"I think," Snape replied, pausing between his words, seemed to think, seemed too lost to say something. "I'd rather be a Muggle than to be screeched at like that, Granger."

"What?" she cried.

"A joke, Granger, a joke," he said and then there was a click and suddenly, he was gone from the line. Had hung up on her.

80. Directives

Directives are those kinds of speech acts that speakers use to get someone else to do something. They express what the speaker wants. They are commands, orders, requests, suggestions, and, as illustrated below, they can be positive or negative.

a. Gimme a cup of coffee. Make it black.

b. Could you lend me a pen, please?

c. Don't touch that.

(Yule, 1997)

He waited. Being screeched at on the phone should be followed by being screeched at in real life immediately and the lifting of the curse that still lingered on him. He wasn't necessarily impatient but he just wished the waiting would stop. The anticipation.

He realised how he missed sharing things with Eleanor. Hadn't told her anything. Her disappointment would be greater than his if this didn't work out. If there was even the slightest possibility she could screech him to death, Eleanor would be devastated and she would worry more than himself. More than anyone. And truth be told, he knew that she was on his side, in his corner, no matter what, she was supporting him in every possible way, but he wasn't sure what it was she wanted for him. He didn't know whether Eleanor wanted him to be a wizard again, or not. He didn't know which and she would never tell him.

He hadn't told her about the screeching and about the fact that Granger was close. That they were close. He hadn't seen Granger since he had watched her eat stew after they had been to see Malfoy but, she had called him and had emailed and once more, he had called her. She was ready. She had said so the night before on the phone. And she had said she would be over that day.

What time that day, she hadn't said and because he wasn't impatient but because he wanted to get it over with, because he wanted to see if this had worked, because he was curious but not impatient, he had been showered and ready since about half six that morning. Hadn't eaten at all in the morning because neither of them had discussed whether it was advisable to eat, or not to eat or whether that didn't matter at all. He had only had a cup of tea and at lunchtime, his stomach had groaned and grumbled so loudly, that Eleanor had heard. Or maybe she hadn't heard and it was merely intuition that she had invited him over for a bit to eat. Because he wasn't impatient, he had eaten even though he wasn't sure whether the screeching could take place if he had. And it hadn't mattered at all because all his food seemed to be digested by the time it was half seven at night and she still hadn't shown up.

Why, he wondered, hadn't he asked her what time she would arrive? And why hadn't she been able to come see him sooner? Truth be told, he had, sort of, missed her presence. It was more tangible when they talked on the phone (she talked, he threw in witty remarks) and he could see her in front of his inner eye, talking to him. Smiling, laughing from time to time, and a second later, a stern expression on her face, a curl wrapped around her finger or that finger scratching her eyebrow the way she did when she thought, her firm thighs flung over the armrest of a couch or chair or sofa or sitting awfully straight on her desk.

He couldn't read her over the phone and he didn't like being unable to read someone. He, at least, wanted to give it a shot. He wanted to try reading people even without Legilimency but it didn't work. He had to rely on her voice, on her intonation and on her inflection. He had to rely on such silly things as judging whether he laughter was genuine or not. He had to do with imagining the way she looked. For all he knew, she might do the exact same opposite of what he thought she was doing. He missed that, not her. Or maybe her too, but reading her, he missed more, just because he could. Because he felt that he could judge her reactions to various things rather well.

And so he sat and waited and not even the new book he had bought on Semantics couldn't take his mind off things.

Hermione cursed under her breath. She had wanted to skip her afternoon lectures to apparate to Snape and get the entire thing done with but then one of the other students, a bloke called Ian had talked to her during her sandwich for lunch and had basically dragged her into the geometry lecture. She couldn't very well say no to him, especially since he looked at her that way. Yes, okay, so she had made sure to dress nicely. It was only a clean pair of jeans and a nice top but she had wanted to appear more grown up around Snape. Show him that she wasn't a little girl anymore and the cleavage she displayed in that top definitely screamed woman instead of girl. Ian seemed to think so too, even though she had to admit that he tried hard to look in her eyes when she spoke.

