Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.

Chapter 15 - Hands of the Stranger and Holds of the Ships.


There wasn’t much talking afterwards. Snape retreated into a private, alcohol-infused reverie, from which Hermione had no chance of pulling him. Feeling suddenly tired, she was reluctant to try. Forty-five minutes later, they were on the Knightbus, on their way back to Hogwarts. The night ride was calmer than she remembered. The magical vehicle skimmed undisturbed through the streetlights-dotted darkness; floor softly vibrating under the bed in which she lay. Snape, who sat in a bed next to her, gazed blankly out of the window. Hermione glanced at her wristwatch. One thirty.

“Happy New Year…” she murmured.

“What?” Snape didn’t move, but she noticed the faint echo of a jolt, tightening a muscle down his spine.

“I said, Happy New Year. It’s hour and a half after midnight.”

“A Happy New Year, then.”

“Here-,” it was a while after that when a small vial was stuffed into her hand. Frowning, Hermione turned to examine the bottle.

“A sober-up potion. To prevent a hangover. Just drain the vial.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“I wouldn’t like to have you roaming down my dungeons at seven AM looking for a hangover potion.”

She looked at him. Blackened contours against blacker night. “I wonder if that was a joke. You almost sounded kind.”

“My mistake.”

The Knightbus parked in front of Hogwarts’ entrance doors, fumes from its exhaust system melting the thin layer of snow underneath the wheels. Thanking the conductor, Hermione lumbered down the vehicle. The sober-up potion she had recently taken cleared her foggy brain to a certain degree, but her movements remained somewhat awkward. Snape was right behind her – a dark, towering figure, sleek and graceful as a jungle cat, despite having just consumed industrial quantities of alcohol. The man was a breathtaking mixture of contradictions – a quality defined by its constant changeability. One moment insolent and crude, and in the next, lucid and still, and just about tangible.

The Knightbus was gone with a coughing rattle, leaving behind a puddle of slushy snow. It was colder, much colder than in Oxford, and the frost was biting and reddening her exposed face. The clear moovealvealed a rosy sting on Snape’s cheeks too. He wasn’t looking at her, but Hermione had the hunch he was letting himself be stared at, as if trying to detne hne how much of this he could stand.

“What are you thinking about?”

Slowly, he shifted his gaze, looking at her. “A girl asked you: What is poetry?” he quoted laconically. “You wanted to say to her: You are too, ah yes, you are. And that in fear and wonder, which prove the miracle, I\'m jealous of your beauty\'s ripeness, and because I can\'t kiss you nor sleep with you, and because I have nothing and whoever has nothing to give must sing... But you didn\'t say it, you were silent, and she didn\'t hear the song.”

Hermione screwed up her face, and then shrugged. “I wonder if reciting poetry isn’t just another way for you to evade me. But whatever it is you meant- no, whatever it is that I heard, it is not true.”

“Is it, Miss Granger?”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Insecure?”

He snorted.

“So you’re just a coward, that is,” she told him. “Afraid to admit you have something to give, and afraid to take in return. Afraid to kiss me.”

Snape’s eyes widened at Hermione’s remark, but she only graced him with a quizzical look, refusing to provide contra to his startled annoyancWellWell, that’s all right,” she continued. “Neither of us is very capable of rhyme and reason at this point. We should probably get inside.”

Snape nodded. If she expected any sort of reaction, she was in for a disappointment. Silently, they entered the hall – the tall Auror Hermione had learned to recognize as Frank Fawcett, greeted them sleepily, ran a brief check to detect traces of dark magic, then returned to his quiet slumber. Judging by the faint smell of alcohol drifting around Fawcett, the young Auror was up to a considerable hangover. Hermione looked at Snape questioningly. The Potions Master uttered a low snarl.

“I shall walk you to your rooms,” he told her.

“There really is no need…”

He didn’t listen to her, so she gave up, drawing comfort from the nearness of another human-being while in the Hogwarts darkened corridors.

“The Staff Quarters?”

