Chapter Three
"I accept."
Hermione Granger jumped as her door burst open and someone loudly proclaimed those two words. She was wearing her striped pyjamas beneath her old Seventh Year robes, her large-framed glasses, and a pair of satin slippers Ron had bought her after an Auror trip to Asia. In her hand was a gargantuan mug of tea, and she was sprawled on the chair of her desk, where she had been gazing dumbly at un-graded papers. She could guess who it was, and when she looked up, she found that her speculation was correct. Severus Snape.
"What?" she asked, truly not knowing what the person in her door was telling her.
"Did I startle you?" he asked, a hint of pleasure oiling his voice. He shut the door in the face of Clarence, his annoyingly omniscient protector.
"Slightly. What are you accepting, Professor?"
"The proposition of making an alternate form of wand, or whatever you want to call it. I hope you have a few ideas of where to start, being the expert in the wand lore field."
"Oh," she said, surprised. "Well, yes, but… how did you get here?"
"I walked, Miss Granger," he responded dryly. "Something most humans do, even magical humans. If you are referring to my limitations of imprisonment, then I will remind you that neither one of us told Minerva that you were finished, and therefore I am still expected to report to you."
"Right." She managed to recover from his sudden appearance. "Well, I suppose if you're going to be here for another hour, we might as well work on our magical theory a little."
Hermione retreated to her rooms to retrieve the letters, but when she turned to leave the room with the letters loosely in her hand, she screamed and the papers flew into the air. He had frightened her again. He almost laughed at her reaction.
"Will you get out of my bedroom?" she shrieked, regretting the words the moment they left her mouth. It was completely out of turn to speak to a professor like that. But he was a slimy git, just as Ron and Harry always insisted. Regret melted away as he smirked in the direction of the fallen letters. "Do you ever cease to act like a complete prat?" she yelled.
A black eyebrow lifted smoothly. The old face looked a little younger for a moment, and those cold eyes seemed to look far away. He snapped back to reality with a snarl. "That was out of turn, Miss Granger. Besides, you might have… hurt my feelings," he responded cuttingly.
Severus' mind began to race. Behind her eyes he had seen something familiar, and he was terrified by it. She had looked exactly like Lily after he had called her that awful word; that pity, respect, and hatred, all blending inharmoniously yet perfectly in a combination that he both loathed and feared. Of course, Hermione Granger looked nothing like Lily Evans. Although she did have the same nose, in a way, with the slight upward turn and a dusting of light freckles. But no, there was nothing else there. Besides the way her eyes lit up, just like Lily's. And the way she was so brilliant it was frightening. The little curls near her neck, just like Lily's, even a little red from the light of the fire.
He must stop the ridiculous digressions. She was now picking up the letters, her head bent. Was he mistaken, or was that sniffling he heard? He listened closer, looking intently at the back of her head. Yes, it was. Women. He sighed.
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her robes and stood, letters in her hands, eyes wet and nose red.
"Why in the name of Merlin are you sobbing in the floors, immediately after an enraged outburst, Miss Granger?" he asked in the most uncaring voice he could muster.
"Nothing. Just a bad day, I suppose. And when a bete noire like you shows up, I suppose I have a difficult time containing myself. Ron wrote, and he—" she stopped herself, realizing that she had almost divulged highly personal information to Severus Snape.
"Could you please just leave?" she asked softly, feeling that burning sensation behind her eyes and nose again. She refused to cry twice in front of this man.
"I can't leave, Miss Granger," he said after a lingering pause.
"Fine. Just go to my office. Take these," she said, handing him the letters. "I'll… I'll come back up in a few minutes."
Before Snape even left, she was walking toward her cozy four-poster bed. When he shut the door, she glanced about to ensure her solitude, and then pulled the letters from beneath her pillows. Some of them were tied into neat stacks with pristine yellow ribbons and perfect bows, other piles were wrapped in rough twine, and three were loose. Those last three revealed the source of her distress. The ones in yellow ribbon were the sweet letters of love and affection from her eager boyfriend, the twine-tied letters were informative and thoughtful paragraphs written by a fond fiancé, and the three loose parcels were the terse responses of an ex-lover.
