For the most part, things are the same until the beginning of the new term. Two days before the students are scheduled to arrive, Minerva calls them into her office. Snape doesn't know her exact reason, but he doesn't feel comfortable with the summons nonetheless. If it were a separate meeting, it would be one thing but he and Hermione together worries him.
After all, they have not broken any rules. She is his student and in some ways, a colleague but other than a few choice words, a few late night conversations, and one foray into drunkenness, nothing has changed. So he goes to the meeting with Hermione who looks just as anxious. Hermione wears her hair up against the lingering heat of the summer. She holds her head high.
In the office they seat themselves and Minerva stands behind the large, wooden desk. Her glasses rest at the tip of her nose and she looks like she has aged a decade in the last few years.
"What is this about?" he says, finally, unwilling to play the staring game.
"I thought we ought to have a talk about your current situation," Minerva says, icily.
"Situation, ma'am?" Hermione says quickly, smoothly. "Do you mean the arrangement with the university?"
"I mean our arrangement here, at Hogwarts, Miss Granger," Minerva says, finally seating herself.
"Are you not satisfied with the work I do here?" Hermione presses on and Snape is content to lean back and let her fight this battle of wills.
"It isn't that," Minerva says. "It is your personal conduct that I have began to question."
Hermione sets her jaw.
"I wasn't aware that my personal life was any of your concern, Headmistress," Hermione says. It is a dangerous route to take.
"You are not the same girl who graduated from here so few years ago," Minerva says, trying a different tactic.
"Nor are you the same, Headmistress," Hermione rallies back. It's true, though. The warmth from Minerva has evaporated into an over worked administrator. She does not like her job, any longer. Everyone can see Minerva McGonagall is desperate for a rest. Snape can understand, though. Minerva, too, had lost a long time love in Albus Dumbledore.
"Please save us the time and the trouble and arrive at your point," Snape says, unwilling to watch any more of this.
"The rules regarding fraternization between faculty are clear – fraternization between student and professor is a matter of the law," she says. Hermione's shock is immediately apparent.
"I beg your pardon," she says, standing. Snape interrupts.
"And what are the rules regarding Master and Apprentice, Minerva?" he says, in a deep, loud voice. He is taunting her.
"Severus you simply know better!" Minerva yells, slapping her hands on the desk.
"You are making assumptions," Snape retorts. "You cannot cite us for any act we have not performed, for rules we have not broken."
"I have seen enough to know what is in your hearts, Severus," she says, sitting back down wearily. Hermione rolls her eyes.
"This is ludicrous," Hermione says. "And I am offended."
"Miss Granger," Minerva starts but Hermione doesn't give her the chance.
"Are you asking me to leave? Am I being made redundant?" she demands.
"No, of course not," Minerva says. Hermione turns and leaves, slamming the office door behind her, shocking both Snape and McGonagall.
"You handled that poorly," Snape says, seething. "How dare you call her out like that."
"Be careful," Minerva says. "Be careful with her."
Snape shakes his head and feels sorry for Minerva.
"You are in over your head," he says. She doesn't respond and he lets himself out. It is not hard to find Hermione. He can hear her cursing just down the hall. He has to jog to catch up with her at the top of the stairs.
"Stop," he calls, and she slows, glancing over her shoulder. He finally makes it to her side. She can walk fast for having short legs, he muses.
"What?" she asks. "Was that not embarrassing enough? Is there something you'd like to add?"
"I'm on your side," he reminds her. "That was inappropriate for Minerva to do."
"I'll say," she says. "I should leave of my own accord."
"No," he says. "You should not." She relaxes a little, takes a deep breath and stops, leaning against the wall.
"I'm so angry," she says, closing her eyes for a moment.
"If the idea of being paired off with me is so distasteful..." he begins, trying to save himself.
"You know that isn't it," she says. "It isn't."
"All right," he says.
"We haven't done anything wrong, have we?" she asks.
"We have not," he assures her. "Come on, let's get some tea," he says, getting her to start walking. He leads her to the dungeons where he floos to have a tea service delivered to the potions office. When it arrives, the silver gleams and she uses a cloth napkin to pour their tea so her fingerprints do not smudge the surface. Her hand is steady, her mouth a thin line. He watches her through heavy lids. Maybe Minerva was right, maybe he should be careful. He doesn't want to, though. For once in his long, lonely life, he wants to be reckless. She hands him his tea, black, and doctors her own with cream. There are sandwiches and biscuits, but he isn't hungry and she doesn't touch them.
