"Thank the Fae" by gingerbred Chapter 06
Yule be here for Christmas... Part 6
Severus and Hermione are finally out of the woods, and with the castle in sight, they enter the home stretch. Surprisingly, Severus determines that conversation is not his forte. This should shock no one, anywhere, ever. Fortunately, Hermione is up to the challenge, and we get a bit of an update on miscellaneous Weasleys and Harry.
Severus' point of view. All parenthetical thoughts are his.
Originally Published: 2017-01-10 on AO3
Chapter: 6 / 13 of ?
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
WARNING:
Fairly minor ginger and Potter bashing shall occur. Viewpoints expressed by characters do not necessarily have to correspond to the realities of their world and this story. They are trying to be reasonable facsimiles of humans, so sometimes they are biased, sometimes they are mistaken, and once in a while they even lie, if only to themselves. Presumably.
Full disclosure, I don't hate Ron, I don't even dislike him, but I'll never believe in him and Hermione as a satisfactory long term pairing, and there's no way that isn't reflected in this work. That said, he comes off a bit worse here than I think he strictly needs to, because I needed Hermione in a certain place for this story. I'm trying not to skewer any characters too badly needlessly. (...with the possible exception of Molly.) I hope that doesn't detract from anyone's enjoyment.
Disclaimer:
JKR owns the lot. I own nothing, and shan't profit at all (except for kudos and comments, both of which are lovely and appreciated (*nudge nudge, wink wink*), but pay neither the mortgage nor fill my tummy, so the attack!lawyers can happily chill).
Notes:
Happy Birthday, Severus! You just know, somewhere or another, this evening he's camped in a well-stocked library in a squashy couch in front of a glorious fire, enjoying a good book and a nice dram of something peaty he was gifted for his 57th, hopefully with his company of choice at his side. Here's wishing him the best.
Previously:
Severus and Hermione run into one another near the Fae's Yule celebrations and make their way back to the castle together. Conversation ensues, much of it awkward.
A... hug probably happened. A snuggle most definitely was not attempted, not even reflexively, under any circumstances whatsoever. To think so is madness. Clearly.
Unless you ask Hermione. She'll tell you otherwise, because she's fairly honest that way.
But they seem to be talking and getting along and finding it not altogether loathsome to spend time in each other's company. Possibly comforting even. Merlin, they may actually enjoy it. But only a bit.
Yule be here for Christmas... Part 6
-~SS/HG~-
As they emerge from the Forbidden Forest, the wan moonlight reflects so brightly from the nearly pristine snow cover, that Hermione extinguishes her Lumos. They proceed, silently for the moment, each lost in thought in the silvery light. Avoiding absolutely any and all speculation on what had just transpired between them ('And just what had transpired between...' 'Moving on.'), he decides the tone and quality of the illumination does favorable things for the deep greens of her winter robes and cloak. Naturally he thinks of the Slytherin house colors, and considers he might be biased, but a closer look leaves him convinced the observation was sufficiently... objective. While ('casually' 'obsessively') evaluating the shades of her robes, it doesn't escape his notice that the sprig of mistletoe affixed to her chest is now slightly crushed, and he feels a certain sense of satisfaction upon discovering it. And then puzzles fleetingly at the feeling.
With a slightly smug smirk, he also notes that they are now following Hermione's footprints back to the castle; his are nowhere to be seen. Neither that fact nor his reaction to it escape Hermione's notice, in turn, although it was his oh-so-faint snort that drew her attention to it. Shaking off her musings on Mab's advice and the almost immediate difference heeding it has made, she makes a mental note to investigate what charms Severus could have used to eliminate his trail. The library remains her truest friend. And if he's feeling so self-satisfied, it's altogether out of the question that she would simply ask him.
He can't help thinking about Hermione's story. Was there really nothing to be done for her parents? He knows she's had years to confront the problem. Assumably, Minerva would have provided her Gryffindor princess with every imaginable assistance. Hermione won't have been left alone in her search for a solution, and many good minds will ('surely') have had a turn at it. ('And a plethora of perfectly average ones as well, presumably.' 'And that would be the only thing perfect about them.' 'If that.') His inner voices in anomalous agreement for once, he doesn't even register his growing smirk as he proceeds, meanwhile Hermione's resolve to research the footprint issue firms in response.
Whilst he doesn't discount ('entirely') the value of the effort the others will have brought to bear on the problem, it remains ('irrefutably') unsolved, and any thought he gives the matter will ('logically') have to assess what has and has not been done. He shall speak to Minerva for more detail, but in the absence of that, the best course would plainly be thinking along lines outside of their typical strengths whilst playing more to his, so solutions in the realms of grey or outright dark magic...
Continuing his list, he wonders if this was why Hermione sought out Mab, but doesn't ask. He considers it probable, and is impressed the young witch was able to discover the Fae as a resource. It took him extensive research to find the vaguest hints of them, and then vast amounts more to find his way to them. He wonders how she was able to achieve it without the benefit of connections similar to those he... enjoys ('enjoys...' he considers Lucius and Horace, the Dark Lor... ('Voldemort!') Voldemort and the goblins at Gringotts for a moment and seriously questions the use of that word). In any event, the problem remains. ('Conspicuously.') He thinks about her returning to thank the Fae for an unfruitful boon. ('But of course she would,' and only the very faintly sarcastic note to it tells him it's his inner voice, the sentiment every bit as true for the sap. After that... hug, he's finding it difficult to muster much vitriol.)
He can't help stealing another glance at his companion, and is disconcerted to find her looking somewhat grimly determined. Hermione is feeling a bit put upon that he is so evidently amused that she has left tracks, and her expression is slipping with her mood. Unaware of her reasons, warranted or not, Severus simply knows he prefers her smile and contemplates the relative benefits of discourse. If there were a definite need for it, he would have preferred she take the reins, but he isn't one to shirk.
Solution oriented, he concludes that resuming the conversation, steering it in a less painful direction ('clearly'), would be an advisable course of action. He still has no real desire to hear about... Potter, and perhaps a bit late has realized his earlier smirk, in view of the... hug, could be misconstrued as inappropriately smug satisfaction at an erroneously perceived conquest. ('Never.')
To the best of his knowledge (although his obliviousness to her parents' situation has him questioning the value of his supposed "knowledge"), his young colleague is spoken for. Unavailable... Taken. Eager to avoid further... awkwardness, he would like to reassure her that he is... aware of her... status, and despite (still) having no desire to be regaled with tales of her love life, he concludes that the best option at present would be to enquire after the Weasleys. Again digging deep, today is proving quite challenging, he renews his efforts towards the conversational and ('almost believably') feigns an interest in the Weasleys, and specifically their youngest son.
"The Weasleys, how are they? What are Mr. Weasley's plans for the season?" Isn't he just the soul of wit?
And ('of course') her expression immediately clouds. And so damned thoroughly, too... He almost hangs his head.
Brilliant.
Merlin's bloody... ('Bollocks!') He may as well just hex himself and save the universe the bother. He was clearly never meant to... chat. What on earth was he thinking? She volunteered to take Longbottom's place. No matter how tender-hearted the young woman may be ('and she is rather'), that should have told him something. What vivacious young person would choose to pass the holidays without those she holds dear?
And now his feigned interest in the Weasley lad is suddenly very real, but not for the life of him would he ask anything further and risk the next gaffe. Belatedly it occurs to him that he may have just compounded any misunderstandings and his question ('in light of the... arms thing...' '"Hug."' 'A flurry of flying appendages does not an embrace make.' 'Who said anything about an "embrace"? "Hug." We determined it was a hug. You are regressing.' 'And we are hardly expert in such... affairs.') could be mistaken for fishing for information ('or what passes for it for a Gryffindor.' 'Gryffindors...' comes the now conditioned response, scoffed somewhat surprisingly, but without the customary vehemence, by the sap), or for interest even, and with that shocking realization, he begins to shut down. (And the traitorous, wretched sap quietly queries if that might not have been, at least in part, the case.)
Ultimately, no answer is required for his questions, both those voiced and not, as to Weasley. Even for the unimaginative such as himself, the answer is clear. (He can immediately picture ten issues and corresponding scenarios... vastly dissimilar people with equally dichotomous skills, the inherent friction between extroverts and introverts, different priorities, lack of mutual respect, presumably mutually exclusive goals, disparate skill levels (snort), almost assuredly different visions for the future, his blatant publicity seeking and pandering to the press, groupies? 'Merlin, he won't have been unfaithful?' 'Only if he is an unmitigated idiot.' 'The "man", and I use the term very loosely, is an unrepentant dunderhead.' ... 'We will not ask.' 'Agreed.') He contemplates a vow of silence.
