Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for your amazing response to this story. You make the writing a pure joy. My love and thanks to Sshg316, Machshefa, and MagicAlly for their enrichment of my work. Any errors are my own.

Chapter 2

Hermione stood at the kitchen counter in her tiny, dismal flat. She stared down at the box just delivered to her door by the Royal Mail. Who would send her such a package? She chewed the inside of her cheek and pondered. The only person she could imagine sending something was Molly, but the return address was not Ottery St Catchpole. It was, in fact, Manchester. She'd never even been to Manchester.

A Dark Detection Spell rendered no results, so she slit the tape with a kitchen knife and dug through the packing materials to find two elegant pots of gourmet jam, one each of strawberry and raspberry.

She set the jars aside and dumped the contents of the box into her relatively clean and dry sink, the better to sift through. The only other item of note was an envelope emblazoned with the words Jam and Preserves of the Month Club. She ripped it open and found brochures of jam descriptions, wrapped in a form letter.

Congratulations! You have been gifted with a subscription to the Jam and Preserves of the Month Club, an unforgettable gourmet treat. If you're serious about your jam & preserves, you'll be seriously crazy about these incredible selections.

• Free shipping every month

Hermione allowed the paper to fall and grabbed the heavy jars, one in each hand, before subsiding into a chair. The cut glass of the fancy jam pots was complemented by the black labels engraved with gold script, embellished with mouth-watering photographs of the source berries. These were the sorts of things vendors who enjoyed her parents' custom at their dental offices had bestowed upon the Grangers at Christmas time. They were a delicious extravagance, but sinfully expensive...not the sort of thing the average person would splurge on for their breakfast toast.

She pushed the two jars to the centre of the table and regarded them balefully, her arms now wrapped about her torso.

It was Snape. It had to be Snape. No one else would bother with such an eloquent gift ... and the episode of a shared breakfast in the Grimmauld Place kitchen had been a singular experience. In the week since she had fled the kitchen without answering his question, she had thought about the encounter almost constantly. Never before in her life had another person...man! her subconscious shouted to be heard...shown such unswerving attention to her. She had found the attention flattering ... but even more than that, she had found it comforting. Affirming.

For the short time she had been alone with Severus Snape, drinking tea and eating toast, Hermione had been without pain or guilt or anxiety.

Merlin knew she didn't deserve such cessation of misery.

'Fuck this,' she muttered, and with a sweep of her wand, the jam pots disappeared into the depths of the box from which they had come.

Afternoon leached into evening, and the lampposts outside provided the only light in the cheerless space. Hermione stared at the faded paper on the sitting room wall, seeing instead herself, stumbling in terror through the Forbidden Forest.

It had been light by then, hours since she had been cursed, and she had woken with a pounding head and a lump the size of a hen's egg behind her left ear. The protruding, blood-stained rock beneath her had told its tale, and then she had been up and running, too frightened even to call out for Harry and Ron.

She had no idea how far or how long she had been running when she had come upon the grim cortege. Hagrid and Grawp had been in the lead, each of them tenderly cradling one shroud-wrapped figure.

''Arry!' Hagrid had howled in his grief, huge tears splashing onto the unmoving wizard in his arms. It had required no great feat of deduction for Hermione to surmise Grawp's burden. The dread of her heart...her worst nightmare come true!...and the world as she knew it had changed forever, the ground of all she had believed in crumbling beneath her feet.

Why should she be alive when Harry and Ron were gone? The trio had always believed they would come through the fire of Voldemort's defeat triumphantly alive...all three of them. Wrong! All so very, incontrovertibly wrong. If Harry and Ron were dead, she should be dead, as well.

Then she had been surrounded by friends...former friends...Housemates and school friends, all sobbing and exclaiming and questioning. Hermione had walked through them, homing in on the figures of Minerva McGonagall and the Weasleys ...

But her Order comrades had stood apart, holding one another and wailing their grief. Certainly they had been the ones closest to Harry...and many were amongst Ron's family, to boot...but Hermione had seen the accusing glances cast her way. She had known that deep inside, the people who mattered most knew of her guilt and her shame and wished her dead.

But no more than she had done...still did! She wished it every day, to have died with Harry and Ron, rather than to have lived on with such culpability and shame ... the lone survivor.

Now, the need for the loo interrupted her morose reminiscences. With necessities attended to, she trudged to her bed. The hours of the night dragged by whilst Hermione stared at her ceiling, trying desperately not to think.

Mid-December brought the next meeting of the Order of the Phoenix Trust, and Hermione slipped into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place in the wake of the Minister, her arrival scarcely occasioning comment in the hail of greetings to Shacklebolt. The table was crowded, for everyone was in attendance at this meeting, so close to Christmas. Charlie Weasley was visiting from Romania, Percy from Toronto, and their sister, Ginny, was home, for the Harpies were on their winter break. Neville Longbottom was down from Hogwarts, where he served as apprentice to Pomona Sprout, and even Luna Lovegood had returned from her South American wanderings in search of the elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkack.

