"Thank the Fae" by gingerbred Chapter 03
Yule be here for Christmas... Part 3
We discover that misery hasn't a clue how it feels about company, for Severus isn't as alone in this experience as he thinks. We catch up a bit with Hermione and find out what Neville has been doing.
Hermione still has a soft spot for elves, quelle surprise, and Serverus can't help shit stirring. He clearly needs a new pastime.
Originally Published: 2017-01-02 on AO3
Chapter: 3 / 13 of ?
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Notes:
Happy New Year, everyone!
Disclaimer:
I own bugger all and shan't profit in the least. All hail JKR, the source of all things Potter.
Last Chapter:
It's Professor Granger alright, and she's wearing a necklace crafted of woven ivy and bearing an unusual bouquet of evergreen boughs and wheat stalks dusted with flour, decorated with clove-spiked apples and oranges. Undoubtedly her tribute. ('It looks like Longbottom lent her a hand with that. I wonder what she told him it was for.') A fresh sprig of mistletoe is pinned to the chest of her dark green robes. With these accessories her presence here is clearly no more chance than his, and her lack of hesitation and familiarity with the terrain are sure signs that she is not here for the first time asking a boon, but like himself is paying tribute for one received.
('Interesting.')
Yule be here for Christmas... Part 3
Despite creeping so close that his Disillusionment Charm would probably be insufficient to keep him completely hidden from view ('if one were appropriately cautious'), or at least so that obscurity is no longer a given, he banks on the remoteness of the location to leave him undiscovered. He had noticed while in the glade that the sounds of the forest around him had receded, and conversely he finds himself unable to hear anything but short snatches of the conversations now taking place within. Jockeying for position, he can see a bit of what transpires between the young Arithmancer and the Fae.
Professor Granger approaches with a suitably deferential air ('but she tends towards the overly polite anyway' he thinks, almost offhandedly, before the sap laughs, 'like you'd be any judge of that.'). Once she reaches the table, she is greeted by Queen Mab and, as he had, passes her tribute to a member of Mab's party. Mab looks visibly pleased, words are exchanged. He can't help noticing that, unlike himself, Granger speaks with the Fae queen. His colleague seems respectful, but not intimidated, almost at ease or even pleased to be there. That could even be an air of wonder... (Try as he might, he can't seem to feel entirely comfortable in the Fae's presence. There's a momentary flash of envy before his attention is drawn back to the women in front of him.)
Mab is saying something about looking forward to Granger's visits, which makes sense, he considers. There's a difference between appreciation for the attention he pays the Fae, and actually finding themselves in company they enjoy. (He's not offended; he'd prefer Granger's presence to his own, too.) And then the Fae queen stands, and much as she had done with him, she reaches out and touches the young witch's face. He's not sure from this angle, but he has the feeling she might be stroking Granger's lips. ('Well, that's not odd in the least,' he snarks, distancing himself instinctively from any thoughts about Hermione's lips. But the sap can't seem to hold his tongue, 'certainly no more so than petting that beak of yours.' The sap is clearly in rare form today.)
Mab is speaking, and now oddly he can hear her more clearly. He should wonder why, but is too caught up in what she is saying; it's the same phrase Mab used with him. "I would see your happiness increased as a token of my favor." And then she says some more, but this once again is not clearly audible.
His skin prickles anew in apprehension at her words, this time in concern for his colleague. It doesn't occur to him that the same concern could or perhaps should be directed towards himself. That speaks both to how far his empathy has come since the war's end, and to the now deeply ingrained behavior he had exhibited for so long during the conflict: protecting others with no thought for himself. He is so distracted by his thoughts, that he fails to notice that the young woman has now turned to leave the clearing and is nearing the position where he stands disillusioned by the gap in the barrows. Immediately in her path.
As movement causes the Disillusionment Charm to flicker a bit, rendering the disillusioned more noticeable, he remains perfectly still. He practically holds his breath, although his Silencing Charms should make that unnecessary. The young witch passes very close to him indeed, but continues on without note. He almost exhales in relief; it's a gut reaction, which on the surface makes little sense. What harm would there have been in meeting her here? But before he can puzzle that through, Granger stops, turns and raises her wand. ('Circe.' He hadn't even seen her draw her wand. 'Good reflexes.') She's looking intently about, and he can feel her magic casting seeking spells about him, flowing past him. She has somehow sensed his presence and is obviously looking for him.
He rather likes that thought, even if it isn't personal.
"Who's there?" she calls out into the dark, her voice clear and steady, with not a hint of a tremble. The tip of her wand is now very bright with a silently cast Lumos. She's not yet afraid, but she's cautious. He likes that, too. No shrinking violet, a powerful witch in her own right, but no fool. The Forbidden Forest is a dangerous place, and they have both had to venture from the relative safety of the paths to reach the Fae's enclosure. Caution is a very appropriate response.
"Save us some time and show yourself," she calls out, and he feels waves of her magic rippling around, searching, searching. Some of the magic is decidedly grey, and he approves. Wholeheartedly. The ridiculous restrictions the Ministry likes to apply to "light" and "dark" magic anger him, almost unreasonably. He is very pleased to see one of the Golden Trio do what makes sense instead of what has arbitrarily been deemed "acceptable." He's not quite sure her approach would ultimately be successful - he's incredibly good at what he does, but his purpose here isn't to unsettle her. Briefly he thinks that it would be nice to be able to practice his art, sparring with a competent partner, but doesn't wish to worry her further. Disillusioning, he speaks to attract her attention, in the hope of not startling her.
