Chapter 11 - Detente

A/N: For simplicity's sake, titles of books, journals etc are underlined and emphasises are italicised.

Beyond Time and Space

Chapter 11 – Détente

Everybody in and about Hogwarts who had ever heard of Severus Snape was disposed to pay him attention on his return from the grave. Dinner parties and card parties were specially thrown for him and the invitations from the staff members flowed in so rapidly that he had soon the displeasure of apprehending he was never to have a disengaged day. Every invitation for tea and conversation with the various Hogwarts Professors came amiss to him, despite the fact he could not longer physically partake of the food. His reticent and solitary habits made evening parties awkward for him, and his youthful experiences had given him a poor taste for dinner parties at the Great Hall. He was a little shocked at the want of proper manners of his old students, for the more daring of the older dunderheads returned his scowling incivility by timidly asking for his autograph in their copies of Arsenius Jigger's Magical Drafts and Potions and Moste Potente Potions. The nerve of them! How dare they ask him to desecrate a book through such means! He made notes in his books, not useless scratching! He was glad; in the meantime that Hermione had not succumbed to the fashions of the day. She had, in fact, done more than the others. Although she was exposed to the odious suspicions and impertinent remarks of the students for not throwing him a dinner party, Severus was of the opinion that these sentiments were nothing more than pitiful resentment at sensible good taste. Soon enough, as human interest waned, he was once again left to his own devices when it was conclusively proven that death had not improved his civility.

Thus, by the end of a hectic fortnight of teaching, endless dinner invitations and evening parties in his honour at the Great Hall and the individual lecturers' chambers, Severus was glad to be able to rest his mind. Death, evidently, did not bring peace for one's mind. As he slumped back in his sofa by the hearth, he closed his eyes wearily. He had enjoyed the attentions – he could not deny that – yet he was distinctly uneasy. Did the rest of the teaching staff really care for him as a person, an individual or were they following Dumbledore and Minerva's leads? Remus Lupin had sought his forgiveness for not restraining his friends from bullying him in their youth; he was astounded that Sophia Sinistra had played the coquette with him; Pomona Sprout clucked about him like he was a favourite son. Were they all kind because he was dead? Remus had cried when Severus arrived for his dinner appointment at the Defence Against the Dark Arts office; the werewolf had actually been pleased that the spectre had some inkling of backhanded warmth towards him. Severus rubbed his forehead gently as if soothing a headache. Then, without warning, he banged his fist at the armrest. He had allowed his vanity to get the better of him; no more – he would get his body back – he would be resurrected and none of these false shows of kindness would remain. At least the general student population was still terrified of him. He smirked; he had not lost in touch in that field.

He looked to the clock when he realised it was dark. Hermione was late; she would starve herself to death if she persisted in this manner. She had chosen to absent herself from all the dinner parties. His ire rose when he realised that no one save Dumbledore, Minerva and himself noted the young lady's conspicuous absence. "They do not know what a gem they are neglecting," he muttered. Frowning at what he perceived was his colleagues' slight on Hermione and the young witch's self-effacement. "Silly creature! Stupid woman! Hiding in my library!"

As soon as those words left his lips, the very person of his speculations returned, lighting the sitting room with both her effervescent presence and neatly kindled ambers. "Where were you?" he demanded lowly, waving a ghostly hand and lighting the rest of the chambers dimly.

"Is it of any concern to you?" she retaliated softly, sinking into the sofa opposite him. She met his penetrating obsidian gaze without flinching so as to give him full access to her mind.

He snorted indignantly at what he saw. "Why were you at the arithmancy office? These rooms are yours as much as mine."

"Aren't you a being who guards his privacy jealously?" she rejoined, her hands a steeple at her lips.

"The visiting rounds are over if you do not know, Professor Granger," he said, thoughtfully tracing his lips. "You have had nothing but tea all day; eat," he continued commandingly, eyes still glazed in reflection.

"I've had biscuits," she said.

"Biscuits indeed!" he snorted derisively as he summoned a tray before hair.

"What? A fat pigeon!" she exclaimed incredulously as she lifted the cover.

"No, stupid woman! It's a chicken. Eat before you faint," he icily instructed, picking up the Daily Prophet from the magazine rack.

