Chez les Boddingtons

It's as plain as the nose on your face

Nobody can deny

That sorrow must find its rightful place

~ Silje Nergaard, So Sorry for Your Love

Mrs. Neill might not have noticed, but other people did.

Shit, Hermione thought as Jake, the daytime librarian, informed her – as soon as she arrived to the library, on Monday afternoon – that Mrs. Peewit wanted to confer with her.

With her heart sinking down to her stomach, Hermione went upstairs, knocked on the Director's office door and pushed it open.

Mrs. Peewit, immaculate in a powder pink, silk crape blouse, sat at the other side of a large, wooden desk swamped with files and sheets of paper. Behind her stood an oil portrait of Emily Brontë, whom the library was dedicated to, surrounded by a photo of the Queen, few diplomas, and more paintings. Mrs Peewit finished typing something at the computer before turning to Hermione.

"Hermione, my dear," she said softly, taking out her glasses, "what have you done?"

"Mrs. Peewit, I – "

"I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing in hiring you for the summer. Yes, you had graduated brilliantly, but had no other references."

"I can explain – "

"Now I know that my instinct was right. The report of the National Centre for Book Conservation arrived this morning."

"..."

"We sent the first two volumes of The Twelve Patriarkes you had restored to the National BookCon for a final check, and they were impressed. They write me here," Mrs. Peewit tapped on a printed letter on her desk, "that the restorer's work was faultless, and that they had rarely seen a binding mended with such ability. But don't just stand there, come take a seat."

Hermione reached the chair with a blank expression on her face. Mrs. Peewit went on, "The National BookCon assures me they are going to consider your name when a new restoration project of national relevance turns up. They also suggest to me to not let you slip away – yes, to not let you slip away – and I find it a sound advice. I shall talk to the Library Board at our next meeting, proposing that they hire you after your stage. With a contract for one more year, at the beginning, and then it will depend on you. Well? What do you say?"

"I don't know where to start, Mrs. Peewit," stammered Hermione, dumbstruck. "I'm honoured by what you say and by what the National Centre wrote you."

"You have been working with us for two months, now, dear, and we are very happy with you. You seem born to work among books. I hope the Board will back my proposal and that we will have you here for September, as well."

"I – I – thank you, Madam."

"You're welcome. Of course, we know you are from Salisbury, but it won't be a problem to stay a little longer here in the north, will it? York may be charming also in winter, you know. I hope you aren't you afraid of a little snow."

With all the snow there was at Hogwarts, I daresay I don't.

Suddenly, Mrs. Peewit's smile faded and she gave Hermione a piercing look. "You don't have a sweetheart in Salisbury, do you?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Ah ah, forgive me." Mrs. Peewit's smile broadened anew. "You see, with such a patroness," she turned in her chair and winked at the portrait of Emily Brontë, "it's easy to take love matters seriously."

Hermione hinted at a smile. If Mrs. Peewit had known of her conversation with Snape...

"Of course, the library wasn't always entitled to her," continued the Director. "It was an ecclesiastic library, before. Emily came here one day with her father Patrick, who was a curate. Somehow, while her father talked with the librarian, she sneaked into the archives and she stole a book. Amoretti by Spenser, if I'm not mistaken. Charlotte Brontë found it among Emily's possessions after her death, and she sent it back to the library with the manuscript of one of Emily's poems as an apology for keeping their book for so long. In return, when the library became public in 1872, it adopted Emily's name as its own. It was quite a brave decision, since Emily was a woman and the status of Wuthering Heights was so contested."

Hermione nodded. She had read the story behind the library's name before she went to work there. "You know, Mrs. Peewit," she said with a conspiratorial tone, "as much as I appreciate Wuthering Heights's literary merits, still I prefer Jane Eyre."

"This surprises me. I'd said that you young people would go for tragic passions."

"I'd rather have the heroine marry the man she loves," concluded Hermione.

See, Granger? Nobody cares about a library door opening on Saturdays.

As she returned to the archives, Hermione's confusion wouldn't decrease. She had been offered a job. A pleasing job. But in a Muggle library.

What about the selection for the National Wizarding Library? What am I supposed to do in September?

She had been preparing for the selection for months. She had been studying wizarding librarianship just the day before. The National Wizarding Library was where she was meant to be. Or not?

The report given by the National Centre for Book Conservation made her proud. Flattered. But it also messed up her plans.

