Breeding Lilacs out of Dead Land.

Chapter 5 - Reflections of Quiet Things.


Back in the small suite Dumbledore had allocated her and Aubrey, Hermione found her daughter drowsing in front of the fire. Fawkes, who had become Aubrey’s unofficial babysitter, rested on the child’s abdomen. The bird opened one yellow eye to inspect the newcomer, and then, realising it was Hermione, went back to sleep.

“Well, hello Fawkes, good evening.” Fire playing upon his red down, nesting in Aubrey’s lap, the bird virtually reminded her of Crookshanks. The cat was one of the things Hermione missed the most. She was relieved to learn that her beloved familiar spent the last years of his life in the care of Arabella Figg – a woman who adored felines.

Hermione’s own parents were mildly fond of pets –as long as those pets belonged to other people. Crookshanks had been an unwelcome addition to the Granger’s household. Mr and Mrs Granger had agreed to tolerate Crookshanks only as long as she kept the destructive hairball secured in her room and not a minute longer than the two months of the school holiday that were strictly necessary. Back at the time of herrteerteenth birthday, the Grangers had secretly hoped their daughter would purchase some ancient book for a present and that would be all. As Hermione had been ranting at them for months about getting herself an owl, the Granger couple had also been mentally prepared to deal with a bird. After all, it seemed that an owl was a kind of necessity in the wizarding world. Both of her parents were strict and pedantic people, but they had loved her dearly and wished to grant their daughter every commodity that seemed to be required to a young lady in her situation.

Loved her dearly… indeed. Not dearly enough, it became evident, to put up with a pregnant daughter who refused to do the right thing and have an abortion. Her parents refused to go through the public humiliation for the sake of what they called Hermione’s “crazy whims”. But no, she was being rash, over eager to judge them. The Grangers would have probably reconsidered had she given them the opportunity to do so. It was also somewhat comforting to know they believed they were acting on her behalf. Partly autosuggestion on their side, perhaps, but their concern was nonetheless genuine. Life had more subtexts to them than black and white. That’s not to say she had been able to justify her parents’ behaviour. However, she could understand their motives, and thus live in peace with her memories. It was hard accepting the fact you loved someone who treated you so unfairly. Understanding the circumstances that eventually resulted in incident sometimes made it easier to accept. Rage was like unicorn’s blood- it sustained one’s life, but the existence it provided could have barely been called living. She wanted more than that. She needed more than that.

Hermione took a brief glance at her wristwatch. Eight-thirty. Aubrey’s bedtime was nine, and the girl usually insisted on delaying it – but Hermione rather doubted whether Aubrey would put up a fight today. Children everywhere had the most pathetic and innocent belief that adults could do whatever they wanted: therefore, they presumed, imitating the adults would grant them the opportunity to avoid a much-needed shower (for example). Even Aubrey, clever as she was, could not be convinced that childhood was definitely the better option. Well, Hermione thought, youth was wasted on the young, and childhood on the children.

Leaning over the sleepy child, she planted a soft kiss on Aubrey’s cheek. “Come, darling; time to brush your teeth and go to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed…” Aubrey whimpered sleepily. “I’m not tired…”

Hermione chuckled. “Well, I guess that means you’ll have to go to sleep wakeful. Now come on, child, your mouth needs some attention or else the bad bacterium might sneak in and terrorize your teeth into a very, very nasty caries.”

“’M tired…” she protested. “You can brush my teeth tomorrow?”

“Really? So now you’re tired? Would Carius and Bactus consult the fact that you are too tired and come only when you’re exuberant enough to have your teeth brushed?”

“Carius and Bactus are stupid,” Aubrey determined, already much more awake.

“That’s no excuse. The fox and the cat thought Pinocchio was stupid and look what happened to them.”

“You’re evil.”

“You have no idea. But now I am going to be evil to you and brush your teeth.”

“Mum…!”

Hermione sniggered as Aubrey slowly straightened, shifting Fawkes from her and and placing himthe the carpet.

“That’s much better,” Hermione said.

