Inescapable
Chapter Seven
Hermione returned to the common room far past midnight. They had talked for hours, but just what their conversation had regarded, she was not sure she remembered; the entire evening seemed a blur of a film flashing through her mind that offered no definite promise. Her only certainty lay in her emotions, which were by then so jumbled that she felt intoxicated and otherworldly. A girl's first kisses were not something she was soon to forget; when those kisses came from her teacher—and a previously hated one, at that—there was much for her to consider.
Parvati stirred just slightly as she opened the door to the room and slipped inside, shutting it as quietly as she could manage. There was no time or chance for her to put on her pajamas, so she refrained from undressing and simply pulled off her robes so she could crawl beneath the covers in her skirt and blouse.
The Christmas holidays were coming to an end rapidly, and Hermione had given no thought to the future. It would be interesting, to say the least, to see how the two of them would be able to muster up the indifference to at least put on a display of typical classroom behavior. She had no doubts that it would require an award-worthy performance to keep from arousing the suspicions of her classmates. Oddly enough, Harry and Ron seemed completely oblivious; in fact, they were, it was beginning to seem, going to be the easiest ones to fool. Ironic, then, that they were her best friends; they had no ability to read between the lines of her behavior.
Ginny, though—that was entirely another matter. Hermione knew she had been acting foolhardy and even downright childish toward her friend, but her actions in no way validated Ginny's retaliation. She had been insensitive and cruel, and her deliberate provocation at the dinner table was uncalled for and even undeserved. Hermione had half a mind to confront Ginny and demand that she show some maturity, but knew that it would seem highly hypocritical coming from a student who was shattering castle rules to consort with a teacher.
* * *
As the Christmas holidays ended, Hermione realized that she had no reason to worry about a confrontation with Ginny. It seemed clear that her friend did not intend to grace Hermione with her presence; in fact, Ginny was avoiding her with amazing accuracy. She had no chances to speak with Ginny during the following days. The slightest advance, whether verbal or physical, elicited from Ginny a glare worthy of Snape's own, and capable of freezing anyone in their tracks.
Harry and Ron treated her normally, but they noticed the distinct chance in Ginny's behavior toward her, and were puzzled. "What's going on with you and Ginny?" Harry asked her one evening, and Hermione just shrugged. The two boys had by now forgotten her urgent errand, and proceeded to live their normal daily lives and spare no thoughts for her. Their conversations revolved around Quidditch, Divination homework, and summer plans, not speculations about her love life.
"You really should talk to Ginny," Ron informed her matter-of-factly; it was the first school day after the Christmas holidays, and they were making their way purposefully down to the dungeons for Potions class. Hermione's mind was preoccupied with wondering how she and Snape were to manage being in the same classroom and remain rational toward each other. Ron's comment was disconcerting.
"I—I know," she admitted, "but I think perhaps I should wait awhile. Ginny isn't ready to accept any apology yet. I'm afraid that offering one will only make her angrier."
"I don't see why it should," Harry interjected with a frown. "She adores you, Hermione, you know that. She's like your best friend."
"You two are my best friends." She pulled open the door of the Potions classroom and prepared for their conversation to end abruptly; it always did when they were confronted with Snape's presence in the same room.
But Harry continued, driven. "It isn't going to make her angry! Besides, the longer you let this go on, it's only going to get worse. Whatever's going on between you two isn't worth losing a friendship."
She had not thought of that. Her bag slipped absently from her shoulder and hit the desk with a resounding thud; Snape looked over from his position in front of the blackboard, writing the day's potion for note-taking, and their eyes met ever so briefly. She could see him taking in the situation with his characteristic scrutiny and knew that he would be listening intently to their every word.
"Our friendship isn't going to end," she retorted. "It's just a fight. She'll get over it"
"Maybe she isn't the one who needs to get over it," Harry replied gently, and Hermione looked up as though struck. She had flinched slightly and was now beginning to look assaulted.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're being just as immature as she is."
Hermione refused to dignify him with a comeback of her own and instead flopped down into her chair and searched through her bag for a quill. Her hair fell in front of her face, shielding her eyes from view, and the boys could not discern what expression covered her face. Harry sighed and Ron shook his head disbelievingly. They, too, sat down, and class commenced.
Snape proceeded to snap the day's directions, and the class obeyed immediately. Hermione found herself wondering whether his apparent cruelty in the classroom was an aspect of his true personality, or simply his way of ensuring that order prevailed in his classes. She liked to think that he was not the kind of person to act so horrendously toward everyone, but everything about his appearance and general manner begged to differ. It was comical, almost, that she could fall in love with someone who seemed like such an antisocial human being.
But the term "love" was not yet worthy of her feelings. She guarded her emotions jealously and refused to label them until she was absolutely certain of their true nature. Hermione saw daily that carelessly flaunting emotions could have detrimental effects on girls' lives. Parvati and Dean were having troubles, and Parvati wailed to herself and everyone who would listen about how much she loved him still. Hermione was inclined to think that professing her "love" was merely Parvati's way of gaining and keeping the attention of the others students, and she was not going to allow herself to stoop to Parvati's level.
"Miss Granger." Snape was observing her actions from the front of the room, a maliciously evil tone in his voice. "You are daydreaming again, in lieu of performing your duties in this classroom. Ten points from Gryffindor."
