December 20th
Snape was, against all the odds, relaxed. Winter had drawn close again this evening, chill and cold in the icy air. He had toyed with the idea of heading for Hogsmeade and the dubious pleasures of the Three Broomsticks; it was an evening for whisky, straight or in coffee, and he was - once again - avoiding Hermione.
For once, they seemed in fact to be avoiding each other. Work had progressed swiftly in silence as they both worked in the lab this morning. She had been late and, he suspected, rather hungover. She had left yesterday with some comment about meeting with McGonagall that evening; given Minerva's taste for - and volume of - whisky, he was reasonably certain that Hermione had been feeling somewhat delicate and, had they not been developing quite such innocuous substances, would not have been inclined to go anywhere near the laboratory today.
But she had left early tonight, with no comment. Snape had tried to convince himself that she was simply tired and suffering the after effects of the whisky the night before. He hadn't convinced himself and had spent a fruitless hour furious with the universe in general, certain that she was meeting Queroz tonight. She had, after all, agreed to see the man's etchings. That she hadn't told him when she was going to see said works of art was irrelevant - it could be this evening as well as any other.
At the end of an hour he had exhausted the fit of temper, a sign that the term had been long and difficult - at the end of a holiday he could sustain that temper for days, if not weeks. A lack of subjects to exercise that temper on also made it pass faster; without the satisfaction of deducting points, there was less fuel. He still hadn't quite worked out a method of deducting points from Gryffindor for this date of Hermione's but he was working on it. Childish, admittedly, but weren't Muggles always encouraging people to embrace their 'inner child'?
In the end, winter itself had put paid to the idea of going to Hogsmeade. Snow had fallen steadily for most of the day, turning the Highlands from the faded purple and golds of autumn to a resolute white once more; Snape took a small measure of satisfaction in the knowledge that if he couldn't go to Hogsmeade then neither could Hermione and Queroz. That satisfaction was short-lived once his imagination supplied alternatives to a trip to a public eating place.
In the end, tired of feeling angry, tired of feeling somehow less than a person simply because
Hermione was viewing Queroz's etchings, and tired of the endless self-examination that she seemed to bring out in him, Snape took refuge in the medicinal effects of whisky.
A bottle of Old Ogden's that was so old it was probably Ancient Ogden's was unearthed from the back of a cupboard. Snape sniffed it cautiously on opening, as the alcohol was notorious for producing the odd unstable bottle. The mildly amusing explosions of the occasional quart of recent vintage were one thing; this had the potential to produce something rather more spectacular and considerably more dangerous.
Two glasses later, Snape was settled in front of the fire in an armchair, watching snowflakes drifting lazily past the window of his room, picked out by the soft light from the stove and a hundred or so candles scattered throughout the study. It wasn't an evening for bright, direct, light. The whisky had done what it was supposed to and Snape was as near to meditation as he had ever been, watching the patterns in the flakes, his mind finally, gloriously, empty.
He wasn't quite sure how long he had been like that - long enough, he supposed - when a knock came at the door. Albus Dumbledore. The man appeared to be magnetically attracted to Snape's whisky - or perhaps it was simply that damned all-knowing twinkle that prompted him to visit whenever Snape felt the urge to self-medicate in this way.
Snape wasn't quite sure whether he had said something to open the door - probably he had but maybe he hadn't. Either way, the result was the same. The door swung gently open and the bearded wonder entered. Hmm. Perhaps the whisky was a bit stronger than he had thought it to be.
"Severus, I thought perhaps it was time that I came down to see you. The end of term is always such a mess, isn't it? I simply haven't had the chance to get around to the staff until now. How is the Ogden's tonight?"
The man asked far too many questions - and there was something slightly odd about him tonight; it seemed as if his mouth and his words were out of sync. Snape frowned slightly, then gestured to the chair on the other side of the fireplace. The one where Hermione had sat for lunch the other day ... damn. The blank mind had been so nice whilst it lasted.
"Albus," he said, nodding as the headmaster sat down and re-arranged his beard to his satisfaction. "Some whisky?"
"Oh, I think that would be rather nice on a night like this, Severus. Shall I help myself?"
Definitely out of sync - and the twinkle seemed rather more pronounced than usual. He nodded once and watched the headmaster locate a glass with a murmured Accio, then pour himself a rather generous measure of the whisky. He sipped at it thoughtfully, holding the glass up to the light after the sip.
"Good heavens, Severus, where did you get this? I can't remember the last time I saw a whisky of this vintage."
"Back there, somewhere." Snape gestured in the direction of his cupboard. "Not sure where it came from. Does it matter?"
