Emissary

"It sounds terribly suspicious to me. No one has ever heard of this school. I have asked around, and I assure you, my society friends haven't either. I think if it sounds too good to be true, it is. The Almighty does not give anything we have not worked for until we deserve it. Besides, it is not as if you have the money to send her off to a fancy finishing school. Or is that what this is all about, John? Are you angling for a loan? Tell me you are not already living above your means now that you have returned to London?"

"Good heavens, no, Mother. Please, I beg you. Try to have a little more faith in me."

Hermione heard the footman's steps approach and slipped back away from the doorway and scurried to the steps leading up to the old nursery. She was livid. How dare that old battle axe imply her father was trying to beg money from her? And what had she ever done to deserve her wealth? She was only the widow of a Baronet. Her own father had been a merchant. It wasn't as if she was even that high up the social ladder.

Hermione's father was a fourth son and, therefore, quite out of the running as far as any serious money was concerned, but he made a good living with his practice. It was more than enough to supplement his and her mother's meager competencies. Hermione had eavesdropped on enough of their conversations, since that first serendipitous letter from the school, to know that they were sure they could afford the fees.

She heard more footsteps and scrambled back up to the neglected nursery in her stocking feet, gripping her kidskin slippers and her muslin skirts in her hands so she could move quickly and as quietly as a mouse.

She barely had time to retie the ribbons on her shoes before Charles, the footman, appeared in the doorway.

"Lady Granger has asked that Miss Granger join them in the parlor," he said with stiff grace.

"Thank you, Charles."

Hermione followed him out the door without a backwards glance. With any luck, that would be her last meal in this dreadful room.

"Come in, child, don't skulk about in the doorway."

"Sorry, Grandmother. I wasn't intending to skulk."

She received a withering stare for her impudence and sent her father a worried look. He smiled and winked at her.

"So, gel. I hear you are to be sent off to finishing school." Lady Granger put her spectacles up to her eyes and made a production of looking Hermione up and down. "I highly doubt this school is even worth it. She might come from good family, but she is plain as an ox and those teeth of hers are rather off putting. The dancing instructor you wasted on her reported that she had not grace, nor balance. Sadly, I think any more finishing would be folly. Save your money."

"Mother, I won't have you speak about my child so. She is merely eleven. There is plenty of time for her to come into her beauty."

"John, do not lie to yourself. Even her hair rebels against good society."

Hermione lifted her hand up and, touching her carefully pinned braids, felt the mild fuzz that always resulted from the damp. The misty rain that had started as they walked here had ruined her style again.

"Enough," said her father. He stood, and with a quick nod to his wife, he turned to Hermione. "Say your farewells, daughter. It will be quite some time before you see your grandmother again."

Hermione felt her heart swell at her father's blatant rudeness and her grandmother's frozen-stone expression. That he would walk out before the luncheon was officially over, in her defense, spoke more than any words. And her father had never been one to stint on words, either.

She curtsied prettily. "Thank you, Grandmother, for allowing me this lovely visit. I enjoyed it ever so much."

Her mother turned her towards the door, away from Lady Granger's stony silence.

"Well done, love," her mother whispered in her ear as they headed for the foyer. Behind them, there was an angry murmuring as Mr. John Granger locked horns with Lady Andrew Granger.

He joined them at the door just as Charles arrived with their hats and gloves.

Together, the three headed out into the misty drizzle.

Hermione paced back and forth across her small room listening for the sound of a carriage over the sound of the driving rain. Three paces back, followed by three paces forth, and she had covered the whole of it twice over. Outside, the wind howled as the rain lashed the window. The late summer storm was fierce, and the occasional lightning streaked across the sky, temporarily blinding her.

Her trunks were packed and waiting by the stairs. She had her own valise ready to go, and her Spencer and gloves were waiting on the bed next to her best bonnet. She sighed. Even the fastest dash to a carriage would destroy her poor bonnet.

If she was going to be dashing at all.