Neville shot Hermione a confused look to oppose the irritated ones coming from Lavender and Parvati across the room. She mumbled an apology and hurried about creating her potion, allowing herself only momentary relapses into daydreaming when time allowed and Snape was not observing her. He began to stride up and down the aisles, watching the students' work. His footfalls drew him steadily closer to her cauldron, and she could feel the heat as her body temperature rose several degrees. What was he going to do? Her hands were shaking slightly.
And as he paused next to her, he noticed this: the slight tremble of her fingertips as she methodically and precisely measured out ingredients. Spoons clattered quietly against containers when she dipped them in to withdraw substances, and he stood by her for nearly a full minute. Just as Neville was looking up in wonder at the professor, he moved languidly away and progressed to the next desk. Hermione exhaled sharply and allowed herself to stop for a moment.
"You okay?" Neville asked, eyebrows furrowed. "You look like you have a fever or something."
She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, feeling the slight sheen of nervous perspiration that had begun to appear there. "I'm okay," she assured him, rolling up her sleeves. "Just a little warm, that's all."
"'Kay." He turned away and resumed his own work.
At the front of the room, Snape was standing in front of the blackboard, arms crossed and eyes dark and malevolent as ever. His expression was one of burdened superiority, but it shifted visibly when Hermione looked up at him. She did not smile, nor give any indication that she wanted to greet him; but he nodded at her, almost imperceptibly, and the smile made its way to her eyes. He watched as they sparkled with pleasure, and then returned their gaze to her work with slight embarrassment. It amused him that after hours of talking and several kisses, she was still embarrassed to be caught staring at him.
She never took notice of Harry and Ron's actions throughout the course of Potions, but they were eyeing her curiously. Her own actions lacked their customary confidence and sharpness; she was slower and seemed to be double- checking her ever move, whereas typically she would have had utter assurance in herself that what she was doing was correct and accurate. Even Neville seemed to notice that something was amiss with Hermione; he looked up once to ask her if she was all right, saying that she appeared to be ill.
She seemed to hold herself in check well, however, and no further points were deducted from Gryffindor after the initial ten at the beginning of the class. It was as though her attention span had returned, but her fingers gained an inexplicable clumsiness. Hermione showed no disappointment in her actions, but kept her head bent and her expression determined as she finished her assignment. If she herself betrayed no sign of noticing a difference in her own behavior, perhaps they should not worry.
Nevertheless, something told Harry he should be concerned, and while they never spoke, Ron, he sensed, shared his opinion completely. As he stirred his potion, he would watch the back of Hermione's head, lowered in the direction of her work, with a look of pained wondering on his face. Harry had suspected more often than once that Ron felt something for Hermione beyond platonic friendship, and the expression on Ron's face only fed the fires of his speculation.
* * *
Parvati sauntered into the Great Hall with a look of triumph across her lovely features, and Hermione realized with a sinking heart that she and Dean had reconciled their differences and were once again "in love." As though love was something to be fallen out of, she thought skeptically, and could not help but feel a slight disdain toward Parvati. There was an obvious difference in maturity when one compared the ways in which Parvati and Hermione handled their feelings for Dean and Snape, respectively. But Hermione knew that Parvati's situation was socially and morally acceptable, and her own was not; therefore, she was in no position to judge.
"We've made up!" she gushed with girlish enthusiasm as she slid into her seat across from Hermione. "Oh, he was so sweet about it—he told me he couldn't stand fighting with me and he wanted to get back together more than anything."
Hermione managed a smile. "That was kind."
Parvati nodded, her face positively aglow. She radiated love and beauty like a newly married bride. "Then you think it was really right for me to agree to make up with him?"
"Absolutely," Hermione affirmed. "He obviously cares for you very much."
"I know he does," the other girl insisted with an air of knowledge and confidence Hermione envied. "He told me." Here she blushed, and covered her embarrassment by reaching for the tureen of soup and ladling some out for herself. Hermione watched as Parvati pushed her spoon through the soup with industry, but ate nothing. She was too excited to eat.
Hermione could not blame her, knowing that she would act the same way in Parvati's shoes. She looked up at the teacher's table toward Snape; his gaze was far in the distance, on something she could not, and probably never would, see. There were times when she wondered if there wasn't something he concealed from everyone else that would explain his strange demeanor. She made a mental note to try to pry it from him—tactfully, of course, and without rousing his anger—later, when they had agreed to meet on Gollum's Balcony.
She gathered from his words that their meetings were to become a nightly ritual. It seemed the best way to do it, because meeting more than once a day was dangerous, and meeting less than once a day was undesirable. Having been with him several times now, in the presence of what could have been an entirely different man who only shared Snape's characteristics, she wanted nothing more than to be with him every moment of the day. Whether or not it would become uncomfortable, and then unbearable, she could not guess; there was only one way to find out, and she longed to do it.
"Hermione." She looked up and raised her eyebrows questioningly to meet Harry's green eyes. "Where's Ginny?"
She blinked. Where was Ginny, for that matter? Her usual seat was empty and a void remained between Harry and Parvati. Ron, mouthed too full of mashed potatoes to make known his agreement verbally, nodded his head and motioned toward Ginny's empty place.
This time, Hermione did not shrug. "I don't know. Did she mention a previous engagement to either of you?"
