Note: So my friend and I were talking about personal things, and to convince me to seek closure, she used a scenario involving Snape/Hermione. She said, 'what if Hermione had a one-sided love for Snape and he had never known about it. Then he died.' This is how this fic is born.
What you recognise is by JK Rowling and William Carlos Williams.
The title is from William Carlos Williams' Asphodel, That Greeny Flower.
Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated :D
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I cannot say
that I have gone to hell
for your love
but often
found myself there
in your pursuit.
- William Carlos Williams
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There were many things that have to be kept a secret. He was one of hers.
If you asked Hermione Granger when she started liking him, she wouldn't be able to give an answer.
She was unable to pinpoint the exact moment in which his sneers and snarls stop becoming terrifying and off-putting and instead almost-comforting. She was unable to tell you when she had started to look forward to seeing him, glares, insults, and cruel smiles included. She was unable to tell you when 'insufferable girl' had lost its power to hurt and was, instead, able to elicit a small smile on her face. She was unable to tell you when his drawl turned to honey, a song she wished would never stop, even if it hurt and stung most of the time. She was unable to tell you when she started to yearn to see a genuine smile from him. She was unable to tell you when her name, 'Miss Granger', became silk in his mouth and she longed to taste it as it rolled off his tongue.
At some point in time, the potion master had stopped becoming an intimidating, loathsome figure, but an intimidating, almost-endearing one. At some point in time, his position in her heart had changed.
She had stopped trying to keep their interactions to the minimum and instead tried to get closer to him. Almost as if she was in pursuit of him.
She tried to be seen, tried to impress, tried to be likeable, even if that was almost close to impossible. But knowing how her constant rush of questions annoyed him, she kept them at bay, only asking when absolutely (and she really meant absolutely) necessary. She stopped trying to answer every question in class and let the rest of her classmates try, only offering her knowledge when needed. That way, she figured, she could both impress him and help her classmates learn not to rely on her for answers.
Essay writing, however, was a different story. Potions became the subject which she devoted the most time to, writing and rewriting her essays to achieve what can be the closest to perfection in the amount of time given to her. She tried to offer new ideas and insides, wrecked her brain, using all her might to complete any tasks he sent in her way. Sometimes, she thought she was rather like a dog, trotting after her professor, wagging her tail begging for any form of rare approval. She hated it. She loved it.
But no. She didn't like like Professor Snape. It was just a silly little crush. She just like how intelligent he was.
It was just a very silly little crush.
But she would still indulge in it.
Having a crush was almost fun. The tightness in her chest, the difficulty breathing, the constant thoughts that revolve around a certain someone… they could be almost enjoyable, almost enticing, almost addictive. And it actually gave her extra motivation to seek out as much knowledge as possible.
But that didn't mean that someone has to know about it. Her feelings would be her own dirty little secret that she would take to her grave.
She will grow out of this. She was certain of that. After all, she had grown out of Viktor Krum - whose attention was frankly flattering- and Ron Weasley - who she was certain she liked because it was expected of her to.
'Miss Granger.' Her name dripped off his tongue, sending shivers down her spine. 'I wonder what the class' very own know-it-all's potion would be.'
He bent forward, his face barely inches away from hers. She could feel her heart speeding up and the rush of blood up to her face. Breathe Hermione. Breathe. He smelt of rain and vanilla and oak and –
Stop.
She started to scrutinise him.
He definitely wasn't handsome. His skin was too pale, almost pasty and grey (but oh- it looked so smooth and soft and can she touch -) His nose was too big, big enough for at least two (but it gave him such character didn't it?) His mouth was thin and constantly curled into a snarl (but such words had danced from them, such intelligent words and who knew what else can he do with these lips and tongue?) His hair was often described to be greasy and it definitely needed a trim (but imagine running your fingers through them as he –) His eyes, oh, his eyes. She could find no fault in these eyes that seemed to ensnare her senses and bewitch her mind (and she thought she can stare into them forever and forever – now she sounded like some sappy, lovesick heroine from a clichéd romance novel)
She liked him near.
