"Why love if losing hurts so much? We love to know that we are not alone."
- C.S. Lewis
Chapter 11
It was nearly dawn when Hermione flew down the marble staircase to the second floor, hurrying along the empty corridor to the stone gargoyle.
"Tartan plaid," she said softly into the quiet alcove, watching the gargoyle shift so she could enter the stairs beyond. She smirked slightly at Minerva's password. The headmistress was known for her tartan's; Hermione had seen several of the older woman's dress robes and even nightdresses that were of that fabric.
Minerva McGonagall, Hermione sighed. That name had been an integral part of her vocabulary for the better part of a decade.
The now headmistress had become an odd sort of mother-type figure to Hermione ever since her parents' murders. And while she had always looked up to and respected the headmistress, something changed indefinitely the moment she became, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. Her former Head of House wasn't the smothering type that Molly Weasley was – bless her sweet, prodding, and interfering little soul.
Rather, Minerva had been her sanity. Instead of telling Hermione ridiculous nonsense such as, 'you're parents are in a better place', or 'these things get easier with time', the headmistress had spoken to her plainly, had told her to let it hurt as long as was necessary, and then decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
Smart woman, that Minerva.
Raising her right hand, Hermione rapped quietly on the office door.
The reply was muffled, though Hermione caught just a thin edge of weariness at the tail end. "Who is it?"
"It's me, Minerva. Please, I need to speak to you. It's important."
She heard a chair scrape against the stone floor and then quiet footsteps slowly approaching. The door opened, the wood creaking.
"Hermione?"
The headmistress looked as beaten down and weary as any woman could without changing her single expression.
"I'm sorry, my hearing is not what it once was. All you alright?"
Merlin, Hermione thought, are you?
"I'm all right. I'm..., well, Minerva, are you okay?"
The older woman smiled, a rare occasion in and of itself. "I'm fine, dear. This old body doesn't seem to cooperate as much as it once did is all. Please, come in."
Hermione did, walking into the high-vaulted circular room to sit across from the headmistress's desk.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be up this early," Hermione admitted, settling herself into a chair.
Minerva shook her head. "Sleep has become quite elusive these days, I'm afraid. I seem to be keeping all sorts of irregular hours." She, too, sat down in her chair and offered Hermione a candy from Dumbledore's old pewter dish, to which the younger woman politely declined. Steepling her fingers together and raising one eyebrow, Minerva said mildly, "Poppy informed me you were injured yesterday."
There in gathering dawn, Hermione laughed out loud. "A small cut on my forehead. I'd hardly say that qualifies as being 'injured'." She smiled faintly. "Though, it is, partly what I came to talk to you about this morning."
Minerva looked down, studying her hands. "Severus already came to speak with me, if that's what you're getting at."
Hermione sat back in her chair, looking the older woman over, wondering at it. She had images of Severus standing in that very spot, stern and grave, taking the blame on himself entirely.
"He lied to you," Hermione said in a rush. "If he said the ceiling collapse was his fault. It wasn't."
Minerva looked up sharply. "To what purpose would Severus lie? You know that I trust him implicitly, Hermione."
"Because, he's too damn ... masochistic!" She hadn't realized she had leapt to her feet. "You know him, Minerva. He takes every blame on himself. He wasn't the one in charge of watching Worthington. I was."
"You know," Minerva said thoughtfully after a moment, when Hermione had calmed down some, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say it sounds as though you're trying to protect him."
Hermione blinked. "Of course I am! He's wanting to take responsibility for something that isn't his to own up to. If the Board needs to reprimand anyone, Minerva, it's me."
"Hermione," the older woman said softly. She got up and came around the desk and sat back on the edge of a corner, pushing back three separate paperweights. "I would never let anything happen to Severus."
There was, Hermione noted irrelevantly, as she sat in complete silence, more gray now than black in the headmistress's tight bun. "I doubted him once, and have vowed never to do so again."
"But the Board -- "
"I will take care of the Board, Hermione." The headmistress' gaze flickered momentarily out the window to the valley beyond and then back to her.
With her head bowed, Hermione muttered, "Thank you. But I want to you know that really, he didn't do anything wrong. It was I that should have been more vigilant."
Minerva cocked her head. "It was Severus who said it was you who reacted quickly, potentially saving dozens of students from serious injury."
"Only because he was on the other side of the room," Hermione retorted mildly. And then she sighed deeply. "I just don't want him to be sacked, Minerva. He's always wanted the job of Defense professor and now, well," she spread her hands out helplessly, "with Voldemort gone, he might actually be able to take some joy in it. I wouldn't deny him that. And the Board," she hesitated, halfway hating herself for using her fame to get what she wanted, "well, the Board most likely loves me – simply for my name, for my association with Harry. Let me take the blame, if I can."
It was, after all, the reason she had come in the first place.
Minerva closed her eyes for a moment and then turned her head and opened them on Hermione, compassion and pride emanating unabashedly. "Well, I'll be," the headmistress said very softly. Hermione looked up and saw a trace of a smile, more in the headmistress' eyes than her lips. They looked at each other for a long moment, and there was a trace of that old gleam in Minerva's eyes.
"I love your heart, Hermione," the older woman said finally, simply.
"Very well said, my dear Minerva," Dumbledore chimed in from his hanging wall portrait. He was smiling fondly over a magazine that could only be what Hermione assumed was a guide to knitting patterns.
"Oh, er, Professor Dumbledore, sir," she started. "I didn't realize that you were awake."
"That's quite alright, my dear. I generally prefer to sing once I wake, though Minerva has informed me it can be rather distracting. Quite happily, it is generally dark when she does so. I hadn't blushed so much since Madame Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs," he sighed dramatically. "Alas, I now tend to keep my singing to the weekends."
Hermione suppressed a smile. "Oh. Well, it is Saturday, sir."
"Is it? Oh my. It's so very easy to lose track of time when you're a painting. Regardless, I am very pleased that someone other than myself and Minerva has taken an interest in Severus' well-being. He's dreadfully dear to me, you must know," he said in amiable tones, turning the page of his magazine.
