When had anyone ever asked him what he needed? Not in his former life. Not Dumbledore. Not Voldemort. Not any of his colleagues. None of his students. Nobody he had known. Eleanor — yes. And these days, maybe even Draco and Granger. Draco and Granger, as well as Eleanor, seemed to know that he wanted — needed — his magic back even before he himself had known that. Granger...

Granger seemed to be the one that both Eleanor and Draco thought of highly. As, mind, someone for him. Did he feel something about Granger?

He shook his head. She was annoying and asked too many questions. She was a blundering Gryffindor with the tact of a rhinoceros. But she was willing to help and if he judged their characters correctly, it had been her, and not Draco, who had begun working on the counter-curse before involving the other. She wanted him to have what she thought, he needed. What she, and all the others, considered to be a part of him that he could not, and should not, let go. She was, when all was said and done, considerate. She worked quietly in his presence and she was, to a certain extent, certainly beautiful. She was young. She was lightness personified. She was the good in the world. She, who had wanted to free house elves had made him, apparently, her next object.

No, that wasn't right. She would have acted more imperiously if he had been a project but in the end, she had stated, plainly, that it was up to him. And he hoped that she would have acted upon his wishes if he had declined his magic. She would have, he thought. She had grown up since the days of her elf-freeing days.

Feelings towards her? None. But he did think about her. And he had done so in the last couple of days, or weeks really. He certainly wasn't indifferent to her anymore. But tender feelings? None.

He looked up in surprise. Eleanor seemed to think she was right for him. Draco seemed to think the same thing. He, on the other hand, was a level-headed man and he needed reason. He liked reason more than feelings and so...he shrugged a shoulder. He could, he thought, give this a try. Not a relationship but he could see, with open eyes, what happened if he spent more time with her. Reasonable. He would have to try to see past the former student. Past the former know-it-all. Seeing if she was still like that, or any different and see if there were any feelings after a while. And if only to spite Eleanor and Draco who were so bloody convinced.

He nodded to himself. This was him. Directing himself by reason and not letting him have his feelings direct him. Simple.

Well, it was easy. He clearly needed more books on the subject of chants and Granger would help and if he emailed her about apparating both of them to, say Malfoy Mansion, it would be a start. Then go from there.

76. Aphasia

Aphasia is defined as an impairment of language function due to localised cerebral (i.e. brain) damage which leads to difficulty in understanding and /or producing linguistic forms. The most common cause of aphasia is a stroke, though traumatic head injuries suffered through violence or accidents may have similar effects.

(Yule, 1996)

Hermione had made the decision and stuck to it. She had made the decision the moment she had finished reading that last email, the one which had, first, made her heart jump and skip. And why shouldn't it jump and skip? The man she sort of fantasised about and dreamed of, sort of, wanted her to apparate him to Malfoy Manor. It wasn't any close contact, only his hand on her arm but at the same time, he wanted her to come with him. He wanted her to come with him. He could have just taken his car again, but no, he wanted her to come with him. With him. To go. There. To Malfoy Manor. Well. He asked (alright, basically commanded) her to apparate him there. And she knew, this time, there wouldn't be any real fear. There wouldn't be much apart from him, apparating with her. With at least his hand on her arm.

But then, reaching the end of the email and resisting the urge to print it (and it wouldn't even have been much to print anyway: Granger, please be at my house at 9 in the morning if you do not have a lecture since I need you to apparate me to Malfoy Manor. Snape), she decided that it had to be played cool. She had to be her reasonable, level-headed self and of course, and on impulse, she practised, stupid as that sounded, apparating. She popped herself from her room to the library and back, from her room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the library. For good measure, she apparated to Cornwall. Only because she could and because it was some distance away and back to the bathroom. No, she could apparate without losing her balance, and without splinching part of herself or her entire self. She was completely competent in her apparition, even to Cornwall and back. Well. It was kind of stupid to apparate in her pyjamas to Cornwall and back but she needed to be prepared and she couldn't embarrass herself once more. Not in front of him. She needed to be cool and she needed to be composed. She needed to have her bearings even if he did hang on to her. Even if he decided to hug her, she needed to finish the apparation. He would probably do that, just to spite her, just to make her lose it. And she would not. She would definitely, no matter what, finish her apparition and finish it on both her feet. And with him on both his. For good measure, she apparated to Land's End, then back again. Everything still in place but a huge yawn split her face. Apparating was damn exhausting. And she fell into bed, knowing that she could apparate — even if he should smell good. She could do this — and that was the last thought on her mind.

