Secrets held

Gifts

 

Dumbledore kept silent the entire walk to
the hospital wing. Hermione hung her head in shame, noticing she hadn’t
bothered about slippers and was padding about the cold halls in bare feet. Just
inside the door, Madame Pomfrey and Professor Mcgonagall stood waiting for
them.

 

“Hermione, please have a seat,” Albus
began, motioning to a chair in Poppy’s office. The other two witches filed in
and sat down behind her. The headmaster sat at the desk, folding his hands
under his chin and taking a deep breath before continuing. “George came in to
see me, last night. I trust you remember what happened?” he asked.

 

“Not all of it, really. But enough, I’m
afraid,” she answered.

 

“I was hoping you were getting better, not
worse dear. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. Your… attack is as much my fault as it
is yours. Please forgive me, Hermione,” he said in a weary voice.

 

She was taken aback by his tone. Fully
expecting to be reprimanded for her behaviour towards George, perhaps even for
her ‘conversation’ with Severus, she didn’t know how to respond to his apology.
So, she snapped at him, “of course, forgiven. How could you know what being
separated from Severus would do. I assume that you didn’t know, of course.” She
left her words hanging as an accusation.

 

“Unfortunately I had my suspicions, and I
kept them from you. I had hoped that it was just a lingering effect of the
spell, but it seems there were some permanent… manifestations that you are
going to have to learn about,” he answered. Hermione glared at him hotly, rising
to her feet in her shock. “Please, hear me out. I’ve asked Minerva here to help
you cope with what I’m about to tell you. I believe that your, legilamency, may
have been a latent gift, and it flared into full power as a result of your
ordeal. Actually, you seem to be a Compatior, a rare talent indeed, and this
has complicated matters somewhat. Poppy tells me that she has also suspected
you, and has already taken me to task for keeping my research from you.”

 

“Compatior? You mean telepathic by nature?”
she asked him.

 

“Not exactly. It means you can read others
emotions, and project your own as well,” he answered.

 

Letting his words sink in, Hermione slumped
back into her chair. Empathic? The very thought of it was at once ridiculous
and utterly true, somehow. ‘Permanent manifestations’ began to sink in as well.
Her physical appearance, the sense of quiet and tendency to be testy in defence
of confusion, these would be permanent effects.

 

She was full of questions, and had no idea
where to begin. She hadn’t taken the time to consider that these changes might
be lasting, that she would have to cope with anything other than playing
nursemaid to Severus and living her quiet life in the seclusion the school
afforded her. Her anger began to subside in the face of this revelation. She
asked quietly, “is George angry with me?”

 

“Of course not, he’s merely concerned about
you Hermione,” Minerva answered. She laid her hand on Hermione’s shoulder
reassuringly. “He has asked to see you, when you feel up to it, dear.”

 

“Not just now, I think. Minerva, could we
be alone for a moment?” she asked, gesturing to Albus. “I’ll come see you
later, about all this.”

 

“Yes, certainly. Poppy?” Mcgonagall asked,
motioning for the door. After they left, Hermione gathered herself for a
moment. Her anger and guilt now gone, she was simply very tired. Her odd stiff
posture belied the sensation of having fallen into the depths of the chair.

 

“What does this mean? For me, and for him.
If he never wakes, can I never leave? What else haven’t you told me?” her
questions ran together in one fairly venomous speech. Suspicion began to creep
into her brain, that Dumbledore had known much more than he was telling for
much longer than she cared to believe. “You know he came to me, Severus, all that
distance and his mind reached me as if I were in the same room,” she added,
hoping he might have a suitable explanation.

 

“I know he did, George heard him as well,
though he thinks he imagined it. I’m not sure what this will mean, for either
of you. I do know that the spell that was cast in the cell weeks ago has not
finished. I don’t think you should leave Hogwarts until we can be certain that
it has,” he paused for a moment, folding and unfolding his hands.

 

“I had my suspicions in St. Mungo’s that
you might be bound to him somehow, and I’m still not certain exactly to what
extent you are so bound. It appears to be a bond beyond obligation alone. I do
fear that you may never know your own mind on the matter, that you may never be
able to tell the difference between his feelings and your own with any
certainty,” Albus explained. He rose and took her hand, “I have to go attend to
something, I’ll return shortly with Minerva. I urge you to discuss this with
her, she knows as much as I do about the matter.”

 

He left before she could say another word. Hermione was nearly beside herself in
frustration. Her serene life had been shattered in a few short hours, and now
she found herself in the dire position of mulling over this new information
alone. She went out into the infirmary with a troubled mind. She needed to see
him, talk to him, tell him she hadn’t meant it, she wouldn’t leave. That, in
fact, she couldn’t.

