Needfire

Chapter 7 – Cogito Ergo Sum


\"Do I stress you out
My sweater is on backwards and inside out
And you say how appropriate
I don\'t want to dissect everything today
I don\'t mean to pick you apart you see
But I can\'t help it
There I go jumping before the gunshot has gone off
Slap me with a splintered ruler
And it would knock me to the floor if I wasn\'t there already
If only I could hunt the hunter

And all I really want is some patience
A way to calm the angry voice
And all I really want is deliverance.\"

-- All I Really Want. Alanis Morisette.


She was five years old, dressed in a stained tricot shirt. Donna had stopped at the bakery earlier that day, bringing home some hot, fragrant chocolate biscuits that made Hermione\'s mouth water. The scent reminded her of the Sugarplum Fairy\'s dance out of Tchaikovsky\'s Nutcracker Suite. Her father loved to play the album in the Granger\'s stereo system, making himself comfortable on his large, leather covered couch, his long, skilled surgeon-fingers fingers tapping on the armrest in time with the music.

There was some music now, pouring out of the house\'s wide, breathing windows; blue-eyed ornaments against the white, European calmness of the Granger\'s suburban cottage.

Her five year old self was seated on the porch, where Donna sent her with a saucer with some biscuits in it. Her mother would rather have Hermione outside so as not to dirty the couches or make a mess in the kitchen, which somebody would have to clean later.

She put a biscuit in her mouth, and closing her eyes, bit on the soft, sweet, crumbly pastry. Some leaves rustled as they swept along the street, carried on a summer wind that brushed a stray lock of hair from the place where she secured it. Hermione moved it back behind her ear, still chewing on this wonderful first bite, not wanting it ever to end. In front of her, an older boy – about ten or eleven – zigzagged the street on his rollerblades. Another gust of wind tussled his blond hair; carrying some more leaves along the Grangers\' porch and caressing Hermione\'s ear like a hot, moistened mouth.

It tickled, and she moved a little, away from the touch that was both pleasant and disturbing. It didn\'t stop, though, and a large finger, its tip slightly roughened, replaced the mouth, following the outline of the shell of Hermione\'s ear. It skimmed downward, gently caressing the delicate, childish line of her jaw; dwelling on the soft skin of her neck. There still was some toddler\'s fat underneath her chin, and a knuckle brushed the smooth, soft area before moving to her left shoulder. It stroked her arm: from bicep to elbow, moving on to tickle her forearm, where she was most ticklish aside from her ribs. At that it moved on; to her small hand, a larger version of a baby hand – or so it seemed – now covered with some sweet crumbs.

Hermione tried to pull back her hand when her fingers were brought up, and the crumbs gently sucked off them; the tongue curling around her small fingers was big and wet and slobbery, like some disgusting water snake. But then, she knew it would soon be over, and the fingers would be back tickling her.

Several seconds later, the wind gave a hearty laugh, after which Hermione had her hand back to herself. She had secretly wiped it off on the cloth of her cut-offs, frowning a little as the fingers reached for her shoulder. They were carefully twisting in the short sleeve of her shirt, pulling it away from the tender, white skin of her shoulder, sneaking to touch the smooth curve of her chest. She giggled, somehow unsure: while the touch was warm and ticklish and nice, it felt vaguely wrong, and Hermione was uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, the fingers kept going. They moved lower now, probing gently, a finely trimmed nail scraping the highly sensitive tip of a childish breast. Its tiny, soft bud had erected at once, causing her to release another, stressed giggle. It tickled! She heard herself giggling, trying to detach herself from the fingers- from the embrace that tightened around her. Safe and gentle at first, the arms closed around her smallish figure, then more forcefully, until some moments later, the fingers began to probe through her flesh, plunging into her ribcage and not stopping until they reached her lungs.

