more industrious than usual, bending over her work and chopping a mallow root with an accuracy that was unnecessary for the potion it was to be used in. "Actually, Professor, I thought you asked me here because I wanted to talk to you in private."
"Speaking does not require the use of your hands, Miss Granger." Snape found he could lean one elbow on the work table for support as he measured out a critical quantity of dried valerian.
"You won't like it," Granger informed him.
"If you know you won't like an answer, Miss Granger, then don't ask the question." Snape had neither the desire nor the energy to encourage confidences. Despite his repressive tone, his remark managed to do just that.
"Have you ever cast the Killing Curse?" Granger blurted quickly, as if she'd held back the words so long that they had slipped out of its own accord. She had looked up from her chopping. Snape caught her eye before he could stop himself, and there was no challenge in her gaze, not even a flicker of curiosity. There was no accusation, although he recognised revulsion in the depths of her chocolate brown eyes. He saw neither fear nor hatred; instead he found a blank, black, helpless, hopeless morass of irreversible guilt.
Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse. Feared, loathed, and Unforgivable. The last moments of Voldemort's final battle played themselves across his mind's eye, images standing out against a grey haze of memory and choking smoke. Four figures determined that the war ended there, then, on that spot. Four wands trained on the Dark Lord. Four voices announcing his sentence: and the noble, upstanding Gryffindor Granger, implacable and unhesitating, had pronounced death.
Of course she had sought him out. He, Snape: Death Eater and double agent, unclean and sinful, whom Granger couldn't taint because he was already blackened by his past. Snape, who would know all about the Unforgivables. Snape, who couldn't point a finger without adding hypocrite to the epithets already applied to him by others. Who else would she go running to with the weight of self-recrimination resting so heavily on her shoulders?
"I told you that you wouldn't like it," Granger said. "I only wondered, because… because I wanted to know… if it was normal to feel nothing at all afterwards. I cast an Unforgivable, which ought to land me in Azkaban, most likely, and I… I've tried to feel guilty about it. I've tried to feel sorry that I killed someone… and I don't. I'm glad he's gone." Her gaze was both earnest and hollow, holding an appeal that expected to be rebuffed.
"I've thought about it," she went on, still not looking away, "and if I ended up back there again I'd cast the Killing Curse again, and I still wouldn't regret it. And I ought to. I ought to regret it. I ought to feel guilty. And I don't." Snape saw Granger searching his face, looking for an answer she wasn't going to find there. "But I know you do…" she said, softly now, reading something Snape had never intended to show.
"I despise self-righteous Gryffindor guilt-trips," Snape drawled, deliberately scornful. "But allow me to dispel your misconception. I don't regret casting Avadra Kedavra on Voldemort. Not in the slightest. It got the job done, and there was no time for an alternative. I am a Slytherin, Miss Granger," Snape reminded her sourly. "We use any means necessary to achieve our goals."
Granger's hands had left the mallow root and the knife as she listened, silent and lost. Her arms had crept up to wrap themselves about her torso, and her expression was still desperately bleak. "I know that. I know it had to be done. But isn't it what Voldemort would have done if the situation was reversed? And does that make us no better than him?"
Snape scowled. He should throw her out so she could find her housemates and their sugary reassurances. No doubt they'd have her confessing all before a Ministry tribunal soon enough. She'd spill out false regrets at the use of an Unforgivable until she succeeded in persuading herself that she was sorry for it after all, and then pay whatever penance she felt like extracting from herself until she either regained her sense of self-worth or beat herself into the ground.
They wouldn't send her to Azkaban, of course, but they would undoubtedly use the situation to force her into doing whatever they wished of her, and that would be an utter waste of her potential- which was still underdeveloped after years of tagging along with Potter and Weasley. There was time yet, however, to see if the wallflower could be persuaded to mature and blossom. "I find your attitude insulting in the extreme," he rapped.
