NB: This is a work of fiction, concerning a relationship between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger, neither of whom I claim in any way, shape, or form. You have been warned. Now, if you continue to read, I have a suggestion – listen to Just Another by Pete Yorn, as this song was the inspiration for the fic. If you don't listen to it while reading, I suggest at least finding the lyrics, though the song as a whole would probably enhance the reading experience.
*~*
Just Another
She was lying in his garden again. It was not actually his garden; he did not tend it, nor had it been given to him. Just one of the many bowers and glades tucked all about the grounds of the castle, but he had come to think of it as His. Many, many years ago he had stumbled upon it, secluded from the world by high, thorny hedges. Inside, an old gnarled apple tree, which, on the occasional year, had trails of forget-me-nots dressing its trunk.
Spring was always a gorgeous season in his garden, though by June the apple blossoms had faded and for several years past the forget-me-nots had not been blooming. He had come late that day in the waning June, just past sunset. She had been laying in the grass, gazing up at the darkening sky, her mind too far away to notice his quiet entrance. He left without a sound, knowing well enough to leave grief to itself.
At the end of May, they had finished (he could not call that end winning) the Final Battle. The Order (what was left of it) had fallen away to their own lives, their own reconciliation, their own grieving. Her own family could provide no comfort, no solace; they could not understand how she had changed. Albus had offered her a place at the castle. For the summer, he'd said, and maybe an apprenticeship after.
She hadn't wanted to stay in the empty tower, but instead had a small room off Minerva's office. The professors had left as soon as could be considered seemly. Minerva had followed suit, and returned to Scotland. She never knew the girl was staying there.
One young girl, and two men: one old and one broken.
He'd had nowhere to go for the fallout but the dungeons. And so he had for several weeks lived in the dark on firewhiskey, table scraps, and self-pity. There was no elation in the passing of darkness, no joy in his freedom. No freedom, really, for that matter.
He'd assumed the girl had been living in the library, working away quietly at the few texts she hadn't read. Albus hadn't been seen since he'd disappeared below levels. No doubt the old man was at London, assuaging Ministries and saving the wizards of Britain from themselves. He'd seen no one, until that first night he'd ventured out to his garden.
Now here she was again, stretched out in the grass, watching the fireflies flicker and die and light again as they bobbed through the air. Tonight though, he did not turn and leave. Grief demands its solitude, but humanity will always crave companionship.
*~*
"I didn't know you'd stayed."
Her voice was soft and light, the words hanging in the air, harmonizing with the warm buzz of insects. He did not answer, but instead came to lean against the tree, finding comfort in the unyielding pressure against his back.
"You've appropriated my garden," he said. It did not sound sharp, merely tired. His voice did not blend as well as hers with the night.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't aware it was yours," she replied after a time, still in that quiet tone.
"Well," and he paused to watch her face. She had not yet moved; not to shiver, not to sigh, not to acknowledge him. Both eyes, (brown, he now realized, and quite plain) were fixed on the sky, focused on something intangible. "Not really mine, so much as my…place," he finished.
"We all need our sanctuaries. I knew the dungeons were not truly yours." She reached one hand up to brush away a strand of hair, a blade of grass. The action, so small, was startling, and he found himself watching the arc and flick of that pale hand, riveted.
"They are adequate," he answered, and his voice was brusque and rough. She had settled into stillness again. The air was beginning to grow chill, and a light breeze had come, reminding them that they were in Scotland.
"No. You need sky, and air, and light. You need to see sunsets as the day dies, to see the first star appear in the dusk. I know," she corrected him in that voice so gentle and sweet. He did not answer, but looked up at the sky himself, finding constellations out of habit.
"You can see more stars from the tower," he said finally.
"I've spent too much time already near stars. Now it's time to find my place again on the earth."
They spoke no more, but remained in the garden, she watching the sky and he watching her.
*~*
The next day he was there first, watching a particularly bloody, spectacular sunset. He was perched on one of the low branches, back to the trunk, one leg swinging in empty air. It was an open, boyish position, matched by the serenity of his face. Lines had disappeared from around his mouth and eyes, and the dying sun made his skin glow. She waited at the entrance, head down and hands shoved deep into her jeans pockets.
