Phoenix Fire, Chapter 24: Repercussions
DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.
A/N: Here it is: 7500+ of delicious baked goods! (If you squint, Steggie, you'll see the scones.)
Thank you all so, so, so much for the reviews on the last chapter. Under their encouragement I beat this chapter into submission, graded two sets of papers, met with about 1,000,000 students, cleaned my house to within an inch of its life, wrote a final exam, did some seriously good and necessary work on a piece of writing that was due in February, and wrote President Obama a memo about how to fix the higher education crisis (it's possible I'm joking about this last one). I also attempted to institute a new regime in which I slept a full 8 hours a night and drank less coffee. Unfortunately this failed, but I do not put the blame at your door! :) Please keep it up, I could do with as much encouragement as possible to get through the next few weeks!
For those of you in school (whichever side of the desk you're on), good luck over the next few weeks! For those of you who are not, good luck anyway.
This chapter is for Ayame Nekura.
Severus rounded the corner to find Granger backed into a dead end. Her eyes were wide with exertion, her hair was wild. Reaching backwards, she grabbed at the walls of detritus, hurling half of a chair and a brass bowl in his direction.
"Oppungo!" she shouted uselessly. "Defodio!"
With a negligent gesture of his wand, Severus sent her missiles arcing past him. From just meters away, he pointed his wand at her chest. He tried his last card.
"Avada—" he said.
The room around him exploded. Only a powerful shield charm allowed him to remain on his feet, uninjured, amid the rubble of the maze. As the dust settled, he saw Granger, streaked with soot and fallen to her knees. No-one, but no-one managed so well on a first attempt. Severus was elated. He was tempted to spin her into the air, but settled for a more characteristic sneer and a nonchalant gesture at the destruction surrounding them. He said, "A passable first attempt."
Granger stared at him, wide eyed.
Severus wondered whether she could stand. After such a dramatic display her magical reserves would be exhausted; he should get her to Poppy.
Severus moved quickly to cross the space between them, only to see Granger draw away.
He pulled up short.
He had known that she would be angry with him. That was to be expected. He had thought himself prepared for her fury. But the shocked, lost look on her face unmoored him.
He wanted her to look around, to see what she had just done. Instead, his strong, unbreakable Hermione was crying. Silent tears spilled from her eyes, leaving dusty streaks down both sides of her face.
Under what circumstances does the end justify the means?
He tried to swallow but his heart was in the way. She was looking at him as if . . . as if someone she trusted had just chased her through a maze and then hit her with a killing curse.
And what if the end is this?
Severus lowered himself to his knees. He held out his hand, palms out—in an instinctive, useless gesture of non-confrontation. He tried to find the right words.
"I deserve for you to be very, very angry at me right now, Granger."
She didn't move.
He said, "I deliberately put you in a situation that was designed to terrify you. I pushed you as far as I could." He paused, searching her face for some response: nothing. "Look," he said, gesturing a second time at the room—she flinched, and her movement twisted painfully inside his chest—"what you have achieved here is astonishing."
Hermione Granger was hurting, and it was his fault.
"I didn't cast that spell, Granger. I wouldn't have, couldn't have. I just said it."
He had taken it for granted that she would understand his intention. He had taken it for granted that she would forgive him.
How wrong he was.
Hermione Granger was going to walk out of his life. She wouldn't come visit him in his lab and work on the Wolfsbane. She wouldn't write impossible, fascinating papers or press him to support his instincts with research. She wouldn't save him, or lecture him, or let him help her save the world. She would finish the semester. And then she'd be gone.
He'd lost her.
"Tell me what I need to do, Granger," he whispered.
When she finally spoke, her words terrified him both for their content and for what she avoided. She said: "I don't feel very well."
"We need to get you to Poppy—as quickly as we can." He assessed her posture, the slight tremble in her hands, the angle of her head. "I'm worried that you won't be able to walk."
"No," said Granger softly, "I don't think I can."
"I could Levitate you, or I could carry you."
"No magic." The words tumbled out. Her lashes were wet.
Severus took a deep breath. He stood, and then bent to lift her. It would have been easier had she raised her arms or wrapped them around his neck, but she didn't. Instead she covered her face.
The force of Granger's magic had reduced the once towering maze to dust, and Snape was able to walk directly towards the door, his boot heels crunching over the scorched floor. The Room of Requirement, sensing their need, opened the door as they approached and ejected them into the corridor not far from the Hospital Ward.
He was painfully, guiltily aware that even in such circumstances, there was a part of his brain cataloguing the weight of her in his arms, the feel of her body against his, her hair on his face. He pushed open one of the heavy doors with his shoulder, and edged Hermione feet first into the room.
Poppy noticed them at once.
