Author's Note: I am eternally grateful for the reviews thus far! They have
kept me willing and interested to write; I was afraid of a hostile welcome
and more criticism than encouragement, but everyone has been friendly, open-
minded and wonderful (I love this site!).
Also, when it comes to writing references to holidays, customs and the like, I don't know exactly what is said in England (I am American), so I apologize if I write something incorrectly; I'll do my best, based on what I've read in the novels, but I can't promise anything.
Inescapable
Chapter Five
Fall passed imperceptibly into winter; Hermione awoke one morning to see snow falling, and for several seconds, did not realize where she was. Her mind had been for so long occupied by schoolwork and worries about her strange new feelings that she had paid little attention to what went on in her surroundings. She threw herself with all her effort into her schoolwork; when Snape was in the same room, she avoided him as much as possible. He, for his part, noticed her reaction, and was both angered and hurt; the glances they exchanged were never friendly, but they could not help, it seemed, looking at one another.
The weeks flew by, and before Hermione knew it, Christmas was fast approaching. She thought long and hard on whether or not she should escape from Hogwarts and join her family at home. Many an hour the decision plagued her, and she finally turned to Harry and Ron for guidance; if they stayed, she would stay. But she would not take the chance that most students left, and she remained at Hogwarts to accidentally run into Snape in the hallways every day.
She approached them one evening while they were immersed in Divination homework (with a slightly smug smile, of course, because she never regretted deserting that subject), and sat down to peer over their shoulders. Harry noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Hermione was acting strangely. She fidgeted with the hem of her robes and her eyes, as usual, were staring at something that was not being comprehended by her brain. He had a feeling there was something wrong, but was not certain how to approach it; girls, he had discovered, were always emotional concerning that sort of thing.
"Hermione?"
"Yeah?" She looked up, startled; so she hadn't been observing their papers as closely as she had wanted them to think.
"You okay?"
"Uh—yeah." She flashed a stiff, forced smile. "But I need to ask you two something, if that's all right."
"Sure." Ron tossed down his quill and leaned back to listen; he was regarding Hermione with nothing but a purely friendly look, and it seemed to Harry as though Ron saw no aspect of Hermione's behavior that warranted worry. Perhaps he was just being paranoid.
"Are you two staying at Hogwarts for Christmas vacation?"
Harry snorted. "Where else am I supposed to go? The Dursleys'?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Hell, no. They'd probably cook you for Christmas dinner." Harry grinned at that; he could believe it.
"So you're staying?" Hermione was paying no attention to their playful humor; she looked unusually grave, and Harry was positive her skin was paler than usual. How long had she looked this way?
"You bet."
"I'll stay, too," Ron spoke up. "Mum and Dad are going to Egypt to meet with Bill and Audrey, and they'll probably put Fred and George in an asylum to keep them out of trouble." He chuckled. "That would be priceless."
Hermione nodded. "All right. I'll stay, then. I was debating whether or not I should go home."
Harry tried to make his next question as nonchalant as possible. "Why would you want to do that? You've stayed here the last few years."
She blushed slightly, and shrugged. "Well, I don't know…. This is my last year, after all, and once we're done here, I'll be off to find a job, live on my own…. Who knows how often I'll have an opportunity to visit my parents?"
"But," Ron pointed out firmly, "as you said, this is your last year at Hogwarts—all the more reason to stay and enjoy it!"
Hermione did not look as though she had the potential to enjoy anything; in fact, she looked slightly green in the pale firelight cast by the fireplace nearby. "Excellent point," she said, rising to her feet unsteadily. "I'll stay—thanks, you guys."
They watched her receding figure as she went back up the stairs, both wondering to themselves whether or not they should look into the possibility that there was something wrong. Ron finally voiced his concern—"Is she okay? Seems strange to me"—and Harry emphatically agreed. He forced himself to turn back to his homework and accept the fact that Hermione was far more mature than they, and capable of handling her own problems; but Ron stared at the staircase long after she had disappeared, a look of worry and suspicion on his face.
* * *
Hermione's parents had indeed hoped that she would opt to spend the Christmas holidays with them. They watched the mail, though primarily the Muggle mail, with hawklike observation and diligence. When Dr. Charlotte Granger arrived at her home late one evening a week before the holidays, she was overjoyed to see a letter, in a Muggle envelope, waiting for her, addressed in Hermione's perfect cursive.
Ripping open the letter, she scanned the pages eagerly, looking for something along the lines of "Can't wait to see you," but found no such thing. Instead, she was disappointed, even rather shocked, to find that Hermione had written the exact opposite.
'I do miss you and Dad, but I have decided I would like to remain at Hogwarts. Ron and Harry have pointed out that this is my last year, and it would mean the world to me if I could spend it at Hogwarts…. If you and Dad could find it in yourselves to grant me this wish, I would be extremely grateful. I miss you both terribly and am looking forward to seeing you this summer, and we will certainly have much to celebrate….'