She breathed deeply, feeling the once tickling fingers uncorking her lungs, and with sharp, accurate movements, pumping all the air out of them until she choked. Her face was quickly purpling from lack of air, her eyes widening from the terror of being held against her will. She wanted out. Needed out, this very instant. But the darkness was descending, like a thick, gooey veil pulled over her eyelids, and she couldn\'t breathe, couldn\'t fucking breathe…!

Then she was awake and drinking air in fervent, feverish urgency. It was like Ambrosia, she thought, better than Ambrosia. It was cool, cleansing detergent pouring down her throat: it was oak\'s blessed water, running on her arid hands. She could hear herself panting; her chest rising and falling under the thick blanket. Crookshanks, curled into a ball at her feet, opened one yellow eye and looked at her with sleepy annoyance.

\"Go back to sleep, Crook,\" she told him. \"Nothing interesting here for you.\"

The tom, which had been awoken by the commotion, dropped back into the mattress, turning his back to his mistress. She supposed it was Crook\'s way of telling her he never even considered giving up so much as a minute of his beauty sleep due to her silliness.

\"Fat, lazy orange good-for-nothing hairball,\" Hermione muttered.

Go back to sleep, the cat\'s back seemed to transmit.

Great, so now not only did I give the best head Ronald Weasley ever had, Hermione thought sarcastically, I\'m also reading cats\' minds. In the dead of the night – secured in a room located in an ancient, magical castle – the notion almost seemed less surrealistic than it should have seemed. Or better yet; the surrealism of the vision was almost swallowed by the surrealism of the background. No point in being crazy in a world where craziness is the definition for normalcy, Hermione found herself musing. She began to pull off the covers with the intention to go to the small bathroom, annoyed to find her limbs covered with a thin film of sweat. Perhaps she might just take a full shower, instead of simply washing her hands-

No! You cannot, you shall not! Heaving, she sank back into the tumbled covers, lifting her hands in the dark until they were washed in the moonlight slanting from the arched window. It was the same waxing, crooked-smile moon that had watched down on her as Professor Snape- Druid Snape… Whoever-Snape poured the oak\'s blessed water over her hands, and somehow cleansed them – somehow sanctified them by this simple act. He had hardly looked at her as he bathed her hands- he was just… mean, petty, sexy old Snape, in his pure-white, exiled-Baroness feathered cloak, and maybe it was his lack of reaction that finally allowed some hidden cord inside of her to snap. Maybe the fact that along with his cool, detached mannerism he was still honest with her: had shared something with her, which he had shared – Hermione was relatively sure – with no one else. It made them, on some level, equals. He was forced to trust her with his secret, and so, she could trust him with the pain she could not seem to stop.

Do you know, Snape, she found herself thinking, what it is that you do for me?

The moon, his Arianrhod, wove silken threads into his raven black hair, which glinted against the dark. Arianrhod was shimmering in the tears that shone in her eyes; simmering deep in her soul and bubbling upward so they could pour – like molten blood or ice-cold fear – down her cheeks. As always, Hermione was fascinated with the contrast Snape\'s black locks created with the pallor of his skin- only now, things were different. He was cleansing her hands for her, and inside, her heart was breaking or healing, or healing only to be broken again: it felt like falling in love.

By the time Snape was through, she had been crying quietly. It was not the water- cool and sweet as it was, sliding down her sore hands. This was only damn water, and she told him so. It was the fact he that noticed, and cared- it was having his dark, lucid black gaze resting on her upturned palms as she outstretched them to be cleansed; it was the fact that he made up a way to revive her out of her misery – it was having his eyes trailing along the curves of her now-washed hands, determining they were cleansed. And therefore, they were cleansed. He was destroying her.

Unable to take any more of the emotional stress, Hermione had asked the man she was now carefully training herself to think of as her mentor, to leave the Stones, now that the whirling ring of energy had abated. Snape, as she expected, had insisted on walking her back to Hogwarts, noting that it was already dark outside. While that was true, she felt it was irrelevant.