"Ginny?" Ron scoffed. "What would she be doing? All her friends are here."
"I know, but maybe they had planned on being elsewhere earlier. Just because she isn't here doesn't necessarily mean there's something wrong."
"But there could be," Harry prodded. Hermione was deeply touched by his concern for Ginny, so much an admirer of his.
"Yes, there could. Maybe I should go look for her…" She turned in her seat to scan the rest of the Great Hall for Ginny's blazing hair, but found nothing. "She isn't here, that's for sure."
As she turned back, Snape cast her a questioning look from the teacher's table; he could read the increasingly frantic expression on her face. She dared not smile at him, because Ron and Harry were watching her as they waited for her reply.
"I'm going to go look," she decided, and placed her napkin down on the table. As she rose, recognition flashed in Snape's eyes and she had to shake her head faintly; he would have followed her with his own exit.
Hermione crossed the floor quickly and left the Great Hall. As she headed toward the Gryffindor common room, she could hear footsteps approaching her, the striking of the feet resounding through the halls. Ginny came into her view not two hundred feet away, and stopped when she saw Hermione. Then, as though rebuilding her shield, she resumed her resolute stride forward. As she and Hermione passed, Hermione stopped, but Ginny did not. She held out a hand, a white envelope pinched between two fingers. Hermione took it hesitantly and, with a flash of her eyes, Ginny was gone in the direction of the Great Hall.
Hermione stood in the corridor for several minutes, debating whether she should return to the Great Hall. Undoubtedly, the note was of high priority, but she did not want Ginny to show up for dinner, only to have Ron and Harry begin to worry about her. She decided in the end that returning to the common room and letting Ron and Harry wonder was the lesser of the two evils. If she showed, Ginny would only regain her moody, brooding manner.
Safely in the common room, she curled up beside the fireplace—a flick of her wand and a whisper placed warming flames next to her—and slit the top of the envelope with her fingers. Inside, she recognized parchment filled with Ginny's distinctive, stock-straight cursive that contrasted with her own slanted, flowing script. The letter was not lengthy, only about three- quarters of one page of parchment, but it was forthright and did not fail to make its point.
'What you decide to do is up to you,' Ginny wrote, 'but I refuse to be an accomplice. If you want to see him, then that is your decision.' She went on to describe to Hermione that she felt alienated by Hermione's secretive behavior, and while she knew it was juvenile, she missed being a defining factor in Hermione's life.
'I will still be your friend,' Ginny's writing informed her, 'but only if you promise me that you won't get angry when I try to help you. I know it sounds like a scolding mother, but I'm saying this because I don't really believe that you can love him.'
That hurt, but Hermione knew that what Ginny felt should have no bearing over her own feelings toward Snape. Ginny finished the letter by saying that, while she had had plenty of time to herself in isolation to consider how she felt about being privy to Hermione' situation, she needed to be left alone in order to sort out just what was going on. Hermione nodded unconsciously as she read the letter; she recognized Ginny's feelings as being those of betrayal and denial, but wanting to help a friend. She appreciated that, and tried to overlook the stinging comment about her skepticism regarding the veracity of Hermione's feelings.
She refolded the parchment and slipped it back into the envelope, which she placed in one of the inner pockets of her robes. From outside the common room, sounds of the students returning from dinner were audible to her ears. She was anxious to escape from the sight of the other students and make her way to Gollum's Balcony before it was too late.
Slipping in with the other students moments later, she branched off into a dark corridor and waited, unseen and unsuspected, until the hallways had cleared. Then she headed in the opposite direction and half-walked, half- jogged her way down the stairs and beyond the castle entranceway toward the kitchens. She gave the portrait of the fruit bowl that contained the lively pear a passing glance before she slipped through the darkness and into the coolness of the night air surrounding Gollum's Balcony.
He had not yet arrived, so she resumed his usual place by the far corner of the ledge to observe the night sky. It was cold, but not yet frigid; a light blanket of snow carpeted the Hogwarts grounds, bathed in the incandescent light cast by the waxing moon. She was struck subconsciously by the tranquility and beauty of the winter night, and wondered if it was the type of thing they could rejoice in together. She knew better now than to automatically assume Severus Snape could find no beauty, no warmth, in one of life's miracles.
He arrived a few minutes later, but she did not turn around; she kept her eyes riveted on the striking landscape. He approached her slowly until she could feel him standing behind her, warm, solid, and comforting. She could not restrain a hidden smile when she turned and saw that he was visibly uncomfortable with the intimacy; but he was making an effort, and that touched her.
"Hello." His voice was slightly hoarse in the cold air, making it even deeper and more resonant.
Again, she smiled. "Hi."
"Are you all right?" She could hardly discern his eyes from the black night enveloping them, and wondered if he looked as concerned as he sounded. It was undeniably a strange emotion, coming from him, but perhaps she would grow accustomed to it.
"I'm fine. Are you referring to my leaving the Great Hall?"
He nodded, and she could feel the slight change in the air. "You looked frightened."
"Just nervous. Ginny wasn't there and we were wondering where she'd gone to." Their breath crystallized in the clear air and made clouds of vapor between them.
"You found her, I assume?" The clouds had since passed beyond the moon and its rays had shifted, making his face visible in the stark light. Black orbs that were his eyes held nothing she could recognize, but the look was familiar in some instinctive way.