"Why?" Granger asked, sadly. "Because you were the obvious person to ask about an Unforgivable? Because I implied that you've done things you feel guilty about? Because I've suggested that Voldemort had no less virtue than the rest of his former House? Because I said 'us'?"
"Because you perceive chivalry as worth," Snape responded angrily. "Because you're convinced that your own moral values are better than those of anybody who thinks differently. There are no right answers, Miss Granger. There is no absolute truth, no black and white, and no justice." Snape found himself trembling from the force of his vehemence and set a hand to the seat of his stool to steady himself. His lungs felt heavy. Breathing was becoming an effort.
"Then why did you spy against Voldemort?" Oddly, Granger's question sounded more rhetorical than direct, an impression that was confirmed when she continued. "How could you manage to do that when the only thing you could be sure of was that what you thought was the right thing to do might not be what everybody else thought? How… when everything is grey? How could you risk trusting your own judgement? How could you find the strength?"
"How did you find the strength to kill Voldemort, Miss Granger?" Snape's voice sounded cold and distant to his own ears. Granger seemed to be sitting in the bright centre of a narrowing tunnel of awareness.
"It had to be done," Granger said, the reply filtered through a high-pitched buzzing sound. Snape wanted to look for the insect making the noise, but couldn't risk turning his head in case it fell off. He clutched the stool with both hands now. The ground was too far away. Granger was saying something… looming towards him… the world lurched… his knees hurt. The floor was closer. His arms were wrapped around something warm and solid.
"Professor Snape!"
Was that who he was? Snape blinked and focussed on a face that was much too close to him. Granger's hair had begun escaping from its tie, strands curling madly across her cheek and falling into her eyes. She smelled abominably of chamomile and balm. Snape tried to push himself upright. The smell was making him dizzy.
What had they been talking about? "You were saying, Miss Granger?"
"I think you ought to lie down for a bit," Granger said.
"I'm perfectly alright," Snape bit out, automatically, fumbling behind him for the stool so he could pull himself up. The room was leaning at an odd angle. The walls must have been talking to the moving staircases.
"I know. It's just the fumes from the potions," Granger soothed. The insufferable girl… woman… was humouring him. Damn him if she wasn't going to have to finish the potions for him. He couldn't risk fainting into one of them. "Or maybe there was something in that potion Madam Pomfrey gave you," Granger suggested.
That must be it. "Some sort of sedative…" Snape muttered.
"Probably," Granger agreed. They both knew otherwise, but it allowed for Snape to keep his pride intact.
Snape was both embarrassed and furious to find that there was no way he could stand without leaning heavily on the Gryffindor's shoulder. Intolerable. "Miss Granger, aren't you forgetting something?"
"I can stir the Dreamless Sleep potion on the way past," she replied. "And the Skele-Grow needs ten ounces of shredded boneset adding in half an hour. Don't worry, Professor. I've had one of the best Potions teachers in the Wizarding world."
"And forgotten almost everything I've tried to teach you, no doubt," Snape said.
"Oh shut up," Granger told him. It shocked Snape enough that he complied, remaining silent as they stirred the cauldron as required. Only then did Granger hesitate. "Can you manage to give me directions to your room? Or shall I call Madam Pomfrey?" she threatened when he hesitated.
"You've got a lot to learn about manipulating people," Snape growled at her.
"I know, but I've got one of the best teachers for that too," Granger grinned at him. Snape scowled back. Her voice was too bright. Nobody bounced back from doubt and despair that fast. Yet again Granger had swept beneath the carpet the things she did not have time to deal with when more immediate problems appeared.
She couldn't keep it up forever. Something would crack eventually.
He was too tired to deal with that thought now. Wearily he guided Granger towards his quarters, mentioning dire consequences if the knowledge ever went any further than herself. He would rather she'd left him there at the door, to drag himself into his private sanctum and curl up in peace, but she didn't trust him to make it as far as a bed on his own. Snape was chagrined to realise that she was probably correct.
At least she spared him the indignity of undressing him like a baby; or perhaps she found it amusing to leave him in his hospital gown. Regardless, as soon as he was propped on his bed she left him to himself and withdrew without comment.