Snape was present, in his usual spot, slightly removed from the others. Hermione was aware of his eyes upon her, but she did not meet his gaze. She hunched in her chair, her head down, and listened.

The business of the meeting was quickly dealt with, and Hermione then endured loving greetings from Luna and Ginny. They tried hard, these former friends, to make Hermione believe that they did not hold her responsible for the deaths of Harry and Ron. She pretended that she believed, as well; it was far simpler than the tedious explanations and discussions she had borne with in the past, trying to make them see her blameworthiness.

Dinner was turkey and roast potatoes with sprouts, with mince pies and plum pudding for afters. Hermione took small portions and pushed them about on her plate, too anxious to eat. Being amongst all these happy, chattering people made her want to jump out of her skin, but she was drawn to be with them, in spite of the resultant discomfort she felt. And tonight was only the beginning of the misery. Tomorrow night was the Order Christmas party, when Grimmauld Place was open to receive visits from non-Order members, and Hermione was expected to attend.

At last the meal was over, and the Weasley brothers noisily undertook the washing up. Arthur invited those who wished to partake to join him in the study for a bit of liquid refreshment, and Lupin and Shacklebolt rose, allowing McGonagall to precede them through the doorway.

'Coming, Severus?' Arthur asked.

Hermione allowed herself a glance at Snape.

'I thank you, Arthur, but I believe I will take the opportunity to browse in the library, this evening,' Snape responded smoothly, and his black eyes darted to Hermione, catching her out in the act of looking at him.

Although she immediately averted her face, a spark of pure energy flashed into her at the meeting of their eyes, and Hermione was confused. Her heart rate increased, as if she had been confronted with some sort of danger, and she was suffused with heat. She knew that her face was red, and she had no wish to advertise her discomfort.

So she remained where she was until the room was empty, declining all invitations to join the drinkers in the study or the wireless listeners in the sitting room. At last, she hurried along to her room and closed the door, feeling as if she had narrowly avoided some sort of natural disaster.

An hour later, she still languished in her room, sitting rigidly on the side of her bed, unable to lie down and unwilling to stand up. She clasped her hands together in her lap until she felt the pain of her own relentless grip in the tingling of her fingers. Impulse raged in her, impulse such as she had not known in longer than she could remember. Unhappiness, she was intimate with. Fear and flight, she had down to an art form. But longing? Hermione Granger never permitted herself something so frivolous as that.

Longing was for the innocent, the blameless, the untarnished.

Yet before another hour had passed, she was on her feet, out the door, ignoring the lure of the happy voices in the study and the music from the sitting room. No, nothing but the near solitude of the library would satisfy the compulsion she felt.

She turned the door latch and let herself into the old Black family library, terrified that Snape might be within...and equally terrified that he might not.

Her fears were promptly put to rest, for Severus Snape was in the library, sitting in a maroon leather wingchair. At his elbow was a round table bearing fancy glass goblets and a matching decanter of deep red wine. The burgundy was illuminated by the crackling fire in the hearth, which also cast a glow upon Snape's straight-backed figure. He was dressed in his usual garb, a marbled board-covered book in his hands. He looked up instantly at her entrance, and the ghost of a smile touched his thin lips.

'Hello, Hermione,' he said equably, gesturing to the chair across from his with the lift of a hand. 'Will you sit?'

Hermione's heart thundered in her chest, and her breath laboured madly, as if she had run a long distance directly into peril. Still, she forced herself to advance to the chair he had indicated, and she gripped the arched back of it, grateful for the solid bulk to steady her ... and separate her from him. She stared down at her hands.

'You sent the jam,' she blurted, and even her voice sounded as if she had been running ... but that wasn't at all what she had meant to say.

'You received it, then,' he said, and there was satisfaction in his tone.

'But why?' she demanded, forcing herself to look at him. 'Why would you do such a thing?'

For a moment his eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head slightly to one side, as if measuring his response.

'Perhaps,' he said quietly, 'I will answer your question, if you answer mine.'

She shifted her gaze to the bookshelf behind him, allowing her eyes to flick over the books while her mind spun. Was it that important to her? How could it be, when nothing had been important for so long? But she felt compelled to speak, and suddenly, nothing else would do but that she should attempt to explain to him.

'I ... I don't have ... anyone, anymore,' she said haltingly, staring hard at a spot just above his left shoulder and continuing to hold so tightly to the chair back that her fingers ached. 'Harry and Ron...my mum and dad...they're all ... gone.'

She felt burning begin in her throat, quickly growing so intense she was unsure if she could speak again. For a long moment, she struggled not to cry in front of Snape, who was not famed for his sympathetic nature. Then she realised the silence was on-going; he was not stepping in to fill the void with speech. Time passed, and discomfort grew into awkwardness, but still, he did not speak. As the clock ticked away upon the mantel, Hermione grew more and more uncomfortable, until at last she dragged her eyes back to his face.

The moment their eyes met, he said, 'It's not a full explanation, but it's enough to be getting on with.'

Hermione was frozen, her eyes all but held captive by Snape's steady black gaze. She felt herself calming, her pulse and breathing normalising. Gradually, she began to relax her grip upon the chair.

