Books and Beatrice's Return
So, she had lied…a little. She was so certain that she could nag him for ages and demand that he showed her to the library right upon their arrival back home, but instead had headed straight to her room and collapsed on her bed in her clothing, overcome with an extreme sense of sleepiness. Her eyelids betrayed a persistent curiosity and thirst for the written word and filed it behind her conventional need for sleep, saving it for the morning.
She had forgotten about the library entirely until breakfast came. Over fried eggs and fried toast, which she was devouring with passion and thankfulness for again being able to consume breakfast, she brought up her demand yet again.
"I'm looking forward to seeing the library, you know," she said, placing a bit of egg white sprinkled liberally with black pepper on her tongue.
Snape gazed at her steadily, his expression clearly annoyed. Though the breakfast was delicious, he had barely touched it and had pushed his eggs around his plate at least five times. He had dark rings under his eyes and it looked as though he hadn't slept the previous night at all.
"I believe," he answered, his voice muffled as if he was suppressing a yawn. "It is neither my duty nor my privilege to show you the library. I have important matters to tend to. If you want to see it so badly, find it yourself."
The apple juice in his glass gurgled and disappeared, and a piece of his toast faded away. Obviously, the new cook was not patient with picky, fidgety eaters. However, new food kept appearing on Hermione's plate and she was becoming quite full, but each treat was somehow better than the last. She had a disconcerting hunch that the new house elf would make up for the weight she had lost under the tyrannical domestic rule of Beatrice, and, unfortunately, then some.
"You wouldn't want me to stumble upon anything I'm not supposed to see, would you?" With great will power, she finally put down her fork and licked whipped cream and strawberry sauce from the corner of her mouth.
"Don't even try to manipulate me," he answered humorlessly. His plate and silverware rattled loudly in frustration and vanished entirely. She heard a faint rumble roll in his stomach and wondered why he hadn't eaten if he was hungry. "And you won't. Feel free to look, I've learned my lesson."
Hermione huffed in mottled disappointment. She wasn't in the mood for a treasure hunt, and had been hoping that Snape, who was quickly becoming someone she almost considered an odd type of friend, would share her discovery with her. Apparently, that was no longer an option.
Defeated, she began her search after breakfast with only her own two feet and her small knowledge of the ever-changing manor to guide her. She led herself to her own quarters three times before she decided to begin at a different point than the entrance hall. She wished he would have at least given her a general direction of where it was, but maybe he enjoyed torturing her too much. Well, not maybe, definitely. The man was an open book when it came to his pleasures, and others' suffering was definitely listed early in the pages.
She screamed in frustration as she rounded a corner that she was certain would lead to unfamiliar territory – and instead found herself in the parlor where she had given Snape his lessons earlier. An earthy growl vibrating in her throat, she turned around to go back the way she came to see that the corridor had vanished. A mostly empty bookshelf now sat there, being dusted by a young house elf that squeaked in surprise at her presence and disappeared with a crack.
"He's doing this on purpose," she muttered darkly, rifling through the sad contents of the shelf that included a few ancient editions of Pureblood Weekly that were addressed to Snape's grandmother. The yellowing pages threatened to crumble under the slightest pressure, and she abandoned them to their decay of time and walked toward the door, wishing for a glass of water. Her feet were sore and her legs were aching from tromping up stairs and down hallways. The couch was awfully tempting.
She gave in to the temptation and collapsed on to the cushions, inhaling the musty smell and closing her eyes. After a moment, she gave a startled jump, realizing that she was probably late for her Potions session.
"Wait…" she sighed to herself. "It's Sunday."
"Yes, I'm well aware of that, otherwise I would have been upbraiding you for your tardiness several minutes ago."
Hermione didn't open her eyes, just rested her hands on her stomach and felt her muscles loosen in relaxation. She had sensed that he had walked into the room moments before he said anything. He hadn't made a noise (the man was as stealthy as a shadow), he didn't have any particular scent that stood out in a dusty room, his presence just was. And Hermione had lived with him long enough to recognize that.
Obviously bothered by her lack of reply, he added, "I am assuming that you haven't found it yet."
Heaving a sigh, Hermione worked herself to a sitting position and gazed suspiciously at him through narrowed eyes. "You assume? Isn't it rather obvious?" Her gaze changed from suspicious to curious. He had what looked like a silvery substance rubbed on his fingers, dotting the backs of his hands, and smudged across the tip of his nose. It looked like graphite from a pencil. But since when did Severus Snape use pencils?
