LOST PERSPECTIVE 5

READ MY MIND

By Bellegeste

Reviews: Thanks to all of you.

Otherside2: No, I've never been to West Africa. It's just me, my Atlas and Guide book and a stretched imagination.

Avery: Yes, it does swap to Hermione's PoV there. Establishing the correct 'voice' is a thorny one. It's helpful when you point out places where it is too ambiguous. Please continue! This story is mainly from Hermione's PoV - other characters' thoughts are mostly indicated with italics, or a kind of 'authorial voice' comment, which could have come from the character. But, I know, I'm not wholly consistent. Can be difficult to make it clear without the constant repetition of 'he thought / she thought'. Sometimes I rely on context. With Snape, though, I am very tentative about showing his inner thoughts - I tend to show his reactions and we have to guess what he's thinking most of the time (apart from in 'Post Mortem').

Chapter 7: HARRY : HERMIONE : SNAPE

Sudden activity in the hallway… The double crash of the door shoved open and shouldered shut; the lifeless thud of a heavy bag dumped down; the clatter of a falling broomstick; stamping feet…

"Hello! Anybody in?"

At the sound of Harry's voice, Snape stood up abruptly.

Harry tramped into the room, bringing with him a chilly gust of the outdoors - a waft of damp earth, decaying winter leaves and the smoky smear of bonfires, the filtered residue of the December afternoon clinging round him in a fine cloud. His boots left a trail of wet, muddy tracks and, as he unfastened his cloak, the white crystals flecking his shoulders melted into transparency and dripped onto the polished floor. His black hair was spangled with misty, silver droplets.

"Is it snowing?" Snape asked.

No spontaneous displays of affection, Hermione noticed, just a resumption of… of what? …hostilities? …indifference? …acceptance?

"Trying to. But it's not settling. More like sleet, really." Harry surveyed the mess he had already managed to create with a careless shrug.

"I'll clean it up, OK?" He forestalled Snape's as yet unspoken reproof. "Sorry I'm late. Did you get my owl? We stopped off at Ron's and - well, you know what Mrs W's like - had to ply us with that lethal punch of hers, and give me my Christmas present. And - " Here Harry gave his father a roguish grin, "she sent you 'the compliments of the season'. In a few hundred years," Harry went on, "she might even forgive you for existing. You never know your luck - she might knit you a jumper!"

Snape snorted.

"I walked across the estate from the gate…" Harry chatted on affably.

"Evidently."

"You know how it is at this time of year. You get so sick of being cooped up inside…"

"No, Harry, you do…"

Hermione listened to this exchange, totally fascinated. It was clear that Harry did not know she was there, sitting quietly by the fire, partially shielded from view behind Snape's towering figure. Harry was almost as tall as his father now, she observed. But somehow he seemed to take up a lot more space. He had changed - there was something more relaxed about him, looser, as though his limbs had all been slackened off at the joints. He looked wickedly healthy and not exactly rugged, but weathered and comfortably grubby and - Hermione knew this was an odd thing to say, but it was the impression she got - at peace with himself. With a pang, she compared Harry as she had last seen him at Hogwarts – tense, angry and resentful – with the amiable, 'chilled' young man who had just cheerfully trodden half a field into Snape's front room, and it didn't seem like the same person. Remus had said that spending time with the Weasleys had done Harry good. It certainly seemed that their easy-going, laissez-faire attitude had rubbed off. Hermione almost expected him to be wearing his hair (thick, straight, Snape hair now,) in a ponytail like Bill.

"Where's Braque?" he asked next. "Where's my old pal, Braquie? Here, boy! Where are you? Cooking your fat tum as usual, eh boy!"

He took a loping stride towards the fireplace, and stopped dead as Hermione came into his line of sight.

"Hermione! I didn't know you were here! Hell, I'm sorry - I didn't realise… er, hi, how are you?"

He shot a pained, 'you could have told me' glance at Snape. His father had just removed Harry's sodden cloak from its steaming heap on the floor, and was holding it at wands' length, with an expression of pure disgust. Hermione saw the fastidious flinch of his nostrils and, unexpectedly, deep inside her, felt a corresponding curl of desire…

"Do you wish me to disinfect this disreputable garment, or destroy it?"

"Get Quig to boil it up for soup!"

Harry laughed as Snape stalked out with the offending cloak, leaving in its wake a rank, animal odour - of stables, dung and singed straw. Hermione assumed it must be dragons, but to her mind the smell evoked the cool, pearly dawn at Bandiagara: turning the sooty camel embers for a spark to fan into the new day's fire; the sour, musky line of dew-drenched Dogon saddle blankets, spread on the thorn bushes to dry as the pale sun yawned over the escarpment…

"Hello, Harry," she said.

