Out amongst the walking wounded
Every face on every bus
Is you and me and him and her
And nothing can replace the us I knew
Nothing can replace the us I knew
"Walking Wounded" – Everything but the Girl
It was uncharacteristic for Hermione Granger to be running quite so late.
First, her morning routine had been curtailed. By what, she wasn't sure immediately upon awakening, but when she finally roused herself out of bed on a rather overcast morning nearing the end of October, it was almost eleven o'clock, and far past time for her to have risen.
She struggled out of her single wide bed, her feet recoiling as they hit the chilled floor, and she made her way, unmolested, to care for her teeth.
Something was odd about that, but her groggy brain was having a difficult time figuring out wh—
She threw her head up, meeting her own frenzied stare in the mirror, "CROOKSHANKS!" She screeched, doing an abrupt about face and hurrying out into the main apartment.
She could have fainted from joy when she found him, quite alive, merrily tearing at the remains of an enormous slab of steak with his teeth. Her relief was such that it took her a moment longer than it should have to inspect the rest of her apartment.
Once she did look up, she found herself cross all over again with the fat orange tom.
The refrigerator door was standing open, a bloody set of footprints leading away from the scene of the theft, and also tracking up the sofa, back down again, in a few circles around the kitchen, and finally, ending at where the steak must have oozed through its wrappings where he'd finally managed to tear the package open on the rug in front of the telly.
As for near a half a week's worth of steak? It was all but gone.
Hermione sunk down to her knees with a groan, gathering her hair around her face. "Crooks," she moaned, "why?"
The cat only responded with contented smacking sounds and his characteristic squashed frown as he noisily worked his way through the thick muscle.
Thanking her lucky stars that she was a witch, Hermione took only five minutes to clean the mess, but she was still running far behind, and she hadn't even been sure how far behind until she was able to cast a Tempus.
"Shit," she muttered, rushing back to her bedroom, darker than it should have been for 11:15—usually if Crookshanks didn't wake her up in the mornings, the sun would. Today promised to be especially dreary for a number of reasons, not least of all was the weather.
She wished she could run out the door, but was obliged to dress herself at least somewhat appropriately. Her poor clients... they didn't tend to appreciate a change in their routines.
When she emerged from her apartment she'd donned a thick pair of jeans, which she'd shoved messily into a pair of water-tight wellies, one of her burgundy Weasley jumpers, and a matching pink raincoat and bucket hat to keep the moisture from her hair, or perhaps to hide it—this morning it was more a rat's nest than usual. In her haste, she left without an umbrella, and also without her additional crochet bag, and she didn't remember to return for them until some ten minutes later, when she was half-way to the shops.
It was turning out to be a rather dreadful morning.
By the time she made it to the first store it was past noon, and the shops were far more crowded than normal, with lunch-time shoppers rushing to pick things up when they had a break mid-day. Her stomach took the initiative to remind her how she'd neglected it that morning, and she punched it irritably. "Shut up, you."
It continued to gnaw at her, offering an angry purr, while she piled boxes of biscuits, tins of beans, potted meats, and frozen roast dinners into her shopping cart.
Many of her clients had been almost entirely out of essentials since her last stop through. Consequentially, she had to add an additional stop to Sainsbury's, somewhere she normally didn't shop, for even more specific items.
By the time she made it back out of the artificially brightened muggle stores, it was nearing three and her arms felt as if they might simply pop out of their sockets. If her lightening charms were working as they should, she estimated she had close to 200 kilos of food hanging from her frame, easily.
Each step felt painful and slow, and she found herself unable to avoid puddles, or to turn away when cars and busses sprayed dirty brown water from the pools at the kerb. Her jeans, which she had taken the care to pack away into her boots, were soaked to mid-thigh, and her coat was likely stained, even with the resistant material.
If she were a lesser woman, she may have sat on the sidewalk and cried. It took an hour, twice as long as normal, to make it all the way to Waldweirness, and for her troubles, many of the residents felt it correct to scold her.
