Two
A/N Thanks for the reviews so far of this new attempt :-) Apologies for the {????}, which represented a failure to remember the fencing term I was searching for - despite my fencing lessons (blush). It was, in fact, the balestra. Thanks to Henry de Silva and his book 'Fencing' for that information. My only excuse is that I never got around to the balestra, sticking with the fleche. Well, I never got beyond the basics ;-) Thanks again for your encouragement. On with the grimness...
Just you and me at a crossroads then
Ain't it funny how we were old friends...
Elton John, 'Mansfield'.
When Snape arrived at his tower-room office early the next morning, he found himself unhappily confronted with the portrait of Sir Cadogan, the mental knight who had once acted as portal for the Gryffindor common room. Snape did not like Sir Cadogan; nor did he like being addressed as a mangy cur at eight in the morning. His mirror had been abusive enough.
"Save it for Sirius Black." The deputy headmaster growled, and stalked off to berate Winky. It was the second time he had treated her to the full effect of his withering stare that morning; he had complained at seven thirty that his coffee was undrinkably sweet and unbearably milky: it was, he said, the morning drink of a happy and contented person. He demanded lukewarm, black, sugarless coffee in a chipped cup. The bewildered elf rushed to provide her master's desire, becoming even more confused and distressed when Snape roared at her that his remarks had been ironical. Eventually Snape banished the baffled creature to the kitchens, from whence he dragged her to insist upon the removal of Sir Cadogan and to re-iterate that she should burn 'that bloody stupid portrait'. Winky departed without a word, completely terrified, too afraid and confused even to fret over the fact that her master had missed breakfast.
It being a Saturday, there were no classes. Normally Snape would have enjoyed a lie-in, perhaps even allowed Winky to bring him coffee in bed, and followed it up with a leisurely breakfast with Minerva in her private quarters. It had been a tradition of longstanding between Albus Dumbledore and his deputy headmistress; McGonagall and Snape had honoured it also, until today. Snape had no idea whether or not he was welcome at Minerva's breakfast table, or indeed anywhere within half a league of her, but he knew unquestionably that he could not face the woman. Unreasonably or not, he felt betrayed. The tentative tendrils of neonatal trust that had begun to grow in him had been as brutally destroyed as weeds in Professor Sprout's mandrake population, snuffed out by a single, somewhat bizarre, almost certainly meaningless argument. He no longer felt safe socialising with McGonagall; he could hardly bear the thought of working with her. And certainly, he could not even imagine the dreadful prospect of attending the staff meeting that afternoon, and coming face-to-face with the Martyred Mongrel.
Essentially, it felt as though the world had turned upside down. An extreme reaction to a relatively innocuous, if worrying, event, but then again very few of Snape's deep-rooted neuroses and complexes were based in anything resembling logic. His pathological hatred of Perfect Potter and Perfect Potter's perfect son; the equally vicious loathing he had felt since his schooldays for Black, an emotion which he had thought to have been rescinded in the aftermath of the final battle, but which was now back with reinforcements; the belief that the world was out to get him, paranoia plain and simple, though not altogether unwarranted in Snape's case: he had many enemies, some of them deadly, some of them laughably harmless, most middling - annoyances, to be frank. A long time ago, he had ceased to count McGonagall as one of those enemies. In the last few years, he had come to consider her a friend, or at least as close to a friend as he would allow himself to have. In the last twelve months, he had begun to see her in a different and even fonder light: she was strong, she was compassionate, she was freely and undemandingly kind to him, in an enjoyably satirical way. She respected him and considered him a friend. And slowly, hesitantly, but with increasing hope, Snape had come to trust her.
And now she had hurt him in a way he had never thought possible. Rejected his friendship and his awkward, fumbling offers of support, in favour of (so he believed) his lifelong nemesis. Could there be a greater betrayal? The brave new world Snape had been gradually, and almost entirely subconsciously, creating inside himself was teetering, for a blow had been struck against its very foundations. Everything seemed unfamiliar and strange. It was like waking up from a surreal dream and finding that one was not a butterfly after all, but a man, and not an especially pleasant one. It was like having amnesia, then recovering your memory, only to realise that the happy man you thought you were for a brief time never existed, was merely a fake, an artefact, an illusion. That the real you was a sad, miserable, twisted, embittered bastard who lived in a dungeon and hated everyone with a passion he did not really remember how to feel.