Knowing the exchange ahead of her would serve to determine certain ground rules in whatever kind of apprenticeship she might be taking upon herself in the future, Hermione chose her words carefully. \"It is dark-\" she began, \"and I do not underestimate the possible danger. However, I know the extent of my… ability, and I believe I am capable of reaching the castle without being harmed-\"

\"Bragging, are we?\"

Hermione glared at him. \"Being objective, Professor. Which isn\'t the point anyway. Point is: I need my space, and I need it now.\" She took a calming breath. \"I don\'t mean to sound disrespectful. I\'m sorry, but that\'s how things are for me. I don\'t make it a hobby running in the dark-\" Snape gave her a dubious look, \"whatever you might think; nonetheless… this was just- too much. You can watch me from the shadows or whatever it is that you do, if you like, if you\'re worried,\" she added, nervously picking invisible lint from her sweatshirt. Pressure was building inside of her, like a warm, murky wave of acidic nausea. Desperation was tepid, Hermione decided. Neither warm, nor cold. \"I must go,\" she continued. Her voice was shaking, and she wanted to be able to look him in the eyes, cast the wire barb of her fishhook and snag his full attention- but then that was a trick saved for girls: girls like Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. This was not the way Hermione Granger acted, angling for a man\'s attention; angling for a man\'s permission through lewd, feminine tactics. She didn\'t need his attention, nor did she need his permission to come and go as she pleased. No- I might be childish and foolish, but I am surely clever and independent enough to know your mere permission and approval would never form a cage to hold me. It\'s your recognition I seek; funny, isn\'t it, that I\'m contemplating to yield to it before you even offered- hell with it, I must go, must be away from you – \"Now.\"

Her defiance seemed to… Hermione wasn\'t sure. Annoy him, yes, but annoyance just seemed like Snape\'s default reaction. Amuse him, perhaps? She decided she\'d have to be satisfied with that trace of a smirk hovering about his ugly, fey features.

\"Goodbye, Professor,\" she said shortly. Then, turning her back on… Whoever Snape, Hermione began making her way towards Hogwarts castle.

She had not gone far before his deep voice stopped her yet again. \"Miss Granger.\"

She turned, looking at him as he stood, pale and strangely luminous in the light from his wand, the ugly guardian of his Circle. \"Yes?\"

\"The words to open the classroom wards are Cogito ergo sum. Kindly leave my cloak on my desk when you reach the castle.\"

Hermione blinked. \"I read Kant,\" she mumbled, unsure as to what drove her to say it.

Once again, she thought she had seen a trace of a smile on Snape\'s face. \"Keep reading Kant,\" he told her.

\"I will.\" With a nod, she drew the cloak a little closer around her, and began to jog, lightly, towards the Castle, picking up speed as she left him, and his frightening, fascinating Circle, behind.

The white, beautiful feathered cloak was now descending from the clothes hanger- a few centimeters away from the moonbeams \' reach. The moonlight, however, that poured between her fingers like honey, did wash the heavy tome of Kant\'s work. The book rested in its usual place on the night table, carefully placed to parallel the furniture\'s sharp angles. A Druid cloak, a philosophy book; no gun, but her wand rested underneath her pillow, and her sore, reddened hand would roam there at night, to grasp it as if it was some kind of umbilical cord attaching her to reality – pulling her back from a nightmare.

Attentive to the moonbeams\' silent play along the covers, Hermione snuck back under the quilt. The warm, heavy lump that was Crookshanks rose up sleepily as she stirred him with her feet, then resettled himself at the small of her back, curling against his mistress. Go to sleep, the cat vibrated. Shish, you\'re noisy. And it\'s not you reading my mind, it\'s me reading yours. I\'m a cat- we were worshipped back there in Egypt. My mind is way too complex for you to read – mere human that you are. Off to sleep with you now, pet. Sleep tight.

