Chapter Eight

Several minutes – or possibly just a few seconds – of uncomfortable silence filled the room as all five sat motionless in their seats, and Hermione began mentally running through the other possible things she could have said to satisfy Narcissa's questions. Then all at once, the dining room erupted into confusion as nearly each one of the guests began speaking simultaneously.

"Er... I didn't want to make you..." Hermione started to offer an apology, instantly regretting the bluntness she wielded in making her confession.

"Oh, Hermione," sighed an sympathetic Astoria, rising in her seat as if barely restraining herself from leaping across the table to enfold her into a hug. "Hermione, Hermione..."

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger, if you..." Narcissa began, looking as flustered and shocked as Hermione had ever seen her.

"Merlin's rumpled bollocks, Granger! No one said you..." Draco threw up his hands.

"Draco!" His mother interrupted herself to squash his colourful cursing and unintentionally brought the verbal explosion to a screeching halt.

Only Snape had held his tongue, mutely taking in the scene before him as everyone fell into another long pause. Raising her eyes to the young woman across from her, Hermione silently pleaded for a distraction of any kind, praying that Astoria would take the hint. Leading off with a hesitant "Scorpius has finally learnt to spell his full name," the proud mother rambled on from one accomplishment to the next. With only the tinny sound of flatware against china to accompany her, she filled the remainder of the meal with the innocuous nothings that were so desperately needed.

When the time had come for her to take her leave, Hermione thanked Narcissa with all the grace she hoped would overcome her apparent breach of proper protocol earlier. As the older woman pressed her hand a bit longer than expected, reciting the things that people are supposed to say in these situations, Hermione could almost believe that she saw a bit of compassion directed at her. Apologising, perhaps, for pressing her on her parents earlier? Whatever the reason, it was an unexpected and welcome gesture.

Draco and Astoria walked with Hermione to the Floo room, allowing her to swing on her coat before saying a word. Astoria finally threw herself at Hermione, sniffling back a few tears and ignoring her husband as he rolled his eyes at the sight.

"You really know how to kill a conversation, Granger."

"Shut it, Malfoy."

"See you next week."

Hermione was as busy as ever at the hospital in the lead-up time before the holidays. Holiday parties were frequent and alcohol-laden, so she witnessed firsthand the products of good cheer, lowered inhibitions, and the general stupidity of Londoners at play. And although accepting it would have been a welcome boon during the season of extra expenses, she happily turned down the offer to work extended shifts at the emergency room, deciding that the 80-hour work week was an unnecessary instrument of torture rather than the generous gift her supervisor tried to convince her it was. Miserably behind in her shopping for the extended Weasley clan, she had even debated taking a week off from her trips to the library.

She changed her mind when she scrounged a bent, manky envelope off the snowy step of number eleven, Grimmauld Place. The return address, blurred and faded from melting and refreezing snow, was Australia.

She wanted things to have blown over completely before returning to Malfoy Manor, wanted things to have settled down and wanted them to forget what she had told them. If not for the postal reminder of the urgency of her project, she would have waited until the new year before going back. Why did she tell Mrs. Malfoy her personal business about her family, anyway? She didn't need to know. Hermione knew that she could have come up with another evasive answer, and Draco had even given her an option out! She could have taken him up on it, letting him deflect his mother's questions.

Harry knew. Ron knew. They had known it from the very beginning. The Weasleys knew. Neville, Luna... But no one else. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Professor McGonagall knew that something had happened, but Hermione hadn't elaborated and the woman hadn't pushed the matter. It hadn't seemed right to leave the continent without providing at least the semblance of an explanation to her mentor, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself that she would have been publicly forgiven for anything just because of her role in the war. She could have done anything, gone anywhere, or become anyone she wanted and just chalked it all up to being traumatized by the war. It had been so dazzlingly tempting, really, to be free from the expectations others had built up for her, and while Harry and Ron had no option but to stay in the wizarding world, her situation was different. So while McGonagall knew something – really, everyone knew something, as it was hard to explain away her absence in light of her new-found fame with the Daily Prophet at work – even she remained in the dark about Hermione's operations abroad.

