Molly's curse

Dear readers, I still don't know how many chapters this fic will be long, but with this we are approximately halfway through our tale. If this storyteller is able to entertain you, please let her know with a comment! Thank you.

I know of love as a hot white light

That knocks you down and then leaves you dry

Oh, how can it be, sweet mama tell me why

Why all love's disciples have to wither and die

~ The Cardigans, Please Sister

It is curious that twice in English history the royal libraries have been given to the nation. The ancient royal collection, containing manuscripts from the reign of Richard III, was added to by each sovereign in turn; but it seems to have been brought into notice and taken special care of by Prince Henry, the eldest son of James I.

Hermione had the impression the passage above was quite simple, but it was the ninth time she read it, and she didn't understand anything.

The last visitor had left the library hours, maybe ages before, and once the reading room remained empty she took refuge in the archive, where she was at least surrounded by her familiar tools. She hadn't even tried to open The Twelve Patriarkes that afternoon; she knew tears would ruin the ancient paper. For a while, she attempted to read an easy, old manual about royal bookbinding in England, but it proved too difficult nonetheless. She gave up and instead was contented to stare into the void.

That morning, after her dreamless sleep, she had woken with a masochistic vein in her. She wore a t-shirt of Camberwell College and a pendant she had bought in Ascona when she had been there with him.

She walked to the library under a perfect blue sky, with the early afternoon sun shining above her. It offered her no warmth. A man riding a bike surpassed her on the bridge over the Foss. He wore a red polo shirt and beige shorts. A flash, and her eyes filled with tears. Those were his colours. The cyclist had even the same brown hair and build as Chris. A new assault of memories stormed into her. Her steps swayed and she nearly hit a lamppost with one shoulder.

She sat, very quietly, during her working hours. After all, this wasn't anything new. She had experienced this chasm before. The Dreamless Sleep potion awaited her at home, but she was in no hurry to go. I just want to stay one more minute with my thoughts. There was a movie made of eight years old memories playing in her mind, and she intended to watch it all before leaving. It all came back to her in waves. The cup had to be drunk until the last drop.

She gasped when she sensed a hand descending on the back of her chair.

"Granger! What are you doing here?"

She looked at him astonished. He was the last person she wished or expected to see. She frowned.

"What are you doing in the archives? Who gave you permission to enter here?"

"Granger, it's past midnight. I saw the lights from outside and came in to see what was happening. I looked for you everywhere."

She noticed he was slightly panting, and glanced at clock on the wall. She grimaced.

"Well, you found me. Now you can leave."

"After you."

"Have you come here to taunt me?"

"There's no pleasure in taunting someone so evidently upset to stay at work for hours once weekend has begun. What's wrong?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Nothing."

Snape crossed his arms and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Then you can go home."

"Sure."

"Excellent."

Hermione grasped her bag and followed Snape out of the archives, a deep resentment igniting in her chest.

How dare he... how dare he come here after what happened on Tuesday! I didn't want to see him anymore. He has no right to be here. This doesn't make sense. Chris' marriage wasn't enough? Why is the world conspiring against me?

Before she could notice, tears were rolling down her cheeks, real tears, unlike the invisible ones she had cried the previous night. They scorched her skin like boiling oil. When her nose started to run too, she sniffed.

The sound evidently arrived to Snape's ear, for he halted and turned. Hermione hoped that, in the dim light of the library's hall, he wouldn't see her tears. That would be simply too embarrassing.

Snape narrowed his eyes and took a step towards her. "Miss Granger?" he asked. "What's the matter?"

Hermione flushed under her tears. She would just like to run away, either to reach the front door and disappear in the night, or to retreat in the archives and seclude herself there. Anywhere else, just to escape from the glimmer of those puzzled eyes. She couldn't bear that ultimate humiliation. But her legs wouldn't cooperate; they were nailed to the ground. She ordered herself to stop crying immediately – not in front of Snape – but all she obtained was quite the opposite effect.

"Awwhh!" she sobbed loudly while her tears rolled more abundantly, clogging her lids. The sounds she had repressed the night before came out, and she howled, her face now covered in tears, mucus running from her nose, and saliva from her mouth.

"Miss Granger..." Snape held out his hand.