"Good evening, Professor Granger."
Startled nevertheless, she quickly turns towards him before visibly relaxing completely, which tells him something about how she has come to view him since the war. (He, for his part, remains unsure that her blind trust is a good thing. 'Certainly not a sensible response.') That she doesn't have to turn far to face him is probably a testament to the efficacy of the spells she was casting ('or perhaps dumb luck').
"Good Yule, Professor Snape," she responds smiling easily, wand now lowered, but her Lumos still augmenting the meager moonlight. Although she can't possibly have the advantage he has of knowing that they have both sought out the Fae, she ('doubtlessly') takes a stab in the dark that his presence here serves the same purpose. It's lacking in subtlety, but she remains a Gryffindor, after all. ('Gryffindors.')
Not that it's as bad as Longbottom, who has since gone on to become Head of House in the tower, Severus can't help thinking and frowning imperceptibly, in addition to Longbottom's role as the new Herbology Professor. It is unusual for a professor with so little seniority to become a head of house ('if ever a house should select based on criteria of emotions alone... Who needs experience?' the sarcasm is practically palpable), but the war has left them (he doesn't notice his inclusive choice of pronoun) strapped for qualified personnel, those more senior seem often eager to slink off and lick their war wounds (he thinks this with a certain lack of generosity, overlooking entirely that he would have done exactly the same if practicable).
Granger blessedly declined to be considered for the Gryffindor Head position. It leaves her with more leeway in her treatment of students, and she shows noticeably less bias towards members of her house than she had been inclined to in days past. A decided relief. (He doesn't for a moment consider that favoritism of the Slytherin students used to be practically a defining characteristic of his. Had he done so, he'd have immediately defended his actions with counterbalancing the systemic abuse of power in favor of the Gryffindors on the part of a certain ex-Headmaster. ('Or what was Albus' excuse for the point manipulations?') In addition to simply being just, particularly as he was the only Slytherin on staff, it was all the more necessary to maintain his cover.)
To be fair, in the wake of the war Professor Snape has become a great deal more even in his treatment of his students. Truthfully, they all rather annoy him, half of the problem stemming from the course material, and the other half intrinsic to his pupils. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins ('in descending order of annoyance') all manage to try his last nerve, and he's ('nearly') as likely to take points from the one as the other. But he does have the best safety record of any Potions professor ever, all while his students consistently achieve higher OWLs and more NEWTs than those of any other wizarding school. Slughorn couldn't begin to dream of results like his. Something resembling pride flits across his face at the thought. It's definitely an improvement over the vague disdain that thinking of Longbottom seems to yield. It's unfortunate, of course, that Professor Granger has no way of knowing that's what she has made him think of when he gets that expression, but that escapes him completely.
His young colleague smirks slightly, recognizing that he has once again gotten lost in the rabbit warren of his mind. She is standing now practically in front of him, still smiling and appearing ('oddly') pleased to see him, and she shakes him from his thoughts, "Heading back to the castle? Care to join me? It's almost time for supper." And sounds not averse to his company. Strange.
He hasn't properly considered what to tell her, although he's had a few minutes now to think it through. He's given no thought to why he should say he was here, and now he finds himself a bit stuck. He lacks the palette of socially acceptable niceties that would extricate him smoothly from her company, and he seems strangely unwilling to give offense in light of her frankly warm greeting. (That he just moments ago thought of her company as a conceivably desirable thing is already long forgotten.) And so he unexpectedly finds himself nodding and turning with her to join her for the trip back to the castle. It half surprises them both.
"Indeed. It's getting cold and late, and I'm feeling a bit peckish," he hears himself saying, and knows it's utter rubbish. Neither of them should be able to feel the cold, if they're worth their salt and their Warming Charms are remotely competent. And that was definitely an over-share. ('Peckish,' he scoffs.)
But she doesn't seem to object to the drivel he's spewing, and together they begin to make their way back home. "I've noticed the food has been even better than usual this week," she chirps (he's certain that's called "chirping"). "I was wondering, is this the result of having fewer servings to prepare, given that most of the students and staff are home for the break, or are the elves putting in an extra effort for the holidays?"
So much about this makes him smile. (Yes, smile.) She's clearly bursting with curiosity to know what he was doing with the Fae. But she restrains herself and tries to make conversation instead. He almost laughs. It's delightful. He can see the exertion written plainly on her face. She's no Slytherin, she'll never be, but it's a good effort, he'll give her that. And then there's the completely breezy mention of elves. If he didn't ('very') clearly remember the SPEW debacle, he'd never guess that was one of her sticky wickets. She's clearly matured some, and it's a relief. And then there's the attempt at interactive conversation. She's not lecturing him, but politely asking his opinion. And he is so... pleased (yes: pleased), that he almost overlooks her use of the word "home" for anywhere but Hogwarts, and makes a mental note to ask her about that. But perhaps more subtly than she would.
"A bit of both, but more the latter than the former," he answers, treating her question as a serious enquiry. He still hasn't decided how he wants to handle the conversation respective the Fae, and he is enjoying watching her wrestle, with some success, with her near boundless curiosity.
She obviously still doesn't fully grasp how house elves work, and ever the pedagogue, he can't help trying to fill that gap. "The effort involved in feeding the entire student body and staff is hardly more than feeding the few of us who remain here during the break. There is fractionally more energy required for an elf to magically produce more of something. The primary drain lies in the different tasks. So making ten or a hundred beds versus one is not as energy intensive as making a bed and dusting the room, if you follow? The primary effort is in the visualization of the task. Once visualized, it is very nearly realized."
