Becoming
Chapter Eight
by snarkypants
Fabian's hands were jammed deep in his pockets. He leaned against a wall in Hermione's quarters, scowling. Conversely, Blithe sobbed on her mother's shoulder with childlike abandon.
"That's where you went yesterday, then? The hospital?" Fabian asked.
Hermione nodded.
"Why didn't you bring us along?" he asked.
"I didn't want to pull you from class; we'll go see him this weekend."
Fabian made an angry noise in his throat, but that was all.
"H-how do the Muggle Healers know?" Blithe asked, raising her head. "If he went to a Wizard Healer…"
"A Healer friend of mine came from St Mungo's; she said there was nothing she could do."
"Magic should be able to fix it, though." Blithe looked so comically incredulous that Hermione was strangely tempted to laugh.
"It could have, if he'd gone for an examination when he first started feeling poorly. But by the time he went to the doctor it was too late."
"Why would he wait like that? Granddad's not stupid," Fabian snarled.
"No, he's not." Hermione swallowed. "He was busy, and I think he was worried about us. He was afraid something was very wrong, and he wanted to put it off for as long as possible."
Blithe erupted with fresh sobs.
"That's brilliant," Fabian said acidly. "So now he's going to die too, just like Dad. That's bloody brilliant. Way to go."
"S-shut up, Fabian! Just shut up," Blithe yelled, her voice muffled by Hermione's robes.
"Both of you shut up," Hermione said, without heat. Surprisingly, they did. "I'm very tired and sad, and I don't want to listen to your bickering."
Fabian muttered, "Sorry, Mum," and Blithe hugged her tightly around the neck.
"When did you get in last night?" Fabian asked.
"Half two." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "It was a long day."
"Oh. Do you, uh, want anything? Like tea, or… or something?" Fabian asked. His voice was low and bordering on resentful; this was his usual tone when being helpful, as if afraid someone would call him a 'mama's boy'.
"No, thank you, sweetheart," Hermione said. "All I want now is a short nap before dinner."
"There's treacle tart for pudding tonight," Blithe said, forcing eagerness and sniffling through the remnants of her tears.
Hermione kissed her daughter's forehead and ruffled her hair, solely for the pleasure of watching Blithe smooth it again.
"We'll leave you alone then," Fabian said. He enfolded his mother in his embrace.
Tears prickled in her eyes; he'd grown so tall lately, and looked more and more like a young man than her little boy. The bones in his wrists had gone all lumpy and mannish, and he had a dusting of dark hair on his upper lip. His build was Ron all over again, but the teenaged Ron would have killed for facial hair that came in brown instead of ginger-gold.
His awkward stringiness, hunched posture and dark, bushy hair brought to mind the mop-topped vultures in the animated version of The Jungle Book.
"I'm sorry, Mum," he said gruffly, and kissed her cheek.
"So am I," she said, looking at her children. "You've had a lot thrown at you this year. You've both done so much growing up." She took Blithe's hand and drew her into their circle.
"It's not like we've been fighting dark lords, or anything," Blithe said sourly.
"Thank God," Hermione said.
"Mum, I'd fight scores of Death Eaters if it meant Dad and Granddad were alive and healthy," Blithe said. Fabian nodded emphatically.
"I know," Hermione said. "And I'm really glad that you don't have to." She gave them an extra-tight squeeze and sent them on their way.
She was tired, so tired that her muscles and bones ached when she lay down. So tired that her legs twitched as she tried to relax.
After forty-five minutes of fruitless attempts at sleep, she sat up abruptly and threw her pillow across the room. The dinner hour was closing in, and she wasn't going to get any rest before the meal.
She didn't even know whether she could do this between rooms at Hogwarts, but…
For the propriety's sake, the quarters for the male staff were generally located on different floors or in different wings altogether from those for the female staff. Hermione hadn't the faintest idea where Severus' rooms were located, and she wasn't about to go up and down the corridors knocking on random doors.
