It started in a moment of weakness. She winced as a sudden movement caused her migraine to flare up, pain filling every sense she had. Her eyes squeezed shut, blocking out the light, and her shoulders suddenly hunched in an attempt to prevent the inevitable stimulus overload.
They'd been coming more often, and the intermittent breaks were shorter and shorter. It had to be the midterm pressure, that odd perfume that Lavender insisted on trying even though it smelled vile, the nutmeg in the oatmeal at breakfast--she hated nutmeg. It was easy to rationalize away the pain, especially since it wasn't debilitating. Just annoying. Not even annoying, but a slight irritant that could be ignored, if she really tried.
She gathered her courage, and released the muscles holding her face tense. Eyelids, yes, they could open now--the pain was gone, really. Just a slight pang, nothing much. Nothing to worry about, or try to treat with the many potions available to Madame Pomfrey. Nothing at all.
At least until she opened her eyes.
"Miss Granger!" Snape barked, his face inches away from her suddenly wide eyes.
She leaned back slowly, putting as much distance between them as the desk behind her would allow. Neville, usually sitting next to her, was nearly sharing the seat with Parvati one over.
"If you are here to attempt to learn something, as doubtful as success may be," his voice, turned silkily dangerous, suddenly took on a more contemptuous tone, "I suggest you pay more attention to my lecture than your memories of last nights adventures, whomever you might have shared them with." He paused just to hiss, "Thirty points from Gryffindor," before breaking the eye contact he had maintained and returning to his desk.
She hadn't heard a word he said, past the initial greeting.
Perhaps it was something that only showed in times of anger, or, knowing Snape, amusement. Perhaps it was something that wasn't immediately visible. Or perhaps she was the only one who had looked. All she could think about was how his eyes had been a shattering mosaic of browns, with just hints of green; and how they were the most beautiful things she had ever seen.
And so it began.
Obsession is not logical. It comes without warning, terrorizing innocents and often leaving sorrow; no matter what the object of attention is. Friends, family, and work are ignored. Relationships, reputations, and grades are the victims.
It was, surprisingly enough, Draco Malfoy who first noticed the change. His rank in the class had moved, up by one. One higher than second. One above Hermione Granger.
When the inevitable reward from his father came, he felt moved by some emotion to share it with the former leader. Probably malice.
The meeting was singularly unsuccessful in its initial purpose--to annoy the mudblood--but surprisingly fun despite her lack of reaction. You see, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley had been unaware of the change, and were not happy--to say the least.
Their outrage went without remark from Hermione, who had been growing more distant throughout the week. She spent even more time in the library--though what she researched, she would not say. It was the headaches she blamed for both problems, headaches which had been growing stronger each day. Not that she noticed. They were still manageable. Still under control.
Her friends, being the heroic Gryffindors so adored for their courage and goodwill, ignored her excuses for what they were. She was lifted into Harry's arms, gently carried to the hospital wing and given to the mercy of Madame Pomfrey, who clucked at the state of her.
What easily goes un-noticed by most of the male population is instantly perceived by any woman. Poppy Pomfrey eyed the bags that belied the amount of rest Hermione had been getting, the state of her hair, and the crumpled clothes; and set to doing something about them.
Hermione inwardly protested at the fact that she was defenseless to the motherly care; until she found that she didn't mind, really. She was handed a warm fleece nightgown, in the softest of yellows, directed to the hospital's bathroom. A marble tub, unique in its abilities, adjusted itself to Hermione's needs: someplace to lie down, encompassed by the water's warmth, without being deep enough to inspire fear of drowning.
Madame Pomfrey bustled around with towels, soaps, and potion infused candles. She turned on the water, released lavender bubbles to float on the surface, and led the fading girl inside. An assessing glance went unnoticed as Hermione slipped into the water with a sigh, but sent the hospital matron to get a potion to deal with the headaches that Harry and Ron had described and Hermione had dismissed as unimportant. They were obviously taking more of a toll than simple headaches, and would require a special remedy.
Hermione exalted in the feeling of the water, its gentle waves massaging her sides even as the bubbles melded themselves to her skin, only to feel more luxurious than anything a spa could provide-- regardless of its origins, muggle or magical.
She did not hear the bath's door open, nor did she notice the footsteps, too sharp to be Madame Pomfrey's. Thus his voice, when it came, was a shock.
"I've been made aware of your... condition."
She started, her head saved from hitting the marble wall only by his hand.
"Had you found any information on it?" His voice was surprisingly neutral, the customary sharpness held in with strict control. The assumption that research had been her immediate reaction was simply an acceptance of who she was.
She shook her head softly, relishing his hand in her hair. He did not remove it.
"The Hogwarts library is without compare when it comes to many subjects; this, however, is not one of them."
