THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
By: Scatterheart
"Then it begins!" (Robin of Locksley)Section Sixteen
Two months without seeing a trace of the man known as Severus Snape had almost wiped out his existence from Hermione Granger's memory. Almost. If she didn't count her nightly dreams and daily musings, unwanted visions that made her redden in shame at their sensual vividness, he was completely gone from her life.
Damn those dreams.
So he had touched her. And so perhaps those touches had not been entirely unpleasant. But it gave her no right, even subconsciously, to imagine those tapered hands sliding along her back, the curve of her waist, her…
He was Snape! He was greasy old Snape (who, in reality, was not that old, she reminded herself) who lived in a dungeon and never washed his hair.
She was going mad, she was sure of it, even without having to set foot in Potions ever again. She couldn't begin to imagine what it would have been like if she had not dropped the class.
She immersed herself in her studies, her extra Transfigurations course. After school, she dragged out the box of Chinese Checkers that Neville had never really learned to play, and spent three days teaching him, and later, when he had gotten the gist of it, hours and hours losing herself into the miniature battles that unfolded onto the metal board.
"Do we have to play again?" Neville had complained sometime during the fourth week. "We always play this game."
"I won't help you on your homework if you don't," she had icily replied, feeling a nauseating wave of self-loathing ooze upon her, only to be firmly pushed aside.
What was it that Snape had said? "And neither should you be using my class as a means of gaining personal glory or forging friendships." She didn't care anymore about what was right or wrong. She had already blatantly crossed all of her moral boundaries in the presence of that git; nothing really mattered now except receiving excellent marks and keeping several people around her to talk to when depression threatened to devour her… which, she figured despondently, was most all the time now.
She felt cruel; no – she was cruel. So when Ron finally pulled her aside during the first Saturday of March, asking her in a serious, low voice, "Is everything all right, 'Mione?" she said, "I just have too much work to do in that new Transfigurations class," and excused herself for the library, her haven.
The library that afternoon was uncommonly empty, for the fact that the sun was cheerily shining for the first time since the series of rainstorms and fogs, and everyone was outside enjoying picnics or games of Quidditch.
Hermione wandered in; the familiar towers of books loomed bleakly to the high ceiling in the same, drafty fashion throughout the whole year, regardless of rain or shine. She nodded absently to the librarian and made her way through the labyrinth of filled shelves to the Restricted Section in the corner of the room. One of the few perks of being Head Girl was that she was allowed almost anywhere now; she possessed almost as many privileges as the faculty.
Hermione reached the velvet red enclosures, nimbly stepped over them, and proceeded to browse through the shelves.
Hemmingway, Wilde, Tennyson, Huxley.
Of the few novels in the Restricted Section, most were of Muggle authors, perhaps to discourage the pureblood students from overly embracing the Muggle culture and neglecting Wizard literature. But Hermione had already read the majority of them during her summers at home, and numerous courses in Muggle Studies.
All except one.
She saw it on the second shelf from the top, a thick leather-bound volume that read "The Complete Poems of William Butler Yeats" in crumbling gold foil on the tattered spine. Yeats. She had always managed to avoid that book in the past; not purposely, of course, but each time she wanted it someone had already checked it out, and each time it was there, she seemed to have developed an interest in a different book.
This time she stood on tiptoe and tried, futilely, to reach it. It was just several centimeters beyond her fingertips. Perhaps if she used her wand… she realized she had left it on her dresser in the dorm.
She hopped and managed to clamber for the book briefly before gravity brought her down. She gave another hop; when she landed her shoe twisted on the carpet and she fell backwards.
And into something soft and warm. Arms. She gasped. An embrace.
She found her footing and twisted herself free.
Severus Snape.
"Looking for something, Miss Granger?" he asked calmly.
She wondered if she was dreaming. He was standing close behind her, in his usual attire of black robes, the occasional peeks of white cloth at the cuffs and at the neck, and shadows. Lots of shadows.
Two months contracted themselves into a single day.
He had told her to leave. He had told her to leave after doing that to her with his hand, making her believe that he had cared. Bastard. Greasy, vile, insufferable bastard.