But Hermione, as most people are likely to, fills the silence left by his internal self-recriminations and musings, and takes up their disastrous conversation and runs with it. Sounding more than a little bitter and frosty, she bites out "I wouldn't know. That answers both of your questions, actually. How's that for concise?" And then she takes a deep breath before proceeding to be anything but. (He cringes, again sorry he asked.)
"Anecdotally (he cringes some more at the choice, 'This will not end well.'), I hear the various and sundry Weasleys ('Cor.') are well. Propagating, by all accounts, which I gather is Weasley for 'thriving.' ('Indeed.') We should expect an influx of them within the decade ('Merlin's balls, she's right.' 'Early retirement has a certain appeal...' 'As does the Cruciatus, by comparison.') By our standards (and as he realizes the personal pronouns include himself, a faint, lopsided grin begins to spread across his face, which he tamps down immediately before she can think he's happy at her misfortune) neither blessed with notable successes nor particularly plagued by failures. ('Unremarkable.')
"Arthur and Percy are still plugging away at the Ministry, and both still seem to think that's a good thing." Their expressions are similarly wry. "Maybe Arthur less so these days, but he puts up a robust front. Bill is still curse breaking at Gringotts and seems to find it fulfilling, which I can actually believe. Some of the wolf-impulses are apparently proving a bother. Charlie is back with his dragons; Hagrid mentioned recently that he was consulting with Charlie on a breeding program. He seemed very enthusiastic, but then Hagrid generally does. George had a wobble for a while there after..." She sighs but starts again.
"Ronald (he thinks he spots a reflexive swallow there), Ronald recognized that the Aurors' program was perhaps... too demanding. There's a good deal of precision, bureaucracy and record keeping involved, and the continued study requirements... didn't suit him. Too unexpectedly scholastic an environment. He left to help George, and together they were able to reinvigorate things at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."
He manages not to point out that Weasley might have been better equipped if she hadn't provided a never-ending stream of sloth-enabling academic support. He deems that a minor triumph on his part. ('It borders on a wonder that boy knows how to spell his boots shut.') He's noticed she hasn't mentioned the Weasley women, but by now has gained enough experience in such matters not to ask. ('Would that were so five minutes ago...') Whatever made him think he could carry a conversation? ('As if five questions count as "carrying".' 'It does when she's not. And there were a number of statements. And they were even sincere.' 'I should hope so.' 'There's always sarcasm.' 'That, too, is sincere.' 'Can be,' he concedes.) More judiciously, he decides to go with "I am sorry to hear about Mr. Weasley."
Mercilessly, she barks out a laugh and pretends not to follow him, "You'll have to be more specific. That's not a name; it's a unit of measure. Ten Weasleys on a pitch..."
But he finds himself smiling at her stiff upper lip and plays along, "I believe there are seven players on a team."
At that she smiles back, but it's a bit rueful, "Well, my expertise doesn't extend to quidditch, so that was legitimately inaccurate. But seven isn't really a good number for them these days."
They both pause, regretfully considering Fred, and the silence stretches again. Severus decides he can't make things much worse, and that he must be capable of making a simple expression of regret, and tries again, "Still, I am sorry about young Weasley... Ronald. It was my understanding..." The intention was good, but he isn't sure where to take this in practice and so just sort of... trails off.
"Unfortunately, there were a good deal more misunderstandings than understandings. Between Ronald and myself. We're very different (he manages not to scoff audibly and is quite pleased with himself), which isn't bad per se, but..."
With noticeably more energy, she proceeds, "And then even more unfortunately, he doesn't seem to have conveyed that to his family, or perhaps it's only Molly, she can be rather," she pauses, biting her lip and weighing her words before she diplomatically proceeds with, "a force of nature. Either way, no one else seems to have felt it was worth maintaining contact, and in the final analysis I seem to be unwelcome."
"Molly frequently responds on an... emotional level. In your position, I shouldn't consider her reaction precisely a reasoned indictment of my character."
"I'm certainly not pleased with her reaction, it's the Tri-Wizard Tournament all over again (He casts about and hasn't a clue how that relates to this situation, but guessing the gist doesn't ask. He also knows that either an interruption in the form of a question or the resultant highlighting that their past isn't quite as shared as she might perceive it would prove disadvantageous to their communication. He lets her continue unchecked.), it's frustrating and disappointing, without a doubt, but not a surprise. It's the withdrawal from the rest that..." she breaks off, but there's no need to finish. Her face, so expressive, so unguarded, says it all.
"I'm sorry to hear it," he replies quietly and seems to really mean it. She looks at him, puzzled, and shakes off her morose thoughts. Realizing rather late in the game that her taciturn colleague has made a phenomenal effort for his standards, she considers how far outside of his comfort zone he must be, trying to keep up their exchange, and takes some pity on him. She decides she is at least as capable as he is at making an attempt at pleasant conversation. Not that it's gone well, but she won't hold an honest effort against him. Embracing her slightly evil streak, she settles on just the topic.
"But Harry's doing remarkably well," she chirps. (That's still the word for it.) Seeing her smirk, he realizes she knows he's been avoiding talking about... Potter. But he's so relieved not to have opened the next can of worms, he's willing to roll with it.
"Ah." There. That must be sufficient. ('Scintillating.')
Smiling now, possibly because of his non-response, she continues, "He's settled in well with the Aurors. Apparently it suits him. Very much the success. Has quite some reputation at the Ministry these days, too. (He's not certain, but believes he detected a small quaver there.) And he and Ginny seem very happy. I expect they're in it for the long term. I wouldn't be surprised if they get married sometime soon." She's still chirping.
"Hmm." He's dying here. He's experienced Cruciatuses that were less painful. How much further is it to the castle?
His patently obvious desire to be anywhere else now has her almost giggling. She suppresses the urge, relents from her verbal torture, and decides to throw him a bone. He's been quite a trooper after all. She knows full well Harry is a sensitive topic for him. The truth isn't all unicorns and rainbows, and she doesn't need to put a positive spin on this. It's possible for her to have a meaningful, mature and honest conversation, and she's determined to do that now with Severus. Whether he wants it or not. Most likely "not," all considered, but it's no deterrent.
Softening her tone, which to her amusement is sufficient to cause him to visibly unclench, at least some, she continues. "We aren't close any more. Harry seemed to think I should be grateful I wasn't tried for obliviating my parents, and should let the Ministry keep rolling me out for publicity purposes. It's a pity our friendship fell victim to Ministerial machinations. Or his unwillingness to stand up for me against them. But then he never said anything to Molly or Ron, either. I expected better of him."
And that attracts his attention. He's not at all sure what to make of it. He tries to examine her as closely and inconspicuously as he can, and is fairly successful as she never guesses the level of interest her comments draw. He is reassured both that this is her opinion and that she believes the truth of her statements, and wonders why she would share a criticism of Potter with him. She doesn't seem to be pandering either to her audience (in which case he's the perfect target group), or for sympathy. ('Which would have widely missed its mark...' 'Would it?') From a Slytherin, such a confidence would have been a gambit, but he can tell she's sincere, and he is pleased, if puzzled, by her trust.
It undoubtedly helps that he shares her opinion.
"In the absence of a pardon for that," he feels compelled to point out, "there may be something to be said for keeping the Ministry on side. You'll not have reached the statute of limitations yet. Even when you do, the Ministry can't entirely be trusted not to retroactively extend that time period at some later date. Whilst frequently, if not generally, ineffectual, they can be dangerous when they do act.
"But I stand by my earlier statement: it's a travesty you weren't granted some form of official amnesty."
An hour ago, he would have given any odds against his saying what follows. "Whilst I am not sure I expected better of Mr. Potter, you certainly deserve better." Perhaps he's still caught in the magic of the wintery scene, or some residual effect from the Fae's celebration, or the open and so uncharacteristic tone of their conversation, but he softly continues, "But are you certain Mr. Potter wasn't merely acknowledging that potential threat from the Ministry? Perhaps he thought that tack in your best interests?"
It's not quite a defense of Harry, he hasn't the information for that one way or the other, but at worst it is an impartial approach to the problem which puts Harry in a better light, and at best, it favors Harry, and it surprises both of them. Greatly.
