Birthday Fic for Bluey (1/2): By the Book
Title: By the Book
Author: Mundungus42
Length/Word Count: 7,500 (part 1)
Pairing: SS/HG
Rating: PG-13 for a wee bit of language
Disclaimer: © 2011 Mundungus42. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by JKR or any other lawful holder. Permission may be obtained by e-mailing the author at mundungus42 at yahoo dot com
Author’s Notes: For bluestocking79, who prompted me thus: You know the concept of floriography, or the language of flowers, frequently used for courting. Well, how about a bibliography? In other words, Hermione and Severus banter/tease/woo each other through the language of books, using book titles, motifs and themes, quotes and excerpts or highlighted/marked out passages, exchanged with one another over the course of the story.
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They met in the library. Not for the first time, of course, but for the most important time.
Hermione had been up and down the same aisle four times already, and the black ink with which she’d written the call number on the back of her hand was beginning to feather into illegilibility. She let out a huff of annoyance. The only other extant copy of the book she sought was in private ownership in Rwanda, and the librarian assured her that it was currently in the library. So why was Haverkort’s autobiography not on the shelf where it was supposed to be between his Almanac of Chronocryptology and Colour by Numbers?
She finally accepted that the book was not where it was supposed to be, and as much as she hated to bother the librarian again, she needed the book. She straightened her robes, tucked several errant curls behind her ear, and attempted to look like the serious academic that this paper, if she could get all of her sources in order and pass peer review, would make her.
She stepped from the aisle to the assemblage of tables, all illuminated by the warm glow of flameless lamps, and paused. One table at the far end of the room was piled high with books, but whomever had collected them was nowhere to be seen. Hermione glanced over her shoulder, where the librarian at the circulation desk was fixing the binding of an older volume, then around at the rest of the library, which was deserted, since the library was closing in a few minutes. Someone had probably left the books there and gone home to supper. Now resolved, Hermione made a beeline for the table.
When she saw the titles of the first books, her heart sank. Symbolum Novum, A Practical Guide to Spectral Analysis, and even Unlocking Colour; all books that were already part of her works cited. Someone was not only working in the same small field that she was, someone was quite possibly working on the same question as she was. She felt the first stirrings of panic. What if this unknown researcher worked out a solution before she did? And worse, what if he or she published first in a better journal?
The solution, Hermione was convinced, was hidden in Haverkort’s autobiography, and she knew with certainty that it would be in this hoard. She began moving the piles of books, examining both spines and signatures to ensure that she wouldn’t overlook it accidentally. Finally, at the bottom of the pile she encountered an old book bound in what had once been bright red cloth that had faded to an orangey pink. The gold leaf had long since been rubbed from the cover, but she could still read Haverkort’s name embossed in the spine. At last!
Hermione clasped the volume to her chest, heart soaring, and spun towards the circulation desk only to encounter a wall of black robes and crossed arms.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing with my book?” exclaimed an angry voice.
“I- I-“ stammered Hermione, horribly embarrassed to have unwittingly breached library protocol. She couldn’t even look at the man who was looming over her. “I’m terribly sorry, I thought these books had been left behind.”
“Well, clearly, they weren’t,” he said, making to snatch the book from her hands. But when his fingers closed over the volume, a wild impulse made her hold on.
“I am really very sorry,” she said, resolve breaking through her chagrin, “but I need this book.” She raised her eyes to her interlocutor’s face and very nearly let go of the book.
Severus Snape was glaring at her with the kind of antipathy he had once reserved for Neville Longbottom’s cauldrons. “So do I,” he said shortly, crossing his arms. “Give it to me now.”
Hermione glanced at the pile. “You have dozens of books here,” she pointed out. “It’ll take you weeks to get through them all. I only need this book for a few days.”
“I had the book first, Miss Granger,” he said. “You will give it to me now, or I will summon the librarian.”
“Be reasonable, Severus,” she pleaded, taking a small measure of satisfaction from the way he stiffened at hearing her address him by his given name.
“I am being reasonable,” he said. “Has it occurred to you that I might have good reason to keep you away from that particular book?”
“You cannot be this petty,” she exclaimed, exasperated.
“It is hardly pettiness to preserve my proprietary data,” he said stiffly. “A number of irreplaceable notes lie within that book’s leaves.”
“I couldn’t care less about your proprietary data,” she huffed. “I’m working on my own conclusions, thanks very much.”
He gave her an appraising look, and Hermione did her best not to look as mulish as she was feeling.
“With whom are you studying?” he asked.
“Coggeshaw,” she said, half daring him to sneer.
“He must not think very highly of you if he gave you this project to work on,” observed Severus. “If you want the Haverkort for the reason I think you want the Haverkort, it’s a problem Coggeshaw stopped working on back when the Beatles were still together.”
“He said that if anybody could suss out the relationship between wavelength and spell effect, I could,” she said, allowing herself a moment of pride before realising that she’d just told Snape exactly what she was attempting to do.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice her mistake. Or perhaps he already knew. “I wouldn’t place much stock in the words of a defeatist and a simpleton.”
“He didn’t give it up because the problem was insoluble,” she belatedly protested. “It was a matter of what work he could get funding for.”
“Take the hint, Granger. Colour theory isn’t sexy in the least and you’re far better off in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes.”
“I might consider taking your advice if you weren’t working in the same field. As it is, your advice reeks of self-interest.”
“Are you deliberately being dense?” he demanded. “Having a bright young mind in the field would be the best thing for it. But this field is all but dead, Granger. You want something more active that doesn’t involve mouldering away in a library.”
Hermione wondered if his memory was faulty, given that her default setting was “mouldering away in a library.” “So telling me to sod off and get out of your life is a wholly altruistic gesture?” she asked sarcastically.
“Getting you out of my life is merely the frosting on the cake,” he said grimly.
“Look, since neither of us wants to have anything to do with one another but we both need this book, I suggest we take turns. I’ll take it today, you have it tomorrow, and so on.”
Snape looked as if he were considering her proposal for a moment. “No.”
Hermione scowled. He was going to regret his obstinacy. “I think I’m being more than generous,” she said, “considering that the book is not currently checked out or reserved and I’m holding it in my hands.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Why you deceitful little-“
Hermione took several protective steps backward. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said, seizing the book by its spine spreading the covers and shaking vigorously. A number of papers covered with notes in his sharp script fell from the book’s pages. “I really don’t need your notes.”
“Granger, if you take one more step towards the circulation desk, I will hex you into next week.”
“Go ahead if you want to be banned from this library for life,” she said, taking a deliberate step towards the librarian, who had ceased in his book repair and was watching the standoff with interest. “And think what you like about me, but I promise you’ll have the book back tomorrow.”
“What is a Gryffindor’s assurance worth?” he asked, his cheeks pale with fury.
Hermione glee at having pulled one over on Snape evaporated when she heard the impotent bitterness in his question. “That is entirely up to you to decide,” she said seriously.
She felt his eyes on her as she went to the librarian’s desk and checked out Haverkort’s autobiography.
On paper at least, it was now hers for three weeks. If Snape failed to return the book, she could use the library’s recall magic to get it back. She mostly trusted him, but he hadn’t exactly agreed to the arrangement. And long experience taught her that when dealing with Slytherins, one would need every ace that could fit up one’s sleeve.
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Despite the autobiography’s thin profile, Hermione was dismayed to find that like her old beaded bag, the binding had an Undetectable Expanding Charm on it. The manuscript was actually several thousand pages long. Upon reflection, she concluded that ought to have known that from the profusion of notes that had fallen out. Well, there was nothing for it- she was going to have to share the book with the old grouch for significantly longer than she’d intended. She almost wished her conscience would allow her to simply keep it for the entire three weeks, but knew herself too well for that.
She sighed heavily and began to read, taking copious notes in her notebook so she wouldn’t have to go back and erase her usual light pencil markings. The print was tiny, and Haverort seemed far more interested in name-dropping and revisiting his greatest hits than talking about actual science. Fortunately, she was able to skim the years of his life that proceeded his apprenticeship in Cornwall.
It was in the midst of that line of inquiry that the question occurred to me like the flash of light that signals that Wolfsbane potion has been made properly. Why is it that the most powerful potions appear so very different from potions with everyday or domestic uses? Wherefore the golden sheen of Felix Felicis or the ever-changing surface of Amortensia? And in spells, which often produce light or sound as a side-effect, why are some simple primary colours, such as the red of Stunning Spells and others are the violent shades of St. Elmo’s fire, like the Killing Curse or the spectacular silver sheen of a summoned Patronus? The Muggle science of optics explains that objects appear to be a certain colours because certain wavelengths of light are absorbed and reflected. What is it then of Magic that makes it visible, that makes it emit, reflect, and absorb light so as to appear a certain way to our eyes? And is there a correlation between the wavelength and potency of the Magic? These questions that occurred to me that chilly November evening in the empty stands of Ballycastle have never left me, and while I have by no means answered them definitively, I flatter myself that I have demonstrated in a small way that these questions do have answers, and the direction of experimentation in this modern age gives me hope that they will be discovered soon.