"Good day, Professor," Hermione responded, tightly, the anger gripping her throat like a gradually contracting vise.
He smelled faintly of dried mountain herbs and cinnamon. Hermione took a step back, only to be met with the barrier of a thousand different books. The thread-thin passageways were made for one person, not two. And all of it was his fault. She hated him for it, for his musky sweet scent.
"Making the most of your privileges, I see, Miss Granger," Snape drawled sarcastically, gesturing to the Restricted Section plaque above them.
Yes, the Potions Master's brain was most definitely that of a robot, Hermione thought. He controlled precisely what to remain inside and what to flush out. For the first and last time in her life, she wished she could be like him. "What do you want?"
"If you must know, I came here to read," he returned. "Last time I checked, this was a library."
"Well, you're in the wrong section, Professor."
"That is not for you to decide."
She snorted coldly. "Everything here is Muggle literature."
"The ramblings of lower life forms can be very interesting at times," he replied, with a lift of his shoulders. "Good for a laugh. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Granger…" He stepped forward, until he was almost pressed against her. "Perhaps you did not hear me the first time. Move out of the way."
He was so tall. Hermione had to crane her head back all the way to keep eye contact with him, and even then, she estimated, he would need to lean down considerably if their mouths were to meet.
She blanched, and immediately flushed. She could not believe that thoroughly disgusting notion had come to pass. Yes, disgusting. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. She moved to the side.
Easily reaching up, Snape plucked the Yeats book from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. "Good day, Miss Granger." He started to leave.
"Hey!" Hermione yelled in protest. "What do you think you're doing?"
Snape stopped in his tracks, turned to her, and heaved an impatient breath. "I am going to read this book," he said in theatrical exaggeration.
"No, you're not. This is my book."
He took the volume from under his arm and thumbed through it. "Funny I do not see your name anywhere—"
"You know I was trying to get it. You saw me. You know this belongs to me," she said. Anger was keeping her bold. "Give it back."
"I am losing my patience with you, Miss Granger," Snape whispered in response, his voice smooth and dark like black velvet.
She could not stand him anymore. She moved forward and grabbed the book. Their fingers met and more memories returned like layers of a flood, but she did not care. The memories only made her increasingly more enraged at him and at herself, and the fury kept her from crumpling into his arms, kept her strong. "Give. It. Back."
"Stop this."
"I will if you give it back."
"You're acting like a child."
"So are you."
Snape's nostrils flared. "Is this how you address all your professors now, Miss Granger," he seethed, "or am I the only one to whom you bestow this – wonderful – honor?"
"You're no longer my professor."
That stopped him cold. Something flickered across his face, a ghost of an expression that was gone as soon as it came. And then he said, in an odd tone that sent fine shivers down her spine, "Ah, yes. I see you've finally found the time to tell me about this unexpected little change… two months after you made it!"
Oh, Merlin… the only word that Hermione could attach to that expression, to that odd little tone, was hurt. It sounded so foreign coming from his lips, but there was no mistaking that distinct sound of a bleeding wound being drenched in proverbial lemon juice.
But why? Hermione shoved the question away.
"I was busy," she said, less vehemently than she had wanted to. "I mean, you knew already, so what was the point?"
"Courtesy, Miss Granger."
She couldn't help herself. "Oh, tell me what you know about that, Severus. I'm sure you've had a lifetime of experience in the field of being courteous."
And he glared at her with inky pupils that set every one of her nerve endings on fire. "You are out of your league, Miss Granger. I may no longer be your professor, but that does not mean I do not have authority over you."
"You don't have the right to decide who has authority over me."
"But I have the right to expel you from this school."
"So it's blackmail now?" she practically screamed, her anger increasing by leaps and bounds.
"No," he said, "it is the truth. You believe you are invincible and exempt from every rule, because you are young. But rules do apply to you, and consequences do ensue, Hermione Granger, as distasteful as the news may be."
"Consequences for what?" she said, a little shakily. And she thought, Oh God, no. The place where I hoped we'd never go. We're going there now.
"You know for what," he said, with an unreadable gaze. "For what happened the last time I talked to you. Two months ago."
