Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.

Chapter 14 – A Celebration of Something Not To Do.


He noticed her leaving the room. Granger’s departure wasn’t a sequence of actions Snape had followed (as he refused to watch her in the first place) but more of a substance. Better say – the lack of it, as Snape was constantly aware of Granger’s presence and had been alerted once it was removed. Ronald Weasley, he noted, had followed her shortly afterwards. The Weasley boy had the ancestral right, or something along those lines, to follow her; to make her nervous; to make her cry. Was he beginning to feel protective toward Hermione Granger? Somehow, they seemed to be relating to each other through the pain he’d caused her. Connected by Granger’s stubborn determination to defy him – whether she did it by tossing his apology back to his side of the field, or by making him retreat into nastiness, just for thwarting his defenses by being the person she was. It was enough of a bond for Snape to attempt trapping it in a cage of finely spun words, but hardly more than that. Several words, wistfully accurate, were but and all Granger had belonged to him. His claim on her was no more than this flimsy definition of shared pain. When did it come to be barely enough? Damn the woman for getting under his skin.

The double doors of the hall closed behind Weasley’s back. The friction of the wooden surfaces resulted in a knock, which was hard enough to distract some of the attenders. Not Snape, though. He finished his brief report, gave Dumbledore a short nod, and without frivolous mannerism, sat back in his place.

Albus Dumbledore took over the session with an acquired smoothness. The wizened wizard\'s managing the Order’s meetings had become, over the years, a matter of protocol. Dumbledore was a talented speaker, gifted with the capability to force a room full of people into subdued silence. Hogwarts current Headmaster was not, however, the actual leader of the fight. Most ignored it, some admitted it reluctantly, but the true leader of the campaign against the Dark Lord and his minions was Harry James Potter.

Albus Dumbledore wasn’t a man of war. He thrived during peace times, where his quiet strength and deep fountain of wisdom would come to full use. But he was not a warrior. Dumbledore, Snape suspected, had known grief and joy, fury and sorrow, and above all, great, flowing love, for all living things. But the older wizard hadn’t ever known hatred. Something in his ancient, spongy bones, refused to sustain it. And war- war demanded you to exterminate your enemies, and in order to kill; you had to be familiar with the concept of taking a life out of hate- of loving so much – that you had to hate those who inflicted pain and sorrow on your beloved. Dumbledore was a creature of many contradictions, but his core was simple – like an old, strong, English oak tree. This paradox was an oxymoron Albus Dumbledore could not contain.

Potter, on the other hand, could. No, it wasn’t Potter the boy, who was stronger than Albus Dumbledore. The child Potter, Snape remembered, had been a nervy bundle of sizzling, unfocused power, who could not concentrate all his different emotions in order to channel enough power through his wand. It was the grown up, Auror Potter; it was the husband Potter, who could finally gather his magic and the force of his charisma into a deadly fist of magic. It was Harry Potter, the father of five children, who had enough love in him to produce enough hate. And this man was, indeed, more powerful than Albus Dumbledore. Snape could never actually bring himself to like the man. Potter reminded him too much of a humiliation he would rather forget. But then he grew older, and the striking resemblance to James Potter, dead at twenty-two, had finally subsided. Potter himself settled down, and Snape no longer had to teach him. Somewhere along those years, he found he could regard Potter from a dis distance. That the mere sight of the boy no longer unnerved him. That it was all right. Thus, along with the Hogwarts Headmaster, Snape had become one of Potter’s steadier supporters.

He was reassured of his choice once again as Potter came to speak. Words didn’t came too fluently to him, his knowledge was wide on these subjects in which he was interested, and sparse on others, but he was clear minded, had the sharpest sense for strategy, and knew whatever it was a person had to know, to make people follow him blindly. Potter spoke with clarity and enthusiasm, and Snape usually followed his speech keenly. Not today, though. For the second time this evening, Snape wished Granger in hell. It wasn’t characteristic of her to leave a meeting in mid-session. Though he told himself several times that Granger had probably joined the giggling bunch of dunderheads who were attempting to decorate 12 Grimmauld Place for the coming party, Snape could not forget her troubled expression as she had turned to leave the room.

