Hermione was curled in one of his two armchairs, mindlessly tracing the patterns of snakes lashing tongues and tails with her fingertips; though her eyes didn't leave his dark form.
"Are you going to continue staring at me all night, or do you wish to ask some of the questions I'm sure are fighting for prominence in your mind?" His voice was dry, but somewhat amused at her intense appraisal of him. Amusement was not what she was used to from him.
He turned towards her from the fire with a pot of tea and two cups. Honey was conspicuously absent from the tray he set on the table between his two plush arm chairs, and, from the look he gave her as her eyes searched, she did not feel it would be prudent to ask.
"Tea is an art. Additives only dilute appreciation." She started at his voice, suddenly smooth after the previous dryness. He filled the two cups--not bone china, as most of the student body would assume--and set one next to her. "Now, the questions?"
It was hard to think as he sat and carefully lifted his own teacup to sip, the radiant heat of no issue to his calloused, potion hardened hands. She had to look away, immersing herself in the swirling silvers and greens of the chair as she considered what would be most informative.
He let her think, grateful for the loss of her impetuousness. It had been mid-fifth year that the staff had first noted a change; she no longer offered information so enthusiastically and began to question the sources which had once ruled her intellectual growth. Severus was most appreciative of the fact that she began to refrain from entering debates until she was certain of her opinion and argument. It was a patience that the rest of the students had yet to develop.
She realized, in the banal part of her mind, that her fingernails needed something--a filing, and a resolution to give up nail biting posthaste. "What do you know of this--condition?"
He snorted. "Little more than you, I'm sure."
A pause, in which she looked at him expectantly, passed quickly. He closed his eyes, and began. "It is commonly referred to as a patulous intellect; those of us afflicted with it usually call it a curse. Of course, we mostly don't speak of it at all." This was said in the calm, academic tone he rarely saw fit to use in class.
He looked down into his suddenly empty cup, and at her untouched one. "Poison in the tea would be both vulgar and cliche. I am neither. Drink," he said, returning to the amusement.
She cautiously picked up the cup, having no doubt that her calluses would not be as protective as his, and, finding it cool enough, took a sip. The look of surprised delight that crossed her face satisfied his protective inclinations.
"I am not a potions master for nothing. At the very least, I can make very good tea." He refilled his cup and continued. "Its onset is characterized first by headaches, then the attempt of the conscious to maintain stability by focusing on a single thing--the obsession. That thing is most commonly a human, and when so is always one cursed themselves. As you have experienced."
"As I have experienced." Her eyes were closed and her head rested on the side of the chair but she maintained a certain tangible concentration.
"The afflicted person, debilitated by the pain and the effort of maintaining normality, will slowly drift into insanity--if left untrained. You will be taught; effectively thrown a rope with which you can climb out of the canyon your mind has already begun to dig. That is its effect upon a person--which some would claim is what it is. But we have learned more, information hard-earned as to its causes."
His voice was once more academic, calm, but with a tint of gentleness born of understanding.
"Picture your mind as a living entity, usually unaware of any boundaries but content to stay in a single, predestined area. In your case, an active being, curious and explorative. Alive enough to examine the area available, and then continue onward until you came up to the boundary that any sane mind must set--alive enough to continue trying to look over, through, across that boundary, that wall, to satisfy your curiosity."
Smoothness, melting over her. The words slid around her body, the explanation filling her. Hermione could suddenly see the wall standing between her true self and true freedom; sense it, touch it, know it. She waited, hoping only for more words.
"The headaches that you have dealt with are basically caused by your mind running repeatedly into the wall, for you cannot see that it is anything but solid, and yet it is suddenly necessary for you to get through it. The urge to move outward, somewhere, is dealt with then by digging into the ground of the area, which is most unhealthy. The land uncovered, the land you retreat into, is a hole of madness. Therefore, you must learn to leave the canyon and go back to the wall, which you can deal with.
"The wall is built of many stones, each stone a minor challenge and inhibition. The mortar which binds the stones is strong, but what you have built--and it was your own mind which formed this--you can take down. You only need the training, as the training for laying the bricks was instinctual. Your mind will form the tools, tools by which you can create a door out of the peaceful land you have become ensconced in."
His voice had changed, becoming a guiding light in the darkness of her mind. See. See the wall, the unending wall, and see the bricks--each brick, each individual brick. See what holds the bricks together, what keeps your wall together, how you have built this wall.
And then suddenly he stopped speaking, a rueful look crossing his face. The tone had changed, the timbre lighter. "I apologize. You asked for an explanation, and I gave you an introduction in meditation--something which should only rightfully come after you have had a chance to rest, and recover. I will task you enough with it later," he added when she began to protest. "Just--take that little bit of it that you've had, and let it lead you to peace. For now, another question?"