In their initial meeting, Draco had learned a great deal of it. And now his mother, his wife, and his godfather were in on her dirty little secret as well. It wasn't their knowing that bothered her – after all, she thought they already knew. A pang of guilt attended this thought as she realised that Draco had kept her trust and allowed her to break her news on her own terms. It wasn't that she feared any information leaking out; no, she trusted that these remarkably private people, who had fought their own battles with the slander of the press, would keep her confidence as well. If she had to name it, it had more to do with these inexplicably conflicting desires she felt both to hide and be discovered. A part of her wanted to tell the world of all the mistakes she had made, finally earning their scorn for the foolish pride that told her she was capable of performing such complicated magic in the first place. Another part wanted to retreat to where they would never find her or be able to hold her accountable for what she had done. More than anything, she simply wanted to be free from the burden of being torn in two, wanted to be able to face the world openly, without regret, as she once had.

She knew she was safe with the Weasleys, a family that knew her and loved her in spite of everything, and she knew she wanted to be safe in the world. But being known and being safe were often mutually exclusive things, and she didn't want to choose anymore. She hoped she wouldn't have to with the people she was just beginning to get to know at Malfoy Manor.

Brushing these thoughts aside as she thumbed through her notebooks to decide what to do next, she compared the notes she had taken over the previous few months with the account of that terrible day in the twelve-year-old, dog-eared journal she clung to like a lifeline. Every date, time, and spell was carefully notated; incantations were scribbled out, wand patterns were sketched in the margins, and physical responses were listed as they occurred. The web of false memories she had woven was all there, each original thought or experience she had stolen from Drs. John and Helen Granger and each one she had dreamed up to replace it for Wendell and Monica.

When she arrived at the familiar library on the following Sunday, she had a plan in place: pick up the volume she had been working on last and review the charms found inside it. She had found some success with the spells the previous week while bent over the open pages, but her work was rendered completely useless when she found herself unable to replicate anything in Grimmauld Place, and it was obvious to her that she needed this piece of the puzzle before she could move forward. Perhaps she had copied down the wand patterns wrong, or perhaps she was mispronouncing the incantation. Either way, the plan was to get in, get the information, and get out without anyone noticing her. She could return again in a few weeks' time when their attention would be elsewhere.

After quietly hurrying through the corridors from the Floo room to the library unnoticed, she swung open the doors to find Snape prowling the perimeter balcony with a book in hand. The phonograph in the alcove was piping out a different kind of tune this time. Although she had never listened to much of it, having never felt quite hip enough to pull it off, it sounded like jazz: a piano, accompanied by a muted trumpet and an upright bass. He was in the post-Hogwarts uniform she had come to expect: black trousers and a white shirt rolled up to his elbows. The glasses were a new addition, but perhaps she simply hadn't noticed them earlier, or perhaps he only needed them for tedious hours with fine print. She hadn't even made it to her desk when he greeted her with his usual enigmatic behaviour.

"Miss Granger."

"Professor."

"I understand that you'd like to learn Legilimency." He snapped his book closed and wound his way around the balcony to the spiral staircase, descending the steps with deliberation.

She hesitated out of her surprise at his directness, and found herself reluctantly responding, "I believe you've understood that for several weeks." The thought of Severus Snape of all people feeling sorry for her was more than she thought she could bear, but she suspected that it was the only reason he had for addressing her now.

He frowned, stopping haltingly on the final step. "If you knew what I was doing when I..."

"I didn't know it then." It was best to head that one off before he came to the wrong conclusion. For all the confusion over that first meeting, she needed him to know that she had no idea he had already begun their lesson and was performing Legilimency on her. "I thought I was there to convince you to teach me. I only learned later that you had already agreed." The least – the very least she could salvage at this point was a smidgeon of her pride.

"How much later?"

"That very day, after... my fainting spell." She tried to stop fidgeting, pushing her hands into fists at her side. "Astoria told me."

He looked faintly annoyed. "If you've known for weeks that I agreed to teach you, why didn't you come to me and ask me for tutelage?"

"I don't want to cajole you into something you don't want to do."

"But you knew that I had offered."

