Never Make Promises

Chapter 2

By Elizabeth Sofia

Disclaimer: Any people or events that you recognize belong to JKR, and I'm not seeing a shred of profit.

There has to be more to life than this, Hermione mentally grumbled as she and Ginny trailed half-heartedly behind Ron and Harry, who were chatting animatedly as they made their way down Diagon Alley. The few snippets of their conversation that reached Hermione's annoyed ears went something like, "Porskoff...wicked quaffle 260...illegal bludger useage...cannons' comeback year." What had appeared as if it was going to be a completely innocuous day had turned into her own personal and living hell.

"It could be much worse, Hermione. One time Percy dragged me along to listen to a lecture about semi-modern owling regulations. I'd rather hear retired quidditch players speak any day."

Well, Ginny, that's the difference between you and me, then, isn't it? Hermione had no idea why she was tempted to snap at Ginny—the pretty redhead had done nothing wrong. In fact, Ginny seemed to make a habit of figuring out how to appease her bookish and occasionally moody friend. Hermione had several theories as to the reasoning behind this, the previous favorite being that Ginny was trying to get in good with Harry through becoming friendly with her, but Hermione was beginning to doubt the validity of that one. After all, Ginny had stopped mooning about Harry like a love-struck bugbear some time ago. Besides, she must have noticed the alarming lack of attention Harry and Ron pay to your opinions anyhow, Hermione.

"I suppose so—still..." Hermione didn't get a chance to finish her thought, because she ran into Ron, who had stopped suddenly to gesticulate wildly in an attempt to give Harry a visual of an obscure quidditch foul.

"Hermione! Watch where you're going!"

Hermione stared blankly at the lanky, freckled boy in front of her. Then her blank stare turned into a look of uncompromising fury. "Where I'm going?! If it had been up to me, I wouldn't be going anywhere!"

Ron's face went from surprised to confused. He could handle Bossy-Hermione, Secretive-Hermione, and even Heavily-Irritated-Hermione, but this new Fierce-Hermione left him completely perplexed. She'd always been the type to indulge in a brooding binge of introspection rather than take anyone's head off. But this summer—something was drastically different. He opened his mouth to apologize, having a mother and sister with matching fiery tempers, he knew the futility of trying to argue. But before he could get the words out, she was once again off and running.

"And let me tell you something else—it's not that I'm 'not particularly interested', or that I 'don't really understand'—I hate quidditch. I think it's a boring, pointless game, and I hate it. I hate the fact that I have to pretend I'm semi-supportive of your grating obsession with the sport just to spend some time with you. I hate the fact that you'd never dream of attending a lecture about something I was interested in. And, most of all, I hate that I have to practically physically assault you for you to even acknowledge my presence!"

Ron was the picture of dismay. His auburn eyebrows were furrowed in trouble, and his mouth hung repentantly open. Hermione's eyes gouged into his own; brilliant, angry, flashing brown orbs. Her hands clenched and unclenched themselves into fists that seemed more than merely decorative. Her chest heaved with breath and outrage. While trying to make sense of the substantial list of wrongs she'd thrown his way, he was painfully aware of how pretty she looked while fuming.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny saw Harry step forward. Here we go, she thought bitterly. Harry was convinced he was so sensitive and soothing where women were concerned.

Harry reached out and gently touched Hermione's arm. He could feel the muscles taut beneath her skin, and he saw how the corner of her mouth was twitching ever-so-slightly. These were signs that he read loud and clear—unmistakable "I'm completely fed up, and I mean business" signs. "Hermione, he didn't..."

Before Harry had a chance to finish, she ripped her arm away and refocused her anger in his direction. "And don't even get me started on you!"

Ginny hid her triumphant smile, You give it to him, Hermione. She would be lying if she claimed she still didn't possess overwhelming feelings for Harry, but she had grown to the point where she wouldn't even consider him until he was knocked down a few notches. Surviving multiple encounters with the Dark Lord still didn't mean you understood a woman's psyche. Then she felt Hermione's gaze upon her. Judging correctly that Hermione was not really angry with her, Ginny gave her a disarming wink.

Hermione visibly softened, but so slightly that only Ginny detected it. When she spoke, her voice dripped such massive icicles that Ron felt chills run down his arms and legs. "If you will excuse me."