Here, she grimaced. "Yes, but not without a price. She wrote me a note; it's almost bittersweet, actually. She wants to remain my friend, but refuses to be an 'accomplice,' so to speak."
He chuckled. "That is perfectly understandable. She, unlike the two of us, can be rational in the face of rule breaking. You and I obviously lack the self-control."
"Or the desire." He was silent then, and only watched her. When it became clear that his mood was too contemplative to warrant talking, she turned her back toward him and again faced the Hogwarts grounds. They stood that way for nearly ten minutes: she wondering, he thinking, and both admiring the savage beauty of winter.
Finally, she could feel him move slightly, and sensed that he wanted to speak. "I have to thank you," he confessed, his voice distant. "You've given me back human emotions that I forgot I was capable of feeling."
"I'm glad," she whispered back. "It's about time you remembered how to like someone."
"Not just that," he continued, shaking his head. "Hope, fear, desire. I never imagined I could feel such things again."
The words hit her harder than she had expected, but she shook them off in favor of appeasing her curiosity. "Whatever happened to you to make you think yourself incapable of human feeling?"
She could actually feel him smile. "That," he replied, "is a long story. Perhaps you should sit down, if you are intent on hearing it."
* * *
His quarters were cozier than she remembered them; once he had started a fire in the fireplace and Gollum had emerged from her hole to curl up in Hermione's lap, things seemed homely and welcoming. She ignored the eerie sound of the wind, which had picked up since they'd retreated indoors, howling around the base of the castle and the snow that pounded against the single window in the ceiling.
He had offered her tea, but her stomach was too jumbled to accept anything, so she declined politely and curled up in a chair across from him. They had not yet reached a point where she would have been comfortable sitting with or next to him, or leaning against him. She supposed, however, that it was entirely possible they would, someday, be so intimate; the thought was both strange and exciting.
He watched Hermione as she stared into the fire, the glow casting auburn and blonde highlights into her thick, light brown hair. It had grown tame, he noticed, and instead of resembling a creature's nest as it once had, it hung in long, curly tendrils around her face and down her shoulders. The contours of her face and body were illuminated in the firelight; her face sculpted and beautiful, her body beneath her robes timid but strong in its figure and stance as she remained deep in thought. She was lovely; there was no doubt about it. What amazed him was that he could find himself attracted to a girl not yet eighteen years old; grown women were normally more to his taste.
Hermione looked up expectantly, and found him watching her. Color crept into her cheeks, but looked like a mere flush from the heat of the fireplace. As he tried to find his voice, she shifted position in the chair to face him directly, with her hands clasped in her lap.
"Are you sure you want to hear this?" he began, looking stern. "You have an acquaintance involved in this story, and I do not want to make you angry or uncomfortable."
"I can handle it," she said with a giggle, amused by his concern. He shrugged slightly.
"Very well. Yes, something did happen to me that made me…hesitant to believe in my ability to feel any deeper emotions for another person."
"A woman?" she guessed. He could see in the expression on her face that she was completely sure of her speculation, and had probably thought long and hard on the subject before.
"Yes, a woman."
"May I guess who?"
He looked surprise. "If you wish."
"Harry's mother. Lily."
There was nothing that could hide the look of blatant pain that crossed his face at the mere mention of Lily Potter's name. She felt at once triumphant and awful for causing such hurt to him. He was not the type of man to admit to his weaknesses, and she had unearthed one as simply as if it were the name of a young girl's secret crush. Clearly, he had thought himself stronger and more protected.
"Yes." He turned his face back toward the fire and was silent for a minute. Hermione did not rush him; it was painful enough for him to simply admit the truth about his past with Mrs. James Potter, let alone elaborate.
"She and I met at Hogwarts." He was attempting to make his voice void of any emotion, but its natural quality was that of deep, vivid expression. "We were together for almost three years before she left me for James Potter. She insisted she still loved me, just not in the same way as she did him."
He leaned back in his chair, still staring at the fire. His eyes glowed red in the firelight that struck them straight on. "I look at Harry daily and I see them both. He has his father's hair, obviously, and increasingly resembles his father over his mother as he grows. But he has Lily's eyes; there can be no argument there."
"Were her eyes green, like Harry's?" She had only briefly seen pictures of Lily Potter in the scrapbook Hagrid had given to Harry years ago. Never had she had the chance to study them carefully, to scrutinize any resemblance Harry bore to his parents, long gone from his life and his world.
"As though they were cut from the same emerald," he murmured. He did not seem capable of meeting her eyes, but she did not begrudge it of him. There was no way for her to conceive the thoughts that had to be flitting across his mind then, but she would not for the world have invaded his privacy.
The seconds crawled by as Hermione watched the enigmatic, cruel Professor Snape confront his demons and eventually conquer them. He was silent as he rose from his chair and offered her a hand. Helping her to her feet, he led her to the door and made it clear in his stance that she was to go.
