The Quality of Mercy

Author's Note: Normally I don't do long author's notes, as I feel they tend to get in the way of the story. However, because of some of the responses I received after the last chapter I posted, I felt I should make a few clarifications. First off, this story is AU, obviously, since Snape is alive and Ron is dead. While I try to stick to canon as much as possible, since I've already taken the story in an AU direction, I'm not as worried about being completely canon-compliant as I might be under different circumstances. For a variety of reasons, this story required that Harry reveal Snape's feelings for Lily to Hermione only now, at this point in their lives. To be honest, I didn't like that bit in DH (actually, there was a lot in DH that I didn't like very much). It didn't ring true to me that Harry would reveal such a delicate personal fact in front of all those people. He had plenty of other backing evidence to support his belief in the "power of love"; I don't think letting everyone know that Snape -- a man Harry had spent many years hating -- had in fact loved his mother obsessively and with tragic results was something he would do. Just because Harry finally learned Snape had been on the "good" side all those years doesn't mean all his resentment would be wiped out just like that. Personally, I think the situation would have been a good deal more complicated -- one of the reasons I wanted to write this story in the first place was that I wanted to explore some of the psychological issues that might arise after such long-buried loves and hates came to light.

You don't have to agree with me, of course, and I don't expect you to. But I did want to make a little more clear why I've written things the way I have. I'm not saying I don't get a fact wrong from time to time, but I do make an effort to research my material as much as possible before I start writing.

Well, that's it. We now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast...

Six: Desperate Measures

"You have gone mad, you know," Hermione told her reflection. "Completely and utterly mad. Barking, even."

The Hermione inside the mirror didn't look particularly mad -- in fact, she appeared far less crazed than the sloppy version who had turned up on Professor Snape's doorstep more than a week ago. At least this Hermione had attended to her hair and wore a becoming if modest robe of a dark wine color under her gray wool traveling cloak. On closer inspection, however, one could probably detect a frightening level of determination in her dark eyes...a determination at the moment overlaid by desperation.

Night had fallen, the last night of the year. Hermione had brushed off an invitation from Harry to join him and Ginny at Grimmauld Place, telling him she planned to spend a quiet evening with her parents. She had handed her parents the same lie, except that she told them she meant to stay over at Harry's in London. No one had questioned her, because in both cases the interested parties thought her story completely plausible. And after all, she could hardly have told them the truth, which was that she intended to visit Professor Snape once again at his refuge in Yorkshire.

After his revelations to her in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, Harry had shown every intention of never mentioning the subject again. No doubt he had thought he could keep the truth of Severus Snape's feelings for Lily Potter safely hidden, but since both parties involved were not in fact dead, the Professor's continuing existence put a definite kink in Harry's plans. Hermione had told him several times she would never repeat the story, but he hadn't seemed reassured. Frankly, she couldn't quite fathom why he found the situation so awkward. Was it really so shameful that his mother had been the sort of woman who could inspire affection in even someone as cold and distant as Severus Snape? If anything, Hermione would have thought Professor Snape had the more difficult role -- his behavior to Harry had of course been unfair in the extreme, but she imagined it couldn't have been easy for Snape to see every day the physical evidence that Lily had chosen James Potter over him.

But she knew better than to utter a word of these disloyal thoughts to Harry -- no, she had just told him she would respect his confidence and keep his secret. If Professor Snape wished to live out his days in exile, then so be it. After their little tête à tête in the kitchen was finished, she and Harry had gone back up to where Ginny dozed in the drawing room. Hermione made her good-byes, and that had been the end of it.

Only Hermione knew that wasn't really the end of it at all. She'd returned to her parents' home, where she planned to stay until her return to work the following Monday, but sleep had been the last thing on her mind. Her bedroom, which had remained materially unchanged from the time she'd left to live with Ron in Rosedell, felt strange and unfamiliar. Lying awake in the darkness, Hermione turned the matter over and over in her mind.