"Hermione!" she exclaimed, jogging towards them in concern. She had her wand out and was performing diagnostics even before she reached them. "What happened?"
"Snape scared me witless," replied Granger, as he lowered her into the nearest bed.
"Snape?" Poppy was visibly taken aback. "Severus did this?"
"It was a teaching exercise," he said stiffly.
"And what? You nearly killed her."
He could hear the reproof in her voice and the criticism stung his already lacerated conscience.
"Perhaps you haven't noticed, Poppy, but there are people out there who are trying to kill her. I, on the other hand, am trying to teach her how to defend herself!"
Poppy ignored his outburst.
"Make yourself useful, will you?" she said, without lifting her eyes from the scrolling display of medicinal information her wand had conjured about Granger. "Go to the supply cupboard and bring me one each of every kind of muscular balm you can find."
Severus growled his annoyance, but he went without hesitation. Since he stocked these cupboards himself he knew his way around them almost as well as he did those of the Potions' classroom. He pulled down the required jars and took them back to Poppy.
"Now, Hermione," she was asking as he approached, "where is your wand?"
"Snape has it."
"At least you're doing something right," sniffed Poppy.
After unloading the jars he held onto the nightstand, Severus extricated Granger's wand from his pocket. He would have put it into Granger's waiting palm, but Poppy reached out and intercepted the transfer.
"No," she said.
"Why not?" asked Granger, visibly bothered. "I want my wand."
"I'm afraid you're not going to be doing any magic for at least a week, if not much longer. And it will be easier for you to abide by that limitation without your wand lying around, begging to be used."
"A week?!" Granger looked horrified. She wrung her hands. "Please, if I promise not to use it, could I keep it under my pillow?"
"Look," said Poppy, and though her tone hadn't changed, Severus could tell from the angle of her shoulders that she'd relented somewhat, "this here is a measure of your resting magic. It's an approximation, of course, but it should typically read at 100%." The mediglyph she'd conjured was a bluebell coloured pie-chart, and the level read at 14%. "I'll give you your wand back once the levels reach 50%—on the condition that you don't use it before 96%."
The fight went out of Granger. She dropped back on her pillow and laid her forearm over her eyes. Poppy pulled a sympathetic face and turned her attention to the balm Severus had fetched.
"What have we got here? Tiger balm, of course, and Phoenix, . . . what is the core of your wand, dear?"
"Gryphon feather," said Granger, her voice somewhat muffled.
"Really? What a shame we don't have Gryphon balm—haven't managed to get hold of any in years. Well then . . ." Poppy selected three jars out of the half dozen or so he found in the cupboard. "Hold out your arms and close your eyes."
Granger did as she was bid and Poppy spread a tiny amount from each jar into the crook of her elbows.
"Tell me, Hermione, which one of these feels the best?"
"The second," she replied without hesitation, replacing her arm across her face.
"Huh. The Phoenix balm it is. Wonderful." Poppy placed the other two jars back on the nightstand and then passed the Phoenix balm to Severus. "Here you go," she said.
He looked at it blankly.
"You got her into this situation, Severus, now get her out of it."
"No," he said, as realisation dawned. He tried to pass the jar back but Poppy refused to take it. "No," he said again, putting the jar down on the side table in frustration. For good measure he put his hands behind his back. "This is completely inappropriate."
"What is going on?" asked Granger. She was watching them warily from underneath her wrist.
It was Poppy who explained.
"With rest and care, Hermione, your magic will return—all by itself—but the process takes time. Sometimes a long time. Sympathetic touch has been demonstrated to speed the process considerably, particularly when coupled with a balm targeted at muscular and magical response.
"To some extent, any kind of skin contact with a friend or well-wisher would work—and over the next few days I would encourage you to hold hands with any of your friends who come to visit. Clinically, however, a specific massage treatment has been developed. Beginning with the wand hand, you work up the arm, across the shoulders and down the other arm; it has also proven effective to massage the feet."
Poppy stroked back a curl from Granger's forehead.
"I care about you, Hermione," she added. "I could do the treatment, and it would help somewhat. Given the strength of the demonstrated sympathetic bond between you and Severus, however, it makes more sense to have him do it."
"Need I remind you, Poppy, that Miss Granger is my student?" He used the honorific as a defensive weapon, marking out a distance between them that he was determined not to cross. To touch her under the sensation-intensifying effect of the balm would be a dreadful invasion of her privacy. And it just might be more than he could bear. "The treatment should be carried out by a fully qualified medical professional."
Poppy threw the medical jargon back in his face: "As a fully qualified medical professional, Severus," she replied, her hands on her hips, "it is my considered opinion that the recovery outcome for this patient would be significantly improved by your participation."
