Second Chances
Mid September 1998
“Oh, look at this one,” Hermione pulled a tiny pair of overalls out of a trunk.
“Alright, those are pretty adorable,” Ginny gave in and grinned. “But my mum has to stop sending me trunks of baby things. This is too much!”
Hermione rolled her eyes. She wasn't sure if children were something she wanted for herself, but the tiny clothing was undeniably precious. So far helping Ginny with baby preparations had been more fun than she ever imagined.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “Not everyone’s got support like Molly.” Hermione had meant to say it as a lighthearted thing but instantly regretted saying it.
Ginny’s face fell slightly. Her smile faded. “Right, I…I’m sorry, Hermione. If this is weird or too hard or-”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly.
“I just…”
“Don’t feel guilty for having parents,” Hermione said with a half-smile. “Once I get this whole touch thing sorted out, I’ll figure out how to get my parents' memories back.”
Ginny nodded but the look of sadness hadn’t left her face. “You really got the raw end of the deal,” she said quietly. “Harry and I…we're moving on and I suppose you probably feel…”
“Gin,” Hemione stood up from her spot beside the trunk and sat down beside her friend. “You’re not in the wrong for moving on. If I could, I would. Even still, I’m trying.”
“I just wish I could help you more,” Ginny replied.
She placed a warm hand on top of Hermione’s leather-glad hands. Over the last few months, Hermione had become accustomed to the vivid red leather gloves. She never left her bedroom without them. They had very much become a necessary part of her wardrobe. Slowly, she began to feel naked anytime she wasn't wearing them. It was strange what one could grow accustomed to over time.
Hermione looked up from her hands and into the eyes of her friend.
“You are helping me,” she pointed out with a smile. “You’re letting me live here.”
Ginny shrugged. “Yeah, but that’s easy.”
Hermione just laughed. “I’ll figure it out,” she raised her chin. “I always do.”
“Have you heard back from that witch from Spain?”
“The Legilimens? Yeah, she can’t help, but I have other leads.” It was a lie. The Spanish witch named Leona was her last chance. “But let’s get back to the baby. Can I help you paint the nursery?”
“You’re volunteering for physical labor?” Ginny raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I’m fairly certain that I would do anything for this child,” she gave a small laugh.
“Alright, well, I planned to start on it last week but I…well, I’m feeling really bloody pregnant,” she groaned. “And I don’t wanna make Harry do it. He’s not having such a grand time at work, so I don’t wanna add more to his list.”
“I’ll help you, I already said I would. What color did you pick out?”
“C’mon I’ll show you.”
Together they left the warmth of the living room and walked upstairs towards the bedrooms. Since the house had been left to Harry, the couple had done quite a bit of remodeling.
The heavy curtains and dark paint were replaced with natural light and pale, earthy paint colors. Hermione was impressed that such a dark and sullen house could be transformed so easily into such a warm place. She imagined Harry and Ginny’s child running through the halls, laughing with delight. She smiled at the thought.
Ginny rounded a corner and led Hermione into the small bedroom across the hallway from the master bedroom. The room was filled with half-assembled furniture and a couple large cans of paint. The window was opened a bit, letting in a cool autumn breeze from outside. The walls had been primed but not painted yet. The off white made the sunlight look all the more vibrant.
“Well, you certainly got some things done,” Hermione offered. “It wasn’t primed the last time I came up here.”
“It took forever,” Ginny groaned. “But here’s the color I’m thinking of.”
She opened one of the cans with a screwdriver and showed Hermione the pale-yellow paint. Instantly, she felt hot tears spring to her eyes.
“Beautiful,” was all she could bring herself to say.
“What? You don’t like it? I didn’t want to make it gendered with blue or pink so I-”
“No, no, it’s lovely,” Hermione blinked back the tears and smiled when she met her friends’ eyes. “It’s nearly the exact color my bedroom was when I was a little girl.”
“Oh,” Ginny put the lid back on the paint can. “I…are you…”
“I’m fine,” she promised. “I’m just even more excited to paint now.”
Ginny smiled but there was a hesitant look on her face.
That night Hermione sat in her bedroom. Harry and Ginny had already gone to bed hours ago and were likely fast asleep. However, she struggled to do the same. Sleep had always been rather illusive for her, but she always preferred to go to bed early and wake up with the sun. Recently, it had become harder to get into that rhythm.