"You need to leave," he told her, and she was overly aware of his grip on her wrist. She understood then, and nodded; there were some bridges that were not yet meant to be crossed. She walked through the door and slowly up the stairs, knowing that he watched her retreating figure. When she reached the top of the staircase, she heard the gentle click of the door latching back into place. She glanced down at the skin on her wrist, wondering if it was on fire; a burning heat remained there until she fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter Seven
Hermione returned to the common room far past midnight. They had talked for hours, but just what their conversation had regarded, she was not sure she remembered; the entire evening seemed a blur of a film flashing through her mind that offered no definite promise. Her only certainty lay in her emotions, which were by then so jumbled that she felt intoxicated and otherworldly. A girl's first kisses were not something she was soon to forget; when those kisses came from her teacher—and a previously hated one, at that—there was much for her to consider.
Parvati stirred just slightly as she opened the door to the room and slipped inside, shutting it as quietly as she could manage. There was no time or chance for her to put on her pajamas, so she refrained from undressing and simply pulled off her robes so she could crawl beneath the covers in her skirt and blouse.
The Christmas holidays were coming to an end rapidly, and Hermione had given no thought to the future. It would be interesting, to say the least, to see how the two of them would be able to muster up the indifference to at least put on a display of typical classroom behavior. She had no doubts that it would require an award-worthy performance to keep from arousing the suspicions of her classmates. Oddly enough, Harry and Ron seemed completely oblivious; in fact, they were, it was beginning to seem, going to be the easiest ones to fool. Ironic, then, that they were her best friends; they had no ability to read between the lines of her behavior.
Ginny, though—that was entirely another matter. Hermione knew she had been acting foolhardy and even downright childish toward her friend, but her actions in no way validated Ginny's retaliation. She had been insensitive and cruel, and her deliberate provocation at the dinner table was uncalled for and even undeserved. Hermione had half a mind to confront Ginny and demand that she show some maturity, but knew that it would seem highly hypocritical coming from a student who was shattering castle rules to consort with a teacher.
* * *
As the Christmas holidays ended, Hermione realized that she had no reason to worry about a confrontation with Ginny. It seemed clear that her friend did not intend to grace Hermione with her presence; in fact, Ginny was avoiding her with amazing accuracy. She had no chances to speak with Ginny during the following days. The slightest advance, whether verbal or physical, elicited from Ginny a glare worthy of Snape's own, and capable of freezing anyone in their tracks.
Harry and Ron treated her normally, but they noticed the distinct chance in Ginny's behavior toward her, and were puzzled. "What's going on with you and Ginny?" Harry asked her one evening, and Hermione just shrugged. The two boys had by now forgotten her urgent errand, and proceeded to live their normal daily lives and spare no thoughts for her. Their conversations revolved around Quidditch, Divination homework, and summer plans, not speculations about her love life.
"You really should talk to Ginny," Ron informed her matter-of-factly; it was the first school day after the Christmas holidays, and they were making their way purposefully down to the dungeons for Potions class. Hermione's mind was preoccupied with wondering how she and Snape were to manage being in the same classroom and remain rational toward each other. Ron's comment was disconcerting.
"I—I know," she admitted, "but I think perhaps I should wait awhile. Ginny isn't ready to accept any apology yet. I'm afraid that offering one will only make her angrier."
"I don't see why it should," Harry interjected with a frown. "She adores you, Hermione, you know that. She's like your best friend."
"You two are my best friends." She pulled open the door of the Potions classroom and prepared for their conversation to end abruptly; it always did when they were confronted with Snape's presence in the same room.
But Harry continued, driven. "It isn't going to make her angry! Besides, the longer you let this go on, it's only going to get worse. Whatever's going on between you two isn't worth losing a friendship."
She had not thought of that. Her bag slipped absently from her shoulder and hit the desk with a resounding thud; Snape looked over from his position in front of the blackboard, writing the day's potion for note-taking, and their eyes met ever so briefly. She could see him taking in the situation with his characteristic scrutiny and knew that he would be listening intently to their every word.
"Our friendship isn't going to end," she retorted. "It's just a fight. She'll get over it"
"Maybe she isn't the one who needs to get over it," Harry replied gently, and Hermione looked up as though struck. She had flinched slightly and was now beginning to look assaulted.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're being just as immature as she is."
Hermione refused to dignify him with a comeback of her own and instead flopped down into her chair and searched through her bag for a quill. Her hair fell in front of her face, shielding her eyes from view, and the boys could not discern what expression covered her face. Harry sighed and Ron shook his head disbelievingly. They, too, sat down, and class commenced.
Snape proceeded to snap the day's directions, and the class obeyed immediately. Hermione found herself wondering whether his apparent cruelty in the classroom was an aspect of his true personality, or simply his way of ensuring that order prevailed in his classes. She liked to think that he was not the kind of person to act so horrendously toward everyone, but everything about his appearance and general manner begged to differ. It was comical, almost, that she could fall in love with someone who seemed like such an antisocial human being.
But the term "love" was not yet worthy of her feelings. She guarded her emotions jealously and refused to label them until she was absolutely certain of their true nature. Hermione saw daily that carelessly flaunting emotions could have detrimental effects on girls' lives. Parvati and Dean were having troubles, and Parvati wailed to herself and everyone who would listen about how much she loved him still. Hermione was inclined to think that professing her "love" was merely Parvati's way of gaining and keeping the attention of the others students, and she was not going to allow herself to stoop to Parvati's level.
"Miss Granger." Snape was observing her actions from the front of the room, a maliciously evil tone in his voice. "You are daydreaming again, in lieu of performing your duties in this classroom. Ten points from Gryffindor."
