Chapter 3: A Return
Had the stones comprising the dungeon floor had the ability to protest, they surely would have done so. For the past two hours they had been abused and trod upon by a fretful Hermione Granger, whose anxiety only continued to grow with the passing of time. Her cauldron had long ago ceased its simmering; worry clouded concentration and a few miscalculations had made the mixture contained inside of little value. All thoughts of potion making had been abandoned for the rapid, staccato beat of her heels and the occasional vocal assurance to all things inanimate that the one she worried for would indeed return safe and unharmed.
The dungeons had darkened considerably since Snape's departure. The candles ornamenting the room were burned almost to the wick, and the shadows they afforded offered Hermione little in the way of comfort. She wrapped her arms around herself as she observed their primeval dance, goose bumps being born on flesh all the while. There was a sad kind of desperation in the air that Hermione felt did not all originate from her. These were dungeons after all. She was sure these walls had seen their share of misery. And she supposed it didn't help that their current master was tortured in his own right. Although the space was hushed, she felt the room whispering to her of times past and foul memories long gone. Shivering, Hermione struggled to keep her mind from projecting such dismal thoughts, preferring to turn her attention to the true cause of her discontent.
She looked towards the vacant desk at the head of the room, now emptied of Snape's particular blend of sarcasm and severity. She hadn't thought he would be called during her first night in the dungeons. She knew it to be wishful thinking, but a small part of her had believed that while in her presence he mightn't be called at all. At the very least she had thought her worries would diminish a bit if she were close to him at the time of his summons. Unfortunately, it had not turned out that way; it seemed the closer her proximity, the more intense were her concerns.
Her worries were not new by any means. There had been quite a few sleepless nights, with apprehension taking the place of dreams. She wondered if he had been called, and later in the night would speculate as to his health and the hour of his return. There had been one particular evening in the Gryffindor common room where she had voiced her fears to Harry and Ron. They tore themselves from their game of chess long enough to reassure her, claiming that Snape was a grown man whose inherent nastiness made him excellent for fitting in with "that sort of crowd". Hermione had been unable to find any peace in that statement. In fact, she'd had no peace at all until early morning breakfast, where Snape's scowl irritably attested that he was more than fine. He had taken note of her gaze then, the groove between his eyes deepening under her all too apparent scrutiny. In return, she had subtly smiled into her omelet.
Hermione made her way to her professor's desk, and upon arrival ran her hands over its surprisingly smooth wood. And then, so that she might feel closer to him, she found refuge in his chair. It was exactly as she expected it would feel; cold, hard and unyielding. It was simple in design, the epitome of plain— and wholly Snape. She knew it was foolish, but sitting in the place where he taught every day was in itself a comfort. She glanced around the room again, taking note of its familiar austerity. Being in the potions room was almost as good as having his cloak around her, she decided. His scent was everywhere, lingering in corners and shadows, just as the man himself was wont to do.
She began to fiddle with his the quill, usually found in the hand whose script so frequently graced her scrolls— the hand she'd held almost a month ago. She was sure that he'd hold this quill again. Nevertheless, her worries continued to plague her, just as the shadows lurking on the dungeon walls continued their depraved dance.
The inhabitants of Hogwarts had settled for the evening; the usual clamor of voices and laughter was now all but a whisper of the previous day. The children were asleep, and even those deviants who found their thrill in the shade of the night would not dare venture into the darkest recesses of the school. As a result, there was no one to witness the shadow of Severus Snape as he slowly made his way into the depths of the dungeons.
He paused for a minute, catching his breath whilst finding his equilibrium in the support of a nearby column. This night had been no worse than any other. In fact, for half of the revel the Dark Lord had felt the need to assert his prowess in the form of discourse rather than magical persuasion. Hence, the destruction that usually took place had subsided dramatically, though the evening still had not entirely been lacking in dastardly exploits.
While he was glad of his good fortunate, he realized it hardly seemed to make much difference in the end. There were moments when the physical pain was a welcome distraction from the regretful reminiscences that had a tendency to flaunt themselves after a night filled with this brand of interaction. Time and again he arrived home sapped, shaking, and intensely grateful that Dumbledore had seen fit to house him in the area of Hogwarts that saw the least amount of traffic.
Nearing the end of his journey, Severus found himself for the second time that night delaying upon the outskirts of the classroom door, all in an attempt to prepare himself for what might happen inside. Ms. Granger would be waiting for him. The thought had been in the back of his mind for the duration of the meeting. He had been absent for quite some time, and felt sure that anyone besides this particularly stubborn creature would have already retired to their rooms for the night, questioning why they had felt the need to freeze in the dungeons until the return of their ornery professor. But he knew that the cold and fears of what might lurk in the dark would not sway her. Ms. Granger was a rather determined young woman. Severus grunted at the thought.