Feeling slightly high from the adrenaline released by losing her temper, Hermione turned on her heels and haughtily went about her solitary way down Diagon Alley, leaving two baffled boys and a smiling girl in her wake.

Ron turned to Harry, brows still knitted, and said desperately, "Now what? We have to go after her."

At this, Ginny rolled her eyes, "Oh yes...I think it's completely necessary to chaperone a legal adult while she cools down in Flourish and Blotts. Really, you two."

She watched as Harry and Ron had a conversation with their eyes, as if she wasn't even standing there. She had half a mind to stalk down the street after Hermione, but instead she came between her brother and Harry and linked her arms through theirs, "If we don't go now, we'll miss them introducing the Irish national team. Shall we?"

Harry shrugged and Ron nodded, and the three headed towards Quality Quidditch Supplies, looking like the friends from Oz—minus one very irate lion.

Ginny had been right—Hermione had headed straight for Flourish and Blotts. She then proceeded to alternately fume and sulk her way through every bookstore she could find.

There was something about books that was unspeakably comforting to her. Shelves and shelves of old friends and new—just waiting to be opened, read, absorbed. Then there was that smell, peculiar to hardbound books everywhere. Thankfully, that heady and distinctive aroma bridged the gap between the wizarding and muggle worlds. If Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled the delicately printed pages of a book, she could be anywhere—her father's study in her childhood home taking in Shakespeare, the restricted section of Hogwarts' library pouring over antiquarian hexes, or curled safely into her own bed while Ovid languidly curled his erotica up and around and on and on...

And so she'd made her way through each store, running her hand idly along the spines of books until one or another called to her. Flipping through the pages, finding words that grabbed her sharp, young eye and held her attention. Phrases of novellas and stanzas of poetry filled up the emptiness left by her subsiding anger.

Finally, sufficed by her literary binge, Hermione allowed herself to look around and figure out how to go about meeting up again with Ginny, Ron and Harry.

And was simultaneously hit with two sour realizations; it was completely dark, and she had no idea where she was.

Hermione idly remembered the sleepy disorientation she'd once experienced when she'd gone to see a movie in the light of the midafternoon and exited the darkness of the theatre into the darkness of the night outside. Her current state of detached panic was cut from the same mold.

Trying to appear confident, in the case that any would-be attackers were sizing up her courage, Hermione glanced at the shadowy buildings that surrounded her. Each of them seemed to sag at a different angle, giving their jagged rooftops the appearance of rotting teeth. The windows that weren't boarded up seemed to be malevolent eyes—or at least hiding places for creatures with malevolent eyes. Strange, decidedly un-watery liquid stagnated in the gutter by her feet. She knew she'd been preoccupied with her own thoughts but really. This dead-end didn't seem the place for even accidental meandering.

Then, like the gift of some muse of memory, Hermione's mind locked on to where she was—the far end of Knockturn alley.

She'd only been on Knockturn once before, and had avoided it since. It wasn't that wandering down Diagon's darker sister alley was off-limits or against a rule of any kind—it just seemed to fall into the "good-girls- wouldn't" category.

And Hermione Granger was definitely a good girl.

But rather than applaud herself for her own moral discretion, she felt that, currently, her energies were better suited to making her way down Knockturn and back to Diagon.

Which would have been simple—walking in a straight line usually was—except for the fact that a large, dark figure was blocking her escape route and making its way rapidly and menacingly towards her.

Oh gods, Hermione's entire body tensed. She drew her wand and concealed it in the white sleeve of her sweater. She then continued walking, in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner towards the figure. If she had to die in a dark and deserted alley, at least it would be fighting and with some semblance of style.

Thoughts, various and sundry, flitted through her frightened mind as she drew nearer and nearer to the form that would shortly intercept her head- on:

How long will it be before anyone finds me?

Should I scream?

Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, maybe I'll just walk right by that...thing...with no incident, whatsoever.

Holy, fucking shit.

I won't even get to find out if I'm head girl.

This is all Ron's fault.

She got no further with her moment-before-dying reveries, because her recognition of the face that materialized out of the dark shadowy form stunned her brain into relieved silence. For a moment, it looked like the tall man would walk past her without so much as a glance to his left in her direction, but just when Hermione thought she had a chance of making it through the night unscathed, a hand shot out of the man's robes and clamped itself on her left upper arm.

