Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.

Chapter 2 – What was Lost in the Sea.


“Mum, I need to pee…”

Hermione groaned, yawning, and turn over to face Aubrey. Darkness curtaithe the child’s fair features. “Then go to the loo, sweetheart.” She stifled a gape. “It’s at the end of the room.”

“But it’s dark, Mum….”

“It’s night so it’s dark.” Hermione’s head was spinning from the lack of sleep. She shut her eyes, letting her eyelids form a partition between the waking and dreaming world. She remembered having good dreams: dreams smelling of Aubrey’s lactic skin, and wood consumed by a dying fire.

“I’m afraid to go in the dark…”

Hermione moaned, forcing herself into a state resembling wakefulness. She sat up, shifting several tangled locks out of her face, and lowered her feet to the floor. ‘I forgot to braid my hair…’ she noted. It would be a sheer hell trying to unknot it in the morning. “Well, come along darling…”

She accompanied Aubrey to the small bathroom, and leant against the lintel while the child relieved herself.

“Mum…”

Hermione bolted upright, shaken out of her light slumber. “What is it Aubrey?”

“I think the mirror is snoring…”

She yawned. “It’s night, the mirror’s asleep, and you should be as well.”

“But… but it’s snoring…!”

“I promise to explain everything in the morning. Now wash your hands, we should go back to sleep, there’s a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“It’s today…”

Hermione sighed, wondering what exactly Aubrey was trying to tell her now. The child was definitely a night person. Hermione had no idea how could anyone think straight at 3AM. “Today…?”

“It’s after midnight… so tomorrow is today.”

“Right, Aubrey. Did you wash your hands?”

Aubrey frowned, extending her wet palms. “I just did.”

“Well, hop back to bad.”

She followed Aubrey under the heavy quilts.

“Goodnight, Mummy.”

“Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.”

Morning came with swirling rays of lemony light cascading into the room. Hermione shifted a little, untying the slender limbs that were interlaced with hers. The pale light was forming Aubrey’s face out of greyish darkness. Her lips were slightly parted, soft and pouting and pink- a splash of stinging colour against the pallor of her skin. She looked like a china doll, put to sleep and covered up by a loving hand. Hermione smiled, gently stroking the curve of Aubrey’s cheek.

“Wake up my little polar bear. Rise and shine.”

Aubrey yawned, stretching her arms and making a soft cry of frustration. “’m tired…”

“I can see that.”

“I hate morning people.”

“Well, it saddens me that you’re entertaining such negative emotions at such a young age, but it hardly matters. Now get up, you lazy bunny-rabbit.”

Waking Aubrey was never easy. Today was no exception. Hermione teased and coaxed, and by eight thirty managed to tuck Aubrey into jeans and jumper. She brushed her daughter’s teeth, struggling to get the job done as Aubrey insisted on conversing with the mirror.

“Come on,” she ordered several minutes afterwards. “Wear your gloves, it’s cold outside.”

“I’m wearing them…!” Aubrey exclaimed.

“The scarf!”

“Here.” She wrapped the knitted wool around her face, black eyes sparkliehinehind it.

“Good. Coat?”

Aubrey outstretched her arms, letting Hermione encircle her, sticking her hands into the garment’s sleeves.

“Ready to go, young missy?”

“I’m up and about!”

“Now, remember the instructions?”

Aubrey rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I shouldn’t let go of your hand and you’ll kill me if I dare to get lost.”

“Good. Let’s go then”

The two left the pub, ignoring the prying eyes of early customers. Outside in the back yard, Hermione showed Aubrey the way into Diagon Alley. The girl watched the cavity broaden by the second, and spellbound, stepped through the hole and into the street beyond. Diagon Alley, Hermione noted, was already decorated for Christmas.

Hermione remembered her first time in Diagon Alley. Aubrey had been correct in her description of the pub and its inhabitants a day earlier. It was like a yellowing page ripped out of a fairy-tale book. A thin layer of imary gry gold rimmed the edge of her sight, brought, perhaps, by the complicated Christmas ornaments.

She let Aubrey lead the way, following her as the child halted to get a better look at this and that, apologetically smiling at a random seller who was overwhelmed by Aubrey’s endless flow of questions.

“This way, little magpie. We’re heading to that enormous white building over there.”

“Gringotts?” Aubrey questioned.

