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Tidings of Comfort and Joy by StormySkize [Reviews - 31]

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Author's Notes: This was written for the HG/SS holiday exchange on Live Journal. This was the prompt I chose: #71. Fic: Post-war Hermione and Severus are both doomed to spend Xmas alone until they run into each other in Diagon Alley or London. How, why, and what happens next is up to you. Happy ending, please. Any rating. This prompt was submitted by GinnyWeasley31 and the story is dedicated to her.

Special thanks to my beta reader, JuJuJenn. And thanks to Illyria who did some Brit-picking for me. Any errors, however, are mine alone.


Chapter One

As she was pushed and jostled by the teeming crowd on Oxford Street, Hermione cursed herself for ever thinking that this sojourn was a good idea. It was cold and raw out, the sky leaden with scudding grey clouds. Sleet fell intermittently, making it seem even colder and drearier than it actually was. The lowering weather had failed, however, to keep the throngs of holiday shoppers at home. Still, it was her own fault she was being shoved and trampled. She’d procrastinated for weeks. Now, with only three days until Christmas, she had reached the point of desperation. Her gift from Aunt Jane had arrived by post ten days before and sat on her coffee table, mocking her each time she passed it. She had to find a gift for her godmother today – and post it – if there was to be any hope of it arriving in Wales before Christmas, and she would pay dearly for the cost of the expedited delivery.

Hermione glanced at her watch and was dismayed to discover it was only eleven o’clock. She’d been out and about for just ninety minutes and she was already exhausted from the strain of keeping her glamour in place. As she pushed her way towards Great Marlborough Street, she briefly considered sending her godmother a cheque or a gift certificate. Then, she gave herself a mental shake and discarded that notion. Aunt Jane was the only family she had left, other than her parents; she deserved a hand-picked gift. Besides, her godmother considered cheques and gift certificates ‘the afterthoughts of a muddled mind’. No, she would just have to call upon her reserves of magical energy to see her through. It wouldn’t be the first time.

She finally managed to reach the door of Grant and Cutler and pushed it open, grateful to be out of the bone-chilling weather. The interior of the bookstore was well-lit, pleasantly warm, and, more importantly, nearly deserted. Apparently, few Londoners considered foreign-language books an appropriate Christmas present. Luckily for Hermione, her Aunt Jane adored foreign languages and tried to learn a new one every couple of years. She considered any book written in one of her new languages a great treasure – especially if it was a murder mystery.

Hermione spoke a smattering of French, the result of vacations with her parents during her childhood. She also recognised a few words of German, Italian, and Spanish, but could hardly be called fluent in any of them. Her aunt had not-so-subtly informed her that learning Italian was her latest project, so she asked the shop assistant where she could find murder mysteries written in Italian. The shop assistant insisted on escorting her to the appropriate section. He was about thirty, tall and lean, with sandy brown hair and warm brown eyes. He smiled at her and tried to engage her in conversation. Hermione tried to discourage his blatant flirting without being rude. There were just some activities that were forever off limits to her now. Flirting with handsome Muggles was one of those activities. After a few minutes, the poor man admitted defeat and withdrew gracefully. He pointed to a couple of shelves and left her to browse.

After several minutes, Hermione saw the perfect gift for her godmother. It was Assassinio sull'Orient Express. She didn’t have to be fluent in Italian to translate that to Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie. Her aunt had several of Dame Christie’s books in both French and German, so she knew this one would be a welcome addition to her library.

She was about to head toward the front of the store to pay for her purchase when she spotted another book she thought her godmother would enjoy. It was an Ellery Queen mystery titled Il Mistero delle Croci Egizie. Ellery Queen was another of her aunt’s favourite authors and, in the past, Hermione had gotten her a few of his books in French and Spanish. This one was in Italian, but Hermione only recognized one word – mistero, or mystery – in the title. She reached for the book to see if there was an English translation of the title on the dust jacket.

“Drat it,” she muttered as she realised the book was about two inches out of her reach.

She looked around to see if there was a ladder or a step-stool nearby, but she didn’t see one. She didn’t relish the idea of asking the flirtatious assistant to get the book down for her.