"And if we had done something wrong, what would happen to me? To you?" she asks, continuing their previous conversation. There is a desk between them, the room is dark, and he puts his feet up.
"You would be fine. You would transfer back onto the campus of UMCL and finish out your studies as a normal student," he says.
"What about you?" she asks.
"I would lose my job, probably," he says, chuckling. "Though, I too would be fine."
She bites her lip, stirs her tea and looks contemplative.
"What a silly conversation to be having," she says, finally, with a shaky laugh. "Like we're discussing the weather."
"It will start to rain, soon," he says.
"Don't," she pleads. "I don't want to talk about the weather."
"What do you want to talk about?" he asks.
"If I left, what would you do?" she asks. He knows what she wants him to say, and for once he says it.
"I would leave too," he says. "But I think you know that." She looks away from him, she puts her hand over her mouth.
"Do you love me?" she asks. He chuckles and shakes his head.
"I don't know what love is, Hermione," he says. "Or whether this is it."
"Then what do you know?" she asks. She is surprisingly calm, surprisingly still for the severity of this conversation. But he can see she is agitated; she is flushed and there is a vein that is pulsing in her neck. He applauds her performance.
"I know that you make me into some one different, someone better," he says. "And what about you? Isn't it your turn to bare your soul?"
"You know how I feel," she says. He raises his eyebrow – he wants her to say it but he can see that she is not ready. "Why don't we do it, then? Why don't we just leave? It's what she wants."
"It isn't what she wants," he says. "And you need to finish your degree."
"Then what do we do?" she asks.
"Do?" he asks, surprised. "We do nothing. We wait."
"But," she says, beginning to argue but she stops, falters, and closes her mouth. It is a dreadful, dreary proposition, but it is the right thing to do. She thanks him for his tea and excuses herself.
Once the term starts, it is easier. Their days are filled with routine – with classes, grading papers, meals, and rounds. She is not the only person he sees, the only person he speaks to. While she is important, she is not the center of his day.
They run into one another in odd places, at odd times. He finds her in the greenhouse used mostly for storage and she tells him she is looking for an empty pot, to re-pot the purple flowers she keeps in their lab. She finds him in the Charms classroom, talking with Filius and it startles her to see him in a classroom he almost never graces.
Sometimes, late, late at night, hours after curfew, he walks down to the dungeons and lingers outside her door. Never for long, never more than a few minutes. He knows that if he were to knock, to let himself in, she would not turn him away.
They sit together at Quidditch games. She, of course, roots for Gryffindor and he for Slytherin. This is the first year she has gone to the games – before it was too hard. Gryffindor's seeker is a girl, a fourth year named Cecilia who is good, but not the star the Gryffindor team had gotten used to. When she lets the snitch escape her grasp, allowing Ravenclaw to win, Hermione speaks softly.
"Harry would have won that game," she says. Hermione rarely talks about Harry Potter anymore. Snape doesn't know what to say. The stands are emptying and they, too, must stand to allow the other people on the bench to leave. Snape guides her down the narrow flights of stairs, holding on to the edge of her red and gold scarf so they do not get separated. Around them, students talk and laugh, loudly. The Ravenclaws are so far ahead of the other houses this season, that their win has been taken for granted. The Gryffindors look resigned to another year of loss. Their golden age has ended in so many ways.
Clear from the pitch, Snape hangs back, so he and Hermione can bring up the rear of the crowd, keeping stragglers from wandering off. He tries to comfort her.
"We don't have to go to the games any more," he says.
"It isn't that," she says. "It's just, I can hear them, you know? In my head. Rooting for Gryffindor, taking every loss personally." She shakes her head. "I thought it would be easier to let go."
"I know you did," he says. She leans into him a little. It's not wise, this public contact but everyone is ahead of them, rushing toward the castle in hopes of cocoa in the common rooms; a victory celebration for Ravenclaw. He gives her a few seconds before clearing his throat. "It's a weekend – what do you say we spike our cocoa?"
"Let's," she says, feeling careless. "It's getting so cold, so fast."
"It's your birthday soon," he comments, proud that he can remember such things. She looks at him, pleased.
"It is," she says. "Twenty-One."
"Ouch," he says, shaking his head.
"You're an old man, I know," she teases.
"Watch it," he warns. He may be old enough to be her father, but he is no father figure.
"Distinguished, I mean," she clarifies. "And what will you get me for my birthday?"
"If I tell you, it would ruin the surprise," he says. Honestly, he has no idea. A book, perhaps. A new quill. He doesn't know, and has no one to ask for advice.
"I hate surprises," she says, but it isn't true.
