CHAPTER 8 – 2002 Part 4
September ended without incident, and they settled further into a routine – lunch at least once a week, he was cagey about his job and she told him everything about hers, and he longed to rip the scarf from her lovely neck and kiss her.
He started to accept every other invite for a pint, and the first time he'd come, she'd been so delighted that she'd thrown her arms around him in a hug. At first he'd stiffened at the shock of it – she would touch him, but hugs were rare, to be treasured – and then he'd stiffened and had had to pull away lest she realise the extent of his reaction. If she'd been hurt by his retreat, she hadn't shown it; Hermione just smiled at him and gave him space. He did give her a smile back, one of those small little curves of his mouth that only she received. He hadn't wanted to pull away. Being embraced by Hermione was...pleasant.
Alright, more than pleasant. But she didn't need to know that. He was 42 for fuck's sake, and while it wasn't old for a Wizard, and after living primarily in that world for the vast majority of his life the knowledge of their age gap didn't bother him as much as it had at first. That she had been his student didn't bother him – he'd certainly never thought of her that way while she'd been his student, so there was no guilt over it (besides, at this point, the list of people who had been his students was quite long). What did bother him was his reaction and inexperience to control it.
It wasn't appropriate, because even if he was (and he probably was, he admitted to himself) in love with her, there was no way in hell she'd love him back. He was too... well, he knew what he looked like and his temperament.
All the same, he'd begun having dreams of her. They were hazy and indistinct, but he still woke aching and edgy. The frigid temperatures of October water pipes were thankfully keeping things in check; he had no desire to cheapen any sort of emotional attachment to the woman for purely physical fulfillment.
No matter how much he wanted to.
Finally, he'd worked at this bloody shop long enough for his neighbors to think he'd have savings built up. He had a great deal of money, actually. Between inheritance (being the last of a bloodline was actually worth something, in the end), investments Lucius and now Draco had made for him, private patents on Potions as well as some spellwork, the years spent working at Hogwarts (tenure, having practically no living expenses 2/3 of the year, and nearly all his Potions ingredients paid for by the school), and his -sigh- work with Weasley's Wheezes. He'd been receiving profit fees since the year after that idiotic Triwizard Cup Albus had insisted on holding despite his own vehement input not to do so; every year, his income went up. And now his name was on all of the patents. He was already set for a very, very long life...or three.
He just didn't spend much, did not have expensive tastes. He lived alone, and after a few years at Hogwarts had completed repairs and a few updates to his house. Severus couldn't be bothered to move; he actually liked a great deal of things Muggle, as well as the anonymity of the neighborhood. Anyone looking for a Wizard would take one look at the drab, dingy row houses and leave. He'd never expected to survive the war, so his will would have donated everything to Hogwarts, his godson, and some of the money to a group for battered women that had tried repeatedly to aid his mother. The box of photographs and other odds and ends he'd forgotten he'd had from Lily – those would have gone to Potter. As he thought about it, it occurred to him that he should bag them and call it a – he sneered to himself – Christmas present. They had no monetary value, and while his feelings towards the dead woman wouldn't change (he'd still love her, but that didn't mean he was incapable of moving onwards if he chose), he didn't need the physical reminders. They'd be worth more to her son.
His money now went to towards Potions ingredients, books, food, the few bills he did still have (he paid his electric properly, thank you. It would be noticed if no one came 'round to check his meter, especially now he was charging a mobile), and the mobile.
Perhaps it was that little device, or the woman who'd gifted it to him, that made him want to remake his home a little. Nothing drastic. No tearing down of walls or repainting of the brick, and he didn't give a niffler's arse about the yard - just the inside.
It was depressing. Hermione's flat was...warm. Cheering. Maybe he wouldn't desire to sit in her home with her quite so often if his own was more inviting.
Severus's home had dark walls (the paper had faded and he'd just never cared to replace it), and dark woods with little to no personal touches. All of his furniture was, well, old. He was fairly certain he hadn't replaced any of the pieces his parents had had, including the bed with the sagging springs and the lumpy armchair.
He should probably update the kitchen this time around, too. Maybe he could invite Hermione over for dinner and – no. He squashed that thought firmly. Don't think about it, don't hope for it. Dreaming about her was one thing. Dreaming of a life with Hermione in his waking hours was hopeless and he shouldn't indulge in it.
