Exodus

Winter has settled in, bringing fluffy blankets of snow to curl in, almost like it's protecting itself from the icy wind that bleeds through the Shuttering Charms and makes the windows look like they've been fitted with frosted glass. The lake is frozen over, the surface hard and grey like steel.

As she steps into McGonagall's office, Hermione's ears are still steaming gently from the morning dose of Pepper-Up that Madam Pomfrey made her drink. Her bird's nest of hair, which is fluffed wildly around her head (overenthusiastic Drying Charm) looks like it's on fire. She's feeling horrid...a cold and the echoing emptiness of the castle after the Christmas exodus just exacerbate her melancholy mood.

Hermione returns Dumbledore's cheery wave with a little smile. The rest of the portraits are sleeping, or huddled in scarves and jumpers, or imbibing stiff drinks that shimmer in vivid hues of red and purple oil paint.

"What can I do for you, Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall asks. Hermione's almost gratified to see a wisp of steam leaking from McGonagall's right ear. At least she's not the only one who's unable to wiggle out of Madam Pomfrey's kind-yet-surprisingly-hard-and-determined grip.

"I... want to make a phone call to my father, please, Professor McGonagall." It's still difficult for Hermione to make the paradigm shift and call her Headmistress. "I can probably ask somebody at the Muggle village..."

"That will not be necessary, Miss Granger."

Hermione is horrified to feel her misery swelling in her throat, prickling behind her eyes.

But McGonagall stands up and walks towards the fireplace, where she opens a Floo connection. "Come with me, Hermione," she says gently.

The cottage is small and quaint, with a low, beamed ceiling and a wide fireplace. The armchairs are chintz-covered and there's a big bookshelf against the wall. Hermione notices a large copy of Hogwarts: A History on the coffee table...it's the illustrated version she's always told herself is an extravagance she can't afford. Incongruously, there's a large desk in the corner with a Muggle telephone and an old Pentium I sitting squat and plastic on it...they match the telly and a video machine gleaming modernly in a cabinet opposite the couch.

"Is this... your house, Professor?" Hermione asks.

McGonagall smiles. "Oh, no...it belongs to Hogwarts. Some of the Muggle parents wish to see Hogwarts for themselves before they'll concede to sending their children to the school, and this is where they stay when they visit. We pay a local Muggle lass to cook and clean for them." Her lips twitch as though she wants to smile. "The house-elves are usually a bit much for them, at first."

Hermione eyes the computer. If it's connected to the internet then that would be easier than asking her father about psychopaths (he'd skyrocket Hogwarts' telephone bill in his enthusiasm and verbosity on the topic, she's sure). "Does it have internet access?"

McGonagall nods. "I had it installed when some of the Muggle parents complained about receiving owls...I come here to use the electronic mail system sometimes." She grimaces as though it's a tedious chore.

"Would you mind if I... used it after I've phoned my parents?" she asks, looking hopeful and cautious. "I wanted to do some research for my DADA assignment."

McGonagall looks very surprised that Hermione would require the Muggle internet for magic homework, but she nods and mutters something that sounds like, "You're welcome to use it if you can get the damn demon box to work." McGonagall leaves Hermione alone in the living room, telling her that she's making a pot of tea for them.

Hermione smiles gratefully and sits at the desk, then dials her father's mobile number after taking a long minute to try and remember the bloody international dialling code for Australia (sixty-one). She just hopes to Merlin his mobile is set on international roaming.

"Kia ora?" her father answers. His voice is husky and lazy.

Hermione suddenly remembers that it's probably pretty late at night there if it's nine in the morning here. "Hi, Dad," she says timidly. "It's... Hermione." She's an only child but she feels compelled to clarify.

There's a long pause...it's either her words travelling halfway around the world or her father swallowing his surprise. "Well, this is a nice surprise! How are you doing, luv? Your mum and me, we're sweet as!" Her father's voice is liquid, like he's well into the bottom half of a bottle of red. Hermione stifles a groan. This sounds worse than the time her dad spent a month dropping his h's after the trip to France. Although nothing could be worse than when her parents had visited Italy and he'd spent a month dressing like Fabio.

"I'm all right, Dad," Hermione says. "Just cold."

"Well, the sun's a bloody scorcher here. Your Mum is soaking in the bath, trying to chase her sunburn away," her father says with a chuckle. "Where are you phoning from? I thought the Weasleys didn't have a phone?"

Hermione can't bring herself to darken her father's cheery mood by telling him she's going to be alone at Hogwarts for Christmas, but she doesn't lie, exactly: "They don't have a telephone. I'm phoning from the Muggle village. I charmed a lovely lady into letting me use her phone."

"I hope that means you used your winning personality and not your wand, my girl," her dad says, pulling a little sharpness and edge back into his drawl.

Yeah. So he's still a bit put out with her. "Of course, Dad." She sighs. "Look, I just wanted to say hullo and wish you Merry Christmas in case I don't get a chance to ring on the day."

"All right, luv. Merry Christmas to you, too." He pauses awkwardly, the broken trust between them heavy on the line between them. "Well, I won't keep you, luv. Goodbye, Hermione."