Of course…she had seen it on the nightstand next to his bed. She hadn't paid attention at the time, but the Daily Prophet had been creased deeply, folded to a partially filled crossword puzzle.
Now, with the remains of his guilty pleasure smeared across his skin, he looked rather endearing, like a child with chocolate melted on the corners of his mouth telling his mother that he hadn't been in the cookie jar. It was actually rather cute – there was no other word for it.
She would never admit that to him, of course.
"I don't suppose that Pureblood Weekly holds any interest for you."
"Oh, no, I particularly enjoy the article about Fifty Ways to Make a Muggleborn Infertile. Rather interesting information," Hermione answered with a dry smirk, devolving into a frown as she waited for him to announce his purpose of being here, for imposing on her peace, to admit his raison d'être, if he was so inclined. But he said nothing, just stood there in silence like a stern, disapproving statue that would guard a secret passageway at Hogwarts, and only succeeded in annoying Hermione further.
Unceremoniously, admittedly rude, and quite fed up, Hermione finally blurted out, "What do you want?"
His scowl became more pronounced as he said coldly, "This is my house, I believe that I have the right to stand where I like." He paused. "And I was under the impression that you wanted to see the library."
"So you're just here to mock me," she said in disdain. "Thanks."
"Partly," he answered with that light tone of teasing. "But no matter how much I enjoy torturing you, I find that I'm becoming soft. I was going to lead you there."
"What, and not into a pit of biting cobras?"
"Of course not. That would ruin my plans for tomorrow."
Hermione couldn't help smiling a little bit. Even his smirk had softened into something slightly resembling a smile, and his black eyes were alight with something that bordered on harmless mischief.
"So you're going to show me the library," she posed carefully, readying herself to get up from the sacked sofa that was threatening to swallow her whole.
"That is what I said, yes. Unless you're enjoying the hunt, and I will happily return to my work and leave you to wander the halls of my manor forever."
Hermione kept herself from questioning the importance of his so-called "work", refrained from saying, 'What is a nine-letter synonym for "exaggeration", Professor?', and instead managed to stutter out something unintelligible and not in the least flattering or eloquent.
"Is that a noise of acceptance?" he posed, eyebrow quirked and smirk remaining.
She nodded and managed to blurt out, "Yes."
"Good." He turned on his heels and began to stalk quickly out of the room. "Follow me."
She managed to catch up with him, struggling to keep up with his long strides. She thought he was leading her to her room until he rounded into a hallway that Hermione, somehow, hadn't noticed before, and walked down a short flight of stairs that Hermione was quite sure had not previously existed.
Another long corridor and a scoffing portrait of an elderly Swiss wizard later and they arrived at a cold, iron door, with bolts welded in every few inches and an imposingly large handle on its side. It looked like it belonged to a vault at Gringrott's. Maybe he was leading her to his hidden pit of cobras, or maybe Remus had just exaggerated and the library was a small collection of books rotting away in a cold, damp, dark, dungeon-like section of the manor.
So it came to her great surprise when the foreboding door simply melted away under Snape's hand and revealed a spectacular place devoid of both snakes and darkness.
The ceiling extended upward through all the floors – how many were there? Two, as Hermione had previously thought? Three? Seven? It was impossible to tell. The ceiling was made entirely of glass and French-paned windows looking out at the gardens were settled between bookshelves, stretching up to meet it in the sky. It created a spider web of glass and immaculate white wood. The day had become bright, breaking out of its customary dreariness with a few lazy, fat clouds making their happy place in the sea of deep blue. The glass glittered like raindrops caught in the sun.
If the effects of the so-called curse placed on Snape and his manor were true, the library and its beauty had gone untouched.
And its architecture, no matter how spectacular, fell far behind when it came to its residents.
The books.
Hermione had always prided herself in being the bookish sort, and was fond of the fact that she had wormed her way through almost the entirety of the library at Hogwarts in her short career there. But taking a look at this place, this wonder of the modern world, she wasn't sure if she'd be able to read its contents in her entire lifetime. Even in her extended life as a witch.
Taking her awe-struck silence for what it truly way – awe-struck silence – Snape said with a hint of pride, "Spectacular, isn't it? Thought I must admit, I've contributed very little."
A very large volume with lettered tabs stood on a wooden pedestal to her side, and the cover read, in very plain, pealing gold letters, LIBRARY INDEX.
"Just tell it what you want, and it will bring it to you. But the index mostly serves for browsing purposes."
