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A/N: Hello! Thank you to all of you who have left encouraging reviews during the last few months. I have been working on this chapter since January. I found myself very unmotivated with current events being what they are, but this story was never too far from my mind.
I hope you have all been staying healthy and well during these times, and have found hope in unexpected places. Happy reading, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
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Chapter 7: A Quiet Place
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Granger likes speculative fiction best, Snape has discovered. It seems curious, based on what he knows of her as a student; she never seemed to have much capacity for imagination back then. But then again, he never did know her very well in the time before.
He isn't so sure he knows her very well now.
Snape stands in the fiction section of the small library, a place he has found himself with somewhat alarming frequency as of late. Every time he is in town without her, to be exact.
The first time he had brought home a book for her, she'd been surprised. She had looked at him for a long moment before taking it from his hands. He recalls the way her eyes had flicked from the cover back up to his face, the way her fingers had tightened around it as if it was a precious thing. That moment had planted a small, hidden seed deep in his chest.
The library has a surprisingly large collection for such a small town. He has even found some Tolkien and C.S. Lewis in the stacks, something which would have been unheard of in Dunkeld. All books bearing any reference to magic had been removed from that collection; the conspicuous gaps in the shelves like missing teeth, dark and unsettling.
Selections in hand, he approaches the circulation desk. The librarian is the same every time he visits; a handsome, solemn woman approaching middle age. Her eyes linger a moment too long on his nose, his eyes.
The moment passes and she picks up his library card to examine the borrowed name on the back. Snape looks away to hide his discomposure, mentally cataloguing all of the minute changes he made to his appearance hours earlier.
"Mr. Stein," she prompts.
He turns to thank her, but instead feels the entirely surprising and disconcerting sensation of her hand on his. He looks up sharply, rebuke on his tongue, but she speaks again.
"Mr. Stein." Her voice is furtive. "Am I wrong in guessing that you come here so often in search of some peace and quiet?"
He stares at her, completely unmoored by this strange turn of events. Her eyes search his deliberately in the beat of strained silence, then she lets go of his hand with something like disappointment.
The librarian hands him the books and he snatches them to his chest, unnerved.
"This library is a quiet place," she says cryptically, eyes still probing his. "For those who need it."
Her small, sad smile follows him as he makes his escape, heart in his throat.
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The mid-day bells are ringing as Snape steps out onto the street, tucking the books under his arm. The face that is not his face is placid and collected, but under the surface his own true mind whirls.
The librarian knows.
The large ever-present propaganda poster above the corner shop proclaims, "RISE UP AGAINST THE MAGIC MENACE." He gives it a cursory glance before bending to unlock the rusty bike from the lamp post.
As he makes his slow way home, Snape contemplates. The librarian knows. She knows, but her eyes had been kind. This library is a quiet place, for those who need it. Her strange message repeats in his head as he navigates his way down the narrow country lanes, cycling alongside crumbling dry stone walls.
How many others in the town know what they are? There had been once, a few weeks back, when he had been sure someone was following them; a stocky, curly-haired man. Ever since, they are more careful with their disguises; keeping precise records of which face they wear each time they go out.
Although they do not know precisely what will happen if they are caught, Snape reads the Muggle newspapers. He knows about the disturbing experiments performed on magical prisoners; no doubt that there are countless hidden, more gruesome truths that the headlines don't tell. Certainly Hermione Granger, a traitor to her Muggle upbringing, would warrant a special sort of treatment.
He worries for her when she is in town alone.
He tells himself that it is the worry of a teacher for his former student, a safe, distant concern. But the seed planted deep inside him shifts and cracks.
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Granger is knitting by the fire when he steps in the door and shrugs off his heavy wool coat.
"Which color jumper would you like?" she asks without preamble, eyes focused on the clicking needles.
"I don't need one." He ducks into the kitchen to put away the milk and eggs, then returns to the sitting room with the novels clutched in his hand.
Granger looks up from her work to regard him with dark, serious eyes. When he had first encountered her in Dunkeld, she had been on a knife edge. After three months together at Dìomhair, she is different; calmer and more pragmatic, but somehow harder.
"I'm imbuing them with undetectable protection charms. Which color jumper would you like?"
And bossier.
"Very well," he huffs halfheartedly, folding himself into the tartan airchair across from her and depositing the library books on the side table. "Gray."
She smiles to herself and returns to her work, and he finds himself strangely reluctant to tell her about his encounter at the library today. Her fingers are quick and graceful as they maneuver the long needles, the fire murmuring warmly from the stove. This domestic scene is at once so foreign and so familiar; her untamed hair and her narrow wrists belong simultaneously to Miss Granger, vexing former student, and to Granger, capable ally.
She looks up and he realizes he has been staring at her hands.
"It's been a few years, but I've had quite a lot of practice," she explains, mistaking his fascination for scrutiny, "Back in third year, I used to knit hats to free the Hogwarts house elves."
He recovers quickly; clears his throat and reaches for a book. "A very Granger hobby." The comment somehow comes out sharper than he intended.
"I used to think I would do well as an activist for magical creatures' rights. I've always wanted to use my time changing the world for the better." Her voice is quiet. "And yet here I am, hiding away."
This has become a common theme over the past few weeks. She is restless. Snape fears what she will do if she finally hears a sign of life on the other end of the Wizarding Wireless.
"How do you imagine you could possibly change our current situation for the better?" he sneers. Better to show disdain than his creeping trepidation that he will come home one day to find she has gone, leaving the cottage empty and cold.
Granger ignores him, carefully puts her knitting aside, hands controlled and deliberate. She arranges herself on the sofa and finally looks up to meet his eyes.
"Your face," she prompts calmly.
Snape knows a moment of confusion before he realizes that his disguise from town is still in place. Silently he cancels the charm, lips thinning and nose lengthening as his angular features assert themselves once more.
There is a curious moment, afterwards, where it almost seems as if she is using Legilimency, her eyes knowing and sharp as they peer into his. His mouth goes oddly dry as the moment lengthens and twists, until he can't endure another second of her scrutiny and he looks away, casting about for something, anything to cling to to regain his sense of slipping control.
His hands land on the library book at his side and he thrusts it at her wildly. Granger takes it, her hand brushing his. She doesn't pull away and he feels himself tremble, the seed inside sending up a hopeful green shoot, climbing towards the light.
"Thank you," she murmurs, and he has the courage to look up at her once more as she opens the book.
Her eyebrows draw together as she reaches inside the front cover and draws out an white envelope, "Mr. Stein" spelled out in curving script on the seal.
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