He reached out to pour himself yet another cup, but the teapot was inexplicably empty. A slightly crestfallen look crossed his face. "I shall have to make more--but I'm not sure if you will get any."
She smiled shyly, as much at his look--unusual in what had once seemed made of stone, unyielding to expressions of emotion--as the teasing, just as unexpected.
"If you wish others not to drink it all, you should make it less appealing. That was the most wonderful tea I've had, and the house-elves are not new to cooking."
He turned from the stove and cocked an eyebrow at her. "There rarely is one who would risk life and limb to taste my concoction, though poison is far too traceable."
She laughed a quiet laugh, and returned to tracing the snakes as they waited for the tea to steep. Silence stretched, though it was not uncomfortable, until another question came to her mind. "How did you know of me?"
The tea was done and he returned with the tray again, two cups remaining on it despite his earlier warnings. His robes, smooth black robes of a higher quality than he would wear around inept potions students, swished softly as he sat and looked at her. "You know that I am not the only of us on the staff? I stand as your obsession only as Minerva did mine; and I will train you as she did me. We can recognize the signs, though I have never been but the victim before. It's a circle of life, each generation helps in the rebirth of the next."
Her eyes were shaded as she looked directly at him, into his remarkable eyes once again. "But... you despise her," she said. "Or you seem to, all the same."
He smiled sadly, not at all the nasty git he had appeared throughout her school years. "Minerva McGonagall is my dearest friend, and I am honored by the fact that I am one of hers. The war does not allow for friendships, however. Of the many sacrifices made, a closeness to Minerva remains the dearest loss to me."
She nodded her understanding, letting her eyes convey the sympathy she felt.
"Child, I hope that we may grow to be friends, gaining through this training a bond which is difficult to imitate in degree. Despite this, we might be required to behave as though you disdain me, or I you, or that we are enemies, or even that we are closer than friends. That is a part of the responsibility to take on with this, a responsibility to do as you can for the good of the people, utilizing strengths which they do not have."
He spoke softly. "Whatever we may be forced to do, the bond will remain. I take advantage of any chances to speak with Minerva, though they are more difficult to come by as we have more responsibilities. No matter what may happen with us, I hope that I will be able to maintain contact with you."
They sat in silence once more, Severus waiting patiently for her next question, the subject of which he thought he could guess.
It came, worded cautiously and with great care.
"Professor, were you a Death Eater before you came into this--this?" She looked down at her lap, afraid for her daring.
"Don't be afraid to ask a question," he said gently. "I can do no less than answer your questions, for triggering this and now for forcing you to face it--as I will. You asked me if I was a Death Eater before--and I wasn't. I was fully trained, and friends with Minerva, before I made that decision, but it was not for the reasons that you might assume.
"I was young, but trained, and aware of the battle that was beginning--aware of the seriousness of it, as few of my peers were. I saw a way to help, and so--after much discussion with Minerva and Albus--I introduced myself to Lord Voldemort. I was a pure-blood, widely known as a rather arrogant young man who was interested in power; an image that I had cultivated. We were sadly unaware of the extremes with which he treated his Death Eaters, and the cruelties which they enjoyed, when I decided to go to him; it was an aspect of the life that they did not highlight to recruits. And so I was a spy, too deeply entrenched to get out, and bound to it by the mark."
He unconsciously rubbed his left arm where the mark was, then realized what he was doing and flinched. "I must ask you to trust me as to the details of it all; they are too dangerous to burden you with."
Her hair shone, reflecting the fire's sparks as she shook it out and sat straighter. "I wish the war had never touched you."
His face was suddenly expressionless. "I don't. I have saved many more lives than I could have any other way, and I wouldn't send them to their death for anything. Even my freedom." He spoke harshly, freely, for the first time that night.
"Even your life?" Her voice too was harsher.
His eyes were sharp. "Yes. You will learn; a single life lost is more than worth the saving of many others." The sharpness suddenly faded, smoothing, leaving Severus stricken. "I apologize. You did not deserve my harshness so soon after becoming aware of so much."
She visibly calmed as well, but spoke once more. "Your life is worth more than you think."
He shook his head. "It is worth only what I can save in my death."
"Only because you've decided it's so!" she spoke bitterly, far louder than he.
He looked at her, so suddenly defensive on his behalf. So innocent, despite her years as the sidekick to lightning rod as far as danger went. "I only hope that you are never forced to make the same decision, because I know--I know-- that you would choose the same."
She wrapped her arms around her knees, and rested her chin between them. Her words were soft, so soft that he strained to hear them.
"I know."