She made one more attempt to reach the book, standing on her toes and stretching her arms as much as she could. She could touch the spine of the book with the tips of her fingers, but couldn’t grasp it. She briefly considered using a surreptitious Summoning Charm, but didn’t want to take the chance. This was, after all, a Muggle shop. The last thing she needed was to have the Ministry come down on her for doing magic in front of Muggles. Besides, she barely had the energy to maintain her glamour. Using even a simple Summoning Charm would compromise what little magical strength she had left.

She sighed and reconciled herself to asking the clerk for help.

“Allow me,” said a deep voice from behind her. A long, black-clad arm reached over her shoulder and easily plucked the book from the shelf above her head.

The Egyptian Cross Mystery – one of Queen’s best,” said the man.

Hermione stiffened. She recognised that voice, even though she hadn’t heard it in more than five years.

“Professor Snape,” she gasped, turning toward the voice. Then she mentally berated herself as she realised her error. She would have remained an anonymous stranger if she hadn’t addressed him by name.

“You have me at a disadvantage, madam,” Snape replied. “Do I know you?”


Snape looked down at the young woman. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She had long, straight, dark hair, eyes the colour of old brandy, and pale skin. At the moment, two spots of colour accentuated her high cheekbones. She was very thin, even by the unrealistic standards of current fashion. She wore a woollen coat that hung off her spare frame.

Snape had an excellent memory for faces; he knew he had never seen this woman before.

“Who are you?” Snape asked.

For a brief moment, Hermione considered lying; after all, she hadn’t seen him in more than five years, and she’d probably never see him again. Then her innate honesty and her Gryffindor courage combined to impel her to tell him the truth.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, looking up and meeting his eyes.

Snape scowled at the person in front of him. This was Granger, best friend of the boy-who-lived-to-become-the-wizarding-world’s-greatest-hero, and the brains of the Golden Trio? This was Hermione Granger, who had gone into seclusion after the Final Battle and hadn’t shown up at any of the countless functions the Ministry insisted on throwing for the heroes of the war? As he recalled, she hadn’t even shown up to receive her Order of Merlin (First Class), but had allowed Potter to collect it for her. This was Granger, bushy-haired know-it-all and one of the brightest students to pass through Hogwarts in nearly a century? What had she done to herself? And why?

Snape felt a tingle at the back of his mind. The girl was in some kind of trouble, and the tingle was reminding him of the promise he had made to Albus Dumbledore. Would he never be free?

“Miss Granger,” he said after a moment, “I see you have finally managed to tame your hair.”

Hermione glared up at him and opened her mouth, prepared to offer a scathing retort – something along the lines of the absurdity of him, the man Harry and Ron had unfailingly referred to as the ‘greasy git’, having the audacity to comment on the state of her hair. Then she realised that she simply didn’t have the energy to get into a verbal sparring match with her former Potions professor. Besides, it looked like he had finally managed to do something about his hair as well.

“Professor,” she said with a small, sad smile, “you have no idea. May I have that book now, please?”

“Of course,” he replied and handed her the book he was still holding.

“Thank you,” she said. She turned toward the front of the store so she could pay for her purchases and get home as quickly as possible.


He could just let her go. The tingle would go away. Eventually.

She had nearly reached the end of the row when he called out to her.

“Miss Granger!”

She stopped and turned back to find Snape approaching her.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Why don’t you explain it to me, then?” he asked as he stopped in front of her.

“I’m no longer a student you’ve caught out of bounds. You can’t deduct House points or assign me detention. I don’t have to explain anything to you,” she said with a defiant lift of her chin.

Snape looked at her more closely. He could see the exhaustion etched on her face, even through her glamour. Her eyes looked haunted. Even without the promise, he would have recognised that the girl needed help.

“You’re correct, Miss Granger. You are under no obligation to tell me anything. I must admit, however, to that all-too-human failing of curiosity,” he said. “Where have you been for the last five-and-a-half years?” He glanced around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard before he continued speaking. “And why have you resorted to using a glamour, especially such an elaborate one? Your magic is at a very low level. Perhaps I can help you.”

“Why would you want to help me?” she asked. “I was one of the banes of your existence for more than seven years. I would think you’d be glad you’ve been shut of me.”

He would have been glad to be shut of her, if not for the obligation he still felt to Albus. He couldn’t very well tell her that, however.

“Let’s just say that after the losses of the war, it pains me to realise that a bright and promising young witch has exiled herself from a world that could desperately use her intellect and abilities.”

“I don’t owe that world anything!” Hermione hissed.