Professor Snape had made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with her, but she couldn't help but think that was simply because he didn't realize the wizarding world had moved on. Voldemort's Death Eaters had been rounded up and sent back to Azkaban, with the notable exception of the Malfoys, who had escaped by the skin of their noses after Harry, of all people, took up their cause. He would be dead if it weren't for Narcissa Malfoy, he'd declared, and that was enough to save the Malfoy clan. Harry Potter's word was as good as gold in the wizarding community. If he could somehow salvage the Malfoys, why couldn't he do the same for Severus Snape? After all, Professor Snape really had been working on the side of good all those years -- it was highly probable Voldemort would never have been defeated if it weren't for Snape's assistance. Besides, Harry had revealed as well that it was Snape's doe Patronus which had led them to the Sword of Gryffindor, an artifact critical in the destruction of Voldemort's final Horcrux.

Surely once people were presented with all this evidence, they would realize what a hero Severus Snape had been. He should have been given a post of honor, not forced to hide himself away in a forsaken corner of the country. She had to try to reason with him again. Yes, their first meeting had not gone well -- to put it mildly -- but that didn't mean she should just give up. Hadn't he lived in enough isolation his entire adult life, mourning in secret because he didn't dare reveal his true feelings for the woman he had loved?

Lying there in the narrow bed of her childhood, Hermione once again felt that strange ache in her breast, an unexpected echo of sympathy for Professor Snape. What would it have felt like, she wondered, to have lost Ron but never have been able to show anyone how she felt, never allow herself to grieve in public? Such a burden could very well drive someone mad. But somehow Snape had borne it, and even found the strength to give himself over to Dumbledore's service, to do what he could to right a terrible wrong. She didn't know whether she would have been able to the same thing in similar circumstances.

In that moment, her determination to see Snape again hardened into a terrible resolve. She knew she didn't dare speak of her decision to anyone, and perhaps the only result would be to get pitched out into the snow once more, but she had to try. If she didn't, she knew she would have failed herself. After all, she could face the inevitable sneers and cutting remarks. If that was how Professor Snape wished to shield himself in order to keep anyone else from ever getting close to him again, so be it. At least now she knew the reason for his behavior.

Still, her resolve had begun to feel shakier and shakier as Hermione had prepared herself to return to Yorkshire. Why she had chosen New Year's Eve she couldn't be quite sure, except that it was a night when almost everyone else would be occupied with their own business. Since she had already made excuses for herself with both Harry and her parents, she knew no one would be likely to check in on her. Also, there was something symbolic about facing Snape just as the new year ushered itself in. Wasn't it time he faced a new beginning as well?

Rationalizations that had seemed plausible in the light of day began to fade with the coming of dark, however. Hermione dressed with care, then made sure her hair still looked as neat as it could. It would never match Ginny's sleek, shining locks, but the new haircut and glossing product Clive had provided certainly worked an almost miraculous change in her own unruly mane, so Hermione supposed she would have to be satisfied with that. At least now she looked halfway decent, like a young woman and not a sixth year dressed for a ramble about the Hogwarts grounds.

The clock on the mantel chimed eight times. She'd made sure she'd eaten, and Crookshanks provided for as well. The house was neat and clean. Really, there was nothing else to delay her departure.

But still she hesitated in front of the mirror, fussing with the clasp of her cloak, making sure her hair fell just so. Do you really think he cares what you look like? she asked herself sternly, but Hermione knew that the uncharacteristic primping had very little to do with Severus Snape's reaction to her appearance and much more to do with delaying her departure by any means necessary.

At length, though, she couldn't make excuses to herself any longer. Taking a breath, she clasped the bottle of elf-made wine she'd procured in Diagon Alley during her lunch break earlier in the week and tucked it within the folds of her cloak. Perhaps he would accept the peace offering, perhaps not. She'd had half a mind to take a bottle of champagne, considering the holiday, but it seemed such a Muggle drink, and besides, she'd never cared much for it.

And if you're lucky he won't crack the bottle right over your head and send you on your merry way, she thought. That reaction seemed a little crude for Snape, but it was hard to know how he would react to her reappearing on his doorstep after he'd made it quite clear he'd welcome her return about as much as he'd appreciate an infestation of doxies. More likely he'd just look down his long nose at her and slam the door in her face. She'd just have to make sure she got a foot stuck in the door first so it wouldn't shut all the way.

For some reason that thought made her smile a little to herself. Figuring it was best to go now while her humor was temporarily improved, she closed her eyes, imagining Snape's forlorn cottage and the narrow valley that did so well to hide it. Then she Disapparated, and the warmth of her living room transformed abruptly into the biting cold of a December night.

