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Could Have
By CEA
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He could remember, as he sat there, his hands cold as they clutched the malevolent red pen he treasured so much, glancing up and seeing her. His lip curled, his insides shook as she conversed amicably with Ronald Weasley and, much worse, Harry Potter. He loathed her, as he loathed them, but his loathing for her was so different. Every so often he would contemplate it, think on how great she could have been with different friends, different parentage, a less bossy or pushy persona. Her eyes met his across the room, and he saw her physically recoil as she met the hatred boiling in the black slits. She looked away first, and he smirked into the parchment in front of him, so covered in red it looked bloody.

God, how he hated that insufferable excuse for brilliance. What a waste.

-----

Books went flying everywhere, and he let out an angry half-growl, half-cry in return. Lifting his head, he was met with the same, horrified chocolate stare.

"P-Professor," she stuttered in surprise. "I didn't-"

"Think?" he snarled. "No, Miss Granger, you never do. It's a wonder you have the reputation you do, running around and bashing into people with more important things on their minds."

Her eyes blazed with hurt and anger. Then she saw that he was shaking. He stood up, quickly, and made to move away. "Wait!" she called, standing and pushing past her mess of books to grab his arm. He whirled on her, the shock that he felt when she dared to touch him not showing in the lines on his face. There was raw terror in her eyes, but she pushed on anyway, a true Gryffindor. "Sir, you're hurt, I can tell."

He wrenched his arm away. "The state of my health is not your concern, Miss Granger," he hissed, bringing his face so close to hers he could feel her terrified breaths. "And I would prefer you kept it that way," he ended in a low voice, before whipping around and angrily stalking away.

She stood alone for what felt like forever, before slowly gathering her books and leaving.

-----

He heard of it, her fight with Weasley, and he felt sick with disgust. Weasley and Granger. What a mistake that would be. He could see her, the jealous stares she shot him as he laughed with Lavender Brown. It was juvenile, and stupid, and Granger, for all of her faults, was far too brilliant a person to waste tending to Weasley's idiotic tendencies.

She was concentrating whole-heartedly on the spell, and per usual her results far surpassed those of the average student. He didn't compliment her, didn't even open his mouth. He'd long since stopped being angry at her for being perfect. He'd long since stopped being impressed with her (though he'd never stopped being annoyed by her).

She glanced up at him, and their eyes met again. There was no fear in hers for the time being, just a cool, calculated assessment. He leaned back, raising an eyebrow and waiting to see what her next move was. But her eyes traveled, seemingly unconscious that he was following them, to the sleeve covering his...

His other hand grabbed that sleeve, tugging it tighter around his arm; when she glanced back at him, he saw pity in those coffee depths. Pity. He didn't want anyone's pity, let alone Miss Hermione Granger's. "Class dismissed!" he roared, abruptly and in the middle of the lesson. Taking points off rapidly from more and more people, unaware of houses, he skid back into his high-backed chair, staring blankly at the wall. Albus had said... goddamn him, goddamn it all...

"Professor?"

He looked up, and there she was again. That insufferable piece of-! How dare she, what was she still doing here!

"Professor," she said softly, taking a step closer so she was pressed against the opposite side of his desk, "are you all right?"

His glare made her feel like ice. "Again, Miss Granger," he whispered in that deadly cold, low-pitched voice, "the state of my health fails entirely to be of your concern."

She failed to be impressed, utterly. "You can't keep doing this to yourself, Professor. I don't know what happened to you when you were young-"

"Exactly, Miss Granger. And you never will."

"Does anyone?" she asked softly.

Yes, he thought bitterly, and he's going to destroy my life for the sake of our cause.

And his, too, come to think of it.

"Get out, Miss Granger."

She hesitated. "Sir-"

"I said, get out!"

She didn't move for what felt like the longest time, scrutinizing him with those big eyes of hers. He finally stood up and made his way around the desk to stand directly behind her. She didn't turn; he could see an annoyed look on her face.

"Miss Granger," he hissed into her ear, "did you somehow miss what I said? Have you become deaf?"

"No, sir," she said loudly, and yes, clearly very annoyed...

"Then why are you still here."