“Only your magical training and education,” Snape replied.

“Which I’ve paid for, quite dearly,” Hermione said, her anger overcoming her good sense.

“Have you, now?” Snape asked, in a chiding tone.

“Indeed, I have!”

Hermione flushed and then she glanced around. When she saw that the aisle they were in was empty, she turned back to Snape.

“This is what my magical training and education cost me,” she said.

Snape watched as her long, dark hair disappeared to be replaced by her usual bushy brown locks, but only on the left side of her head. Short, burnt-looking fuzz covered the other half of her scalp. The left side of her face looked as he remembered it when he had seen her last, on the eve of the Final Battle. The skin there was smooth and creamy with a dusting of light freckles across her cheek and the bridge of her nose. The right side of her face, however, had a reddish cast, the flesh hanging in lumpy-looking folds that pulled down her eye and the corner of her mouth. She looked like a wax doll that had been hit with a blowtorch.

Only years of practice at hiding his reaction to just about anything kept Snape from gasping out loud as he saw her ruined face. She had, indeed, paid a price – a price far beyond that which should have been extracted from her.

“A parting shot from Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione said.

Snape watched as she drew a deep breath and then closed her eyes. The glamour re-formed, and she was, once again, the pretty young woman she’d been.

“Pulpa Adustum,” Snape whispered.

“You know the curse she used?” Hermione asked. Without realising she had done it, she reached out and grasped his upper arm with her free hand.

“I know of the curse – or, at least, of a curse of a similar nature. Whether it is actually the curse she used, I couldn’t say,” Snape replied. “It’s very old – and very Dark. It was once an Unforgivable, but the Wizengamot removed it from the list more than three centuries ago because it hadn’t been used in nearly a millennium. It was thought to be lost.”

“Well, Bellatrix apparently found it,” Hermione said with a harsh twist to her mouth. She realised she was still grasping his arm and she dropped her hand to her side.

“Is there a counter-curse?” she asked, already suspecting what she would hear.

“If there is, it is lost in antiquity,” Snape replied.

“Well, you’ve already told me more than I’ve managed to find out in more than five years. I guess I’ll just keep searching. Thank you, Professor Snape,” she said and turned away.


Once again, he considered just letting her walk away. But then he felt the tingle again, reminding him of his promise to Albus.

“Miss Granger,” he called.

“Yes?” she said, turning back to him.

“Where have you been searching?”

“The Ministry allows me to use their library – after hours, of course, and only if I keep my glamour intact. They don’t want me to frighten anyone who might be prowling the halls.” Her tone was bitter.

“My private library has books the Ministry has never even heard of,” Snape said. He felt the tingle begin to recede.

“Would you be willing to look for information about this curse?” she asked. She couldn’t prevent the note of desperation that crept into her voice.

“If we worked together, we could get through the books twice as fast,” Snape suggested.

“You would allow me into your private library?”

“As you pointed out, you’re no longer a student. I doubt I have to be concerned that you will damage any of my rare volumes,” he said.

“Even when I was a student, I wouldn’t have damaged them!” Hermione exclaimed.

Snape looked down at her, inwardly amused by her look of furious indignation.

“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t have,” he said. “I’m not as sure about those two reprobates you associated with, however. I don’t recall that they shared your love of books and learning.”

“Yes well, they certainly took better care of their brooms than they did of their books,” she conceded. “But then, you can’t fly a book to play Quidditch.”

“Are they still as single-minded?” Snape asked. He didn’t really care, but he would rather not run into them if he could help it. The last thing he needed was to discover that one of them needed his assistance, as well.

“Actually, I don’t see them very often,” Hermione said in a sad tone.

“Why not? I thought you were like the Three Musketeers,” Snape said.

“I can’t endure anything more than a short visit. Maintaining my glamour takes a tremendous amount of energy. As a matter of fact, I really need to be going. I’m quite near the end of my tether now and I’ve still got to post these to my aunt in Wales.

“The Tube ride home should be an interesting experience,” she added. “It’s a lucky thing my coat has a hood, else I’d be giving the children of London nightmares.”

She tried to smile as she said this, but Snape could see the pain in her eyes.

“You no longer have the strength to Apparate?” he asked.

She just shook her head.

