Chapter 19 - Neediness

A/N: For simplicity's sake, titles of books, journals etc (fictitious or otherwise) are underlined and emphases are italicised.

Dear readers,

Whatever happens in this chapter serves the plot. Please do not pelt me with foodstuff or pebbles. I have my reasons for writing things as they are here. Believe me, it is not my desire to disappoint. I just had to write it this way. You will understand my train of thought when the story wraps up in the next chapter. It is not my desire to alienate my readers or to offend.

Re: Explanation of nihilism

This is a response to the many who are confused about my references to nihilism, Nietzsche and Shakespeare's Macbeth. I like it to you to interpret it. Bear in mind that there are many interpretations for many things and one is supposed to discover them by oneself.

Nihilism is the belief that all values are baseless and that nothing can be known or communicated. It is often associated with extreme pessimism and a radical scepticism that condemns existence. A true nihilist would believe in nothing, have no loyalties, and no purpose other than, perhaps, an impulse to destroy. While few philosophers would claim to be nihilists, nihilism is most often associated with Friedrich Nietzsche who argued that its corrosive effects would eventually destroy all moral, religious, and metaphysical convictions and precipitate the greatest crisis in human history. In the 20th century, nihilistic themes – epistemological failure, value destruction, and cosmic purposelessness – have preoccupied artists, social critics, and philosophers. In the mid 20th century, for example, the existentialists helped popularise tenets of nihilism in their attempts to blunt its destructive potential. By the end of the century, existential despair as a response to nihilism gave way to an attitude of indifference, often associated with anti-foundationalism.

Nietzschean nihilism is seen in Will to Power. For Nietzsche, there is no objective order or structure in the world except what we give it. Penetrating the façades buttressing convictions, the nihilist discovers that all values are baseless and that reason is impotent. "Every belief, every considering something-true," Nietzsche writes, "is necessarily false because there is simply no true world". For him, nihilism requires a radical repudiation of all imposed values and meaning: "Nihilism is . . . not only the belief that everything deserves to perish; but one actually puts one's shoulder to the plough; one destroys."

The caustic strength of nihilism is absolute, Nietzsche argues, and under its withering scrutiny "the highest values devalue themselves. The aim is lacking, and 'Why' finds no answer." Inevitably, nihilism will expose all cherished beliefs and sacrosanct truths as symptoms of a defective Western mythos. This collapse of meaning, relevance, and purpose will be the most destructive force in history, constituting a total assault on reality and nothing less than the greatest crisis of humanity.

Existential Nihilism deals with great scepticism and relativism. It has been associated with the belief that life is meaningless. Existential nihilism begins with the notion that the world is without meaning or purpose. Given this circumstance, existence itself--all action, suffering, and feeling--is ultimately senseless and empty. This is encapsulated in the Macbeth quotes of Chapter 17, especially these lines:

"Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more; it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing."

Best,

Lady Strange

Beyond Time and Space

Chapter 19 – Neediness

Nothing occurred during the next nine hours to make Severus regret what he had to tell Hermione, for she did not return until late. He sat by the cold unlit fireplace in the increasingly darkening room in abject desolation. He had never felt more forlorn than he did now. He would be calm, inscrutable and masterful as was his custom. It would behove him to play the situation extemporaneously. He nodded, assured that this was the right course of action. He hardened his mind against Hermione entering into his admission with any compassion, when the object of his reflection entered the chambers. He remained silent as she reset the wards, hang her robe and lit the few candles in the sitting room.

"Where were you?" he asked flatly, still staring at the empty grate.

"Researching with Remus at Cambridge," she answered, stretching on the sofa, examining Severus as if suddenly struck by his goodwill.

"Have you ever considered failure in this futile endeavour as a real distinct possibility?"

"I will preserve until I succeed," said she firmly.

"Why?" he asked, moving purposefully to her sofa and resting his head on her lap, feeling strangely comforted when she removed a lock of his ethereal hair out of his face. "Too cold?" he asked when she shivered.

"I'm used to it," she replied in an affected laugh.

"Why will you persevere?" he repeated more insistently.

"I'm tired of clinging to cold ghostly arm. It does nothing for my circulation if I get numb so easily," she said tiredly.

"What if you don't succeed? What if you never succeed?" he asked with urgency.

Her eyes narrowed in apprehension. "What ifs' is a game for scholars. I'm too tired to humour you now."

She tried to make her way to the library but was immediately pinned down to the sofa by Severus's violent pounce.

He was taken aback when she did not struggle against his icy grip on her wrists and the weightlessness of his ethereal body. "What if you never succeed?" he repeated with a snarl that bared his uneven teeth.

"Thank you for the endorsement. I'll have to face your wrath, I suppose," she quietly retorted with venom in her voice.

He increased his pressure on her wrists, as he realised she was not giving him a straight answer. He looked into her angry glare and saw that she refused to struggle because it would be a sign of fear. Hermione Granger was not so stupid as to display fear when she was cornered. He was impressed by her mettle but he did not show it. "Will we continue as we are if you fail?" he snarled.