* * *

She sat in the common room, reading. Kant and the Ancient Runes text had been temporarily abandoned in favour of Descartes\' \'Principia Philosophiae\', which she had borrowed from Mandy Brocklehurst. The tall, stern looking Ravenclaw girl – who matched Hermione in her fierceness and determination – was someone she could sometimes talk to about the things Harry and Ron considered too boring to discuss: school, magical theory, philosophy and the likes. The two young women made it a habit to lend and borrow books from each other, and so, when looking for a certain author she wasn\'t likely to find in the Hogwarts library, Mandy was the first person Hermione approached, knowing there was a probable chance the other witch might have what she was looking for.

At the moment, Hermione was wrapped in her own fleece shawl of bliss. A cup of her favourite strong tea was placed exactly on top of the magic circle, outlined on the palm-like saucer on which it was standing. There was a certain crankiness, as well as a certain soreness, lurking at the back of her mind- like a stained, sticky finger looking for loose ends it could untie even further. Nevertheless, the newly found sense of cleanness – of sanity – gained the other night, strengthened the complex weave that was her cognition, and made her feel more like herself than she felt in a long, long time.

It was then that Harry landed on the loveseat sofa beside her, wild hair dripping water: fresh from the shower after a Quidditch practice. \"How do you do, love?\"

\"How do you do, Harry? And I would appreciate it if you gave up the endearments.\"

\"Of course, love.\"

Hermione rolled her eyes, almost surprised at herself to notice she was doing it affectionately, bookmarked \'Principia Philosophiae\' and gently put it aside. \"Where is your Siamese twin?\"

Harry gave her an enigmatic look. \"You know Loony Lovegood has been after him since fifth year, now don\'t you?\"

\"You shouldn\'t use that horrible nickname, Harry.\"

\"Calm down. I like Luna. It\'s only a pet name for her, all right?\" He was making a face again. \"Now stop being an idiot and listen to me, would\'ya?\"

\"Very well.\"

Harry gave her s stern look. \"So Luna likes Ron. A lot. And he doesn\'t seem to be so… opposed to her lately… seeing you left him rather… deprived.\"

She grew attentive at once. \"What exactly do you mean by \'not so opposed\'?\"

\"Just what you heard-\" Harry almost sounded defensive. \"Well, actually, that he\'s being nice to her, okay?\"

\"The bitch. No, no, I\'m being irrational… I knew she liked Ron, there\'s nothing new about that.\" Hermione breathed deeply, taking a moment to consider what Harry had just told her. \"So Ron plans on cheating on me?\"

\"Don\'t be ridiculous,\" Harry fended. \"I\'m just saying that whatever it is you do, you\'re doing, it\'s driving you two apart.\"

\"Well, well. Now didn\'t I know that?\"

\"I didn\'t mean to taunt you.\"

\"No, just attempting to protect your best friend\'s interests. It\'s okay, Harry, I can see what it is that you\'re trying to do, it\'s only that I…\" she quieted for a moment, contemplating her words. \"Perhaps I\'m selfish, I probably am, but I have more than Ron\'s best interests in mind at the moment…it\'s probably the last thing I think of nowadays. It has been… a difficult time, for a variety of reasons, and it was cruel and selfish of me to allow Ron to get hurt, and yet- I\'m sick of hearing about Ron from you, okay?\"

Harry mouth twisted in a crooked smile. \"Do you really think I came here to speak to you on Ron\'s behalf?\"

\"Well, it definitely sounds like you did,\" she answered coolly.

