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Chapter 6: November
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October fades into a misty, wet November; gray clouds sweeping down the slope of the mountain. The days grow shorter and the wind buffets the stone walls of the small cottage through the dark nights.
Hermione rises before the sun most days and makes tea alone in the frigid kitchen before relighting the fire in the wood stove. Although a Warming Charm would be quicker, there is something about a real fire that warms the small space more completely.
Some things she continues to do the Muggle way, but she is slowly rediscovering the small, convenient charms that were once so embedded in her life. Now that she is free to use magic again, she revists them like old friends. She finds herself marveling at the most insignificant of spells.
The stillness of the early mornings, the damp November air, the calm and predictable routine; all serve as a balm to half a decade of calcified anxiety and uncertainty.
For the first time in years she feels safe, hidden away at Dìomhair. With Severus Snape.
Their tentative accord is quiet most days, but the prickly, tense quality of the air inside the cottage has eased somewhat.
Snape always wakes before her. She can't work out if he is still sleeping on the sofa, but every morning the sitting room is untouched and he is already at work.
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This morning, Hermione casts an Impervius Charm on her shoes. The protective charms Snape cast on the garden keep out the cold and much of the wind, but they don't shield her from the misty drizzle which hangs in the air and transforms her hair into a nebulous halo.
The courgettes are blooming magnificently, great yellow flowers like fiery beacons in the faint morning light; it seems only yesterday she helped Snape plant the seeds.
He is not in the garden this morning; he must be working in the shed. The shed is where they've pooled their scant Potions tools; an assortment of supplies collected over the years, or salvaged from the depths of a certain beaded bag. Although he only has the means to brew a handful of simple draughts, Snape has organized their meager collection into a provisional Potions laboratory.
Hermione walks through the garden, examining and harvesting along the way. She plucks a few withered or brown leaves from stems. Most of their plants will never suffer from disease or pests thanks to Snape's clever charms, but keeping the garden neat is part of her routine.
Hermione straightens up, examining the contents of her basket. Garlic, radishes, potatoes. Sage, yarrow, thyme. She lifts her eyes to the horizon, which has lightened considerably since she began. They will have to go into town for supplies soon, perhaps even today.
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Snape is bent over one of their two cauldrons, stirring. She ducks her head to avoid the hanging bundles of herbs as she comes through the door and says, "Good morning."
He hums something unintelligible, sparing a glance for the contents of her basket.
She unpacks the fresh herbs and begins to sort through them on the adjacent workbench, "How much of the thyme do you need fresh?"
"Three stalks," he says, still focused on the cauldron.
Hermione has become accustomed to this sort of behavior. Although an unsteady, fledgling rapport has grown up between them, he still avoids her gaze; hardly ever looks directly into her eyes. Only the times when they are disguised, their true faces hidden, will he genuinely look at her.
After the other herbs are cleansed and bundled to dry, she turns to go.
"Granger," he says, "I require your assistance."
He doesn't. It's a simple Pepperup Potion, he could brew it with one hand tied behind his back. But she stays.
Perhaps he is like her: glad for the company even if it is silent company, relishing the novel experience of simply coexisting without the need to hide.
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Later, they make their slow way into town.
Hermione has discovered long ago that Polyjuice is most effective as a long-term, consistent disguise. It's brewing difficulty means that it must be conserved, so trips to town are best served by a rotating selection of Transfigured personas. With altered hair and facial features, it's not so difficult to blend in with the usual crush of holiday-makers. Although there have been less and less in the last five years.
Snape has only changed his nose and hair today. He looks like he could be his own brother, or at least a cousin.
The walk to and from town is a time she treasures, because it is the only time he truly talks with her. At first, they talk only of small things; their potions lab, the weather, the garden.
But the walk is a long one, and the conversation inevitably turns to the war. She tells him about how she hid her parents in Australia; how she existed, day by wretched day, as a law secretary in Dunkeld; how lonely she was for a family, a friendly face.
And though it takes some time, he answers her questions. He tells her how he survived Nagini's bite, of his long months of solitary healing. He tells her how he was so deep in hiding that he didn't even know of the wizarding world's discovery. He tells her so many things that Professor Snape would never tell Miss Granger.
She's glad he never changes his eyes.
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In the evenings, when his nose is once again hooked and her hair is again wild and dark, they relapse into their quiet selves.
They sit together in the main room in the low glow of the wood stove, he on the chair, she on the sofa. He reads a Muggle novel he's gleaned from the library in town, she fiddles with the Wizarding wireless, just as she does every night.
The rain falls softly on the roof, the fire sputters and cracks, and Hermione can almost physically perceive his apathy. She is well aware that he considers the wireless to be a waste of time and energy. Snape has no interest in contact with the rest of the broken Wizarding world, which showed him so little compassion even when times were rosier.
The wireless crackles to life and Snape quietly leaves the room, but the static is the same as every night: barren, desolate, endless.
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