"Miss Granger." Snape saw her hesitate at the door in response to his call.
"Did you need something else?" she asked.
"No. I… have some… advice." He took a breath, cursing himself for his hesitancy. He hoped she would take it for tiredness, and pressed on. "Not that any Gryffindor in recorded history has ever followed advice," he drawled, managing an approximation of his usual manner, "but it may eventually happen."
"That would just be statistical error," Granger told him. "I always listen to my teachers, though. Should I take notes?"
"That won't be necessary." Snape let his head rest back on the pillow, closing his eyes. He really was tired. More than tired. Bone weary, utterly drained, and perilously short of defences. "Miss Granger, Voldemort is gone but the war is not over, as I'm sure you are aware. Those left have the joyous task of picking up the pieces and tidying up the last of the opposition, which will no doubt come as a nasty surprise to those so intent on partying over Voldemort's mouldering bones. You have… adequately managed to keep yourself together while those around you have probably either fallen apart or begun ordering their drinks.
"I would advise you to keep doing so, if you can, until this matter is finished." Snape could feel his jaw clench. He let out a long breath and made himself relax. "After that… let yourself grieve, however hard it might seem. If you lock away your feelings then it will only become harder to admit to them, until releasing them becomes impossible. And now go."He managed to raise one arm far enough above the bed covers to flick his fingers dismissively. "Out!"
Despite her evident surprise, Granger turned to comply.
Snape let his whisper follow her from the room. "If I feel guilt, Miss Granger, it is not for casting the Killing Curse on Voldemort. It was beacuse my first thought was to cast the Cruciatus Curse instead."
He heard the door close softly and at last allowed sleep to claim him. For the first time in years, his dreams were quiet.
******
1. I don't know who deserves the credit for the invention of Dreamless Sleep potion. I've come across it in several fanfics now. If you know the originator of the idea let me know and I'll add an appropriate thank you.
To all my wonderful readers:
Iejasu, you're making me blush :8} . Kalaratri, I'm honoured that I earned one of your rare reviews. Mary, the filter's gone, thanks for pointing it out. Shen Mi- here's the next installment! Zebee, nice to have another review from you and thanks for mentioning the particular things you liked. Mandy, I hope this starts to explain why Hermione's a touch too cheerful. Nightshift, Cosmoballerina, thank you too. Pigwidgeon37, welcome back and thanks for letting me know what worked well. Sk, glad you're enjoying this so far. Linnetjo, another of those nice people with specific comments, thank you! Redone... hee! Poor Ron, he gets killed off or shoved aside so often in Serverous/Hermione fics, doesn't he? Maybe this chapter starts to show how well Hermione isn't dealing with his fate after all. Jinni- here's more! Crystalline Temptress, I hope this chapter keeps up the standard. Nameless reviewer... I'll get back to Harry. Different people react to death in different ways, and often the reaction isn't the most appropriate or expected one. Inieda, I'm blushing again :8} . Stonecoldfox- yipes! You've got me worrying that the rest of this won't be up to scratch now! As for Alan... I liked Nottingham, but I wouldn't dare count myself a dyed-in-the-wool fan next to some people around here, and some of the appealmight have been the beard. I'm a sucker for beards... Frustrated, be not frustrated, I have finally posted more. Surreal- I'll email, but not tonight. It's pumpkin time in the UK.
******
Disclaimer: You know the drill.
Author's Note: Critique is good. Critique is my friend. If something works, let me know. If something doesn't work, let me know that too. Thank you! :^)
******
Chapter Three: Dirty Little Secrets
The Potions Laboratory was cold, the chill striking Snape through the soles of his slippered feet and slithering icily upwards until it lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. He shivered, hastily setting a hand to the edge of a worktable as his knees shuddered and threatened to give way. Granger was frowning at him; he was sure she'd spotted his moment of weakness. The walk from the hospital wing had proven more exhausting than he'd ever admit.
