Chapter Sixteen: Suitcases, Intrigues (It's Inevitable)
The hair curled just above her waist, a shining ebony sheet with handfuls of silver. There was a smile in her eyes like the slight curve of her open mouth, waiting to speak, to laugh, to joke.
Skin was shaded and sculpted by tiny lines, and those not so fine; there hung about her features a dignity that made her both old and not old.
Oddly enough, she looked like a youngish Minerva McGonagall.
But there was no doubt any longer in Hermione's mind that this, dear Roie, self-appointed parent of an aggravating looking glass, was indeed and could only, be the Rowena Ravenclaw.
She shook. Not just a gentle trembling of hands, but an all-over, uncontrollable quiver that was tiring and relieving all at once.
It worked!
"Incredible, isn't it?" murmured a soft voice, somewhere behind her.
"Yes," she replied.
Silence.
Then grinning, laughing, shouting, and crying out in exultation, Hermione Granger launched herself into the arms of Severus Snape without so much as a by-your-leave.
He was stunned.
It had to be an automatic reaction that raised his hand to stroke her hair and entwine his fingers in her curls, not a conscious thought; at that moment he was as far from conscious thought as Neville Longbottom on a loop- the-looping wild broomstick.
Why, oh, why?
"Miss Granger," he said carefully, and received no response. Just a happy sigh, muffled against his shoulder.
"Miss Granger, I hardly think this is an appropriate position."
Did she mutter, "Proprieties be hanged?"
"Please, Miss Granger," and he pulled her away from him and held her at arm's length. To judge by her eyes, somewhat wide and very glossy, she still wasn't thinking clearly. But she grinned up at him with every bit of the mischief he'd ever seen her display, and crowed "It works, Severus, it works!"
And he wasn't going to argue with that. Letting his own jubilation take over, he drew her back into a warm, black-velvet embrace and held her close.
Elsewhere in the castle, a wizard in a long, purple robe sat in front of a crackling fire drinking a night-cap of hot chocolate and caramel marshmallows.
They were a muggle creation, to his knowledge, one of the best ever produced. It was such things as marshmallows, he mused, that allowed one to continue having hope in a race of people who could otherwise seem doomed and tortured by prejudices and narrow-minds. As long as they continued creating things like marshmallows, he knew there were still some among them who could appreciate beauty in the world, and, better yet, give it form.
Absently, he played with a little yellow boat. It was no longer than two joints of his smallest finger, and it was made of a strange substance that made it seem half-finished. When he placed it in a dish of water, the ship promptly capsized. Dumbledore frowned, concentrated, and the strange material quivered and vanished, replaced by a perfect wooden ship with miniature cotton sails. This righted itself and started making industrious laps of its lake.
Much better.
Of course, he couldn't improve on the chocolate though. White on one side, brown on the other? How on earth did they do they without magic? The only thing to beat one muggle chocolate was other muggle chocolate. Lots of other muggle chocolate. "Remind me, Fawkes, to pop over to town tomorrow to pick up another few boxes, would you? I didn't get nearly enough last time. Someone ate nearly all of my Irish Cream Kisses last time, and while I'm not blaming Minerva, I think I'd better get her a box of her own so she leaves mine alone, don't you?"
Fawkes trilled in agreement. Hopping across the desk to the arm of the chair, he presented his head to be scratched. The Headmaster chuckled and obliged him.
"What is it, Minerva?" "How on earth do you know it's me when you have your eyes shut, Albus?" "You have a habit of hissing under your breath when you're annoyed. Like you are now, I believe?"
"I certainly am! Albus, I have Harry Potter with me, and once you hear what he's got to say, you'll agree with me, That Trunk Has Got To Go!"
Albus blinked, and opened his eyes. "That's strong, even coming from you," he said mildly.
She drew her breath in sharply. "It put a boy in the hospital wing! That thing is a goddamned menace. You have to let me get rid of it."
"Well, we'll see what Harry has to say, won't we?" He lifted his feet off the footstool and adjusted the glasses on his nose. "You may come in now, Mr Potter."