He raised his eyebrow. 'Adequate,' he said and walked off, his cloak fluttering up just a bit before curling around his ankles.
Adequate.
A smile formed on Hermione's face. Her potion was adequate, not 'barely passable. Or passable.
Adequate.
The grin stayed on her face for the rest of the day.
Hermione Granger was never one for poetry, but now, all love poems make sense.
She was offered a choice of any apprenticeship in her sixth year. She wanted it to be potions but Slughorn came and so she chose Arithmancy and tried to ignore the heavy disappointment that swelled at the pit of her stomach. She liked Arithmancy - it was her favourite subject after all.
(but Potions - Potions was her first love)
She found him outside the dungeons once, bleeding and almost fully unconscious.
She was woken up by Crookshanks, its tail flickering across her face. Happy that its owner was finally awake, the orange cat tugged at her, insistent that she was to follow.
'Crooks, stop it,' Hermione mumbled, her words slurred. The cat wouldn't stop tugging. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and got up, highly reluctant. 'You will get me into trouble.'
Still, she followed, her gut begging her to. It was a terrible idea, sneaking out of the dorms at such an hour but she was well experienced in the art of sneaking, even better than Harry and Ron, whom the art of subtlety was wasted on.
Crookshanks led her deep into the dungeons, to a corridor she had never been to. It was almost pitch black, save for her wand, which seemed like a lone star that shone amidst the night sky, or an anglerfish, depending on how you would like to see it.
She would be lying if she said she wasn't the slightest bit afraid.
'Crooks,' she sighed, suppressing the fear that threatened to spill from her mouth. Her gut was all twisted inside and she could barely breathe. 'Let's go back.'
The cat ignored its owner and continued forward, confident that she would not leave it alone to explore the dark depths of the castle. Hermione followed, knowing that there must be a reason why Crookshanks was so insistent.
The cat stopped.
'Professor?' Hermione gasped, bending down so that the light illuminated the body that lay before her.
A dark substance - blood? - pooled underneath the Potion Master.
He seemed to stir, his eyes flickering open.
'Let me bring you to -'
'Go to your dormitory this instant, Miss Granger, before I -.' It was surprising really, how he had managed to spurt out all these harsh words before collapsing once more.
'Mdm Pomfrey or your quarters?' She asked, her voice strong and determined, not giving him any other options other than the two. 'With all due respect sir, I am not leaving you to die here.'
He gave a snarl, or what was supposed to be a snarl. 'Room. Don't you dare attempt Mobilicorpus on me,' he growled. She smiled and helped him up, draping his arm around her neck. He was heavy and she could barely stand straight supporting most of his weight with her body and arms.
He must have sensed that. He had taken some off his weight of hers and she could feel his body tense in pain, even if he had tried to hide that. Gingerly, holding onto him, she did her best to support him as they made their way through the school to his quarters. His sides were pressed against hers and she could feel his alarming lack of body heat. She wondered if the blood that clung onto him was his or someone else's.
She didn't know which was better.
He could barely keep his eyes open and his usual graceful movements were now almost slow and clumsy, his quiet footsteps now heavy and almost seemed to drag behind him as he moved. Even so, his face remained impassive. Every step was strenuous and she wished she was stronger, or at least be able to sustain a long distanced Mobilicorpus (she took it to herself to master that spell later on, in case she needed it again). She knew that he was a spy for Dumbledore but she had never known exactly what it entailed. Seeing him in this state was just –
He fell onto his bed with a small thud and they both winced.
'Graceful,' he commented, the sarcasm evident. But he closed his eyes, his breathing laboured.
'I need to check your wounds, Professor,' she murmured.
He was silent.
'Professor?'
He remained unmoving.
Hermione chewed on her lower lip as possible courses of actions ran through her mind. She could simply leave him be (which will be disastrous), ask for Mdm Pomfrey (Professor Snape would murder her once he woke up), or care for him there and then (is she capable enough? She knew the basics, at least.) The third option it was.