Her father had developed last minute reservations in the face of a last minute cancellation. The school governess, Miss McGonagall, had charmed and delighted her parents when her letters had arrived last August, but then she had failed to show at their scheduled meeting yesterday, and they had only received a note of explanation this morning. Whomsoever the school sent in her place would have to be rather impressive to get beyond her father's sense of injured dignity.

Another turn, another three paces, and she was back at her window, staring down at the rain pounding on the front steps below.

A violent flash of lightning revealed a man standing on the steps staring up at her window. The following flashes confirmed he was, in fact, looking right into her eyes. The subsequent crash and roll of thunder muffled the abrupt scream that she barely managed to stifle as she flew backwards three and a half steps and slammed up against her bedroom door.

A loud knocking echoed from down below. Please don't let that be someone from the school, she begged. She was convinced that whoever was at the door was absolutely the most terrifying person she'd ever laid eyes on. She gathered up her courage and set her shoulders. It didn't make a difference if it was or not. Hermione was going to that school tonight if she had to sneak out. She loved her parents dearly, but if she spent any more time in this city, she would go mad. She was already going mad. What other explanation could there be for what had been happening to her. She was going, come hell or high water.

She stepped back over to the window where another flash of storm revealed that the water down below was quite high, indeed.

"Hermione, dear," her mother called through the door. "Come and meet Master Snape."

Master Snape was decidedly less terrifying when seen looking half drowned whilst dripping on the faded carpet, next to the grate. And yet, somehow he didn't look any more pleasant, either. His clothes, despite their sodden state, were of a fine cut. His bottle green jacket and dun-colored waistcoat spoke of good taste. His elegant, yet simple, cravat and his highly-polished boots spoke of both wealth and restraint.

As she sank into her best curtsey, it occurred to her that he might just possibly be the ugliest man she had ever seen, despite his fine clothes.

"Tell me, Schoolmaster, what is your subject at this... Hogwarts School for the Gifted?"

Hermione's heart sank when she realized her father was supremely underwhelmed by the man slowly soaking the floor near the fire. She sent the stranger a beseeching look, and his dark eyes widened a fraction before he looked to her father.

Master Snape cleared his throat. "My specialty involves the Sciences," he said in a shockingly deep voice.

"Ah," her father said with an echo of his mother's voice. "A man of science. A northern man of science, unless I am mistaken by your accent?"

The schoolmaster bristled, and she watched as he nodded his head with a strained twitch of the lips that she suspected was supposed to be a polite smile.

"You must have some interesting views about science, seeing as life in the north has clearly benefited so greatly from the industrialization."

Master Snape's eyes flashed, and he flicked a quick glance at her, as if wondering if she were worth the insult. She returned a brittle smile of her own.

"It is, as you say, much changed. I will let history decide if it is a change for the better or for the worse. I am too busy teaching my charges to have any worthy comment and will let honorable men such as yourself fill the air with opinion instead."

Hermione sucked in a breath, realizing that her chances of making it out the door had most likely just died under the onslaught of Master Snape's subtle rebuke.

Mrs. Crabtree came waddling in, lugging the tea tray just in the nick of time.

Her mother practically lunged at the tray and began to pour. "Won't you have a seat, Master Snape? Our furniture will survive your damp assault, I am sure," she said with a warm smile. "How do you take your tea?"

The schoolmaster nodded his head politely and, after fastidiously flicking the tails of his coat out of the way, perched on the edge of the chair across from the settee with a striking amount of grace. He crossed one long leg over the other and said, "Milk and sugar, if you please, madam."

He reached forward and took his cup, and Hermione saw his manners were precise and unaffected, far less affected than her Grandmother's and far more elegant. He appeared to be a gentleman of some standing, aside from his teaching duties.

Hermione sat on the cushion next to her mother and bit her lip. From what she could decipher, her mother had chosen sides against her husband's rudeness. There was still hope.