Hermione nodded. She had supplied Aubrey with several books about the Wizarding World and the girl was a quick and thorough reader.

“Cool! So now we’re going to meet real goblins and ride those little wagons that move fast like in a rollercoaster?”

“Hopefully not.” Hermione cringed at the thought. “All we have to do is change some Muggle money into magical currency.”

Aubrey seemed disappointed, but said nothing. Fast enough, she was at one of the mahogany desks, pestering a goblin clerk who reluctantly answered her questions.

“So Gringotts runs on the Wizarding World’s money?” she asked.

“Well,” answered the scowling goblin, “I hardly believe I am in position to answer that question.”

“Then you have sources from outside? I mean, in Muggle bank they’re doing all sorts of investments, like… a bank is really more then a huge safe and it’s a big establishment-“

The goblin groaned desperately. “Is there anything I can do to make you shut your mouth, young Miss?”

Aubrey considered his words. “Well, can I try these scales?” She eyed the metal scales hungrily.

“Definitely not-“

“Is it really true that you hate the wizarding kind?”

“Merlin’s beard! Okay, you can try it if you promise to be extra careful.”

“Oh, I will be super-duper extra careful!” Aubrey was shining with joy. “Thank you so muchprompromise you won’t regret it, Sir!”

The goblin looked hopeless. “And I promise you I already regret it.”

In the meanwhile, Hermione changed a fair amount of Muggle money into wizard gold, having a goblin clerk magically transmit her savings from her United States Muggle account to her old Gringotts’ vault. As last, she called Aubrey (to the child’s latest interrogation object’s greatest relief), and they exited the bank. The two were heading toward Madam Malkin’s.

The older lady scanned the mother and child with suppressed curiosity. “Can I help you, Madam?”

Hermione smiled. “It’s Miss, please, and yes, we’ll be extremely grateful for your help. We need some winter clothing… warm cloaks, boots…”

“A whole wardrobe, I see?”

“Yes, yes. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, dear. May I take your measurements?”

Aubrey was fascinated by Madam Malkin’s enchanted measuring tape and made the older witch explain exactly how the enchantment used on the tape worked.

“You have a pretty bright daughter over here,” Madam Malkin commented.

“Why, thank you, Madam,” Hermione saw the unspoken questions in the witch’s eyes and was careful to give only the prosaic of answers. She’ll have lots of answering to do later and she wasn’t prepared to begin with it just nohey hey left a very curious Madam Malkin behind, and after a short break at Florean Fortescue’s, had finally made their way to “Flourish and Blotts”.

“Oh!! That is so great, Mum!”

“I know darling, I know.”

Without much ado, Aubrey was roaming the many aisles, picking at tomes and squealing happily. Then, after making her daughter swear she wouldn’t leave her sight, Hermione was satisfied to pick up a volume of advanced Arithmancy and immerse herself in reading.

* * *

Harsh wind dishevelled his hair, kissing away the last snowflakes that still clung to it. It was snowing at Hogsmeade when he Apparated. London was cold, and wet, perspiring water from its pores, but it didn’t snow. A shame, really, as he was quite fond of the soluble, white substance. Nevertheless he had arrangements to take care of in London, and not much to look forward to at Hogwarts. Professor Flitwick was lurking in the great hall, levitating Christmas decorations onto the fir trees Hagrid had dragged in. Albus would be sure to look for him and attempt to infuse some holiday cheer into the gloomy Potions-Master – the one thing Snape wished to avoid. As much as he liked the older wizard, he knew that Dumbledore derived a wicked pleasure out of bullying Snape into forced cheerfulness. Snape had no intention to provide the headmaster with further entertainment.

Cheer was infectious, he decided, observing the decorated street. Snape couldn’t quite tell when it began to bother him. It wasn’t the actual merriment that was disturbing. Not even the artificial colours that stained everything, as if Christmas cheer was a garment one’s supposed to wear. It was… maybe his incapability of sharing it, which made him feel less and less human every year. He was left with the stereotype, being the Hogwarts resident Grinch, the story of himself rather then the crude reality – a monk surrounded by his unholy shell of cynicism and darkness. It was fun, really, until it wasn’t. That was when he had to get away. Having to purchase some rare potions’ ingredients was as good an excuse as any other.

The cold air ripped his lungs. Snape coughed. He’d have to be careful. The Snape dynasty was notorious for dying of romantic diseases. Like tuberculosis. Or pneumonia. He smirked, tightening his scarf, and stepped out of the low shelter of the apothecary and into the hooting wind. It was cold. It was always cold.

