What the Thunder Said
Chapter Seven: Home Sweet Home
San Domingo Island, at three o'clock in the afternoon on a sunny August day, was a rather pleasant place to be.
Of course, Severus was in no mood to stop and admire the leafy canopy overhead, the graceful evergreens, or the cool breeze that came up from the water. No. He had to worry about the limp, pale, wretched little nuisance in his arms. He glanced down at her sourly and continued to tromp through the woods to the edge of his property—well, not his, but it might as well have been, considering that Albus always vacationed in Bermuda in hideous shorts that matched his beard. Foolish old man.
It was a small miracle that Granger had made it through the Apparation. Intercontinental Apparation was always tricky, and a second party made things even more complicated. Severus snorted. This, in no way, implied that he had not managed the feat. No, of course not. Apparently Miss Granger, however, took "hold on" to mean "faint inconveniently and nearly splinch into oblivion."
He paused for a moment, catching his breath, and let himself indulge the brief fantasy. He would merely write an apologetic letter to Albus—I'm sorry, Headmaster, but she fell off!—and continue on his way most happily and decidedly alone. But no. She had either fallen the wrong way, or he had caught her—he hated to think that he might have mussed up an opportunity to rid himself of the creature, but there it was.
Strange, thinking about their half-civilized conversation in the tunnel. He had almost—almost—managed not to hate her for a moment. Almost.
Severus was too tired to levitate her properly, so he was stuck with totting her through the solitary woods towards Merridoc's Landing, her banana self lolling most ungracefully in his arms. Severus was afraid to look too closely at her; he had the distinct premonition that she was drooling. Drooling, or dead, but he wasn't about to risk such repulsion at the slim chance of a miracle.
There was a faint lining to his dire cloud. Pewter, perhaps—he wasn't ready to call anything a silver lining, not yet at least—but still slightly glittery. With Granger incapacitated, he was left to return to his cottage on the Sound in relative peace.
As soon as the idea had occurred to him, and once it became apparent that he had no place to go but the cottage, Severus had taken to dreading this moment. He was dreading the break in the trees, the first view of the cottage. During his summer retreat, it had been his, all his, and the selfish Slytherin wanted nothing to do with sharing the private abode. The mere thought of introducing another living beast, let alone a bushy-haired one by the name of Hermione Granger, to the cottage—his cottage—made something tense in his chest.
He had little choice in the matter at this point.
Severus caught a glimpse of the blue gray water beyond the forest. He sighed, hitched Granger up a bit in his arms, and continued on most diligently. The pine trees and evergreens stopped abruptly, carving a small semicircle of a grassy clearing out beside the water. A gravelly trail led out of the trees on the right; it could be used to access the small town on the island, though Severus had never been more than the few miles down to the road. The cottage itself, from a distance, was appalling. It looked more like a ramshackle hut than a comfortable Northwest abode. As Severus plodded across the green grass, however, the image began to shimmer a bit, and the charmed façade that would likely deter any unwanted visitors disappeared.
The reality was a quaint, cheerful little place, colored a reassuring weathered gray from the wind off the Sound. The door was painted a cheerful white to match the picket fence that bordered the yard. It was larger than one would expect, with a few gables and windows, peeking out from the upstairs loft. There was a matching shed just visible around the corner of the house. A wrap-around porch, also painted in spotless white, looked out over the water. Severus noted, with a slight sigh, that his rocking chair was still in place.
He opened the slightly creaky gate, making a note to oil the hinges, and climbed the steps to the front door. It was unlocked.
He glanced down at Granger most reluctantly. For the second time in as many hours, he pondered waking her up. Again, he decided that Knocked-Out-Granger was better than Let-Me-See-How-Annoying-I-Can-Be-Granger. He chewed on his lower lip. Hades would freeze before he gave up the single bedroom to the twit, so he carted her upstairs to the attic, Summoned a cot from one side of the garret, and unceremonious dropped her under one of the windows.
