The Quality of Mercy

Four: Old Wounds

Of all the ways Hermione might have imagined her first meeting with Professor Snape, she was fairly certain that none of them would have involved her lying on her back in the snow, her legs bound with magical cords, while she stared up into the Potions master's contemptuous face.

She said the first thing that came to her mind. "That's Mrs. Granger-Weasley."

His expression didn't change. "Indeed." Then his lip curled, and he added, "You could have done better."

Outrage boiled through her at his words, but in a way that was good -- if she were busy being furious with Severus Snape, then she wouldn't have time to stop and think about how frightened she actually was. Instead of making an angry retort, she said, in what she hoped was a properly irritated voice, "Are you going to take these cords off, or do you expect me to lie here all night?"

Without replying, he flicked his wand, and the cords unwrapped themselves from her legs and somehow slithered their way back into the slender ebony stick. It was a nice trick, even though Hermione didn't much appreciate being on the receiving end of it.

In icy silence she stood, then brushed the snow off her damp jeans. Of course the good Professor couldn't be bothered to give her a hand up. She had always continued to think of him as Professor Snape, even though he had served a year as Hogwarts' Headmaster. However, since she had spent that year wandering around looking for Horcruxes, the notion of "Headmaster Snape" had never really sunk in.

"And how is Mr. Weasley?" Snape asked, still with that disdainful lift to his voice.

She shot the Potions master a look as baleful as any he might have bestowed on a blundering first year. "Dead."

For a few seconds Snape did not reply. Then he said, in ungracious tones, "I suppose you had better come inside."

"Don't do me any favors, Professor," Hermione replied, wishing she could inject as much scorn into speaking his title as she currently felt. "I'll just retrieve my owl and go."

"Ah, so that's how you did it." He looked up in the direction of the yew tree, where Crookshanks still sat. "Infiltrated the Gringotts Owlery?"

"Yes," she said curtly, then called out, "Crookshanks!"

The Transfigured cat flew down toward her and landed a few feet away. He cocked his head and gave Snape a wary look. Without speaking, Hermione drew out her own wand, then restored Crookshanks to his former feline glory.

"How clever," remarked Snape, in a manner which suggested he thought her ploy was anything but. At once Crookshanks' eyes narrowed, and his ears flattened against his head.

"Not clever enough, apparently," Hermione said, bending down to pick up the cat. He let out a rusty meow but appeared resigned to being held. "I'll just be going -- "

"Not so fast." The Potions master fixed her with a slit-eyed look of his own. "I think you'll find it impossible to Disapparate so close to the house. Inside, if you please." If possible, his mouth thinned even further. "I want some answers."

Feeling fairly trapped, Hermione lifted her chin and then stalked past Snape and through the open front door of the cottage. Inside it was much warmer, thanks to a generous fire in the hearth. The interior of the little house was as plain and humble as its exterior although, as she noted right away, scrupulously clean. The ground floor seemed to consist of one largish chamber that opened up into a dining area directly past the living room, with a kitchen at the extreme left. Both the dining area and the kitchen appeared to have been given over to potions mixing or research, as herbs and other dried flora hung from the ceiling in both sections, and the Welsh dresser in the dining room was crowded with all sort of bottles and flasks in various shapes, sizes, and hues. Apparently Professor Snape's solitude had not been an idle one.

He indicated that Hermione should sit down on the faded sofa that faced the fireplace. Since she didn't know what else to do, she did so, settling herself on the center cushion with Crookshanks on her lap. The cat looked even less thrilled to be there than Hermione herself did and, after some determined wriggling, jumped down and stalked over to the hearth, where he lay down in front of the fire. No doubt he wished to shake off some of the chill from the cold Yorkshire night.

Out of nowhere Snape produced a sturdy brown mug and handed it Hermione, remarking in dry tones, "The universal panacea."

Somewhat mystified, she lifted an eyebrow, then sniffed at the contents of the mug. It appeared to be plain tea.

"Nothing poisonous, I assure you," Snape said, still with that ironic intonation.