It was a regression. Snape tried hard to remember how he had felt a few days ago when his new life was proceeding normally. He could not bring to mind any of it - the warmth he felt when Minerva walked into the room, the occasional enjoyment he found in bantering - bantering! - with Sirius Black; the amused, frosty affection he felt for the young Slytherins under his care; the simple pleasure he took in teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts to the more capable and intelligent pupils in the school. All he felt was the same foul emptiness that had stalked him for most of his life.
Sinking into a slightly slimy green leather chair in his dungeon office, Snape searched for some remaining flicker of the light he had been heading towards. The tunnel remained dark. There had to be someone he could turn to, someone who had never betrayed him, someone with whom he could share this horrendous experience before it overwhelmed him. Had Snape been capable of logical and objective introspection, he would have recognised the symptoms of a potential mental breakdown lurking in his psyche; perhaps a psychotic episode, perhaps a bout of particularly cruel depression, perhaps the development of some debilitating personality disorder (if he did not have one already). Or perhaps it was simply a relapse into an abnormal mental state from which he had been recovering.
But Snape, caught up in a web of misery as much his own making as every torment he had ever experienced, was not able to seek inside himself the answers to his angry (so he believed) or frightened (in reality) questions. He needed a calmer, wiser, more trustable personality - he needed Dumbledore, the nearest to a father he had ever known, but that was impossible. Surely of all the people Snape knew, there must be someone else capable of giving advice, someone else he could speak with more or less freely, without fear of ridicule or abandonment?
After two hours of concentrated pondering, only one possible answer presented itself. It was an appalling notion, almost laughable in its irony, and would require the swallowing of much pride. But Snape was becoming desperate.
He went to The Burrow...
...and knocked upon the door. A familiar figure, though one he had not seen for some months, greeted him - a plump witch with red hair turning grey, a comfortingly plain face, and a maternal air. Molly Weasley, though worn down by loss and years of hard fighting for what she believed in; Molly who, despite losing her brilliant brave son and sweet courageous only daughter, was a beacon of comfort and sympathy to anyone who needed it.
Snape needed it, though he would never ask for it and would reject it if overtly offered. He waved off her surprised and (feigned, he assumed) pleased greeting, followed her into the drab kitchen, sat when invited at the scarred table.
"Is there something I can do for you, professor?" Molly asked, her kind eyes crinkling.
"I'm looking for Granger - Hermione, I should say. I believe she is staying with you this weekend."
"They are, yes, but I'm afraid they - Ron and her, I mean - popped out this morning. I don't know when they'll be back. Was it something important you wanted to see her about?"
"Not really. My world is falling apart." ~Did I really say that?~ Snape wondered.
"You poor dear. Have a cup of tea." Apparently yes.
Snape spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon drinking tea at the Weasley's battered kitchen table. He did not talk much, but watched Molly bustling about, and reflected on where the rest of the Weasley clan might be (presumably Arthur would be at work at the Ministry, as would Percy - God forbid that Percy Weasley should ever take an hour off to spend at home with his wife Penelope and their small son. Snape sometimes wondered how Percy had managed to conceive a child; he could only imagine that it had somehow been accomplished by owl, and that the over-industrious Weasley had witnessed the birth via the Daily Prophet. Charlie Weasley was still, as far as anyone knew, in Romania. The fearsome twins Fred n' George lived together in Hogsmeade, above their joke shop; probably they were plotting the next 'humorous' invention to be sprung upon an unsuspecting world). Snape also ruminated on why the Weasleys continued to live in such a dilapidated old house, when they were doing so well at the Ministry - in a couple of generations the Ministry would probably consist entirely of Weasleys, Snape mused. Perhaps that would not be an entirely bad thing. With the exception of the twins, Weasleys were a largely harmless breed, with neither the sly cunning of the Malfoys, the unspeakable perfectness of the Potters, or the simple capacity for bringing chaos out of order of the Longbottoms. Snape feared to think what kind of horrors assortative mating on the part of accident-prone Neville, the terror of the potions lab, might produce. He just hoped he would never have the dubious privilege of teaching it.
He had to wait until almost five o'clock for Hermione and her husband to return from wherever they had been - Snape wasn't interested, especially since he suspected from the Quidditch memorabilia they carried that they had been to watch one of Potter's stupid matches. He was, however, relieved that the experience of sitting in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, while she regaled him with gossip items from the latest issue of Witch Weekly, was over.
"Professor!" Hermione exclaimed, spotting his lanky, greasy form immediately she stepped into the room, out of place as it was in this house of redheads. "Is anything wrong?"