Hermione sighed, noting that it was getting late and Harry and Ron would be expecting her for their weekly overindulgence in beer and tenpin bowling. She wished she’d had the good sense to call it off when she got home, but there was nothing for it. Perhaps she’d claim she had a headache and come home while she was still relatively sober.
She slid her bookmark into the book where she had finished reading and fingered its worn edge. The bookmark was from the book seller that her parents used to take her as a special treat, usually for doing well in school. They’d had an entire series of brightly-coloured bookmarks to choose from. Hermione’s six-year-old self had always loved cats, which is why she’d chosen the one emblazoned with a tiger, over which was inscribed a bit from a famous poem concerning them.
When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Hermione closed the book and stretched her arms above her head and ran through the dear words of the poem in her mind as she dressed to meet her friends. “What the hand dare seize the fire,” she said to herself, patting her bushy hair into a semblance of order.
“You’d best be wondering about what the hand dare seize the hairbrush,” commented the mirror.
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The next morning, Hermione sent mental thanks to herself in the moments before Apparating to the Dog’s Bollocks, in which she’d had the foresight to place a glass of water, a phial of Madam Ginger’s Hangover-Be-Gone, an owl whistle, Haverkort’s autobiography, and a small pile of owl treats next to her bed. After thirstily drinking the water and potion, she blew the whistle to summon the nearest post owl, and sent the book off to Severus. It was late morning, so she fixed herself a cup of tea and limped into the study to examine her notes from the day before.
She sat, cogitating, occasionally blowing over the steaming surface of her drink, willing her brain to work. The autobiography certainly had promise, but she had doubts. Haverkort had single-handedly invented the field of spectral analysis based on the same questions she was attempting to answer. He had had a long and fruitful research career and had been awarded an Order of Merlin, Third Class for his contributions to Magical Theory, but he had never satisfactorily defined the relationship between wavelength and spell power, for all that his results suggested that there was a connection.
What meagre funding her advisor possessed were being spent on basic research, and in order to justify further expenditure, Hermione had taken it upon herself to go back to the drawing board and do her best to understand the way Haverkort had chosen what avenues to explore and why. She strongly suspected that the technology now available would make all the difference, and if she could understand how he'd deliberately shaped the field, then it would be possible to see what he'd missed. Her confidence wavered slightly when she thought about Severus Snape. Coggeshaw, her Mastery advisor, would be fascinated to know that England’s most infamous mind was now looking at a problem he’d given up on decades ago. But she wasn’t about to cede the ground to him, his reputation notwithstanding, especially when he had essentially tried to send her on her way. This was her field, and if he thought he was going to scoop her, he had another think coming.
She felt a certain amount of satisfaction gazing at her own pages and pages of neat, well-organized notes. Honestly, the man wasn’t likely to be much of a threat, judging by the disarray of his work. But then again, it wouldn’t do to underestimate him. Dumbledore and Voldemort clearly had, and he had outlasted them both through cunning and sheer nerve.
Despite the efficacy of the potion she had consumed, she was still feeling more than a bit washed out and unable to concentrate. Fortunately, there was laundry and dusting to do, not to mention gathering some of her rooftop garden's bounty. The courgettes were nearly past, but the tomatoes and strawberries were absolutely perfect. The mugwort would also be in bloom, which meant she could brew her own Hangover-Be-Gone. Hermione sighed. There would be plenty of time to think about Haverkort and colour tomorrow. Assuming she wouldn't need to chase down Severus and demand the return of her book, of course.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, something Hermione usually didn't appreciate because she was usually asleep. However, the insistent tap of an owl bearing a book enticed her from her warm bed and into the pale sunshine. There were still a few owl treats on the nightstand’s from the previous day, so she fed the owl and sent him on his way. It was only fair, considering the treat he had provided her. Hermione planned to fall back into bed, pull the sheets up to her chin and go back to sleep, but the faded cover called to her.
She wondered why Haverkort had chosen red for the cover of his autobiography. Even then, bookbinders knew that red was the least stable of colours, even on tough fabrics like broadcloth. It was true that red was a colour with many positive associations, such as luck and power, but it was at odds with the humble character Coggeshaw described when they discussed him. Perhaps the red cover had been his publisher's idea. The Undetectable Expansion Charm on the binding had to have raised the cost of each book by several Galleons, so perhaps the red and gold were meant to give the book an opulent feel.
Hermione allowed herself a quixotic moment in which she imagined the book lying in a desert on a great pedestal, like the statue of Ozymandias's legs, its inscription exhorting its readers to look upon its works cited and despair. She snorted to herself and opened the book, in search of her bookmark. To her dismay, it was nowhere to be found. Several uncharitable epithets sprang to mind to describe a man petty enough to steal her bookmark so she wouldn't be able to immediately find her place. However, she forced herself to give him the benefit of the doubt and told herself that he'd kept it by accident or perhaps had accepted the bookmark as a peace offering.
Hermione was about to rip yesterday's shopping list in half to mark her place when she came across a piece of onionskin inscribed with the following:
If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.
That wasn't at all friendly. Hermione had to do a search in order to identify the quotation from Much Ado About Nothing,a Shakespearean comedy she had read ages ago but whose memorable bits were from the bickering lovers. Snape had one thing right- the speaker was, after all, a bastard.
She was now convinced that Snape had deliberately taken her bookmark and replaced it with something obnoxious, not to mention fairly useless as a bookmark. She removed the offending quote from the book and seized a nearby scrap of parchment to hold her place. She opened her research journal and began to take notes.
Three hundred pages later, Hermione's back was aching and her hand was stained with ink, but she had a few leads to go on, at least. Still, she needed a break. She made tea and contemplated the best way to give Snape a taste of his own medicine. She scanned the bookshelf until her eye fell on the thick blue spine of Samuel Beckett: Plays. She grinned. Beckett would have something appropriately bleak and nonsensical.
She pulled out the book and began to flip through the plays, skipping both Acts Without Words and the shorter, funnier plays. Beckett had been a favourite of her mother's, so Hermione had grown up with Gogo and Didi the way other children had with Bert and Ernie. There was nothing toffee-nosed about Beckett- Nell and Nagg living in dustbins were rather like Oscar the Grouch. She considered Happy Days briefly before thinking better of it- Winnie's forced sunniness was antithetical to Snape's reflexive sourness. Perhaps Hamm?
She continued flipping through the book until she came to Catastrophe, a late play that always made her smile and shiver. Perfect.
The Assistant in her head was always impeccably dressed and uncomfortably aware of her unnatural impulse to protect the Protagonist.
What if he were - were to- raise his head? An instant? Show his face. Just an instant?
The Director's scornful response was pure Snape.
For God's sake, what next! ....Raise his head? Where do you think we are? In Patagonia? For God's sake! Good. There's our catastrophe in the bag. Once more and I'm off.
She decided to add another level of absurdity by writing the Director's line on a lavender-coloured index card in loopy joined-up writing with hearts dotting the “i”s. She grinned at the result. That would settle Snape. She returned to Haverkort's biography with significantly raised spirits and didn't stop until it was time for supper.
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The following day saw Hermione back in the library consulting the essay collection Haverkort had edited, Colour by Numbers. There had been an odd reference in the autobiography to the work of another Chronocryptologist who had theorised that colour in magic didn't only reflect the type of magic but also the intent of the caster, though Haverkort clearly didn't think too much of the idea. However, it was new to Hermione, and she was curious to know from whom the idea had come. Unfortunately, there were no references to it that she could find in the collection. Perhaps the paper had been submitted for the collection but Haverkort didn't include it. She made a note to contact the publisher, who was still in existence, to see if they retained the accepted and rejected manuscripts. The book was nearly a hundred and fifty years old, but publishers were nothing if not keen to hang on to everything to which they have a reasonable claim to copyright.
No sooner had she Apparated home, when a post owl arrived with the book. Hermione was shocked to have received it back so quickly. Immediately, she turned the book over and shook it to see Snape's response, if any.
A black piece of paper with three words written on it in glowing silver ink.
Time she stopped.
Hermione stared at it for a moment before recognising it. Had she not sent him a bit of Beckett, her mind might not have worked it out, but when her mind seized upon the three-word refrain of Beckett's haunting Rockabye, she couldn't help but laugh at Severus's rejoinder. An order to leave him alone in perfect stylistic accord with her own playfulness. Still, now that she knew that Snape possessed a literate sense of humour, she was curious if he'd continue to respond to her. Besides, she still had at least fifteen hundred pages of Haverkort left to read.
Fortunately, the paper Snape used was sturdy enough to be used to hold her place in the book. And, she noted with satisfaction, it was resting between the same pages between which her most recent note had lain. It was also the real place she had stopped reading. She smiled. Who knew that even sharp-tongued Snape was capable of thoughtfulness? She slid the black paper from between the pages and returned to reading. She was meeting with her advisor tomorrow and wished to have something slightly more concrete to go on. She bent over her notebook and began to write.