"After a significant amount of badgering by your godson, if I'm not mistaken."

"Regardless, I offered."

"But you didn't want to."

"Again, I offered," he said insistently, agitation mounting with her protests, "and I offered before I knew the extenuating circumstances accompanying your request."

There it was – open pity from one of the least outwardly charitable men she'd ever known, just what she had hoped to avoid. If even Snape felt sorry for her, she must be a pathetic creature indeed. As grateful as she was that he was still willing – and had even freely offered – to teach her, she also didn't want him to give up his time because Draco had wheedled him into doing so, and she certainly didn't want him to do it because he felt sorry for her.

"Sir, I have no desire to... "

"Granger, stop calling me 'Sir,'" he warned, clearly exasperated.

"Fine..." she replied stiffly. "'Professor,' then? 'Mister Snape'?"

He rolled his eyes but withheld his bark. She took it as tacit consent, if not approval, and stood her ground as she set the book down on his desk as he approached her.

"Professor," she repeated herself, pointedly changing his title, "I have no desire to ask something of you that you find even remotely unpleasant."

"Were you planning on haranguing me at every step of the process, verbally assaulting me and slowly eliminating my will to live?"

"No, but..." she began defensively.

"Or you assumed that teaching you would be beyond the scope of my tolerance?"

"No, of course not, Professor, that's absurd..."

"Because I did survive decades under the thumb of a Dark Lord," he assured her with a growing smirk, "and worked for Voldemort as well, so..."

"No, Professor."

"Then why do you assume I will find it unpleasant?"

Was he joking? She had driven him up the wall as a student from the very beginning, despite desperately working for his approval. Perhaps he could tolerate her now if they were working side by side in silence, but their record of actual interactions didn't bode well for the future.

"Then what, Miss Granger?" His patience was wearing thin as he waited for her to respond. "You've decided you can't endure my presence long enough to gain anything useful from me? Or you've realized you're not quite up to a challenge after playing dress up as a Muggle for so long? What is it?"

She paused, refusing to break eye contact and wanting to provide an answer that made sense. "I don't want you – I don't want anyone – to do something on my behalf because they feel a sense of obligation or... pity or the repayment of a debt. I've already lost that last fight with Draco, and I don't want anyone else dragged along."

"You think Draco is helping you out of a misguided sense of duty to you?" he asked reservedly, folding his arms across his chest.

"He said as much at first."

"Do you think he is the kind of person who would allow just anyone into his family home, repeatedly, out of mere obligation?"

"Well, I think we're actually becoming friends now. I hope we are, at least. Astoria, too."

"Then allow him to repay you, Miss Granger."

"I don't want him to feel that there's anything to be repaid. Enough time has passed now, don't you think?"

"It doesn't really matter."

"I beg to differ, Professor. I'd rather accept the gift from a friend than payment from a debtor. It most certainly does matter."

"It doesn't matter whether or not you, Miss Granger, believe there is a debt. It doesn't matter because he does, and he probably does for both yourself and Potter. Let him repay you on behalf of the both of you and allow him some measure of absolution. Unless, of course, you'd rather take some twisted Amazonian joy in emasculating him instead."

"My coming here and traipsing about in his library is an act of mercy?"

"Your acceptance of his offer of assistance releases him from this particular burden."

She considered this. "If he feels that way, then I'll gladly accept. When can I tell him that he's paid in full?"

He didn't answer her, but posed another question that was clearly bothering him. "Why do you assume that my offer would, like Draco's, be out of, as you say, 'a sense of obligation'?" He paused, allowing her time to formulate a response. When none came, he rephrased his question. "I understand that Draco owes you his life for your testimony in their trials afterward and for a particularly dramatic act of heroism on a broom during the Battle of Hogwarts, but what do you believe I owe you?"