"Went without my bacon this morning, miss—can't have a proper breakfast without meat, you know."
"Where were you? My Harold's been having an episode all morning—I haven't been able to get away long enough to call to the office!" shrieked a small but mighty witch, her eyes wide and bright with adrenaline.
This one she had had to pause and address directly, sending a floo call out and assuring Mrs. Carter that someone would be along from St. Auberts to sedate her husband shortly.
Martin Forsythe would scarcely speak to her, reaching out an arm for his food, nodding at her in a bare minimum of politeness, and then promptly shutting the door in her face.
Mary had been worsening under care. It was too be expected, but he still disagreed with her decision to move her into the ward.
Her second to last stop saw Christopher glancing about, clicking with his fingers in an agitated manner, and stomping his feet occasionally.
He at least opened the door to her.
"I know I'm late, Christopher... can I make it up to you?" He followed her as she led the way into the kitchen, groaning in misery.
She finally felt the space to breathe, having lightened the load of the bag considerably over the past few hours, and knowing that her final stop would offer her a bit more grace than some of the others: it wasn't that Eileen didn't complain. Rather it was that she complained constantly but didn't really mean it. It was almost six o'clock, and she'd be able to end her rounds, and , with any luck, her day, with the woman. Hopefully taking tea. Hermione perked up at the prospect.
Christopher retrieved a tin of instant cocoa from the pantry and held it out to her with trembling hands, avoiding her gaze all the while. He tapped the plastic lid twice, very precisely, with two fingers. It was as direct a communique as he was inclined toward giving to anyone.
He was a sweet man. Hermione smiled at him as she took it. He, at least, was offering her a way to apologize.
She set him up with a steaming mug of cocoa and a plate of his favourite Jammie Dodgers before giving his shoulder a squeeze. "I'll see you in a few days, Christopher. You know to throw powder in the floo if you need anything, right?"
He didn't respond, but he did begin dunking biscuits into his mug, and he seemed happy enough with the results.
She left him to it.
With relief, and a small amount of relish that she didn't wish to admit to anyone, Hermione finally found herself climbing the stairs to Eileen's small porch.
She rapped quickly against the door. "Eileen, it's me, I've come with your provisions," she called, her eyes occupied in shuffling around at the bottom of the market bag.
The door creaked open and she took a step forward in the direction of the entryway.
Unfortunately, her ingress was not as simple as it should have been. She collided, with some force, against what felt an immovable object. "Eileen—?" she mumbled, her eyes traveling upwards.
But it wasn't Eileen that stood blocking her path.
Her eyes landed on the assumed form of one Severus Snape, replete with his false sandy brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Hermione gasped before he had time to seize her by the upper arms and bodily turn the both of them so she could fit past him into the doorway.
"Er... Good to see you again Mr..."
"Anthony. Tony. Tony Atkins," Snape insisted, his voice and eyes looking urgent. He raised one eyebrow, something which on Severus Snape looked as distinctive as a beard did on the late Albus Dumbledore, but which on Tony Atkins looked bewildered and somewhat amusing.
"Sorry—Tony, of course. Were you on the way out... Tony?"
Snape growled, which oddly came out in his normal tone, before both of them heard Eileen call from the kitchen "Tony, dear, did you get the door?"
"Yes, ma'am, I did!" Hermione had to stifle a snort. He sounded comical— having adopted a nasally tenor that somehow sounded more affected by his nose (in this form smaller and rounded more than Snape's own) than Snape's actual voice was.
"Well, who is it? I didn't hear—is it Mrs. Douglas?"
Snape heaved a great sigh and went to rub at the bridge of his nose before he realized too late that it wasn't where it ought to be. He ended up almost poking himself in both eyes. Hermione giggled at his expense. She still hated the entire enterprise, but... she'd take her laughs where she could get them. At least the karma provided entertainment.
"It's me Eileen! I came with food for the week." She called in his stead, both of them still standing across from one another in a sort of stand-off. Hermione walked away first, making her way toward the kitchen where Eileen had been busying herself making tea.