Just as she felt the beginnings of sleep tug at her consciousness, a tap came to her window. At first, she thought the rain might have started up again. But then it came again, this time it was clearly not the sound of rain. With a groan, she sat up and walked to the window, surprised to find a Great Horned Owl sitting there, watching her with large, golden eyes.
“Hi there,” she said tiredly. “You’ve got an awful sleep schedule--well, maybe not for owls, but for people. I was just about to fall asleep.”
The owl merely looked at her with an almost bored look. Hermione reached out and took the letter from the creature. She couldn’t help but feel a bit of nervousness swirl in her stomach. She had given up on Professor Snape. Especially after clearly infringing on his personal space at the cottage.
Slowly she opened the letter and began to read.
“Miss Granger,
Finding my cottage with what little clues you had may have been impressive, but you are no longer a student of mine. Therefore, your tendency to try to impress will no longer do so. I find it disrespectful of my time and space that you brought it upon yourself to track me down.
However, if I ever need a bloodhound, I will keep you in mind.
After a bit of consideration, I believe that you are correct. I am one of the few who may be able to help you with your predicament. That being said, I am not eager to offer what I am about to offer. I assume you have the intellect to understand that I can (and will) revoke this offer if you overcomplicate my life.
Return to my cottage in two days. Arrive well after noon. I may be able to assist you.
S.S.”
Hermione felt her heart begin to pump in her chest. Professor Snape had reconsidered. He was going to help her.
After bidding the owl a good night, Hermione collapsed back onto her bed. This was the first good answer in weeks. She laid back and stared up at the ceiling. If anyone could help her it was him, right? At least that’s what Harry had said months ago.
That night, Hermione dreamt of the battlefield after the war. She dreamed of cloudy skies and fallen, lifeless forms. She dreamed of the Shrieking Shack and the half-dead man inside. Her hands were stained from dirt and possibly blood. Dark grime had settled in the cracks between her fingers and under her nails. The war was over, yet relief had not arrived. The world felt tainted with something she couldn’t quite describe.
When Hermione awoke, she awoke to the sound of Ginny singing in the kitchen while she cooked breakfast. The movement of pots and pans in the sink echoed down the hall towards her room. She rolled onto her back and stared at a stain on her ceiling. Her mind felt foggy from the heavy night sleep, but the dream had disturbed her.
Hermione did her best to freshen up and erased the thought of her grime-stained hands. From the sounds of it, Ginny was in a good mood, and she didn’t want to ruin it. After a quick shower, she found her way into the kitchen and to the coffee maker on the counter.
“Sorry,” Ginny winced, “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, and even if you did, I wouldn’t mind. It’s nearly eight in the morning; I should have gotten up earlier.”
“I was surprised when I woke up and you weren’t in the kitchen,” Ginny admitted. “I sorta thought you might be meeting a friend for tea or something.”
She scoffed. “You and Harry are the only ones I really talk with.”
“Luna and I meet up once a week, you can always join us. Sometimes Cho and Hannah come, too.”
“I know,” Hermione admitted.
Ginny had tried to invite her countless times. Every time she shrugged off the invite. It was hard to interact with many of the others she had gone to school with. They were all (understandably) moving on with their lives. Over the summer, Hermione couldn’t help but feel that she was trapped in a liminal space between the war ending and her ‘real life’ beginning.
Hermione grabbed a mug of coffee pouring in a bit of milk before taking a seat at the table. She sipped the drink while she contemplated telling Ginny about her invitation to see Professor Snape again. After a few minutes she decided, she would wait to tell Ginny or Harry. For all she knew, Professor Snape would send her away with more questions than answers.
Two days passed. During that time Hermione got started on painting the baby’s room, began a new book, and drank a bit too much caffeine. She attempted to do research on “Tactile Empathy” but as far as she could tell, there was not a single book written on the concept. She didn’t like the idea of arriving at Snape’s cottage completely left in the dark, but it seemed there were few options for her.
As Professor Snape insisted, Hermione arrived at his cottage well after noon. It wasn’t raining like it had been the last time she arrived. The sun was obscured slightly by a thin collection of clouds and a chill hung heavy in the air. She shivered slightly as she stared up at the cottage. Behind her the endless tides of the North Sea lapped at the rocks.
Hermione gathered herself. Her mind was racing with the possibilities of the information Professor Snape might have for her. Did he have some hidden knowledge of Tactile Empaths? Did he know how to help her after all? Had he done research?