Before Snape could formulate a reply, Mrs. Weasley leaned across and whispered something in her daughter-in-law's ear. To Snape's alarm, Hermione's face immediately took on a sympathetic, maternal look rather reminiscent of Molly herself. There was, however, an even more alarming, I-know-what-you-need-don't-argue aspect to Hermione's version. Snape reconsidered his intentions and contemplated making a run for it; but Molly was setting yet another full teapot on the table, complete with scones and bread and butter, while Hermione shooed her husband out of the room.
"Afternoon, Weasley." Snape called after the younger man's retreating back.
"'Lo, professor. Bye." There was a shrug in the voice. Snape, who had never forgiven Ron for beating him at a game of Wizard's Chess in only twelve moves, five months ago, shrugged himself and accepted another cup of strong tea. Molly, with much gesticulating at Hermione, disappeared into another room. Hermione poured herself a cup of tea, settled back in her chair, and folded her small, slender hands in front of her. The posture reminded Snape uncomfortably of Doctor Mattheuse, a psychiatrist he had been required by the Ministry to see after his trial as a Death-Eater. What no one had realised was that Mattheuse's wife and son had been murdered by the Dark Lord after refusing to join his circle; Snape's evaluation had essentially claimed that Snape was dangerously psychotic but simultaneously entirely responsible for his actions and thus should spend the rest of his life in Azkaban; it was the only psychiatric report Snape had ever read that contained the word 'bastard'. Mattheuse had been warned by his superiors. Snape's final session with the doctor was entirely silent; Snape had simply stared at the man for an hour, while Mattheuse twitched and fingered his wand. Eventually the psychiatrist was carted off to St. Mungo's himself, while Snape was given a clean bill of mental health by a somewhat suspect muggle clairvoyant phrenologist from Dunthorpe, to his and everyone else's confusion.
"So." Hermione Granger said, taking a sip of tea.
"So?" Snape returned, evenly.
"You came here for a reason."
"Am I not allowed to make a casual visit to a colleague's house?"
"You don't make social calls, professor."
"I went to your wedding reception."
"I suspect you had an ulterior motive."
"Well, yes. I was hoping to persuade you to ditch Weasley and run away with me to the Mediterranean, but when I saw how happy you were, I didn't have the heart."
Hermione chuckled. The tension in the atmosphere dissipated. They drank tea in companionable silence for a few minutes, then,
"What's wrong?" Asked Hermione, quietly.
"I have no idea."
"Professor..."
"I am not being sarcastic, Granger. I really have no idea. The problem is not with me."
"Oh?"
"It's McGonagall."
Hermione looked worried. She and Minerva had become good friends; Hermione considered the older woman as something of a mentor.
"Is she ill? She seemed all right yesterday..."
"Did she? Did you speak to her? What did she say?"
"Professor...have you and headmistress McGonagall had an argument?"
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing!" Hermione was startled by Snape touchiness; used to it as she was, he seemed worse than usual. "It's just," she went on, gently, "that you seemed to be getting on so well together. As colleagues, I mean." She added hastily. "It would be a pity for something to...go amiss."
Snape didn't reply. He ate a scone moodily instead.
"Has something...gone amiss?" Hermione prodded.
Snape sighed, then eventually nodded.
"Yes. McGonagall has."
"Has what?"
"Has gone amiss, as you put it." Grudgingly he recounted the dialogue between McGonagall and himself, almost word for word, omitting only his attempt to comfort Minerva by calling her a 'stupid woman'. Hermione would not approve of that.
"Oh, dear." Said the young woman, thoughtfully, when he had finished. "That really doesn't sound like her."
"She refused to tell me what was wrong."
"Didn't you bring it up when you saw her next?"
Snape was silent.
"Professor...you have spoken to her since?"
Snape looked shifty.
"Oh, dear." She sighed again. "Would you like me to..."
"Certainly not!"
Hermione jumped. "I thought you wanted my help!"
"I don't want anyone interfering. If McGonagall won't talk to me she certainly won't to you."
"Possibly..." agreed Hermione, tactfully.
"Nor to Sirius Black."
"Eh?" She was baffled now.
"What could Minerva see in him? He's too young for her."
"He's the same age as you, professor."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. Surely you don't think there's anything...between them?"
"No, there isn't. That's the problem."
"What?" The conversation was just getting stranger.
"There is nothing preventing them from being together." Explained Snape, bewilderingly. "Nothing at all. Nothing and no one."
"I'm not entirely sure I follow you."
"Few people ever have. What I mean is, that Minerva does not consider herself attached. She does not consider herself responsible for anyone else's feelings."