“Pay for your purchases and have them wrapped for posting. I’ll take care of it for you,” he offered. He wasn’t sure what had motivated him to make the offer, but when he saw the relief on her face, he was glad he had.

“Oh, that would be grand. The Tube station is just a couple of blocks from here. If I leave now, I should get home before I’m too exhausted to maintain my glamour.

“Thank you, sir.”

Snape followed her to the checkout counter and watched her pay for her purchases. The Muggle shop assistant flirted with her outrageously as he wrapped the books, but Hermione deftly turned his overtures aside.

After the transaction was complete, she turned back towards Snape. She nearly stumbled, and he reached out a hand to steady her. He led her to one of the small reading areas set up near the shop’s front window.

“Stay here while I take care of this package. I’ll be back in a few minutes to escort you home,” he said.

“Really, sir, you’ve done enough. If I just rest here for a few minutes, I’ll be fine,” she said as she sat down.

Snape leaned over her. “Do not force me to take drastic action, Miss Granger,” he whispered into her ear.

“What? Are you going to use the Imperius on me?” she asked.

“If I must,” he replied.

Hermione was sure he was bluffing – or joking, as unlikely as that seemed – but she was simply too tired to argue with him.

“All right, I’ll wait here. The post office is …”

“I know where it is,” he interrupted.


Snape had no intention of walking to the Muggle post office and then standing in what was sure to be an interminable line of people who had waited until the last minute to send their holiday parcels. Instead, he ducked into a deserted alleyway and cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself. He concentrated on the address written on the label and Disapparated soundlessly.

He found himself standing in front of a neat, little storybook cottage, complete with ivy covered walls. He traversed the stepping stones that led to the front door, placed the parcel on the mat, and knocked.

Perhaps half a minute later, the door swung open. He stepped back, even though he knew he couldn’t be seen because of the Disillusionment Charm.

The woman who opened the door was in her sixties, but Snape noted her resemblance to Miss Granger. She had the same gold-flecked brown eyes, and her hair, although pulled back and streaked with grey, had a thick unruliness that was familiar.

The woman looked up and down the street, and then bent down to pick up the package.

“Bloody postman was in a hurry,” the woman muttered.

Snape waited until she re-entered the house and closed the door behind her. Then he Disapparated once again. When he was back in the alley, he removed the Disillusionment Charm, walked back out of the alley, and re-entered the book store. The whole excursion had taken less than five minutes.

Hermione was still sitting in the chair where he had left her.

“Did you forget something?” she asked. “Where are the books?”

“They’ve been delivered,” Snape assured her.

Hermione looked puzzled for a moment, and then she realised what Snape had done.

“Ever so much more reliable than the post,” she said with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll come with me, I’ll see you safely home.”

Hermione stood on shaky legs and let Snape take her arm to lead her out of the store. This was a Snape she didn’t know at all. She looked at him through her lashes. Not only was his hair less oily-looking, but his skin seemed less sallow. The lines around his eyes and mouth seemed softer. Without his perpetual scowl, even his nose seemed less prominent. He was even wearing Muggle boots and jeans. They were black, of course, as was the jumper and pea coat he wore over them. Without his teaching robes billowing out behind him, however, he appeared less intimidating. She realised that if he hadn’t spoken, she probably wouldn’t have recognised this man as her dour former Potions master.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Snape led her into a deserted alley way and then spoke.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Hermione told him her address.

“Have you a back garden?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“Hold on,” Snape instructed as he wrapped an arm across her shoulder.

Hermione hesitated a moment and Snape’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“You must hold on to me for Side-Along-Apparition, Miss Granger, else we’ll splinch for sure.”

Hermione nodded, put her arms around his waist, and closed her eyes.

A moment later, they were standing in the garden behind Hermione’s small house.

“I can make it from here, Professor Snape,” Hermione said as she dropped her arms and stepped away from him. “Thank you for your help.”

Hermione walked slowly toward her back door, fishing in her purse for her key.

Snape watched as she tried to fit the key into the lock. After she dropped it a second time, he walked up behind her.

“I’ll do it,” he said as he took the key from her trembling fingers.

“I … I …” Hermione stopped speaking. Her eyes rolled back and she started to fall. Snape caught her as her legs collapsed beneath her. Her glamour faded as she lost consciousness.

Snape didn’t bother with the key. He muttered an Alohomora Charm and nudged the door open with his shoulder. He kicked it closed behind him as he carried Hermione inside. The door opened into the kitchen. He could see a small parlour beyond and he headed there.

