Four

A/N: A big thank you to my beta, OpalJade.

Several days later, Snape found in the bathroom sink the following note.

Professor,

Hermione Granger

Snape read the note from its resting place in the bowl of the sink. He turned back toward the door, the first thought in his mind being to ignore it. If Granger couldn't accept an apology like a normal witch, he certainly did not need to spell it out for her. On the other had, it was possible that some of the works he had chosen exceeded her academic skill. If she thought he was going to prepare a lecture for her on traditional wizarding blood bias--well, he had no time for such things. He snatched up the parchment and returned to his room.

The problem with Granger was that she allowed instinct and feelings to cloud her judgment. If he was to tell the absolute truth of the matter, she had been gifted with a fine mind for logic, a tenacious attitude, and no ability at all to reason when anything that she perceived as 'injustice' entered the picture. He thought of the house-elves during her fourth year. How several had, bowing and twitching and intermittently beating themselves with the fire poker in the staff room, appealed to Dumbledore to make the Gryffindor witch stop.

Dumbledore had only smiled and asked them whether they would like to be reassigned to another house's common room.

Which was exactly why Granger never learned from her mistakes. She had been coddled by that old wizard, who had no doubt found her 'charming' and 'precocious.' Well, she would find no such reception in him. If she wanted to discuss her work, he would give her the unvarnished truth.

Knock when you are prepared to receive guests, he scribbled onto the back of the note and returned it to the sink.

***

Snape found himself utterly unable to do anything all day except argue with Granger in his mind. He had no interest in shelving the books she'd left out, instead settling onto the sofa and poring over those sections that she'd highlighted, trying to imagine what on earth she had decided she needed to discuss with him.

She'd made note of a section on the International Statute of Secrecy which detailed the strange case of Wendelin the Weird, who had allowed herself to be caught and burned at the stake forty-seven times. Beside the text, Granger had scratched, Learned this from History of Magic in third year. Hardly esoteric. Besides, the entire point of the story is that witch burning is ineffective. What possible threat is perceived here?

Snape nearly reached for a quill with which to answer her notation, but reminded himself that he could do so this evening. This was such a common misconception among Muggleborn witches and wizards--they were simply unable to recognize this very basic truth about the people that they'd come from: Muggles feared and hated magic. It did not matter if the methods that they had used to try to eradicate it in the Middle Ages had been ineffective. Wizardry itself had been its infancy then. The point was that if Muggles had been allowed to remain aware of magic, they would have continued and perhaps succeeded their attempts to squash and kill it. Look at his own father, who had broken his mother's wand after they'd been married, or that shrewish sister of Lily's who had come to despise her simply for being magical.

In the margins of a chapter on the creation of the sorting hat in Sorting by Blood, she'd written Hat belonged to Gryffindor. Sorting biased from the very first?

Snape made a humphing sound. In the countless years he'd had to listen to that worthless hat's songs, he'd heard the house of Slytherin referred to as power-hungry, ruthless, and cunning; while Gryffindors were described as brave, courageous, daring and chivalrous. Was it possible that Granger simply hadn't noticed the difference until now? Of course the hat had been biased from the first. It spoke in its owner's voice, which had been raised in anger when the hat had been created. Had the hat called the Slytherins, "ambitious, clever, culturally and socially gifted," they wouldn't be having this discussion, would they? He hoped that the evening would not be spent in these sorts of 'revelations.'

Privately, he was glad, however, to see that she had not become obsessed with trying to revitalize the image of the Slytherin house. There was hope that she'd grown out of some of her wide-eyed idealism if she could recognize that nearly one thousand years of inequality could not be repaired with a change in vocabulary. Better to scrap the whole system and try again.

Not that there would be any opportunity for that, he thought. This was all a waste of effort, as Draco was absolutely right; the Board of Governors would pay her no attention whatsoever. Snape had no idea why he was even participating in this charade. What difference did it make whether Granger understood the history of the struggle between the Purebloods and the Muggleborns? It was not his job to cushion the blow that was sure to be dealt to her.

He checked the time before turning back to the book.

***

Snape waited impatiently in his room for her knock. Granger had arrived home thirty minutes before, which was more than enough time to prepare for company, he felt. He paced agitatedly, not bothering to keep to the rug, until finally, at ten after eight, he heard her knock upon the wall.

He debated for the briefest of moments whether to enter her room by her front door or through the lavatory, but decided that habit dictated the lav, despite the fact that habit was just the single time.

He turned the knob and found it unlocked, which seemed to him to confirm his choice.

"Miss Granger," he said formally as he entered her room.

