by Subversa
IV. Reckless Reality
Christmas Eve in Wanstead, with snow on the ground and the air frigid with wind which had blown the snow clouds out to sea. A solitary figure remained in the small neighbourhood park, oblivious to his surroundings as he pondered his inchoate desires and his obvious shortcomings. It is thus that he was startled by the arrival of another solitary soul …
‘Sir?’
Jerked with no warning from his brooding, his eyes rose to her face, confusion clearly written upon his features. It was Miss Granger, looking down at him with wide eyes, her mouth forming a silent ‘o’.
‘Severus!’ she breathed, and his heart tripped into double time whilst he sat and gaped stupidly up into her face. ‘But … why are you here?’
At last he found his voice, as well as his volition, and he stood, unmindful of the inanimate passenger across his knees. ‘I might ask you the same question,’ he replied with all the dignity he could muster, but he had lost her attention, for she quickly bent to retrieve the fallen doll.
‘You found it!’ she cried, the words floating up to him as he stared down at her bent figure.
She was here—here!—and he was as tongue-tied as a boy.
She straightened again, dusting the snow from the doll. ‘She’s not hurt too badly,’ she said, as if to herself, and a sure wave of her wand restored the doll to its original condition, hair smooth, clothing pristine. She held it up as if to show it to him and smiled happily. ‘See?’
But he couldn’t look away from her face.
‘Sir?’ she said again, concern in her tone.
He dragged his eyes from her face to flick a glance at the doll. ‘I see no difference,’ he said stiffly, and was disturbed to catch a flash of hurt on her face. What had he done wrong?
‘Of course you don’t,’ she said, her chin lifting, her lips settling in a firm line.
Nervously, he wet his lips. She had seemed pleased to see him, but now she had withdrawn. How to draw her out again? ‘Aren’t you a bit old for dolls?’ he inquired in a ponderous attempt at humour.
‘It’s not for me,’ she protested. ‘It’s for Victoire Weasley—all the other children are opening their gifts, but I must have left this here earlier today. The shops are closed, and I couldn’t buy another one—I’ve been retracing my steps …’
He listened to her, the words unimportant. She was speaking in his presence, and he soaked up her voice like a dry sponge exposed to a trickle of water. The streetlight revealed she was clad in her cranberry red coat, wearing ivory coloured knit mittens and a matching cap, pulled low to protect her ears from the biting wind. Her brown hair spilled, loose and bushy, past her shoulders, and her lovely face was tinged pink by the cold.
Miss Granger glanced about the park, as if to ascertain they were its only inhabitants. ‘Do you live near here?’ she asked, still trying to make sense of his presence. ‘My parents’ house is just down the street.’
‘I do not,’ he replied, ‘but perhaps it is fortuitous for the sake of your doll that I chanced to be here today.’ Still, he tried for a note of lightness, but it was foreign to him and sounded stilted to his ears.
Miss Granger grinned, banishing her earlier reserve. ‘Yes, we both owe you thanks!’ she said. ‘Now, you must come with me to Grimmauld Place to give Victoire her doll—there are so many of us now it’s easier to meet there than at the Burrow.’
He stiffened and drew breath sharply. Willingly go to Potter’s home, already crowded with Weasleys? He thought not. ‘I do not care for parties,’ he said, and it was the absolute truth.
Her hand in its mitten touched his upper arm, and she came one step closer, gazing up into his face. She smelled of the cold and of wood smoke from a fire somewhere, but it was the peppermint oil, undoubtedly from a boiled sweet, that he smelt on her breath when she spoke. ‘I know you don’t care for parties,’ she said. ‘We haven’t seen you since the first Ministry Gala—everyone will be so happy to see you.’
She stepped closer still, and he forgot the obvious lie she had uttered as her eyes pled and her tone coaxed. ‘Please come with me.’
He would follow her anywhere—walk from London to Hogwarts, even—to have the opportunity to talk with her again, as they had done in the past. But to go to Potter’s home—to see the Order members he had virtually ignored for years—what fresh hell was this, that he must choose between humiliating himself and losing her companionship? Coward! his mind screamed, and his resolve stiffened against the hated word.
‘I shall accompany you,’ he said, ‘to make sure the doll reaches its intended destination, this time.’
Her eyes crinkled in merriment, and as it had done in his earlier imaginings, her hand was tucked next to his side, and he bent his arm to give her a place to rest it. ‘Then you won’t mind if we Apparate by Side-Along?’ she said playfully. ‘To make sure no one loses their way?’
And that was how he came to be at Grimmauld Place with Hermione Granger on Christmas Eve.