Granger’s actions the other day had cornered Snape, forcing him into a certain kind of response: she had created a friction, and he had therefore been bound to react. There was no pattern to his awareness of her, only the inability to block the knowledge that she was there. Admitting that Dumbledore was right, and he was working himself to death seemed to be the easier explanation. The notion he was losing control was much more bothersome. Then, by acknowledging the iniquity he’d done, he almost seemed able to define this reaction. To name his emotions, in some bizarre, absurd way. It made him sick to look at her, knowing she’d seen him weak not only due to mere accident, but one by his own choice. It made him unable to pull his gaze away from her.

He made it through the meeting by reciting an excessive part of Candide. A satire designed to point out the fallacy of Leibniz\'s theory of optimism and the hardships brought on by the resulting inaction toward the evils of the world, Snape usually chose to ignore the historical context, and enjoy Voltaire’s novella as a gothic tale about human stupidity. One of his university Professors had once been shocked at her student\'s thoroughly demagogic analysis of the work. He wrote the essay whilst in an exceptionally dark mood, bantering with Nikholai who had been drunkenly reciting Akhmatova’s White Flock. Snape’s essay brought him a double alpha. Nikholai returned to the USSR, and one day, his letters ceased to arrive.

Several minutes before Candide was forced into the army, the meeting had ended. Snape allowed the words to sink to the bottom of his mind as he rose to exit the room, not wishing to find himself engaged in some obligatory occasional conversation. Looking for some fresh air, he crossed the entrance hall – bereft of its Mistress and still too quiet after all these years – and turned to the door. Unlocked. Probably just another Muggle-lover smoking a half-time cigarette under an aging cornice.

The wind, lashing and cruel, howled in his ears once he opened the door, carrying needle-sharp raindrops to slap his face. Not minding the weather, Snape stepped into the vicious rain. The cold was bliss. Or he willed it to be. Around him there was Muggle neglect –he remembered it all too well from his University days. Artificial filth – plastic, and paper bags and all sort of other Muggle inventions that were unnatural: rotten leftovers; overgrown weeds denting the edge of the pavement. It seemed like a night for Firewhiskey.

For quite some time, he stood brushing the edges of the storm, ignoring the rain that soaked his cloak, and the wind, which was disheveling his hair. Noticing the rounded figure, he was inclined to dismiss it as a trick of his mind, a mirage created by the rushing storm. Then she turned to look at him, and he could only answer her gaze with mindless amusement – expression that survived just long enough before Granger turned her head once again.

Ten minutes passed, and then another ten. Snape’s robes were soaked and so was his hair, flattened to his head, dripping water. He was shivering, -a counteract to prevent hypothermia, but staying outside in the cold for much longer wasn’t a clever idea. His lower lip was already cracking. Snape turned to leave, then was reminded of Hermione Granger, who was still occupying the same spot, possibly staring into space. How long had Granger been outside? He took several steps toward her, stopping some distance from the crouched figure.

“It’s cold,” he grunted. “You should get inside.”

“Right.”

Snape turned to leave; sure she was following him. Several feet from the door, he noticed her absence. “Granger!” He called above the shrieking wind. “Do you have a death-wish? Gather your wits and come over.”

She didn’t bother to respond. Irritated, Snape retreated his steps. “Stupid woman. If you want to get yourself worked up, there are much safer ways to achieve a satisfying result than hypothermia. Come on, you idiot: we are going to improve our acquaintance with a wonderful Muggle invention called vodka.”

“Leave me alone, Snape. Regardless of what you may think, alcohol is not the answer to all the world’s problems.”

“Be surprised, Miss Granger. Now come along,” he ordered her in his most scathing voice. “I have no wish to drag you.”

Snape didn’t watch her turning to follow him – or else he might have been scorched by the expression of sheer helplessness that stained her pale features – and walked away.

“Where are we going?” she asked him.

“First, to retrieve your outer cloak, as it’s clear you were silly enough leave the house without it. Then we shall Apparate to a place that I know of- it’s a Muggle pub, called The Eagle and the Child, or The Bird and Baby as it is known in Oxford. I’ll give you the exact set of Apparating coordinates once we’re ready to go. I used to go there as a student. I still do.” He opened the door, waiting for her to step in. Granger seemed surprised by the automatic courtesy, but held her tongue.