First things first, checking for wounds.
Her heart seemed to be trying to burst out of her chest as she painstakingly unbuttoned the Professor's clothes.
His torso was pale and well defined. Skin mapped scars. Red cuts glaring at her.
Her breath hitched.
A healing spell. Blood-Replenishing potion.
Taking a deep breath, she cast the spell, watching with bated breath as the wounds on his body closed. She immediately scavenged for the potion. The Professor's choice of not labelling his potions was certainly not working to their favour right now. She had quickly cut down the number of possible potions to three, based on scent and colour.
Which one.
There was only taste left. She knew that tasting unknown potions was simply idiotic but circumstances demanded that she chose the right potion. Tasting them was the quickest way. She took a drop of each potion. Found it.
Supporting him up, she fed the Professor the red-coloured potion. His body was still so cold. She had lit the hearth, piled blankets onto his body, tried to use any possible body warming spells that she knew would not cause any other damage but his body remained dangerously freezing.
Muggle way then.
She transfigured a few towels into heat packs that remained comfortably warm and not burning, wrapping them up with a layer of towel before placing them onto his skin. He would be fine. He would be.
As he slept, his eyebrows remained furrowed, wrinkles creating dents on his forehead. She had the urge to soothe them out, to run her fingers along his cheeks and tuck the fallen strands away from his face. A surge of overwhelming sadness washed over her. She wished she could help him, somehow. Her heart broke for him, and all that he had to go through. She knew, though, that she would never be able to understand the true extent of his experience and pains and -
She sat by his bedside, making sure that no other complications were present until it was time for her to sneak back to her dormitory.
She was determined to make life as easy as it could be for Snape in Hogwarts.
They never spoke of that night but there was a strange sense of quiet camaraderie between them.
She was given a detention by him once, for what, she couldn't really remember anymore. It was on a Saturday, that she remembered. She had expected to be asked to clean the beakers, like what many others have told her before. Instead, she was tasked with sorting out typically thought as gross potions ingredients - beetle, snakes, livers and the rest, having to dissect the animals herself for their body parts.
It was kind of soothing to work next to him as he graded his papers.
They worked in silence, the only sounds coming from the scratching of his quill and the squishes and crunches from her.
He was the one who broke the silence.
'Tell me what is that you are holding?'
'Bat spleen, sir. A common ingredient used in many potions, including Swelling Solution and Draught of Living Death. It is known for its ability to boost the immune system and the removal of blood clots. Bat spleen, however, are mild and thus are usually used as an addition to other ingredients, especially the more potent -'
'Five points for rambling, Miss Granger,' he drawled, never once looking up. She flushed.
'Continue,' he said.
'I'm sorry?'
'Do I need to repeat myself?' She could hear the eyebrow raise in his voice.
'The spider can be used whole, or divided into parts, depending on the need of the potion. If crushed, it is far more effective to use the base of a silver knife…'
The night went on in this particular fashion. She would call out the uses and functions of every ingredient she was sorting, and he would listen, injecting only when he thought her answer was lacking in some way or another.
She had learnt so much more uses for certain ingredients that were not recorded in the books she had read. Snape had actually -
A small smile could be found on her face as she left the dungeon, which had garnered strange stares from Ron and Harry.
Sometimes, in the Great Hall, she could feel his eyes on her.
(Her eyes were constantly drawn to him, and she had tried not to stare.)
Hermione Granger was no superhero. The stress of the war did get to her. With her use of the time turner and the horrors she had seen and experienced, she had long since matured into an adult.
(You couldn't not grow up, not when you have seen your friend die and fought in a battle, which gave you a scar that ran from the base of your neck to bottom of your chest as a souvenir.)
Sometimes, sometimes things got a little too overwhelming. She had found herself on the verge of tears multiple times throughout the day, the crowd of students and constant voices and murmurings and laughter felt strangulating and sometimes, sometimes she felt like she could not breathe.