"No!" shouted Hermione, stepping back, and she stumbled. Snape grabbed her shoulders and guided her toward one of the sofas against the walls, until he made her sit down.

"Hush, Hermione, hush," he pleaded, kneeling to face her. "Stop crying."

Her reply was only another loud "Bwaaah!"

"STOP!" he ordered, standing up. "Please, stop. I can't bear to see women crying."

She sniffed.

Snape drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. "It's clean," he specified.

Hermione took it with a trembling hand and observed her fingers clutching it. New tears began to pour from her eyes.

"Now STOP!"

Hermione started and lifted her eyes on him. She blinked, and tears streamed down her face to her chin, dripping off over her breast. She unfolded the handkerchief and blew her nose.

"Now you will explain to me what is happening, Hermione," he enjoined her.

"That – that's none of your..."

"No excuses. You promised you would tell me what was making you ill."

"You didn't seem so willing to listen to me on Monday," she scolded.

"You misinterpreted my intentions."

"Why do you always twist the argument over me? Fuck off, Severus!"

She expected an irate reaction. Instead, Snape smirked. "Good. Rage is always better than depression."

Hermione looked at him, feeling the tears dry on her cheeks.

"Now you will explain to me what's wrong. You can shout, you can swear, everything is more acceptable than to start crying again."

She stared at him – the hooked nose, the prominent cheekbones and chin, the thin lips, the sharp contours of his face – and a glimpse of Lily's statue in Godric's Hollow flashed through her mind. He won't dare laugh at this story, she thought. If he laughs, it would only backfire.

It was well past midnight – she didn't know how much past – and she was still at the library. She was sitting on one of the sofas in the hall, in the semi-darkness with Snape, pacing in front of her. None of them had the right to be there at that time. She had cried. In front of him. The world was evidently ruled by the absurd; nothing made sense, and so she decided to dive into absurdity.

"I will tell you," she offered, "as long as you aren't going to make comments."

"Agreed."

"Yesterday I was informed that the guy I've been in love with in my whole life got married," she said plainly. If she had to spit it out, better do it at once.

She was right; Snape would not sneer about something like this. In fact, in the faint light of the hall he seemed to pale even more, if possible, and he knit his brow.

"Continue," he said.

"What more there is to say? I haven't seen him in ages; he never understood I was after him; he got engaged and married another woman." She snorted. "Nothing new under the sun."

"Nothing new," Snape echoed her. "Who is he?"

"Who, if not the most perfect, the most handsome man I've ever met?" Hermione's mouth twitched bitterly and she rubbed her eyes.

"There is a kitchenette here, isn't there? I'll go make some tea."

With a mug of tea in her hands, Hermione told him the whole story.

In late August of 2001, after getting her B.A., Hermione participated in a summer school at the Centro del bel libro in Ascona, a renowned Swiss centre for bookbinding and book restoring. There she met Chris Darrell, two years her senior, with a fresh Camberwell M.A. in his pocket.

The summer school was highly selective. There were participants from all Europe; Hermione and Chris were the only two from Camberwell. It came very natural for them to chat about Camberwell's professors, about London, none of them being a Londoner, and about odds and ends. They discussed books, manuscripts, paper and bindings. Hermione told him of Salisbury and Chris told her of Norwich. During meals, they sat together; after dinner, they walked together along the streets of Ascona, enjoying the gentle breeze, the starry skies, the perfume of jasmines and camellias that filled the air.

For seventeen days, Hermione was in heaven. She was too happy to think about the very simple act of declaring her feelings. She had regretted that ever since.

When the summer school finished, the two of them returned to England, Hermione to Camberwell College for her master, Chris to Liverpool, where he would do a stage at the University's library. They kept in touch with e-mails, never too personal, never too detached. Sometimes, Hermione gave him a call. As for Chris, he never called, but she didn't complain.

At the end of November, Chris passed from London. They met in Camberwell, went for a walk, and had lunch together. Hermione invited him to stay at her flat for the night. He accepted. Nothing happened. They slept in the same room – Hermione on her bed, Chris in his sleeping bag (he had insisted).