"Don't do this to me, Hermione." "Sorry?"
It took Severus a moment to realise she wasn't apologising, but asking a question.
"Please," he said. I'd appreciate it if you'd let go of me, since I don't know what I'll do next. Actually I do, but ravishing you wasn't on my list of To-Do things for tonight, not even on the Things-to-do-in-the-near- future one, but if you don't move in one hell of a hurry, it's going to be on top of the Things-I-know-I'll-regret-but-oh, God!-I-enjoyed-myself-at- the-time file.
She was quiet, but she didn't move.
"If you don't get moving NOW, Miss Granger, it will be two hundred points from Gryffindor and a year's worth of detention for both of your friends. Now scat!"
Hermione jumped away like she'd been hexed.
"Damn," she said. "Sleep well, Professor."
He watched her. Oh, hell. "It'll be three hundred points if you walk through that door, Hermione."
She turned. "You're certainly the bundle of contradictions tonight."
He sighed heavily. "I always am. But if you're certain you're not making a mistake.only if you're certain." how he hoped she was! He'd felt the caress of her fingers up his spine as she gave him an innocent hug - to feel that hair on his skin - oh, damn, if she walked away now, he'd still be, ah, occupied tonight, one way or another. Couldn't someone do something about human physiology?
"I'm not sure I'd want to," said Hermione. And the shame of having complained that aloud, to her, was brushed away as she took his hands in her own, and smiling, came to him.
"Miss Granger, I believe you should leave now." One last attempt at doing what he knew he should. "Were you to stay, there would be no way of telling what might.happen."
Hermione thought her way through this. "Are you trying to tell me that you might, ah, lose control?" She was proud of the way her voice remained relatively steady.
"Yes." "I'll take my chances, Professor."
Yet he stared at her, a hint of panic in his eyes. "You don't understand! I might.you.this would be highly improper.I mean, we could."
Hermione laid a finger over his lips. "Yes, we could," she said quietly, and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, sweat, and squirm.
Snape took another deep breath. She was certain that he was a lot more shaken than he was trying to seem. "Are you sure you wouldn't.mind?" he asked raggedly. His eyes raked her body with a mixture of uncertainty, amusement and what had to be desire. Hermione met his eyes. And smiled. "Yes, I'm sure."
"I think you're crazy," Snape said, "but I'm hardly in a position to argue." He leant across and claimed her lips in a deep, bruising kiss, delighting in the sensation of her warm wetness between his lips, the sweet welcoming taste of her mouth as he explored it with his tongue. Hermione moaned against him, certain, yet curiously unsure. "Professor." Crazily, in this moment, remembering what she had chosen to forget for weeks.
He pulled away enough to fix her eyes with his own. "Severus," he said firmly, eyes glittering. "Severus," she breathed raggedly, obediently. He felt himself harden. "Say it!" he commanded roughly. "I want to hear you say my name. You were perfectly capable of saying it before." "Severus!" Hermione gasped, and pushed against him. He chuckled a little at her eagerness. "You most certainly do not mind, do you, Hermione?" Her name tasted like honey across his lips. She groaned wordlessly. "Please." not sure what she was asking for. Severus seemed to understand. "Not yet, I think, love" he murmured, gently tracing small circles on her back as he steadied her against him.
Gently, he flicked his tongue across her lips, and moved away as she reached across for more. He nuzzled into her neck. The scent of her hair teased his senses and he inhaled deeply. Hermione clutched at him tightly, moving one hand up to curl her fingers in his own hair, the black silken strands slightly oily to her touch, but not unpleasantly so.
For once in his life, Severus Snape was having a hard time being cynical. And he didn't care.
They spent most of the night in each other's arms, just lying there, spread across his bed and tangled in each other. Just lying there, since after the first rush of passion was acted upon, each felt more the want to simply be, with each other, and gloriously, not alone.