"Yes," Hermione nodded. "Of course."
"Minerva?" Dumbledore asked, putting down his magazine and straightening his half-moon spectacles. "Do you mind if I have a private word with our young Transfiguration professor this morning? It's been far too long since I've had a decent talk with such a lovely young woman – other than yourself, of course."
Hermione looked at the headmistress inquiringly.
"By all means," Minerva said. "There are some items of business that need attending to this morning anyway. But Albus," she added in a warning tone, "don't you dare keep her from breakfast. I don't care if it is a Saturday."
"My dear Minerva," Dumbledore said serenely, "I wouldn't dream of it."
Hermione looked up at Dumbledore politely once the headmistress had gathered her things and disappeared down the spiral stairs, her hands folded primly on her lap. "Is there something I can do for you, sir? I'd be glad to, if I could."
Dumbledore smiled fondly. "Oh, my dear child. On the contrary; I wish there was more I could do for you."
"For me, sir?"
"Of course!" He clasped his hands together with more enthusiasm than Hermione thought was capable of a painting. "Much of my time spent while you were a student was with our dear Mr. Potter to prepare him for what he had to undertake." He leaned forward, his blue eyes sincere. "But I watched you closely, Hermione. Oh yes. I knew of your intelligence, of your loyalty. I knew that in Harry's search for Horcruxes you would be an essential part in helping him destroy Tom. Harry, I am quite certain, could not have done it without you." He paused, suddenly looking saddened. "But how well did I truly know the formidable Hermione Granger? Sadly, to my everlasting regret, not as well as I would have hoped."
Hermione's cheeks burned hot with embarrassment. "It's fine, sir. I mean, there were hundreds of students you needed to attend to. And everything came down to Harry. I know that. I never took offense, I assure you."
The old headmaster's bright blue eyes twinkled in the canvas. "But of course! So polite, so polite. Tell me," he leaned forward again, "how are you enjoying your post as the Transfiguration professor?"
Hermione sat a little straighter. "I've loved it, sir. Last year was certainly a challenge, but I feel as though I have more of a handle on what I need to be doing this term." She smiled softly. "It's been good for me, to be a little distracted."
"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore with a sudden infinite sadness, "Minerva informed me that your parents were cruelly taken some years ago. I do, of course, offer my heartfelt condolences, despite how empty those words might seem to you."
"I ... well, I appreciate that, sir."
"The Ministry, I take it, hasn't found any leads into the investigation?"
Hermione looked up at him, and shook her head slowly, sighing deeply. "No. It's been far to long, now. While still I hope, I'm not so foolish to dream of that. Severus, though," she added quietly, "he's offer to help where he could, where others ... could not."
Dumbledore's smile was all sadness again. "Yes, Severus would, I'm certain. Such a brave and noble heart, he has." And then he cocked his head to the side and gave her a different look. "You're very much like her, you know."
Hermione's brow furrowed. "Her, sir?"
Dumbledore looked as though that answer were rather obvious. "Why, Lily Potter, of course."
"Lily!" Hermione chocked. Perhaps senility can still occur once you've been turned into a moving portrait. "No, I – I think you must be mistaken, sir. I've seen pictures of Lily Potter. I'm nothing at all like her."
"Whatever do you mean, my dear?"
Hermione frowned. "Isn't it obvious, sir? She was beautiful. Breathtakingly so." It's no wonder Severus loved her.
Dumbledore removed his spectacles, taking care in the slow, methodical process of cleaning imaginary smudges with the sleeves of his midnight blue robes. "Yes, many argued that was certainly the case. I fail to see, however, how that differs from – "
" – Sir," Hermione interrupted slowly, suddenly uncomfortable, "while I'm certainly not fishing for compliments, I know what I am and what I'm not." She looked down at herself pointedly and spread her arms out. "And I know I don't fit into the genre of women that Lily Potter fell into. I'm not upset about it," she explained, when Dumbledore frowned, "I'm simply realistic."
The painted robes shifted as Dumbledore leaned forward, lips twitching beneath his beard. He was silent for a long moment, looking down at her with a not-unkind expression. "I suppose we are at a stalemate in this particular juncture, Professor Granger. However," he added quietly, "that wasn't necessarily the similarity I was referring to."
She sighed. Could he be any more vague? "Sir?"
The headmaster offered a little triumphant smile. "The then Lily Evans was quite accomplished with the majority of her studies – Potions, most notably, of course. That was, perhaps, one of the initial similarities she shared with Severus," he observed, pensively. "Regardless," Dumbledore continued with a soft shrug and smiling eyes, "Lily was loved by the staff and widely acknowledged for her intelligence."
Hermione, of course, knew all of this. Her Grimmauld Place summers had held ample free time with Sirius and Remus, both of whom had known Lily personally. She had listened quietly has Harry asked question after question about his mother. The Marauders, it seemed, were only too happy to oblige, though Hermione thought she had detected, on more than one occasion, a deep, flittering sense of remorse emanating from her former Defense professor's eyes.
"Lily was also," Dumbledore continued with a soft reverence in his voice, "unfailingly kind." He paused and Hermione watched him silently, his face softening a bit. More gently, he continued, "Surely, my dear, you cannot deny the traits you share with her."
She fell silent for a brief moment. What did it mean, any of it? She had a dark suspicion – and if Harry's observance of the old headmaster's knack for meddling were true – this was a line of conversation she was not ready to have with anyone – let alone a portrait.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Hermione said with an odd note in her voice, "but I'm uncertain as to what this has to do with ... well, with anything."
He raised his white eyebrows and gave her a knowing look. "You were always uncommonly bright, my dear," he smiled jovially. "I'd be surprised if you didn't see the connection."
She wouldn't meet his eyes; she didn't answer.
"But I can see," he continued cheerfully after an awkward silence, "that you'd prefer not to speak on the subject, and I shall not force you to."
Hermione slid her arms around herself and turned to look out the window, the dawning sun peaking, at last, over the thick treetops of the Forbidden Forest. "I wonder," she began hesitantly, "Well, I worry, rather ... do you think," she looked up at Dumbledore, her eyes wide and raw, "do you think that he will ever be able to find happiness?"