“Get your cloak, and take off your outer robes- I take it you do wear Muggle clothes underneath. If you don’t, I can assure you anyway that Oxford has already seen its share of peculiarities, and I doubt if anybody will pay any attention.”

Quickly, he removed his robe, hanging it on the coat peg, which was already occupied by several cloaks. Luckily, Granger’s was amongst them.

“Had anyone told me I’ll someday see Professor Snape in a t-shirt and jeans I’d probably have sent them to St. Mungo’s.

Snape glared at her. Her eyes and nose were reddened and swollen, and her hair clung to her skull in a miserable imitation of a drowned rat. Ignoring her distress, he growled. “As opposed to common belief among Muggle borns, Wizarding anachronism stretches only to a certain degree. It’s winter, it’s cold, and a wizard would be mad not to wear anything underneath his robes. Are there some more witty notions you’d like to share with me, or can we Apparate?”

“I’m sorry, Pro-”

“Cease this stupid apologising this instant- people seem to be making a habit of apologising to me recently, and I can’t say I care about it.”

“Afraid to set your villain façade aside?”

He snorted. “Playing with fire once you proved you can’t stand the burn is pathetic.”

“Your banal use of this cliché is pathetic.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I’m willing to pay the price for following this line of argument. The question is, are you?”

“You grant yourself the privilege of benevolent judgment.”

She obviously didn’t expect Snape to throw his head backward and burst in laughter. “And of course, there’s no one more appropriate than you to be the judge of that.” Sobering quickly, he gave her a scornful look. “Now belt up. I do not appreciate idiotic blubberers. At least, not while I’m still sober. These are the coordinates,” he told her as they exited the Black family house. “Do try not to get yourself splinched.”

He Disapparated with a sharp pop, balancing himself quickly and moving aside as Hermione Granger Apparated beside him on the small back lane. She landed unevenly, and before she could steady herself, Granger was tumbling forward. He lunged toward her, catching her in his arms, just before she landed in a heap on the damp flagstones.

Snape cursed quietly while helping her to her feet. “Silly girl! Why didn’t you tell me your apparition skills had gone rusty?”

“Oh, shut up, Snape. It was none of your business.” Hurrying to distance herself, she straightened her cloak, shifting a stray curl behind her left ear.

“You could have splinched!” He rebuked her. “Did it occur to you for a moment that the Ministry is closed for the holidays, and you might stay halved for the next twenty-four hours for any passing Muggle to see?”

“Well, and to think that I thought you cared about what might happen to me.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Cynicism does not become you.”

She tightened her jaws, sniffing hard. “Many things do not become me, Professor.”

He was surprised at Granger’s sudden seriousness. “It is true-,” he admitted. “But there are measures to everything. And I find that – more than anything else – cynicism does not suit you.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Does it bother you? Me, being sarcastic?” Moistening her lips, she shifted her gaze, deliberately not looking at him.

Snape contemplated his answer. “Try asking me again, after we had at least five shots.”

“Five shots?” She cried. “You must be crazy. I’m going to drop dead after the second shot.”

“Really? How depressing. So you’ll just have to sit quietly and watch me drink.”

“Where are we going from here?”

“Follow me.”

He led Granger through the back lane and into the street, where they walked in silent companionship to number 49. Affectionately known to locals as the \'Bird and Baby\', this famous old pub was a hotchpotch of tiny, old-fashioned rooms, which lead eventually to a large conservatory area at the rear.

Leaving Granger in one of the small rooms, Snape found the barman, and after a short conversation, was back to Hermione with half sized bottle of Stolichnaya, and two shot glasses in his hand.

“Well,” leaning forward, Snape poured the placid, translucent liquid to the glasses. “Four things that Mother Russia has been blessed with- or so my dear friend Kolya used to say. Blood-crazed dictators, its literature, a fucking awful climate. And vodka.” He signed for Granger to pick up her drink. In return, she closed three chubby fingers around the glass. A small, child-like hand, lifting a shot-glass full of vodka. The image was sweet and disturbing.

Snape nodded. “Let us drink to Mother Russia. Na Zdorovye!”

“To Mother Russia,” Granger chanted.

Snape emptied the glass with one gulp. Granger, who did the same, was now coughing violently.