As if this were a mere question of "outcomes." After his behaviour this evening Granger was never going to speak to him again, let alone subject herself to a massage.
Granger broke in to the conversation before Severus could muster an appropriate response. "Excuse me, Madam Pomfrey, could I have a word with Professor Snape?"
He jerked his head back at the use of his official title. But you are her professor, he reminded himself bitterly. And you mustn't forget it.
Granger, he noticed, was watching Poppy with her lower lip caught between her teeth.
"Of course, dear." Poppy retreated, taking Granger's wand with her. On her way down the ward she sent a set of curtains snaking out along the ceiling, surrounding the bed where Granger lay and affording them both some privacy.
Granger waited to speak until the sound of Poppy's footsteps had moved out of hearing.
"How long does this kind of injury take to heal?" she asked.
"With the balm? A week." She wasn't looking at him. He decided to stare at the nearest length of curtain rather than watching her avoid his eye. "Without, it could take months."
"I've read about Phoenix balm," she said. There was a pause before she continued. "Will it hurt?"
"No," he said, a little too quickly. "Not unless," he clarified, "someone was doing something to hurt you. The balm intensifies feeling, good or bad."
She nodded. She was playing with the sheet where it lay over her lap, layering it over and back on itself in accordion folds. Her face was unreadable.
"Do you think that Madam Pomfrey is right, that you might be able to heal me faster than she could?"
He searched for a truthful answer. "I don't know," he said eventually. He felt wretched. "No-one is entirely sure how sympathetic magic works: the results are unpredictable."
"And why don't you want to do it?"
Want? He wanted to do the treatment. He wanted to rub her hands, arms, her shoulders. Indeed, he wanted to touch every inch of her. The issue was that he wanted it too much.
"I don't regularly massage my students, Miss Granger."
Her eyes flashed. "You don't regularly chase them down and Avada Kedavra them, either!" She broke off, then continued in a calmer voice. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"Don't apologise." The words came out harsher than he intended. For a second, he closed his eyes. "Granger," he said, opening his eyes and examining her closely. The tears had left streaks down her face, but she was—for the moment at least—no longer crying. "You have to mean that spell. Just saying it is not enough."
She gave him a long, unreadable look. Finally, she spoke. "I'm trying to believe you, Snape, to believe in you. Because you and I have a,"—her voice faltered—"a history of trusting each other, even . . . even . . ."
"Even when our actions run against expectations." He finished the sentence for her.
"I want to get better, Snape."
He thought about lifting the balm from the table and running his hands over Granger's skin. The wrongness of it rolled over him like a wave. Couldn't she see that?
"Do you remember that evening," she asked unexpectedly, "when I joined the Order of the Phoenix? It was my birthday."
Severus was thrown by the sudden change in topic. Luckily, Granger didn't seem to require a response.
"Towards the end of the meeting Dumbledore said something about our lessons, something important. Do you remember?"
Severus said nothing.
"As your work in this regard falls under the category of your responsibilities as an Order member, and not as a student, neither Professor Vector nor Professor Snape will be able to award or deduct house points nor give detentions. I trust that you will find other motivations in order to strive and succeed."
"Do you remember everything anyone has ever told you?" he asked, avoiding the content of what she was pointing out in favour of the outside form.
She shrugged, her eyes on his face. "When it's important, I do."
He knew what she was trying to say. What she was trying to do. She was suggesting that they weren't teacher and student in that moment, and that was a very, very dangerous suggestion to make. Severus gazed up to the curtain tracks in an attempt to avoid her gaze. Even looking at the ceiling, though, he could feel her eyes on him; he could see them out of the periphery of his vision.
"I know that I must sound crazy. Half an hour ago I didn't want you to come near me—"
"Rightfully, so!" Because he shouldn't be allowed near her. He was untrustworthy.
"Well, now I'm asking you to do this."
She didn't know what she was asking. She didn't know how much he desired to touch her, or how selfish and exploitative his touch would be.
"I want to get better, Snape, as fast as I can. And besides,"—she paused, taking a breath and letting it out in a rush—"I trust you. I want it to be you." She paused. "Please."
With that word, his head fell back, exposing his throat. His capitulation took physical form. It took him almost a full minute, but eventually he turned and lifted the jar of balm from the table. Without yet unscrewing it, he weighed it in his hands.
"Granger," he said, foundering, searching for words. "I'm sorry."
"What for?"
He gestured, his hand holding the balm. "For this. For this situation. For having scared you witless."
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" She held up her palms and smiled weakly. "I destroyed that room."
"Yes, but—"
"But nothing. It was a teaching exercise, and it worked. I'm sorry I overreacted." She held out her wand hand towards him. "Now fix me."