She rolled her eyes and scowled at him with a snarl, "Male chauvinist swine."

"I most certainly am not!" he answered coolly, reading the newspapers. "Lupin told me you nearly fainted. Hogwarts does not require a staff of ghosts. Eat, you silly insufferable creature!"

"I did not almost faint; I merely lost my footing," she protested, glowering hotly.

He tossed the newspaper aside carelessly and proceeded to casually fence her in her sofa. "Impertinent woman! The description I received was not one of a tripping person."

She rolled her eyes and pointed out, "I can walk right through you if I want."

"But you will not," he said in a clipped tone. "Now, eat before..."

"Before what?" she challenged.

"You don't want to know, Professor Granger," he said, quietly retreating to his sofa. Pleased that she begrudgingly took a nibble at the chicken, he continued, "I want you to bring me back."

Hermione studied him playing with his fingers before cautiously answering, "You are back!"

"Not like this! Back to life!" he hissed vehemently. "I want to live again – there are some things that I must do."

"Can't you do them now?" she asked, swallowing another mouthful, her eyes focused on his wringing hands. "You've done very well these last few weeks. It is almost as if you are still among us."

He laughed emptily in a frightening way. "I have been more adept than Binns but that is no consolation. I need my body, not this...this..." he declared with almost vociferous desperation as he gestured at his present form.

She sighed and stared at her chicken. "Why do you want your life? Why do you want to return? You want my help? I deserve to know."

"No, you DO NOT!" he hissed, holding tightly onto the armrests. "I have my reasons. I cannot be like this...when I know there will...that is...there is bound to be nigh insurmountable obstacles to what I wish to accomplish!"

Hermione was intrigued to see the rigidly self controlled Potions Master stammering whilst nervously tracing his lips and tapping his foot. What was it that he needed a physical from to accomplish?

"Obstacles or opposition, sir? Are they not details as well? Who would dare oppose you? Who would dare inveigle you for anything?" she mocked though her eyes remained cold and unblinking.

He narrowed his eyes and curled his upper lip. "I would rather you not know."

"What if I do accede to your request?" At the sounds of her offer, he started imperceptibly but regained his composure when she continued, "What if I helped you? What if I failed in my attempt? What then? Would you trust me to carry out your task for you?"

He laughed almost wildly at that juncture; the woman had raised his hopes and simultaneously dashed it. "And how could you when you do not know what it will encompass?"

"Because I would like to know what I'm getting myself into before committing myself to it. So tell me..."

He interrupted her, not wanting to hear more. "I will only decide what to do if you fail," he snapped irritably. "So, will you help me or no?" He mentally chided himself for sinking so low that he had to ask for help. That he actually supplicated in this case when he wanted to beg for something else was not lost on him.

After a long silence, in which both Hermione and Severus were weighing their options and mentally assessing each other, she finally spoke. "You trust me to do so?"

He scowled. "I trusted you with my library, didn't I?"

"Why?"

"So that I can have my apartments back," he lied, turning towards the window so as to avoid her gaze.

"It is a remarkable coincidence," she commented, moving to the window and looking intently outside at the darkness. "I anticipated this," she continued and he arched a brow. "While you were at your soirees, I have been trying to improve on this piece of nature," she sniggered slightly.

"And what have you surmised?" he asked following her into the library.

"I must bring nature's preserver back," she answered with a mischievous smirk.

"How altruistic of you, Professor Granger," he silkily purred with a look of supreme irony on his face.

She laughed hollowly. "Altruism is a philosophical impossibility. "I have my own reasons."

"Which are?" he questioned more out of curiosity than politeness.

"I conceal nothing – you're the logician, you figure it out." Her tart reply earned her a snarl from Severus. When she saw that he was amenable to hearing more, she continued, "From the books on the matter, I've learnt that the soul is the only thing immortal."

Severus waved his hand dismissively; he looked decidedly bored. "Have you read Dr John Dee?" he purred lightly in a falsely casual air when he caught her nonplussed look. "The black volume, it should be on the top shelf; the rightmost book, next to Potions and Poisons. To your left, Professor Granger!"

She followed his directions and found herself in front a bookcase that she rarely consulted. "It's all dark magic," she cried in slight alarm.