Did she have to give up the selection? Revert forever to a Muggle life? Waste her magical talent? Was she allowed to do that? How would the wizarding society consider her, if she decided to hide her powers indefinitely? Was it right – moral?

Granger, don't fret like that.

She inhaled, closing her eyes, and breathed out, reopening them. On the table in front of her stood tomes four and five of the Twelve Patriarkes, the only two left to restore. As she had planned, restoration would be completely finished by the end of August; she had already started with tome four. She stroked lightly its battered cover. What should I do, Brother Lucretius? I've loved tending you. Would you prefer if I stay?

She needed advice. She had to ask somebody else's opinion on that matter.

By the way, now that they were on friendly terms again, would Snape come after work to accompany her home?

She quite hoped so.

With a sense of expectation, she put on her rubber gloves and gently opened volume four at the bookmark.

It was a bubble, after all.

When she got out of the library, at ten o' clock, there was nobody waiting for her at the door, and nobody came for the rest of the week. He disappeared again, as he had already done once, as if their reconciliation had never happened or didn't mean anything. As in Jorvik, their confidences were the effect of a strange charm, fuelled by the night and a fitting subject, but hadn't survived the weekend. Every day, the night spent together in the library's hall seemed more unreal to her, as if experienced by two people who didn't exist anymore.

Of course, he wasn't obliged to come to her. And she didn't need anybody's help to cross a road and a bridge.

It was only that, for the first time, she missed him. And it wasn't only because of the job proposal or other mundane business. The thought of him visited her through her days, and it was neither anxious nor displeasing. It kept her company, like a scent in her nostrils.

He was somewhere. Where, she didn't know. She didn't have his address or his number. York was a small city, true, but it was big enough for a man to vanish in it.

She waited for the moment when he would pop up again, and they would resume their conversation.

Having Muggle friends who didn't know what the National Wizarding Library was, and magical friends who weren't likely to appreciate it nevertheless, added a nice schizophrenic touch to Hermione's confusion. In her divided life, she used to hide from her friends the things they wouldn't respectively understand.

Eventually, she called home and reported to her mother Mrs. Peewit's offer.

"Do as you feel, dear," said Jean Granger. "For us it's the same. There's still time to make a decision, though, and you still have to pass the selection with Mrs. Vand. You can choose later which post you prefer."

Don't fret, Miss Granger.

Hermione didn't tell her mother of Chris' marriage – she didn't discuss matters of the heart with her. Since Jean had dismissed the existence of Molly's curse as a 'paranoiac nonsense', Hermione kept those things to herself.

She dreamt of him, as she thought she would. She hadn't stolen a vial of Dreamless Sleep for nothing – even if it lay, untouched since Friday, in her drawer.

In her dream, she went to visit her University tutor at her home. Both of them spoke in German, even if in reality they were both English and Hermione didn't know German. The apartment was filled with books – small surprise – and among them stood a volume of The Twelve Patriarkes. Hermione asked her teacher why she hadn't handed it over to her, as its rightful owner.

They were waiting for two persons with whom they would go downtown. The first was Sandra. The second, of course, was Chris Darrell. Hermione's tutor wasn't aware of their intimacy.

As soon as Chris showed up, the tutor and Sandra disappeared.

Chris looked older, with receding hair and a beard. It took him a little time to recognise her. Dream Hermione wondered if she would fall in love with him had she met him now.

After the civilities, it began a tender scene in which Hermione and Chris embraced. They were sitting on a conversation chair. First, they squeezed hands, then wrists, and then Hermione would hug his torso. She held his beautiful, statuesque back close, and rested her head on his shoulder. It wasn't a sensual embrace; it carried mutual forgiveness. Chris told her he was going to marry, and Hermione replied she knew that.

Then Hermione found herself again with her tutor. They were suddenly in Ascona and they were walking along a river. Used books stalls bordered their path. Hermione told her tutor how she had met Chris and what happened between them. Then she woke up.

Still in her bed, she wondered if she had really forgiven Chris. She had never considered him in need of being forgiven, actually. Even when he hadn't come to meet her in Liverpool, she didn't blame him. In her eyes, he was faultless.

When they had spent some time together, he was always gentle, with a sunny smile and laughing eyes.

He was beautiful.

He was perfect.

And now Jill would be the one to enjoy all his virtues.

She could almost hear his sneering comment. "Virtues, Miss Granger?" Snape would say. "Do you call perfect a man who dumped you, didn't recognise your feeling for him, and told you goodbye with an e-mail? Who left you alone in Liverpool, a city good only for fathering the Beatles?"