She hadn't replied, and so he figured that she would be there at nine. He didn't — couldn't — tell Draco where he was going. He had no idea how the boy would react to the fact that he was going to see his father (with Granger). And, with any luck, he would catch a glimpse of the horse-faced aristocrat as well. He was curious about her, to be honest and he could hardly wait to see the look on Granger's face once she realised that Defender of Purebloodism, Lucius Malfoy, decided to woo a Mudblood. Not that he thought of anyone as being a Mudblood but aristocrats...oh well. Mustn't let his own upbringing interfere. He took a last glance at the mirror. Not that he had got dressed up or anything. Jeans were clean though, his jumper was clean as well and the leatherjacket was bound to get too cold soon but it would do for now. Eleanor had cut his hair again the night before, just briefly, maybe because she needed the contact and maybe because he needed the contact (and didn't know) or maybe because it gave them something to talk about besides Draco and Aideen and the conversation they had earlier then. No, she had come over again, and quite matter-of-factly had just told him to sit down and without any other reference to their earlier conversation had cut his hair. It was a weird, strange, foreign feeling for him to hear her clipping the scissors that close to his ears and even though she had done it multiple times before, he hadn't been able to help the shiver and the slight rising of his shoulders. It had made Eleanor laugh, however, and he had smirked. It had definitely taken his mind off all that would happen that day. All he wanted, on the surface, was to look at some books, maybe copy out a few pages and maybe even take one or two with him. Nothing more. But diving beneath the surface, this was more. It was almost like testing of waters. Was Granger someone he wanted to get to know better — he didn't know. But he knew he had to keep an open mind and he needed not to intimidate her. No smirk when she apparated, no sarcastic comment about her skills. He didn't want to be nice — just neutral. Or as neutral as he could be.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping his fingers warm, and walked slowly down the stairs when he heard the knock. Bright and clear and unmistakeably Granger. Only she knocked like that, possibly. Eleanor banged more against the door, if she bothered, and Aideen used the doorbell. Draco never bothered, or if he did, his knocked resembled Eleanor's more than it did Granger's. No, it was clear. Twice — with the knuckles against the door, probably.

At least, he thought, she was on time. It was a quality which seemed to be rare those days and he liked punctuality. It was necessary for plans with a time limit, it was necessary to plan at all. He sighed, tried to make sure to keep an open mind (wondering, at the same time, how one went about making sure to keep an open mind) and opened the door.

Well. She was there at least — all of her. On time. He nodded sharply and stepped aside to let her in. "Granger," he said neutrally and had, what he considered a neutral look on his face.

"Snape," she replied with the same nod of the head that he had used earlier. Well. It was — different — than usual and he was actually at a loss at what to say. He had noticed the jeans and the jumper and the short jacket and the sensible shoes but all of her features were in place and he would not mock her for an apparition gone wrong. Not only because he wanted to be — neutral — but because she might just refuse to apparate him. And apparition, if he was being honest with himself, was the most convenient way of transport. Another few hours in that car of Eleanor's and that would either break down or he would make sure it would break down. Or the police would catch him, driving without a licence. Besides, he eyed her not critically but trying to remain neutral, her thighs were...oh sod it.

She broke the awkward, heavy silence. "So...why do you need me to apparate you to Malfoy?"

"I need their library. We need their library," he answered immediately.

"We've looked through it. Draco and I, I mean. We were quite thorough."

"I take it you didn't look in Malfoy's special collection," he almost sneered. Almost.

"What special collection?" asked Granger.

"The one he keeps hidden underneath floorboards and underneath strong warding," his eyebrows, he couldn't help it, shot up. "I doubt Draco knows about those."