"You look so young like that," she said as the light began to wane, and seated herself at the base of the tree. He did not answer, merely looked down as she folded her knees to her chest and clasped her hands in front. The last of the light picked out the hairs too small to catch in a ponytail; a halo of frizz.
"I am many years beyond young," he replied, and found that his usual smooth tonalities had returned to him.
"Young is not a matter of years. It's a matter of mind, and of carriage," she said.
"In that case, I must look several decades older than I am."
"No! You took off years when you took off those robes, and let your mind free for a while," she protested, sounding for the first time like the bossy, clever girl she used to be. She tipped her head back suddenly, and met his eyes. "Your shoulders are straight and strong, your face unlined and warm. It's the lightest I've seen you in seven years. I don't know why you insist on holing up in those dungeons when the open air makes you look so peaceful," she finished tartly, and frowned up at him. He held her gaze for a second, then swung down, landing lightly
"Because the solitude is invaluable," he said as he stalked out, his posture unconsciously echoing hers as she'd entered.
*~*
"I thought solitude was invaluable," she commented as she heard him enter. He sneered, though she could not see it, for she was stretched out on her stomach, picking at blades of grass.
"It was my garden for nigh on eighteen years before you found it," he snapped back, falling into old habits. He remained standing, but turned so his back was to her; a petulant, childish gesture.
"I guess I was under the mistaken impression that we were sharing it."
"When have you known me to share?"
"No need to sneer," she said. "You were doing so well before. I suppose old habits really do die hard." He snuck a glance over his shoulder at her; she had rolled over and was watching him calmly.
"Indeed. You've not left off hassling your elders. Why should I stop baiting you?" he asked, and turned around to face her, arms crossed over his chest.
"You're not baiting me. I've quite enjoyed having someone to talk to again," she replied. It was the first time he'd seen her smile; a wan, fleeting expression that lit her face. Really quite plain, he thought idly. No wonder there was no other to comfort her.
"A nasty old man is your best companion? Your standards are abominably low."
"Why are you always so self-deprecating?" she asked, and pushed herself up to stand in front of him. The top of her head came barely to his chin.
"I speak only the truth."
"I think you're lying to yourself."
*~*
The first knock jolted him out of his chair, scattering piles of notes and books all over. The second, while still surprising, was greeted with a little more equanimity. He strode to the door and heaved it open, working up a fine bellow to unleash on whoever was daring to intrude. She was waiting there, a small pile of books and parchment clutched to her chest, hand raised as though to knock again.
"What do you want?" he hissed, having lost his angry roar in the surprise at finding her on the doorstep.
"I was wondering…if you would let me study in here with you. I'll be so quiet…you'll hardly remember I'm there," she said, but her voice was weak and shaking. For a long time he stood there in silence, glaring at her. Equal parts shock and annoyance were mixing in his head, and he had half a mind to send her away. Then, for reasons he could not name, or simply would not name, he stepped aside, and motioned her in with a curt gesture.
"Not a sound, not even a whisper," he warned darkly, and went back to his chair, began to reorganize the mess. He did not realize that she was helping until he felt flesh where paper should be. He'd caught her hand in his, hers holding some scrap of notes.
"I thought you were here to study." She retreated to a footstool in a corner, and he returned to his seat. They worked in silence.
"What are you doing?" he snapped, having lifted his head and found her on her knees by the fireplace, a kettle in one hand.
"Making some tea, and asking the houselves for a little food," she said, and poured out two cups of steaming water. "What would you like to eat?"
"Eat? We've hardly had lunch."
"No. It's quite past dinnertime, nearly midnight in fact," she replied, and pointed towards the dark windows. The time had passed so swiftly, so quietly.
"Quite. Well, just have them send up some soup then," he grumbled gruffly, and turned back to his notes.
*~*
"You know, you should really get some fresh air," she said. He looked up from his book to find her standing by the door, holding out his cloak.
Her presence in his study had become a habit. In the morning she would come with books and papers, and settle herself on the footstool she'd adopted. They worked in communal silence, often late into the night, at which point she would pack up her books and leave with a soft "good night".
"Fresh air?" he asked, voice colored with vague distaste.
"We haven't been outside at all for nearly two weeks," she replied, and tapped her foot against the flagstones.