"I...see. And you believe she should?" The question was dangerous, but luckily it fell on the side of diplomacy. Snape looked at her sharply, but merely shrugged.
"She has no consideration."
"I see."
"She's completely thoughtless."
"Really."
"Doesn't give a damn about me."
"Now that just isn't true. She's very fond of you!"
"Fond! Ha!" Snape slammed his cup down on its saucer with a clatter. "She pities me, which I find unbearably patronising. Do you know what she once called me? Dumbledore's charity case. And the sad fact is that she was right."
"Oh, nonsense, professor." Hermione was one of a very small handful of people who would dare to say that to Snape. "I'm sure you're taking all this far too personally. She's clearly worried about something and just lost her temper; you happened to be there. She'd be very upset to think you've taken offence like this, over nothing."
"You call it nothing? She told me to get out!"
"You do that several times a day, professor, without provocation."
"But this is Minerva. She has manners. And I've never told her to get out."
Hermione shook her head helplessly.
"All I can suggest is that you talk to professor McGonagall and find out why she was so upset. And, professor? I honestly don't think you have to worry about competition from Sirius..."
The eggshells finally broke.
"Competition? What is that supposed to mean? You consider him a threat to me? Why?"
"I didn't say that..."
"Sirius Black is nothing but a cretinous mangy hound with all the personality of a dead lemming."
"Professor, really! I know you're upset but Sirius is my friend, and I'd rather not listen to you talking about him like that. He's a good man."
"Oh, I see. I see." Snape's back eyes glittered. "You as well."
"What do you mean, me as well?"
"You're on his side, aren't you? Et tu, Granger! I never thought you would turn against me."
"I don't..."
"So you betray me as well. I should have suspected. I should have known all along."
"Professor, I don't think you're well."
"Don't patronise me, stupid girl! After everything I did for you!"
Hermione was affronted.
"I worked hard to get where I am!"
"You would never have made it without my influence. You were fortunate to have me on your side for a time, Granger, and if you're not careful, you're going to find out just how unpleasant an enemy I can be."
"Oh, this is ridiculous!"
"That's right!" Growled Snape. "Laugh at me! Mock me, like you always did! You and McGonagall, you're two for a pair. Use me and then toss me aside, why not, everyone else has! Sod the ugly git, his feelings don't matter! Not that I have feelings, of course. Greasy bastards aren't entitled to them, are they, Granger? How long must I keep paying for being the way I am? Well? Isn't fifty years long enough? How much blood do you wish to squeeze from this particular stone? What's the matter, Granger? Thought I wouldn't see through your concerned colleague act?"
"It wasn't an act." Said Hermione, quietly. She has been staring at Snape with her mouth open, completely astonished, but now she met his eyes calmly. "I don't think you're well." She said again. "The last few years have been difficult for everyone, to say the least. And you've been working too hard recently. Perhaps it's finally caught up with you."
"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" He hissed. "You'd like to think I'm having a nervous breakdown. Perhaps if they cart me off to St. Mungo's you'll get my job, eh? You couldn't do my job, Granger! No one could. Especially not Sirius Black. I'm needed at Hogwarts."
"Yes, you are. I agree. No one is disputing that."
"You're clever, Granger, too clever."
Hermione said nothing.
"But I see through you. You can't fool me."
"I'm not trying to."
"And don't think I don't know who stole the powdered unicorn horn out of my private stores."
"What? That was years ago! I was a child!"
"I knew then." Snape told her, triumphantly. "Of course I knew. I'm not as stupid as you think I am."
"I don't think you're stupid. You're a very astute man, but at the moment, unfortunately, your perception seems to be distorted. You see enemies everywhere."
"That's because I *have* enemies everywhere!"
"Not anymore." Hermione raised her voice a little, taking control of the conversation. "Perhaps that's part of the problem. There's no one left for you to legitimately fight, professor, and you...you seem to need someone to hate. Presumably it makes you feel better about yourself. That's really very sad. I feel quite sorry for you."
"And I feel sorry for you. Foolish, naïve child, don't you understand the world is full of hate?"
"My world isn't." She replied, softly. "And yours doesn't have to be."
There was a long, deep silence.