"Don't just stand there," he snapped, irritated by his own traitorous body. If he moved away from the support of the table then he was going to find himself sitting on the floor, and the rapidity of that inevitable descent would no doubt add additional bruises to his current collection. Instead he turned away from the centre of the room, bracing himself against the support of the wooden worktop while selecting measuring glasses and decanting vessels from the collection on the wall shelves above the table.
"You know where the store room is," Snape went on. "Going on past evidence, you are perfectly familiar with the contents... the Boomslang skin, anyway." He smirked at his hands when he heard Granger's indrawn breath, and almost chuckled when she said nothing at all for several seconds. He'd never been able to decide whether she knew that he'd been well aware of who it was had made off with his missing supplies five years ago. Her response finally gave him the answer: she'd had no idea at all. After a moment's further reflection he found he was rather disappointed. He'd hoped for better than that from her.
"I found the layout was very logical," Granger said pointedly once she had gathered her wits, managing to colour the comment with a faint trace of amusement.
Snape hid his smile behind the scowl that he directed over his shoulder. "Then make use of that... organ you presume to call a brain, and assemble the ingredients. The stores in the hospital wing will be short of Skele-Grow, Sanguinem Supprimere, Redigerinflamini, Anti-Petrifaction Lotion, Pepper-Up Potion and Dreamless Sleep Potion¹. I trust you can remember the ingredients. They were required for your N.E.W.T.s."
"I think you'll find Pepper-Up Potion was actually part of the material for the O.W.L.s, Professor," Granger remarked.
Snape turned slowly and propped himself on the edge of the table, folding his arms across his chest and looking down his nose. "If I remember correctly, Miss Granger, the Potions practical for your O.W.L.s was your lowest grade."
Granger huffed at him. "If you remember correctly, Professor Snape, the class had only half the usual time because of the Kouei that Malfoy portkeyed into the dungeons right in the middle of the exam. And I don't recall you doing anything useful about that. If Harry hadn't done what he did, it would have suffocated Neville."
Snape smirked at her, silently, watching the indignant expression on Granger's face change into thoughtfulness.
"Although... it was very convenient, Ron finding a second portkey just lying around like that, wasn't it?" she said.
Snape felt his lip pulling into an ironic curl. "Indubitably," he said shortly, but Granger didn't seem to hear. She had frozen, still and pale as a marble statue, her eyes staring blankly at nothing and her face tilted slightly towards the ceiling. Snape had no doubts now as to what had happened to Ronald Weasley. He waited with some trepidation for the storm of tears to come. Words of comfort would forever be dishonest coming from his lips, and should Granger unwisely seek solace in his arms he was certain his legs would prove unequal to the task of holding him up, leaving him in a most undignified position.
There was no outburst of sobs. Granger drew in a sharp breath, her expression hardening. "Skele-Grow, Sanguinem Supprimere, Redigerinflamini, Anti-Petrifaction Lotion, Pepper-Up Potion and Dreamless Sleep Potion," she said briskly, heading for the store cupboard without looking back at Snape.
Snape frowned thoughtfully after her. This was no insecure First Year hiding behind a wall of books and eager answers, a tender ego easily punctured with words, pride that carried her away to cry in solitude and concealment. This was a woman who had always possessed the ability to stay cool and rational in a crisis, whose wits had been sharpened by adversity and who took criticism with equanimity and returned insult in kind. This was also a woman, it seemed, who could be relied on to keep doing what had to be done, even in the face of personal loss.
Minerva McGonagall would have been proud.
"We can use the two largest cauldrons for the Pepper-Up Potion," Snape called after her. "One small cauldron each for the others. There aren't enough fires in here for all of them, we'll have to use the classroom as well."
Granger reappeared with an armful of jars and packages. "We, Professor?"
"I'm sure your ears function correctly, Miss Granger." Snape knew his voice lacked bite. Where was a bad mood when you needed one? "You didn't think I intended to let you sit here and gawp uselessly while I provided you with entertainment, did you?"