No snow fell this time, although the ground leading up to Snape's front door was covered in the stuff, which glittered palely under the light of a gibbous moon. If anything, however, the clear air felt even colder than before. Hermione's breath drifted out in vague clouds around her head, and she pulled the cloak more tightly around herself.

Even as she lifted a hand to knock on the door it opened, and Severus Snape stared out at her, his saturnine features impassive. An awkward second passed, and then another. At last Hermione fished out the bottle of wine and said lamely, "Happy New Year!"

"I see nothing happy about it," he replied. "What do you want?"

"To -- to talk," she said, unable to keep her teeth from chattering a bit. Was he really going to deny her entry, keep her standing out here in the cold?

It seemed as if he was. He continued to block the doorway; Hermione could see only a narrow outline of warm yellow light behind him.

"I felt as if I didn't ex -- explain myself very well last time," she went on. Her fingers began to feel as if they were slowly freezing to the surface of the bottle. Why on earth hadn't she at least put on a pair of gloves?

Because you thought he'd let you right in, she thought. No need for gloves when Professor Snape is going to be chummy, right?

His gaze slowly drifted from her face to her exposed hand. Already the tips of her fingers had begun to look very pale against the dark bottle.

"Very well," he said at last, and stepped aside, allowing her to squeeze past him and into the blessed warmth of his living room.

Not daring to look over at him, Hermione stepped to the table that fronted the couch and with a little gasp released the bottle, then flexed her numb fingers.

Snape said nothing, but moved to the table himself, forcing her to sit down on the couch so as not to get pushed aside. Without even a sideways glance to see if she was all right, he reached down and picked up the bottle, then tilted it toward the firelight, apparently so he could read the label.

Well, of all the cheek --

"Does it meet your approval?" she asked tartly.

"It will do." At last he turned to stare down at her. His face remained expressionless, but Hermione could read the tension radiating outward from every stiff line of his body. Then he said, "I suppose you want me to get some glasses."

She said the first thing that came to mind. "That would be lovely." Good Lord, she thought with a mental wince, I sound like one of the women from my mother's book club....

Luckily Professor Snape did not seem inclined to comment. Instead he just set the bottle back down on the table and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, while Hermione undid the clasp that held her cloak tight against her throat and removed the heavy outer garment. Not sure what to do with it, she ended up wadding the heavy folds of fabric into a bulky pile and shoving it to the far end of the couch. At least now she felt as if she could take a breath without strangling.

He returned with two goblets of heavy greenish glass and placed them next to the elf-made wine. Following an elegant flick of his finger, the cork pulled itself out of the bottle and settled itself on the tabletop. Still without comment, Snape poured a modest measure of wine into each glass before handing one to her.

Hermione took the goblet but did not drink. She wrapped her hands around the heavy glass and waited. Surely it couldn't be that easy --

"A point of curiosity, Miss Granger," said Snape.

For a second she wondered whether she should correct him as to the form of address he had used, then decided against it. Of course he remembered her married name. The fact that he had chosen to ignore it meant he wanted to put them back on a footing of student and teacher.

"Yes, Professor?" she asked, giving him a wide-eyed look. Two could play at that game.

To her satisfaction, his mouth tightened. Then he said, "I believe I made it quite clear during your earlier...visit...that I would not appreciate a return trip. Since I know for a fact that you are lacking in neither wit nor the power of recollection, I find myself compelled to wonder why you would ignore my wishes and come here a second time."

Perhaps now would be a good time to take a sip of the wine. Hermione raised the goblet to her lips and allowed herself a minuscule amount before replying, "I expect you won't believe me if I tell you the spirit of the season moved me."

His lip curled. "Don't be disingenuous."

"I didn't feel as if I got the chance to explain myself fully." That's an understatement, she thought, feeling her own mouth twitch.

It was possible Snape had practiced a little surreptitious Legilimency, or perhaps he just found her expressions easy to read. Whatever the case, he replied, "I would suppose you found the conversation somewhat truncated. For myself, I thought it far too long as it was."

Refusing to be nettled, Hermione assumed an aspect of extreme placidity calculated to be particularly irritating. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're driving at."