Even if he wanted it so badly he could nearly taste it.
Severus sighed and got to work.
It had only taken him a week to refit the kitchen and bathroom, and he'd decided to leave the wooden bookshelves alone. He liked natural wood, and it would just get darker as it kept aging, at any rate. The furniture he replaced, however. The armchair, the sofa, the kitchen set, the bedrooms...all of it.
He even added curtains – blackout ones, to keep any Muggles from looking in and potentially seeing something they shouldn't. He doubted he would draw them for any reason, but they didn't fuck up his living room. All in all, his house was looking more and more... like a home. The fact he'd chosen colors similar to those Hermione had chosen was purely a coincidence, he told himself. White walls were easy to paint. Deep browns were easily obtained and would not show drips and drops. A muted sage green went well with the deep goldenrod. It was...better. Neutral and pleasing the eye. He would be able to invite – no, no, we are not going there. You've learned this the hard way, he reminded himself viciously. It was useless. Ever since he began this endeavor, both body and brain were attempting to betray him.
He was in the middle of Levitating his bureau back into place when his mobile vibrated within his pocket. He landed the heavy piece of furniture against the wall where it bloody well belonged, then flicked his wand at the items that usually lay atop it. They flew into place with not even the slightest clatter, and he felt smug about his nonverbal spell-casting abilities.
Severus flipped open his phone to see what Hermione wanted – it was unusual for her to message him during the day unless they had already planned to have lunch. It was too late in the evening for him to have somehow forgotten about a meeting with her, and too early for her to ask about meeting for pints...
Frowning, he looked at the screen. It made no sense. Just a jumble of letters. Has Potter gotten her to text like an imbecile now, as well?
The phone actually rang, and he was so surprised by the unexpected event (it never rang) that he'd dropped it and had nearly hexed into a smoking ruin on his newly-conjured carpet before he realised that Hermione was calling him. Calling him. What the fuck does she think she's doing?
He pushed the previously-unused 'talk' button and exhaled loudly. Foolish woman, you know I can't bloody well answer you.
"I'm sorry." Hermione's voice was cracking and shaky; his brows drew together in concern. "Severus, I'm sorry for ringing you, I just..."
She broke into sobs. "Crooks, something's wrong with him, I think... oh, please, Severus, I'm so sorry...would you come over? I don't know who else to call and - " She choked on a shuddering breath, but he was already turning into himself, vaguely wondering what Apparition would do to a mobile in use even as he snapped it shut.
No sooner had he popped into her living room, mobile falling with a clatter, than he found his arms full of sobbing witch, staggering at the sudden contact. Hermione was shaking and he cautiously wrapped his arms around her, pressing his cheek to the top of her head.
Scanning the main area of the flat for her cat, he saw the pile of orange fluff on a ridiculously large pillow by the fireplace. What's wrong with the bloody cat? He watched it for a while, an ugly suspicion in his mind. He dearly wished he was wrong, but the half-Kneazle wasn't breathing. There was no motion on the fur, and any sort of familiar would have been seeking out their witch if they were in such distress, especially one with Kneazle blood.
How old was Crookshanks? Severus wasn't certain – he knew she'd had the cat for nine years; at least, she'd brought the fully-grown beast – feline, he corrected himself – to Hogwarts in her third year. She must have acquired it before then. Crookshanks must have been older than that, he reasoned, stroking Hermione's hair as she sobbed, curling her fingers into his shirt.
He simply stood there, holding her until she began to hiccup. Severus shh'd her quietly and guided her to the sofa with no small amount of difficulty. Hermione kept trying to talk to him, but he simply shushed her. You're not going to be able to speak until you've finished crying, anyway. Just cry.
He nuzzled his cheek against her curls, marveling at how, for once, he could hold her without the rush of desire. Just the need to comfort, to let her know he was there and that she was allowed to grieve for her familiar. After all, she'd rung him.
She'd rung him. Severus let that sink in a moment as it struck him. She'd rung him – her message had been unclear because of her emotional turmoil, and what had she said? 'I don't know who else to call'. Oh, Merlin help him, he'd been her first call. Not Potter, not Weasley, not her parents, not a Patronus to Molly and Arthur or the Lovegood girl – she'd called him.