"If I'm not mistaken, your offer was out of pity, not obligation." She waited for confirmation, which came in the form of one raised eyebrow. He allowed her to continue. "You owe me nothing, Professor. I know that. I've always known that. I am completely certain that any debt between us is in your favour many, many times over. You protected Harry and Ron and me from more evil than I can probably comprehend... and everything I know now of your actions in the war... well..." She trailed off, beginning to lose herself in her thoughts. "First year, with the Philosopher's Stone? The challenges at the end were so clearly directed at the three of us, I don't know how we missed it at the time. I suppose at the time we thought we had accomplished something really tremendous, but that was sheer hubris. We were just children. I'm still shocked that we were almost encouraged by Dumbledore to go and find the Stone." She paused, waiting to see if he would correct any of her assumptions. When he didn't, she remarked, "Flitwick picked the flying keys for Harry, of course, and McGonagall Transfigured the chess set for Ron. You designed the logic puzzle for me, didn't you?"

"No, Miss Granger," he replied with a remarkably straight face and a devious glint in his dark eyes, "it was for Mr. Weasley, whose logic, dedication, and insight at twelve were the stuff a teacher's dreams are made of."

She let out a burst of laughter. Ron at seventeen had come a long way from the boy she first met, but he was as oblivious as he had ever been as a first year. What seemed even more strange to her than her old professor cracking a joke was the fact that he actually seemed gratified by her response.

"Surely the coloured fire gave the intended recipient away?"

Coloured fire? There were the barriers placed at either end of the room, she recalled, but... "Oh, God! No... you knew that... that I...?"

"That you set me on fire at the Quidditch pitch with your bluebell flames? Yes, Miss Granger, I knew."

"And you let me live?" she exclaimed.

"As surprising as this may sound, Dumbledore didn't look too favourably on the murder or torture of students." A dark look flashed across his features and he turned away from her sharply.

That was a subject she was going to leave untouched. "Well, thank you."

He grimaced and responded gruffly. "Don't thank me for that."

Deciding that the tone in the room had grown too dark for her tastes, she boldly noted with a pert grin, "You know, the poetry you wrote was terrible."

"What?"

"Terrible," she repeated with emphasis. She hoped that she hadn't judged incorrectly as to how far she could push him, and she tried to pace herself based on the conversations she'd overheard him having with Draco. "Really, an abomination to the English language. The cadence started off all right, but it immediately fell out of the rhythm you had established. The poetic feet changed far too frequently, and you couldn't help but feel a bit seasick as you read it aloud. You may also remember that you chose to rhyme the word 'size' with 'sides.' I mean, some people can pull off the irregular rhymes, but you're no Emily Dickinson."

"Difficult as it is to believe, it was not my intention to be the next Dickinson... or Shakespeare or Chaucer or anyone else," he drawled. "So I didn't miss the mark."

"And yet knowing you read Dryden makes your effort seem a bit lackluster."

"I hadn't read him then. The Muggle literature campaign is a recent endeavor," he explained as an aside, before animatedly returning to the heart of the argument. "Besides, the goal was keeping you three alive! I'd say I was fairly successful on that front, despite your valiant attempts to thwart my every move."

"True," she agreed. Dropping her cheek, she glanced down and added, "Your opening speech to us that first day in Potions class was much more inspiring. It was that moment, really, along with watching McGonagall transform from a cat, that opened my eyes to the possibilities of a magical life."

"Come, Miss Granger," he responded dryly, deflecting her away from her thoughts. "Do you feel the need to succumb to sentimental nostalgia at such a young age?"

"Fine. Back to my laundry list." She began going through them systematically, year by year. "Third year, you alerted us to the dangers of a werewolf at Hogwarts, even if it happened to be Remus."

"Yes, and what good that lesson accomplished. No one else could even put the pieces together, and in the end..." He shook his head, not allowing himself to finish the thought.

"Fifth year, you notified the rest of the Order to our foolish, foolish mission to the Ministry. Sixth year, you directed Luna and me to help Professor Flitwick so that we wouldn't get hurt that night on the tower, protecting us from Death Eaters. Didn't you? Seventh, when you..."

He was starting to look more and more uncomfortable as she spoke, shifting his eyes from one shelf to another and his weight from side to side before he finally stopped her. "Enough, Miss Granger! Enough."