“Dear God!” she exclaimed, “that stuff could paralyze a grown elephant.”

“Exactly. Being born in Murmansk, Kolya used to pour the first shot in October, and stay drunk until mid May.”

“Well, Murmansk is on the Arctic circle,” Granger protested. “We’re in Oxford.”

“Which is the reason I do bother to sober up from time to time.” Snape remarked laconically, pouring them a second shot. “Your turn, Miss Granger.”

“Oh,” she stammered. “Oh.”

Snape glared at her. “Well, come on.”

Granger seemed to consider her next words. “All right,” she said at last. “You said cynicism does not become me, and you were right, of course. I hope you’ll excuse my melancholy, then, or perhaps simply being tired and angry and wishing to have cynicism as resort. Let’s see if I remember correctly- Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate, to know that for destruction ice, is also great. And would suffice. To each of the two, I guess.”

Snape nodded in agreement. “For each of the two. Cheers. Now if I’m allowed to ask,” he said few minutes later, watching tears of nausea wetting Granger’s face. “Why Frost?”

“Talkative now, aren’t you?” She shook her head. “Please, forget that last comment. I’m irritated and not myself right now. Why Frost… Probably because he seemed to know loneliness and loss, and I seem to be… lacking the words to put my own loss and loneliness in focus. He expresses it for me. Don’t you ever feel that way about an artist?”

She was all too accurate. “Perhaps,” he told her after a while.

“What is your poem?”

“What do you mean?” he retorted.

“Your poem.” Granger frowned, looking for an accurate definition. “The one poem that… explains you as an entity. That you’d choose as an epigram to your life. Do you have one?”

“Well…” His eyebrows knotted in concentration. “Not me as a whole, but- there might be a poem I find myself pondering from time to time… Hell, I’m not drunk enough for that.” Snape reached for his third shot. “To poetry?”

Hermione shook her head. “To letting others forge our symbolism of misery. For allowing others to impersonate our emotions for us.”

“All right.” And with that, Snape lifted the glass, and downed his drink.

In front of him, Granger was blinking back the tears in her eyes. “I think I reached my limit,” she told him. “One more shot of this and I’ll be stumbling to the dungeons first thing in the morning, begging you for a hangover potion.”

“Knowing when to stop is a virtue,” he commented dryly. “Knowing how to beg is also a virtue.”

“So kinkiness turns you on?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Professor!” she protested in a sloppy manner, waving her hand in a way to indicate a nearing state of intoxication. “What’s the point in being drunk with you if I can’t squeeze some embarrassing admission you’d blush to repeat in the morning?”

“The point in getting drunk-” he told her, “is to not mind. You see, I can’t say drinking makes me forget, but it numbs the sharp edges. For a while. So do stop pestering me, and concentrate on ignoring your own problems.”

“Not a chatty drunk, are you?”

“I cannot say. It’s been a while since I got drunk in company.”

“How long?”

“Years. Probably… not since my university days.”

Granger processed the information. “With Kolya?”

“With Kolya.”

“You were a student here in Oxford?”

“Is that a question?” he snarled.

“Perhaps. What did you study?”

“Literature and Chemistry.”

Granger gaped stupidly. “I’d never have imagined you attending a Muggle University… and studying Literature…”

He snorted. “That will teach you never to trust an overdeveloped imagination. Now, why are we talking about me? Why are we talking at all?”

“Because you invited me for a drink, and I am a chatty drunk.”

“Then I won’t repeat that certain mistake.”

She shrugged, index finger brushing the gilded rim of her empty glass. “You said there’s a poem…”

“I said no such thing.” Glowering at her, he poured himself another shot.

“Okay. Then just… this poem. Can you recite it?”

“It’s long.”

“Do you see me hurrying anywhere?”

“All right. I see your point.” Snape reached for the glass, downing his fourth shot. “Fine. By the time I’ll finish this, I’ll be drunk enough not to regret reciting the blasted thing. Now shut up and let me try to remember the opening lines.”

Granger leant into the backrest of her seat, watching him with her prominent, brown eyes. Not pretty in any way, he thought, only very big, and slightly sunken. It was the expression they held – like a soft, distinguishably feminine hand nestling a ripe fruit: plum or apple or pear – that made you think her eyes were beautiful. It was this restrained expression of eagerness, glowing and childish and enthusiastic; like a little child who could hardly contain his anticipation, or a woman about to reach climax, to fool the observer. So sweet. Snape sighed, and with heavy heart, let his lips form Celan’s words.