 

*****************************************************************

 

Returning once more to Severus’ room,
Hermione paused to pick up an oversized teacup from the table next to his bed.
It was handmade, and as she turned it in her hands, began to think of how she
knew it. She sank stiffly into her usual armchair, lost in thought, while
Madame Pomfrey bustled about setting up breakfast.

 

Their friendship,
and there had been friendship she realized, had begun so subtly that she wasn’t
quite sure how it started. Somewhere between the annoying bookworm she had been
and the brave and intelligent young woman she was now, she had earned not only
Snape’s respect but also his trust. It began with their working together on
small projects for the Order, he overheard her defend him to her friends,
watched her begin to relax in his presence. She began to see more than sneers
on his face, understand the secrets in his eyes took some terrible toll on him
that she felt compelled to lessen, if she could. She started to realize that
his self-imposed solitude was still lonely for him.

 

She snuck in on his seclusion, small gestures and unwavering optimism finally breaking his
sullen silences with tiny bursts of enjoyment. They had tea together now and
then, during breaks from working together. She made a habit of discussing
anything other than their work during this time. He finally relented and began
returning her banter, hoping to steer the conversation into something other
than her normal overly cheery small talk. He found her rather charming after a
time, quick-witted and very loyal. She found his voice pleasant to listen to
and his intellect a constant source of fascination for her.

 

Logically minded
wizards being rare, they found it a common thread on which to base many a
pleasant conversation. She fancied Muggle puzzle books filled with all sorts of
interesting diversions. When he showed an interest in them, she began to give
him one or two for special occasions. Cheap newsprint books with glossy covers
passed as gifts between them for birthdays and holidays for her last two years
at school, each trying to outdo the other in finishing them faster.

 

Her final year of
school she was forced to spend the Christmas holiday at school. He was,
therefore, not surprised to see a small package lying on his bed on Christmas
morning with “Severus Snape” written on it in her tiny scrawl. He was surprised
to find not puzzle books, but a large mug inside. It was glazed a deep green
colour, and had a snake painted along the handle in sterling silver. The tail
of the snake trailed onto the face of the cup itself to form a large ‘SS’
monogram. Turning the cup over, Snape found her signature set into the bottom,
the initials H.G. straddling a crude Hogwarts’ crest. He knew she had taken a
ceramics class over summer holiday. He also remembered commenting how
frustratingly small the teacups at Hogwarts were. Once. Months ago. This gift
was so… thoughtful. Blasted girl, he was touched.

 

Then he came back
to himself and thought, ‘touched is right, touched in the head. She must
have made dozens of ridiculous things in that class and given them to everyone
she ever knew.’ She wouldn’t have singled him out anymore than she’d grow a
tharm arm overnight. By the time he entered the Great hall for dinner that
afternoon, he was feeling quite himself again. He was then quite unprepared for
her response to his curt, “Thank you for the mug, Miss Granger.”

 

She blanched, then
flushed slightly, and looked at him with a very firm, ‘what did you do THAT
for,’ look on her face. She glanced over her shoulder to see Harry Potter
staring at her most quizzically. “You’re welcome, Professor,” was all she said
as she nearly ran for her seat, trailing the boy in her wake, obviously
whispering questions at her. Finally sitting at his plate he found a small
bundle of puzzle books addressed to him. ‘If she meant the mug as a secret, she
might have mentioned it,’ he had thought to himself. She refused to look at him
for the remainder of the meal, and fled from the hall when he tried to rise
from his seat. He never brought it up again.

 

She in actual fact
had not made anything else in ceramics class but oversized
teacups, until she had gotten it exactly right. It had taken her quite some
time to get the paint for the snake just so, and had agonized over how to get
it to him without having to present it in front of the entire Christmas feast.
All her careful planning wasted, she’d had to endure Harry’s grilling for half
the meal. When she wouldn’t answer any of his questions, he thought it might be
more fun to tease her. After she snapped at him for it, he decided it was a
very good time to discuss Quidditch with one of the fourth years, leaving her
to finish eating in silence. As she got up to leave, she got the panicked
feeling that Snape was about to try to speak to her again, so ran for the door
without a backward glance. She never brought it up again, either.

 

“Seems to be important to him, that mug.
Takes his morning tea in it everyday that I’ve seen. Pitches fits when the
house elves try to wash it for him,” Poppy said, a little sparkle in her eye.
“Albus asked him once who had made it and he went perfectly sour over it.
Nobody asked again. Well,” she sighed, “I thought he might like it, in case he
feels up to a cuppa.”

 

Hermione looked a bit wistful suddenly, so
as she replaced the mug on the table, the older witch took her cue to go check
if Albus had returned. That was how Poppy missed seeing her long-time patient
wake up.