In that moment - with her feline departed from this life, and her grief so raw, her heart wounded as a little piece of her world was broken beyond repair - it struck him how utterly stubborn he'd been, and he pressed a single kiss to the top of her head. He loved her so dearly, and he would do anything and everything in his power to make her smile again.
It was slightly awkward, sitting on the sofa at that angle for so long, holding her against him between his legs, sliding his fingers through those lovely curls. She was quieter now, shuddering breaths between soft hiccuping sobs. Oh, Hermione, how I wish this wasn't so.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled quietly into the scarf 'round his neck, and he lifted his head from hers to look down at her curiously. There's nothing to be sorry for, Hermione. Fingers curled tighter into his shirt, and her voice was thick with grief. "I just sort of threw myself at you, and I know you don't like when people get in your personal space, and here I am practically lying on you - "
She made to push up, but he simply held her tighter and pressed a second awkward kiss to her curls. Hermione gave a shaky laugh and curled closer to him in response. "I'm still sorry, you know."
He shrugged. He knew loss and grief, and did not mind providing some measure of comfort to her. They sat quietly for some time, and he just waited. Telling him what happened to her familiar (besides the blatantly obvious) could wait. The fire crackled a bit.
"I came home and..." Her breath hitched. "He was fine. Just sleeping, so I started the fire, and he meowed and he licked my hand... he doesn't usually, but it was just a little one and I thought maybe I'd just had my hand too close..."
Severus shushed her again and inhaled slowly. The feline had been saying good-bye, he realized, then scowled as his fingers got snagged in her hair. Hermione giggled and sat up. "Sorry, Severus..."
Carefully, she extracted his hand from the mass she called curls and he gave her the tiniest of smiles. Hermione was not pretty when she cried. Her nose got red (it did not run, thankfully, he was certain he would have been repulsed had she trailed snot on him), her face puffy and cheeks blotchy...but she was still somehow beautiful to him.
"I got Crooks his food," she gestured vaguely towards the kitchen, "but when I came back...nothing. He... he wasn't breathing, and - "
She choked again, and more tears fell. She tried to wipe them away angrily. "God! I thought I was done crying about this!"
It's grief, he wanted to tell her. It'll rise up and consume you when you least expect it. Until you are able to accept the pain, to let it wash over you without falling into it, this will continue. Wandlessly, he Summoned a pen and paper from her kitchen, grateful when the items came whizzing around the corner. He'd remembered where she kept them, then.
Your familiar cared for you, he wrote. And it will hurt for a long while to come. But you can be glad he was home, and not alone. He handed the pad of paper to her.
Hermione cried harder, dripping tears down her nose and onto the paper, and the ink ran. "I don't know what to do now, Severus... Do I.. do I bury him? How can I sleep here, knowing that he – he...I'm sorry – I'm going to use the washroom, I'm sorry..."
She nearly bolted from the sofa and he sighed. Wonderful, she'd cried herself sick. He was no good at comfort. He picked her mobile up from the coffee table, and scrolled through the numbers. His was first. In fact, she'd listed a '1' in front of his name to keep it that way. His heart raced a little faster at the thought, and he tried not to be hopeful.
'Dad-office, no...Harry – no way in hell am I contacting Potter, even for her... Mum - center, whatever that means no...Mum Dad – home, no... Mum mobile,...yes!' Severus glanced towards the washroom door and ignored the sounds therein, and sent a text.
'Pardon, Mrs. Granger, but I believe your daughter would benefit from your presence. Her familiar has passed away, and she is quite distraught.'
'Who is this?' Ah, so Hermione took after her mum, then. Always the questions, never getting to the bloody point...
'Her friend – she has literally cried herself sick.' Oh, typing that he was her friend hurt, now that he had admitted to himself that he wanted much more than that.
'You must be Severus, then.' Hermione'd spoken of him to her parents? The mobile buzzed again and he opened the new message. 'I can be there in an hour, will you stay with her?'
He didn't even hesitate. 'Always.'
He knocked on the washroom door some time later; the sounds had stopped a while ago. Waited.
He knocked again, more loudly.
Waited.
Testing the handle, it didn't give and he rolled his eyes. Merlin, save me from overwrought witches. He frowned at the lock. Alohomora.