Moving slowly, Severus unscrewed the lid of the jar, and scooped up a liberal two fingers' worth of balm. He put down the jar and cupped her hand with his. Even without the magnifying properties of the cream, he could feel the electricity of their contact in the hairs on the back of his neck. He was relieved to see that his hands were steady.
"We can stop at any time," he said.
"You haven't started yet," she replied, encouraging him with a jerk of her chin.
He spread the balm over the palm of her hand, and the shock of it left him breathless. He only barely held back a groan.
He felt Granger shudder. He heard her sharp inhalation, saw her eyes tilt closed.
"Granger?"
She leaned forwards slightly and her eyes fluttered open. "It's okay. It's just that my skin is singing."
Her skin was singing. Yes. So was his.
Ignoring his conscience entirely, Severus began again.
He felt a physical pleasure beyond anything he had ever experienced. The guilt in the morning would probably kill him, but he continued on regardless.
Later, Poppy came back, slipping quietly in between the curtains. At some point, Granger had dropped into a blissed out sleep. Severus sat at the foot of the bed, one hand around her ankle, the other pushing up and across the ball of her foot.
Without a word, Poppy conjured the mediglyph from before. This time, the pie chart recorded levels of 74%.
Severus blinked at the image. He felt lightheaded.
"But, but that's impossible."
"That, Severus, is evidence that I was right." Poppy looked smug.
She tidied away the jar of balm, tucking it into her apron pocket.
Severus, reluctantly, let go of Granger's ankle and covered her feet gently with the blanket. He rolled down his sleeves.
"You should give her her wand back," he said.
Poppy gave him a long look. "You'd better make sure she doesn't use it," she said, drawing the wand out and laying it on the small table near Granger's head. "If she does, I shall hold you personally responsible."
Severus rose to his feet. Exhaustion rolled over him, and he was forced to take hold of the end of the bed in order to keep his footing. His eyes alit on the nearest bed. A deep longing for sleep overwhelmed him.
"Come on," said Poppy. Somehow, without him noticing, she had crossed the room and was now peeling his teaching robes down from his shoulders. "Into bed with you," she said, spelling off his boots.
He blinked at her stupidly.
She took him by the upper arm and led him to the adjacent bed. She pulled back the covers and gently pushed him down towards the pillow. "Go to sleep," she said.
Severus reached out and took hold of her robes. His mind was struggling though a haze of tiredness and an overwhelming physical languor.
"Poppy," he managed. "What are you trying to do to me?"
She disengaged his fingers one by one.
"I, Severus, am just doing my best to heal those under my care."
"But it's so wrong." His eyes were closing despite his best efforts.
"Wrong?" he heard her whisper. "To save someone's life?"
Sleep pulled him downwards into oblivion, but before he lost consciousness altogether, he felt Poppy smooth the hair back from his forehead and tuck it behind his ear.
She used to do that, he remembered. Back when I was a student and slept here.
"My dear boy," she breathed, "go to sleep."
Severus woke with the sun warm across his face. The unexpected pleasure caused him to tilt back his head: he basked like a cat in the golden glow. Almost immediately, however, he realised he was being watched, and he jerked his head up, squinting into the light.
There lay Granger in her hospital bed, her face mere feet from his own. Her hair was tousled, and she was watching him with an odd look on her face.
"Hi," she said. She bit down on her lower lip, trying and failing to hide the amused curve of a smile.
The word shot straight from his ears to his loins.
He felt breathless.
"Good morning," he managed, clipping the final word forcefully as he bit back the "Hermione" that threatened to drop from his lips.
He shut his eyes. Surely this was a dream. In a moment he would wake up, safe in his own bed in the dungeons. Hermione Granger would not be smiling at him from her pillow. He wouldn't be lying in the adjacent bed with a terrible hard on.
"I was beginning to wonder whether you slept at all."
He opened his eyes again. She was still there. And she was talking to him as if they were once again friends.
He swallowed. "I would ask that you keep the information to yourself. I have worked too hard at my reputation to have my humanity broadcast among the students."
She nodded, mock serious. "If anyone asks I will maintain that you slept upside down, hanging by your feet."
"Thank you," he said gravely.
She laughed, and the sound seemed to lodge behind his navel, warming him as much as the sun.
"You know," she said, suddenly serious, "that bed"—she pointed to where he lay—"is the one I was in when you sung me back together after Dolohov's curse. This one,"—she pointed at her own bed—"is the same one I used when I was recovering from the Polyjuice incident. That one," she continued, pointing at each bed in turn, "is where I lay petrified by the Basilisk, and over there—"
"I hope you're not injuring yourself in the hopes of filling all of them," commented Poppy, cutting into the conversation as she emerged from her office and crossed over to Hermione's bedside. "I never use those two by the door unless I absolutely have to; there's a terrible draft."