He laid Hermione down on the sofa and then pulled her into a sitting position so he could remove her coat. She was wearing a jumper under the coat, and he opened the first two buttons. He’d known when he’d first seen her that she was thin. When he’d carried her, he’d been surprised by how light she was. He guessed she weighed less than eight stone. He was appalled by how thin she was. Her collarbones jutted out and her arms were little more than skin and bones. He could see that the damage from the Pulpa Adustum Curse extended down her neck, across the right side of her chest, and at least to the top swell of her breast. He didn’t allow his eyes to follow the line of ruined flesh any further than that. He removed her shoes and then eased her back down onto the sofa.

He considered using a Rennervate Spell, but decided that it would probably be best to let her revive on her own. There was a small knitted blanket thrown over the back of the sofa. He pulled it down over her and tucked it under her chin. She moaned softly and burrowed into the soft wool, but she didn’t awaken.

She was exhausted, both physically and magically. He could sense how low her magical energy was. She needed rest and food. He would let her sleep for a while and then he would wake her up and feed her.

He went back into the kitchen and began looking through her cupboards.


Hermione was dreaming. In her dream, she could smell onions frying. Since she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cooked onions, she knew she had to be dreaming. She opened her eyes a little, yawned widely, and sat up, stretching as she did so. The woollen blanket that was covering her slipped down to her waist. Why was she sleeping on the couch, instead of in her bed? And why could she still smell onions in spite of the fact that she was now, indisputably, wide awake? She tried to remember what had happened. She had gone to Grant and Cutler to get her godmother’s Christmas present. She had run into Professor Snape, of all people, and he’d actually Apparated to her aunt’s house in Wales to deliver the package for her. Then he’d taken her home. She remembered fumbling with her key; she’d dropped it at least twice. She’d been so tired and light-headed; she’d thought she was going to pass out.

She felt herself flush as she realised that she had passed out. Professor Snape had obviously gotten her into the house and put her on the sofa. He’d also taken off her coat and her shoes.

Before she could speculate any further, Snape walked into the parlour. She turned quickly, presenting him the undamaged side of her face.

“Good, you’re awake,” he said. “I was just coming in to rouse you. Dinner is ready.”

“’Dinner is ready’,” she repeated. “You … you made me dinner?”

Had the whole world gone insane? Severus Snape, who’d done nothing but belittle and torment her throughout her days at Hogwarts, had made her dinner?

“Actually, I made enough for both of us. I took the liberty of inviting myself to your table. Is that acceptable?”

“Since you cooked, it would be incredibly rude of me to throw you out, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

“Indeed,” he agreed.

Hermione stood and discovered that her nap had restored a good deal of her energy.

“How long have I been sleeping?” she asked.

“Nearly five hours,” Snape replied. “It’s just gone five o’clock. A bit early for dinner, but then, you slept through the lunch hour.”

“I need the loo. Will dinner hold?”

“I’ve put a Stasis Charm on it; it will keep.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes.”


Snape was leaning against the counter, reading the newspaper, when Hermione walked into the kitchen. He glanced up and noted that she had restored her glamour, but he made no comment about it.

“Sit,” he said. He refolded the paper and put it down on the counter. He waved his hand over the dishes and then he picked them up and carried them to the table.

“I can’t eat all this!” Hermione protested as she saw the amount of food on her plate. A perfectly broiled pork chop sat on the plate, surrounded by a scoop of potatoes mashed with the fried onions she’d smelled upon awakening, and a large serving of steamed broccoli with herbs. There was a basket of warm dinner rolls and a butter crock already on the table.

“You are far too thin, Miss Granger. Your cupboards and your refrigerator were nearly bare. Don’t you ever eat?”

Hermione flushed. “Sometimes, I … I forget to eat,” she admitted. “Besides, I don’t really enjoy cooking.”

“I did notice that you had plenty of coffee in your larder, however,” he said.

“I like coffee,” she said.

“Yes well, coffee and will power will only carry you so far, as your collapse today so aptly demonstrated. The body requires regular infusions of protein, carbohydrates, and even some fats, in order to continue functioning optimally,” Snape said. “Now, eat.”

Snape took the seat across from her and began on his own plate of food.