“Yes.”

They halted in front of her doorway. Hermione moistened her lips. “About Potions classes: your syllabuses-,”

As much as she was able to notice in the dim light, Snape seemed to be amused. “Timing, Miss Granger.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Not too early.”

“Of course.”

Snape bowed his head in brief courtesy. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Professor Snape.”

He was gone in an instant, robes whirling as he exited the hallway. Swift but graceful, she thought.

Granger, you’re nuts.

Hermione yawned, un-warded the door, and stored the memory of the evening for a thorough checkup some time later.

* * *

Hermione knocked on the wooden door of Snape’s chambers, taking a calming breath. “Good morning Professor Snape! Rise and shine! It’s one in the afternoon!”

“Quiet!” a grumpy answer shot from inside. There was a soft rustle, followed by a murmured set of incantations. The massive oak door clicked open.

Hermione stepped into Snape’s quarters, ready, by now, to face the suffocating heat of the spacious living room. Snape, however, was nowhere in sight. She frowned, and then, after a moment of hesitation, went on, toward the partly open door at the end of the room. “Professor?” Hermione asked quietly.

“Quiet, I said!”

Tucking an unruly lock of hair behind her ear, she pushed the door open. It creaked softlymostmost accusatorily. Snape’s bedroom was even dimmer. Hermione blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness that encompassed her. Several minutes were gone before she could discern Snape’s figure, recumbent on a wide, unmade bed. As much as Hermione could tell, he hadn’t changed his clothing since yesterday night. The mixed stench of vodka and cigarettes lingering around him was another indication.

She breathed. “All right, sleepy,” she told him, hands on her hips. “Time to wake up.”

“Didn’t. I. Tell. You. To. Be. QUIET??” Snape barked.

“Several times indeed,” she said while making her way through the room, lighting up the small array of candles. “Why, for Merlin’s sake, didn’t you use a sober-up potion? Or at least a hangover potion?”

“Why the hell do you think I didn’t?” he growled.

“Does it actually need answering?”

Snape snarled. “Well, if you really must know, I\'ve developed resistance to alcohol-effects reducers over the years. I still use them, but the influence has dulled considerably. I could strengthen the potions, of course, but I\'d rather not compromise my body stamina any further.”

“Have you ever thought of just reducing your alcohol consumption?” She was now searching through his armoire, fingers brushing against fine fabrics. All, seemingly, black.

Snape, who was slowly regaining his composure, moved to seating position. “What exactly do you think you’re doing in frof myf my wardrobe?” he roared, noticing her present occupation.

“I’m picking up clothes,” Hermione explained calmly. “So you’ll have something to wear once you’re out of the shower.”

“Shower?? Are you mad, woman?”

“I’m here, taking care of you. I believe that is answer enough. Now get up and off to the shower. You smell like a pub.”

“I’ll do no such thing!”

“Yes-you-will. Unless you want me to drag you in and wash your hair.”

Snape snorted.

“Come on, Snape. You might be the greasy git, black-hearted Professor, but I’m the Mummy-Monster. You don’t stand the chance against me. Better give up and spare your dignity.”

She pulled a clean shirt and trousers out of the closet, leaning to check the lower drawers for some underwear. Neatly placing the folded clothes on the bed, Hermione turned to face the now highly irritated Snape. She had been woken up by Aubrey, who sprang into the room after having an adventurous night, and spent the next couple of hours listening to her daughter’s enthusiastic chatter. A while ago, she had put Aubrey in Professor Sprout’s care – the motherly Herbology Mistress was happy to give Aubrey a tour of the greenhouses – and headed to Professor Snape’s room, to retrieve the syllabuses as they had arranged.

Hermione entertained, or so it seemed, a pretty cheerful mood. The night before had been something of a revelation to her, and while she didn’t know exactly how to describe her feelings, she was satisfied to simply let things lie. Snape, Hermione knew, could effortlessly ruin those shaky foundations of friendship with one sharp whip of his tongue – could easily break her heart, if he wanted to. She hoped he wouldn’t. That was not to say she had any idea how to refrain from provoking him, or that she even wanted to. If they were to establish any sort of working relationship, Severus Snape would simply have to accept Hermione Granger the way she was.