"No," replied Hermione, lifting her head to turn and look at Poppy. "I was just thinking about how frequently Snape has helped to put me back together."
"Well, yes." Poppy had two breakfast trays bobbing behind her, and with a gesture of her wand she set them to hover over their laps. "There are many students who have Severus to thank for their continued survival." She glanced at him and smiled.
Severus sat to eat, relieved that the talk of Hermione's injuries—however unwelcome—had quieted somewhat the fire in his nether regions. What evidence that remained was now safely concealed beneath the breakfast tray.
Poppy was taking diagnostics and outlining further treatment for Hermione.
"Last night's treatment was very successful. I'm very happy to see your magic levels this morning registering as high as 82%. I don't think there is any further need for the amplifying effect of the balm, however I will get Severus to treat you again before he leaves to teach."
Severus concentrated on the way his cutlery sliced through his food, on the taste of the hollandaise, the texture of the egg. He wasn't going to think about touching Hermione again. He wasn't.
"If things continue to improve at this pace," added Poppy, "you'll be up and about in another twenty-four hours."
"Well, given that the results are so good, and considering that it's Thursday . . ." Hermione trailed off in the face of Poppy's rather benign lack of response.
Severus had managed to eat his breakfast in record time. He got out of bed immediately.
"It's just that we've an Order meeting," added Hermione.
Whatever answer Poppy might have given was interrupted by Minerva's arrival: she threw open the doors with a bang and shrieked his name.
"Severus Snape!"
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he drawled, buttoning the wrists of his teaching robes as she strode down the aisle towards him. Thank the gods she hadn't found him tucked up under the covers.
"What's this that I hear about you having rendered Hermione Granger incapacitated for the foreseeable future?"
"It isn't that bad, Minerva," said Poppy mildly. "If she continues to improve she'll be out of here tomorrow."
"But I need to go—" Hermione's polite attempt to enter the conversation was steamrolled by Minerva.
"Bad? It's terrible! She was scheduled to attempt her first transition!" Minerva turned her attention towards Hermione herself. "What were you thinking?" she expostulated. "How could you let Severus interfere this close to the trial?"
Hermione shrugged, her hands held wide to communicate her lack of choice in the matter. It wasn't as if she'd had any idea what he intended to do.
"Calm down, Minerva," he said. "Learning wandless magic will only aid in the process."
Minerva opened her mouth to respond, but Poppy forestalled whatever she had been about to say with an upheld hand. "Since you're here, Min, make yourself useful and hold Hermione's hand. Berating her—or Snape—will achieve nothing."
Obediently, Minerva took hold of Hermione's nearest hand and rubbed it between two of her own. "Do try and get better as quickly as possible, dear," she said almost absentmindedly. "I really think you're ready and I'm very keen to put it to the test."
Hermione took advantage of the brief lull in conversation to push her earlier concern. "I really do need to go to the Order meeting today," she said earnestly.
Poppy took and held her other hand, as much in apology as for any healing benefit that it might have offered. "I'm afraid that at this point, I can't allow you to leave your bed."
"But I don't need to use any magic, I just need to be there."
"Sorry, Hermione."
At the finality in Poppy's tone, Hermione bit back her further protests. She dropped her eyes to her lap, and Severus watched her struggle to reign in her disappointment. A moment later she raised her head again and smiled almost gracefully.
Severus took a step closer to the end of her bed and rested one hand near her foot. He hoped it came across as reassuring.
"There's no reason why we can't hold the meeting here," he said.
All three women stared at him. Hermione was round eyed with surprise.
"An excellent suggestion, Severus," said Poppy. "I'll be sure to put out the appropriate number of seats."
"Well, it's certainly unorthodox," said Minerva. She looked as if she was wracking her brain to find some impediment.
"We are meeting to discuss the Arithmancy results, after all," replied Severus. "Hermione Granger should be there." He'd tacked on her last name belatedly. Neither Poppy nor Minerva seemed to have noticed, but Hermione herself was still staring at his face.
"Eh, that she should be." Minerva sounded even more Scottish than usual as she admitted defeat.
Hermione smiled. The smile he thought of as her slow smile, the one that made his heart turn over. He forced himself to lift his hand from the bed and to wrench his eyes away from hers.
She'd forgiven him. She'd forgiven him yet again.
"If you will excuse me," he said with a half bow, "I have a class to teach."
As he strode towards the door he heard Poppy speaking to Hermione. "Bloody man was supposed to rub your hands again before he left. We'll have to get him to do it this evening, instead."
He was doomed, he realised. Doomed. And his treacherous heart was celebrating at the prospect.
Severus spent the day teaching and thinking about Hermione Granger every time he blinked.