"Love to Mum... Bye..."

Hermione is left with a disconnect tone buzzing in her ear. She stares at the receiver for a moment, really feeling the distance from her parents and then sets it down with a click. She switches on the computer and waits for it to hum to life. Glumly, she watches the four-coloured logo ripple lazily on the screen. Professor McGonagall comes in from the kitchen and sets a tray onto the coffee table. "Ah, there's something to be said for doing things the Muggle way," she says, patting the tea-cosy fondly. "How are you getting on with the pentagram?"

"So far so good." Hermione presses her lips together in an effort not to giggle and turns back to the screen, clicking on the connect button she finds after a minute of frown-accompanied searching for the right icon. The dial-up modem leaps to life with an unearthly screeching noise, and Hermione waits patiently for the connection. Behind her, Professor McGonagall switches on the telly and settles into an armchair.

Hermione goes to the Google search engine (her father says it's the best thing since sliced bread) and spends ten minutes reading about the general characteristics that go with psychopaths. "The mask of sanity," she murmurs to herself, nodding because it makes perfect sense.

Then she switches the computer off and stands up. She goes and sits in an armchair next to McGonagall. The Headmistress is watching a videotaped episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Hermione sits with her and they drink tea and answer their way up to sixty-four thousand quid before the contestant chooses the answer wrong.

"I like that Chris Tarrant," McGonagall says, rolling the presenter's name around her broad Scottish accent. "Although I'd prefer to have Tony Blair to tea...Kingsley says he's a pleasant sort of man, and nice-looking, too."

Hermione sticks her nose into her teacup to hide her smile.

Later, when Hermione's thanked Professor McGonagall and is about to go and write her DADA essay, McGonagall says, "Ah, Hermione? If I were you I wouldn't reference a website in your homework... I'm not sure Severus knows what a computer is."

Hermione can't stop giggling all the way back to Gryffindor Tower. For one lovely morning she's forgotten that she's been feeling lonely and sad.

"Good God," Hermione mutters to herself several days later. "Why on earth is there ink in this potion?" She notes it down, sure that the student added the ink to make sure their potion was the right shade of blue. Cheater, she thinks.

She's sitting in the Potions classroom analysing the constituents in a long line of little potion vials. Slughorn cornered her in the Entrance Hall earlier, resplendent and rotund in a dark-green velvet suit, and asked her to do him a 'big favour' since he was going to a Christmas function at the Ministry and didn't have time to finish marking the third-year potions.

"Isn't it the staff Christmas party tonight?" Hermione had asked, remembering the anticipatory air about Professor Hooch and Professor Vector at dinner.

"Well, yes," Slughorn had allowed. "But one has to prioritise, young lady."

Hermione eases the stopper out of the next vial, and she almost drops it when Professor Snape sharply demands, "What are you doing in here, Granger?" He's looming over her with a ferocious scowl on his face and his hands planted on his narrow hips. His cheeks are stained with warmth like he's been sitting close to the fire, and there's a whisper of port on his breath.

"Professor Slughorn asked me to do a Constituent Analysis on these potions, sir," she says.

His expression sours even further. "Did he promise you an 'O' grade?" he asks snidely, plainly insinuating that she'd whore herself in Hogsmeade for a neat row of Outstanding NEWTs.

"No, sir," she says with a tinge of reproach in her voice. "I've already got an 'O' for Potions. He just... sort of implied that it would be career-limiting in future if I didn't seem to be the helpful sort."

"Of course," he says, looking like he's eaten a mouthful of Doxy droppings. To her surprise, though, he doesn't chase her out of the dungeons. He settles on a stool opposite her, plucks a vial from the end of the row, unstoppers it and begins a Constituent Analysis. Quietly, as if moving too loudly will break this fragile peace, Hermione continues with her own analysis. Snape is very quick, and Hermione finds herself working a little faster in an attempt to match his elegant and effective pace.

"It's not a race, Granger," he drawls as he holds a vial up to the light. A curl of hair is coiled in the bottom of it and Snape sighs dramatically. "If you will recall, I've had years of practice at this."

Hermione nods slightly and a question tumbles from her lips, straight from the part of her brain that is recalling how effortless he'd always made brewing look. "Why aren't you teaching Potions this year, sir?" She doesn't really expect him to answer her, so she looks away and reaches for another vial.

"Vector is always bragging about the fact that you're practically an Arithmancy prodigy," he says, though, making her breath catch with surprise because he's answering her and complimenting her all in the same sentence.

"Yes, sir?" She's confused about what he's alluding to.

"And yet... can you envisage slaving for eight to ten hours a day over Runic matrices?" he asks smoothly.

She folds her fingers around the icy glass of the potions vial, considering his question. She's good at Arithmancy, but she cannot imagine finding joy in spending the rest of her life solving Transfigurative integrals. "No, sir," she admits.

The smallest smile curves the corner of his lips. "Just so, Granger. Just so."