Beyond that, she could find nothing that commanded special attention. Hermione went on to describe, briefly, an amusing incident in Potions class regarding something called Truth Serum, and tell the great news that Ron's eldest brother, Bill Weasley, was engaged to be married very soon; the lucky girl was Audrey something-or-other, and fortunately, both worked for Gringotts in the exact same location. Hermione sounded happy, Charlotte decided, even excited for her friend; nothing too stressful could be going on at school.
And so she was surprised, later, when her husband pointed out a worrisome discrepancy in Hermione's letter. Her writing, typically feather-light, curly, feminine strokes in perfectly written cursive, was dark and blurred, as though she had been pushing on the quill unusually hard and gripping it more tightly. Something, he speculated, might possibly be upsetting her, and she was not willing to inform them, for whatever reason; besides, he told her, placing a finger gently on the lower corner of the page, there was a tiny spot that looked suspiciously like a stain made by a tear.
* * *
On the same evening that the Grangers received their daughter's letter, she was making her way nervously up the steps that led to the library. Well- trodden and familiar to her, she now looked as though she was marching to the guillotine; her lips were pursed and her hands clenched into white- knuckled fists. Her eyes were darting here and there, her breath laborious. She was frightened.
Once in the library, she scampered to the very back of the room, far beyond Madam Pince's sight. Hermione visited the library more than her fair share, perhaps even more than all the other students in her House combined; her presence was noted, but not really noticed.
Hermione scanned the oldest section of shelves, the Hogwarts reference books and rules; finally, she pulled from the shelves what could quite possibly have been the most ancient book in the school. It was a massive tome, far too heavy for her to carry without difficulty, and covered in thick layers of dust. The pages, yellowed with age and faded, stuck together as she tried to turn them. Her fingers were clumsy and her palms sweaty; she glanced around once again to make sure she had no observers, and then checked the index in the back of the book.
Muttering to herself, she began to flip backward in the book to find the correct page. It was not one that had been often read, judging by the lack of dog-eared page tops in that particular section. Her eyes scanned through the words until she found what she was looking for.
Under the various rules and regulations was a section especially dedicated to relationships within the school. Originally, this section had been written to ensure that, should two teachers begin to forge a relationship, certain precautions were taken to prevent their work productivity from diminishing as a result. But as the years went by and newer editions of the book were printed, additions had been made to the rules. Hermione found the section regarding student-teacher relationships quite easily—the ink was hardly faded at all, and it would have been difficult to miss.
'Relationships between Students and Teachers,' the book read, 'are to remain of a platonic nature only. Any romantic or intimate attachments between any Hogwarts Employee and a Student, whether or not the Student is in the House for which the Employee is Head, in the Employee's class, etc., are strictly forbidden.'
Well. Things were off to an excellent start.
'Should a relationship of the nature mentioned above be discovered, punishments are to ensue immediately. It is up to the discretion of the Headmaster to determine the punishment of the Student, though extensive suspension or even expulsions are highly recommended. The Teacher is to be released from employment and, if need should arise, be placed in the hands of the Authorities.'
Hermione could not help but want to scream; such words would surely make Snape wild about her, she thought wryly, and slammed the book shut with unintended force. Several heads from various locations in the room shot up and looked at her in surprise. Now holding back tears in a volume she had not even realized herself capable of crying, Hermione walked as quickly as she could toward the exit. She kept her blurred sight on the door and refused to meet the gazes of the other students, who were still watching her interestedly.
Outside again, she closed the door with deliberate gentleness and then tore down the stairs. She was disgusted with herself for allowing her emotions to get the better of her; evenings like this afforded ample opportunity for studying, and were not to be wasted acting under the influence of stupid, juvenile crushes on teachers. Her parents, she told herself, would have been ashamed of her; this was not Hermione Granger!
She could not bring herself to return to the dorm room, so she sought refuge on the balcony near the kitchens instead, where she had first run into Gollum. Thinking about the amiable snake and her master, both probably locked away in that strange room in the dungeons, made Hermione feel even more miserable. Days were becoming difficult for her now, each one a constant battle with her inner self. Sooner or later, something was going to give—and she hoped, for the sake of her dignity and her education, that it was not her self-control.
* * *
If Hermione's determination to avoid Professor Snape was strong, her desire to see him was indestructible; she fought internal verbal wars with herself daily, but could not seem to make her morals overcome her ridiculous crush. Ginny noticed multiple times her friend's torment and tried to comfort her, but Hermione would not let her close; she had walled herself and her emotions off in the hopes that, while it was uncomfortable in the present, it would prove to be the right decision in the long run.
It was ironic, then, that Snape himself set about the course of actions that caused her last moral barricade to crumble and cave in. It was Christmas Day, and Hermione had woken up feeling worse than she had all year; nothing seemed to be going her way, and all she could think about was the approaching evening, when she, Harry, Ron, and any other resident students would be obliged to attend dinner in the Great Hall with the teachers. There were very few students remaining; besides the three of them, only Ginny and two Ravenclaws chose to stay at Hogwarts. The dinner would be intimate; she would end up sitting at the same table as Professor Snape.
She prayed all day that he would come down with an inexplicable illness or be called away for duty by Lord Voldemort, but had no luck; evening arrived and her feet were like lead as they walked down the stairs toward the Great Hall. Before they turned the corner and walked through the doors, Hermione exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes against some invisible foe. Ron and Harry gaped at her; there was something very wrong, but now was not the time to address it. They had a dinner to attend.