She knelt in front of her fireplace grate and tossed in a handful of Floo powder. "Severus Snape!" she said, sticking her head into the flames.
After an initial moment or two of getting her bearings, she was able to focus on a settee in front of the fire; except for the green upholstery, it was identical to the red one in her quarters. "Professor Snape?" she asked.
No answer.
"Professor?" She tried to peer around the heavy stone of the fireplace surround. There was neither sight nor sound of him. She sighed, and shifted her body so that she might pull herself out of the Floo.
Just as she began to rock back on her heels, he emerged from his en suite lavatory, wrapped in a shabby blue brocade dressing gown. As he walked, drops of water rained from his wet hair.
She didn't mean to do it. But she couldn't stop herself looking at his legs as the fabric billowed with his steps. Does he own anything that doesn't billow? she wondered.
She should pop her head back out of the Floo and pretend she had never tried to find him. He would hear the noise, however, and he must know of some charm that would let him trace the last Floo caller…
He was rather careless with his state of undress in his rooms; he had tied his dressing gown negligently, and it was in danger of flying open in front—oh!
She squeezed her eyes shut out of reflex, even as she chided herself for not taking the eyeful. "Pah-professor?" she asked in a shaky voice.
She heard him turn toward the fireplace and curse under his breath. Just as quickly, she heard him turn away. She opened her eyes. He was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?
She was leaning deeply into her fire, craning her neck to see around his fireplace, when strong hands reached in and grabbed her by the front of her robes. He unceremoniously dragged her through the Floo, and dumped her on the hearth.
"A visitor? What a pleasant surprise," he said conversationally, despite his rapid breathing.
She rolled to her knees. "I'm so sorry," she said, her eyes squeezed shut again.
"Oh, good God, woman, get up," he said; predictably, there was an edge to his voice she hadn't heard in weeks.
"I wanted to talk to you, to say thank you, but I didn't know where your rooms were, and I thought you could direct me here, but I didn't see you, and I was just getting ready to go when you came out of the lavatory and—"
"Stop!" he cried. "Just stop; you're giving me a migraine."
"I'm so sorry; I'll leave now." She rose to her feet and reached for a handful of Floo powder.
"That won't work," he said.
"I'm so sorry," she said again. "I'll check with Poppy to see if there's anything I can bring you for it."
"Not the migraine, the Floo. It won't take you back to your rooms."
"What do you mean?"
"Men can't Floo into women's rooms."
"But I Floo'ed in here."
He sighed, and spoke with elaborate patience. "Women can Floo into men's rooms, but not the other way around."
She goggled at him. "Why ever not?"
"Because women don't tend to spy on men and tumble into their quarters unannounced."
"Well. That's… stupid," she said.
"Not to mention demonstrably untrue," he said, indicating her sooty robes.
"I wasn't spying."
"Maybe not, but you took one hell of a tumble."
"I'm so sorry."
"So you've said. Repeatedly," he said. "Could I offer you something? Coffee? Tea?" He pointed at his chest. "Me?"
She squeezed her eyes shut again. "I wanted to talk to you; I thought you could tell me how to get to your rooms. I didn't mean anything else."
"Well, you're here now. What's more, you're stuck here."
She opened her eyes and looked at him. "The door still works, doesn't it?"
"Oh, yes. But for the fact that there's a committee of the school governors in the corridor, debating which structural repairs wizard will get the contract to work at charming this pile of rocks back into shape. Rising damp, you know; there's a leak somewhere." He smiled evilly. "So unless you want to take the 'walk of shame' in front of that bunch of idiots, you're stuck here with me for the nonce; may as well make the best of it, eh? Might have to push on through 'til dawn."
"Until dawn?" she said, her voice squeaking.
"You've never worked with a committee before, have you?" he asked, amusing himself hugely. "So, Mrs Weasley, out with it. Or do I have to Legilimens it out of you?"