Not Alone. When was the last time he could lie in bed and say that? Oh, right, Dana. Inwardly he cringed, and kept cringing, for while Hermione's hand played lightly over his arm - not the left one! - the face he saw had orange-blonde hair and green eyes shaped of cruelty. She'd gone to Azkaban, hadn't she? Yes, with her husband.
He could certainly pick them, couldn't he? "Oh, Hermione," Severus breathed. This couldn't continue. Who knew what it would do to her life, her emotions, her character? She needed comfort. A guiding light, neither guiding nor lighting, simply there, always there, for her.And she couldn't have known what she was doing. She was excited. Of course she was. When she thought about it, she'd regret it. Of course she would.
"You're thinking I'm a child, aren't you?" "No."
"Then you're thinking I'll regret you, when the morning comes."
"Won't you?"
"Severus, je ne regrette rien."
"Not even an old man with a Grendel-sized past and a social problem?"
"Social problem?"
"I'm not exactly Prince Charming, you know."
"And I'm not Cinderella. Or Snow White. Or Sleeping Beauty. In fact-" and she propped herself up on an elbow so she could look down into his face "-neither of us is the kind of person any fairytale is ever spread about. We're not heroes. We're just human. And, Severus?"
"Yes?"
"You're kind of cute, when you frown." He chuckled, hugged her that bit closer with one arm. "This is hopeless."
"Why?"
"You, me. Positions. Proprieties. This school. My history. Your life."
"Why only my life, what about yours?"
"Because I've already screwed mine up. I don't want to be the instrument of you wrecking yours. Don't you understand? Not even your friends Mr Potter and Weasley could ever see this as acceptable. Because it isn't. It's me taking advantage of you trying to fill a sudden gap in your life, and trust me, Hermione, this isn't the way to do it. You're still on the rebound from losing your parents, you don't need a dark wizard with a lot of emotional baggage. I'll be your friend, I'll be your mentor, I'll even be your partner in crime if it comes to it, but I won't be, can't be, your lover." He got up, stood beside the bed looking down at her.
"Forgive me, Hermione."
Hermione lay there in the darkness long after the bathroom door had shut behind him. Her clothes lay, with his, strewn about the floor. She felt bad about picking them up. Not because she was regretting what had happened, but because her academic's clinical and analysing mind knew at an instinctive level that he was right.
Still, that didn't stop her romantics' schoolgirl heart from trying to prolong the moment as long as possible.
Or scheming for a way to repeat it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By the time Christmas rolled around, in a flurry of tinsel and holly, Hermione had firmly decided that there were only three types of students at Hogwarts: those who worked, those who liked quidditch, and those who deserved a good clout around the ears. However, she was a little hazy about the boundaries of the last two groups. Quite a few quidditch players had her fingers itching when they came to the Head Girl for 'advice' about something. Severus, when she told him, laughed sharply and remarked that in his long experience there was only one group.present company excepted, of course.
"Of course," said Hermione dryly. They were sitting in his office, drinking coffee and grading papers. Often when she needed a break from the petty responsibilities of being Head Girl ("Alright, girls, now let's sit down and talk about this. Who hexed whom first? Oh, okay, a Slytherin started it. Why'd you get involved then?"), or just somewhere quiet to work, she drifted down to his office. After a while, Severus had relented and simply given her the password.
That had led to many pleasant evenings like tonight. She found his company occasionally abrasive, but always welcome; he seemed to find her a little irritating at times, but always did his best to pretend he didn't.
"And how is luggage?" The question was unexpected. Hermione looked up from the stack of essays in surprise. "Behaving itself," she said finally.
He smirked. "I'm glad. Did you hear it chased several first year Hufflepuffs into a broom closet and wouldn't let them out?"
Hermione's shoulders shook with laughter. No, she hadn't heard!
"Why did it do that?" she managed. He quirked an eyebrow in almost innocent look. "Who knows? And does it matter?"
It didn't, really. They shared another laugh and a moment of companionable silence.
He'd worried, at first, she might act like a jilted lover and pile on the guilt, the hurt looks, the longing sighs, but almost to his frustration, she didn't. In fact they were better friends than ever. It was best for her, of course. Yet it was Times Like These that made Severus feel a dreadful cad for Doing The Honourable Thing.