"Yes."

"Why?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes with suspicion. "I feel looked after. I like it." She blushed becomingly.

"Why?"

"Because you infuriate me; because you're sartorial, who cares? I adore your mind!" Hermione snapped in a reactionary tone. "Your knowledge bewitches me. Now, laugh if you dare!"

"What have I done to elicit such a comment, Professor Granger?" he sneered.

"With backhanded compliments." She scowled. "I made a promise not to forsake you. You can fling me off, but I'll leech on again."

"I'm dead," he protested, finally admitting what he was to himself.

"In the words of the immortal Severus Snape, 'details mere details'. Get it in that translucent head of yours that I will not leave you. I will care for you and continue to fight with you until such time when we kill each other!"

"Wizard's oath?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes!"

"From one intellectual to another, have you patience?"

"What if one already possesses the virtue?"

"Such bravado!" he purred lowly, releasing her wrists. He returned to his chair, pondering her amiable certainty.

"And will you dismiss me from your company?" she asked spitefully.

"You annoy me with your prattle! You know very well what my answer is!"

"I do not, Severus," she replied quietly.

He arched his brow. "Your presence is acceptable." Crookshanks purred. "As is your cat's. You can stay if you avail yourself to the spare bedroom."

"Are you so well acquainted with my tastes?" she snapped with irritable exhaustion.

"Can you count, my dear?" he mocked in a low purr. After her contemptuous laugh, he continued, "Then you will have noticed that you have been under my roof and protection for an extended period of time, providing me with ample opportunity for observation."

She snorted and rose to make her way to the library.

"Do not leave me yet," he purred in a low casual voice without looking at her. "I am not done."

"Only if you extend me the same. I'll be in my boudoir." She gestured to the library.

He looked at her dourly. He saluted her with a lopsided smirk, his best imitation of a smile, and prepared to leave. "Do not wait up. Let us reverse the roles this once. Let ME wait for you, for a change." After a careful look around and a glance at her, he left to seek out the Bloody Baron.

* * *

Morning did nothing to dispel the sense of foreboding in Hermione's mind. She awoke with the feeling intensified. The woman, the Oracle, Severus's mother, whoever she was, had taken her to Delphi again, where Hermione was offered another cryptic message:

Love but do not Cherish,

Rant and take care to Twist the Blade.

She knew that it was some form of advice and had planned to discuss it with Severus. He could actually be rather thoughtful if he so chose; the onyx mourning brooch on her dressing cabinet evinced it. The attached note was a simple "For you, S.S." She stretched and saw Crookshanks staring at her in an almost meaningful way from the desk. When Hermione finished her toilette, she found Crookshanks frantically pawing at Xenophon's Memorabilia.

"Not now," she muttered, removing the source of her pet's antagonism. Holding the book tightly, she ventured out into the sitting room. "Severus?" she called out. She frowned on receiving no response. She repeated herself louder this time only to have Crookshanks answer in a long meow.

"He must still be gadding with the other ghosts," she muttered, making her way to the Potions office. To her astonishment, breakfast was laid out before her. As she seated herself, she saw a note in Severus's neat curlicue hand, which said, "Consult the antithesis of Plato."

"Very odd," she mumbled with a frown, pouring herself a cup of tea. Perhaps he meant Xenophon, she mused, biting into her toast. Feeling certain that he had indeed been referring to Xenophon, she opened the Memorabilia and read his hand on the title page, 'From Mother, 1975'.

She smiled – it was typical of Severus to note remembrances special to him. Intending to read through the book after breakfast, she was caught unawares when Crookshanks bounded onto the desk with a mighty pounce, knocking the Memorabilia onto the floor. He meowed desperately as if wishing to draw her attention to something. Hermione merely reproached Crookshanks sternly as she bent to retrieve the book, "See what you've done! You've knocked a few pages from it."

Crookshanks helped himself to the cream, which he knew his owner never touched; his eyes still trained intently on her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed on realising that the book was not shedding pages. Rather, it was a folded piece of parchment. She felt the early morning's foreboding sensation return as she carefully unfolded it. It simply read: Forgive me. I must go. Have patience. Forgive me. Adieu.

Hermione paled considerably, grabbing the chair for support. It cannot be! How could it? Was everyone in this perverse plan but her? The Oracle, his mother, had warned her. She had effectively described the working relationship she had shared with Severus. Insightful woman, thought Hermione, as her ire grew.

"It's easy to advise sanguinity and insouciance! She's dead!" Hermione spat, throwing the breakfast things at the door. The loud crash of ceramic and metal did nothing to palliate her temper and she paced around the office. "Mourn but do not weep, she said! And how am I to do that? Destroy but do not burn? Ha! Utter nonsense! Curse you, Severus Xenophon Snape!" With that wretched cry, she burst into silent tears.

"He has abandoned me! The bloody blooming bastard!" Hermione ranted, her teary voice choking with despair and anger, recalling the Oracle's words. "Twist the blade, she said! Oh, excellent! I shall twist the blade!" She stormed into the workspace and set up the cauldron. "How does she expect me to regret without hating!" she lamented, her sight obscured by tears and her hands trembling at her violent outburst.