"That's a valid point," she has to allow and nods. "I shall need to give it some thought, because no, I'm not exactly sure, to be honest. Let's allow that there may be sense to courses of action other than those I'd prefer, as unlikely as that might seem," she's grinning at him mischievously. "That still doesn't mean whilst counseling caution or deliberation he couldn't have also shown his support for my position. You had no issue with saying the Ministry should have acted differently. That's all I wanted."
She's absolutely correct, and he has no idea what it means. If he can say it... Potter should have been able to as well. He'd much rather not dwell on why he is supportive, but he knows unequivocally that he is sincere in that support. He's also not sure what to make of the last part of her declaration, and considers it ill-advised to examine it more closely. He leaps instead for relative safety.
"I have the ear of no one within the Ministry. I have neither friends nor influence there, and as such it is, conceivably, simpler for me to express such thoughts," although considering his and Harry's natures, both of them know that's rubbish, but it's kind and makes her feel better. "I can also imagine the situation with the Weasleys is complicated by his relationship to Ginevra. Perhaps he is not as free to voice opinions as he would wish to be. Additionally, they would doubtless fall on deaf ears given the parties involved, rendering such action... senseless."
It's been less than half an hour since Queen Mab told her she would be happier if she opened up more to those around her. In a leap of faith, trusting the Fae from her past experiences with them, Hermione has effectively been spilling her heart out almost non-stop ever since to the first person she encountered. It's very unusual behavior for her; she's a very private person. It's completely atypical especially of late, and yet she already feels so much better. She is also certain that it is not simply the act of confiding in someone, but the person to whom she is speaking that makes all the difference. Severus is revealing himself to be an excellent sounding board, and she is enjoying their talk. Rather a lot.
This entire conversation is proving thoroughly unexpected but incredibly welcome. She hasn't been able to speak with anyone about this, any of it really, and it's... pleasant, very, to be able to do so, to get some feedback and interactively mull things over and work them through. Hagrid would feel caught in the middle, and her relationships with Minerva and Neville don't extend to these sorts of confidences. Neville would probably feel conflicted, too, although she'll never understand why. Filius isn't the right choice for these sorts of chats at all... That Severus should prove to be the best person for it is so surprising, but it's an amazingly good fit. She's enjoying this and it feels, it feels... good. Surprisingly good.
So she puts some thought into it, and gives him her most considered answer. "Harry was probably caught between Scylla and Charybdis with myself and Ronald," she can admit, "but on the other hand, he's always given Ronald a great deal more leeway. I simply haven't got it in me anymore to act like I find that remotely fair or acceptable." (She is thinking the word "Firebolt" so loudly he can hear it, recollecting... third year? 'Merlin, can she hold a grudge...' 'Good for her!')
"I take it you're Scylla then?" He gives her a bit of a smirk. "It's never truly sorted until the apology, and often not even then. Potter is an idiot who has consistently doubled down on his behavior, and it's more difficult, and of questionable intelligence, to forgive in the absence of a proffered apology." He remembers vividly that Harry helped him, significantly, with the testimony he provided in Severus' defense after the war and almost feels guilty, almost, but decides the berk deserves it. ('It's no less than the truth.' 'And it's what she needs to hear.') "I suspect part of the problem is that Mr. Weasley more overtly requires Mr. Potter's support. Explicitly demands it. Your evident strength can be misleading, such that people neglect to consider that being strong doesn't mean you aren't also hurt."
She knows he's talking from experience on that count, and only barely refrains from squeezing his hand in mutual commiseration.
Then she laughs, "Are you calling Ronald 'needy'?"
"Manifestly," he answers dryly.
The conversation is very atypical for him, but he's enjoying the exchange ('when it doesn't careen straight for the awkward'). He's a Slytherin, and they don't typically ask direct questions; it's the surest way to have to work harder for the answer. The answer probably won't be given when asked, and the other party, forewarned, will likely work against having it discovered by any other means, if only on principle. So this is an interesting change.
She's speaking to him like a trusted friend, and it's very unaccustomed. On occasion, Minerva will talk to him openly like this, but she's never this vulnerable. He wonders if this is the vulnerability of youth, or if this is something specific to Hermione. He neglects to consider that their interactions and his responses could have any effect on what she is willing to reveal, a telling oversight for an ex-spy. He's warming to their exchange, and wants more.
"Are you still hurt? Or have you come to terms with the separation from Mr. Weasley?" And the sap is completely certain he's now fishing, particularly given the shift in focus in his question, but is wise enough to hold his tongue, very tightly, as he'd like to hear the answer, too.
She's doesn't consider his question to be prying, certainly not after her unsolicited infodump and his unflagging support in its wake. He hasn't once criticized her or made her feel small, instead he's taken her side. She feels comfortable with him, answering, "No, I'm fine in that regard. It hurts more that he didn't fight for our friendship, or defend me to Molly and Ginny. The end of the relationship itself was a probably a relief. For us both. Especially because, initially, I think we both had hope that could mean salvaging our friendship. Now I sometimes question if we ever really had one.
"As far as the relationship," she shrugs. "We both had something of a revelation, simultaneously (he knows that won't have been the case; she'll have made Weasley see "the light"), that we were people with qualities to recommend us, but that the things that could arguably be considered our strongest suits were exactly the things the other didn't value in a partner. My thirst for knowledge, his..."
And he finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, really hard, in an effort to make no sound or expression in the least. ('Oh, do tell. What exactly are Mr. Weasley's strong suits.' 'Having turned in the Auror's robes, probably an old quidditch uniform.' 'Certainly not his dress robes...' He doesn't know when he has last found the sap so agreeable.) Occluding should have helped, but didn't in the least. If Voldemort had employed the young witch, Snape would never have lasted a week. He's become transparent, and Hermione can't help being amused.
"Ronald's a good deal more comfortable with his fame ('A fame whore! How bloody marvelous!' His smirk is visible. 'So we were probably correct across the board then...' 'But thankfully no infidelity.' 'No, no, thankfully not. That would have been a bridge too far.' 'Probably.'), the attention it," she gestures vaguely, but he knows what she means, "brings. The people it attracts. I must say I prefer being here and far removed from the limelight. Those two approaches don't marry well."
She says that, and it's very matter of fact. She's genuinely not bitter about that. It is as it is, and time has passed. Any hurt over dreams unrealized has long since faded, particularly with the recognition that they were never realistic to begin with.
He approves of her turn of phrase. Possibly for more reasons than one. "I shouldn't think they do. Rather disastrously, in fact. I had a bit of experience with the wizarding... public and the attention the press directed my way in the... aftermath. I've never thought less of my fellow man. Nearly robbed me of all faith in humanity." And his expression is so neutral and dignified and his tone so dry and...
And she can't help herself, she laughs! It starts low and small and grows and grows and just takes over. Suddenly her whole body is shaking with it. But she is quite evidently not laughing at him but with him... She remains standing for a heartfelt, full-bodied laugh, reaching out an arm to place it on his, in part to steady herself, but also to keep him from moving on without her, and he finds he appreciates both the gesture and the contact. And she's still laughing, and it looks... very becoming on her. He realizes it's been a while since he's seen her this relaxed, and can't help thinking that's a pity.
"Oh, oh that's rich! No, that's perfect! Perfect. Because you, naturally, you are so well known for your faith in humanity." At the utterly charming look on her face, he realizes he isn't offended in the least, and is baffled to find himself beginning to chuckle along with her.
"Far and wide, Madam. It's practically my defining characteristic. Severus Snape, Menschenfreund and Humanitarian Extraordinaire. Have we met?" He extends a hand in mock greeting.
And now they're both laughing. And with her free hand, she's pretending to shake his hand in greeting. And it's... pleasant. And a lovely change. He should do this more. They both should. The laughter subsides and still holding his arm, she looks at him earnestly, eyes opened wide.
"Oh, but you're right, the letters I received..." She shakes her head, looking somewhat concerned at the memory. "The insights they provided into other people... They were positively frightening."
"We're in absolute agreement there," he nods, fully composed and recovered from the laughing fit, but still more relaxed than she's seen him all evening. Or all term, for that matter. It suits him.
"I can't help wondering if Ronald received a different sort of attention, or if he is simply less... put off by the people who would have me off to a nunnery."
"If your owls were anything like mine and the authors thereof even remotely similar, I think the problem is that there are far too many people who would like very much to have you... in a nunnery," his eyebrow cocks somewhat suggestively, and she blushes slightly.
"Your meaning is taken, but antiquated." She swallows. Audibly. "I believe that definition has fallen out of use." She's not at all certain how scandalized she should be.