Hermione didn't sleep a wink. Unable to stretch a hand to touch him, she watched his profile as he slept, holding her breath. Next morning, Chris went back to Liverpool. Hermione didn't know that would be the last time she saw him.

She invited him to Salisbury for Christmas holidays, but he didn't come.

In March 2002, a conference was held in Liverpool about the history of press. Hermione went there with a couple of other students from Camberwell. She wrote an e-mail to Chris, and the evening before arriving in Liverpool, she rang him. Chris assured her he would pick her up after the conference. She couldn't wait.

He didn't come.

Hermione refused to call him any more. That was the final proof – if she ever needed one – that he didn't reciprocate her feelings. Instead, she wrote him a letter from London – a paper letter, not an e-mail. She confessed him her love and told him goodbye. Her hand shook so much while she was writing that her handwriting was almost illegible.

Chris replied with an e-mail, in which he called himself a boor and asked her forgiveness for being so insensitive to be unaware of her feelings... but he didn't offer much more.

Hermione wished to run to Liverpool, to wait for him at his door, to implore him. Her friends dissuaded her. He obviously didn't love her; running after him would only make her look ridiculous; she had to protect her emotions. Hermione, who had told herself she would do anything for Chris, resigned. She had regretted it ever since.

A week after these events, she went to Prague with some friends for the Easter holidays. That trip saved her. She came to terms with her 'break up' with Chris – so to speak. She stayed in love with him for years.

She contacted him only once afterwards, to communicate to him about her master's degree, but she never truly forgot him. She wrote poetry for him – her only iambic pentameter sonnets – and she regularly dreamed about him. She Googled him and found his name on the website of the British Library. However, she didn't know anything about his private life. She wondered when he had started going out with Jill.

She took years to move on. It was only in 2005 when she fancied another boy. That time, she tried to be more enterprising. It didn't work. And it didn't work even with the next boy.

"It's Molly's curse," complained Hermione. "When I broke up with Ron, she cursed me. I could swear it. If I'd made Ron miserable, I was going to be miserable as well. An eye for an eye."

"Uhm," mumbled Snape, who during her tale hadn't made other comments except for mumbling and nodding. He sat at Hermione's side on the silk covered sofa, toying with the empty tea mug in his hands.

"And now Chris is married. I had secretly hoped we would meet again, one day, and that everything would be different, that he would finally look at me... but now that scenario won't happen."

"It could still happen."

"No! Can't you see? Ron found a girlfriend, but the curse is still working against me. Chris got married – this is definitive. The definite sign, I mean. I'm never going to have a boyfriend again. But that is not the worst part: the terrible thing is that I'll never love someone else as I loved Chris. This is stupid, isn't it? I spent so little time with him, yet I still believe we would get on so well together – we shared so many interests..."

"But this is not a matter of interests, is it? You spent only seventeen days with him and continued to think about him since then. He lived in your head and will continue to live there – if you let him stay."

Hermione turned slowly to him. "Are you saying I was in love only with my mental image of Chris?" She took a deep breath. "But isn't it always like that?"

"More or less. All our reactions to reality depend on our mental interpretation of it."

"It is not a fault to love someone in your head if you cannot love them in reality."

"It's not a fault, and it is safest. In the sense that is always a safe harbour to return to."

Hermione's lips trembled. "The fact that I was lost in thoughts about Chris helped me get through September 11th," she murmured. "I'd just come back home from Switzerland when the attack happened. I feared that Chris would be recalled for military service. I worried so much for him that I forgot the rest." She paused. "And now he's married."

"He wasn't yours from the start. In a certain sense, nothing changed. He could inhabit your imagination as before."

"It's bigger than that! Time is changing. Harry's married and has three children. Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott are awaiting their first. Even Ron found someone – a girl from Camberwell, to boot! My Muggle friends are marrying one after another, or passing from one relationship to the next. People tell me it's unhealthy to harbour feelings for someone long lost. They appreciate everlasting love stories only in songs and novels."

"Well, we are in the Emily Brontë library, aren't we?"

They both snorted. Hermione opened her arms and placed them on the back of the sofa, her right arm behind Snape, her left arm half swaying in space.

"We are all messed up, Severus," she said with a half-hearted smile, shaking her head.