Dumbledore looked down at her, sitting perfectly still, as if he were fixing her in his mind. She was certain he understood the he to which she was referring. "Oh, Hermione," he said finally, and his face was all sorrow again. "I certainly hope so."
In the silent half-dark of the dawning morning, Severus paced the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, pausing periodically to look out where the lake and Quidditch pitch would have been if, in fact, there had been enough light to see that far. Not able to make out much of anything, he took a deep breath and resumed his pacing.
The past twenty-four hours had kept his keen mind churning without reprieve. His stomach felt sick, or hungry; he couldn't tell. The image of his classroom ceiling imploding played again and again before his visual recall. He closed his eyes, sickened. Students could have been killed. Herm – Professor Granger could have been killed. He had been both relieved and terrified that Minerva had been awake when he knocked on her door at that ungodly hour, attempting to explain himself. But ultimately, he had come to take full responsibility for his actions; better for Minerva to hear it from his own mouth than from a gossiping student.
After all, he had been the one who had requested the dueling club. He had been the professor in charge of the classroom. And it was he who would have been ultimately responsible if something worse had happened besides the few scratches and bruises Poppy had reported.
How is it that everything I touch is met with death?
Deep in the spread of that desolation, he resumed his pacing. He was still fighting the bitter foretaste of shame when his thoughts strayed, as they seemed to so very often these days, to the Transfiguration professor. He sighed deeply. He was too tired to admit anything but the truth to himself.
Hermione Granger fascinated him.
And more than that, he knew. He shook his head, wishing it would stop pounding. And what else was there to admit to himself that was so embarrassing? The woman was intelligent – frighteningly so. Everyone knew this; he simply acknowledged the fact. She was also genuine. Compassionate. Surely, Minerva or any of the staff would agree with him. He paused and looked out at the lake, flecks of sunlight only just appearing on the calm surface.
Again, he thought of her, and mentally kicked himself.
Because this was his shame. He thought Hermione Granger to be exquisitely and heart-stoppingly beautiful. She was grace, in name and in essence.
You're an old pervert, Severus. You could easily be her father.
"I'm disgusting," he whispered to himself as he paused, once more, in front of the bay windows.
Hermione had wandered into his heart quietly, below his radar. It disturbed him to be aware of it himself. But whatever his denial, whatever his shame, it was there.
But it could never be, he knew. He was homely and old, a former professor of hers. And as if that wasn't enough, his soul continued to fester away from the deeds he had once committed as a Death Eater. Unconsciously, standing there, he rubbed his left forearm. The realization and acceptance of Hermione into his beaten and weary heart had startled him more than anything. In the novels he had read, this was generally the part where the characters went into merciful shock and then fell asleep for twelve hours.
It didn't, so far, seem to apply to former Death Eaters.
He sighed and rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers. Outside the office door, he heard the padding and mumbling of a few students, early to get to the Great Hall for breakfast. Fingering his wand and sitting back on the top of his desk he thought back to his own days as a student, and, of course, of Lily.
Lily.
It was Lily who had unknowingly kept him an honest person, long after her death. There was a part of his heart, he was certain, that would always love her, but she had never been his to love freely. No. She had always been Potter's. And in death, he knew, she was Potter's. He would never love her as a man is meant to love a woman. And oddly, now, as he sat in the silence of his dark office, he felt some peace in that. It was no longer love with bitterness. Lily had given him what he needed to survive as a Death Eater. But she was an untouchable; unreachable. She lived only in his mind and heart, watching over him, perhaps; but never a physical entity he could love.
The guilt of her death had nearly destroyed him in the beginning, and he was certain it would have, if not for Dumbledore. But he had kept his promise. He had protected Potter, had made it possible for him to do what he had been born to do from that damnable prophesy. And in a sense, now, he was free. Not free from the horrors of his memories, or his dark demons – no, he would never be free of those. But he was free, at last, to move forward and to be his own man; to do, essentially, whatever he wished.
And somehow, at the forefront of that thought, Hermione Granger's image ambushed him.
No.
Even if ... even if she was so foolish as to think of him in that way, he would never allow it. I would bring her more pain than joy. He would never plan for that, to inflict his darkness willingly on another. No. He would watch her from afar, would protect her where he could, and that would be enough. The even improbable possibility that she might reciprocate his feelings must never be allowed to come to fruition. That decision gave him some small measure of peace, stilling his thoughts and imagination from running wildly away.
Severus opened his eyes and looked around his office, sunlight filtering in onto his normally pristine desk. It was cluttered now with parchments and quills, texts and ink pots that he would have normally cleared away. Very precisely he stood, absolutely still, and stared out across the room. He gave himself a few seconds to ponder over his decision, and then, feeling for his wand in his robes, walked out his office door and warded it behind him.
She was already at breakfast when he got there, sitting quietly at the Head Table next to Vector as she buttered some toast.
He sighed internally. She was wearing those green robes he had found so puzzling, yet oddly stunning. "But I like green," she explained once, shrugging, when he questioned the reference to Slytherin. "Harry and Ron would have killed me if I wore any shade remotely close to green when we were at school, but I've always thought it was a lovely color."
Lovely, indeed.
He swept by her and sat down at the other end of the table, adamantly refusing to sit in the open chair next to her.
She looked up as he passed and smiled softly.
"Good morning, Severus," she said brightly.
His lips twitched briefly. "Good morning."
He wanted to ask her about her head, to see if she had any lingering pain from having a piece of a dragon skull slice into it. Sitting down and unfolding his napkin to place in his lap, he held his peace.
"Ah, Severus," Minerva said as she took the space next to him, slowly lowering her arthritic body into the huge chair. "I trust you slept well?"
He reached for the jam. "Not particularly, Minerva."
She cocked her head at him. "But surely after our conversation this morning you know that there will not be any retribution from the Board of Governors." She fixed him with a pointed gaze. "What ails you?"
