ELEVEN: Page 463

They did not practice Occlumency that Saturday evening. "My offer stands," Severus told Hermione at dinner, "but better to give it more time. We'll meet next week. Continue practicing until then."

She hid her disappointment by digging through her vegetables and tried not to frown too deeply. She wasn't fragile, damn it, but…she had to admit that he had a point. The past week had been taxing; she doubted she'd put up more resistance than a wet tissue.

She thought he might invite her round for something else instead—a game of chess, maybe, no matter how poor she was, she'd play—but he didn't invite, and she didn't ask. After their misunderstanding and her hurt feelings and his apology, perhaps it was better not to push too much too soon.

He was friendly at meals, though, as far as Severus could ever be friendly. The chair next to him was a seat often empty, and at mealtimes, she would arrive to find the chair pulled out and food already waiting on her plate. He never mentioned a word about it, and certainly never spoke at breakfast at all except to bid her good day as he left, but she had a strange feeling that this was his way of showing concern.

It was usually a hearty breakfast. Potato cakes, omelettes and egg scrambles (usually containing more vegetables than she thought the Hogwarts kitchens capable of), and piles of fruit were not uncommon. At lunch and dinner, her food was not usually laid out for her, but he passed her many dishes of things without being asked, following a similar vein of nutrition as at breakfast. Protein, vegetables, fruits. She suspected that he thought she looked too thin, and she had to ruefully agree that he was right. She did her best to eat whatever he handed over, even if it had been many years since she had eaten so many full meals in a day.

"Severus Snape has never so much as passed anyone a butter dish before," Minerva commented directly after lunch on Wednesday. "Is he ill?"

"Has he ever been ill?" Hermione asked, hoping to avoid responding to the more pertinent portion of the statement.

The older witch pursed her lips. "No, I suppose he hasn't." After a moment of further contemplation, she smiled at Hermione. "He's clearly friendly with you."

Hermione cleared her throat. "I wouldn't call it friendly, exactly."

"Passing the chicken is practically a marriage proposal from that man," Minerva replied, patting her shoulder. "Well, I'm glad. He could use some socialization."

She nearly spluttered as Minerva walked away to tell off a few third-years trying to bewitch a suit of armour. It's just a turn of phrase, she thought as she set off for her free period. She surely doesn't think that...

But the Amortentia was on her mind, and her thoughts wandered down that path. If she allowed herself to consider it, freely, she could see little wrong with the match. Of course, it would never be terribly romantic, but she had always been a little nauseated by that sort of thing, anyway. He was certainly her intellectual equal, if not superior, and that was vital in long companionship—for her, at least. And there was no denying that something about him attracted her; perhaps it was those long fingers, or the dark hair, or the distinguished nose, or even those deep black eyes...

She shook her head, amused at herself. As if he would ever have me, she thought, chuckling.

But she enjoyed his companionship when he was in the mood to speak. She was still wary, anxious about his motivations for treating her with any modicum of respect, thoughts of the previous Wednesday lingering in her mind on more than one occasion. Once he made the effort to speak to her, however, she forgot any transgression within moments. They read many of the same journals, and at dinner he was willing to draw her into debates on various articles; it seemed that at breakfast he was in no mood to speak. The lunch hour was usually spent glowering out at the Great Hall, black eyes sweeping to various pupils whom she assumed had caused a bother in earlier periods.

On Saturday evening, as she tackled the remains of an incredibly delicious Black Forest Gateau, he leaned slightly closer to her to speak in an undertone. She automatically inclined her head to listen, still savouring a bite of cherry.

"Would it be acceptable to begin your lesson at seven, rather than nine?"

"That's fine."

"Good. I shall see you at my office in an hour."

Her eyes followed him out of the Great Hall before she returned to her cake. While she was finally beginning to feel more at ease within the castle—her sleep had even improved, if marginally—Severus seemed to have suffered a decline in his health in the last week. She frowned, considering the possibility that he was falling ill. He hadn't sported dark circles under his eyes when she had first entered the castle, but over the last several days, the shadows there had grown deeper and deeper. He had been more paranoid during last night's patrol than usual as well. Perhaps he was having difficulty sleeping.

