Connections

A/N: My thanks, as always, to my alpha- and beta-readers, Lady Karelia, Annie Talbot, and Indigofeathers. Ana's still on vacation. *pouts*

Summary: There are always ways to communicate.

8: Connections

"Stoics? Skeptics? Bugger the lot of them – I want that bastard out of my flat."

Demetrios's rich laughter rang joyously through the entire archive. "Aristotle would approve, my dear. On both points."

-----

Severus and Mimi looked up as the Floo sprang briefly to life. An orange paper airplane soared into the room and circled indecisively.

Orange?

Mimi leapt after it with gleaming eyes and twitching tail.

Something flickered in Severus's invisible eyes as he watched her.

After a particularly impressive leap, she batted it to the ground and pounced on it.

The paper airplane twitched, still trying to complete its delivery. Mimi stared at it as if daring it to try to escape, its efforts crumpling it beneath her paws.

It twitched free and skittered across the floor, and she pounced again, this time sitting on it and looking up at Severus, who arose from the chair and retrieved it.

"Meee," Mimi exclaimed, her eyes tracking the paper airplane.

He sat back down to read, only to be impeded in that usually straightforward action by Mimi, who was in his lap instantly, balancing with one forepaw on his shoulder as she slashed at the now-quiescent paper he held out of her reach.

Severus fixed her with a steely look. "Cease. Unless you can read."

"Meee," she countered emphatically, reaching for the memo.

"No. As you can deduce from its lack of flapping, it is patently a delivery for me."

The cereal he'd placed on a side-table shuffled to, "Mi burd. Killd it."

"It's called a memo, and it's mine. Go wash. Purr. Whatever is next on your agenda." He shot her a directive look.

Mimi glared at him and hopped off his lap, stalking out of the room with her tail held sarcastically high.

To: Professor Snape, care of H. Granger (home Floo)

I'm terribly sorry to have left so abruptly – well, no, I'm not, but the forms must be followed (edit: omit) – stay out of my things! – but after consultation with Head Archivist Demetrios (Bay-Laurel of Athena, 2nd Class) (he sends his regards), I have determined that your current predicament is your own fault (edit: reword).

Severus's lip curled dangerously at the facile dismissal. "Predicament"? The witch's time would be better spent attending to her own plight.

At his almost casual gesture, all of the books on her bookshelf exchanged covers, and her wardrobe expanded to its full height.

He continued reading.

When, at your death (Demetrios offers his belated condolences), you were offered the choice to remain as a ghost or move on to whatever's next you engaged in something called "apraxia" (def.: "inaction")...

"I know what it means, you patronizing bint."

... and, as a result, tethered your spirit but not the rest of you (mem.: locate body?) to the known wizarding world.

Hermione's offhand "locate body?" cast an ominous shadow over his face. As he finished reading, it lowered, heavy with unspent thunder.

I know Professor Dumbledore rather mucked about (edit: re-word) with your life, and I'm really, really sorry for you, but did you really intend to give him such power over your death? I suppose you must have, since you have done... if our choices make us who we are (Demetrios says that's philosophically unsound, however fashionable), then your lack of choice, Professor Snape, made you who – more precisely, what - you're not.

His hands twitched as, mentally, he strangled her.

All of which is brings me to the point.

"Goody," he muttered.

Your condition is straightforward; all you must do to bring closure to what must be a terribly boring existence – I can't think why else you'd suddenly appear in my flat if not out of boredom – is choose. If you remain as a ghost, it would be an honour to speak with you further (edit: "at all"?); if you move on (which must be more restful than your current agitated (edit: omit) state), I assure you that I would be happy (edit: "honoured"?) to take care of Mimi for you.

His chest tightened slightly at the word "Mimi."

If you prefer other arrangements, please inform Mimi, and I will follow the cereal's instructions – to the extent they're coherent (edit: omit?).

Hermione Granger, Ph.D., O.o.M. (1st)

"Your definition of 'respect' is somewhat lacking, Miss Granger." He was damned if he'd afford her an honorific.

P.S. I shall return home after a decent interval. I imagine such choices are better made without an audience.

As opposed to the last time? Severus glowered at the memo as if the power of his eyes alone could reduce it to ashes, then turned it over.

This Memo Property of the British Library (Wizarding Branch). Not for Reproduction.

Pink: Confidential; scented ink optional. Does not officially exist.

He crushed the paper into a ball and hurled it across the room, his nostrils flaring.

Mimi poked her head around the corner, spied the ball of paper, and chased after it, meee-ing happily.

Without pausing to realize the futility of his actions, Severus stormed across the room, seized a handful of powder and threw it into the Floo.

