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• A Garden and a Library	By : meegwun Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 4128 -:- 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
  • 1-Reminisce
  • 2-Discovery
  • 3-Dreamland
  • 4-Consequence of Curiosity
  • 5-Gryffindor Courage
• • 1
  • 2
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• 
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ‘A Garden and a
  Library’ – HP fanfic by Meg Erskine

  
  
  

  HG/SS

  
  
  

  Rated R

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

  A/N- My first fic in a VERY long time. Hope it doesn’t
  disappoint. Other than that… I own nothing, JK is a goddess, sorry to corrupt
  her characters in such a manner. ;) Hope nobody is offended by the
  characterization of Hermione. I took some liberties and made some assumptions.

  
  
  

  Also, the prologue is somewhat of a tester. It’s just a very
  small bit of what’s to come. I want to gauge people’s responses before I post
  more.

  
  
  

   

  
  
  
  
  

   

  
  
  
  
  

   

  
  
  

  ... she was deathly
  pale, and seeing
  
  The river of her father, cried “O help me,
  
  If there is any power in the rivers,
  
  Change and destroy the body which has given
  
  Too much delight!” And hardly had she finished,
  
  When her limbs grew numb and heavy, her soft breasts
  
  Were closed with delicate bark, her hair was leaves,
  
  Her arms were branches, and her speedy feet
  
  Rooted and held, and her head became a tree top,
  
  Everything gone except her grace, her shining.
  
  Apollo loved her still. He placed his hand
  
  Where he had hoped and felt the heart still beating
  
  Under the bark; and he embraced the branches
  
  As if they were still limbs, and kissed the wood.

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

  - Ovid, Metamorphosis ‘Apollo and Daphne’

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

  “If you have a garden
  and a library, you have everything you need” - Cicero

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

  ~Chapter 1 (Prologue)~ ~Reminisce~

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

  If she was a religious girl – a dreaded thought for Hermione
  – she would have indulged in a priest-monitored confession. But avoiding the
  entrapments of most organized religion, and with a rather sophisticated
  understanding of human weakness and susceptibility to suggestion, she keeps the
  guilt and fear to herself.

  
  
  

  And what is guilt but a manifestation of her parents, human
  and vulnerable and afraid. As Muggles they missed out on the confidence that
  comes with harnessing a tangible inner power. They had to fight harder for
  enlightenment. It wasn’t substantial or physical like it was for Hermione.
  Their misguided terrors and shame were out of place in her heart, a witch’s
  heart, ripe with the confidence that comes with magical ability.

  
  
  

  At her desk, the wood grains are glowing lines beneath her
  folded arms in the afternoon light. She toys with crumpled paper, the rustling
  of it against the wood bringing her the comfort of regularity. If only she
  could capture this moment in time, her fears would still be real but in stasis,
  needing time and care to blossom, to enfold her. But time, a cruel constant in
  a world where matter reigns supreme, ticks on, metered by that misguided
  creation- the clock. Reigns. Reins. Time is a king with a crop and a
  destination.

  
  
  

  Time’s destination today is backwards, or so she is willing
  it to be. Back to times when her melancholy was supplemented with the warm glow
  of first love, so much richer in the realization of the very substance of the
  thing we call love- the reality of it. The great rush of gratitude to know that
  it is not just a myth spun by manipulative overlords or children’s authors, but
  a reality confirmed by the great poets and minstrels of the ages.

  
  
  

  Hermione, today, is no wandering singer of songs, no poet at
  a cluttered desk. Her desk is crowded only by the glowing wood grains and a
  scrap of discarded paper. The floor surrounding her, worn and ancient, is host
  to a quill, brushed aside. Ink spreads across the raw hardwood and the rusting nails.
  It is her final conclusion. Her one and only ode to love. A poem written in
  chaos.

  
  
  

  It is the realization that love is not a poem or a sonnet or
  a book or a picture or a feeling or a smile or a lover’s kiss. It is not a tree
  or a river or skin or a heart. A touch or a glance or a shout.

  
  
  

  Hermione finds herself beginning to be at peace with the
  truth of it.

  
  
  

  Love is an ink stain. Love is a pen abandoned. Love is an
  empty desk. The opposite of words. Expressed through speech and touch and smell
  and sound, but ungraspable.

  
  
  

  She opens her mouth and traces the story with language, her
  human instinct. She closes her eyes and remembers.

  
  
  

   

  
  
  

   

  
  
  
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