"I'm just glad Professor McGonagall wasn't allowed to expel it after all. It's certainly livened things up around here!"
"Well, she didn't have much choice, did she, with your Mr Weasley refusing to, ah, press charges against it."
Hermione laughed, and laid down her quill. "They're actually pretty good friends, now," she observed, grinning. "Once I got it across to Luggage Ron wasn't an enemy, and once he realised it wouldn't go around eating people - often - he thinks it's the greatest thing since airborne broomsticks."
Funnily enough, it had been luggage after all who had finally cured Ron's crush on Hermione. With such an intriguing and opportunist new toy, he didn't have enough time to sit around making googly eyes at her.
She didn't miss that in the slightest! Yet luggage, for all that they were apparently friends, never lost its initial wariness around The-Funny-Two- Legs-Who-Is-Apparently-Not-A-Threat-To-The-Mistress-Yet-Can't-Be-Trusted- Anyway.
For its part, though, Luggage was enjoying its time at Hogwarts. There were no end of rumours that flew around the castle: if a student was late to class, then it was said the walking suitcase got him; if someone lost a book, a robe, a familiar, it was Dinner; if Hagrid came strolling out of the Forbidden Forest with the trunk marching proudly along behind, then one could only guess at what they might have been Up To.
Then, of course, there was the Hat.
Like most events in which the Luggage played a starring role, this one started out innocently enough.
Ginny Weasely, whom the case had come to be much fonder of than her older brother, also played a lead role in this little drama. So too did Professor Minerva McGonagall, though a smaller one, and this without her knowledge.
As long as there had been a Hogwarts, there had been the four houses and the means of deciding which student should go where: the Sorting Hat.
Now luggage, by the virtue of that it lived at Hogwarts, was in complete possession of all its mental faculties, and was, in its own opinion, a valuable apprentice to more than one Hogwarts Professor (Where would Professor Lupin be without it? Luggage had faced down more Dark Arts than he had hairs on his tail! And Hagrid had as much as said he didn't know what he'd do without its help - It must have been dreadful for them before Luggage came on the scene to assist, aid, benefit, sustain and otherwise breathe life into all their endeavours!) had come to the realisation that it alone, of all the castle's inhabitants, did not belong to a House.
This saddened it. But not for long, since it was, after all, Luggage.
It trundled along the corridor, toes tapping jauntily to a half-forgotten melody. The way was clear! It was free, it was-
Ginny Weasley. Well, it'd have to do something about her.
"Hello, Luggage. Out for a walk?"
Just exercising the old ankles, they get a bit stiff sitting in the library all day.
"You must get bored, sitting in a cold library all day, don't you?"
It's not quite that bad, thank-you, one learns to live with what one has.
But the sympathy was mollifying.
"Still, I imagine you'd like a walk in peace without Professor McGonagall breathing down your neck, wouldn't you? Because if she sees you, she'll raise the entire castle, including Professor Dumbledore, and then you'll never get any peace."
Including Professor Dumbledore.
Some of the Luggage's thoughts must have transmitted themselves to Ginny Weasley's mind, in the strange and mysterious way known only to sentient suitcases, or perhaps she must merely have been more susceptible to that sort of thing, for a crafty expression crossed her freckled face and made her smile.
"That would be rather dreadful, wouldn't it?" she murmured. "You run along, and I'll cover for you."
Her eyes filled. Her chin wavered. And as the luggage rounded the corner as fast as all its little legs could carry it, Ginny Weasley began to scream as loud as she possibly could.
"Professor McGonagall, Professor McGonagall! I just saw the most frightening thing! Get the Headmaster! It's a monster and it's got lots of really, really dreadful teeth!"
Then she conveniently led them in the wrong direction, a fuming McGonagall and a trying-terribly-hard-to-be-serious Dumbledore, summoned on the Deputy Headmistress' express orders, while the Luggage continued merrily along its chosen corridor. Which, as it happened, led directly to the Headmaster's office.