A/N Wasn't originally going to end the chapter here, but I wanted to post it and this seemed like as good a place as any to stop. I'm aware that the characters are a little OOC, but this is set seven years into the future - I'm banking on people having changed a little in the wake of recent events. It's not easy to predict how the younger characters will behave as adults though! Any thoughts, especially on Hermione in this chapter? All reviews much appreciated :-)
A/N Thanks for the reviews so far of this new attempt :-) Apologies for the {????}, which represented a failure to remember the fencing term I was searching for - despite my fencing lessons (blush). It was, in fact, the balestra. Thanks to Henry de Silva and his book 'Fencing' for that information. My only excuse is that I never got around to the balestra, sticking with the fleche. Well, I never got beyond the basics ;-) Thanks again for your encouragement. On with the grimness...
Just you and me at a crossroads then
Ain't it funny how we were old friends...
Elton John, 'Mansfield'.
When Snape arrived at his tower-room office early the next morning, he found himself unhappily confronted with the portrait of Sir Cadogan, the mental knight who had once acted as portal for the Gryffindor common room. Snape did not like Sir Cadogan; nor did he like being addressed as a mangy cur at eight in the morning. His mirror had been abusive enough.
"Save it for Sirius Black." The deputy headmaster growled, and stalked off to berate Winky. It was the second time he had treated her to the full effect of his withering stare that morning; he had complained at seven thirty that his coffee was undrinkably sweet and unbearably milky: it was, he said, the morning drink of a happy and contented person. He demanded lukewarm, black, sugarless coffee in a chipped cup. The bewildered elf rushed to provide her master's desire, becoming even more confused and distressed when Snape roared at her that his remarks had been ironical. Eventually Snape banished the baffled creature to the kitchens, from whence he dragged her to insist upon the removal of Sir Cadogan and to re-iterate that she should burn 'that bloody stupid portrait'. Winky departed without a word, completely terrified, too afraid and confused even to fret over the fact that her master had missed breakfast.
It being a Saturday, there were no classes. Normally Snape would have enjoyed a lie-in, perhaps even allowed Winky to bring him coffee in bed, and followed it up with a leisurely breakfast with Minerva in her private quarters. It had been a tradition of longstanding between Albus Dumbledore and his deputy headmistress; McGonagall and Snape had honoured it also, until today. Snape had no idea whether or not he was welcome at Minerva's breakfast table, or indeed anywhere within half a league of her, but he knew unquestionably that he could not face the woman. Unreasonably or not, he felt betrayed. The tentative tendrils of neonatal trust that had begun to grow in him had been as brutally destroyed as weeds in Professor Sprout's mandrake population, snuffed out by a single, somewhat bizarre, almost certainly meaningless argument. He no longer felt safe socialising with McGonagall; he could hardly bear the thought of working with her. And certainly, he could not even imagine the dreadful prospect of attending the staff meeting that afternoon, and coming face-to-face with the Martyred Mongrel.
Essentially, it felt as though the world had turned upside down. An extreme reaction to a relatively innocuous, if worrying, event, but then again very few of Snape's deep-rooted neuroses and complexes were based in anything resembling logic. His pathological hatred of Perfect Potter and Perfect Potter's perfect son; the equally vicious loathing he had felt since his schooldays for Black, an emotion which he had thought to have been rescinded in the aftermath of the final battle, but which was now back with reinforcements; the belief that the world was out to get him, paranoia plain and simple, though not altogether unwarranted in Snape's case: he had many enemies, some of them deadly, some of them laughably harmless, most middling - annoyances, to be frank. A long time ago, he had ceased to count McGonagall as one of those enemies. In the last few years, he had come to consider her a friend, or at least as close to a friend as he would allow himself to have. In the last twelve months, he had begun to see her in a different and even fonder light: she was strong, she was compassionate, she was freely and undemandingly kind to him, in an enjoyably satirical way. She respected him and considered him a friend. And slowly, hesitantly, but with increasing hope, Snape had come to trust her.
And now she had hurt him in a way he had never thought possible. Rejected his friendship and his awkward, fumbling offers of support, in favour of (so he believed) his lifelong nemesis. Could there be a greater betrayal? The brave new world Snape had been gradually, and almost entirely subconsciously, creating inside himself was teetering, for a blow had been struck against its very foundations. Everything seemed unfamiliar and strange. It was like waking up from a surreal dream and finding that one was not a butterfly after all, but a man, and not an especially pleasant one. It was like having amnesia, then recovering your memory, only to realise that the happy man you thought you were for a brief time never existed, was merely a fake, an artefact, an illusion. That the real you was a sad, miserable, twisted, embittered bastard who lived in a dungeon and hated everyone with a passion he did not really remember how to feel.