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Her meeting with Coggeshaw hadn't been particularly fruitful, though he praised her for contacting the publisher of Haverkort's essay collection, since it was possible that Haverort's annotations of the accepted and rejected manuscripts would contain some insight into his thought process. However, he cautioned her from placing too much stock in the theories that Haverkort had dismissed, including the one that had intrigued her.
“Haverkort was a man of genius,” Coggeshaw opined. “The reason that Chronocryptology is such a small field is because the founder left us so few unsolved problems. There's no sense in mucking about with long-debunked theories. You're a scientist, after all, not a historian. You need to stay focused on the purpose of your work. I'm surprised you're not done with Haverkort's autobiography yet.”
Hermione gave him a wry smile. “I'm sharing it with another researcher, so it's taking twice as long to get through.”
Coggeshaw, who had been shuffling through a pile of files on his desk, froze. “What?”
“Severus Snape got to the book before I did,” she admitted, “but I've managed to convince him that it's better if we take turns using it. Are you all right?”
All the colour had drained from her advisor's face. “Snape is working on Chronocryptology now?” he asked weakly. “I thought he was working for Tearsheet over at the Ministry.”
A suspicion that had been fairly fuzzy in her mind's eye came into blinding focus. Mistress Tearsheet was one of the few Unspeakables who were allowed to speak to the public abut her work. She was high enough in the Department of Mysteries that there was no sense in pretending that she was not brilliant and powerful.
“I'm sure he still is,” said Hermione tartly. No wonder Snape had been trying to warn her off his project. It was probably top secret. “Not that he's told me. I think he'd rather roll nude in a patch of nettles.”
“No matter,” said Coggeshaw. “I think you know what you need to do.”
“Publish first,” said Hermione, sighing.
“Exactly,” said Coggeshaw, tapping his nose. “Do you have the book today?”
“I do.”
“Good. Don't let me keep you from your work, Miss Granger.”
Hermione took the dismissal for what it was. The rest of the day was spent reading Haverkort's various anecdotes about rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of the magical intelligentsia. She was beginning to wonder if Haverkort's reputation for being modest and self-effacing was the man's own invention. Fortunately, after a particularly smarmy recounting of intrigue with an heiress and a countess, a letter arrived from Folder and Stitch, the venerable publisher of Colour by Numbers, inviting her to view the retained manuscripts tomorrow morning and proclaiming it to be an honour to assist her. Hermione smiled to herself. There were perks to being a war hero, even many years after the fact. She wrote a polite and thankful response and closed the Haverkort for the day. She had an apt quotation to locate.
Snape had written, “Time she stopped.” So perhaps she could play with time. Time's arrow. A stitch in time saves nine. Love's not time's fool- oh, definitely not. It wouldn't do to have Snape think she was flirting with him. Best to stick to a neutral subject. The weather? Once upon a midnight dreary, perhaps? By of the gallop goes he? Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze? Not right. Perhaps something else.
She grinned. There was one big thing they had in common- they were both working to solve a puzzle, and Twelfth Night's Viola provided the obvious answer.
O Time: thou must unravel this, not I.
It is too hard a knot for me t'untie!
Perfect. She printed the quotation without the blandishments of her previous quotation on a scrap of high-quality parchment that would do well as a bookmark if Snape chose to leave it. While she was satisfied with what she'd found, she was slightly disappointed that it had taken so little time to find, especially when there was no end in sight to Haverkort's parties to celebrate his first published survey of Chronocryptology.
It all seemed to be a bit much, in Hermione's opinion, considering the middling importance of the publication. Haverkort hadn't really introduced many new ideas in his first published work, merely reported the work of others. The difference was his extremely readable and personable prose, which made one feel like a student sitting in the class of a favourite teacher. She sighed and returned to the book, grateful that the writing was engaging, even if wasn't telling her anything new.
When the clock struck ten, Hermione owled the book to Severus. It was technically still her day, but she had a number of preparations to do for her trip to Folder and Stitch, and she didn't really need an additional task to do in the morning.
She wondered if he would already be in bed, but doubted it. He was probably sitting by the fire with a glass of single malt, scribbling haphazard notes and sticking them in his books willy-nilly. She glanced out the window and watched the dark silhouette of the owl soar past the luminous crescent moon and smiled, surprised by the beauty of the prospect. She hoped Severus would be looking out his window as the owl approached.
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The offices of Folder and Stitch were in a nondescript medieval tower in rural Shropshire that might have once been part of a castle or might have been the only stone structure for miles. She was welcomed by the current Stitch, who was a sprightly woman who couldn't have been a day under ninety, but whose dark eyes sparkled, which lit her lined face.
“Hermione Granger!” she exclaimed with obvious pleasure, shaking Hermione's hand vigorously. “Delighted to meet you, simply delighted!”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Stitch,” replied Hermione, meaning it. Folder and Stitch had provided her with many excellent books over the years, and their reputation was sterling.
“Please call me Wilhemina,” she said, ushering Hermione up a spiral staircase. “I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction,” she said, gesturing at airy, sunlit room with reading table and lovely upholstered chairs. “I've got out the manuscripts you requested, and I think you'll be pleased. There are
both original and revised submissions, and the originals have extensive notes from the editor. I hope you'll find what you're looking for, Ms Granger.
“Hermione, please,” she replied with a smile. “I can't thank you enough for your help.”
“Nonsense,” Wilhemina scoffed, cheeks pink. “From the state of them, you're probably the first person to read them since the book was published.”
Despite her occasional annoyance with Haverkort, Hermione felt a little thrill to think that the last eyes to have read the manuscripts would have been his. She thanked Wilhemina, who demurred and excused herself to continue editing a new book on the plasticity of memory.
Hermione began gently sorting through the manuscripts, putting manuscripts that hadn't made it into the collection in one pile, the original manuscripts that had made it into the collection in another pile, and the revised manuscripts in another. The first two piles interested her the most, since she'd read the finished papers numerous times.
The first rejected manuscript had been written beautifully on high-quality parchment in sapphire-coloured ink that had obviously been very expensive. However, that didn't stop Haverkort from inscribing it with copious notes, many of them terse, and quite a few of them outright rude. She was strongly reminded of Snape. Perhaps Haverkort was a distant relation of his. And while her comments might have been slightly less vituperative, she had to agree with his assessment of the manuscript. The author, Castor St. Simon Bington-Appleby, theorised that tiny, invisible creatures whose lifespan lasted less then the blink of an eye fed on magic and excreted colour. Perhaps the Bington-Applebys were distant relations of the Lovegoods.
Grinning, Hermione moved on to the next manuscript, which might have had something interesting to say, but she couldn't tell because it was the most appallingly written paper Hermione had ever read. Apparently, Haverkort had thought so as well, if his frustrated scribbles were any indication. He'd persevered as far as the third page before giving up and writing “NO!” in large letters.
She read three more of middling quality, all of which had been rejected because the manuscripts were general reviews, and one that had been written on another subject entirely, before reaching an abstract that made her eyes widen in surprise. It was the one that Haverkort had mentioned in his autobiography. She glanced at the author, Delphinia van Ij, and committed the name to memory before diving into the manuscript. She sat there for the next twenty minutes, poring over van Ij's work, hardly daring to believe what she was reading.
The woman had actually made a convincing case:
Rudimentary though they may be, these experimental data clearly show a correlation between the intent of the wizard or witch and the colour of the resultant magic. The similarity between the colour of spells in the same family was observed many years ago (Haverkort, 1744), but the results of these childrens' studies suggest that further study is warranted, given the strength of the correlation, even when the spell cast is opposite the child's intent. Furthermore, once one Arithmatically corrects for children who realise in hindsight that the magic or their intent was probably naughty, the evidence is even stronger.
The last sentence had been underlined in red so emphatically that Haverort had been in danger of scraping through the parchment with the nib of his quill. His notes at the end of the manuscript were simple.
Children lie, as do all people. Until one can guarantee that the subjects are telling the truth, this highly unscientific theory can never be tested.
Hermione stared at the words on the page. That was it. This was it. Delphinia van Ij's paper had been rejected circa 1830. Haverkort had died in 1904, and she in 1903. Alphonse Bing had invented Veritaserum in 1910. A theory that contained the seeds of genius had been passed over due to an accident of chronology. The irony made Hermione's heart ache even as her mind began methodically planning experiments that could prove or disprove van Ij's theories once and for all. She grabbed a piece of parchment and began to take notes at furious speed.
She had no concept of how long she'd been at it when the sound of the door opening made her snap to attention. Her hand was cramped and ink-spotted from writing, and her eyes ached as she forced them to focus on Wilhemina, who had entered with a tea tray.
“I thought you could use a cuppa,” she said. “Had a good morning, then?” she asked, eyeing the stacks of manuscripts and Hermione's inky hands.
Now that her attention had been forced away from her work, Hermione realised that she was more than a bit peckish, and Wilhemina had brought muffins.