"Actually, I was assuming you'd make me do all the work while you practiced lurking and glowering." Granger was smirking at him! She was setting down the ingredients on the surface in front of him in neatly sorted little stacks, and smiling sideways at him with an annoyingly smug little half-smile. "Although maybe you'd prefer to try looming and glaring down over my shoulder at the potions instead?"
"Twenty points from Gryffindor for forgetting your place, Miss Granger." Outrage finally provided Snape with a convincing air of sneering superiority. It redoubled when Granger merely nodded acceptance and began to prepare the cauldrons for use. She showed no contrition, no horror at letting her House down, and not the slightest hint of being cowed. Nor was there any sign of the bravado with which some might have tried to shrug off the penalty. She hadn't answered back. There was absolutely nothing he could fault her on in her response.
In seven years of Potions lessons Granger had obviously learned far more than how to brew a few potions. He'd been trying to hammer home the more subtle lessons of life thought most of his time in the teaching profession, with limited success. Now one of his pupils showed signed of having mastered his unofficial curriculum- and instead of finding satisfaction in his success he felt rather peeved: Irritation aside, he'd been enjoying the battle of wits until Granger had actually won the round. Won it by not responding, no less.
"The Skele-Grow and the Anti-Petrifaction Lotion need least attention, so I'll set those up in the classroom," Granger announced.
Snape waved at her to get on with it, letting her do the moving around. He could keep himself busy enough sorting and measuring ingredients without having to leave his seat. Moving as little as possible seemed wise. The potions would need attention for at least a couple of hours, and he had to conserve his strength if he was going to last that long.
Snape returned to his preparations at the work table, pulling forward a cast-iron balance and a stack of brass weights. The pixie dust had to be trickled onto the pan of the scales with a steady hand. The stuff was so fine that the lightest breath or the slightest disturbance would whisk it up into a hallucinogenic cloud. Properly it should have been measured in the fume cabinet. Snape did not give much for his chances of making it that far without dropping the jar. He could keep his hand steady, if he concentrated hard enough.
Behind him, a loud clang rang out.
Snape froze. The momentary silence suggested that Granger had done the same.
Slowly, carefully, Snape turned his head enough to let out the breath he'd been holding. He took in another, and resumed his task. His hand remained utterly steady. He permitted himself a small smirk and a moment of pride. "If lifting the cauldrons by yourself is too much for you, Miss Granger, I'm sure you can try a charm. I've heard you're adequate at wand waving."
Snape could feel Granger's eyes narrowing as she glared at his back. "If walking to the fume cabinet is too much for you, Professor, I'd be happy to cast a containing charm on the more dangerous ingredients," she said.
Snape glowered at her. "Perhaps that alternative had already occurred to me."
"You couldn't have cast it already because…" Granger's come-back trailed off hesitantly. "Actually, it's not the best way to tell you that," she continued, sounding apologetic. "I'm sorry. Your wand was broken in the final fight with the Death Eaters, after Voldemort… ended. I'll get on with chopping things." She turned away from him and took herself off to another table to work, burying herself behind a heap of roots, shoots and dragon scale, averting her eyes.
Gryffindor tact, Snape thought sourly. As subtle as a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a fireworks factory, and just as likely to send sparks flying. How did Granger expect him to react to the news? Bawl his eyes out? He'd never really liked that wand anyway: Laburnum and Sphinx hair, nine-and-a-half inches. It suited him far too well for him to be comfortable with it.
Snape shook the thought away, and then waited for his head to stop spinning at the incautious movement. Granger was pottering around behind him, preparing the base for the potions. There was no need to check on her. Her work was always accurate. Perhaps she'd grow overconfident in the absence of his usual critical overwatch, but she'd have to deal with that on her own.
Silence settled over the pair, save for the small sounds of slicing, chopping and shredding and the musical tinkle of jar lids, spoons and delicate metal weights. Granger's robes swished softly as she shifted between the cauldrons, adding and stirring. The preparations became almost hypnotic in their repetition. Time became timeless, precision became art.