“Well?” Watching him with her best ‘I’m-not-pleased-with-your-behaviour’ glare, Hermione tried to will Snape to his feet.

“Well what?” he snapped.

“Please don’t make me give you the ‘shower-is-good-for-you’ speech.”

Snape arched an eyebrow. “Do you actually have one?”

“I have several. One concerns the importance of personal-hygiene, second on people relations and social customs, third involves a certain rubber-duck – I’m sure I have it in our luggage somewhere if you feel it’s necessary, and the fourth is the well-known encouraging speech one gives one\'s troops before marching into battle, that consists of: to the shower. Now.” She grinned at Snape. “Should I bring the rubber-duck? It quacks when you squeeze-”

“Shut up!” Snape roared. “You\'ve won, I surrender!”

Hermione beamed. “Told you there’s no overcoming the Mummy-Monster.”

“I pity your daughter.”

“Our daughter,” she corrected him. “Now get up. I’ll start a fire and run some cleansing spells while you shower. Then we’ll have lunch and go through your syllabuses.”

“I knew you have some ulterior motive,” Snape grumbled. He stood up, running a hand through his dishevelled hair.

“I’m working for the common good,” Hermione informed him. “And I am a Gryffindor. Ulterior motives are for cunning Slytherins.”

“Tell the Headmaster.”

“Dumbledore is the exception that proves the rule.”

“Is that so?” he asked sarcastically.

“Did you ever know me to behave like a Slytherin?”

“Very well, Miss Granger-,”

“Hermione,” she said. “You can’t call me ‘Miss Granger’ after just being threatened with Ducky.”

“Ducky?”

“It’s Aubrey’s rubber-duck, the one that quacks when you squeeze-,”

“Fine. Hermione.”

She smiled.

* * *

Milking Snape for information proved to be a tasking, yet not impossible mission. Uncomfortable in the intimidating, leather-covered armchair, Hermione sat on the carpet, scrolls of parchment spread out in front of her along with a steaming mug and a saucer full of biscuits. Snape was recumbent in his armchair, legs descending to the floor, sipping his black coffee. They were discussing Potions: Hermione interrogated Snape for his plans and his expectations as to the progress of the lower classes, diligently taking notes, and every so often, bantering Snape, who sneered, and delighted her with a sharp reply. She couldn’t tell when, but somewhere along this time, she found herself leaning against Snape’s leg, pleased to wallow in his warmth while managing a relaxed conversation.

“So how would you define the Wizarding World’s scientific community’s current paradigm?” she asked, resting her head against Snape’s calf.

“Probably by the lack of any,” he said with sarcastic amusement. “Ontology is a rather neglected area in the wizarding Weltanschauung, and so is epistemology. The power to change the universe deflects many of us from wondering at its workings. There can hardly be a scientific paradigm where there is no conception of objectivity and subjectivity.”

“You present it as an issue of self-definition?”

“It is, in a way. How can you define an organizing theme to a scientific research if the researchers refuse to acknowledge a research method? You must remember that Muggle science stemmed from philosophy, while wizarding science is merely the identification and development of magical processes.” His hand moved to rest in her hair. She had braided it, as she did every morning, but as the day progressed, wiry strands escaped their restrictions, surrounding her face with a soft halo. Snape was crushing a stray lock of hair between his thumb and his index finger, as if studying a strange, exotic texture. She then felt his fingers moving along her head; callused, rough fingertips, absentmindedly massaging her scalp. Making a small sound in the back of her throat, Hermione leaned forward, pressing her cheek to the long, sinewy leg.

