To Give Thanks
Disclaimer: Hermione is not mine. Neither is Snape. For that matter, neither is Thanksgiving. JKR, however, does NOT own Thanksgiving. Just to clarify.
Author's Notes: Just when I thought that I wasn't going to write a Thanksgiving fic, Serendipity (my ever-annoying and sometimes slightly naughty muse) assaulted me with this idea.
After the war is over and the casualties are counted, Hermione has to prove to herself that there is something left to be thankful for. (HG/SS)
* * *
It was Thanksgiving Day, but unlike former years, they were not gathered in the Great Hall, feasting until they burst. No, instead they were out on the battlefield, chasing down the last of the fleeing Death Eaters. Voldemort was finally defeated. Everyone could see it, particularly the Dark Lord's followers.
But, in spite of the lack of turkey and pumpkin pie, there was no less to give thanks for. The War was over. The War that had claimed so many of their classmates and even teachers, that had scarred them more than skin deep... was over.
And for that, Hermione gave thanks.
But she could not be thankful for the cost they had to pay. She stood rooted to the spot, staring in mixed disbelief and shock at a small cluster of people. Most of them were crying, including Ron and Ginny, who clung desperately to each other. The reason was obvious.
On the ground lay Harry Potter, the Boy Who Had Lived, their savior and best friend. And he was not moving.
He lay as he had fallen, his arms and legs slightly askew, his hand still gripping his wand. His glasses were awry on his face and one of the lenses was shattered. A small rivulet of blood traced a path through his dirt-caked face.
She couldn't move, couldn't reach for him like she wanted to, couldn't beg him to get up, as she heard Ron's voice doing. But how silly. He would get up any minute now, ask Hermione to fix his broken glasses, tell them all to stop crying. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He had survived Voldemort dozens of times before. Why shouldn't he be fine? Just a short stay in the hospital wing and he would be as good as new, just like usual.
But Harry didn't get up or do any of the things he should. He just lay there, a small smile on his dirty face.
As she watched her friend, she noticed that Severus Snape, looking more ragged and less dangerous than he ever had, had made his way through the group gathered around Harry. After staring silently at the boy, he bent and picked up Harry's hand, pressing two of his long fingers to the wrist. He kept them there for at least a minute, all the while gazing intently at his hands, as if he could glare Harry back to life.
Finally, he let the hand drop back to the ground and shook his head once. At the motion, Ginny let out a strangled scream, and Ron had to hold her back from throwing herself forwards. Hermione's breath hitched, her chest constricted, and she felt herself grow dizzyingly weak. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over onto her freckled cheeks.
He wasn't dead he wasn't dead he wasn't dead he wasn't dead he wasn't dead.
She staggered backwards, almost falling, but caught herself. She barely noticed as Snape made his way towards her. "Miss Granger?"
She glared up at him, her cinnamon eyes angry. "You're wrong. He's fine. He'll be fine."
He knelt in front of her. She had never been very tall, so it wasn't much to look down at him. "He's dead, Hermione."
No. Not true. Nottruenottruenottruenottrue! She shook her head defiantly, blinking against the tears that blurred her vision, hardly noticing his use of her first name. "No," she gasped out, stepping forward. "I'll show you... he'll get up."
His hands wrapped around her upper arms, his strong grip holding her in place. "Miss Granger... he's gone. Let him go."
"I won't. Bring him back, Professor... please..." Her voice cracked, begging him.
He stared seriously at her, his eyes softening into obsidian pools. "You know I can't do that." He suddenly wanted to do something, anything for the girl... well, not even a girl... a woman. Somehow over her seven years at Hogwarts, she had grown up into a beautiful eighteen-year-old woman. Merlin, how had he missed that? "I'm sorry."
Sorry? Had the great Severus Snape actually apologized to her? After all the years of insults and degrading comments, he was apologizing for not being able to do what she had asked him? She vaguely wondered if hell was now freezing over, but didn't dwell on the thoughts.
She bit her lip, still staring over his shoulder. He released one of her arms and cupped her face in his hand, turning it so that her eyes met his. "Let him go, Hermione." It was almost touching, the way he stumbled over the unfamiliarity of speaking her name. "It's over... it's all over."
"And I suppose I should give thanks for that?" Her face hardened again and she wiped away her tears. "It is Thanksgiving, correct? So I should be thankful that the war is over, that Vol... Voldemort is gone." She shook her head slightly. "I can't... but I suppose *you're* happy, aren't you?"
He was slightly taken aback by the venom in her tone, and stood abruptly, resuming the intimidating quality that he had been lacking. "What do you mean by that, you silly girl?"
"Well, Harry's dead. You always hated him, don't even try to deny it. So you should be happy that he's finally gone."