"I'm generally a fitful sleeper," he lied easily, pouring himself a drink.
"Severus," Minerva warned, not taking the bait. "I've known you most of your life, you know. You may have been able to fool your Dark Lord," she stabbed a slice of fruit with her fork rather vengefully, "but you are not fooling me."
Curse the woman, and all Gryffindors.
He blinked but said nothing, instead reaching for generous helping of bacon.
"Does it surprise you, Severus?" The headmistress asked with a small amount of asperity. "That so many would protect you from the Board?"
Severus snorted. "So many?" he echoed. "While I appreciate your influence, Minerva, I do not dare to hope that you have some little organized group with a banner to assist me. Unless," he back peddled with feigned hesitance, taking care to chew his bacon deliberately, "this is the new motto for the Order of the Phoenix."
"I do not appreciate your sarcasm, Severus," Minerva bit out. "I was referring to Hermione Granger."
Severus stiffened and slowly set his fork down, turning to look at the headmistress directly. He was silent a long moment. "If you have something to say, use the so-called courage of your House and say it."
Minerva gave him a coy smile. With her fork and knife, she cut a piece of fruit down to a more malleable size. "I only meant to emphasize that there are others who would stand with you, Severus. You always act as though you must go at everything alone, that the most difficult course is the only one God ever gives you."
Severus started, surprised. He had not known Minerva to be a religious woman.
She looked down at the amber liquid of her morning tea and sighed. "Hermione was in my office, not twenty minutes ago, pleading that I ask the Board to not sack you."
He froze, feeling strangely like a man wandering through his home who suddenly saw a new door unfold out of the wall in front of him.
He looked up wordlessly at the older woman.
"Does this surprise you, Severus?"
He scowled, moving the food on his plate without making move to eat. "No, Minerva, it does not. Hermione Granger," he paused, looking over his shoulder to make certain the younger woman was not listening, "has always been like a single shinning blade with a purpose, grabbing any idea or cause and running with it, too often forgetting the inconvenient details."
"If you're referring to her house elf liberation act, Severus, the poor girl was merely fourteen," Minerva puffed. "I'd say she's come quite far since then."
He snorted again, checking once more to make certain no one was eavesdropping. Hermione was talking animatedly with Hagrid, while simultaneously attempting to help him remove a few bread crumbs from his beard. "That is irrelevant. She does not need to waste her time or efforts protecting me. If the Board wishes to sack me, she thinks too highly of herself if she feels one small word from her will dictate my sentencing. As we both know, Minerva," he said wryly, sipping his drink, "my track record is, shall we say, less than perfect?"
A little abashed, Minerva fell silent.
After a brief pause, Severus smirked. "Beware of meddling, Minerva. You're not nearly as subtle as Dumbledore."
"Oh, I apologize, Severus," the headmistress immediately threw back, "forgive me for making you aware that others, besides myself, see goodness in you."
Sharp-tongued as ever, Severus was ready with another retort when, jerking his head in a double take, he caught Oliver Wood out of the corner of his peripheral vision, sauntering up to Hermione with a confident swagger.
Unsure if it was a conscience decision or not, his black eyes narrowed to thin slits.
"Morning, Hermione," he heard the boy say cheerfully, making his way around the Head Table and resting his rear end on the edge closest to the Transfiguration professor. "Fancy a ride around the Quidditch pitch this morning?"
Hermione, momentarily chocking on her morning pumpkin juice, appeared visibly flustered. "Oh, Oliver, I ... I don't know. I've never been ... partial to flying." She looked around a little panicky. "Surely, you know that."
Unperturbed, the boy scooted closer. "Aw, I won't let anything happen to you, Hermione. Don't you trust me? I teach first years how to use a broom everyday; I'll be safe, I promise."
Hagrid, the bumbling idiot, deemed it time to pipe in. "Go on then, 'Ermione! It'd do you good to get some fresh air, it would! Oliver's one o' best fliers I've ever seen! Great flyer, he is!" He reached out with his massive hand and thumped Hermione on the back, practically crushing her between her chair and the table.
Severus made to get to his feet when he felt a hand on his forearm.
"Don't, Severus," Minerva said, not unkindly. "You claim you don't need her to look after you." She smiled sadly. "I daresay she would make the same affirmation."
He scowled deeply but said nothing. To his side, just down the table, Hermione was pleading her case.
"Really, Oliver, it's not as though I'm not willing to try it – I have. Loads of times. I've given it a fair chance and each time it truly – "
" – yeah, but you've never flown with me," the brat interrupted. "It was probably with Potter or Weasley, am I right? And since Potter was a great Seeker, he probably took you too high. Yes?" He saw Hermione sitting silently, likely replaying whatever flying incident she had endured with Potter at the forefront of her visual recall. "And Weasley?" Wood continued, "He was a Keeper, wasn't he? Keepers are the worst sort of fliers," he smirked, "with myself being the exception. They generally lack skill and finesse. I imagine that ride would have been rather bumpy and uncomfortable, eh?"
He saw Hermione swallow and nod, ever so slightly.
"Come on," Wood pushed, reaching his hand out for her to take, "one ride is all I'm asking. If you hate it, I'll never pester you again. I swear it."
He saw her hesitate, considering the boy's words. It occurred to Severus, as he watched her ponder the brat's offer, that he truly and deeply wanted to hex Oliver Wood to wipe that pretentious grin off his pathetic face.
"Do you promise," he heard Hermione say hesitantly, "to not do any ... ," she waved her little hands in the air, " ... any tricks or anything? Nothing showy or fancy?"
Wood stood and crossed his heart with a triumphant smirk. "I promise."
Hermione glanced briefly over her shoulder and caught Severus' eyes, holding them. There was something pleading and pathetic there, but Minerva was right. He would not give her the satisfaction. The woman was an adult. If she truly did not wish to go flying with Wood, she would tell the boy so. If she was so eager to throw herself at the idiot, she would not get any pity or sympathy from him.
And so, he regarded her blandly, appearing utterly unfazed.
Go. Fly with the dimwit for all I care.