A sweet glow of sleepiness washed over her, strumming a hollow note of longing somewhere of the back of her mind – an insistent claim that this should have been familiar. Though it wasn’t. So sweet, she wanted it to correlate some past memory, perhaps because this sugary, liquefied sleepiness Snape made her feel was intimidating. Perhaps because she wanted more. Hermione yawned, pressing closer, and felt Snape stiffen against her cheek. He removed his hand at once, drawing abruptly away as if gathering away every trace of warmth he just shared with her.

”Professor?” she asked, worried. “Severus…? Is everything all right?”

He was saying something in a voice so low she couldn’t discern his words. “If you’ll be so kind as to remove yourself…”

Hermione breathed in, drawing away at once. Something inside her clenched and squeaked, but she ignored the soft tremble. Wrapping her arms around her body, she leaned towards the fire, cold now that Snape had distanced himself. It would be hard enough to pick up their former conversation. However, she hardly felt like doing it. Time for the heavy cannons. God knows they had enough to discuss. Supporting her body on her right hand, Hermione pivoted. Snape’s face was serene and expressionless.

“What do you reckon we should do about Aubrey?”

“We?”

Hermione merely sighed. “You.”

At least he had the grace not to avoid the issue completely, claiming he didn’t know what the hell she is talking about.

“I don’t know,” Snape answered at last. “I told you once- I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Coward.”

“You said so several times yesterday and I haven’t opposed you.”

“Oh, great. Why don’t you recite another poem and be done with it? Please- I have every proof I need for your ability to gracefully evade a subject.”

“What a sharp observation.”

“You’re not enigmatic as you might like to think,” she said quietly. “You simply intimidate whoever it is who tries to reach you.” Hermione now turned around to face him fully. “I won’t say I’m not afraid of you, because in many ways, I am. However, I won’t be scared off. Too much is laid on the scales for me to be scared off. I can’t walk away from you; it is not an option. So please- you can make it easier on both of us.”

“I can make it easier on you,” he corrected coldly.

She shook her head with quiet desperation. “Do you really think so?”

Snape sighed. “Yes. But only most of the time.”

“Good.” Hermione wanted to give him an encouraging smile, but suspected her good intentions would only be lost on him. “Now what are we going to do about Aubrey?”

“How should I know?” He hissed. “She is your child.”

“Does it mean you’re going to follow my advice?”

“It merely means I’m going to listen.”

“Very well.” Hermione nodded in acknowledgment. “I suggest you should go and apologise to her. Explain what happened to make you act the way you did. Be honest. No need for sweet-talking. She’ll forgive you.”

“She is a child!”

“Yes she is, Severus, but it doesn’t mean she’s stupid, nor does it mean she’s incapable of empathy. Perhaps she won’t understand everything you tell her- but she recognizes and appreciates honesty. And there’s no lying to her. She can detect a pretense from miles. You were a child once; don’t you remember what it was like to be treated as an idiot just because you were young?”

Snape snorted. Hermione thought she saw some hidden emotion flickering in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly she could not be sure. “Well?” she asked. “We can do it together. I’ll bake some cookies and you can come over for tea. Hell, I can make dinner. Aubrey nags me she wants pasta – considering she’d rather starve most of the time, it’s a miracle. And I really miss some good fish. Do you eat tomato sauce? Is there anything you’d like to eat?” She was sitting back on her heels now, watching him eagerly, all roiled up with the idea of having someone to dinner.

Snape rolled his eyes. A gesture she learned to associate with Aubrey. It made her giggle.

“You look like a love-sick poodle.”

“Does it mean you’re coming?”

“As long as you’ll refrain from drooling on me.”

Good. He was amu Her Hermione was learning quickly enough that if she wanted to keep Snape under control her best tactic was to keep him amused. Intellectually stimulated was good as well, but when facing a difficult issue, amusement was the recommended path. She wondered if he’d ever let her reach for him when they were both free of all these thin, cellophane layers of pretense. “I’ll promise not to drool,” she whispered, “if you’d promise to behave.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you want us to go through the things you might say to Aubrey?”

“I thought you said no pretense.”

“Yes, I had,” she answered, “but that’s not to say you shouldn’t come prepared.”