Hermione let out a yelp of pain and surprise and the man pulled her towards him and half-yelled, half-drawled, "Miss Granger, I suppose it would be too much for me to ask for an entire summer holiday without having to look after a single maladroit Gryiffindor."

Merlin spare her, but she would have rather been hexed.

And so, like Maureen O'Hara by John Wayne, Hermione found herself half- pushed, half-dragged down Knockturn, onto Diagon, and into the Leaky Cauldron by none other than Severus Snape.

Somehow, in between his constant stream of chastisements and insults, she'd managed to inform him that she was staying with the Weasleys and not with her family. Once he had deposited her in a chair and ordered her some tea, he disappeared, Hermione supposed to contact Arthur Weasley and tell him to come and collect his "baggage".

Well enough, as it gave her some time to collect herself.

Rubbing the fresh bruises Snape had left on her arm, Hermione—for the second time that day—allowed shock to turn into simmering indignation. When she'd first realized the dark figure was Snape, relief had flooded through her body, making even her eyelids seem to sag with the hefty absence of adrenaline. The relief had been replaced by a childish sort of surprise at seeing a teacher outside of the school context. Admittedly, Hogwarts students had more of an opportunity to view their teachers outside of the classroom than students at 'other'—Hermione stopped herself before inserting 'normal'—schools, but there was always something odd about the fact that Snape had a life beyond his own dank dungeon. Also, what were the odds of him being the only other person she met in a deserted alley?

But now Hermione was just plain angry. While she was at Hogwarts, she might be his student, but during the summer, he certainly had no right to treat her like a petulant child. Well, she'd already earmarked this day for blatant honesty, why not tell him as much?

A very easy resolution to make while he was not in view, but the second his looming presence enthroned itself across the table from her, she had second thoughts.

"Arthur has to finish some task he's performing for Molly, but he should be here to take custody of you shortly," the disgust in Severus Snape's voice was palpable and screaming. He appraised the smallish girl sitting across from him, an expectant smirk painting his drawn features. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Hermione snapped. Whatever he was soliciting from her, she knew it would be humiliating and unwelcome.

"Well, I would think that some level of repentance and, or, gratitude would be an appropriate expression given the situation," he practically spit the words at her. Hermione doubted that, given her distaste for the man, she could have shown Snape gratitude had he saved her from a dementor. Intelectually, she knew if would be a lot less trouble to thank him and beg forgiveness for wasting his time, but she was too tired and cross to make the effort to be smart about it.

"Isn't that interesting? Considering I've done nothing to be guilty of, and you've done nothing to make me thankful for your presence."

For the first time in his recent memory, Severus was taken aback by a comment from a student. But, as always, his first reaction was to prove his superiority and weight. He leaned across the small table and fixed Hermione with steely, stone-set eyes. His voice was barely-controlled lightning. "As far as guilt, Knockturn alley at night is an area of great danger, not a playground for unruly schoolchildren. You were greatly remiss in your choice of paths for your little nocturnal outing. And in terms of assitance, I've most certainly given you..."

"Given me these?" with that, Hermione jumped up and shoved back the sleeve of her sweater, revealing a smart set of deep purple bruises and red marks where he had gripped her arm. She thrust the slender, white arm across the table, and was certain she saw something akin to regret in Snape's face. She didn't really care anymore, however, and quickly slumped back into her chair. Hermione had the strong desire to cry with frustration and exhaustion. Instead, she conjured up an image of the smug look on Ron's face as he heard into whose company her earlier explosion had lead her. Her annoyance effectively turned the would-be tears into a smoldering scowl that she directed across the table.

Snape let out a long, shaky sigh that effectively diffused the tension between them. Hermione noticed how threadbare—how old he looked. He'd never really been the poster-boy for blooming health, but the transformation of his sullen features was striking. Suddenly she felt guilt stab at her. For what, she couldn't imagine—she'd been quite right when she told him she'd done nothing wrong. But something in her professor's face made her want to kneel at his feet and beg forgiveness for her mere presence in the room. It occurred to her that this was a latent power Snape had—it was the same overwhelming force that had scared first-year potion classes into seven years of silence—she'd just never experienced it one on one like this before. She couldn't help but covet whatever source gave him that kind of command...

And, as quickly as the moment had come, it was over.

