Neither the One, Nor the Other

13 - Neither the One, Nor the Other

Feeling somewhat at a disadvantage, Snape also pulled himself up into a sitting position, studying the Grangers carefully. Robert looked like he had been hit in the face with a full-grown Kneazle, but Amelia was harder to read. "Downstairs," she said briefly, looking pointedly at her daughter, then turning on her heel and disappearing. Robert, still stunned, shambled after her. A moment later, Miss Granger removed herself from the bed and straightened out her clothing and her hair.

"Why me?" she sighed.

"Why not?" he countered dryly. He watched as she fought her rising temper, giving him a glare.

"Well, if it makes any difference, sir," the girl said before shutting the door behind her, "you make a very comfortable pillow."

"That girl seems intent on disconcerting me," he remarked to the now-silent room. This, too, was an extraordinary feeling. Over the years of his miserable existence, he experienced fear, hate, humiliation, sorrow, loneliness... But after a few years with his father, never once had he let his composure slip. All of these things were to be expected. Hermione Granger had a way about her of showing him the unexpected. But then, he reflected ruefully, this time his own body had had an equal share in the situation. He was accustomed to sleeping alone; as the old phrase would have it, his bed had been cold for the past twenty years or more. And he never moved in his sleep. That he had... and not awakened at the touch of Miss Granger... alarmed him.

With a sigh, Snape stood, rubbing the area on his shoulder where he could still feel the pressure of the girl's head. Honestly, he told himself wryly, her mass of hair ought to have been enough to wake him up. He sprawled across the chair that sat in front of the girl's vanity (which, incidentally, had more knick-knacks on it than female fripperies) and glanced at his reflection. Grateful for the silence of Muggle mirrors, he took in the rumpled clothing, the slightly mussed hair, and the rest of his unprepossessing features. What had she said of it? 'A face that calls for respect.' He snorted. Bollocks. 'Respect' was the last thing he had ever garnered from anyone. What had possessed her? For that matter, what had possessed him?

A simple knock brought him back to the present and the fact that the door had been left open. "Yes, Miss Granger?" he asked, his voice neutral.

"I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be ready in a half-hour," she said quietly.

"I'll remain here."

She looked at him, puzzled, and asked, "Sir? Is there anything wrong?"

"No."

The look this time was sceptical. He watched her step into the room and close the door behind her. "Are your parents not going to break down the door?" he sneered.

"No," she answered evenly. "They know me well enough to believe me. Especially when I tell the truth."

Her eyes were steady; he was the first to turn away. "Do you have any idea how blessed you are to have such parents?" He stared sightlessly into the mirror, not really expecting an answer.

"Yes." Hermione crossed the room to stand behind him. "I've seen the others' parents, Professor. And while I'm always a bit disappointed that mine will never completely share my world, I do know what a blessing they've been to me." She turned from him to the mirror. "Somehow," she said quietly, "I get the feeling you didn't have the same."

"How perspicacious of you." Snape tried for sarcasm, but his voice had lost its heat. Her expression changed; he couldn't read it and so was surprised when her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Surprised, and then furious.

"Leave me be!" he snarled ferociously, and flung out his arm, turning as he did so. The force behind it was enough to hurl the startled girl across the room so that she ended up at the base of the shelves. "I don't need your pity, Miss Granger."

"I don't pity you," she replied, her voice low, but clear.

"What is it, then? Sympathy?" Poison dripped from his words.

She shook her head, then carefully stood. Her eyes were clear, innocent, intent. "You make my heart hurt," Hermione told him.

Her admission, given in that simple, blunt manner, hit him with all the force of a hippogriff to the solar plexus. He stared at her in shock, barely managing to choke out, "I... "

Hermione grinned suddenly, breaking the rising tension between them. "It rather surprised me, too," she confessed, returning to sit on the vanity table beside him. "I never even considered liking you, let alone... " She broke off suddenly, looking thoughtful.

"You ought to finish your sentences, Miss Granger," he prompted, oddly intent on what she had to say.

She shot him an amused glance for his choice of words. "I'm not sure," she answered slowly. "It's... difficult to be specific right now. All I can really say is that over the past week or so you've become important to me; I just don't know how yet."

