Just want to take the time to say big THANKS to my reviewers, especially gorge girl for doing two. Muchly appreciated except for the comment about being old!……. Detention Queen smithy!! And not with the potions master either cheeky madam!!!
Three weeks had passed and Hermione was pretty much back to her old self. She only thought about the boy occasionally, and even then she found she missed the sexual tension more than she missed him.
To be brutally honest with herself she was angrier about missing out on the books than his company.
She was a pragmatist she decided, not a soppy romanticist who mourned for lost loves. She had hardly known him, she thought with a wistful sigh, unaware of the desperation which coloured this internal dialogue.
And it was with this frame of mind that she was patrolling the corridors at nearly midnight on a Friday evening, searching for students out of bed, checking the wards around the restricted areas and generally dreaming. She was so preoccupied with her internal musing that she did not see the dark mass huddled on the floor, not until she caught her foot in the hem of the cloak which wrapped the collapsed man, and went sprawling to the floor.
" No running in the corridors!" he managed to croak, coughing violently at this small effort, blood splattering on the stone in front of him.
Hermione sat up, brushing the dirt from her grazed knees,
"Professor Snape?" she questioned, curiosity and fear fighting for dominance
He heard the fear and presuming the curiosity was pity he retaliated.
" Is that not obvious girl" he stated crossly, " Instead of crawling around in the dirt you could be helping me up. " his voice trailed off, his hiss of indrawn breath the only clue to his pain.
She didn't know what to do for the best. The thought of having to touch him, to help him up was not appealing. The angry looks he was shooting in her direction were not helping to put her at ease, and her heart was racing with apprehension.
She stood up, and wrapping her arms around his damaged frame she attempted to draw him upright, very conscious of the feel of his body beneath her trembling hands. Slowly he stood, leaning heavily upon her, his arm round her shoulder, testing to see if he could indeed walk without fainting again.
"Sir, where would you prefer to go?" she asked, trying to recognise their current location from the dim clues available in the darkness.
" Well let me see, we could go for a walk down to the lake," he mused " OR we could get me back to my quarters so that I can die in peace!" he half shouted, starting another coughing fit. Hermione waited until he had finished then pointedly said,
" I only wondered if you would prefer to go straight to the infirmary. You do seem to be bleeding quite a bit." Even in the darkness she could feel the slick wetness which now coated her hands and smell the copper tang of his blood.
"No" he stated, " My own bed" he murmured, his voice becoming less distinct.
Please don't die on me, please don't die she repeated under her breath,
"Sir, sir!" she shook him slightly, worried that he was indeed fainting again.
" Miss Granger!" he hissed, "Will you desist! I am having enough difficulty walking without your attentions!"
It felt like miles, miles of pain and torture, piled upon his already ravaged body. He concentrated on staying sane, fixing his attention to keep himself together. Her scent, it came to him now, overlaid with the smell of blood but strong enough to claim his focus. He leant closer to her, breathing in the fragrance from her hair, concentrating solely upon the floral tones. The pain took him into an internal world where only her scent existed. His outward self seemed to Hermione to be as detached as ever, cold and ungracious, his inner self remained hidden, his thoughts buried deep beyond her sensing.
A hundred yards later of silent ponderous progress, broken only by the occasional gasps of pain from Snape, they came to the door of his office.
" Professor, I don't know how to get in" she whispered, hoping that he was still able to raise his wand and gain access himself. He did just that, a murmured spell, which Hermione instantly memorised, and the door swung open. They made their way across the office, Snape guiding her with a pointed finger at the far bookcase. Another spell was murmured and the bookcase moved away, revealing a dark passage suddenly floodlit from flambeaux set high in the walls.
Hermione and Snape made their way down the corridor and emerged in a large room, dominated by a large oriole window. The moon flooded through the glass, lighting the room to nearly daylight.
"When you have quite finished gawping…" he stated, the acid of the comment dulled by the unsteady quality of his voice. He gestured weakly to a large door topped by an ornate lintel and so Hermione turned the handle and helped Snape inside.
The room inside was as conservatively decorated as the sitting room. A large four posted bed sat against the back wall, the remaining walls being covered in mahogany bookcases. Another large window allowed the moon to light the path to the bed, along which Hermione steered her semi conscious burden. She stumbled trying to turn him round, allowing him to sink back onto the covers, his body slack and unresponding.
