Black and White

Chapter 4: And all because he doesn't like pop music

The day went smoothly as Hermione and Snape explored the city. By nightfall they were almost familiar with downtown, and the Italian ghetto in the neighbourhood Santa Felicidade. Snape insisted it would be good for their cover. After all, his cover was Italian and would likely try to blend in with the local descendants as well. The only thing she saw worth mentioning was the arch that symbolized the entry to the neighbourhood and the barouche catholic church, near the wine store that carried the name of the place. And that because she thought it was cute, with its one asymmetrical tower rising timidly in the air.

Hermione suspected it was actually because of the food. And the wine. Snape was far too comfortable with the cuisine for it to be just part of the dissimulation. Not that she minded it either, but ... didn't they agree on training as well?

But, of course, paradise would only last so long. It was too good to be true, and coming from Snape it was twice as suspicious. The soap bubble exploded that night as she prepared to leave the house after returning from their day of exploring.

"Miss Galene, where do you think you are going?" Snape asked in his best Potion-Master tone.

Hermione had spent some time with the beast by now and his roaring wasn't half as scary as it had been during her fourth year. She had been a teenager then, precocious but still very insecure, even though her classmates had been too blind to see through her façade. She was an adult now, and a forty year old man trying to behave as her father was downright ridiculous.

"I'm going out," she replied simply.

"Really? And what makes you think that is allowable?"

"Oh, bugger off. As you said yourself, you are not my baby sitter. I'm just going out."

"Just going out? Do you realise that we are here under cover? That we might be discovered, and that the consequences would definitely not be pleasant for either of us?"

"Scevola, I hardly think there will be a Death Eater waiting to torture me as soon as I set foot in a discothèque."

"You'd be surprised," he stated ominously.

The pair stared at each other for some time. She was wrapped in leather leggings and a jacket. Not overly appealing, but hardly what anyone who'd once known her as the Gryffindor bookworm would expect.

"We're undercover, right? A girl my age is supposed to go out and enjoy herself," she tried again.

"A girl your age is supposed to have some sense. We've just arrived from another country, Eileen. You're not supposed to go out alone at night."

"Come with me then."

"Absolutely not in consideration," he opened a book. "I have no desire to waste my precious time in that way."

"Don't be absurd."

"Welcome to the real world, Miss Galene."

Hermione stormed up to her rooms, and turned on a small radio to the highest volume. In less than a minute Snape was in there, positively fuming.

"What is this?" he yelled.

"Music." She said, swaying with the rhythm. She wanted to dance, not to contemplate the mysteries of the universe. Snape strode to her little desk and turned the machine off. Truth be told, she did not know what band was playing. Even because they sang in Portuguese. She had some knowledge in Muggle music, since she spent most of her vacations at home with her Muggle parents. Even though those intervals of interaction with the muggle society were becoming more and more distant, the rhythm was familiar enough that she did not need to mind the lyrics.

For this was another thing Hermione had never had the heart to tell Ron - Wizarding music sucked big time. 'Something wicked this way comes'? Puh-lease.

"Now what?" Hermione demanded.

"Silence is highly appreciated in this house."

"Speak for yourself. I was dancing."

"No, you were not. You were merely shaking to a crazy ... you call this music? It's a pre-fabricated cacophony and an offence to the ears."

"Look, I'm not here trying to heighten my musical knowledge-"

"That was anything but musical, I assure you."

"- But dance. I was just dancing. If you don't let me go to the club, you ought to at least leave me alone."

"Who are you and what have you done to Hermione?" he inquired, gripping her wrists.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"Hermione is a bookworm, not a disco addict."

Hermione could only stare at the man in shock. Did she actually give the impression her life was that shallow? Sure, she studied a lot, late nights and early mornings, but even the Gryffindor Encyclopaedia needed a bit of R and R every now and then. It wasn't often but... oh hell; maybe she had given that impression.

She realised raising that point with Snape would probably be a waste of time. Because she strongly suspected 'damn near photographic memory' would not be a valid argument for him. She was angry enough at her own tidbit of self-discovery that she lashed out at him without thinking of the consequences.

