She fled down the deserted corridor, and the man in black followed. The hallway was dark and cold, stretching out past her field of vision, as if for eternity. Offshoots, alcoves and barred wooden doors formed a labyrinth that less-observant girls could get lost in. An occasional portrait pointed the way. This passageway had once been crowded and bustling: all laughter and sunlight and the clomping footsteps of children rushing to class. The world had moved on since then. Changed. The corridor had emptied.
The girl had been struck by a momentary glimpse of what this place had once been… a prickling sensation as if she could hold aside the veil of time, past the inky blackness around her, past the frigid stone floors that echoed with her hurried steps, to view them as they once were: young. Together. Alive. A small gold trinket glinted in the softened light of a solitary ensconced torch. She shook off her foolish distraction and quickened her pace, shoving the trinket beneath her clothing once more.
He knew someone was there. But he had no idea it was her. She had to get away before he got a clear shot.
The man in black smiled bitterly. It was a wince. Painful to see, more painful to do.
He had travelled these halls for many years. Had he been elsewhere, he could have drawn a map of the castle's hundreds of rooms and thousands of passageways from memory alone. He was not elsewhere, however. He was still here, though cold logic told him he should be in the ground right now. But nothing about his life was ever simple.
He tracked the intruder, yet had no particular urge to end the chase just yet. He wanted a challenge. It frankly pleased him to discover that he wanted anything at all.
Beneath layers of wool and starched cotton, his scars felt aflame. But he didn't reach for them. He winced, instead tightening his grip on the wand now hidden by his elongated sleeve.
The steps echoing hollowly behind her suddenly stopped. In the eerie silence she heard water sloshing through the depths of the castle, as if it were alive. As if it watched her. "Muffliato." If only I had the cloak now, she thought.
But Hermione had only her wand and her wits. They'd been enough for the past seven years to keep them all alive. Until now.
She rounded another corner, and the torch's light quickly faded from view. "Nox," she whispered, extinguishing the tiny flicker from her wand that she'd permitted to hasten her way, casting herself in total darkness. He was approaching. Was it better to hide and wait, or disarm him? She turned and lifted her arm in duelling stance. She couldn't risk it.
He stopped. Even in total silence and darkness, he knew someone was there. The air surged and crackled with it: magic... power. He could almost taste it, like blood on his tongue.
His shirt, the color of pure snow, was open at the throat, and he swallowed. His vest was gone, as was his tie. Lost in the war. He'd been unable to stand the feeling of fabric against his throat… ever since the war. The bloody war was supposed to be over: the villains long captured, the martyrs long buried. But now, someone had broken through the castle's defenses. And he planned to find out how.
Once more into the breach, he thought bitterly. Time to see what I'm up against. He lifted his hand and flicked his wand with silent precision. A loud crack broke the heavy silence. His spell was cast aside by his unseen foe. Whoosh. Someone had been waiting for him here. But they'd waited for him to attack? Interesting. His knuckles tightened around his wand, and he struck out again.
She responded with restraint, blocking his spells or casting them harmlessly aside. She remained silent but was sure he must hear her pounding heart, hammering away in her chest with the dark thrill of defending herself against his assault. Magic crackled and sparked around them, lighting the hall with the briefest of brilliant flashing colors. Like lightning, then nothing. A soundless fireworks show. Finally, he paused. Hermione let out a breath she'd been holding but held her wand steady.
"Reveal yourself," he said in that voice she'd never forget. "It would be in your best interest." Low and yet so fluid, like liquid metal flowing through her veins. Snape.
If she answered, would he recognize her voice? Too chancy. So, she waited for his next assault. Her pulse pounded in her ears and a flush spread on her cheeks. "Very well," came Snape's unanswered reply.
Then he was everywhere, casting curse after hex. He was relentless. His speed was matched only by the inventiveness of his attacks. She furrowed her brow and fired back, knuckles curling so tight around her wand that they popped. Soon her defensive responses ceased and she attacked him in earnest. The tempo was maddening. She didn't even have time to think. She just reacted on pure instinct.
The shape of his boots. Her wand dripping fire. Each flash a clue to his next offensive, or her next strike. Snape fired a silent hex that shot emerald green shards from his wand. She lost her footing and rolled away as a stone of the castle floor was blasted into the air. Feeling the cold stones against her stomach and thighs, she fired back from the floor to buy time. He grunted in pain as her hex hit home. Forward and back, forward and back. Each time she lost the upper hand, she retreated into her mind for a faster response… a stronger spell. Lives depended on her. And this was taking too long. She hated to do this… but she bit her bottom lip and flicked her wand one final time. A flash of blue light hit him in the throat, and he gasped in pain. It was enough.
His opponent pushed him hard against the stone wall and pressed the point of their wand into his neck. His throat throbbed in exquisite pain. Panic burned a bitter path down his body. How had he been bested? He hadn't lost a duel in almost twenty years.
"Please," the intruder whispered. "Don't make me hurt you."