"Oh—! Rolling out the red carpet today, are we?" The brunette asked, feeling in a jocular mood.
Eileen snorted, but it wasn't with bad humour. "Not for you, girl—but if you transfigure yourself a mug you're welcome to it—if you couldn't see, I have company!" She said, gesturing behind the girl to where Severus was looming in the doorway. "Besides, you're so late I thought you'd forgotten me altogether." She griped with an affronted sniff.
Snape seated himself at the small table while Hermione busied herself putting away the last of her spoils, having grabbed the woman a pack of bacon, a dozen eggs, tea, and chicken—with a bag of potatoes to accompany it. At least she chose to eat healthier than most of the residents of Waldweirness.
"No pudding?" Snape asked, his nasal voice far too whingey and reminiscent of Pettigrew's for Hermione's taste. She threw him a look, a rather waspish one. "Now Tony, you know you'll spoil your teeth eating like that. And I'm sure your community liaison has brought you all you asked for," she looked at him, her brown eyes glinting. Snape knew as well as she did that he didn't belong here, and that he didn't have anyone assigned to bring him food. She hoped he'd also catch her allusion to his poor habits at home. There had been at least two dozen cans of diet pop in his fridge, and she didn't see a single item in it that constituted real food.
"I'll be having a chat with her, incidentally," Hermione continued, "pastries and biscuits are fine in moderation, but I'd hardly call them appropriate breakfast food. I'm sure with some urging I can make sure we address any gaps in your nutrition."
Oh, she was enjoying this far too much. Snape's eyes had narrowed at her as he took a careful sip of the tea his mother had set before him. He winced and set it back, helping himself to three scoops of sugar from the bowl.
Really. No wonder he had the teeth he did.
He sunk into sullenness, and Hermione was not sure whether this was meant as part of his act, or whether it was merely Snape's normal behaviour: she'd certainly seen it enough from him throughout his life.
"Don't mind him, Granger." Eileen said with a snort, she pulled the younger woman into the seat at the third corner of the table by her sleeve. "Men eat like children—just try and stop them." She declared, and then started in on a steady stream of gossip from around the district.
Before partaking of her own brew, Hermione took the liberty of removing her coat and hat, feeling free for the first time that day. She rolled her shoulders with no little delighting in the pops and cracks it elicited, and settled in more comfortably, bringing her feet up to sit cross legged in her chair. Trousers be damned: the jeans were dirty and muddy enough that she decided not to give a toss about further staining. Finally, she reached across for the milk and poured enough to bring her tea to a perfect chestnut colour before she allowed the fumes to tickle and warm her freezing nose.
Perfection.
She couldn't help but to wiggle her nose just once in the steam. Then, feeling momentarily uncomfortable, she raised her eyes and saw that Snape was staring at her, a look of either disquiet or annoyance on his adopted features. (It was rather difficult to tell which, given she didn't know Anthony Adkins from Arthur).
"—and Tony, well he's a riot on Tuesdays, Ms. Granger. I wish you'd come down for doubles night sometime, but well... I guess it's not for the employees, is it?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You know, at the community centre," Eileen prompted as if she were particularly dull, "I stay away Monday and Wednesday, Exploding Snap is a game for babies," she sneered, "and I detest gambling, filthy habit—playing poker like they did back in Cokeworth." She shook her head. "I stop in from time-to-time Fridays, I always did enjoy a bit of bridge."
"And Tuesdays and Thursdays?" Hermione asked, trying to act as though she had been paying attention.
"For Merlin's sake, Granger—Gobstones, that's what she's talking about." Snape drawled, his sneer unkind in the extreme. "On Tuesdays and Thursdays we play Gobstones. Tuesday is doubles' night."
Eileen swatted him on the shoulder, her eyes censorious "There's no need for that tone, young man." She turned back to Hermione, who could see out of the corner of her eye that Snape was blushing furiously, his ears running pink again, though he also seemed oddly pleased. "That's how I got to know this bucket of sunshine, here. I'd been partnering with Mrs. Douglas, but, between you and me, her aim is off."