She mulled it over as she trekked down to the dungeons, looking forward to a hot bath before the Occlumency lesson. She could scarcely believe that it had been only a week since her first one. She hoped that the practising she had done before bed each night had actually done her some good; she was certainly dreaming less, though she wondered if she could attribute that to the one dose of Dreamless Sleep she had used last week. She hoped he wouldn't be too displeased if she hadn't made any progress.

She quelled her nerves and sank into her bath. Displeased, certainly, but she couldn't reconcile the Severus of the last month with the Snape of her childhood. He was treating her differently; she couldn't put it exactly right. No one else would call it friendly, of that much she was sure, but he was a special case. Minerva was right. He would pay her no mind at all if he disliked her as much as he once had. But perhaps he was simply reacting out of guilt—

She held her breath and sank under the surface of the bubbles. It would really do no good to dwell on his motivations. He was a complicated man, and she enjoyed how he was treating her now, however strange it was. She wouldn't question it further.

It was with clean hair and pressed clothes that she made her way to his office at five to seven. She straightened the hang of her dark red sweater one last time before knocking briskly at his door.

"Enter," his deep voice called, and she felt a momentary thrill of foreboding before opening the door.

He stood over what she thought might be Dumbledore's old Pensieve; she had seen it only once, on the day of the final battle, as Harry carefully scooped Snape's memories from its insides. It had been that which had prompted her to flee to the Shrieking Shack, remembering the man she had left there hours before. The memory hit her with the force of a Stunner as she watched him prod at the contents, white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, the shadow of his Dark Mark standing out on the pale of his forearm, many thick bundles of parchment surrounding his desk and filled in his black, spiky handwriting. She inhaled sharply, and he looked up.

He looked nearly as tired as she had ever seen him; surely the circles under his eyes could not have darkened since dinner? And the bloodshot red in the whites of his eyes was vivid. He was immaculate in every other regard, but she had never seen him look so worn without a trace of anger.

"Severus?" she asked uncertainly. "You look rather..." She changed the adjective, and her tact, at the last minute. "...busy...are you certain I'm not interrupting something?"

"No," he said sharply, but without malice. "Come in. We'll go to my sitting room." He gestured toward his office door as he pushed open the section of bookshelf that led to his rooms, and she realized that, as tired as he looked, he had easily performed wandless magic to close the door and raise his wards.

The scene in his sitting room was not much different. The tables here were scattered with parchment, too, considerably less organized than those in his office.

"Are you working on a new project?" she asked before she could reconsider the wisdom of prying.

He hesitated only a heartbeat before answering, "Of sorts." He gestured to one of the armchairs before the fireplace. At a glance, flames erupted on the spot. She perched in her seat, wondering if he was attempting to unnerve her.

He seated himself in the armchair across from her and fixed her with his black gaze, and she realized that he was not just tired: he was unnerved, disquieted.

"What is it?" she asked—again, before she could stop herself. "Is something wrong?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Uncharacteristically perceptive tonight, are you?"

"No," she retaliated. "You're just uncharacteristically animated."

His look of bemusement passed quickly, and he surveyed her again, steadily, still with that hint of disquiet lingering about him. She fidgeted, anxiety turning to dread as she contemplated the possibilities.

"I wanted to speak with you before we began this lesson," he said finally. "I must impress upon you how very...important...Occlumency must now become. To you."

"It was always important," she protested. "If you recall, I was the one asking you for help."

"Indeed." He rose, strode back to the table; his long-fingered hands rustled along, shifting parchment, searching for something. When he turned back to her, he held a thick volume in his hand. It was nothing like any magical text she had ever encountered; in fact, it looked distinctly...Muggle...with its decidedly plain features and lack of leather binding. "And I ask that you remember that now," he continued. She thought she detected a trace of hesitation in his voice. "You wished me to become involved."

She stared back at him, utterly at a loss for what to say.

With what might have been a sigh, he bent his head over the book and opened it, rifling through the pages before finding the one that he wanted. Then, after a pause that only numbered a handful of her frantic heartbeats, he held the book out to her. She lifted numb fingers, dread curling her stomach, to take it from him.