Hermione gave a small whimper when she noticed the mistletoe hanging above the entrance and dashed through as though she had seen a ghost. She had intended to snatch for herself a chair at the very end of the table, but upon trying, she found that the three of them were the last to arrive. There were only three surplus chairs, on the left side, and Ron and Harry were quick to choose the two closest to the end. Hermione was in the very middle, across form Dumbledore—and, to his left, Snape.
Her eyes remained cast downward, on her plate, for the first ten minutes of the meal. Fortunately, all other professors were occupied, talking amongst themselves, or to Harry and Ron, who were in loquacious moods that day and seemed grateful for any conversation. Hermione ate absently and begged God to let the meal end quickly; she wanted to crawl into a hole and die when Dumbledore noticed her solemn, silent composure and asked, "Hermione, are you feeling all right? You seem ill."
"Miss Granger is still shaken, I daresay, from finding my pet snake roaming the castle," Snape spoke up quietly, looking hard at her for a moment before returning his gaze to his own dinner. "She was kind enough to return it to me."
A smile played at the corners of Dumbledore's lips and he asked in a friendly way, "Is that what's wrong, Hermione? I assure you, Severus' snake is quite tame; I myself have handled her, and found her to be a most agreeable animal."
"Indeed." Snape put down his fork and did not remove his eyes from Hermione's as he continued, "I suspect that she is…pining for you, Miss Granger; she has not been the same since you left." His words were quiet and deliberate, as was his gaze; she wanted to melt under its intensity and she saw, with immediate horror, that Ginny, from her place, was reading into his look the same way she was. He was not talking about Gollum.
"Then perhaps a visit is in order?" Dumbledore suggested lightly, making no note of the pained expression that flashed across her face. He could not know the irony of his words, but she and Snape both did; Snape continued to look at her with his depthless black eyes and she wondered how quickly she could dash from the room. Would they catch her before she reached the doors leading outside?
"Really," Professor Flitwick spoke up, "honestly, must we talk about snakes? At dinner?" He shuddered. "I don't know how you can live with such a creature, Severus, and in your own room!"
"It is far less dangerous"—Snape's voice was almost indistinguishable, too quiet and deep for her to hear—"than other creatures I could think of."
"Like a hippogriff!" Ginny's intervention was intentional, but much needed. Hermione could tell by her look that she sensed her friend's discomfort, and understood the hidden meaning of the words that Snape had just spoken while staring so intently at Hermione.
"Precisely," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "Speaking of hippogriffs, Hagrid, I have been meaning to ask you…" And the conversation drifted off in different directions. Snape gave her one more long, calculated look before rising from the table and striding out of the Great Hall, black robes billowing behind him. It was another fifteen minutes before the children felt it fit to excuse themselves and Hermione managed to ditch Harry and Ron on the way to the common room and slip off toward the dungeons. Her stomach was knotting in her abdomen with dread at what she knew she was going to have to confess.
Whether it was precognition or simply a hunch, Hermione did not know; but there he was, outside his office, waiting for her. Her steps slowed to a near stop when she saw him and she approached with a heavy, dismayed shuffle.
His arms were crossed casually in front of him, and he was leaning against the wall, looking down at her. She glanced to the right and saw that the door was slightly ajar, and lights were on inside his office. Wondering briefly where it was best to stage the interrogation, she decided that it would be easier to move inside his office; if she could get him to sit down, it would give her a head start running when she finally blurted out the truth.
"I have something I need to say." His facial expression betrayed no response, so she continued. "Can we go in your office?"
Once again, he said nothing, but reached over to push the door open; she slipped in underneath his outstretched arm and tried her best to hide from his wrath in the far corner of the room, between the bookshelves. Her heart fell when he, upon entering the room, did not sit at his desk chair as she had anticipated; he shut the door firmly and stood directly in front of it. She had no method of escape.
"Go on." He looked at her expectantly.
Now that she was in the perfect position to say it, she could not find the right words; she stood there for a moment, thinking, before she was able to so much as open her mouth. "I—I think there is something that you deserve to know," she began, avoiding his eyes. "I realize that this isn't going to make you thrilled, but still…"
"You never know," he quipped. His voice was cold and mocking. Why did she like him?
Now she was more confident; if she gave the words room to flow, they would come with ease. "In class a month or so ago, when we were doing the trails with Veritaserum and you gave a dose to Lavender, things got a little…out of hand." This was sounding good. "She made a joke about my, ah, reading habits, and you said something to me that I haven't been able to forget." She glanced up hopefully. Was he remembering?
"As I recall," he remarked, "my words to you were, 'And that, Miss Granger, is the truth.' Am I correct?"
"Yes. And you laughed." It was her turn to search his face for some sign of realization, but it was, as usual, an emotionless mask.
"Do you mean to tell me that you were insulted?" His eyes were fairly dancing now, but whether with astonishment or with malice, she could not discern. "I have to admit, Miss Granger, I did not think you could be so easily hurt."
