Creeping Like A Lizard

A poetic genius is something I don't see

Why would a genius be trippin' on me

And he's looking at me now

But what he can't see

Is that I'm looking through his eyes

So many lies behind his eyes

And tell me stories from your past

Sing me songs you wrote before

I tell you this my poison prince

You'll soon be knockin' on heaven's door

~ Amy MacDonald, Poison Prince

The night swept away the storm, but left back the heat. When morning came, the day was exceptionally hot, the sky was a light cobalt blue and the sun was brightly shining; one reason more to hate the fact that it was Monday and that she had to leave the Yew House to resume working.

While Hermione fastened back her unruly frizz with a hairgrip to let a breath of air touch her nape, Severus was buttoning his cuffs, despite the evident sultriness. Seated on the bed, she glanced at him from the bottom upwards for a while before deciding to speak.

"You can wear short sleeves also outside, you know."

He spun around, glared at her, then returned his look to his cuffs.

"I'm overjoyed by your promptness in offering unsolicited directions, Hermione. Please, help me to remember... what did I venture to say only two days ago?"

She got up, walked next to him and cupped her hands round his face. Forcing him to stare directly into her eyes, she repeated slowly, "You can wear short sleeves."

Sighing, he pulled her hands gently away from his face as he replied, "I did, when I was in Portugal, and people complimented me for wearing such a cool tattoo. Do you find it preferable?"

She smiled. "It's good to hear that you did. Next time, perhaps... you can tell them it was a terrible Dark wizard's curse, or that... it's just a congress of your moles. Harry's scar turned darker after Voldemort's death, too, you know."

He snorted. "The Dark Lord was always fair in his rewards."

After lunch, supplied with a couple of his Moleskine notebooks, Snape followed her to the Brontë library. He took a seat in the reading room while Hermione slipped into the archives.

The two hours she devoted to the fifth and last tome of The Twelve Patriarkes were the longest time she stood separated from Severus in the last three days, after sixty-five hours spent together.

It felt a painful cut, like a breath jammed in her lungs, unbreathed. Still, she sensed his presence on the other side of the wall, beyond two rows of overburdened bookcases, beyond covers and jackets and paper and threads and bindings and leather and ink. Beyond their work, he was waiting for her.

To thread the needle with him looked so natural, in the end, to feel almost obvious. It happened with the inevitability of things that were meant to happen.

As she left the archives and crossed the reading room for her duty at the collection desk, Hermione was only too acutely aware of him sitting at his usual table, in the third row from the desk. For the first time, he sat facing the desk, and even if he didn't lift his head, she could feel his eyes surreptitiously following her from the archives' door up to her chair. Once she sat down, their eyes met and locked, and for the rest of the afternoon they just gazed at each other, eight metres distant, oblivious of other visitors surrounding them. Edwardian Bookbinding Practices lay unopened in her lap.

"So? What do you want to do this evening?"

"I'm sorry, but I have to go home this night, Severus. I haven't studied anything for three days, and I must study tomorrow morning."

"As you wish."

"Do you realise this? The selection is in a month, or rather less than a month! Only twenty-nine days, and I don't know anything!"

Severus chuckled.

"It's true! I'm not adequately prepared yet. And you distract me."

Severus laughed openly.

Too soon, Haworth Road appeared in front of them, with its two lines of anonymous, photocopied buildings. He bid her goodnight in the little walk that led to the door of number 51.

When she raised her head for the very last kiss (out of a series), Hermione finally got a glimpse of the light coming from Mrs. Neill's open window and of the very same Mrs. Neill overlooking at them from the said window, arms crossed on her breast.

Severus noticed her, too. "Mrs. Neill," he greeted her with a gracious bow of his head. "Good evening. As you may see, I have not trespassed your threshold, neither is it my intention to bring my ill repute into your abode. However, let me express my high regard for you. I had already the unparalleled delight of meeting you once, but I didn't know then that you possessed such great powers. I must now acknowledge that they vie with those of Mother Shipton. You are a Seer, Mrs. Neill, and had I the chance, I would like to introduce you to the other great Seer of our century, Professor Sybil Trelawney."

Mrs. Neill drew the curtains.

"That was amazing! Amazing!" cried Hermione, seizing him by the front of his shirt and planting a kiss soundly on his lips. "Twenty points to Slytherin!"

"Only twenty?"

When Hermione entered the house, Mrs. Neill was sitting in the dining room, wrapped up in her fluffy pink bathrobe, a weary expression aging her features. Her mouth twitched as she watched Hermione passing in the corridor.

"One word, Hermione."

Hermione stopped in the doorframe, trying to assume the most neutral expression she could master despite her flush.