"Surprise, I actually enjoy myself from time to time. And it's pretty boring here. All we do is tour around the city."

"You haven't been here for more than 24 hours, there's no way you could be bored yet."

"Look, I like to play Indiana Jones--"

"What?"

"Bad choice of words. I actually enjoy exploring new places and all. I have travelled with my parents every summer--"

"I'm not here to hear about your happy family vacations, girl," Snape roared. His voice was always silky, even when he was angry - or rather especially when he was angry. Why on earth was he roaring now?

"- But this is getting a bit boring. And you're not the best host on earth."

"I said I'm not here to entertain you - I'm here to train you. If you want a good time, go to Hogsmeade and get yourself killed. You'd be doing the world a favour."

"Fuck off!" Hermione yelled that time, angry enough not to care if the neighbours would listen to their little quarrel. With a bit of luck, they would, and with even more luck, they'd call the police. Before Snape strangled her with his bare hands. "And would you please let go of my arms? You're leaving a bruise."

"I missed the part where that's my problem," he spoke lowly and even more silkily than she ever remembered. Oh, buddy, was this going downhill.

"Maybe the part where the head of the Department of Mysteries told you to train me?"

"What makes you think I'm not training you already?" he hissed.

"Training me on what? Yelling?" Hermione inquired. Her wrists were getting uncomfortably sore, and she'd damn well have a purple bruise on them by the morning. Damn him!

"No," he said quietly, letting go of her wrists. "On keeping your mind focused and paying attention. As things are so far, you won't last a week. And I have the utterly dissatisfying task of making a decent Unspeakable out of you."

He stepped back and went into his room. Hermione just stood there, her mouth open, her eyes unfocused and her mind racing. Racing, racing and getting nowhere.

Keep your mind in focus. Pay attention.

'What have I missed?'

That was a cheap trick. There are unspoken rules about civilised conversation, and even fighting, but does our dear darling Slytherin respect them? Noooooooooooo.

What do they say about Slytherins? 'Those cunning folks use any means to achieve their ends.'

But we can sum it up with fucking bastard, I guess.

And what the hell does he mean by 'training you already'? Scaring the shit out of me definitely doesn't' count as training, unless you're doing it to teach self-control.

What was it? What did I miss?

And why on earth can't I just strangle him?

She sought the counsel of her pillows, although the next morning brought her no answers. She got up at six-forty five, just in case, and started to make breakfast for both of them. But then she thought better. Why should she be the one flying the white flag, anyway? He was the jerk. He could damn well apologise first.

Never mind, hell would freeze over before that happened.

Snape walked down the stairs ten minutes later, looking well rested and pleased with himself. Damn him. His contemptuous smirk couldn't be taken as anything but smug.

And they had been together for less than forty-eight hours.

"What's the schedule for today?" Hermione asked nonchalantly, her tone masking the fact that she wanted to rip out his throat. He didn't even acknowledge her, of course, going straight for the coffeepot and helping himself to a mug. Two mugs of coffee, one ham and cheese sandwich and half a papaya later, he decided to answer.

"As you were so reckless last night, I decided to give you some paperwork." His words were followed by a folder he took out of nowhere that he placed very indifferently on her lap.

"What's this?"

"I was under the impression you could read, Galene."

"Eileen. What is this?"

"Read, Galene. "

She stared at his empty black eyes, the folder stubbornly closed on her lap. The one thing she had decided, sulking and fuming silently in the dark was that this power struggle had to come to a draw, or else she would be back to London in less than a month. No way she'd handle a bitter Snape on her back all the time.

Deal with this, professor.

Snape didn't seem to mind. He calmly served himself another mug of black coffee and leaned back, appreciating the beverage.

They say it's nearly impossible to distinguish arsenic if you put it in black coffee... Dumbledore would not be very happy with me. Though a laxative may be a possibility. Hmm. But somehow I have the feeling he would notice immediately.

"Well, Galene, don't hurry. It's your training after all."

She calmly placed the folder on the farthest corner of the table and took a sip of milk. He, the adult, ex-Death Eater, vicious Potions Master, double agent for Dumbledore drinking coffee. She, the teenager (at least, adolescent in his eyes), brilliant young mind, Gryffindor, the prodigiously talented witch, the strategist-in-the-making drinking milk.