It was a regression. Snape tried hard to remember how he had felt a few days ago when his new life was proceeding normally. He could not bring to mind any of it - the warmth he felt when Minerva walked into the room, the occasional enjoyment he found in bantering - bantering! - with Sirius Black; the amused, frosty affection he felt for the young Slytherins under his care; the simple pleasure he took in teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts to the more capable and intelligent pupils in the school. All he felt was the same foul emptiness that had stalked him for most of his life.
Sinking into a slightly slimy green leather chair in his dungeon office, Snape searched for some remaining flicker of the light he had been heading towards. The tunnel remained dark. There had to be someone he could turn to, someone who had never betrayed him, someone with whom he could share this horrendous experience before it overwhelmed him. Had Snape been capable of logical and objective introspection, he would have recognised the symptoms of a potential mental breakdown lurking in his psyche; perhaps a psychotic episode, perhaps a bout of particularly cruel depression, perhaps the development of some debilitating personality disorder (if he did not have one already). Or perhaps it was simply a relapse into an abnormal mental state from which he had been recovering.
But Snape, caught up in a web of misery as much his own making as every torment he had ever experienced, was not able to seek inside himself the answers to his angry (so he believed) or frightened (in reality) questions. He needed a calmer, wiser, more trustable personality - he needed Dumbledore, the nearest to a father he had ever known, but that was impossible. Surely of all the people Snape knew, there must be someone else capable of giving advice, someone else he could speak with more or less freely, without fear of ridicule or abandonment?
After two hours of concentrated pondering, only one possible answer presented itself. It was an appalling notion, almost laughable in its irony, and would require the swallowing of much pride. But Snape was becoming desperate.
He went to The Burrow...
...and knocked upon the door. A familiar figure, though one he had not seen for some months, greeted him - a plump witch with red hair turning grey, a comfortingly plain face, and a maternal air. Molly Weasley, though worn down by loss and years of hard fighting for what she believed in; Molly who, despite losing her brilliant brave son and sweet courageous only daughter, was a beacon of comfort and sympathy to anyone who needed it.
Snape needed it, though he would never ask for it and would reject it if overtly offered. He waved off her surprised and (feigned, he assumed) pleased greeting, followed her into the drab kitchen, sat when invited at the scarred table.
"Is there something I can do for you, professor?" Molly asked, her kind eyes crinkling.
"I'm looking for Granger - Hermione, I should say. I believe she is staying with you this weekend."
"They are, yes, but I'm afraid they - Ron and her, I mean - popped out this morning. I don't know when they'll be back. Was it something important you wanted to see her about?"
"Not really. My world is falling apart." ~Did I really say that?~ Snape wondered.
"You poor dear. Have a cup of tea." Apparently yes.
Snape spent the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon drinking tea at the Weasley's battered kitchen table. He did not talk much, but watched Molly bustling about, and reflected on where the rest of the Weasley clan might be (presumably Arthur would be at work at the Ministry, as would Percy - God forbid that Percy Weasley should ever take an hour off to spend at home with his wife Penelope and their small son. Snape sometimes wondered how Percy had managed to conceive a child; he could only imagine that it had somehow been accomplished by owl, and that the over-industrious Weasley had witnessed the birth via the Daily Prophet. Charlie Weasley was still, as far as anyone knew, in Romania. The fearsome twins Fred n' George lived together in Hogsmeade, above their joke shop; probably they were plotting the next 'humorous' invention to be sprung upon an unsuspecting world). Snape also ruminated on why the Weasleys continued to live in such a dilapidated old house, when they were doing so well at the Ministry - in a couple of generations the Ministry would probably consist entirely of Weasleys, Snape mused. Perhaps that would not be an entirely bad thing. With the exception of the twins, Weasleys were a largely harmless breed, with neither the sly cunning of the Malfoys, the unspeakable perfectness of the Potters, or the simple capacity for bringing chaos out of order of the Longbottoms. Snape feared to think what kind of horrors assortative mating on the part of accident-prone Neville, the terror of the potions lab, might produce. He just hoped he would never have the dubious privilege of teaching it.
He had to wait until almost five o'clock for Hermione and her husband to return from wherever they had been - Snape wasn't interested, especially since he suspected from the Quidditch memorabilia they carried that they had been to watch one of Potter's stupid matches. He was, however, relieved that the experience of sitting in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, while she regaled him with gossip items from the latest issue of Witch Weekly, was over.
"Professor!" Hermione exclaimed, spotting his lanky, greasy form immediately she stepped into the room, out of place as it was in this house of redheads. "Is anything wrong?"
