Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

A Garden and a Library	By : meegwun Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 4129 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Have I a body or have
I none?

Am I who I am or am I not?

Pondering these questions,

I sit leaning against the cliff as the years go by,

Till the green grass grows between my feet

And the red dust settles on my head,

And the men of the world, thinking me dead,

Come with offerings of wine and fruit to lay by my corpse.

- Li Shanyin

~Chapter 2~ ~Discovery~

It began because of her utter boredom in her last year at
Hogwarts. She felt she had surpassed the institution�s capacity for learning, and yearned to be finished and out and somewhere
else. This was coupled with a developing sense of disappointment in herself-
she felt she was going nowhere, that nothing could satisfy her desire for
knowledge. And then there was the guilt� because in her mind she knew her
brilliance and realized that she felt superior to her friends. Though immensely
successful, Hermione harbored a genuine dislike for herself. Perhaps it was
related to the criticism she suffered at the hands of other students, jealous
of her potential. Maybe it was her experience of growing up plain, not a pretty
girl, not a lithe streamlined girl as is dictated in the feminine ideal. Maybe her secondary position in relation to her male friends,
especially Harry, who had more room to make mistakes. To
be a hero. Maybe she was sick of being delegated to sidekick status,
when she knew she could be more.

So Hermione felt detached, a
symptom of her mild depression. She did her schoolwork like an automaton, the
scratch of her quill dulled by her disinterest. She was in a rut.

Viktor had been an attempt to prove her worth. To prove that she was attractive, loveable. They had
corresponded after their brief dabbling in romance, for several months.
Hermione was sure that with written words, she could elucidate anything. She
was brilliant, after all, and she knew it. She wrote him long letters, trying
to untangle the web of hormones and drama they had created. Though she was
precocious for her age, confident in her communicative ability, she always came
out frustrated by the correspondence. Viktor�s interpretations of her carefully
chosen words were frustratingly simple and always seemed to miss the essence
of what she had tried to communicate. Eventually, she ended the relationship,
whatever it was. That final epistle, though slightly longer than this succinct
version, was curt and unapologetic, something along the lines of:

Viktor-

I believe that our
understanding of this partnership differs greatly.

So greatly, in fact,
that I think it would be best if we were to stop corresponding.

I have valued our
time together, and I wish you
luck in your life.

Sincerely,

Hermione.

She had been satisfied with the letter, believed it to be
fair and concise, and was hurt by his emotional and (she thought) irrational response.
He wrote her several impassioned missives after that, but eventually they
stopped arriving. She thought, �If it was love, it was nothing to shout about.�

She watched the schoolyard romances of her peers and friends
with a detached amusement. They played at relationships like children. She felt
sorry for Harry when his attempt to win Cho failed.
She sighed at Ginny�s string of boyfriends, her series of unhappy endings. She
felt vaguely guilty about Ron�s obvious romantic leanings towards her. But she
knew better, she thought as she watched them all. She had played the game of
love and revealed its true nature- fickle and artificial. She was brilliant, so
she assumed she had love figured out.

But love had punches left to pull.

Being studious and oriented towards logical pursuits, the
well-read Hermione had neglected the section of the school library that
philosophized not on laws and rules and constants, but on souls and life and
fear and love� the section containing, among other things, the classical poets.
Perhaps it was a blessing that she discovered them, accidentally, one afternoon
after classes. A gift-wrapped catalyst in her blossoming mind, to Hermione-
sincerely, Hogwarts.

She had been thumbing idly through a manual on possible
variations on the Orchideous spell, when her eyes had
fallen to a misfiled book laying haphazardly on the edge of an eye-level shelf.
Picking it up, her eyes scanned the gold-leaf inscription. �Ovid� it read, �Ars Amatoria�.

�Strange,� she thought as she examined its worn scarlet
binding, the sloping curves of the letters winding lazily across the spine. Inviting. Fully expecting it to be a lexicon of love
potions, she flipped the cover open and read:

If
there be anyone among you who is ignorant of the art of loving, let him read
this poem and, having read it and acquired the knowledge it contains, let him
address himself to Love.

By
art the swift ships are propelled with sail and oar; there is art in driving
the fleet of chariots, and Love should by art be guided. Automedon
was a skilled charioteer and knew how to handle the flowing reins; Tiphys was the pilot of the good ship Argo. I have been
appointed by Venus as tutor to tender Love. � Love is somewhat recalcitrant and
ofttimes refuses to do my bidding; but 'tis a boy,
and boys are easily moulded.

Hermione found herself smiling. Perhaps, she thought, rather
than returning the book to Madame Pince to be filed
in its correct location, she herself would borrow it for a little light
reading. It was certainly nothing like any other book she had read. And that,
for Hermione, was a rare event.

So the book ended up in her pile of reading as she checked
out of the library that afternoon, lying there innocently enough. It elicited a
raised eyebrow from the librarian as she handed it over, which Hermione wasn�t
quite sure what to make of. But, after all, it was just a book.

She slipped the crimson tome resolutely into her schoolbag.
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