"So all the special order breakfasts put them out?" she asks, reaching the logical conclusion and sounding somewhat horrified, and he wonders if this was such a safe line of conversation after all. Too late. He's committed, and so he just goes for it.
"If you'd care to convey to the students that they should limit their requests in the future..." he dangles in front of her, aware that he might be creating a monster. She definitely looks mortified, but he can see the resolution already beginning to form on her face. Marvelous. He is reasonably certain that his gastronomic tastes are so close to the mainstream that he should be safe from any inconvenience this could conceivably cause. But the one or the other colleague with a fondness for esoteric coffee orders ('like Professor Granger herself,' he smirks) will doubtlessly find themselves guilted to action ('or inaction, as the case may be') in the near future. Oh, it's lovely. He makes a note to keep an eye on that, and begins formulating a bet with himself how long it will take before that plays out. ('And what are the chances that Minerva's black pudding and haggis will fall victim to the Great Granger House Elf Energy Conservation Measures of 2000?' he can't stifle a smile. 'Quite likely, I should say.') And the added beauty of it is, no one will hold him responsible for this particular ('and utterly avoidable') bit of chaos.
He has altogether too much free time on his hands and too little to challenge him since Voldemort's fall. If he doesn't watch it, he'll probably get in trouble. But he's not sure he'd mind that. He's beginning to develop an almost mischievous streak. Certainly by his standards. It is amazing what the absence of mad masters will do for one's spirits.
She's clearly disappeared down a rabbit hole of her own, and he decides to stop her before she goes any further and to use the opportunity to gather more information on his growing list of "things to clear." She and Longbottom are the only two new staff members this year, and although the Herbologist is a head of house, it hasn't escaped Severus' notice that Longbottom has not remained at Hogwarts for the holidays. He can't help wondering if the fact that Longbottom married Miss Abbott was the deciding factor in permitting him to skive off whilst requiring the less fortunate Miss Granger to remain. Surely she has loved ones with whom she would have preferred to celebrate the season. Although he has noticed that she seems to spend the vast majority of the holidays here, he isn't certain to what extent that was determined by her excelerated course of study (she finished her Arithmancy program in a record year and a half by working through all the breaks. 'Swot.'). This would have been her first holiday since completion of her Arithmancy Master, and he finds it noteworthy that she has been forced (?) to remain in the castle yet again. Worth pursuing, in any event.
"Was Minerva so unkind as to saddle you with holiday duty? I can't believe it of her. And she let Longbottom leave?" And... that makes it sound like he's more interested in Minerva's thought processes, and then defending her ('ha!'), so that's fine. Or was it too transparent after all?
"No," she answers with a soft laugh, "nothing so unfair as that. As Head of House, Neville would have had to stay for the holidays. I had no other plans, so I volunteered to stand in for him so he could spend the time with Hannah instead."
He pauses for a moment, wondering how she could not have had plans. He decides he would prefer to hear nothing about... Potter, and has absolutely no desire whatsoever to hear anything about her love life. He practically shudders at the thought. He chooses the clear choice, a guaranteed safe option, and almost blithely proceeds, "and didn't you wish to spend time with your parents for Christmas?"
The obvious pain in her eyes makes him wince. Literally. ('Merlin.' He is grievously out of practice.) He schools his face. ('So clearly not a safe choice then. Damn. What on earth happened?') He doesn't have to ask; she volunteers the information of her own accord. She tells him how she obliviated her own muggle parents during the thrice damned final year before the battle to keep them safe. How she sent them off abroad. How her plan worked, insofar as the Death Eaters were unable to find them, and she was able to locate them successfully in the weeks following the final battle. Except she had been unable to undo the spell, and... The story ends as tragedies must. Her parents were alive, but hadn't the foggiest notion who she was. Effectively, she was an orphan; alone. And that by her own hand. Voldemort had much to answer for.
Severus has been alone for so long that it no longer makes any difference to him (he tells himself almost convincingly), his parents long since passed, and that hadn't necessarily been a great loss either. But for someone from a loving family, as she so clearly was, that loss must have hurt a great deal. He's sorry he asked, sorry to have rubbed salt in her wounds. He wonders how come he didn't know about any of this, how he could have missed this. She was somehow diminished after the war; that much he had recognized. He just never knew why. And he hadn't asked. ('It wasn't my place...' but it feels weak. Unconvinced.) In his defense, he was probably still comatose while things were acute. (Is that sufficient, as defenses go?)
He contemplates why he hadn't heard anything about this in the interim. And then he realizes the obvious, and fleetingly feels (stunningly) dimwitted (and ignores absolutely the element of commonality such moments seem to have of late (and whose proximity)). He suddenly understands beyond a doubt why the issue with her parents has gone unmentioned. The young witch is incredibly lucky that she wasn't brought up on charges for this.
It's patently absurd, but no less true. And talking about the situation would only attract unwanted scrutiny. Which makes it all the more... significant that she was trusting him with her story. Merlin, she was literally handing him the keys to her continued freedom. He had had enough experience in recent years worrying about his own potential incarceration in the aftermath of his service as a double agent. It had provided him with ample opportunity to think long and hard about exactly the situation she might be facing. She did what she had to do. No one else would or could help, she acted to save lives - successfully, and now people might presume to judge her for it? To punish her for it? Just thinking about it made him angry. Livid. The Ministry had much to answer for. Perhaps he and Shacklebolt should have... words. He is almost sure of it.