“I've found a very interesting manuscript that didn't make it into the collection,” said Hermione, making room at the table for Wilhemina and the tea.
Wilhemina glanced at the front of the manuscript. “One of the harebrained theories?”
“This one's surprisingly un-harebrained. It was rejected because the technology to test it did not exist at the time Haverkort was editing the collection.”
“Are you planning to test it?” asked Wilhemina, buttering a muffin.
“I'd be most interested in doing so,” admitted Hermione. “However, because the manuscript is the property of Folder and Stitch, I'm not quite sure how to proceed. My department doesn't have much in the way of funds, you see, so we can't afford to buy the manuscript, but I-”
Wilhemina held up her hand to forestall her. “Hermione, these manuscripts have sat untouched and unread for a hundred years. Had you been most people, you would have slipped the manuscript in your bag and I'd have been none the wiser.”
“Don't think it didn't cross my mind,” said Hermione wryly.
“But you didn't do it,” said Wilhemina firmly. “As such, I would consider it an honour to give the manuscripts to you.”
“But they belong to you!” protested Hermione. “If this paper turns out to contain the seeds of the answer Chronocryptology has been seeking for a hundred years, the historical importance alone could make the manuscript worth thousands!”
“All the more reason for the manuscripts to be in the hands of someone who understands their value and can assess their importance,” said Wilhemina firmly. “I'm confident that should you choose to sell them that you will remember me in a way that is fair. Besides, Folder and Stitch has been publishing for five hundred years and even with an Expansion Charm on our archives, they're full to bursting. I'd be delighted if I could find such good homes for all of our unpublished manuscripts!”
Hermione continued to protest for a few more minutes before Wilhemina's quiet finality won out, and she sat back, overwhelmed by the other woman's generosity. Once Wilhemina was convinced that Hermione would not be sneaking out and leaving the manuscripts behind, she began to clear the tea things.
“When you take them, you'll be wanting to use a Hover Charm to move them rather than a Shrinking Spell,” commented Wilhemina. “Shrinking spells can cause old manuscripts to crack.”
“I can't thank you enough, Wilhemina,” said Hermione as she piled the sorted manuscripts gently into the box that she'd found them in.
“You're very welcome, dear,” said Wilhemina, holding the door open as Hermione floated the box out the room. “I do hope you'll visit again soon.”
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
It was nearing midnight when Hermione was putting the finishing touches on her research proposal for Coggeshaw. He would probably think the theory was harebrained as well, but she was confident that her protocol would pass muster with the oversight committee, and the experiments were relatively cheap. The largest expense would be hiring someone in the Mediwizardry profession to administer the Veritaserum correctly as well as the potion itself, but they were nothing in comparison to the amounts requested by Transfiguration fellows, who routinely requested objects like grand pianos and Komodo dragons for their work.
She was so focused on her work that she jumped when she heard the scrabbling of claws on her windowsill. She spun around to find a post owl bearing Haverkort's autobiography. In her flurry of discovery, he had completely forgotten that it was her turn with the autobiography. She felt a warm wave of affection that she attributed to Snape's punctuality, and she immediately began to flip through the book to look for his response to her Twelfth Night quote.
To her satisfaction, she found his note between the pages where she had left hers. She savoured the mystery for a moment, wondering what Severus would have made of her note. Perhaps he'd ironically reply with Hamlet's Polonius with his interminable list of advice. Perhaps he'd find a more modern sage, like Somerset Maugham's Elliott Templeton or someone older, like the Wife of Bath. She grinned at the idea of Snape sending something bawdy, but wouldn't put it past him to discomfit her. She felt a bit of savage pride that she didn't feel embarrassed by the idea in the least.
She turned over the piece of paper and read the words inscribed therein.
Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind when body's work's expired.
She recognized the lines from a sonnet of Shakespeare's, whose opening had appealed to Hermione the sleep-deprived teen, along with “For oft, when on my couch I lie/In vacant or in pensive mood...” She found herself more than a bit of disappointed that it wasn't a bit more, well, Snape-like. The avuncular advice for her to sleep on her problems wasn't at all what she had expected.
For all that it wasn't stunningly clever or amusing advice, it proved to be remarkably apt, since Hermione was so weary after her day that she would have forgotten to owl Coggeshaw for a meeting if it hadn't been for the timely arrival of Haverkort's autobiography. If her discovery didn't excite Coggeshaw just a bit, then he wasn't worthy of the title researcher.
She was hardly able to keep her eyes open long enough to clean her teeth before collapsing into bed, her hand resting on Haverkort's autobiography.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
Hermione had known Herman Coggeshaw for years and knew him to be a stolid but thorough researcher. That was why the sinking feeling that permeated her lower abdomen while he read her research proposal in silence was both unfamiliar and unpleasant.
At last he raised his eyes to her. “You say you obtained primary proof of this?”
“That Haverkort dismissed van Ij's theory as impossible to test? Yes, it's here on the manuscript.”
Coggeshaw glanced at the manuscript and Haverkort's notes on it. “So he did,” admitted Coggeshaw. “What I don't understand is why you're so keen to look into it. If Haverkort had thought that a caster's intent was an avenue worth exploring, he would have included it, even if the means to test it did not yet exist. He included Spinnaker's theory that predicted light amplification a century and a half before lasers were invented.”
“True,” said Hermione, “but don't you think that van Ij's preliminary work speaks for itself?”
Coggeshaw peered through his spectacles at the manuscript once more. “I see nothing particularly suggestive,” he said. “I think Haverkort was correct to dismiss this as unscientific. She experimented on children believing in their innate innocence, for Circe's sake. Heaven knows I've never heard of Delphinia van Ij.”
“My request for support is exceedingly modest-,” began Hermione through clenched teeth.
“No,” said Coggeshaw. “Haverkort didn't see anything in it, and trial-grade Veritaserum is expensive. I've always known you were a bit of a romantic at heart, Hermione, but I will not allow you to waste your time and resources on a dead end.”
Hermione scowled. “What if I were to seek funds from other sources-” she began.
“No. I assigned you to the Chronocryptology because I thought you were a rigorous enough thinker to avoid these sorts of distractions, but apparently I was wrong. Starting tomorrow, I want you to return Haverkort's autobiography to Snape and stop looking to the past for answers. I've told you time and time again: if Haverkort dismissed it, it's not worth exploring.”
“Out of curiosity, have you read Haverkort's autobiography in its entirety?” asked Hermione in as neutral a voice as she could, considering she was practically vibrating with fury.
“A long time ago,” said Coggeshaw, eyes on the papers on his desk. “Why?”
“Because the man who wrote it was not infallible. He was brilliant, yes, but arrogant and more concerned with being seen with the best people and the most beautiful women than he was with thoroughly exploring all available venues. He was just the sort of man to overlook something when presented by-”
“You're describing Haverkort as a young man,” interrupted Coggeshaw. “Once you reach the end, you'll have a much more balanced view of him and his growth as a scientist and a gentleman.”
“But Haverkort was only forty when he edited this collection,” protested Hermione. “Don't you think it's possible that in his youthful arrogance he dismissed something unfairly?”
“Of course it's possible,” said Coggeshaw, “but he wrote his autobiography when he retired at a hundred and three. You mentioned that it was something in the autobiography that got you thinking about this theory, yes?”
Hermione nodded.
“Then clearly Haverkort remembered it as a particularly outlandish or unscientific theory.”
“If that's so, then why would he go through such trouble, sixty-five years after the fact, to denounce it again?” asked Hermione. “It wasn't the most absurd theory by far. That would go to the invisible microscopic beings that excrete colour.”
Coggeshaw looked her in the eye. “Touché. All right then. Why do you think Haverkort unfairly dismissed your pet theory?”
“Any number of reasons,” said Hermione. “Haverkort lived during a time of scientific rationalism. The idea that soft things like emotions or intent would have been anathema to a scientist of the time. It could be that Haverkort didn't think terribly highly of women scientists, and before you interrupt, you can't deny that Haverkort worked exclusively with men in his laboratories, despite the exponential increase of women involved in science.”
“What do you know of your mystery theorist?” asked Coggeshaw.
“Not much. I only found her manuscript yesterday and haven't had the chance to research her properly.”
Coggeshaw looked at her, stroking his chin thoughtfully in silence for a moment. “Right,” he said at last. “I'll give you two weeks. If you've managed to scrape up a plausible, remotely substantiated explanation for Haverkort to have dismissed your lady scientist's theory, then I'll let you have the funds for a limited test with Veritaserum.”
Hermione gave her advisor a wry smile. “What if I were to use the two weeks to secure funding for the experiments?”
Coggeshaw laughed. “If you can get someone to fund you without a letter from me, then you have my blessing.”
Hermione breath caught in her throat as a wild thought occurred to her. “I'll see what I can do,” she said.
A/N: Apologies that this is both un-beta-read and un-Brit-picked, but I hope the first installment is satisfactory.
On to Chapter Two!