And then she understands: Snape is brilliant at Potions, but it is not his passion. He just brings his natural competence to everything he does, even if he doesn't necessarily like it. Taking advantage of his unnaturally benign mood and his apparent willingness to answer questions, she asks, "Sir, why did Slughorn stay to teach this year?"

Snape hesitates, his quill hovering just above the piece of parchment he's making notes on, and Hermione quickly unstoppers the vial in her hands, hoping she's not just invited a lecture about being a nosy parker. "The post was offered to Mrs Wood initially. But then she and Mr Wood decided that they would prefer to procreate." Snape writes: Miss Smith continues to shed hair like a Kneazle into her potions, before he licks his lips and adds, "Because he likes it when people beg."

Hermione glances up quickly, unsure of whether her ears are working properly. She swallows her amazed amusement and says, "I'm very happy for Penelope and Oliver," in a prim kind of voice.

"I suppose somebody has to ensure my job security," Snape says wryly. He hasn't lifted his eyes to meet hers once during their conversation, still smoothly doing his analyses like talking to Hermione Granger in such casual fashion is routine. Hermione wonders how much he drank at the staff party, how much alcohol is warm in his blood, relaxing his iced over demeanour.

"Why did you stay to teach at Hogwarts, sir?"

"That is none of your business, Granger," he says sharply, and Hermione can practically hear the armour chinking into place. He sighs heavily. "Is there no limit to your insatiable curiosity?"

"Sorry, sir."

His only answer is a tight twist of his lips as he returns to frowning at the potion he's testing. They work in silence again for a long while. But it's an awkward sort of silence, now...Hermione's stomach is fluttering with an odd and new sort of pleasure because all she can hear in her mind is the deep and sinuous echo of him saying, 'Insatiable'.

There are three potions left to be analysed when Snape speaks again. "I was interested to read about some of your thoughts on Tom Riddle's early years," he drawls like she hadn't tightened his temper in the least earlier.

Hermione's eyes widen. She'd dropped her essay into Snape's slot outside the staff room yesterday but just because she submitted her homework early doesn't mean she expected that he'd read it straight away. More like he'd save it for last, just to be spiteful, perhaps.

Snape glances up now, and there is no admonishment in his eyes. There's merely a glimmer of interest like she's genuinely caught his attention with her research and thoughts. "It's impossible to know if he truly did wet his bed as a child, but it's a valid enough extrapolation from your quoted research..." His lips quirk almost like he's fighting to hide his glee and amusement that she'd be precocious enough to suggest the very thought of it.

Hermione concentrates on the oily meniscus of the yellow-green potion she's testing, struggling against the warmth she feels in the light of his regard. "Well, it is one of the triad of early markers for antisocial personality disorder," she says hesitantly, unsure of whether he's actually inviting conversation or not. "From what Harry's told me about what he saw in the Pensieve memory of the orphanage, Riddle was definitely abusing animals, which is one of the markers."

Snape continues to work, his hands flowing through the motions with practiced ease. She can't help but watch them, the slender, thin-tipped fingers so very different from Ron's broad, freckled hands or Harry's small, efficient ones.

"Your conclusion," Snape says slowly, "was unique."

Hermione swallows nervously. She'd taken the research and just hypothesised from there. That wasn't to say it was the truth of the matter. Severus Snape would invariably have more insight into Voldemort's motivations than she or Harry or even Dumbledore. "Well, sir, I think I understand why he was like he was," she says, frowning thoughtfully. Tom Riddle was put into an orphanage because his Muggle father discarded his mother and then she died. So Voldemort sought to eradicate the source of his bitter childhood. "I just think..."

She stoppers the last vial and sets it down carefully, forming the words in her head like a potter making a delicate vase. "I just never saw that he had a huge, grand plan beyond taking over the British Ministry and getting rid of Muggle-born magic-folk. And concentrating on Harry, of course, because he was an obvious obstacle." She shrugs, feeling self-conscious because she's babbling and he's staring at her with his head tilted to the side slightly. "He made Horcruxes because he had 'a sense of extreme entitlement' and he wanted to live forever. But I do think a lot of his actions were impulsive and not well-planned at all."

Snape drums his long fingers on the bench, and he rubs his lips with his index and middle finger for a moment before curtly nodding. "That is the general view that most of his Death Eaters took, in the end," Snape says quietly.

And then he leans over and takes her notes. "I'll give these to Professor Slughorn, shall I?" he asks rhetorically, and then he slides out of the Potions classroom, silent as a shadow.

A/N: I absolutely do not claim to be an expert on the matters of Psychology. I am merely blindly good at plucking things from places like: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antisocial_personality_disorder. From what I've read there, I truly do think that Voldemort ticks very many of the boxes for the disorder, yes. Voldemort's childhood certainly matches with one of the suspected causal factors listed.

Thank you, as always, to Gelsey.

Kiwi-speak:

Kia-ora...Maori greeting

Sweet as...a term people say instead of "cool" or "awesome" or "I confirm that what you are proposing is good by me..."

Thank you to everybody who reads and reviews The Silvering Divide. Writing this story has been a shining and silver experience.