The hair curled just above her waist, a shining ebony sheet with handfuls of silver. There was a smile in her eyes like the slight curve of her open mouth, waiting to speak, to laugh, to joke.
Skin was shaded and sculpted by tiny lines, and those not so fine; there hung about her features a dignity that made her both old and not old.
Oddly enough, she looked like a youngish Minerva McGonagall.
But there was no doubt any longer in Hermione's mind that this, dear Roie, self-appointed parent of an aggravating looking glass, was indeed and could only, be the Rowena Ravenclaw.
She shook. Not just a gentle trembling of hands, but an all-over, uncontrollable quiver that was tiring and relieving all at once.
It worked!
"Incredible, isn't it?" murmured a soft voice, somewhere behind her.
"Yes," she replied.
Silence.
Then grinning, laughing, shouting, and crying out in exultation, Hermione Granger launched herself into the arms of Severus Snape without so much as a by-your-leave.
He was stunned.
It had to be an automatic reaction that raised his hand to stroke her hair and entwine his fingers in her curls, not a conscious thought; at that moment he was as far from conscious thought as Neville Longbottom on a loop- the-looping wild broomstick.
Why, oh, why?
"Miss Granger," he said carefully, and received no response. Just a happy sigh, muffled against his shoulder.
"Miss Granger, I hardly think this is an appropriate position."
Did she mutter, "Proprieties be hanged?"
"Please, Miss Granger," and he pulled her away from him and held her at arm's length. To judge by her eyes, somewhat wide and very glossy, she still wasn't thinking clearly. But she grinned up at him with every bit of the mischief he'd ever seen her display, and crowed "It works, Severus, it works!"
And he wasn't going to argue with that. Letting his own jubilation take over, he drew her back into a warm, black-velvet embrace and held her close.
Elsewhere in the castle, a wizard in a long, purple robe sat in front of a crackling fire drinking a night-cap of hot chocolate and caramel marshmallows.
They were a muggle creation, to his knowledge, one of the best ever produced. It was such things as marshmallows, he mused, that allowed one to continue having hope in a race of people who could otherwise seem doomed and tortured by prejudices and narrow-minds. As long as they continued creating things like marshmallows, he knew there were still some among them who could appreciate beauty in the world, and, better yet, give it form.
Absently, he played with a little yellow boat. It was no longer than two joints of his smallest finger, and it was made of a strange substance that made it seem half-finished. When he placed it in a dish of water, the ship promptly capsized. Dumbledore frowned, concentrated, and the strange material quivered and vanished, replaced by a perfect wooden ship with miniature cotton sails. This righted itself and started making industrious laps of its lake.
Much better.
Of course, he couldn't improve on the chocolate though. White on one side, brown on the other? How on earth did they do they without magic? The only thing to beat one muggle chocolate was other muggle chocolate. Lots of other muggle chocolate. "Remind me, Fawkes, to pop over to town tomorrow to pick up another few boxes, would you? I didn't get nearly enough last time. Someone ate nearly all of my Irish Cream Kisses last time, and while I'm not blaming Minerva, I think I'd better get her a box of her own so she leaves mine alone, don't you?"
Fawkes trilled in agreement. Hopping across the desk to the arm of the chair, he presented his head to be scratched. The Headmaster chuckled and obliged him.
"What is it, Minerva?" "How on earth do you know it's me when you have your eyes shut, Albus?" "You have a habit of hissing under your breath when you're annoyed. Like you are now, I believe?"
"I certainly am! Albus, I have Harry Potter with me, and once you hear what he's got to say, you'll agree with me, That Trunk Has Got To Go!"
Albus blinked, and opened his eyes. "That's strong, even coming from you," he said mildly.
She drew her breath in sharply. "It put a boy in the hospital wing! That thing is a goddamned menace. You have to let me get rid of it."
"Well, we'll see what Harry has to say, won't we?" He lifted his feet off the footstool and adjusted the glasses on his nose. "You may come in now, Mr Potter."
