THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
By: Scatterheart
"No matter what road you travel on, you seem to go through the darkest places." (PM Dawn)Section Twenty Three
Three hours later she was standing outside of his door, the tattered red book of poetry tucked under her elbow, a foil-covered bowl in her left hand, and a small, flickering candle in a bronze candleholder in her right.
It hadn't been particularly difficult sneaking out of the Common Room this evening; Ron, Harry and Neville had moved their nightly checker games to Harry's room weeks ago, and the cluster of Gryffindors who were present had been engrossed in cramming for an upcoming exam. They had only barely lifted their heads when she'd walked out, and had regarded her with what could best be described as empty disinterest.
And then it had occurred to Hermione that no one really cared what she was up to, whom she planned to see. Perhaps they never had.
Moving the candleholder somewhat precariously to the bowl, Hermione placed her fingers lightly on Snape's door. She suddenly felt that she had been dragged back in time; she had been here before, and the memories were still fresh in her mind. She could almost see them etched into the dark wooden surface before her, glowing in the dim candlelight.
Hermione hesitated.
Now that she was actually here she couldn't bring herself to follow through with her plan. Damn my nerves, she thought, and hastily ran through the dialogue in her mind once more.
Damn my nerves for actually wanting to do this. Damn my nerves for being so meek.
She balled her hand into a fist to knock – and hit air as the door swung open in front of her. Her stomach flipped shiveringly as she stared into Severus Snape's dark green gaze.
The candle wavered from its perch on top of the covered bowl, swayed, and tumbled downwards in a little defiant streak of orange and yellow.
Hermione let out a yelp as it plummeted headfirst and met with – of all places! – the edge of Snape's black cloak. The tiny drop of fire immediately ignited the corner of fabric into a blazing orb, but before it had a chance to grow any further, Hermione had jumped forward and stamped the flame with the heel of her shoe. Then there came the sound of a subdued hiss, and the fire curled into nothingness among a wisp of smoke.
Hermione kicked the spent candle down the damp corridor, just as Snape grabbed her by the wrist and fiercely yanked her inside of the room. He cast a spell; the door clicked shut behind her.
And the Potions Master demanded through clenched teeth, "What do you want from me!"
His eyes were shining, unnaturally bright. Hermione thought, as if they were… wet. She swallowed, almost in suspended dread at where all this was leading.
And then the moment broke.
Snape dropped her wrist, limply. The steely, shiny look in his eyes vanished, and his voice, now soft, rumbled through the silence, "What do you want from me, Miss Granger."
It wasn't even a question, but more of a statement that a defeated combatant would mumble when he is too weary to continue fighting. The Potions Master took four steps toward a large stuffed chair placed beside the crackling fireplace, and sank into the black velvet depths. His face was dancing with shadows and light. He rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger, and let out a shuddering breath.
It was a breath that wrenched at Hermione's heart.
She moved forward, quietly, standing several feet behind him, feeling like a newborn bird perched upon a new frontier… or a gaping chasm.
Snape was not looking at her. His eyes were knitted tightly closed. "I've told you to leave. Why will you not leave?" he asked, softly. He didn't even sound angry anymore. "Why are you here? Why are you doing this?"
She found her tongue after several stuttering tries. "Maybe I find this the right thing to do."
"Excuse me?"
"You… you heard me… Severus."
"Then I suppose I will take twenty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger."
"Damn it, what's wrong with you?" Hermione snapped, as the civil dialogue she had been practicing for the evening crumbled into inexistence in the recesses of her mind. Liquid fury seized her. The Potions Master had opened his eyes and was glaring at her in unexpected alarm, but she could care less. All of the pent up emotions, all of which previously could not be formed into speech, were gathering, firing out as words.
"I'm trying to – I'm trying to have a regular conversation with you – for once – maybe we can solve some things – but no! You're just not going to let this happen, are you, Professor Snape? Why do you have to make everything so damn hard? Why can't you be – normal?" She furiously swiped at a stray frizz of hair tickling her cheek. "Why? It feels like every time I talk to you, you act like you've forgotten what happened the day before, and you make everything start from square one! I mean – do we really have to start over each time, screaming and threatening each other? It's so bloody difficult, Severus! It's bad enough as it is, knowing that I'm in – in…" Hermione trailed off in apprehension. "That I'm in – involved – with you," she finished, shudderingly.
She clamped her teeth together. Merlin, this was not going well. What had she wanted to say? That, she realized. Oh no. God, no. Her vision was swimming, swimming, and she stumbled back, clambering for a hold for something that could steady her; she found the arm of a wooden chair and crumpled into the cold seat.
The world was falling down…
This was not happening.
"I didn't mean it," she heard herself whispering in a husky tone that she could hardly recognize as her own. "That wasn't what I wanted to say."
