Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks are due to Shug, Magically, and Machshefa, who betaed and picked this chapter. Any errors are my own. Bless you for your comments! I anticipate them eagerly, to know what you think of what I've written. Be sure to let me know.

Chapter 3

With the door closed and locked behind her, Hermione paced, the expressions on the faces of her former friends frozen in her mind. All she had wanted was to speak to Snape...to say something to him about the jam...but he had distracted her, and she had ended up sitting with him, drinking wine and reading.

Well, what if she had done? What did they care if she took some time off to read a book? But she had seen their faces...all their faces...as she had rushed past them to the stairs. They knew about her.

She paused, feeling confused. But they had pleaded with her, those former friends, hadn't they? Singly and in groups, they had come to her after Harry and Ron died, sharing their grief with her. When they had realised her level of self-blame, they had tried to reason with her. They had taken her to the wizarding counsellors who worked with the post-war trauma victims so numerous in the immediate aftermath of the war. They had bought her books, taken her to group meetings for survivors, and for a very short space of time, Molly and Arthur Weasley had attempted to have Hermione live with them at the Burrow. But every inch of the Weasleys' ramshackle home had bristled with memories of her dead best friends, and Hermione had begged to be permitted to leave.

Sagging back on the bed, she frowned and wrapped her arms about herself. Her former friends were kind people. They would forgive her, even if she didn't deserve it.

Snape, on the other hand, did not have a kind bone in his body. He was sour and sharp and dangerous, no matter how much of a hero he had been touted as at war's end. So why had he become the sticking point in her mind? Why would a memory of his recent behaviour derail her train of thought?

Why, even now, did she want nothing more than to be in the library with him, drinking wine and reading books?

Bill, Fleur, Neville, and Luna crowded into the library. 'What happened?' Bill asked Percy. 'We told you she's ... fragile, Perce.'

Percy Weasley looked angrily at Snape. 'Everything was fine until Snape stuck in that big nose of his,' he said defensively.

Snape resumed his seat and picked up his abandoned book, his narrow face unreadable.

Bill transferred his attention to Snape. 'What do you think happened, Severus?'

Snape turned a page of his book. 'Your brother happened,' he said tersely.

Percy made an exclamation of disgust and pushed out of the room. Bill and Fleur seemed to hold a silent conversation, and after a moment, Bill spoke again.

'Will you join us, Severus? Have a pint?'

Snape turned another page, giving no indication that he had heard Bill's invitation. After a few awkward moments, the young people filed from the room. As they started downstairs, where Tonks waited with the remaining Weasleys, they were treated to the sound of the door snapping shut behind them.

Time passed, and as it did, Hermione felt her urge to flee ebb away. In its place the new compulsion began to rise, growing in intensity until she rolled onto her stomach, literally clenching the bedclothes in her hands. She was no stranger to wretchedness, to every negative emotion, but this felt alien to her. It was like ... want.

Yearning.

I don't want. I don't yearn. But her protestations had little to no effect on the clamouring that charged about in her chest like a beast in a china shop, heedless of the destruction left in its wake.

She bolted to her feet, weary of struggling against the impulse.

I'll just go to the library and get the book I was reading, she promised herself. Reading had calmed her earlier, had it not? How long had it been since she had been able to lose herself in a book?

Out of her room, the house was dark and quiet. She lit her wand-tip, moving down the staircase and into the library, thankful not to meet a curious Weasley on her way. On the cushion of her chair, she found the book she had been reading. The embers of the fire still burned in the hearth, and for a moment she considered sitting down to read. But anyone might come into this room, trapping her into one-on-one conversation, a trial to be avoided at any price. At least in her room she could lock the door and be safe from intruders.

Slowly, she began to retrace her steps: The second floor, where Arthur and Molly slept across the hall from Bill and Fleur; the third floor, where Charlie and Percy shared a room across from the twins; the fourth floor, where Hermione had her room across from Ginny and Luna.

She stopped and stood on the landing, her eyes following the staircase up to the fifth floor, where Snape had his room, across from no one. Did he suffer insomnia, as she did? There would be no harm in looking to see if there was a light beneath his door ...

She cast a spell to further muffle her nearly soundless footfalls and crept up to the fifth floor, the rampaging beast in her chest thundering about as if it were on the open plains. It was not necessary to leave the top stair to see the light beneath Snape's door, but she felt compelled to approach, pulled in his direction like a moth to flame.

She took one step, an almighty quiver shimmering through her like a frisson of pure magic, and then she was before his door.

The door to his room looked exactly like hers, aged, pitted wood with an ornate old doorknob. She stopped mere inches from it, the book slippery in her suddenly sweaty hand. He was obviously awake; she had only to knock, and perhaps he would ask her in. He was likely reclining upon his bed...the old double bed which had belonged to Sirius Black's parents...reading to make himself sleepy. They could read their books together, as they had done so companionably in the library. Or perhaps he would suggest that they go down to the kitchen for a cuppa.

