Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Hermione had tried making friends with her classmates but found that she had little in common with them. Even when she was tempted to socialise or given opportunities to "let her hair down", she held back because she was afraid that if she relaxed too much, she might let slip something about the Wizarding world. Or she would miss some reference that she should understand, despite the difference in culture between Britain and America. Like cable television or email. She had become pretty good at hanging back, listening to what others were saying and finding out what she should know, but it meant that others saw her as shy and insecure. Nobody seemed interested enough to poke a little deeper.

So it was with very little regret that she surrendered her weekends to exploring the city with Snape. He often muttered imprecations against her monopolising his time, but she knew that it was not in his nature to do anything without intention or forethought. Thus, if he showed up when she suggested a bookstore or museum or other outing, it was because he wanted to be there.

The day after Thanksgiving found the two of them at an oddly triangular brick building in Queens. Peering at the sign on the door as they walked into the lobby, Snape quizzed her, "So, what is this Noguchi? Please tell me this isn't going to be like the last museum, where there was naught but squares of primary colours . . ."

"Isamu Noguchi was a Japanese-American sculptor and artist." She picked up one of the brochures at the visitor desk and passed it to him.

"These . . . objects . . . then, are considered to be sculpture?"

"Yes, quite famous ones. Sculpture doesn't have to be representational, you know."

"Did you think we would have a shared interest in looking at rocks and chunks of wood?"

"I read about it in The New Yorker and it sounded peaceful. Quiet. Unfrequented."

"Hmm. There is that." They walked slowly through the museum, each pretending to be absorbed in the rough stone blocks pierced by peculiar holes, whilst watching the other out of the corner of their eye.

"How is the auditing going?"

"Well, I confess myself surprised that the Muggle world isn't rife with disease and unhappiness. The state of their potions and cures is miserably inadequate . . . It's all chemicals and machines – nobody wants to touch the materia medica or get their hands dirty. Nobody does any work themselves – they just type something out and it's all plastic and test tubes . . . I asked some questions about how the properties of the substance they were using to prepare their experiments affected the ingredients, and not one of them had even considered it! Nobody was familiar with the famous alchemical wizards of al-Andalus; one professor even referred me to the history department . . . I know that our burn salves and remedies work more efficiently than their bottles of pale pills, but if I stay here another six months, I won't know one end of my wand from the other . . ."

Hermione was astonished by this diatribe. It was more an angry grumble to himself than anything directed at her. As one of the few women involved in abstract mathematics, she too had felt alien in her courses. There was always a degree of translation involved in taking arithmetic concepts and working them through the Greek notations and diagrammatic proofs required by this system of learning. It was challenging work, but there was no one with whom she could share any of the struggle or accomplishment. At Hogwarts, even though she was alone in her academic ambitions, at least it was a matter of degree and not of type. She had expected that Snape would swan around in his classes at Columbia – she assumed that his rather negative charisma and his undoubtedly forceful presence would necessarily translate to respect among the teachers and distance from the students. She didn't know what to make of a Snape who was unsure of his place in the world.

His grousing subsided and he was brought back to his current situation. "So, with you here at university, whatever happened to your partners in crime?"

"Harry scraped the N.E.W.T.s to become an Auror – he's doing the training program now. I get the occasional letter from him saying how he's bruised or exhausted, but he sounds pretty happy overall."

"So in addition to rocks, I'm supposed to take an interest in Potter's happiness?"

"Well, you did ask. He's engaged to Ginny, but they're waiting to get married until after she graduates and he completes his training."

"And Mr. Weasley? There was some . . . understanding between the two of you?" He carefully studied the text on the wall explaining the provenance of a particularly uninspired piece of driftwood art.

"Misunderstanding would be closer to the mark. He and I are no longer a couple."

"I always considered him to be far below your intellectual level, so I'm not surprised he wasn't able to keep up with you."

"That wasn't the issue." Did he just compliment my intelligence?

"Oh?" He raised one eyebrow in schadenfreudic glee. What on earth did the wretched lad do? Hermione is clearly the best thing to have ever happened to him, so whatever he did to have ruined it must have been spectacularly obtuse.

"We fought all the time, of course. But the final straw was him getting some daft bint up the duff. Ron had taken to going to the pub with the lads after a match, since I wasn't interested. I'm sure he met her there. A bloody Quidditch groupie."

"Oh. That must have been rather difficult for you." He could barely restrain the urge to rub his hands together, like a parody of a miser being presented with a sack of gold.

"Naturally. His mum and dad put a great deal of pressure on him to do right by the girl, so now they're married, and it's her job to ensure the Weasley name doesn't die out . . . Good on her, I say."

Hermione had a rather savage look on her face; he could tell that she was immensely rankled by how events had turned out, but he was oddly, unexpectedly, rather pleased. He told himself that they were friends and his happiness was just because she was rid of a bit of bad news, but a quiet voice in the back of his mind muttered that she was available for wooing, should the need occur.

"You seem more aggravated than sad, Hermione."

Damn. Granger. Granger. Granger. I wonder if she'll notice . . .

"True – it was humiliating, but I have to admit that it was a relief. We didn't suit each other; we'd been tangled up in each other's lives for such a long time – but we couldn't find a way to end it."

Wait, did he just call me 'Hermione'?

She gave herself a mental shake and concluded, "Maybe we'll be friends again years from now, I can't say. For now I'm free to read whichever books I like and use words like 'differentiate' and 'hitherto' without being told I'm off my head . . . Well, around you, at least." She smiled cheekily up at him and his heart lurched.