A small breath escaped him, a mere shadow of his customary snort. "And am I meant to reply to that equivocal statement?" he queried.

"You are quite capable of sending me on my way," she said tartly, yet refusing to look directly at him.

"I do not know," he replied pensively, "that I will." Her eyes flew to his, dark amber circled by white. A hand reached out to him, halted, then clasped his left hand. He jerked slightly... a reflex from years of concealing the Dark Mark... but her hand merely tightened. He blinked at it, conscious of the feeling of warmth, of the texture of skin.

"I would be honoured," Hermione whispered, "to... at least... call you 'friend.'" She watched for a reaction, but long moments passed with neither sound nor movement. Her resolve began to waver in spite of herself. He's worth it, she told herself fiercely, repeating it in her mind. Don't let him shut you out!

"I do not believe," Severus said, finally, "I know what a 'friend' is. Or how to be one."

Hermione's smile was encouraging as she slipped off the vanity to kneel in front of him, catching his eye. "Then we figure out what we are together," she told him firmly. "One thing, though: you won't be able to get rid of me now."

A crooked smile crossed his face. "I imagine only time will tell me whether I should be pleased, afraid, or annoyed."

"Probably all three," she said jestingly. "Harry and Ron certainly seem to cover the spectrum. But then, they've also put up with me for years."

"So have I," Snape interjected darkly.

"So I wasn't born perfect." She shrugged, then relaxed so that she could lean against his leg. Once again, she felt that twitch, which seemed to be a reflex action on his part. "I'm a very tactile person," she informed him. "You'll have to get used to it." That he was that unused to contact struck another chord in her heart. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together and it was a picture of a very lonely man. Solitude she could understand. Total isolation was another matter altogether...

"Nobody," he said slowly, awkwardly, "has been this close to me in over thirty years."

"I can't make up for thirty years," her voice sounded slightly muffled, "but I can bloody well try. If you'll let me."

"I have no doubt that I should not, but, Medea help me, I think I will."

"Thank you." You may not need me, Hermione thought, but you need someone. And I'll be damned if I let you chase me away now.

They remained like that for some time, listening to the silence. Severus seemed to slowly become more accustomed to her, eventually relaxing entirely. His hand, still covered with her own, turned and though his grip was tentative, his thumb moved back and forth across her knuckles. It was an oddly soothing sensation for both of them.

Hermione glanced at the clock. "We should go down for dinner."

"Yes." He withdrew his hand from hers and she straightened. "I doubt your parents would be otherwise pleased."

"You have a positive gift for understatement, sir."

"And you have one for stating the obvious, Miss Granger."

"I think you could call me Hermione now. Or..." she paused, blushing slightly. "You could call me Mynie."

"Hermione... Mynie..." He rolled the names on his tongue, as if tasting them like wine. He looked amused, but there was a warmth to it she hadn't seen before. He made no similar offer to her, but she knew better than to rush him. Instead, he offered her his arm and escorted her down to dinner.

Dinner was a somewhat stilted affair. Genie teased them in between her chatter about her stay at Chrissie's house. Amelia looked knowing and quietly spoke of her and Robert's situation, listening to her daughter's (edited) version in return. Robert still seemed a bit shell-shocked and said almost nothing.

After dinner was much easier. The tree's candles were lit (real ones, in holders that had belonged to Amelia's grandmother) and Christmas carols were sung. To Severus's relief, they stayed away from the raucous, confusion-inducing modern carols, preferring instead the older, softer melodies. Not that he knew any of them anyway.

"Follow me on this one," Hermione ordered him (albeit softly). "It's a round; I think you'll appreciate it." She pitched her voice lower, to a note he could reach with his own baritone, then skipped up an octave. "Ready?" she asked. "Listen to me the first time through, then join in." He nodded.

Amelia watched the pair from her vantage point in her husband's arms. The candlelight glowed off of her daughter's wealth of hair, the light drunken in by the older man's dark strands. After the first round, he sung easily and with heartfelt insistence as he recognised the words.

Dona nobis pacem.

Give us peace.