Author: Mundungus42
Length/Word Count: 7,500 (part 1)
Pairing: SS/HG
Rating: PG-13 for a wee bit of language
Disclaimer: © 2011 Mundungus42. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur non-profit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by JKR or any other lawful holder. Permission may be obtained by e-mailing the author at mundungus42 at yahoo dot com
Author’s Notes: For bluestocking79, who prompted me thus: You know the concept of floriography, or the language of flowers, frequently used for courting. Well, how about a bibliography? In other words, Hermione and Severus banter/tease/woo each other through the language of books, using book titles, motifs and themes, quotes and excerpts or highlighted/marked out passages, exchanged with one another over the course of the story.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
They met in the library. Not for the first time, of course, but for the most important time.
Hermione had been up and down the same aisle four times already, and the black ink with which she’d written the call number on the back of her hand was beginning to feather into illegilibility. She let out a huff of annoyance. The only other extant copy of the book she sought was in private ownership in Rwanda, and the librarian assured her that it was currently in the library. So why was Haverkort’s autobiography not on the shelf where it was supposed to be between his Almanac of Chronocryptology and Colour by Numbers?
She finally accepted that the book was not where it was supposed to be, and as much as she hated to bother the librarian again, she needed the book. She straightened her robes, tucked several errant curls behind her ear, and attempted to look like the serious academic that this paper, if she could get all of her sources in order and pass peer review, would make her.
She stepped from the aisle to the assemblage of tables, all illuminated by the warm glow of flameless lamps, and paused. One table at the far end of the room was piled high with books, but whomever had collected them was nowhere to be seen. Hermione glanced over her shoulder, where the librarian at the circulation desk was fixing the binding of an older volume, then around at the rest of the library, which was deserted, since the library was closing in a few minutes. Someone had probably left the books there and gone home to supper. Now resolved, Hermione made a beeline for the table.
When she saw the titles of the first books, her heart sank. Symbolum Novum, A Practical Guide to Spectral Analysis, and even Unlocking Colour; all books that were already part of her works cited. Someone was not only working in the same small field that she was, someone was quite possibly working on the same question as she was. She felt the first stirrings of panic. What if this unknown researcher worked out a solution before she did? And worse, what if he or she published first in a better journal?
The solution, Hermione was convinced, was hidden in Haverkort’s autobiography, and she knew with certainty that it would be in this hoard. She began moving the piles of books, examining both spines and signatures to ensure that she wouldn’t overlook it accidentally. Finally, at the bottom of the pile she encountered an old book bound in what had once been bright red cloth that had faded to an orangey pink. The gold leaf had long since been rubbed from the cover, but she could still read Haverkort’s name embossed in the spine. At last!
Hermione clasped the volume to her chest, heart soaring, and spun towards the circulation desk only to encounter a wall of black robes and crossed arms.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing with my book?” exclaimed an angry voice.
“I- I-“ stammered Hermione, horribly embarrassed to have unwittingly breached library protocol. She couldn’t even look at the man who was looming over her. “I’m terribly sorry, I thought these books had been left behind.”
“Well, clearly, they weren’t,” he said, making to snatch the book from her hands. But when his fingers closed over the volume, a wild impulse made her hold on.
“I am really very sorry,” she said, resolve breaking through her chagrin, “but I need this book.” She raised her eyes to her interlocutor’s face and very nearly let go of the book.
Severus Snape was glaring at her with the kind of antipathy he had once reserved for Neville Longbottom’s cauldrons. “So do I,” he said shortly, crossing his arms. “Give it to me now.”
Hermione glanced at the pile. “You have dozens of books here,” she pointed out. “It’ll take you weeks to get through them all. I only need this book for a few days.”
“I had the book first, Miss Granger,” he said. “You will give it to me now, or I will summon the librarian.”
“Be reasonable, Severus,” she pleaded, taking a small measure of satisfaction from the way he stiffened at hearing her address him by his given name.
“I am being reasonable,” he said. “Has it occurred to you that I might have good reason to keep you away from that particular book?”
“You cannot be this petty,” she exclaimed, exasperated.
“It is hardly pettiness to preserve my proprietary data,” he said stiffly. “A number of irreplaceable notes lie within that book’s leaves.”
“I couldn’t care less about your proprietary data,” she huffed. “I’m working on my own conclusions, thanks very much.”
He gave her an appraising look, and Hermione did her best not to look as mulish as she was feeling.
“With whom are you studying?” he asked.
“Coggeshaw,” she said, half daring him to sneer.
“He must not think very highly of you if he gave you this project to work on,” observed Severus. “If you want the Haverkort for the reason I think you want the Haverkort, it’s a problem Coggeshaw stopped working on back when the Beatles were still together.”
“He said that if anybody could suss out the relationship between wavelength and spell effect, I could,” she said, allowing herself a moment of pride before realising that she’d just told Snape exactly what she was attempting to do.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice her mistake. Or perhaps he already knew. “I wouldn’t place much stock in the words of a defeatist and a simpleton.”
“He didn’t give it up because the problem was insoluble,” she belatedly protested. “It was a matter of what work he could get funding for.”
“Take the hint, Granger. Colour theory isn’t sexy in the least and you’re far better off in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes.”
“I might consider taking your advice if you weren’t working in the same field. As it is, your advice reeks of self-interest.”
“Are you deliberately being dense?” he demanded. “Having a bright young mind in the field would be the best thing for it. But this field is all but dead, Granger. You want something more active that doesn’t involve mouldering away in a library.”
Hermione wondered if his memory was faulty, given that her default setting was “mouldering away in a library.” “So telling me to sod off and get out of your life is a wholly altruistic gesture?” she asked sarcastically.
“Getting you out of my life is merely the frosting on the cake,” he said grimly.
“Look, since neither of us wants to have anything to do with one another but we both need this book, I suggest we take turns. I’ll take it today, you have it tomorrow, and so on.”
Snape looked as if he were considering her proposal for a moment. “No.”
Hermione scowled. He was going to regret his obstinacy. “I think I’m being more than generous,” she said, “considering that the book is not currently checked out or reserved and I’m holding it in my hands.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Why you deceitful little-“
Hermione took several protective steps backward. “Oh, and one more thing,” she said, seizing the book by its spine spreading the covers and shaking vigorously. A number of papers covered with notes in his sharp script fell from the book’s pages. “I really don’t need your notes.”
“Granger, if you take one more step towards the circulation desk, I will hex you into next week.”
“Go ahead if you want to be banned from this library for life,” she said, taking a deliberate step towards the librarian, who had ceased in his book repair and was watching the standoff with interest. “And think what you like about me, but I promise you’ll have the book back tomorrow.”
“What is a Gryffindor’s assurance worth?” he asked, his cheeks pale with fury.
Hermione glee at having pulled one over on Snape evaporated when she heard the impotent bitterness in his question. “That is entirely up to you to decide,” she said seriously.
She felt his eyes on her as she went to the librarian’s desk and checked out Haverkort’s autobiography.
On paper at least, it was now hers for three weeks. If Snape failed to return the book, she could use the library’s recall magic to get it back. She mostly trusted him, but he hadn’t exactly agreed to the arrangement. And long experience taught her that when dealing with Slytherins, one would need every ace that could fit up one’s sleeve.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
Despite the autobiography’s thin profile, Hermione was dismayed to find that like her old beaded bag, the binding had an Undetectable Expanding Charm on it. The manuscript was actually several thousand pages long. Upon reflection, she concluded that ought to have known that from the profusion of notes that had fallen out. Well, there was nothing for it- she was going to have to share the book with the old grouch for significantly longer than she’d intended. She almost wished her conscience would allow her to simply keep it for the entire three weeks, but knew herself too well for that.
She sighed heavily and began to read, taking copious notes in her notebook so she wouldn’t have to go back and erase her usual light pencil markings. The print was tiny, and Haverort seemed far more interested in name-dropping and revisiting his greatest hits than talking about actual science. Fortunately, she was able to skim the years of his life that proceeded his apprenticeship in Cornwall.
It was in the midst of that line of inquiry that the question occurred to me like the flash of light that signals that Wolfsbane potion has been made properly. Why is it that the most powerful potions appear so very different from potions with everyday or domestic uses? Wherefore the golden sheen of Felix Felicis or the ever-changing surface of Amortensia? And in spells, which often produce light or sound as a side-effect, why are some simple primary colours, such as the red of Stunning Spells and others are the violent shades of St. Elmo’s fire, like the Killing Curse or the spectacular silver sheen of a summoned Patronus? The Muggle science of optics explains that objects appear to be a certain colours because certain wavelengths of light are absorbed and reflected. What is it then of Magic that makes it visible, that makes it emit, reflect, and absorb light so as to appear a certain way to our eyes? And is there a correlation between the wavelength and potency of the Magic? These questions that occurred to me that chilly November evening in the empty stands of Ballycastle have never left me, and while I have by no means answered them definitively, I flatter myself that I have demonstrated in a small way that these questions do have answers, and the direction of experimentation in this modern age gives me hope that they will be discovered soon.