"I understand your colleague has taken gravely ill," Mr. Granger drawled. "What reassurances can you give me that I am not sending my daughter off to a school with a pestilential atmosphere?"

Hermione felt her hope wither ever smaller.

"Is she well? Your Miss McGonagall?" Hermione threw out into the room.

Every head swiveled in her direction, and she suddenly wanted to sink through the settee and straight down into the surgery below them. A chorus of 'children are seen not heard' played in her head.

"She is well enough and is expected to be fully recovered by tomorrow," he replied gently.

"I thought she was taken with fever," her father mused. "That's what the note we received this morning said."

Master Snape looked nonplussed for a moment. "It was a minor illness, but there was fever, yes. She is under the school's best care."

"I thought this school was in Scotland. How the devil was she supposed to pick my daughter up yesterday, if she was languishing in Scotland with some mysterious ailment?"

Master Snape seemed to turn a slight shade of green.

"Forgive me. I misspoke. I have been traveling all day, and I find I am not at my best. She is in a care facility associated with our school. It is not far from here."

"What is the name of this care facility? Are we talking about a private hospital?" Mr. Granger's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Pomfrey House is a very exclusive place of healing. Only available to students, faculty and alumni."

"Do they teach medicine at Hogwarts?" Hermione blurted again. She sank her teeth into her lip to try and stem her stupidity and poor manners.

"Hermione," her mother pleaded. "I'm sure if they did, it would still not be a part of the curriculum they offer to young ladies. Tell, her, Master Snape. Tell her about the subjects she would be partaking in."

Snape caught her eye, and for the briefest moment, she felt like she might fall into his gaze.

"History, Mathematics, Science, Horticulture, Charm, Greek, Latin, French, Dance, Music, and Deportment."

Silence filled the room and Master Snape cocked his head to the side as if wondering what he had done wrong.

"That is a lot of education for a girl," Mr. Granger said with no small amount of awe in his voice. "Master Snape, I am going to ask again why my Hermione? Why have we never heard of this school before? Surely it would make waves with such a broad and, dare I say, a nearly scandalous amount of learning opportunities for young women?"

"Mr. Granger, the school is private because it does not wish to be crushed under the weight of all the people who would desire to have their children attend if it were known about. As for why your daughter, I will ask you a question first. Have you ever looked at your daughter and known that she was different? Have you ever seen a way about her and thought she was not quite of this world? That perhaps she had a destiny?"

Again, the silence in the room was nearly insurmountable. Hermione felt her heart hammering in her chest and discreetly rubbed her hands against the skirts of her linen gown.

The schoolmaster turned his black, crow eye on her and asked, "Have you not ever felt different, child? Have you not, perhaps, felt like there was something about you that made you feel as if you didn't quite belong in the mundane world of others?"

He knew. It was a ludicrous thought–how could anyone know?...and yet, somehow, she felt in her bones that he knew she was different, and he didn't seem to find that a bad thing.

"Yes," she answered in a dry voice, tilting her chin up and giving him a challenging stare.

"My daughter is a highly intelligent girl, Master Snape," her mother said in a soft voice. "As my old nurse used to say, 'every crow thinks her own a swan.' Setting aside a mother's natural tendency to think her children special, I will try to impress on you one point. My daughter truly is brighter than other children, boy or girl."

"My wife speaks the truth," her father said.

Hermione stared at her parents, overcome with emotion at the sheer amount of defiant pride in their voice. Her mother may have spent all these months in London trying to dispel Hermione's notion of someday using her brains, but plainly, her mother was still proud as a peacock that her daughter had them.

"This is why your daughter was chosen. Our alumni are always on the lookout for a child that is out of the ordinary. Your daughter was selected for her singular qualities. If you allow her to attend our school, her talents will be honed, her skills fully developed, and a world of opportunity will be made available to her that will not exist ever again, if you chose a different path for her. However, I must ask that you decide quickly. I have a long journey ahead of me, one that will be even longer if you chose to let me take your daughter with me. I would need to make a start soon. If you have any further questions, I must insist that you ask them now."