"Befitting the speaker... Apologies." He raises a long fingered hand in a placating gesture. "But I suspect you were correct on both counts. Mr. Weasley will attract a different sort of attention than either of us would and is, possibly, less discerning in nature than we are."
"Oh, thanks a lot. We did have an relationship you know."
He gives her a slightly evil grin, and she smiles again.
He debates asking her if she's jealous of the attention Weasley gets. From her demeanor, he's confident she is not in the least perturbed by it; quite the contrary, he's sure she'd rather get no public attention at all. Asking also appears decidedly un-Slytherin, which can have certain benefits. Posing the question additionally creates a situation in which she can come to know that he is aware she isn't feeling insecure about this. His serpentine reasoning dictates that that should make her more confident and comfortable after the fact, and for some rather complicated reasons, he wouldn't like for her to feel uneasy or embarrassed for having confided in him. The query alters her knowledge, if not his, and it should foster more openness that he is coming to think of as... positive. So with logic that is purely Slytherin, he does.
She's a bit surprised by the question, mostly because she'd have thought he'd guess her feelings on this matter, but also that he continues to be interested in hearing things she normally thinks of him as avoiding, but she doesn't hesitate to answer, "Oh no, not in the least, neither the publicity nor the appalling hordes of fame-chasing witches. He's welcome to it, and all the so-called fan mail I get, too. That would actually be a relief.
"The only aspect of it that bothers me at all, I suppose, is he seems less averse to the attention, and the net effect does some wretched things for his ego. It's as though he were getting a regular supply of external, and theoretically objective, confirmation as to his appeal, and once in a while I got the feeling he felt that put him in a better light than it did me. Frankly, I've found that simultaneously insulting and frustrating on more than one occasion.
"Sometimes, sometimes I think it would be nice to get some validation, too, but I'm positive nothing I want to hear will ever come through those channels."
The first he had expected, and the second comes as no surprise; Weasley's response was probable. It was truly unfortunate, and he had hoped it wouldn't be the case, but it also came as no great surprise that she herself should still feel such a need for validation. Truthfully, she always had. With report cards, OWLs, NEWTs and her mastery now all behind her, there was no longer a regular 'external, and theoretically objective, confirmation' of her skills and possible worth to her way of thinking. He was sorry she couldn't see herself through his eyes, or those of any of her other colleagues for that matter. He needed to give it some thought.
"And that, I'm afraid, in a nutshell would be the problem with being so truly unusual," he tells her gently, looking at her very kindly. "The commonplace never has any difficulty finding more of the same. It's the curse of the extraordinary that they are so few and far between. But would you wish to be any other way?"
She looks up at him, blinking, trying with a narrow margin of success to keep her eyes from misting up. It's been quite a day and her nerves are raw, and this is the nicest thing anyone has said to her in a long time. Such a pity she thinks the gist of it is that she is unlikely to find anyone to truly appreciate her anytime soon.
It's very likely that somewhere in the course of all this, they both question if they respectively are flirting with the other. Because neither one of them is apt to, both immediately reject that possibility: so improbable as to be virtually impossible. It is unfortunately also typical for both of them that neither one of them even remotely considers the possibility that the other one might be flirting with them in turn.
They walk in silence for a little bit, each lost in their thoughts. Severus is sorry he asked the question after all, because Hermione now seems sad and withdrawn, and he had hoped to achieve exactly the opposite. Somehow despite anticipating the answers, he still managed to misjudge the effect. He's mulling over how to set that right when Hermione takes over.
She had enjoyed the laughter, and has no desire to turn maudlin now. Thinking back to something he said earlier, she teases him hopefully, "Color me surprised to hear you mentioning Weasley ears. I should have thought that was a sore topic."
He looks at her, and blinks, shocked that she would make of joke of this, but unwilling to flinch in the face of a challenge, he responds dryly, "It was not George's ear with which I was concerned." And now she's blinking, and he marches on relentlessly, "And I do believe he now has a surfeit of extendable ones," he's gesturing grandly with those elegant hands, "and it should no longer be sore in any event." And it's so mischievous and off-color and naughty and somehow she can't help herself and laughs again. It isn't long before he joins in.
Intuiting the rules to this game she's never played, and apropos of nothing, or maybe it was the Weasleys' ears, when their laughter subsides she grins and says "Ginny's a Harpy."
Severus takes a beat and then smirks and doesn't disappoint, "Apparently she plays quidditch, as well." And then they're chuckling like a couple of first-years, the sort neither of them ever were, taking potshots with a friend, "us" against "them," and it's nice. Well, maybe not nice, it's fairly mean by Hermione's standards, but goodness is it fun. It undoubtedly helps Hermione's conscience that no one is there to hear them, and no one's feelings are hurt in the process. But it is nice not being the "them" for once. And it's very nice being the "us."
They continue in companionable silence for a ways, the castle now very close, before Hermione gives him an impenetrable look and begins, "Sorry, I'm trying to reason this through: you are considered the best spy the wizarding world has ever known. You are renowned for your information gathering skills." He can think of a couple of ways this is going to break, and none of them are particularly opportune for him.
"We see each other practically every single day, morning, noon and night." He waits for it. "How on earth could you think I'm still in a relationship with Ronald?"
He is struck suddenly by the realization that thinking of her in a relationship in the general sense seems a good deal less unpleasant than the image of her specifically with Weasley, but he senses that it is simultaneously somehow far more dangerous a line of thought and immediately moves on.
As does she, "Or anyone else for that matter? I think it may be an actual requirement of a relationship to see one another, or at least interact on occasion. When on earth do you think I've been conducting such a relationship?"
He wisely keeps his mouth shut. (His first thought is a mortified, 'She thinks I was fishing and is seeking proof.' 'About as well as a Gryffindor could.' 'Directly.') For an incredibly short moment he panics. And then he realizes she has just told him she's single. Unattached.
Available.
'Merlin.'
He quickly begins to assess whether that was a calculated reveal, and then immediately endeavors to think of that as little as humanly possible.
Fortunately, she's quick to distract him. "Or did you think I was canoodling with Hagrid?"
His eyebrows raise so high, they are in danger of disappearing into his hairline, but he prevails "That had crossed my mind, Hagrid the reprobate canoodler that he is," somehow the word 'canoodler' rolling off his tongue is twice as funny, "but I assumed you wouldn't wish to cross Olympe." He pauses a beat, and she looks up at him. "She'd make short work of you."
In response she merely raises an eyebrow in her best imitation of him, and at that they both stop walking and start laughing again. It's only the amazed looks on the faces of a small group of students rushing past, presumably hurrying to get back for dinner, that shake him out of it.
Reaching to pull him again into motion, she says "Come on then, let's go home." The castle somehow now seems much too close.
Joining her, he's reminded of her earlier comment vis-à-vis "home," and relying on the ease of their exchanges now dares to ask, "Before, when you mentioned the students going home, you were talking about anywhere but here. Where then is 'home' for you now?"
He's judged correctly. There's no pain at the question. She's still not offended by his curiosity, on the contrary, she takes it as a sign of a growing friendship between them, and without a trace of hurt or dissemblance easily answers, "Why here, of course. Where else? It's purely a frame of reference. They go to their homes. I'm at mine." And she smiles brightly.
He almost feels sorry for her, but hesitates because by extension it means he'd have to feel sorry for himself. Finally he decides it's because he would have wished for more for her. She deserved better.
She senses only some of what he's thinking and chuckles, "So we're in the same boat."
When his brow furrows in response, she laughs and gently rests her fingers on his arm again, "It's a fine boat," and she suddenly realizes, although she thinks of him as "Severus," he still hasn't offered to let her call him by his given name, and deciding discretion is the better part of valor, settles for "Professor, and it's quite seaworthy; do look more pleased. Now come on, let's go home. Dinner is waiting."
And with that she pulls him towards the doors and into the castle.
Notes:
Next Chapter:
Christmas Eve at Hogwarts and where do our favorite Professors go from here? Given Severus' preferred dance move is one step forward, three steps back, back, back preferably right into recalcitrant bits of greenery, we'll have to rely on Hermione to teach him some new moves.
A/N:
"Get thee to a nunnery" - Shakespeare, "Hamlet" - Well, there's some debate, and depending on which English / Literature instructor you have, "nunnery" means "convent," "brothel" or both. The difference is not immaterial, but amusing.