And he wants to reassure her that it was indeed necessary. So very much so. That her actions absolutely and beyond any doubt to his own personal knowledge saved her parents' lives. That he knew for a fact that there were standing orders to kill her parents if found. Unpleasantly. That her sacrifice was worthwhile, unquestionably. He needs to make sure she understands how idiot-ridden the Ministry is and, to some extent, the Order was. That they should go to such ridiculous lengths to save Potter's loathsome Aunt Petunia and her wretched family, but leave Hermione's unprotected and vulnerable is beyond reasoning. And he continues with all the passion and fury these injustices and demonstrations of willful stupidity or outright incompetence bring out in him and he tells her... absolutely none of this. It's all in his head.
Pathetically, he manages a very weak, "I'm so very sorry for your loss," and then his voice, that voice, sort of strangles and... breaks.
And today he was being less of an ass... (sigh.)
But her Lumos is still going strong, and when he stopped, she did, too. Her arm raised almost reflexively, lighting his face. And she's looking at him, really looking, and he was right: he's gotten rusty. Because as those thoughts race and that tempest rages through him, she can see much of it play out on his face. She's not a legilimenz, and it's not all clear, but it's clear enough. He is so obviously angry on her behalf, and she's moved. Genuinely moved.
And so despite her evident pain, she smiles at him, and her smile is encouraging, accepting and... appreciative (?) for reasons he can't begin to fathom. In the least. And his thoughts have softened his demeanor... and that smile just does the rest.
He digs deep. Very deep. He pushes past his fractious and taciturn nature and reaches and then finds something he didn't even know he had within him and manages to tell her that she unequivocally saved her parents' lives, and she should take some consolation from that.
There.
And then she still looks receptive, grateful, and somehow he stretches his limits just that little bit more and actually opens his mouth and, perhaps a bit stiffly, says... that the Order should have protected her parents, and how unfair he thought the Ministry had been to her, and that they should have explicitly granted her a full pardon. And provided assistance, if only on principle. (It's not that he thinks there was anything to be done for her parents per se, but he feels very strongly that she shouldn't have been left to her own devices to try to sort it.) She deserved that. All of that. He somehow says all of that...
He blinks.
He swallows. Audibly. At the moment he barely recognizes himself. But he felt it should be said, and he's glad he did so.
It was maybe five or six sentences in total. ('And one was a run on, and another didn't meet the minimum requirements to qualify as a sentence.' 'Pedant.' He can virtually hear the smirk. 'Just what exactly would those requirements be...') And those sentences are not earth shattering or great, although vocabulary laden. But to her, right now, especially with the holidays approaching, it really means the world.
She's not a fool. In some ways she understands him in this situation better than he understands himself. She is certain, and correct in thinking, that he sees parallels between them. She can imagine that what he says in support of her stems at least in part from a latent wish that someone, anyone, had supported him in a similar fashion. But ultimately she is also sure that he completely believes the truth of everything he has just told her, and has done so because he considers it a moral imperative. It won't have been comfortable for him, and he did it anyway. That's quite something.
What he doesn't know is that through much of the period where the problems came to a head, she had struggled, and fiercely, not just with the Ministry but also with Harry. She had kept running into roadblocks and getting frustrated by the lack of support, all as comforting but useless noises were constantly being made by people demanding her unflagging support whilst providing none of their own. They were so eager to trot her out for official events, and then they would turn around and tell her how lucky she was that they hadn't convicted her.
She was losing her patience, and then Harry, Harry, kept telling her to try to see things from the Ministry's perspective. After all, she was indisputably guilty, and they could hardly afford to be seen as partial. And wasn't it really a stroke of exceptional good fortune that they hadn't succumbed to the pressure to make an example of her? And then she completely lost her rag and labeled him a Ministry apologist.
Except that last bit may have been all in her head.
Harry never knew how she felt about his lack of support; she didn't have the heart or the fight left in her to tell him. She kept it inside and slunk off back to Hogwarts and buried herself in her studies feeling more alone than ever before. And maybe Harry had a bit of a point, but frankly it's incredibly nice to have someone just take your side for once.
So she finds she can't stop looking at Severus. And he in turn is growing restless under her gaze.
And she stares at him.
She goggles. She makes a choking sound. And then in a flurry of movement she launches herself directly at him and her arms wrap tightly around his neck... And she's... hugging him.
His arms went up instinctively at the movement, and then realizing there was no imminent threat ('define "threat"!' something roars), just sort of hang there in the air for a breath before closing briefly, tentatively across her back, and he finds himself with a warm armful of witch.
Merlin.
Concrit appreciated, feedback, too. And who doesn't like a little love?
In the next chapter, our heroes aren't out of the woods yet... They still have a ways to the castle and are working diligently on defining awkward. Additionally, we get an update on miscellaneous redheads.
ETA: Slight change in plan, we skip the Weasley scoop in favor of a peek at what happened with Hermione and Queen Mab, and we get a chance to see things from Hermione's point of view.
A request for help, if anyone's inclined:
I am doing something wonky with the formatting. I use a tablet and usually have the option of clicking on something that makes the text appear larger on stories on AO3, except for, say, mine, where I can't. I'd google it, but I am clearly lacking the vocabulary to express it. (Googling "thingie" isn't all that helpful.) If anyone can point me in the right direction, I'd appreciate it. I'd love to get the HTML or whatever formatting right.