Her constant worrying for Harry and Ron did not help her nightmares. Having to lie to her parents did no good either.
She was a perfect target for You-Know-Who and his death eaters. Muggle-born, intelligent, foil to Malfoy, one of the Golden Trio, good to squeeze information out of and to threaten Harry with. She wasn't terrified for herself. She was terrified for her family.
She had realised that the form her Boggart took had changed. Her biggest fear was no longer failing in her studies and examination. Her biggest fear was failing. Failing Harry, failing Dumbledore, failing her parents, failing the war. Everyone dead, leaving her alone. What use was her knowledge when she could not keep those she loved safe?
She found herself often hiding at one of the lesser-known towers in the east wing, curling at the massive glass window that overlooked the school. She would lie there, willing her tears to stop before making her way down to where ever she was supposed to be.
That day, the Daily Prophet had reported the death of a muggle family. Mr Leonard Tennant, Mrs Emily Tennant and their -
Their muggle-born daughter, Jessica Tennant, aged ten. Harry had balled up the article, anger flashing in his eyes. He got up and left, fearsome anger dripping off him. Ron had given them both worried glances, which she had brushed off with a forced reassuring smile. She was more worried about Harry, really. He was…
She barely made it out of the Great Hall before tears spilt from her brown eyes. She took in a shaking breath and ran, her heart pounding in her ears and the world around her spinning and pounding and -
Breathe.
Muggle family with a wizarding child. Died. Killed by Death Eaters.
It could have been her. Their daughter would be in Hogwarts the next year. How many more people have to die before the war could end?
She sunk onto the cold marble floor. Breathe Hermione. Please. You have to be strong. You have to - She could feel the tearing pain she felt when the curse had hit her chest in the Department of Mysteries.
She dug her nails into her skin, taking sharp, quick breathes. Breathe breathe breathe breathe. Don't cry. Harry needs you. Ron needs you.
She did not notice the black figure that stood behind her.
'Miss Granger.' His voice was silk, wrapping itself around her.
She jumped, startled by his sudden presence. She scrambled to her feet and wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands, feeling thoroughly embarrassed. 'I- I'm sorry sir. I will be going off.'
'Come here,' he commanded.
'Sir?'
'Don't make me repeat myself twice, Miss Granger.'
She frowned but did as she was told.
Black robes enveloped her, her face against soft warm cotton as strong arms awkwardly found themselves on her back.
Professor Snape was hugging her.
She froze. This - Was someone impersonating the Potions Professor under the Polyjuice Potion? Or was he under the Imperious Curse? Cofounded?
What?
But she found herself relaxing against him in his embrace, letting his scent surround and comfort her. Tears started to flow once again, and he held her as she fell apart, his arms an anchor that held her down to earth.
'Tell anyone and I will take a hundred points from Gryffindor,' he murmured once her sobs subsided, his breath tickling her ears
'Yes, sir.' She smiled against his chest. They stayed there until they both had to leave.
'Insufferable girl.'
They never hugged again, but she could still feel the circle of his arms around her waist, the feel of his palms against her back, the feel of her face against his chest through the layer of soft warm robes, the way his scent created a bubble around her head, the way he made her feel safe and fine and whole.
'Sir, can you tell me more about the connection between muggle science – in particular Chemistry and Physics – and Potions? I think that they are rather similar, in a sense and if we combine muggle disciplines into magic, there must be endless possibilities. I tried reading up on them, but there really isn't much, until I saw your name on one of the few research papers and - '
'You are rambling again, Miss Granger.'
She flushed. 'Sorry, sir.'
He softened. 'Maybe I can teach you after the war, if you want. An apprenticeship, maybe.'
She grinned, the sun pouring out of her eyes. 'It is a promise then?'
'Maybe.'
Dumbledore was dead.
Professor Snape had killed him.
The tears wouldn't stop.
(No. There must be more to it.)