"Mhmm…" Hermione answered, not really listening as she ruffled through the pages. "You have everything in here. Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë…I've never even heard of that book…Shakespeare?" She couldn't hide a surprised, pleased smile. "Why, Professor, I never thought-"
"Keep it that way," he interrupted gruffly. "Just because I have it doesn't mean I've read it. And I sincerely hope that my ancestors have avoided Romance the Juvenile or whatever it's called."
"Romeo and Juliet," Hermione answered distractedly, licking her thumb. "And it's here. I wonder how old it is…"
"Well," Snape said after standing there for quite a number of minutes, feeling as though he had lost his importance next to stacks of crushed trees. "I suppose I'll be going then. Enjoy. And please wash your hands before you touch anything."
Perhaps she could sense the dejection in his voice, or maybe he had broken her reverie with his dry and vaguely familiar demand. Either way, she stood upright and faced him, a startled look on her face.
"Oh," she said at last. "Well…of course…er…you're free to join me if you want." Whether she wanted him there or the offer was just out of politeness, Snape couldn't tell, Hermione didn't know, herself. They stood there for a few moments, like two Gorgons that had just locked eyes and turned each other into stone.
"I think I'll go back to my work," he answered uneasily, forgetting what exactly that work was. "I will see you at lunch, if you can tear yourself away."
He turned to leave but felt a warm pressure on his arm. Slowly, curiously, he spun around, seeing that Miss Granger was gazing up at him with glowing eyes and had a firm hold on his sleeve.
"Thank you," she said, so sincerely that she looked as though her words had even taken her by surprise. "Professor…erm…Severus."
He had planned to make a dry remark, chastise her for calling him by his first name, take house points (no matter how useless that was), or perhaps even just leave with a simple 'you're welcome'. The outcome he had not planned on was kissing her.
And yet it happened anyway.
She yielded at first, when he bent down and pressed his lips to hers with a hunger that he didn't know he could ever be possessed with. His hands were locked on her shoulders, and hers were clenched tightly at her sides. As he tried to nudge his tongue in between her lips, she stiffened and became still, and a tiny, frightened noise escaped her lips.
Startled, scared, angry, and disbelieving, Snape sprung away as if had just locked lips with a cactus. Hermione's face was pale, her eyes inhumanly large and unfocused, and not a word escaped her mouth.
She was in shock.
Shock was not good.
Snape was unwelcome.
"I'm sorry," Severus hurriedly apologized, grasping his wand tightly in his hand. "I don't know what I was thinking…I have a tendency to be a bit of an idiot…" Flustered, and babbling incoherently at a frozen Miss Granger, he did the first thing that made sense.
He raised his wand to Hermione's head.
"But-" Hermione managed to stutter.
A stern look upon his face, Snape murmured, self-loathing hollowing out his eyes, "Obliviate."
It was beautiful, unbelievable, incredible, and impossible. Hermione was in heaven.
Only an hour after Snape had left her with nothing more than a seemingly disapproving glance (and not even a goodbye), she was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a cocoon of musty volumes, frizzy curls falling in her face. She ignored the offending locks and pushed on through the words, drinking them in with wide, brown eyes.
Novels, Muggle and Wizard alike; Magical history, architecture, and theory; composition; every subject that she could imagine was spread out before her, stretching their stiff spines and ruffling their pages with years of aching neglect. They needed care and love, and Hermione knew that she was the one to give it to them. Among her stranger findings was a defect copy of Monster Book of Monsters that, instead of opening when one rubbed a finger down the spine, sneezed and gave a growl of irritation (Hermione wisely set that one aside). Another was a guide to charms used on Quidditch equipment, which sprouted tiny, snitch-like wings and flew away to the high reaches of the ceiling.
Her face was buried in a book about rare South American plants and their usage in healing potions when she heard strains of what sounded like a voice drift through the air, reaching out to her ears from an indiscernible place. Ignoring it as whispers of the wind rustling the plants outside and brushing against the windows, she went back to her reading.
But it came again, pricking at the back of Hermione's neck and making her close the book, her thumb holding her place. She looked around the humungous library carefully, but each nook of the room was brightly lit by sunlight pouring through the glass. Nothing could hide in shadow.
The words were becoming more definite now, and she could understand them. The book slid from her hands to the ground and she tugged her wand out of her pocket, looking around, stretching her neck to find the invisible intruder.
"Filthy Mudblood and her wicked ways. The poor master, thinks she can break the curse, foolish, poor master. Ugly little wench entranced him, she did, with her evil magic. Master made a mistake bringing her here, she did. She better leave, or she will be sorry. Oh yes, she will…she will be sorry. And when she is gone, Beatrice will break the curse and have the master all to herself…"
Hermione had backed herself against the bookshelf, wand raised, looking frantically around for any sign of the banished house elf. But there was no evidence of its presence besides the quiet grumbling that seemed to come from the walls themselves.