Snape thought he might indulge himself with a visit at Flourish and Blotts. Books were such a rare pleasure. Not merely what they held inside, but their essence, the simple idea of a book, the smell of it, the roughness of the leather beneath his calloused fingertips, the image of himself seated in front of a burning fire, reading. Long hours on top of the oak tree, away from the yells and the anger and the scorn. Reading. Entering Flourish and Blotts, he was surrounded by the subtle, earthly, deep scent of the books. Somewhat headily, he walked along the shelves, eyes scanning gilded titles, tasting their leather bound spines with his fingertips.

There was something… he couldn’t quite say. Then he heard the joyous chirp, and a fuzz coloured head blurred in front of eyes. He tried to avoid the impact, but it was too late. A lump of miniature limbs bundled in fleece and wool bumped into him. It fell, squeaked, and was surprisingly quick to regain its composure. What appeared to be a little girl moved to her feet, mumbling her apologies. “I’m so sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to-“ She lifted her eyes, and meeting his glare, she scowled.

The girl pouted. “You are glaring at me!”

He stifled a gape and his glare deepened. “It’s hardly a surprise after you just stumbled into me.”

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose, so you shouldn’t be so angry.”

“I happen to dislike being bumped, thank you.” Merlin! He was arguing with an…. How much? Seven? Eight years old? Snape was used to having his stare be enough to scare a small child halfway to his premature death. Seeing how the little schoolgirl stood her ground against him was more then a little unnerving. A Muggle, blonde, American, fuzzy little thing. She didn’t know she should be scared of him. He almost found it funny.

“You are a very unpleasant man,” the girl notified him at last. “You might like to improve your manners.”

“Really?” he snapped. “And this comes from a girl who lacks the grace to avoid bumping into a by-stander located more than a yard away from her?”

“Bumping into you has nothing to do with my manners! I was-“

“AUBREY VICTORIA GRANGER! You apologise to Professor Snape at once and stop pestering him!”

Severus Snape lifted his gaze. A short, rounded woman in her mid-twenties stood several meters away from him, arms crossed, her glare fixed on the blond child. She looked… familiar. The big, brown eyes. Bird’s nest hair. And what was the girl’s name? Aubrey Victoria Granger?? Blast. This couldn’t be. She was supposed to be dead – for more than eight and a half years now. She was a wish somehow fulfilled and twisted into distorted reality. He probably only wanted her to be alive. There were so many casualties in the passing years…

“You are staring, Professor.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Am I… Mrs Granger?”

“Quite the case,” she blushed, moistening her lips, and shifted a lock of stray hair beyond her ear. It was a longer, he noted, and not a bit less frizzy, probably burnt by the sun into the colour of congealed honey. “And that is Miss Granger,” Hermione added.

He stood for a moment, staring at her. He knew he was supposed to feel something. He guessed that having a most distinctive intellectual idea instead of emotional reaction was one of his many faults. He knew she was there, and that she was alive, after so many years, unlike so many others- he knew that this version of herself made him conjure images that were strictly good: plump, ripe, sun-warmed plums; quiet halls, scented of lavender cleaning floor-wash; being over warmth, soaked with sweat under his quilt with Aniko half-singing half-mumbling a lullaby. Yet he couldn’t assemble all these fractions of cognitively identified reality into a feeling. To hell with it. Maybe it was just too much to contain.

“…Professor?”

“What is it?” Snape barked in response.

She shied away. “Well, nothing…” Hermione’s hand came to rest on the child’s shoulder. Following its movement, he was reminded of the presence of the annoying little… thing.

“You are afraid of this morose, angry man!” the girl commented, obviously puzzled. Snape frowned. Little children weren’t supposed to muster this kind of vocabulary. On the other hand, it was her child. The child of the brightest, one of the most annoying students he ever taught. Snape was curious to see what kind of answer Hermione Granger would give her child.

“Of course I’m not!” came Granger’s response.