"You probably think I'm an old meddler, poking my nose where I shouldn't," Mrs. Neill said with a tired voice, "but I'm sincerely concerned about you. You could be my daughter, and that aside, you have been living under my roof for almost three months now. You've been a nearly perfect tenant, all things considered, and it's obvious that I care for you.

"I'm a nurse, and I see all kinds of people around. All kinds. And as much as you'd rather ignore relatives, patients, doctors and colleagues alike, you cannot help but observe the way they behave. And you understand many things.

"I've also my experience with men. Well, my divorce wasn't an easy one, so you can maybe blame it for my caution, but in any case I've learnt a lot, to my cost.

"This man you're going out with... He gives an idea of being untrustworthy. Shady. You probably think he's funny, considering those incomprehensible theatricals he put on to mock me. But I'd say it's a parade to fool you as well. I don't know, but I have this impression that there's something dangerous tailing him. He looks suspicious, probably... even evil."

Hermione took a deep breath. "Evil is a strong word, Mrs. Neill," she stated calmly. "But otherwise you are absolutely right. He is indeed as disreputable as you declare."

Mrs. Neill sighed. "Hermione, Hermione. You are still young, and thus you're easily tricked in believing that a dubious halo constitutes a fascinating appeal in men. But please, listen to me: things don't work like that. Blackness is only blackness, in the end; it never turns out as interesting as you supposed. Look for a good man, instead, not for some unrespectable allure that is even blinding you in believing that... that man of yours is attractive."

"Oh, but I don't contend it: I think he's horrid. He is ugly, nasty, disagreeable, and I'm not even talking about his flaws." Hermione pressed her index finger on her lips, musing. "In fact, Mrs. Neill, you are not so far from truth. Let me tell you more about him. In his youth, he joined a terrorist group."

"Oh, God. IRA?" cried Mrs. Neill, bringing a hand over her mouth.

"Then he was recruited by the Intelligence, and worked for them for twenty years. His teacher job was but a cover."

"Oh, dear Lord. An agent of MI6," Mrs. Neill said in a thready whisper.

"No, of Mossad," replied Hermione impassively. "And it's as bad as it seems. Let me destroy the myth that the service is something glamorous. Theirs is a filthy, ruthless job that can be performed only by stonehearted people. In truth, there are few offences he stopped short of committing. If it wasn't for his license to kill, he would be judged a criminal."

"Are you making it up, Hermione?"

"Oh, no. Why would I slander him?" He only saved my life some two or twelve times.

Mrs. Neill gaped at her for a couple of minutes, then murmured, "Do you think this relationship is wise, Hermione?"

"I definitely don't," she agreed.

"Then why are you pursuing it?"

"Maybe I gave myself to the irrational," she replied, and went off.

She could remember his lessons about obsessions, and – hadn't she put them into practice? She had welcomed the absurd, without resisting it, and it had proved the best solution. She had plunged into that unreal sensation in Jorvik and she had abandoned herself to it after the night spent in the library's hall. She surrendered to the notion that she missed him when he wasn't there, as she was missing him in that moment, in her rented bedroom. The abnormal, for once, had turned out pleasing and good and right. That she had included him in her was right – incontrovertible. That he stood with her was right – undeniable, at least for the present. The time they had shared couldn't be taken away from her memory (no, no, please, no more Obliviate, I don't want to hear about that spell again), no matter what might happen next. To what they were doing there were no objections, no oppositions in her mind. The path was clear.

It was the third week of August, and students and scholars alike were returning to their studies. When, for the first time, she wouldn't mind being left alone in the library with Severus, visitors finally flowed in and remained there till ten o' clock.

Defying Mrs. Neill's disdain, Severus came every day to her home shortly before three, and they walked together to the library. Once there, they pretended not to know each other. During their strolls to and from the library, they started talking about Creeping Like a Lizard, discussing its plot and characters. Hermione was finally introduced to the character she had apparently helped to shape: Magdalene Stone, lady-in-waiting of Henry VII's wife.

The plot of Creeping Like a Lizard went as follows:

Jacob Norton, better known as Funnel, returned to England from Burgundy with a plan to kill Henry VII on Margaret of York's (Richard III's sister) behalf. The spy frequented Tudor's court and studied the situation for a while. When everything was ready for the blow to strike, Funnel laid an ambush for the King. To his surprise, he was not to lead an attack, but to witness one instead. As he waited in the shadow, a masked man assaulted the King and disappeared faster than the blink of an eye. In his moment of bewilderment, guards arrived, and Funnel was caught fleeing from the crime scene. He was imprisoned for the King's murder. News reached him in prison that the murdered man was not the King, as he thought, but his double. Funnel had no idea who this double was, and nobody seemed to care. He was still considered guilty of the murder, in any case, with the aggravating circumstance that everybody believed he was aiming at the King himself.