Hermione sighed, noting that it was getting late and Harry and Ron would be expecting her for their weekly overindulgence in beer and tenpin bowling. She wished she’d had the good sense to call it off when she got home, but there was nothing for it. Perhaps she’d claim she had a headache and come home while she was still relatively sober.
She slid her bookmark into the book where she had finished reading and fingered its worn edge. The bookmark was from the book seller that her parents used to take her as a special treat, usually for doing well in school. They’d had an entire series of brightly-coloured bookmarks to choose from. Hermione’s six-year-old self had always loved cats, which is why she’d chosen the one emblazoned with a tiger, over which was inscribed a bit from a famous poem concerning them.
When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Hermione closed the book and stretched her arms above her head and ran through the dear words of the poem in her mind as she dressed to meet her friends. “What the hand dare seize the fire,” she said to herself, patting her bushy hair into a semblance of order.
“You’d best be wondering about what the hand dare seize the hairbrush,” commented the mirror.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
The next morning, Hermione sent mental thanks to herself in the moments before Apparating to the Dog’s Bollocks, in which she’d had the foresight to place a glass of water, a phial of Madam Ginger’s Hangover-Be-Gone, an owl whistle, Haverkort’s autobiography, and a small pile of owl treats next to her bed. After thirstily drinking the water and potion, she blew the whistle to summon the nearest post owl, and sent the book off to Severus. It was late morning, so she fixed herself a cup of tea and limped into the study to examine her notes from the day before.
She sat, cogitating, occasionally blowing over the steaming surface of her drink, willing her brain to work. The autobiography certainly had promise, but she had doubts. Haverkort had single-handedly invented the field of spectral analysis based on the same questions she was attempting to answer. He had had a long and fruitful research career and had been awarded an Order of Merlin, Third Class for his contributions to Magical Theory, but he had never satisfactorily defined the relationship between wavelength and spell power, for all that his results suggested that there was a connection.
What meagre funding her advisor possessed were being spent on basic research, and in order to justify further expenditure, Hermione had taken it upon herself to go back to the drawing board and do her best to understand the way Haverkort had chosen what avenues to explore and why. She strongly suspected that the technology now available would make all the difference, and if she could understand how he'd deliberately shaped the field, then it would be possible to see what he'd missed. Her confidence wavered slightly when she thought about Severus Snape. Coggeshaw, her Mastery advisor, would be fascinated to know that England’s most infamous mind was now looking at a problem he’d given up on decades ago. But she wasn’t about to cede the ground to him, his reputation notwithstanding, especially when he had essentially tried to send her on her way. This was her field, and if he thought he was going to scoop her, he had another think coming.
She felt a certain amount of satisfaction gazing at her own pages and pages of neat, well-organized notes. Honestly, the man wasn’t likely to be much of a threat, judging by the disarray of his work. But then again, it wouldn’t do to underestimate him. Dumbledore and Voldemort clearly had, and he had outlasted them both through cunning and sheer nerve.
Despite the efficacy of the potion she had consumed, she was still feeling more than a bit washed out and unable to concentrate. Fortunately, there was laundry and dusting to do, not to mention gathering some of her rooftop garden's bounty. The courgettes were nearly past, but the tomatoes and strawberries were absolutely perfect. The mugwort would also be in bloom, which meant she could brew her own Hangover-Be-Gone. Hermione sighed. There would be plenty of time to think about Haverkort and colour tomorrow. Assuming she wouldn't need to chase down Severus and demand the return of her book, of course.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, something Hermione usually didn't appreciate because she was usually asleep. However, the insistent tap of an owl bearing a book enticed her from her warm bed and into the pale sunshine. There were still a few owl treats on the nightstand’s from the previous day, so she fed the owl and sent him on his way. It was only fair, considering the treat he had provided her. Hermione planned to fall back into bed, pull the sheets up to her chin and go back to sleep, but the faded cover called to her.
She wondered why Haverkort had chosen red for the cover of his autobiography. Even then, bookbinders knew that red was the least stable of colours, even on tough fabrics like broadcloth. It was true that red was a colour with many positive associations, such as luck and power, but it was at odds with the humble character Coggeshaw described when they discussed him. Perhaps the red cover had been his publisher's idea. The Undetectable Expansion Charm on the binding had to have raised the cost of each book by several Galleons, so perhaps the red and gold were meant to give the book an opulent feel.
Hermione allowed herself a quixotic moment in which she imagined the book lying in a desert on a great pedestal, like the statue of Ozymandias's legs, its inscription exhorting its readers to look upon its works cited and despair. She snorted to herself and opened the book, in search of her bookmark. To her dismay, it was nowhere to be found. Several uncharitable epithets sprang to mind to describe a man petty enough to steal her bookmark so she wouldn't be able to immediately find her place. However, she forced herself to give him the benefit of the doubt and told herself that he'd kept it by accident or perhaps had accepted the bookmark as a peace offering.
Hermione was about to rip yesterday's shopping list in half to mark her place when she came across a piece of onionskin inscribed with the following:
If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.
That wasn't at all friendly. Hermione had to do a search in order to identify the quotation from Much Ado About Nothing,a Shakespearean comedy she had read ages ago but whose memorable bits were from the bickering lovers. Snape had one thing right- the speaker was, after all, a bastard.
She was now convinced that Snape had deliberately taken her bookmark and replaced it with something obnoxious, not to mention fairly useless as a bookmark. She removed the offending quote from the book and seized a nearby scrap of parchment to hold her place. She opened her research journal and began to take notes.
Three hundred pages later, Hermione's back was aching and her hand was stained with ink, but she had a few leads to go on, at least. Still, she needed a break. She made tea and contemplated the best way to give Snape a taste of his own medicine. She scanned the bookshelf until her eye fell on the thick blue spine of Samuel Beckett: Plays. She grinned. Beckett would have something appropriately bleak and nonsensical.
She pulled out the book and began to flip through the plays, skipping both Acts Without Words and the shorter, funnier plays. Beckett had been a favourite of her mother's, so Hermione had grown up with Gogo and Didi the way other children had with Bert and Ernie. There was nothing toffee-nosed about Beckett- Nell and Nagg living in dustbins were rather like Oscar the Grouch. She considered Happy Days briefly before thinking better of it- Winnie's forced sunniness was antithetical to Snape's reflexive sourness. Perhaps Hamm?
She continued flipping through the book until she came to Catastrophe, a late play that always made her smile and shiver. Perfect.
The Assistant in her head was always impeccably dressed and uncomfortably aware of her unnatural impulse to protect the Protagonist.
What if he were - were to- raise his head? An instant? Show his face. Just an instant?
The Director's scornful response was pure Snape.
For God's sake, what next! ....Raise his head? Where do you think we are? In Patagonia? For God's sake! Good. There's our catastrophe in the bag. Once more and I'm off.
She decided to add another level of absurdity by writing the Director's line on a lavender-coloured index card in loopy joined-up writing with hearts dotting the “i”s. She grinned at the result. That would settle Snape. She returned to Haverkort's biography with significantly raised spirits and didn't stop until it was time for supper.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
The following day saw Hermione back in the library consulting the essay collection Haverkort had edited, Colour by Numbers. There had been an odd reference in the autobiography to the work of another Chronocryptologist who had theorised that colour in magic didn't only reflect the type of magic but also the intent of the caster, though Haverkort clearly didn't think too much of the idea. However, it was new to Hermione, and she was curious to know from whom the idea had come. Unfortunately, there were no references to it that she could find in the collection. Perhaps the paper had been submitted for the collection but Haverkort didn't include it. She made a note to contact the publisher, who was still in existence, to see if they retained the accepted and rejected manuscripts. The book was nearly a hundred and fifty years old, but publishers were nothing if not keen to hang on to everything to which they have a reasonable claim to copyright.
No sooner had she Apparated home, when a post owl arrived with the book. Hermione was shocked to have received it back so quickly. Immediately, she turned the book over and shook it to see Snape's response, if any.
A black piece of paper with three words written on it in glowing silver ink.
Time she stopped.
Hermione stared at it for a moment before recognising it. Had she not sent him a bit of Beckett, her mind might not have worked it out, but when her mind seized upon the three-word refrain of Beckett's haunting Rockabye, she couldn't help but laugh at Severus's rejoinder. An order to leave him alone in perfect stylistic accord with her own playfulness. Still, now that she knew that Snape possessed a literate sense of humour, she was curious if he'd continue to respond to her. Besides, she still had at least fifteen hundred pages of Haverkort left to read.
