Bearding the, er, Bat in His Den

Chapter 2 ~ Bearding the, er, Bat in His Den

There were three distinct problems to her current situation, Hermione reflected. Well, there were actually quite a few more, but three immediate problems. The first was, of course, how in the hell to ask her dear professor home for the holidays and have any chance of him accepting. For, once she had given it some thought, Hermione had gloomily come to the conclusion that both Dumbledore and L. M. Montgomery were right: It was inhuman to think of anyone (except, perhaps, Voldemort) spending Christmas alone in a place they despised. And, since she was the only one who (thanks to Dumbledore) was able to do anything about it, it was her job to do it. But how to do it? She knew as well as anyone that Snape disliked her. And he was as proud as the devil himself. Come to that, he was disturbingly similar to Katherine Brooke. They were both solitary, prickly creatures with sour dispositions and acid tongues. And they were both intensely hated teachers who, never-the-less, managed to produce some of the best results in their students.

Damned creepy literary parallels.

And that didn't help her whatsoever. She had none of Anne's magnetic personality and that approach had dubious chances at best. Maybe a written invitation? No. Too easy to ignore or refuse point-blank. Through Dumbledore? Ditto. Unless Snape took it as an order, in which case he would come and be as unpleasant as possible. And that wouldn't be fair to her parents. So, unfortunately enough, it would probably have to be the private, personal invitation. Damn. And that led to problem number two: How were her parents going to react to the idea? Hermione doubted that they would be thrilled with the idea that the first man Hermione would bring home would be her professor--and a man old enough to be her father. Mum was getting very keen on her finding the "right man" and had been since she was fifteen. Maybe one of these days she could tell her mother she was a lesbian just to get the woman off her back. And Christmas had always been a very private holiday for the family; Hermione had her doubts as to whether an outsider would be very welcome at the family dinner table. Still, it was an act of good will, and she supposed that was how she would present the idea to her parents.

And then there was problem number three, which came in two parts. They were called Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Ron would be violently disgusted by the idea, Dumbledore-induced or not. Harry might prove a little more tractable; while he still loathed Snape, he had become a little more... sympathetic after his Occlumency lessons in fifth year, though he had never said why. And he knew better than anyone the miserable possibilities of Christmas. Which was why he was staying at the Weasley's, after all. So maybe she could talk to him first and then both of them could talk Ron around.

Well, here goes nothing.

An owl to her parents was straightforward enough; she wrote as simply as possible to avoid entangling herself in her own words. And strangely enough, they agreed. They weren't ecstatic about it, but they seemed to understand. And then it was time to talk to Snape himself. If she told Ron and Harry first, they might manage to talk her out of it.

It was early evening when she knocked on his office door, her hands shaking. She had tried to think of what she was going to say, but her brain had refused to cooperate.

"Come in!" the dark voice snapped. She did so and found Snape seated at his desk, surrounding by masses of parchment. "Miss Granger," he drawled after a cursory glance. "To what do I owe this unexpected... pleasure? If it is to bother me once again with your repetitive requests for further potions study, I beg that you turn around immediately and return to your place. I have no wish to incur further headaches this evening."

"No, sir, it's not about my studies," she replied nervously.

At that, he finally looked up from his work, studying her with a sardonic expression on his face. "Will wonders never cease. I do believe this is an occasion of such note that I will be forced to mark the date on my calendar. Well, then, if you are to make some marvelous revelation, please do so that I may return to my work."

"I--um, I--"

"I had hoped," Snape interrupted, returning his gaze to his papers, "that by your seventh year you would at least be articulate, if not intelligent."