Neville shot Hermione a confused look to oppose the irritated ones coming from Lavender and Parvati across the room. She mumbled an apology and hurried about creating her potion, allowing herself only momentary relapses into daydreaming when time allowed and Snape was not observing her. He began to stride up and down the aisles, watching the students' work. His footfalls drew him steadily closer to her cauldron, and she could feel the heat as her body temperature rose several degrees. What was he going to do? Her hands were shaking slightly.
And as he paused next to her, he noticed this: the slight tremble of her fingertips as she methodically and precisely measured out ingredients. Spoons clattered quietly against containers when she dipped them in to withdraw substances, and he stood by her for nearly a full minute. Just as Neville was looking up in wonder at the professor, he moved languidly away and progressed to the next desk. Hermione exhaled sharply and allowed herself to stop for a moment.
"You okay?" Neville asked, eyebrows furrowed. "You look like you have a fever or something."
She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, feeling the slight sheen of nervous perspiration that had begun to appear there. "I'm okay," she assured him, rolling up her sleeves. "Just a little warm, that's all."
"'Kay." He turned away and resumed his own work.
At the front of the room, Snape was standing in front of the blackboard, arms crossed and eyes dark and malevolent as ever. His expression was one of burdened superiority, but it shifted visibly when Hermione looked up at him. She did not smile, nor give any indication that she wanted to greet him; but he nodded at her, almost imperceptibly, and the smile made its way to her eyes. He watched as they sparkled with pleasure, and then returned their gaze to her work with slight embarrassment. It amused him that after hours of talking and several kisses, she was still embarrassed to be caught staring at him.
She never took notice of Harry and Ron's actions throughout the course of Potions, but they were eyeing her curiously. Her own actions lacked their customary confidence and sharpness; she was slower and seemed to be double- checking her ever move, whereas typically she would have had utter assurance in herself that what she was doing was correct and accurate. Even Neville seemed to notice that something was amiss with Hermione; he looked up once to ask her if she was all right, saying that she appeared to be ill.
She seemed to hold herself in check well, however, and no further points were deducted from Gryffindor after the initial ten at the beginning of the class. It was as though her attention span had returned, but her fingers gained an inexplicable clumsiness. Hermione showed no disappointment in her actions, but kept her head bent and her expression determined as she finished her assignment. If she herself betrayed no sign of noticing a difference in her own behavior, perhaps they should not worry.
Nevertheless, something told Harry he should be concerned, and while they never spoke, Ron, he sensed, shared his opinion completely. As he stirred his potion, he would watch the back of Hermione's head, lowered in the direction of her work, with a look of pained wondering on his face. Harry had suspected more often than once that Ron felt something for Hermione beyond platonic friendship, and the expression on Ron's face only fed the fires of his speculation.
* * *
Parvati sauntered into the Great Hall with a look of triumph across her lovely features, and Hermione realized with a sinking heart that she and Dean had reconciled their differences and were once again "in love." As though love was something to be fallen out of, she thought skeptically, and could not help but feel a slight disdain toward Parvati. There was an obvious difference in maturity when one compared the ways in which Parvati and Hermione handled their feelings for Dean and Snape, respectively. But Hermione knew that Parvati's situation was socially and morally acceptable, and her own was not; therefore, she was in no position to judge.
"We've made up!" she gushed with girlish enthusiasm as she slid into her seat across from Hermione. "Oh, he was so sweet about it—he told me he couldn't stand fighting with me and he wanted to get back together more than anything."
Hermione managed a smile. "That was kind."
Parvati nodded, her face positively aglow. She radiated love and beauty like a newly married bride. "Then you think it was really right for me to agree to make up with him?"
"Absolutely," Hermione affirmed. "He obviously cares for you very much."
"I know he does," the other girl insisted with an air of knowledge and confidence Hermione envied. "He told me." Here she blushed, and covered her embarrassment by reaching for the tureen of soup and ladling some out for herself. Hermione watched as Parvati pushed her spoon through the soup with industry, but ate nothing. She was too excited to eat.
Hermione could not blame her, knowing that she would act the same way in Parvati's shoes. She looked up at the teacher's table toward Snape; his gaze was far in the distance, on something she could not, and probably never would, see. There were times when she wondered if there wasn't something he concealed from everyone else that would explain his strange demeanor. She made a mental note to try to pry it from him—tactfully, of course, and without rousing his anger—later, when they had agreed to meet on Gollum's Balcony.
She gathered from his words that their meetings were to become a nightly ritual. It seemed the best way to do it, because meeting more than once a day was dangerous, and meeting less than once a day was undesirable. Having been with him several times now, in the presence of what could have been an entirely different man who only shared Snape's characteristics, she wanted nothing more than to be with him every moment of the day. Whether or not it would become uncomfortable, and then unbearable, she could not guess; there was only one way to find out, and she longed to do it.
"Hermione." She looked up and raised her eyebrows questioningly to meet Harry's green eyes. "Where's Ginny?"
She blinked. Where was Ginny, for that matter? Her usual seat was empty and a void remained between Harry and Parvati. Ron, mouthed too full of mashed potatoes to make known his agreement verbally, nodded his head and motioned toward Ginny's empty place.
This time, Hermione did not shrug. "I don't know. Did she mention a previous engagement to either of you?"