"I'm not insulted," she snapped, and the ebony eyes flashed angrily. "Now would you let me finish?"
The laughter had abandoned his composure; her tone was bordering on insubordinate. "Fine. Continue."
"Your laugh surprised me; I didn't expect that you laughed at anything. Then, when I came for detention, you were…teasing me."
"Absolutely not," he protested half-heartedly. "It was you who instigated the wordplay, Miss Granger."
"That's a lie," she hissed back. "You reciprocated."
"What has that to do with anything?" Judging by his intense but calm stance, his interest was not in arguing with her.
"I don't know!" she exclaimed. "That's just it! I can't think! You may not believe me, but it's all your fault! And then, when I returned Gollum a few weeks ago, you laughed at me again, and everything you said about us having more in common than I expected"—the look in his eyes was strange now, almost expectant—"made me start wondering."
"And…?" The eyes held anticipation now, and she had an increasing premonition that he knew what she was struggling so vainly to communicate.
"And I've come to a conclusion." There was no easy way to admit how she felt, so, she realized, she might as well just spit it out.
"Which is?" He moved a step closer.
"I like you"—tears filled her eyes—"and I think you should know that."
He was silent, pensive, but still watching her closely; she could see his gaze taking in the tears that filled her own eyes and the way she fidgeted with the sleeves of her robe. When he spoke again, his voice was not mocking, but solemn. "I have never, Miss Granger, in all my years at Hogwarts, had a young woman admit to having a crush on me." A tear began to roll down her cheek. "So you will understand if I am not overly emotional; I am, however, flattered, though I may not openly show it."
Really? He hid his emotions well. He did not look any different than he had moments before, while scorning her for being thin-skinned, except for maybe that strange look in his eyes.
"I have nothing against you, Miss Granger. Quite honestly, I am shocked that you could feel that way about me. I had imagined you would, once you reached the age, lust after someone more…exciting. Not an intellectual such as myself."
He watched her closely for a reaction, and she shrugged. "I'm an intellectual too."
"I agree. But I was always of the opinion that, more often than not, opposites attract."
"Not always," she whispered, and it struck him hard; he blinked and turned away for a moment. Pacing back and forth in front of his desk, he appeared to be deep in thought.
"I am not able to show emotion, Miss Granger." His voice was steeled, as were his words. "I am not kind, or gentle; nor am I particularly romantic." That remark elicited a smile from her. "And you, of all people, should understand that a relationship between a student and a teacher is, to put it frankly, wrong. Were we in a different situation, then perhaps things could turn out differently."
He realized only seconds too late the full meaning of the words he had just spoken. Hermione, judging by her widening eyes, was just beginning to understand it as well. '…perhaps things could turn out differently.' It was their ages and, thus, their respective positions that stood in the way, not his feelings. Could that be true?
"Do you mean"—her voice was earnest—"that if it were not for me being a student and you a teacher, you could like me?"
He sighed, and bowed his head for a moment, as though mentally exhausted by their discussion; nothing was coming about the way he had wanted it to. The problem was not his words; the problem was that she was not misinterpreting them the way she was supposed to. The girl was too damn smart; she understood exactly what he was saying, and he could not shield himself through words.
"You are a compassionate, intelligent, and lovely young woman, Miss Granger, but there can be nothing between us. You know that, and I know that; regardless of what we feel, we need to abide by what we know."
"I hate rules!" she exclaimed vehemently. "I've been following rules my entire life and where has it gotten me? Nowhere I have wanted to go!" Her pacing was bringing her closer toward him, and he had to resist the urge to step even farther forward. He forced himself to step back, maintaining a respectable—and safe—distance between the two of them. She noticed; but she also noticed that he seemed torn, and smiled in grim satisfaction. His conscience was eating away at him in the same way her own was her.
"I think perhaps you should leave, Miss Granger." He would not smile, nor extend a friendly hand; he remained cool and distant to the bitter end. "The tension in this room has reached a potentially dangerous level."
She nodded knowingly, and walked toward the door. Neither understood what happened in the next second; only that, as she approached him, she did not pass, but turned to face him for only a split second. Their eyes met, barely inches away, and the next thing both were aware of, they had been kissing.
Hermione pulled away from him, gasping for air, eyes wide with shock. He cringed at realizing what he had done, and sank miserably into his desk chair. Passion had overruled reason in their minds for only a brief point in time, and yet it had the power to alter their lives forever.
"This changes everything," she whispered, looking at him. But when he raised his head and looked up, she thought for a moment she was staring into the face of a completely different man. She realized then that she was seeing into him, glimpsing the ravaged soul that lived within. He had given into temptation, betrayed himself and disappointed himself for yet another time. He would take this, yet another reason to hate himself and what he had become, even harder than she; his already vengeful conscience would use it as further ammunition against him. She longed to put her arms around him, try to comfort him, as a woman should her lover, but knew that she had caused trouble enough.
Hermione left him in his office, and walked gradually back to the Gryffindor common room. She had no idea what the next day would bring—whether he would accept what he felt and no longer be plagued by guilt, or give her the cold shoulder and avoid her completely. Sibyll Trelawney herself could not have predicted the outcome; but there was a feeling of foreboding, deep in the pit of her stomach, that their path was now going to become a much longer—and much more difficult—one to travel.