She took a steadying breath before approaching his door. The cobblestone steps were wet from dew and ocean spray. A light was on inside the cottage and woodsmoke billowed from its chimney. Hermione could only hope that he hadn’t changed his mind about her visiting. Again, she took a deep breath and knocked.
After a moment of silence, the door opened. Professor Snape stood at the threshold. Once again, Hermione was surprised by the fact that he was wearing muggle clothing.
He wore a black turtleneck shirt under a familiar green jumper and a pair of dark trousers. It wasn’t quite as shocking as the last time she had seen him. When she had arrived unannounced, Professor Snape had walked around the corner of his house wearing a black hoodie with smudge of dirt on it--presumably he had been in the garden.
This outfit wasn’t quite as muggle as a hooded sweatshirt. However, his shoes made Hermione stare for longer than she intended. On the feet of one of the most fearsome wizards she knew were a pair of chucks.
“Miss Granger,” he said boredly. “I see you received my letter of invitation.” He said it like it was a bad thing.
“I did,” she tried to stand a little straighter and ignore his odd choice in shoes.
“Come in.”
Hermione followed him inside the cottage. She was relieved when the harsh cold was replaced by the warmth of the house. A fire burned idly in the hearth. She couldn’t help but notice the chair that sat beside it, along with a large stack of books on its side table. She supposed if she had a house to herself that was what she would want as well–a warm seat and a pile of books.
Just as before, Professor Snape led her into the kitchen. He put a kettle on the stove and lit it the muggle way. She watched him for a long moment, wondering why he chose to do it without magic.
“Professor,” she began. “I want to thank you for giving me a second chance. I-”
“I shouldn’t have sent you away. I assume you found very little information regarding Empaths.”
“Not real information, anyway.”
He nodded.
“And I shouldn’t have arrived here uninvited. I’m…I’m not really sure why I thought that was a good idea. I was a bit overwhelmed with-”
He held up a hand to end her rambling. “I don’t need to know whatever you are about to tell me.”
“Right,” she looked down at her gloved hands as she sat at the table.
Silence filled the room until the tea began to boil. Professor Snape poured two cups and placed one of them in front of her before sitting down in his own spot. She bit back the desire to ask if he had honey and milk. Instead, she sipped the black tea and wondered if she ought to start the conversation or if he would.
“I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart,” he said. “I want to be very clear: I am helping you, because your new magic fascinates me.”
“Even still, I appreciate it.”
Hermione was under no delusion that she and Snape would magically become friends after school ended. However, she had secretly hoped that he would offer her a bit more kindness. I don’t need kindness, she reminded herself. I need results. His reasons shouldn’t matter to me.
“If we both wish to continue after today, I want you to understand that I am not your friend,” he pressed on.
“Understood,” she bit back in response. “I’m not looking for a friend. I’m looking for someone who can help me.”
“Tell me about your research on Tactile Empathy.”
Hermione felt a rush of heat on her face, like she was in potions’ class once more. “I found very little about it, honestly. There are a handful of…spiritual books written on the matter, but none share any solid information. I found nothing about practical use or even any first-hand accounts. There are some older texts that mention it, but newer texts seem to disagree with it. It’s all…I’m pretty in the dark, sir.”
“So, you found nothing.” His tone was dry and devoid of any emotion. It was hard to tell whether he was upset or not at her admission.
“I…yes, I found nothing.”
Professor Snape nodded and sipped his tea. “I figured as much.”
“Then why did you tell me about it at all?”
“Curiosity.”
She was forced to bite her tongue about not being a test rat. To him, she practically was. He had made that much known. Hermione knew it was in her best interest to act as though she didn’t mind being a test rat.
“What is a Tactile Empath? And why is there no information about them?” She asked.
“Tactile Empathy is a very old and mostly unresearched form of magic. Many scholars believe it to be nothing more than misidentified forms of other magic such as Legilimency or even Divination.”
“And what do you believe?”
“I have been unsure of my thoughts on the matter. Until recently, I haven’t had a reason to give it much thought.”
“I saw specialists. They all seemed to believe I was a Legilimens. How can you be sure that’s not what this is?”
“When you relived my memories with me, what did you feel?”
Hermione swallowed at the thought of the Cruciatus Curse ripping through her veins. “I felt pain.”
He nodded. “Legilimency is a way to read the minds of others by navigating through their brains. Often memories are replayed, but the Legilimens never feel any physical sensations from the visions. You felt my pain.”