He seemed nice enough, actually. Asked her a few questions and listened attentively to her answers (even if she almost stuttered when he had asked what kind of school she had gone to) and had told her stuff about himself. Had invited her to share lunch the next day between lectures and she had said yes.

Snape wouldn't want her in any case and hadn't she told Ginny to look at other options apart from Harry as well? Back then when they all had been young? She had, and she hadn't even listened to her own advice. So, then, she had. She had gone and she had told him that they would meet in front of the maths-building the next day. And for a moment, she had been close to forgetting Snape, even if she hadn't. Not quite. Had felt so guilty that she hadn't been able to go there sooner and congratulating herself for not telling him what time exactly he could expect her.

It was already quite late, after her lectures (and Ian had been in all of them with her) and after she had copied a few pages out of a book. It was late and if she wanted to...well, not if she wanted to, she had actually promised Snape to be there that day. And since it was a quarter to nine, she was in a hurry. Not that apparating in a hurry was a good idea and so she stood for a moment, quietly, listening to her own breathing before she closed her eyes and felt herself being squeezed through a tube and landed, hopefully complete and without any pieces missing, in Snape's garden.

She was just about to pull her little mirror from her pocket when she heard his voice from his little patio. "If I had known that you'd come so late, I would have gone to Uni myself," he complained and she, immediately and embarrassingly, blushed.

"I'm sorry, I wanted to be here this afternoon but things got a little messy and...I'm sorry. We can postpone..."

"Are you focused?" he asked and watched her walking up towards him.

"Of course I am."

"And you haven't wasted all your little braincells on maths?" sneered Snape.

"No, not yet," she retorted quickly. "But ask me again in a few months time," she rolled her eyes, feeling almost dizzy at the closeness at which he stood. He smelled good. He was taller than that idiot Ian who had made her miss the opportunity to be there at Snape's sooner, he was leaner than that idiot and he smelled better and his hair was cleaner (not by much though) and he knew her.

Snape knew who she was. He made fun of her braininess. He cracked jokes. He wasn't Ian who didn't even know she was a witch. Couldn't even realise what she was about to do.

"Are you sure you don't want anyone else here?" she asked quietly, following him closely to the inside of the house.

"Would you like an audience?" he asked in a scathing tone.

"No, not really," she exhaled audibly. "Snape but if something..."

"Nothing will go wrong," he replied, his voice full of authority and he pulled himself up to full height and he looked quite imposing and he...trusted her.

He just bloody trusted her. He wanted her to try and lift the curse even though they still hadn't found out whether it would kill him. It seemed unlikely to, most of the books said so, but there was still the possibility. He trusted her. He wanted her to do it with nobody else present and this, only this realisation hit her more than hard. She stepped towards him and since he didn't take a step back, she slowly raised her hands and put both of her hands on his chest. Just put them there, didn't pull away. Oh but they looked rather foreign. Not like her own hands at all. They looked so mature and so grown up against the black colour of his jumper. Rather elegant, she thought strangely enough. And her hands were getting warmer and warmer by the second, his chest, even though she couldn't even feel it directly was scorching her hands and her fingers and she didn't dare to look up in his face. The look of revulsion he would undoubtedly wear would only destroy the illusion that her hands looked as if they belonged there. Felt like they belonged there. Warm and cosy and wonderful and she wanted to do this. Just put her hands on his chest all the time. Nothing more. If she could only have that...

What the hell was she doing touching him like this? Her little, pretty hands on his chest, unmoving, untrembling, unshivering. None of those things. Just her little, pretty hands on his chest. Fingers splayed ever so slightly. No pressure from her fingers. Nothing. Just her hands on his chest. She seemed to have cut her fingernails and they were shiny and a bit of her cuticle on the middle finger of her left hand looked as if it had been chewed off. Or chewed on. She didn't look at him. She looked at her hands and maybe she was ashamed to have ever put her hands there but then, wouldn't she pull them away quickly? Would she still stare at them and at his chest?