"Sir, I wanted to invite you to spend Christmas at my home," Hermione blurted out. "It would just be me and my family, so Ron and Harry wouldn't be there and you wouldn't have to worry about that. And then you have my word that we wouldn't bother you if you didn't want us to. You could do whatever you like; you wouldn't be pestered to join in the celebration. I promise you wouldn't. And my parents already know I'm asking you and they don't mind, really they don't. In fact, they'd like a chance to meet one of my professors..." Her voice trailed off as she realized she was babbling and that there really wasn't anything more to say. She watched Snape cautiously, as though he might jump up and hex her at any moment for her sheer gall in asking him. As it was, he rather looked like he'd been hit in the face with one of Dumbledore's smiley-faced Bludgers. Of course, with Snape it was always difficult to tell, but it looked that if he had been in the habit, his jaw would be on the ground by now.

And then there was a split-second change from astonishment to fury. Tight-lipped, he ground out, "I can assure you, Miss Granger, that I do not find this particular joke at all amusing. If you--and those two young bastards I assume are somewhere within listening distance of you--do not remove yourself from my presence at once, you will find yourselves on the receiving end of punishments that will make anything Umbridge inflicted seem like the third level of Paradise."

Hermione wasn't quite sure how she should react to this unchecked anger. Part of her wanted to be angry that he thought she would play such a nasty, malicious trick on anyone. Another part was surprised and saddened that this was the conclusion he would jump to so quickly and easily. After a second's deliberation, she answered him in a manner which would probably make the most sense to both of them.

"Sir," she said evenly, "if I was at all inclined to play practical jokes--which I am not--I would hardly be likely to practice such things on my professors. I am well aware of the fact that I still need recommendations for the upcoming university applications and would hardly risk alienating a professor who could very well make or break my college career. And before you bring up the subject," she continued, warming to her theme, "I certainly do not expect this to affect your letter in any manner whatsoever. Anyone with even a quarter of a brain would know better after having spent seven years with you. Furthermore, Professor, I happen to have my parents' letter with me. If I may present it to you as evidence of my sincerity?" She pulled the slightly creased sheet of paper from her pocket and placed it square in the center of his desk.

He watched her as he took the letter, his eyes narrowed and focused. She met his gaze with one equally intent. His eyes dropped at the very last moment to scan the letter's contents. When he looked up again, his eyebrow lifted. "'Mynie?'" he queried dryly.

Damn! She'd forgotten a few of the things her parents had written. "A family nickname, sir," she answered, trying not to betray her embarrassment.

He made no further comment, instead folding the letter carefully and replacing it on his desk. "Since it seems I must accept the fact that you are not acting maliciously," he said slowly, "I must then ask you this, Miss Granger: Who told you to invite me? And do not try lying to me. Like most Gryffindors, you are an absolutely appalling liar."

"I'm not sure whether I should take that as a complement or an insult," she quipped. There was no response from the stony-faced professor. She sighed. "Very well. To be perfectly honest, no one told me to invite you. However, Professor Dumbledore did strongly hint in favor of the idea."

Snape looked disgusted. "Albus. I should have guessed. Who else would be sending me students with Christmas invitations? Sometimes, I do wonder-- Well, no matter." He returned his attention to the girl still standing before his desk. "It would seem I have no choice but to accept, Miss Granger," he drawled. "I am well aware that should I refuse your invitation, the Headmaster will continue to throw other people in here in the same fashion that Christians were once fed to the lions. And as fond as I am of biting people's heads off, I should be singularly imbecilic not to realize that the conditions you mentioned are among the best I am likely to receive. I can think of few less horrifying ways of spending Christmas than by being surrounded with enforced holiday cheer with families who dislike me as much as I dislike them."

Hermione interjected, "Such as spending the holidays with the Weasley's, perhaps, sir? Or the Creevey's?" Was it her imagination, or did she actually see him shudder slightly?

"Precisely, Miss Granger," was his reply. "And so, I regret to inform you that you will, in fact, be meeting me once the train reaches platform nine and three-quarters."

"I will owl my parents immediately," Hermione responded calmly. Because, after all, she had prepared herself for the worst ever since her meeting with Dumbledore. And, perhaps--just perhaps--it wouldn't be so bad after all.