"Brevity is the soul of wit." - Shakespeare, "Hamlet"
"Discretion is the better part of valor." - Shakespeare, "Henry IV"
Severus and Hermione are finally out of the woods, and with the castle in sight, they enter the home stretch. Surprisingly, Severus determines that conversation is not his forte. This should shock no one, anywhere, ever. Fortunately, Hermione is up to the challenge, and we get a bit of an update on miscellaneous Weasleys and Harry.
Severus' point of view. All parenthetical thoughts are his.
Originally Published: 2017-01-10 on AO3
Chapter: 6 / 13 of ?
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
WARNING:
Fairly minor ginger and Potter bashing shall occur. Viewpoints expressed by characters do not necessarily have to correspond to the realities of their world and this story. They are trying to be reasonable facsimiles of humans, so sometimes they are biased, sometimes they are mistaken, and once in a while they even lie, if only to themselves. Presumably.
Full disclosure, I don't hate Ron, I don't even dislike him, but I'll never believe in him and Hermione as a satisfactory long term pairing, and there's no way that isn't reflected in this work. That said, he comes off a bit worse here than I think he strictly needs to, because I needed Hermione in a certain place for this story. I'm trying not to skewer any characters too badly needlessly. (...with the possible exception of Molly.) I hope that doesn't detract from anyone's enjoyment.
Disclaimer:
JKR owns the lot. I own nothing, and shan't profit at all (except for kudos and comments, both of which are lovely and appreciated (*nudge nudge, wink wink*), but pay neither the mortgage nor fill my tummy, so the attack!lawyers can happily chill).
Notes:
Happy Birthday, Severus! You just know, somewhere or another, this evening he's camped in a well-stocked library in a squashy couch in front of a glorious fire, enjoying a good book and a nice dram of something peaty he was gifted for his 57th, hopefully with his company of choice at his side. Here's wishing him the best.
Previously:
Severus and Hermione run into one another near the Fae's Yule celebrations and make their way back to the castle together. Conversation ensues, much of it awkward.
A... hug probably happened. A snuggle most definitely was not attempted, not even reflexively, under any circumstances whatsoever. To think so is madness. Clearly.
Unless you ask Hermione. She'll tell you otherwise, because she's fairly honest that way.
But they seem to be talking and getting along and finding it not altogether loathsome to spend time in each other's company. Possibly comforting even. Merlin, they may actually enjoy it. But only a bit.
Yule be here for Christmas... Part 6
-~SS/HG~-
As they emerge from the Forbidden Forest, the wan moonlight reflects so brightly from the nearly pristine snow cover, that Hermione extinguishes her Lumos. They proceed, silently for the moment, each lost in thought in the silvery light. Avoiding absolutely any and all speculation on what had just transpired between them ('And just what had transpired between...' 'Moving on.'), he decides the tone and quality of the illumination does favorable things for the deep greens of her winter robes and cloak. Naturally he thinks of the Slytherin house colors, and considers he might be biased, but a closer look leaves him convinced the observation was sufficiently... objective. While ('casually' 'obsessively') evaluating the shades of her robes, it doesn't escape his notice that the sprig of mistletoe affixed to her chest is now slightly crushed, and he feels a certain sense of satisfaction upon discovering it. And then puzzles fleetingly at the feeling.
With a slightly smug smirk, he also notes that they are now following Hermione's footprints back to the castle; his are nowhere to be seen. Neither that fact nor his reaction to it escape Hermione's notice, in turn, although it was his oh-so-faint snort that drew her attention to it. Shaking off her musings on Mab's advice and the almost immediate difference heeding it has made, she makes a mental note to investigate what charms Severus could have used to eliminate his trail. The library remains her truest friend. And if he's feeling so self-satisfied, it's altogether out of the question that she would simply ask him.
He can't help thinking about Hermione's story. Was there really nothing to be done for her parents? He knows she's had years to confront the problem. Assumably, Minerva would have provided her Gryffindor princess with every imaginable assistance. Hermione won't have been left alone in her search for a solution, and many good minds will ('surely') have had a turn at it. ('And a plethora of perfectly average ones as well, presumably.' 'And that would be the only thing perfect about them.' 'If that.') His inner voices in anomalous agreement for once, he doesn't even register his growing smirk as he proceeds, meanwhile Hermione's resolve to research the footprint issue firms in response.
Whilst he doesn't discount ('entirely') the value of the effort the others will have brought to bear on the problem, it remains ('irrefutably') unsolved, and any thought he gives the matter will ('logically') have to assess what has and has not been done. He shall speak to Minerva for more detail, but in the absence of that, the best course would plainly be thinking along lines outside of their typical strengths whilst playing more to his, so solutions in the realms of grey or outright dark magic...
Continuing his list, he wonders if this was why Hermione sought out Mab, but doesn't ask. He considers it probable, and is impressed the young witch was able to discover the Fae as a resource. It took him extensive research to find the vaguest hints of them, and then vast amounts more to find his way to them. He wonders how she was able to achieve it without the benefit of connections similar to those he... enjoys ('enjoys...' he considers Lucius and Horace, the Dark Lor... ('Voldemort!') Voldemort and the goblins at Gringotts for a moment and seriously questions the use of that word). In any event, the problem remains. ('Conspicuously.') He thinks about her returning to thank the Fae for an unfruitful boon. ('But of course she would,' and only the very faintly sarcastic note to it tells him it's his inner voice, the sentiment every bit as true for the sap. After that... hug, he's finding it difficult to muster much vitriol.)
He can't help stealing another glance at his companion, and is disconcerted to find her looking somewhat grimly determined. Hermione is feeling a bit put upon that he is so evidently amused that she has left tracks, and her expression is slipping with her mood. Unaware of her reasons, warranted or not, Severus simply knows he prefers her smile and contemplates the relative benefits of discourse. If there were a definite need for it, he would have preferred she take the reins, but he isn't one to shirk.
Solution oriented, he concludes that resuming the conversation, steering it in a less painful direction ('clearly'), would be an advisable course of action. He still has no real desire to hear about... Potter, and perhaps a bit late has realized his earlier smirk, in view of the... hug, could be misconstrued as inappropriately smug satisfaction at an erroneously perceived conquest. ('Never.')
To the best of his knowledge (although his obliviousness to her parents' situation has him questioning the value of his supposed "knowledge"), his young colleague is spoken for. Unavailable... Taken. Eager to avoid further... awkwardness, he would like to reassure her that he is... aware of her... status, and despite (still) having no desire to be regaled with tales of her love life, he concludes that the best option at present would be to enquire after the Weasleys. Again digging deep, today is proving quite challenging, he renews his efforts towards the conversational and ('almost believably') feigns an interest in the Weasleys, and specifically their youngest son.
"The Weasleys, how are they? What are Mr. Weasley's plans for the season?" Isn't he just the soul of wit?
And ('of course') her expression immediately clouds. And so damned thoroughly, too... He almost hangs his head.
Brilliant.
Merlin's bloody... ('Bollocks!') He may as well just hex himself and save the universe the bother. He was clearly never meant to... chat. What on earth was he thinking? She volunteered to take Longbottom's place. No matter how tender-hearted the young woman may be ('and she is rather'), that should have told him something. What vivacious young person would choose to pass the holidays without those she holds dear?
And now his feigned interest in the Weasley lad is suddenly very real, but not for the life of him would he ask anything further and risk the next gaffe. Belatedly it occurs to him that he may have just compounded any misunderstandings and his question ('in light of the... arms thing...' '"Hug."' 'A flurry of flying appendages does not an embrace make.' 'Who said anything about an "embrace"? "Hug." We determined it was a hug. You are regressing.' 'And we are hardly expert in such... affairs.') could be mistaken for fishing for information ('or what passes for it for a Gryffindor.' 'Gryffindors...' comes the now conditioned response, scoffed somewhat surprisingly, but without the customary vehemence, by the sap), or for interest even, and with that shocking realization, he begins to shut down. (And the traitorous, wretched sap quietly queries if that might not have been, at least in part, the case.)
Ultimately, no answer is required for his questions, both those voiced and not, as to Weasley. Even for the unimaginative such as himself, the answer is clear. (He can immediately picture ten issues and corresponding scenarios... vastly dissimilar people with equally dichotomous skills, the inherent friction between extroverts and introverts, different priorities, lack of mutual respect, presumably mutually exclusive goals, disparate skill levels (snort), almost assuredly different visions for the future, his blatant publicity seeking and pandering to the press, groupies? 'Merlin, he won't have been unfaithful?' 'Only if he is an unmitigated idiot.' 'The "man", and I use the term very loosely, is an unrepentant dunderhead.' ... 'We will not ask.' 'Agreed.') He contemplates a vow of silence.