The messy haired boy shrugged his shoulders sadly. \"A knot in the tongue Potter,\" he said. \"Bollocks. I\'m sorry if I let it sound as if I was only talking to you because of Ron. You\'re my friend too, you know. I care for you like I care for Ron. I was worried about you.\"

It was Hermione\'s turn to shrug her shoulders. \"It\'s fine, Harry. I guess I am… very likely to be… mistaking people\'s genuine intentions lately.\"

\"What is it with you, really?\" Harry asked. He looked at her with sincere worry in his beautiful, green eyes, and she could almost see her own anxiety reflected in their swirling, restless depths. \"I know you\'re not okay,\" he added. \"You should stop pushing me off.\"

\"The moment you tell me about your mysterious lover,\" Hermione answered, \"I\'ll tell you about my problems.\"

\"It\'s complicated,\" he said quietly, a tinge of tiredness creeping in to dim his voice. \"I\'d tell myself it\'s just sex and be done thinking of it.\"

\"So it isn\'t just sex.\"

Harry gave her an amused glance. \"It is. Sex is simple, so it is. Your turn now.\"

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, and then realized Harry had indeed just shared something with her, as meager as the information might have been. \"I think I\'m better off without Ron,\" she said at last. \"And Ron is better off without me.\"

\"Is Ron causing your problems?\"

\"No, no,\" she hurried to say. \"It\'s only… I think we\'ve grown apart, and while I think I discovered- something that might… promote me mentally and perhaps, well, there are several ideas I\'m playing with at the moment concerning the fight – I promise to share them with you the moment I\'m walking on more solid theoretical ground – Ron and I… are simply holding each other off. Can you see what I mean?\"

Harry nodded slowly. \"I think I can. I think you should tell him so. He\'s confused, Hermione, and he\'s hurting. I don\'t think that\'s what you want- to hurt him.\"

She blushed, ashamed of herself. \"You\'re right. I\'ll try to talk to him… sometime soon.\"

\"Good.\" Harry gave her a little smile: it might not be completely happy, but it was at least genuine. \"I think I\'ll be going now.\"

\"Enough \'not-company\' for one evening?\" Hermione teased.

\"That\'s not… incorrect,\" he said quietly. \"I grew up rather alone, you know. I love to have people around me- all the time, in fact. When there\'s no one I suddenly feel… lonely. Like there\'s no one else in the universe and I\'m all alone in the cupboard under the staircase again. But really talking to someone – it\'s, well – you see… that\'s a lot. It almost makes me need to go back into the cupboard, if only for a little while.\"

She swallowed. \"You\'ll be back, right?\"

\"Sure, love,\" Harry answered, shrugging off the almost surreal, fey expression that shrouded his doll-like face. \"Talk to you!\"

\"Goodbye, Harry.\"

She watched him leave, weak, all of a sudden, to have something resembling empathy gently nibbling on her high defensive walls and forcing her to give in a little. Disturbed, Hermione reached for the book, lifting the saucer with the not-yet empty tea cup, and left the Gryffindor common room.

She did some Yoga, and then, once her muscles were warm, let herself indulge in half an hour of anaerobic exercise. It was almost as if she was attempting to check whether the sweat and smell following the physical exercise would erase the sense of cleanliness that kept surrounding her like a halo ever since yesterday night. After the exercise, she showered, stupidly relieved to find that the urge to scrape every piece of skin was subdued: enough so she could master it instead of giving in to it.

* * *

Three days later, some time after dinner was over, Hermione had neatly folded the beautiful feathered cloak under a clean school robe, and securing her bookbag, made the way to the Slytherin dungeons with the intention of returning Snape his cloak. Strangely enough, the sense of cleanliness – although considerably dulled by now – had lasted so far.

As it turned out, she had no need of the password. Snape, as it happened, was still at the classroom at that time of the day, marking essays, or whatever it is he did with the always present pile of parchments that rested on his broad wooden desk.

\"I read Descartes,\" Hermione found herself blurting upon entering the classroom. Embarrassed at her own slip – sure the Potions Master would probably take it as showing off or an attempt to please him – she blushed furiously.

Snape, however, did not respond.

Aroused into reaction by the lack of any from him, Hermione moistened her lips. \"Won\'t you ask me what I thought?\"

At last, he lifted his eyes to look at her. \"What have you read of Descartes\'?\"

She told him.