He tries not to go into her rooms, anymore, nor she in his. It is a dangerous, heady feeling, to be alone with her, but on this cold, early September day so soon in the term, he simply does not care. He does not care that Minerva watches their every move like a hawk. He does not care that Hermione is still sad about Harry Potter, a boy he loathed. He does not care that she is half his age. He cares that underneath her scarf, she has a beautifully slender neck and he cares that she pours the whiskey in the mug before the cocoa.
She hands him the mug, but he sets it down immediately. He puts his hand on the back of her neck and leans in swiftly and with great purpose. He kisses her. He presses his mouth firmly against hers and coaxes her lips apart. Her tongue meets his half way and her arms snake up and around his neck. They are kissing – she is pressed against him, on her toes. It lasts for long seconds and is over too quickly. He pulls away and she makes this agonizing mewling noise deep in her throat – a noise of loss.
"Forgive me," he says, pushing his forehead against hers.
"No," she says, and kisses him again.
Her waist is tiny under his hands. She is the shape of a small hourglass. This time it is she who steps back, who puts her hand over her hot mouth, who stares at him with glassy eyes.
"If you leave now, I'll be okay," she says, carefully. It is the same determined way she spoke when drunk – one word at a time. He doesn't hang around to face the consequences. He gives her an apologetic and needy look and flees. On the main floor there are people everywhere. It is bright and loud and he feels constricted and too warm, despite the cold. One of the older Slytherins tries to stop him, asks him if he feels all right, but he pushes the boy off and practically runs to his quarters. In his bathroom, he fills the basin with cold water and plunges his face into it fearlessly, recklessly. It is bone chilling, but he stays under until his lungs can take no more. Water seeps into his collar, trails down his skin. He coughs, sputters, and glares at himself in the mirror.
She has broken him.
Three hours later, she knocks on his door. He knows it's her, of course it is her, because who else would it be? She has changed clothes, put her hair up, washed her face. She looks clean, like a bare canvas. He has to invite her in. When she steps into the lamp light, he can see that she has been crying.
"I'm an ass," he says, immediately, turning his back to her, looking into the fire in his hearth.
"No you aren't," she says, with a miserable sniffle. "I'm needy and naïve."
"I don't want to fight," he says.
"We aren't," she says back, with a small smile. He can't see it, but he can hear it in her voice. "Severus, would you think less of me if I told you I was scared?"
"Scared of what?" he asks, turning to look at her. She is perched on the edge of the ottoman, angled away. He can see her profile in the warm light; the straight line of her nose, the curve of her brow.
"Life," she says. "I can feel it, the constant beating of it against my ribcage. It wants out but every time I try to open the door, all I can see is my dead friends."
"You didn't kill them," he says.
"I didn't save them," she retorts.
"They saved you, Hermione," he says, desperately, moving to crouch in front of her. "Don't you see that? They saved you." Her tears start again. He knows she didn't want to be saved; he knows this because he didn't want it either. His whole life had been building up to this war, this battle, this moment and she stole it right out from under him. He had cursed at her as she pulled him away, with a strength far greater than she should have possessed. In the hospital, several days later, she'd asked him if he was mad at her for what she had done, and he had told her yes. She hadn't seemed surprised.
She leans in now, kisses him lightly. She touches his cheek and he leans into her hand.
"Please let me stay," she says. Her voice is sorrowful – she is sad that she has to ask him this.
"For a little while," he concedes. They stretch out on the couch together, him on the inside and her tucked neatly against him. Their legs tangle and her head fits just under his chin. They watch the fire crackle, burn, and die down. She sleeps a little, and he rubs her arms. When the over head bells chime four am, she opens her eyes and he pushes her hair away from her neck and kisses the skin there.
"I have to go," she says, her voice hoarse with sleep. He hums something that means yes in his mind. "I have class in the morning, and then a meeting at the university in the afternoon," she continues but she is talking herself into leaving, not him.
"Use the floo," he says against her pulse.
"Does McGonagall monitor the floo?" she asks and he remembers that she was here during the reign of Umbridge. He shudders.
"If she does, then we both really should quit," he says. They sit up at the same time and she hugs him before she goes, activates the floo, and steps through. He should go to bed, but instead he lays back on the couch. She has left her smell there and he cannot seem to tear himself away.
In the morning, they are both grumpy and silent at breakfast. Sleep deprivation is attractive on no one and she scowls as she spreads jam on her toast. He does not eat much – he pushes his porridge around in his bowl. He does not envy the several hours she has ahead of her with teaching and her meeting. She keeps up steadily with her ever increasing work load. She does not buckle under that sort of pressure. He likes that about her.