Clicking, the lock retracted and he opened the door slowly, trying to give her as much time as possible to speak and tell him to stop. No such reaction was forthcoming, and when the door cleared, he could see why. She was exhausted, and had fallen asleep clutching the rim of the loo. Oh, Hermione...his heart ached for her. At least she'd flushed the bloody thing so he didn't have to see it.
After all, the whole point to assigning detentions had been so he wouldn't have to do all that prep work. It wouldn't have done for them to realise the Potions Master was just a touch squeamish.
He shook her shoulder, but she merely made a moue with her lips and snuggled the damn seat. Oh no, you don't, you little reprobate. He cast a freshening charm on her mouth; he didn't give a fuck if her parents were dentists, the damn charms worked just as well. He pondered it, then cleansed her face as well. Tear tracks were unbecoming and as clean as she kept her home, it was still unsanitary to be pressed against the toilet seat in such a way.
With a soft grunt, he managed to pick her up in his arms, cradling her to his chest, and was surprised when she murmured sleepily and wound her arms around his neck. Severus sighed and held her closer, wrangling his burden out the door and across the hall to her bedroom. She wasn't heavy, per se, not after a lifetime of moving cauldrons and supplies and trekking about, but he was by no means a muscled man, and it was awkward to get her through the doorway without knocking her into the hallway's walls.
Or the framed photographs on that wall, or the brush from her bedside table, or...let go of my neck, you tenacious little -! Alas, in trying to place Hermione on the rumpled bed, she'd not let go, and at this point in time, he was expecting a laughing Potter and Weasley to jump out of her closet, saying what a grand prank it all was, that the cat was a stuffed dummy and he'd fallen for it...
But there was no mockery forthcoming. No pranksters leaping from the confines of the flat. Just an exhausted witch who'd latched onto a source of warmth and comfort, he told himself. Hermione Granger would not set anyone up for such a thing. Well,...except that vile toad, he reminded himself. Truly, the stunt with the centaurs had been brilliant and he'd laughed for weeks when no one could see.
Sighing, he gave up trying to place her on the bed and instead lay down with her beside him. At least this way he wouldn't end up strangled. Suffocated by hair, possibly, but not strangled.
And even if it was just for a short while, he'd be able to hold her in his arms.
He never meant to fall asleep.
His first thought was that someone was watching him. He'd trained himself for years to wake ready and there was no skip in his breathing, nothing to betray he was awake.
Cloth descended on him – the blanket from the foot of the bed, he surmised, and he opened his eyes cautiously.
"Shh, she's still asleep," the woman who could only be Mrs. Granger whispered, reaching for the duvet next. "You'll never get her to let go at this point, unless you're hiding a crowbar." The duvet settled over him and he frowned at the woman who looked a great deal like her daughter.
"I moved your wand to the bedside table, love, and I'll take poor Crooks away for her. He was quite old, I think." It was odd, being talked to in such a way by a woman he'd never met. Mrs. Granger flicked off the light. "Have a good rest, then. I'll leave a note for Hermione to find in the morning."
The hall light clicked off; Severus heard the shuffling of items, then the click of the lock as he felt Hermione's wards fall smoothly back into place. A mumbled "G'night, mummy" came from the witch in his arms.
Then Hermione inhaled slowly and sighed out: "Severus..."
Heart pounding at the soft, trusting tone she'd said his name in, he pressed his lips to her forehead and held her closer. He was fairly certain that it was the first time he'd ever been tucked into bed by a mother. It was...surreal. And yet...
Severus closed his eyes, strangely comforted and at peace despite it all.
It was two weeks later, and while the morning after Crookshanks's passing had been somewhat awkward, with both of them self-conscious (Hermione, for having basically dragged him into bed and her open display of emotion. Himself, for waking in her bed and having to be exceedingly grateful for being the first to wake and calm his morning...reactions.), but she had given him wan smile, and squeezed his hand from across the breakfast table in gratitude.
He'd seen her a few times since at their lunches, and once at pints, when she'd cried into hers and he'd cut her off from a second, but overall she was looking fine. Much improved, in any case. She didn't seem to be neglecting her meals, or her sleep.
