"I meant to do that
Does that mean a thing
If you wanted songs
Then I meant to sing
I'd give you the world
If you'd give mine back
What I didn't do
I meant to do that"
~Paul Brandt, "I Meant To Do That"
She was sitting in the hall of the Dungeons when I came upon her, a scrap of a girl with more hair on her head than inches in her stature, pulled into a ponytail using some sort of hair ribbon. A funny sort of halo, unkempt to the naked eye, the embodiment of the walking contradiction that was Hermione Granger to me. A brilliant student, she was, gave more to her studies when I convinced she had nothing left to give. Determined, but never defiant. Charming, but never artificial.
"Miss Granger," I greeted, my voice at its most menacing, "why are you sitting outside my chambers at such a late hour?" It was past midnight. The day before the Seventh Years' graduation ceremony. Most Seventh Years took this opportunity to ingest their first tastes of Muggle liquor, but, no, Miss Granger had decided to grace me with her presence.
She did not answer as she pulled herself up, standing tall, adjusting her long robes. The ribbon fell out when she rose, but she caught it and put it up again. She simply continued staring at me.
"Have you gone deaf, Miss Granger, in the last day since I've seen you? I asked what you are doing here at such a late hour?" I asked again, my voice louder, echoing over the darkened bricks that made up the Dungeons.
She pulled a sheet of parchment from somewhere within her robes and shoved it at me. "I'd like to discuss this," she stated quietly. I took it and read it, recognizing it as her final project, an essay on the rudimentary uses of Pinthus Root in nasal congestion mixtures.
I looked it up and down, including the few red markings on the pristine sheet of parchment and the grade encircled in the top right corner. "What about it?"
"I would like to know why you denied me a decent grade on this project, Professor Snape."
I snorted, aghast (which, of course, is the only circumstance under which I snort at all in this world.) "Decent grade, Miss Granger? This is the top grade in the class! And I was rather generous, if I do say so myself."
"You took precious points off, Professor Snape. I would like to know why you denied me full credit for something into which I put an enormous amount of effort."
I took my wand out, saying, "Lumos!" to join Hermione's wand. We studied the sheet together at wand light. "Miss Granger, you received top marks in Potions. A few points off one project, one on which you received a decent – no, excellent grade – should not bother you at this point. You graduate tomorrow."
"You said it yourself, Sir. I graduate tomorrow, and I will wonder why you did not give me the mark I deserved on that project. I can tell you anything about Pinthus Root you want to know. Go ahead, ask me."
"I am tired, Miss Granger, and am not in the mood to proctor an impromptu examination for you. If you'll excuse me. . ." I said, attempting to get past her and into my chambers.
Sleep, oh precious sleep. I needed it so desperately before awakening early tomorrow. All professors must make an appearance at graduation ceremonies, so says the Headmaster. Damn Dumbledore for making me wake up early tomorrow.
It took me a few moments to realize that Miss Granger was not moving.
I looked her squarely in the eye, and dejectedly, gave in. If the only way to have Miss Granger remove herself from my presence was to discuss the project with her, I would rather have it done in my chambers, with a fire going, where this young girl would not freeze to death.
"We can discuss this inside my chambers, if you insist on this conversation occurring at all," I said, opening the door. She followed me as I lit the candles and started the fire, the green and black overtones catching Hermione by surprise.
"My, my," she commented, "this place is very. . . green."
"Your vocabulary is large, Miss Granger, and all you can say is, 'This place is very green?'"
She smiled. "And black. This place is very green AND black. It would be absolutely sinful to neglect black." She gestured to my robes, her brown hair bouncing with the movement.
"Please, sit down," I said, gesturing to the seats in front of the fire, "and let me tell you about why I graded the paper as I did."
And we sat.
And we talked.
She told me about uses of Pinthus Root that had only recently been published in Potions Weekly, so organized was she. Showed me her checklist of items she wanted to discuss with me. I told her of her problems with her presentation, of how she cited some experimental uses as those sanctioned by the Department of Medicinal Materials when they had not even passed primary inspections yet. Her project was almost half a scroll too long. I took points off for that too, despite the fact that she had done a thorough job, but instructions are instructions.
Slowly, the topics meandered to things that had nothing to do with Pinthus Root at all. She was graduating tomorrow – she told me of her anxiousness about entering the real world. She was vague about her plans, it seemed, imbued with the ambivalence that befalls most Seventh Years – she had plans (she would not be Hermione Granger without a plan), just none for the short term.
