A/N: J.K. Rowling's characters are not mine. There is a line that belongs to Fitzwilliam Darcy, who also does not belong to me. I could not think of better words to express true love, and so I borrowed them. Please forgive me.

Reaching

He sat in her chair.

She sat there every day, for the past seven years. At first, she touched the ceiling with her fingertips trying to please him. Second year, she buggered the rules and stole his supplies. After that she slowly began to ignore him and only pay attention to that idiot Longbottom. He started caring that year. Only when she stopped wanting in vain for his approval did he so desperately need her sole attention. He was greedy.

He was malicious. He started calling her names; a juvenile move to be sure, but the only one he could think of. She reduced him to this because she was on a plateau he could only touch with his fingertips.

Slowly he realized that the colder he was, the colder she became. Not merely to him, but to her two "friends" as well. To the world, as if to bugger them all. As the war grew more violent, more real—when he could take a second to pause and take her in—he worried. She looked horrible; too thin, too tired, too... everything Voldemort wanted them to be. But he could only observe. She was still too high above him. And yet she sat in the same chair as she did that first day, as if nothing had changed.

And then the war was over. There was no excuse not to heal. She remained broken. He always had been, and believed he would never heal. They met each other by chance one night: her crying, him cursing. They stared at each other. He broke first. He turned and walked—but she grabbed his robe, pulled him to her, dared to put her arms around him. She cried into his shoulder, not caring who he was or who he would be in the morning. She needed someone, anyone; he needed her—always had. The situation crumbled after that.

It was now the day before graduation. He had raised his white flag after that night. She seemed not to even notice; although her beautiful body was in her chair every day, it was apparent that her soul had followed Voldemort. Up until this very day, she had not said a word. Her classmates stopped asking questions and trying to break her after a mere week; her two friends, though more persistent, eventually heard the call of Quidditch again. She was alone, as she wanted. Her wall of ice successfully kept from melting.

This was wholly unacceptable, in his opinion. He knew a thing or two about icy walls. His was impenetrable until her. She had melted his with chocolate eyes and warm smiles. And once he was naked to the world as a babe, she fled into herself. No. It was not a Slytherin's way to let that go unpunished. He would do the same to her. He would repay her.

He sent her a note that morning to meet him.

And now he sat in her chair waiting. He knew now that name calling and intimidation were just more snowballs. Using fire was his plan now.

"You seem to be sitting in my chair, sir." Ah, how wonderful to finally hear her molten voice. He stood and motioned to the chair.

"Ms. Granger—Hermione—please sit. No, do not say anything. I will explain why you are here. I fear you have driven me mad. First it was your incessant questioning, your know-it-all nature. Then it was the lack of it. I learned to, to, well, enjoy your thirst for knowledge, Hermione, and to see it gone hurts me more than it should. Moreover, that night after the war left me confused as to the nature of our relationship. On my side I know I have more than platonic feelings for you. I realize that this truly is blunt and unexpected, and frankly, I don't know why I'm still talking. I'm merely rambling until you are shocked enough to walk out. Until then, you must allow me to tell me how ardently I admire and... love you."

She stared at him, unblinking and unmoving. Finally, timidly she raised her hand.

"Sir..." she stopped, and stood. As if in a dream, she walked around the desk to where he had stopped pacing in front of her. Turning to face whatever his destiny might be, he saw saline crystals, themselves beautiful because they were hers, making trails on her cheeks. She roughly swiped at them; he grabbed her wrist, glaring at her. Letting go, he watched as she gently used the back of her hand to wipe the moisture away. Nodding then, he locked his eyes on hers, waiting. He felt as if he could wait a thousand lifetimes for her answer. Finally:

"Even when I was far away, when I stopped raising my hand, or talking, even existing... Severus, I always belonged to you."

He realized he didn't need a thousand lifetimes. One was enough. She reached for him, and he stretched his hand to meet her halfway.