"I'm not stopping you," he replied, and turned back to his text. A disgruntled harrumph and the slam of the door announced her departure.
Twenty minutes passed, every two of which he would look up at the footstool, then towards the door. Twenty minutes of looking up at every slight sound. Twenty minutes of reading the same page over and over and over again.
He gave in, and collected his cloak from the floor where she'd dropped it.
She was lying in the garden, back against the tree, clutching her coat tight against a cold breeze. There was no acknowledgement as he entered, and as he drew close he could see that her eyes were squeezed shut. Tear tracks were still apparent, and her face was puffy.
Without saying anything, he dropped his cloak around her. It was thick and warm, a far more effective windbreak. She burrowed into it, and pushed up back against his shins. A small sniffle and swallowed sob emerged from the depths of the bundle at his feet. Sighing, he settled back against the tree and tried not to think of the cold.
*~*
"What are you working on?"
He glared at her over the edge of his notes. All around her on the floor lay piles of research notes, laid out in a complicated web across the carpet, extending outwards from the footstool. He'd been careful not to step on it or disturb it. She was sitting there, slumped over, a much-abused sheet of parchment in her hands. It appeared she'd reached a roadblock in her work.
"Circle magic, " he answered curtly, and picked up his quill again.
"Which kind?"
"Druidic." He sighed and rubbed his temples, trying to decide if there was anything worse than a bored teenager.
"I don't mean to bother you, and I know you have your own work to pursue, but could you"
"Talk at you?" She nodded vigorously and turned her attention to her paper. He sighed again for her benefit, before picking up an old page of notes.
"The origin of circle magic in druidic customs cannot be traced, but was seen to appear…"
He did not know how long he'd been reciting his notes to her when she finally began to scribble those of her own, and add new pages to her web. She did not request that he stop though, and he, he felt a strange disinclination to return to their former silence.
*~*
"We're going to London," he announced as she entered that morning. Books and notes were laid aside carefully before she turned to answer him.
"London?"
"Indeed," he said and held out her cloak to her. "We'll get breakfast in town," he finished, and stepped to the door, gesturing her out. Confused, she did as directed without question.
The walk across the castle grounds was long, and the morning was a cold, gray one. Mist hung heavy over everything, and the clouds looked as though any minute rain would begin. They trudged along in silence until they were well past the lake.
"Lovely day for a trip," she said, faculties of argument coming back to her as she began to wake up properly.
"I need supplies from Knockturn Alley, and cannot trust them to be delivered in a timely nor safe fashion."
"Knockturn Alley?" she asked, a mixture of horror and keen interest in her tone. She'd never had the excuse, nor the bravery, to go there herself, despite the fascination it held for her. The magic and amusement of Diagon Alley had long ago been exhausted. This was new, and forbidden, and interesting.
"Can you control yourself?" he asked with a sneer, only slightly dismayed to see the return of childish instincts in the girl. For the past two months she'd been so mature, so adult in her manner and habits. He'd nearly forgotten she was fresh out of school.
They'd Apparated in front of a rather sinister apothecary. He'd swept in immediately, not noticing, or seeming to care that she was lingering outside, staring at the shop fronts and their clientele. It wasn't until an old hag carrying something suspiciously like human eyeballs began to approach that she darted in after him.
The store was dim, and smelled of rotten vegetables and mothballs. He was in conversation with the shopkeeper, speaking in intense whispers. She amused herself by inspecting the wares. There were jars with appendages, both human and animal, barrels of teeth and bones, vials containing hair, and rolls of skin and pelt all neatly crowding the shelves.
"Find anything interesting?" he whispered from behind her. She jumped nearly a mile out of her skin at the hiss, the breath against the back of her neck. He chuckled at her, even more when she turned and glared at him. The shopkeeper quickly returned with a greasy, brown-paper package clutched in his hands, and they left.
The alley was grim and dark under the overcast sky, looking even more menacing than she thought possible. They walked swiftly, ignoring the stares of one-eyed warlocks and titters of old hags. She looked up at him as he walked, chilled herself by the stormy glare on his face and lurking set of his shoulders. It was apparent why no one dared stop them, though many looked as though they would have liked to.
*~*
"Achoo!"