When he got to the Order meeting that afternoon, Ronald Weasley was behind the head of Hermione's bed, massaging her shoulders; Ginevra and Potter stood either side, each of them rubbing one of her hands. In the foreground stood Minerva, carefully balancing Dumbledore's portrait in one of Poppy's chairs, and fussing as if the blasted painting were a favoured guest.
To Severus' surprise, he found the presence of the Albus simulacrum the more irritating of the two events. He wondered why.
As he took a seat—just out of "Dumbledore's" line of sight—he turned the question over, poking at the vision of Weasley and Hermione like a small child with a wobbly tooth. It definitely wobbled, it definitely made him uncomfortable, but it didn't cut him to the quick or leave him incapacitated with jealousy as he might have imagined.
For the purposes of the experiment, he pictured them kissing, and the jealousy roared back with a vengeance.
Why?
Was it the way her eyes had tracked him when he entered the room? Her slow smile when he'd caught her eye? Was it the residual warmth from their physical interaction the previous night?
The balm had . . .
He cut the thought short, deeming it inappropriate.
Once everyone had arrived, Severus called the meeting to order, ceding the floor to Vector with alacrity. Vector got quickly to the point.
"I'm happy to say, that thanks to many hours of work and several rather inspired insights on the part of Tracey and Hermione, we've had real progress with the calculations. In short, we have determined that if we use three sympathetic singers, we will be able to destroy the wand—" She broke off, wreathed in smiles, as the Order burst out into loud congratulations and celebratory noises.
"I knew you could do it," said Weasley, reaching out and patting Hermione's shoulder.
"Bloody brilliant news," said Jocelyn.
"Three?" asked Poppy, voicing Severus' own reaction.
He hadn't actively dwelt on the question of whom the singers might be, but if the truth were told, he'd assumed that it would be he and Hermione—they were, after all, the only people present who'd managed to perform sympathetic magic with any regularity.
Vector held up a hand for silence. "That's the other piece of good news, actually. Tracey and I took separate approaches to the problem and we both came up with the same solution."
Hermione leant forward and caught Tracey's eye. "Who?" she mouthed, her face edged with curiosity. Tracey grinned. Vector intercepted the exchange and she smiled, too.
"Hermione Granger, for one," said Vector—everyone in the room was hanging on her words—"Severus Snape, for two," she added, turning to look at him, "and for three, Jocelyn Malfoy."
"What?" Jocelyn was visibly taken aback. "But I can't even sing!"
Several people laughed.
"Never mind about that, dear," responded Minerva, she looked galvanised by the news that a solution was in their reach, "If Filius can teach an empty suit of armour to sing, I'm sure you'll pose little trouble."
Severus wondered if someone had rigged the math to expose his most private emotions to the world at large. All he had to do was manifest his love for the two most important young women in his life and the wand would just give up and die? He felt as if he were standing naked in public, hoping no-one else would notice.
"I don't get it," said William Weasely, breaking across several excited conversations. "I thought that the singers had to be in love? It doesn't make sense."
But it did make sense: terrible sense. Severus loved Hermione and Severus loved Jocelyn. Loved them both enough that he would tear the world apart to keep them safe. He stood there, waiting for the knut to drop, steeling himself for the mortified looks, the awkwardness. His humiliation.
What would Hermione think of him once she realised the nature of his affections? Nothing good. He was supposed to be her teacher.
"They don't have to be in love," said Ronald. "Right?" he added, turning to Hermione for confirmation. She looked blankly back at him, and he pressed on by himself. "They just have to be capable of manifesting love."
"Yeah," said Potter, "Snape loved my mum, remember?"
James Jr. turned towards Severus with a soppy look on his face.
Were they all so blind? Had no-one else read through to the implications of Hermione's calculations?
"There are many different forms of love, Bill," said Vector mildly. "The calculations clearly show that these three particular singers have the capacity to destroy the wand."
Vector knew. He was sure of it.
"You know, Hermione," said Potter, "I owe you an apology."
Severus noticed that Potter and Ginevra were holding hands. The conversation moved on from the question of love, yet he hardly dared breathe, spooked by the perilous proximity of his exposure and the flimsy nature of his reprieve. At this point, it was only a matter of time.
"I was very negative when you first made the suggestion," added Potter, "and I was wrong."
Hermione smiled. "Thanks, Harry."
"Do you know what song you guys need to sing?"
"Perhaps Cyndi Lauper, True Colours?" suggested Hooch, her voice bland.
Potter's head snapped around to stare at her; it took him a second, but then he laughed. "We can certainly rule out Tina Turner," he responded, "What's Love Got to do With It?"
Hooch grinned, delighted to find someone willing to play one of her favourite games. "Maybe the Righteous Brothers, Unchained Melody?"
