Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Although Hermione had always been fascinated by the dry beauty of the more abstract forms of mathematics, she couldn't help but feel that without the humanising element – the psychological impetus behind people's actions that Arithmancy took into account – Muggle maths was little more than algorithmic noodling. It made her feel like nothing more than a glorified pocket calculator, an adding machine with too much hair.

Without realising it, she had turned her time at university into an internal debate on the Muggle versus Wizarding worlds, and where she fitted into the puzzle. Maybe she hadn't given it enough of a go, but she felt unable to relax or be herself in this Muggle environment. Her selfhood was inextricable from being a witch. So, she was giving up on the Muggling experiment. She was going home at the end of the current semester, and she wasn't coming back in the Spring.

She sent a message to Snape to meet her at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and wondered how he would react to her news. Anger, dismay, relief? He plays his cards so close to his chest; I really have no idea what he feels – if he feels anything for me at all. I wonder if he'll realise that he's part of the reason I want to stay in the Wizarding world? Will I see him again, back in England? Will it be like this, as comfortable as old slippers?

Snape had been to the Metropolitan Museum before, but never to this area. He wanted to stop and look at the medical papyri in one of the alcoves, but did not tarry. He swept through the weekend crowds with long, purposeful strides. He entered the Egyptian wing and headed towards the Temple of Dendur. They hadn't met since the concert and his stomach was twisted in knots. The pigeon that had brought her note had pecked his finger when he had no snack on offer, and he unconsciously sucked on the cut as he walked along.

He stopped when he reached the entrance to the hall and saw her sitting on a bench near the temple. The diffused sunlight lit up her hair in a golden aureole like an Art Nouveau goddess, and the long peasant skirt she was wearing spread over the seat behind her and pooled out on the cool grey stone. She was reading, of course. Severus regarded her complete absorption with admiring approval and found himself wishing that he could have her peace and contemplative tranquillity around him always. He imagined sitting in a cosy room full of books, with a fire in the grate and a chair for each of them.

She felt his glance and looked up, meeting his eye across the deceptively large room. The scale of it swallowed the sound of his footsteps, and it took him much longer to reach her than he would have imagined. Her eyes remained fixed on him, and he felt terribly self-conscious by the time he reached her bench up on the dais.

"I like the papyrus in the moat; it's a nice touch – don't you think?" She smiled as she gestured for him to join her on the bench.

"Whereas I like the stone crocodiles," he replied, trying to regain some of his poise. He felt unsettled by finding her so beautiful and was unsure as to how he should proceed. Every moment and gesture felt charged with meaning. He felt as though he was back in front of the Dark Lord, trying desperately to figure out what to say and the hidden undercurrents of what was said by others – whilst trying to appear nonchalant and unmastered by fear.

Without any preamble, she plunged into her news. "I'm leaving at the end of the semester. I'm going back home." She kept her eyes on the stone floor in front of her. She didn't see Severus take a quick glance at her face, or his nervous fidgeting. She heard only the familiar tones of his cool dismissal.

"I fail to see how this concerns me in any way." Severus Snape, you are a bloody fool. An imbecile thrice over. Tell her you don't want her to leave. Tell her you want to go with her.

"Oh, it doesn't, of course. I just thought I should let you know so that you can make other plans for your weekends." The hurt showed in her reply, manifesting itself in her unnaturally crisp diction. I see. I was a fool to think that we could be anything other than acquaintances. My company was tolerable, but unnecessary. Fine. Can it really be that we'll go on our way and that will be the end of it?

Bastard. Bastard. I. Won't. Cry.

"Naturally, it will be a relief to have the time to complete my investigations. These jaunts of yours, while amusing at times, have been rather inexpedient." Tell her that you want her! Why won't she even look at me? Doesn't she know that this is all I can say? . . . No of course she doesn't. Why would she care? She thinks you barely tolerate her and now you're succeeding in driving her away . . .

Hermione stood up abruptly and started walking around the platform. She didn't have a direction in mind, just needed to be moving – as if by getting away from him, she could distance herself from his cold words. Why is he being such a prat? What happened to the gentleman at the concert? Why is he being so damned cruel!? Is he afraid that I want something more than friendship, so is doing this to make it clear that he assuredly does not?

