Chapters 51-60

To Live Before You Die

(Sunday night at Hogwarts in the dungeons)

Hermione couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t slept for two days, and she still couldn’t sleep. At last she gave up. Pulling on her apprentice robes, she blindly grabbed a book from the shelf and picked up her wand.With a whispered Lumos she slipped out of her room. She preferred to read in the library. Somehow the presence of many old books made the company of the thoughts that kept her awake at night easier to bear.

But when she opened the door, she found the room already occupied. A fire was burning, and floating candles provided a warm, comfortable reading light. Severus was seated in one of the armchairs, a book in his hands and a mug on the small table next to him.

He raised his head. Their eyes met. So dark. Her skin tingled and her stomach tightened with longing. At the same time a horrible feeling squeezed her insides together, almost like Devil’s Snare. All of a sudden it was hard to breathe.

‘I’m sorry, sir—I didn’t want to disturb you.’ She made to draw back, but he held up his hand.

‘There’s no need for you to leave, He—’ He shook his head a little. ‘Miss Granger.’

She swallowed dryly and stepped into the room, noiselessly closing the door behind her. Fixing her gaze on the door handle, she gathered all her Gryffindor courage. ‘I wouldn’t mind if you were to call me Hermione, sir.’

For a moment he was silent. Then she heard his familiar sigh. It didn’t sound exasperated or contemptuous anymore. Merely tired. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea, Miss Granger.—Now, if you want to sit down and read, feel free to do so. Otherwise, you are equally free to leave.’

She gripped the book so hard that her knuckles stood out whitely. But she ignored the hot flush suffusing her cheeks, and moved to the other armchair. Somehow she managed to curl up in her chair. Somehow she was able to open her book.

She began to leaf through the pages.

oooOooo

And the magic that lives in words and rhymes took pity on her.

oooOooo

Snape watched her out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t surprised when she stayed. After more than twenty years of practice, he recognised Gryffindor courage when he saw it.

Curled up in the chair, her feet tugged underneath her, she reminded him of a cat, so limber her movements were almost liquid. His potions had kept the after-effects of the Cruciatus at bay throughout the winter, and now the days were lengthening again. The way she leafed through her book—also like a cat, like the restless movements of an agitated cat’s tail. And not at all like her usual reading habits.

‘What are you reading?’ The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. ‘If you don’t mind my question, Miss Granger,’ he added.

She looked up and smiled at him, but it wasn’t a happy smile. Her brown eyes were huge in her pale face. In the firelight they glowed with the colour of sherry, rich and warm.

‘Not at all,’ Hermione said. ‘It’s a book that belonged to my mother. Muggle poetry. By an American woman-poet of the 20th century. Edna St. Vincent Millay.’

She inhaled deeply, frowning at the book resting on the soft curves of her thigh. ‘I normally don’t read poetry. But my mother loved these poems very much. I guess I was trying to learn what my mother found in them.’

‘And have you discovered what you were looking for?’

‘I am not sure. I have neither very much experience with reading poetry nor with most of the subjects the poems deal with.’

‘What are they about?’

‘Many are about love. Others about a variety of topics—gardens, mythology, religion. A fair number are about death.’ Her expression grew bleak. ‘I know about that, at least.’

For a long moment he stared at the fire. Then, as if from far away, he heard his voice answer her, ‘As do we all, who have survived that final battle.’ The practice of the press to call the battle at Hogwarts the ‘final’ battle still irritated him. If only it had been. ‘Is there one you like?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘A poem. Is there one you—is there one that speaks to you?’

She thought about his question. At last she nodded. ‘I am not sure if I understand it, but…I thought I could…maybe…feel like it somehow.’

‘Will you read it to me?’

oooOooo

 

oooOooo

‘What are you reading, sir?’

He blinked, slowly pulling himself out of his reverie about that long-dead Muggle-woman’s words. Snape smirked at Hermione, as he held up the book he had put aside while he was listening to her.

‘The Lord of the Rings?’ Hermione laughed softly. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

He quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘You may not believe it, but I’ve read it before. As a boy, long ago—one of my Muggle relatives gave it to me for Christmas.’

‘Why are you reading it again now?’

He gave her a wry smile. ‘For two reasons. Maybe three. One, for some reason I did not desire to read about Dark Lords in my spare time during the last twenty years. Two, if my Slytherins are getting into trouble because of a book, I should at least be familiar with the story. Three…it’s not all that bad, for Muggle mythology.
‘And I think Tolkien was right, at least partly. There are wounds that cannot be healed. And after some experiences you cannot ever be whole again.’

‘But what about Sam?’ she asked at once.

He looked at her in silence. Her bright young face, filled with fierce hope and something he couldn’t quite pinpoint. And for a moment, for a very short moment, he wondered what it would feel like to be able to share that hope.