She was tiny now, compared to him, standing so close. Well, maybe not tiny but she could easily put her head on the crook of his neck if she liked, without having to bend down or get on the tips of her toes. She could simply put her head there. Just a few more inches, and letting her hands slide to his back and she could just stand there and put her head there, rest it there before she had to perform this screeching. Chant. The thing she was doing to help him.

Her hands on his chest. Warm, little, pretty hands. They were burning his skin, even if there was his jumper between them and his chest. And a t-shirt underneath the jumper because it had been so cold this morning.

She still couldn't look at him when she began to mumble. "Sorry," she said to the floor. "Erm," she continued and let her hands fall to her sides, her eyes cast the ground.

"Shall we just get on then?" he replied, loud and clear even though his voice sounded slightly differently to his ears. As if he hadn't spoken in a while. Or as if he had spoken too much. He didn't know which.

"Erm, yes," finally, she looked up but didn't meet his eyes. Her cheeks were rosy red and his eyebrows shot up suddenly.

This wasn't for only her thirst of knowledge and acknowledgement. This was for him. She did this for him. The gushing Draco had mentioned, the relentless working on finding a counter-curse, calling him almost in the middle of the night with no major news, just basically to say good night, it all added up. It all added up to one thing and Severus didn't dare to mention it. Not even to himself. But it added up to one thing. One thing. One unmentionable thing and it let something inside of him snap. He couldn't name it and even if he could have, he wouldn't have wanted to. But it made him look at her again and he didn't see Hermione Granger the former schoolgirl at all anymore. Not even a part of her. This was Granger who wanted to help him. Out of her own free will. She had deemed him important enough to be one of her pet projects. She had put time and energy in him. She called him. She talked to him on the phone. All of this voluntarily. Nobody had made her. There wasn't any other force behind this than herself. Just herself.

He took a deep breath and, cleared his throat. "Ready?"

"I am," she said more securely and looked right into his eyes. Open, wide, curious eyes. Brown eyes. Nice shade of brown. "Erm, would you like to just sit down?"

He nodded and sat, facing her, looking up at her as she pulled her wand from her pocket and pointed it at him. At any other time in his life, he would have been afraid and would have been quick to pull his own wand. At any other time, he would have never trusted a person to just put their wands on him. Not this time. He felt oddly calm and oddly relaxed and he smirked.

"Let the screeching begin," he said light-heartedly, knowing that his world was, most likely, about to change again in a good, or in a bad way.

She had to put all her energy into focusing. Never in her life had she felt such difficulties doing precisely that. Never in her entire life. Only when he looked at her like this.

He trusted her. He hadn't even flinched when she had pointed her wand at him. No flinching, no trembling, no shivering. Just a smirk and half a joke. Nothing else and she was supposed to focus. To concentrate.

Hermione tried to clear her mind. This wasn't any different than practising the screeching in front of the mirror. No different at all. She told herself over and over in her head that this was just another practise session. She wasn't doing anything else. Just practising. Nothing else.

The chant which sounded like a screech rose from her throat and from her stomach all by itself. Snape deserved to have his magic back. Snape deserved to be a wizard again. Snape needed to have a wand and Occlumency and Legilimency and he needed his magic. He needed it. She wanted him to have it. She wanted him to change the wizarding world. She wanted him to go out and make sure that easily swayed idiots like Shacklebolt could all go to hell. She wanted the wizarding world to know that they had made a major mistake in stripping him off his magic.

The chant got louder and her surroundings blurred in front of her eyes. She was entirely focused on Snape and on his dark eyes, the black pools which threatened to pull her in and which promised to protect her at the same time.

In a moment, it was over. The wording had been perfect and the chant sounded like the screech she knew it would have to sound like and Snape sat there, still breathing and still looking at her and exhausted, she let her wand sink by her side. Hermione's breathing was laboured and difficult and she felt as if she had run a mile or more.