Also, when it comes to writing references to holidays, customs and the like, I don't know exactly what is said in England (I am American), so I apologize if I write something incorrectly; I'll do my best, based on what I've read in the novels, but I can't promise anything.
Inescapable
Chapter Five
Fall passed imperceptibly into winter; Hermione awoke one morning to see snow falling, and for several seconds, did not realize where she was. Her mind had been for so long occupied by schoolwork and worries about her strange new feelings that she had paid little attention to what went on in her surroundings. She threw herself with all her effort into her schoolwork; when Snape was in the same room, she avoided him as much as possible. He, for his part, noticed her reaction, and was both angered and hurt; the glances they exchanged were never friendly, but they could not help, it seemed, looking at one another.
The weeks flew by, and before Hermione knew it, Christmas was fast approaching. She thought long and hard on whether or not she should escape from Hogwarts and join her family at home. Many an hour the decision plagued her, and she finally turned to Harry and Ron for guidance; if they stayed, she would stay. But she would not take the chance that most students left, and she remained at Hogwarts to accidentally run into Snape in the hallways every day.
She approached them one evening while they were immersed in Divination homework (with a slightly smug smile, of course, because she never regretted deserting that subject), and sat down to peer over their shoulders. Harry noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Hermione was acting strangely. She fidgeted with the hem of her robes and her eyes, as usual, were staring at something that was not being comprehended by her brain. He had a feeling there was something wrong, but was not certain how to approach it; girls, he had discovered, were always emotional concerning that sort of thing.
"Hermione?"
"Yeah?" She looked up, startled; so she hadn't been observing their papers as closely as she had wanted them to think.
"You okay?"
"Uh—yeah." She flashed a stiff, forced smile. "But I need to ask you two something, if that's all right."
"Sure." Ron tossed down his quill and leaned back to listen; he was regarding Hermione with nothing but a purely friendly look, and it seemed to Harry as though Ron saw no aspect of Hermione's behavior that warranted worry. Perhaps he was just being paranoid.
"Are you two staying at Hogwarts for Christmas vacation?"
Harry snorted. "Where else am I supposed to go? The Dursleys'?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "Hell, no. They'd probably cook you for Christmas dinner." Harry grinned at that; he could believe it.
"So you're staying?" Hermione was paying no attention to their playful humor; she looked unusually grave, and Harry was positive her skin was paler than usual. How long had she looked this way?
"You bet."
"I'll stay, too," Ron spoke up. "Mum and Dad are going to Egypt to meet with Bill and Audrey, and they'll probably put Fred and George in an asylum to keep them out of trouble." He chuckled. "That would be priceless."
Hermione nodded. "All right. I'll stay, then. I was debating whether or not I should go home."
Harry tried to make his next question as nonchalant as possible. "Why would you want to do that? You've stayed here the last few years."
She blushed slightly, and shrugged. "Well, I don't know…. This is my last year, after all, and once we're done here, I'll be off to find a job, live on my own…. Who knows how often I'll have an opportunity to visit my parents?"
"But," Ron pointed out firmly, "as you said, this is your last year at Hogwarts—all the more reason to stay and enjoy it!"
Hermione did not look as though she had the potential to enjoy anything; in fact, she looked slightly green in the pale firelight cast by the fireplace nearby. "Excellent point," she said, rising to her feet unsteadily. "I'll stay—thanks, you guys."
They watched her receding figure as she went back up the stairs, both wondering to themselves whether or not they should look into the possibility that there was something wrong. Ron finally voiced his concern—"Is she okay? Seems strange to me"—and Harry emphatically agreed. He forced himself to turn back to his homework and accept the fact that Hermione was far more mature than they, and capable of handling her own problems; but Ron stared at the staircase long after she had disappeared, a look of worry and suspicion on his face.
* * *
Hermione's parents had indeed hoped that she would opt to spend the Christmas holidays with them. They watched the mail, though primarily the Muggle mail, with hawklike observation and diligence. When Dr. Charlotte Granger arrived at her home late one evening a week before the holidays, she was overjoyed to see a letter, in a Muggle envelope, waiting for her, addressed in Hermione's perfect cursive.
Ripping open the letter, she scanned the pages eagerly, looking for something along the lines of "Can't wait to see you," but found no such thing. Instead, she was disappointed, even rather shocked, to find that Hermione had written the exact opposite.
'I do miss you and Dad, but I have decided I would like to remain at Hogwarts. Ron and Harry have pointed out that this is my last year, and it would mean the world to me if I could spend it at Hogwarts…. If you and Dad could find it in yourselves to grant me this wish, I would be extremely grateful. I miss you both terribly and am looking forward to seeing you this summer, and we will certainly have much to celebrate….'
Beyond that, she could find nothing that commanded special attention. Hermione went on to describe, briefly, an amusing incident in Potions class regarding something called Truth Serum, and tell the great news that Ron's eldest brother, Bill Weasley, was engaged to be married very soon; the lucky girl was Audrey something-or-other, and fortunately, both worked for Gringotts in the exact same location. Hermione sounded happy, Charlotte decided, even excited for her friend; nothing too stressful could be going on at school.