"That's not a verb," she said loftily. He focused his gaze on her, and she gasped, looking away. "All right! It's just that… I just… I miss… having a close companion. I won't have any more children and I don't need a husband for financial security or social position. My children don't need a stepfather; they have an embarrassment of uncles for male influence if they need it." She swallowed, grimacing as if her throat was dry. "I like you and I'm attracted to you. I don't want anything from you but—" she began, and stopped, scowling.
"Companionship," he supplied. He had an odd look on his face that she didn't know how to interpret. "What do you mean by all of this?" he asked, speaking more slowly than usual.
"I, er… I wanted you to know what I… what my intentions are." She ducked her head, embarrassed.
"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" He wasn't smiling.
"I wanted to put it out in the open, so you wouldn't think I was trying to trick you into anything. I thought you might like to know."
"I don't put things out in the open, Hermione. If you expect quid pro quo, think again." He paused, cupping her chin in his palm. "You must have led poor Weasley a merry dance, my dear, managing his entire existence while he struggled just to keep up with you."
She recoiled, stung, but he had anticipated this, keeping her in place with an arm around her waist.
"If you want my—" he paused to leer at her; "—companionship, it comes with a price."
She restrained the urge to roll her eyes at him, but only just. "Very well, I'll bite. What sort of a—"
He captured her mouth with his own, kissing her ferociously, even as he secured her wrists behind her back with one strong hand.
He broke the kiss, trailing his wet mouth sloppily across her cheek to murmur in her ear; she shuddered with distaste. "This what you wanted? A bit of rough with the Death Eater, with Dumbledore's murderer?" She could feel him raising her robes behind her back; cold air swirled around her legs, and his warm hand gripped her bum.
She bucked against him, trying to free her hands and push him away. "Get—"
"You wouldn't be the first, Mrs Weasley, not by a long chalk."
She raised her foot and ground her boot-heel into his instep; he yelped, releasing her hands and allowing her to regain her balance. She drove her shoulder into his chest, knocking him to the ground; he fell with a grunt.
"Did I hurt you?" she asked.
"No."
She kirtled up her skirts, exposing her ankles, and kicked him in the arse. "How about now?"
He hissed in pain, and scooted backwards on his rear end. "Pax, woman."
"Pax, my aunt Fanny. What in the hell was all that about?"
He rose to his feet more slowly than he might have when she was a schoolgirl, but he was just as infuriatingly poised as she'd ever seen him. "You will find that I am not easily managed, Hermione. This will happen in my time, or not at all. If you try to force my hand, I will repay in the same coin."
"But I wasn't—" she began.
"Perhaps I'm showing my age, but it's the man's place to initiate change in a relationship."
"Oh, that's medieval!"
"I'd imagine it goes further back than that."
"Could you possibly talk to me, rather than turning everything into an object lesson?" She raked her hair from her face with an impatient gesture. "Look, it's time for dinner, and I'm hungry. If anything's going to happen 'in your time,' just… send me an owl or something." She turned toward the door.
"Hermione."
She didn't turn to look at him. "What?"
"I'm not… pleasant."
That made her turn around, an incredulous look on her face. "I came to that conclusion years ago. What of it?"
"I have moods."
"Really?" She laughed shortly. "Severus, I've seen you, warts and all. I like you anyway, although I'm hard pressed to tell you exactly why at the moment."
"Don't try to patch me up," he said sternly.
"No problem."
"I mean it."
"So do I. I'm sorry, Severus, I don't look at you and see a rough diamond in need of just a bit of polish. You're a prickly damned bastard, and instead of liking you I ought to be utterly terrified."
"Oh, bollocks. You were never afraid of me when you were a girl; you thought nothing at all of raiding my potions stores, or of setting my robes on fire. Or of hexing me unconscious, for that matter."
Her mouth twisted in a mocking smile, and she walked languorously to him until she was so close she could feel the stir of his breath in her hair; she looked up through her eyelashes. "Oh, Severus, if you think that's the kind of fear I'm talking about, then perhaps we should do this in your time, after all," she said in a throaty undertone.