He could not ascertain whether her presence was entirely welcome. Convention dictated that upon returning from a revel, he should cloak himself in solitude and attempt to gather together the pieces of self that Voldemort so happily had his way with. Such a night had the necessity of settling both mind and body. He was tempted to return to his rooms for the evening and let the girl fend for herself until morning. But conscience and curiosity was stronger than exhaustion or mere habit. He saw no option but to face his would be guardian, and was too weary to come up with any alternatives. Decision made, he quietly pushed his way through the door and anticipated what he would find waiting for him on the other side.
She was there, perched at his desk, a vision of innocence and anxiety. Her hands were caressing his quill almost reverently, her fingers now stained by the crimson ink which had escaped from the nib. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face, bringing some of the ink to grace an already pink cheek.
Severus stood there in a daze, his mind in knots as he tried to reconcile the horrors he had just previously beheld with this current vision of loveliness. He stood rooted to the spot, indecision marking his face. He was still unable to budge when Hermione looked up from the desk, his figure finally coming into view.
Her face was a myriad of emotions. She was startled first, then relieved. If he was not mistaken, he thought he saw some happiness to her face as well, although she did not smile. Slowly, she raised herself from her position at his desk, and with measured, deliberate steps drew nearer to him. She halted a mere few inches away, looking up at his face with eyes far too knowing for age.
For some unknown reason, he had enormous trouble keeping her gaze. He tore his eyes from hers, bringing them to rest instead upon the flickering candles that rested a bit to her left.
And then suddenly he was in her embrace, welcoming arms winding about his shoulders, her face finding solace in the crook of his neck. Her warm breath hit his skin, her grip around his body only tightening its hold on him. And Severus noted that for the first time, someone was trembling in his arms—and the tremors and shudders were not born of fear.
He couldn't bring himself to hold her in return. His fingers hovered a hair's breadth from her lower back, wanting to return the hold but finding an invisible barrier of his own making preventing such mutual contact. But her warmth and scent found their way to him despite his lack of reciprocation. He closed his eyes, telling himself he would enjoy this comfort for only a minute longer. And that was all it took.
"Ms. Granger..." He choked out the name, meanwhile disentangling himself from her grasp.
Wide eyes stared back at him, filled with consternation. "Oh Professor, I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?" Her compassionate hands began an appraisal of him, patting down his arms and chest in an effort to evaluate his well being. He almost smiled then, but succeeded in stifling such a revealing action.
He stilled her hands by taking then in his much larger ones, effectively trapping them to his chest. She looked up at him again questioningly.
"I am fine, Ms. Granger. I assure you, I've been done no injuries…tonight." His voice was low and soft, in obvious gratitude for her caring, while also belying the fact that such providence was not a common occurrence.
Nevertheless, she seemed to relax upon hearing those words, only to tense a moment later upon the realization of much larger hands that were feeding warmth to her own.
Severus, abruptly aware that he held her, released her hands quite suddenly and took a step backwards. There was no hesitancy in his voice then, his words hitting her in rapid fire.
"And now Ms. Granger, that you have managed to miss curfew by a good four hours, I believe it is time you returned to your chambers." His voice had lost its softness, and he bit back the sudden urge to threaten house points.
This time Hermione did not protest, but once again tried to catch his eyes. She was met with stern, sable eyes staring into her. Nodded in acceptance, she drew her cloak about her shoulders in preparation for the lonely trip back to Gryffindor tower. She took a few steps towards the door, but then on second thought turned around and grabbed his slack hand once more, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze.
"Goodnight, Professor." Those two words were the only ones she spoke to mark her parting. A few seconds later the door had closed behind her, its echo highlighting the emptiness of the room.
Deflating, Severus let out a sigh and appraised the area around him. It didn't look as if she'd gotten much work done after he'd left. Stepping towards her cauldron, he grimaced as he smelled burned materials, grimace increasing as he saw the mess she'd made of it. Foolish girl.
He dragged his hands through his hair in exhaustion. He had a good six hours before his first class. He might as well make the most of it. He needed to change his clothes, which smelled of an odd combination of iniquity and floral perfume. And then some rest would do rather nicely.
On the way to his quarters Severus hesitated next to a dark but unassuming cabinet. He reached inside and drew out a potion from within its depths, considering its dark blue hue. He was not one who liked to admit dependency on anything, much less a potion he had brewed himself. But it was a useful draft, really. It would not only ward off the nightmares of all he had witnessed tonight. It would also prevent any dreams he might have of a certain wavy haired Gryffindor; one who had embraced him and looked at him with care. Severus warily took a measured swig from the bottle, grimacing at the foul taste. He disposed of the draught with a quick swish and flick, and then returned to his quarters for the remainder of the night, all the while muttering about how kindness would be his undoing.