Then Hermione saw it, a small shadow moving along the wall opposite of her, brushing the bookshelves and pausing every so often as if examining the titles. It had the edges of the house elf Beatrice, the ears twitching frantically, its knobby hands fastened behind its bent back.
"The master thinks he's in love with the Mudblood. Poor master, she doesn't love him. She only wants his books. His books and his money. She could never break the curse, Mudblood. Never break the curse."
"Beatrice," Hermione said loudly to interrupt the elf's frightening ramblings, her voice bold but holding a definite waver of fear. She had stood beside Harry and faced the Dark Lord himself, and now she was crumpling in fear because of a house elf. "Beatrice, show yourself."
"And she orders Beatrice around as if she were the mistress, but she will never be mistress, because Beatrice will stop her. She will be dead before she has the Snape name. Dead and rotting in her grave."
"What are you talking about?" Hermione shouted, her wand still lifted and her hand shaking. Her grip on the smooth wood was slippery with sweat. "I don't want to be mistress."
"She says that, but she lies. Filthy Mudblood liar. Poor master, doesn't even know what love is. His grandmother would be ashamed to know that he's in love with a Mudblood and a liar. To see that he's fallen under some evil spell…"
"Snape doesn't love me," Hermione said, shooting a curse at the shadow of the hidden elf. It went through it as though it had gone through water, creating a dim ripple of light in its wake. "I'm just his student, and I'm leaving soon. I don't know where you get off thinking such things…"
"It's all master talks about. Hermione this, Hermione that." The creature was still muttering to itself, as if Hermione wasn't even there. The elf had completely lost what little was left of her sanity, falling to the ranks of Kreacher, whose remains were yet to be found. If only Hermione could lift whatever spell Beatrice had placed on herself, or if she could get Snape… "'I must tell her tonight,'" she mimicked. "'Otherwise I might never do it. I must tell her that I love her'. And the master is cruel to himself, cruel for being a coward even though he is doing the right thing. He must forget the Mudblood, she is not good for him. He must learn to love Beatrice, and Beatrice will lift the curse. And then he will be for Beatrice, and he will be happy."
"He does not love me," Hermione said again, a funny feeling whirling about in her stomach. If she wasn't so scared that she couldn't budge she would have felt the urge to vomit welling up inside of her.
"The Mudblood could have cost him his job…that's why he fired her. Fired her from his class. He made a good decision, getting rid of the Mudblood, didn't do anything foolish to get himself fired. But guilt, bad, bad guilt, he wanted to make it up to her…foolish, foolish master! Poor master!"
"He kicked me out of his class because I broke the rules…" Hermione said, slumping against the bookshelf even further with her hair falling in front of her wide eyes. "He found my Time-"
As if finally realizing that there was someone else in the library other than herself, the shadow of Beatrice's head snapped up, alert, and the elf melted into view. Her bulging eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had been crying, and her mouth was drawn tight. She sniffed noisily and cast a hateful glance in Hermione's direction.
"The master didn't trust himself," Beatrice said sulkily, approaching Hermione slowly. "He thought that if the Mudblood was in his class, he would do something bad, Dumbledore old fool would fire him. Regret is bad, very bad. Made the master do bad things. Made the master bring the ugly Mudblood here. And now he thinks he's in love with her…thinks she could break the curse."
"That's not true!" Hermione found herself shouting, goose bumps rising on her arms. She didn't feel like she could press herself against the bookshelf anymore than she already had, and contemplated sprinting toward the door and away from these frightening lies that the elf was spitting at her.
"He asked me to find him someone that could break the curse. He never asked me to! He wanted me to help!"
"Master wanted to know what the Mudblood liked," the elf spat out, still approaching in a painfully slow gate that made Hermione feel like she was going to challenge her to a duel. "So he could change himself to be hers. Master is perfect the way he is, doesn't need to change, especially for her."
"That's not true!" Hermione shouted again, the conviction in her voice fading away. There was no reason it couldn't be true. Actually, all logic pointed out to her that what the house elf was saying made perfect sense. How Beatrice had gotten out of whatever prison the others had put her in, Hermione didn't know, but all she knew was that Beatrice was out now, cornering her, rambling nonsense that actually might be true. And Hermione was afraid.
The Pensieve…Hermione remembered the Pensieve. It only served as evidence for Beatrice's words…and now it made sense.