"No, not at all. I suspect it of belonging to your predecessor - or perhaps her predecessor, given its age. Amazing what you can find lurking in the depths of this school, waiting to be discovered, isn't it? All sorts of things, and not all of them what they seem at times."
Dumbledore was looking at him meaningfully. Snape wasn't inclined to rise to the bait, but it seemed that his subconscious had other ideas, and rather more control at the moment.
"I'm not sure she wants to be discovered, Albus." Oh good grief, had he actually said that? Snape put the whisky down carefully, although the table did seem to have moved slightly further from his reach than he recalled. He caught the glass before it fell, though, and positioned it more carefully on the low chestnut table. Perhaps the next sip should wait - until next year. Or next century.
"Sometimes things are found, whether they want to be or not."
"In this instance, I think someone else has found her. Or perhaps his etchings have." Now he sounded petulant, and he really didn't like that.
"Perhaps he has nothing more than a general sense of location; I think he may be looking at the wrong thing - smoke and mirrors, if you will."
Snape picked up the whisky again - to hell with it. He needed more alcohol if he was going to deal with Dumbledore when he was in this sort of frame of mind. Unsubtly cryptic.
"It really doesn't matter what he's looking at, Albus, or whether he's found anything. It's not about him; the choice is hers. It's always been hers. Since you've started this remarkably maudlin conversation, you may as well hear the rest of it. It doesn't matter what I think - it only matters what she thinks; and I can tell you that she doesn't think of me. Oh, don't shake your head, you know she doesn't. I'm the Potions Professor, the one she had an ... unfortunate incident with some years back. The one she's having to work with, even though she doesn't really want to. I know, I know, she doesn't hate me - I'm spared that at least. Perhaps she even respects me, who knows? But that's all there is. And I have had far, far, too much to drink."
Snape stared at the whisky, amber gold and fractured firelight in his glass, and waited for the words of wisdom - the platitudes, the comments, the advice. The lemon drops.
In the silence the fire chattered in the stove, bark and sap swelling and cracking in the heat, embers shifting and settling with harsh sighs and leaping flames.
Finally, just before Snape looked up from his glass to check that Dumbledore hadn't left in the middle of his soliloquy, he heard a soft chuckle.
"Then there's really nothing more for me to say, is there?" There was an odd emphasis on the word 'me', but Snape dismissed it. The fire seemed oddly out of focus now, the flames blurred. His hearing was probably equally blurred, but he looked up now to check.
Dumbledore had left, after all.
December 21st
For some reason, snow always made Hermione feel better.
She had, of course, long outgrown the childish romance of it; she was more than aware of the adult mundanities of cold and wet, chills and falls, and the inevitable disruptions and delays of living in a country that seemed to regard truly seasonable weather as an affront to its national dignity. All that being said, she still sat fascinated as the layer of white settled over the land, covering the dirt and the mud and the imperfections, burying deep the detritus of living and leaving a blank canvas upon which it might be possible to write anything.
She snorted at her fanciful thoughts.
It would take more than the weather and some pretty landscaping to deal with her current problem. Which could be delineated in two words: Peregrine Queroz.
Having spared him little or no serious thought over the past weeks, the conversations with
Minerva and Snape now virtually guaranteed him a private box in the auditorium of her mind.
Whilst she had been prepared to attribute Snape's remarks to - well, him being Snape, more or less - to have it confirmed by Minerva had been a nasty shock. Or at least it had been once she had metabolised the last of Minerva's whisky and her full range of mental faculties came back into play.
She had been grateful for Snape's silence in the lab for once; at least he hadn't interrupted the shifting spectrum of hungover introspection which had occupied the better part of the last two days. In fact, he himself had seemed a little - fragile - today. She had wondered why, but had decided that an enquiry would not be well received.
She sighed.
There was no help for it; she was going to have to face him sometime.
Hermione Granger might be clueless when it came to her own relationships, but she was not dishonest. Once her attention had been drawn to things she was not one to play games.
Which meant that Queroz would need to be set straight on a few things.
In the end, she had the opportunity sooner than she expected. Although the greater part of the student body had left for the holidays, the few residents of the castle were all gathering in the Great Hall for dinner. The weather was bad enough to discourage Hagrid from venturing further than was absolutely necessary.
Snape was already sitting in his place at the table when she entered. He still looked out of sorts, she thought - which was consistent with his demeanour all day - but he appeared considerably less fragile than he had first thing. He was now hunched in his chair and was staring at his plate as if it contained hazardous material. He didn't acknowledge Hermione as she made her way past, and to the empty chair, situated, as always, next to Queroz.