"Connection?" said the pleasant, disembodied voice from the flames.

"Granger," he growled, barely keeping his voice even. "Get me Hermione Buggering Granger, now!"

"One moment please..." The spell that provided operator service for the Floo network made several gratuitous clicking noises. "Your party has been located. Who may I say is calling?"

"Snape," he barked.

"First name?"

"What the fuck do you think?"

"I'm sorry," the spell responded blithely, "that identity does not officially exist. Who may I say is calling?"

"Ronald Stinking Weasley," he lied.

"Dr. Granger is presently in her office... connecting you now..."

At that moment, he couldn't have bloody well cared if she was St. Hermione, capering naked in a field of daisies.

Somewhere through the field of white rage that completely obscured all rational thought, he heard the disembodied voice of the Floo spell repeating, "Does not officially exist... does not officially exist..."

---

"Miss-Bloody-Granger, get your sodding arse home. Right. Now."

At the sound of Severus Snape's voice blasting into the dusty hush of the archive, Hermione nearly exploded out of her skin. "Professor Snape! I can hear you!" She leapt up, knocking her chair over.

Across the room, Demetrios looked up from his scroll and raised his eyebrows, the rest of him floating upwards to rejoin them.

Severus's voice echoed from the Floo: "I repeat: Arse. Home."

Hermione recollected herself and her surroundings. "I would thank you not to speak to me as though I'm a child, Professor."

He snorted, the force of his derision knocking an antique inkwell off Hermione's desk. "Insolence! How dare you trivialize –"

"How dare you order me about?!" she snapped. "Perving about my flat, messing about with my things – my books. I was trying to help you because I feel – felt sorry for you, you insufferable, egotistical shadow!"

Silent fury emanated from the Floo.

Demetrios set aside his scroll, fished the small coin from the folds of his robe, and folded his hands placidly. The coin glinted from between his fingers.

Finally, the Floo emanated a low, dark murmur. "This matter is not settled, Miss Granger."

"Doctor Granger," she snapped.

But the connection was closed.

Hermione stood before the Floo at a loss.

At Demetrios's discreet cough, she turned around, her eyes falling on the purple, final draft of the memo she'd sent the Professor. That meant she'd sent – "Bloody hell." She looked at her boss. "I'm so sorry about all that...."

He chuckled. "No worries, my dear, no worries. I've heard worse, far worse, a time or two."

A small, worried smile. "I suppose you would have, yes."

"That's better, dear."

"I'd best go, I think." She sighed. "Merlin only knows what I'll find at home if I delay."

Demetrios gave her a long, measuring look, then flipped the coin over to her.

"For luck, dear. Just a loan, of course. I can't bear to be parted from her for long."

Impulsively, she rushed over and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," she whispered. "I'm going to need it."

As the flames fell to silence after her departure, Demetrios smiled, and murmured, "I quite imagine you will, my little Hermione. May Athena's wisdom prevail. It usually does..." His kindly eyes rested a moment longer on the empty Floo. "... but for better or worse, who can say?"

He started humming – he was still on "Heaven Can Wait" – and then to sing as he floated toward back toward the Phoenicians. By the time he reached the shelf he'd been searching when Hermione had burst in, the entire archive resounded with a swelling orchestral accompaniment, and he launched full voice into the first chorus.

---

Only the total silence that greeted Hermione when she returned home could have been louder.

"Professor Snape?"

No response.

She spotted the crumpled orange memo under her now full-size wardrobe and swallowed.

"Professor Snape, I'm awfully sorry."

Nothing.

Not even a scratching from the kitchen table.

She looked around the room for the cereal bits and spotted a pile of crumbs on the floor. They bore the unmistakable impression of a boot heel.

She sighed and heard footsteps from the hallway.

---

"Your apologies are worthless," he said coldly, rounding the corner with Mimi at his heels.

---

She spotted Mimi, but of her professor there was no sign.

She headed for the kitchen and opened a new box of cereal, scattering it over the table.

"Talk to me?"

Nothing.

"Please?"

Mimi hopped up to the table, and the cereal spelled out, "R-S-P-C-T."

Hermione nodded. "That memo was frightfully disrespectful. You weren't supposed to see that copy, of course."

"B-V-S-L-Y."

She frowned. Adverbs were usually beyond even Crookshanks, and Mimi was no Kneazle. "Are you spelling for her?"

"Y-E-S."

Hermione rubbed her hands over her face, pausing to press her cheeks, which ached from tension.

It was going to be a long night.

It was already dark. She just hoped to weather the storm.