Nettled, Hermione lifted the mug and sipped at the tea. It was quite hot, but it did feel good going down her throat. Her damp feet still ached inside their heavy boots. If she'd been in her own house, she would have pulled them off immediately and gotten her stocking feet as close to the fire as possible, but of course she wouldn't take any such liberties here in Snape's home.

"Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way," he went on, moving past her to sit in a threadbare wing chair situated to the right of the couch, "perhaps you would be good enough to explain what you're doing here."

Those were pleasantries? Hermione thought, but she supposed it could have been worse. At least he'd brought her inside out of the cold, and he'd removed her bonds as well. Not that it mattered, she reflected with some bitterness, since he obviously had the place Charmed against unwanted Disapparation. And how like Severus Snape not to offer one word of condolence about Ron, or to even inquire why a healthy young man should have died at the ripe old age of twenty-three. Again she felt anger flare, and was glad of it. It was much easier to face Snape armed with righteous indignation instead of shamefaced embarrassment over being caught snooping around his property.

However, she also knew that handing the Potions master a lie would be useless. Hadn't Harry told her what a powerful Legilimens Snape was, second only to Voldemort? Besides, there was nothing shameful about the truth in this situation.

"Following a hunch," she replied at length, after sipping at her tea once more.

Snape scowled. Looking at him, Hermione realized the past five years hadn't been particularly kind. The lines that ran from his nose to mouth looked deeper, as did the furrow between his brows. And as he turned his head slightly to fix her with an unblinking dark gaze, she saw a few threads of silver glimmer in his black hair.

Since he did not seem inclined to speak, she continued, "I've been on a temporary posting in the Office of Financial Services at the Ministry of Magic. Imagine my surprise when your name came up on the list of current pensioners."

"So that was it," he said, and a flicker of annoyance passed over his face. "So much for confidentiality."

"Well, it did take five years for anyone to notice," Hermione offered, but Snape did not appear to be much mollified by her words. "And even when I brought it up, the regular OFS employee who was working with me tried to tell me it was a simple accounting error."

"Which you didn't believe."

"No."

"So you undertook the task of finding out whether the error was no error at all?"

"Yes," she replied, feeling increasingly uneasy. The erstwhile Potions master had continued to speak in cool, disinterested tones, almost as if he were discussing someone besides himself. She hadn't really expected him to fly into a rage, but she would have thought he'd show a little more reaction than this. Then again, she reflected, do I really want to know how angry he probably is?

That thought only increased her disquiet. He seemed far too calm for a man who had had a five-year exile destroyed by a witch playing amateur sleuth.

Still with that scowl etched into his forehead, Snape turned away from her and stared into the hearth. The dancing flames outlined the hooked nose and cast odd shadows under his eyes. For the first time she realized that he wore the familiar close-fitting coat from his Hogwarts days, although the cuffs looked frayed, and she thought she saw a patch on one elbow. As he shifted, she caught a glimpse of a livid scar that cut its way across his throat. It was mostly hidden by his high collar...mostly. Looking at that reminder of Voldemort's treachery, Hermione wondered how Professor Snape had managed to survive Nagini's attack, and whether she'd ever have the courage to ask him for the truth of the matter.

Finally he spoke. "Why?"

Well, that was a good question. Hermione had been unable to fully explain her motivations to herself -- how on earth could she ever articulate to Severus Snape her reasons for seeking him out?

She cleared her throat. "It didn't seem fair."

"Fair?" It was amazing how much scorn he injected into that one small word.

"Yes, fair." Gripping the mug of tea, she stared into the fire as well -- it gave her a good reason for not directly looking at Professor Snape. Crookshanks lay on his back in front of the hearth, paws in the air. He looked ludicrous, and Hermione almost shook her head. Trust a cat to bring you sensibly back down to earth. "I know what you did all those years, Professor. How you spied for Dumbledore, risked your life time and time again -- it just didn't seem fair to me that you should be forgotten, hiding somewhere and quietly collecting your pension payments, when the whole wizarding world really owes you a huge thanks."

At that comment Snape let out a short, humorless laugh. "I see the passage of time hasn't changed you, Miss Granger. One would have thought the world might have worn away some of your idealism by now."