She pressed a kiss to his mouth, a quick, sweet blotting of her lips against his, and left the room without a backwards glance.
Blithe sat in her favourite spot in the Gryffindor common room; she had tucked herself into the corner of an overstuffed sofa, watching the fire rather forlornly. Ivy was working on a 'study project' in the library with her new boyfriend, Brian Cheswick; Blithe suspected that they were studying how long they could sit with their tongues in each others' mouths before dehydration set in.
Ever since she had hexed Serena Nguyen, thereby securing Brian's attention for Ivy, she hadn't been able to speak two words to her best friend. She saw Ivy at meals and just before bed, but she was otherwise alone in their room and between classes.
"Blithe," a male voice said behind her.
Expecting it to be one of her cousins, she asked, "Oh, what?" in a weary voice.
"Is this a bad time?" the boy asked.
Neither Jim-James nor Wulfric had ever asked whether it was a bad time to bother her. She whipped her head around, and saw Alex Fraser standing beside the sofa.
Deep breath. "N-no. Not at all," she said, pasting a vivacious smile to her face. She had practised this particular smile in the mirror a million times before, and, as her mother always said, practice made perfect.
"Can I—?" he asked, pointing at the unoccupied sofa cushion next to her.
"Oh, yes, of course. Please."
He flopped next to her. He didn't say anything, but merely chewed on his lower lip as he gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
"So," Blithe said brightly. So what? What do I say now?
"Yeah," Alex said, nodding. That had to be the most fascinating fire in the history of Hogwarts.
"You, um…" Blithe began, but her voice trailed off.
"Are you, uh, I mean, you're not going to Hogsmeade Saturday, right? That's what I heard."
"No," Blithe said.
"I had thought maybe we could, you know, hang out."
Her face fell. "No, I'm not allowed to go for the rest of the term. Sorry," she said with a pained smile.
"No, I meant, I was staying here during the trip."
Confused, Blithe wrinkled her nose. "Why?"
Finally, Alex looked up from the fire. He glanced at her, visibly jumping when their gazes met, before looking back into the burning coals. "I was thinking maybe we could hang out." His voice rose, as if he was asking a question, at the end of the sentence.
Understanding dawned, and Blithe gave him a smile she had never practised before. "Oh! That's brilliant! That's just… ohhhhhh. Oh, no, Alex, I'm sorry, I can't."
He flushed bright red and scowled at his knees. "Fine. Whatever." He pushed himself up from the sofa.
"No, Alex… it's my granddad. My mum's taking us to see him on Saturday."
"Oh." His expression brightened marginally. "Can't you get out of it?"
It was Friday afternoon; her last class for the day had left, and Hermione busied herself, not unpleasantly, with tidying the classroom.
The room was still rather austere in terms of décor; she was still struggling with the concept of making the classroom both cosy and businesslike while avoiding obviously Trelawney-esque elements. Which meant that Oriental rugs were right out, even though she had several that would have suited. Aside from a few portraits of 'Great Arithmancers Through the Ages' on the walls, and a large demonstration model of an abacus on a table, there was little ornament, and even less of Hermione's personality, in the room.
She was briskly erasing work from the chalkboard when a shadow crossed her arm.
She jumped and spun around; she hadn't heard anyone enter the room.
Severus Snape was inspecting the portraits. "I like what you've done with the place," he said.
Hermione chortled, holding up her hands in surrender. "I know, I know. I need a little more time; I just can't decide how to make the room more comfortable."
His brow wrinkled. "I meant that I like what you've done with the place. Professor Vector had this classroom filled with rubbish; she let it go quite out of control during her last few years here."
"Do tell," Hermione said dryly. "I cleaned it all out."
Severus shook his head. "She took most of the rubbish with her when she retired," he said. "She left you just a small portion of it. No, I like this. Clean and restful." He indicated one of the portraits with a jerk of his chin. "I also like the portraits. Did you know that this fellow here, this Marcus Princen, was an ancestor of mine?"
