Chapter 7

For A/N as to why names are the way they are in this story, please refer to A/N in Ch 1.

Method in Madness

Chapter 7

Severus’s eyes wandered around his office. Although it was magically charmed to be as bright as the user chose, it was still predominantly in semi-darkness save for the few candles flickering around the worktable and the lamp on the desk. The design of the dungeons was such that it allowed for a moderate degree of light to filter through without damaging some of his more valuable and rare specimens. It also allowed sensitive potions to gently rest in the soft light of his office. He had long been accustomed to the dark for it allowed him to be privy to many things while preserving his anonymity. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Hermione could adjust to the dark so well. Adaptability was a trait he admired and from her work of the last fortnight, it was apparent that Hermione had it aplenty. She had respected his personal space enough to leave his office as it was without adding her personal touch to it. But when he ventured there while she was preparing for her arithmancy classes in her apartments, he was gripped with a sense of emptiness. By Merlin! He realised he had grown accustomed to having her around.

The staff were all a little concerned for Hermione as she almost sealed herself in the dungeons. Everyone but Dumbledore expressed apprehension at her desire to work alone. On her part, Hermione promised to join the staff for dinner at the Great Hall once a week, “so as to let everyone know she was still alive” as Remus had put it. She was grateful that Dumbledore had allowed her to move the arithmancy classroom near the dungeons. In fact, he had shown her a secret passageway linking her classroom and office to the corridors of her chambers.

“What is it Diotima?” asked Hermione when she heard the gentle hoot of her owl. She gently put down her quill and smiled at the creature. “Are you hungry?” she proffered an owl treat. “No?” The owl turned its head to Severus’s general direction and hooted before cocking its head at its owner. “Ah, we have a visitor. Off to the owlery to play with your friends,” she instructed the owl as she stroked its feathers. Casting its owner a look of curiosity, the owl nibbled Hermione’s ear before flying out the door she had just opened.

“You’re early today,” she said aloud to the room, then adding in an aside, “Minerva should have gotten me a cat.” She peered into the cauldron and lowered the flame so that the potion would be gently simmering. “Minerva had to give me an owl when she married Albus. But who am I to say aught if she wants to share her joy with the rest of us? It seems that Albus has a positive effect on her,” she muttered. Putting on her robes over her black Victorian styled dress, she got up to leave his office. After resetting his wards, she finally spoke, “You’re quiet. I would have gone to see you anyway. Why are you hurrying me today?”

“Because Miss Granger,” resounded Severus’s purring voice in her head. “I can feel something in my bones.”

“That’s an improvement and to think you didn’t want to try Acupuncture!”

“If you want to catch your death, I have no objections, but I think the Dumbledores might. You could have lit a fire if you wanted to. You shouldn’t go without your robes in the dungeons; it’s cold,” his silky voice chided with stern disapproval.

“Light a fire and spoil your schema of things? Surely, you jest!”

“You shouldn’t go without your robes when it’s cold,” he insisted in a dangerous tone.

“And have it catch fire? You had first hand experience in that!” she retorted.

“Do you intend to be the death of me, Miss Granger? I can assure you that threatening dunderhead students is a more rewarding enterprise,” he drawled coolly.

“As we have daily proof,” she answered matching his lilting mordant tone. “I don’t think I’ll frighten the students as you do. It’s not a sport.”

“Really? Then inform me, Miss Granger, do you think it will do the students any good to see two of their teachers trapped in perpetual mourning? Do you think they will take kindly to two bats?” he questioned as they approached the hospital wing.

“Do you mean one greasy git and a funeral bride? Even if the mourning is a matter of personal choice?” she challenged, unwilling to show her discomfiture with his mocking bantering tone laced in double entendres. She found it interesting that he considered himself in mourning.

“It seems we’ve both wedded Death. Miss Dickinson did the same when her powers brought unwanted attention to herself, as did Mrs Woolf. It happens that wedding Death is the predilection of particular witches. A case of ‘because I could not stop for death, he stopped for me’, wouldn’t you say silly girl?” he responded before sitting down and watching her greet his body with a peck on the forehead, noting with satisfaction that Poppy had cast daily cleansing spells on him to keep him decent and stubble-free.

“And I thought you were sensible!” she laughed as she grasped his limp hand, gently massaging it. “The logicians are the most feared among philosophers and wizards, but I believe, Professor, your logic is flawed. Surely, your choice in attire is not for the aesthetic purposes of intimidation alone?”

“Certainly not, insufferable girl!” he hissed almost seductively, making her shiver just a little as she reached across to massage his other hand. “When you are in the shadows as often as I am, black becomes a natural colour to mould your own.”

“Is that all?” she snorted in an unladylike fashion. “Black, I’ve learnt, prevents any potion stains on one’s clothes from becoming visible; a fitting basque with a good corset encourages good posture, fitting sleeves do not get caught on furniture or in a fire; buttons lend a certain distinction; walking dresses and day dresses are practical. Robes are merely functional in keeping in the warmth and for carrying a wand.”

“And your black dresses?” he questioned, floating across to her and brushing aside a stray lock of her hair.

“I wear grey and mauve too,” she answered quietly. “What’s this?” she exclaimed, releasing his hand and staring intently at a parchment on the nightstand.

“It’s a gift. Read it and you’ll find out,” he purred deliberately, settling beside her, keeping his desire of inhaling the sweet ambrosia of her very much in check. He was pleased when she raised her wand and checked it for spells. He noticed that she kept her wand in a hidden pocket at her skirt. He was delighted that his clever protégé was picking up some of his habits. “Don’t you trust me?” he whispered lowly in her mind.

“Seeing how you constantly invade my mind and work, how can I not trust you implicitly Severus,” she declared resolutely his mind.

“Good, she’s learning now to meet me mind-to-mind,” Severus mused. “Perhaps I should teach her occlumency and legilimency. There’s no one left I care to share my knowledge with – given her natural propensity towards the educational project, teaching her, no, tutoring her, would be a promising endeavour.” Noticing the silence, he turned to his long-suffering apprentice to find her eyes glistening with unshed tears, visibly held back. Her hand then moved to gently stroke his sleeping body’s hair.

“It’s a beautiful poem,” she murmured, reading it aloud.

“Weep not for the ones

Who pass in peace

Who reach the end of the journey

Who have lived their lives

Weep not for the ones

Who were torn away too early

Who weep for things lost unfair

Who are trapped in their own woes,

A tear and a prayer for those

Last in their own sorrow

A prayer and a tear to soothe

The pains of the damned.”

She smiled at his body before pocketing the note. “The Oubliette – what an apt title. Thank you so much, Severus. It’s the best gift I’ve received in a long while.”

NOTES:

The poem is my own creation.