There was a brief flicker of panic and remorse that flittered across her brown eyes as she swallowed, and turned finally to Wood, who was helping her out of her chair like a pompous ass. And as several more students filed into the Great Hall and chatted amiably with one another while they set about to eating their breakfast, Hermione and Wood headed in the opposite direction to the huge double doors and out into the Entrance Hall.
The autumn air was freezing.
Hermione rubbed her arms vigorously as she stumbled after Oliver toward the pitch while he droned on about the 'art' of Quidditch. She was annoyed with herself for giving in and simultaneously terrified of what lay ahead.
But what more could I have done?
Oliver had begged her to fly with him practically every time he saw her except, it occurred to her now, for the times she was with Severus. Better to go with him now and get it over with than face an entire school year of trying to avoid him. Still, the thought did little to calm her nerves.
And Severus, she sighed, breathing warm air into her cupped hands, the look in his eyes when she met them had hurt more than she expected it to. A part of her, the wishful part, had hoped he would have somehow come to her aid. Perhaps he would have told Oliver to sod off, already, as it was blatantly obvious she hated the sport. Rita Skeeter had even gone so far as to take it upon herself to write an article about the lone female member of the Golden Trio's phobia. Hermione frowned, remembering the ridiculous excerpt. Or maybe Severus could have merely scowled at him – heaven knew the effect his facial expressions had on first years.
But he had sat there, as unmovable and expressionless as ever. And she found that despite the way her heart inexplicably ached, she couldn't blame him. No. She would not blame him for her decision and expect him to, for all intents and purposes, rescue her.
She didn't want, or need to be rescued by anyone.
Hermione was at the pitch before she realized it, wind whipping at her hair and robes. Without thinking, without talking, she let Oliver lead her by the hand to the Quidditch locker rooms as he continued to talk about ... whatever. Unsurprisingly, he didn't seem to notice or care that she was virtually unresponsive.
" – and that's how I came to end up at Puddlemere United, though my folks always thought I'd end up with another club," he paused and shrugged cheerfully. "But I was happy there." He was silent for a moment, folding his arms as he gave her an appraising look from the bottom of her boots to where her robes tied at her neck.
On impulse, Hermione clutched the tie.
"So," he said with eagerness, ignoring her discomfort, "do you have any particular broom you'd prefer to ride?"
"Er, nothing too fancy."
Preferably something slow, like the old mare you let your children ride; the one that'll be on her way out to the glue factory before long.
He chuckled. "Well, that's no fun, is it? How about a Firebolt?"
"No," Hermione shook her head insistently. "I may not follow the sport, but I do know the Firebolt is the fastest broom in the world. You promised a slow ride," she accused, "so there's no sense in getting on ... on that."
Oliver laughed again. "Ah, but it's the precision and streamlining abilities that make it worth the ride, despite the speed. Come on – "
"No."
He held up his hands, feigning surrender. "All right, all right," he smirked. "There's no need to be cranky. Let's see," he glanced over to a wall that held more brooms than could be counted. "What about the Comet Two Ninety?"
Hermione didn't know enough about brooms to know what that particular series of broom meant, but the fact that it wasn't the Firebolt was enough to sell her on it.
"Alright."
Oliver smiled and easily took the broom down from the wall. "Perfect."
Hermione eyed the object with great distaste as they made their way back out to the pitch. It certainly didn't appear too dangerous – Harry's Nimbus 2000 had seemed more impressive, if she recalled correctly, before the Whomping Willow effectively turned it into a giant toothpick.
Once they were on the field, Oliver set the broom out, letting it hover at the correct height for her to mount it.
"You're not going to get on it first?" she asked nervously.
"Nah, give it a try. It won't bite you, Hermione."
Says you.
"I think I'd prefer if you got on – "
" – Just get on the broom, Hermione."
Grumbling to herself, she stepped forward slowly, taking care to make sure her wand was securely pocketed in her robes, and then reached with a shaky hand to grasp the handle. Quite happily, it didn't move or shift under her touch. With clammy palms, she swung her left leg over to the other side and leaned forward to clutch the handle as though it were her very life line.
"See?" Oliver said smugly when she opened her eyes, not really knowing she had shut them in the first place. "It's not so bad."
Dear God, Hermione thought as she felt Oliver hop onto the broom behind her and pull her back to him, please don't let me die.
"Alright," he said cheerfully. "Ready?"
She swallowed. "Well ... I, maybe just give me a minute to – "
But she cut herself off with a sharp, high-pitched scream as Oliver kicked off from the ground and launched them into the sky. Her arms convulsed momentarily, trying to discover which method of clinging to the handle was most effective. The acceleration was fierce and hard. The world dropped, her stomach tightened. For a moment, her voice was lost to her, and though she desperately wanted to scream, she could not.
Oliver banked around the south hoops, and Hermione was certain she'd have whiplash. There was only the freezing wind on her face as the pitch dropped away below them. A moment later, her breath finally caught up with her, and she did scream.
"Ha, ha!" Oliver shouted happily behind her. "So what do you think?" He dropped to a hard dive, whirling close to the stands.
"Please," Hermione pleaded, tears stinging her eyes, "I ... I'm scared. Please stop!" Oliver sped along, the Forbidden Forest springing to life below them. "I want, I want to get off. Please. I ... I, oh, Merlin, please! This is too fast!"
"You're fine!" Oliver shouted into her ear. "You're not going to fall, just relax! There's a cushioning charm and – "
" – No, I want to get off. Now." They banked over the blackness of the woods. "Please, Oliver!"
"I won't let anything happen to you!" he countered, and pulled up hard to swerve back to the pitch. "You have to trust me. Just enjoy it!"
But Hermione couldn't think coherently. The roaring panic in her head drowned out all else. She looked at the handle, ludicrously, as they barreled recklessly through the sky, to see if she could take control of the thing and force Oliver to land.
I'm going to die. I'm going to die, she thought distantly, as Oliver swept them into a barrel roll, trying to figure out which way was up. On reflex, she threw her weight forward as she struggled to grip the handle more tightly, and without warning, she threw the broom into a nose dive.