“Fawkes doesn’t have to brush his teeth,” Aubrey complained.

“That’s because he doesn’t have any.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, maybe Dumbledore brushes Fawkes\'s teeth. If he has any.”

“He hasn’t,” Aubrey admitted at last, almost disappointedly. “Fowls lost their teeth when they stopped being reptiles and became birds.”

“So maybe Dumbledore brushes Fawkes’s beak.”

Hermione managed to drag her sleepy daughter to the bathroom, where she had thoroughly brushed Aubrey’s teeth. Fawkes watched the ritual with mild fascination.

“Fawkes thinks you’re obsessed about my teeth,” Aubrey informed her afterwards.

Hermione found this latest exclamation a little suspicious, but didn’t bother to voice her doubt. “I’m a daughter of two dentists,” she said, “I have every right to be obsessed about your teeth.”

“Being aware of the problem doesn’t mean you don’t have to solve it later.\"

“As it happens, I don’t see it as a problem. Be thankful I didn’t have psychologists for parents, or I might have asked you to paint me how you feel about the matter and then determine that your reluctance to having your teeth brushed originates from a suppressed trauma you cannot possibly remember.”

“Blah,” was Aubrey’s response.

“Exactly.” She ushered Aubrey into the larger bedroom, where a four-poster bed stood facing a hearty fire, and tucked her girl – already dressed in her pyjamas after the shower she took earlier – into the bed. Fawkes, who followed them quietly during the whole time, stood several centimeters from Aubrey’s shoulder.

“Now, say goodnight to Fawkes,” Hermione told her.

Aubrey rose a little, attempting to kiss the phoenix’s beak. “Goodnight Fawkes.”

Fawkes stood the child slobbery kiss with impressive grace. Then, rubbing his head against her forehead, he gave Hermione a small nod, spread his magnificent wings and flew out of the room.

“I wish he was mine…” The girl sighed.

“Fawkes doesn’t belong to anyone, you surely know that.”

“Yes, but… you know… like, I wish I could have my own pet…”

“We’ll see, darling. Now go to sleep.” Hermione bent to kiss Aubrey’s forehead and watched the heavy eyelids close. She was almost able to sense the dreams that wavered behind them. Her baby. So sweet and fresh and pure: rose petal coated with dew –some banal image that a childhoick,ick, semi-pedophile poet had invented to describe this utter beauty. God. She envied that, amongst so many other things. Maybe Aubrey was for that, too. To remind her what she couldn’t have; to remind her what she could have had, and to be all those things, because Hermione wouldn’t. And to give Hermione a valid excuse to wallow on the past. Almost tricked myself, she thought quietly. I’m becoming too observant for my own good.

Last night, after everything was – at least permanently – settled, Hermione had let herself break. She did it out of an emotionless, calculated decision to release pressure: she would break now, so she would be clear-minded and calm enough to move forward. Having checked that Aubrey was peacefully sleeping in her bed, Hermione locked herself in the bathroom, stripped of her clothes, turned on the hot water and sat underneath the stream of the shower. The noise of the water hitting the floor, covered the sob that ripped out of her lungs. The pain was a tightly strung nervy bundle in the base of her throat, and she untied it little by little, every cry breaking another fiber and releasing the impossible pressure on her chest. She knew there were tears, but these were gone with the water.

Today was different. Hermione stripped while in her bedroom, tucking the cast off clothes into the laundry basket, then stepped to the bathroom wrapped in a towelling robe. She took her time unbraiding her heavy plait, and watched the thick strands float on the water surface as she lay in the bathtub. Back in her school days, Hermione Granger was barely the person to indulge herself in hot baths. During the years it had become a matter of practicality: where else she could relax, clean and read in the same time? The bath she had in her New York flat was not as luxurious as this one, but nonetheless, Hermione made it her business to take at least one steamy, hot bath a week. She would wait for Aubrey to fall asleep, grasp the current book she was reading, and settle in the small bathtub.