She paused, and then whipped around so that there faces were mere inches apart. He was surprised to see tears in her angry eyes. "Because, I've watched you for nearly six years, Professor. You grow paler and paler and get angrier day by day. I don't know what Dumbledore has you doing, or why, and I know I have no right to ask so I won't, but I know you have been arguing with him. And I don't know why you miss classes or why you look so weak at times, but honestly Professor, I'm worried about you." He recoiled in surprise he couldn't mask. "I know you don't want me to be, and you'll call me a silly girl, and that the students shouldn't butt into their Professors' lives. But you're not just a Professor, sir, you're a human being, and you need to take care of yourself or we'll lose you. And that wouldn't just hurt the cause; it would hurt the school," she finished softly, glancing away. He could see that she knew she'd said too much, that maybe she shouldn't have said anything but all.

How Gryffindor of her.

"It is not for you, Miss Granger, to worry about me," he whispered coldly.

With a simple nod, she finally left.

-----

He dreamt of her that night. He couldn't remember exactly what happened in the dream - his dreams had mostly been swirls of confusion lately, anyway - but he remembered clearly one single sentence.

"Professor Snape," came her soft lilt, and those eyes, those eyes he knew so well... "I wish some one had had the sense to love you..."

-----

The next time she confronted him, it was after hours. He'd just come back from a meeting with Bellatrix and Nott. He walked past her without even looking.

After that, it was after dinner the following Tuesday. He threatened her with detention. She backed off once more.

He had a gash on his face two days later, a clever spell he hadn't heard of, and he hadn't been able to remove the cut. Granger was all sympathy and muggle remedies. He'd resisted hexing her into next week. He'd found a bottle of some sort of cream on his desk the following morning. He'd debated marching up to Gryffindor tower, pulling her out of her room and demanding a month's worth of detentions and an explanation on how she'd been able to get into his office.

Unfortunately, the stuff had worked wonders, visibly decreasing the cut and eliminating the usual stinging pain which accompanied such a long but thin gash.

He refused to thank her.

The final attempt before It happened, he'd just been to a meeting (argument) with Dumbledore. He was depressed, angry, and frightened, and somehow she'd managed to appear right in front of him without him knowing. It had taken her a split second to realize something was wrong, and immediately she had wrapped her tiny hand around his arm and taken far too many steps far too close to him. "Professor!" she cried out, and he realized that he was swaying dangerously.

Then, in what he later would call a fit of madness, he abruptly found himself pressed up against the wall, with nothing but Hermione Granger between it and him.

"Miss Granger," he said loudly, "please stop doing this to me."

She looked at him in utter shock, and then, apparently trying to outdo herself, she leaned forward and softly kissed the very tip of his nose.

He flung himself backwards away from her in shock, landing in an undignified and very un-Snape-like heap on the floor. "MISS GRANGER!" he bellowed, "WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?"

She didn't even blush. In fact, what's more, she shrugged. "I felt you needed it."

"And if I told Mr. Weasley?"

"Mr. Weasley would be too wrapped up in Miss Brown to notice," she commented idly. "And he wouldn't believe you as was. What's more, you're not going to tell anyone about this."

Well, she's certainly right about that.

He just stared at her, completely at a loss as to what he should say.

"I worry about you, Professor. I couldn't think of any other way to get it through to you." She took a graceful step forward, and he continued to watch her uncertainly. She knelt down next to him, and sighed audibly. "You're such an enigma, Professor Snape," she commented lightly. "Maybe you don't think you deserve to be happy, or kind-"

"What I do and do not deserve means nothing to you, you impertinent-"

"Oh, calling names now are we?" she said coldly. "You've been rude and horrible to everyone for years. I realize you think you're the worst sort of scum imaginable, but must you take it out on everyone else?"

"Why you-"

"And furthermore, while I do worry about you, the only person you really have to blame for yourself is you. So stop wallowing in grief, stop pitying yourself, and pull yourself together."

He launched himself at her, fully intent on putting his hands around her white little throat.

How he ended up kissing her was a different story entirely, but he was fully willing to put all the blame on her, especially since she was the one who instigated it.

Two days ago, he would never have let it happen, let alone taken it very far. But now he knew what the future held, what Dumbledore wanted him to do, and he knew he wasn't going to be at Hogwarts next year. He wasn't going to be teaching ever again, and Hermione, along with the rest of the wizarding world, would hate him entirely. But right now, there was no chance of him getting fired, and she was a legal, consenting adult as far as he knew.

And it had been too long.