“Black milk of daybreak we drink it at nightfall
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
drink it and drink it
we are digging a grave in tky iky it is ample to lie there
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and walks from the house the stars glitter he whistles his dogs up
he whistles his Jews out and orders a grave to be dug in the earth
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the mornings at noon we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
A man in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when the night falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamith we are digging a grave in the sky it is ample to lie there

He shouts stab deeper in earth you there and you others you sing and you play
he grabs at the iron in his belt and swings it and blue are his eyes
stab deeper your spades you there and you others play on for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at nightfall
we drink you at noon in the mornings we drink you at nightfall
drink you and drink you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen haiulamulamith he plays with the serpents

He shouts play sweeter death\'s music death comes as a master from Germany
he shouts stroke darker the strings and as smoke you shall climb to the sky
then you\'ll have a grave in the clouds it is ample to lie there

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we k yok you at noon death comes as a master from Germany
we drink you at nightfall and morning we drink you and drink you
a master from Germany death comes with eyes that are blue
with a bullet of lead he will hit in the mark he will hit you
a man in the house your golden hair Margarete
he hunts us down with his dogs in the sky he gives us a grave
he plays with the serpents and dreams death comes as a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith.”

He finished, stretching out his hand to pour himself another shot. Only after gulping the drink, he could focus his attention on the woman. She was staring at him, an odd expression of anguish darkening her features, brow creased with concentration. “That is…” she began… “This is painful.”

Snape looked at her with evident boredom.

“I…” Granger was biting on her lower lip. “That poem... it’s almost offensive. As if the author scorns you for daring to forget. Please, Professor- you should not… perhaps I’m wrong to feel obliged to response –this sleepless sitcom culture we, Mugglesnsumnsume everywhere educates us to manifest our opinions but rarely teaches us to how to listen. Maybe I’m forgetting the value of silence, but… do you know – no other person has ever made me feel like that. That I should justify my behaviour all the time. Heavens, I’m overreacting. I’m probably drunker than I feel.”

He sneered. “The reason you feel obliged to constantly justify your choices to me is because I don’t automatically approve of your every action. I thought you’d have the grace to grow out of this annoying habit. Seems like I’ve been mistaken.”

Snape probably expected her to be offended, so he was surprised when she wasn’t. “You’re wrong, Professor. It is true that for a long time I longed for approval. It hadn’t been easy for me in Hogwarts as a Muggle born. I felt under great pressure to prove that I was worthy of my schoolmates who had grown up with magic-“

He snorted. “Foolish girl. You were twice as talented as any of them, and you should have known that.”

Granger appeared to be surprisingly serene. “Do you know it’s the first compliment you ever paid me?” Hermione said softly. She didn’t wait for Snape’s response, however. “I knew I was… capable. Nonetheless I was also shy, and insecure. I changed over time. By my fifth year I was relatively sure of my skills. But I still looked for your approval. One reason was that you never offered it, and could hardly be expected to offer it. Another one was that I looked at you as… sort of a role model. Not for human relations needless to say, but as a brilliant man and as my teacher. And last- you were simply incredibly annoying and insolent. It was challenging.”

Reluctantly curious, he fixed his gaze on her. “You were a schoolgirl. One could have expected that what you have been through… should have cured you from your apparent misgivings.”

“Why?” she asked him. “Are you any more approving now than you have been? Or any less brilliant and offensive?”

“No, you fool. I just ruined your life, that is.”

She nodded in agreement. “You know what they used to say – life happens. I could not let the tragedies of my past prevent me from moving forward.”

“How endearing.”

“Now who’s being cynical?”

“Unlike you, it would be uncharacteristic of me not to display any sort of cynicism.”

“Of course.” Contemplatively, she reached for a glass, frowning as she saw it was empty.

Snape gave her a questioning look. “More vodka? Something else?”

“Let it be something weaker. For me at least. And perhaps something to nibble?”

Laughing, he rose to his feet.

“Stop that! I have every right to be fat!”