"If I recall, she has a rather bad case of cataracts, Eileen."
Eileen merely shrugged. "She's a dear woman, excellent bridge partner, but no good if you're looking to win a gobstones match, that's all I meant to say."
Eileen was in fine fettle that evening, Hermione decided. It almost seemed as if she were holding court: her effortless conducting of her guests nearing the sort of graceful sociability that she may have expected from a debutante.
At that, Hermione supposed that there was every chance she actually had been one, given the way the Prince family had been regarded at one time.
"And Mrs. Douglas can't receive treatment for her cataracts... why, exactly?" Snape asked. He wasn't looking at either of them, but staring off in the distance, out the window to be exact. This, at least, Hermione decided was a part of his act. She'd told Eileen he was the paranoid sort—perhaps he was working hard to convince her that he belonged here.
He didn't, paranoid or otherwise, but Eileen certainly wasn't privy to what qualified someone for a housing allowance or assistance.
Then again, Hermione supposed that Snape actually did have all the reasons in the world to be paranoid and suspicious of people. His life literally depended on it.
"She told me once," Eileen confided. "Allergic to the guarana plant in the eye-drops."
Snape gave a soft "Ahh," and returned to his reverie. He seemed to be giving something a fair about of heavy thought. His lips twisted in a way that Hermione thought may have signaled that he was chewing on a concept, but given that they weren't his natural features, she couldn't be entirely sure. Normally, if that were indeed the case, Snape's slightly larger bottom lip would be cocked out to one side, just a tad petulantly. As it was, he was assuming the motion, but the effect was entirely different, making him look faintly dumb.
"So, I imagine you have matches tonight then?" Hermione asked at length, enjoying her tea while it lasted.
"Quite right," Eileen clucked, her voice tart. She glanced at the muggle battery-powered clock that Hermione had brought her when she'd first come to Waldweirness. "We're almost late, Tony—Arnold and Betty will grab the best seats if we're not off!"
Taking that as her signal, Hermione rose, "I can take care of the washing up, Eileen. You and Tony go and enjoy yourselves. I'm sure the door is keyed to your touch?" At Eileen's nod, Hermione collected the two Snapes' cups from them and gathered them into the sink with her own. "In that case I'll lock up and be out of here in a few minutes. I will warn you though: it's a dreary one out there—pretty nasty." She nattered, as she used her wand to effortlessly clean the china. She took especial care with Eileen's prized coronation cup.
The Snapes exited behind her, and after she heard the door shut, Hermione heaved a sigh of relief. That had felt like running a marathon. The entire day: one seeming disaster after another... though Snape seemed to be managing at least somewhat reasonably with his mother. Even so...
She felt a weighty emotion settle like lead to the pit of her stomach, cramping it further. All day without food, and at the end, tea—which had been very kind of Eileen, no doubt... but, God, she was hungry. She resolved to pick up an entire pizza for herself as soon as she could get out of Waldweirness.
The residual guilt she felt over Snape's subterfuge didn't help either. Combined, it felt as though she'd be in St. Mungos from a stomach ulcer.
It was all the worse because it seemed that Eileen treated him as something of a surrogate, if slightly imbecilic, son, and he seemed to be basking in his mother's affection.
Didn't the poor man realize that it'd be all the more meaningful if she truly knew who he was? If the veneer of Tony Adkins was ripped away, and he allowed himself to be genuinely vulnerable with the woman; couldn't he see how inherently unsatisfying this lie was compared to that easily achievable truth?
Coward, she accused in her head once more. But a poor, sad, coward. She decided: it must have been a real terror he felt, for him to choose such an anodyne option over the spoils of genuine maternal affection.
He couldn't stand the rejection... she suddenly realized, with a grimace.
Poor, sad, bastard indeed.
What do you want from me?
You trying to punish me?
Punish me for loving you
Punish me for giving to you
Punish me for nothing I do
Punish me for nothing
Punish me for nothing, for nothing
"Walking Wounded" (reprise) – Everything but the Girl