The two stood there silently for a few moments. She matched his posture, crossing her arms across her chest, and stared at the wooden floor beyond her shoes. While she was grateful to have the opportunity to finally acknowledge the things he had done on her – well, at least Harry's – behalf, she didn't think that this Legilimency business was any more resolved now than it had been before.

"The wizarding world is far too preoccupied with debts." She spoke quietly, afraid that this belief came from the residual foreignness of this world to her, and not wanting him to dismiss it outright on those grounds.

He didn't. "There we may actually be in agreement." His gaze drifted to the snowy grounds through tall windows as he half-slumped, half-sat against the table they were standing next to. "But it can't be changed."

"Why not?" she asked incredulously.

"Are you really that naïve?"

"At the very least, I don't see how a life debt can be so binding. How can you even determine such a debt? Eliminating some very specific circumstances like stopping someone from drinking a deadly poison or shielding someone from a bullet to the heart, who knows how things we may say or do will affect something else down the line? I could say something to someone at the right time and not even realise that I had saved their life. In a case like that, would I be owed a debt? What about debts that can never be repaid?"

He stalked away from her towards his desk, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Miss Granger, what do you know of life debts?"

"Only what Dumbledore shared with us." Not that she was the intended recipient of this information. Everything she knew about life debts was filtered through what he had told Harry about his father, and Snape, and Wormtail. "Well, what Dumbledore shared with Harry."

"Then I doubt you know the whole of the matter. There are many different kinds of debts, and Dumbledore's information in this matter is unreliable at best."

"Of course, intention must be taken into consideration." She was voicing questions she'd had for years, speaking more to herself than to him at this point, but hoping he would jump in with an explanation if she said something too far off the mark. "What if someone intends to save a life, but doesn't? Or the reverse, where someone accidentally saves someone despite never having intended to do so? How could that possibly merit a life debt?"

He took his seat and flipped through a book open on his desk, displaying complete indifference to what she was saying.

"And at what point can you say that a debt is repaid? At some point, when does an act of kindness cease being a debt repaid and turn into a gift that you give freely? I don't think..."

"A gift?" he laughed cynically, finally interrupting her train of thought. "Your unsuspecting idealism was depressing enough while you were trying to liberate house-elves, but it could at least be explained by the folly of youth. I should certainly think you'd have seen enough of life to know better by now."

"Doesn't the Christmas season illustrate the human desire to want to share a little kindness with one another?"

"Yes, you really are that naïve," he muttered under his breath. Then speaking aloud, he raised his head from his book and asked her, "Your example is a good one. As you've probably completed your shopping for the year, let me ask you this: Who did you prepare gifts for? How many Galleons did you spend?"

She looked at him quizzically, knowing better than to answer when he'd just Socratically laid a trap for her to fall into. "What will my answer tell you?"

"Only this: unless you follow a completely different practise from the rest of the world, you're not taking part in an exercise in generosity like you assume, but merely in an equal exchange organised by society from time immemorial." His demeanor grew increasingly detached as he questioned her. "Let's just assume, shall we, that you bought presents for the people who are purchasing things for you, and you spent roughly the same amount they spend on you. Am I wrong?"

"What if I did? Why does buying gifts of similar value indicate that it's merely a socially-prescribed custom? I've learned over the years that people are generally uncomfortable receiving a gift if it costs much more than what they planned on giving me, so I've adjusted what I spend for their benefit. Although when you factor in the thoughtfulness of the gift, well, the whole venture goes out the window. Some people know exactly what you'd like or need," she said, thinking of Ginny, "while others try desperately and always get it wrong," she concluded, thinking of Ron. "Are you questioning the validity of my feelings for the people I..."

"You're throwing yourself off track now by personalizing it," he declared pragmatically. "Keep your emotions out of it."

She glared at him, growing more frustrated by the minute as he continued to remain calm. "Fine. Allow me to refocus," she retorted with fire in her eyes. "Also let me ask you why you believe reciprocity transforms a gift into an obligation? If I feel the inclination to give someone something, it's generally because I care about them. Isn't it likely that they feel the same way about me?"

He didn't reply, but his eyes followed her as she huffed off and threw herself into her chair.