Granger did not rise, but continued to sit cross-legged on the bed. "Professor," she answered, indicating the chair at her desk, which had been turned to face the bed. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

"I do not see that I will be able to make myself as comfortable as you obviously have," he said.

She smiled. "I don't often receive visitors here, so I'm afraid the accommodations are not the best. If your room is better equipped...?"

"This is adequate," Snape replied.

"Good," she said. "I want to thank you for the additions to the library--and for the library itself. It's becoming a very pleasant place to research."

Snape nodded to acknowledge her praise. Anything more, he felt, would only contribute to her obvious belief that he was going to all this effort in order to aid her cause.

For the very first time since he had come to know her in this house, he saw Granger look slightly uncomfortable. He gave himself a mental point for unbalancing her.

"Would you like some tea?" she said.

"Will you prepare it, or will the house-elf?" he asked.

"I will, of course. As you know, Kreacher is only asked to do the jobs that he would already be doing to maintain this house if Harry lived in it with a family."

"I am aware of that, Miss Granger," Snape said, "but I am also aware that the house-elf does not nest in the kitchen, nor with Mr Potter, but here with you. I was uncertain as to whether you received special privileges."

Granger did not flush, as he had hoped, but her eyes hardened and her posture stiffened. He was sorry to see it, in a way. Though he was pleased to have rattled her, he had rather enjoyed the comfortable, feisty witch who had seemed ready for discussion or argument, whichever presented itself.

"Kreacher does, in fact, nest in the kitchen," Granger said, indicating the closet-cum-kitchenette identical to the one in his own room. "And it is true that he does so as a favor to me. But beyond that, I receive no more from him than any other member of this household."

"And how is that a favor to you?" Snape asked.

"You're aware, I'm sure, that I am interested in the rights of house-elves. You must be, or else you would not have got me the Vardok."

"Still shaking the collection tin, Miss Granger? Will you sell me a badge for a Sickle?"

"No," she said and shot him a withering look. "Which is rather the point. Kreacher and I came to a tentative understanding during the war--or perhaps I should just say we came to a grudging respect for one another. I asked him to live here with me because I realized that there is a great deal I don't understand about house-elves. And before you say anything, yes, as you were so fond of pointing out when I was in school, not everything can be learned from a book. I hope it will be an arrangement that benefits us both."

Snape inclined his head and gave a point back to Granger.

"And what is your arrangement?"

"Kreacher keeps his nest here with me. He works the same hours that I do--I had quite a time explaining to him why we were taking off early today, but perhaps he is listening from his cupboard and will appreciate that this, too, is work, in its way. Although he'll likely be angry that I didn't tell him it would be all right to darn Harry's socks or something in the meantime. Anyway, I pay him--well, the Foundation pays him--"

"You pay him?"

"Shhhh! Don't embarrass him. He doesn't accept it, of course."

"I'm afraid I don't understand how that qualifies as paying him, then."

"We went round and round about this," Granger said. "And finally, we agreed that I would put a modest salary--extremely modest, you understand. No human would ever agree to it--in a bank account in his name at Gringotts. That way, I feel that I'm paying him, which eases my conscience, and he says that he knows that he'll never open that vault, which eases his. He never even has to see what he calls 'the filthy wizard money.'"

"And what do you think you are learning from this little compromise, if you don't mind my asking?"

"About sources of pride. Kreacher will not take money for his work because of his pride in it--it would feel wrong to him to take money for doing what he feels to be right. He longs to do everyone's laundry--in particular, I believe he's mentioned an old pair of robes of yours that are for some reason caked in dirt and sitting on your desk?--but I'm coming to understand that this is how he feels he contributes to the well-being of the world. I can relate to that, I suppose. It's why the Foundation is nonprofit."

"Is that how you see yourself, Miss Granger? Saving the world for free?"

"I wasn't finished. Another thing I hadn't realized about house-elves was that they consider themselves--as they should--members of the household. Who takes money for helping their families? They would be ashamed to, yes, but more than that, it would diminish their role in the family--make them servants, rather than members. They are provided for, for the most part, by their families. Decent families, anyway. And the more respectful and inclusive a family is to its house-elf, the more loyal and hardworking the house-elf becomes. That has become clearer to me the longer I've lived with Kreacher. It's part of how he shows love, how he reciprocates love."

"You say they are provided for by their families," Snape said, intrigued in spite of himself, "which makes them sound like children. Traditionally, if I'm not mistaken, children grow up and begin providing for themselves."

