THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
By: Scatterheart
"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley)Section Lucky Number Thirteen
When Hermione entered the dungeons after her last class, a little haltingly, for whatever demons that had possessed her to do – that – during the Potions exam had long since disappeared, Snape closed the door behind her with a charm and said, "Give me three valid reasons – no, give me one valid reason – why I should not report you to the headmaster, and I will not, Miss Granger. Give me one reason."
Hermione attempted to swallow, but a lump had formed in her throat. She could not speak.
"Stumped, Miss Granger?" Snape bared his teeth. "Surprise, surprise. Then it may not come as news to you that I am also stumped by the numerous antics that you have evidently delighted yourself in performing during the past weeks. I am not blind, Miss Granger. I know every prank that you have pulled in this class. For the sake of your dignity I will not list them out for you, but I expect that you have a clear idea in that 'brilliant' head of yours what I very well know. Now, will you tell me – what is your motive for these actions? Do enlighten me with your profound knowledge. Hmm?"
She didn't think she had ever seen him this livid in her life. He was pacing the floor in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back, his skin like frozen ivory and his eyes like smoldering black emeralds.
"Was it the Potter boy?" he continued scathingly when she did not respond. "Or Mr. Weasley who has set you up with these series of… dares?" He gritted the word as though it were a profanity. "Have you found it particularly amusing to underhandedly break as many rules as you can in my class? Miss Granger, do not think I will refrain from reporting you because you are the Head Girl and you have received high marks from me these past few years. I can expel you from Hogwarts, and trust me, if the situation calls for it, I will."
She was frightened of him. Now that the classroom was deserted and the protective shield of students was gone, she felt as if she and Professor Snape were isolated in an island of blinding white lights, where her soul was glaringly bared to him in an open book. And she was frightened. "Please stop," she said. "Please stop."
Snape ceased pacing. "You mystify me, Miss Granger."
Well, truth be told, she mystified herself. Why had she done all those things she did? A year ago, if someone had predicted she would be acting like that to Professor Snape, she would have mockingly laughed and sprayed a glass of pumpkin juice into his face. Now, embarrassment and disgrace sunk like a stone within her heart. The Potions Master was right; she deserved to be expelled.
But the way he had so flippantly disregarded her… she had been so furious then. Why?
Hermione felt her skin flaming in frustration, fear, and helplessness. She stammered out the first thing she could think of: "Look, I'm sorry. I won't be doing anything like that again. I—"
"An insincere apology will not solve the problem."
"I swear to you, Professor, I won't!"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "I will be blunt with you. You seem to change personalities with the tides, Miss Granger. Now you stand before me, crying for repentance like a child, while three hours ago you had unashamedly acted the role of a… a temptr—"
"Stop it! I wasn't!"
"Then what were you doing? Stretching?"
"I don't know, Professor Snape. I don't know! All I know was that… I was cold."
Snape heaved a sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of his chest. He moved to his desk and sank into the seat. He looked angry, still, but tired now, and his inky gaze seemed focused on an object far, far away. "Go clean out the soiled cauldrons by the wall," he ordered mutely.
Hermione had hardly taken a step in that direction when his firm voice held her captive once more.
"No, no, that will not do. You will come here and tell me who or what has forced you to commit these acts."
She was unable to budge. "Professor, I would rather clean—"
"You will come here and we will talk!" Snape shouted.
It wasn't the ire in his voice that yanked at her feet like puppet-strings and dragged her forward until she was only a meter away from him, but rather, an emotion much more profound. She did not know exactly what it was, but she was certain she saw it in his eyes (which she realized were greenish hazel, and not entirely black, as she had supposed) and it reminded her, alarmingly, of herself.
His command had almost carried a tinge of… wanting. Wanting… something.
Oh, Merlin.
Hermione had never thought that Professor Snape, that greasy git of the dungeons, was capable of any feeling other than anger and contempt; now that she understood otherwise, her heart skipped a fiery beat. Everything about him was suddenly magnified until it wrapped about her in a dark embrace, and she was overwhelmed and drowning in his presence.
"What… what do you want to talk about, Professor?" she whispered.
"First, sit," he replied. He nodded to the chair next to the desk.
Hermione eased herself down into the icy, metal seat. And waited.
Several seconds passed before Snape again spoke. "Who made you decide to do these things?"
"No one."
"Then why?"
"You can ask me a million times, but I already told you. I don't know."
Ah, but you do know. You just don't want to admit it to him. Or even to yourself.
Snape shook his head wearily, the rough fabric of his black cloak rustling. "What do you want from me? A more lenient homework schedule? A different curriculum? Better marks?"
"Professor…" Her vision blurred with moisture, and she blinked to keep the tears in check. "My marks are already satisfactory."
"And?"
"And it's just that you always…" She couldn't. She bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood. She looked away.
Snape hissed, sounding frustrated. "Must it be so bloody difficult to talk to you? I always what! Speak up or I will take ten points away from Gryf – no, you do not care anymore, Miss Hermione Granger, do you? I can tell that you don't. It's been a long time since you have." His words were almost regretful.
"It's just that you always…" Hermione gave up. "It's just that you always ignore me now!" she blurted out in a mad rush. "Ever since that night I went to ask you about Chapter Eighteen! Now I don't exist in your damn class, Severus, no matter what I do. As if I exist anywhere else. Well, okay, the bloody library, maybe. And even then—" She broke off abruptly. What had she called him? Severus?
