THIRTEEN: Crookshanks
Hermione's sleep wasn't dreamless that night, but it wasn't the same old deserted nightmares, either.
She caught sight of a flame ahead of her in the forest. Her clothes were worn, her hands dirty, her hair pulling free of the braid she'd used to contain it. She was picking her way through the forest, wand at the ready, the cold seeping in beneath jeans and trainers and layers and layers of sweaters, and she was following the fire.
It moved, allowing her to draw just near enough to make out its source before jumping forward again. Frustrated, she wound in an out of the old, broad trees, trying to follow it. "Wait," she called. "Please—"
It wasn't a flame at all, she realized, but long red hair.
She woke freezing, the comforter thrown aside in her tossing, the cold of the dungeons seeping beneath the sheets. Crookshanks mrowed drowsily from the pile of blanket as she sat upright, pushing her tangled hair back from her face.
The story had touched her, obviously. Not the story itself, so much as the telling of it—Severus's voice recounting his past, baring it to her, an olive branch of cautious trust.
Perhaps Harry had the better image of it; perhaps the memories had conveyed the story better; but his memories had been handed to Harry in a moment of desperation, not in an act of trust. She could see the difference in the way he'd thought about the question she'd posed him before he'd answered it; he had taken a moment to examine his thoughts and feelings, to determine the truthful answer.
She drew her legs up to her chest, rested her chin atop her knees, and let her eyes close again. It had been so long since anyone had touched her that it had been a surprise—to him as well, she supposed—to find his arms around her, the palms of his hands pressed to her back, but…good, too. Her stomach twisted with pleasure. She was sure he'd meant nothing by it—nothing like that, anyway—but it didn't matter. She believed him: that he would not waste time and effort on someone who was not worthwhile. That, for now, was enough. She rose to dress, an absent smile on her lips.
In the Great Hall, she took her seat next to Severus at the High Table and tucked into the large bowl of porridge—stuffed with honey, fruit, and granola—already waiting at her place.
"Good morning," she said quietly, as she usually did, though as usual, she expected no response; he had not yet even touched his first cup of coffee. The shadows under his eyes remained as dark as they had been the night before. She wondered if he had slept. He seemed to be slowly returning to the haggard, vulture-like man he'd been a decade before. She stomach turned—less pleasantly this time.
"You know," she began, and as she'd hoped he would, he turned to her, his black eyes burning; he was not to be tested prior to coffee. She couldn't say the words she needed to aloud, not without the scrutiny of the Headmistress, just down the table, or Flitwick, right at her elbow; so many things were best left unheard. If he understood, though, that she had something to tell him, something to convey, he had methods of reading that information—
He'd made the connection; she felt him sweep into her mind and made no attempt at her usual barriers. She found it hard to formulate the exact words she needed, and while his impatience was distracting, she narrowed her focus enough to draw up two images: the Severus she had been more familiar with this term and the one who sat beside her now. She displayed them for him, side-by-side.
She could feel his distaste for even considering his reflection, but she finally tamed her thoughts and conveyed her message, the reason why she showed him what she saw. I can't allow you to help me if you won't sleep, she said. She wondered if—hoped, feared—he could feel the swell of worry and affection that accompanied the words. I can't allow you to worsen, yourself, because you're rushing to help me. It's going to be a long process. A few sleepless nights on your part will not put us that much further ahead. And worrying that I'm contributing to your decline in health will not help me, either.
He held her gaze a second longer before giving a single sharp nod of assent. As you wish, he demurred.
She returned to her porridge, he to his coffee and toast. A quick glance down the table ascertained that none of the professors had noticed anything amiss, and what would there have been to see? An over-long glance, perhaps, but it could have been anything, including a glaring match, which anyone would agree that Severus and Hermione were wont to do, especially over breakfast.
When she finished her meal, she returned to her quarters to gather her cloak for the trek to Hogsmeade. She checked on Crookshanks before she made to leave. The cat had been unusually quiet this last week, sleeping more often than usual, and it was beginning to worry her. He was still dozing near the burned-down embers of her fireplace. She nudged him with her foot.
"Crooks," she said, and one sleepy eye batted open. "We're going to Hogsmeade. I'll be back later. There's food, if you'd like some."
The cat closed his eye again with a yawn and returned to sleep.
"All right, then," she muttered, pulling her mittens on. "Suit yourself, you great lazy beast."