Typical Gryffindor denial. He snorted, accidentally meeting the child’s devilish gaze. Then he understood. The little vixen was distracting her mother out of a tricky situation. Snape assumed there would be no apologies in line. Amused, he looked at the child again. The little Granger had the most unusual complexion. Her flawless, cream coloured skin carried an odd, very light olive hue. She had a blond mane, so pale it almost looked silvery – it would probably darken with age – as well as pale eyebrows and eyelashes. Her eyes, on the other hand, were the darkest, bottomless black ponds. She wasn’t pretty, nor was she ugly- but she had this strange quality about her weird combination of colours and features that mislead one to think she’s actually beautiful. Right now, the girl was following him with these huge, unwavering eyes of hers. It was the kind of stare, which was engraved into a person’s subconscious, only to be summoned at odd moments in order to symbolize an emotion that, Severus Snape was sure, never appeared in the young Granger’s eyes. The image of the blonde, strange child, quietly reflecting his own inner turmoil, was disturbing.

“Well, Professor.” Hermione Granger took a moment to compose herself. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience my daughter might have caused you. Aubrey-,\" she turned to the child, deliberately ignoring him, “I trust you picked something for yourself?”

“Sure, Mummy.” The girl lifted up a heavy volume that looked suspiciously like a well-known essay, concerning the philosophy and etiquette of Alchemy. The famous nineteenth century Potions Master, Douglas Reilly, wrote the book.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You might like to know Reilly had indeed a great mind, but he knew very little about potions making.”

Granger stared at him, her arms closing around the girl’s shoulders in a protective manner. “I happened to read that essay, Aubrey, and I can guarantee you there’s no fault in Reilly’s work.”

“Not surprising, Miss Granger, since you always were one to over estimate an a-priori thesis rather then an actual field work.”

“What are you suggesting, Professor?”

“Suggesting?” Snape said coldly. “I am merely saying that being the Gryffindor know-it-all you are, you probably found that living a-priori is a bit challenging.”

He saw Granger clench her jaw. There were shadows playing in her eyes. A storm so intensive and mixed up he couldn’t note the individual emotions. Snape wondered whether she’d choose to react. She didn’t.

“Very well, Professor Snape, it was a pleasure meeting you again,” she said. “Goodbye. Come on Aubrey, we’re leaving. Aubrey-”

The child raised her head. Once again, she met Snape’s glare with equal determination. “You are not a nice man,” she told him. And with that, she turned her back on him and went to join her mother.

Fascinated, he watched Miss Granger pay for several books. She collected her daughter and the newly purchased items, and stepping outside the entrance, she was gone. A vision diluted in the northern wind; the warm vapour of his breath misting away in a white cloud. How very odd. As if the encounter was almost… random. The idea irritated him. Seeing her was annoying- for his lack of willingness to allow a different emotion.

Hermione Granger was supposed to be dead. Hadn’t it been Dumbledore who hinted that the young Gryffindor didn’t survive the Death Eaters’ attack? Snape remembered all too well the night of her disappearance. It had been in May- winter’s chill had been slowly dissolving from the walls and spring had been inflaming the castle’s interiors- itching and burning like a rash. Snape, enclosed in his oe, he, had been flipping through Baudeliare’s ‘Les Fleurs du mal’. He had a soft spot for Muggle literature. Muggles had a keen sense of tragedy, which the Wizarding kind lacked. It suited him. Soothed him as well. And Snape was always one to appreciate accuracy. It didn’t soothe him that day, though.

His spring allergy, another Snape trait, had been in full bloom. His eyes had been flaming, itching, his nose swollen and dripping constantly. The palms of his hands had been red with some mysterious eczema. A new one, Snape had decided, as he couldn’t remember the last symptom from passing years. If possible, he’d probably looked evere hre hideous then ever. The coughing and sneezing had drained the power from his body and left Snape feeling weak and ridiculed. He had deducted something like fifty house points that day and reduced a fourth year Hufflepuff into tears, but the obscure itch that had been haunting him since the morning had refused to subside. It seemed like the allergy had driven him insane, as well as insufferable. When Dumbledore’s head had appeared in his hearth, breaking the news of Hermione Granger’s disappearance, Snape had been hardly surprised. After all, something had been… meant to happen. Maybe the Snape blood was old and thick enough to foresee the future. It was the hollow part of his soul, which pulled him toward this unknown end of past or future – towards her, maybe, or towards his own destruction. Pulled him, the way the moon pulls the sea. Darkness reaching for darkness.