“Well, as long as I never hear anything from you about malnourishment, I believe I can respect that. What would you like to dr”
”

“Lager will be just fine.”

When he returned several minutes later with their drinks and some pork scratchings, she looked somewhat dizzy – her soft, generous limbs were jammed against her seat, and she was watching him with eager gaze. “Oh, God!” she mumbled, reaching for the pork scratchings. \"Do you know how long it is since I ate any of these?” Granger demanded, dreamily chewing on the dry roasted crackling. “You evil, evil man. You’re going to make me fat.”

“Correct me if I’m mistaken, but isn’t this the purpose of all Muggle junk food?”

“No, at least not directly. Muggle junk food is made to make money. Getting people fat is only an entertaining side benefit.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you?” She smiled widely, as much as her lips could stretch while not actually open. “What are you drinking?”

“Whiskey,” he answered, lifting his Jameson’s.

“I though we came here for the vodka.”

“True, but now that we have quite enough vodka to get me slightly drunk, I can move on to finer drinks.” And he eyed Hermione’s lager with clear disgust.

“Criticizing your companion’s choice of drink does not make you more attractive. Especially when you’re the one to move to whiskey after consuming an industrial amount of taste-bud numbing poison.”

“Fortunate, then, that I’m not attempting to be attractive.”

Granger uttered an amused sigh. “Wrong wording, my mistake. ‘Bearable’ would be more accurate.”

“If bearable is what you’re looking for, I recommend you might look somewhere else.”

“Point taken.” She sipped her drink. “Let’s play a game.”

“A game?”

“Don’t look so startled. I’m drunk and you’re drunk, why not make the best of it?”

“I guess it depends on what you’re defining as ‘best’.”

“Having a civil conversation is sufficient?”

“Barely. What kind of game were you thinking of?”

“It’s not painful, I assure you. Three questions- no, let’s make it one for each round, so not to burden you. Any question is acceptable, and the other person must answer it.”

“No.”

“Please, it would be fun. You’d get to ask me all these compromising things and I can ask if you think I’m too fat and you’d have to give me an honest answer.”

Snape shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“It probably isn’t,” she agreed with him. “But it can still be amusing.”

“Or dangerous.”

“Afraid of little honesty?”

He sneered. If Granger believed she was going to be able to trick him into a dare, she was clearly mistaken. He was too old for that. “Yes I am,” he told her, “and if you had any brains, you’d be as well.”

She was suddenly serious. “I’m not going to use… whatever knowledge I might gain against you. You know that, don’t you?”

He chose to ignore her.

“Severus…” she was now leaning slightly forward, “I’m never going to hurt you, you must be… aware of that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he growled.

“So…would you…?”

“Blast. All right, if that’s the only way to make you shut your mouth.”

“Of course!” She seemed smug. “There has to be something in that for you too, doesn’t it? Would you like to begin?”

“I’d like you to shut up.”

“Then it means I’m asking and you do the talking.”

“Fine.”

Granger shrugged, making herself comfortable in her seat. “Okay. Let’s start with something easy.”

Snape found himself wondering how ‘easy’ might be defined in Hermione Granger\'s lexicon. On the other hand, she was a Gryffindor. Impaling a man on a verbal dagger, then twisting it to inflict the greatest possible pain, was a Slytherin art. Gryffindors hardly knew how to use their fists correctly.

“Well…” She bit on some more crackling, watching him closely. “Why Literature? I can understand Chemistry, but not Literature. Now, bear in mind that you’re expected to give a full, detailed answer.”

Snape considered her choice of question. Artificially innocent, and yet, much too personal for his liking. “I chose to study literature,” he told her, “because it was my chance to indulge in something I actually loved. I knew I had a talent for Potions, so Chemistry seemed to be a logical back up, but Literature… I love words. They fascinate me. I could never write; my wizarding blood probably runs too thick and too old to allow for any kind of artistic creativity – but being able to academically and intellectually peruse my interest in literature,” his voice became strained, and he fought to keep it even. “Being able to do so, I felt…” redeemed, he thought and refrained from using the word. “It gave me a great pleasure.”

Granger worried her lower lip. “I… think I can understand what you’re talking about.”

