The Taking of Tea

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: AGAINST UNWORTHY PRAISE

Oh heart, be at peace, because
Nor knave nor dolt can break
What's not for their applause,
Being for a woman's sake.
Enough if the work has seemed,
So did she your strength renew,
A dream that a lion had dreamed
Till the wilderness cried aloud,
A secret between you two,
Between the proud and the proud.

What, still you would have their praise!
But here's a haughtier text,
The labyrinth of her days
That her own strangeness perplexed;
And how what her dreaming gave
Earned slander, ingratitude,
From self-same dolt and knave;
Aye, and worse wrong than these.
Yet she, singing upon her road,
Half lion, half child, is at peace.


Hermione sat dumbfounded on the bed. She had expected Snape to greet her with his old vitriol, or if not a cold silence, or—in some shadowed corner of her brain—the tenderness he’d once shown her. Instead he’d showed her the same cruel cordiality that Lucius had.

“Well,” she sighed, refusing to allow herself any further contemplation,” Voldemort may as well kill me now. I’m not important enough to the Order to act as sacrifice, believe me,” she said.

“And what,” Snape raised his winged eyebrows,” makes you think that the Dark Lord will go to the trouble of killing you himself? Hogwarts former protégée is hardly worth the time it would take to raise his wand to strike.”

“Then who’ll do it?” She demanded, needing to know whose face she might see last. “Lucius? You? Is it you?”

“What makes you think your life is so unimportant to the order?” Snape asked instead.

“Don’t avoid the question. Is it you?”

“I’m not avoiding the question, Ms. Granger. I’m simply making a more pertinent inquiry. Surely all of the death eaters are equally repulsive in your eyes. Why would you be unimportant to the order?” He repeated, leaning forward in his chair.

“I’m sure you’re well aware of the events that led to my,” Hermione fumbled for a delicate explanation, “to my becoming a liability for the Order. Especially considering that your dear friend Lucius was directly responsible.”

Snape frowned, his face wearing an expression of puzzlement which Hermione had very rarely seen. “Quit your riddles, girl. Directly responsible for what?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” she spat. “I’m sure it gave him bragging rights among your little circle of sycophants.”

Slowly and carefully, Snape set his tea and saucer on the floor, then he stood and reached for Hermione, taking firm hold of her shoulders. He noticed that her face was pink. “What did Malfoy do to you?”

“He raped me, last year in Knockturn Alley. Or so they told me at St. Mungo’s—he beat me unconscious first,” Hermione said, steeling herself for Snape’s derisive laughter, keeping her eyes at the buttons on his collar.

“Why were you in Knockturn Alley?” Snape asked, his voice surprisingly soft.

“I was… procuring potions ingredients,” she replied, still avoiding his face.

“How do you know he raped you, if you were left unconscious?”

“How is it any of your bloody business?” Hermione retorted. “I doubt you’re concerned for my honor, given the current circumstances. Apparently he finds his actions ‘regrettable,’ given his gentlemanly nature, but once I’d recovered Harry decided against letting me do anything for the Order that might be risky even in the slightest, leaving me altogether useless.”

“Potter knows that Lucius raped you?” Snape asked, and Hermione glanced up to see surprise still written on his face.

“No,” she looked down again. “I hadn’t a clue who’d done it until last night, when I saw his boots, which were the only thing I could remember from the attack last year.”

Snape had his wand pointed at Hermione before she could realize what he was doing, and it took her several seconds to employ occulmency against the intrusion.

“You know,” she said, “there are restrictions regarding the use of legilimens. Not to mention entering one’s mind uninvited is generally considered rather impolite.”

“Cease your prattling and your resistance,” Snape hissed, strengthening the force of his legilimency with what felt like a claw hammer through Hermione’s skull. True to Newton’s laws, the harder she tried to push him out the harder he pushed back, until Hermione finally collapsed on the bed with an overpowering headache.

“Ow,” she moaned, all cleverer responses sapped from her. She curled on her side and clutched her stomach, which was suddenly threatening revolt. Snape sat back in the chair, considering what he’d just learned. Old Beezle was still in business—however illegitimate— Lucius had made a rather tender and entirely botched effort at seduction, and Hermione carried a torch for Remus Lupin, a thought so distasteful he refused to think on it. And, interestingly, she not only associated Snape with Thomas Gray, but fondly remembered the night he’d brought her to orgasm in his old Hogwarts chambers, so long ago. He smirked, allowing himself to feel a brief moment of triumph.