His black eyes seemed to bore into her for a second, and then she thought she detected the barest lift of the shoulders beneath the black jacket he wore. She realized suddenly that the jacket, as well as the faded black jumper he wore beneath it, appeared to be of Muggle make. For some reason his change in wardrobe startled her almost as much as seeing Molly Weasley in a miniskirt might have.

Well, what did you expect? the practical side of her mind inquired. He had only the one set of clothes when he left Hogwarts, and he couldn't wear that every day -- it would stand up on its own by now if he did. And it's not as if he can just nip into Madam Malkins' for some replacement robes, now, can he?

Silently, Snape moved past Hermione to sit in the same wing chair he had occupied during her previous visit. With something of a resigned air he drank from his own goblet of elf-made wine. "It doesn't suit you, you know," he said at length.

Her hand seemed to move of its own volition to the curls that fell over her shoulder. Had he noticed the change in her appearance after all? "What doesn't?"

"This show of ignorance. You are many things, Miss Granger -- some of them quite annoying -- but ignorant is not one of them."

Well, Snape had her there. She abandoned the wide-eyed look and leaned forward slightly, frowning as she clenched the goblet between both her hands. "Why do you find it so difficult to believe that I might simply be concerned for your well-being?"

He did not react so much as go even more still, his lean body taut, his back not even touching the fabric of the chair in which he sat. Then he gave her a scathing glare. "And to what do I owe this newfound concern? Has 'the spirit of the season,' as you put it, inclined you to take on a charity case? I assure you, Miss Granger, your concern is misplaced."

Count to three, Hermione told herself, and forced in a breath before replying. On the other hand, she did need to remember that she faced him now as an adult, and not as a student concerned with grades and willful deductions of House points. "Has anyone told you, Professor Snape, that you're an extremely unlikable bastard?"

As soon as the words left her lips Hermione wished she could take them back. Surely now he would fly into a towering rage and turn her into a newt or cast some other particularly unpleasant hex on her.

Instead, he did the last thing she could have expected. A corner of his thin mouth lifted, and he replied, "Yes...on numerous occasions."

For once, words failed her. She could only stare at Snape as he continued, "No doubt you've wished to tell me that for some time. It must be liberating to finally have the opportunity to do so."

Hermione found her voice. "Actually, I was usually the one defending you to Harry or Ron."

"Indeed? Do you expect me to thank you for that?"

"No. I've decided it's probably best to expect as little from you as possible."

Again he looked almost amused. "Touché, Miss Granger. I see some of that much-vaunted Gryffindor bravery in you, to come and beard the lion in his den."

Although the words should have been a compliment, from Snape's tone Hermione could tell his comment was meant to be anything but. In some exasperation she remarked, "Why must you make everything so difficult?"

"And why should you expect it to be easy? Surely the loss you've recently suffered should have taught you that lesson."

Those words, uttered with casual cruelty, made her retort, "The only thing my loss has taught me, Professor Snape, is that one cannot prepare for every eventuality. Things happen for which we have no explanation. But you should know that as well -- you've suffered your own losses, haven't you? And have you given up? Is that why you're hiding here, rather than facing the world?"

He focused her with a malevolent stare. "I am not hiding."

"Is that a fact? Then what would you call this?" Hermione flung out a contemptuous hand, as if to indicate their shabby surroundings. "Off on extended holiday, are you? I would think that after everything you've gone through, all you've done, you'd want something more than this."

"Miss Granger, you are in no position to understand what I need or want."

At another time the undercurrent of anger in his voice would have signaled Hermione to retreat, but the need to draw him out -- combined with frustration at an intransigence even greater than her own -- drove her on. "You might be surprised, Professor. I do know one thing, however -- no matter how long you hide here, no matter how many years pass, she will never come back. God knows I've spent the last six months coming to terms with that very same thing myself. I -- "

But she could go no further, for Snape broke in, black brows drawn down in a fierce scowl, "What did Potter tell you?"

"That you loved his mother," Hermione said flatly. "That you've loved her all these years, and did everything you could to atone for her death. That is admirable, but when is it enough?"

"Never," he said in forbidding tones. Something in his face told her that she should abandon the subject, but Hermione felt compelled to add,

"If your only intent was to run away and wait to die, why did you allow yourself to live in the first place?"