Page 463, she would remember later, the stark text staring out at her. Confusion turned to horror as she scanned the neat print, barely taking it in, while the bold letters at the top repeated in her mind. She hadn't moved it, but her hand was covering her mouth, and her fingers were trembling.

Posttraumatic stress disorder.

Severus willed her not to bolt out of the room at that very moment as the book changed hands. She looked on the verge of doing so, her anxiety and confusion written all over her face. And he thought, for a moment, that he had decided to reveal this to her too soon, that she was not ready for the knowledge of her own condition. Her eyes scanned the pages, too fast to be truly taking it all in.

"Me." He was startled that she spoke so soon, albeit in a tremulous whisper. "I'm your new project." Her head lifted, and she stared at him with horror. He very nearly twitched as she rose to her feet; she hardly looked capable of supporting herself. "All this parchment is about me." She took a step toward the tables, but he smoothly intercepted her.

"How can you possibly have that much to say about me?" she whispered, staring around him. "You don't know me." Her frightened brown eyes found his again, and she swayed alarmingly, the book clutched to her chest, but as he made to steady her, she darted out of his reach.

"On the contrary," he said, "blessed be that my many years saving Potter's neck were spent watching not just him but the two who followed him everywhere."

"This is why you're being nice to me, isn't it," she said, her voice a bit stronger now, as hurt crept into her features. "Because I'm...ill."

He frowned. "Nice? You were under the impression that I was being nice to you? You have terribly low expectations, if that's the case."

She glared at him. "You know what I mean. You've been talking to me. Of your own free will. And you keep laying food out for me at breakfast as if you're afraid I won't eat. And Minerva says you've never so much as passed the butter dish to anyone before." Her eyes suddenly welled with tears, which she brushed angrily away. "And it's not because you like me, or because you're concerned. It's because I'm a project."

He pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, still frowning at her. "Did you ever consider that perhaps the three are not mutually exclusive?" he said.

"But you don't like me," she muttered, staring at his feet. "I annoy you, I—"

"Yes," he interrupted, a small measure of frustration in his voice, "you do. But rest assured, I would not make conversation with you if I did not find your company enjoyable. I would not waste this time and energy on someone who is not worthwhile."

Her eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, he feared—with no small degree of exasperation—that he had blundered yet again—

And then, very suddenly, she was crying into his shirt, arms wound around his ribcage. He could hardly hear her infrequent sniffing, but he could feel every quiver of her body against his.

Hastily—because he was supposed to, wasn't he?—he put his arms around her shoulders, and they heaved with a fresh sob.

Here she was, distraught and ill and hurting, and all he could think was how long it had been since anyone had embraced him. He hated himself for it, but he thought how awkward something like a hug was and how solid but fragile she felt. Awkward, but comfortable. Warm. Pleasant, even. Her hair smelled…very nice. Warm, like baking apples. So physical contact might have something to it, after all.

She pulled back from him, her face mottled red, her eyes round with horror, and the pleasure evaporated almost immediately. Of course, a nasty voice sneered in his head, she would be terrified at having so much as touched the greasy git—

"I'm...I'm sorry," she stammered out, wiping her eyes. "I didn't mean to...it just...that was so nice of you." Her lips twisted against a rising sob; she took a shaky breath instead. "I'm sure that no matter how much you might enjoy my company, your personal space is still off-limits."

His irritation receded immediately. Look at the pair of us, he mused grouchily. Ever the candidates for more than one mood disorder.

He told himself not to hesitate; he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "I prepared myself for much worse eventualities," he told her. "I was convinced that you would throw both a number of valuable books and perhaps the Pensieve into the fire. Or that you would set me on fire. Again. I find this alternative preferable."

She was half-smiling, and then he wasn't sure whether she moved of her own accord or if he'd pulled her closer, but she was in his arms again, her face hidden against his shoulder. He held her, unsure of what to do with his hands or how best to comfort her, and felt absolutely ridiculous—but secretly pleased, too.

It could not be simple, after all. He'd had exactly one friend approximately thirty years ago, and he had held the rest of the world at arm's length ever since; for someone to slip beneath his defences was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

She was misguided, mistaken. She was placing her trust in the wrong man. But for a fleeting moment, despite his remaining misgivings about interfering with her life, he was pleased that she had chosen him. Pleased that he could look forward to more time with her. Selfish, perhaps, but true.