"Dark books?"

"Dark, not so dark, light, whatever you want to call them, they would not fall under the heading of 'approved by the Ministry'. Not in the last sixty years or so," he stated — neutrally — forcing his eyebrows back to their original place.

"I see," she nodded. "And you can access those books?"

"That is my problem, isn't it?" he said, quicker than he intended to say it and almost frowned. He did not want to be demeaning, he did not want to talk to her like she was stupid. But she didn't look hurt and she didn't look chastised, she only looked, well, normal. Her hair was getting a bit long again, maybe, the tips falling over her shoulders but she had, somehow, managed to keep the curls as tidy as possible. No wild bushy mess, or mass, of hair. He sighed. "Lucius owes me more than one favour, Granger. He will let me see all the books."

"Okay," she shrugged. "If you say so. Mind you, he wasn't there were often, when I went to work with Draco. I think he was there a total of...two times."

"I would have thought so. If he isn't there, you will have to break in then," he said casually.

"What?" she almost shrieked. Ah — shrieking women. Never failed to amuse him.

"You are the one with the wand, are you not? No pun intended since..."

"Oh please," she waved it off. "Such things should be below you."

He smirked. "Indeed. Shall we?"

She nodded, then shook her head. "Why are you..." she paused, looking strangely at him. She seemed to consider her words carefully and her mouth hung ever so slightly open.

"Why am I what?" he asked sharply.

"Nevermind. Let's shall then, eh?"

"Poor grammar, Granger," he quipped as he pointed at the garden in the back and with a roll of her eyes, she proceeded there, letting him watch her as she walked. At least she wasn't consciously trying to wriggle her bum. This way, and in her sensible black shoes, it was less pronounced but still a definitive wriggling of her bum. He smirked almost appreciatively and followed her, watched her as she pulled her curls into a ponytail, probably to keep them from being too windswept by the apparation, revealing her long, slender neck to him. It was a nice neck as well, graceful. Her neck and her bum were certainly on the plus-side but he knew enough not to base his decision, whether he could find her attractive or not, on such things. Attractive, she was, but attracting his attention with only a bum and a neck? No. And within ten years, the bum would be gone (or charmed to look like this one but in reality sagging or fat) and the neck, eventually, would grow wrinkly. But for the next years (and longer for the neck), it was something rather pretty to look at. Something enjoyable, he had to admit. Severus tried to clear his head as he looked at the hand she had reached out for him to take and a smirk, once more, threatened to appear on his face. This hand looked inviting and didn't normal, regular people who stood at the beginning of something hold hands? Why shouldn't he try that as well. Maybe, there would be something.

He grasped the hand and reminding himself of how he had seen Aideen and Draco do it, he pushed his fingers between hers, entwining them. The smirk on his face, as if it had a life of its own, made a brief appearance as he saw her frown and the biting of her lip as she stared down at their joined hands but it was so brief that she managed, obviously, to catch herself before she looked up in his eyes again.

Hers were clouded with something. There was something in her eyes and had he been able to use Legilimency on her, in that moment, he would have. It was, possibly, the first time in his life that he wasn't able to read a Gryffindor without entering said Gryffindor's mind. The expression on her face, usually so like an open book, was closed, guarded. It wasn't by any means defensive or appalled. But it wasn't joyful either (and joyful, he would have expected with all her gushing — or supposed gushing — about him). Inside, he shrugged, outside, he shot her a look with his eyebrows, once more, arched.

"Shall we get on with it?"

"Let's shall," she smirked a little and, grasping his fingers rather tightly, trapping them between hers, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and with a pop, they were gone.

So it wasn't to be a hug. Holding hands. Hermione almost snorted. He would come up with something like that. Had clearly changed tactics once more, probably to keep her from suspecting that he was using any kind of tactics. Whereas it had been the direct messing with her before, it was now a subtler attempt. Being close to nice to her, not demeaning in any case, no smirking, no scowling, no sneering. He was just acting — normally. Neutral. Not overly friendly, not overly mean. He was definitely trying to play games with her. But she wouldn't allow it.