Cheers,
Ginger
We discover that misery hasn't a clue how it feels about company, for Severus isn't as alone in this experience as he thinks. We catch up a bit with Hermione and find out what Neville has been doing.
Hermione still has a soft spot for elves, quelle surprise, and Serverus can't help shit stirring. He clearly needs a new pastime.
Originally Published: 2017-01-02 on AO3
Chapter: 3 / 13 of ?
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Notes:
Happy New Year, everyone!
Disclaimer:
I own bugger all and shan't profit in the least. All hail JKR, the source of all things Potter.
Last Chapter:
It's Professor Granger alright, and she's wearing a necklace crafted of woven ivy and bearing an unusual bouquet of evergreen boughs and wheat stalks dusted with flour, decorated with clove-spiked apples and oranges. Undoubtedly her tribute. ('It looks like Longbottom lent her a hand with that. I wonder what she told him it was for.') A fresh sprig of mistletoe is pinned to the chest of her dark green robes. With these accessories her presence here is clearly no more chance than his, and her lack of hesitation and familiarity with the terrain are sure signs that she is not here for the first time asking a boon, but like himself is paying tribute for one received.
('Interesting.')
Yule be here for Christmas... Part 3
Despite creeping so close that his Disillusionment Charm would probably be insufficient to keep him completely hidden from view ('if one were appropriately cautious'), or at least so that obscurity is no longer a given, he banks on the remoteness of the location to leave him undiscovered. He had noticed while in the glade that the sounds of the forest around him had receded, and conversely he finds himself unable to hear anything but short snatches of the conversations now taking place within. Jockeying for position, he can see a bit of what transpires between the young Arithmancer and the Fae.
Professor Granger approaches with a suitably deferential air ('but she tends towards the overly polite anyway' he thinks, almost offhandedly, before the sap laughs, 'like you'd be any judge of that.'). Once she reaches the table, she is greeted by Queen Mab and, as he had, passes her tribute to a member of Mab's party. Mab looks visibly pleased, words are exchanged. He can't help noticing that, unlike himself, Granger speaks with the Fae queen. His colleague seems respectful, but not intimidated, almost at ease or even pleased to be there. That could even be an air of wonder... (Try as he might, he can't seem to feel entirely comfortable in the Fae's presence. There's a momentary flash of envy before his attention is drawn back to the women in front of him.)
Mab is saying something about looking forward to Granger's visits, which makes sense, he considers. There's a difference between appreciation for the attention he pays the Fae, and actually finding themselves in company they enjoy. (He's not offended; he'd prefer Granger's presence to his own, too.) And then the Fae queen stands, and much as she had done with him, she reaches out and touches the young witch's face. He's not sure from this angle, but he has the feeling she might be stroking Granger's lips. ('Well, that's not odd in the least,' he snarks, distancing himself instinctively from any thoughts about Hermione's lips. But the sap can't seem to hold his tongue, 'certainly no more so than petting that beak of yours.' The sap is clearly in rare form today.)
Mab is speaking, and now oddly he can hear her more clearly. He should wonder why, but is too caught up in what she is saying; it's the same phrase Mab used with him. "I would see your happiness increased as a token of my favor." And then she says some more, but this once again is not clearly audible.
His skin prickles anew in apprehension at her words, this time in concern for his colleague. It doesn't occur to him that the same concern could or perhaps should be directed towards himself. That speaks both to how far his empathy has come since the war's end, and to the now deeply ingrained behavior he had exhibited for so long during the conflict: protecting others with no thought for himself. He is so distracted by his thoughts, that he fails to notice that the young woman has now turned to leave the clearing and is nearing the position where he stands disillusioned by the gap in the barrows. Immediately in her path.
As movement causes the Disillusionment Charm to flicker a bit, rendering the disillusioned more noticeable, he remains perfectly still. He practically holds his breath, although his Silencing Charms should make that unnecessary. The young witch passes very close to him indeed, but continues on without note. He almost exhales in relief; it's a gut reaction, which on the surface makes little sense. What harm would there have been in meeting her here? But before he can puzzle that through, Granger stops, turns and raises her wand. ('Circe.' He hadn't even seen her draw her wand. 'Good reflexes.') She's looking intently about, and he can feel her magic casting seeking spells about him, flowing past him. She has somehow sensed his presence and is obviously looking for him.
He rather likes that thought, even if it isn't personal.
"Who's there?" she calls out into the dark, her voice clear and steady, with not a hint of a tremble. The tip of her wand is now very bright with a silently cast Lumos. She's not yet afraid, but she's cautious. He likes that, too. No shrinking violet, a powerful witch in her own right, but no fool. The Forbidden Forest is a dangerous place, and they have both had to venture from the relative safety of the paths to reach the Fae's enclosure. Caution is a very appropriate response.
"Save us some time and show yourself," she calls out, and he feels waves of her magic rippling around, searching, searching. Some of the magic is decidedly grey, and he approves. Wholeheartedly. The ridiculous restrictions the Ministry likes to apply to "light" and "dark" magic anger him, almost unreasonably. He is very pleased to see one of the Golden Trio do what makes sense instead of what has arbitrarily been deemed "acceptable." He's not quite sure her approach would ultimately be successful - he's incredibly good at what he does, but his purpose here isn't to unsettle her. Briefly he thinks that it would be nice to be able to practice his art, sparring with a competent partner, but doesn't wish to worry her further. Disillusioning, he speaks to attract her attention, in the hope of not startling her.
