Nightingale Blossom
By
Snivellus aka Heather Granger
A/N: This is written in first person, switching off between two people. Every time you see a NNN break, it means it is a switch in perspective. I wrote this story rather quickly, but for some reason, I really really love it! I couldn't believe how fast and well it was going. I hope you like it too! Please review I like to know what people think of my work.
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When you have spent nearly all of your life alone, it is easy to become cynical. It become second nature to shut others out, and push them away. When you have never experienced love that one so desperately yearns for, it is easy to shut down all emotions. It is easy not to miss what you have never had. I know what everyone says of me, what they think of me, afterall I am no deaf man. I let their whisperings roll off of me like water in oil. They do not know me, nor will they ever know me.
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I walk down the damp cold stone steps down to the dungeons. It is late, and I have spent my evening in the library once again. I had left my potions book on my desk after class today, and though that it would be best to retrieve it before tomorrow's early class. I grab at my cloak, which covers my frame, trying to shut out the cold that lingers in this dark place.
Curfew is in thirty minutes, and I promised Harry and Ron that I would look over their transfigurations essays before the night was over. I near the classroom door. I see that is slightly ajar as I glance in before pushing the door out of my way to make room for me to squeeze by. There is candlelight flickering from the corner where Professor Snape's desk sits.
"Enter." I hear him say.
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I heard her breathing from outside the doorway. She had left her potions book on the workbench today after class. I had of course placed it with the others, which are so frequently misplaced. I was surprised that out of all my students, she would be one to leave her book. I glanced inside the tattered book, which she has had since her first year here. Inside I found in neat script writing, "Hermione Jane Granger, Witch" She had written the word witch in capital letters, as if to reassure herself that she was one.
I often found with muggleborns, that they somehow feel cheated, that their life growing up half the time as a muggle was a waste. I do not understand this. Why would anyone in their right mind want to be a witch or wizard. Why would you want to live a double life? Why would you have to pretend to be two people, when clearly there is only one you? Being born a pureblood is not a luxury, it is not a life where you were born with a wand in your hand. No, you are constantly being told not to do magic for fear of overexposure of the world in which we grow up, and if they do want you to show off to their other high society friends, you get whipped if you can't produce a wingaurdum spell at the age of four. Don't fidget, don't speak, don't laugh, don't exist. The pureblood world is filled with don'ts.
As much as we hid magic from the muggles, there has always been a small part that tugs at them, wishing that their childhood stories of werewolves, unicorns, and flying were true, it gives them hope, it is after all it's magic. However, what is left for those who know that it does exist? What happens when you have been flying, an know that it can give you motion sickness. Or touching a unicorn is just like touching any other horse? Where is the magic for those who grow up in it? Where is the hope? At least being a muggle, there is still the hope that something greater may exist, that sometimes life is just like magic.
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I peer into the classroom, trying to determine if he is in fact at his desk. I do not wish to anger him further. Earlier he had assigned us a three-roll essay on the effects of mood enhancing potions. I see him in the corner, marking essays. He rests his head on his hand, closing his eyes briefly between marks. His greasy black hair hangs in sections around his face, covering the beginnings of age lines near his eyes. The war has taken a toll on everyone, but I always thought that he bore the brunt. Harry and he were so alike, and yet so very different.
"Do you plan on watching me all night, or do you need something?" He snapped suddenly, shaking me from my thoughts.
I walk in slowly, but confidently. I am no longer the silly little girl he once called me. Many of his NEWTs students knew that, while he was still just as strict as ever, he was not as intimidating. He left us mostly to our own devices in class, and would lecture only once a week. He has built himself quite the reputation over the years, but I cannot believe it all to be true.
"Sorry sir, but I believe I left my book in here earlier. Have you seen it?" I ask.
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"It is over there, I would think that a student of your stature would be more careful where they left their school belongings. I am not a storage bin for your convince." I replied haughtily.
She has grown. She is no longer the nosey little know-it-all, but she is strong, confident, and most obnoxiously courageous. I let out an inaudible sigh, and continue marking my third year's essays.
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"Thank you sir." I respond, now having learned to ignore his personal remarks. I look at him more closely now. I realize that my professor before me is not some hideous creature that wishes to torment all young children, but that he is just a man. He is a man with very little in his life besides his potions and teaching. I hear him sigh slightly, and I stop and for some reason I yearn to reach out to him, to comfort him. Nevertheless, of course I knew better than to show compassion to him.