Hermione and Potter were both laughing, and Tracey was grinning.
"Ron?" queried Molly, not quite as quietly as she had perhaps intended, "I don't understand. Can you explain the joke?"
Weasley shook his head and lifted his shoulders. "I think it's a Muggle thing."
"You guys haven't been paying attention," said Jocelyn, rolling her eyes at Potter. "Hermione said ages ago that it had to be old music, from before the Statue of Secrecy."
The conversation and general frivolity continued, but Severus let it roll around him. He sat, flushed with adrenaline and relief, frozen with fear. Until this meeting he had lived under the assumption that he could keep his secret safe. That illusion was gone. Hooch knew, and Poppy, too. But they had always seen him and seen through him in a way that few others were capable of. Now, Vector knew. And as soon as Hermione was out of that bed and free to spin the math however she pleased, she would figure it out, too. All she had to do was to sit down with her beloved Arithmancy matrix and ask herself where all the "love" in the equation was coming from. Then she really would be gone: repulsed, disgusted, at the very least embarrassed and awkward.
Severus watched Weasley lean over and whisper something into Hermione's ear, he watched her laugh and shake her head. The idiot boy, all unknowing, had just helped buy Severus more time. Still, he took an almost vicious pleasure in the knowledge that later that night—when Weasley would be tucked up in his dorm like a good little schoolboy, fast asleep—Snape would be here in the Hospital Ward, running his hands over Hermione's skin and watching over her.
Severus stood abruptly. Draco lifted a hand to catch his attention, and Severus nodded, yes, he hadn't forgotten their meeting. He beckoned Jocelyn and walked to the edge of Hermione's bed.
"We should make a time to practice," he said.
"I've got to learn to sing, first," protested Jocelyn. She looked a little worried, and he squeezed her shoulder.
"We'll give you a week," he said. He gave her a reassuring look, and she nodded in return. "Next week? Monday evening?"
Hermione and Jocelyn both agreed, and Severus bent his head slightly in acknowledgement. With a final squeeze of Jocelyn's shoulder, he turned to go meet with Draco.
"You're not leaving, are you?" asked Poppy. "You've still got to—"
He stopped her with an upheld hand. "I'll be back."
She subsided. "Alright. Don't be too late. This one here needs her sleep."
Hermione needed her sleep, and he just needed her. He thought about how close he'd come to losing her—twice, in less than twenty-four hours. How much longer did he have? A few days? A few weeks?
There was an argument to be made for circumspection. A well-developed instinct for self-preservation suggested that he retain a decorous distance. Refrain from time spent alone with her. Avoid ambiguous situations. Looking down the long barrel of a lifetime of loneliness, however, Severus Snape resolved to do the opposite. He was ready to luxuriate in every last, bittersweet minute of her dizzyingly generous friendship. He knew already that she would ride off into the sunset with her good natured, clean-smelling, Quidditch-playing, war-hero boyfriend, but until that point, he would stockpile their moments together. Once she was gone, he'd have only his memories, but this way he'd have a few extra to add to his list.
Draco accompanied him down to the dungeons. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus assessed the young man, trying to decide if he was really as happy as the smirk and the jaunty spring in his step suggested. In his own—fragile—emotional state he couldn't decide what would be worse: knowledge that Draco was happy, or that he wasn't. Neither spoke until they were seated in Severus' office, the door closed.
"I noticed that Potter and Ginevra Weasley seem to have reconciled." Severus threw the words out there, testing the waters.
Draco's smirk deepened. "Yes."
Severus raised an eyebrow. "I take it you've moved on."
Draco shrugged. "You could say that." He tilted his head. "Lucius wouldn't approve of the switch, but then, I don't intend to tell him anything about it."
Severus wished the conversation were happening some other time. He wasn't giving Draco's words, or those he was leaving unsaid, the attention they deserved.
"In fact," added Draco, "I don't intend to tell anyone."
With a flutter of wings, Fawkes launched himself from his perch and landed on Severus' shoulder like a sigh of relief. As Fawkes clucked quietly and fussed with Severus' hair where it hung beside his ear, something of Severus' usual equanimity returned. He found himself able to concentrate on the way Draco was sitting, on the adolescent cockiness of his posture and his barely restrained excitement. He noticed the gleam of Draco's eyes, the set of his mouth, and the nervous energy of his fidgeting hands. There was something incredibly vulnerable about sum total. Severus asked, "Am I the only one who knows you're in love, Draco?"
"I wouldn't call it love." Draco's eyes skipped away from Severus, and his mouth hung open for a second before he added, "More like mutual antipathy."
There it was: a confession, a not-so-subtle hint. Severus suddenly realised how much Draco looked like a bleached, silvery-grey copy of Regulus Black.