She couldn't let him simply die, she told herself, even if he seemed to demand that, her conscious would not allow her to turn away. She removed her wand, which bit to start on first she muttered, and starting at his head she began to work gentle healing spells to close his cuts and heal his bruises. Tentatively she removed his cloak, and upon finally managing to open the buttons on his frock coat she reached a bloodsoaked linen shirt. He moaned, his hands clenching into fists around the bedcovers. Slowly, trying not to wake or hurt him further she opened the buttons, gasping in horror at the ugly gash slowly weeping his life. The ribs around it were bruised, and the marks continued around and underneath his torso.
Working quickly she disinfected the cut and sealed it with layers of spells, becoming more proficient with the practise and the adrenaline rushing through her veins. Slowly she rolled him onto his front, taking care to move his head round, brushing his hair from his eyes.
His frown was still creasing his face, but he seemed to be slightly easier in his sleep, and so Hermione continued with her mission to help him. She eased the jacket from his shoulders, carefully undoing the myriad of buttons on his cuffs.
" Merlin" she breathed half to herself, " it must take you hours to get dressed! In fact, there must be a reason for all this constricture. Is it Freudian professor, do we have a problem relating to the outside world, so we button ourselves up against it? Stupid question Granger, we are Snape, of course we have a problem with the world!" she muttered, finally removing the shirt and revealing his pale, marred back.
She worked quickly, easing the bruises through all the colours of the rainbow until the skin was clear and pale again. As pale as alabaster she mused, running her fingertips across his shoulder blades, marvelling at the velvet softness of his skin, horrified by the web of thin scars which patchworked across them. Startled by her own sudden rush of feeling for this hated man she turned him back, aware that she now had the dreaded trousers to remove. She reasoned that his legs must be alright, as he had managed to walk to the bed, but she knew that no matter what arguments she came up with she would have to make sure.
With trembling hands she fumbled with his buttons, pushing the tiny black discs through their loops, her head flickering upwards to look at his face, watching for signs of anger. Slowly she drew them down his legs, pausing to remove his boots and socks and undo yet more buttons on the cuff of his trousers.
She noticed more bruising, and more worrying another large gash over a deep black and purple lump on his shin. It looked broken or at least fractured as no bones protruded through the discoloured skin. Hermione endeavoured to knit it back together. Muttering a spell to show her the extent of the damage, she was delighted to see that her spells seemed to have worked and the bone looked clean and new. Refusing point blank to look at anything in his middle area, she reached for the comforter intending to pull it up over his now shivering body. In that moment, with the quilt clutched in her hand, he moaned, and she found herself motionless, frozen as she watched and waited. He moved slightly, settling his body and drifting deeper into his healing sleep.
Letting out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding, she pulled the quilt over him, tucking it around him slightly whilst placing a gentle warming spell upon the man inside. His earlier movements had left his hair covering his face, and with a trembling hand Hermione reached forward and gently pushed it back, running her fingers over the lines on his face, tracing the shape of his features. He looked at peace now, the deep creases lessened although not completely gone. Hermione found she had stopped motionless, staring at him, wondering and dreaming. She shook herself, "It's Snape remember, the greasy git!" her mind shouted at her, but his hair hadn't felt greasy. It had flowed through her fingers, shiny and silky as his voice she had thought. Reluctantly she turned away, her work here was done and she could return to her bed to at least a few hours rest before tomorrows shopping trip to Hogsmeade. As she reached the door she looked back, at a sight which took her breath. A moonbeam, cutting through the dark of the room, rested directly on his face, illuminating the darkness. How could she have missed him? she thought, How could she not have seen him for the man he was?
And in that moment Hermione grew up, and saw beyond the mask, just a glimpse but enough to leave her anxious to know more. She was after all a Gryffindor, and cats, especially lions are curious by nature.
Content that he was healed enough to last the night, Hermione lit the fire in the sitting room and retired to one of the comfy chairs set before the fire. Drawing her cloak around her she settled down to a fitful sleep, broken by images of his stern face and snatches of sarcastic comments. Although she knew that he was safe, she found herself unable to bear the thought of him needing her and her not being there for him. She looked at her watch, nearly 4 am, she sighed and settled down to a few hours sleep before the sun came up and her new day began.