And so she was surprised, later, when her husband pointed out a worrisome discrepancy in Hermione's letter. Her writing, typically feather-light, curly, feminine strokes in perfectly written cursive, was dark and blurred, as though she had been pushing on the quill unusually hard and gripping it more tightly. Something, he speculated, might possibly be upsetting her, and she was not willing to inform them, for whatever reason; besides, he told her, placing a finger gently on the lower corner of the page, there was a tiny spot that looked suspiciously like a stain made by a tear.
* * *
On the same evening that the Grangers received their daughter's letter, she was making her way nervously up the steps that led to the library. Well- trodden and familiar to her, she now looked as though she was marching to the guillotine; her lips were pursed and her hands clenched into white- knuckled fists. Her eyes were darting here and there, her breath laborious. She was frightened.
Once in the library, she scampered to the very back of the room, far beyond Madam Pince's sight. Hermione visited the library more than her fair share, perhaps even more than all the other students in her House combined; her presence was noted, but not really noticed.
Hermione scanned the oldest section of shelves, the Hogwarts reference books and rules; finally, she pulled from the shelves what could quite possibly have been the most ancient book in the school. It was a massive tome, far too heavy for her to carry without difficulty, and covered in thick layers of dust. The pages, yellowed with age and faded, stuck together as she tried to turn them. Her fingers were clumsy and her palms sweaty; she glanced around once again to make sure she had no observers, and then checked the index in the back of the book.
Muttering to herself, she began to flip backward in the book to find the correct page. It was not one that had been often read, judging by the lack of dog-eared page tops in that particular section. Her eyes scanned through the words until she found what she was looking for.
Under the various rules and regulations was a section especially dedicated to relationships within the school. Originally, this section had been written to ensure that, should two teachers begin to forge a relationship, certain precautions were taken to prevent their work productivity from diminishing as a result. But as the years went by and newer editions of the book were printed, additions had been made to the rules. Hermione found the section regarding student-teacher relationships quite easily—the ink was hardly faded at all, and it would have been difficult to miss.
'Relationships between Students and Teachers,' the book read, 'are to remain of a platonic nature only. Any romantic or intimate attachments between any Hogwarts Employee and a Student, whether or not the Student is in the House for which the Employee is Head, in the Employee's class, etc., are strictly forbidden.'
Well. Things were off to an excellent start.
'Should a relationship of the nature mentioned above be discovered, punishments are to ensue immediately. It is up to the discretion of the Headmaster to determine the punishment of the Student, though extensive suspension or even expulsions are highly recommended. The Teacher is to be released from employment and, if need should arise, be placed in the hands of the Authorities.'
Hermione could not help but want to scream; such words would surely make Snape wild about her, she thought wryly, and slammed the book shut with unintended force. Several heads from various locations in the room shot up and looked at her in surprise. Now holding back tears in a volume she had not even realized herself capable of crying, Hermione walked as quickly as she could toward the exit. She kept her blurred sight on the door and refused to meet the gazes of the other students, who were still watching her interestedly.
Outside again, she closed the door with deliberate gentleness and then tore down the stairs. She was disgusted with herself for allowing her emotions to get the better of her; evenings like this afforded ample opportunity for studying, and were not to be wasted acting under the influence of stupid, juvenile crushes on teachers. Her parents, she told herself, would have been ashamed of her; this was not Hermione Granger!
She could not bring herself to return to the dorm room, so she sought refuge on the balcony near the kitchens instead, where she had first run into Gollum. Thinking about the amiable snake and her master, both probably locked away in that strange room in the dungeons, made Hermione feel even more miserable. Days were becoming difficult for her now, each one a constant battle with her inner self. Sooner or later, something was going to give—and she hoped, for the sake of her dignity and her education, that it was not her self-control.
* * *
If Hermione's determination to avoid Professor Snape was strong, her desire to see him was indestructible; she fought internal verbal wars with herself daily, but could not seem to make her morals overcome her ridiculous crush. Ginny noticed multiple times her friend's torment and tried to comfort her, but Hermione would not let her close; she had walled herself and her emotions off in the hopes that, while it was uncomfortable in the present, it would prove to be the right decision in the long run.
It was ironic, then, that Snape himself set about the course of actions that caused her last moral barricade to crumble and cave in. It was Christmas Day, and Hermione had woken up feeling worse than she had all year; nothing seemed to be going her way, and all she could think about was the approaching evening, when she, Harry, Ron, and any other resident students would be obliged to attend dinner in the Great Hall with the teachers. There were very few students remaining; besides the three of them, only Ginny and two Ravenclaws chose to stay at Hogwarts. The dinner would be intimate; she would end up sitting at the same table as Professor Snape.
She prayed all day that he would come down with an inexplicable illness or be called away for duty by Lord Voldemort, but had no luck; evening arrived and her feet were like lead as they walked down the stairs toward the Great Hall. Before they turned the corner and walked through the doors, Hermione exhaled a long, shuddering breath and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes against some invisible foe. Ron and Harry gaped at her; there was something very wrong, but now was not the time to address it. They had a dinner to attend.