\"I\'d like you to read \'Le Monde\', especially \'La Géométrie\',\" Snape said dryly. \"And some of Leibniz\'s criticism on Descartes\' work.\"

Hermione frowned. \"Is that what you\'ll be teaching me?\"

\"Unless you wish to tell me what I should teach to you?\" he mocked her.

Her cheeks flushed even a brighter rose. \"I was lucky enough to be able to borrow \'Principia Philosophiae\' from a friend, but I don\'t see where-\"

\"I\'ll lend it to you,\" he cut across her. \"Along with another book I\'d like you to read- assuming you are still interested in an apprenticeship?\"

She answered him with a bold, daring gaze. \"I am.\"

\"Very well. Come, then.\" Snape rose to his feet: his longish, towering figure all dressed in black: like the shadows that moved along but were never quite able to touch the white clad man she remembered from yesterday. But shadows are not substance, she remembered. Only the lack of light. Terry Pratchett had put it best by letting the Disc World\'s scientists do their calculations according to the speed of Darkness: it shies away from light more quickly than light arrives from point A to point B. My own twisted sense of reality has shied off from that man and has been corrected for fear of him. How odd, how odd.

Silently, she followed Snape into his office: the back of the storeroom, it seemed, opened with the murmur of a password (\"existence takes precedence over essence\" – how unsurprising). The secret opening led to a surprisingly cozy dungeon room, with a currently inactive fireplace at one end, and a large, antique desk at the other. The room was decorated in dark, Slytherin green, its wall covered books, all of them carefully kept behind glass. Eager to reach for these treasures and yet knowing she mustn\'t, Hermione forced herself to remain rooted on the spot, watching Snape as he reached for one of the cabinets, pulling a leather bound volume out of it and dusting it lightly. He handed it to Hermione, who caressed the beautifully crafted leather binding with the tips of her fingers. \'Le Monde\', it read.

Snape didn\'t wait to watch her reaction, but reached for another shelf, this time drawing a heavier, larger, ancient-looking tome. There was no gold rimming the pages\' tips, she noticed, nor was the cover adorned with silver or gold leaves. It was simple looking, its binding worn-out with age; stroked into glittering dimness by many hands who handled it lovingly for generations. Hermione\'s eyes narrowed, and she noted the extreme care with which her Potions Professor was offering her the book. Swallowing, she put \'Le Monde\' in her schoolbag, and stretched her arm to take the volume Snape was extending. His fingers were milky-white against the earth-brown of the leather: perhaps it was its brownness, its earthiness that made the contrast bearable. Welcome instead of piercing. Not black against white, but two nature-associated colours: not the bluish, lovely white against the opaque black.

A muscle in her temple quivered, and she trembled as their fingers brushed when she took the book in her hands. Cool, white and fresh were his hand, Hermione thought. Like the petals of a rose.

\"I believe we had a bargain?\" Snape\'s voice wakened her from her short reverie.

\"A bargain?\"

\"I lend you the books; you give me back my cloak.\"

\"Yes, of course.\" She had carefully unbundled the cloak, returning it to its rightful owner.

Snape kept his usual demeanor: his reaction, she determined, tended to show only toward the negative side of the scale. Aside from a bit of cynical amusement, he had so far demonstrated no gratitude, elation or happiness. Hermione wondered whether she was masochistic for considering even hypothetically how much she would be ready to sacrifice in order to be able to put a genuine smile in his eyes. \"What is this book?\"

\"Druidism, and the Druid ritual. Written by one of our own many years ago, and handed up through the generations. Read it. Consider what you read. And think it over carefully. Think carefully why it is you wish to learn. I want you to be able to make your own decisions concerning the apprenticeship. It should be based on accurate information of the rites you will be performing and the knowledge you will acquire.\"

She nodded. The magic seemed to break, or intensify into reality. It did not matter. Her fingers still remembered the touch of his hand, and burned with it. Hermione raised her eyes, to look at her teacher.

\"That will be it,\" Snape said. \"You may go now.\"