"Beatrice does not tell lies," Beatrice replied firmly. "And the Mudblood better leave now before she ends up in the backyard, dead."
Hermione suddenly felt a squeezing pressure around her neck, as if something was trying to choke her. Wheezing for breath, she tried to let out a scream as she saw that a strong snake was wrapped around her neck, choking the air from her lungs. Its head nodded back and forth in her face with a tiny, black tongue darting out, tasting the heat radiating from her skin. She couldn't scream, she couldn't cough, she couldn't breathe.
"Mudblood must leave, and never come back."
Hermione pried at the snake and felt her fingers close around air, and she collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath and rubbing away the pressure from her throat with aching hands. When she gathered enough air, she ran.
She gathered her things quickly, throwing them all haphazardly in her bags, deciding to leave a few books behind that refused to fit. Crookshanks hissed irritably as she roused him from his nap, but the frightened look in his mistress's eyes calmed his fit and told him that this wasn't a time to argue. She took her bags and dashed into the hallway, ran down the corridor as fast as her luggage would allow her, rounded a corner, and ran promptly into something dark, warm, and solid.
"I was just coming to look for you," a deep voice uttered in a tone that sounded very anxious. All of Hermione's bags fell to the floor and she only managed to squeak in surprise. Mixed emotions were swirling in her head right now, all blanketed by confusion and denial, and lastly, completely smothered in fear. The only thing that made sense right now was to run, but Snape was blocking her way.
He lifted an eyebrow at the bags and the cat pacing in his carrier. "Going somewhere, Miss Granger?" His tone wasn't dry as it usually was, he sounded…nervous, almost. As if he actually cared.
"Oh…um…" Hermione regarded her bags frantically, groping for an excuse, anything. "I just remembered that…the Weasleys had invited me to stay for a while, and wanted me to be there for dinner tonight. I had completely forgotten until now, and it's potato skin night…I really don't want to miss it." Her face turned about ten shades of red at the pathetic lie. "I would have told you earlier, but it slipped my mind. I'm sorry."
"Ah." His grim expression was slightly puzzled as if he, too, was searching for the words to say. "You are free to go then."
"And when should I return?" The question was an afterthought. She hadn't planned on returning, at least not while the maniac was loose. She could still feel the scales rippling over the sensitive skin of her neck.
"That is not necessary," he answered, crossing his arms across his chest. "Your classes are finished. You have passed and may take the NEWT at the end of next month. I have already registered for you."
"Oh." It was a mix of relief and shock, adding more to confuse her senses. Her mind was on sensory overload. "Well, goodbye then."
"Travel safely, Miss Granger. I'll have my coach take you to the Reynold house."
As if he could sense her anxiety, he made the arrangements quickly and escorted her to the front door. Clouds had moved quickly into the sky, gray and heavy, and looked like it might soon begin to storm. Snape was just a darker shadow in the already shadowy doorway.
Her luggage was loaded and glancing up at a window on the second floor, Hermione could see the contemplative, smirking face of Beatrice staring down at her. Unaware of the house elf's presence, Severus crossed his arms and glared stonily at the carriage as Hermione walked slowly back to the doorway.
Overcome with something that felt little more than pity, she threw her arms around her Professor's waist and muttered a shy, sorrowful, "Thank you, Professor." She released the man, stiff from shock, without looking at him and ran back to the coach, quite certain that those would be the last words that she would ever say to Severus Snape.
Thanks to: lupinite23 (nope, not Lupin. Actually...Lupin is the complete opposite...), MidnightPrincess, Anarane Anwamane, pickles87 (Thanks, I did), Fou Fou (I know, I feel sorry for Remus, too. It almost makes me want to dump Snape all together and just have Remus and Hermione get together...), Imhilien, Kaliae (probably because he, too, is an older man. If I didn't write for SS/HG, I'd probably write for RL/HG), artemisgirl, EvieBlack, Blatant Discontent (I adore it. Best classic ever), CassandraTheEvil, Luna Writer (Hey...I never said that I would. Remember that evil laughter), Gold-Emerald fairy, Greenleaf, Snapegirl51606, oO-Innocent Dreamer-Oo, crystalclear8050, Jewlzthejujubean, Akasha Ravensong, Cow as White as Milk, Yoshi, Aindel S. Druida, Kaaera, Purple Spotted Hedwig, Lana Manckir, c[R]ud[E]dly (well...the first kiss didn't turn out all that great, did it?), Rylee Smith (academic camp? Why does that actually sound fun to me?), Zvezdana (aw, I still liked the last one), and Neo-Queen Serenity. And Laia, as usual, for betaing.