Several hours later she awoke, her neck stiff and her body shivering in the cold of the room now the fire had gone out. She had not slept well, the picture of his illuminated face seemed to stick in her memory, and she found mind racing with questions and suppositions. She stretched, easing the knots from her muscles, starting a little when she heard a muffled thump from his room. Jumping up she pushed open his door and found him crumpled on the floor by the bed, cursing soundly.
"What are you still doing here, Miss Granger?" he managed to sneer. Hermione was stung by his tone,
"Well, trying to prevent you from getting up and hurting yourself was my main mission!. " she snapped
"You failed." he sneered sardonically before gracefully collapsing onto the bed wrenching Hermione's arm which was around his waist supporting his weight.
This was the point when the lack of sleep and abundance of worry finally caused Hermione to snap. The tantrum she had thrown a few weeks previously had only been a warm up!
She was supposed to be doing her Arithmancy homework, well to be honest she was supposed to be listening to the lecture by Professor Binns, but she had researched this topic three months ago and could have written 12 feet of parchment without attending the lecture at all!
She looked down at her parchment and found it full of doodles; flowers, arrows, thick cross hatching and initials….. his initials. Merlin what was wrong with her, she wondered. It was four days since she had helped Snape. He had gone to see Poppy the next day and as he had not mentioned any opinion on Hermione's healing ability with any of his usual acid wit when he next saw her, she presumed he felt it adequate. Potions on Monday morning had been the usual mixture of interest and fear. He had not acknowledged her help, either by being nicer to her and her friends, or by any more overt actions. She had not really expected him to, but it still hurt. She had struggled throughout her school tenure to gain some measure of respect for her work, for her efforts. Being muggleborn and a girl meant that she always had to be just that little bit better than everyone else before she could be judged worthy. She felt that she had done well, both in her efforts at healing him and the fact that she had not told a soul what had happened. She was protecting him and wanted him to recognise that fact.
Maybe that was what he craved too, she ruminated. She had known about his double role since the third year and thinking back, it was probably at that revelation that her feelings for him began to change. Her respect for his intellect broadened to include admiration for his bravery, for his self-sacrificing, for his protection. It was simply that she had not told him and to her knowledge neither had anyone else in a very long time. Maybe he needed that softness, that recognition from those who benefited from his actions. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to simply not abuse him quite so much, she thought thinking of Ron's continuous comments about Snape. She smiled recalling how many times he had been caught making those comments. But how had Snape looked when he heard them? She didn't remember hurt; she only saw anger, dislike, acid sarcasm and loss of housepoints.
Her mind drifted off from the lecture going on around her and his face, illuminated by the moonbeam caught her caught at her awareness, pulling a choked gasp from her throat. Hastily she coughed, trying to cover her lack of attention. Ron bashed her on her back,
"Cough up chicken" he offered, grinning at her. She smiled back, embarrassment colouring her cheeks and winced at the pain she now had across her back. Subtle was not in the Weasley vocabulary she decided.
He sat, head in hands, elbows resting on his desk and his mood as dark as his greasy hair. Gryffindors, the bane of his life, whether they were third years like his last class or seventh years like her. Miss Granger, his mind drifted, what exactly did she expect from him, he wondered. He had seen the hurt in her eyes when she left his classroom. Did she expect his heart felt gratitude, his smile and thanks? He snorted, if she did she'd be in for a long wait!
It wasn't that he wasn't grateful, he was genuinely glad to be alive, although he could not figure out why. He had not expected to open his eyes on Saturday morning and so the sunlight, which flooded his room, had come as quite a shock. So had her sudden appearance at his side, helping him back onto the bed. She had stayed with him, getting his breakfast, advising the headmaster of his condition, fetching his marking and a book or two.
For a man who disliked being an imposition, who hated being disabled in any way, he found himself pleasantly surprised by his mood at the end of the day. She had been good company, once she had stopped shaking like a leaf and become angry enough to start using her brain. A smile curved his lips as he remembered her caustic replies, mellowing into genuine companionship as the day progressed. He had mixed feelings about her departure back to her own rooms that evening. He had been sorry to see her go, but his solitude was precious to him and he craved the silence more than he hated the loneliness it ensured.