“Really,” Snape echoed dryly.

“So…? Do you want me to help you with that?”

He glared at her. “Do I appear like a damsel in distress?”

“No. But I hardly think any of this is going to be easy.”

“Gryffindor altruism?”

“My Gryffindor ulterior motives, as you so aptly put it.”

“Fine, and no. Providing a safe ground for such an encounter is more than enough. I think I’ll be able continue from there.”

“I’m glad you feel this way.”

He didn’t answer.

Hermione continued. “I’m glad that you’ve agreed to this. I’m grateful, in fact.”

Snape’s face was its usual blank. She didn’t expect to see anything there aside from the shadowy illusion of expression, created by the slow dance of the flames. Her words sank into the angular plains of his face, instead of being reflected by his facial expression.

“I don’t want your gratitude,” he lashed, voice cool and scathing. “Nor do I want your forgiveness.”

Hermione nodded, refusing to let him hurt her. I wonder why it is my kinder words that hurt you. But perhaps ‘hurt’ was the wrong definition. ‘Unease’ seemed to be more accurate- somehow reflected in Snape’s posture. It was seemingly relaxed but not… entirely. I offer him kindness and he throws it in my face, as if he doesn’t know what to do with it… How many people have you driven away like that? And who hurt you so badly? I’d like to make them pay
“Y
“You might not want to have my gratitude or my forgiveness,” she said after a while, “but you have them nonetheless.” And so he could try to drive her away. Hermione knew she wouldn’t let him. “So is there anything specific you’d like to eat?”

“Whatever you’ll make will be just fine.”

“You can bring something too, you know.”

Snape seemed surprised at this idea. “How can you tell I won’t try to poison you?”

“Well, since you’ve been kind enough to protect us against being possibly slaughtered by evil Death Eaters, I see no reason for you to try and poison us now.”

“All right-,” he said. “I might bring dessert.”

“Oh. That should be interesting.”

“When food is described as interesting I usually become suspicious.”

Hermione grinned. “You’re right. Well, I hope none of my cooking will look interesting to you.”

Snape nodded.

“So? Next Friday is fine with you? School begins on Monday and we’re aling ing to be rather busy during the week.”

“Friday evening would be fine.”

Hermione smiled, beginning to gather her things. “We’ll probably have time to settle everything later into the week. I warn you to expect me with tiring reports and endless questions as to the lower classes schedules.”

“I see myself warned,” Snape concluded dryly.

“Good. Later, then?”

He flinched at the expression. “I shall expect to speak to you then.\"

* The chapter\'s title is taken from Dylan Thomas\' poem \"Ears in the Turrets Hear\".

* The poem Snape is reciting on the beginning is Vladimir Holan\'s \"She Asked You\".


A/N

* I\'ve been asked whether I\'ve a Major in Literature. The answer to that is no. Truth is I actually didn\'t know large portion of the literary works I\'m using in \"Breeding Lilacs\" before I began working on the story. Yehuda Amichai was and remained my favorite poet (along Sylvia Plath, now that I finally found myself reading her poetry!); nevertheless, writing \"Breeding Lilacs\" had enriched my knowledge of literature, and English literature in particular, immensely.

And while I\'m at it, here\'s the link to Amichai\'s works on Plagiarist.com: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/?aid=75. Reading him in English is admittedly not the same as reading this brilliant poet in Hebrew, but his accuracy, his simplicity, his sharp and intelligent use of imagery, works wonderfully even in the English translations.

* All of you who are worried about my muse- she\'s had served well me enough, seeing she helped me finish the story a while ago. Yes, it\'s already finished. The reasons I\'m not posting it as a mass, are the following:

- I don\'t want to burden my readers
- I need to finish adding HTML tags to each chapter and find them all appropriate names!
- Amm. I really like your reviews? *Go hides in the cupboard underneath the stairs*.

Anyway: if you\'re interested, I\'ll try to hurry up posting, but that means you\'ll have to tell me that\'s how you want it to be.