Today she was attempting to read a potions textbook in order to refresh her memory. If she was about to take over the lower Potions classes any time soon, she needed to make some serious rot learning. Dumbledore had great confidence in her abilities, which was both reassuring and frightening. She would not disappoint him. But there was more than jusat aat at stake: Dumbledore had given her an important job. Hermione needed to be able to do this job, for the cause, and most significantly, for herself. She needed to prove to herself that she was capable and valuable. And in a way, she would also be doing it for Aubrey.

A younger Hermione would have sneered at the thought of taking over Snape’s lessons in order to ease his burden. Babysitting him, in fact. Perhaps, Hermione mused, it was all the inevitable babysitting she did over the last years that made the assignment easier. Dealing with a two months old baby was much more difficult than dealing with fifty year old or so Severus Snape. A Snape didn’t wake you four times a night screaming and demanding to be fed. On the other hand, a baby didn’t make a habit of insulting you, either. Her thought trailed back to the conversation in the dungeons. Somehow, it had been both harder and easier than anything Hermione had imagined.

Entering his office had been difficult. It was like crossing a translucent border: stepping out of a mirror and learning that your glass hands had materialized into flesh and blood. She was beaten with the reality of him: greasy, brilliant, sarcastic, unhealthy. Insufferable. He looked angry – not that he ever looked otherwise – and his eyes were wild, big and fluid and bloodshot. He reminded her of the wolf who ate away his own leg in order to break free of the trap. He reminded her of the man who had raped her. Yet she knew this was a different man, and an exhausted one at that, and she herself was too old and agony-ridden to be afraid of him.

Getting the Potions Master to listen to her was tiring and annoying. It never occurred to her before, but Severus Snape was a very irritating person. Dealing with him when he didn’t want to be dealt with was nearly impossible. Unless you were relentless and determined to deal with him just as much as he was determined to avoid you. Eventually, she had simply seated herself in front of him. To some extent, was was grateful for Snape’s impossible manner. The anger distracted her, kept her from being overwhelmed by her fears. That was not to say the task had become any easier. Even after she had defined the limits of their conversation for him, Snape had retained his offensive demeanor. He had cruelly provoked her- Hermione couldn’t tell whether he did it in order to discourage her, urge her to finish and make herself scarce, or avenge what he perceived as rude violation of his sacred privacy.

Then, at last, she had managed to tell him about the attack. He grew painfully silent –it was particularly galling because it reminded her of Aubrey’s luminous reticence when the child was fascinated with something. Hermione had never recited that night’s events before. Putting it into words was somehow hurting and somehow dull, as she had expected some cathartic relief that was now probably too late, or she was too cynical to come to.

She had cried nonetheless, if only because it felt appropriate.

Snape seemed to be much more bewildered. She didn’t know what to expect of him, and thusd sed settled for expecting nothing at all, but seeing him so enraged was unnerving. He remembered.

She looked at him. For several moments, he seemed to forget she was even there. Snape was impossibly pale and quiet, but she could almost see the demons fighting underneath the calm surface, fighting to break free. He was something wild, raw and violent and sweet, like the rich dampness of the forest’s earth. Or maybe other realms’. Another tide of tears welled in her eyes. He wasn’t supposed to experience such agony. Not the man with her baby’s eyes. Not Snape. She tried to reach him, and was warded off by the suppressed, clean violence behind his words. And his self-hatred. He wanted her to go away, but she wouldn’t, not even if it was an option. Hermione could not leave him alone, not like that.

She –well, Hermione wasn’t sure exactly how she felt about Snape. She didn’t pity him: he deserved more than that. Feeling sorry had also seemed inappropriate. But she had looked at this strong, steady man, curled into a white-knuckled fist of rage and agony, and some hidden string inside her had snapped. The concept of having Severus Snape crushed and broken was wrong. More than that: Hermione Granger couldn’t turn her back to such obvious anguish. For Christ\'s Sake, she had even fed and took care of neutering all the stray cats that roamed around her apartment –to her neighbours’ outright disapproval, and despite her own utter lack of time and resources. What a pricking saint you are, Granger. Go nominate yourself for a Noble Prize, for saving stray animals and lost men. Well, Severus Snape was not hers to save, and she’d be a bloody idiot if she tried. He was poisonous.