Snape tensed slightly, but replied with his usual steady tone, "You won't remain alone forever, Hermione. And in any case, to suffer for love is always better than other forms of suffering."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you noticed? There is always a certain amount of pleasure in yearning for someone who doesn't reciprocate your feelings; the soul still rejoices in the echo of the sparkle that set up your affection. A heartbreak, though painful, is still better than suffering from obsessions, for example, especially for people who are attuned to being alone."

"It's a different kind of pain," conceded Hermione. "Fixed images come with fear and leave an anxious lump in my throat. Chris' marriage covers me with sadness and fills my mind with whys. But you're probably right; there's something sweet in thinking about him, no matter what."

"There is more sorrow than in unrequited love. You haven't known despair, child; you haven't know hate, lust for vengeance, or the horrendous hell of emptiness," observed Snape softly.

They were talking more slowly, now, and lowly. Hermione huddled on the sofa. "War asked a great price from us."

"The problem is not war, it is the aftermath."

"I used to be so strong." Hermione cringed. "Best student, Prefect, probable Head Girl, co-leader of Dumbledore's Army, always at Harry's side during the war... and then I crumbled. Everything fell upon me at the end of the war. Images. Tears I had kept back while we were on the run. I cried every day for months, afterwards. I took my N.E.W.T.s reluctantly during the special session in the summer after the war, and my grades weren't anything special. I escaped from the wizarding world, for the Muggle side seemed suddenly safer. When I went back to work in a wizarding library, I was fired. I've been unemployed for years. I haven't had any boyfriend after Ron Weasley, and now Chris Darrell got married. In September I will be thirty, and the last twelve years of my life were a failure."

"Cheer up, Granger: thirty years ago I joined the Death Eaters. We can have a double party."

Hermione looked at him. In the shadows, Snape's eyes seemed almost warm, like the oil colours of the portraits hanging from the walls. For a moment, she felt dragged inside their gleaming blackness.

"Just hope, Hermione," he whispered, "never to feel more failure than that. No house points are deducted to those who aren't lucky in love, and don't consider yourself less for not working like a plutonium machine. What you experienced was only predictable; you were put under a stress greater than any of your age should bear, and the only logical consequence was to crack under its weight. After the war, I wanted to kill myself."

Hermione winced. "For losing your magic?" she asked with a thready voice.

"No, and I shouldn't have told you that." Snape got up. "It's very late, Miss Granger; you should go home."

It was indeed awfully late; Hermione didn't even know what time of the night it was. But she had long surpassed the moment in which sleep risked to prevail over her; she was floating in a hypnotic state of post-sleep. The dizziness caused by her prolonged wakefulness was an appropriate companion to the sense of unreality given to her by the fact that she was sitting in the library's hall, in the middle of the night, talking about lost loves with a man she hated.

"I'm not tired; I want to listen," she protested.

Snape made a movement toward the door, then retraced his steps and sat back on the sofa.

"I crumbled as well at the end of the war. Until it's still going on, it pushes you onward. War feeds you with adrenaline. It consumes you from the inside and leaves your brain vigilant. The tension and the duplicity are both a sickening stress and a thrill. You make plans – you have a purpose. The aim of winning over the enemy carries you over through the nights. You should be acquainted to that."

Hermione nodded.

"That purpose carried me on also during that hellish last year at Hogwarts. Do you see these?" He gestured towards the paintings on the walls. "I hate portraits. I spent that year listening to the portrait of a man I killed. Can you imagine the cruelty of that? Ten thousand times, I wanted to tear that portrait down and be free of that voice. I didn't even know who I hated more, the Dark Lord or Dumbledore. I'd killed him over again if I hadn't already done it. Hogwarts was a rotten prison. I just wished Potter would find those bloody Horcruxes soon and put an end to the whole stinking business. I even started to think of Azkaban as a pleasurable heaven."

Snape noisily switched position on the sofa. "Then everything happened as I wished. Potter crushed the Dark Lord. The war was over. My task was accomplished. I never had to go back to Hogwarts. And I had nothing more to do altogether." He brought his hand over his mouth and chin. "I lay on a hospital bed for months, with nothing to do apart from thinking. I didn't feel the satisfaction I expected for helping to dispatch the Dark Lord. I felt no elation or realisation, only emptiness. What did I have to do now? What was I still living for? Which was the sense of my life? I got lost in the spiral of questions."