Snape stood up from the bench, but didn't follow her. If she's walking away, then it's because she's sensible and you've given her no other option. If she returns, you've got another chance to fix things. What on earth do I say? Every time I open my mouth, I say the exact opposite of what I feel, and I dig deeper into the hole I've made for myself. He watched her examining the temple, stepping inside to see the graffiti carved by Napoleon's troops. She was making a convincing show of being interested solely in the exhibit, reading the curatorial placards. But despite this display, Severus noticed that her hands were clasped so tightly behind her back that the knuckles were white.

A surge of empathy rose within him, followed by a pang of self-loathing for having brought her this fresh misery. Refusing to permit himself a moment to think, he walked swiftly over to her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to face him, her chin held up. She was determined not to show him that his unkindness had affected her. But he noticed the glassiness of her eyes, and the pinkness at the tip of her nose that bespoke the imminence of tears.

"Granger . . . Hermione. Forgive me, I'm being an arse." The words left his mouth before he knew he had spoken, and he felt strangely outside his own body, as if he was watching from afar. She swayed as if she were a kite dropped by the wind, and he instinctively reached out, putting his hands on her upper arms to steady her. He was afraid she was going to faint, so he led her over to a bench and gave her a gentle push down to sit.

"An 'arse' is one word for it," she managed, rather shakily. "Why? Such meanness! I thought we were . . . at least friends."

"I don't know how to do this." He spoke very softly, as if by swallowing the sound of the words, he could eat the insecurity they revealed.

"Do what?" She looked up at him, her face open, sincere, and interested.

"I don't know how to be . . . friends. I have colleagues, people I tolerate, enemies and people whom I used to know but later spied on and betrayed . . . I don't know how to be other than what I am, which is not a friendly person."

"And had you come to 'tolerate' me?"

"Barely, astonishingly enough," he grinned ruefully at her, to let her know that he was being, for him, rather playful and risqué. Say it, you fool! Else she'll walk away and that will be the end of it and she'll never know! "Actually. . . Hermione . . . I have felt more than tolerance for your presence. I have contemplated our outings with . . . anticipation."

She sat there, absorbing his words and feeling a sense of peacefulness wash over her. He likes me. He probably doesn't realise it yet, but he wouldn't try this hard, or care about my feelings, if he didn't. I wonder what he thinks his feelings towards me are? It's like he's been trapped in a box that was too small and now he's trying to stand up straight and his cramped muscles are giving out involuntary spasms. Except in him, it erupts in vitriol.

"Well . . . good. I have too. Just don't – don't – do that to me again. Don't lash out at me just because you're feeling unsure."

"I can't promise that. I don't do it on purpose, you know." He felt exasperated. Circe's knickers! She thinks I'm feeling 'unsure'? I feel bloody unmanned and a hundred miles out at sea! "Let's get a breath of fresh air."

"Where would you like to go?"

He gestured towards Cleopatra's Needle in the park, just outside the glass wall of the museum. They collected their coats from the lobby and headed outside. A few minutes of walking brought them to the benches near the base of the obelisk. The air was crisp and chill, bringing a tingle of cold to their ears and noses. Their feet made echo-y sharp sounds as they walked on the path.

They stood at the base and read the inscription about the circuitous journey of the stone from Egypt to New York City. Hermione hugged her arms around herself to keep out the cold and to stop her hands from trembling. Snape made to tap her on the back, but instead, his hand rested lightly on the very cup of her shoulder, and getting her attention, he pointed upwards with his other hand.

"Oh! It's started to snow!" she exclaimed with delight. She stood for a moment, enraptured by the dizzying vortex, staring up at the sky. She looked back at him with her eyes dazzled and bright, and he noticed that she had snowflakes frosting her eyelashes. One hand still on her shoulder, he slowly reached up to brush them away. She closed her eyes and felt the infinitely gentle sweep of his hand. Before he could let his hand drop, she clasped it to her face, pillowing her cheek.

They stood there for a moment, the snow swirling around them, unaware of cold toes or the passage of time. Hermione thought of a lyric from a song; "I'll stop the world and melt with you . . ."

Nothing more was said about Snape's earlier harsh words, Hermione plan for leaving, Severus' feelings or anything of import. They parted ways, and as she walked to the subway, Hermione thought about how the New Year would find her back in England. Another verse from the song popped into her head; "The future is open wide."