"Oh, that one; he came with the room. I think he's spent the last fifty years or so at the bottom of a trunk. He doesn't like me, much," Hermione said. "He speaks Dutch, so I don't understand what he's saying, but he's very passionate about it.
The portrait in question peered down his substantial nose; he wore a tall, arched-brim hat, a Van Dyke beard and a richly laced ruff around his neck. As if on cue, he pointed repeatedly at Hermione while speaking rapidly to Severus, a thunderous expression on his face.
Severus and Hermione just looked at him blankly, and the portrait finally gave up with a long-suffering sigh. Well aware that he had a captive audience, however, he took this as the opportunity to draw a voluptuous female form in the air with his hands. Once the shape was complete, he kissed his fingertips.
"I would guess that Master Princen despises either your Muggle heritage or the fact that a female is teaching Arithmancy, but he approves overall of your feminine attributes."
"Generous of him," Hermione said with a sniff. "You wouldn't care to take old Great-Uncle Marcus to live in your quarters, would you?"
"I think he suits this space quite well," Severus said, an ironic smile twisting the left side of his mouth. Hermione sniffed again.
Further along the wall was an un-charmed photograph portrait of an elderly man in white linen robes, wearing a voluminous white turban. His face was roughly the colour and texture of ancient boot leather; with wrinkles upon wrinkles wreathing his wizened face, he might have been a grotesque but for the gentleness of his expression and the piercing intelligence of his black eyes.
"Who is he?" Severus asked, not taking his eyes from the portrait. "He reminds me…"
"Of Dumbledore?" Hermione said. She met his gaze and smiled shyly at him. "I thought the same thing the moment I met him. He's Professor bin Daoud, my teacher in Egypt."
"He doesn't resemble Albus, not in the particulars, but the look in his eyes is..." He cleared his throat. "It's extraordinary."
He jumped when Hermione slipped her hand into his. He looked at her with haunted eyes, and she put her arms around him, stroking his back and his hair. He held her tightly against him for several minutes.
Even when he released her, he kept his hand on her shoulder. He cleared his throat again. "I think I'd like to meet your professor someday. Does he ever travel?"
"I'm afraid not," Hermione said. "He's far too frail now. And in any case, he wouldn't come to the UK because of the weather and the ban on flying carpets."
He nodded. "Are you almost finished here?"
"Nearly. Why do you ask?"
"I owe you a meal."
"Yes, you do. What did you have in mind?"
"Indian, I thought."
"That would be lovely, but it would have to be takeaway; I'm taking the twins to see my parents tomorrow, and I can't spend all night walking back from Hogsmeade, pleasant though our walk was."
His expression was rather smug as he shook his head. "Dinner will be served in my rooms in two hours. Assuming you know how to find them?"
Severus mopped up the savoury curry sauce with a bit of Naan. "I was curious; you said that you don't see a diamond in the rough when you look at me. Which begs the question, what, ah, what on earth do you see?"
"Ohhh, fishing, are we?" She smiled impishly, wrinkling her nose. "Are you sure you really want to know?" He nodded. "You strike me as being rather like a bezoar, actually. Dark and abrasive, hard to take—"
That startled a chuckle out of him.
"—good to have in a tight spot…"
He barked a laugh at that, and she looked quizzically at him for a second before her unintentional double entendre sank in. She blushed furiously and her lips twitched. "I didn't mean it like that!" She was trying valiantly not to laugh, and forced a scowl at him. "You horrid, horrid man," she said.
"I'm just pleased that you didn't say 'intimately acquainted with goats.'"
"Why? Have you got something to hide?"
"Not about goats, I don't," he said, and polished off his bottle of lager with a gulp.
They had long since adjourned to the settee in front of his fireplace. She sat sideways, reclining against the rolled arm of the seat. "Do you like the way I look?" she asked, her brow furrowed.