His features might have been etched from rock. The dark eyes blazed at her, but somehow Hermione got the impression he wasn't seeing her at all. Finally he said, in a murmur so low she had to strain to catch the words, "Because I was a coward."

Shock flooded through her, astonishment that he would make such a confession to her, of all people, and surprise that he would even think such a thing of himself. "I don't believe that," she replied. "Would a coward have spied for Professor Dumbledore all those years? Would a coward have followed that same man's orders, even if it meant killing one of the few people in the world who actually trusted him?"

Snape's bleak expression never wavered. "A coward who didn't want to die because he couldn't bear to experience an afterlife where he would be forced to see her spend eternity with another man."

A rush of compassion filled Hermione, for an instant making her own sorrow feel like a small thing compared to the torments Severus Snape must have suffered following Lily Potter's death. At least Hermione knew that Ron had loved her whole-heartedly, had only wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. What would it have been like, she thought, to love Ron as I did, and see him choose someone else over me? Could I have borne it? Would I have even wanted to?

On an impulse she leaned forward and laid a hand on Snape's arm. He started at her touch, like a half-broken horse shying at the touch of a bridle. The wool of his jacket felt rough under her fingers, but Hermione noted he did not try to pull away. "I am so sorry," she said gently.

At her words he did jerk his arm from beneath her hand. "I don't need your pity!" he snapped.

"Sympathy is not the same as pity," Hermione said, refusing to take offense. No doubt he was angry with himself for making such revelations -- and angry at her for being there to hear them. "Can't you even recognize simple compassion when you see it?"

Coldly he replied, "I fear compassion has not held a significant place in my life."

"Obviously." It was clear to Hermione that he hadn't felt compassion for the students he had browbeaten over the years. No wonder he had such a difficult time recognizing it in someone else. A part of her wondered again just what she was doing here, and why she had ever thought approaching Severus Snape was a good idea. Yes, he had loved and lost, but so had millions of other people, and they weren't all hiding away in remote cottages, hoping that the world would pass them by. She lifted her chin and went on, "I came here in good faith, you know. I didn't want to think that someone who had sacrificed so much was wasting the rest of his life away in exile for no good reason. You're one of the most powerful wizards in the world -- don't you think you have more to offer than hiding out here, mixing potions no one will ever use?"

For a long moment Snape only regarded her out of narrowed eyes. Then he said, in tones far milder than she would have expected, "They don't go to waste, you know. I sell them...under an assumed name, of course...to a witch in Cornwall who has a mail-order potions business."

Despite herself, Hermione grinned. "Well, that is a relief, I suppose!"

The look he gave her in return was still very sour, but infinitely better than the black glares of a few moments earlier. "I suppose some would find your naïveté refreshing, Miss Granger, but I think you will find that the wizarding world believes itself well rid of me. I'm sure the illustrious Harry Potter was none too pleased to learn of my miraculous return from the dead."

"No, he wasn't," she said frankly. "But that's his affair, isn't it? I mean, if we all went about worrying what other people think, none of us would get anything done, would we?"

"A pithy observation," Snape said, his tone dry enough to have served as the desiccant for the preserved bunches of herbs that hung in the dining room. "Perhaps you should send that in for the back page of the Prophet."

"Perhaps I will." Despite the fact that he still looked at her the same way he might have regarded a first year who had just botched the world's easiest potion, Hermione got the impression they had somehow turned a corner. At least she no longer thought Snape would cheerfully toss her out into the freezing cold night. Trying not to let the relief show in her voice, she turned to her neglected goblet of wine and stood, then moved over to the dining room so she could see his potions-making setup more clearly. "So this witch in Cornwall really has no idea she's buying her potions from none other than Severus Snape?"

"No, and I would prefer to keep it that way."

"Your secret is safe with me," Hermione replied, and realized she spoke of much more than his illicit potions dealings.

To her surprise, Snape rose as well, coming to stand next to her in the cramped dining area. Mixed with the scent of beeswax from the candles all around them were the more subtle scents of dried herbs and flowers. He gazed at his work space for a few seconds, then transferred his attention to her. Hermione forced herself not to blink under that unwavering stare, although it felt odd to stand there with him a scant foot away, to have him look into her face as if he could read the truth there.

"Yes," Severus Snape said at last. "I believe it is."