Severus was an entirely different matter. He'd begun dreaming more frequently; it was as if admitting his feelings to himself and then holding her body in his arms, pressed against his had given his brain some bloody signal to start dreaming about Hermione. In great detail. Oh, yes. Each dream left him hard. Aching. Positively throbbing, to the point of pain and needing to release.
Apparently, his mind was quite inventive, what with years of interrupting adolescents and meticulous research under his belt. And not only did it keep him up at night, it kept him up at night. Bloody inconvenient, and he was sick of it.
November passed, with Severus continuously longing and lusting after his friend, and he found it a supremely annoying parallel. He decided to never say anything to Hermione about his amorous feelings towards her, not unless he knew it would be reciprocated.
What do you have to lose? his heart mocked.
Everything, his mind would reply, and his hands would falter mid-stir, or he'd pause before plugging the little mobile into the wall, and twice he'd caught himself nearly cancelling their lunch meetings. He felt like a masochist – being so near to her, knowing he was too old, too dark, too ugly for such a youthful, vibrant, beautiful woman was painful; knowing she would never love him in return was like a knife twisting in his chest and stomach. And yet, being apart from her, knowing she would still smile at him, kiss his cheek, touch his hand, embrace him, talk to him...the thought of never seeing her again made his heart wish to cease beating instead.
A week before Christmas, Severus was toying with the edge of his napkin at lunch when Hermione abruptly asked him: "Severus, how good is your memory?"
He gave her the most derisive look he could manage. Hermione – you know me. I can read and retain as well as you. I was a bloody fucking spy, I retain every bit of trivia you drop in mentioning...you know full well how good my memory is.
She grinned sheepishly at him and bit at the corner of her lip. "Sorry, stupid question."
Indeed.
"So... I want an answer by...well, your birthday. Okay?"
An answer to what, Hermione?
"Watch -" and she moved her fingers in an odd little dance. Pausing in between bouncing and twisting and moving. "I don't think you'll need by your birthday, but that will give you time to think about it."
Severus frowned at her. A bloody puzzle? And that's all you're giving me as a clue?
Hermione just smiled at him shyly and took another sip of tea.
It was Christmas Eve, time for the bloody fucking party, and he still had no idea where to start. He'd gone far enough to pull the memory and watch it over and over until he had those bloody hands of hers memorized. He could see it in his sleep (which continued to be disturbed, and he'd given in to a little hands-on relief), he could see it when he closed his eyes.
No amount of glaring at her during any subsequent meeting had garnered him any aid. She'd just given him a secret smile and changed the subject.
He was frustrated and stumped and he hated every fucking minute of it.
And yet he still put on a deep green jumper, placed the shrunken parcels in his pocket, looped his scarf around his neck, and was about to walk out his door to the Apparition point he used in the nearby park when someone knocked on his bloody door.
Snarling, he yanked the door open, then reeled back in shock.
Grudgingly, he trudged through the snow to his Apparition point. If he simply disappeared every day, sooner or later someone would notice something. But walking down to the park towards the shops? No one noticed him.
But, Merlin, it'd been odd to open his door to find Petunia-fucking-Dursley on his step. She hadn't even been certain he still lived there – and obviously had no idea her son was in constant contact with Potter, since that had been her reason for coming there. They'd been near to see Marge for the hols, she'd said, and she'd wondered if he was still there and if he knew about Potter and how to get in touch with they boy, so she'd taken the car on pretense of seeing the "old neighborhood, for nostalgia's sake".
Of course, she'd gotten snippy when he hadn't answered. But seeing her stagger backwards with a gasp after he'd pulled the scarf from his neck with a haughty arch of his brow had been worth the staring.
But then he'd had to get quill and parchment and explain as quickly as possible.
'Yes, I know how to get in contact with Potter, I was his fucking teacher. No, I am not your errand boy.'
'It's from the bloody war, you obnoxious trollop.' (He couldn't seem to get past insulting and needling her.)
'No, they just let criminals back into the world,' he wrote with a sneer.
'THAT WAS SARCASM, YOU FUCKWIT.' His quill bit viciously into the parchment, bleeding ink.
He'd thrust the copies of The Daily Prophet he had kept (a man has some ego) at her and watched her skim them as the muscle under his eye twitched, grinding his teeth.
"I had no idea," she'd said, holding the clippings as far away from herself as possible, as if they were tainted, until he took them. "I was cleaning the attic, and I had forgotten about this..."