Who was the dead double? Who had killed him? How was Funnel going to escape from the Tower?

A young woman came to visit him in prison...

"Now, isn't this a bit of a cliché?" commented Hermione.

Magdalene Stone, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, came repeatedly to visit him. Somehow (bribery? Through the Queen's intervention? This part had yet to be properly resolved) Magdalene helped Funnel to get out of prison. But he was still on the run and had to hide. Magdalene became his only contact within the court. She brought him news and investigated for him. Together, they tried to solve the case of the murdered double.

"And? Do they solve it?"

"Do you want to know the end?"

"Sure. How can I judge the novel's balance otherwise?"

"What, you proclaimed yourself editor-in-chief number two?"

"Number one, please. And yes, I already know how you are going to call me."

"In the end, they all die. Horribly."

She laughed, and Severus asked her, "How would you end it?"

"Mmh, let me see. The double was an ordinary man who had just happened to walk along the same path as the King. He was killed by a creditor because of his debts. The murder has, in the end, no connection whatsoever with a plot against the King. No great conspiracy behind; all very casual."

"An interesting try, and quite close, actually."

"Sweet! Have I won the right to know what happens to Magdalene, at least?"

"She's accused of witchcraft."

"Seriously?"

"What do you think?"

"It may work."

"It's Funnel's turn to help her escape, this time, and they end up both on the run," Severus went on. "And this leaves room for the fourth book, in which Funnel will again plot against Henry VII."

"But he can't kill him, can he? Or do you plan to deviate toward alternative history?"

"No, he won't kill the King. But there will be trouble brewing."

Lamenting that 'she would read it anyway, sooner or later,' Severus handed her the notebooks with the first draft of Creeping Like a Lizard. The handwriting was so cramped and small to be almost unreadable. When it was written with a pencil, the text was barely visible, and when it was written with a pen, the ink had blotted the other side of the thin paper as well.

"I'm glad I studied Ancient Runes and Palaeography, in addition to being used to your hieroglyphics," she told him in accepting the notebooks.

"That's what second-hand editors get in volunteering," he said softly, arching his eyebrows.

"First-rate editors, please."

After Monday, when she wasn't busy with visitors' requests, Hermione spent her time at the desk reading, while he sat bent at his table, writing.

The fabric of her dress is not made to scrape against the filthy floor of my cell. Still, a part of me rejoices in watching the ruin of something paid with Tudor's money.

"I stitched the doublet worn by the false King," she whispers eventually.

"This Magdalene is nowhere like me," said Hermione.

"Perhaps she is a fictional character invented independently from you."

"Then what kind of information did I provide you?"

Severus stared at her as if she had suddenly turned into a dunderhead, then replied slowly, "I had already outlined what Magdalene would do in the novel, but couldn't ever get over the physical description of her. I have a very limited imagination when it comes to inventing characters' facial features and things like that. But I knew readers would want a description of her. I'd want one too if I were a reader of my own book. Besides, I knew Magdalene couldn't have red hair. When I went to visit the Malfoys in July, I kept observing the young ladies around there – Astoria and her friends – trying to decide whether one of them could lend her features to Magdalene. But they all looked too aristocratic for her, too polished and painted. Then, as I stood in the train coming back to York, the irritating memory of our lessons came back to me, and I understood that you could made a decent model for her. With that thought in mind, I went to check you again at the library."

"But there's no physical description of Magdalene in the book."

"There isn't... yet. Maybe there never will be. It's not that readers can have everything, is it. But I need to know what she looks like, to be able to imagine her while I'm writing. I need to imagine habits."

"Habits?"

"Habits, like biting your lip, fiddling with your hair, pouting all the time, walking usually on my left to leave my right hand free..."

"I don't pout," she murmured affectionately. She felt emotional. Not only because of what he was saying, but also because, somehow, he had reserved a place for her in the world he had created, because there was a room waiting for her before she had stumbled into his life again, since he had decided that a plain, no-nonsense, not red-headed girl would end up on run with Funnel.

A/N: Pink Raccoon 80 was peerless in her assistance with the plot of Creeping Like a Lizard, which we discussed in front of a Chinese meal. Any interesting aspect about the book actually depends on her suggestions. Thank you, dear.

Mother Shipton is an English famous prophetess, born in Knaresborough, Yorkshire.

"Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made for kissing, lady, not for such contempt": Richard III I, ii, 171-172.

"Lie with her, on her, what you will": Othello IV, i, 35.

This chapter was generously betaed by stgulik. Thanks a lot! Thanks also to RobisonRocket for the additional corrections.

It is very possible that, at the end of this fic, there will be a companion from Snape's POV (working title: I've Always Thought You Were Stupid). In the meanwhile, chapter 18 will be quote fest. Beware!