But Hermione, as most people are likely to, fills the silence left by his internal self-recriminations and musings, and takes up their disastrous conversation and runs with it. Sounding more than a little bitter and frosty, she bites out "I wouldn't know. That answers both of your questions, actually. How's that for concise?" And then she takes a deep breath before proceeding to be anything but. (He cringes, again sorry he asked.)
"Anecdotally (he cringes some more at the choice, 'This will not end well.'), I hear the various and sundry Weasleys ('Cor.') are well. Propagating, by all accounts, which I gather is Weasley for 'thriving.' ('Indeed.') We should expect an influx of them within the decade ('Merlin's balls, she's right.' 'Early retirement has a certain appeal...' 'As does the Cruciatus, by comparison.') By our standards (and as he realizes the personal pronouns include himself, a faint, lopsided grin begins to spread across his face, which he tamps down immediately before she can think he's happy at her misfortune) neither blessed with notable successes nor particularly plagued by failures. ('Unremarkable.')
"Arthur and Percy are still plugging away at the Ministry, and both still seem to think that's a good thing." Their expressions are similarly wry. "Maybe Arthur less so these days, but he puts up a robust front. Bill is still curse breaking at Gringotts and seems to find it fulfilling, which I can actually believe. Some of the wolf-impulses are apparently proving a bother. Charlie is back with his dragons; Hagrid mentioned recently that he was consulting with Charlie on a breeding program. He seemed very enthusiastic, but then Hagrid generally does. George had a wobble for a while there after..." She sighs but starts again.
"Ronald (he thinks he spots a reflexive swallow there), Ronald recognized that the Aurors' program was perhaps... too demanding. There's a good deal of precision, bureaucracy and record keeping involved, and the continued study requirements... didn't suit him. Too unexpectedly scholastic an environment. He left to help George, and together they were able to reinvigorate things at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."
He manages not to point out that Weasley might have been better equipped if she hadn't provided a never-ending stream of sloth-enabling academic support. He deems that a minor triumph on his part. ('It borders on a wonder that boy knows how to spell his boots shut.') He's noticed she hasn't mentioned the Weasley women, but by now has gained enough experience in such matters not to ask. ('Would that were so five minutes ago...') Whatever made him think he could carry a conversation? ('As if five questions count as "carrying".' 'It does when she's not. And there were a number of statements. And they were even sincere.' 'I should hope so.' 'There's always sarcasm.' 'That, too, is sincere.' 'Can be,' he concedes.) More judiciously, he decides to go with "I am sorry to hear about Mr. Weasley."
Mercilessly, she barks out a laugh and pretends not to follow him, "You'll have to be more specific. That's not a name; it's a unit of measure. Ten Weasleys on a pitch..."
But he finds himself smiling at her stiff upper lip and plays along, "I believe there are seven players on a team."
At that she smiles back, but it's a bit rueful, "Well, my expertise doesn't extend to quidditch, so that was legitimately inaccurate. But seven isn't really a good number for them these days."
They both pause, regretfully considering Fred, and the silence stretches again. Severus decides he can't make things much worse, and that he must be capable of making a simple expression of regret, and tries again, "Still, I am sorry about young Weasley... Ronald. It was my understanding..." The intention was good, but he isn't sure where to take this in practice and so just sort of... trails off.
"Unfortunately, there were a good deal more misunderstandings than understandings. Between Ronald and myself. We're very different (he manages not to scoff audibly and is quite pleased with himself), which isn't bad per se, but..."
With noticeably more energy, she proceeds, "And then even more unfortunately, he doesn't seem to have conveyed that to his family, or perhaps it's only Molly, she can be rather," she pauses, biting her lip and weighing her words before she diplomatically proceeds with, "a force of nature. Either way, no one else seems to have felt it was worth maintaining contact, and in the final analysis I seem to be unwelcome."
"Molly frequently responds on an... emotional level. In your position, I shouldn't consider her reaction precisely a reasoned indictment of my character."
"I'm certainly not pleased with her reaction, it's the Tri-Wizard Tournament all over again (He casts about and hasn't a clue how that relates to this situation, but guessing the gist doesn't ask. He also knows that either an interruption in the form of a question or the resultant highlighting that their past isn't quite as shared as she might perceive it would prove disadvantageous to their communication. He lets her continue unchecked.), it's frustrating and disappointing, without a doubt, but not a surprise. It's the withdrawal from the rest that..." she breaks off, but there's no need to finish. Her face, so expressive, so unguarded, says it all.
"I'm sorry to hear it," he replies quietly and seems to really mean it. She looks at him, puzzled, and shakes off her morose thoughts. Realizing rather late in the game that her taciturn colleague has made a phenomenal effort for his standards, she considers how far outside of his comfort zone he must be, trying to keep up their exchange, and takes some pity on him. She decides she is at least as capable as he is at making an attempt at pleasant conversation. Not that it's gone well, but she won't hold an honest effort against him. Embracing her slightly evil streak, she settles on just the topic.
"But Harry's doing remarkably well," she chirps. (That's still the word for it.) Seeing her smirk, he realizes she knows he's been avoiding talking about... Potter. But he's so relieved not to have opened the next can of worms, he's willing to roll with it.
"Ah." There. That must be sufficient. ('Scintillating.')
Smiling now, possibly because of his non-response, she continues, "He's settled in well with the Aurors. Apparently it suits him. Very much the success. Has quite some reputation at the Ministry these days, too. (He's not certain, but believes he detected a small quaver there.) And he and Ginny seem very happy. I expect they're in it for the long term. I wouldn't be surprised if they get married sometime soon." She's still chirping.
"Hmm." He's dying here. He's experienced Cruciatuses that were less painful. How much further is it to the castle?
His patently obvious desire to be anywhere else now has her almost giggling. She suppresses the urge, relents from her verbal torture, and decides to throw him a bone. He's been quite a trooper after all. She knows full well Harry is a sensitive topic for him. The truth isn't all unicorns and rainbows, and she doesn't need to put a positive spin on this. It's possible for her to have a meaningful, mature and honest conversation, and she's determined to do that now with Severus. Whether he wants it or not. Most likely "not," all considered, but it's no deterrent.
Softening her tone, which to her amusement is sufficient to cause him to visibly unclench, at least some, she continues. "We aren't close any more. Harry seemed to think I should be grateful I wasn't tried for obliviating my parents, and should let the Ministry keep rolling me out for publicity purposes. It's a pity our friendship fell victim to Ministerial machinations. Or his unwillingness to stand up for me against them. But then he never said anything to Molly or Ron, either. I expected better of him."
And that attracts his attention. He's not at all sure what to make of it. He tries to examine her as closely and inconspicuously as he can, and is fairly successful as she never guesses the level of interest her comments draw. He is reassured both that this is her opinion and that she believes the truth of her statements, and wonders why she would share a criticism of Potter with him. She doesn't seem to be pandering either to her audience (in which case he's the perfect target group), or for sympathy. ('Which would have widely missed its mark...' 'Would it?') From a Slytherin, such a confidence would have been a gambit, but he can tell she's sincere, and he is pleased, if puzzled, by her trust.
It undoubtedly helps that he shares her opinion.
"In the absence of a pardon for that," he feels compelled to point out, "there may be something to be said for keeping the Ministry on side. You'll not have reached the statute of limitations yet. Even when you do, the Ministry can't entirely be trusted not to retroactively extend that time period at some later date. Whilst frequently, if not generally, ineffectual, they can be dangerous when they do act.
"But I stand by my earlier statement: it's a travesty you weren't granted some form of official amnesty."
An hour ago, he would have given any odds against his saying what follows. "Whilst I am not sure I expected better of Mr. Potter, you certainly deserve better." Perhaps he's still caught in the magic of the wintery scene, or some residual effect from the Fae's celebration, or the open and so uncharacteristic tone of their conversation, but he softly continues, "But are you certain Mr. Potter wasn't merely acknowledging that potential threat from the Ministry? Perhaps he thought that tack in your best interests?"
It's not quite a defense of Harry, he hasn't the information for that one way or the other, but at worst it is an impartial approach to the problem which puts Harry in a better light, and at best, it favors Harry, and it surprises both of them. Greatly.