Hermione picked up her fork and took a small bite of the mashed potatoes. They were delicious – creamy and buttery. The fried onions gave them a wonderful tang. She didn’t know why it surprised her to discover that Snape could cook. He was a Potions master, after all. Some people would consider potions making to be simply a specialised form of cooking, though she was sure Snape would be insulted if anyone had the temerity to suggest such a notion to him.

They continued their meal in silence for several minutes. When she had finished about three-quarters of what was on her plate, she pushed it away.

“I can’t eat another bite,” she said when Snape glared at her. “It was delicious, though. Thank you for making it for me.”

“Unlike you, I enjoy cooking,” he replied, “though this was so simple a meal as to barely qualify as cooking. My specialty is French cuisine – coq au vin, duck à l'Orange, châteaubriand, and the like.”

“Anything more elaborate than a tin of soup and a cheese sandwich is haute cuisine to me,” Hermione said.

“Bourgeois,” Snape muttered as he stood and began clearing the table.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She was about to say something when she saw him arch his eyebrow at her.

“Comment, Miss Granger?”

“When did you develop a sense of humour, Professor Snape?” she asked. She got to her feet and moved to the sink to begin the washing up.

“I’ve always had one – a biting and caustic one, I admit, but a sense of humour, none the less. I simply had very little opportunity to display it. The Dark Lord truly did not have a sense of humour and tended to lash out at anyone who showed the slightest hint of possessing one. I learned early on to keep that facet of my personality well-hidden.”

“It was so well-hidden as to be deemed positively non-existent, at least to your students,” Hermione replied.

“My students would be the last people I’d reveal it to,” Snape declared. “Most would perceive it as a weakness and try to exploit it, somehow.”

“But, it might have put an end to the rumours that you were a vampire,” Hermione said with a small smile.

“And why would I want that?” he asked and then he chuckled.

“Well, you’re certainly not the same person I knew at Hogwarts,” she said.

“Are you the same person you were then?” he asked, looking at her intently.

“No. No, I’m not,” she replied. And then she looked away.


They worked in silence for several minutes. Hermione washed the dishes, and Snape dried them and stacked them on the counter.

When Hermione opened the refrigerator to put the butter away, she gasped.

“Where did all this food come from?” she asked.

“Your larder was appallingly bare, Miss Granger,” Snape replied. “As I noted earlier, you are far too thin. The cure for that is nutritious food partaken at regular intervals. You’ll find that your cupboard has been replenished, as well.”

“I don’t know what to say.” She felt a prickling of tears behind her eyelids.

“The correct response would be, ‘Thank you, Professor Snape’.”

“But why?” she asked.

“Because the customs of polite society dictate that when one person performs an act of kindness for another person, the receiving party usually says thank you.”

She looked at him blankly for a moment and then she ducked her head.

“I didn’t mean why should I say thank you; I do thank you, most sincerely. I meant why did you do it?”

“I suspect that one of the reasons you are so underweight – other than the fact that you think coffee is food, of course – is that you expend a tremendous amount of energy maintaining your glamour when you go out.”

“It’s exhausting,” Hermione conceded.

“I would guess that other than your nightly forays to the Ministry library, you seldom leave your house. Am I correct?”

Hermione nodded.

“Trips to the market are rare.”

“I have things delivered,” Hermione said.

Snape just arched a brow at her.

“I do,” Hermione said, “when I think of it.”

“Which is seldom,” he insisted.

“Yes … well … I have a lot on my mind,” she mumbled.

“Does the Ministry give you any compensation?” Snape asked, changing the subject.

“Why should they?” she asked.

“Your injury was a result of the war. You are, in effect, a disabled veteran. Others are receiving payments. Mundungus Fletcher and Kingsley Shacklebolt are just two that I know of. Did you ever apply?”

“I didn’t know there was anything like that available,” she said.

“You mentioned before that you do research at the Ministry library. Is anyone at the Ministry aware of the extent of your injury?” he asked.

“Rufus Scrimgeour knows. I had to … to … show him before he would allow me access to the library. No one else knows. Scrimgeour asked me to keep it a secret – not that I wanted anyone to know, anyway. Even after he saw what had happened to me, he was reluctant to allow me permission to do my research there. I very nearly had to beg him. He placed a lot of restrictions on my activities. I can only go to the Ministry after hours. I have to keep my glamour intact, and the glamour has to be other than my own appearance. In addition, I’m not allowed to talk to anyone about my … my … injury or about my research. Technically, I’m breaching my agreement with Scrimgeour by discussing it with you.”