"It's not a perfect analogy, but yes, I see what you're saying, which incidentally, sounds quite a bit like what I'm saying. And while there are house-elves who seem deeply fulfilled by their familial role, it is not an absolute. I'm sure you remember Dobby."

"I do, in fact, remember Dobby and also where he came from. So do you believe now, as they do, that the house-elf's duty is to serve? Are you implying that Dobby might have also been fulfilled had he not been a Malfoy elf?" he asked.

She smiled, and it seemed to Snape that it was a true smile, perhaps the first she'd given him since they had renewed their acquaintance in this household of misfits.

"You are beginning to see how tricky this is. Which, I suppose, is the point of living with Kreacher in the first place. A part of me thinks that yes, Dobby might not have ever questioned his role in life if he had been born into a family that respected and perhaps even loved him. And then there is a part of me that will always want to believe that Dobby was simply exceptional, that he saw the world outside what he had known and wanted his own--however small--piece of it. But the issue remains that according to the law, house-elves are property. By allowing them to remain uncompensated and without rights, they have no power to change their lives."

"Rights and power that they claim again and again that they do not want," Snape said. "Remind me, Miss Granger, who appointed you in charge of 'saving' a race that wants no help from you?"

She looked him in the eyes, long and slow, and Snape sensed the untapped power, the sheer determination, in this woman. "I cannot accept a situation in which one race of sentient, magical beings is subjugated by another. What I want is not to tell house-elves what they should want, or to force them to leave their families, or to be paid if paying would make them feel less valuable. What I want is for them to have a choice, to have legal and financial options should they decide that they want a different sort of life--for whatever reason. Hogwarts cannot continue to be the only option for house-elves that do not fit the norm."

Snape considered this for a moment. Granger was different than she had been. It was not just her willingness to imagine that she did not know all that there was to know about everything, although that was part of it. There was something slower and more methodical about her than before. He had the uncomfortable thought that it was much easier to be thorough without the threat of a dark and terrifying future approaching at the speed of an express train. Perhaps this had always been her natural inclination, and she was just now getting the opportunity to show it.

"And now we are back to Hogwarts," he said.

"Yes, and I have to admit, Professor, that I'm confused about the books you brought for me. The history of a renegade house-elf--that seems self-explanatory, if a bit perplexing given the conversation we just had. But three books on Pureblood thinking and a copy of the Statute of Secrecy? When I saw Sorting By Blood, I assumed that you were commenting on my hope to abolish the sorting system--but I confess that I cannot decipher your opinion."

Truth be told, Snape did not know that he had a firm opinion on the matter. In pure theory, he agreed with her. But despite the fact that he himself had been victim to the system she found so abhorrent, he felt it equally wrong to imagine Hogwarts so utterly changed.

Though he had not yet seen the destruction to the building. He'd been present for the explosion in the west wing, but after that... he'd spent most of the Final Battle bleeding to death in the Shrieking Shack. And since his release from St Mungo's, he hadn't the stomach to go and see the castle. So perhaps that was why he had trouble imagining such a fundamental overhaul of Hogwarts--it might have been somewhat easier if he could have seen that the thing he remembered as home no longer existed. Still, there was something to be said for tradition, even if he could not think of what it was at this precise moment.

"You flatter yourself in thinking that I have purchased these books to help your cause. Temporarily, at least, I am a librarian. I was simply adding to the stacks," Snape said.

"Really? In that case, you might want to focus on the Magical Devices section of the library for future purchases. As I recall, there are no books in that section, while we already had nineteen in the Magical Law and Government section. And if you'll bring me your receipts, the Foundation would be happy to reimburse you for your contributions to the library."

Snape grimaced inside and handed over the rest of the accumulated points. She was winning this discussion, and it was infuriating and completely unsettling.

"That will not be necessary," he said stiffly.

"The offer stands," she said. "But could we please talk about the Statute of Secrecy? What am I missing here?"

Snape looked away from Granger, who had, sometime during their discussion, made her way down the bed to the end closest to the desk. He focused on the wall above her, where there was a painting--a magical one, though not in the traditional sense. No figures lived inside the canvas, human or otherwise. It was simply a field, vast and sparsely vegetated. What grass grew there was patchy and golden, leaving mounds of sandy earth exposed. The only thing that indicated to him that it was a magical painting was that, the longer he looked at it, the more clearly he could see what had once been in the field, what might yet grow there again. It was a terrible painting, and he wondered vaguely how she slept beneath it.

"Professor?" she said, snapping him back from his musings.

"You have learned in your classes that the Statute of Secrecy was put into effect to protect wizards from Muggles."