Muffled shouts sounded from far off. "Reinforcements are due to arrive any moment," he purred, his voice belying a calm that he didn't feel. "You won't escape this castle. Not tonight. Not ever, if you kill me."
"Kill you, sir?" A pause. That voice… how did he know that voice? "That'd be rich, seeing as I'm the one who saved your life. Haven't you always wondered how you survived? After all, Voldemort didn't spare any of those who stood in his way."
He grabbed her. Unyielding hands like vice grips clenched around her cold arms. "Granger?" She had bested him? Snape didn't know whether to be outraged or impressed. The wand against his throat dug deeper. "Give me your wand," she ordered. "Now!" He complied. She could just make out his eyes in the darkness. He was livid. Yet curious. "Do not follow me. I warn you." Those voices were almost upon her. She turned and ran, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.
But then a hand encircled her wrist from behind. She was yanked hard behind a floor-length tapestry. She raised her arm to hex him into oblivion when Snape pressed her back against the cold wall and covered her mouth with his hand.
"Shhh," his hot breath hissed in her ear as he pressed his body against her. Her furrowed brows showed her confusion and panic even as she began to fight him. He looked into her eyes, praying that she'd understand. He motioned towards the floor with his gaze. Pressed together, their presence was undetectable in the tiny alcove hidden behind the tapestry. She made up her mind quickly. Willing herself to relax, she flattened her body against the wall, firing off silent shielding charms as he pressed even further against her. Hermione dipped her chin in the slightest of nods. She was just as brave as he remembered. Intelligent, too, if reckless.
Several sets of footsteps stopped close by. Slowly, he lowered his hand from her mouth. He knew she wouldn't scream. His wand arm remained flung above her head, and he rested his other across her throat and chest. He couldn't risk moving further now.
Seconds became minutes as her pursuers searched the castle wing for her, whispering disenchantments. Sweat was dripping down her back and making her palms clammy. She began to take deep breaths to calm her racing heart. He smelled like leather and herbs and fresh parchment. She inhaled deeper. I like it, she realized with an awkward jolt. She felt him wince at her slight movement and mentally admonished herself. Where had that thought come from?
He willed himself not to notice how good it felt to have her pressed up against him. Timing, Severus, his internal voice warned. And situation. What's wrong with you? It had been a very long time since he'd willingly touched anyone. Suddenly her entire body shifted in the tiniest twitch, and he winced as he pressed her hard against the wall with his free hand. He could feel everything… her curves against his arm as he held her still, the length of her warm legs entwined with his, wayward strands of her hair curling against his cheek. Unbidden, he grew rock hard.
Snape gritted his teeth and felt shame rise within him. That feeling he was most familiar with. It walked with him always, like a second skin. He was meant for vicious battles and scholarly pursuit. His skills were potions and duelling – he was matchless in both. Master of both. Both were at odds with his effortless grace, his imperturbable calm: defying the sticky heat, caustic fumes and stench of potion making, as well as the fervor of battle. Only those with something to lose have a reason to feel fear. Even when they duelled, he never lost his calm. Even when he lost to her, he made everything look calculated.
Except when her body pressed up against his. The refinement stripped away to reveal something raw and hungry and unpracticed. He hated himself for his body's reaction. He was no better than some hormonal teenage student.
But she was kind enough, or perhaps smart enough, not to move or exclaim at his body's reaction. He decidedly avoided her gaze then, choosing to look just past her left ear.
Footsteps continued to run up and down the halls of Hogwarts, doubling back to recheck every hallway. She had to get out of here. But there was no help for it. He'd chosen to conceal her, for whatever reason. He clearly wasn't trying to molest her. So she wouldn't shame him by calling attention to his body's reaction to their close proximity.
Never in her wildest dreams or strangest nightmares had she ever imagined herself here. She'd rarely slept more than two or three hours at a time these past few months, and she was exhausted from the constant fighting and hiding and planning and pain. Her cloak was far too threadbare to provide comfort from the Highland wind, even in the summer. The adrenaline coursing through her from their duel had left her restless. Now it began to recede, and she felt colder than ever. Lately she had trouble keeping her limbs from shaking. This unexpected, uncomfortable, confusing encounter was the only physical contact she'd had in ages. Just the warmth of another human being… any human being… made her feel strangely alive.
Hermione was thankful that he couldn't see her blush. She'd felt heat spread across her cheeks and chest the moment she'd felt him grow hard against her. He was deliberately looking away from her now. It was probably for the best. The initial flare of embarrassment died down, and she took the time to study his features.
He was clenching his jaw so hard that it looked painful. The disdain and malice she'd seen in his expression during her Potions classes were gone, replaced by a pained anger she'd only seen on his face once before: the night he'd bled out on the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack during the Battle of Hogwarts. Saving him had been one of her greatest triumphs, and one of the only secrets she'd ever kept from her closest friends.
Finally, all footsteps retreated, and silence filled the passageway once more. She hadn't realized how heavy they'd both been breathing until she noticed his nostrils flare when he looked down at her and breathlessly whispered, "Now you'll give me answers."