Chapter 11: Am I Poison?

Hermione sat as still as a statue, her jaw clenched. Only her eyes moved, flashing glances of fire at him and then quickly looking away.

Oh, she's furious, thought Snape. Although why that should bother me, I can't imagine. I myself tend to be furious most of the time, as she never fails to remind me.

It's jealous I am, he thought sourly. I see the comfortable familiarity she has with the wanker-who-lived and his moronic Housemate; indeed, with the entire clutch of rotten Gryffindor eggs. I see the ease with which she puts her hand on Holmes' arm. Am I poison?

Oh, don't think it's lost on me, the outrageous way Holmes flirts with anything in a skirt. I've watched him; the ingratiating smile, the twinkling eyes, the intimate word in an ear, the courtly hand under the arm or around the waist. Bounder. She's besotted with him, lost her good sense. Hideous cad: he's old enough to be her grandsire! Shouldn't be surprised if that doesn't stop the rogue from attempting to-- he could not go on; it was too awful.

He had merely remarked to her that Holmes seemed to be taking up a good amount of her time, time better spent in working with him, Snape, to create the antidote to the magic-destroying influenza. He had been unable to resist throwing in a jibe about Holmes' propensity for telling humorous stories at dinner, and her obvious enjoyment of his storytelling. How had he worded it: "Inane sniggering?"

Miss Granger had rounded upon him. "Enjoy it?" she cried. "Shall I tell you what I enjoy most? Mr Holmes looks at me when he speaks to me, unlike you, sir, who can hardly be bothered to acknowledge my existence when I am not performing some menial task or other for you!"

Indeed, said his resident conscience, which almost never spoke up when he wanted it to, and insisted on droning in his ear when it was most unwelcome. You have worked diligently to prove to one and all, including Miss Granger, that you are poison. You wish to emulate the dread Svengali, and have your brilliant acolyte all to yourself? If you are truly jealous of her friends and of others who make her smile, which you have steadfastly refused to do, you might prove to Miss Granger that you are flesh and blood, that there is more to you than billowing black robes, bile and vitriol. Touch her.

He scoffed to himself. Had he not touched her many times? He had mopped up wounds she took when a cauldron exploded or some caustic substance burned her. He had kneaded her stiff shoulder muscles when she stirred cauldrons for hours; many times he had bundled her up in her cloak and carried her up to Gryffindor tower, depositing her on her bed to the shocked or amused glances of her dormitory mates, when she had worked or studied herself into exhaustion.

He had risked having his shins soundly kicked recently when Miss Granger, distracted, forgot to eat although there was a luncheon tray between them on the laboratory bench, and she caught him looking at her levelly, carefully and deliberately loading his fork and then leaning towards her, intent on feeding her! Then, he remembered, chuckling, she had Transfigured the food on the fork into squirming maggots, struck his hand so that the writhing mess flew into his face, and hissed profanity that would have made a Slytherin proud.

Truth to tell, she had done as much for him, and often. She had worked out the stiffness in his back after long hours in the laboratory, sat by his bed in the Hospital wing when he recuperated from the Dark Lord's tortures. She had brought him food and drink and insisted he eat, nagging him until he would have done anything to be rid of her..

Still, there she sat, enraged at him and probably at herself. She had shown him a side of her that he had never seen, or never allowed himself to notice: she had let him see her vulnerability. Granted, she had couched her revelation in terms that anyone who did not know her as he did would have interpreted as merely a snotty rebuttal to his attack. He rose; his mind made up, and walked over to the settee. He sat down next to her, close but not touching, and waited patiently.

After a few moments, Hermione acknowledged his presence with a slight sniff. She turned slightly towards him, although her eyes remained fixed on the other side of the room. "Hermione," he said, and she stiffened, unused to his calling her by her given name.

"What is it?"

He held out his hand, and she looked down at it as if it were a toad. Finally, she looked into his face. He sat still, his hand out, and slowly, she raised her hand and put it in his, where it lay like a small white bird in his broad palm. His eyes held hers as he slowly lifted her hand and touched his lips gently to her fingers. Who would have known that his lips would be soft, so soft, and warm? She closed her fingers around his hand. Her heart thudded in her chest. He is looking directly at me…

So, he thought, I have surprised you, and you didn't smack my hand out of the way, or claw me, or recoil with disgust. Liking the sound of his interior dialogue, he pronounced it aloud: "You didn't recoil with disgust."

Her chocolate brown eyes were enormous and too bright, bright with a gloss of tears. "I didn't know…" she whispered, then collected herself. "I didn't know your lips would feel like that."

"As I have never kissed myself, I wouldn't know what you mean by 'that,' Miss Granger, but I did strive to please." A corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

She bowed her head to hide her answering smile, and her cheeks flushed hot. She looked down at her hand in his, and then up again. She moved closer to him and put her other hand on his shoulder. Then, she straightened and returned both hands to her lap.

"I apologise, Professor," she said. "It was inappropriate of me to overstep my bounds."

"Not so, all is well," he answered quietly. "We are both over-tired with this case, and strained to the breaking point. I value you greatly, Miss Granger, although it is not in character for me to express it." He rose from the settee. "It grows late. I am, as ever, your obedient servant, Severus Snape." He smirked.

Hermione snorted. "Are you indeed, sir? There is a Muggle child's story, in which a wooden puppet wishes to become a real boy, but he is a great liar, and every time he tells a lie, his nose grows. I shall watch your nose closely, Professor. 'Obedient?' Never! 'Servant?' That is a snide remark, sir. Good night." She rose and took her book knapsack from the table.

Snape slouched back down in his chair, steepled his fingers and sneered at her over them. "It's clear you've been hanging about with Holmes a bit much, Miss Granger; you're even beginning to sound like him. Next thing we'll be treated to is your everlasting blather in a revolting Oxford accent. We have a busy day ahead of us, get some sleep."

Nothing has changed. Hermione put her nose in the air and swept out the door, which slammed shut behind her, and Severus Snape put his face in his hands. He had kissed her hand and she had almost…it would have to do.

Sherlock Holmes sat in his window seat and regarded the moonlight on the lake. He could make out the two black swans; they were always there, two small dark ships on their nightly patrol. He thought of Russell, infected with influenza, lying in a bed in hospital. He visualized her burning with fever; her long, thick blonde hair sodden with sweat, and shuddered with dread.

He remembered one night that Spring. He and Russell were returning from their trip to Palestine, returning to danger and violence. For the sake of the case, they had decided to give the impression that they had become bitter enemies. The strain had been enormous, and on that night in question, he had wordlessly held out his arms to her, and she had come into them, lacing her arms around him, and put her head on his shoulder. He had held her until her trembling quieted, and she had looked up at him, her great sapphire eyes bright with tears and something he was not sure he understood. He had brushed his lips across her forehead, his arms tightened about her, and his soul gave a great lurch. I love her. If she were to fall sick….his chest tightened and he dropped his face into his hands. Russell…his Russell…