DISCLAIMER: Hermione, Severus, Draco and all their friends belong to JK Rowling, Scholastic Books and everyone else with a copyright. I'm just letting them out to play a bit 'til the next book or movie comes out and they have to get back to their day jobs.
"When people get married because they think it's a long-time love affair,
they'll be divorced very soon, because all love affairs end in disappointment.
But marriage is a recognition of a spiritual
identity."
- Joseph
Campbell
Chapter 9
Hermione took a deep calming breath before heading quickly down the stairs towards the dungeons. Ten to seven; she should be there on time, as usual. She winced at the painful throb in the back of her head. Breaking up the fight between Malfoy and Ron after Charms had brought the threatened headache on full force, and it seemed everywhere she went after that, Malfoy was there. She'd had to resort to threatening to hex Ron herself to keep him from doing something daft. The two hours in the library researching after classes had proven to be wasted effort as well; if there were loopholes in the law, she certainly hadn't found them, and she'd missed dinner for nothing.
As a result, she was looking forward to her time in the potions lab even more than usual. She smiled as she thought about how Harry and Ron would react if they knew how much she enjoyed her job as Professor Snape's assistant, how at home she felt in the midst of all the herbs and jars and beakers and cauldrons. They had been appalled when she had told them that she had accepted the position but it didn't last long; when she had returned from her first few sessions, tired and happy rather than angry and in tears they had decided to simply ignore the whole matter, chalking it up as one of her oddities. She'd never bothered to inform them of exactly how calming she found the six hours a week she spent in the Professor's company. Yes, he was curt and his acerbic wit could be cutting, but the casual cruelty that occasionally manifested itself in the classroom was completely absent in a one-on-one situation, and Hermione found herself amused more than appalled at his comments. His knowledge, not only of potions, but of herbology, charms, history, science and yes, even literature and music, was extensive and made available to her during their sessions; not only did he answer her endless questions, regardless of the subject matter, he actually encouraged them. Best of all, unlike many of the professors, who were offended when Hermione questioned their reasoning and methods, Professor Snape enjoyed it when she challenged him, and more than one evening of work had fallen far short of its goal due to an extended debate.
She reached the dungeon and checked her watch. Idly counting off the seconds in her head, she knocked on the door at exactly seven o'clock. Pushing open the heavy door upon receiving the order to "Enter!" she stepped inside and closed it behind her, truly happy for the first time in two days.
Hermione stirred mechanically while she watched the professor cut the scorpion tail into precise, symmetrical pieces. She loved watching him work. It was akin to watching a particularly talented dancer or swordsman or musician, she supposed, the way his body, after years of training and constant practice, performed the most complex of tasks with ease and grace. She was mesmerized by the swift, sure motions of his long, tapered fingers, chopping and dicing, moving from one ingredient to the next without pause.
"Is your headache gone, Miss Granger?" He didn't look up or cease work, and it took a moment for Hermione to realize he had spoken to her.
"Yes, sir. Thank you. The potion took effect awhile ago. I'm fine now." She was surprised at his concern, almost as surprised as she had been when he had realized she was in pain after only five minutes in her company and demanded an explanation. She was either not good at hiding her feelings, even after seven years practice, or he was far more perceptive than she gave him credit for.
Of course, if he were that perceptive, he wouldn't keep trying to get her to talk about her current situation. She had come here seeking solace, and the blasted man kept reminding her, with his sly comments and questions, that he knew of the nightmare her life had become. It was beginning to get on her nerves. The lab was supposed to be her refuge, if only for a few hours, and the Professor was ruining it for her. If Dumbledore had felt it necessary to confide in the professor, fine, but that didn't mean she had to.
At the sound of the bell, Hermione dutifully turned off the flame below the cauldron, removed the sterling spoon and moved to the long row of vials on the table behind her to prepare for the decanting of the potion. The mindless work soothed her: check a vial for cracks, wipe it out carefully with the prepared rag, then place it in the rack next to the proper sized stopper. Over and over again, her arms moved of their own volition until the rhythm was broken by his voice.
"Make sure you take some headache relief potion back with you when you leave this evening. This little quandry you seem to have gotten yourself into will not excuse poor performance in class. I would also advise you to eat something as soon as possible." The professor did not look up at the sound of a vial being banged down on the hard metal table top.