Hermione looked at her parents with her heart in her throat and her desire plain in her eyes.

"Please let me go," she whispered.

Hermione stood in the entryway of her house while her parents, Cook, and Mrs. Crabtree all fussed over each other about how much they were going to miss her. She watched as Master Snape stood out in the rain under her father's umbrella to call a hack. How he expected one to see him in the pouring rain in the dark was beyond her. A flash of lightning off on the horizon showed him at the edge of the pavement, holding up what looked like a baton. To her surprise, a large coach pulled right up to the curb as if it had been waiting for just that signal. Everyone scrambled to hug her one more time as the driver climbed down and exchanged words with the schoolmaster.

Master Snape returned to the steps and held out his hand.

"I'll write to you every day," she called over her shoulder to her weeping parents as she took her teacher's hand and hurried down the stairs. He guided her to the carriage just as another flash of light revealed the driver huddled in his seat above, and another man tending her trunk and bags. Thunder crashed, and she jumped, and Snape placed a steadying hand on her shoulder before opening the door and helping her in. As she fell into the seat behind the driver, she realized she no longer thought Master Snape the ugliest man she'd ever seen. The coachman took the cake.

The coachman stuck his head in the door to say something, but her teacher cut him off. "To The Leaky, Mr. Shunpike."

"Aye, Per'fessor, and welcome to the Knight Coach, Miss."

"Thank you, er..."

"Stan," the man said, whipping off his cap and splattering her with water.

"Get this blasted thing moving," snapped Master Snape as he took off his top hat and let the water drain off the brim onto the carpeted floor.

The carriage door closed with a slam.

Hermione leaned forward and waved uselessly to her parents through the rain. The coach started with a lurch, and she fell forward and hit the rear seat.

"Sit back and settle down, Miss Granger. I am in no mood to deal with foolish injuries."

"Yes, Master Snape."

"Professor Snape."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You will address me by my proper title. I am Professor Severus Snape; you will refer to me as such."

"Of course, Professor. As you wish."

They settled into silence, and she studied the strange man staring out the window at the streets that seemed to whip by whenever she caught a glimpse. The flickering light from the receding storm illuminated his prodigious nose, as well as his angry eyes. He saw her staring at him and snatched the curtain closed. It was as if he simply disappeared, so dark was it inside the carriage now.

Hermione felt a lump settle in her belly. Had she made a mistake? Any feelings she'd had that this man might understand her had evaporated as soon as the carriage set off. She went back over everything about this strange evening, and it occurred to her that her parents might have given him a slightly exaggerated idea of her abilities.

"Professor Snape?"

"What?" His voice, clipped and imperious in the darkness.

"I can't dance."

"How tragic."

"What I mean to say is, I have no balance. I'm just not that graceful. I'm not that accomplished in music either. As for Deportment, well, let's just say that I am far better at French..."

"Forget French."

"I'm sorry?"

"There will be no French."

She wished she could see him in the darkness to know if this was some sort of joke.

"I'm not following you, sir."

She heard the creak of leather as he sat forward in his seat. His voice came from just in front of her, and she wondered if his strange black eyes could see in the dark.

"There is no French. There is no Deportment. There most certainly is no class on Charm in the sense that you would understand. However..."

With each of his words, a new band of fear squeezed her heart. "Sir! I must ask you to turn this carriage around."

"...there is an extensive study of Potions..."

"Sir! Please! I don't understand why you lied to me and my parents, but I won't cause you the slightest bit of trouble, if you just return me to my home."

"...Transfiguration, Herbology, Defense against Dark Arts, Astronomy, and, of course, The..."

Fear gave way to panic. "TAKE ME HOME RIGHT NOW, YOU CLAP-ADDLED BOAT-LICKER!"

"...History of Magic."

"Wait, what did you just say?"

"WHAT did you just call me? "

For the curious, she called him a syphilitic mama's boy. Yup, she did.