"Sounds like your making a serious break with Malfoy tradition," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I have it on very good authority," replied Severus, "that a Malfoy never resorts to force in the bedroom."
Draco let out a breathy laugh. Relief and delight danced across his face before he regained his attempt at suave. "I guess I'm not my father, after all."
"No." Severus liked to think that the same could be said about him. For a moment, he considered asking Draco who the girl was—presumably a muggleborn witch, or Lucius wouldn't be quite so predictably adverse to the notion—but he held his tongue. Draco would tell him when he was good and ready.
After Draco left, Severus collected a pile of grading and wandered upstairs in the vague direction of the Hospital Wing. He ducked into the staff room on the way, drawn by thoughts of warm scones and hot tea. The sight that met his eyes gave him pause.
Someone—Hooch? or Kaleisha?—had charmed the Wizarding Wireless to a local Classic Rock station. Kaleisha, Filius, and Pomona were improvising harmonies to the Beatles, while Hooch and Hagrid had carved themselves a space at the centre of a dance floor that included Irma, Aurora, William Weasley, and Krum. Even Sybill was there, trailing several scarves dangerously across the floor as she span slow circles in a corner.
"Severus!" Minerva was ensconced on a couch, her feet up on an ottoman and a generous slug of Firewhisky in her hand. Her robes were pulled back far enough to reveal high leather boots, laced to the knees with wide tartan ribbon. She patted the seat beside her. "Don't be a stranger."
He picked his way warily around the perimeter of the room, managing to make it to the couch without risking the melee of writhing bodies.
"What's the occasion?" he asked.
"You're the occasion! Well, you, Septima, your Slytherin girls, and that blessed, blessed Hermione Granger! Finally we have a reason for hope and celebration!" Minerva tilted her head and, for a second, rubbed her cheek—catlike—against his shoulder.
"Indeed." Severus looked around the room. He tried to remember the last time that he'd seen them all so happy.
"Ticket to Ride" came to a raucous end, and, as the next song began Severus was tempted to get up and dance. For a crazy moment he considered leaping to his feet and letting the pulse of Billy Joel, "A Matter of Trust," take over his body. But he couldn't. Not here. Not with Krum and Weasley glancing self-consciously at the older generation while they bounced in time to the beat, not with so many known faces watching.
When Hooch slid across the floor on her knees, though, belting the words "I won't hold back anything" while pointing at him, he did deign to deadpan the next line: "And I'll walk away a fool or a king."
Minerva laughed so hard that she choked on her Firewhisky, and Hagrid had to be forcefully dissuaded from thumping her on the back.
When she recovered she latched her claws into Severus' arm. "Hooch!" she called out. "Do you remember that night Severus got drunk at the Karaoke bar?"
"Must you, Minerva?" Severus asked in a pained voice. Weasely was staring in frank surprise. Severus made a half-hearted attempt to pull his arm from Minerva's grip, but she wasn't letting go without a fight and he subsided.
"How could I forget?" said Hooch, grinning. "He did that fucking brilliant Jagger impersonation."
Several of the other faculty members were laughing at his obvious discomfort, and Severus felt his anger building. Unexpectedly, Minerva tilted her head again, pushing up against his shoulder with the side of her face.
"That was the night I decided that we would be friends," she said softly.
Her words took him by surprise, and the rage leaked out of him. "That night?" he asked. It hadn't been the first time Hooch had dragged him along for drinks, but it was the first time she'd succeeded in getting him blind drunk. "Why?"
She gentled her hold on his arm. "I reasoned that no genuine Death Eater would be quite so familiar with Rock and Roll."
"I'm very thorough in my research," he said. He stared down at the severe part in her dark hair. He heard her soft chuckle.
Minerva's confession left him oddly moved, and if the next song hadn't been "I want to know what love is," he might have stayed longer. As it was, Minerva had started to hum along with the introduction. He knew her well enough to predict that she'd be singing in full voice by the insufferable chorus. He took the opportunity to unwind her fingers from his bicep and pushed himself to his feet. Hooch tried to spin him into the dance as he navigated the perimeter, but he stood, impassive and she was forced to dance around him.
"If you happen to see that Poppy of mine on your travels," she said, "tell her that I love her more than words, tell her that the sight of her in the morning is like sunshine to my soul, that—"
"I'll endeavour to communicate the sentiment," he replied, and she danced away.
Just before he slipped out the door the supper spread caught his eye. Pausing only long enough to fill a cup from an elaborately curlicued urn, he headed—finally—for the hospital wing.
A/N: It seems to me, that since I've written a chapter that is almost *twice* as long as usual, you should all leave two reviews! That seems logical, right? :)
There's actually one sentence in here that I was particularly proud of writing. Can you figure out which one?