I told her of my experience straight out of Hogwarts. I suppose I was vague also – there was no need to get into my exploits as a Death Eater – but somehow I entered Oxford's Academy of Wizardry, a Potions emphasis. Never talked so much about myself with a person before. It was almost a relief to assist Miss Granger with her problems. Some kind of Muggle karmic exchange from my time as a slave to evil.
"Did you like it there – at Oxford?" she asked slowly.
I thought about it for a moment. "The atmosphere was not to my liking. Suffice it to say, I am not a 'people-person' as those Muggles are fond of saying, I wish it could have been different. . ." She laughed, this woman-child sitting in front me. A very quiet chuckle signaling comprehension. "I did walk away from the university with a degree in Potions though, so I suppose I tolerated it just enough to reach a goal."
"I'm smart, I know I am, but there are times when I believe I do not know what I am going to do with my life. Do you know the feeling, Professor Snape?" She stopped for a second, laughing sardonically. "Of course, you don't. You've always wanted to work Potions, from what you'd said. You've always known."
"I had a holy grail of sorts, Miss Granger, but the path to it was muddled with obstacles I couldn't even imagine," I volunteered. "Have faith that it will all work out."
"You know, I graduate tomorrow. I will no longer be your student. I think it's just fine if you call me Hermione."
It was my turn to emit a sound resembling a chuckle, I suppose. (I try to refrain from doing that too often.) "Well, I suppose you can call me Severus."
She looked at the grandfather clock that sat in the corner of my chambers. "It's late, and I have a big day ahead of me . . . Severus," she said, getting up and walking to the exit. I followed her, as she stood in front of the door.
We stood there, the two of us, the student-teacher dynamic replaced by something perhaps even better, that of friends, maybe even more. She took my hand and searched my eyes. "Perhaps you do not know this, Prof. . . Severus," she started, rather quickly, as if she were trying to get a long benediction out in one breath. "I've nursed a minor infatuation for you the past few years. I just wanted you to know before I left tonight. Something I needed to get off my chest. Before I left Hogwarts."
It came as a surprise to me. Judging from the company she kept, I would never have suspected her feelings for me as anything but loathing.
She kissed me as if at impulse. It didn't last anymore than a few moments before she pulled herself back, her lips beautiful and large, staring at me as if I owned the world.
And for that moment, I did.
"I lied," she whispered almost silently.
"You lied?" I asked, incredulously, still taking the moment in.
"My feelings for you are anything but minor," she said. Then almost robotically added, "Circumstances due to a momentary lapse in judgment, though, forbid me from pursuing anything further with you," before running out of the chambers, her hair ribbon falling to the ground behind her.
The graduation the next day was prototypical of most of them that occur year after year at Hogwarts. Mothers crying, fathers wiping their dewy eyes, complaining about the non-existent dust floating around the school, and children – no, adults, now – feeling elation, joy, fear, anxiousness, and every other emotion known to man within the span of a few moments.
I stared at her as she mingled with Potter and Weasley after the ceremony, this girl with whom I could pursue the world. The thought had entered my mind, as crazy as it seemed, to take Miss Granger aside and ask her to accompany me on a lunch date to Hogsmeade one of these upcoming weekends. Try and convince her that even though we had kissed while she was my student, we might be able to build on our existing relationship. Remind her that the circumstances had changed.
Her lips on mine had felt so right. Anything that momentary, that quick, that felt that good had to hold promise for better, greater things.
"She could have done some amazing things," a voice said to me, as they came to stand next to me. Looking sideways, I saw Professor McGonagall staring at Hermione as I had.
"Could have done?" I asked, surprised. If any one of my students could do amazing things, it was this intelligent, perceptive woman who had just graduated.
Her stare burrowed through me when our eyes met. "You don't know, Severus?" she questioned incredulously.
"What, Minerva?" I said, annoyed.
"I doubt she will ever reach the peaks of her potential. Probably nothing but housewifery in her future, from the way I understand it."
"But why, Minerva?" I asked, shocked.
"She's two months gone with Mr. Potter's child. They are to marry next week, I believe. I highly doubt that with all the responsibilities that go into having a baby so young, that she will ever have the time to pursue anything more than being a mother to the child, and wife to the Boy Who Lived."
*****
Sometimes the regrets we have in our lives are not the results of our own choices.
She was mine for but a moment.
Perhaps never mine at all.
And as I sit here, caressing that hair ribbon of hers when the need strikes, I am reminded of that which I did not do, that which I was never given the chance to do.
If only I had acted more quickly.
If only I had realized the feelings I had had for her sooner.
If only I had told her.
If only. . .
"Regret for the things we did
can be tempered by time;
it is regret for the things we did
not do that is inconsolable."
•Sydney J. Harris