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She is still in my presence for some unknown reason. She just stands there and looks at me. I do not return her glance, but instead go on ignoring her. I sometimes wished that I could be a man who was not afraid to ask my students how they were, and if their family was well, but it was not my style, I did not get personally involved in their lives, because I knew all too well that it would only cause me pain and jealousy. The pain of a lonely childhood, the pain which I had endured while in school, and the pain which I still endure of my own guilty sins, would only worsen my jealousy of their somewhat more perfect lives.
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"Sir?" I ask, not knowing why I bothered to speak.
"Yes, Miss Granger?" He responds monotonely.
"What is it about the nightingale blossoms, that make them so rare?" I ask, knowing the answer, but for some reason, I felt that he would respond to a question of knowledge, rather than a personal question, which would cause him to unleash a barrage of verbal attacks on myself.
The nightingale blossom, only bloomed every three years on the summer solstice, and could only grow on the equator, where the temperature never dropped below 80 degrees. The flower was very temperamental, and could only be brought to full maturity with attention and care, and if left in complete darkness the flower would wither and die, leaving only a dried root.
I wait patiently for his answer, as he seems to ignore my question and continue marking the essays. I, however am still not deterred, and have firmly planted my feet on the stone floor, waiting for an answer.
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Who would ask such a question, I think to myself? We have not even begun our discussion on nightingale blossoms, and yet she has the gall to stand before me and ask me about them, at nine thirty and night no less? I think to myself of the answer, and how somehow I compare myself to the dry root.
"Miss Granger, why you require such an answer tonight of all nights is beyond my comprehension, however because you have been kind enough to reprieve me of questions all this week in class, I shall answer your request." I reply finally, after it looks like my silence has only made her will to stay stronger.
"The nightingale blossom is rare because it only grows in the warmest of temperatures. It is a highly temperamental plant, and it must be constantly cared for. If it is left in complete darkness it will die, leaving only a dried root. The blossom is used in many healing potions, as well as the draught of living sacrifice." I reply, as I say this my heart begins to ache, and I look back down to my essays.
"And what of the root? Can anything be done to save it?" She asks, moving closer towards my desk.
"Why would you want to save a dried root? Nothing good can come of it." I respond.
"But what if you could save it? How would you go about trying?" She asks more impatiently now, and I am beginning to feel that we are no longer speaking of the nightingale blossom.
"Some things are beyond repair, the root cannot be saved." I say again, now seeing that Miss Granger is nearly standing next to me now.
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I listen to him respond to my questions. I knew right away he realized what I was trying to do, but what I did not expect was for him to continue to respond. When I asked how I could go about saving the dried root, his response made my heart ache. He was alone, and no one knew his pain, but he would not receive their pity, nor would he ever want it.
I thought of what to do, whether I should leave and let him be in peace, or if I should stay, maybe another person to bare the load was what he wanted. Either way, I cannot explain what compelled me to do what I did next.
"Sir, with all due respect, I think that the root just needs care to blossom." I respond. He looks at me with fire in his eyes, I have clearly crossed the un-crossable line. I prepare myself to leave, when I notice that he simply sat back down and continued working.
"Professor, do you mind if I work in here until you are done?" I ask, knowing that I am not ready to leave yet, hoping that by staying I can somehow show him that I care, without him thinking that it is out of pity.
"Take a seat Miss Granger."
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I watched her as she took out her essay and opened her potions book. I know I should have been more upset with what she had tried to imply, but the fact of the matter was, she was the first student to ever do so. Even my Slytherins, never asked anything personal of me, although I never offered anything freely. I wondered what it was about her that made he so different, so unique.
I finish marking my essays as it now nears 10 o'clock. I push back from my chair, as she looks up at me. I motion for her to stay where she is, as I go into the storage room, to look for something. As I run my hand around the top of my shelf, I feel the item I had been searching for. I take it, and walk back to where she is sitting.
"You should go, it is almost curfew, I don't suppose you would like to loose house points." I say in a more normal tone.
"Yes sir." She replies, as she hurries to stuff her work in her sack. As she busies herself, I release the object in my hand, so that it may fall on to the work bench. She looks over to it, and then back to me. She obviously recognized what it was, as her face showed one of confusion.
"Maybe you shall be the first to nurture a dried root into a blossom." I say.
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His words rang through my head, as I watched him move effortlessly out of the classroom leaving me alone in the dimly lit classroom. His message was clear. I took the root and held it in my hand, hoping that maybe someday I could get it to blossom.