"Yes, but I cannot understand what possible threat is perceived there. The Purebloods themselves insist that our magic makes us far more powerful than Muggles. The examples that are given in those early texts are laughable--Wendelin the Weird? She was never in any danger at all!"

"The Purebloods know that it is our very power that makes Muggles so dangerous to us--that is why the Purebloods hate and fear them. Tell me, Miss Granger, what you think would happen if Muggles were to discover magic. Take our wands? Make it illegal to sell or possess them? Steal our children before they have come into their full magical power and perform unspeakable experiments on them? Would they not try to discover the source of our magic and get it for themselves? Who would not want that kind of power?"

Granger looked disgusted, but she was scribbling furiously on a roll of parchment.

"Of course Muggles would be interested in where magic comes from, Professor," Granger said. "I myself am interested in where magic comes from, but I would never--"

"Because you have lived among us, yes? Is that not the basis of your argument for the Board of Governors? You know witches and wizards personally. We are too real, too human, for you ever to want to dissect a wizard and find out how he works. You are a witch yourself, in fact, and should the wizarding world become common knowledge, you would be in just as much danger as the rest of us--potentially more, as I'm quite sure that Muggles would love to discover how magic passes through their bloodlines."

She leaned back, away from her notes, and looked at him, and he tried to read the mood of her features. There was distress there and anger, too, but not at him, he felt. He waited, somewhat impatiently, for her to say something.

"I am a witch, as you said," she said slowly. "And I have lived as one, fought as one, for nearly eight years. Yet there are wizards who would still call me Mudblood and spit on me. I don't deny that there are Muggles out there capable of the things you say. But there are wizards capable of horrors, too--"

"You are missing the point, Granger. You're personalizing this when you should be looking at the larger picture. This is what I was trying to tell you with those books. Muggleborns are feared not because they have Muggle blood per se, but because they represent such an enormous threat to the Statute of Secrecy."

"How am I a threat to the Statute of Secrecy?" Her voice was shrill, yet she leaned toward him again, not in challenge, but in appeal.

"Stop saying, 'I.' This is not about you. I am not telling you that you are a threat to the Statute of Secrecy, though there are those who would most assuredly say that the further you press these ideas of yours, the closer you will get to putting us all in danger. I am simply saying that Muggleborns are perceived as a threat because they have such strong links to the Muggle world. They have families who know about us. Suddenly, we are forced to trust Muggles that we do not know to keep our secrets, and for many wizards, that is a terrifying prospect."

"But if, like you said, a witch or wizard is socialized in the wizarding world, then he or she would never endanger it."

"Let us first assume that you are right, that no Muggleborn witch or wizard would ever leave the wizarding community or betray its secrets. What of their families? What if Great Aunt Marge became tipsy at a cocktail party and simply couldn't contain any longer the crazy story her sister had told her about her niece?"

"People would assume she was insane."

"Yes, you are likely correct. And if she set out to prove it?"

"What proof could there be?"

"A wizarding photograph, stolen from the parents' house? It could be anything, Miss Granger. Once there are Muggles who know, who have been convinced despite their general blessed unwillingness to believe, then there remains the possibility that they could convince others. But now, back to our original assumption. What if the witch or wizard in question were to leave wizarding society?"

She sputtered for a moment. Her eyes were bright and alert, and Snape realized how very much he was enjoying this conversation, the high-speed, back and forth, parry and thrust of it.

"But we just agreed that--"

"We agreed to assume for the moment. And now I will ask you this: what if you had not befriended Potter?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Snape watched her carefully. She had flushed deeply, and he knew she took his meaning, though she was likely to make him spell it out.

"What if I'd had no friends, you mean? What if I'd never had the validation of my closeness to Harry to keep people from making fun of my hair and my teeth and my bookishness?" She looked dangerous as she sat there, eyes wild, and Snape admired her for a moment for her unflinching fury.

"Yes," he said. "What if all those things."

"Would I have left? Would I have moved home and showed you all by revealing your precious existence?"

"Would you?"

"Of course not," she hissed. And suddenly Snape realized the folly of his argument. He'd said himself that this could not be personal to her, that choosing her as an example would not be productive. He had intended to steer the argument back to Dobby, to the mistreated elf who had broken the taboos of his society...

"No, of course not," he said. And he knew that it was true, that wounded or not, Granger had too much damned honor to retaliate in such a way. "You would not. And perhaps therein lies the strongest part of your argument; if Draco Malfoy had ever known you, he would not have required your orphaning to make him comfortable."

Granger closed her eyes against his words, and he regretted them immediately. "Forgive me. I did not mean to speak of your family in such a way."