She found Severus again in the courtyard, a long list of names and a self-inking quill in his hands, checking off every student who passed him by. She joined his side, noting the uncomfortable fear on the face of every student who approached. At nine precisely, he rolled up the parchment, glanced at her in what she imagined to be an exasperated, commiserating way, and gestured for the group to get going. They brought up the rear; his height allowed him to see well in front of him, watching closely for signs of anyone sneaking off during the walk to Hogsmeade.
They strolled side-by-side in silence, his long legs easily taking one stride for every two of hers. Hermione shrugged deeper into her cloak; the biting winter wind had arrived, flapping around her ankles and finding every gap in her clothing. She sneaked a sideways glance at Severus to see how he faired.
It was something to see an absence of irritation or annoyance on his features. He certainly wasn't expressing pleasure of any sort, but the lines around his mouth had relaxed; despite his newly haggard appearance, he still appeared at ease, as if nothing was bothering him at this precise moment. Hiding her smile, she bid him goodbye at the door to a clothing shop, which he answered with a cordial nod before going on his way.
She needed new dress robes; most of hers were too old, no longer fit, or too…extravagant. The Victory Day ball gowns, in particular, which she doubted she'd ever wear again in her life.
It wasn't long before the shopkeeper wandered over and started to suggest dress robes that might suit her. "Those would be lovely with your eyes, dear," she mentioned, for a third time as she gestured to yet another rack.
Hermione suppressed the urge to snort. The hideously pink robes were too bright for her taste, and hardly covered a thing. No, if she was going to be attending this absurd ball that Minerva insisted upon, then she would wear something that suited her, and vivid shades of appalling colours had never suited her. The thing looked disturbingly similar to the robes Pansy Parkinson had worn to the Yule Ball more than a decade ago.
Firmly putting Pansy Parkinson out of her mind, she asked the shopkeeper, "Do you have anything in green?" The plump woman turned toward a rack of neon. "Not bright green," she corrected herself hastily. "Something darker, more subdued, closer to a black..."
The shopkeeper pursed her lips, clearly not impressed with her choice of colour, but went to look for something suitable. Hermione cast a disinterested eye over the nearest racks as well. She needed something…subtle, but mature. Godric, she'd always been pants at shopping—
"Try this, then, Miss."
The shopkeeper handed it over with distaste, but Hermione knew immediately that she had found the appropriate match. It was a dark, dull green, subtle hints of silver in the vine-like embroidery; it pulled in under the bust and then draped out in gauzy layers. It would go far better with her complexion than any bright pink monstrosity ever would.
"Yes, I rather like this," she said happily, and, as another item caught her eye, added, "and I'll take that mask, too—the black, with silver trimming."
"Step right up, then, we'll get it fitted."
They moved into the fitting room, where Hermione stripped out of her clothing and slid into the dress, already admiring it in the mirror. The material flowed enough that her slight curves were noticeable, but it covered how thin she had become admirably well, too. If she didn't enjoy the ball, she would at least feel lovely sitting in the corner.
Severus spent a large portion of the day in a local book shop, conversing at some length with the wizard who ran the place, and then some time browsing the shelves. It had been quite a while since he had visited this particular shop—summer, in fact. Usually, he would have made the journey to Hogsmeade himself by now, but in the past month, he realized that he had been otherwise occupied. It had only been a matter of weeks, but Hermione had already altered his usual routines.
Back on High Street, he glanced around and was unsurprised to find her waving at him, shopping bag dangling from her wrist. "Want to get a butterbeer before we head back?" she asked, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
Case in point, he thought, not without humour. He followed her to the Three Broomsticks—packed with students and villagers alike, the talk in the room gradually swelling, and none of them spared a glance for the two of them.
It was an appreciated change. For several years after the war, he hadn't been able to go anywhere without the talk stopping and the stares starting, whispers behind hands, some bold enough to approach him, others stupid enough to follow him around.
"Just as cozy as I remember it," Hermione said, smiling fondly. "Shall we get a seat at the bar?"
He followed her right to the end of the bar, where the only two free stools remained, and Madam Rosmerta slid over to them almost immediately. "Hermione Granger," she said, a hand on her hip, "I almost didn't recognize you without that bushy hair of yours."
Hermione turned a deeper shade of red. "I promise, if I took it out of this plait, it would be just as bushy as you remember."
Rosmerta laughed. "Better keep it under wraps, then. Professor Snape," she greeted. She didn't remark on the strange pair they made. "What can I get you, dears?"
