Title: Porridge
Summary: Years ago, when Hermione was a little girl, and she got sick, her father always—always—made her porridge. HG/SS mild fluff
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series.
A/N: Well… I was eating porridge today and this just came to me. I hope everyone likes it… This is my first time with this pairing and my first time making mild fluff.
Porridge.
Years ago, when Hermione was a little girl, and she got sick, her father always—always—made her porridge. "No, no, let me do breakfast," he would say to Hermione's mother, insisting of shooing her out of the kitchen in order to do the only breakfast he did well. "Let me do breakfast today for our special little girl."
And he would cook, measuring the milk and the oatmeal perfectly before placing it in their best pan for cooking. Hermione's father always worked hard when he was making his daughter's porridge, his face screwed up with concentration as he made sure not even a single flake of oatmeal was missing.
When the porridge was done, he would bring it to his daughter, his face alight with proud satisfaction.
Hermione dreaded those moments.
It was a secret she would never tell a soul—much less her father. She would never—never—tell her father how much she feared the moment the bowl full of porridge touched the place in the table before her. She would never tell him how unlucky she felt. She would never tell him what her mother already knew:
Hermione absolutely hated porridge.
Yet he would insist on placing the offending meal in front of her, every single sick day. No matter how much Hermione silently prayed, or how much her mother would insist on making breakfast herself, the bowl full to the brim with hot, lumpy porridge never went missing.
"I make the best porridge," Hermione's father would say happily as he gave her his most precious gift.
And Hermione would selflessly sacrifice herself and eat it all, because, in the end, there was no way she could tell him she hated porridge when it meant so much to him that he had cooked it so carefully for her.
Hogwarts had ended up saving her from those little uncomfortable moments. It had been such a long time since she had the misfortune of waking up sick at home, she had even almost forgotten what porridge tasted like. All she remembered was that she hated it—and, if she tried hard, that distinctly disgusting smell.
She had not been trying to remember what porridge smelled like when she first caught the smell of that offending odor, creeping slowly into the Hospital Wing and sticking permanently to the walls. Exceedingly sweet and something else—that was exactly what porridge smelled like. Yet the smell of porridge could not be possible.
She was the only one in the Hospital Wing, aside from the nurse Madam Pomfrey and maybe Severus Snape. Having been caught with a sudden fever the Monday before, she had been stuck in the Hospital Wing ever since, once Madam Pomfrey had realized that she could not get rid of the disease so easily. She had then called for the help of the potions of Severus Snape, who had grudgingly provided the medicine.
It was now Friday, and they still hadn't figured out what was wrong with her. Even Professor Snape had taken an interest then—Hermione couldn't help but suspect she was quickly becoming a subject of his academic interest.
This night had been no different from the others, at first. Madam Pomfrey had made sure she was comfortable, and then Professor Snape would appear with a few potions. The school nurse would then go off to do inventory on her medicines at the room next to where Hermione was, leaving the professor to decide which potion he should try next, and for Hermione to mentally pray that the potion chosen would not taste so bad.
Only tonight, Severus Snape had done something different. He had sat down on his usual seat, located a few feet away from her feet on the bed, and had stared, concentrated, at his potions before softly going, "Hmm".
As if that hadn't been unusual—Professor Snape rarely talked beside his usual commanding "Take this" or "Give me the thermometer"—he had then proceeded to get up, go to the next room to ask Madam Pomfrey—something—and then quickly left the Hospital Wing.
Hermione had been left alone for almost a full thirty minutes, with only the—by now just slightly interesting—potions as companions, when she had heard the door open, and the awful smell of porridge had filtered through the air.
"W—Who is it?" Hermione heard her own voice rasp rather foolishly. Of course it must be Professor Snape. Yet, for a paranoid and silly moment, she would have sworn it was her father, who had learned his daughter was ill, and had gone out of his way to deliver his world-famous porridge to his daughter at Hogwarts.
"The Dark Lord himself. Who do you think it is, Miss Granger?" she heard Professor Snape's slow, sarcastic reply before she could see him. To her disbelief, he was holding a bowl full of what smelled like porridge.