"That's a valid point," she has to allow and nods. "I shall need to give it some thought, because no, I'm not exactly sure, to be honest. Let's allow that there may be sense to courses of action other than those I'd prefer, as unlikely as that might seem," she's grinning at him mischievously. "That still doesn't mean whilst counseling caution or deliberation he couldn't have also shown his support for my position. You had no issue with saying the Ministry should have acted differently. That's all I wanted."
She's absolutely correct, and he has no idea what it means. If he can say it... Potter should have been able to as well. He'd much rather not dwell on why he is supportive, but he knows unequivocally that he is sincere in that support. He's also not sure what to make of the last part of her declaration, and considers it ill-advised to examine it more closely. He leaps instead for relative safety.
"I have the ear of no one within the Ministry. I have neither friends nor influence there, and as such it is, conceivably, simpler for me to express such thoughts," although considering his and Harry's natures, both of them know that's rubbish, but it's kind and makes her feel better. "I can also imagine the situation with the Weasleys is complicated by his relationship to Ginevra. Perhaps he is not as free to voice opinions as he would wish to be. Additionally, they would doubtless fall on deaf ears given the parties involved, rendering such action... senseless."
It's been less than half an hour since Queen Mab told her she would be happier if she opened up more to those around her. In a leap of faith, trusting the Fae from her past experiences with them, Hermione has effectively been spilling her heart out almost non-stop ever since to the first person she encountered. It's very unusual behavior for her; she's a very private person. It's completely atypical especially of late, and yet she already feels so much better. She is also certain that it is not simply the act of confiding in someone, but the person to whom she is speaking that makes all the difference. Severus is revealing himself to be an excellent sounding board, and she is enjoying their talk. Rather a lot.
This entire conversation is proving thoroughly unexpected but incredibly welcome. She hasn't been able to speak with anyone about this, any of it really, and it's... pleasant, very, to be able to do so, to get some feedback and interactively mull things over and work them through. Hagrid would feel caught in the middle, and her relationships with Minerva and Neville don't extend to these sorts of confidences. Neville would probably feel conflicted, too, although she'll never understand why. Filius isn't the right choice for these sorts of chats at all... That Severus should prove to be the best person for it is so surprising, but it's an amazingly good fit. She's enjoying this and it feels, it feels... good. Surprisingly good.
So she puts some thought into it, and gives him her most considered answer. "Harry was probably caught between Scylla and Charybdis with myself and Ronald," she can admit, "but on the other hand, he's always given Ronald a great deal more leeway. I simply haven't got it in me anymore to act like I find that remotely fair or acceptable." (She is thinking the word "Firebolt" so loudly he can hear it, recollecting... third year? 'Merlin, can she hold a grudge...' 'Good for her!')
"I take it you're Scylla then?" He gives her a bit of a smirk. "It's never truly sorted until the apology, and often not even then. Potter is an idiot who has consistently doubled down on his behavior, and it's more difficult, and of questionable intelligence, to forgive in the absence of a proffered apology." He remembers vividly that Harry helped him, significantly, with the testimony he provided in Severus' defense after the war and almost feels guilty, almost, but decides the berk deserves it. ('It's no less than the truth.' 'And it's what she needs to hear.') "I suspect part of the problem is that Mr. Weasley more overtly requires Mr. Potter's support. Explicitly demands it. Your evident strength can be misleading, such that people neglect to consider that being strong doesn't mean you aren't also hurt."
She knows he's talking from experience on that count, and only barely refrains from squeezing his hand in mutual commiseration.
Then she laughs, "Are you calling Ronald 'needy'?"
"Manifestly," he answers dryly.
The conversation is very atypical for him, but he's enjoying the exchange ('when it doesn't careen straight for the awkward'). He's a Slytherin, and they don't typically ask direct questions; it's the surest way to have to work harder for the answer. The answer probably won't be given when asked, and the other party, forewarned, will likely work against having it discovered by any other means, if only on principle. So this is an interesting change.
She's speaking to him like a trusted friend, and it's very unaccustomed. On occasion, Minerva will talk to him openly like this, but she's never this vulnerable. He wonders if this is the vulnerability of youth, or if this is something specific to Hermione. He neglects to consider that their interactions and his responses could have any effect on what she is willing to reveal, a telling oversight for an ex-spy. He's warming to their exchange, and wants more.
"Are you still hurt? Or have you come to terms with the separation from Mr. Weasley?" And the sap is completely certain he's now fishing, particularly given the shift in focus in his question, but is wise enough to hold his tongue, very tightly, as he'd like to hear the answer, too.
She's doesn't consider his question to be prying, certainly not after her unsolicited infodump and his unflagging support in its wake. He hasn't once criticized her or made her feel small, instead he's taken her side. She feels comfortable with him, answering, "No, I'm fine in that regard. It hurts more that he didn't fight for our friendship, or defend me to Molly and Ginny. The end of the relationship itself was a probably a relief. For us both. Especially because, initially, I think we both had hope that could mean salvaging our friendship. Now I sometimes question if we ever really had one.
"As far as the relationship," she shrugs. "We both had something of a revelation, simultaneously (he knows that won't have been the case; she'll have made Weasley see "the light"), that we were people with qualities to recommend us, but that the things that could arguably be considered our strongest suits were exactly the things the other didn't value in a partner. My thirst for knowledge, his..."
And he finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, really hard, in an effort to make no sound or expression in the least. ('Oh, do tell. What exactly are Mr. Weasley's strong suits.' 'Having turned in the Auror's robes, probably an old quidditch uniform.' 'Certainly not his dress robes...' He doesn't know when he has last found the sap so agreeable.) Occluding should have helped, but didn't in the least. If Voldemort had employed the young witch, Snape would never have lasted a week. He's become transparent, and Hermione can't help being amused.
"Ronald's a good deal more comfortable with his fame ('A fame whore! How bloody marvelous!' His smirk is visible. 'So we were probably correct across the board then...' 'But thankfully no infidelity.' 'No, no, thankfully not. That would have been a bridge too far.' 'Probably.'), the attention it," she gestures vaguely, but he knows what she means, "brings. The people it attracts. I must say I prefer being here and far removed from the limelight. Those two approaches don't marry well."
She says that, and it's very matter of fact. She's genuinely not bitter about that. It is as it is, and time has passed. Any hurt over dreams unrealized has long since faded, particularly with the recognition that they were never realistic to begin with.
He approves of her turn of phrase. Possibly for more reasons than one. "I shouldn't think they do. Rather disastrously, in fact. I had a bit of experience with the wizarding... public and the attention the press directed my way in the... aftermath. I've never thought less of my fellow man. Nearly robbed me of all faith in humanity." And his expression is so neutral and dignified and his tone so dry and...
And she can't help herself, she laughs! It starts low and small and grows and grows and just takes over. Suddenly her whole body is shaking with it. But she is quite evidently not laughing at him but with him... She remains standing for a heartfelt, full-bodied laugh, reaching out an arm to place it on his, in part to steady herself, but also to keep him from moving on without her, and he finds he appreciates both the gesture and the contact. And she's still laughing, and it looks... very becoming on her. He realizes it's been a while since he's seen her this relaxed, and can't help thinking that's a pity.
"Oh, oh that's rich! No, that's perfect! Perfect. Because you, naturally, you are so well known for your faith in humanity." At the utterly charming look on her face, he realizes he isn't offended in the least, and is baffled to find himself beginning to chuckle along with her.
"Far and wide, Madam. It's practically my defining characteristic. Severus Snape, Menschenfreund and Humanitarian Extraordinaire. Have we met?" He extends a hand in mock greeting.
And now they're both laughing. And with her free hand, she's pretending to shake his hand in greeting. And it's... pleasant. And a lovely change. He should do this more. They both should. The laughter subsides and still holding his arm, she looks at him earnestly, eyes opened wide.
"Oh, but you're right, the letters I received..." She shakes her head, looking somewhat concerned at the memory. "The insights they provided into other people... They were positively frightening."
"We're in absolute agreement there," he nods, fully composed and recovered from the laughing fit, but still more relaxed than she's seen him all evening. Or all term, for that matter. It suits him.
"I can't help wondering if Ronald received a different sort of attention, or if he is simply less... put off by the people who would have me off to a nunnery."
"If your owls were anything like mine and the authors thereof even remotely similar, I think the problem is that there are far too many people who would like very much to have you... in a nunnery," his eyebrow cocks somewhat suggestively, and she blushes slightly.
"Your meaning is taken, but antiquated." She swallows. Audibly. "I believe that definition has fallen out of use." She's not at all certain how scandalized she should be.