He stooped down to give Braque an affectionate pat on his scaly belly, then stepping over him, stood with his back to the fire, considering her in silence. Braque clicked his annoyance as Harry's legs blocked the heat.

"It's good to see you." Harry spoke slowly.

"Is it?" She eyed him searchingly. "Is it really?"

They stared at each other across the barrage of betrayal and wounded pride that had separated them for two years. Over time the bitter waters had receded, and now, Hermione realised, they had seeped away altogether, leaving just a dried, crusty sediment of hurt memories.

"Yeah," he said. Re-crossing the Braque barrier, he came and sat in Snape's chair opposite her. "I'm glad you're here. Really. I wanted to see you. Look, I'll just come straight out and say this, OK? I made a real balls of things at school. I did, didn't I? I got the wrong end of the stick. I've been meaning to say something for ages…"

"You were horrid to me, Harry. I didn't deserve it."

"Yeah, I know. But it was… it was like you were trying to muscle in…"

Muscle-in? On Snape? Is that how it had seemed? That she was riding rough-shod through the new, fragile relationship between Harry and his father? Did she, then, owe Harry an apology?

"What are you doing here anyway?" he asked. "I thought you were out in…"

"Africa? Yes, I was. I'm just back for Christmas - to see my parents and so on. Same as you. And Professor Snape invited me."

"Oh. He did? Did he?" Harry seemed to think this significant.

"Do you suppose he's left us alone together on purpose?" Hermione chanced a smile at Harry. "To sort things out? I didn't think he'd go in for matchmaking."

"Who knows?" Harry was strangely dismissive, preoccupied.

"Are you getting on alright now - you and Snape? He seems OK," she ventured. If she was conscious of the gulf between herself and Harry, neither did she have any real idea of how things stood between Harry and his father. There was a great deal to catch up on.

"Yes, it's fine. We're getting there. We just don't push it, that's all." Harry was non-specific. He gave her a shrewdly calculating glance.

"And what about you? Have you and - "

Whatever he was about to say was drowned out by an apocalyptically loud gong, which reverberated through the house like the final judgement. Hermione's impression that her ear-drums had been permanently perforated was succeeded by the thought that this might be the least of her problems.

"Quig wants us all to be as deaf as he is. That's his idea of a joke. For an elf he's got a really black sense of humour. Comes of working for Snape for so long," Harry commented. "Dinner is served!"

x x x

'Dragon talk' monopolised the whole of the first course. Harry was positively effusive in his descriptions of the great beasts. He had a natural affinity with them, that much was evident - respect for their tremendous strength, their devious intelligence and vicious unpredictability, but without fear. Or, at least, not the crippling, paralysing sort of fear that ends up with you getting killed.

He talked about the dragon species he had encountered: Romanian Longhorns, Ukranian Ironbellies, Hungarian Horntails and a Norwegian Ridgeback. Then he described the controlled breeding scheme, the campaign for the reintroduction of young dragons born into captivity into the wild, particularly in northern Carpathia where a fully warded dragon reserve was already under construction; and the experimental cross-breeding programme currently underway to produce a Vipertooth that was less partial to human flesh.

For Snape's benefit, Hermione guessed, Harry went into elaborate detail about the collection of scale samples for analysis. They were tested for heat and flame resistance, fire retardancy, spell-proofing, magical properties, susceptibility to dragon-related parasites and bacterial attack.

He had even seen Norbert.

"I must tell Hagrid; he'll be interested to find out how he's getting on. Grown into an evil brute, though. It's a good job Hagrid didn't hang on to him!"

But he sympathised with Hagrid too. Having assisted for several weeks in the hatchery, Harry understood only too well the wonder of witnessing these fierce, proud creatures hacking their way out of their shells, formidably independent at only minutes old. He knew how superficially cute and appealing a baby dragon could be – until it barbecued your hand with an untimely, firey cough.

He was circumspect about the riskier elements of his visit. Hermione knew enough about the older Weasleys to realise that, even though Charlie was by far the most responsible (she'd given up on Percy), even he didn't always play 'safe'. She had heard that there was an established dragon-taming programme, a long and labour-intensive process that involved acclimatisation and desensitisation techniques, but which culminated, ultimately, in the dragon being ride-able, if not necessarily obedient.

"So, did you ride one?" she asked, enthralled.

Harry grappled with the desire on the one hand to wow Hermione with his bravery, and, on the other, to wipe off Snape's frown of alarm and disapproval.