She reached out, and her fingertips ran lightly over the rough wooden surface, nearing the doorknob ... and she stopped. On the other hand, perhaps he had fallen asleep while reading. She wouldn't want to wake him, when sleep had come to him after such a long wait. She could just peek in, and if he was sleeping, she could enter and put out his oil lamp...burning an unattended lamp increased the danger of fire, didn't it? She would be doing him a favour!

Her fingers grazed the brass knob, and another thought stampeded into her head as if unleashed by the careening beast in her chest. If he were sleeping, what would be the harm of creeping into the unoccupied side of the bed? She could rest for a few hours, really rest, and then slip away before dawn. Snape need never know she had ... slept with him.

'That's insane,' she whispered, testing the notion. But no, she didn't care if it was mad. She wanted ... something. She couldn't articulate what that thing was, but she wasn't fussed by her lack of clarity. She was quite convinced that it would come to her, if only she could have a wee bit more peace. And lately, peace had been found in the company...in the person...of Severus Snape.

She grasped the door knob, acknowledging to herself that she had never meant to knock...knocking was for secure people who had confidence in the legitimacy of their errand...it was not for her, not now.

She turned the knob.

The door was locked. She wanted to scream with frustration.

She rested her forehead on the age-roughened wood of the door as air expelled forcefully through her nostrils in disgust. He was in there, just on the other side of the door, and she couldn't access him.

Knock! her mind screamed, but she took a step back. 'I won't,' she hissed in answer to her argumentative self, and spinning around, she returned to her room.

She woke and sat bolt upright in bed. Light filtered about the edges of the heavy draperies at the window. It was morning; she had slept at Grimmauld Place, fully dressed, her trainers still on her feet. Her stomach rumbled, protesting the lack of nourishment recently provided. She set aside the book she had held clutched in one hand as she had slept and went to the door.

Crossing the hall into the bathroom, she washed her face, noting her wan complexion and hopelessly mussed hair. What did it matter how she looked? It wasn't as if she wanted to attract anyone's attention. Except for Snape, her mind whispered.

'It's not as if he cares,' she muttered to her reflection.

Silently, she trod downstairs past the sleeping Order of the Phoenix members who would soon rouse and fill the house with noise. She paused as the top of the basement stairs, acknowledging her hope: that she would see Snape in the kitchen and be permitted to spend time alone with him.

She saw him from the doorway, busy over the tea things, straight-backed and methodical. Hermione slipped noiselessly into a chair, but she might have known he would not be fooled.

'Good morning, Hermione,' Snape said without turning from his task.

Hermione huddled into her shapeless grey cardigan and stared mutely at the table top.

Snape crossed the floor and placed a tray upon the table. Hermione smelled the toast and her stomach growled audibly. To her embarrassment, Snape laughed.

'Well, your digestive system speaks to me, even if you do not,' he observed, placing a cup of tea and a plate of toast before her and seating himself directly across from her.

Was he laughing at her? She had come to expect better of him. She bit her lip, wanting to walk away, but she seemed to lack the wherewithal to do it.

'The bare minimum of basic human interaction requires you to return my greeting, Hermione,' he said, cutting his toast into neat diagonals. 'Allowances may be made for your state of mind, but there are limits to patience...even of the people who care for you.'

Hermione looked up, startled by his words, and found him studying her with sober black eyes.

'Good morning,' she muttered.

He nodded approvingly. 'Good girl,' he said. 'Now, drink your tea.'

The tea was, once again, perfect, and she drank it greedily, finding that she also fancied the toast on her plate, and she smeared it liberally with what appeared to be homemade brambleberry jam. Snape partook of his black tea and dry toast without talk, but every time Hermione sneaked a peek at him, she found him watching her, which was simultaneously gratifying and disturbing.

She finished the toast and pushed the plate to the side. Spotting a dab of jam on her finger, she raised it to her lips and sucked it off, savouring the sweetness. Then Snape's knife fell from his hand, hitting first the table and then the floor with a clatter. Hermione started, looking to him in some alarm, but he had grabbed the teapot and was pouring more tea into her cup, a strong line between his brows, as if it required all his concentration to stir in two sugars and add a splash of milk.

Hermione watched him apprehensively. He seemed to be acting rather strangely. Now, he lifted his teacup and regarded her from beneath frowning brows.

'Why didn't you knock?' he said tersely.

She felt as if someone had punched her in the breastbone. She didn't have to wonder what he was talking about; it had become clear to her very quickly that Snape would always ask the most difficult question imaginable.

'I ... I don't understand you,' she said evasively, careful not to look at him. Snape was, after all, a master Legilimens ...

'You came to my door at two in the morning,' he said, and there was no room for doubt in his tone. He was absolutely sure.

'You can't possibly know that,' she said weakly, pressing down on a crumb of toasted bread and pushing it across the table, feeling it dig into her fingertip.

'Do you imagine that anyone else in the house could have passed the barrier at the landing?' he asked patiently.