Gathering all her restraint, she suppressed her laughter and left the kitchen, with every intention of changing into some comfortable clothes and walking to the public park. Her tourist map told her there was a good library inside the Muslim memorial, and she wasn't one to pass up an opportunity to check out a library.

And the folder would remain at the table until Snape told her what was in it. True, she was not being very mature, but the risk of letting him play lord and master of her life was too great. If the man could not tone it down a bit, she wouldn't last a month. She had quit Trelawney's class for much less than ordering what she could or could not say, do, and listen to without so much as because-I-say-so.

She walked to the park enjoying the warmth of the sun and the cool wind on her face. If this was winter, summer must be really hot. Not that she minded, it could be a good change - if she handled it that long. Hermione decided it was not an altogether unpleasant one. The city was lost somewhere between Hogwarts bucolic rural air and a countryside small town, even though she already knew Curitiba was one of the major Brazilian urban centres. The pace of people passing by was unhurried. They had trees enough around that pollution did not settle down completely, and even downtown the noise was minimal. It was hard to believe there was so much going on, really, unless you paid attention to the crowd.

The park didn't open until nine. Thank goodness she'd had the presence of mind to take her map with her before she went outside. A quick scan reassured her that yes, she could probably see most of the town's touristy attractions on foot. It was odd, really, to realise a city with such small-town feeling to it was actually an urban centre. Walking around aimlessly was really soothing, and Hermione felt most of her anger disappearing.

And it was a beautiful day.

Artificial canals crossed by picturesque simple bridges (the most rustic of them, made of rips of wood and ropes, had a big 'do not step here' plaque). Monkeys jumped from branch to branch in a little island on the lake. Hermione sat on the grass, allowing herself the very first moment of peace in what felt like centuries.

48 hours.

And she was already thinking about quitting. Question was, could she afford to quit? Could she even live with herself if she did? Hermione felt as if there were no options open to her, no way out of the hell she had stepped into. Damn Dumbledore and Damn Mr. Weasley to fucking hell and back. What were they thinking when they paired her with Severus Snape?

She was no quitter. She was the most damn clever witch Hogwarts had had the honour to teach in over a century. She knew every book she came across by heart, she had a fine analytical mind and she was very good at getting people out of trouble.

She was nineteen-and-a-half years old, alone in a foreign country, away from everything and everyone she loved, stuck with someone who hated her guts with a passion and who had no qualms about humiliating her any chance he got.

Hermione never wanted to cry so badly. Of course, she'd have to be very far gone before she cried in front of him, or even in the same house. She couldn't even place a silencing spell in that house.

A young man smiled at her from his spot on the public seat. He was even kind of cute. She returned the smile awkwardly and turned her gaze to the frolicking primates in the trees, their life a lot simpler than hers.

They had no vicious trainer.

They had no Dark Lord threatening the world.

They had no family breaking apart with the distance growing every passing year.

They had no high I.Q. and powerful magical abilities hanging over them.

No pressures. Just a bunch of trees in an artificial environment.

"Oi. Qual o teu nome?"

"Pardon me?"

"Oh. Hmm... I said hi."

"Oh, hi."

"Where are you from?" The young man was dark, as in afro-descendant dark, cute and rather charming. But really Hermione did not feel like chatting much at that moment.

I wonder if I could take that passing bus and get lost in those woods...

"I'm from..."

Fucking bloody hell. Where was Eileen from? Why in the name of Merlin hadn't she studied her profile? Snape hadn't any problem about spilling his just yesterday afternoon. There was only one thing to do. Get the hell out of there.

"I am late. So sorry." Hermione stood up and shyly waved goodbye, walking away from him. With a quick glance at her map she figured her best hiding spot would be the mall, a couple of squares from the park.

She couldn't even think in peace. She would not be able to engage in a conversation with anyone, because she didn't know what would be safe to let out in the case she found someone to talk to.

Ten months. Or rather, nine months and twenty-eight days.