"Good evening, Professor Granger."
Startled nevertheless, she quickly turns towards him before visibly relaxing completely, which tells him something about how she has come to view him since the war. (He, for his part, remains unsure that her blind trust is a good thing. 'Certainly not a sensible response.') That she doesn't have to turn far to face him is probably a testament to the efficacy of the spells she was casting ('or perhaps dumb luck').
"Good Yule, Professor Snape," she responds smiling easily, wand now lowered, but her Lumos still augmenting the meager moonlight. Although she can't possibly have the advantage he has of knowing that they have both sought out the Fae, she ('doubtlessly') takes a stab in the dark that his presence here serves the same purpose. It's lacking in subtlety, but she remains a Gryffindor, after all. ('Gryffindors.')
Not that it's as bad as Longbottom, who has since gone on to become Head of House in the tower, Severus can't help thinking and frowning imperceptibly, in addition to Longbottom's role as the new Herbology Professor. It is unusual for a professor with so little seniority to become a head of house ('if ever a house should select based on criteria of emotions alone... Who needs experience?' the sarcasm is practically palpable), but the war has left them (he doesn't notice his inclusive choice of pronoun) strapped for qualified personnel, those more senior seem often eager to slink off and lick their war wounds (he thinks this with a certain lack of generosity, overlooking entirely that he would have done exactly the same if practicable).
Granger blessedly declined to be considered for the Gryffindor Head position. It leaves her with more leeway in her treatment of students, and she shows noticeably less bias towards members of her house than she had been inclined to in days past. A decided relief. (He doesn't for a moment consider that favoritism of the Slytherin students used to be practically a defining characteristic of his. Had he done so, he'd have immediately defended his actions with counterbalancing the systemic abuse of power in favor of the Gryffindors on the part of a certain ex-Headmaster. ('Or what was Albus' excuse for the point manipulations?') In addition to simply being just, particularly as he was the only Slytherin on staff, it was all the more necessary to maintain his cover.)
To be fair, in the wake of the war Professor Snape has become a great deal more even in his treatment of his students. Truthfully, they all rather annoy him, half of the problem stemming from the course material, and the other half intrinsic to his pupils. Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins ('in descending order of annoyance') all manage to try his last nerve, and he's ('nearly') as likely to take points from the one as the other. But he does have the best safety record of any Potions professor ever, all while his students consistently achieve higher OWLs and more NEWTs than those of any other wizarding school. Slughorn couldn't begin to dream of results like his. Something resembling pride flits across his face at the thought. It's definitely an improvement over the vague disdain that thinking of Longbottom seems to yield. It's unfortunate, of course, that Professor Granger has no way of knowing that's what she has made him think of when he gets that expression, but that escapes him completely.
His young colleague smirks slightly, recognizing that he has once again gotten lost in the rabbit warren of his mind. She is standing now practically in front of him, still smiling and appearing ('oddly') pleased to see him, and she shakes him from his thoughts, "Heading back to the castle? Care to join me? It's almost time for supper." And sounds not averse to his company. Strange.
He hasn't properly considered what to tell her, although he's had a few minutes now to think it through. He's given no thought to why he should say he was here, and now he finds himself a bit stuck. He lacks the palette of socially acceptable niceties that would extricate him smoothly from her company, and he seems strangely unwilling to give offense in light of her frankly warm greeting. (That he just moments ago thought of her company as a conceivably desirable thing is already long forgotten.) And so he unexpectedly finds himself nodding and turning with her to join her for the trip back to the castle. It half surprises them both.
"Indeed. It's getting cold and late, and I'm feeling a bit peckish," he hears himself saying, and knows it's utter rubbish. Neither of them should be able to feel the cold, if they're worth their salt and their Warming Charms are remotely competent. And that was definitely an over-share. ('Peckish,' he scoffs.)
But she doesn't seem to object to the drivel he's spewing, and together they begin to make their way back home. "I've noticed the food has been even better than usual this week," she chirps (he's certain that's called "chirping"). "I was wondering, is this the result of having fewer servings to prepare, given that most of the students and staff are home for the break, or are the elves putting in an extra effort for the holidays?"
So much about this makes him smile. (Yes, smile.) She's clearly bursting with curiosity to know what he was doing with the Fae. But she restrains herself and tries to make conversation instead. He almost laughs. It's delightful. He can see the exertion written plainly on her face. She's no Slytherin, she'll never be, but it's a good effort, he'll give her that. And then there's the completely breezy mention of elves. If he didn't ('very') clearly remember the SPEW debacle, he'd never guess that was one of her sticky wickets. She's clearly matured some, and it's a relief. And then there's the attempt at interactive conversation. She's not lecturing him, but politely asking his opinion. And he is so... pleased (yes: pleased), that he almost overlooks her use of the word "home" for anywhere but Hogwarts, and makes a mental note to ask her about that. But perhaps more subtly than she would.
"A bit of both, but more the latter than the former," he answers, treating her question as a serious enquiry. He still hasn't decided how he wants to handle the conversation respective the Fae, and he is enjoying watching her wrestle, with some success, with her near boundless curiosity.
She obviously still doesn't fully grasp how house elves work, and ever the pedagogue, he can't help trying to fill that gap. "The effort involved in feeding the entire student body and staff is hardly more than feeding the few of us who remain here during the break. There is fractionally more energy required for an elf to magically produce more of something. The primary drain lies in the different tasks. So making ten or a hundred beds versus one is not as energy intensive as making a bed and dusting the room, if you follow? The primary effort is in the visualization of the task. Once visualized, it is very nearly realized."