"What? So what if I did?" Harry faced his father defensively. "Talk about hypocrisy!" He turned back to Hermione. "He rode a Horntail when he was my age," he protested, "so he's in no position to adopt that safety-conscious, morally superior attitude with me…"

"Did you, Sir?" Why should the thought make her so breathless?

"It was a long time ago."

He killed the topic humanely, and switched the subject to Africa. Maybe he was tired of dragons.

"Miss Granger has been working near Sissili."

Recognising the name, Harry was immediately interested.

"The snake sanctuary place? Did you visit it?"

"No, but I wish I had!" She meant it too. Hearing the sincerity in her voice Snape looked at her, intrigued. Harry took up the conversation avidly.

"We were there last summer - had a great time. It was a bit damn wet - rainy season, you know. Oh, I suppose you do know! But the snakes didn't seem to mind."

Hermione had never seen Harry quite so animated. Was he like this all the time now? It was as though, for the first time in his life, he found that he was allowed to air his own opinions openly, and a lifetime's pent-up experiences were clamouring for expression.

"We went to see if we could find a mate for Szahuna - he's been fretting lately and, besides, you know how valuable Runespoor eggs are. It was hilarious! I had to interview the prospective candidates - all volunteers, incidentally. Tricky finding anyone 'compatible' though, if you catch my drift…"

He gave an exaggerated wink, and tapped his nose… Oh no, thought Hermione, more Weasleyisms. Any minute now he'll launch into the 'Dead Dragon' sketch…

"Hulmin was actually very unselfish about the whole thing - said his heart already belonged to Another…"

Hermione couldn't resist sneaking a peek at Snape - was he aware that he had a snakey admirer in his basement? To her surprise, he returned her glance, with a dismissive raising of his eyebrows.

Harry re-claimed her attention, addressing her directly.

"What about you, Hermione? Do you remember that time in the Common room when we were talking about animal dares? You said that if you ever went to Africa…"

"…I'd ride an Erumpent!" She laughed. "Yes, we said a lot of things… Well, I'm sorry, but I didn't. I did see one though. Tethered in the fetish market at Bamako. It was all rather sad, actually. Poor thing! It was obviously very old, or else it had some sort of Stunning Charm on it, because it was so spiritless and lethargic - it's horrible to see an animal broken like that. I didn't want to ride it. It's so undignified - for the Erumpent, and me too, probably. It was all a bit too touristy for me…"

A perfect 'tarte au citron' appeared on the table, creamily smooth but with a sharp, zesty bite to it.

"You know, you are very mean about Quig's cooking," said Hermione politely. "This is delicious! And there weren't any peculiar mushrooms in the ragout at all!"

"He's made a special effort, in your honour," said Harry. "Normally his food's… er… what's the word?"

"Inedible," muttered Snape.

"Individual. Questionable. Esoteric. He must approve of you! He's not the only one!" Harry grinned. For a moment he looked suggestively 'laddish'. Recoiling, Hermione reflected that Harry had picked up a lot more from the Weasleys than knowledge about dragons. She also began to wonder just how much punch Molly had given him earlier…

"Don't you think Hermione's looking absolutely knock-out?" Harry addressed the question provocatively at Snape, but Hermione jumped in, saving him the embarrassment of answering.

"Oh, stop it, Harry! Tell us what happened in the end to that Horntail - the one that derailed the train in the Tïrgoviste Tunnel…"

Hermione watched them both, father and son, as Harry launched into a convoluted anecdote about a train crash, tunnel collapse, rescuing a wounded dragon and Obliviating virtually the entire Romanian emergency services… Harry - tanned, handsome, relaxed, expansive - more like Bill than Charlie, really - more assertive than she remembered, embellishing the story here and there for dramatic effect, displaying a new, easy confidence in the presence of his father that she would not have suspected. And Snape - coolly attentive, concentrating, absorbed in his son's tale, yet listening critically, alert to discrepancies in the narrative, regarding Harry with an expression of both pride and irritation, the unaccustomed heartiness jarring his sensibilities… In the candlelight his features were thrown into relief, the shadows accentuating the beaky sharpness of his nose and cheekbones, the lined brow, the unfathomable depths of his eyes. He was not good-looking - not like Harry - and yet…

Hermione couldn't help remembering the first time the three of them had been together in this house. It had all been so different then. She had been a schoolgirl; Harry had been her friend; there had been no lasting bitterness to sour their relationship, no jocular innuendo; and Snape had been unavailable, and out of bounds. In two years how much had changed?