"Doesn't the intention of the giver matter as well, just as with debts? Certainly, some people use their generosity to manipulate and control others, but not everyone does." Malfoy donations to the Ministry made during her school years ran fleetingly through her mind. She whipped around in her seat to face him. "Have you never given anything freely? Been given something freely? Draco seems to believe you have! You can't possibly be so... hard and so cynical as to..."

"Miss Granger, we were speaking in hypotheticals," he stated, abruptly cutting her off. "Let me stop you before you say something you may regret, and let us return to the question at hand. Do you still want Legilimency lessons or don't you?"

Well... that was quite the non sequitur. She hadn't known where this ridiculous argument was leading, but she realised that as she grew more defensive, her comments had become increasingly invasive and unfair. She was relieved that his offer to teach her hadn't been rescinded somewhere in the course of the afternoon's events and berated herself again for always saying the wrong thing with him.

"I do," she responded cautiously. "More than almost anything, and you're one of the few people who know why. But now that I know nothing can be freely given, by you at least, I'm bound to be pretty hesitant to accept."

"You know no such thing about me." He was as unreadable as ever, and she wished she already possessed the skills he was offering so that she read the subtext that ran behind nearly everything he said. "I will concede that there are times when people both receive and give freely, but those occasions are grossly outnumbered by a system of exchange rather crudely disguising itself as generosity."

"Then which is this?"

"Consider it a gift."

"How can I believe that, all things considered?"

"Then I have a proposition for you. Let's make it an exchange, if you will." He laid his reading glasses atop a stack of books in his rolltop desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and releasing a silent sigh. "I've paid enough debts for a lifetime, many of which I never promised. A life in debt swallows you whole, Miss Granger, and it's a life I refuse to live anymore."

She looked at him tentatively. "What are we exchanging?"

On the morning of the 25th, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny made it to the Burrow with only three trips back and forth through the Floo, transporting small children, piles of wrapped gifts, and platters of baked goods in turn. They were greeted by the warm and friendly faces of Arthur and Molly and Charlie, and were excited to discover fields of perfectly fluffy, gleaming white snow behind the house. The little snow they received in the city turned grey and dingy after only a few days on the streets, so the only white snow the Potter kids saw on a regular basis was found in the patch of Grimmauld Park where Harry had built a snowman with them. He was convinced that it stayed bright because it was away from the traffic, but Hermione and Ginny took turns refreshing the Cleansing Charms on the figure without letting him know.

Molly had seen the writing on the wall when Fleur married Bill years earlier, knowing that her daughters-in-law would soon be dragging her sons and her grandchildren away from her nest into the care of the Other Grandmother. Ever the family general, she orchestrated a system to ensure that all her loved ones would be together for at least one day of the year: even years put Christmas at the Burrow, while odd years moved the celebration to Boxing Day. Being an odd year, this Christmas dinner allowed all present to squeeze around a single table on the first floor rather than being spread over the lower two levels of the house.

When all the dishes had been cleared up and the mashed potatoes had been cleaned off the wall (Lily's enthusiastic, if haphazard consumption at work), the family gathered around the Christmas tree in the sitting room. After a few rousing verses of "God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs" and "The Holly and the Screechsnap," Harry and Hermione led everyone in a few of their favorite Muggle carols and George kept everyone above the age of five plied with a potent eggnog of his own creation. When it was clear that the little ones were starting to get sleepy, presents were passed around for all to open and words of thanks promptly followed.

As Hermione watched the Weasleys laughing and smiling together in their matching jumpers, she retreated to a worn armchair in the corner of the room. She curled up in it, leaving her presents in their torn wrappings under the tree, and slyly pulled a dirty old envelope out of her pocket. After four days of carrying it with her to work and back home again, she finally gave herself permission to open it.

Monica and Wendell

Late April! Four months! If she could learn enough in the next four months, she could try again, and this time, she might be able to change things. She wanted to celebrate, wanted to get up and dance around the room, but she also wanted to keep it her secret – just hers – for a little while longer. Wishing the family a Happy Christmas, she tucked the letter into her battered journal before contentedly heading upstairs to Percy's old room for bed. A Happy Christmas, indeed.