Before Snape could formulate a reply, Mrs. Weasley leaned across and whispered something in her daughter-in-law's ear. To Snape's alarm, Hermione's face immediately took on a sympathetic, maternal look rather reminiscent of Molly herself. There was, however, an even more alarming, I-know-what-you-need-don't-argue aspect to Hermione's version. Snape reconsidered his intentions and contemplated making a run for it; but Molly was setting yet another full teapot on the table, complete with scones and bread and butter, while Hermione shooed her husband out of the room.
"Afternoon, Weasley." Snape called after the younger man's retreating back.
"'Lo, professor. Bye." There was a shrug in the voice. Snape, who had never forgiven Ron for beating him at a game of Wizard's Chess in only twelve moves, five months ago, shrugged himself and accepted another cup of strong tea. Molly, with much gesticulating at Hermione, disappeared into another room. Hermione poured herself a cup of tea, settled back in her chair, and folded her small, slender hands in front of her. The posture reminded Snape uncomfortably of Doctor Mattheuse, a psychiatrist he had been required by the Ministry to see after his trial as a Death-Eater. What no one had realised was that Mattheuse's wife and son had been murdered by the Dark Lord after refusing to join his circle; Snape's evaluation had essentially claimed that Snape was dangerously psychotic but simultaneously entirely responsible for his actions and thus should spend the rest of his life in Azkaban; it was the only psychiatric report Snape had ever read that contained the word 'bastard'. Mattheuse had been warned by his superiors. Snape's final session with the doctor was entirely silent; Snape had simply stared at the man for an hour, while Mattheuse twitched and fingered his wand. Eventually the psychiatrist was carted off to St. Mungo's himself, while Snape was given a clean bill of mental health by a somewhat suspect muggle clairvoyant phrenologist from Dunthorpe, to his and everyone else's confusion.
"So." Hermione Granger said, taking a sip of tea.
"So?" Snape returned, evenly.
"You came here for a reason."
"Am I not allowed to make a casual visit to a colleague's house?"
"You don't make social calls, professor."
"I went to your wedding reception."
"I suspect you had an ulterior motive."
"Well, yes. I was hoping to persuade you to ditch Weasley and run away with me to the Mediterranean, but when I saw how happy you were, I didn't have the heart."
Hermione chuckled. The tension in the atmosphere dissipated. They drank tea in companionable silence for a few minutes, then,
"What's wrong?" Asked Hermione, quietly.
"I have no idea."
"Professor..."
"I am not being sarcastic, Granger. I really have no idea. The problem is not with me."
"Oh?"
"It's McGonagall."
Hermione looked worried. She and Minerva had become good friends; Hermione considered the older woman as something of a mentor.
"Is she ill? She seemed all right yesterday..."
"Did she? Did you speak to her? What did she say?"
"Professor...have you and headmistress McGonagall had an argument?"
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing!" Hermione was startled by Snape touchiness; used to it as she was, he seemed worse than usual. "It's just," she went on, gently, "that you seemed to be getting on so well together. As colleagues, I mean." She added hastily. "It would be a pity for something to...go amiss."
Snape didn't reply. He ate a scone moodily instead.
"Has something...gone amiss?" Hermione prodded.
Snape sighed, then eventually nodded.
"Yes. McGonagall has."
"Has what?"
"Has gone amiss, as you put it." Grudgingly he recounted the dialogue between McGonagall and himself, almost word for word, omitting only his attempt to comfort Minerva by calling her a 'stupid woman'. Hermione would not approve of that.
"Oh, dear." Said the young woman, thoughtfully, when he had finished. "That really doesn't sound like her."
"She refused to tell me what was wrong."
"Didn't you bring it up when you saw her next?"
Snape was silent.
"Professor...you have spoken to her since?"
Snape looked shifty.
"Oh, dear." She sighed again. "Would you like me to..."
"Certainly not!"
Hermione jumped. "I thought you wanted my help!"
"I don't want anyone interfering. If McGonagall won't talk to me she certainly won't to you."
"Possibly..." agreed Hermione, tactfully.
"Nor to Sirius Black."
"Eh?" She was baffled now.
"What could Minerva see in him? He's too young for her."
"He's the same age as you, professor."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. Surely you don't think there's anything...between them?"
"No, there isn't. That's the problem."
"What?" The conversation was just getting stranger.
"There is nothing preventing them from being together." Explained Snape, bewilderingly. "Nothing at all. Nothing and no one."
"I'm not entirely sure I follow you."
"Few people ever have. What I mean is, that Minerva does not consider herself attached. She does not consider herself responsible for anyone else's feelings."