He raised his hand to slap her, and she flinched slightly. His breathing quickened with the anger that coursed through him. Neither moved for nearly a minute. Then, slowly, he dropped his hands. "I don't deny that I hated Potter. But my former hatred would not extend to any death wishes, Miss Granger. I may be cold, but I am not heartless. And I would thank you to remember that the next time we meet."
"I hope we never do," she spat out after his retreating form, immediately regretting the words, but kept talking. "I hope you're next, you dirty git!"
He whirled and crossed the distance between them in two long strides, his robes billowing wildly around him. His hand clamped down on her shoulder, his fingers digging painfully into her skin. "And I hope that you would learn when to keep your mouth properly shut in the presence of your betters. Now *that* would be a thing to be truly thankful for," he snarled viciously.
They remained, locked in a silent standoff. Their cheeks were both flushed in anger and their eyes both flashed with an identical fire. "I hate you," she whispered suddenly, reaching out to grab a fistful of his black robes to tug him down to her level.
Obediently, he dropped to his knees again, and she knelt also, still glaring. "The feeling, Miss Granger, is quite mutual."
"Can't you use my name, you great bat?" Once again, he was thrown off by her tone. The angry words were twisted strangely by the gentle whisper she used.
"Perhaps if I found it worth my while, I would."
Her fist pulled him still closer. He knew he should pull away, should get to his feet and stalk off, but he simply let himself be drawn nearer. "Tell me something, anything, that I can possibly give thanks for."
He studied her. "That we all still have a tomorrow."
She nodded slowly, as if pondering the validity of his statement. "That's true." And with that, she leaned forward and kissed him.
Somehow, it was different than any kiss she'd had before. It was pure yet painfully sinful, sweet yet dangerous. And, strangely enough, she loved it.
Breaking the kiss, she glanced up at his eyes, which were uncharacteristically wide. "Happy Thanksgiving," she whispered.
He nodded curtly, standing and brushing off his robes before turning away. But before he went, he looked back at her with a smile that seemed out-of-place on his usually sallow face. "Happy Thanksgiving to you as well... Hermione."
She never quite knew why she had done it, not that she ever really bothered to care. All she cared about was the fact that, after a proper moment's shock, the Potions Master had kissed her back.
Perhaps she had done it to gain back a bit of the happiness that she had lost. Or maybe she had done it to reassure herself. And he had given that reassurance to her... in one form or another. Because if Severus Snape was wrong, if they didn't have a tomorrow, then she needed something, anything, to give thanks for today.
END.
Disclaimer: Hermione is not mine. Neither is Snape. For that matter, neither is Thanksgiving. JKR, however, does NOT own Thanksgiving. Just to clarify.
Author's Notes: Just when I thought that I wasn't going to write a Thanksgiving fic, Serendipity (my ever-annoying and sometimes slightly naughty muse) assaulted me with this idea.
After the war is over and the casualties are counted, Hermione has to prove to herself that there is something left to be thankful for. (HG/SS)
* * *
It was Thanksgiving Day, but unlike former years, they were not gathered in the Great Hall, feasting until they burst. No, instead they were out on the battlefield, chasing down the last of the fleeing Death Eaters. Voldemort was finally defeated. Everyone could see it, particularly the Dark Lord's followers.
But, in spite of the lack of turkey and pumpkin pie, there was no less to give thanks for. The War was over. The War that had claimed so many of their classmates and even teachers, that had scarred them more than skin deep... was over.
And for that, Hermione gave thanks.
But she could not be thankful for the cost they had to pay. She stood rooted to the spot, staring in mixed disbelief and shock at a small cluster of people. Most of them were crying, including Ron and Ginny, who clung desperately to each other. The reason was obvious.
On the ground lay Harry Potter, the Boy Who Had Lived, their savior and best friend. And he was not moving.
He lay as he had fallen, his arms and legs slightly askew, his hand still gripping his wand. His glasses were awry on his face and one of the lenses was shattered. A small rivulet of blood traced a path through his dirt-caked face.
She couldn't move, couldn't reach for him like she wanted to, couldn't beg him to get up, as she heard Ron's voice doing. But how silly. He would get up any minute now, ask Hermione to fix his broken glasses, tell them all to stop crying. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He had survived Voldemort dozens of times before. Why shouldn't he be fine? Just a short stay in the hospital wing and he would be as good as new, just like usual.
But Harry didn't get up or do any of the things he should. He just lay there, a small smile on his dirty face.
As she watched her friend, she noticed that Severus Snape, looking more ragged and less dangerous than he ever had, had made his way through the group gathered around Harry. After staring silently at the boy, he bent and picked up Harry's hand, pressing two of his long fingers to the wrist. He kept them there for at least a minute, all the while gazing intently at his hands, as if he could glare Harry back to life.