She could not believe the name had just rolled off of her tongue, so smoothly and so naturally, as though she had known him forever and she was addressing him as equals.
Severus, she contemplated. It was not the name of a professor, but the name of a man. And she dared not venture into that train of thought any further. "Professor. Professor Snape. Forget it."
"But… you are the Head Girl… Miss Granger," he replied haltingly.
Hermione realized from the rawness in his voice that he was struggling with his own words, flustered on the inside. How many people have talked to him in this way before? She closed her eyes. "It means nothing."
"It means many things."
"It means I have good marks, even in Advanced Potions," she said, looking at him again. "For example, Neville. He… you know what he is like, Professor."
"Yes. He needs you."
"Professor Snape…"
"Many people need you," he said, matter-of-factly. "But whom do you need?"
Their conversation was like a dream now; the Hogwarts castle and the surrounding landscape, the histories and the reputations, and all the rules of being the individuals that they were, of living under the skin and hair of that particular role, had faded out like the tide.
Yes, he had called her a tide, not so long ago. She wondered if he, too, had been washed away with it.
"I need…" Hermione began. "I need someone I can talk to. Anyone."
He rested his chin in his closed hand. "You have that Potter boy."
"You don't understand; I can't talk to him; I mean, really talk. We can say words, but they're just random words thrown in the air and they're not anything, Sev—Severus." She let the implications hover in the contracted space between them.
"Words are the glue that bind friendships together," Snape said. He did not correct her.
"Yes, but they give no substance. They only bind. No… no, they don't even do that." In her mind, Harry was flying through the winter sky on that broomstick. Soaring, so far in the vastness. "They only hide what's supposed to be there. They fill emptiness with a bunch of stuff. Useless stuff."
"Then be mute, Miss Granger."
"I can't. It takes too much away. I need to use words. I can't…" She put her fist to her mouth and bit on a knuckle to stop herself from crying. "I'll lose everything."
"Hush." He lifted his chin from his hand. He stretched his hand to her. He touched her face.
His fingers were as she remembered, dry and warm and callused from the years of bland, ungrateful work. But they were strangely comforting as they sent electric sparks and soothing pulses of warmth at the same time into her.
She whimpered a little, uncontrollably, and nestled her cheek into his palm. He stroked with gentle, almost hesitant caresses her cheek, the tender down of her earlobe, the line of her jaw. He moved lower; his thumb hovered over her parted lips, and she could feel the swirls of her hot breath reflecting back onto her skin.
"Severus," she murmured. They were so close now that she could sense his warmth. Why had she always thought that he was so cold? He was not; he was like a slow fire, constantly burning. She held out a hand and placed it on his chest, over the coarse layers upon layers of his robes, and felt the pressure of his heartbeat, oh so wildly thumping within him.
She didn't know whether to be scared or thrilled by the discovery, but she was certain now that he was only a man, not a villain or a beast or a supernatural entity. Only a man.
She lifted her face to his.
"Hermione," he said. His mouth was curvaceous and solemn. His nose was strong, and his eyes, narrow and fierce and soft all at once. She leaned in. She leaned in, and…
"No," Snape said, rigidly. "No, Hermione."
Frigid dungeon air brutally slapped her where his gentle hand had been. Snape had moved back, pushing his chair with his feet more than a meter away from her. The legs of the metal chair scraped along the stone floor, shrieking, and the sound amplified and squealed like a massive broken record throughout the classroom.
"Leave, Miss Granger."
"My detention—"
"Do you hear me, leave, now! Get out of my sight!" Snape roared, lank black hair streaking over his eyes. He was poised in his seat like a predator about to spring. From a sconce somewhere in the wall, a single candle flickered; the orange light splashed like stains across his face. "Leave, Miss Granger," he repeated, raggedly.
Hermione felt herself shaking violently, her mind a blank save for one word: over. It's over, over, over. She fumbled to her feet, grasped for her book bag, and retreated through the mess of tables and cauldrons and chairs, until she reached the door.
Whatever had happened is now over, she thought again, with a backward glance at the lone man sitting at his desk with his forehead steepled between his fingers.
"Stop dawdling; leave!" His eyes were ever so bleak.
Hermione swallowed the ache in her throat and lifted her chin. "Goodbye, Professor Snape," she said, and opened the door and stepped outside.
And it was only then that time ceased its slow motion and fast-forward jerks, and started to unravel in an orderly fashion. And suddenly she felt so tired, so exhausted, that she wanted to collapse onto the floor and sleep. Sleep and cry.
"Hermione?" The tenor voice was close behind her.
Hermione whirled around. It was Ron, books in hand, approaching her in the dark corridor.
"I didn't know you were out here, Hermione. I was—"
"What do you want?" she snapped.
"To see Snape for some help on my homework," he shrugged. And then a small smile crept to his rosy, youthful face. "Actually, truth is, I was going to see how you were doing in your detention. The bastard really went far this time, didn't he? So maybe, I figured, you needed some company—"
"No thanks; I don't need your pity, Ron!" Hermione screamed before he could finish his sentence. She pushed past him, and ran down the hallway as though the Hounds of Hades were chasing after her. And maybe, she thought through the blood that pounded in her ears, they were.
--
To be continued.