"A butterbeer, please," Hermione said, handing over her coin.
"For me, as well."
If Hermione was surprised by this, she didn't show it. Rosmerta poured out their drinks and moved away down the bar, stopping and talking with each customer in turn. Hermione swivelled around on her stool and leaned back against the bar, peering out over the raucous crowd. With only the back of her head visible in the barroom mirror, Severus could see the red and gold thread she'd tied through her thick braid.
They sat in companionable silence until she nudged his arm. "Isn't Darrow a Slytherin?" she said, her eyes fixed at some point in the crowd.
Severus glanced over his shoulder. "Yes. Why?"
"Because she's holding hands Lennox, in broad daylight, and I'm sure he's in Gryffindor."
He raised his mug to his mouth. "The sun rises, the sun sets, and teenage hormones will find a way to cross even House lines."
She cast him a severe sideways look. "It's not that—goodness, there was fraternization even in my time, I was always in awe of their nerve—it's Kilduff's gang, look, they've spotted them."
Indeed, the group of Slytherins was making its way slowly across the bar, hampered by the people and bodies in their path, and Darrow and Lennox chatted on over their drinks, unaware of the trouble.
Hermione half-rose from her stool, but Severus caught her arm and forced her down. "Wait. There isn't trouble yet."
"There's about to be," she muttered, but she settled in to watch anyway, her eyes sharp over her mug.
Kilduff's gang hadn't gotten within a dozen feet of Darrow and Lennox when they were intercepted by another group—Gryffindors and Slytherins among them, all friends with the couple. He couldn't hear the exchanged words above the din of the crowd, but one of Darrow's friends adamantly pointed at the door, and with a last surly look over her head, Kilduff led his little group out.
"They're outnumbered," he said. "Members of the other Houses have reached out to Slytherin, and some have rebuffed them, but others…" He shrugged.
She was smiling, her eyes back on the couple. "Sometimes it feels as if nothing's changed, you know. That was what was so hard about working at the Ministry. We'd push and push for months and year to get some stupid tiny bit of legislation through, to repeal something awful and outdated, and we'd get it done, but with loads of compromise and bollocks. It really took the fire right out of me, but…it's nice to see that something's changed, after all. For the better."
"The Ministry always does move more slowly than people," he agreed, "especially children. They are more malleable than governments." He paused. "You spent time in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, correct?"
"Trying to free the elves." She raised her glass in a mock toast. "Didn't get as far as I'd have liked."
She explained, at length, that is was simply no use to free house-elves; for the most part, they simply didn't want to be freed, despite the provisions she'd fought for to grant them wages. Frustrated by this impasse, she'd built laws that at least protected the health and well-being of house-elves, who could now petition for a transfer to a new family if theirs mistreated them. There was, too, a small but growing group that would find work for elves who chose to be freed. In the wake of her departure, the department was researching the magic that bound a house-elf to their master, attempting to alter the ancient magic to abolish corporeal punishment for disobedience.
The conversation carried them back to the castle. She'd said that her time there had taken the fire out of her, but on the contrary, he could see that she still felt very strongly about the cause, however cumbersome it had been to push forward.
Engaging as the topic was, his mind wandered back to that brief moment at breakfast that morning. He had never been a guest in anyone's thoughts before. Such a thing had never occurred to him. She had made clever use of his skill, all with a few words and an open, unguarded look, one that simply invited him into the sacred space that was her mind.
He was not the most functional human being, in terms of emotion, but he understood with perfect clarity the emotions of others. It had been necessary for so long for him to read and manipulate others, and so he'd easily interpreted the emotion in Hermione's mind when he'd been present there. She had not been lying to Longbottom; she truly did quite like him. He was half-horrified, half-pleased at the idea. It was foolish of her to grow fond of someone like him, for the only thing he could promise her with certainty was disappointment.
But in her glance, in her fleeting smile, in the diligent debate over dinner, he saw the strength of her friendship, fast and unwavering, and did not want to turn away.
It was still on his mind shortlyas he returned to his quarters and poured himself a drink. He was brooding over it before his fire when the frantic knock sounded on his door.
He was on his feet immediately, wand drawn, his glass broken on the floor. It was an old instinct, but he was glad that it was still sharp; there had been a time when a knock like that could only have boded ill.
"Severus!" her voice cried, and he swept immediately toward his office.
When he wrenched open the door, wand at the ready, there was nothing terrible to greet him; there was only Hermione, a limp cat in her arms, her face a mask of anguish.