"That's 'Mrs. Granger-Weasley,'" she snapped. "We're not in Hogwarts any longer."

His mouth twisted. "No, we most assuredly are not. So what happened to the bumbling Mr. Weasley? Did he finally blow himself up with one of his brothers' infernal contraptions? Or did he simply take on a spell he couldn't handle?"

Rage flared again, hot as the center of the fire which burned in the hearth. "You don't know what you're talking about," Hermione retorted. "It was a bloody car accident, and no fault of his, either." She stood abruptly, sloshing a bit of tea on the shabby rug that fronted the couch. "And I don't care if I can't Disapparate from your damned house -- I'll go ten miles on foot if I have to, just to get out of here!"

"Calm yourself...Hermione," Snape drawled. "That's a bit less unwieldy than 'Mrs. Granger-Weasley,' although I have always wondered what on earth your parents were thinking when they saddled you with that particular name."

Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, Hermione fumed, and she burst out, "I will not calm myself! Here I was trying to help you -- what the bloody hell was I thinking? You don't know what it's like -- you don't know how it feels to lose someone -- "

"Don't I?" His voice sounded silky, almost indifferent, but there was an edge to the question that somehow made the hair on the back of Hermione's neck stand up. "Now sit down, and don't be a fool."

For a second she considered defying him -- flinging the half-drunk mug of tea in his face, collecting Crookshanks, and marching out the front door. What could he do, after all? Restrain her bodily, as he had done out the front yard? Possibly, but she somehow doubted it. And although she felt certain of her own abilities, she knew that rushing headlong into a duel with Severus Snape was not the wisest course of action.

Jaw clenched, she sat back down. In frosty tones, she remarked, "I think you should apologize."

"Apologize?"

"For saying such things about Ron."

"I will not."

Hermione glared at Snape, at the harsh features, at the cold, unsympathetic gleam in his eyes. Really, what on earth had she expected? He'd never liked Ron, and he'd hated Harry, for reasons she'd never been able to completely discern. Finally she said, "Then don't expect me to apologize for trespassing."

"I somehow expected you wouldn't. You have about you the gleam of the righteous."

Oh, he was impossible. He deserved this ramshackle cottage, this gloomy dale, the utter exile he had forced upon himself. A man like that couldn't live with other people -- sooner or later someone would definitely want to kill him. For a split-second she almost empathized with Voldemort.

"At any rate," Hermione went on doggedly, feeling somehow as if he'd gotten the better of her, although she couldn't say exactly why, "my personal life has nothing to do with this. I suppose you had your own reasons for running away, but -- "

"Running away?" Snape broke in. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Well, what else? If you hadn't gone into hiding, there might have been people who would have vouched for you, people who would explain -- "

"Indeed? And who exactly did you have in mind as my chosen advocate? Potter?"

Had he been practicing Legilimency? Is that how Snape had known exactly what she had been thinking? "Well, why not?"

A corner of his thin mouth twitched. "For the answer to that question, I think you had better ask the famous Mr. Potter himself."

"I will," Hermione said at once, but inwardly she wondered if she would have the courage to broach such a subject with Harry after he had made it clear -- on multiple occasions -- that there were some topics he would never discuss. He had seen more in those memories than Snape's adventures as a double agent, but Harry had never said precisely what. And the few times Hermione had tried to speak with Ginny in private on the subject, her sister-in-law had been most evasive. At the time Hermione had thought it was because Harry had told his wife to keep his confidences in the utmost secrecy, but now Hermione began to think it was more likely that he had never told Ginny anything of substance, either.

"I'm interested to hear how that works for you," Snape said, and something in his tone had altered subtly. It seemed almost that he was laughing at her.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time, she thought, and her cheeks burned as she recalled how he'd said he hadn't seen any difference in her appearance after Draco had Hexed her to make her front teeth grow unnaturally long. The unwanted memory made her realize for the first time that she'd come haring out here quite unprepared -- in a monstrous, pilly old jumper of Ron's, baggy jeans, and muddy boots, without a speck of makeup and her hair pulled back into a vomitous old scrunchie. No wonder Snape had looked at her with such disdain.