"Don't do this to me, Hermione." "Sorry?"
It took Severus a moment to realise she wasn't apologising, but asking a question.
"Please," he said. I'd appreciate it if you'd let go of me, since I don't know what I'll do next. Actually I do, but ravishing you wasn't on my list of To-Do things for tonight, not even on the Things-to-do-in-the-near- future one, but if you don't move in one hell of a hurry, it's going to be on top of the Things-I-know-I'll-regret-but-oh, God!-I-enjoyed-myself-at- the-time file.
She was quiet, but she didn't move.
"If you don't get moving NOW, Miss Granger, it will be two hundred points from Gryffindor and a year's worth of detention for both of your friends. Now scat!"
Hermione jumped away like she'd been hexed.
"Damn," she said. "Sleep well, Professor."
He watched her. Oh, hell. "It'll be three hundred points if you walk through that door, Hermione."
She turned. "You're certainly the bundle of contradictions tonight."
He sighed heavily. "I always am. But if you're certain you're not making a mistake.only if you're certain." how he hoped she was! He'd felt the caress of her fingers up his spine as she gave him an innocent hug - to feel that hair on his skin - oh, damn, if she walked away now, he'd still be, ah, occupied tonight, one way or another. Couldn't someone do something about human physiology?
"I'm not sure I'd want to," said Hermione. And the shame of having complained that aloud, to her, was brushed away as she took his hands in her own, and smiling, came to him.
"Miss Granger, I believe you should leave now." One last attempt at doing what he knew he should. "Were you to stay, there would be no way of telling what might.happen."
Hermione thought her way through this. "Are you trying to tell me that you might, ah, lose control?" She was proud of the way her voice remained relatively steady.
"Yes." "I'll take my chances, Professor."
Yet he stared at her, a hint of panic in his eyes. "You don't understand! I might.you.this would be highly improper.I mean, we could."
Hermione laid a finger over his lips. "Yes, we could," she said quietly, and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch, sweat, and squirm.
Snape took another deep breath. She was certain that he was a lot more shaken than he was trying to seem. "Are you sure you wouldn't.mind?" he asked raggedly. His eyes raked her body with a mixture of uncertainty, amusement and what had to be desire. Hermione met his eyes. And smiled. "Yes, I'm sure."
"I think you're crazy," Snape said, "but I'm hardly in a position to argue." He leant across and claimed her lips in a deep, bruising kiss, delighting in the sensation of her warm wetness between his lips, the sweet welcoming taste of her mouth as he explored it with his tongue. Hermione moaned against him, certain, yet curiously unsure. "Professor." Crazily, in this moment, remembering what she had chosen to forget for weeks.
He pulled away enough to fix her eyes with his own. "Severus," he said firmly, eyes glittering. "Severus," she breathed raggedly, obediently. He felt himself harden. "Say it!" he commanded roughly. "I want to hear you say my name. You were perfectly capable of saying it before." "Severus!" Hermione gasped, and pushed against him. He chuckled a little at her eagerness. "You most certainly do not mind, do you, Hermione?" Her name tasted like honey across his lips. She groaned wordlessly. "Please." not sure what she was asking for. Severus seemed to understand. "Not yet, I think, love" he murmured, gently tracing small circles on her back as he steadied her against him.
Gently, he flicked his tongue across her lips, and moved away as she reached across for more. He nuzzled into her neck. The scent of her hair teased his senses and he inhaled deeply. Hermione clutched at him tightly, moving one hand up to curl her fingers in his own hair, the black silken strands slightly oily to her touch, but not unpleasantly so.
For once in his life, Severus Snape was having a hard time being cynical. And he didn't care.
They spent most of the night in each other's arms, just lying there, spread across his bed and tangled in each other. Just lying there, since after the first rush of passion was acted upon, each felt more the want to simply be, with each other, and gloriously, not alone.
Not Alone. When was the last time he could lie in bed and say that? Oh, right, Dana. Inwardly he cringed, and kept cringing, for while Hermione's hand played lightly over his arm - not the left one! - the face he saw had orange-blonde hair and green eyes shaped of cruelty. She'd gone to Azkaban, hadn't she? Yes, with her husband.