A deep sigh reverberated around the dungeon, echoing off the damp walls and coming back to his ears repeatedly. Of the many days he would gladly live again, in order to change his choices or see those loved and lost, he realised that he wanted to live that day again. He missed her, pure and simple, he missed the company of an intelligent person. This was the reason for the sigh; it was the heartfelt resignation that yet again he would not get what he wanted, what he needed. Another sacrifice on the burning pile of his life, another loss that he could not change. His mood was descending rapidly, his melancholic musings turning into a deep felt rage against the world that denied him and yet used him for it's own advantage. The rage was so fierce is blocked out all his finer feelings, consuming them with it's heat, blocking the pain radiating from the dark mark on his arm until it became nearly unbearable. Grasping his arm against the agony that swamped his mind, he rose, staggering across the room and out of the castle, the need to apparate evident from the pain-etched mask across his features.
Tucking a strand of her unruly hair behind her ear again, Hermione turned along the outer boundary of the castle grounds began to walk resolutely back to the castle main door. She had been walking for nearly an hour, unable to concentrate on her work; she found that if she tired herself out before bedtime she at least slept well. Her steps dragged, not wanting to go back, her mind happy to day dream about him. She was so caught up in her musings she nearly walked into him as he stumbled down the path towards the forest, clutching his arm against the pain. She had not seen him in such distress, excepting the night he nearly died in her arms and she was instantly concerned for his welfare.
"Professor, Professor!" she called out, catching at his upper arm in order to enquire if he required her help. Unaware of anything but the pain, Snape apparated with a sudden pop, leaving the path empty, the wind whipping across the lonely parkland up to the castle promontory.
"Good Evening Severus, so good of you to finally join us" the acid edged hiss of the red eyed horror that was Voldemort breathed, leaning in close to his face. Snape bowed, kissing the extended hand with reverence.
"I beg your pardon my Lord, I was gathering information which I knew you would be eager to hear." He bowed his head, praying for a blast of inspiration to provide him with a fictitious piece of knowledge to satisfy this monster.
He waited, the expected reply did not seem to be forthcoming, and in anxiety he dared to look up.
The Dark Lord did not seem to be paying him any attention though, was seemingly riveted to a point somewhere over his right shoulder.
"Hermione!" it breathed, looking with astonishment at the girl, still clutching the arm of his unfaithful servant
Three weeks had passed and Hermione was pretty much back to her old self. She only thought about the boy occasionally, and even then she found she missed the sexual tension more than she missed him.
To be brutally honest with herself she was angrier about missing out on the books than his company.
She was a pragmatist she decided, not a soppy romanticist who mourned for lost loves. She had hardly known him, she thought with a wistful sigh, unaware of the desperation which coloured this internal dialogue.
And it was with this frame of mind that she was patrolling the corridors at nearly midnight on a Friday evening, searching for students out of bed, checking the wards around the restricted areas and generally dreaming. She was so preoccupied with her internal musing that she did not see the dark mass huddled on the floor, not until she caught her foot in the hem of the cloak which wrapped the collapsed man, and went sprawling to the floor.
" No running in the corridors!" he managed to croak, coughing violently at this small effort, blood splattering on the stone in front of him.
Hermione sat up, brushing the dirt from her grazed knees,
"Professor Snape?" she questioned, curiosity and fear fighting for dominance
He heard the fear and presuming the curiosity was pity he retaliated.
" Is that not obvious girl" he stated crossly, " Instead of crawling around in the dirt you could be helping me up. " his voice trailed off, his hiss of indrawn breath the only clue to his pain.
She didn't know what to do for the best. The thought of having to touch him, to help him up was not appealing. The angry looks he was shooting in her direction were not helping to put her at ease, and her heart was racing with apprehension.
She stood up, and wrapping her arms around his damaged frame she attempted to draw him upright, very conscious of the feel of his body beneath her trembling hands. Slowly he stood, leaning heavily upon her, his arm round her shoulder, testing to see if he could indeed walk without fainting again.
"Sir, where would you prefer to go?" she asked, trying to recognise their current location from the dim clues available in the darkness.
" Well let me see, we could go for a walk down to the lake," he mused " OR we could get me back to my quarters so that I can die in peace!" he half shouted, starting another coughing fit. Hermione waited until he had finished then pointedly said,
" I only wondered if you would prefer to go straight to the infirmary. You do seem to be bleeding quite a bit." Even in the darkness she could feel the slick wetness which now coated her hands and smell the copper tang of his blood.