"Ginny?" Ron scoffed. "What would she be doing? All her friends are here."
"I know, but maybe they had planned on being elsewhere earlier. Just because she isn't here doesn't necessarily mean there's something wrong."
"But there could be," Harry prodded. Hermione was deeply touched by his concern for Ginny, so much an admirer of his.
"Yes, there could. Maybe I should go look for her…" She turned in her seat to scan the rest of the Great Hall for Ginny's blazing hair, but found nothing. "She isn't here, that's for sure."
As she turned back, Snape cast her a questioning look from the teacher's table; he could read the increasingly frantic expression on her face. She dared not smile at him, because Ron and Harry were watching her as they waited for her reply.
"I'm going to go look," she decided, and placed her napkin down on the table. As she rose, recognition flashed in Snape's eyes and she had to shake her head faintly; he would have followed her with his own exit.
Hermione crossed the floor quickly and left the Great Hall. As she headed toward the Gryffindor common room, she could hear footsteps approaching her, the striking of the feet resounding through the halls. Ginny came into her view not two hundred feet away, and stopped when she saw Hermione. Then, as though rebuilding her shield, she resumed her resolute stride forward. As she and Hermione passed, Hermione stopped, but Ginny did not. She held out a hand, a white envelope pinched between two fingers. Hermione took it hesitantly and, with a flash of her eyes, Ginny was gone in the direction of the Great Hall.
Hermione stood in the corridor for several minutes, debating whether she should return to the Great Hall. Undoubtedly, the note was of high priority, but she did not want Ginny to show up for dinner, only to have Ron and Harry begin to worry about her. She decided in the end that returning to the common room and letting Ron and Harry wonder was the lesser of the two evils. If she showed, Ginny would only regain her moody, brooding manner.
Safely in the common room, she curled up beside the fireplace—a flick of her wand and a whisper placed warming flames next to her—and slit the top of the envelope with her fingers. Inside, she recognized parchment filled with Ginny's distinctive, stock-straight cursive that contrasted with her own slanted, flowing script. The letter was not lengthy, only about three- quarters of one page of parchment, but it was forthright and did not fail to make its point.
'What you decide to do is up to you,' Ginny wrote, 'but I refuse to be an accomplice. If you want to see him, then that is your decision.' She went on to describe to Hermione that she felt alienated by Hermione's secretive behavior, and while she knew it was juvenile, she missed being a defining factor in Hermione's life.
'I will still be your friend,' Ginny's writing informed her, 'but only if you promise me that you won't get angry when I try to help you. I know it sounds like a scolding mother, but I'm saying this because I don't really believe that you can love him.'
That hurt, but Hermione knew that what Ginny felt should have no bearing over her own feelings toward Snape. Ginny finished the letter by saying that, while she had had plenty of time to herself in isolation to consider how she felt about being privy to Hermione' situation, she needed to be left alone in order to sort out just what was going on. Hermione nodded unconsciously as she read the letter; she recognized Ginny's feelings as being those of betrayal and denial, but wanting to help a friend. She appreciated that, and tried to overlook the stinging comment about her skepticism regarding the veracity of Hermione's feelings.
She refolded the parchment and slipped it back into the envelope, which she placed in one of the inner pockets of her robes. From outside the common room, sounds of the students returning from dinner were audible to her ears. She was anxious to escape from the sight of the other students and make her way to Gollum's Balcony before it was too late.
Slipping in with the other students moments later, she branched off into a dark corridor and waited, unseen and unsuspected, until the hallways had cleared. Then she headed in the opposite direction and half-walked, half- jogged her way down the stairs and beyond the castle entranceway toward the kitchens. She gave the portrait of the fruit bowl that contained the lively pear a passing glance before she slipped through the darkness and into the coolness of the night air surrounding Gollum's Balcony.
He had not yet arrived, so she resumed his usual place by the far corner of the ledge to observe the night sky. It was cold, but not yet frigid; a light blanket of snow carpeted the Hogwarts grounds, bathed in the incandescent light cast by the waxing moon. She was struck subconsciously by the tranquility and beauty of the winter night, and wondered if it was the type of thing they could rejoice in together. She knew better now than to automatically assume Severus Snape could find no beauty, no warmth, in one of life's miracles.
He arrived a few minutes later, but she did not turn around; she kept her eyes riveted on the striking landscape. He approached her slowly until she could feel him standing behind her, warm, solid, and comforting. She could not restrain a hidden smile when she turned and saw that he was visibly uncomfortable with the intimacy; but he was making an effort, and that touched her.
"Hello." His voice was slightly hoarse in the cold air, making it even deeper and more resonant.
Again, she smiled. "Hi."
"Are you all right?" She could hardly discern his eyes from the black night enveloping them, and wondered if he looked as concerned as he sounded. It was undeniably a strange emotion, coming from him, but perhaps she would grow accustomed to it.
"I'm fine. Are you referring to my leaving the Great Hall?"
He nodded, and she could feel the slight change in the air. "You looked frightened."
"Just nervous. Ginny wasn't there and we were wondering where she'd gone to." Their breath crystallized in the clear air and made clouds of vapor between them.
"You found her, I assume?" The clouds had since passed beyond the moon and its rays had shifted, making his face visible in the stark light. Black orbs that were his eyes held nothing she could recognize, but the look was familiar in some instinctive way.