He could certainly pick them, couldn't he? "Oh, Hermione," Severus breathed. This couldn't continue. Who knew what it would do to her life, her emotions, her character? She needed comfort. A guiding light, neither guiding nor lighting, simply there, always there, for her.And she couldn't have known what she was doing. She was excited. Of course she was. When she thought about it, she'd regret it. Of course she would.
"You're thinking I'm a child, aren't you?" "No."
"Then you're thinking I'll regret you, when the morning comes."
"Won't you?"
"Severus, je ne regrette rien."
"Not even an old man with a Grendel-sized past and a social problem?"
"Social problem?"
"I'm not exactly Prince Charming, you know."
"And I'm not Cinderella. Or Snow White. Or Sleeping Beauty. In fact-" and she propped herself up on an elbow so she could look down into his face "-neither of us is the kind of person any fairytale is ever spread about. We're not heroes. We're just human. And, Severus?"
"Yes?"
"You're kind of cute, when you frown." He chuckled, hugged her that bit closer with one arm. "This is hopeless."
"Why?"
"You, me. Positions. Proprieties. This school. My history. Your life."
"Why only my life, what about yours?"
"Because I've already screwed mine up. I don't want to be the instrument of you wrecking yours. Don't you understand? Not even your friends Mr Potter and Weasley could ever see this as acceptable. Because it isn't. It's me taking advantage of you trying to fill a sudden gap in your life, and trust me, Hermione, this isn't the way to do it. You're still on the rebound from losing your parents, you don't need a dark wizard with a lot of emotional baggage. I'll be your friend, I'll be your mentor, I'll even be your partner in crime if it comes to it, but I won't be, can't be, your lover." He got up, stood beside the bed looking down at her.
"Forgive me, Hermione."
Hermione lay there in the darkness long after the bathroom door had shut behind him. Her clothes lay, with his, strewn about the floor. She felt bad about picking them up. Not because she was regretting what had happened, but because her academic's clinical and analysing mind knew at an instinctive level that he was right.
Still, that didn't stop her romantics' schoolgirl heart from trying to prolong the moment as long as possible.
Or scheming for a way to repeat it.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By the time Christmas rolled around, in a flurry of tinsel and holly, Hermione had firmly decided that there were only three types of students at Hogwarts: those who worked, those who liked quidditch, and those who deserved a good clout around the ears. However, she was a little hazy about the boundaries of the last two groups. Quite a few quidditch players had her fingers itching when they came to the Head Girl for 'advice' about something. Severus, when she told him, laughed sharply and remarked that in his long experience there was only one group.present company excepted, of course.
"Of course," said Hermione dryly. They were sitting in his office, drinking coffee and grading papers. Often when she needed a break from the petty responsibilities of being Head Girl ("Alright, girls, now let's sit down and talk about this. Who hexed whom first? Oh, okay, a Slytherin started it. Why'd you get involved then?"), or just somewhere quiet to work, she drifted down to his office. After a while, Severus had relented and simply given her the password.
That had led to many pleasant evenings like tonight. She found his company occasionally abrasive, but always welcome; he seemed to find her a little irritating at times, but always did his best to pretend he didn't.
"And how is luggage?" The question was unexpected. Hermione looked up from the stack of essays in surprise. "Behaving itself," she said finally.
He smirked. "I'm glad. Did you hear it chased several first year Hufflepuffs into a broom closet and wouldn't let them out?"
Hermione's shoulders shook with laughter. No, she hadn't heard!
"Why did it do that?" she managed. He quirked an eyebrow in almost innocent look. "Who knows? And does it matter?"
It didn't, really. They shared another laugh and a moment of companionable silence.
He'd worried, at first, she might act like a jilted lover and pile on the guilt, the hurt looks, the longing sighs, but almost to his frustration, she didn't. In fact they were better friends than ever. It was best for her, of course. Yet it was Times Like These that made Severus feel a dreadful cad for Doing The Honourable Thing.