"No" he stated, " My own bed" he murmured, his voice becoming less distinct.
Please don't die on me, please don't die she repeated under her breath,
"Sir, sir!" she shook him slightly, worried that he was indeed fainting again.
" Miss Granger!" he hissed, "Will you desist! I am having enough difficulty walking without your attentions!"
It felt like miles, miles of pain and torture, piled upon his already ravaged body. He concentrated on staying sane, fixing his attention to keep himself together. Her scent, it came to him now, overlaid with the smell of blood but strong enough to claim his focus. He leant closer to her, breathing in the fragrance from her hair, concentrating solely upon the floral tones. The pain took him into an internal world where only her scent existed. His outward self seemed to Hermione to be as detached as ever, cold and ungracious, his inner self remained hidden, his thoughts buried deep beyond her sensing.
A hundred yards later of silent ponderous progress, broken only by the occasional gasps of pain from Snape, they came to the door of his office.
" Professor, I don't know how to get in" she whispered, hoping that he was still able to raise his wand and gain access himself. He did just that, a murmured spell, which Hermione instantly memorised, and the door swung open. They made their way across the office, Snape guiding her with a pointed finger at the far bookcase. Another spell was murmured and the bookcase moved away, revealing a dark passage suddenly floodlit from flambeaux set high in the walls.
Hermione and Snape made their way down the corridor and emerged in a large room, dominated by a large oriole window. The moon flooded through the glass, lighting the room to nearly daylight.
"When you have quite finished gawping…" he stated, the acid of the comment dulled by the unsteady quality of his voice. He gestured weakly to a large door topped by an ornate lintel and so Hermione turned the handle and helped Snape inside.
The room inside was as conservatively decorated as the sitting room. A large four posted bed sat against the back wall, the remaining walls being covered in mahogany bookcases. Another large window allowed the moon to light the path to the bed, along which Hermione steered her semi conscious burden. She stumbled trying to turn him round, allowing him to sink back onto the covers, his body slack and unresponding.
She couldn't let him simply die, she told herself, even if he seemed to demand that, her conscious would not allow her to turn away. She removed her wand, which bit to start on first she muttered, and starting at his head she began to work gentle healing spells to close his cuts and heal his bruises. Tentatively she removed his cloak, and upon finally managing to open the buttons on his frock coat she reached a bloodsoaked linen shirt. He moaned, his hands clenching into fists around the bedcovers. Slowly, trying not to wake or hurt him further she opened the buttons, gasping in horror at the ugly gash slowly weeping his life. The ribs around it were bruised, and the marks continued around and underneath his torso.
Working quickly she disinfected the cut and sealed it with layers of spells, becoming more proficient with the practise and the adrenaline rushing through her veins. Slowly she rolled him onto his front, taking care to move his head round, brushing his hair from his eyes.
His frown was still creasing his face, but he seemed to be slightly easier in his sleep, and so Hermione continued with her mission to help him. She eased the jacket from his shoulders, carefully undoing the myriad of buttons on his cuffs.
" Merlin" she breathed half to herself, " it must take you hours to get dressed! In fact, there must be a reason for all this constricture. Is it Freudian professor, do we have a problem relating to the outside world, so we button ourselves up against it? Stupid question Granger, we are Snape, of course we have a problem with the world!" she muttered, finally removing the shirt and revealing his pale, marred back.
She worked quickly, easing the bruises through all the colours of the rainbow until the skin was clear and pale again. As pale as alabaster she mused, running her fingertips across his shoulder blades, marvelling at the velvet softness of his skin, horrified by the web of thin scars which patchworked across them. Startled by her own sudden rush of feeling for this hated man she turned him back, aware that she now had the dreaded trousers to remove. She reasoned that his legs must be alright, as he had managed to walk to the bed, but she knew that no matter what arguments she came up with she would have to make sure.
With trembling hands she fumbled with his buttons, pushing the tiny black discs through their loops, her head flickering upwards to look at his face, watching for signs of anger. Slowly she drew them down his legs, pausing to remove his boots and socks and undo yet more buttons on the cuff of his trousers.