Snape reached for another twig of rosemary, and woke from a daze of automation when his hand came back empty. He stretched a little, straightening the kinks in his spine, and twisted around to see how the potions were getting along. The pile of ingredients on Granger's table was all but gone. Aside from the simmering time and the additions required that he himself had not yet prepared, most of the potions were complete.
"How remarkably efficient of you, Miss Granger," he noted. "In a hurry to escape? You must be aware of the dangers of rushing a potion."
Granger managed to become even more industrious than usual, bending over her work and chopping a mallow root with an accuracy that was unnecessary for the potion it was to be used in. "Actually, Professor, I thought you asked me here because I wanted to talk to you in private."
"Speaking does not require the use of your hands, Miss Granger." Snape found he could lean one elbow on the work table for support as he measured out a critical quantity of dried valerian.
"You won't like it," Granger informed him.
"If you know you won't like an answer, Miss Granger, then don't ask the question." Snape had neither the desire nor the energy to encourage confidences. Despite his repressive tone, his remark managed to do just that.
"Have you ever cast the Killing Curse?" Granger blurted quickly, as if she'd held back the words so long that they had slipped out of its own accord. She had looked up from her chopping. Snape caught her eye before he could stop himself, and there was no challenge in her gaze, not even a flicker of curiosity. There was no accusation, although he recognised revulsion in the depths of her chocolate brown eyes. He saw neither fear nor hatred; instead he found a blank, black, helpless, hopeless morass of irreversible guilt.
Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse. Feared, loathed, and Unforgivable. The last moments of Voldemort's final battle played themselves across his mind's eye, images standing out against a grey haze of memory and choking smoke. Four figures determined that the war ended there, then, on that spot. Four wands trained on the Dark Lord. Four voices announcing his sentence: and the noble, upstanding Gryffindor Granger, implacable and unhesitating, had pronounced death.
Of course she had sought him out. He, Snape: Death Eater and double agent, unclean and sinful, whom Granger couldn't taint because he was already blackened by his past. Snape, who would know all about the Unforgivables. Snape, who couldn't point a finger without adding hypocrite to the epithets already applied to him by others. Who else would she go running to with the weight of self-recrimination resting so heavily on her shoulders?
"I told you that you wouldn't like it," Granger said. "I only wondered, because… because I wanted to know… if it was normal to feel nothing at all afterwards. I cast an Unforgivable, which ought to land me in Azkaban, most likely, and I… I've tried to feel guilty about it. I've tried to feel sorry that I killed someone… and I don't. I'm glad he's gone." Her gaze was both earnest and hollow, holding an appeal that expected to be rebuffed.
"I've thought about it," she went on, still not looking away, "and if I ended up back there again I'd cast the Killing Curse again, and I still wouldn't regret it. And I ought to. I ought to regret it. I ought to feel guilty. And I don't." Snape saw Granger searching his face, looking for an answer she wasn't going to find there. "But I know you do…" she said, softly now, reading something Snape had never intended to show.
"I despise self-righteous Gryffindor guilt-trips," Snape drawled, deliberately scornful. "But allow me to dispel your misconception. I don't regret casting Avadra Kedavra on Voldemort. Not in the slightest. It got the job done, and there was no time for an alternative. I am a Slytherin, Miss Granger," Snape reminded her sourly. "We use any means necessary to achieve our goals."
Granger's hands had left the mallow root and the knife as she listened, silent and lost. Her arms had crept up to wrap themselves about her torso, and her expression was still desperately bleak. "I know that. I know it had to be done. But isn't it what Voldemort would have done if the situation was reversed? And does that make us no better than him?"
Snape scowled. He should throw her out so she could find her housemates and their sugary reassurances. No doubt they'd have her confessing all before a Ministry tribunal soon enough. She'd spill out false regrets at the use of an Unforgivable until she succeeded in persuading herself that she was sorry for it after all, and then pay whatever penance she felt like extracting from herself until she either regained her sense of self-worth or beat herself into the ground.
