Snow on Our Skin 01. by Claudia

Response to the Getting to Know You Challenge on WIKTT. Vignette 1: Christmas; required item: a ‘mini’-sized parcel or bag; required phrase: ‘Did you reduce that, or is it really that small?’; set in Hermione’s seventh year.

The first snowflakes of this winter were drifting lazily out of a white sky. They settled immediately without melting, promising a soft, white-bluish glittering cover for the drab greyish countryside. The air in his lungs was chilly. In the past few days – and nights, of course – the temperature had dropped radically to a two-digit below zero centigrade region.

So this was Christmas in the wizarding world. Felix Flitwick had started putting up Christmas trees and decorations in the Great Hall this morning, eagerly aided by students and Hagrid. The house-elves were probably already preparing the Yule feast, the day after which the Hogwarts express took the children south. By Saturday morning, the school would be almost empty. It was not that Severus preferred the school without the children; to say quite on the contrary would have been a lie, though. The empty corridors, halls, staircases, and Great Hall were so solemn and cool in the absence of almost everyone that Severus preferred the solitude of his rooms, just as he did when the school was humming with life. Well, work had to be done, lazy dinners with the staff were certainly a highlight, and then there was his long-expected trip to the seaside.

Busy even then, Severus loved the relaxed business of the Christmas holidays. He wrapped his heavy woollen scarf tighter around his neck and put on his leather gloves. He could see his breath hanging in small clouds in front of his face, disturbing the fall of the snowflakes. Then he walked down the road to Hogsmeade, from where he would Apparate to Diagon Alley. He had a few errands to run and shopping to do. Of course he could have relied on an owl-order service, but today he felt rather more haptic. And he only had a vague idea of what he wanted to get, so browsing and leafing through books was necessary. He just hoped that Flourish and Blotts wasn’t too busy today.

By the time Hermione finally made it to Flourish and Blotts, Diagon Alley was already covered in a wonderful blanket of snow that crunched divinely beneath her boots. The Christmas decorations reflected the light of the candles and torches that lit wizarding London’s busy shopping street. People were particularly friendly and in that special festive mood that made shopping exceptionally enjoyable.

However, the visit with Flourish and Blotts was her treat of the day. She had already done some shopping in Muggle London for her family and pen pals. As soon as she entered The Leaky Cauldron she had reduced her bags to a size that fit her book-bag. Presents for Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Neville were added to in the course of the afternoon, and despite the shrinking spell her bag was almost bursting at its seams.

Hermione smiled. There was nothing like the smell of bookshops, but Flourish and Blotts was special. Its warmth came from safe fireplaces, and the air was heavy with the scent of books old and new, and heavenly aromas were wafting through the whole shop from the cooking section. It was a bibliophile’s dream: books were stacked more or less orderly on shelves, tables, stairs, and the floor. Deep, comfortable armchairs invited to relax and browse. Most of all it was warm.

Her parents and her Nana had given her some money to spend on wizarding books. Her Muggle presents she would receive personally; unlike Harry and Ron she spent all her Christmases at home with her family. It was a rather unpopular decision when it came to her friends, but Hermione insisted that if she stayed at Hogwarts ten months a year, then she at least wanted to be at home for Christmas.

At Flourish and Blotts, she found it always hard to find a place to start, even when she knew what she wanted or had a list of recommended reading. There was a book on the theory of magic paintings she wanted to take a look at. She didn’t paint, but the book-jacket promised a guide to put magic into non-magical artwork. On her wish list was a copy of a contemporary Scottish artist’s book, and she hoped to breathe even more life into his narrative paintings. Then there were several wizarding novels she had been meaning to read: nothing of the likes of cheap romance some of her friends preferred, though, but classics and winners of the Quill Quiescent Prize. Oh, and she wanted to have a look at the annotated version of The Glossary of Standard Potions for N.E.W.T.s-Candidates and its Arithmancy equivalent.

Having decided to start with the former, Hermione stood totally engrossed in the Potions section, browsing said glossary. It did not quite keep what the ads promised, so she was merely flicking through it, soon losing interest. She was just putting it back on a relatively high pile of more copies of this book, when books suddenly went crashing onto the floor, and something hit her in the back with a dull thud. Her knee hit the edge of a low table before she fell.

“Miss Granger?” Severus Snape was gently holding her by the chin when Hermione regained her senses. She coloured when she realised who was addressing her.

“I’m all right,” she said, rather more brusquely than intended. However, she accepted Snape’s proffered hand and let him pull her to her feet.

“The ladder broke, it was an accident. My apologies.”

Hermione looked at him, the heat in her face cooling.