She felt her heart sink. Having sat next to him for nearly two weeks without a tremor, she was now afflicted by dreadful butterflies.
Queroz sniled his usual welcoming smile, and stood to draw her chair back for her. Hermione didn't dare look in either Minerva or Snape's direction, although she suspected the latter would suppressed any reaction even if a hippgriff had come rampaging unexpectedly through the Hall.
"Good evening, Hermione," he said, his soft, slightly accented voice gentle. "Isn't it a dreadful evening."
She nodded, moving uncomfortably in her chair under the pretence of getting settled.
"Fortunately the house-elves have prepared something warm for us." On cue a bowl of thick stew appeared in front of her. Hermione wished she currently had the appetite for it. Queroz looked at her quizically for a moment. "Are you feeling well, Hermione? You haven't taken a chill working in the dungeons for so long?'
She rallied herself.
"No, I'm fine. Just a little - tired, That's all."
He smiled.
"You need an evening off," he said. "You're working too hard." He paused. "There's too much snow to go out, and it's too cold to go back to the dungeons. Why don't you come up to my rooms, you can see the plates and I could make some good coffee for you."
Oh hell, she thought. This was the moment, It wasn't how she had planned it. Insofar as there were plans as such. It had been more a speculation heavily overlaid with pious hope. It had certainly not involved being in a public place, much less dinner in the Great Hall with just about everyone present who possibly could be.
She put down her fork, not that she had truly begun to use it anyway.
"Peregrine," she began carefully, "you know that I like you very much and I really would be interested in seeing the printing plates, but - um," she hesitated and then decided simply to plough on. There was little to be gained in trying for delicacy in this sort of situation. It was like trying to tactfully remove sticking plaster. She took a deep breath. "You should know that I'm not really interested in a relationship at the moment. It isn't you - you're a very nice person, but I have to be honest with you. I think you want something from me that I'm not able to give."
There. It was said.
Queroz was silent for a while.
"Hermione, my dear," he said eventually. "I won't say that I wasn't interested in getting to know you better. You are a fascinating and beautiful young woman. But what you have said isn't really a surprise to me. I have always known that although you were talking to me, your heart was looking elsewhere. I sincerely wich it could have been different." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "You are still welcome to see my etchings whenever you wish if they would interest you. Now, if you will excuse me."
He stood gracefully and left the Hall, leaving a small amount of stew in the base of the bowl.
Hermione let out a breath.
Damn, she thought viciously. Why couldn't I have fallen for him? He's good looking, he's charming and attentive, he worries that I might be ill or that I'm working too hard and even after I dump him he manages to be sweet and civilised and poetical about it. He's everything that any woman could want. So how come I don't? Hell, even he thinks that there's someone else, and he's only known me for five minutes.
The fact that he was right and that that was something else that she had to deal with was not improving her mood right now.
XXXXXXXXXX
Things had come to a pretty pass, thought Hermione, when the appearence of Parvati Patil was regarded as any kind of a reprieve.
She had just left the Great Hall and was on her way back to her rooms when Ms Magic herself appeared, clearly perturbed in pink. Her cloak was as vivid as ever, but was looking decidedly the worse for the weather. She was pale, and her glossy black hair was escaping from whatever charms were supposed to be holding it immaculate.
Hermione did a double take.
"Parvati, what on earth are you doing here? We weren't expecting you until tomorrow."
Parvati self-consciously straightened her cloak.
"Well," she said, with a slightly brittle cheeriness, "tomorrow's the big day isn't it. When I get my line delivered." Hermione tried not to bristle at the emphasis on 'my'. "I thought I'd pop up here a bit early and check that everything's on track."
She seemed to be recovering her poise very quickly, and Hermione wondered if she'd imagined the bedraggled air that she had first seen.
Parvati was getting into her stride.
"I've got a room in the darlingest little inn in Hogsmeade, but I've had to walk from the edge of the school grounds. Honestly, I do think that Albus is a bit silly keeping the wards up all this time after You-Know-Who has gone." She waved a hand. "So, everything is fine is it?"
Hermione was irritated, both by the suggestion that she might not have kept to her deadline and by the fact that her evening had been interrupted.
"Yes, everything is on track, Parvati. Why don't you go back to Hogsmeade and tomorrow we'll have everything boxed and labelled for you."
It was not proximity to Queroz that had had an effect on her, she thought.
"But now that I'm here, couldn't I just have a quick sneak preview.
Afterwards, Hermione thought that she agreed as much to avoid a continuance of the wheedling little-girl tone, than anything else. Wearily, she led Parvati towards the dungeons.
