In the Cold, Grey Light

Chapter 5 ~ In the Cold Grey Light

The next week passed quickly but uncomfortably. Professor Snape was faultlessly courteous--no one could fault him in that respect--but was completely withdrawn. He spoke as little as possible and spent much of his time in his room, though what pursuits he engaged in were unknown. Even Imogene was somewhat intimidated by his imposing silence.

"Is this his normal behaviour?" Amelia Granger asked her daughter one evening as they washed up after dinner one evening.

"As far as I know," Hermione answered slowly. "At school, at least, he seems to have two settings: silent and sarky. I've rarely known him even to smile, let alone laugh. And even at High Table, he's never been one to engage in the general conversation."

"I find that... regrettable," Amelia replied after a few minutes' thought, "but not altogether surprising. Not that he doesn't chatter, mind you, but that he never laughs. The look in his eyes reminds me very much of your grandfather--your Dad's father."

"Grandfather Michael?" Hermione looked up at her mother, surprised. "The one that died when I was two?"

Amelia nodded. "It's too bad you never really knew him, but maybe it was for the best. According to your grandmother, he was a cheerful young man once. But the War changed him. He came back with shadows in his eyes, much as Professor Snape has. He could never forget what he had seen--though he never spoke of it--nor could he forgive himself for what he had done." Her hands moved busily, drying dishes and placing them in the rack.

Hermione was silent. "I guess it doesn't surprise me, either. I don't know much about what he did during the war with Voldemort, but everything I've been able to find out has been bad enough. I just wish... I just wish he could let himself enjoy this one holiday. He can be a right bastard, but he's still human."

"I am well aware he can be 'a right bastard,'" Amelia smiled. "I've been reading your letters for the past several years, haven't I? And you're right. But he'll need to find peace within himself first before he can share it with others. Just don't try too hard, will you, dear? You know you can be somewhat overbearing, even with the best of intentions."

"He's pointed that out to me often enough." Hermione grinned wryly. "I'm sure if I try too hard, he'll do the same again. But I'll watch myself, Mum."

"Good girl." Amelia kissed her daughter's cheek. "Now be off with you. I'll finish up here." Hermione nodded and left.

Still, it was Amelia who approached Severus, late that night when a noise downstairs awoke her.

She found him in the living room, staring out of the window at nothing. "It is very late," she remarked softly. He whirled, his wand drawn and ready, but relaxed when he saw only the trim woman standing in the doorway, her dark masses of hair curling around her shoulders.

"Dr. Granger. I could not sleep," he explained. "I am normally something of a night owl anyway."

"I see," was all Amelia said in reply. After a moment's silence, she continued. "I've been wanting to thank you for coming to stay with us."

A snort of disbelief escaped. "I sincerely doubt that," he said bitterly. "Especially if your daughter has been completely candid with you."

"She is extraordinarily candid," Amelia admitted staunchly, "but she is also fair and gives credit where credit is due. You are a good man, Professor, and I say once again: I thank you for staying with us."

"A good man? Hardly."

"I'll say it again if you like. I am aware of..." she hesitated slightly, "what you have been. And I am well aware of the sorts of things you may have done and seen. Muggles have shown no less talent than wizards in hatred and prejudice, in devising horrible, cruel things to do to one another. We may even be more ingenious at such things, not having the use of magic to make things easier. But I say you are a good man because of the shadows of those things that you carry with you, that darken your eyes. An evil man would not have them. And, when all is said and done, Professor, you are still human. And humans often make wrong choices."

She held up a hand to forestall any comment. "I'm not saying it's a simple matter, Professor. I'm simply saying people, life, are never black and white. And the shades of grey change constantly." At his continued silence, she stepped forward to join him at the window, looking out at the deserted street. "As for my expression of gratitude, which you are so stubborn in denying, there are two reasons for it. Whether or not you believe it, we do welcome you to this house in your own right and are happy that you will celebrate with us. Christmas is meant to be shared. My other reason... The Weasleys have kept us abreast of the turmoil in the wizarding world and of our daughter's part in it. It is a terrible thing, as a parent, to know your child is in danger and be unable to protect them, but I also know that to hold her back would be even more dangerous. And, as happy as we are to have her home, we know she is even more vulnerable here than she is a school. She has knowledge and some experience, but to have you here... eases my mind. I know very well that you are both dedicated and dependable and, should anything happen, you would be one of the best for my daughter to have at her side.

"Well," she finished abruptly, "I must return to sleep. I'm off to work early tomorrow. Good night, Professor Snape."

"Good night, Dr. Granger." Snape said nothing more, but he was still at the window over an hour later, silent and unmoving.

It was Hermione, awakening before the rest of her family, who found the man still at the window seat, his sleeping features softened by the grey of pre-dawn.

She studied him curiously, careful not to make any noise that would disturb him. It was a harsh face even when relaxed in sleep, full of angles rather than curves. And somehow defensive. Thick, black eyebrows, sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, thin lips. And, dominating it all, a nose that would have made the most imperious Roman emperor proud.

"'It is a rock! A peak! A cape!'" Hermione jumped, startled, at the murmured words. "'Did I say it was a cape? It is a peninsula!'"

The girl began to laugh, but continued the quote. "'Of what use is this oblong receptacle? As an inkstand, sir? Or as a scissor box?'" Her lips continued to twitch into a smile. "I don't think it's quite that bad, sir."

"Then perhaps you would like to wear it for the next twenty years?" Snape's eyes snapped open, filled with sarcastic mirth.

"I am quite satisfied with my own, thank you," she answered primly. "At least yours suits your face, sir."

"I see. And what, may I ask, is your verdict on my facial features, Miss Granger?"

Hermione pretended to study him intently for several moments, hoping for some sign of discomfort from the stoic professor. She was doomed to disappointment. "A very strong face," she finally decreed. "Very masculine. And stubborn, I should say. I don't think there would ever be anyone who would call you good-looking, but it is a face that calls for respect." It was extraordinary how quickly the early-morning giddiness vanished at that point, leaving the young woman horrified at what she had been saying. "Sir! I didn't mean... I..." She miserably stuttered to a stop.

Severus rose, surreptitiously stretching various stiff muscles. He must be getting old. "If I had not wished an answer, I would not have asked the question," he interjected smoothly, amusement clear in his voice. "And you ought to know, Miss Granger, that I am unable to hand you punishments in your parents' house while on holiday. Still, I must admit that you have certainly given me the most flattering description of my features I have ever received."

Hermione simply stared at him, stupefied.

An amused snort emerged. "Can it be that I have finally rendered the infamous Miss Granger speechless? This day shall certainly be recorded in the annals of wizard history. And now, if you will excuse me, Miss Granger, there are a few matters that I must attend to." With a dignity that belied his frantic internal questioning (something along the lines of "What in the hell am I babbling about?"), he swept up the stairs and into his room.

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Notes:

To give credit where it's due, the quote at the end of today's piece is from Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand. I (and HG & SS) prefer the original French, but I put it in English for easier reading.