She noticed more bruising, and more worrying another large gash over a deep black and purple lump on his shin. It looked broken or at least fractured as no bones protruded through the discoloured skin. Hermione endeavoured to knit it back together. Muttering a spell to show her the extent of the damage, she was delighted to see that her spells seemed to have worked and the bone looked clean and new. Refusing point blank to look at anything in his middle area, she reached for the comforter intending to pull it up over his now shivering body. In that moment, with the quilt clutched in her hand, he moaned, and she found herself motionless, frozen as she watched and waited. He moved slightly, settling his body and drifting deeper into his healing sleep.
Letting out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding, she pulled the quilt over him, tucking it around him slightly whilst placing a gentle warming spell upon the man inside. His earlier movements had left his hair covering his face, and with a trembling hand Hermione reached forward and gently pushed it back, running her fingers over the lines on his face, tracing the shape of his features. He looked at peace now, the deep creases lessened although not completely gone. Hermione found she had stopped motionless, staring at him, wondering and dreaming. She shook herself, "It's Snape remember, the greasy git!" her mind shouted at her, but his hair hadn't felt greasy. It had flowed through her fingers, shiny and silky as his voice she had thought. Reluctantly she turned away, her work here was done and she could return to her bed to at least a few hours rest before tomorrows shopping trip to Hogsmeade. As she reached the door she looked back, at a sight which took her breath. A moonbeam, cutting through the dark of the room, rested directly on his face, illuminating the darkness. How could she have missed him? she thought, How could she not have seen him for the man he was?
And in that moment Hermione grew up, and saw beyond the mask, just a glimpse but enough to leave her anxious to know more. She was after all a Gryffindor, and cats, especially lions are curious by nature.
Content that he was healed enough to last the night, Hermione lit the fire in the sitting room and retired to one of the comfy chairs set before the fire. Drawing her cloak around her she settled down to a fitful sleep, broken by images of his stern face and snatches of sarcastic comments. Although she knew that he was safe, she found herself unable to bear the thought of him needing her and her not being there for him. She looked at her watch, nearly 4 am, she sighed and settled down to a few hours sleep before the sun came up and her new day began.
Several hours later she awoke, her neck stiff and her body shivering in the cold of the room now the fire had gone out. She had not slept well, the picture of his illuminated face seemed to stick in her memory, and she found mind racing with questions and suppositions. She stretched, easing the knots from her muscles, starting a little when she heard a muffled thump from his room. Jumping up she pushed open his door and found him crumpled on the floor by the bed, cursing soundly.
"What are you still doing here, Miss Granger?" he managed to sneer. Hermione was stung by his tone,
"Well, trying to prevent you from getting up and hurting yourself was my main mission!. " she snapped
"You failed." he sneered sardonically before gracefully collapsing onto the bed wrenching Hermione's arm which was around his waist supporting his weight.
This was the point when the lack of sleep and abundance of worry finally caused Hermione to snap. The tantrum she had thrown a few weeks previously had only been a warm up!
She was supposed to be doing her Arithmancy homework, well to be honest she was supposed to be listening to the lecture by Professor Binns, but she had researched this topic three months ago and could have written 12 feet of parchment without attending the lecture at all!
She looked down at her parchment and found it full of doodles; flowers, arrows, thick cross hatching and initials….. his initials. Merlin what was wrong with her, she wondered. It was four days since she had helped Snape. He had gone to see Poppy the next day and as he had not mentioned any opinion on Hermione's healing ability with any of his usual acid wit when he next saw her, she presumed he felt it adequate. Potions on Monday morning had been the usual mixture of interest and fear. He had not acknowledged her help, either by being nicer to her and her friends, or by any more overt actions. She had not really expected him to, but it still hurt. She had struggled throughout her school tenure to gain some measure of respect for her work, for her efforts. Being muggleborn and a girl meant that she always had to be just that little bit better than everyone else before she could be judged worthy. She felt that she had done well, both in her efforts at healing him and the fact that she had not told a soul what had happened. She was protecting him and wanted him to recognise that fact.
Maybe that was what he craved too, she ruminated. She had known about his double role since the third year and thinking back, it was probably at that revelation that her feelings for him began to change. Her respect for his intellect broadened to include admiration for his bravery, for his self-sacrificing, for his protection. It was simply that she had not told him and to her knowledge neither had anyone else in a very long time. Maybe he needed that softness, that recognition from those who benefited from his actions. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to simply not abuse him quite so much, she thought thinking of Ron's continuous comments about Snape. She smiled recalling how many times he had been caught making those comments. But how had Snape looked when he heard them? She didn't remember hurt; she only saw anger, dislike, acid sarcasm and loss of housepoints.