Hermione gave a small whimper when she noticed the mistletoe hanging above the entrance and dashed through as though she had seen a ghost. She had intended to snatch for herself a chair at the very end of the table, but upon trying, she found that the three of them were the last to arrive. There were only three surplus chairs, on the left side, and Ron and Harry were quick to choose the two closest to the end. Hermione was in the very middle, across form Dumbledore—and, to his left, Snape.
Her eyes remained cast downward, on her plate, for the first ten minutes of the meal. Fortunately, all other professors were occupied, talking amongst themselves, or to Harry and Ron, who were in loquacious moods that day and seemed grateful for any conversation. Hermione ate absently and begged God to let the meal end quickly; she wanted to crawl into a hole and die when Dumbledore noticed her solemn, silent composure and asked, "Hermione, are you feeling all right? You seem ill."
"Miss Granger is still shaken, I daresay, from finding my pet snake roaming the castle," Snape spoke up quietly, looking hard at her for a moment before returning his gaze to his own dinner. "She was kind enough to return it to me."
A smile played at the corners of Dumbledore's lips and he asked in a friendly way, "Is that what's wrong, Hermione? I assure you, Severus' snake is quite tame; I myself have handled her, and found her to be a most agreeable animal."
"Indeed." Snape put down his fork and did not remove his eyes from Hermione's as he continued, "I suspect that she is…pining for you, Miss Granger; she has not been the same since you left." His words were quiet and deliberate, as was his gaze; she wanted to melt under its intensity and she saw, with immediate horror, that Ginny, from her place, was reading into his look the same way she was. He was not talking about Gollum.
"Then perhaps a visit is in order?" Dumbledore suggested lightly, making no note of the pained expression that flashed across her face. He could not know the irony of his words, but she and Snape both did; Snape continued to look at her with his depthless black eyes and she wondered how quickly she could dash from the room. Would they catch her before she reached the doors leading outside?
"Really," Professor Flitwick spoke up, "honestly, must we talk about snakes? At dinner?" He shuddered. "I don't know how you can live with such a creature, Severus, and in your own room!"
"It is far less dangerous"—Snape's voice was almost indistinguishable, too quiet and deep for her to hear—"than other creatures I could think of."
"Like a hippogriff!" Ginny's intervention was intentional, but much needed. Hermione could tell by her look that she sensed her friend's discomfort, and understood the hidden meaning of the words that Snape had just spoken while staring so intently at Hermione.
"Precisely," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "Speaking of hippogriffs, Hagrid, I have been meaning to ask you…" And the conversation drifted off in different directions. Snape gave her one more long, calculated look before rising from the table and striding out of the Great Hall, black robes billowing behind him. It was another fifteen minutes before the children felt it fit to excuse themselves and Hermione managed to ditch Harry and Ron on the way to the common room and slip off toward the dungeons. Her stomach was knotting in her abdomen with dread at what she knew she was going to have to confess.
Whether it was precognition or simply a hunch, Hermione did not know; but there he was, outside his office, waiting for her. Her steps slowed to a near stop when she saw him and she approached with a heavy, dismayed shuffle.
His arms were crossed casually in front of him, and he was leaning against the wall, looking down at her. She glanced to the right and saw that the door was slightly ajar, and lights were on inside his office. Wondering briefly where it was best to stage the interrogation, she decided that it would be easier to move inside his office; if she could get him to sit down, it would give her a head start running when she finally blurted out the truth.
"I have something I need to say." His facial expression betrayed no response, so she continued. "Can we go in your office?"
Once again, he said nothing, but reached over to push the door open; she slipped in underneath his outstretched arm and tried her best to hide from his wrath in the far corner of the room, between the bookshelves. Her heart fell when he, upon entering the room, did not sit at his desk chair as she had anticipated; he shut the door firmly and stood directly in front of it. She had no method of escape.
"Go on." He looked at her expectantly.
Now that she was in the perfect position to say it, she could not find the right words; she stood there for a moment, thinking, before she was able to so much as open her mouth. "I—I think there is something that you deserve to know," she began, avoiding his eyes. "I realize that this isn't going to make you thrilled, but still…"
"You never know," he quipped. His voice was cold and mocking. Why did she like him?
Now she was more confident; if she gave the words room to flow, they would come with ease. "In class a month or so ago, when we were doing the trails with Veritaserum and you gave a dose to Lavender, things got a little…out of hand." This was sounding good. "She made a joke about my, ah, reading habits, and you said something to me that I haven't been able to forget." She glanced up hopefully. Was he remembering?
"As I recall," he remarked, "my words to you were, 'And that, Miss Granger, is the truth.' Am I correct?"
"Yes. And you laughed." It was her turn to search his face for some sign of realization, but it was, as usual, an emotionless mask.
"Do you mean to tell me that you were insulted?" His eyes were fairly dancing now, but whether with astonishment or with malice, she could not discern. "I have to admit, Miss Granger, I did not think you could be so easily hurt."
"I'm not insulted," she snapped, and the ebony eyes flashed angrily. "Now would you let me finish?"