"Involved…" Snape murmured. "I see." And then he made a small, curt sound in his throat that could have been called a laugh. "Involved," he repeated. His eyes were unreadable.
"Look, forget it."
"Yes, Miss Granger."
It was nearly impossible to speak now, through what felt like a boulder in her throat. "I don't – I don't know how! I don't know how I ever wound up in this place… it's just – one thing led to another, and – I don't know!"
"Then leave!" Snape cried, twisting in his chair and staring at her hauntedly. "Leave, Miss Granger… before we do something we will both regret."
Hermione was stilled.
Oh God, she thought. He was right. It very bluntly struck her that she was not the only one in this, that she was not the only one struggling against those inner feelings that they were too frightened to bring out into the open.
Was that why he was pushing her away? Was he afraid of himself? For her?
She had a terrible urge to leap into his arms and embrace him. But it was impossible. Of course.
Hermione stayed in her seat. "I can't go," she said.
"And why is that?"
"Because I…" She remembered the covered bowl and book cradled in her arms. She stacked them on top of each other and held them out to the Potions Professor with trembling hands. "I brought these for you," she whispered, a little helplessly.
Snape remained frozen. "The book is yours," he said, "so keep it."
"Well, then take the cookies, because you didn't eat dinner and you're still weak."
"Merlin's bones, Hermione—"
"Just take it, okay?"
He slowly stretched out his hand (she ruminated over his tapered fingertips, so beautifully sensitive and full of history) and lifted the bowl and brought it into his lap. He gingerly peeled off of the foil wrapping; it crinkled musically as it dropped to the lushly carpeted floor, and Hermione was reminded of a child on Christmas morning.
Suddenly her face was unbearably hot. She wracked her brain for something to say. "I, uh, it's Muggle food. What my friend back home sent me by Owl. I would have gotten something from the kitchen but it was late and the House Elves—"
"Thank you."
Hermione blinked, rapidly. "What?"
"Must I repeat myself every bloody time, Miss Granger?" he responded with a familiar scowl. "I said 'thank you.'"
And Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from releasing a flood of tears. "Your… welcome," she replied. Average, polite, human words. She gazed at him, so handsome, really, under the soft hues of the night, and nearly smiled.
"But I regret to tell you I am not hungry at this moment," Snape said, with an arrogant twitch of his mouth. He reached down for the tin foil and re-covered the bowl. "It shall have to wait for the future – perhaps when I am the lucky recipient of another – wonderful – school prank, hmm?" He placed the bowl on the table behind him and dusted his palms.
Okay, he was still an ungrateful git, Hermione confirmed with certainty. He would be one for the rest of his life… but somehow she did not feel hurt by the realization. "Take care of yourself, Severus."
He didn't speak.
"You're still weak from the Criciatus…"
This time he did speak. "Leave it alone, Miss Granger, I beg of you."
"I can't! Merlin, do you know what I went through when you were nearly dying of fever? Only a couple of days of pure hell!" Another confession, Hermione thought as soon as her rebellious lips were sealed closed. She was confessing more to him than she was to herself, and she was almost powerless to stop it.
"Stay out of business that is not yours," Snape replied tightly.
"How can I, when you almost bloody died and no one yet knows who did it? And no one knows if he or she is going to strike again? Aren't you just a bit curiou—"
The Potions Master was out of his seat and looming over her, his two hands grasping either arm of her wooden chair, before she could finish the sentence. "Curiosity, Miss Granger," he said, "killed the cat." And then he leaned in and roughly kissed her.
And by the time Hermione had registered what was happening, had begun to taste a whisper of that delicious, hot pressure against her lips, Snape had jerked back from her as though puppet strings were pulling him. He spun on his heels and swept to the opposite end of the room, where a full bookshelf blocked his flight.
If that bookshelf wasn't there, he'd be clear to the other side of Hogwarts by now, Hermione thought disjointedly. She felt stunned, calm. And cold.
She shivered.
For a moment, everything had been perfect…
His murmur came, muted and rumbling, "Now get out. Do not pry any more into what you are not supposed to know. Understand? Get out."
Get out. Get out. Get out.
And it was only when Hermione was back in the safe, frigid darkness of her room that she realized Snape had kissed her for the sole purpose of making her leave. Why? Did he detest her as a man would detest a pebble in his shoe? Did he want to protect her from something? Someone?
Did he hate her?
Hermione felt once more the ghost of his proximity enveloping her entire soul, and found herself almost desperately hugging her pillow.
She wanted to cry, to let it all out in a flood of self-pitying tears. But she stared off into the eternal darkness, tasted the musky sweet perfume of his mouth on hers, and could not close her eyes.
--
To be continued.
Note: Gah… this is coming along at a snail's pace, but I swore to myself I will finish this fic, and I will. Just… probably not soon. Haha.