Halloween and Christmas
Severus found himself constantly thinking of Hermione. Whether he was teaching her class, or another class of her peers. Whether he was eating in the great hall and could see her, or was wandering the grounds and thinking what she was doing.
He was worried for her. He worried she wouldn’t fit in, or she wouldn’t be happy. He was worried about Harry Potter, and that red headed friend, who pestered her just as Harry’s father used to pester him. He felt sad when she ate relatively alone, but mostly Snape felt guilty. He should have been there in her life. Sure, her mother had outright banned him, but he should have tried harder. In all honestly, he hadn’t tried hard. He had written letters, he had thought about it, he had called on the phone once or twice, walked past her house at night, and said a few words to the husband from time to time, but not much. He should have stood his ground. He should have marched into her house and begged –no, demanded to see his daughter. But he had given up. Let her win. He was doing the same thing now. No, it was worse now, Hermione hadn’t even told him to stay away, not technically. But he did anyway, like a scorned child. He was ignoring his only child –his only anything, at her time of need. He was her father after all and should be doing something.
His thoughts were broken by a noise outside of his office, where he had been sitting, pondering. He had heard something a few minutes ago, a scraping, but assumed it was the Slytherins on their way back and forth from the common room making a ruckus. But something was different this time, more menacing. Suddenly. Severus remembered the date –halloween. It was likely this was a prank going on right under his nose.
Snape rose from his desk and clamoured to the door to find a breeze rolling through the hall. It was peculiar, as they were underneath ground level. He found the source of the air, an open door into the pits of the castle, some of the most deep dungeons. Coming from the doorway was a mixture of mud and drool which had been stuck to the foot some creature, and was now tracked down the hall and up the staircase. Snape followed the tracks up the winding stairs to the main floor. He was close enough to the main hall (trying to find the path as the prints dwindled off) to hear the commotion as students filed out. He paid little mind to their movement, but listened carefully to their chatter about the troll. He set his eyes to finding the prints again, scouring the polished floors for any sign of mud or drool. He caught what he thought was a glimmer of spit and went back to the search. The trail went cold for quite some time, then he would find a bit of mud and go back on the chase. He was rounding a corner, following a scuffed floor board when he heard several shouts and a loud bang. He went running to the source, the woman’s washroom. He opened the door, first to find the unconscious troll lying on its back, then Harry Potter and his friend Weasley –no real surprise, then to his fright, his own daughter standing next to them.
Severus saw the tears still gleaming in her eyes, and the fear behind that. She looked directly at him, which only made the fear in her grow. He was about to speak to her, when McGonagall and several other teachers arrived. Once Hermione had told her story to them, Snape was so angry he wouldn’t have been able to speak to her without yelling anyway.
Hermione gets onto the train to go home for the Christmas. She pulls her bag along the corridor, chatting with Neville, who was also going home. They found an empty car and tucked their luggage away before sitting down together.
“It’s a shame Harry and Ron aren’t going home too, though I suppose Harry doesn’t want to.” Neville said.
“Yes, I suppose.” Hermione mumbled, looking out the window.
“I suppose you’ll miss them over break.”
“Mmh.” Hermione nodded a little.
Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she would miss them. It would be nice to have some time with her parents. And to be without them for a while. She was growing tired of their constant discussions about the Philosopher’s Stone, and about Snape. She still wasn’t sure what sort of a man her father was, but she didn’t want to think that he could be in league with You-Know-Who.
“Are you and your parents doing anything special over the holidays?” Neville asked.
“We’re having dinner with the extended family, grandparents, cousins, and things. Are you doing anything?”
“It’s just me and Gran.” Neville said, “That’s alright though, I’ve missed her.”
“I hope you have a happy Christmas.” Hermione said.
Neville beamed, “You too, Hermione.”
Hermione did have a good Christmas. She was still stuffed from their family dinner two days later, as she lied on the living room floor, in front of the fire place. There was a plate of left-overs to her left and her quill and half done essay to the right. She scribbled things down, while flipping through her potions book and stuffing her turkey sandwich into her mouth at the same time.
“What teacher gave you homework over the break?” Her father laughed, setting himself down in a chair near Hermione’s head.
Hermione looked up at him, “Professor Snape,” She whispered, almost ashamed.
Her father nodded, “How are you finding him?”
“He’s strict, and grumpy, and loud, but there’s nothing wrong with him, in particular.” Hermione shrugged.
“That’s how I found him too, the few times I spoke with him. Not particularly enjoyable, but not bothersome enough to pay any mind to.”