In his free hours, he usually stays in the lab grading or working on Hermione's next assignment but this morning, he goes back to his rooms and crawls into bed. His pillow is soft and his draperies block most of the light. He has a headache and he feels slightly hung over though he never even drank that cocoa. He sleeps through lunch and wakes up only when she is there, at the edge of his bed. She looks concerned.
"When did you get here?" he asks.
"I think you're running a fever," she says, ignoring his question. Her hand is cool against his forehead and cheeks. "Do you feel all right?"
Now that she asks, his throat is a little sore and his head is still swimming.
"Not really," he says. "What time is it?"
"Nearly one," she says, glancing at her watch. He sits up quickly and his vision speckles.
"I have to teach," he says, unconvincingly.
"You need to rest," she corrects him. "I'll look after your classes."
"You have your meeting," he says.
"I'll reschedule," she dismisses. "They love me over there – I am the best student they have who hardly attends." He isn't in the mood for her jokes.
"I feel better already," he says, but she pushes him back down.
"I'll get Pomfrey to make a house call," she warns him. This is not desirable.
"You'll have to explain what you were doing in my quarters," he groans, lying back and coughing a little. His chest feels tight.
"I'll take my chances," she says, dryly. "Go back to sleep, I'll look in on you in a little while."
"Bossy," he mutters, but closing his eyes feels like heaven and he lets her go without further complaint. It seems like she's back quickly, like she hardly left. But she isn't alone and he can hear her speaking to someone. She sounds far away and he feels detached from himself. Like he is floating.
"I can't get him to wake up," she says. He can hear that she is crying, and the sound of tears in her voice forces his eyes open.
"Severus, can you hear me?" The voice belongs to Poppy and he groans a little.
"What's the matter with him?" Hermione asks.
"He's picked up the virus that is running through the Seventh years like wild fire," Poppy responds. "This will help."
Poppy's cold, clinical hand supports his neck and she pours a potion down his throat. He feels better, fast. His head clears, he can see. He sits up, wipes his face.
"Can you hear me?" Poppy repeats.
"Yes," he whispers.
"You'd better come to the infirmary," she says, crossly. "Something you should have done the moment you began to feel ill."
"I'm okay," he says, sitting up. He tried to ignore the dizziness, the urge to vomit.
"You aren't," Hermione says. "You're sick."
"Let's get him to the floo," Poppy says, all business. Together, the help him to the fireplace. He doesn't want to depend on them, but he finds himself putting all his weight on their shoulders. They struggle into the infirmary and deposit him on a bed. He is relieved to not be moving. "You'll need a vial of this as well, Miss Granger," Poppy says.
"I… We had an appointment and when he didn't answer… It just wasn't like him to skip…" she says, stumbling over her excuses. If Snape's eyes were open, he would roll them.
"I understand," Poppy says. "Take this, and get some rest. If you feel ill, come back."
"Anything else I can do?" Hermione asks.
"No," Poppy is brisk and Hermione gets out of the way; she leaves him alone in the infirmary.
It takes him a day and a half to recover – or at least that long before he can no longer stand a second more under Poppy's excessive watchfulness. He sneaks out when she is away and goes to his rooms. He fills the tub with hot water and crawls in. He is no longer sick but he has a sick hangover. The achy, spent feeling that follows in the wake of a particularly heinous cold. Washing his hair, helps, as does putting on fresh clothes. After all of his, he finds that he is starving, and so he goes to dinner. Hermione smiles when she sees him.
"You look better," she says.
"I am," he says. "I think."
"You were pretty out of it," she says.
"Well, several years of the Cruciatus curse will weaken the immune system," he jokes but she does not smile. She does not look amused. They eat in silence. After dinner, she walks with him back to his rooms. They do not touch, and they speak very little.
"You shouldn't have…" Snape begins.
"I know," she says, quickly. "You were sick. I didn't know what was wrong; what was I supposed to do?"
"I…I don't know," he says. "Has McGonagall spoken to you?"
"Nope," she says.
"Let's hope she doesn't," Snape says. Hermione turns the corner before they reach his door.
It should feel exhilarating to finally have Hermione, to be able to touch her even if discreetly but spending most of his life as a spy has taken all the fun out of it. Now he just wants to come home every night to someone who is interesting, someone who likes him, to Hermione. When is that going to happen? When?
His room is empty and cold. He lights the fire but it takes a long time for the room to warm up. He has a lot to do because of his time out, but instead he just wraps a blanket around his shoulders and picks up a book. He spends the night reading and dozing and relearning how to really be alone.