Every second she had spent in Snape's room that day as he lay there injured, in pain, was indelibly imprinted on her brain. She remembered every word that had passed between them. It was something; it was nothing. He had wanted Lily, not her. Lines of the poem she had glimpsed so briefly in Lily's book were, even now, rooted in her mind: 'je trace les lèvres…' (I trace your lips). Reliving the dream, she gazed at him now, unattainable and remote as ever, and, in her mind, she was experimentally tracing the outline of his lips…with her tongue…

She pulled herself up sharply. Someone had asked her a question.

"Well, did you?" Harry was saying.

"Sorry? What? Did I what?" She felt herself blushing.

"Bring me back a totem pole! Or an Erumpent-foot umbrella stand? Or a Fwooper feather head-band?"

"You're getting warmer on the last one." Actually she had brought Harry a present - a peace offering - even though she hadn't been sure that she would get the chance to give it to him, or even whether he would have wanted to meet with her at all. It was a traditional Bambara tribal 'chiwara', or Antelope mask, with the power to bring strength, happiness and success in battle to the wearer. It was an artefact from that magically indeterminate crossover zone: to the Sanjinn the horned Antelope symbolised speed and grace and fighting prowess; to a wizard, the animal mask acquired a greater significance the more closely it resembled his Patronus. It worked both ways.

"It's in my bag, over near Braque. I'll get if for you in a sec. Don't be impatient! So, do you see a career for yourself in Dragon taming? Will you be going back there after Christmas?"

"If Charlie'll have me. Oh, I know I'll have to get myself a real job one of these days, but for the time-being…It's been bloody good fun! How about you? Back to Africa?"

Hermione realised that she did not know the answer.

"It depends…" She gave a vague laugh. Up until a few seconds ago, she had had every intention of returning to Burkino Faso as soon as the holiday period was over. Now, all of a sudden, she found that her plans could be flexible.

"On what?" Snape asked sharply.

On you, damn it! I should never have come here. I knew this was a mistake. I was doing just fine. I think I could establish quite a niche for myself at Wizard Aid - everything was just starting to slot into place. The work's interesting and fulfilling; the people are great… I must be crazy to be thinking of jacking it in… And for what? On the basis of what? One conversation?

"Well, I have been considering 'research'. It's only an idea, but…"

"Into which particular field, Miss Granger?"

"Some of the traditional, African tribal remedies are so amazing… It's hard to believe that they're not magical. I was thinking of something along the lines of a study of tribal medicine with a view to incorporating a magical component for greater effectiveness. Or at least a full identification, classification and analysis of the ingredients. Um, I brought home a few samples. I was hoping to get a chance to analyse them in my spare time over Christmas. I thought maybe Professor Dumbledore might let me use the facilities at Hogwarts."

Harry had assumed a puzzled, pitying expression.

"In your spare time? At Christmas? You're a sad case, Hermione. You're supposed to be on holiday! But, oh no, you have to bring some work to do. I thought life in the 'real world' might have cured you of all that."

" 'fraid not. Sorry! I'm incorrigible, Harry!"

"You could use the equipment here, couldn't she, Sir? That would be alright, wouldn't it?" Harry declared enthusiastically, without waiting to see if Snape had any objections. "You don't mind, do you, Sir?"

Snape was not in the habit of throwing his lab open to visitors. He baulked, briefly, then nodded tacit consent.

"There! That's settled then." Harry beamed at her. "So, what sort of samples are we talking about? Pretty hot stuff, eh? Anything juicy? Aphrodisiac Aardvark eggs? Sandonkey sperm? Otters' noses?"

Hermione visualised her uninspiring collection of mosses, lichens, bark, sap spots, mould scrapings, and the few toxic drops she had managed to extract from stinging insects. You had to start somewhere.

"Nothing so exciting. Well, apart from…" She glanced at Snape.

"Miss Granger has given me this," Snape responded, his eyes flashing to meet Hermione's. He held up the little, carved container between his thumb and forefinger for Harry to inspect. "I will not, at this juncture, open it. It contains powdered Nundu claw."

He definitely sounds pleased, she thought.

"Nundu? Well, bugger me!" exclaimed Harry. "And there was I thinking I'd done well to get some clippings from a Ridgeback's tail-spike. Crumbs - to think I've been trumped by a leopard! You certainly win this round, Hermione. Where the hell did you get it?"

"It was given to me as a 'thank you' by a Tuareg tribal chief in Timia."

"What for? 'Services rendered'?" Harry leered. More innuendo. She could do without it.

"That will do, Harry! Miss Granger has not come here to be insulted by your lewd insinuations! You will treat your guests with respect!" Snape was unnecessarily sensitive on her behalf.

"It's OK." She smiled at him. "I never got to tell you where the claw came from, did I, Sir?" she said, drawing him into a less personal topic of conversation. There was an underlying tension between him and Harry she didn't fully understand. But it was making her uncomfortable.