He certainly didn't love her, and she knew it well. He knew even more so that she felt nothing but contempt for him; her heart was forever entwined with that loathsome Ron Weasley's. But a war had broken out, Potter was his usual self, the aforementioned Weasley and the girl in his arms hadn't spoken for months, and she was offering herself to him, both to give and take comfort, for whatever reason. He knew he wasn't handsome, he certainly wasn't kind. Mere seconds before this had all started, she had insulted him more than anyone else had dared (with the wonderful exception of Minerva) in years.

"Well, you see sir," she whispered in his ear, and the way she said it made the typical Hermione-like words sound completely different, "I just thought you needed it most."

He looked down at her, an unreadable expression on his face, as his skilled hands rid her of all clothing in the darkened confines of his classroom. He'd stated quite clearly that he didn't ever intend for her to see his bedroom, and she didn't seem to have a problem with that in the slightest.

"Also," she added in a soft voice, "I don't think the boys in this school would really appreciate this, anyway."

Again, he thought, she's certainly right about that.

After that, he ceased to think.

-----

"Please... Severus..."

Severus knew what Dumbledore was asking. He knew perfectly well, inside and out. They had discussed it a million times in his office, argued over it, yelled, cried... and now the time had come. Dumbledore's plan had failed, and now, as discussed, he would die over it.

All for the sake of two boys who didn't even know it.

He raised his wand, and pointed it straight at the man who had been a father, friend, mentor, and savior to him.

And with his mind screaming at him for it to not be true, he said the two words he knew he would regret most for the rest of his life.

They were running down the stairs, away from where Dumbledore had fallen, Draco in front of him. Draco would never know that Dumbledore had died to save the boy's soul, that the greatest wizard ever had died so that he could continue to live. Harry had been there. Dumbledore had said he would be, though Snape hadn't seen him. Snape had known that above all else, now, he needed to protect Draco and Harry, and make Harry think the betrayal was real, or Severus - and the truth - would die as well.

Draco and Harry would never realize that Severus had condemned himself to Hell for their sake.

But Severus also supposed that that was terribly fitting.

He could see Minerva from here, dueling bravely, Dumbledore's most trusted confidante - and, Severus knew, of all people, one of the two he was singularly the most proud of. But Dumbledore hadn't told her about this. She was the closest thing to a real mother Severus had ever had, and she would hate him as well after this. He couldn't blame her - he'd killed some one she'd stood next to since she'd been 16, and he realized with a start that that was 60 years ago that year.

She would be Headmistress now, and Hogwarts was lucky, at least, in that.

But as he ran, he continued to search, more than anything, for a last glimpse of Her.

It was a glimpse he wasn't going to get.

-----

It was a feeling he'd never expected to feel. Anger, hate, embittered sadness perhaps.

But not regret. Not over this, at least.

The difference was that now he could picture her entwined with Weasley, surrendering to his boyish hands and fumbling lips, and he could be jealous over it as opposed to simply loathing them both. And she would be seeking comfort in those arms the way she had, for the last half of the year, in his. But this comfort would be for him, for knowing what she thought she'd done - sleeping with the enemy. She would be confused, she would be hurt, and more than anything she would hate him, and herself for spending all of that wasted time comforting him, and worrying over his useless skin.

But he knew, in his heart, that maybe, just maybe, she could have loved him. Maybe, thought this was a stretch, and he knew it, she could have saved him.

The glass of absinthe burst into brief flame as it struck the fireplace and shattered.

Well. He'd never know, now, would he?
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AN: This story is weird, wrong, and just a complete mess pulled out of my mind after reading HBP, and I intended it that way, thank you. So if you intend to flame me by telling me that this makes no sense, is completely out of character, would never have happened, or something along that line: thank you. I am well aware of that. However, it's a plot I couldn't ignore, and due to the overwhelming frustration I, and I'm sure many of you, have felt after reading HBP, I felt it necessary to write it, because really this story kind of shows how annoyed and pissed off I am at this book wonderfully through Severus.

And, also, if you want to flame me, please actually write legibly, with correct grammar, and in completely sentences. Because if you really intend to insult me and tell me my work is crap, doing so in horrible English really doesn't get through to me very well (if the person who signed their review "wolf" is reading this, I am speaking to you, yes.). Flames are fine. Flames which insult my writing whilst writing illegibly just annoy me.

Thank you. (Oh, and no, I can't write a fic without mention of Minerva, thank you :-p)

And I'm sure I've scared you away by now, but if you do want to review I'd appreciate it :-P

Love,
-Charlotte