Building bridges

If you need a friend

I'm sailing right behind

Like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind

~ Simon & Garfunkel, Bridge Over Troubled Water

What should I do? Conjure some spirits so they can talk with me? Hang a talking portrait in the hall? Play a dvd? Listen to music? Go home?

The Emily Brontë was a Muggle public place. Hermione couldn't cast a shielding spell against Muggle visitors entering, hoping that it would identify thieves from normal readers. They were Muggles, after all, without a magical aura announcing their intents, as Moody would have regretted. Hermione couldn't make herself invisible either. She was there to serve.

After the weekend, Snape hadn't returned to the library at all. For the best. Late afternoons were an endless string of people leaving the library. There had been a couple of visitors now and then that remained longer in the evenings, but none stayed there after nine p.m. Hermione had even called Mrs. Peewit, telling her that the library was deserted from nine p.m. onward.

"I know, my dear," said Mrs. Peewit. "What can we do? We must keep in line with the county rules. In autumn and spring, we close at six, and in winter, at five. You must endure."

Endure. Endure. Everyone wants me to endure.

Why don't Yorkshire inhabitants take advantage of the opportunity to read a book on summer nights? Why don't they come to read a homily by a deacon of York Minster? What have they all to do outside, wandering along the Ouse, enjoying the still-light blue sky, smelling rosebuds blossoming everywhere? Maybe I should charm the library so that it would attract more visitors.

She was furious. Working at the Emily Brontë Library began to lose its appeal. Not that there weren't signs of it already. The Twelve Patriarkes only soothed her for a couple of hours a day.

He's unforgivable. How did he dare tell me not to feel guilty, when he's doing all this to make me feel guilty about our discussion? He wants me to blame myself for what happened. He wants me to run after him, pleading with him to come back. 'Please, Professor, I'm sorry, teach me all you know about fixed images, I need you!' Bah! He will be thoroughly disappointed.

During the second week after Snape disappeared, she asked Jack, the daytime librarian, if he knew why the dark-haired visitor always dressed in black who frequented the library every day had suddenly stopped coming.

"Ah, you mean Mr. Snape," Jack replied. "I believe he has finished consulting Ayrmidon's Engines of War. He must be on his summer vacation, I suppose. He visits the library for a couple of months every semester, more or less. An exquisite gentleman, isn't he?"

Hermione began to spend her late evenings in the archive with Brother Lucretius, after the last visitor had left the reading room. She had started restoring the second tome. Concluding her day with a bit of bookbinding was far better than patrolling the empty reading room, too nervous to study her manual of librarianship. In the archive, with all her dear tools around her, she felt protected.

At least there were no images.

A quarter to ten p.m. Hermione smoothed a crease in a page of Brother Lucretius' second tome. It was almost time to go. And this Wednesday is almost over. She could give one last caress to the ancient paper before she had to put her tools in order, rinse her mug, turn off all the lights, and leave.

As she stood up, her mug in hand, to go to the sink, she tensed. There had been a sound. Yes. Like an old wooden door opening. She pulled her wand out of her bag and tiptoed, quiet as a cat, to the archive's door. She peeked at the reading room. Nobody. She reached the door of the reading room, clasping her wand in her hand.

Could she have imagined the sound?

A squeak in the old parquetry of the hall proved she hadn't.

She clasped her wand harder. Wait, she told herself. It could be just a Muggle. Or Mrs. Peewit. In any case, there's nothing that can be stolen in the hall. Apart, well, from the paintings, but there is the burglar alarm protecting them.

The footsteps approached the reading room door.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

The door's knob turned counter clockwise.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

The door slowly began to open.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

"Miss Granger! Is it this the way in which you welcome visitors to your library?"

Hermione lowered her wand. In front of her was the last person she expected to see at that hour, in the reading room.

"Professor..." she murmured, mortified.

"And if I was a Muggle, how would you have explained a wand pointed at me?" asked Snape, curling his lip.

A Muggle, I don't know, but it served you well. "I... I would have said that it's a baton from a choirmaster of York Minster, a possession of the library trust that I was restoring."

Snape sneered. "Not many choirmasters of York Minster would have liked to know that they could chase audiences away by waving their batons, though I guess some of them achieved that end, indeed," he said.

"Am I an unwanted audience, Miss Granger?" he added after a pause.

"No, you aren't," answered Hermione, pushing her wand in the pocket of her jeans and blushingly reminding herself of her role as the kind librarian. Having said that, however, she discovered that she had spoken truth. Snape's presence was not totally unwanted in the library.

"Pity. I wanted to keep up with my standards," said Snape, witnessing her mortification with an impassive look. Then he observed, "So this is what you do, locked in the archives. You restore objects."

"Books," Hermione corrected him, "I'm a bookbinder."