“Rest assured; I have no dealings with Rufus Scrimgeour – or the Ministry – if I have any choice in the matter.

“Might I ask how you earn your living? Do you work for the Ministry?” he asked.

“No! I wouldn’t work for them if they offered, which they haven’t. I work from here, on my computer. I do tech support for a software company.” She paused as she realised that Snape probably didn’t know what she was talking about.

“A computer is a Muggle device …”

“I’m a half-blood, Miss Granger. I lived exclusively among Muggles until I went to Hogwarts and I’ve kept up with Muggle technology. I know what a computer is.”

“My apologies, sir, I meant no disrespect. At any rate, my needs are simple, so I get by. It’s not like I waste money going out partying or buying clothes.” This last was said with a touch of wistfulness.

“So you work from home during the day – probably ten hours at a stretch, if I recall your industriousness – and then you spend another six or eight hours at the Ministry library each night. Am I correct?” He was staring at her pointedly.

“That sounds about right,” Hermione agreed, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Which means you’re averaging less than six hours of sleep in each twenty-four hour period,” Snape concluded.

“If I’m lucky. I’ve had trouble sleeping since … since this happened,” she said, waving a hand to indicate her glamour.

“Nightmares?” Snape asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I asked Madam Pomfrey for some Dreamless Sleep Potion, but she didn’t think that was a good idea,” Hermione said.

“She’s quite right. It can become addictive if misused. You should try some lifestyle changes first.”

He moved towards the stove as Hermione glared at him.

“Tea?” Snape asked, holding up the kettle.

“Coffee?” Hermione countered.

“Coffee is a morning beverage, Miss Granger,” Snape said. “The caffeine may be contributing to your inability to sleep. Tea is much more appropriate in the evening. I’ll put honey in it. You’ll find it quite soothing and less likely to keep you awake.”

“Tea has just as much caffeine as coffee,” Hermione said in her know-it-all voice.

“Some teas do,” Snape agreed. “This tea, however, is one of my own blending. It contains kava kava, valerian root, and lemon balm. It contains no caffeine. It will help calm your nerves a bit and promote a restful, natural sleep.”

“I’ve just woken up,” Hermione said. “I’m not ready to go back to sleep, yet.”

“It’s not Sleeping Draught,” Snape said. “It won’t put you to sleep. It will simply relax you and allow you to slip into a natural sleep – when you’re ready to sleep.”

“In that case, I’d love a cup of tea, Professor Snape. Thank you.”


As they sat drinking their tea, which was delicious and soothing, they talked.

“Why don’t you see Potter and Weasley anymore?” Snape asked.

“I do see them, just not very often. Most of the time, I’m just too tired to hold my glamour.”

“Are they so shallow that the sight of you without your glamour would offend them?” he asked.

“They don’t know about my injury,” Hermione replied in a soft voice.

“Why not?” Snape demanded to know.

“I told you, Scrimgeour made me promise not to reveal what had happened to me,” she replied.

“He had no right to do that. You need the support of your friends and your family …” Snape’s voice trailed off as he saw Hermione’s stricken look.

“Do your parents know what has happened to you?” he asked.

Hermione just shook her head.

“Who does know about your condition?”

“Well, Neville is the one who found me on the battlefield after Bellatrix hit me with the curse. Neville had fired off a hex just before she did and when Neville’s hex hit her, it deflected the curse she was throwing at me. I was hit with just the nimbus of the curse, rather than the main portion of it,” Hermione said.

“That probably saved your life,” Snape said. “Had the curse hit you with its full force, you would have died within moments as your internal organs cooked.

“Who else?” he prodded.

“Madam Pomfrey. She tried everything she knew of to heal me, but nothing worked. She did manage to stop the pain, however.”

“So other than Longbottom, Scrimgeour, and Poppy, no one else knows that you were injured during the Final Battle?” Snape asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Harry and Ron think I was Stupefied. No one else knows what really happened. Well, now you know, but otherwise, no one knows. I didn’t want anyone to know because I was embarrassed by the way I looked. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. I couldn’t have borne the pity. I made Neville promise not to tell Harry or Ron. I told him I wanted to tell them myself. I forbade Madam Pomfrey to tell anyone. Ethically, she had to follow my orders, even though she didn’t agree with me.