The laughter had abandoned his composure; her tone was bordering on insubordinate. "Fine. Continue."
"Your laugh surprised me; I didn't expect that you laughed at anything. Then, when I came for detention, you were…teasing me."
"Absolutely not," he protested half-heartedly. "It was you who instigated the wordplay, Miss Granger."
"That's a lie," she hissed back. "You reciprocated."
"What has that to do with anything?" Judging by his intense but calm stance, his interest was not in arguing with her.
"I don't know!" she exclaimed. "That's just it! I can't think! You may not believe me, but it's all your fault! And then, when I returned Gollum a few weeks ago, you laughed at me again, and everything you said about us having more in common than I expected"—the look in his eyes was strange now, almost expectant—"made me start wondering."
"And…?" The eyes held anticipation now, and she had an increasing premonition that he knew what she was struggling so vainly to communicate.
"And I've come to a conclusion." There was no easy way to admit how she felt, so, she realized, she might as well just spit it out.
"Which is?" He moved a step closer.
"I like you"—tears filled her eyes—"and I think you should know that."
He was silent, pensive, but still watching her closely; she could see his gaze taking in the tears that filled her own eyes and the way she fidgeted with the sleeves of her robe. When he spoke again, his voice was not mocking, but solemn. "I have never, Miss Granger, in all my years at Hogwarts, had a young woman admit to having a crush on me." A tear began to roll down her cheek. "So you will understand if I am not overly emotional; I am, however, flattered, though I may not openly show it."
Really? He hid his emotions well. He did not look any different than he had moments before, while scorning her for being thin-skinned, except for maybe that strange look in his eyes.
"I have nothing against you, Miss Granger. Quite honestly, I am shocked that you could feel that way about me. I had imagined you would, once you reached the age, lust after someone more…exciting. Not an intellectual such as myself."
He watched her closely for a reaction, and she shrugged. "I'm an intellectual too."
"I agree. But I was always of the opinion that, more often than not, opposites attract."
"Not always," she whispered, and it struck him hard; he blinked and turned away for a moment. Pacing back and forth in front of his desk, he appeared to be deep in thought.
"I am not able to show emotion, Miss Granger." His voice was steeled, as were his words. "I am not kind, or gentle; nor am I particularly romantic." That remark elicited a smile from her. "And you, of all people, should understand that a relationship between a student and a teacher is, to put it frankly, wrong. Were we in a different situation, then perhaps things could turn out differently."
He realized only seconds too late the full meaning of the words he had just spoken. Hermione, judging by her widening eyes, was just beginning to understand it as well. '…perhaps things could turn out differently.' It was their ages and, thus, their respective positions that stood in the way, not his feelings. Could that be true?
"Do you mean"—her voice was earnest—"that if it were not for me being a student and you a teacher, you could like me?"
He sighed, and bowed his head for a moment, as though mentally exhausted by their discussion; nothing was coming about the way he had wanted it to. The problem was not his words; the problem was that she was not misinterpreting them the way she was supposed to. The girl was too damn smart; she understood exactly what he was saying, and he could not shield himself through words.
"You are a compassionate, intelligent, and lovely young woman, Miss Granger, but there can be nothing between us. You know that, and I know that; regardless of what we feel, we need to abide by what we know."
"I hate rules!" she exclaimed vehemently. "I've been following rules my entire life and where has it gotten me? Nowhere I have wanted to go!" Her pacing was bringing her closer toward him, and he had to resist the urge to step even farther forward. He forced himself to step back, maintaining a respectable—and safe—distance between the two of them. She noticed; but she also noticed that he seemed torn, and smiled in grim satisfaction. His conscience was eating away at him in the same way her own was her.
"I think perhaps you should leave, Miss Granger." He would not smile, nor extend a friendly hand; he remained cool and distant to the bitter end. "The tension in this room has reached a potentially dangerous level."
She nodded knowingly, and walked toward the door. Neither understood what happened in the next second; only that, as she approached him, she did not pass, but turned to face him for only a split second. Their eyes met, barely inches away, and the next thing both were aware of, they had been kissing.
Hermione pulled away from him, gasping for air, eyes wide with shock. He cringed at realizing what he had done, and sank miserably into his desk chair. Passion had overruled reason in their minds for only a brief point in time, and yet it had the power to alter their lives forever.
"This changes everything," she whispered, looking at him. But when he raised his head and looked up, she thought for a moment she was staring into the face of a completely different man. She realized then that she was seeing into him, glimpsing the ravaged soul that lived within. He had given into temptation, betrayed himself and disappointed himself for yet another time. He would take this, yet another reason to hate himself and what he had become, even harder than she; his already vengeful conscience would use it as further ammunition against him. She longed to put her arms around him, try to comfort him, as a woman should her lover, but knew that she had caused trouble enough.
Hermione left him in his office, and walked gradually back to the Gryffindor common room. She had no idea what the next day would bring—whether he would accept what he felt and no longer be plagued by guilt, or give her the cold shoulder and avoid her completely. Sibyll Trelawney herself could not have predicted the outcome; but there was a feeling of foreboding, deep in the pit of her stomach, that their path was now going to become a much longer—and much more difficult—one to travel.