Although there were only a few blocks between the park and the mall, Hermione saw more beggars in the streets in those few minutes than she had seen before in hours browsing through the streets of London. No one else seemed to find that strange, in fact people passed by and dropped their money in their hands without breaking stride. A girl no older than twelve approached her with an easy smile, making the universal hand gesture for money, please. The beggar seemed to need a moment to realise Hermione did not understand her words before retorting to mimics, but somehow they understood themselves. The girl left with a note of ten, and Hermione sat down in a bench to study the ethnic pattern of people strolling by.

There was no pattern.

It was much more than merely putting representatives of several ethnic groups together... it was more like blending several ethnic groups into one person. That's when Hermione took a good look at a stray strand of still-slightly-bushy brown hair and realised two things.

One, she was almost ordinary enough that she'd pass as a native - brown haired, she missed the Golden Nordic look and did not possess any dark femme fatale appeal. If she could get rid of that perpetual I'm lost look in her face, that is.

Two, she really needed to change the texture and colour of her hair if she wanted to have a successful cover. After all, she was known for being bossy, studious, and bushy-haired brunette. They changed her name but not her physical appearance, and that somehow annulated the effort. Odd how she had not thought of it before.

Deciding the only way to get rid of the lost look was to become better acquainted with the city, Hermione stood up and crossed the street. She was going to a shopping mall, and everyone knew malls were more or less always the same.

The mall was utterly disorientating: it was circular, and had four stores plus the underground. As if her mind wasn't twisted enough on its own. Half an hour inside the building and she was dying to go back to the house. Watching the store windows was depressing - no herbarium, no magical bookshop, no Florean Fortescue's ice cream, no magical pets. Just muggle stuff - clothes, jewels, sporting goods, toys, and books...

Hmmm.

Hermione entered a bookshop called Sciciliano, whose name strongly reminded her of the Italian mafia, and spent the rest of her morning with her friends, the books. They always held the answers to the mysteries of life, and certainly wouldn't fail her now.

Dungeons and Dragons, third edition, guide to players - and Muggles actually play with these things? No.

Hmmm... universal classics of literature for R$ 7,00 ... she could get a couple of those...

Ah-ha! 'Portuguese for foreign people'. Definitely.

"São cento e cinquenta reais, senhora."

"Excuse me? I don't really understand..."

"Oh ... it's one hundred and fifty reais, miss."

"Do you accept Visa here?

"Credit card? Yes."

"Here you go," Hermione said, handing over her Visa. God bless the guy who created the Credit Card. Genius.

"Sign here, please. Have a nice day."

Their accent sucks, but it was kind of heartening to see how eager they were to be understood and make you feel welcome.

And then Hermione felt a pang in her heart - guilt. She was normally very patient with people when they were trying to speak with her but were not proficient in English. God knew she had had more than her share with Krum, and never treated him badly because of it. And he didn't even say her name properly!

But just because she was pissed off with Snape, she was not being nearly as kind with other people. Oh, shit, please don't let this bitchy behaviour be contagious.

Running her fingers over her new book, trembling at the possibilities it presented and anticipating the world of opportunities opening for her, she glanced around searching for a restaurant and her legs went weak.

Snape.

But it wasn't Snape, somehow. He was wearing a soft-blue T-shirt and jeans. His hair was pulled down in a ponytail and he was looking around with fierce eyes and the scariest expression Hermione ever saw on his face.

Snape was worried. And he was looking for her. For how long?

Standing there hugging her newly purchased book, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of observing the Potion Master while he was unaware of it. She was not pleased with the unwanted guilt that crept upon her seeing how unsettled he was.

Why did he have to look so damned worried? Or rather, to look so damned worried to someone who actually knew him a little.

Hermione bit her lower lip when Snape ran his hands in his hair, messing with the ponytail and freeing a few strands. The motion focused her attention to his hair, and she realised it was still oily, but not greasy as it usually looked in the Dungeons. Maybe he was using some concoction to protect it from the fumes of the potions? Something to think about.

Snape was either fantastic at cover, or there was a lot to him that she did not know, because the man crossing the corridor and scanning the Food Court had almost nothing that resembled the irritating prick she used to know and hate.

Almost against her will she stepped out of the bookstore and stood by the entry, waiting until his gaze landed on her.