Understanding instantly, he held out his arms. "Summon Hagrid and Minerva. I'll run some preliminary examinations. How long...?"
"He's been lethargic all week," she answered in a trembling voice, gently placing Crookshanks in Severus's arms. "I thought it might just be the weather, but when I went back to my quarters, he...he's not...?"
"Not yet," he answered, though he suspected that there would be little, if anything, that he could do. "Summon Hagrid and the Headmistress, and then join me in the sitting room. Leave the wards down."
The glow of her Patronus burst to life against the darkness of the hallway connecting his office and quarters, and then her footsteps hurried after him as he gently laid the cat on a clear table. The yellow eyes were open; the beast whined once, very quietly, his paws outstretched. Hermione hung back as Severus raised a wand over the cat and began performing diagnostic spells, searching for the problem. While he worked, he spoke.
"Hagrid is, more than likely, much more familiar with this hybrid than I," he said, hoping that the explanation would soothe her. "Minerva will be able to communicate with him; she has mentioned that they've done so in the past."
"Yes," Hermione answered, her voice tiny as she stared at her cat.
Minerva arrived first, slightly out of breath. "Goodness," she said, taking in the scene. "My dear..." She turned immediately to Hermione. "I'm so very sorry..."
"Help him," Hermione woman managed, and for a moment, she looked the part of the terrified, desperate girl who had woken him to his second life, eyes wild with horror.
She had every right to be frightened. The diagnostic spells confirmed what he had expected from the outset; her familiar was dying.
"You've been able to communicate with the cat in the past," Severus said, straightening up from his examination. Minerva seemed to understand the look on his face, and her features fell.
"Yes," she said sadly. "Yes, I shall see what he can tell me."
Hagrid lumbered into the room just as soon as Minerva had transformed and leapt up to the table, meowing. "'Ermione," the great man said, looking quite crestfallen, "I came jus' as soon..."
"How long do cats usually live?" she interrupted.
He hesitated, his eyes on Crookshanks and the tabby cat. "I'd say...twelve ta fourteen years, tha's about righ'. Migh' be a little longer for wizard companions, the magic, ya know…"
"And Kneazles?"
"'Bout twice as long."
Hermione turned back to her cat, lips quivering, her hand at her throat. "I don't know how old he is," she said quietly. "I've never known. The woman at the shop said that he'd been there quite a long time, and he wasn't a kitten when he came to them, either...and that was twelve years ago..."
Hagrid reached out to pat Hermione gently on the shoulder as Minerva returned to her human form. "Twenty-three," she said gently. "A long and healthy life, but..." She hesitated, glancing at Severus.
"All his organs are in the process of shutting down," he said. Hermione's eyes gleamed, but no tears fell. "I can do nothing. It is a natural death; he is tired. Unless, Hagrid...?"
Hagrid shook his head. "Yer right. Nothin' we can do."
"I can ease his passing," Severus continued, his eyes still on Hermione's. "It will be quick and painless."
She hesitated only a second before nodding. Minerva was scribbling on a spare piece of parchment, and as she made to leave the room, she handed it to Hermione. "He wanted you to know," she said. "I'm so sorry, my dear, but Crookshanks was very happy with you."
She nodded, her face bloodless, as Minerva squeezed her shoulder and left, followed by Hagrid, who had to duck to fit in the passage between sitting room and office.
"Dreamless Sleep will do it," he said, gently as he could. She moved closer, the parchment clenched in her hand. Her knuckles were white. "It is powerful enough to end the process."
She nodded again, and he reached for the vial. When he uncorked it, though, she spoke, her voice small.
"I'll do it."
He handed the vial to her; her hands didn't shake.
"Here, Crooks," she said softly, leaning toward her cat. Severus took a step back, watching as she smoothed the fur back on his head. "You've been such a lovely cat. You've been the best, most loyal friend I've ever had. I'll miss you so much, darling."
The cat meowed softly, and she tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth. "Sleep now," she said. "You've earned it."
It only took a moment, as Severus had promised. The cat went limp, the eyes closed as if in sleep, and then it was they two in a room with a body. She made no sound at all; her shoulders were stiff, her breath sharp in her throat, but she did not cry. He approached, comfort tentatively offered, and she let herself be held, muscles relaxing incrementally with his arms around her. Over her head, he glimpsed the parchment, abandoned on the table beside her dead familiar with a handful of words visible.
Trust the scarecrow man.