Alternating between Severus's apology and the books strewn around the office, it became apparent to Hermione what she must do. She was so engrossed in her work that she did not discern a pop sound. Dobby cowered at the sight of Hermione furiously scribbling and muttering. As he took in her appearance, he asked meekly, pointing to the mangled mess of breakfast things, "Can Dobby clean Miss Hermy's things?"

"Leave me alone, Dobby," she said quietly without looking up from her writing.

"Dobby should, Miss, if Miss wants some more..."

She glared at him, her eyes looking positively wild. If her hair was not neatly in a chignon, he would have supposed her quite mad.

"LEAVE ME NOW!" she shrieked.

He fled. This was not the Miss Hermy who made him clothes and freed his kind. He must speak to Dumbledore.

As soon as the house elf disappeared, Hermione changed the ward pattern of the classroom and Potions office so that she would get no interruptions. Unbeknownst to her, her unusual temper outbreak had already made the rounds in the castle. Even if she had been aware of it, she did not care. She only wanted to concentrate on her work and soon enough the office resembled a sea of leather bound books. Before her on the workspace stood several vials of various colours, she fingered them unconsciously whilst she read, their coolness soothing her somewhat. Thus, she remained occupied till the late evening. She proceeded to pound the wormwood while muttering, "We'll see who leaves whom!"

Mixing the wormwood with asphodel, she looked through her list to see if she had left anything out. As she poured the asphodel and wormwood infusion into the softly bubbling cauldron, she was assailed by a barrage of noises. The doors of the classroom and office banged and shook with such force that it made her table vibrate. "Whoever you are – STOP IT!" she bellowed. "I'm working! I'm busy! GO AWAY! Leave me alone!"

"Hermione!" an assortment of voices cried out, as they rattled the doors. "Let us in!"

"Didn't you hear me? GO AWAY!" she screamed. Then muttering an incantation, she strengthened the doors to repel unwanted visitors.

Above the din, Remus's voice was audible. "Hermione, please, let us in. You've been in there all day! This is not judicious; you've not had dinner! Whatever it is talk to us!"

"GO AWAY!" she snarled with genuine malevolence, casting a silencing charm on the doors. "Good," she mumbled with a self-satisfied smirk at her reclaimed quiet, as she stirred her cauldron and lowered the flame. "Accio hellebore root, streeler venom and belladonna!"

"You shouldn't be doing this," came a wizen voice from the fireplace. She scowled at her inadequacy – she should have sealed the floo network as well. The old wizard had managed to catch hold of all the ingredients she had called for. "Hand them over, Professor Dumbledore," she demanded in an irritable hiss, her left hand firmly outstretched.

"What are you doing?" he asked, taking in the sight before him.

"Can't you see?" she sneered scornfully; her eyes glinting strangely as she steadily stirred the concoction in the cauldron.

"Why?" he asked with resignation.

"What a trite question!" she laughed bitterly. "I doubt I'll fail in this! I've already failed Severus with my inability to resurrect him; I cannot fail to produce a simple potion."

"Poison, you mean," he corrected, staying her hand from snatching the streeler venom with a flick of his free wrist.

"Ah," she answered in a clipped tone, which masked both her surprise and unwillingness to admit defeat. "You were an alchemist. Now that you know that this is an adaptation of the draught of the living dead, you can leave me to finish my death draught in peace."

Dumbledore dropped his bag of sweets on the table and looked at her pleadingly. "Selfish, unfeeling witch! You're no different from Severus! I know what you're trying to do. Killing yourself will not solve anything."

"It will kill my pain and that's all I want to do!"

"Think Hermione, it's not fair to Severus!" he implored, considering for the moment whether grovelling was a good option to soften ladies' hearts.

"Not fair to Severus?" she shrieked and laughed dangerously. "Is it fair to ME? He left me without informing me! He's gone and he didn't tell me!" she screeched, dropping the rowan spoon into the cauldron and weeping most piteously.

"There, there, dear," cooed Dumbledore in a fatherly tone, taking her into his arms.

"He didn't tell me!" she lamented petulantly through her tears, clinging to the Headmaster. "He didn't wait for me! He promised he would! He didn't wait for me!"

"Hush, dear, I know," soothed Dumbledore, patting her back gently with a sigh. He thought on Severus who had bid him farewell last night. "Suicide wouldn't bring you to him, neither will he return to you in such a situation," he reasoned.

"I DON'T CARE!" she screamed. "I shall die trying!"

"Hush, dear," murmured Dumbledore. "He wouldn't approve. Severus is a wizard of his word. If he claims he'll return, he will." Afraid that she would continue to brew her experimental poison, he stayed with her till she cried herself to sleep in the wee hours of the morning.

Footnotes:

The so-called prophecy is my poem – I apologise if it's ghastly.

The hand referred to in "neat curlicue hand" means handwriting. Hand has 2 meaning: (1) the appendage with fingers and a thumb, (2) handwriting. Here, it is definition (1).