Finally, he let the hand drop back to the ground and shook his head once. At the motion, Ginny let out a strangled scream, and Ron had to hold her back from throwing herself forwards. Hermione's breath hitched, her chest constricted, and she felt herself grow dizzyingly weak. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over onto her freckled cheeks.
He wasn't dead he wasn't dead he wasn't dead he wasn't dead he wasn't dead.
She staggered backwards, almost falling, but caught herself. She barely noticed as Snape made his way towards her. "Miss Granger?"
She glared up at him, her cinnamon eyes angry. "You're wrong. He's fine. He'll be fine."
He knelt in front of her. She had never been very tall, so it wasn't much to look down at him. "He's dead, Hermione."
No. Not true. Nottruenottruenottruenottrue! She shook her head defiantly, blinking against the tears that blurred her vision, hardly noticing his use of her first name. "No," she gasped out, stepping forward. "I'll show you... he'll get up."
His hands wrapped around her upper arms, his strong grip holding her in place. "Miss Granger... he's gone. Let him go."
"I won't. Bring him back, Professor... please..." Her voice cracked, begging him.
He stared seriously at her, his eyes softening into obsidian pools. "You know I can't do that." He suddenly wanted to do something, anything for the girl... well, not even a girl... a woman. Somehow over her seven years at Hogwarts, she had grown up into a beautiful eighteen-year-old woman. Merlin, how had he missed that? "I'm sorry."
Sorry? Had the great Severus Snape actually apologized to her? After all the years of insults and degrading comments, he was apologizing for not being able to do what she had asked him? She vaguely wondered if hell was now freezing over, but didn't dwell on the thoughts.
She bit her lip, still staring over his shoulder. He released one of her arms and cupped her face in his hand, turning it so that her eyes met his. "Let him go, Hermione." It was almost touching, the way he stumbled over the unfamiliarity of speaking her name. "It's over... it's all over."
"And I suppose I should give thanks for that?" Her face hardened again and she wiped away her tears. "It is Thanksgiving, correct? So I should be thankful that the war is over, that Vol... Voldemort is gone." She shook her head slightly. "I can't... but I suppose *you're* happy, aren't you?"
He was slightly taken aback by the venom in her tone, and stood abruptly, resuming the intimidating quality that he had been lacking. "What do you mean by that, you silly girl?"
"Well, Harry's dead. You always hated him, don't even try to deny it. So you should be happy that he's finally gone."
He raised his hand to slap her, and she flinched slightly. His breathing quickened with the anger that coursed through him. Neither moved for nearly a minute. Then, slowly, he dropped his hands. "I don't deny that I hated Potter. But my former hatred would not extend to any death wishes, Miss Granger. I may be cold, but I am not heartless. And I would thank you to remember that the next time we meet."
"I hope we never do," she spat out after his retreating form, immediately regretting the words, but kept talking. "I hope you're next, you dirty git!"
He whirled and crossed the distance between them in two long strides, his robes billowing wildly around him. His hand clamped down on her shoulder, his fingers digging painfully into her skin. "And I hope that you would learn when to keep your mouth properly shut in the presence of your betters. Now *that* would be a thing to be truly thankful for," he snarled viciously.
They remained, locked in a silent standoff. Their cheeks were both flushed in anger and their eyes both flashed with an identical fire. "I hate you," she whispered suddenly, reaching out to grab a fistful of his black robes to tug him down to her level.
Obediently, he dropped to his knees again, and she knelt also, still glaring. "The feeling, Miss Granger, is quite mutual."
"Can't you use my name, you great bat?" Once again, he was thrown off by her tone. The angry words were twisted strangely by the gentle whisper she used.
"Perhaps if I found it worth my while, I would."
Her fist pulled him still closer. He knew he should pull away, should get to his feet and stalk off, but he simply let himself be drawn nearer. "Tell me something, anything, that I can possibly give thanks for."
He studied her. "That we all still have a tomorrow."
She nodded slowly, as if pondering the validity of his statement. "That's true." And with that, she leaned forward and kissed him.
Somehow, it was different than any kiss she'd had before. It was pure yet painfully sinful, sweet yet dangerous. And, strangely enough, she loved it.
Breaking the kiss, she glanced up at his eyes, which were uncharacteristically wide. "Happy Thanksgiving," she whispered.
He nodded curtly, standing and brushing off his robes before turning away. But before he went, he looked back at her with a smile that seemed out-of-place on his usually sallow face. "Happy Thanksgiving to you as well... Hermione."
She never quite knew why she had done it, not that she ever really bothered to care. All she cared about was the fact that, after a proper moment's shock, the Potions Master had kissed her back.
Perhaps she had done it to gain back a bit of the happiness that she had lost. Or maybe she had done it to reassure herself. And he had given that reassurance to her... in one form or another. Because if Severus Snape was wrong, if they didn't have a tomorrow, then she needed something, anything, to give thanks for today.
END.