He had unpacking to see to, after all.
~*~*~*~
She smiled to herself, digging through her drawers for the second half of her cheerful red swimming suit. Greece! Hermione thought to herself. The thought of two blissful weeks to herself—and her research—was enticing, but she couldn't ignore the small adolescent voice in her head that twittered over endless sun, the magnificent Mediterranean, and the dark Grecian men. A vacation. It was what she needed.
She tapped her bottle of Muggle sunscreen—she had grown up on the stuff—with a sealing charm. It wouldn't do to have the oily white lotion emptying itself in her luggage. She pressed her last few things—a light jacket, for cool nights, and a pair of sandals—into her small tote and zipped it shut. She then turned to her desk, surveying the mess of parchment and reference books. She smiled in spite of herself, raking a stray curl from her eyes. "It's all going," she told Crookshanks ruefully. You'll have your sun bed back for two weeks."
The large window, looking out over the river, was dark now behind the airy curtains. Still, Hermione had spent hours at that desk, working at her independent research as the sunlight streamed through the thick panes and Crookshanks dosed on the window ledge. She reached out and idly stroked the ginger cat's head, eyes still on the piled-high papers. She was only a few weeks from being done; she could feel it. It made her shiver with excitement, with dread, with curiosity. She was nearly finished.
She was gathering up the first few rolls of parchment when a small pop! snagged her attention. Hermione opened her mouth, ready to give Ginny another scolding over her shoulder for interrupting her packing—for the third time, now, this evening—when she heard the words, strangely familiar in their aristocratic whine. "Accio wand!" Her wand flew from the pocket of her shirt, whizzing across the cozy living room.
Hermione turned, as if in slow motion, to see Draco Malfoy maliciously snapping the lovely ash wand in half. The dragon heartstring core flared a brilliant crimson for a moment—I always wondered what that would look like, she thought to herself numbly—and then hissed angrily and went black.
The pieces of her broken wand fell to the floor of the flat, and the sound resonated in Hermione's ears.
She woke with a scream on her lips, clamping her fists to her mouth before she could cry out. Hermione lay on her little cot for a moment, her breath ragged and her face ashen, as she regained what little semblance of sanity she clung to. She had dozed off a few times, now, since her return. And the dreams always started immediately, at the beginning. Each time they progressed a bit further.
She was afraid to sleep again, though she snapped her eyelids shut against the strange room she now found herself in. The memory was burned fiercely into her retinas, into her skin. She felt the bile rising in her stomach.
It only got worse, after her wand disappeared. And sadly enough, it got worse very fast.
She was in the attic. He had put her, she realized, in the attic. It was shadowy when she reopened her eyes, but the room was lit by twin windows at either sides of the room. She was lying on a cot in that hideous yellow robe under one of these windows, which seemed to be tucked into the gables. The walls met at strange angles, sloping over her head. She kicked her feet over the edge of the bed and stood up, glancing towards the pebbly shore and the quiet waves. Her hands gripped the window ledge tightly, her knuckles going white, as she stilled herself. She took another deep breath.
She wanted to go home. She wanted nothing more than to go home to her own bed, to her own books and her mismatched chairs beside the window. She wanted to sit with Crookshanks—oh, Crookshanks!—in her lap while she sipped a cup of tea and read from the reassuring Austin she had devoured as a young girl. She wanted her own clothes back, her slippers, her toothbrush.
She realized, with a rather sickening jolt, that all she had to her name was a pair of school issue stockings and under things that Madame Pomfrey had given her. Not to mention the tattered Hufflepuff Quidditch robe. Not even Gryffindor, she thought illogically, blinking back the burning sensation behind her eyes. They could have at least given me a Gryffindor robe.
She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane, continued her steady breathing exercises, and tried not to think about what she was going to do with herself.