The momentary lucidity that had played across Snape's features once again gave way to typical blank countenance. "I apologize, Miss Granger. It was not my intention to hurt you."

Though still cold, his voice was more sincere than she thought him capable of, and Hermione knew it must have cost him to make even that guarded apology. An uncomfortable silence fell over them, and she mentally grappled for something to replace the awkwardness that had seated itself like a third party at their small table.

"Don't worry, Professor. I won't let word get around that you're capable of feeling remorse."

Severus' eyes shot up, and he saw her give him a small, sly smile. Yes, she was attempting to tease him. Of course, it wouldn't work, but he still respected her effort. It was sickeningly obvious why she'd not been sorted into Slytherin. "So, Miss Granger, if you are so intent on proving your innocence, pray tell, exactly what were you doing at the dead-end of Knockturn alley in the middle of the night?"

Even as she haltingly gave her explanation, Hermione was aware of how childish she sounded, "Well, Ron and Harry wanted to go to a talk given by some quidditch players" Snape nodded, and she was grateful that she would not have to explain the lecture further, because she hadn't bothered to find out who exactly had been speaking, "and they asked Ginny and I to accompany them. I became...irritated with Ron...and left the group..."

"So, you thought you would worry your paramour, young Mr. Weasley, by hiding out in a seedy area for the rest of the day?" Snape interrupted condescendingly.

"No," Hermione continued sourly, "I thought I would calm down by reading a bit," here she grew very embarrassed, because she would have to try and explain her peculiar literary habits, "I...well, I tend to become a bit...engrossed...whenever I read. I'd been reading a volume of poetry..."

Here she trailed off, obviously her mind was back wherever it had been when she's wandered down Knockturn alley. Severus sighed and studied his student. Her eyes had glassed-over, and her mouth was open in a small half- smile, as if she was mentally reciting whatever stanza had sent her elsewhere to begin with. It was a pleasant site, a young woman enchanted by words, but he felt as if he was intruding on something sacred and private, so he cleared his throat and effectively brought her back to earth. "Sorry, professor."

Severus waved his hand, disregarding her apology. His face was once again stern, and Hermione knew a reprimand was on the tip of his tongue, "Miss Granger, how old are you?"

Hermione's eyes widened, she'd expected anything from him but a question. "I'll be eighteen on September nineteenth, Sir."

Snape nodded and his eyes narrowed. Ah, thought Hermione, here comes the long-awaited slap on the wrist.

"When you are twice that age, you might think of walking down Knockturn alley alone at night, do you understand me? You have no idea the danger you were in."

Hermione gulped and nodded.

Severus glanced over Hermione's shoulder to see Arthur Weasley enter the room and head in their direction. Before he stood to go he fixed the mute Gryffindor girl with a look of utter annoyance and icily murmured, "And if you ever inconvenience me with your injudicious presence again, I will make sure your last year at Hogwarts is also your most unpleasant."

Arthur Weasley's fatherly hand on her shoulder, Hermione turned to watch Snape stalk proudly out the door in a swirl of black, wondering numbly if she'd ever recover from this seemingly schizophrenic encounter with her dourest of teachers.

Back in his private chambers, Severus Snape allowed himself to drop his head into his hands. As he wearily massaged his tense temples, he gave the sigh of a man completely alone in the secrets he kept.

Hermione granger would never know how close she'd been to walking into a small meeting of Death Eaters.

The damned foolish girl! All over some spat with those other loathsome teenaged buffoons. If such a thing were possible, Ronald Weasley irritated him even more than Harry Potter. Naturally, some of that annoyance had tainted his opinion of Miss Granger over the years. Truth be told, until tonight, he'd had no real concept of her as a distinct and cohesive entity apart from the company she kept, or her eagerness to prove her superior knowledge in the classroom. But now it would be impossible for him to deny that she had something solid and glittering that Weasley and Potter lacked—a hard backbone of ambitious pride tempered with knowledge.

And in Severus' extensive understanding of the teenage experience, that was about the best and worst thing anyone could possess.

But it had caught him off-guard and intrigued him.

And given him some consolation that this girl had been worth protecting.

This girl who had caused him to miss an important meeting with his fellow Death Eaters.

An action that, he was quite certain, would not go unnoticed or unpunished

Too weary to even begin to explore the consequences the events of this night would have on his life, Severus dropped back onto the bed.

Just another day in the life of the damned