How had things escalated so quickly?
He had gotten angry at her so rapidly, as was his wont, but rather than writing an apology to follow a few minutes after the first letter, he had left her isolated, not responding to her tender letters of questions. Finally he had sent two more letters, the first telling her that their relationship was falling apart, the second proclaiming that he wanted the ring back. The insensitivity, the injustice! Ron had never been known for tact, though. She should have expected it when she got involved with him, and since she hadn't been skeptical, she had been hurt.
Wiping away those ashamed and hurt tears, she stood with the letters and threw them into the fire, watching the yellow ribbons instantly curl and shrivel, the twine slowly burn away with a brilliant red glow, and the parchment turn brown and wither. It was satisfying and marked her resolution. Then she turned from the flame and pulled the antique, goblin-made engagement ring from her pale, slim finger, and slipped it into an envelope. After quickly scrawling on his name and address, she poured on the melted wax and pressed the Hogwarts seal onto the flap. A single sigh escaped her lips as she tied the letter to a borrowed owl's leg and watched it fly into the darkening sky.
It took about five minutes to right her appearance, but when she appeared in her office, Severus was gone, as were her letters. He had left a short note telling her that he had gone to his quarters and would return the letters at the next scheduled time. He wrote as if he expected her to tell McGonagall that his continued services were needed.
But she thought about it for a moment, and then realized that she would not tell McGonagall. She pitied the man. He was alone, used, misunderstood, persecuted, emotionally and physically crippled, wandless, imprisoned, and broken-hearted. How could she not pity him? No. She would help him, and then never think about him again.
It suddenly occurred to her that helping him might be illegal. But the law never stated that he could not have a staff or ring, only a wand. So perhaps it was not illegal. At least she would have an argument for the Wizenmagot.
She settled into her bed with a muggle novel and her tea, reheated with a wave of her wand. Crying required recuperation. Grading papers required procrastination. Her evening met both requirements.
- - - -
"Are you going to help me at all, you worthless thing? What sort of paladin does a lump make?" he harshly questioned Clarence.
He should have asked her for the infernal walking stick before he walked out. Walking out had been a stupid idea, anyway. Why in the world was he trying to be considerate of her? He really should turn back and burst in on her, tears and all. But no. He limped on, his mind laden with the heavy guilt of thinking about anyone but Lily.
Lily. She had been on his mind frequently since he came to Hogwarts. Perhaps it was the memories of seeing her in these halls. He could still smell her perfume wafting behind her. She had been his best—no, his only—friend. He missed her so, so much. Closing his eyes, he had visions of her red hair running down her back. Those memories were from Transfiguration, when he had sat directly behind her in fifth year. She had turned and looked at him sometimes, her eyes smiling, even when her mouth was not. Sometimes she would even speak to him, and even if it was only to ask for a page number or the incantation she had missed, he felt blessed to hear the words fall from her lips. No, he would never think of another woman in the same light again. Not ever.
When he entered his rooms, he saw what a state they were in. Dirty robes were strewn across the floor, his bed was rumpled and the sheets hadn't been washed since he came to the school, ashes had been accumulating in the fireplace, and his bathroom was covered in mildew and damp towels.
He almost reached for his wand, and then remembered that he had neither wand nor house elves. Then he smiled at the thought that all that nonsense could change if the arrangement with Hermione worked out.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, his mind filled with a string of images: flesh beneath yellow satin; a thin, pale hand holding a long wand; tiny tendrils of brown hair shot with red in firelight curling around a pale neck. She was filling his mind! The thought of her name alone had filled his mind with faithless memories. Lily would be disgusted with him. Lily would be disgusted ten times over. He was an old man now, tired and crippled, scarred and beaten. He was thinking about a mere girl in an entirely inappropriate way. Even his rooms were disgusting. Lily would be the same age as he, but he imagined her only as being more beautiful, would that she were alive. Her hair would be shorter, probably, and her curves fuller. Maybe a few lines by her eyes that would only show her experience, not her age. Her eyes would be older, but no less bright.
He curled into his dirty, rumpled bed sullenly, missing her once again.
A/N: Very short, but an update is on its way. I'm on a roll!