They wouldn't send her to Azkaban, of course, but they would undoubtedly use the situation to force her into doing whatever they wished of her, and that would be an utter waste of her potential- which was still underdeveloped after years of tagging along with Potter and Weasley. There was time yet, however, to see if the wallflower could be persuaded to mature and blossom. "I find your attitude insulting in the extreme," he rapped.
"Why?" Granger asked, sadly. "Because you were the obvious person to ask about an Unforgivable? Because I implied that you've done things you feel guilty about? Because I've suggested that Voldemort had no less virtue than the rest of his former House? Because I said 'us'?"
"Because you perceive chivalry as worth," Snape responded angrily. "Because you're convinced that your own moral values are better than those of anybody who thinks differently. There are no right answers, Miss Granger. There is no absolute truth, no black and white, and no justice." Snape found himself trembling from the force of his vehemence and set a hand to the seat of his stool to steady himself. His lungs felt heavy. Breathing was becoming an effort.
"Then why did you spy against Voldemort?" Oddly, Granger's question sounded more rhetorical than direct, an impression that was confirmed when she continued. "How could you manage to do that when the only thing you could be sure of was that what you thought was the right thing to do might not be what everybody else thought? How… when everything is grey? How could you risk trusting your own judgement? How could you find the strength?"
"How did you find the strength to kill Voldemort, Miss Granger?" Snape's voice sounded cold and distant to his own ears. Granger seemed to be sitting in the bright centre of a narrowing tunnel of awareness.
"It had to be done," Granger said, the reply filtered through a high-pitched buzzing sound. Snape wanted to look for the insect making the noise, but couldn't risk turning his head in case it fell off. He clutched the stool with both hands now. The ground was too far away. Granger was saying something… looming towards him… the world lurched… his knees hurt. The floor was closer. His arms were wrapped around something warm and solid.
"Professor Snape!"
Was that who he was? Snape blinked and focussed on a face that was much too close to him. Granger's hair had begun escaping from its tie, strands curling madly across her cheek and falling into her eyes. She smelled abominably of chamomile and balm. Snape tried to push himself upright. The smell was making him dizzy.
What had they been talking about? "You were saying, Miss Granger?"
"I think you ought to lie down for a bit," Granger said.
"I'm perfectly alright," Snape bit out, automatically, fumbling behind him for the stool so he could pull himself up. The room was leaning at an odd angle. The walls must have been talking to the moving staircases.
"I know. It's just the fumes from the potions," Granger soothed. The insufferable girl… woman… was humouring him. Damn him if she wasn't going to have to finish the potions for him. He couldn't risk fainting into one of them. "Or maybe there was something in that potion Madam Pomfrey gave you," Granger suggested.
That must be it. "Some sort of sedative…" Snape muttered.
"Probably," Granger agreed. They both knew otherwise, but it allowed for Snape to keep his pride intact.
Snape was both embarrassed and furious to find that there was no way he could stand without leaning heavily on the Gryffindor's shoulder. Intolerable. "Miss Granger, aren't you forgetting something?"
"I can stir the Dreamless Sleep potion on the way past," she replied. "And the Skele-Grow needs ten ounces of shredded boneset adding in half an hour. Don't worry, Professor. I've had one of the best Potions teachers in the Wizarding world."
"And forgotten almost everything I've tried to teach you, no doubt," Snape said.
"Oh shut up," Granger told him. It shocked Snape enough that he complied, remaining silent as they stirred the cauldron as required. Only then did Granger hesitate. "Can you manage to give me directions to your room? Or shall I call Madam Pomfrey?" she threatened when he hesitated.
"You've got a lot to learn about manipulating people," Snape growled at her.
"I know, but I've got one of the best teachers for that too," Granger grinned at him. Snape scowled back. Her voice was too bright. Nobody bounced back from doubt and despair that fast. Yet again Granger had swept beneath the carpet the things she did not have time to deal with when more immediate problems appeared.