“I’m not going to blame it on you, Miss Granger,” Severus added. He certainly was not. The accident had scared him enough, and his ankle was starting to throb angrily with pain. Merlin knows what could have happened.

Just then an assistant appeared, alerted by the noise. He was shocked, concern clearly written in his face. Severus straightened, glad that someone took over. “Good Heavens, professor! Are you all right? And you, Miss …?”

“Granger. I’m fine, thanks.”

“You ought to check the other ladders lest someone breaks their neck,” Severus said coldly, back in full reprimand-mood as if the assistant were one of his students.

“Of course we will, sir. Are you all right?” He was fidgeting nervously. Other customers were craning their necks to see what the noise and subsequent fuss was all about.

“Well, um,” the assistant began, “why don’t you go to Fortescue’s for tea – on the house?”

Severus was staring coldly at the hapless clerk; rather cruelly, Hermione found. Quite surprisingly, too, come to think of it, what with his courteousness towards herself. “That is a very generous offer, sir, thank you,” she replied sweetly.

The clerk heaved a visible if not audible sigh of relief and shuffled off.

“Which were yours, Miss Granger?” Severus found being practical safer right then. Together they bent to retrieve the books they wanted to buy. Several potions books went onto Severus’s pile, naturally, but there were clearly errands for other staff, wizarding fiction, and a cook book. Hermione was picking this last item up and looked at it amazedly.

“I didn’t know you enjoyed cooking,” was past her lips before she knew what she was saying. Too late she realised that the volume might as well be for someone else.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Severus replied dryly. “May I?”

Hermione dropped the book into his outstretched hand. Piedmont’s cuisine was mouth-watering, but she would never have guessed the wizard’s hobby, which was little wonder. Teachers and students, especially in a strained relationship as this, did not know much about each other.

“You certainly are not serious about buying this book, are you?” He was referring to The Glossary of Standard Potions for N.E.W.T.s-Candidates.

“No.” They were both surprised at the disgust in her voice.

“You could always come and …” Severus stopped himself. It seemed not only Miss Granger was speaking before thinking. “Why don’t we discuss this at Fortescue’s?”

Hermione could hardly believe his being serious about it, but a couple of minutes later they were having tea at Fortescue’s.

“You are a very dedicated student, Miss Granger,” Severus began, spooning sugar into his tea. “If you are interested in Potions beyond the curriculum I shall be delighted to assist you. What are your plans for after the N.E.W.T.s.?”

There it was again, this most-dreaded of all questions. It was not because Hermione had no plans for her life after school, quite on the contrary, she just hated this most condescending of all questions you could be asked at this age. Strangely enough, coming from Snape, it was not so condescending. Apparently, he was really interested in her.

“I’ll study Potions and Arithmancy.” She spread some strawberry jam on her scone.

“Quite naturally. As I said, you can always ask me regarding the best books about Potions.”

Silence, not really awkward, ensued.

“Funny how you called me a silly girl in first grade,” Hermione mused, and sipped at her tea.

“Indeed.” Severus studied the butter smears on his knife. “It was the very first lesson, if I recall correctly.”

“What did you expect? Lemon drops?”

Hermione smiled. “A chance. I expected a chance, still do, as a matter of fact.” Just like any other Hogwarts student, she added silently.

Severus remained silent. “You’re getting your chance now.”

“Fine, what about the others? Neville, for example?”

“Oh please!” he drawled. “He’s just not made for the subtle art and science that is potion-making.”

A typically raised eyebrow.

“Just give him a chance to work without pressure. Neville manages quite well when he works on his own,” Hermione explained calmly.

“He’s not copying it off Potter’s scribbling or anybody else’s?”

“Absolutely not.”

That was the first time Severus Snape did not have a reply.

Hermione looked at her watch. “Oh, is it that late already! I’m sorry, professor, but I’ll have to go. I’m meeting Parvati Patil for Apparating to Hogwarts, and I’m almost late.”

“Well, then,” Severus finished his tea. “I won’t keep you.”

Hermione took her satchel and stood, not really knowing what to say. She had not fastened the lid of her satchel properly, so one of the Muggle bags slipped out. Its contents spilled onto the seat of her chair and the floor. Severus helped to pick up three smallish cubes from the warm seat of her chair. “Don’t forget these.”

“Pray tell, did you reduce them, or are they really that small?” he asked curiously as she put them back into her bag. This time fastened the lid extra carefully.

She had meant to tell him it was no business of his, but because of the genuine amusement and interest in his voice, she said: “They are that small; watercolour containers usually are.” And true it was. She had bought for Dean Thomas three of those ridiculously expensive pots of watercolour which were hardly a thimbleful.