"Befitting the speaker... Apologies." He raises a long fingered hand in a placating gesture. "But I suspect you were correct on both counts. Mr. Weasley will attract a different sort of attention than either of us would and is, possibly, less discerning in nature than we are."
"Oh, thanks a lot. We did have an relationship you know."
He gives her a slightly evil grin, and she smiles again.
He debates asking her if she's jealous of the attention Weasley gets. From her demeanor, he's confident she is not in the least perturbed by it; quite the contrary, he's sure she'd rather get no public attention at all. Asking also appears decidedly un-Slytherin, which can have certain benefits. Posing the question additionally creates a situation in which she can come to know that he is aware she isn't feeling insecure about this. His serpentine reasoning dictates that that should make her more confident and comfortable after the fact, and for some rather complicated reasons, he wouldn't like for her to feel uneasy or embarrassed for having confided in him. The query alters her knowledge, if not his, and it should foster more openness that he is coming to think of as... positive. So with logic that is purely Slytherin, he does.
She's a bit surprised by the question, mostly because she'd have thought he'd guess her feelings on this matter, but also that he continues to be interested in hearing things she normally thinks of him as avoiding, but she doesn't hesitate to answer, "Oh no, not in the least, neither the publicity nor the appalling hordes of fame-chasing witches. He's welcome to it, and all the so-called fan mail I get, too. That would actually be a relief.
"The only aspect of it that bothers me at all, I suppose, is he seems less averse to the attention, and the net effect does some wretched things for his ego. It's as though he were getting a regular supply of external, and theoretically objective, confirmation as to his appeal, and once in a while I got the feeling he felt that put him in a better light than it did me. Frankly, I've found that simultaneously insulting and frustrating on more than one occasion.
"Sometimes, sometimes I think it would be nice to get some validation, too, but I'm positive nothing I want to hear will ever come through those channels."
The first he had expected, and the second comes as no surprise; Weasley's response was probable. It was truly unfortunate, and he had hoped it wouldn't be the case, but it also came as no great surprise that she herself should still feel such a need for validation. Truthfully, she always had. With report cards, OWLs, NEWTs and her mastery now all behind her, there was no longer a regular 'external, and theoretically objective, confirmation' of her skills and possible worth to her way of thinking. He was sorry she couldn't see herself through his eyes, or those of any of her other colleagues for that matter. He needed to give it some thought.
"And that, I'm afraid, in a nutshell would be the problem with being so truly unusual," he tells her gently, looking at her very kindly. "The commonplace never has any difficulty finding more of the same. It's the curse of the extraordinary that they are so few and far between. But would you wish to be any other way?"
She looks up at him, blinking, trying with a narrow margin of success to keep her eyes from misting up. It's been quite a day and her nerves are raw, and this is the nicest thing anyone has said to her in a long time. Such a pity she thinks the gist of it is that she is unlikely to find anyone to truly appreciate her anytime soon.
It's very likely that somewhere in the course of all this, they both question if they respectively are flirting with the other. Because neither one of them is apt to, both immediately reject that possibility: so improbable as to be virtually impossible. It is unfortunately also typical for both of them that neither one of them even remotely considers the possibility that the other one might be flirting with them in turn.
They walk in silence for a little bit, each lost in their thoughts. Severus is sorry he asked the question after all, because Hermione now seems sad and withdrawn, and he had hoped to achieve exactly the opposite. Somehow despite anticipating the answers, he still managed to misjudge the effect. He's mulling over how to set that right when Hermione takes over.
She had enjoyed the laughter, and has no desire to turn maudlin now. Thinking back to something he said earlier, she teases him hopefully, "Color me surprised to hear you mentioning Weasley ears. I should have thought that was a sore topic."
He looks at her, and blinks, shocked that she would make of joke of this, but unwilling to flinch in the face of a challenge, he responds dryly, "It was not George's ear with which I was concerned." And now she's blinking, and he marches on relentlessly, "And I do believe he now has a surfeit of extendable ones," he's gesturing grandly with those elegant hands, "and it should no longer be sore in any event." And it's so mischievous and off-color and naughty and somehow she can't help herself and laughs again. It isn't long before he joins in.
Intuiting the rules to this game she's never played, and apropos of nothing, or maybe it was the Weasleys' ears, when their laughter subsides she grins and says "Ginny's a Harpy."
Severus takes a beat and then smirks and doesn't disappoint, "Apparently she plays quidditch, as well." And then they're chuckling like a couple of first-years, the sort neither of them ever were, taking potshots with a friend, "us" against "them," and it's nice. Well, maybe not nice, it's fairly mean by Hermione's standards, but goodness is it fun. It undoubtedly helps Hermione's conscience that no one is there to hear them, and no one's feelings are hurt in the process. But it is nice not being the "them" for once. And it's very nice being the "us."
They continue in companionable silence for a ways, the castle now very close, before Hermione gives him an impenetrable look and begins, "Sorry, I'm trying to reason this through: you are considered the best spy the wizarding world has ever known. You are renowned for your information gathering skills." He can think of a couple of ways this is going to break, and none of them are particularly opportune for him.
"We see each other practically every single day, morning, noon and night." He waits for it. "How on earth could you think I'm still in a relationship with Ronald?"
He is struck suddenly by the realization that thinking of her in a relationship in the general sense seems a good deal less unpleasant than the image of her specifically with Weasley, but he senses that it is simultaneously somehow far more dangerous a line of thought and immediately moves on.
As does she, "Or anyone else for that matter? I think it may be an actual requirement of a relationship to see one another, or at least interact on occasion. When on earth do you think I've been conducting such a relationship?"
He wisely keeps his mouth shut. (His first thought is a mortified, 'She thinks I was fishing and is seeking proof.' 'About as well as a Gryffindor could.' 'Directly.') For an incredibly short moment he panics. And then he realizes she has just told him she's single. Unattached.
Available.
'Merlin.'
He quickly begins to assess whether that was a calculated reveal, and then immediately endeavors to think of that as little as humanly possible.
Fortunately, she's quick to distract him. "Or did you think I was canoodling with Hagrid?"
His eyebrows raise so high, they are in danger of disappearing into his hairline, but he prevails "That had crossed my mind, Hagrid the reprobate canoodler that he is," somehow the word 'canoodler' rolling off his tongue is twice as funny, "but I assumed you wouldn't wish to cross Olympe." He pauses a beat, and she looks up at him. "She'd make short work of you."
In response she merely raises an eyebrow in her best imitation of him, and at that they both stop walking and start laughing again. It's only the amazed looks on the faces of a small group of students rushing past, presumably hurrying to get back for dinner, that shake him out of it.
Reaching to pull him again into motion, she says "Come on then, let's go home." The castle somehow now seems much too close.
Joining her, he's reminded of her earlier comment vis-à-vis "home," and relying on the ease of their exchanges now dares to ask, "Before, when you mentioned the students going home, you were talking about anywhere but here. Where then is 'home' for you now?"
He's judged correctly. There's no pain at the question. She's still not offended by his curiosity, on the contrary, she takes it as a sign of a growing friendship between them, and without a trace of hurt or dissemblance easily answers, "Why here, of course. Where else? It's purely a frame of reference. They go to their homes. I'm at mine." And she smiles brightly.
He almost feels sorry for her, but hesitates because by extension it means he'd have to feel sorry for himself. Finally he decides it's because he would have wished for more for her. She deserved better.
She senses only some of what he's thinking and chuckles, "So we're in the same boat."
When his brow furrows in response, she laughs and gently rests her fingers on his arm again, "It's a fine boat," and she suddenly realizes, although she thinks of him as "Severus," he still hasn't offered to let her call him by his given name, and deciding discretion is the better part of valor, settles for "Professor, and it's quite seaworthy; do look more pleased. Now come on, let's go home. Dinner is waiting."
And with that she pulls him towards the doors and into the castle.
Notes:
Next Chapter:
Christmas Eve at Hogwarts and where do our favorite Professors go from here? Given Severus' preferred dance move is one step forward, three steps back, back, back preferably right into recalcitrant bits of greenery, we'll have to rely on Hermione to teach him some new moves.
A/N:
"Get thee to a nunnery" - Shakespeare, "Hamlet" - Well, there's some debate, and depending on which English / Literature instructor you have, "nunnery" means "convent," "brothel" or both. The difference is not immaterial, but amusing.
"Brevity is the soul of wit." - Shakespeare, "Hamlet"
"Discretion is the better part of valor." - Shakespeare, "Henry IV"