"Does that mean I have a return invitation?" Hermione inquired, refusing to be cowed.

For a second he stared at her with almost an expression of surprise. Then his eyes regained their familiar hooded look. "I hardly think so."

"Should I send you an owl?" she persisted. "Crookshanks has shown himself to be quite adaptable -- "

"No return visits, no owls -- has it escaped your attention, Hermione, that I chose this place precisely because I did not wish to be bothered? And that I was doing quite a good job of staying away from the world until you began meddling?"

"Quite a good job," Hermione replied, and gave their shabby surroundings a penetrating stare. "So good, in fact, that I begin to wonder why you bothered to save yourself in the first place, if your intent was turn yourself into a ghost anyway." Ignoring the look of cold fury that glittered in Snape's black eyes, she leaned over and set her now-empty mug down on the rug, then rose to her feet. "If you would be so kind as to lift the anti-Disapparation wards?"

"With pleasure." The Potions master stood as well, and stalked over to the front door. When he opened it, a flurry of snow blew in.

Hermione called Crookshanks to her, and he came with some reluctance. Of course he didn't want to leave the nice warm fire to go out into the freezing night. She didn't much look forward to it herself, but anything was better than staying here under Snape's malevolent gaze. Really, what had she been thinking? That he would thank her for her persistence, announce himself a reformed character, and follow her back to the Burrow so he could join in on a jolly Christmas celebration? This wasn't some Dickens novel, for Merlin's sake.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Hermione lifted the cat and tucked him into a fold of her cloak, then marched past Snape without meeting his eyes. The cold hit her immediately as she crossed over the threshold, but the sound of the rising wind wasn't quite enough to drown out the emphatic bang of the front door as he slammed it shut behind her.

Bloody bastard, she thought, borrowing one of Ron's favorite phrases. Can't even comprehend simple human kindness, or the need to right a wrong!

But she would have to brood on the Potions master's multiple faults later, after she was safely home. As she turned to Disapparate, one part of her mind thought uncharitably that she wouldn't put it past Snape to have left the wards in place, just so she would be stuck out here in the freezing night. His desire to have her gone must have been greater than his need for revenge, however, for almost immediately she ended up back in the familiar warmth of her living room, with the magical fire that never went out until you lifted the Charm that kept it burning and the soft glow of candlelight all around her.

Crookshanks gave an outraged yowl and jumped out of her arms, going into the kitchen and making increasingly urgent mewling sounds. After a few seconds Hermione shook herself and went into the narrow, galley-style chamber to open a tin of tuna for the cat, whose tone made it very clear that he thought himself quite ill-used. Once he had devoured most of the tuna, she added some kippers to the bowl, trying not to wrinkle her nose in disgust. She'd always hated them, but they had been a favorite of Ron's.

As for herself, food was about the last thing on her mind. Hermione went back out to the living room and sat down on the sofa, then bent over and began to undo the laces on her boots in an absent-minded way. At last her feet were free, and she kicked the damp footwear under the coffee table. Better to let them dry there, she supposed, although she'd always gotten on Ron for doing the exact same thing. Then she settled back against the sofa, letting the warmth begin to work itself into her numb toes, as she brooded on how her encounter with Snape had gone so horribly wrong.

Well, how could it have gone right? a reasonable part of her mind inquired. He always was impossible. Why on earth did you think he would have changed over the past five years?

True enough, Hermione supposed, but if she hadn't made such an idiot of herself by sneaking around...if she had just gathered up Crookshanks and gotten herself out of there as she had planned originally....

But that line of thought was fruitless. What had been done couldn't be undone, except perhaps with the aid of a Time-Turner. The device Professor McGonagall had lent her had been safely returned, however, and all of the Ministry's Time-Turners had been destroyed during the D.A.'s battle with Voldemort's Death Eaters. No, she'd just have to face the consequences of her actions unaided.