What had immediately led Hermione to doubt her own sanity when pleading with Snape to acknowledge Aubrey. The man had already proved beyond any doubt that he was as socially adept as bubotuber pus. He coulds has hardly be trusted to handle an eight-year-old girl. On the other hand, Aubrey wasn’t just any eight year old girl. She might not have found Snape a nice person, but contrary to whatever anybody would have expected, she didn’t fear him either. But how long would it take him to fracture Aubrey’s shield of self-confidence? He used to break his students spirit on mere principle. As far as she knew, Snape might take Aubrey’s refusal to be afraid of him as a deliberate challenge. God. But he wouldn’t hurt her on purpose, or would he? No, no. Hermione didn’t think so. Snape was cruel and misanthropic and surely unqualified to be a father, but she rather doubted he would intentionally hurt Aubrey. Intimidate her? Sure. Irritaer? er? Definitely. He might reduce Aubrey to tears, but hurt her? Hermione didn’t think so, however it was certainly something she couldn’t quite be sure of.

She remembered him being very protective toward his students. No matter how much he had resented Harry and for whatever unfair reasons, Snape had done everything in his power to protect him, when he happened to be in real danger. His sense of duty and some sort of… twisted honour came before any personal views he might have had. Hermione knew for certain that Severus Snape could be trusted with her daughter’s life. She was less assured whether he could be trusted with her daughter’s heart. Even so, Aubrey’s heart was hers to give. Hermione could only give her the possibility of choice. And as she had already told Snape, allowing Aubrey to make up her mind now, seemed the least of all possible evils. The best she could do was carefully take care of Aubrey’s emotional safety and hope Snape would be wise and openhearted enough to accept what the girl had to offer him.

Hermione sighed, and rising a little, rubbed her fingertips against each other. The water-wrinkled skin told her she had indulged herself long enough. Time to get up, soap herself and wash her hair. She was out of the bathtub within several minutes, standing in front of the vapour-covered mirror and adjusting her wand in her hand. She was back in the wizarding world, and therefore, bound to live with magic. The best time to begin with, was always now. Hermione breathed deeply, fighting the urge to reach her hand and wipe the soft cover of fume that misted upon the glass surface. ‘Arescere’, she thought. ‘Arescere’ was the command, which activated the drying charm. Very well. Hermione pointed her wand, and using the swish-and-flick sequence she had so well mastered during her studies, pronounced the incantation. The mirror cleared a little. Hermione scanned the results. Not amazing success maybe, but not a complete failure. Another try.

“Arescere!”

The glass surface had cleared the rest of the way. Good. Her face, flushed and plump, was peering at her from the mirror.

“Don’t you agree you need to lose some weight, dear?”

Hermione jumped, startled to hear the mirror talking to her. Talking mirrors were one thing Hermione never missed about the wizarding world. To tell the truth, she found it to be a rather annoying installment. Charming a mirror to speak instead of finding a passable alternative to quill using – which was difficult to master and incredibly dirtying – was, in Hermione’s opinion, a stagnated, stupid anachronism. Not to mention the mirrors being terribly rude from time to time. The wizarding kind, she had learned, was endowed with a strange sense of humour.

Hermione gave the mirror a cold smile. “I appreciate your advice, but I’m rather satisfied with my current appearance, thank you.”

“Well,” answered the mirror with critical tone, “you can’t possibly hope to catch yourself a decent husband looking like that.”

“Then it’s sheer luck I’m not looking for one. Silencio!”

Something of the mirror’s disapproval kept lingering in the steamy room, but the obnoxious item stopped talking to her. Relieved, Hermione went through another familiar charm, this time, one she had used to comb her hair. It was actually a spell designed to loosen complicated knots, untie fishermen nets et cetera, but Hermione found it particularly helpful when dealing with her hair. Maybe because she was so practiced with the use of the charm, the spell worked immediately: combing and unknotting her wiry hair. She had then braided it into a thick plait, and fastening its tip with a ponytail holder, stepped out of the bathroom.