She finally pulled away, rubbing the back of her hand over her eyes, and he was sorry to let her go. "I didn't mean to break down like that," she murmured, her eyes darting up to meet his briefly. "I'm just..."

"Overwhelmed?" he suggested.

She nodded weakly. "I'm sorry. I've ruined your shirt."

He glanced down at the large wet patch near his shoulder. "The house-elves will spend days scrubbing salt out of my wardrobe on your account." Recognizing his sarcasm, she managed a small smile. He gestured toward the east wall of the sitting room. "The loo is through there, if you'd like to freshen up." He moved toward the tables to gather up the disorganized parchment there.

She nodded, taking a few careful steps in that direction before halting. "Severus."

He looked up. When had she become so comfortable with his first name? He still struggled to properly form hers.

She took a deep breath. "Thank you," she said with absolute sincerity. Before he could react, she slipped out of sight.

Severus watched the place where she had vanished for a moment before he roused himself to work. He moved the Pensieve back into his sitting room while he waited for Hermione to wash up, along with sheaf after sheaf of the parchment that had taken up residence in his office. He was certain that he'd hardly slept in the last few days—it was not a wonder that she had guessed so quickly that something was amiss. He grimaced. There had been a time, not long ago, when any haggardness on his part would not have seemed so unusual to her. Clearly, he was becoming too used to small comforts.

He journeyed to his wardrobe to fetch a new shirt. Yes, certainly too used to small comforts.

Just as Hermione re-emerged from the loo, the fireplace flared green. Wearing similar frowns, they turned to look at it.

"A word, Severus," Minerva's voice called through the fire.

He strode forward with a swift warning glance at Hermione. She didn't look ready to face anyone else at the moment, though she appeared to have lost her resemblance to a hosepipe. He knelt down before the fire. "What is it?"

Minerva's face appeared in the fire with a small pop, her hat dangerously askew. "Just a reminder that you're supervising the trip to Hogsmeade tomorrow," she said crisply. "I know it's a bit early in the year."

Bugger. In the frenzy of this past week, he'd forgotten all about the blasted Hogsmeade trip. "Why is it so blasted early?" he muttered.

"The ball," Minerva said, with a concerned glance at him. "You're certain you're not ill? It's not like you to forget these things—"

"The ball." Damn it all to hell, he remembered it now, that thing she'd come up with over the summer, as if Hogwarts needed social functions full of hormonal teenagers—and to put them in masks on Halloween was to ask for an excessive amount of trouble. "You know, Minerva, I think I might have killed the wrong person."

Her eyes narrowed, all concern gone. "I beg your pardon?"

"Clearly I murdered the Deputy Headmistress under the guise of Polyjuice Potion or some more infinitely clever ruse thought up by our dear Headmaster, who is, in fact, still with us, to torment and belittle me. So much the worse for me, I would have vastly preferred the death of that interfering bastard—"

Hermione snorted and ducked back into the loo, shutting the door behind her.

Minerva appeared not to have heard, as her ears were enveloped in the crackling flames, but he thought that Hermione might have collapsed in there; the occasional squeak slipped from beneath the door.

And he almost smiled. Almost.

"The students will enjoy it," Minerva said, every word sharp. "Everyone will supervise. Hogsmeade. Tomorrow. Buy yourself some new dress robes, those old ones make you look like a bat."

He had time to make an affronted noise in his throat—it was true, but it was on purpose—and then she continued, "I must remind Hermione, too, if you've forgotten—"

"Unnecessary," he interrupted. "She's on her way here. I shall inform her."

Her eyebrows crept toward her hairline. "On her way? To your rooms? For what purpose?"

"I offered to chop her into bits to be used in a rather interesting new potion I've thought of, and she was only too happy to assist," he replied, and he thought he heard a renewed fit of giggles stream from beneath the door.

She fixed him with a beady stare. He kept his face blink.

"If it's a social visit, it wouldn't be difficult to just say so, you know," she told him.

"Yes, but I do enjoy your discomfort," he remarked, getting to his feet. "Good evening, Minerva."

She evaporated from his fireplace without another word.