Still, Hermione was forced to admit that she'd botched things pretty badly. Perhaps she could blame some of her blundering on the single-mindedness that had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion, but she'd also allowed her emotions to get the better of her. Never mind that much of what Snape had said had been calculated to wound -- she should have known he would choose that line of attack and ignored his jabs.

"Well, I won't let that happen again," she said aloud, and then shook her head at herself. As if there was even going to be a next time. Severus Snape had made it quite clear what he thought of her returning to see him. But the thought of staying meekly away somehow appealed to her even less than facing his wrath should she attempt to force her way into his self-imposed exile once again. What would he do, after all? Turn her into a toad?

Well, that was always a distinct possibility, but Hermione hoped that things wouldn't come to such a pass. Maybe it was time to attempt to get more information out of Harry. Of course she'd be seeing him Christmas Eve at the Burrow, but those celebrations were far too noisy and chaotic for her to make an attempt at getting any more confidences out of him, even if he did have a few too many glasses of firewhisky or Molly's excellent but head-turning punch. However, he'd also planned a Boxing Day party at his own home for the members of the D.A. who still kept in touch -- Harry and Ginny, Neville, Luna, Ernie Macmillan. Susan Bones had attended the previous year, but had sent her regrets for this go-'round. It would be a small enough celebration; perhaps Hermione could find an opportunity then to get Harry alone for a private talk.

With another one of those little pangs that seemed unending, she realized this would be the first time she would attend a holiday party alone. At every other gathering it had always been her and Ron. Once again her throat seemed to close up, and she began to question the wisdom of staying here alone at the cottage for the holidays. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have gone to her parents, as they'd encouraged her to do.

It might have kept me out of trouble, she thought, seeing again Severus Snape's cold eyes, the mocking expression on his face. It was quite apparent that his opinion of her hadn't changed much from the days when he called her an "insufferable know-it-all."

Why that bothered her so much, Hermione couldn't quite say. To be sure, she thought she'd done quite a bit of growing up during the last five years, and being relegated to annoying schoolgirl status by a former professor wasn't exactly encouraging. It probably would have been much wiser for her to be better prepared, to have gone to see him in proper robes and neatly groomed, to show Snape she was now an adult and worthy of respect.

The clock ticked away on the mantel. Hermione looked up, surprised to see that it was barely seven o'clock. It felt as if days had passed since she left this room to seek out Severus Snape's hiding place in Yorkshire. Certainly her world had changed since then. It was one thing to have a suspicion and follow a hunch, and quite another to see the evidence of one's investigation before one's own eyes. Too bad that evidence had wanted nothing whatsoever to do with her.

Suddenly restless, she stood and went into the bathroom. As she entered, candles all around her glowed into life in their various sconces and holders. Their combined light was ruthless in revealing the bushy mess of her hair, some of which had escaped the beleaguered scrunchie and hung in straggling tendrils around her face. Without the light cosmetics she usually wore to work, she really did still look around seventeen years old. And was that a dirt smear on her left cheek?

Hermione leaned closer to the mirror and scowled, then turned on the tap and ran a wash cloth under the water so that she could wipe away the offending smudge. That helped a little, but it didn't really matter what she did now -- it was too late to change what Professor Snape thought of her...

...or was it? First impressions, as they said, were lasting, but what if that first impression happened to be overlaid by a second, and a third? Her mother had been on her forever to make a few minor alterations to her appearance, but Hermione had always stubbornly resisted, saying that she didn't have the time to fuss with such things, and that Ron certainly didn't seem to care on way or the other. But Ron was gone, and perhaps it was time to make some changes.

Suddenly resolved, she went back out to the living room and fished the cellular phone out of her satchel. Rosedell being a wizard cottage, it didn't have a land line, but Hermione had bought the portable phone in London so that she could keep in better touch with her parents. Ron of course had been fascinated by the device -- she'd also narrowly missed having Arthur Weasley take the thing apart during one of her visits to the Burrow -- and on more than one occasion she'd had to retrieve it from an odd room in the house where Ron had taken it to look at it more closely. No danger of that now, she thought with some sadness.

The phone picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Mum?" Hermione asked. "I've decided to take you up on your offer -- "