Here, she grimaced. "Yes, but not without a price. She wrote me a note; it's almost bittersweet, actually. She wants to remain my friend, but refuses to be an 'accomplice,' so to speak."
He chuckled. "That is perfectly understandable. She, unlike the two of us, can be rational in the face of rule breaking. You and I obviously lack the self-control."
"Or the desire." He was silent then, and only watched her. When it became clear that his mood was too contemplative to warrant talking, she turned her back toward him and again faced the Hogwarts grounds. They stood that way for nearly ten minutes: she wondering, he thinking, and both admiring the savage beauty of winter.
Finally, she could feel him move slightly, and sensed that he wanted to speak. "I have to thank you," he confessed, his voice distant. "You've given me back human emotions that I forgot I was capable of feeling."
"I'm glad," she whispered back. "It's about time you remembered how to like someone."
"Not just that," he continued, shaking his head. "Hope, fear, desire. I never imagined I could feel such things again."
The words hit her harder than she had expected, but she shook them off in favor of appeasing her curiosity. "Whatever happened to you to make you think yourself incapable of human feeling?"
She could actually feel him smile. "That," he replied, "is a long story. Perhaps you should sit down, if you are intent on hearing it."
* * *
His quarters were cozier than she remembered them; once he had started a fire in the fireplace and Gollum had emerged from her hole to curl up in Hermione's lap, things seemed homely and welcoming. She ignored the eerie sound of the wind, which had picked up since they'd retreated indoors, howling around the base of the castle and the snow that pounded against the single window in the ceiling.
He had offered her tea, but her stomach was too jumbled to accept anything, so she declined politely and curled up in a chair across from him. They had not yet reached a point where she would have been comfortable sitting with or next to him, or leaning against him. She supposed, however, that it was entirely possible they would, someday, be so intimate; the thought was both strange and exciting.
He watched Hermione as she stared into the fire, the glow casting auburn and blonde highlights into her thick, light brown hair. It had grown tame, he noticed, and instead of resembling a creature's nest as it once had, it hung in long, curly tendrils around her face and down her shoulders. The contours of her face and body were illuminated in the firelight; her face sculpted and beautiful, her body beneath her robes timid but strong in its figure and stance as she remained deep in thought. She was lovely; there was no doubt about it. What amazed him was that he could find himself attracted to a girl not yet eighteen years old; grown women were normally more to his taste.
Hermione looked up expectantly, and found him watching her. Color crept into her cheeks, but looked like a mere flush from the heat of the fireplace. As he tried to find his voice, she shifted position in the chair to face him directly, with her hands clasped in her lap.
"Are you sure you want to hear this?" he began, looking stern. "You have an acquaintance involved in this story, and I do not want to make you angry or uncomfortable."
"I can handle it," she said with a giggle, amused by his concern. He shrugged slightly.
"Very well. Yes, something did happen to me that made me…hesitant to believe in my ability to feel any deeper emotions for another person."
"A woman?" she guessed. He could see in the expression on her face that she was completely sure of her speculation, and had probably thought long and hard on the subject before.
"Yes, a woman."
"May I guess who?"
He looked surprise. "If you wish."
"Harry's mother. Lily."
There was nothing that could hide the look of blatant pain that crossed his face at the mere mention of Lily Potter's name. She felt at once triumphant and awful for causing such hurt to him. He was not the type of man to admit to his weaknesses, and she had unearthed one as simply as if it were the name of a young girl's secret crush. Clearly, he had thought himself stronger and more protected.
"Yes." He turned his face back toward the fire and was silent for a minute. Hermione did not rush him; it was painful enough for him to simply admit the truth about his past with Mrs. James Potter, let alone elaborate.
"She and I met at Hogwarts." He was attempting to make his voice void of any emotion, but its natural quality was that of deep, vivid expression. "We were together for almost three years before she left me for James Potter. She insisted she still loved me, just not in the same way as she did him."
He leaned back in his chair, still staring at the fire. His eyes glowed red in the firelight that struck them straight on. "I look at Harry daily and I see them both. He has his father's hair, obviously, and increasingly resembles his father over his mother as he grows. But he has Lily's eyes; there can be no argument there."
"Were her eyes green, like Harry's?" She had only briefly seen pictures of Lily Potter in the scrapbook Hagrid had given to Harry years ago. Never had she had the chance to study them carefully, to scrutinize any resemblance Harry bore to his parents, long gone from his life and his world.
"As though they were cut from the same emerald," he murmured. He did not seem capable of meeting her eyes, but she did not begrudge it of him. There was no way for her to conceive the thoughts that had to be flitting across his mind then, but she would not for the world have invaded his privacy.
The seconds crawled by as Hermione watched the enigmatic, cruel Professor Snape confront his demons and eventually conquer them. He was silent as he rose from his chair and offered her a hand. Helping her to her feet, he led her to the door and made it clear in his stance that she was to go.
"You need to leave," he told her, and she was overly aware of his grip on her wrist. She understood then, and nodded; there were some bridges that were not yet meant to be crossed. She walked through the door and slowly up the stairs, knowing that he watched her retreating figure. When she reached the top of the staircase, she heard the gentle click of the door latching back into place. She glanced down at the skin on her wrist, wondering if it was on fire; a burning heat remained there until she fell into a deep sleep.