Hermione was almost certain that the professor had seen how her face fell at that moment.
"I believe you've been acquainted with porridge before," Professor Snape went on, either oblivious or indifferent to Hermione's reaction. "Though for the life of me, I've never seen you eat it. Not like I make it a point to watch what my students eat every day."
Hermione simply stared at the bowl. Why was she bringing porridge to her?
He seemed to have heard her question before she could voice it, for he answered it all too soon. "I do not care whether you think it is a medicine or not. You will eat it." When he handed the offending bowl to her, she could not help but take it and then look at the milky white substance in disgust. Porridge. She really hated porridge. Did Severus Snape somehow know…?
She looked at him, and his usual indifferent eyes stared back. Yet there was something else in those eyes when he raised an eyebrow at her. It was almost—defiant, but also something else. "Are you going to eat it?" he asked, his voice unusually soft at the question. "I knew you might complain if the House Elves made it, so I made it myself."
Blackmail. Hermione's heart felt like it had suddenly dropped from its place and into her stomach. Had he really made the porridge? Of course—why would he lie about that? The House Elves wouldn't have taken as long. But why did he do it? And what use could it have?
She almost died when she realized she couldn't refuse the meal then. Not when he had made it—she wouldn't be capable of it. Of course, it was silly to be afraid of the nonexistent probability of breaking his heart…
But it would break her heart to tell him that she actually didn't like porridge, or to refuse the meal he had made for her at all.
There was just something wrong with refusing gifts made by the people you care about. Hermione blushed at the realization.
She avoided Severus Snape's gaze as she slowly ate the porridge, attempting to ignore the oddly sweet taste and failing miserably, memories of home and family invading her mind as the smell of the food she was eating invaded her senses. She remembered her mother, her father, those sick days she would spend at home rather than at school, lying lazily on the sofa watching morning cartoons, her mother's hot cocoa, her father staying at home with her rather than going to work with her mother, idle afternoons, planning what to cook Mom for lunch when she got home, boring news at noon… And suddenly, Hermione's heart was back in her place, even though she hated porridge. And it felt nice and it was fine and it was wonderful. Everything would be okay. Because soon she would be out of school and she would have those precious moments with her family again, even if she was not sick. Heck, she might even let her dad make his famous porridge. It was worth it, for the fun they had afterwards. It was worth it because it made her father happy to help.
She finished the bowl and even surprised herself when she felt a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn't for the porridge—but for the memories. After all, she really hated porridge. Yet now Professor Snape would never know that.
"Thank you," Hermione whispered shyly, cheeks reddening slightly as they made eye contact. Hermione couldn't explain it, but it was certainly odd.
"Check your temperature," Snape commanded, and Hermione's blush deepened as she seemed to forget where she had placed it. She fidgeted in her bed until she found what she was looking for below her pillow, and then cleaned it with her sheets a little before placing it in her mouth.
A minute passed, and then the thermometer was in the professor's hands. To Hermione's surprise, he seemed pleased.
"I believe I will see you in class next week, if Pomfrey allows it," Severus Snape said to her casually, as he got up. With a flick of his wand, the empty bowl and the spoon were gone. Hermione stared at him, incredulous, and Professor Snape had left to talk to Pomfrey before she had a chance to register that she could speak.
Lucky for Hermione, he left the door half open. After a few indistinguishable murmurs, Madam Pomfrey finally raised her voice loud enough for Hermione to be able to listen.
"Homesickness?" she asked, more than a little bewildered. "All this fuzz over a little… For the love of—… Isn't she a little too old to be homesick?"
"I believe so," came Professor Snape's voice through the door. "But there is no denying it doesn't happen to older students once in a while…"
A/N: Um… I'm nervous. This is my first fic with this pairing, and I believe I wrote fluff. This would make this my first fluff ever, if I did indeed make fluff. I'm not even sure if Hermione's mild crush on Snape was obvious… I'm afraid to do something horribly wrong, you see. Well… I hope that it was all at least decent.