Do you? He thought. Did you ever know such deprivation that discovering a new, fascinating academic skill gave you such happiness? Well, perhaps she did. She was Hermione Granger after all.

She coughed. “It’s your turn now.”

“Is it.” Was there anything he wanted to ask her? It would be strange to acknowledge that there were things he wanted to know, and even stranger to actually ask any question. Snape settled for something marginal. “You named your daughter Aubrey. That is usually considered a masculine name. Any reason for that?”

Hermione smiled at the mentioning of her daughter. “Aubrey. I was in love with the name ever since I was young. Truth is, I hoped my baby would turn out to be a boy so I could name him Aubrey. The name makes me think of… golden autumn, and lemony morning sky. Of early spring, and the first blossoms. It has… clarity about it, and simplicity, and a certain kind of sweetness, not manifested, but nonetheless existent. I wanted my child to be all those things. I wanted to bestow upon her all the good images that relate to this name in my mind. I wanted her to be… happy, and luminous and quiet and bright with joy. So I named her Aubrey.” She watched him closely, those eyes of her seeming to absorb and preserve every tiny splinter of response on a hidden film of memory. “My turn now. What is… your biggest regret?”

Snape scowled at her. “That’s private.”

Granger grinned. “I know.”

“Insolent brat. Oh, very well. My biggest regret…” Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “How unexpectedly, I became a Death Eater. There are many things I did, in the Dark Lord’s service, which I regret now, but the thing I regret the most is- betraying my mother. Aniko was a strange creature – as far as I know, her English vocabulary did not stretch beyond hundred words. The Wizarding World was something she never understood, and in fact, never wished to understand. Therefore, there is no telling how she became aware of the nature of… my new loyalties. My father of course, mocked her notions and told me to ignore her. But I… could not defy her any further. She told me, that she would not be the mother of a Nazi beast. That I was no longer her son. She was right.” Snape didn’t wait for Granger’s response, unwilling to withstand any fake empathy, or any nonsensical cooing. Instead, he asked her the first question that came to mind. “Why were you upset when I found you?”

Granger hissed, as if his words hit a raw spot. Intoxicated by her own poison. “I had an argument… with Ron. Ronald,” she corrected. “I’m not so sure what I should call him right now. He was… angry with me for running away- for throwing away all that we had together then. For betraying it. His anger was justified; I could not… protect myself. It was like being naked in front of him. And I think- this conversation made me understand that he still loves me. Or rather loves the person I once was. I pushed him. I hurt him. Again. And I have this bitter taste of missing him in my mouth, because I was suddenly forced to face what might have been – should have been – and it’s hard for me to deal with it.” She reached for another piece of pork crackling, chewing it as if the rhythmical movement of her jaws or the explosion of flavours in her mouth would take away the worst of the sting. “Me now. What drove you… to hurt Aubrey, the other day?”

This was only getting worse. Snape took a sharp breath, trying to sort out an appropriate answer. “I don’t know. Not precisely. Her actions provoked a sense of self-awareness I could not deal with. I think she came too close and so I just had to push her away. Fuck that! And be quiet! I know that’s not the answer you want. Why did I hurt her? Probably because I’m a prick who knows of no better way to handle people. It was the most natural response for me, and so I acted.”

Granger nodded. “That’s… an acceptable answer.”

“Good for you. So why did you come back?”

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I came upon a discarded newspaper- it was the New-York’s magical community’s issue. There was a short note, concerning the British Wizarding World’s continuing struggle against its current Dark Enemy. Dry,rtlertless, laconic report. It made me realise I was needed- that there is no one else to fight this battle for us. A Gryffindor sense of morality, you might say. I suppose it’s true. Aside from that, this week helped me see that I need this form of closure. I left the Wizarding World at a moment of personal catastrophe, but my wounds were left open. I need to close cyc cycle in order to be whole again –as much as I’m ever going to be whole, but that’s enough for me.”

“It’s a brave decision.”

“It’s an inevitable decision,” Granger said. “It had to be taken.” She took another sip from her drink. It occurred to him she looked tired- that he had been looking at her for quite a long time now, without comprehending the sadness that had embedded the dark circles under her eyes and had curved premature lines unto her skin. This tiredness should have distracted her; numbed her senses, but it only made her aim more accurate. She answered his gaze with a steady, straightforward look. “My turn.”