"I...see. And you believe she should?" The question was dangerous, but luckily it fell on the side of diplomacy. Snape looked at her sharply, but merely shrugged.
"She has no consideration."
"I see."
"She's completely thoughtless."
"Really."
"Doesn't give a damn about me."
"Now that just isn't true. She's very fond of you!"
"Fond! Ha!" Snape slammed his cup down on its saucer with a clatter. "She pities me, which I find unbearably patronising. Do you know what she once called me? Dumbledore's charity case. And the sad fact is that she was right."
"Oh, nonsense, professor." Hermione was one of a very small handful of people who would dare to say that to Snape. "I'm sure you're taking all this far too personally. She's clearly worried about something and just lost her temper; you happened to be there. She'd be very upset to think you've taken offence like this, over nothing."
"You call it nothing? She told me to get out!"
"You do that several times a day, professor, without provocation."
"But this is Minerva. She has manners. And I've never told her to get out."
Hermione shook her head helplessly.
"All I can suggest is that you talk to professor McGonagall and find out why she was so upset. And, professor? I honestly don't think you have to worry about competition from Sirius..."
The eggshells finally broke.
"Competition? What is that supposed to mean? You consider him a threat to me? Why?"
"I didn't say that..."
"Sirius Black is nothing but a cretinous mangy hound with all the personality of a dead lemming."
"Professor, really! I know you're upset but Sirius is my friend, and I'd rather not listen to you talking about him like that. He's a good man."
"Oh, I see. I see." Snape's back eyes glittered. "You as well."
"What do you mean, me as well?"
"You're on his side, aren't you? Et tu, Granger! I never thought you would turn against me."
"I don't..."
"So you betray me as well. I should have suspected. I should have known all along."
"Professor, I don't think you're well."
"Don't patronise me, stupid girl! After everything I did for you!"
Hermione was affronted.
"I worked hard to get where I am!"
"You would never have made it without my influence. You were fortunate to have me on your side for a time, Granger, and if you're not careful, you're going to find out just how unpleasant an enemy I can be."
"Oh, this is ridiculous!"
"That's right!" Growled Snape. "Laugh at me! Mock me, like you always did! You and McGonagall, you're two for a pair. Use me and then toss me aside, why not, everyone else has! Sod the ugly git, his feelings don't matter! Not that I have feelings, of course. Greasy bastards aren't entitled to them, are they, Granger? How long must I keep paying for being the way I am? Well? Isn't fifty years long enough? How much blood do you wish to squeeze from this particular stone? What's the matter, Granger? Thought I wouldn't see through your concerned colleague act?"
"It wasn't an act." Said Hermione, quietly. She has been staring at Snape with her mouth open, completely astonished, but now she met his eyes calmly. "I don't think you're well." She said again. "The last few years have been difficult for everyone, to say the least. And you've been working too hard recently. Perhaps it's finally caught up with you."
"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" He hissed. "You'd like to think I'm having a nervous breakdown. Perhaps if they cart me off to St. Mungo's you'll get my job, eh? You couldn't do my job, Granger! No one could. Especially not Sirius Black. I'm needed at Hogwarts."
"Yes, you are. I agree. No one is disputing that."
"You're clever, Granger, too clever."
Hermione said nothing.
"But I see through you. You can't fool me."
"I'm not trying to."
"And don't think I don't know who stole the powdered unicorn horn out of my private stores."
"What? That was years ago! I was a child!"
"I knew then." Snape told her, triumphantly. "Of course I knew. I'm not as stupid as you think I am."
"I don't think you're stupid. You're a very astute man, but at the moment, unfortunately, your perception seems to be distorted. You see enemies everywhere."
"That's because I *have* enemies everywhere!"
"Not anymore." Hermione raised her voice a little, taking control of the conversation. "Perhaps that's part of the problem. There's no one left for you to legitimately fight, professor, and you...you seem to need someone to hate. Presumably it makes you feel better about yourself. That's really very sad. I feel quite sorry for you."
"And I feel sorry for you. Foolish, naïve child, don't you understand the world is full of hate?"
"My world isn't." She replied, softly. "And yours doesn't have to be."
There was a long, deep silence.
A/N Wasn't originally going to end the chapter here, but I wanted to post it and this seemed like as good a place as any to stop. I'm aware that the characters are a little OOC, but this is set seven years into the future - I'm banking on people having changed a little in the wake of recent events. It's not easy to predict how the younger characters will behave as adults though! Any thoughts, especially on Hermione in this chapter? All reviews much appreciated :-)