It was a long moment before she managed to cross the near-empty loft towards the staircase. It was obvious that Snape, in his summer holidays, hadn't visited the attic often. It felt ridiculous, but she was thankful for that. She would make it her own—though she had no idea how—if it was the last thing she did. She needed something of her own. She gripped the banister tightly and descended the bare wooden steps.
Snape was not in the living room, though one of the lamps had been left lighted. In fact, it appeared as if he were not in the cottage at all. She did a few quick calculations, judging that she had been asleep for perhaps four hours. He had already unpacked. His vast collection of books lined the two of the long walls of the living room. There was a vase of wildflowers—oddly enough—on the mantle of the fireplace. It was a warm enough evening, so the fireplace was empty, but the room was still well lighted. There were two comfortable-looking chairs in front of the fireplace, and there was a simple table and two chairs. The hardwood floors were unadorned except for a small braided rug in blue and green in front of the hearth. The curtains were still open, and a large bank of windows looked out over the Sound. There was a porch, from what Hermione could see, that wrapped around the entirety of the house.
She began her exploration cautiously, once convinced that Snape was out. (She felt a tremor of uncertainty at realizing that she had been left alone, but that passed quickly.) She peeked into the bedroom that was off of the living room, shutting the door quickly. Just as the loft would be her space, she decided, she would not step within Snape's own territory. There was a small bathroom adjacent to the living room as well, with another door that seemed to lead to the bedroom. There were a few dusty closets she did not spend too much time pondering over.
From the living room she moved into the kitchen. There was a pleasant little fireplace in the kitchen as well. There were clean, slate counters and plenty of cabinets, and the hardwood seemed to continue throughout the house. There was an old farmhouse kitchen table and, again, two chairs. The hideous flower pot, the housewarming gift from Dumbledore that Hermione had forgotten about, sat on the ledge of the window over the large porcelain sink.
Her pragmatic self admired the Muggle outfitting. A gas stove. She had always liked cooking at a gas stove. She had learned early on how to conjure a quick meal with the flick of a wand, but Hermione knew that it was never quite the same.
There were a few other large, mostly empty rooms, one that looked suspiciously like the beginning of a potions lab. There was an airy sunroom on one side of the house. All in all, it was larger—and far more comfortable—than Hermione had dared to expect.
She returned to the kitchen, drawing the curtains as the dusk turned to dark. She felt oddly alone in the empty, bare house. It was furnished, and clean, but it hardly felt lived in. She felt like an intruder. Her stocking feet slid easily over the smooth floors, and she slipped quietly along in the strange cottage, silent and wary.
She yawned. She was still tired—achingly so—but the thought of returning to the little cot and the inevitable nightmares made her stomach turn. She got up from her seat at the kitchen table and began to inspect the contents of the cupboards.
"Are you looking for something?"
She let out a startled gasp, the cupboard door falling shut with a small thud as she glanced towards the doorway. Snape. The backdoor, leading from the porch to the kitchen, was still slightly ajar. He gave her a strange look.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"
He shut the door. "Oh, don't lie, Miss Granger. You did, and you're not at all sorry." She gripped the cool countertop with pale, shaking fingers. He had a point. She nodded her head slightly and stared at him for a long moment. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
He sighed. He was stilling wearing his Hogwarts robes, and they looked oddly out of place in the small, bright kitchen. "What, indeed, Miss Granger?" He gave her an exasperated frown. "What were you looking for?"
Her cheeks colored faintly. She hadn't known, until she was on tiptoe and riffling through the top cabinet, that she was looking for something in particular. She wet her lips nervously. "I- I was wondering if…" He shifted his weight impatiently. "I was wondering if you had any sleeping draughts."
His lips curled sardonically. "You haven't show any difficulty sleeping as far as I've noted, Miss Granger. Quite the opposite." She bristled defensively and willed herself to take a steadying breath. Oh, but that man was awful. She merely set her chin again and waited. He studied her for a long moment before turning on his heel and swooping down the hall.