He confirmed. “Your turn.”

“Who hurt you so?”

His fist clenched around an empty shot-glass. A nasty crack was zigzagging down the thick glass. “That’s none of your business. Don’t ask me more, unless you’re willing to face the consequences.”

Granger nodded. “All right. I take that question back. Tell me instead, what would be the consequence had I pressed that particular point?”

He watched her with narrowed eyes. “I would have fucked you, or hit you, or both, until I could no longer remember and I could no longer breathe and I could no longer feel.”

“I would… take that into consideration.” Granger took another sip of her drink.

“Good.”

“Good.” Snape watched her with growing amusement. It seemed like they were sitting there, exploring the limits of the pain they could legally cause to each other. The pain that they could willingly take. Something about this woman, about Hermione Granger, made it possible to endure, while making it much, much more difficult. For some reason, he heard Albus’ words floating in his mind.

…Perhaps you have something to learn from Hermione Granger. Tell me, my dear boy, where did your hatred lead you?

…Won’t you agree with me, then, when I tell you it might be the time to take a different path…?

Snape let his gaze trail along the rounded face, noting the big, expressive eyes; the somewhat flattened nose; the generous, pale lips. Sparse freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, creating a somewhat childish impression. Simple. Open. Illuminated. Annoyingly so, because it was something he could not touch. Snape frowned, opening his mouth to speak. “Why did you forgive me?”

Granger seemed slightly surprised at his question. “Oh, that’s easy,” she said. “I forgave you because you needed you be forgiven.”

His voice turned frosty. “Care to explain, Miss Granger?”

“Not at all.” She watched him closely, as if trying to work out Snape’s sudden remoteness. “Buddhism points out three marks to conditioned existence,” she began slowly. “One of them is Anicca: All things and experiences are inconstant, unsteady, and impermanent. Every thing is made up of parts, and is dependent on the right conditions for its existence. Everything is in flux, and so conditions are constantly changing. Things are constantly coming into being, and ceasing to be. Nothing lasts. I believe in that. I also believe in the existentialist doctrine that existence takes precedence over essence. We are altering the world as we go. Magic is nothing but the empirical materialization of this notion. I suppose that in retrospect one might say that making such a decision on my part was impossible, taking my condition at the time into consideration – I think it actually worked the other way around. I was so terrified, so horrified and scared, that I could barely think coherently. That’s where my more… call it baser instinct, or some inherent knowledge of the universe every human being is born with, kicked in.”

Granger sighed. “I can see you’re finding this explanation extremely foolish and over melodramatic, but I would appreciate it if you could restrain your contempt for a bit longer. Anyhow, as I was saying, I believe that it was partially due to those circumstances that I was able to take said decision. The look in your eyes-,” she breathed deeply. “You needed me to forgive you. It was the right thing to do, and so, I did it. And post factum, I’m glad of it. I would have forgiven you at the end anyway, for myself, for Aubrey, for my sanity. But at that moment- I forgave you because I could. Because you needed me to change the world for you.”

* The chapter\'s title is taken from Charles Bukowski\'s poem \"Young in New Orleans\".

* The Poem Hermione is reciting to Snape is Robert Frost\'s \"Fire and Ice\". The Poem Snape is reciting is Paul Celan, \"Fugue of Death\".

* The short description I brought of Voltaire’s Candide, is borrowed from an unknown writer on essaycrawler. The short explanation about Anicca is taken from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddhism#Principles_of_Buddhism, to anyone who might wish to gain some basic knowledge of Buddhism.

* For the short illustration I gave of The Bird and the Baby I should thank a tourist\'s guide for Oxford, somewhere on the net, which is lost to me, now that I moved to new computer. Being meticulous as ever and saving the information, I can now copy-past it for your sake: \"Being one of Oxford\'s oldest pubs, The Bird and the Baby acted as the lodgings of the Chancellor of the Exchequer during the English Civil War, when Oxford was the Royalist capital. More recently, it was the celebrated meeting place of famous authors. The writers C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkein and C. Williams, who formed their own literary group called the Inklings, used to meet in the Rabbit Room every Tuesday morning from 1939-1962.\" If you wish to learn more, I\'m sure the WWW can provide you with information aplenty.