Fortunately, the paper Snape used was sturdy enough to be used to hold her place in the book. And, she noted with satisfaction, it was resting between the same pages between which her most recent note had lain. It was also the real place she had stopped reading. She smiled. Who knew that even sharp-tongued Snape was capable of thoughtfulness? She slid the black paper from between the pages and returned to reading. She was meeting with her advisor tomorrow and wished to have something slightly more concrete to go on. She bent over her notebook and began to write.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
Her meeting with Coggeshaw hadn't been particularly fruitful, though he praised her for contacting the publisher of Haverkort's essay collection, since it was possible that Haverort's annotations of the accepted and rejected manuscripts would contain some insight into his thought process. However, he cautioned her from placing too much stock in the theories that Haverkort had dismissed, including the one that had intrigued her.
“Haverkort was a man of genius,” Coggeshaw opined. “The reason that Chronocryptology is such a small field is because the founder left us so few unsolved problems. There's no sense in mucking about with long-debunked theories. You're a scientist, after all, not a historian. You need to stay focused on the purpose of your work. I'm surprised you're not done with Haverkort's autobiography yet.”
Hermione gave him a wry smile. “I'm sharing it with another researcher, so it's taking twice as long to get through.”
Coggeshaw, who had been shuffling through a pile of files on his desk, froze. “What?”
“Severus Snape got to the book before I did,” she admitted, “but I've managed to convince him that it's better if we take turns using it. Are you all right?”
All the colour had drained from her advisor's face. “Snape is working on Chronocryptology now?” he asked weakly. “I thought he was working for Tearsheet over at the Ministry.”
A suspicion that had been fairly fuzzy in her mind's eye came into blinding focus. Mistress Tearsheet was one of the few Unspeakables who were allowed to speak to the public abut her work. She was high enough in the Department of Mysteries that there was no sense in pretending that she was not brilliant and powerful.
“I'm sure he still is,” said Hermione tartly. No wonder Snape had been trying to warn her off his project. It was probably top secret. “Not that he's told me. I think he'd rather roll nude in a patch of nettles.”
“No matter,” said Coggeshaw. “I think you know what you need to do.”
“Publish first,” said Hermione, sighing.
“Exactly,” said Coggeshaw, tapping his nose. “Do you have the book today?”
“I do.”
“Good. Don't let me keep you from your work, Miss Granger.”
Hermione took the dismissal for what it was. The rest of the day was spent reading Haverkort's various anecdotes about rubbing elbows with the crème de la crème of the magical intelligentsia. She was beginning to wonder if Haverkort's reputation for being modest and self-effacing was the man's own invention. Fortunately, after a particularly smarmy recounting of intrigue with an heiress and a countess, a letter arrived from Folder and Stitch, the venerable publisher of Colour by Numbers, inviting her to view the retained manuscripts tomorrow morning and proclaiming it to be an honour to assist her. Hermione smiled to herself. There were perks to being a war hero, even many years after the fact. She wrote a polite and thankful response and closed the Haverkort for the day. She had an apt quotation to locate.
Snape had written, “Time she stopped.” So perhaps she could play with time. Time's arrow. A stitch in time saves nine. Love's not time's fool- oh, definitely not. It wouldn't do to have Snape think she was flirting with him. Best to stick to a neutral subject. The weather? Once upon a midnight dreary, perhaps? By of the gallop goes he? Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze? Not right. Perhaps something else.
She grinned. There was one big thing they had in common- they were both working to solve a puzzle, and Twelfth Night's Viola provided the obvious answer.
O Time: thou must unravel this, not I.
It is too hard a knot for me t'untie!
Perfect. She printed the quotation without the blandishments of her previous quotation on a scrap of high-quality parchment that would do well as a bookmark if Snape chose to leave it. While she was satisfied with what she'd found, she was slightly disappointed that it had taken so little time to find, especially when there was no end in sight to Haverkort's parties to celebrate his first published survey of Chronocryptology.
It all seemed to be a bit much, in Hermione's opinion, considering the middling importance of the publication. Haverkort hadn't really introduced many new ideas in his first published work, merely reported the work of others. The difference was his extremely readable and personable prose, which made one feel like a student sitting in the class of a favourite teacher. She sighed and returned to the book, grateful that the writing was engaging, even if wasn't telling her anything new.
When the clock struck ten, Hermione owled the book to Severus. It was technically still her day, but she had a number of preparations to do for her trip to Folder and Stitch, and she didn't really need an additional task to do in the morning.
She wondered if he would already be in bed, but doubted it. He was probably sitting by the fire with a glass of single malt, scribbling haphazard notes and sticking them in his books willy-nilly. She glanced out the window and watched the dark silhouette of the owl soar past the luminous crescent moon and smiled, surprised by the beauty of the prospect. She hoped Severus would be looking out his window as the owl approached.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
The offices of Folder and Stitch were in a nondescript medieval tower in rural Shropshire that might have once been part of a castle or might have been the only stone structure for miles. She was welcomed by the current Stitch, who was a sprightly woman who couldn't have been a day under ninety, but whose dark eyes sparkled, which lit her lined face.
“Hermione Granger!” she exclaimed with obvious pleasure, shaking Hermione's hand vigorously. “Delighted to meet you, simply delighted!”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Stitch,” replied Hermione, meaning it. Folder and Stitch had provided her with many excellent books over the years, and their reputation was sterling.
“Please call me Wilhemina,” she said, ushering Hermione up a spiral staircase. “I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction,” she said, gesturing at airy, sunlit room with reading table and lovely upholstered chairs. “I've got out the manuscripts you requested, and I think you'll be pleased. There are
both original and revised submissions, and the originals have extensive notes from the editor. I hope you'll find what you're looking for, Ms Granger.
“Hermione, please,” she replied with a smile. “I can't thank you enough for your help.”
“Nonsense,” Wilhemina scoffed, cheeks pink. “From the state of them, you're probably the first person to read them since the book was published.”
Despite her occasional annoyance with Haverkort, Hermione felt a little thrill to think that the last eyes to have read the manuscripts would have been his. She thanked Wilhemina, who demurred and excused herself to continue editing a new book on the plasticity of memory.
Hermione began gently sorting through the manuscripts, putting manuscripts that hadn't made it into the collection in one pile, the original manuscripts that had made it into the collection in another pile, and the revised manuscripts in another. The first two piles interested her the most, since she'd read the finished papers numerous times.
The first rejected manuscript had been written beautifully on high-quality parchment in sapphire-coloured ink that had obviously been very expensive. However, that didn't stop Haverkort from inscribing it with copious notes, many of them terse, and quite a few of them outright rude. She was strongly reminded of Snape. Perhaps Haverkort was a distant relation of his. And while her comments might have been slightly less vituperative, she had to agree with his assessment of the manuscript. The author, Castor St. Simon Bington-Appleby, theorised that tiny, invisible creatures whose lifespan lasted less then the blink of an eye fed on magic and excreted colour. Perhaps the Bington-Applebys were distant relations of the Lovegoods.
Grinning, Hermione moved on to the next manuscript, which might have had something interesting to say, but she couldn't tell because it was the most appallingly written paper Hermione had ever read. Apparently, Haverkort had thought so as well, if his frustrated scribbles were any indication. He'd persevered as far as the third page before giving up and writing “NO!” in large letters.
She read three more of middling quality, all of which had been rejected because the manuscripts were general reviews, and one that had been written on another subject entirely, before reaching an abstract that made her eyes widen in surprise. It was the one that Haverkort had mentioned in his autobiography. She glanced at the author, Delphinia van Ij, and committed the name to memory before diving into the manuscript. She sat there for the next twenty minutes, poring over van Ij's work, hardly daring to believe what she was reading.
The woman had actually made a convincing case:
Rudimentary though they may be, these experimental data clearly show a correlation between the intent of the wizard or witch and the colour of the resultant magic. The similarity between the colour of spells in the same family was observed many years ago (Haverkort, 1744), but the results of these childrens' studies suggest that further study is warranted, given the strength of the correlation, even when the spell cast is opposite the child's intent. Furthermore, once one Arithmatically corrects for children who realise in hindsight that the magic or their intent was probably naughty, the evidence is even stronger.
The last sentence had been underlined in red so emphatically that Haverort had been in danger of scraping through the parchment with the nib of his quill. His notes at the end of the manuscript were simple.
Children lie, as do all people. Until one can guarantee that the subjects are telling the truth, this highly unscientific theory can never be tested.
Hermione stared at the words on the page. That was it. This was it. Delphinia van Ij's paper had been rejected circa 1830. Haverkort had died in 1904, and she in 1903. Alphonse Bing had invented Veritaserum in 1910. A theory that contained the seeds of genius had been passed over due to an accident of chronology. The irony made Hermione's heart ache even as her mind began methodically planning experiments that could prove or disprove van Ij's theories once and for all. She grabbed a piece of parchment and began to take notes at furious speed.
She had no concept of how long she'd been at it when the sound of the door opening made her snap to attention. Her hand was cramped and ink-spotted from writing, and her eyes ached as she forced them to focus on Wilhemina, who had entered with a tea tray.
“I thought you could use a cuppa,” she said. “Had a good morning, then?” she asked, eyeing the stacks of manuscripts and Hermione's inky hands.
Now that her attention had been forced away from her work, Hermione realised that she was more than a bit peckish, and Wilhemina had brought muffins.