Arriving there, she was surprised to find the wards lowered, and even more surprised to find Snape inside, apparently working on something. He looked even less thrilled to see Parvati than Hermione had been.
"Parvati came to see how we were getting on," she explained lamely.
Snape simply glared. Parvati, however, was staring at Snape, eyes wide with surprise. Visibly recovering, she moved closer to him and looked into the contents of his cauldron.
"Ooh," she said girlishly, "is that for me?"
"No," said Snape shortly and reached out a hand to pick up a pestle containing something ground to powder.
Parvati eyed him for a moment longer. To distract her Hermione fetched the first box of samples. Parvati picked her way through them, unscrewing here, sniffing there, poking a finger into a neatly-labelled jar every now and then. Although she was asking questions, it seemed to Hermione that her attention was was closely focussed on Snape.
Hermione set her jaw in annoyance. What was so bloody fascinating about him to Parvati anyway?
Parvati put the last jar down with a murmur of approval and sidled back to where Snape was still working.
"So, Professor," she said sweetly, "won't you explain what you're doing? It looks fascinating."
Hermione could feel the muscles tighten at the back of her neck. She began to replace the jars and bottles very noisily.
"Then it's a pity that your fascination didn't begin earlier, Miss Patil. When you were at school and in class, for example. There is little prospect of you now comprehending the process." Snape didn't even look at her.
Parvati's eyes glittered.
"Have you been testing any of these potions as you go along, Professor?"
"They've all been fully tested," he replied without expression.
"I thought so," she purred. "It shows, you know. You're so clever. I would never have thought of a range for wizards."
Parvati laid a hand on Snape's arm. Hermione could have sworn that he froze in shock.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Professor."
And planting a light kiss on his cheek she was gone. She didn't bother to acknowledge Hermione.
The tightness at the back of Hermione's head had now met with the tightness at the front and both were now developing into a full blown headache. Irrational fury almost left her unable to speak.
"If there's nothing more, Professor," she stressed nastily, "I'll leave you to your genius."
December 22nd
The first time in too many bloody years that he was on the receiving end (any end, come to that) of a kiss, and it had to be from Parvati Patil. Ms Pink. Pinker than pink. What in the name of ... Snape couldn't think. Still horror-struck by the previous evening's events, and dreading this morning when she would turn up in the laboratory again.
He hadn't slept - unusual these days, even if he slept less than most people would consider appropriate. Instead, he had tried to sublimate confusion and irritation and complete bafflement in work, burying himself in the laboratory with candles and starlight to refine and complete the last of the production samples in the men's range.
The evening had even begun with some promise - Hermione had clearly finally taken the point, if Queroz's behaviour at dinner had been anything to go by. The dregs of the
Dumbledore-induced hangover had still been hovering at the edge of his consciousness at the start of the meal but the scrape of chair legs against stone and the abrupt exit of Queroz from the hall had cleared his head surprisingly efficiently. Hermione had been staring into the stew remaining in her bowl as though it held the answers to ... well, to something. Fulcanelli's Fourth Law of Alchemy, perhaps.
He had, briefly, debated moving over to talk to her but something held him back - the public setting, certainly, but more than that. He rather thought that she would see any words from him as gloating, underlining the fact that she hadn't understood what Queroz had intended. He was well-enough aware of his shortcomings not to fool himself that he could pull off the
"well-intended" tone of voice that might have been his only hope of succeeding in not making her either more upset or furiously angry.
Snape interrupted his thoughts now for a moment, breaking off the constant repeating of last night in his mind, to concentrate on the final preparations of the general-purpose moisturiser that he had been completing. The off-white cream, shot through with small flecks of purple, was almost solid in the bowl and required some effort to smooth through with the spatula. Eventually he stopped, a soft sigh of tiredness and strain punctuating the moment; the consistency and texture the cream was finally adequate for his purposes. He pulled a wry smile - it was perfect, which was what he considered to be adequate for his purposes.
He stared into the bowl a little longer, until the white and purple began to mingle in his unfocused sight, thinking of nothing and enjoying the respite. Then, abruptly, he ran a finger through the cream, scooping a small amount up from the bowl. He frowned, wondering ...
A few steps brought him to his bathroom and to the mirror there. He was still frowning as he examined his reflection closely; he couldn't recall the last time he'd actually bothered to look at his face, other than in the abstract when he shaved. Then, all he looked at were the angles and planes, checking that he'd accomplished the task, rather than specifically examining the reflection. Now, he looked. After a minute or so he simply shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders. He smoothed the cream onto his face rather than waste the product, working it into the skin and watching the reflection again. He had thought that, perhaps, the products had done something to his face - something that might have made Ms Patil behave quite so strangely last night. Something that might account for the odd comments from McGonagall and, now he thought about it, from Queroz a few days ago.