And she'd held up a stupid little black box. He stiffened his spine. He'd brought that box to her, after that Halloween. Traditionally, Wizarding corpses were interred with any wedding bands or engagement rings, but he'd broken into St Mungo's to reclaim Lily's engagement ring.
It had been meant to go to the eldest child of the family, for the son to ask his future bride. James bloody Potter had used it, since both Evans children had been girls, and Petunia had been too fucking proud of the "perfectly normal ring from Vernon, thank you very much". And Severus was just sentimental enough to steal and return it from St. Mungo's morgue, rather than go grave-robbing.
"I don't want Dudley using it," Petunia said primly. "It's been corrupted by your kind."
He hesitated.
'Write the boy a fucking note, and I'll see it gets sent to him,' he wrote clearly.
'Then get the fuck away from me,' he added as an afterthought, then handed her the parchment expectantly.
He'd shoved that bloody box at Potter plus the parcel of odds and ends from his pocket before stalking upstairs to the library with a glower. A few choice gestures, and even Molly had let him go.
He paced the length of the room, angry and annoyed and frustrated.
"Severus? Are you alright?" He sneered at Hermione as she shut the door behind her and placed the tea tray down. "Harry's crying. That ought to cheer you up."
Oddly, it did, and he laughed weakly, soundlessly, throwing himself into the armchair. A soft, warm hand touched his shoulder. "There we go."
A squeeze, and the hand departed. He mourned its loss, even as she handed him a parcel. "I'll let them know you haven't destroyed the library in a snit. Back in a moment."
The door clicked again and he scrubbed at his face, pushing his thin, damp hair back out of the way. He glanced at the tray. Two cups, one teapot, cream, sugar, biscuits, sandwiches, plates. The comfort of the yearly offering soothed him, and he looked at his present.
It was a beautifully-wrapped something. By the feel of it, it was another book, and he undid the curled green ribbon, peeling back the gold paper. It was a book. A piece of parchment was wrapped around it, blocking the title.
Dear Severus - Happy Christmas! I may have been sorted a Gryffindor, but I'm still coward enough to give this to you and find a reason to leave the room for a few minutes. My mum met a little girl in Australia, and, well, it inspired her to learn. She's gotten a teaching degree for it, and I've been her very first pupil. I love talking to you. I want to keep talking to you. I hope this will help you answer the question I will be asking you, since I haven't asked it yet. I'll probably ask before Christmas, unless I chicken out. I do that sometimes, you know. At any rate... I do still want an answer. Love, Hermione
He pulled the parchment away and stared at the book.
Sign Language.
Sign Language. How had he not thought of this?
Hermione. Hermione'd been learning. For him? He cracked the spine and flipped until he found illustrations. His eyes devoured them. Feasted. Oh, oh, oh. His heart was pounding, and blood couldn't decide which way to go and his vision swum and his hands shook.
She'd learned this for him. The memory of her hands, her fingers, played across the inside of his eyelids. She'd spelled it out. She'd asked him...
The door opened and he turned. Hermione stood there, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, teeth embedded in her lip, a single fist pressed to her breastbone.
'I l-o-v-e y-o-u. W -o-u-l-d y-o-u l-i-k-e t-o g-o o-n a d-a-t-e?' She'd asked him a week ago.
He stared at her and wondered which his face was showing as he raised a hand and shakily spelled out 'y-e-s.'
He started to spell "I l-o-v-e y-" but was interrupted by Hermione crossing the room, flicking the door shut with her wand before she grasped his hands and pulled him to his feet.
"I've wanted to ask you for so long," she murmured, staring into his eyes. Merlin, she was beautiful at this moment. She raised her fingers to his lips, tracing them softly. "May I...?"
He bent towards her and closed his eyes, meeting her in what surely must have been the very sweetest of kisses the world had ever had the privilege of seeing. This was...incredible. Her soft mouth, oh her hands on his shoulders, he felt so strong, so cherished, as he buried his fingers in her curls, holding her to him.
This was what he wanted. This was what he had dreamed of.
Finally, they drew apart, and she smiled breathlessly at him. "Happy Christmas, Severus."
Happy Christmas, indeed, he thought, pulling her down to taste his very second kiss.