"It was when we were up in the north, with the nomads. The daughter of the Tuareg chief had gone into labour with her first child, and she was having a really rough time. Everyone thought she'd die. It was very touch and go. The tribal medicine man had tried everything he knew… and they wouldn't let us perform any of our magic – not even a spell to relieve the pain. They believe that a baby born through wizard magic will be rejected by the ancestor spirits in the after-world… It was awful, hearing her shrieking in agony and not being able to do anything about it…

"Anyway, I had an idea. I didn't know if it would work; I mean, I'd never done anything like that before, but if she was going to die anyway…"

She had their full attention now.

"You see, there's a particular type of scorpion that you get in that part of the Sahara. I don't know what its proper name is, but they called it a Dagger Tail. It's sting is highly poisonous - and I mean, highly… so the locals give it a wide berth - but if you mix the venom with sap from the leaves of the Welwitschia plant, it reduces its toxicity, and has a more anaesthetic effect - it kind of numbs the pain receptors, but you don't lose consciousness, and the effect wears off in a few hours. Incidentally, Sir, I've got samples of both of those."

Snape was nodding thoughtfully.

"Well, it occurred to me that we might use that mixture to reduce pain without loss of function, a bit like an epidural… It seemed worth a try. And it worked! The poor woman still went through the most awful ordeal, but she was able to push the baby out…

"And her father was so grateful. He was almost in tears! I've still no idea where he got the Nundu claw from. He had it in a gold pot, inside this amazing, fantastically carved casket - it was obviously one of his most treasured possessions - and he spooned me out a little bit into that container there. To be honest, I'm not even sure if it is Nundu claw - it might be Buffalo horn, for all I know. I thought Se- " What was she doing? She'd almost used his name! "I thought Professor Snape might be able to help me test it. Make a potion and see if it's the real thing."

She made the suggestion tentatively, anxious not to sound impertinent. 'Testing' had occurred to her as a reasonable explanation for presenting Snape with the rare powder - nobody would be able to misconstrue her motives. And what were her motives? She hardly knew herself, any more. No one need be told that for months she had been nurturing the hollow, wooden 'bean' like an embryo, engineering situations in her mind in which it might be appropriate to make a present of it to Snape, knowing that it would make him happy…not expecting anything in return.

"You've come to the right place," grinned Harry. "Can't think of many other labs open over Christmas - and with the services of a Potions expert thrown in for free… No flies on you, Hermione!"

Hermione had scored top marks with her tale about the scorpion. Her resourcefulness and skill had earned Snape's admiration: there had been no disguising the approval in his eyes. With the reference to 'testing', however, his expression soured.

"Yes, indeed. I shall take the steps necessary to authenticate the substance," he replied stiffly. "If you care to assist me, Miss Granger, you could observe the results for yourself. You too, Harry, might find it educational."

"Yeah, OK, why not?" Harry agreed cheerily. "It'll be like old times, eh, Hermione - you and me together again, brewing up potions…"

Hermione marvelled at the selectivity of his memory - their inimical NEWTs years conveniently forgotten. She eyed Snape as he poured another coffee and sat, tight-lipped, stirring the sugar crystals in moody silence, dissolving the sweetness in the black, bitter liquid.

Harry, sensing a shift in the emotional balance, stared from his father to Hermione and back again. The air festered with assumptions. Then Harry's face cleared, and cracked into a wide, worldly, intimating grin. Smacking his hand down onto the table, he leaned his chair back onto two legs, and exclaimed with a knowing chuckle:

"Oh, Merlin! Wait a minute! Don't tell me you two have finally got your act together? It's about bloody time! Talk about dark horses! Oh, don't mind me - I'll admit I thought the whole thing was gross at first, but I've had long enough to get used to the idea. Yeah - go for it!"

Hermione gaped at him in horror. Should she AK herself now or later? Later - just as soon as she'd cursed Harry for all eternity with an endlessly repeating Crucio… How could he say that? Out loud? In front of Snape? By turns hot and cold and sick with mortification, Hermione prayed for the world to end, there and then. Too paralysed with shame to raise her eyes, she could see, nonetheless, Snape's hand cease its ruminative stirring and his grip tighten on the spoon until she feared it might snap.

He rose to his feet.

"If that is your idea of a joke, Harry, it is in extremely poor taste. Cheap schoolboy humour. I'll not stay to be mocked!"

The hurt in his voice was more than Hermione could bear.

"Severus!" she whispered. But Snape left the room without a backward glance.

End of chapter.

Next chapter : HARRY : HERMIONE / HERMIONE : SNAPE.

The next one's the last one folks… Can't spin it out forever.