Severus was right, probably, but she could not forbid herself to think of Chris as the man with whom she could have lived in a shimmering, perfect communion, if only she had been intuitive enough to declare herself when she still had the chance.

"He would have rejected you all the same, Granger" was a disheartening consideration, but had it happened, then maybe she wouldn't have wasted eight years on him. She would get over it earlier. Maybe. She couldn't forgive herself for not speaking when she had the occasion.

"He would have ditched you sooner or later in any case, Miss Granger" wasn't that bad a remark. I would have at least touched those shoulders. And that bum. Which now was Jill's playground. Jill's!

"You would have died of boredom with him, Hermione, had you married him." This had simply turned out too unrealistic to be actually proven.

She went to Waterstone's and ordered a copy of Smoke From the Chimneys. Published by a local publishing house, the book arrived the day after. She returned to collect it. On her way to the cash desk, Hermione stopped in front of the psychology section. She browsed the shelves, occasionally shivering at titles mentioning death and suicide. Eventually, she picked up a book titled Overcoming Obsessive Thoughts, by David Clark and Christine Purdon.

Being the first week of August, the library was more deserted than usual. Hermione spent her afternoon reading, alternating Smoke with Overcoming Obsessive Thoughts.

Overcoming was illuminating. She recognised herself in so many of the features described. Need to control. Predominance of thought over other aspects of life. Need to be reassured that what she did was right. All things Snape had pointed out to her, albeit in a moment when her defences were kept too high to let them in.

She learnt about the different types of obsessions, about the 'washers,' the 'counters,' the 'checkers.' At the bottom, there was what was called 'pure obsessions.' Intrusive images, as well as obsessions about self-harm, belonged to the 'pure O' category. It could almost pass for the name of a perfume, if it wasn't for the stink it gave forth.

The book firmly contested the natural tendency to avoid situations, which would provoke the insurgence of obsessions and insisted on the necessity of learning how to let intrusive thoughts pass without reasoning with them.

When reading about obsessions made her feel too uneasy, she would lay down the textbook and leaf through Smoke From the Chimneys instead.

The novel started with a younger Jacob Norton aka Funnel than the one present in Against a Brick Wall. He came from a family of Lancastrian sympathies and was taken into the service of Margaret Beaufort, the mother of the future Henry VII. The harridan recognised some qualities in the young man – quick mind, agile body, fine ear – and sent him to Richard III's court as a spy. First biased against the king, Jacob would soon be won by Richard's personality, meanwhile winning his trust in turn. Through various turns and twists – among which his mother perishing in a mysterious fire set to their house – Jacob would eventually become a double agent for Richard, supporting the Yorkist cause in the depths of his heart. He witnessed the king's breakdown after the deaths of his only heir and of his wife, barely concealed behind his stoic countenance. Despite all his efforts, however, he wouldn't be able to save Richard from losing battle, crown, and life at Bosworth Field. He managed to find out – and to punish – the culprit of his mother's death, though, and in the aftermath of Bosworth he would join Francis Lovell (Richard's best friend) in his attempt to restore the Yorkists to the throne.

She continued to read through the evening, and once home, she took the novel to her bed. She wouldn't switch off the table lamp before finishing it.

It was Thursday; one week earlier she had gone to Harry's party and discovered about Chris' marriage. One week after, she was comfortably sprawled on her bed with a copy of 'the breathtaking debut of Leslie Prince'. Go figure about life's changes.

She wouldn't dispute with the back cover. Against a Brick Wall looked like an assignment dutifully completed; Smoke From the Chimneys was another piece of cake. Whatever happened to Snape, had he lost his edge at the second book? Or was he simply drained after writing the first one? Smoke From the Chimneys was a vibrant tale; disguised under its historical veil, it seemed to hide an autobiographical subtext she hadn't perceived in Against a Brick Wall. Possible that the autobiographical impulse was exhausted in Smoke, and Against was only a product of craft?

She fell asleep still engaged in an imaginary debate with Snape about the merits of his book. He had, as always, the last word, even in her monologue.

Next morning, before going to work, she searched amazon.co.uk for reviews for Smoke From the Chimneys. Satisfied by what she read, she Googled 'Leslie Prince'.

Among bookseller sites and other reviews, she found a link for 'An Interview with Leslie Prince,' dating back to March. The journalist wrote:

I am with historical mystery author Leslie Prince, here at the York Literature Festival, promoting his last instalment in the Funnel series, Against a Brick Wall. It's not easy to meet Mr. Prince; he tries to avoid large festivals and attends only small, but prestigious ones, like the York's. He has been here for the last two days signing copies of his last novel.