He leaned back against the arm on his side of the settee, matching her posture. "Fishing, are we? Isn't it obvious?"
"It's not obvious, not to me."
He blinked. "Well. You're… attractive."
"Oh." She looked a bit crestfallen.
"What?" he asked irritably.
"You don't sound particularly enthused," she said.
"What do you want? Grand declarations? Flowery speeches?" He squinted in confusion. "We wouldn't be having this discussion if I didn't like your looks."
"You haven't always liked my looks," she said in a neutral voice.
"I haven't always known you," he said, rather blankly.
"You said that I was unattractive back when I was in school."
"Did I? I find that hard to believe," he said. "I'm rather more concerned with what students know, or, more frequently, what they don't know."
"The Densaugeo hex? You don't remember that?"
"What about it?"
"Draco Malfoy hit me with that hex, and even as my teeth were growing past my knees you said that you 'saw no difference.'"
"You're worried about that?" he asked, and began to laugh.
Her eyes filled up with tears, and she pushed herself up from the settee. "I know it's been more than twenty years, but it was close enough to the truth that it hurt. It still does."
He looked up at her with a quizzical expression. "You're really upset about this."
"Yes!" she shrieked.
"You're upset that I didn't find you sexually attractive when you were thirteen? Of all people, I'd think you would consider that a point in my favour."
"I was fifteen. And it wasn't that you didn't find me attractive, it was that you humiliated me in front of the entire year."
He covered his mouth with a cupped hand, and sighed heavily; he rose to his feet, following her around to the back of the settee. "Hermione," he said, rubbing his forehead. "That hex gets thrown at least once a year. The victim always panics." He shrugged. "You know me well enough to know that I'm not going to let them sit and whinge over a harmless, completely reversible hex."
"But why did you say what you did? I had a dreadful overbite, and you—"
"I said it because it amused me," he growled. "I didn't single you out; I say it every year, to any student who takes that hex."
"What?" she asked, surprised.
"Back in my school days, Professor Lydon said it; I'm merely carrying on a school tradition." She looked darkly at him, and he held up his hands, as if defending himself. "I never said I didn't enjoy the tradition. After teaching for 30 years it's one of those little things that makes the job worthwhile."
"How on Earth would I know that it's a 'tradition?' It's not in Hogwarts - A History!"
He inspected the backs of his hands. "If a student is bothered about it, I imagine he asks his parents or his siblings."
She tapped her toe irritably. "I'm Muggle-born, Severus. I'm an only child."
"Do you really want me to treat my Muggle-born students differently from the rest of them? Answer carefully, now."
She closed her mouth with an audible pop and scowled ferociously at him. "How could you just assume I'd know it was a joke?" she asked after a moment or two.
"I assumed nothing; it was never meant personally." He raised her chin with the tip of his finger. "Hermione. You are a lovely woman. Why would you need me to tell you that?"
She blinked and looked away as her eyes filled with tears again.
"Give me your hand and I'll give you undeniable proof of my interest," he murmured in her ear, and she giggled a little.
And gave him her hand.
A/N: To those who said that my version of working-class Snape was original, you were right.
It just didn't originate with me.
My Severus Snape is built largely on Azazello's foundation, whether she would be able to recognize him or not. Her vision of the character, both pre- and post-HBP, has always resonated with me, and colours my interpretation of the character in canon (to say nothing of the fact that I now picture a bewigged Mark Strong instead of Alan Rickman when writing him—o, the sacrilege! Of course, you may envision whomever you wish.).
Not that she needs me to rec her work, but you can find her Snape stories archived just about everywhere.
Thanks, June, for the inspiration and for the writing.
I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to get back on track with this. I hope you'll think it's been worth the wait. If I'd thrown in the towel and asked my beta, selened, for advice weeks ago, the wait might have been avoided. She asked just the right questions to get me going again. So, hooray for Selene!
And thank you guys for reading and reviewing!