"This little quandry I seem to have gotten myself into?" Anyone else would have recognized the danger in Her tone of voice, but Severus was too distracted, still dwelling on the look on the Malfoy boy's face as he watched Her during Potions that morning. He'd been imagining the little prick's face with each and every stroke of the knife and he was sorry he'd run out of ingredients that required cutting. He wondered idly if he should start on the caterpillars for next week's lessons, but decided they wouldn't be fresh enough if he cut them now, more's the pity.
"Excuse me, Professor. I don't know what Professor Dumbledore or Malfoy have told you, but obviously you have no idea what is going on here." Hermione began to pace around the lab, arms crossed in front of her. Her control was gone, for the first time in two days, and once she started talking, she didn't seem to be able to stop. Well, too bad; it was his own fault for bringing it all up.
"My life has turned in to a nightmare…a nightmare, I might add, which is completely the fault of those dunderheads at the Ministry of Magic! Two days ago, my only really concern was getting enough revision in before NEWTS; now I have to either marry someone I don't love or leave a world I do love. I feel shocked and angry and betrayed." She raised a hand to cut off his comment when he opened his mouth to speak. "Not by Professor Dumbledore, or anyone here, but by the Ministry and the wizarding world itself. After everything I did, everything I gave to keep this world safe, all the nightmares I still have…" She closed her eyes, suddenly swamped by memories of the final battle: the screams and cries of the dead and dying, that horrible moment of realization that she was responsible for some of those cries, the endless, torturous pain of the cruciatus curse that had made her beg for death, watching as Harry stood before Voldemorte, alone and vulnerable with only the love of her and Ron to shield him. She shook her head to clear her mind and forced herself to go on. "After all that, it repays me by treating me like some sort of mindless baby machine." She opened her eyes, fighting back the tears, determined not to cry, and looked at him. "So I either marry Malfoy, of all people, or worse yet, some stranger, or I leave. I break my wand, and walk away, go back to the muggle world and leave behind magic – my magic, a part of me. I leave my friends, and Hogwarts, and the chance at a future doing something I truly love, that I'm good at. And believe me, I'm angry enough to have considered it. It won't be long, my friends say. Six months, a year at most. This time. They don't seem to understand. If I walk away, it won't be easy to come back…and there's no guarantee that this won't be the last time. I feel trapped, Professor, and I don't know what to do, and I hate that!" She couldn't hold back the tears any longer, and she turned her back to him, trying to cry quietly.
Severus watched her bowed back, his keen ears picking up the occasional strangled sob. She was crying, She had poured out Her heart to him and now She was crying, and he didn't know what to do. His mind scrambled to identify an appropriate action, but he was distracted by a mysterious aching pain in his chest, so he resorted to doing something he never thought he would: he did what he thought Albus would. Squaring his shoulders, he crossed to the girl's shaking form, reached out a tentative hand and gave her shoulder a few ineffectual pats. "There, there, Miss Granger." He started to mouth some ridiculous platitude but his innate sense of honesty wouldn't allow it. "Yes, things look absolutely horrid for you right now, but don't you dare give up, or give in to despair. You're a Gryffindor, you Silly Little Girl! Show the courage your house is famous for!" His hand found her shoulder again, seemingly of its own volition, and squeezed it gently. "You aren't alone in this, Miss Granger. You have your friends to help you, and the Weasleys, the whole pack of them, and the Headmaster and your professors."
Hermione turned her tear stained face to look at him searchingly. "My professors? All of them?"
Severus raised an eyebrow. "Has your emotional state impaired your thought process? 'Your professors' is an inclusive term, Miss Granger, from which one may imply 'all of them.' "
She smiled at his response, an open, joyous smile, and the aching pain in his heart twisted into a pleasurable pain he couldn't quite identify. "Thank you, Professor." He handed Her a handkerchief – plain white linen with a tasteful "S" monogrammed in the corner. She wiped the tears from Her face before returning it to his outstretched hand, then turned back to the work table and picked up the vial She had set down not so long ago.
Severus looked at the handkerchief for a moment before folding it carefully and placing it in his inner jacket pocket. Patting his robes absently, in the spot directly over the pocket, he got back to work.