Sometimes, at night, in the tent, she dreamt of him and his hug and his voice and his touch. She dreamt of him guiding them along. She dreamt of his eyes. She dreamt.
Sometimes, she thought that she would go to hell and back if it meant that she could somehow help him in the task Dumbledore had entrusted him with and prove to the rest of the Order, especially Harry and Ron, that he was always theirs, never You-Know-Who's. Never.
(Hers.)
She had no bloody idea why she had agreed to go to Professor Slughorn's party with Cormac McLaggen. Oh right. Ron.
She had worn a simple dress that looked somewhat flattering on her with a neckline that plunged slightly down her chest. She had used a Glamour Charm to hide her scar, slightly self-conscious of the angry white line that stretched across the once unblemished skin, a constant visible reminder of the battle that had taken place.
Cormac had stared at her chest almost all night long, only leaving it to stare at her legs. She wanted to gouge his eyes out but propriety demanded her to wait and see. She just needed to escape as soon as she could.
She was absolutely uncomfortable next to Cormac.
As she entered the party, her eyes caught sight of Professor Snape in his signature black robes, looking thoroughly bored and unimpressed. His eyes caught hers and she immediately looked away, her own reaction confusing herself.
She walked off, forgetting that Cormac had attached himself to her. She then found herself under the mistletoe with Cormac, who enthusiastically tried to kiss her despite her repeated protests.
'Come on Hermione. I know you want it. You led us here,' he breathed into her ears, his body pressing disgustingly close to hers.
'No thank you,' she practically growled, trying to peel off his hands which were desperately pawing her waist.
His lips crushed against hers and she felt like she could vomit there and then. Before she could do anything, he started grinding on her. Absolutely vile.
Good thing she was wearing heels then. She stomped his feet and yanked herself away before kneeling him in the groin. She didn't bother to watch him moan and groan in pain, leaving without a second thought.
She found herself at a quiet corner, trying to stay away from the crowd. With a glass in her hand, she sipped on the beverage – pumpkin juice – and watched as people mingled, or mostly watched a certain Professor as he tried to get away from every person who tried to strike a conversation with him. She smiled into her glass, enjoying her solitude.
'Nice thing you did to McLaggen.' She heard the familiar drawl of a certain professor and jumped slightly. She flushed at his almost-compliment.
'He deserved it.' She shrugged.
'Clearly.'
Silence.
She wanted to say something, anything but words simply would not come. So she stood there a few steps away from him, enjoying the silent companionship between them.
Of course Slughorn had to interrupt, dragging a poor Colin Creevey along with his camera.
'Let us take picture together!' He boomed, tugging on them. 'This dear boy offered his assistance.'
'Absolutely not,' Snape snarled, glaring at the offending hand that snaked around his shoulders.
'Come on Severus! It is Christmas, be merry!'
The more Slughorn tried to convince the Professor, the more his face darkened and Hermione thought that he might murder the poor potions Professor there and then.
'Don't be such a spoilsport,' Slughorn laughed, pulling Snape closer. 'Come on boy, take a photo!'
Hermione awkwardly stood next to the overly enthusiastic professor, who was holding onto a very displeased Professor Snape.
She managed to force a smile out as the shutter went off.
It was a day later when she received the moving photograph.
Professor Snape was glaring daggers with his lips curled into a terrifying snarl and Professor Slughorn was grinning, blissfully oblivious. She was smiling, softly, forced, her eyes shifting to steal glances of the frowning professor.
Her lips curled into a smile and she could not help but to brush her fingers across Professor Snape's face.
It was the only picture she had of him and of them together.
She slipped it into her notebook.
It never left her since.
(Sometimes, sometimes she would take it out and look at it and smile. Oh, she would smile.)
If it was a crush, why did the thought of him still sent shivers down her spine and constricted her lungs and sent pangs of unidentified sensations to her heart.
She missed their debates.
She missed their intellectual conversations.
She missed him.
After the battle at the Department of Mysteries, he had been the one who cared for her. The ten potions per day were all brewed by him and administered by Mdm Pomfrey.