"Hermione, no!" Oliver screamed, nearly on top of her as they began a reckless spiral to the ground.
And everything that followed happened in agonizingly slow but perfect clarity. The earth sprang out before them in a blur as the grounds became horribly closer with each passing moment. And before Hermione knew or could understand what was happening, she felt her feet flip over her back and she toppled forward over the front of the broom. She lost the grip on the handle, spinning into a free fall.
In the next instant she slammed into the ground. The shock immediately passed through her body and in the next moment the pain registered - oh, God, please - and she heaved her chest, struggling for the breath that would not come.
Dimly, through the ringing in her ears, she heard Oliver shouting, "Hermione? Oh, Merlin. Hermione! Can you hear me? Can you breathe?"
How the hell did you stay on the broom? she tried to say, thought she couldn't hear herself over the ringing in her ears. Her chest heaved once, twice – too many times to count –before she finally was able to suck in a deep gulp of air, momentarily easing her burning lungs. She rolled over and tried to get to her hands and knees, but gravity pulled her the wrong way, and she fell down and hit the earth at an unexpected angle. There was blood in her mouth.
Nothing was working right. There was an inexplicable ringing in her ears and her vision kept blacking in and out; someone was rolling her onto her back, and she felt hands lifting her into a sitting position. No, she wanted to cry out, as her stomach cramped and she fought for breath again, just lay me back down. Please lay me back down.
As if from far a way she heard a man's voice, shouting, enraged. Though irate, it was familiar and oddly comforting. Hurried footsteps sounded nearby and as she struggled to breathe in her sitting position, Oliver's hands at her back. Her vision cleared a little as the blood went back to her head and she saw, of all things, the unthinkably harrowing sight of Severus Snape fast approaching.
Severus did not seem to notice Oliver fidgeting next to her, trying to sit her upright properly while doing everything in his power to avoid the older man's gaze. Severus saw not, for his black eyes had found Hermione. He didn't speak. His silence came by way of yet unadulterated, heaving rage.
At last he reached her, and Oliver let her fall back to the ground as he scooted out of the way, mumbling apologies and explanations. Severus reached forward and clasped Hermione to him as she tried to sit. To do so, he used only one hand. The other, Oliver noted clinically, encased his ebony wand in an icy grip.
"Hermione," he said softly, crushing her face to his neck.
She knew she was almost blubbering, but she couldn't stop herself. "Oh ... Severus."
Her fingers clung into his black robes as he held her, leaning over her until she coughed, wheezing painfully. He pulled back, his face twisted up wrong as he took stock of her injuries.
"Your neck," Severus said, as he cushioned the delicate area with his long fingers, "does it hurt to move it?"
Hermione considered that. She tilted her head gingerly from one side to the other. "I don't ... I don't think it's broken, if that's what you mean." Her jaw felt thick, trying to talk.
For the moment, Severus set his wand down and held up his hand, still supporting her neck with the other. "How many fingers do you count?"
She tried sincerely to focus, and sluggishly, it happened. His two fingers swam around in front of her face and then grew clear. "Thirteen, at least."
Something in his dark eyes unclenched slightly, but then he tilted his head away from her and looked up at Oliver.
"She grabbed the broom wrong," she heard him explaining. "She ... she put us in a tailspin; there wasn't anything I could do."
"And yet," Severus said, his voice frighteningly calm, "you managed to land yourself safely."
"I ..."
"If you value your life, Wood, you will shut your mouth. I will deal with you later."
Oliver saw Severus lower his chin, and the gesture was not misunderstood. A reckoning was to later occur.
Turning his full attention back to Hermione, Severus asked softly, "Can you stand?"
She nodded her head, but when he lifted her from the ground, her legs buckled. Deftly, with the matter-of-factness of one who had done it a thousand times, he helped her arms about his neck, and then stooped and lifted her.
"Wait," she protested weakly. She swallowed and tasted blood. "If ... if you give me a moment, I can try to walk."
But Severus would not release her. "No."
She closed her eyes and felt a rush of dizziness again, and was a bit ashamed to feel hot tears welling up. Her stomach lurched as they continued to move toward the castle, more slowly now, as he ascended a steep incline.
"What happened?" Severus whispered, as if he didn't trust himself to speak aloud. "I saw the fall, but ... " he shook his head, not able to finish the sentence.
"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered over the lump in her throat. "I didn't ... I didn't want to. I just," she coughed hard and sucked in a deep breath, "I thought if I went, he'd leave me alone, that he wouldn't ask me again." She leaned her face against his chest and suddenly the outside temperature felt cooler. "I didn't ... I'm sorry."
She felt him pull her closer, and in the heat and quiet strength of his body, she thought of what a comfort it would be for a child's fear or grief to be held in such a way.
"Shhh, don't talk," he murmured into her hair. "I know you must be uncomfortable, but I dare not levitate you. If something is broken, it could cause you greater pain to be suspended in the air. I will have you to Poppy as fast as I am able."
They were their own force as they reached the castle. Oliver, at least, had the presence of mind to dash ahead and open the huge entrance doors, stepping back against them so Severus could enter without incident. Several students were mingling and laughing in the Entrance Hall. Most froze upon seeing their Defense Professor, gasping and pointing in shock as he swept past them with the limp form of a woman in his arms. Severus paid them no heed, taking the marble stairs two at a time as Oliver sprinted ahead, rushing to inform Poppy of their arrival.
The journey up the stairs seemed painfully slow to Hermione, a crusade in and of itself. After what seemed to be an eternity, she heard Poppy in the distance, bustling out towards them and shouting all sorts of questions to Severus. She thinks I'm unconscious, Hermione mused, unable to force her eyes open to let the healer know otherwise.
"Good gracious, Severus! What happened?"
Hermione felt herself being shifted and then gently lowered onto a mattress, and though the cushioning was soft, she sucked in an involuntary sharp breath as her bruised back took the weight of her body.
"Hermione?" Severus asked, his voice quiet yet firm, his breath nearly at her ear. "Can you hear me?"