She responded by half turning in the water to face him where he crouched on the edge of the tub, one hand dangling in the water. Distrust, dismay, and hope were written in her eyes, emotions left terrifyingly open to him. Only to him.
It was too late to care about appearances or rules; sometimes obsession has a mind of its own. It certainly does not bend to the standards that society sets for right and wrong.
"You see," he said, handing her one of the large, soft towels with the gown on top, and turning to allow her some privacy "it is not a force that is talked of in the magical world; yet it is one that I am not unfamiliar in."
She stepped out of the water and dried herself thoroughly, then pulled the nightshirt down with only a slight grimace at the moisture in her hair. As he continued, she sat down with her feet hanging in the still-warm water.
"It is powerful, no doubt, and only grows more so. I believe it started with a series of headaches?" He displayed an innate sense of timing, returning to her side as she relaxed by the tub. Her nod was affirmation enough.
He removed his black leather shoes and black wool socks to slip pale feet into the water beside hers. A brush appeared in his hand, and he went to work at her hair. She uttered none of the protests which the student body and a great deal of the staff would have expected.
"There is a point when brilliance must give in to reason. A point where limits are set, limits to how far we can exert ourselves. Limits that a truly brilliant mind will not accept."
His hands were gentle as they negotiated the tangles her hair had worked itself into; more gentle than she ever was. "A brilliant mind such as yours, Hermione."
Her face was bitter, un-responsive. Flattery will get you nowhere, when it comes to those who disregard compliments, and instead seek criticism.
He continued despite her sudden stiffness. "You are far more intelligent than any student, not only now but for the past decades. Could you doubt that your sudden drop in the class standings would go unnoticed? And when you came to the hospital with headaches--it became obvious." His voice had slowly gained emotion, and was now filled with careful caring; a strange emotion from such a notoriously restrained man.
She shook her head slightly, and he began his brushing again. "There are those of us who have met the same boundaries, and refused to compromise with them. Who have exchanged one set of mind for a farther-reaching one. It doesn't come easily, but the alternative is madness--not something we are willing to consign you to."
Hermione shuddered, shoulders shaking with emotion.
"It began with obsession, didn't it. Headaches could be anything; your first real clue was in the obsession."
Her body was closed to him, tight, solitary.
"Obsession which I cued, getting on you so soon after an attack." His eyes were dark as he looked upon her, hair still dripping onto the soft cotton night gown. He muttered a charm to dry the moisture and prevent any more from accumulating, while ignoring the hair--constant spells were unhealthy for it.
"I apologize. I did not mean to cause you such pain, for I have experienced it myself. It is nothing you should have been forced to endure, especially for so long. Such a display of control is impressive, but dangerous. As I suspect you knew."
Once again, no verbal response was needed. They both knew that she had known of the danger, and but had not spoken up. How could she have not? Though little was written of it, there were mentions in some of the restricted books. Mentions of an insanity, characterized by headaches--caused by the battle within the mind--and the saving attempt of the war-torn conscience to grasp upon some solid being. Obsession.
"Am I so despised that you would risk severe mental and physical harm to avoid me?" He knew that it wasn't that; the obsession would have helped her see through the front he was forced to put forward--not that the man he really was would be that appealing by society's standard.
"Instead of seeking help from those who can see have been in your position, you chose to fight the demon by yourself. More Gryffindor bravado?" He kept his tone calm despite the harshness of his words, words that had to be said. There was probably some truth to them.
He set down the brush, tangles finally gone, and turned her head so that she faced him. "You'll have to work with me. If I am your obsession, I'll also have to help you to find a balance. There will be difficulty, and there will likely be pain, but you'll have to do it. Assume that there is no alternative, because there are far too many people who care about you, and won't let you give up."
They sat for some minutes, simply contemplating the pool, when Hermione suddenly kicked at the water. Liquid splashed across the tub, and onto the tile on the other side. She looked defiantly up at him, eyes dark.
He simply stood up, and held out a hand to help her to her feet, knowing that a comment of any sort would not be appreciated.
She eyed his hand warily. Touch. The first touch. A touch with so much relying on it.
He bent down to take her hand, and lifted her gently, accepting the touch for what it was.
"Your mind is currently unsteady, unsure, and afraid of its own arrogance. We can fix that. We will fix that."
She looked up at him again, straight into his eyes, a luxury she had not allowed herself since that potions class. They were still that mixture of browns, each color distinct--never muddied together. The occasional green was emerald bright, feeding into the blackness of his pupil. The hand, which still held hers gently, was soft, calloused by years of potions vials, and full of strength--something she desperately needed.
He suddenly took her into his arms, holding her as tightly as if he were grasping her sanity and holding it to her. Perhaps he was.
He whispered the words that Minerva McGonagall had whispered to a rather younger Severus Snape, as they had stood in the same position: "It will be all right. My dear child; it will be all right."