A. Ha ha, no. It's a lie. [Note: I believe he wanted to make a pun on Leslie.]

Q. Actually, critics believe you are blessed with a sparkling imagination. The Mystorical Review wrote that Smoke From the Chimneys 'is a gripping tale, blending history and mystery in a relieving fresh, inventive manner, bringing prestige to both genres.'

A. Its working title so far is Creeping Like a Lizard. Funnel will return to England from Burgundy and infiltrates at Henry VII's court while still at the service of Margaret of York, Richard III's sister.

A. That's what my editor tells me as well (laughs). But I don't plan to give him one, at the moment. I don't trust my skills with romance (laughs again).

Hermione closed the site. "I thought I could take some inspiration from you," she remembered Snape saying during their quarrel. "That's why I insisted on our meetings." Her heartbeat was resonating in her ears like a low thunder, and when she passed by a mirror, she saw that her cheeks were purple.

That afternoon, she received a call at the library. It was unusual for her to be specifically requested at the phone, since few people knew she worked there.

"Hermione? Is it you?" said a female voice.

"Yes, it's me. With who am I – "

"I'm Adele, Adele Boddington. Do you remember me?"

The Boddingtons... "Of course. How are you, Mrs. Boddington?" she asked politely.

"Ah, dear, I'm so happy I found you! We didn't know how to contact you. Severus wouldn't answer at home, and that impossible man still refuses to get a mobile. We wanted to ask him your number, but he must be out of town. Luckily, Eustace thought we ought to look for you at the library."

... they should know where Severus is. "How can I help you?"

"I know it may be a little late, dear, but we took time before figuring out how to find you. We wanted to ask you if you would come for lunch, on Sunday. Or do you already have other plans?"

"I would love to come, Mrs. Boddington. Thank you for inviting me."

"Wonderful! I'll tell Eustace immediately. You know where we live, don't you? Right in front of Jorvik Centre. Sunday at twelve. If you have problems, you can call us. I shall give you our number."

"Sure. Let me grab a pencil..."

"Oh! Hermione, dear, before I forget. Do you suffer from any food allergy?"

Resigned to the evidence that Snape was out of town and that she wasn't going to see him again soon, when she met him at the Boddingtons', Hermione was surprised. A lot. She tripped up in her words while she greeted him and that made her snort nervously.

The Boddington's house was an elegant, three-floor house in the middle of the city. You could detect an architect's touch in the way it was furnished. The dominant colours were white and beige, giving an impression of light, air, space. White curtains whipped with the breeze, and white flowers placed everywhere provided a discrete, sweet scent. One wall in the living room was covered with family photographs. Sofas and chairs were made of wicker and covered with white cushions. Mrs. Boddington was tastefully dressed in white, too; white brought out her blonde hair with ash streaks and her blue eyes.

In all that white, Snape was the only black spot.

She saw him as she entered into the spacious living room, standing on the other side of it, talking with Eustace with a book in his hands. He turned as she walked it, preceded by Adele's voice. His lips curled in a faint smile. She smiled too, shyly, as she stepped forward.

"Hermione! You don't mind if I call you so, do you? Welcome to our house; we are honoured for you to be our guest," boomed Mr. Boddington. "Oh, but you are splendid. Cornflower blue suits you wonderfully."

Then she floundered.

"And here we are," said Mrs. Boddington, serving the appetiser. "I tried to please everyone's tastes. Figs with walnuts and Richard III Wensleydale. Is that good? You eat cheese, right?"

"Yes, I told you so; vegans don't eat cheese, or rather animal by-products, but vegetarians do. Thank you for caring, Mrs. Boddington."

"Call me Adele, dear; of course I would keep to your habits."

"I didn't know there was a cheese named after Richard III."

"Ah, I discovered it thanks to Severus. Has he already tired you with his beloved Richard III? He can get annoying with it, sometimes. No need to look me that way, Severus: you know that perfectly well."

"I didn't know you were a vegetarian, Miss Granger. Always keen to save the world, uhn?"

"I do my best, Professor."

"Tut, tut. What are these titles? Miss, Professor. When you wouldn't let anyone call you Professor anymore, Severus."