But the face that stared back from the mirror was the same one that always faced him. Perhaps his skin and hair were less of a mess than usual; the endless testing of moisturisers and conditioners and cleansers and shaving balms was bound to have had some effect, after all. But that was all - the face itself was unchanged, still long and unprepossessing. Snape turned from the mirror in disgust. He was wasting time; Ms Pink had no doubt simply had too much to drink last night, or something similar.
When he stepped back into the laboratory, Hermione had arrived. She glanced up from her own last-minute details, a line-up of bottles and pots in front of her.
"Good morning."
Their voices echoed in the chill air at the same time, and similar small smiles tugged at their faces as they acknowledged the quiet amusement in the moment. Hermione settled back to work and Snape crossed to the stove; it was past time for coffee this morning.
The familiar routine was soothing, filling the base of the pot with water, scooping coffee into the holder and fitting the parts of the pot together. He sat the pot on the stove and returned to his bench, intent on finishing the labels needed for his own line-up of bottles and pots.
The scent of coffee and the coughing of the pot interrupted him shortly afterwards; he placed a steaming mug in front of Hermione and stood beside her for a moment. She murmured her thanks without stopping her work, filling and tapping off the few remaining empty bottles in front of her.
When the last one was full and labelled she yawned and stretched, arching backward and brushing against him as she did so. She started and looked round and up at him; Snape hadn't moved and she stared up at him for a moment or two. To his unshown pleasure, she didn't immediately pull her stool forwards away from him. Instead, she picked up the coffee mug and took a sip, holding it in both hands - probably trying to warm hands cramped with cold and meticulous work.
"After all this - I'm almost surprised we've finished on time. There were points I didn't think we'd make it, that we would have a pink howling dervish in the laboratory today screaming ruin and trauma."
"Don't insult dervishes," replied Snape drily.
"Let me guess, some of your relatives are dervishes?" The grin was there in full bloom in the tone of her voice even if she had somewhere in the last ten years managed to master the art of the poker face.
"What gave it away?" His tone was drier still and now she did grin; laughed in fact, and smiled up at him. Oh, he'd missed this.
He was about to say something - later, he couldn't remember what, although he had an idea of the general substance of what was in his mind at the time - when the door opened and the pink dervish herself whirled into the room.
"Darlings! Severus, you've done it! Oh, these are exquisite - tell me all about them!"
Parvati Patil and her exclamation marks had wrapped themselves around Snape, barely acknowledging Hermione who, in turn, stood to one side. Poker face gone, she was definitely grinning at his discomfiture this morning.
The morning seemed endless, even though it could not have taken more than a couple of hours to satisfy Ms Patil's questions and deflect her gushing. She left, at long, long, last, with a box full of the potions and the accompanying notes and recipes for mass production. Snape could almost hear her voice still ringing in his ears and shuddered at the recollection of her sotto voice invitation to dinner, lunch, whatever, next time he was in London.
The door from the school slammed shut at last.
"I thought she was married?"
He thought he'd simply thought the question, but Hermione answered. "Some people don't let details like that get in the way."
"I do."
Hermione nodded absently, thoughts elsewhere. No doubt she was anxious to get back to London herself, with Christmas in a couple of days. Her family, if no-one else, would be expecting her, of course. Snape drew in a short breath and talked himself out of asking her whether she would stay. There was no sense in inviting rejection, after all.
"I suppose you'll be leaving now that - that - is out of the way?"
He waited for an answer, his question echoing in the hallway where they stood.
"Um - well, I hadn't ..." Hermione's voice trailed off as though the answer were more complex than a simple "yes".
"Ah, Hermione, Severus. How nice to see you both here - have you seen off Ms Patil successfully?" Snape quirked a small smile against his better judgement; the headmaster's phrasing was rather nicely ambiguous. Which, to be fair, was probably a useful assessment of the headmaster himself.
Dumbledore took amused silence for an affirmative and chuckled.
"Good, good. Now, Hermione, I'm glad I caught you - I understand that your parents are away at the moment?" He paused, then continued at Hermione's startled nod. Snape raised an eyebrow - surely she couldn't be surprised at the headmaster knowing her family's whereabouts?
"Excellent - then perhaps you would do us the honour of staying at Hogwarts this Christmas? It might not be same as home but I'm sure we can find something to entertain you." Snape was uncomfortably aware that Dumbledore's gaze had shifted from Hermione to himself, and almost missed Hermione's pleased acceptance. He didn't, however, miss her glance at him as she accepted.