'I sent the jam because it gave me pleasure to watch you eat it,' he said at last, 'and because I had hoped you might be tempted to do so again.' A faint sneer touched his lips, an expression Hermione had learnt to dread in her Potions teacher ... but for some reason, she felt quite sure that the twisting of his lips was directed at himself, rather than at her. 'From your appearance, however, it seems I misjudged the matter. You are, in fact, not eating more...that was obvious at dinner.'

Hermione's shoulders slowly rose and fell, a shrug. She had nothing to say on the subject.

'Won't you sit?' he asked again.

Not allowing herself to analyse the request, she rounded the chair and sat. At the moment her bottom touched the cushion, Snape was on his feet, filling a goblet.

'I hope you'll have a glass of wine with me,' he commented, taking up the second goblet and pouring. He turned and offered the wine, which Hermione accepted automatically.

'To your health,' he said, watching her. But his lips did not touch the glass until Hermione drank, and he followed suit.

The wine was good. She had not drunk alcohol for pleasure in recent memory.

'I think you will find drinking a glass of wine before your dinner will sharpen your appetite,' Snape commented.

She darted a sharp look at him...was he trying to tell her what to do?...but he was seated again, his book in hand.

'If you're peckish later, there are plentiful dinner leftovers tucked away in the larder.'

She opened her lips to tell him she could look after herself, but he appeared to be absorbed in his book, no longer attending to her. So she picked up the unshelved volume on the table beside her and began to read.

War Orphans in Wizarding Britain, 1978 to 1998 was fascinating, a subject she had never before considered. Warmed by the fire, soothed by the wine, she relaxed into her chair, busily twirling a lock of hair about one finger as she lost herself in the words. A part of her consciousness objected to this flagrant dereliction of duty...for who would hate her while she immersed herself in the text?...but Hermione was able to disregard the protest and permit herself to indulge in an hour of quiet reading.

So engrossed was she that her first indication of disturbance was Snape's sudden rigidity. Her head rose from her book, and she wondered why he was glaring past her with such malevolence.

'Hermione?'

She turned, craning her neck to look around the wingback chair. Percy Weasley stood in the doorway looking simultaneously embarrassed and hopeful, and Hermione had the impression he had called her name more than once.

'Oh,' she said. 'Hi, Percy.'

'Will you come down the pub for a nightcap?' Percy asked. 'My brothers, Gin, and Luna are coming,' he added, as if to sweeten the pill. 'We'd really like it if you did.'

Hermione felt sick at the very thought. 'Thanks, Perce, but I was just on my way to bed,' she said. 'I thought I'd make an early night of it.'

Percy advanced a few steps into the library. 'Oh, do come,' he urged her. 'It's the holidays, isn't it? Live a little!' He added a shy smile at this point, as if he knew he sounded rather desperate.

Hermione faced forward again, pushing the book she had been reading off her lap onto a cushion as she rose to her feet. Why couldn't he go away? Had she somehow failed to communicate her desire to be left alone? But this particular old friend had been on assignment for the Ministry in Canada for the best part of two years; perhaps he had not been told not to bother with her.

She sighed and stood straighter, preparing to turn and face Percy. After all, no one was asking her to perform an extraordinary feat, were they? So why did it feel so impossible?

'Hermione?' Percy persisted, the nearness of his voice indicating he had come another step closer. 'We won't stay out too late, I promise.'

Hermione closed her eyes in resignation. She could never bear up well under such importunities. If her former friends wanted her along that badly, it was her duty to comply, regardless of the cost. She turned to say she would go, but before she could speak, another voice intervened.

'Tell me, Mr Weasley,' Snape said silkily, 'is harassment now a diplomatic skill taught to junior Ministry officials, or is it just something you have perfected on your own time?'

Hermione suppressed a gasp at the sneak attack. Why would Snape say such a thing? Did he imagine he was helping her? Was he trying to start a brawl? She slid a look at Percy, wondering what he would do.

Before the bespectacled Weasley could answer, Snape continued, 'Under what code of conduct does it say that a gentleman continues to annoy a lady after she has declined his invitation?'

At last, Percy managed a response, his mild tone an indication that he hoped to deescalate the hostilities. 'Listen, mate ...' he began soothingly.

Snape shot aggressively to his feet, and Hermione felt trapped between the combatants. He hissed, 'You are no mate of mine, sir, and from your continued bad behaviour, I would hazard a guess that you are no mate of Miss Granger's, either.'

Hermione cringed inside, horrified to be the subject of contention and terrified the situation would somehow deteriorate into physical violence.

'Please, stop,' she cried, and looking at neither Snape nor Percy, she pushed out of the room.

Bill and Fleur Weasley stood with Luna and Neville in the corridor, apparently waiting to see if Percy would succeed in his errand.

'Hermione?' Luna said nervously, reaching for her. 'Shall I come up to your room? We could have a nice chat ...'

But Hermione hurried past them all to the staircase, ignoring their questions as she fled upwards to the sanctuary of her room.