Hermione focussed on the essay in front of her, biting her lip. “He –he hasn’t tried to be around me. At all.” She whispered.
Hermione’s father slid onto his knees, and placed his hand on Hermione’s back. “Come here, sweet heart.” He pulled her into a hug.
“I don’t think he cares.” Hermione said.
“He cares, he cares about you very much, Hermione. I just don’t think he’s that assertive about his emotions is all.”
Hermione looked up at him quizzically.
“He used to come around here,” he said, “especially when you were little. He used to come around dusk, or just after dark. And he would come rushing up to the door with his black cloak billowing around him, and I could see his hand was on his wand, and he would stand there on the steps, and I would stand in front of the door with my arms crossed. He would tell me he had to come in. He had to see you. He had to talk with your mother. I’d tell him no. I’d tell him you were asleep, or mom was sick, or I’d just tell him no. Then his hand would drop and his shoulders would slump and he’d turn around and go back to wherever he came from.”
“He did?” Hermione said.
“He did. He used to do it all the time. He did it less when you were older. But he would always leave, just like that, without so much as an argument. As time went on, sometimes he wouldn’t even come to the door. He’d just stand on the street for a minute or two.” He sighed, “I don’t think he’s got much of a back bone. No idea how to stand up to people, or fight for what he wants. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you.”
Hermione smiled up at her father as he kissed her on the forehead.
“You’d better go wash your face,” He said, “Before your mother figures out what you’re getting upset about.”
Hermione was back at Hogwarts on January 5th. Harry and Ron met her at the entrance hall, welcoming her home with a big hug. Harry took her luggage bag from her, and Ron took the bag full of the clothes and books her family had given her for Christmas. Together they went up to the common room, as Harry and Ron talked quickly about Harry’s mysterious gift and about the Mirror of Erised.
“Me and Harry left your gift on your bed, sorry we were so late getting it.” Ron turned red.
“That’s alright, Ron, it’s the thought that counts, not the timing. Did you like mine?”
Both boys smiled, nodding.
“I’ll see you in the common room in a minute.” Hermione said.
Hermione took her bag from the boys and stepped into her room, which was now beginning to fill with the other girls. She put her bags down on the bed, and surveyed the three presents laying on her bed.
“Harry and Ron too slow to give it to you before you left, Hey?” Pavarti said.
“I guess, yeah.” Hermione flushed, opening what was obviously a book, wrapped in what seemed to be the leftover wrapping from their own presents.
“It looks like you’ve got an admirer, with all those presents.” Lavender giggled.
“No, it’s just a book from Harry and Ron.”
“And the other ones?” The girls giggled.
Hermione ripped open Mrs. Weasley’s package to find a mustard yellow sweater with a large H on it.
“So much for an admirer,” Lavender laughed, walking away.
What’s in the other one?
Hermione picked up the last gift. It is a small, heavy gift, just longer than the palm of her hand, and wrapped in cream tissue paper. She tears it gently, letting the heavy hair clip inside, fall into her palm. Pavarti takes it from Hermione’s hand to look at it, as she is preoccupied with the piece of card inside. It reads, “Happy Christmas, Hermione. From your father.”
“It’s beautiful.” Pavarti says, turning the clip in her hand. It is long and wide enough to fit a lot of hair in, perhaps even Hermione’s. The top is adorned with metal inlayed leaves and vines, with small flowers made of burgundy coloured glass. “You have got an admirer,” Pavarti says, handing it back to Hermione.
“No,” Hermione says, turning the piece in her hand and smiling, “It’s from my father, see the card.”
“I thought you spent Christmas with your parents.” Lavender said.
Hermione paused, searching for a lie. “He must have wanted me to have something to open here as well.”
Ron knocked several times on the girl’s door before opening it a little. “Hermione, what’s taking you so long?”
Hermione set down the clip on her bedside table, then she picked up her sweater and walked toward Ron. “Look what your mother sent me.” She beamed.
Hermione was handing her Christmas Break Essay into Professor Snape, when one of the Ravenclaw girls commented on the hair clip, holding much of her hair away from her face, in a neat-ish bundle at the back of her head.
“It’s really pretty Hermione, where did you get it?”
“Thanks, my father got it for me for Christmas.” Hermione smiled.
Severus couldn’t help the grin growing on his lips from that sentence. The only thing that made him happier was later, in his office when he was grading essays and he found at the bottom of Hermione’s essay, in the margins, a small “PS, thank you.”