“I've found a very interesting manuscript that didn't make it into the collection,” said Hermione, making room at the table for Wilhemina and the tea.
Wilhemina glanced at the front of the manuscript. “One of the harebrained theories?”
“This one's surprisingly un-harebrained. It was rejected because the technology to test it did not exist at the time Haverkort was editing the collection.”
“Are you planning to test it?” asked Wilhemina, buttering a muffin.
“I'd be most interested in doing so,” admitted Hermione. “However, because the manuscript is the property of Folder and Stitch, I'm not quite sure how to proceed. My department doesn't have much in the way of funds, you see, so we can't afford to buy the manuscript, but I-”
Wilhemina held up her hand to forestall her. “Hermione, these manuscripts have sat untouched and unread for a hundred years. Had you been most people, you would have slipped the manuscript in your bag and I'd have been none the wiser.”
“Don't think it didn't cross my mind,” said Hermione wryly.
“But you didn't do it,” said Wilhemina firmly. “As such, I would consider it an honour to give the manuscripts to you.”
“But they belong to you!” protested Hermione. “If this paper turns out to contain the seeds of the answer Chronocryptology has been seeking for a hundred years, the historical importance alone could make the manuscript worth thousands!”
“All the more reason for the manuscripts to be in the hands of someone who understands their value and can assess their importance,” said Wilhemina firmly. “I'm confident that should you choose to sell them that you will remember me in a way that is fair. Besides, Folder and Stitch has been publishing for five hundred years and even with an Expansion Charm on our archives, they're full to bursting. I'd be delighted if I could find such good homes for all of our unpublished manuscripts!”
Hermione continued to protest for a few more minutes before Wilhemina's quiet finality won out, and she sat back, overwhelmed by the other woman's generosity. Once Wilhemina was convinced that Hermione would not be sneaking out and leaving the manuscripts behind, she began to clear the tea things.
“When you take them, you'll be wanting to use a Hover Charm to move them rather than a Shrinking Spell,” commented Wilhemina. “Shrinking spells can cause old manuscripts to crack.”
“I can't thank you enough, Wilhemina,” said Hermione as she piled the sorted manuscripts gently into the box that she'd found them in.
“You're very welcome, dear,” said Wilhemina, holding the door open as Hermione floated the box out the room. “I do hope you'll visit again soon.”
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
It was nearing midnight when Hermione was putting the finishing touches on her research proposal for Coggeshaw. He would probably think the theory was harebrained as well, but she was confident that her protocol would pass muster with the oversight committee, and the experiments were relatively cheap. The largest expense would be hiring someone in the Mediwizardry profession to administer the Veritaserum correctly as well as the potion itself, but they were nothing in comparison to the amounts requested by Transfiguration fellows, who routinely requested objects like grand pianos and Komodo dragons for their work.
She was so focused on her work that she jumped when she heard the scrabbling of claws on her windowsill. She spun around to find a post owl bearing Haverkort's autobiography. In her flurry of discovery, he had completely forgotten that it was her turn with the autobiography. She felt a warm wave of affection that she attributed to Snape's punctuality, and she immediately began to flip through the book to look for his response to her Twelfth Night quote.
To her satisfaction, she found his note between the pages where she had left hers. She savoured the mystery for a moment, wondering what Severus would have made of her note. Perhaps he'd ironically reply with Hamlet's Polonius with his interminable list of advice. Perhaps he'd find a more modern sage, like Somerset Maugham's Elliott Templeton or someone older, like the Wife of Bath. She grinned at the idea of Snape sending something bawdy, but wouldn't put it past him to discomfit her. She felt a bit of savage pride that she didn't feel embarrassed by the idea in the least.
She turned over the piece of paper and read the words inscribed therein.
Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind when body's work's expired.
She recognized the lines from a sonnet of Shakespeare's, whose opening had appealed to Hermione the sleep-deprived teen, along with “For oft, when on my couch I lie/In vacant or in pensive mood...” She found herself more than a bit of disappointed that it wasn't a bit more, well, Snape-like. The avuncular advice for her to sleep on her problems wasn't at all what she had expected.
For all that it wasn't stunningly clever or amusing advice, it proved to be remarkably apt, since Hermione was so weary after her day that she would have forgotten to owl Coggeshaw for a meeting if it hadn't been for the timely arrival of Haverkort's autobiography. If her discovery didn't excite Coggeshaw just a bit, then he wasn't worthy of the title researcher.
She was hardly able to keep her eyes open long enough to clean her teeth before collapsing into bed, her hand resting on Haverkort's autobiography.
~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~8~
Hermione had known Herman Coggeshaw for years and knew him to be a stolid but thorough researcher. That was why the sinking feeling that permeated her lower abdomen while he read her research proposal in silence was both unfamiliar and unpleasant.
At last he raised his eyes to her. “You say you obtained primary proof of this?”
“That Haverkort dismissed van Ij's theory as impossible to test? Yes, it's here on the manuscript.”
Coggeshaw glanced at the manuscript and Haverkort's notes on it. “So he did,” admitted Coggeshaw. “What I don't understand is why you're so keen to look into it. If Haverkort had thought that a caster's intent was an avenue worth exploring, he would have included it, even if the means to test it did not yet exist. He included Spinnaker's theory that predicted light amplification a century and a half before lasers were invented.”
“True,” said Hermione, “but don't you think that van Ij's preliminary work speaks for itself?”
Coggeshaw peered through his spectacles at the manuscript once more. “I see nothing particularly suggestive,” he said. “I think Haverkort was correct to dismiss this as unscientific. She experimented on children believing in their innate innocence, for Circe's sake. Heaven knows I've never heard of Delphinia van Ij.”
“My request for support is exceedingly modest-,” began Hermione through clenched teeth.
“No,” said Coggeshaw. “Haverkort didn't see anything in it, and trial-grade Veritaserum is expensive. I've always known you were a bit of a romantic at heart, Hermione, but I will not allow you to waste your time and resources on a dead end.”
Hermione scowled. “What if I were to seek funds from other sources-” she began.
“No. I assigned you to the Chronocryptology because I thought you were a rigorous enough thinker to avoid these sorts of distractions, but apparently I was wrong. Starting tomorrow, I want you to return Haverkort's autobiography to Snape and stop looking to the past for answers. I've told you time and time again: if Haverkort dismissed it, it's not worth exploring.”
“Out of curiosity, have you read Haverkort's autobiography in its entirety?” asked Hermione in as neutral a voice as she could, considering she was practically vibrating with fury.
“A long time ago,” said Coggeshaw, eyes on the papers on his desk. “Why?”
“Because the man who wrote it was not infallible. He was brilliant, yes, but arrogant and more concerned with being seen with the best people and the most beautiful women than he was with thoroughly exploring all available venues. He was just the sort of man to overlook something when presented by-”
“You're describing Haverkort as a young man,” interrupted Coggeshaw. “Once you reach the end, you'll have a much more balanced view of him and his growth as a scientist and a gentleman.”
“But Haverkort was only forty when he edited this collection,” protested Hermione. “Don't you think it's possible that in his youthful arrogance he dismissed something unfairly?”
“Of course it's possible,” said Coggeshaw, “but he wrote his autobiography when he retired at a hundred and three. You mentioned that it was something in the autobiography that got you thinking about this theory, yes?”
Hermione nodded.
“Then clearly Haverkort remembered it as a particularly outlandish or unscientific theory.”
“If that's so, then why would he go through such trouble, sixty-five years after the fact, to denounce it again?” asked Hermione. “It wasn't the most absurd theory by far. That would go to the invisible microscopic beings that excrete colour.”
Coggeshaw looked her in the eye. “Touché. All right then. Why do you think Haverkort unfairly dismissed your pet theory?”
“Any number of reasons,” said Hermione. “Haverkort lived during a time of scientific rationalism. The idea that soft things like emotions or intent would have been anathema to a scientist of the time. It could be that Haverkort didn't think terribly highly of women scientists, and before you interrupt, you can't deny that Haverkort worked exclusively with men in his laboratories, despite the exponential increase of women involved in science.”
“What do you know of your mystery theorist?” asked Coggeshaw.
“Not much. I only found her manuscript yesterday and haven't had the chance to research her properly.”
Coggeshaw looked at her, stroking his chin thoughtfully in silence for a moment. “Right,” he said at last. “I'll give you two weeks. If you've managed to scrape up a plausible, remotely substantiated explanation for Haverkort to have dismissed your lady scientist's theory, then I'll let you have the funds for a limited test with Veritaserum.”
Hermione gave her advisor a wry smile. “What if I were to use the two weeks to secure funding for the experiments?”
Coggeshaw laughed. “If you can get someone to fund you without a letter from me, then you have my blessing.”
Hermione breath caught in her throat as a wild thought occurred to her. “I'll see what I can do,” she said.
A/N: Apologies that this is both un-beta-read and un-Brit-picked, but I hope the first installment is satisfactory.
On to Chapter Two!