Her mind drifted off from the lecture going on around her and his face, illuminated by the moonbeam caught her caught at her awareness, pulling a choked gasp from her throat. Hastily she coughed, trying to cover her lack of attention. Ron bashed her on her back,
"Cough up chicken" he offered, grinning at her. She smiled back, embarrassment colouring her cheeks and winced at the pain she now had across her back. Subtle was not in the Weasley vocabulary she decided.
He sat, head in hands, elbows resting on his desk and his mood as dark as his greasy hair. Gryffindors, the bane of his life, whether they were third years like his last class or seventh years like her. Miss Granger, his mind drifted, what exactly did she expect from him, he wondered. He had seen the hurt in her eyes when she left his classroom. Did she expect his heart felt gratitude, his smile and thanks? He snorted, if she did she'd be in for a long wait!
It wasn't that he wasn't grateful, he was genuinely glad to be alive, although he could not figure out why. He had not expected to open his eyes on Saturday morning and so the sunlight, which flooded his room, had come as quite a shock. So had her sudden appearance at his side, helping him back onto the bed. She had stayed with him, getting his breakfast, advising the headmaster of his condition, fetching his marking and a book or two.
For a man who disliked being an imposition, who hated being disabled in any way, he found himself pleasantly surprised by his mood at the end of the day. She had been good company, once she had stopped shaking like a leaf and become angry enough to start using her brain. A smile curved his lips as he remembered her caustic replies, mellowing into genuine companionship as the day progressed. He had mixed feelings about her departure back to her own rooms that evening. He had been sorry to see her go, but his solitude was precious to him and he craved the silence more than he hated the loneliness it ensured.
A deep sigh reverberated around the dungeon, echoing off the damp walls and coming back to his ears repeatedly. Of the many days he would gladly live again, in order to change his choices or see those loved and lost, he realised that he wanted to live that day again. He missed her, pure and simple, he missed the company of an intelligent person. This was the reason for the sigh; it was the heartfelt resignation that yet again he would not get what he wanted, what he needed. Another sacrifice on the burning pile of his life, another loss that he could not change. His mood was descending rapidly, his melancholic musings turning into a deep felt rage against the world that denied him and yet used him for it's own advantage. The rage was so fierce is blocked out all his finer feelings, consuming them with it's heat, blocking the pain radiating from the dark mark on his arm until it became nearly unbearable. Grasping his arm against the agony that swamped his mind, he rose, staggering across the room and out of the castle, the need to apparate evident from the pain-etched mask across his features.
Tucking a strand of her unruly hair behind her ear again, Hermione turned along the outer boundary of the castle grounds began to walk resolutely back to the castle main door. She had been walking for nearly an hour, unable to concentrate on her work; she found that if she tired herself out before bedtime she at least slept well. Her steps dragged, not wanting to go back, her mind happy to day dream about him. She was so caught up in her musings she nearly walked into him as he stumbled down the path towards the forest, clutching his arm against the pain. She had not seen him in such distress, excepting the night he nearly died in her arms and she was instantly concerned for his welfare.
"Professor, Professor!" she called out, catching at his upper arm in order to enquire if he required her help. Unaware of anything but the pain, Snape apparated with a sudden pop, leaving the path empty, the wind whipping across the lonely parkland up to the castle promontory.
"Good Evening Severus, so good of you to finally join us" the acid edged hiss of the red eyed horror that was Voldemort breathed, leaning in close to his face. Snape bowed, kissing the extended hand with reverence.
"I beg your pardon my Lord, I was gathering information which I knew you would be eager to hear." He bowed his head, praying for a blast of inspiration to provide him with a fictitious piece of knowledge to satisfy this monster.
He waited, the expected reply did not seem to be forthcoming, and in anxiety he dared to look up.
The Dark Lord did not seem to be paying him any attention though, was seemingly riveted to a point somewhere over his right shoulder.
"Hermione!" it breathed, looking with astonishment at the girl, still clutching the arm of his unfaithful servant