She returned to the kitchen table, dropped into one of the chairs, and let her head fall into her hands. This was hell, and she was doomed. She did not know how she was going to live with that man.
She would not cry. She would not cry.
A few moments later, however, he was there in the kitchen, dropping a sealed bottle of something on the table. He turned and left before her hands managed to untangle themselves from the bushy brown locks. A neat tag, labeled "Dreamless Sleep" by some tidy hand, was pasted across the deep green glass.
She wordlessly plucked the bottle from the table, stood, and headed towards the staircase. He was not in the living room, and the door to his bedroom was shut. She climbed the stairs silently, groped at the window for curtains that did not exist, and straightened the blankets. She peeled her canary-yellow robe over her head and left it in a heap beside the bed. She tipped back the bottle without hesitation and crawled into her cot.
She still did not cry. She merely buried her face in her pillow and let the potion slow her breathing. It was a very relaxing thing, drugging one's self, and Hermione fully intended to make the most of it. The bottle was still very nearly full of the thick, iridescent liquid. She fell asleep calculating, groggily, the number of days she could stay in bed.
~*~*~*~
Six, apparently. Close to a full week, and Granger had not so much as appeared downstairs once in all of Severus's time inside. He found himself pausing in his reading, occasionally, to listen intently to the sounds of the little cottage. He had heard the telltale creak of the stairs that first night, as she disappeared up into her loft. He had heard her soft footsteps passing over the bare floorboards, directly over his own bedroom. He had heard the squeak of the cot as she crawled into bed, and then he heard nothing more for six blissfully quiet days.
He had paused, once, at the foot of the stairs, one hand already resting on the banister. Should he check on her, he wondered, or simply let the silly girl wear out her supply of Dreamless Sleep? While it wasn't entirely harmless, he seemed confident that she wouldn't overdose on the foul potion, no matter how much she downed.
He decided to wait.
It was August, after all, and the island was alive with color and crisp summer brightness. He spent most of his mornings outdoors, sitting on the porch or strolling down to the waterside. He had lunch at the kitchen table, alone, and spent his afternoons setting the house in order. He finished unpacking the last of his personal things, reordering his sparse, clean bedroom. He set up his potions laboratory; it was the smallest of the rooms in the house, with the smallest of the windows and the darkest shades. Light, he was afraid, tended to have damaging effects. He spent four hours meticulously ordering his supply cabinets and unpacking glassware.
He thought only occasionally of the drugged creature in his attic. His mouth pursed, slightly, as he lined the Erlenmeyer flasks along one of the clean shelves. He didn't doubt that there were things the girl would rather not face, but he knew from experience that nightmares only grew worse with suppression. She'll have to learn that on her own, Severus decided sharply.
He was also mildly curious to see how long it took her to catch on, in one of her brief periods of waking, to the lesser-known side effects—however innocent—of repetitive use of the Dreamless Sleep. For the most part, however, Severus allowed himself to think of this brief hiatus as yet another week of vacation. He had the house to himself, as far as he was concerned, and that made him a very happy man indeed.
And then he went shopping in the little town on the eastern rim of the tiny island, set snuggly inside a small harbor. He visited the grocery first, taking away three very sturdy paper bags full of vitals. He was on his way out of town when he noticed the clothing shop on the corner. He paused, thinking of Granger's rather frail little form, and then continued stormily down the street.
She was a bloody nuisance.
At about the same time that Severus Snape was stomping along the country road, said nuisance was waking up with a rather worrying headache and dulled wit. She tried to remember if she had read anything about repetitive use of the Dreamless Sleep potion in her medimagic textbooks.
The fact that it took her a good long time to remember made her palms sweat. If there was anything to keep Hermione Granger off the Dreamless Sleep, it was the threat of a blunted intellect. Hating the dazed stupor that seemed to grow a bit longer and a bit foggier with each waking, she tucked the bottle under her cot and wearily crawled out of bed.