He could hear her before he even came around the hedge.
"Ah…Ah…Achoo!"
"Miss Granger, you do realize that sitting outside in the cold will do nothing to aid your cold," he snapped at her upon entering the garden. She was lying on the grass, staring at the sky, hands under her chin.
"It's late August, hardly cold – Achoo!" she replied, and collapsed the pyramid of her forearms to lay her head down.
"No matter, sitting outside at night, especially here, does nothing to help," he replied and came to stand above her. She was unimpressed though, and merely closed her eyes. He sighed, and crouched beside her. "You should be in bed, asleep."
"No, I needed to come out here tonight. Needed to see the stars, smell the…smell the grass," she said, and sniffled, suppressed a yawn. "Needed to…think, just for a little bit. Was going to come back in, in a bit," she said into her sleeve. He rolled his eyes and awkwardly reached forward to give her shoulder a slight shake.
"Come along, Miss Granger," he said in his best teacher tones. No effect. Another shake and she half-rose, rolled onto her side. Groaning at her stubbornness, he reached an arm under her and around her back, the other under her knees. Awkwardly he scooped her up, and drew her into his body, clumsily supporting her. She adjusted herself with a yawn and a sigh.
He remembered, belatedly, that he did not know the wards on her door, and when they reached rooms, found she would not wake enough to tell him. In the end he just brought her back to his study and settled her on the long couch. A pillow and blanket were secured from his bedroom. Haltingly he tucked it in around her, and reached out a hand to touch her forehead. Fever, most definitely. He let his palm rest there for a moment, before tracing down to brush a curl back from her face. Her eyes fluttered at the movement, and he jerked his hand back as though burned.
"'Night, Severus," she murmured, and closed her eyes again. He waited while her breathing grew deep and even, and she showed no further signs of stirring. Then, slowly, hesitantly he leaned forward, and brushed his lips on her forehead.
"Good night, Miss Granger."
*~*
"It is time, Hermione, for you to return to the world. I believe that there is a small magical teaching program out of Oxford that would have a place for you, and of course, any professional field that you would care to join, though I do hope that someday you may feel inclined to return in a professorial position," Albus said, and folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his robes.
"Thank you, sir. For everything. It would be an honor to return to teach," she said, and smiled widely at the old man.
"Now, I believe your train is due to depart quite soon, my dear, and you should be preparing to leave," he said warmly, following her out the door.
As soon as she'd descended the steps she took off at a run for the dungeons. Her bag was packed and waiting by the front stairs, where a carriage would also be. There was only this left.
The knocks at his door went unanswered, and no noise came from beyond the door. She sped off up the corridor again.
He was in the tree again, sitting as she had found him before, gazing out over the fields and hills visible over the hedge. She skidded to a halt at the trunk, looked up at him, waiting for recognition.
"I came to say goodbye!" she called up, and did not know why she was shouting. He did not answer her, but remained still, focused on something far away. "Please," she said, and smiled as he turned to look at her. No smile met hers in return.
"Goodbye. It's high time you left," he said, and if his voice was rustier then normal, she did not notice in her shock at the words. "You've spent far too long hiding. Now, finally put that vaunted Gryffindor courage to use," he sneered, though it failed him at the end, and his voice sounded merely broken. She responded only to the content though, and fought back the tears that had welled from the cutting words.
"You're a fine one to talk about hiding!" she snapped. "Haven't left the castle in twenty years! Hell, haven't left your dungeons, your garden, in that long. Talk about courage to me! Find some yourself!" she spat, and ended on a sob, unable to restrain herself any longer. She ran from the garden, didn't stop until she'd reached the carriage and flung herself in, hiccupping and breathless.
He did not come down from the apple tree until well past midnight.
*~*
March 4, 1999Professor Snape,
I hope this finds you well, and if you are still teaching at Hogwarts, at least happy deducting points and terrorizing first-years. I write because I would like to apologize for my behavior at the end of this past August. It was cruel, and hurtful, and entirely unfair of me. I hope, honestly, that we can overcome this, as I miss most keenly your humor, knowledge, and insight. Please, please, sir, I ask if we can find again the camaraderie of this summer. I miss it terribly.
Hermione Granger
There was no answer.