He switched position again. "My body was weary; however I didn't recognize for myself the right of being drained. That magic had gone seemed only a metaphor for my physical and mental exhaustion. Only later, had I started considering it like a real state. But, in a certain sense, I wasn't interested so much in reality then. At that moment, I was more concerned with my philosophical self."

He turned to Hermione with wide eyes. "This is not advisable for your ears, Miss Granger. Unrequited love is a safer subject."

"Tell me what happened next," she demanded in a whisper.

"All right. Well, I understood that the most dangerous thing is not to suffer for love or to risk your neck in a war; it's to despair of yourself and to get lost in a maze of unanswerable questions. This is why I'd rather have rage than depression."

"What happened," reiterated Hermione.

"I thought about jumping out of my window in St. Mungo's and panicked. Suicidal obsessions ensued. I told you I have quite the experience with obsessions."

"Are there obsessions about suicide?"

"About suicide, about harming other people, about religion, about sexuality, about whatever you want. The obsessive world has a flourishing imagination. You think they are unbearable, but let me tell you that obsessive images rank very low in the scale. Love's turmoil... is but a piece of cake, in comparison."

"What did you do?"

"I followed some advice. I travelled. I searched."

"What?"

"The Grail. Peace. Sense."

"And did you find it?"

"With time. A bit. Time heals, but relapses are always possible."

"Was it then that you started to write?"

"More or less. I actually started writing later, but it was during my travels on the continent that I got the idea to do it."

"How?"

"A person said I had a way with words." Snape smiled, closing his eyes.

Hermione watched him. His profile stood more clearly against the background; a pale light began to filter in through the windows, the first sign of dawn coming. She kicked off her sandals and drew up her legs on the precious striped silk. She stretched her arms and reclined her head on the back of the sofa.

"Tell me a story." Her request ended in a yawn.

A minute passed in silence. When she couldn't help her eyes from closing, she heard his voice saying softly, "Once upon a time there was a young witch. She had many virtues, but above all, she praised her cleverness. She read a lot of books and could quote many pages by heart. In her mind, everything would forever be calm and clear as a printed-paper.

"But, on a sad day, war raged over her country and threatened her peace. The young witch, who was very resourceful, made an allegiance with her friends to fight against the ugly, dark enemy. They put down their books and brandished their swords.

"The battle was hard and eventful, but in the end the good prevailed and won over the evil side. The dark enemy was vanquished and the witch and her friends became heroes. However, their school was destroyed and its library was dispersed."

What am I doing here, listening to Snape telling me a story?

"Thus, the young witch embarked on a second quest, to collect all the books that once belonged to the library. She waved goodbye to her friends and walked alone, for that was an adventure she had to pursue by herself."

We hate each other. We shouted against each other. We shouldn't be here together.

"During her quest, the young witch met new friends and new foes. She got lost and she found her way again. One day, she crossed a tangled, black forest. She was very frightened because she didn't know where to go. But then a white doe came out from the trees and reassured her."

What's the matter with me? Yawn. Since when did I encourage absurdities?

"The doe told her she had to ask Uyulala, the Southern Oracle, a way to retrieve her books. Thus, the young witch decided to go to the Oracle. She mounted her broomstick and flew southbound. There..."

This is so unreal. I should be home. Yawn. Ya-AAA-wn. YAa-

A/N: Thanks to Valady and RobisonRocket, valiant betas, who fights against wrong commas and verbe tenses.

This chapters opens with a quote from the prologue to Royal English Bookbindings (1896) by Cyril Davenport, a book in the public domain which can be found here: http://www.aboutbookbinding.com/Royal-English-Bookbindings/Prologue.html

The Centro del bel libro of Ascona is a real place (http://www.cbl-ascona.ch/).

"The tension and the duplicity are both a sickening stress and a thrill" is quoted from the fabulous one-shot Reflections in Liquid by purplefluffycat (http://community.livejournal.com/hoggywartyxmas/4406.html) with her permission.

Uyulala, the Southern Oracle, is borrowed from Micheal Ende's The Neverending Story.