"So all the special order breakfasts put them out?" she asks, reaching the logical conclusion and sounding somewhat horrified, and he wonders if this was such a safe line of conversation after all. Too late. He's committed, and so he just goes for it.
"If you'd care to convey to the students that they should limit their requests in the future..." he dangles in front of her, aware that he might be creating a monster. She definitely looks mortified, but he can see the resolution already beginning to form on her face. Marvelous. He is reasonably certain that his gastronomic tastes are so close to the mainstream that he should be safe from any inconvenience this could conceivably cause. But the one or the other colleague with a fondness for esoteric coffee orders ('like Professor Granger herself,' he smirks) will doubtlessly find themselves guilted to action ('or inaction, as the case may be') in the near future. Oh, it's lovely. He makes a note to keep an eye on that, and begins formulating a bet with himself how long it will take before that plays out. ('And what are the chances that Minerva's black pudding and haggis will fall victim to the Great Granger House Elf Energy Conservation Measures of 2000?' he can't stifle a smile. 'Quite likely, I should say.') And the added beauty of it is, no one will hold him responsible for this particular ('and utterly avoidable') bit of chaos.
He has altogether too much free time on his hands and too little to challenge him since Voldemort's fall. If he doesn't watch it, he'll probably get in trouble. But he's not sure he'd mind that. He's beginning to develop an almost mischievous streak. Certainly by his standards. It is amazing what the absence of mad masters will do for one's spirits.
She's clearly disappeared down a rabbit hole of her own, and he decides to stop her before she goes any further and to use the opportunity to gather more information on his growing list of "things to clear." She and Longbottom are the only two new staff members this year, and although the Herbologist is a head of house, it hasn't escaped Severus' notice that Longbottom has not remained at Hogwarts for the holidays. He can't help wondering if the fact that Longbottom married Miss Abbott was the deciding factor in permitting him to skive off whilst requiring the less fortunate Miss Granger to remain. Surely she has loved ones with whom she would have preferred to celebrate the season. Although he has noticed that she seems to spend the vast majority of the holidays here, he isn't certain to what extent that was determined by her excelerated course of study (she finished her Arithmancy program in a record year and a half by working through all the breaks. 'Swot.'). This would have been her first holiday since completion of her Arithmancy Master, and he finds it noteworthy that she has been forced (?) to remain in the castle yet again. Worth pursuing, in any event.
"Was Minerva so unkind as to saddle you with holiday duty? I can't believe it of her. And she let Longbottom leave?" And... that makes it sound like he's more interested in Minerva's thought processes, and then defending her ('ha!'), so that's fine. Or was it too transparent after all?
"No," she answers with a soft laugh, "nothing so unfair as that. As Head of House, Neville would have had to stay for the holidays. I had no other plans, so I volunteered to stand in for him so he could spend the time with Hannah instead."
He pauses for a moment, wondering how she could not have had plans. He decides he would prefer to hear nothing about... Potter, and has absolutely no desire whatsoever to hear anything about her love life. He practically shudders at the thought. He chooses the clear choice, a guaranteed safe option, and almost blithely proceeds, "and didn't you wish to spend time with your parents for Christmas?"
The obvious pain in her eyes makes him wince. Literally. ('Merlin.' He is grievously out of practice.) He schools his face. ('So clearly not a safe choice then. Damn. What on earth happened?') He doesn't have to ask; she volunteers the information of her own accord. She tells him how she obliviated her own muggle parents during the thrice damned final year before the battle to keep them safe. How she sent them off abroad. How her plan worked, insofar as the Death Eaters were unable to find them, and she was able to locate them successfully in the weeks following the final battle. Except she had been unable to undo the spell, and... The story ends as tragedies must. Her parents were alive, but hadn't the foggiest notion who she was. Effectively, she was an orphan; alone. And that by her own hand. Voldemort had much to answer for.
Severus has been alone for so long that it no longer makes any difference to him (he tells himself almost convincingly), his parents long since passed, and that hadn't necessarily been a great loss either. But for someone from a loving family, as she so clearly was, that loss must have hurt a great deal. He's sorry he asked, sorry to have rubbed salt in her wounds. He wonders how come he didn't know about any of this, how he could have missed this. She was somehow diminished after the war; that much he had recognized. He just never knew why. And he hadn't asked. ('It wasn't my place...' but it feels weak. Unconvinced.) In his defense, he was probably still comatose while things were acute. (Is that sufficient, as defenses go?)
He contemplates why he hadn't heard anything about this in the interim. And then he realizes the obvious, and fleetingly feels (stunningly) dimwitted (and ignores absolutely the element of commonality such moments seem to have of late (and whose proximity)). He suddenly understands beyond a doubt why the issue with her parents has gone unmentioned. The young witch is incredibly lucky that she wasn't brought up on charges for this.
It's patently absurd, but no less true. And talking about the situation would only attract unwanted scrutiny. Which makes it all the more... significant that she was trusting him with her story. Merlin, she was literally handing him the keys to her continued freedom. He had had enough experience in recent years worrying about his own potential incarceration in the aftermath of his service as a double agent. It had provided him with ample opportunity to think long and hard about exactly the situation she might be facing. She did what she had to do. No one else would or could help, she acted to save lives - successfully, and now people might presume to judge her for it? To punish her for it? Just thinking about it made him angry. Livid. The Ministry had much to answer for. Perhaps he and Shacklebolt should have... words. He is almost sure of it.