The shock of pain from the initial fall had at first had been so real, so forceful, that she thought she had surely felt the worst of it. With each breath, however, she felt her lungs burning in a frantic protest. God, please ... It took an agonizingly long moment for her mouth to open and say feebly, "Yes, I ... I can hear you."
"In answer to your question, Poppy," Severus snarled, each word enunciated with a precise venom, "you likely need to speak with Wood." There was movement in the distance and it occurred to Hermione that poor Oliver was likely backing into one of the wall's corners. "As for a brief explanation, she fell from a great height."
"How high?" the healer demanded, coaxing Hermione's head slightly upright to administer a potion.
"I cannot say for certain. I was just stepping onto the grounds." Severus had gone completely still above her and Hermione sensed the Defense professor's attention again falling on Oliver. "How high was it, Wood?"
There was a shuffle, somewhere far off, and then the sound of a chair scrapping over the stone floor. "Er, I don't know for sure ... "
"Then guess, dammit!"
"Severus!" Poppy admonished. "Let him speak!"
Again, a slight pause. "I'd guess ... seven or eight meters maybe."
"Sweet Merlin," Poppy declared, bustling to her storage cabinet. When the healer returned, Hermione could feel the flutter of magic above her as Poppy performed a few diagnostic spells. In the lull of the bleak morning, Poppy leaned forward and asked gently, "Hermione, dear, where is the pain the greatest?"
Everywhere?
"It ... it hurts to breathe."
With the little remaining energy she still possessed, Hermione managed to opened her eyes. The morning light burned through the windows of the Hospital Wing with an intensity that was nearly blinding. But above her, as if half in silhouette, Severus was looking over her, his black eyes bottomless and raw.
Her own eyes, she noted embarrassingly, were blurring with tears.
"Severus?" Poppy was asking from somewhere behind her, "if you're able, I'll require some assistance. Oliver? You may leave."
"I really am sorry," she heard him mutter. And through her blurry vision she saw a figure slowly retreat, followed by the sound of the tall doors of the Hospital Wing opening and closing again.
"Hermione, dear, look at me," Poppy said quietly. And miraculously, it happened. Her vision cleared enough through her tears to see the school matron's face looking worriedly down at her. "I'm going to have Severus help me move you onto your stomach. I fear your back may have suffered severe physical trauma with a fall from that height. It will be uncomfortable," she warned, not without sympathy, "but the sooner I examine you, the sooner I can sedate you and give you a sleeping draught."
Hermione blinked, willing the tears away. "Alright."
Logically speaking, she knew she should have understood the orders Poppy was now barking at Severus, but somehow, oddly, her brain was having a difficult time computing much of anything. When Severus stood up from the chair beside her and set his hands at her side, that she felt.
He bent and whispered softly in her ear, "Forgive me. I will do my best not to cause you more pain."
And before he gave her a moment to think on it, to utter any response at all, he had bent and was lifting her, shifting her onto her side.
She gasped, sucking in painfully as her muscles protested the movement. "I am sorry," Severus whispered as he flipped her over, his own voice sounding pained.
Stars in the morning, Hermione thought, as her vision blacked in and out. Convulsively, she flung her left arm out, reaching wildly for something to grab a hold of, something to get a handle on, and strangely, she felt a cool, rough, hand reach out and clamp around her own. It was coarse and calloused, and precisely not a hair too tight.
"Now then," said Poppy from somewhere above her, "I'll give you a few moments to relax and then I'm going examine your back."
Hermione nodded, her cheek smashed against an uncomfortably flat pillow. She felt Severus' hand give her a reassuring squeeze.
"Alright then, Hermione?" Poppy asked after a few moments.
Her breathing more regular, Hermione felt slightly calmer. The previous panic dissipated with each second as Severus ran his fingertips over her palm.
"Okay."
"I'll need to see your back, Hermione," the healer paused slightly. "Perhaps you should leave now, Severus."
Hermione shook her head as best she could. "No, it's alright. He can stay." Please stay, she added silently.
"Very well," said Poppy, shooting Severus a strange glance. "In a moment you'll feel a slightly odd sensation."
True to the matron's word, Hermione felt her robes ripping at the seams on her back, peeling back layer by layer until her bare skin was at last exposed to the cool room air. She inhaled, shivering.
"My word," Poppy declared, taking in the damage of her patient's back. "You've strained your lumbar ligaments at the very least," she stated, running her wand along the length of Hermione's spine. "I'd suspect the ligaments have torn right off their attachments." She waved her wand in a counterclockwise motion. "The nerves are pinching together; you're lucky your spinal cord didn't snap in two."
Yeah. Feeling really lucky right about now.
"Lie still, dear. It will take me a moment to repair the nerve damage."
Hermione forced herself to restrict her movements, trying her best to ignore the pinching pain in her back, and choosing instead to focus on the sensation of Severus' hand in hers.
Whatever potion Poppy had administered to Hermione when she was first brought into the Hospital Wing was now working its magic; her eyes felt heavy and she let them drift close while the school matron fretted to Severus. 'Intracranial bleeding' and 'spinal trauma' were words that would have likely given her concern had she been completely coherent, but with the potion working its effects as it slowly spread into her stomach and Severus' strangely comforting touch at her trembling hand, she wanted nothing more to lie still with her eyes closed and fall into the merciful realm that was sleep.
She was just drifting off when, without warning, the door to the Hospital Wing flew open, swinging around and slamming hard into the stone wall. Eyes flashing open, Hermione wondered if hallucinations fell into either side effect of an intracranial bleed or spinal trauma. For standing with heaving chests in the entryway, looking frightened beyond any recent recollection, stood Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.
It wasn't his intent to follow her.
No, Severus was many things, most of them repulsive. He knew that. A stalker or 'creep', however, he felt he was not. Still, his feet seemed to move on their own accord as he made his way through the Main Hall. He was angry at himself for his instant loss of appetite. The moment Wood and Hermione had left the High Table, he had, strangely, no desire to finish his breakfast and had thrown his fork and knife down rather emphatically.
You're a fool, Severus. After everything, this is what you've become.