“Does that mean Occlumency doesn’t work against…me?”
“Not as well. Repelling Legilimens using Occlumency is like pushing someone out of your house and slamming the door in their face. But with you,” he paused. “It felt more like trying to clear smoke out of a house.”
She found herself looking away from his eyes. She sipped her bitter tea, feeling unable to add much to the conversation.
“But now that I know what to expect, I will have an easier time blocking you out,” Professor Snape continued.
“I don’t want to touch you,” she met his eyes once more.
“Then you are more than welcome to leave.”
“No, I just…can’t you tell me about this without…without touching.”
“Some of it, yes. But if you ever want control over it, you will have to learn how to touch someone without falling into their emotions.”
“I don’t want to control it. I want it gone.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “I’m afraid that’s not an option. This isn’t a curse to be rid of.”
“Well, it’s not exactly a gift,” she scoffed.
“Is that how you felt about your magic when it first surfaced?”
Hermione blinked, surprised by the question. “I…no. Well…maybe a little. I thought something was wrong with me.”
“Many Muggleborns do.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It was never about that. My parents were wonderfully accepting people. They never made me feel-”
“But you did feel like something was wrong with you.”
“Only until I got my letter and realized there were more of us. But my family never made me feel bad about what I am. You can’t generalize about-”
“Granger, if you are going to argue about everything I say, it is going to take much longer for us to figure out how to help you.” He looked almost tired as he sat rigidly in his chair.
She let out a breath.
“Much like basic magic, I believe your empathic abilities can be practiced. Unfortunately, this isn’t a skill that you can practice much on your own,” Professor Snape pressed on. “When you touch someone, have you tried to protect yourself from their emotions in any way?”
“No, I don’t know how.”
He gave a short nod, seemingly taking in her words.
“But if that’s what I have to do…teach me.”
“This won’t be another Potions’ class,” he warned. “I hardly know much more on this matter than you. However, as your letter suggested, I believe I may be one of the few who can help you. Because of the similarity between Tactile Empath and Legilimency, I do not fear what you’re capable of.”
The last sentiment brought a strange feeling of relief to Hermione. “Are you sure? Sometimes I see things I would…rather not.”
“Are you doubting my skills with Occlumency?”
“No,” she said quickly, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. “I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with this…arrangement.”
“If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
Hermione gave a small nod. “Alright.”
Professor Snape laid his hand palm up on the table and waited. Hermione couldn’t help but hesitate. It had been weeks since she touched anyone. The last time had been another mistake–accidentally brushing her finger against Ginny’s arm while they were in the kitchen. It hadn’t ended well. Slowly, Hermione removed her glove and placed her hand atop his.
The now-familiar wave of nausea hit her, and Hermione grimaced as her vision faded.
“I’m glad you accepted my invitation,” Dumbledore said. His eyes sparkled as they met Severus’.
“I’m already beginning to rethink it,” he replied bitterly.
“You’ll be the youngest professor to ever work at Hogwarts, does this concern you?”
“Obviously,” he said.
Despite being decades younger, Severus showed no more of his emotions than he had while Hermione had known him. Cold disinterest rolled off him in waves. It was clear he was trying hard to look disinterested in the conversation.
“You’ll have my full support,” Dumbledore went on. “I think the staff could use a bit of new blood.”
For whatever reason the mention of ‘new blood’ sent a bolt of rage through Severus.
Hermione felt herself being physically removed from his mind. She pulled her hand away from his in an instant, only for him to grasp her wrist. His dark eyes searched hers for a long moment.
“What did you feel?” He had yet to release her.
“You were uncomfortable with your new role as professor, but you were trying to hide it.”
“Anything else?”
“You were annoyed with Dumbledore…you thought he was dismissing your feelings.”
At last, Snape released her arm. “Did you at least try to pull away emotionally?”
“No,” she admitted, slightly ashamed. “I…It’s startling to find myself in someone else’s brain. I feel frozen when it happens and…”
“You need more practice than I anticipated.”
Hermione felt a wave of embarrassment. She took solace in staring down at her now-cold tea.
“But I know for certain that you are no Legilimens. We will meet once a week–Thursdays at noon.”
She looked up. “So, you’re certain that you can help me?”
“No. But I am certain that I am a skilled researcher, and you are a quick learner.”
She couldn’t help but smile at the compliment. Her smile was met with an expression that seemed to say he regretted offering her praise.