"Of course," said Snape, raising his eyebrows in understanding.

"And a librarian. On trial."

"I see. I would advise you to stick to bookbinding, Miss Granger. At least there's no shortage of books, here," said Snape, gesturing at the empty reading room.

"It's the summertime, you know," explained Hermione. "People prefer to stay outside."

"How foolish of them," commented Snape with a straight face.

"Have you come here to request a book?" asked Hermione hopefully. "I'm afraid to say that the library is going to close in a few minutes, but I could put it in storage for tomorrow."

"No, I didn't come for books now. I merely came to pay a visit."

"To Ayrmidon's Engines of War?"

"To you, Miss Granger. I was in town, and I said to myself, 'Miss Granger must be all alone in the library, enjoying the company of good old parchment. Why don't I go disturb her a little?"

"You are not disturbing me," reassured Hermione.

"Then I am not making progress. The last time I spoke with you, you made it clear that I was disturbing you, and I counted on that basis to further any disdain you may have for me."

"I hold no disdain for you, Professor." Weird. I was angry with you, but now I must admit that I'm not much anymore.

"You disappoint me, Miss Granger. I came here to taunt you, but you are putting a spoke in my wheel."

"How?"

"There's no pleasure in taunting someone compliant."

Hermione sniffed. "You seem in a good mood, Professor," she remarked.

Snape didn't change his composure. "Heaven forbid. I still fear I can be poked with a baton by an out of tune choirmaster of York Minster."

Hermione smiled, and Snape's eyebrows went down and relaxed over his slit eyes, ever observing her. After a while, he said with an almost gentle snort, "We started out on the wrong foot, Miss Granger."

"We did, Professor."

"Well, let it start over, then. Let me escort you back home."

Once in the street, Hermione considered her behaviour in disbelief. Why was she walking home at Snape's side? Why hadn't she told him she didn't want him to escort her? She had already told him that he wasn't an unwanted guest. But that was in the library. Damn my always forgiving attitude, she thought. He tricked me into not telling him no.

But wasn't that a way in which Snape too, perhaps, tried to atone? She couldn't see Snape as willingly chaperoning her unless he, too, was seeking forgiveness in a certain sense. The sham in the library could only signify a wish to settle their quarrel. In Snape's style.

"Ah, my tendency to justify anyone," she said, shaking her head.

"What did you say, Miss Granger?"

"I was thinking out loud. I'm sorry."

"Please share your thoughts with me, if it's not asking too much."

"I said that I'm not a vindictive person, Professor."

"How very wise of you, Miss Granger."

"But you, on the other hand, you are. There was no need to desert the library to prove me wrong."

"What are you getting at, Miss Granger?"

"You didn't come to the library for two weeks, to make me reconsider my position about our lessons."

"I never intended doing such a thing, and you are giving yourself too much credit in what I do."

"Why have you stopped visiting the library, then?"

"I've been out of town. Firstly, I went to Wimbledon to see the second week of the Championships."

"... Eh?"

"The second week has always been my favourite. Especially the fourth round," added Snape as an explanation.

Snape likes tennis.

Snape smirked at her gaping expression. "Tennis is about strategy, Miss Granger," he said.

"Only when it is well played," replied Hermione.

"A good play is a matter of strategy," specified Snape. "After Wimbledon, I continued to stay in the south. I went to pay my annual respects to Malfoy Manor."

Hermione stiffened. Malfoy Manor... so close to home, yet in another galaxy. It was not a place to which she would pay an annual visit, even for all of Narcissa's jewels.

Snape noticed her unease and halted as well. "I see," he said. "Dear Bella could give really unforgettable gifts."

"How do you know?" asked Hermione, frowning.

"Everybody knows what happened to the Golden Trio during their rise against the Dark Lord," replied Snape. "But it happens that I was informed of the infamous night of your capture directly by the people involved."

"Of course." Hermione's frown deepened. "I wonder how you can still go to visit those people."

"Lucius and Narcissa are my friends, Miss Granger."

"You disappoint me, Professor."

The street lamp that illuminated the part of the bridge where they had stopped cast a yellow light over Snape's harsh features, hardening the shadows under his eyes and under his nose. The waters of the Foss streamed with a low murmur under them, glittering as they caught the glow of the street lamps.

"Lucius has changed over the years," said Snape softly. "And he can understand what we both went through better than other people can. We can speak to each other with a relieving honesty sometimes."

"I understood that you had broken it off with... the past, Professor."

"To cope with the past doesn't mean to sever whatever tie we might carry from our adolescence," replied Snape with his lecturing tone, a yellow glint in the dark pools of his eyes. "It is not suitable for anyone to totally forget where he comes from, Miss Granger. Once a year, it is good to remind oneself of one's history. Apart from that, at the beginning of July we come together again to celebrate Scorpius' birthday. I'm Draco's godfather, as you may know."