He, and every other member of the staff, had immediately gone looking for Miss Granger. The first night of searching produced nothing. Hermione Granger was nowhere to be found. The conclusion had been simple. Ever since Voldemort’s break into the Ministry two and a half years ago, the Death Eaters’ actions had become more and more profound. Several disappearances had occurred, and there have been numerous deaths. Snape told himself that Miss Granger had become yet another statistic. Confronting faceless victims was always easier. Not for the first time, he found himself remembering the other faceless girl. Muffled sobs in the dark, strands of hair pouring between his fingers – his fellow Death Eaters watching. She had told him she forgave him and he laughed at her. There could be no forgiveness for him. The day after, he went to see Dumbledore. They met on Honeydukes. Amusing, wasn’t it? The way some scars never faded. The other girl, his ashen haired Margaret, she was a scar. He had the strangest feeling that Hermione Granger was going to be a scar, too.

The Gryffindor know-it-all was too young to die. Too bright, though he’d never admit it out of his own free will. She actually reminded him of himself at her age: bright, a little remote from the other students due to her exceptional brilliance. She was also different. Hermione Granger had the conscience and principles and all these God-damned Gryffindor ideals that young Severus Snape never managed to acquire. That was the reason she had to live. She had to live to best him – to be the person Severus Snape could never be, or even the person he might have been, if circumstances had been different. It was such a fucking waste, and he hated Voldemort more then ever.

That night, he had returned to his rooms, feeling absolutely devastated. Snape had been sitting in front of the fire, staring at his exposed forearms - first at the Dark Mark, then, at the thin, white scars he had carved there himself. He hadn’t hurt himself in years. Hadn’t felt the urge. That night he had wanted to do it again. Ah, such sweet regression. And just thinking that Hermione Granger, annoying, know-it-all Hermione Granger, had the power to reduce him to that. Even Voldemort, sick and distorted as he turned out to be in this renewed form, couldn’t cause him such anger or despair. Well, in a way, he did, but had it not been for Hermione Granger… He had drunk himself to sleep that night.

Now, almost nine years after she had gone, believed to have died of the numerous injuries that had been inflicted upon her by Voldemort and his sadistic entourage, Hermione Granger had the nerve to pop back into his life.

She had changed considerably. The mental picture that played behind his eyelids was that of a teenage girl, clumsy and gawky, with none of her awkward and coltish limbs quite in place. She had filled out – there were now dark circles under her eyes, which were much less eager, and much more cautious looking. There was a hidden trace of pain written upon her features. She looked like some ancient archetype of the great priestess, modernized and drawn down to earth. Somehow it felt… unholy, seeing her like that. Like something he wasn’t meant to see. This new Hermione Granger, sad and changed, and with a child - of all things - wasn’t meant to happen. And what a child, at that. A girl so strange and unique it reminded Snape of an omen: something that emerged out of one of Trelawny’s divination books.

“At first, a certain absurd, irresistible hilarity overcomes you. The most ordinary words, the simplest ideas assume a new and bizarre aspect. This mirth is intolerable to you; but it is useless to resist. The demon has invaded you...” He thought of Baudelaire’s words. Baudelaire, indeed. An odd circulatory. Snape decided he could use a drink. To the Leaky Caldron, then.

With an Irish whiskey swirling in his glass, he pondered the poet’s words.

“With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep...“

The lyrics suited the girl, in a way. She was an obscure materialization of beauty, false or true, it didn’t matter. Conceived as a dream of stone, where poets comes to grieve… A vision that comes true differently in each person\'s mind. What a strange, strange girl. Snape had the most unsettling feeling that this omen of a child must mean something. So he sipped his whiskey, until the child’s ethereal looks became mundane, and the sudden grief that filled him upon encountering Hermione Granger faded a little. Then he Apparated back to just outside of Hogwarts grounds and retreated to his chambers. The timeless light of the girl’s wide eyes kept drilling into his conscience.

A/N

* The chapter\'s name is, of course, a paraphrase on E. E. Cummings\' \"Maggie and Milly and Molly and May\".

* I\'d to apologies if my A/N\'s are not as finely worded as the story itself- the reason to that, is that I\'m not a native English speaker, and I even though I might have wanted to, I can\'t bother my wonderful beta with each tiny little detail (such as beta-reading my author-notes). So sorry folks :-).

* I wish to thank all my reviewers- your reviews making it enjoyable for me to go on posting. No, this isn\'t hinting for you to review, on the contrary: do review! Criticism in all forms is welcome.