Before he could pause and take in his surroundings, he was through the Entrance Hall and out the massive front doors, ignoring Minerva's disapproving gaze completely.
Merlin, you're becoming obsessed.
Slightly sickened with himself, he paused on the grounds, feeling the brisk chill of the October morning breeze. Turn around, Severus. She doesn't need you.
A moment later, he heard her scream.
It was not the fake scream of an idiotic woman on a muggle roller coaster. No. No, it was a scream of sheer panic and terror. Without realizing the full implications of what he was doing, he had broken into a fierce run. The pitch was far and there was a demanding stitch in his side as he flew down the hill, but he slowed not. His logical mind made a brief consideration that nothing was amiss; Hermione was terrified of flying. Wood could easily be showing off some imbecilic move as she screamed in panic. She could be fine.
Another scream sounded, this one off the pitch.
I'll kill him.
Clutching his wand as he dodged around the hostile topography, the cold placidity of Severus' face would have been more horrific to Wood than any other expression he might have conjured. Reaching the bottom of the hill, whirling in every direction to find them, he spotted them at last, coming about from the direction of the Forbidden Forest. His heart leapt into his throat, however, as Severus watched them spiral into a dive, and Hermione, who had been seated in the front, fell foot over head and slammed into the ground with frightening speed.
Without a moment of contemplation, Severus was running again, the roaring panic in his head drowning out all else. After an eternity he saw them; Wood was foolishly struggling to heave Hermione into a sitting position.
"Do NOT move her!" he screamed as he drew himself to a hard stop, nearly tripping over his own feet. "You could paralyze her, you fool!"
Do Gryffindors ever think?
"Er, I just was trying to sit her up – I don't think she can breath," he panicked.
"Out of my way," Severus snapped, kneeling into the cool earth. "Before you do any more damage."
"She grabbed the broom wrong," Wood muttered. "She ... she put us in a tailspin; there wasn't anything I could do."
"And yet," his voice frighteningly calm, "you managed to land yourself safely."
"I ... "
"If you value your life, Wood, you will shut your mouth. I will deal with you later."
He almost was afraid to look at Hermione, for fear of what witnessing her injuries would make him do. He had no desire to abandon her to the mercies of the brisk morning air while he chased after Wood and murdered the boy. At length, however, he allowed himself to look at her fully with the sternest of wills. He could see swollen bruises already forming on the side of her face and angry red scratches upon her neck. Her lip was swollen and bore a deep cut.
She was wincing slightly, trying to get a handle on her breathing. Her breath steamed in the chill air. Thank God, he thought, pulling her close to him, she's not paralyzed. His relief was short lived, however, for she began to cry softly against him. Feeling as though he might literally vomit, he focused on clearing his mind and tried to shun the normal human panic responses.
Whatever good that was doing. His heart was pounding in his throat – his emotions, slipping out of his grasp.
Stay calm.
Supporting her delicately soft neck, he asked, "How many fingers do you count?"
She struggled for a moment, her breathing shallow. But eventually she murmured, "Thirteen, at least."
He wanted to laugh out loud, to shake off the rolling tension and thank whatever celestial force was watching over them that she retained the cognition to offer a bad joke. He asked her if she could stand, and when it was evident she could not, he stooped and wrapped his arms around her knees and back, folding her into his arms. He didn't know how he managed to get to Hogwarts – he just kept moving; one foot in front of the other.
Her wiry little arms had tightened around him, until they might have squeezed the air out of another man. He merely held on with all his strength, trying to anchor her to him. Her body was trembling.
Almost there, he thought as he took the marble stairs, ignoring the students looking at him with a mixture of fear and shock. He pressed her head closer to his chest, ignoring the burning strain of his arms and back.
Poppy was a force of her own, declaring – in a moment of true obviousness – that Hermione needed immediate medical attention. Everything passed in a whirlwind, until Poppy had asked him to leave. Simultaneously, he heard Hermione asking him to stay, while he realized he had been holding her trembling little hand as she lay on her stomach. Touched and dumbfounded, he forced himself not to wince as the healer removed Hermione's robes from the waist up, revealing royal purple bruises along the length of her spine.
Not knowing what other comfort her could offer, he folded her tiny hand in his own and squeezed it tightly.
An instant later, the door to the Hospital Wing slammed open, and before he could draw his wand and whirl around in a fury of black robes, he met the eyes of Lily Evans in Potter, who was standing breathlessly, Weasley beside him.
How could they have already known of Hermione?
"What is the meaning of this, Potter?" Severus demanded, not releasing Hermione's hand.
"What happened to Hermione?" Weasley asked, his blue eyes widening as he rushed into the room.
"Potter! Weasley!" Poppy snapped. "I will not have you in hear while I'm attending to a patient. Whatever you need to say to Hermione will have to wait. Out of here! Both of you –now!"
Potter was looking around with confusion until he met Severus' eyes.
"We have a situation, sir."
Very precisely, Severus swallowed.
"The world does not stop for you, Potter. You heard Poppy. Leave this instant and – "
"We found the Malfoys."
A/N: So, I feel as though I updated a little more quickly this time. I truly am trying! This chapter has been my favorite to write so far - I completely forgot how fun it was to write Snape. Heaven only knows what I've been thinking in the previous chapters ... writing strictly from Hermione's POV. Snape's always a little tricky, though, so if I managed to pull off his true character here, we'll see about writing his POV more often. Merlin, how I love that man. :) One little thing - Dumbledore's line where he talks about Poppy embarrassing him with his earmuffs - that's our lovely JKR from the S.S. I was rereading the first book and came across that line, literally laughed out loud, and knew I had to throw it in here somewhere. Comments, as usual, are always appreciated. Thanks for all the encouraging reviews so far! I LOVE looking in my inbox and see the review alert ... ah, it's the simple things in life that get us through, no?
On a completely unrelated note, is anyone else happy that it's finally autumn? I live in the western U.S. and the leaves in the mountains are just starting to turn ... simply gorgeous. I love fall. :)
Love to you all,
- Liz