"It's all right. I wasn't even sure you knew, so it took me by surprise, that's all." Her voice was steady--light, even--but he knew he'd hurt her, just the same. And yet, with her few words, she'd managed to convey that she had never blamed him, that she believed that he had not known.

"I did not know until quite recently. My condolences, Miss Granger."

"You're an odd person," she said after a moment. "But I thank you. And please stop calling me Miss Granger. It makes me feel all of twelve." She laughed shakily. "And now you will have to explain what you meant by that."

"By what?"

"By saying that Draco--how did you put it?--required my orphaning to make him comfortable?"

"I should not have implicated him in this discussion. I only meant that Purebloods will see you as closer to 'all-witch' now. You have become less dangerous in their eyes."

"Well, that's a horrifying thought. The only way to assuage the Purebloods is to kill the families of Muggleborns?"

"I was not proposing any such thing. In fact, I meant only to say that you are partially correct in your argument that proximity might ease the tension between those who would hate each other on sight."

"I know what you meant, but it makes me feel slightly ill all the same."

Snape rose from his chair. The discussion had taken a turn somewhere and stranded him in the mire of politeness and emotion. He did not know how to soothe Granger, not that such a thing could in any way be construed as his job, and he did not know how to return to their argument about bloodlines. "The hour is obscene," he said stiffly.

Granger started and then glanced at the clock above his head. Surprise and disappointment danced over her face, and he was shocked to find that not only did she not wish for him to leave, but that he did not want to go.

She rose from the bed, seemingly out of politeness. "Thank you for agreeing to talk with me. You've raised a number of issues that I haven't fully considered, and it helps me discuss my ideas. I'll be interested to read the books you purchased for the library on Pureblood thinking, and I do hope that you'll continue to add to the library's collection if you come across other books that might be of interest."

"I am not a research librarian, Miss Granger--"

"--Hermione."

"As you like it, Hermione. I do not have the time to be running about town addressing the gaps in your education."

"I'd be happy to provide some kind of stipend for your services, if you wish."

"I have no interest in your money."

Her face closed down, and he watched the process by which the polite, self-assured witch returned, leaving the excited, vulnerable thinker behind, with real dismay. Why was this all so difficult? Other men were able to navigate simple debates without finding themselves the source of pain and disappointment.

"I would be willing to discuss these matters again at a more reasonable hour," he said.

She nodded warily. "I would like that."

"You will contact me in the usual way?"

"Would that be by the bathroom sink or by knocking on the wall?" Her smile, which had been a bit stiff, turned genuine and amused.

Nearly against his will, he gave her a small smile in return. "Whichever you prefer."

***

And thus, Snape found himself in his room again, restless and unable to sleep. He had never made the points that he wished to about the Gryffindor and Slytherin houses--that it was not simply the bias of the hat that created so much enmity between then, but the history of the bloodlines of the houses. He had never explained that the reason she would fail was not because her ideas lacked merit, but because the Slytherins who sat on the board of Governors would see her attempts as the work of a Mudblood bent on destabilizing the last of their safety and strongholds. Without understanding those things, her chances went from extremely remote to impossible. And it seemed important in some vague, amorphous way that she understand that Draco had not truly thought her a contaminated, unworthy witch, now or ever--only a rogue factor, a danger. It had never been Granger herself he had hated, at least not in that way.

He lay down on the bed without turning down the sheets or removing his robes. He extinguished the lights with his wand, as he had been the one to complain of the hour, and so it would seem strange to her if he did not retire for the evening. The loo gave off a very faint glow from the light beneath her bedroom door; she would probably stay awake, scratching away at her parchment for another hour or so. He wondered if he had given her the impression that he feared and hated the Muggleborns. Just because he was explaining these things did not mean that he espoused them, he thought angrily, and he had the sudden urge to rise, knock on her door, and make that clear.

The light grew suddenly brighter, and he heard the door on her side of the bathroom open and close again. The water ran in the basin, and he could see her there with his mind's eye as clearly as if he stood beside her. Her hair was wild and loose for the evening, free of the pins and twists that bound it in the mornings, and she brushed her teeth with a blue toothbrush, baring her teeth to the mirror. She was a hollow panel of wood away, he thought. He could easily open the door and tell her the thoughts that would not lie quiet in his mind. He got so far as to swing his feet to the floor before he returned to his senses. He could not barge in on her in the bathroom, no matter the insane ideas she had taken away from their conversation. And to call out to her would be to admit that he knew she was in the loo, which he could not do.

He sighed. Why did it seem that everything involving Granger was so complicated?

Sleep would be a long time in coming.