Hermione's mind raced. She didn't want Snape to harp on about coping with the past, and even less to discuss the merits of hanging out with the Malfoys. "Scorpius... how old is he, now?" she asked.

"He's three years old."

As old as little Albus, Hermione considered. Harry and Draco share the birth year of their sons.

"Listen, Professor," she said tentatively. "In two weeks it will be Harry Potter's birthday."

Snape snorted.

"Listen, please. Scorpius and Albus – Harry's younger son – are of the same age."

"And by that...?"

"They will go to Hogwarts in the same year. Hopefully, unlike their fathers, they will be friends. I am still Harry's friend – though much has changed – and you are still Lucius' friend, though, as you say, much has changed between the both of you, too. Moreover, you are Draco's godfather. As long as we will meet during my stay here in York, let's put aside our reservations against our respective friends. Do you agree?"

"You seem to suggest a pact, Miss Granger."

"I am, yes."

"And do you wish to include other conditions in our pact, Miss Granger? Maybe that I stop being who I am?"

"I'm fine with who you are – and with who you were, too," she declared with a deep breath. "But I do wish that you would stop lecturing me about how to deal with memories. It is already difficult enough as it is. I'm working at the library for my future, not for my past. Agreed?" And Hermione smiled and stretched out her hand to shake Snape's and seal the pact.

Snape observed her hand for a while, like a kind of strange animal. Eventually he pulled his own right hand out of the pocket of his trousers and drew it closer to Hermione's. He was going to touch Hermione's fingers when he stopped, as if he had second thoughts.

"You have to offer something as well, Miss Granger," he said silkily. "Pacts should not benefit only one party."

"Right," said Hermione.

"You have to promise me that, should you feel really ill for whatever reason, you will contact me, and I'll do my best to help you."

"Granted."

"And the second condition is that you will let me escort you home when you stop working. You never can tell who hides in the corners of this old town at night."

"I'm not afraid of walking around at night, Professor. I have a wand."

Snape suppressed a laugh.

"What is that?" retorted Hermione, crestfallen.

"Never mind, Miss Granger," he replied with a rather amused tone.

"Excuse me, but I have a certain experience in defending myself from harassers."

"Do you? In that case, don't deny me the pleasure to be present at that scene." Snape smirked. "So, do you agree to my conditions?"

"I agree," sighed Hermione.

"Good," concluded Snape, and they shook their hands.

Be escorted home by Snape every night? To err is human, but to persist in the mistake is diabolical, thought Hermione while she got undressed in her room. I could say that I usually Apparate back home. But that wasn't the truth. Her walks to and from the library, as well as her visits to and from the supermarket, were her daily fitness exercises. She liked to cross the bridge over the Foss. She liked York's bridges. Some of the railings were decorated with the symbol of the city, the white rose, and around it, they were brightly painted. She liked to be surrounded by the fragrant air of summer nights. It reminded her of another time, of another place. A happy time of her past.

Ascona, Switzerland. The smell of jasmines and camellias. His laughter.

Am I supposed to replace that with Snape? She kicked off her shoes.

Why do I speak of replacement? This is not the same thing. I don't understand what Snape will gain from these walks, but certainly they won't go in that direction. She pulled off her socks. Rather, what do I have to gain from this arrangement? Nothing. Everything Snape may say could be dangerous for me. Every moment he can remind me of something unpleasant.

Yet there were no images; there had been no images after that unfortunate Friday when she had seen the grass snake. And the fault, then, had been the snake's, not Snape's. At that time she had already gone through three weeks meeting with Snape.

Of course, she suddenly realised while she took off her tee. Despite what he may have promised, Snape wants to continue teaching me this way. He believes that I must learn to bear the images without reacting. He may not give me proper lessons; still he intends to train me through practice. He wants me to bear his sight without forming fixed images. Or, what he calls, obsessive images. Whatever. How cunning. I almost didn't catch that.

Snape means good, in the end. I cannot completely put down his attempts in healing me. He's a poor, damaged thing as well. And he doesn't have magic anymore.

She put on her nightdress. Arguing with Snape will not make this whole situation easier, she told herself. Agreeing to a pact has been a right step. The Ministry selection is in two months. I must concentrate. Bookbinding and librarianship.

She slipped into her bed. Bookbinding and librarianship.

She placed her glasses on the bedside table. Bookbinding and librarianship.

She switched off her nightlight. Bookbinding and librarianship.

Strange how this little light in the dark of my room sparks the same yellow gleam of Snape's eyes under the bridge lamp.

A/N: Engines of War by Ayrmidon is the book Tyrion Lannister was consulting in the library of Winterfell at the beginning of Martin's A Game of Thrones.

Humble thanks to growley464, valady and RobisonRocket for their beta-reading.