Vignette 6: Carrot Cake
It was Professor Snape's birthday. And he had a terrible cold. Not only that, but he was depressed and annoyed. The baby, now several months old, had spent most of the previous night crying its little lungs out, and regardless of him being on another floor, the sound had traveled with admirable speed. It wasn't only the child of course…his own inner demons seemed determined to give him no rest…
He now he felt too tired to get any real mental work done, and too awake to catch up on his lost hours of sleep. He was officially fit to be tied, and didn't want to be disturbed by anyone under the sun.
As he struggled to try and fish through some papers on his desk, he heard someone come down the ramp.
"What is it?" he snapped irritably, and then coughed.
"And happy birthday to you," Hermione responded with a teasing grin.
"No, not that," he groaned. "You know how I feel about such frivolity. Besides that, who even told you it was…that day? You certainly never knew before."
"Molly Weasley," she explained. "And she seems to know everything, even more than me."
"Damned nosy witch," he grunted, rubbing the place between his eyes, feeling like his headache was making him see double. When his vision cleared, he saw that a plate of something that smelled rather sweet had been put down in front of him on his desk.
"I knew you're not the frivolous kind, but this isn't a frivolous dessert," she explained. "Besides, carrot cake is your favorite."
"What makes you think so?" he mumbled.
"Because," she started, "Molly observed you at a lot of PTA meetings over the years, and while you weren't much on small talk, and hardly ever touched the refreshment table, she said you did wind up taking a slice of carrot cake once."
"It…was a one-off. I hadn't eaten breakfast, and my tea had been cold, I was busy with the stupid meeting and failing a lot of below abysmal term papers…"
"Right, well," she sighed. "It'll have to do, anyway."
He furtively glanced at the cake then down at his paralyzed hand awkwardly. "I…I never made much of birthdays," he confessed. "Always just another year closer to dying, really…another physical process weakens, the brain functions slow…all just…trundling towards shut-down…and I'm further along, and less worth the wear…" He broke down and coughed into his sleeve.
"Now stop that," she chided him, grabbing him a tissue from a nearby box.
"Why? It's true," he stated in a gravelly voice. "Don't you care about truth these days? Look at it scientifically, like a germ under a microscope, and you'll see the size and sum and worth of me. Not a very…pleasing prospect, to be sure."
"You're not a germ," she retorted. "You're a person….a very disagreeable one sometimes, but still…"
"And what is a person…but so very many flashing lights in the head, or forgetting and remembering, and fear that everything will just shut down one day, when the battery finally dies?"
"You're the king of manic depressants," she sighed.
"Prince," he corrected her, and she noticed a slight, almost unperceivable gleam in his eye.
She cliqued her tongue. "Haughty, very haughty, as always…"
Then, quite out of nowhere, he found her going for a hug.
"Mrs. Potter, I…I have a cold, do you want to catch it?"
"Hmm?" She pressed her face into his shirt and held his fragile frame tight.
"I have a cold," he said, very softly, and it hurt.
"So…all the more reason you need a hug," she decided.
He shut his eyes tight. They were watering a little…had to be the cold. He sniffled; naturally, it was the cold too. But…but did the sudden motion of his good arm cradling her back all chalked up to an early spring sickness? Perhaps fever made warmth…desirable? Perhaps he was a touch delirious…but he liked the feeling, not just of receiving but of giving it back, of being able to give it back. He wanted it stay, that feeling, that ability, somehow stay forever, and keep him all tight-wrapped and wrapped around, as if knit into a wool blanket, never to be cold again.
Please don't be a dream…please don't be so many flashing bulbs of a broken computer, please, not just so many crossed up wires stimulating the senses, tricking us all with a sense of self…be real…be…real….please…
Suddenly his propriety snapped back on and he pulled away his hand, shrinking back against his chair, as if he had down something terribly wrong.
"I…I'm sorry. I…should not have…have touched you."
Hermione looked utterly puzzled. "What on earth do you mean?"
"I…overstepped myself…I'm sorry…" His eyes darted over to his arm.
"It was a hug, professor! Hugs do involved touching; there's no shame in that…" Now she sniffled a little herself. "I always rather wanted you…to hug me back."
He looked stunned. "Why?"
She shook her head. "I…I've come to care. Don't you know that by now?"
He averted his eyes again. "It's…it's the arm. It's been…hurting again." He looked at her full in the face, and confessed with cutting honesty, "It scares me. I didn't want…didn't want to touch you with it."
She exhaled. "Let me see it, hmm?"
He watched her warily as she rolled up his sleeve, and she gasped at the sight of the brand.
"Professor, what have you done to it?"
It had obviously been recently sliced and scraped, and the healing process was incomplete at best, causing scabs and dried blood to crisscross the dark mark that was still visible for all his efforts.
"I…I tried to see if I might at least…make a bit of art out of it," he chuckled darkly. "The razor I thought might…work for that…"
"What are you trying to do, get an infection?" she huffed. "I'm going to get disinfectant wipes…"
"You needn't bother, it's just…"
"I bloody well am going to bother, and don't you dare tell me not to!" she shot him down, and then stormed off to get what was needed.
When she returned, she cleaned it off with the alcohol and put some sort of ointment on it and bandaged it up. "Now, you let that heal up," she ordered him. "And don't let me catch you playing with sharp things again, understand?"
He kept his eyes focused on his arm, strangely.
She huffed and took the side of her chin in her hand to force him to make eye contact. "Do you understand me?"
He winced a little, but relented with a nod.
"Good." She smiled a little, and reached for something in her pocket. "And these are for you."
"Mrs. Potter, you can't be serious!"
"And why not?"
"I don't want them!"
"So?"
"I don't need them…"
"I beg to differ. You've been squinted more lately, and have a very bad habit of working under dim lighting. So there," she slipped the glasses onto his face, and he jerked back.
"Oh, go away!" he snapped and swatted at her. "Go pester your husband or offspring for a change!"
She sighed. "You're worse than Harry and the baby combined sometimes."
"Thank you." His sense of indignation soon turned to guilt as she started to leave. "Thank you for the cake," he mumbled very lowly.
She smirked a little. "That was the easy part. Now you better eat it and not let it turn into a paperweight."
When she was gone, he reluctantly did as he had been told. Actually, he was quite glad he did. It had been a long time since he'd had anything vaguely resembling birthday cake, and he found himself almost mindfully eating it, noting the texture, the flavor, the carrot and spice and walnuts and cream cheese icing.
And then somehow it caught in his throat a little as a lump welled up there, and he didn't know why. Why should carrot cake make him want to cry? Because somehow, he felt, you couldn't dissect it under a microscope. Oh, you could try, but it couldn't possibly do it justice. You might be able to dissect taste and texture and all these things, but this carrot cake…surely there was something beyond all that about it.
Was heaven made of carrot cake? That sounded very silly, but very nice all the same. Whatever, surely he wasn't going to heaven, even if there was a heaven, he wasn't near nice enough…but if there was, he wanted it to have carrot cake like this. So there, and with that thought on his mind, he found himself drifting off to sleep still in his chair with his new glasses sliding down his nose.