"I'm just glad Professor McGonagall wasn't allowed to expel it after all. It's certainly livened things up around here!"
"Well, she didn't have much choice, did she, with your Mr Weasley refusing to, ah, press charges against it."
Hermione laughed, and laid down her quill. "They're actually pretty good friends, now," she observed, grinning. "Once I got it across to Luggage Ron wasn't an enemy, and once he realised it wouldn't go around eating people - often - he thinks it's the greatest thing since airborne broomsticks."
Funnily enough, it had been luggage after all who had finally cured Ron's crush on Hermione. With such an intriguing and opportunist new toy, he didn't have enough time to sit around making googly eyes at her.
She didn't miss that in the slightest! Yet luggage, for all that they were apparently friends, never lost its initial wariness around The-Funny-Two- Legs-Who-Is-Apparently-Not-A-Threat-To-The-Mistress-Yet-Can't-Be-Trusted- Anyway.
For its part, though, Luggage was enjoying its time at Hogwarts. There were no end of rumours that flew around the castle: if a student was late to class, then it was said the walking suitcase got him; if someone lost a book, a robe, a familiar, it was Dinner; if Hagrid came strolling out of the Forbidden Forest with the trunk marching proudly along behind, then one could only guess at what they might have been Up To.
Then, of course, there was the Hat.
Like most events in which the Luggage played a starring role, this one started out innocently enough.
Ginny Weasely, whom the case had come to be much fonder of than her older brother, also played a lead role in this little drama. So too did Professor Minerva McGonagall, though a smaller one, and this without her knowledge.
As long as there had been a Hogwarts, there had been the four houses and the means of deciding which student should go where: the Sorting Hat.
Now luggage, by the virtue of that it lived at Hogwarts, was in complete possession of all its mental faculties, and was, in its own opinion, a valuable apprentice to more than one Hogwarts Professor (Where would Professor Lupin be without it? Luggage had faced down more Dark Arts than he had hairs on his tail! And Hagrid had as much as said he didn't know what he'd do without its help - It must have been dreadful for them before Luggage came on the scene to assist, aid, benefit, sustain and otherwise breathe life into all their endeavours!) had come to the realisation that it alone, of all the castle's inhabitants, did not belong to a House.
This saddened it. But not for long, since it was, after all, Luggage.
It trundled along the corridor, toes tapping jauntily to a half-forgotten melody. The way was clear! It was free, it was-
Ginny Weasley. Well, it'd have to do something about her.
"Hello, Luggage. Out for a walk?"
Just exercising the old ankles, they get a bit stiff sitting in the library all day.
"You must get bored, sitting in a cold library all day, don't you?"
It's not quite that bad, thank-you, one learns to live with what one has.
But the sympathy was mollifying.
"Still, I imagine you'd like a walk in peace without Professor McGonagall breathing down your neck, wouldn't you? Because if she sees you, she'll raise the entire castle, including Professor Dumbledore, and then you'll never get any peace."
Including Professor Dumbledore.
Some of the Luggage's thoughts must have transmitted themselves to Ginny Weasley's mind, in the strange and mysterious way known only to sentient suitcases, or perhaps she must merely have been more susceptible to that sort of thing, for a crafty expression crossed her freckled face and made her smile.
"That would be rather dreadful, wouldn't it?" she murmured. "You run along, and I'll cover for you."
Her eyes filled. Her chin wavered. And as the luggage rounded the corner as fast as all its little legs could carry it, Ginny Weasley began to scream as loud as she possibly could.
"Professor McGonagall, Professor McGonagall! I just saw the most frightening thing! Get the Headmaster! It's a monster and it's got lots of really, really dreadful teeth!"
Then she conveniently led them in the wrong direction, a fuming McGonagall and a trying-terribly-hard-to-be-serious Dumbledore, summoned on the Deputy Headmistress' express orders, while the Luggage continued merrily along its chosen corridor. Which, as it happened, led directly to the Headmaster's office.