And he wants to reassure her that it was indeed necessary. So very much so. That her actions absolutely and beyond any doubt to his own personal knowledge saved her parents' lives. That he knew for a fact that there were standing orders to kill her parents if found. Unpleasantly. That her sacrifice was worthwhile, unquestionably. He needs to make sure she understands how idiot-ridden the Ministry is and, to some extent, the Order was. That they should go to such ridiculous lengths to save Potter's loathsome Aunt Petunia and her wretched family, but leave Hermione's unprotected and vulnerable is beyond reasoning. And he continues with all the passion and fury these injustices and demonstrations of willful stupidity or outright incompetence bring out in him and he tells her... absolutely none of this. It's all in his head.
Pathetically, he manages a very weak, "I'm so very sorry for your loss," and then his voice, that voice, sort of strangles and... breaks.
And today he was being less of an ass... (sigh.)
But her Lumos is still going strong, and when he stopped, she did, too. Her arm raised almost reflexively, lighting his face. And she's looking at him, really looking, and he was right: he's gotten rusty. Because as those thoughts race and that tempest rages through him, she can see much of it play out on his face. She's not a legilimenz, and it's not all clear, but it's clear enough. He is so obviously angry on her behalf, and she's moved. Genuinely moved.
And so despite her evident pain, she smiles at him, and her smile is encouraging, accepting and... appreciative (?) for reasons he can't begin to fathom. In the least. And his thoughts have softened his demeanor... and that smile just does the rest.
He digs deep. Very deep. He pushes past his fractious and taciturn nature and reaches and then finds something he didn't even know he had within him and manages to tell her that she unequivocally saved her parents' lives, and she should take some consolation from that.
There.
And then she still looks receptive, grateful, and somehow he stretches his limits just that little bit more and actually opens his mouth and, perhaps a bit stiffly, says... that the Order should have protected her parents, and how unfair he thought the Ministry had been to her, and that they should have explicitly granted her a full pardon. And provided assistance, if only on principle. (It's not that he thinks there was anything to be done for her parents per se, but he feels very strongly that she shouldn't have been left to her own devices to try to sort it.) She deserved that. All of that. He somehow says all of that...
He blinks.
He swallows. Audibly. At the moment he barely recognizes himself. But he felt it should be said, and he's glad he did so.
It was maybe five or six sentences in total. ('And one was a run on, and another didn't meet the minimum requirements to qualify as a sentence.' 'Pedant.' He can virtually hear the smirk. 'Just what exactly would those requirements be...') And those sentences are not earth shattering or great, although vocabulary laden. But to her, right now, especially with the holidays approaching, it really means the world.
She's not a fool. In some ways she understands him in this situation better than he understands himself. She is certain, and correct in thinking, that he sees parallels between them. She can imagine that what he says in support of her stems at least in part from a latent wish that someone, anyone, had supported him in a similar fashion. But ultimately she is also sure that he completely believes the truth of everything he has just told her, and has done so because he considers it a moral imperative. It won't have been comfortable for him, and he did it anyway. That's quite something.
What he doesn't know is that through much of the period where the problems came to a head, she had struggled, and fiercely, not just with the Ministry but also with Harry. She had kept running into roadblocks and getting frustrated by the lack of support, all as comforting but useless noises were constantly being made by people demanding her unflagging support whilst providing none of their own. They were so eager to trot her out for official events, and then they would turn around and tell her how lucky she was that they hadn't convicted her.
She was losing her patience, and then Harry, Harry, kept telling her to try to see things from the Ministry's perspective. After all, she was indisputably guilty, and they could hardly afford to be seen as partial. And wasn't it really a stroke of exceptional good fortune that they hadn't succumbed to the pressure to make an example of her? And then she completely lost her rag and labeled him a Ministry apologist.
Except that last bit may have been all in her head.
Harry never knew how she felt about his lack of support; she didn't have the heart or the fight left in her to tell him. She kept it inside and slunk off back to Hogwarts and buried herself in her studies feeling more alone than ever before. And maybe Harry had a bit of a point, but frankly it's incredibly nice to have someone just take your side for once.
So she finds she can't stop looking at Severus. And he in turn is growing restless under her gaze.
And she stares at him.
She goggles. She makes a choking sound. And then in a flurry of movement she launches herself directly at him and her arms wrap tightly around his neck... And she's... hugging him.
His arms went up instinctively at the movement, and then realizing there was no imminent threat ('define "threat"!' something roars), just sort of hang there in the air for a breath before closing briefly, tentatively across her back, and he finds himself with a warm armful of witch.
Merlin.
Concrit appreciated, feedback, too. And who doesn't like a little love?
In the next chapter, our heroes aren't out of the woods yet... They still have a ways to the castle and are working diligently on defining awkward. Additionally, we get an update on miscellaneous redheads.
ETA: Slight change in plan, we skip the Weasley scoop in favor of a peek at what happened with Hermione and Queen Mab, and we get a chance to see things from Hermione's point of view.
A request for help, if anyone's inclined:
I am doing something wonky with the formatting. I use a tablet and usually have the option of clicking on something that makes the text appear larger on stories on AO3, except for, say, mine, where I can't. I'd google it, but I am clearly lacking the vocabulary to express it. (Googling "thingie" isn't all that helpful.) If anyone can point me in the right direction, I'd appreciate it. I'd love to get the HTML or whatever formatting right.
Cheers,
Ginger