"I'd say that to be called Professor by Hermione Granger can rightfully make a person proud, Adele," intervened Eustace. "Though I really don't understand how someone may choose not to eat meat. Sorry, dear, but I have to have my sausages in the morning."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Mr. Boddington."

"Eustace."

"Eustace. Vegetarianism is a personal choice; I wouldn't impose it on others."

"However, Eustace, for this time you'll content yourself with a meatless meal. I cooked only dishes Hermione could eat."

"That's too kind of you, Adele."

"Why be only a vegetarian when you could be directly a vegan?" Snape asked with a mocking tone.

"I'm afraid I can't give up some true milk in my chocolate, unfortunately," she confessed bluntly, biting her lip.

"It's reassuring to hear that the world is still half in peril, Granger," Snape remarked before returning to his Richard III cheese.

Hermione was under the Boddingtons' crossfire all through the meal. Did she like York? What had she visited? How long did she intend to stay? How it was working at the library?

With the intention of making Snape aware of it, she told them of the possibility to remain at the Emily Brontë, mentioning the selection for the National Wizarding Library in September. Snape didn't comment but for an arched eyebrow, and stood generally quiet during the rest of the lunch. After all, the Boddingtons were already doing much of the talking.

The lunch was all vegetarian, lavish and luscious. On the white china plates, followed aubergine salad, grilled mushrooms, courgette velouté, crepes with cheddar and vegetables, capped by a chocolate banana flan with ice cream.

Hermione was ready to burst. Adele Boddington was indeed the great cook Snape had praised.

"It was all delicious, Adele, really," she said, declining a drop of the Chambord raspberry liqueur Mrs. Boddington was serving.

"Thank you, dear, but it was all very simple, in truth." As she handed a shot glass to Snape, Adele added, "Next time we have to be your guests, Severus."

"If you want something rustic..."

"Why so modest? Hermione, tell him his cooking is perfectly fine."

"Er... I never had the occasion to try it out."

"What does it mean? Severus, haven't you invited Hermione to your house?"

Snape frowned, and Hermione became suddenly interested in the napkin on her lap.

"Let me tell you, you don't seem to be a very welcoming host to Hermione since she's in our city, Severus. The only thing I'm glad is that you didn't bring her to the Richard III Museum; that place is ridiculous."

"She came here to work," muttered Snape. "Not to visit my house." He emptied his shot.

"He lives in this beautiful cottage on Stockton Lane, which once belonged to his grandparents," continued Adele, unabashed. "I remember when we would go there, over the summer. Do you remember, Eustace? The Yorkshire parkin prepared by Grandma May? Mmh."

"I remember. By the way, how is your father, Severus?" asked Eustace, sipping the Chambord shot Hermione had refused.

"As usual. You know him; he rants about being moribund, but he will survive us all. Hypochondriac if there's one. I don't know how Nancy can stand him." After toying with it for a while, Snape placed his glass on the table.

"It's her job. You were lucky to employ a good nurse; they're so difficult to find, nowadays."

Adele turned to Hermione. "Have you ever met Mr. Snape, dear?"

On her way to plunging into a placid after-lunch numbness, Hermione's first reaction was going to be I didn't even know Snape had a father, but it wouldn't be correct. I didn't know he was still alive was more exact. Eventually, she replied simply, "No, I haven't."

"I suspected you didn't. He lives in Wimbledon, now. Severus goes visiting him, from time to time."

Hermione eyed Snape. It wasn't difficult, considering they were sitting facing one another. He was still grumbling about his father with Mr. Boddington and wasn't looking at her.

Going to the Championships, eh? Will you ever speak plainly? She shook her head, faking a disapproving smile.

Adele tried to dissuade her, but Hermione insisted. She helped to clear the table while Eustace pulled out a set of Gobstones from an old chest. He invited Snape to sit down in the wicker armchairs and placed the set between them, on a low table. Bent over the table, with his elbows on his knees, Snape seemed to play a yin-yang figure against the white upholstery.

"Their matches can go on for quite a while," said Mrs. Boddington. "Would you like to see the rest of the house, in the meantime?"

Hermione nodded and followed her hostess upstairs.

A/N: I bow to Pink Raccoon, who stood up late with me to invent the Boddingtons' menu. Thanks to valady and RobisonRocket for their beta help.

The National Centre for Book Conservation is invented. The York Literature Festival is not. In 2009 it took place between 28 February and 15 March.

Overcoming Obsessive Thoughts: How to Gain Control of Your OCD, by David Clark and Christine Purdon, is a real book. I've never read it, though.