Relative Properties

Relative Properties

Hermione was far from oblivious; she knew precisely what that slim column of shadow was and where. She also knew it would be fatal to pay him the least attention for there were still far too many emotions roiling through her system— and being arrested for public disturbance and/or assault was not something she considered a good idea. So Hermione hurried herself into her miniscule office, grateful when she arrived without incident, and conjured a mirror. Yes, still intact. Excellent. She wondered if her brief appearance had created the desired effect; was Snape in any way regretting what he'd rejected?

Hermione was a lucky soul: once engaged in her work, nothing broke through that single-minded purpose. Involved in research, she had been known to miss both meals and sleep— and had nearly been locked in the Ministry on several occasions. Bruised heart and pride were trifles compared to (currently) the habits of Tasmanian trolls. Which was why, at lunchtime, the clock Harry had bought her pelted her with Bott's Beans to get her attention.

Hermione blinked at it in bemusement, tidied up, and went to lunch.

She did not expect to find Severus Snape at her door when she returned.

"This," Snape barked abruptly, thrusting a paper-wrapped parcel nearly into her nose, "belongs to you."

Indifference, Hermione told herself. Complete indifference.

"Thank you for returning it." She congratulated herself on her even tone. Was this some conversational gambit? What of mine does he—? Oh. Her nightshirt. That damned nightshirt. The bloody bit of cloth that had started this whole mess. "Are you sure you'd rather not keep it?" she inquired, unlocking her door. "After all, you seemed rather… attached to it yesterday."

"It is your property, Miss Granger." Equal indifference.

But was that a hint of red on his cheek?

Snape continued on blithely. "And while you appear to have an unusual penchant for bestowing undesirable objects upon other people, I refuse to participate in your bizarre charity."

Hermione hated that she could feel her face heat and that odd lump form in her throat. Last night, she had been saved by anger; this afternoon afforded no such protections. So much for salvaging her dignity.

"Very well, Mister Snape," she replied, hating equally that tremor in her voice. "Leave it by the door. I'm sorry that you feel so strongly about things that are given in good faith. Good afternoon."

She could feel him hesitating as she seated herself behind the bulwarks of research material. Concentrating fiercely on the age-darkened parchment before her, she reiterated, "Good afternoon, Mister Snape." It was as much as she could say without losing control entirely.

He left, closed the door sharply behind him. Thanks be to whatever gods there were for that.

Hermione moved carefully, as though a single wrong gesture would free the tears lurking behind her eyes. Unwrapping the paper, she breathed in the rose scent from her sachets. But there was another, newer scent beneath it: the rich green of cypress.