Damn it, but he could be so bloody frank. Her heart threatened to burst or jump out of her ribcage. "I…" she began. And then a thought came to her like a light bulb being flicked on in the darkness. "Yes, you're exactly right, Severus. What are the consequences for what you did, hmm? Because, as I recall, I didn't do anything – how do you say – 'out of my league' during that time we spent after school."
Whatever gaze he had regarded her with, whatever potential softness had been there, was instantly clouded over and frozen in a glare of unspeakable coldness. His eyes thinned to slits beneath a furrowed brow. "And, pray tell, just what did I do?" he asked, ominously.
"You know full well," she replied.
They were speaking in fervent, heated breaths, unmoving from their proximity from each other, their hands entertained on the book they trapped between them. Had they been here before, Hermione thought, half in despair and half in the thrill that coursed through her. And why were they here again, so soon and so effortlessly?
"Well, if you so confidently think that I know full well, then why don't you enlighten me?" Snape was saying.
"Fine, I will."
"Go ahead. I'm waiting; I don't have all day. What is it?"
Hermione took a deep breath. "This," she said, and removed her hand from the book and stroked his face. If she didn't die right then and there from the heart attack she was sure was going to happen to her, then the look in his face would kill her for certain. Or, at the very least, melt her into a puddle on the ground. His eyes were endless pools, burning, glistening, and staring at her in pure wonder. His lips was parted by a hair's width, and he moved them imperceptibly, as though he was trying to speak, but was too choked with emotion to utter a sound.
She ran her fingertips down his slightly sandpapery jaw, across the smoothness of his mouth. He kissed her fingers then – oh, Merlin, his lips were so soft – and she whispered, "Remember?" She danced her touch along his proud nose, his brows, his temples, where a strong pulse throbbed. "Remember? This is what you did to me. And this is what it felt like."
He closed his eyes. "I see," he murmured. "Well it's not… too bad."
Her heart swooned. She slipped her hand into his hair; it was surprisingly soft and silky, like kittens' fur.
"You were so frightened that day I thought you would faint," he continued. "And now… you're… considerably less frightened, I suppose."
"That's not true at all."
"Ah, then you keep it from me. You've grown in the two months I've missed you, Miss Granger." He opened his eyes.
And that was when Albus Dumbledore came.
He swished into view at the end of the rows of bookshelves, in a robe of white, gold, and crimson. "Oh, hello—"
They jumped apart and backpedaled to the opposite ends of the shelves.
Hermione turned her smile into a grin, directing it at the elderly headmaster. "Good afternoon, Headmaster Dumbledore. What a surprise." What surprised her was that she was still capable of words. "What brings you here today, Headmaster, when it's such a beautiful day outside?"
Dumbledore shuffled forward and gave her an acknowledging nod. "In fact, you, Hermione. I knew I'd find you here."
"Oh, I was just… just, you know—"
"Looking for books," he finished. "What else can you do in a library, my dear?" He winked at her. "How is your new schedule, Hermione?"
"Wonderful! I'm getting my homework done. Everything's great."
"Then it is good news. Good news." Dumbledore cleared his throat briskly. "All right – that was all I wanted to know. You may go about your business."
"There's, uh, nothing else?"
"No, Hermione, I do not want to disturb you on a Saturday. Good afternoon, my dear." He nodded to her again. "And good afternoon to you too, Severus." He turned on his heels, and scuffled out of sight.
A whole minute passed before they dared to breathe again.
Snape spoke first. "Well."
"Well."
"I wasted enough of my time here already, Miss Granger," he said without a trace of aggravation.
"Yes."
"Good day," he said, softly. He turned, and walked swiftly down the hall in the opposite direction as Dumbledore.
He had almost disappeared from sight when Hermione remembered. "Hey, what about my book?"
"Look, it's mine to borrow this time," Snape said, pausing in his stride and glancing back. "It has never been yours."
"That's not fair!"
He sighed. "Life is not fair, Miss Granger; do try to live with it." He paused. "Speaking of which, I still have not forgotten the four additional hours of detention you owe me from two months ago. Discipline, Miss Granger. Show up late tomorrow and it'll be four hours more. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"
They looked at each other.
"Yes," Hermione said.
--
To be continued.