That piece of information surprised her into looking up.

'Yes,' he answered, though she had not posed the question.

She cocked her head, thinking about it for a moment. 'It couldn't be the recognition of a magical signature,' she mused. 'You never had access to my wand.'

The corner of his mouth quivered before he controlled it. 'No, it was physical recognition,' he admitted.

'But what...' she began.

'Your hair,' he said. 'You played with it whilst you read...there were strands on the chair.'

Hermione nodded appreciatively. 'Good one,' she said.

Snape shook his head, obviously amused. 'Thank you,' he said sardonically. 'Now, tell me. Why didn't you knock?'

I must learn never to look into his eyes, she thought, trying to look away and finding herself unable to do so. He wasn't being invasive...was not attempting to enter her mind...but it was difficult to do anything other than blurt out the truth when they were staring into each other's eyes.

'I didn't want to knock.'

A faint frown touched his face. 'I would have let you in, you know,' he said.

Hermione shrugged. She couldn't begin to tell him her thought processes; it was nothing she would speak out loud ... nothing she would admit.

He relented, sitting back and picking up his teacup again. 'What are your plans for the day?' he asked. 'Will you organise the party preparations?'

Hermione averted her eyes, gathering the cardie more tightly around her. 'Molly does the party.'

'Then perhaps you'll accompany me when I pop round to Diagon Alley,' he said casually. 'There are a few articles of clothing I must acquire.'

Hermione closed her eyes, her hands fisting in the roughly woven wool. She had tried to go to Diagon Alley once since the end of the war. It had been disastrous...recognition, people stopping to speak to her, wanting her autograph, and the knowing ones, who gave her wide berth, who would not soil themselves with her. She had Disapparated, leaving Ginny and Molly in the middle of the street, then locked herself in her flat and refused to let the Weasley women in.

But maybe with Snape it would be different. No one would dare approach him; he had been universally disliked as a teacher. But no, she wasn't taking into account the post-war revision of Snape's history. He was a hero now. People would likely swarm him.

And there would be loads of people in the wizarding shopping district, for it was so close to Christmas ... and if she went with him, there would be expectations of her, because there always were. It made her weary just to think of it. And there was tonight to be got through...hordes of people she didn't want to see trooping through Grimmauld Place, wanting to see her, talk to her ... judge her.

She was unaware that she had begun to cry until Snape's handkerchief touched her cheek, and he was speaking to her in a low, soothing voice. He had moved to crouch beside her, and she turned her face to him, allowing him to tend to her tears, realising he had been speaking to her for some time. Had she ... gone away, again? It happened sometimes, when she was particularly distressed.

'I want to go with you,' she managed in a raspy whisper, 'but I just can't.'

'Never mind,' he said, and the words were spoken with such intensity that she blinked at him, blurring her eyes with fresh tears. 'It was foolish of me to ask. Forgive me.'

Resting her cheek for one moment against his handkerchief-wielding fingers, she saw that crowding in the doorway were the other inhabitants of the house, held at bay by the unyielding arm of Arthur Weasley, who barred the way.

'Are you well enough to go to your room now?' Snape asked, as if there were no onlookers chronicling every word they exchanged. 'Will you go up with Miss Lovegood?'

With Snape's hand at her elbow, Hermione stood. Arthur allowed Luna to pass, and Hermione did not demur when Luna put an arm about her waist. Hermione would have preferred to stay with Snape...to go with him, perhaps, to the library, and sit beside him on the loveseat and read a book...but his company was not on offer, and everyone was watching her. It was easier to go with Luna, walking past the Weasleys, who had formed a line against the wall to give the two girls room to pass.

Hermione felt as if she were under review by a panel of critics, and she kept her eyes on her feet as she passed them. At the end of the line were the twins, and George pressed something soft into her hand.

'No need to miss the fun,' he murmured.

Hermione registered the texture of the Extendable Ear, and she allowed the end to fall at the top of the basement stairs.

'She was not in need of your assistance, Molly, else I would have called you at once,' Snape said testily.

Luna was content to meander slowly up the next flight of stairs as Hermione let out the extra-long extension of the magical listening device.

Muffled voices, then Molly. '... paying an awful lot of attention to her, lately ...'

Snape, clear as a bell. 'Someone ought, don't you think? You lot have let her go on in this state for the best part of two years ...'

Molly's and Ginny's voices rose, indistinct but defensive, then Snape again, his tone sharp enough to shred steel.

'... a houseful of Ministry people, the press, and Merlin knows who else! Have you looked at the girl? She's like a bedraggled ghost. Have you even made sure she has something appropriate to wear? We'll all be judged by her state...'

Now Molly's tears, and Hermione couldn't bear to hear Molly cry. She allowed the Extendable Ear to fall from her hand and continued up the steps with Luna, feeling as if she'd been listening to a radio drama.

And several floors below, someone exited the house with a resounding slam.

Nothing to do with her. Nothing at all.