She was unaware of his nightly check on her, looking after her once night had taken over and leaving before the crack of dawn.
But she knew that it was him who gave them the sword. She knew it. She had taken the portrait of Phineas Black in hopes of having some form of correspondence with Professor – no, Headmaster – Snape.
He was an enigma. Everything about him screamed "evil" but she knew how he had protected them, knew how gentle he could be, knew how he had sacrificed so much for Dumbledore and the Order and yet, there he was, cruel and infuriating and vicious.
But she believed. She believed in him. She believed in him even if no one else did. Call her stupid, naïve, she didn't care.
He had tried to protect them from Quirrell.
He had protected them from a werewolf, followed them into the Shrieking Shack knowing what would happen, even if his memories of the past were still as clear and fresh as the day it had happened. He had protected them from a man he believed to be a murderer and a werewolf in full moon.
He had always been helping them, some way or another. Quietly.
She knew her own mind and she knew that he was always on their side.
When Ron kissed her, part of her wished it were him. The thought had sent fresh waves of guilt; Ron was wonderful, really, and she shouldn't, mustn't hurt him. Not like this. Never like this. He liked her. He loved her. But she -
Maybe… Maybe she would tell him about her crush once the war was over. Get it over and done with. Let her start anew.
(Lies. You know that you love him. You know that. You love Professor Snape.)
She watched him die.
She watched life seep from his body. His blood stark against his pasty skin that seemed to turn grey as the seconds ticked by.
They couldn't – She couldn't –
His screamed wrecked a hole in her heart and she wanted so badly to burst into the room, but she couldn't. She must not. They waited until You-Know-Who left before scrambling in.
He gave Harry his memories, the silver liquid swirling around the flask she conjured.
He looked so broken, so vulnerable and she wished and wished and wished she could do something, anything. He was dying. There was nothing they could do.
She kneeled before him, tears streaming down her face. With trembling fingers, she tentatively touched his cheek, which was a lot more sunken and hollow than she had remembered. Her chest constricted. 'Professor,' she murmured. There was no response.
She could taste her tears.
'Wake up. Please. I -' The words are stuck in her throat. There were so many things she wanted to say. So many questions she wanted to ask. So many things but…
He could not be dead. The Professor could not be dead. Her Professor could not be dead.
They were supposed to survive the war remember? He was supposed to survive and be free and lead a life governed by himself and –
He was not supposed to die. He lived. He survived the first war. He was a spy. A double agent. He was not supposed to die.
She choked back a sob, her nails digging into her thighs. It wasn't fair. So many dead. Too many dead. And more will be dead.
'You promised me. You -' She took in a shuddering breath.
The war raged on outside.
She stood up, tears still running, and left to join the battle.
('I love you,' she whispered. There was no one to hear her words, only the dead body of the person she loved.)
(She had so much to say, but she was too late.)
(I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou)
She stared at his portrait.
'You died. You bloody died so you don't have any right to meddle in my private life,' she hissed. She wanted to scream at the painting.
'Clearly, Miss Granger,' Painting-Snape drawled, arching his eyebrows, obviously trying to suppress a chuckle.
She flushed. He was still infuriating as a painting. But Merlin, he was here, pseudo alive, talking to her, teasing her, riling her up. Frustrating man. His dark eyes stared at her through the canvas. He looked so real that she wanted to touch him. It almost felt as though he was alive, breathing and kicking and made of flesh and bones, not paint and canvas and magic.
Her heart wouldn't stop collapsing in itself. It would stop yearning for him. It hurt. It felt as though someone had given her the ocean and had forgotten that she couldn't swim but there she was, in the waters, drowning but still so very, very happy as though she had belonged there. She still… She still – She supposed that it was the last chance she could say it.
'I lo-'
She stopped herself.
'Hmm?'
'Nothing,' she sighed. 'Now stop being so infuriatingly annoying and tell me what is wrong with my potion.'
'My pleasure.'