She couldn't keep it up forever. Something would crack eventually.
He was too tired to deal with that thought now. Wearily he guided Granger towards his quarters, mentioning dire consequences if the knowledge ever went any further than herself. He would rather she'd left him there at the door, to drag himself into his private sanctum and curl up in peace, but she didn't trust him to make it as far as a bed on his own. Snape was chagrined to realise that she was probably correct.
At least she spared him the indignity of undressing him like a baby; or perhaps she found it amusing to leave him in his hospital gown. Regardless, as soon as he was propped on his bed she left him to himself and withdrew without comment.
"Miss Granger." Snape saw her hesitate at the door in response to his call.
"Did you need something else?" she asked.
"No. I… have some… advice." He took a breath, cursing himself for his hesitancy. He hoped she would take it for tiredness, and pressed on. "Not that any Gryffindor in recorded history has ever followed advice," he drawled, managing an approximation of his usual manner, "but it may eventually happen."
"That would just be statistical error," Granger told him. "I always listen to my teachers, though. Should I take notes?"
"That won't be necessary." Snape let his head rest back on the pillow, closing his eyes. He really was tired. More than tired. Bone weary, utterly drained, and perilously short of defences. "Miss Granger, Voldemort is gone but the war is not over, as I'm sure you are aware. Those left have the joyous task of picking up the pieces and tidying up the last of the opposition, which will no doubt come as a nasty surprise to those so intent on partying over Voldemort's mouldering bones. You have… adequately managed to keep yourself together while those around you have probably either fallen apart or begun ordering their drinks.
"I would advise you to keep doing so, if you can, until this matter is finished." Snape could feel his jaw clench. He let out a long breath and made himself relax. "After that… let yourself grieve, however hard it might seem. If you lock away your feelings then it will only become harder to admit to them, until releasing them becomes impossible. And now go."He managed to raise one arm far enough above the bed covers to flick his fingers dismissively. "Out!"
Despite her evident surprise, Granger turned to comply.
Snape let his whisper follow her from the room. "If I feel guilt, Miss Granger, it is not for casting the Killing Curse on Voldemort. It was beacuse my first thought was to cast the Cruciatus Curse instead."
He heard the door close softly and at last allowed sleep to claim him. For the first time in years, his dreams were quiet.
******
1. I don't know who deserves the credit for the invention of Dreamless Sleep potion. I've come across it in several fanfics now. If you know the originator of the idea let me know and I'll add an appropriate thank you.
To all my wonderful readers:
Iejasu, you're making me blush :8} . Kalaratri, I'm honoured that I earned one of your rare reviews. Mary, the filter's gone, thanks for pointing it out. Shen Mi- here's the next installment! Zebee, nice to have another review from you and thanks for mentioning the particular things you liked. Mandy, I hope this starts to explain why Hermione's a touch too cheerful. Nightshift, Cosmoballerina, thank you too. Pigwidgeon37, welcome back and thanks for letting me know what worked well. Sk, glad you're enjoying this so far. Linnetjo, another of those nice people with specific comments, thank you! Redone... hee! Poor Ron, he gets killed off or shoved aside so often in Serverous/Hermione fics, doesn't he? Maybe this chapter starts to show how well Hermione isn't dealing with his fate after all. Jinni- here's more! Crystalline Temptress, I hope this chapter keeps up the standard. Nameless reviewer... I'll get back to Harry. Different people react to death in different ways, and often the reaction isn't the most appropriate or expected one. Inieda, I'm blushing again :8} . Stonecoldfox- yipes! You've got me worrying that the rest of this won't be up to scratch now! As for Alan... I liked Nottingham, but I wouldn't dare count myself a dyed-in-the-wool fan next to some people around here, and some of the appealmight have been the beard. I'm a sucker for beards... Frustrated, be not frustrated, I have finally posted more. Surreal- I'll email, but not tonight. It's pumpkin time in the UK.