More important, however, was what she knew about goings-on with the Order, which was surprisingly little. The merry band had yet to find the final Horcrux, whose location, so far as Snape knew, was known only to the Dark Lord himself. Potter had become extraordinarily powerful, which wasn’t terribly surprising. Hermione, from her former apprenticeship to Slughorn, had learned and communicated to him the secret for making Horcruxes, though Potter hadn’t used it—even after killing Alecto and Amycus. And even after Hermione had urged him to consider it, lest those killings be in vain.

“How very surprising,” Snape murmured, regarding the moaning woman on the bed. When she stayed curled on her side for another minute, he called her name. “Ms. Granger, your theatrics will not induce me to let slip my guard.” She responded with a nosebleed such as normally comes form a solid punch to the face, and at this Snape became somewhat alarmed. Rising again, he sat beside her on the bed and pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his vest. “Here,” he said, giving her the kerchief, and was met with no response, other than her turning on her stomach to soil the duvet. “Oh, of all the ridiculous…” he said, brining forth his wand and ordering her to “rennervate.”

Which she didn’t. In fact, she ceased to moan or to move, though her nose continued to bleed. With a distinctly irritated sigh, Snape made quick work of retrieving several bottles from his nearby storage room, setting several on the bed as he sat next to the insensate Hermione. He opened one bottle, which was colored deep red with salamander blood, and poured it liberally onto the handkerchief before pressing it to Hermione’s bleeding nose. After several rather tense moments the bleeding stopped, and he poured a phial of strengthening solution into her mouth. No sooner had he finished than she sat up, beginning to cough and choke.

“What in the seven hells did you do to me?” Hermione demanded.

“I read your thoughts, Ms. Granger. Which, though sometimes illegal and allegedly rude, does not generally result in nosebleeds and fainting spells.”

“I’m well aware of that, you old goat,” she replied, “as your forcible intrusion is obviously what caused my reaction. What I meant is what did you do to me just now, or rather what did you give me, since you’ve obviously just forced me to drink something.

“Poison, perhaps?”

To her credit, Hermione’s face remained impassive. “How very predictable. Was it the same mixture you used to kill Scrimgeour?”

“Scrimgeour?” Snape’s voice registered a moment of surprise. “No, I’m afraid I used the entirety of that concoction on the former minister. But I’ll certainly brew you some more, if you’d like.”

“So it is you, then?” She asked, in no mood for his acerbic banter, “you’re the one who’ll kill me?”

“Does it really matter? It will be a simple killing curse, Ms. Granger. It can even be done while your back is turned, if you wish.”

“It matters because I’d like to know whose face I’ll be seeing last in this world!” She said, becoming angry—she had thus far been extremely well-mannered, in her estimation—“and because that last person I want to see is,” she halted, and slumped back on the pillows. “Never mind,” she sighed, waving the thought her murder away with defeated turn of her hand, and feeling more defeated than she could ever recall. “I would very much like a bath, if possible—unless you’d prefer me bedraggled for my execution.”

“Is whom?” Snape demanded, ignoring her request. Your nasty old potions professor?”

“One would think you hadn’t read my thoughts,” Hermione laughed tunelessly. “Lucius Malfoy. No doubt he’d enjoy that coup de grace, but he’s humiliated me quite enough already.”

“That leaves only me, Ms. Granger. Although I imagine your final scenario includes Potter galloping in and rescuing your fair self.” Hermione’s frown deepened to a scowl that Snape had never seen, nor even imagined possible on her earnest face.

“Do I look like a child to you, Snape? Have I cried or thrown fits or shown naïvete as a child would do? Shall I recount for you the number of students I’ve seen graduate to your ranks in the past few years? Or the number of friends I’ve buried? For a lot so concerned with their own nobility, you’d think you could offer me at least a modicum of bloody dignity. But since you’re clearly incapable, at least allow me a bath.”

To his utter surprise, Snape found an apology at the tip of his tongue, which he swallowed with the acid taste of bile. Hogwarts was never the insular haven its old headmaster had presented it as, of which Hermione was proof enough. It had shaped her, along with her own heart, to be noble and brave, but now there was a cold disenchantment about her that nearly made him short of breath, and reminded him too much of the broken girl he’d helped ten years ago. He rose from the bed, joints creaking to remind him of impending age.

“I shall draw your bath presently.”

A/N: poem by W.B. Yeats.