Hermione’s bedtime ritual was swift and efficient. She treated herself with a body-lotion, app applied some facial moisturizer, spreading the cream with even, sure strokes. Paying attention to her skin was another thing Hermione hadn’t bothered to do when she was younger. She began doing so only when a colleague told her that her skin simply demanded some attention and dragged Hermione to shop for some cosmetics. Hermione had ended the trip with a small tube of moisturizer and an impressive heap of books. Her friend, who was loaded with all kind of preparations, wrapped u pin pink bags that swished and rustled like kisses of cellophane, told Hermione she was hopeless. Lavender would have had agreed with her. Hermione’s disregard of her appearance drove the petite blonde crazy. It was like… telling her mother she didn’t wish to have children. It had practically equaled a complete and proclaimed denial of her femininity.

Lavender, with whom she had eventually formed a delicate, cautious friendship, used to rant continuously about the other girl’s neglectful manner. Once, Hermione remembered, she had allowed Lavender make up her face and hair –they had been seated in front of each other on the blonde’s bed, all sorts of cosmetics and make-up products sprawled on the covers amidst them. She remembered the metallic shine of the containers: all sorts of glossy, fancy plastics. A dash of lipstick, it had tasted sweet and viscous and feminine on her mouth; some eye-shadow, then mascara. She had blinked furiously when Lavender touched the mascara to her eyelashes, hopelessly smearing it. The boys were beside themselves with shock when she climbed down to the Common Room. Hermione laughed at the memory.

Ron had almost choked on his butterbeer while Harry had the sweetest, funniest look of childish surprise splashed over his face. They were such… boys. In a manner that never failed to hearten her. Ridiculous and sweet and clumsy and deliberately foolish. She had missed them so much.

The last couple of days had been frantic. Not so much full as emotionally stressing. Hermione wrapped herself in the quilt, allowing the warmth to slowly dissolve some of the tension in her muscles. Never one for much subtlety, she had made her identity known in the curtest possible way. Arriving with Aubrey at the breakfast table that morning, she had made a short announcement, letting her presence be known, and set to eating her breakfast. There wasn’t much fuss- her succinctness didn’t encourage any. But there was quiet conversation –McGonagall’s qu ste steady concern, Anna Vector’s subtle inquiry. Professor Flitwick’s dwarfish, cordial amusement. Dumbledore seemed to find it entertaining. It wouldn’t take long now, Hermione was aware, for her old schoolmates to learn she was back.

She knew that the right thing to do would be to break the news to them herself: especially to Harry and Ron. They definitely deserved that. Notwithstanding that, Hermione was relieved to have the rumor industry doing the job instead of her. She had often wondered what Harry and Ron’s reaction would be when they learned she was alive and at Hogwarts – that she had never died in the first place, but had chosen to leave them in the dark as to her true circumstances. How would they react when they finally understood that she- …Hermione swallowed, flinching away from the term – how would they react when they understood that she had betrayed them?

She had faced Dumbledore – it had been difficult but she had navigated her way through the conversation, assisted by the old wizard, and survived it. She had faced Snape because she had to. No point dwelling further on that. But she really, really didn’t want to go through the same procedure, again, with Harry and Ron.

And that’s the end of my Gryffindor righteousness, she realized with a tint of self-humour that her younger self had totally lacked. Well, life was weird, strange and dubious. One was bound to eternal frustration trying to see a moral pattern in the way things worked. A sense for both the tragic and the absurd was more to the point. Hermione fell asleep with that in mind. Beauty was something you had to catch, rather like butterflies. Happiness too. Hermione dreamed of a green meadow and a laughing Aubrey, trying to catch a white butterfly in her hand.

* The chapter\'s title, taken from F. G. Lorca\'s poem, \"Debussy\".

* Arescere – \"dry up\", in Latin.