"The dark arts are my passion," he hissed slowly. "Don't stare at the books, ridiculous woman! Take Dee's Necromancy down!"

Hermione flipped through the book. "For a volume written by John Dee and Michael Kelly; it's extremely comprehensive." She tapped a page lightly before meeting his eyes. "So, you wish to be a resuscitated cadaver. Surely not, you'll lose your looks."

He leaned forward on the desk so that he was only centimetres from her face. Was she trying to be coy with him? Or was she being sarcastic? "What difference does it make?" he answered, undecided as to whether he should test the waters.

"I've grown accustomed to your face," she said plainly, her eyes flickering for a moment in a soft glowing warmth.

"Page one hundred and fifty-eight, Professor Granger," he whispered slowly, suddenly overwhelmed, yet unwilling to break their eye contact.

"How original!" she exclaimed with a derisive snort and read aloud, "The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised." She paled when she saw his faraway look and a devilish grin as he traced his lips with his long finger. He looked almost rakishly charming but disconcertingly so. "You've successfully attempted this before, haven't you?" she asked with sudden realisation.

He merely smirked and sat by the armrest of her chair, leaning so as to gain access to her ear, he purred in a dangerous hiss, "What do you think?"

"If it's dark magic, I won't do it!" she declared, pushing the book away.

However, he stayed her hand by seizing it firmly. "Good, you self-righteous prude! The cold should wake you!" he snarled. "There is no such thing as dark magic; only its application and the ends to which it tends can be considered. Unsophisticated philistines call it dark because people such as myself engage in it. They believe that we do so for personal gain, and I," he lowered his voice, "Do not deny it. The research value of such attempts is most enterprising. Have you considered that these forms of magic are merely controversial and as such, cannot be categorised neatly into a single discipline. The great potential of these arts can be deployed for life preservation among other things."

She took in his words with a frown and protested, "But it uses the omega!"

"So?" he replied carelessly, still perched on her chair, leaning somewhat on her arm.

She whispered hoarsely, "It is the sign of the last judgement and the end of the world!"

He narrowed his eyes at himself; it would be up to him to re-educate her then. "The Greeks were not put off by that little fact. Besides, my dear Professor Granger, you fail to notice that the incantation of 'aba bachabe abracadabra'; it cannot be all that devious."

"Abracadabra!" she exclaimed in nervous disbelief. Scanning the subsequent pages, she saw that Severus had been right. She was dumbfounded. "Do you know muggles use abracadabra as a magical word. Muggle illusionists use it..."

He cut her off swiftly. "I know, I was made to do a semester of Muggle Studies, if you must know."

"How can you be so blasé about it?" she asked, sounding almost hysterical.

"Because muggles don't know that the incantation is worthless on its own. It has to be combined with another incantation and potions to be truly effective. Bloody muggle showmen! Ignorant dunderheads!" he impatiently explained.

She continued staring at him in shock, uncertain as to the veracity of his report. She did not know how best she should react.

Ignoring her blank and dazed expression, Severus continued, "It has worked for me in the past when I tried it. You might want to take note of the chapter in its entirety. And these books." He snapped his fingers in the direction of his left and summoned two tomes.

Hermione caught them as soon as they floated towards her. "Amulets for Souls and what's this? Epistemological Alchemy," she read off their spines. She paled and looked at Severus who pretended to engage Crookshanks in a staring contest.

She blinked and saw that her eyes were not deceiving her. She quickly opened the second book and found the title page staring at her. It read:

Epistemological Alchemy:

1981.

Hermione was amazed and fascinated. Severus had a D.Mag.A. and no one knew! Truly amazing! She trained her eyes on him as he left her chair and gracefully picked out a volume from one of the shelves.

"Well, Professor Granger, I shall leave you to your reading. When you've found a plausible method, you know where I shall be. And, Professor Granger, kindly remove my corpse from the crypt," he said silkily as if nothing had happened. Hermione could do nothing but nod dumbly at him; her mind was still reeling with what she had just learnt. Her wretchedness increased when he swept out of the library without so much as a backward glance.

Footnotes:

In this story, D. Mag. A. stands for Doctor Magicorum Artium. It's a wizarding PhD.