“I isolated myself for months, refusing to see anyone or even to talk to anyone. I wanted to die, but I didn’t have the guts to kill myself.”

“Is that when you stopped eating?” he asked.

She flushed slightly. “It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part. It just sort of happened. I was depressed and I just … just kept forgetting to eat.”

“And not even your parents noticed?” Snape persisted.

“I used an even more elaborate glamour when I visited them and I’ve kept my visits short. My parents, although they’ve been quite supportive of me since they found out I was a witch, have never really understood the wizarding world.

“I never told them about Volde … the Dark Lord. I didn’t want to worry them.”

“When did you begin your research at the Ministry?” Snape wanted to know.

“Not until nearly a year after the Final Battle. I woke up one morning and realised that I wasn’t going to just die. And, since I lacked the courage to kill myself, that meant I was going to live. I decided that as long as I was going to live, I might as well try to find out what had been done to me and if there was any way to reverse it.

“I made some discreet inquiries, but I couldn’t find out anything about the curse that had been used against me. I tried to gain access to the library at the Ministry, but I needed authorisation. I submitted all the proper forms, but kept getting denied. I tried to make an appointment to see Rufus Scrimgeour, but I didn’t get anywhere with that, either. I finally asked Harry to make an appointment with him. The Ministry has been trying to get Harry to speak on their behalf for years. Scrimgeour nearly fell over himself when Harry Flooed him. He invited Harry to step right through into his office. When both of us came through, Scrimgeour was his usual, unctuous self. ‘I don’t know why my secretary didn’t put you through to me, Miss Granger. Of course, I would have taken your call if I had known’. Blah … blah … blah.

“Arsehole,” she finished.

Snape chuckled. “Didn’t Potter wonder what business you had with the Minister of Magic?”

“I told him I needed access to the Ministry library for some personal research. He’s been putting up with my bookishness since we were first-years. He didn’t ask me what the research was for, and I didn’t volunteer the information.

“Harry told Scrimgeour that he’d consider it a ‘personal favour’ if he would listen to what I had to say and then gave me the authorisation I needed to use the library. Then Harry left me with Scrimgeour.”

“That is when Scrimgeour imposed the restrictions on you?”

“Yes. He seemed to know, somehow, that Harry wasn’t aware of my injury. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good at trying to bluff my way through the lie. I really didn’t want Harry to find out what had happened to me. Scrimgeour implied he would tell Harry if I didn’t agree to his terms. He also made me promise to keep trying to get Harry to speak out publicly in favour of the Ministry – and himself, of course.”

“He really is an arsehole,” Snape said with barely suppressed rage. “He knew you wouldn’t find anything in the Ministry library.”

“How would he know that? He certainly can’t have committed the entire library to memory,” Hermione said.

“No, but he was the former head of the Auror Office. He would have known that the Pulpa Adustum Curse was once on the list of Unforgivables. In addition, he would have known that there is nothing about it in the Ministry library.”

“The bloody bastard has let me go to the library almost every night for more than four years, and all the time he knew …”

“He’s been using you to get to Potter,” Snape said.

“He’s been wasting his time, then,” Hermione said through clenched teeth. “Harry hates Scrimgeour. He’ll never become the Ministry’s poster boy.”

“He’s been wasting your time as well,” Snape said.

Hermione looked at Snape. “I’ve nothing but time, Professor,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Well, you’ll be putting it to better use, starting tomorrow,” Snape declared.

“Couldn’t we get started tonight, since I won’t be going to the Ministry library as I had originally planned?”

“You need to rest,” Snape insisted.

“I’ve just woken up. I’m fine, really.”

“Your magical energy is still quite low. You’ll be stronger after you sleep some more. School is out for the Christmas holidays. I’ll come round and get you in the morning.”

“I can take the Tube,” Hermione said.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said. “Why would you waste time – and energy – using that ridiculous means of transportation when I can take you to my home in just seconds?”

“I suppose you’re right,” she conceded.

“I’ll come by at nine o’clock. I’ll even prepare breakfast.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione said.

“Go to sleep, Miss Granger. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Hermione nodded.

Snape stepped back and silently Disapparated.


Tidings of Comfort and Joy by StormySkize [Reviews - 31]

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